“What sort of writings?” he asked as he continued to look through it.
“It is called the Ketuvim,” Nathaniel explained. “It is the third and final section of our holy Tanakh. Sadly, I have never been able to attain the first two sections, the Torah and the Nevi’im.”
“And does reading this holy writing bring you happiness?”
“It does, master. Its words guide my life and help me to find peace.” Nathaniel’s words had an effect on Artorius, and he handed the scroll back to him.
“If that’s all you need to keep happy, then by all means keep reading it,” he replied. “Serve me well and perhaps one day you will have your other holy writings.” He watched Nathaniel’s face beaming with joy.
This was all too easy! The man did not express a desire to win his freedom or anything extravagant; all he wanted was a roll of parchment containing his people’s holy writings. Artorius reasoned that a few denarii spent on a couple scrolls would be an inexpensive way to keep his man’s loyalty.
“Alright, well, I will show you where all the rags and polish are kept for my kit,” he directed. “I prefer to maintain my gladius myself, although if you have any methods for better maintaining my weapons you are to let me know.”
“Of course, master.”
“Good. I keep my armor and kit at the Century’s billets, so you will be spending time there. After I show you that, I will take you to the manor house. Proximo is the chief slave, and when not taking care of my equipment you will report to him.”
“I understand, master.”
Tabbo scowled when the wagon carrying the new Roman magistrate came to a halt. His predecessor had left with little fanfare, as was often the case. He had done his duty, collected the necessary taxes, and was probably glad to be out of the province. Still, Frisia had to be one of the more painless postings for a magistrate since the people were self-governing. One of the magistrate’s duties was to exert Roman influence whenever needed and to relay any issues from the people to the Senate. This had been all but unnecessary since the kingdom came under Roman influence.
The magistrate exited the wagon and scowled at his surroundings. Tabbo wondered if the man even knew how to smile. The war chief stood to the left, behind the King. Prince Klaes stepped forward as the Roman walked over to them, the never ending scowl still on his face.
“Magistrate Olennius, I am Prince Klaes. Please let me present my father, Dibbald Segon, King of Frisia.”
“Skip the formalities,” Olennius replied raising his hand. “I have more important things to do than exchange pleasantries. Show me to my villa!”
“Of course,” Klaes replied after a quick glance over to his father. “May I also introduce you to Tabbo of Maloriks? He is war chief and commander of the Frisian army.”
“What army?” Olennius scoffed as he made sure to walk slightly ahead of the Frisians. Behind him was a freedman, who walked with his hands folded in front of him and an apologetic expression upon his face. “Blue faced barbarians in loincloths? That’s no army, that’s a pathetic rabble.”
“Obviously the magistrate does not know our customs,” Tabbo replied with a chill to his voice. “Our people have never painted themselves blue.”
“Kindly tell your war chief not to speak out of turn again, or I shall have him whipped!” Olennius snapped without missing a step. Tabbo instinctively grabbed the handle of his axe, but was quickly stayed by the King, who looked at him and shook his head.
Olennius scowled even harder as he gazed upon the insides of his house. The stone walls were lit with torches, and the floor consisted of blackened slate. He stormed into the back room and threw open the shutters.
“This won’t do at all!” he barked. “A Roman magistrate, living like vile barbarians? I think not!”
“This is still better than most of our people live in,” King Dibbald replied calmly.
“Not my concern if your people choose to live like animals,” the magistrate retorted. “A Roman of my importance requires the best when it comes to quality of life…ye gods, there isn’t even a bath in this vile abode!” He turned and snapped his fingers to his freedman, who quickly got out a wax tablet and stylus.
“I will make a list of the upgrades required during my stay,” he continued. “Of course, these things cost money, and it is only right that the province provide for its governor.”
“Magistrate, you are not a governor,” Dibbald corrected, to which Olennius slammed his fist onto the table in reply.
“How dare you tell me what my position is!” he snarled. “My appointment carries the authority of the Emperor himself and does not require the approval of a barbarian king!”
“Apologies, magistrate. I meant no offense.” Dibbald seethed inside, but he gritted his teeth and bore the indignities as best he could. There was nothing unlawful about a magistrate being rude to his provincials, though it did make for a bad start to their relationship.
“Now,” Olennius said, pulling out a scroll. “I also need to go over the taxation of the province. It is quite unsatisfactory to say the least. Cattle hides? Is that all your people are required to pay Rome for the protection we offer?”
“Those were the terms set out by the great Drusus Nero,” Dibbald replied. “He viewed them fair and just, as did the divine Augustus Caesar.”
“Yes, well I find the terms to be very much out of date,” Olennius countered. “I think cow hides are insufficient for our purposes. From now on only ox hides will suffice.” Dibbald furrowed his brow at this demand.
“Magistrate, oxes are much fewer in the region than cattle,” he protested. “We cannot supply the needed amounts. There simply are not enough oxen in the entire kingdom!”
“Again, not my problem,” Olennius said with a bored sigh. “You Frisians do make a habit of talking out of turn in the presence of your betters. Here is another list. These are what suitable tributes will be rendered for each ox hide you come up short come spring…oh, and here is another list of a down payment that will be made effective immediately.”
Dibbald glared at him as he took the scrolls from the smirking magistrate.
“Expect to hear from me again when I estimate the expenses for my housing improvements. That is all, you can go now.” He waved his hand, like a parent shooing away a nosy child.
“What an insufferable prick!” Tabbo growled as he hurled his hand axe into a nearby stump. His friends, Sjored and Olbert, accompanied him.
“That’s not the worst of it,” Olbert replied as he readied to throw his own axe. “I heard that Olennius is demanding we supply ox hides instead of cattle.”
The other warrior stood in shock as he threw his axe with a satisfying thud into the stump. “That’s insane!” Sjoerd protested. “We don’t have enough oxen in the entire kingdom for that!”
“Tell that to your new friend,” Olbert countered, readying his axe for a throw. “I’m sure they’ll find other ways to bleed us dry.”
“Of what?” Sjoerd asked. “We are cattle farmers. There is not a whole lot one can bleed this region dry of. We grow just enough crops to feed our livestock and ourselves. It’s not as if this is a plentiful land to begin with.”
“What I fear is what will happen if he does begin taxing our people beyond our means to produce,” Tabbo added. “I mean, King Dibbald knows Tiberius! Surely the Emperor would not allow a loyal province to be abused this way!”
“I think you may be putting too much faith in the Romans,” Sjoerd replied. “I know you fought with them in the past, but you cannot allow sentimental feelings to blind you as to what may happen to our people.”
Tabbo’s anger was still simmering when he went home to his wife that evening. Edeline poured him a cup of mead and set a steaming bowl of barley porriage before him. She placed a hand on his shoulder, and he reached up and held it in his own. He looked up at his wife and tried to smile.