“Is that because he doesn’t think these women are worthy of being warriors or is it simply to protect his niece?”
It was a fair question. The women of Frisia served their people in one of two ways; either they married and bore Frisian children, or they joined the Daughters of Freyja and were trained as warriors. As a member of the royal family, Amke was chosen by King Dibbald to lead the Daughters despite the fact that she was just over a score in years.
“I don’t think he doubts their courage or tenacity,” Klaes answered as they moved on. “Besides me, Amke is the only other child of the Segon line. Father loves her as if she were his own daughter.”
Tabbo nodded, understanding the King’s desire to protect his niece.
Klaes continued, “Our culture has always valued the fighting spirit of our women. It shocks other races that we would allow any of our women to take up arms. By the same token, it also makes them wary of attacking us. Most nations are conquered once the male warriors are dead. In Frisia, they find that our ‘helpless’ women are not so helpless after all.”
Artorius never imagined that he would be suffering from a massive hangover at his own wedding. Nerves had gotten to him the night before and his friends decided to calm him down the only way they could. The manor house that Lady Diana had ordered built was still under construction. However, the banquet hall was complete and had been hastily furnished with some borrowed furniture. All of the Second Century had piled into the hall, sitting around boxes and on the floor when no more couches or table space was available. The other Centurions from the Third Cohort were also there, as were Macro, Proculus, and Master Centurion Calvinus. The usual speeches had been spoken, with everyone offering a drink to Artorius, to the point that early on in the evening he was completely inebriated and unable to stand. The next morning he could not remember if he had vomited on any of the fancier borrowed couches or not.
“You know, they say that Patrician villas have what’s called a vomitorium, where guests go to purge between courses of a fancy meal,” Magnus observed as he helped Artorius into his best looking tunic.
“That’s just a stupid myth,” the Centurion groaned, his head pounding and a wave of nausea rolling over him. He now regretted not having purchased a formal toga. While Options and below wore their issued tunics even when off duty, Centurions and above were strongly encouraged to purchase civilian togas. Artorius hated the garments, feeling that they were neither practical nor even fashionable. He was proud of his muscular physique and he loathed the idea of covering it beneath layers of folded robes.
His hamata mail armor had had to be custom made to fit his disproportionately muscular frame, and it had not yet been delivered. He felt that wearing his battered segmentata would have been in poor taste.
“Do you at least have a decent belt you can wear?” the Norseman asked, rummaging through Artorius’ trunk that he kept at the foot of his bunk. He still lived in the Centurion’s quarters while waiting for the manor house to be completed. “Ah, here we go!”
Artorius strapped up his belt and gave himself a once over. He had bathed, shaved, and tried to fix his hair. He felt he was due to get it cut soon and hoped he would not look as nauseating as he felt. He ran his tongue over his teeth and grimaced.
“Here,” Magnus said, handing him a small dish smeared in paste and a bristle brush. “Lady Diana sent over some of her white wine based mouthwash that she got specially shipped from Gaul. It’s got a pretty strong scent to it, but at least it will help keep your breath from knocking her and the priest over at the ceremony!”
“That would be well below average,” Artorius muttered in reply.
“I wonder if the gods have a special punishment for that,” Magnus mused. Artorius scrubbed his teeth more vigorously, thankful that at least Roman society had included dental hygiene in their cleanliness evolution.
Diana was giving herself a final critical look in the polished bronze mirror. The slave helping her dress and adorn her hair was misty-eyed.
“My lady looks so lovely,” she murmured. “But, you don’t have an engagement ring.”
“I have the most important thing,” Diana answered. “Artorius is all I need. He’s worth more to me than all the jewels or gold in the world.”
The year that they had spent together had been the happiest time of her life. Now Rome and the gods would join them in a bond that could not be broken, either in this life or the next.
Even though his head was still pounding, Artorius was alert and very nervous when he arrived at the outdoor shrine. A priest assigned to the legion as a spiritual advisor and oracle to the commanding Legate was there to conduct the ceremony. Artorius had declined spending the extra denarii for the auspices, reasoning that if the trials he and Diana had been through had not solidified an eternal bond between them, gutting an ox or a couple birds would not do so either. Two stools with a small table next to one sat before the altar. The table held the honey cake to be shared by the newlyweds, and an offering of it made to Jupiter.
Artorius’ breath was taken from him as the love of his life walked through the arch of climbing roses. It was midmorning and the sun was shining perfectly through the arch, illuminating her glowing face. Artorius felt as if he was staring not at Lady Diana Procula, but the goddess herself, whose name she bore. She wore an elegant white stola trimmed in gold; a crown made of flowers adorned her head where her hair was pulled up. As he took her by both hands, she smiled and winked at him. He had told the priest to keep it short and to the point, not wanting to waste time on pointless ceremony, but Diana also knew what was important in a Roman wedding.
After the priest asked if she consented to the marriage, she spoke the words used for centuries, “Quando tu Gaius, ego Gaia. When-and-where you are Gaius; I then-and-there am Gaia.” She squeezed Artorius’ hands as he repeated the words to her, his voice shaking slightly with emotion.
The priest signaled for them to sit on the stools, and taking pieces of the honey cake he offered one first to the altar in honor of Jupiter, and gave the others to Artorius and Diana to eat. Once they had signed the legally binding contract, Artorius had done what he feared would never happen the year prior; he had married his Lady Diana. Nothing could have made them happier.
Olennius hated traveling by cart. He also hated traveling by horse, boat, or any other means for that matter. The fact that he was not at his posting, and had had to wait an entire year for it, irritated him to no end. He was quite the hateful person, having spent his entire life full of suspicion and spite. He blamed his father for his demeanor, though the poor man had died before Olennius was even born. Still, it was that lack of paternal guidance that he used as a crutch to justify his abusive behavior. Only one man, Senator Asinius Gallus, had shown him any sort of fond feelings at all. In fact, he had become Olennius’ sponsor from a young age and had gotten him his posting as a Centurion within the legions. The legions…Olennius hated the legions, perhaps because the familiarity and brotherhood that permeated the ranks had been denied him due to the fact that absolutely no one whom he had been stationed with remotely liked him. Thankfully his required tenure had come to a merciful end, though not before he had fattened his coffers exacting additional tributes in the east, both from the citizenry, as well as his own legionaries.
“How much bloody farther is it?” he snapped at his freedman who accompanied him in the carriage.
“Another day, sir,” the man replied stoically. Olennius knew the servant hated him, enough to wish him dead, no doubt. It did not matter. The only reason the little rat was free was because Olennius’ mother had granted him his freedom in her will. Whether he stayed with Olennius out of loyalty to his deceased matron, or because no one would hire him given where he had worked before, was uncertain.