“Yet Molon says that it was his brother, Nasua, who gave you to Vinius.” I felt heat radiating from the place where her hand rested.
“Nasua won me in a game.”
“What sort of game?” I thought I could detect a tiny stroking motion from her hand.
“Wrestling.”
“Kings wrestle among the Germans? That’s undignified behavior, even for barbarians.”
“My people prize manly things,” she said, definitely stroking now. “The brothers knew they would never stop contending over me, so they agreed to give me away to someone important.”
“Then why to Vinius? Why not to the Proconsul?”
“They know who really runs your legions.”
“Oh.” So much for the lofty office of Proconsul.
She stood and began to tug down her furry tunic. “You didn’t call me here to talk, did you? Romans don’t care about the lives of slaves.” Her magnificent breasts sprang free, looking more like globes of solid muscle than the usual soft, wobbly milk-providers commonly adorning the female torso. Next, she bared a ridged belly that looked as if it could absorb a boxer’s punch without winding her. The next push cleared her full but sinewy hips and she stood there like a statue of Venus, only far more accessible, warmer and more fragrant.
She leaned over me and began to pull at my tunic. “Are all Romans as lazy as you?” I fumbled at my clothes but my fingers had grown clumsy. She went at her task with great deliberation, though, and in moments she mounted me like a cavalry horse, sinking down with a guttural growl.
“Now,” she said, “let’s see what Romans are made of.”
10
In what had become a monotonously regular custom, somebody was trying to wake me in the middle of the night. At first I thought it was Freda, wanting me for another session. The woman reminded me of the arms masters who had been drilling me so mercilessly.
“Captain, darling! Wake up, beloved!” It was Indiumix.
“What now?” I said, shaking my head. “Are the barbarians here?” Another of my Gauls stood just outside the tent, holding a torch.
“The legatus wants you, Captain, Labienus himself. He’s with Captain Carbo over by our quarters.”
I sat up and tugged on my boots. “What’s this all about?”
“I do not know. A runner came to us from the Prefect of the Camp and said to saddle up and be ready to ride. He also said you were to be summoned.”
I looked around for Freda but she wasn’t in the tent. Hermes came stumbling sleepily in and he helped me into my armor by the light of the flaring torch.
“Where are Freda and Molon?” I asked him.
“No idea. What do you need them for, anyway?” He fastened my sword belt.
“Nothing, but they shouldn’t be wandering around in the middle of the night.” My mind was on other things, though. What new emergency had come up? One thing was certain: Caesar was gone, and if Labienus wanted me, it had to be something bad. Hermes handed me my helmet and I ducked out through the tent doorway, clapping the metal pot on my head and fastening the cheekplates beneath my chin as we walked toward the cavalry quarters.
The camp was sound asleep-by army standards, anyway. At least one quarter of the men were up and standing sentry duty at all hours. Watchfires glimmered here and there, and a smell of smoke drifted over everything. An overcast sky rendered the stars invisible, but I judged it to be somewhat past midnight. With the torchbearer walking ahead of me, I managed to make it the whole way without tripping over a tent rope.
Labienus, Paterculus, and Spurius Mutius, the acting First Spear, stood by the watchfire with Carbo and Lovernius. They all wore the expressions of combined anger, fear, exasperation, and puzzlement that, in this army, had become as much an item of official issue as the scutum and the gladius.
“What’s up?” I said cheerily, not feeling cheery at all.
“Carbo’s men have found something,” Labienus said. “I think you ought to have a look at it.”
“Damned barbarians,” Mutius grumbled. “Why can’t they act like civilized people?”
The answer seemed incredibly obvious to me, but sometimes you have to point things out to soldiers. “Because they aren’t civilized people,” I told him. “What have they done this time?”
“I am going to show you,” Carbo said. “The less said here in camp the better. Our Provincial allies are going to be spooked enough as it is.”
“Metellus,” Labienus said, “I want a full report from you at morning officer’s call. Speak to no one else about this before you have reported to me.”
“You aren’t going out this time?” I said.
“The Prefect can’t leave the camp and Caesar ordered me not to venture beyond the rampart before his return.”
“Beyond the rampart?” I said, my stomach sinking.
“I’ll tell you about it as we ride,” Carbo said impatiently. “Come on. I want to be back before daylight.”
As we were conferring, my ala had been assembling. Each man held a flaming torch and had a bundle of spares tied to his saddle. Indiumix led my own horse up and boosted me into the saddle.
“You’re probably safe enough tonight,” Labienus said. “But if you should be captured, keep your mouths shut and die like Romans.”
With these touching words of encouragement we rode off through the Porta Decumana. Out in the open, I could just make out the watch fires of the lonely First Century in their exposed camp to the northeast. I almost envied them. At least they had the security of the great rampart to the north.
“What in the name of all the gods is going on, Cnaeus?” I demanded.
“Something so strange that my first thought was to get hold of you,” Carbo answered. “Tonight we completed our sweep early. Not a single Helvetian to be found. But the guards on the rampart reported unusual activity in the hills to the north-west. It’s heavy woods up there, but they could see lights flickering, like a lot of men running around with torches, and one big glow like a bonfire in the woods. They could hear sounds, too-drumming and singing.
“I figured the barbarians might be massing up there under cover of the woods for a morning assault. It’s not very far, and the Gauls like to fight at a run. If they were to come out of the woods at first light, when there’s a heavy ground fog, they could be at the rampart before anyone would even know they were there.”
“Clear so far,” I assured him.
“So I sent a runner to inform the legatus that I was undertaking a mission beyond the rampart to see if there was a Gallic army up there.” He said this as if he had taken out a work party to improve the ditch. This is why the whole world pays tribute to Rome instead of the other way around.
“What did you find?” I asked. “I don’t suppose you just want to show me a million painted savages dancing around and working themselves up for a morning attack.”
“Nothing that simple,” he said. “You’ll see.”
We rode to a sally port in the rampart. This was a narrow slot, just wide enough for horsemen to pass single-file. It was blocked at entrance and exit by heavy logs studded with long spikes. The auxilia manning that port dragged the logs aside and we rode through. On the other side waited a wild-looking little detachment of Carbo’s scouts, more like hunting hounds than human beings. Among them I recognized Ionus, the man who had discovered Vinius’s body.
“Let’s go,” Carbo said. The Scouts set off at a lope. On the uneven ground their progress was more a series of leaps than the long strides of a civilized runner. Bent over almost double, their arms held a little away from their bodies for balance, they looked as if they were following a scent trail. They kept ahead of us easily, even though we were riding at a swift trot.
As we drew away from the rampart, I felt the chilling dread experienced by most soldiers when they are separated from their legions. Precarious as military life can be, there is tremendous comfort to be had from six thousand shields with six thousand resolute Roman swordsmen standing behind them. Even the primitive fortification of an earthen wall topped by wooden stakes takes on the permanence and solidity of a fortified city when you are out on your own in enemy territory.