“You were a slave,” I pointed out, bracing myself for another flogging. Fortunately, this particular sort of fun seemed to have lost its charm for her.
“I have never been any man’s slave,” she told me.
“If that is so,” I said, “then you are not the only person to have lied to me recently.”
Somebody approached from behind her and her shapely, bare foot came up again. I braced myself for another kick, but her foot only settled gently, almost caressingly, into the jointure between neck and shoulder. She began to press downward.
“On your face, Roman.” I went over on my side, then sprawled on my belly and turned my face to one side lest I be smothered. Freda pressed my face into the dirt, and it was no symbolic gesture. The woman leaned her whole weight upon that foot until I was sure my neck would snap. I could barely drag air into my lungs. All I could see before my painfully bulging eyes was a pair of enormous feet, shod in soft leather sewn with gold wire.
A voice almost too deep to be human said something and the foot was lifted. Another voice, male and familiar, translated: “Your obeisance is accepted. You may sit up now.”
From my facedown sprawl I struggled back into a sitting posture. This is a difficult feat with one’s hands tied behind. I fear that what little dignity I had left suffered. This being the case, I was careful to keep my face immobile, a perfect mask of Roman dignitas and gravitas. It was well that I did so, for when I was upright with my eyes uncrossed, I was looking up at the most terrifying human being I had ever beheld.
Well above seven feet tall, he stood on widespread legs heavy as treetrunks, two fists each as large as my head braced against his hips. Unlike the Germans I had seen so far, he was broad in proportion to his height, his body like a barrel, his neck so thick that his head seemed to sit directly upon his yardwide shoulders.
His hair was so blond that it was almost white and it was carefully combed out almost to his elbows. His full beard was curly and unusually fine in texture, neatly trimmed in contrast to the unkempt hirsuteness of the others. His features were craggy and dominated by a pair of pale gray eyes that would have looked more at home staring out from beneath the shaggy brows of a wolf. And yet, in that savage and intensely masculine face, I detected some vaguely familiar features. With a start, I realized that he bore a distinct resemblance to Freda.
His brief, sleeveless tunic was of a heavy, feltlike cloth, elaborately embroidered with stylized animal and twining plant designs. It was neither Gallic nor German, but looked vaguely Sarmatian to me. He had a good deal of heavy gold jewelry on him, and from his coral-studded belt hung a sword as oversized as himself, of Spanish workmanship.
I assumed my most formal and official tone. “Senator Decius Caecilius Metellus the Younger of the Republic of Rome greets Ariovistus, King of Germania.” It could be nobody else. My words were translated by the same, familiar male voice. So overwhelming was the German king that only now did I see Molon, standing to one side and a little behind him. He too was transformed. He wore a tunic of fine Gallic wool, dyed scarlet; expensive, imported sandals; and a massive silver chain around his neck. Silver bracelets banded both wrists. His lopsided, sardonic grin was unchanged. He translated as the words rumbled forth.
“You talk like an ambassador, Roman, yet you came here with no embassy. You came as a spy in my territory.”
“The Senate of Rome does not recognize this land as German. In the consulship of Caesar and Bibulus you were proclaimed ‘King and Friend’ by the Senate, but this was in recognition of your dominion in the lands east of the Rhine. Rome is at war with the Helvetii, and I was scouting in Helvetian territory.”
He rumbled a while. “Titles bestowed by a council in a foreign land mean little. Occupation of land means everything. I hold land west of the Rhine by right of conquest and I now have one hundred and fifty thousand men on this side of the river, all of them warriors, men who have not slept beneath a permanent roof in many years. Do not confuse us with Gauls, who are mostly just slaves and tillers of the soil. Among us, all men are warriors.”
“The manly valor of the Germans is famous over the whole world,” I said, thinking it a good moment for a bit of flattery. “But so is the martial spirit of Rome. There is no quarrel between our nations, King Ariovistus.”
“What are your words to me?” he said through Molon. “You are not empowered to treat with me.”
“It is you who came over here to speak with me, not I with you,” I answered. Freda slashed me across the face with her rope, but Ariovistus just laughed. He turned and said something. A warrior freed my tether from its post and two others took me beneath the arms and lifted me as if I weighed no more than a dead hare. I felt about as lively as one, too.
“What are they doing?” Hermes cried as they dragged me toward the large hut.
“I’ll know soon,” I told him. “Don’t go anywhere.”
The interior of the hut was dim and smoky. A small fire burned on a flat rock in its center, the smoke making its way out through a round hole in the roof. The only furnishings were some crude pallets, a couple of jugs, and a few ox horns. It seemed that King Ariovistus did not keep elaborate state when he traveled.
The warriors set me on the turf floor near the hearthstone and left me there to contemplate my probably limited future for some little while. Then Molon walked through the doorway. He did not need to duck to do this. He grinned and winked at me.
“Keep it up,” he said in Greek. “You’re doing fine.” Freda barked something at him as she came in, having to stoop low. “She says to talk so she can understand us,” Molon said.
Then Ariovistus came in. He had to bend almost double and when he was inside, he seemed to fill the whole hut. The three of them sat cross-legged by the fire so that we formed a little circle. The king said something to Molon and the little man (I could scarcely think of him as my slave) went around behind me and efficiently untied my bonds. To my surprise, a warrior came in and placed several strips of seared venison on the ground before me, some broad oak leaves serving as a platter. Molon poured a pale liquid from one of the jugs into an ox horn and handed it to me. I managed to take it between my numbed hands without spilling it and raised it to my lips. It was honey mead, but I was so thirsty that I scarcely noticed the vile taste. As soon as my fingers would work, I picked up a strip of the flesh, gnawed a mouthful loose, and swallowed it. Most people have strict laws regarding the sacred bonds of hospitality. I desperately hoped it was so among the Germans.
They watched me with a sort of grim amusement; then, when I was finished, Ariovistus spoke.
“There, you have sat beneath my roof, eaten my food, and drunk my mead. Do you feel safe now?”
“Was I in danger?” I said. This sent them into transports of laughter. I certainly couldn’t fault their sense of jollity.
“I like you Romans,” Ariovistus proclaimed. “You are not all bluster, like the Gauls. You have real nerve. Listen to me, Metellus. I want you to deliver my words to Caesar. The land of the Helvetians is mine. You may let them migrate as they wish or kill them all, I do not care. If you feel like fighting a war, be sure that after you finish you go back to Italy. If you keep expanding into Gaul, sooner or later you must fight me and I will beat you. I have never been defeated in battle and to this my enemies will attest.”
“That is certainly blunt enough,” I said. “No one will ever claim that you couch your thoughts in a lot of confusing rhetoric. But you err if you think that Rome is easily swayed by threats from a foreign king.”
At this, Ariovistus chuckled. “Rome? I am not facing war with Rome.” He pointed a thick finger in the general direction of the lake. “Over there I face Caesar! Do all Romans love Caesar? I do not think so. Many great and noble Romans have contacted me through their agents. They have praised me as a great king and assured me that, when I defeat Caesar’s armies and kill Caesar himself, Rome will seek no revenge against me. In truth, they have promised me great rewards. I will be paid a heavy tribute, and the Senate will recognize me not only as King of Germania but of as much of Gaul as I can seize save for your little Province.”