Nobody Loves a Centurion

11

We rode back into the camp at midday, when the trumpets were sounding cheerily and the men were assembling by messes for their noon meal. It says much for our soldiers that they can anticipate even such Spartan fare with pleasure. I left my horse with the ala and went to my tent, where I found Hermes laying out my lunch. He had managed to scrounge a pot of fruit preserved in honey and a roast duck. I was not about to ask him how he had accomplished this minor miracle.

“Keep this up and I might just manumit you when you’re too old to be useful,” I told him as I sat down and launched into the food. He poured me a cup of watered wine, which I hardly needed. “Where are Molon and Freda?”

“I haven’t seen them all day,” he said. “I thought maybe you’d sent them off on some errand.”

The news stole some of the pleasure from my lunch. Slaves are not supposed to roam around at will, even such eccentric specimens as those two. More and more, they were behaving like free persons and would have to be disabused of that notion.

“When did you last see them?”

“Molon was drunk behind the tent last night and I didn’t look in on him. I didn’t see either of them when your Gauls came for you last night, and when I got up this morning I didn’t see them, either, not that I was looking for them. They have to be around here somewhere. They wouldn’t dare set foot outside the camp.”

“That would be foolish,” I agreed, but I was not happy about this. One more concern when I already had far too many.

With lunch finished, I was temporarily at loose ends. I rose to go look for my errant slaves with Hermes dogging my steps. I badly wanted some sleep, but I knew that it would not come if I lay down in my tent. I had too much to think about. As we traversed the camp, I told Hermes the latest developments. He was far from a brilliant conversationalist, but I had long ago learned that talking to someone helped to sort out confusing matters.

“If Germans hanged the Druids, then there are Germans nearby, right?” Hermes said.

“Your grasp of logic is phenomenal,” I commended.

“No, I mean there are a lot of them, right? More than just those two you saw a few nights ago?”

“Not necessarily.” In fact, I had been brooding over that very question. The boy wasn’t really foolish. “Those were two huge, powerful warriors, and two of the Druids were elderly, and no Druid is trained to arms. Two such brutes as Eintzius and Eramanzius could easily have overpowered these sacerdotal Gauls.”

“Still,” he said dubiously, “getting them all the way up that mountain, and building a bonfire and hauling them up into the trees: that sounds like a big job for two men.”

“Well, they proclaimed themselves to be of royal lineage. Doubtless they came here with companions. But a few dozen Germans are nothing to worry about.”

“Just as long as it’s not an army of them.” Hermes was getting to be like everybody else; jumping at every shadow, worried about our tiny numbers and exposed condition. Like everybody else, he had ample justification for his fears.

A thorough search of the forum and other more or less public areas failed to turn up Molon or Freda. The centuries were no more helpful. Even an encampment of six thousand men is a small community and Freda was the most noticeable creature for a hundred miles in all directions. An elephant could not have drawn more attention.

“Maybe they went to the camp of the auxilia,” Hermes said. “Slaves and foreigners go in and out through the gates pretty freely during daylight.”

“I don’t know what they’d be doing there but it’s worth a look,” I grumbled. So it was back out through the Sinistra gate I had ridden through that morning. Nobody on the gate remembered seeing them, but that watch had only been on duty for a short time.

The other camp was only two bowshots away, so that there was no dead ground between them where an enemy could be safe. Its defenses were much less elaborate, for in real danger the auxilia would simply move into the legionary camp, doubling its manpower. Because a high proportion of the auxilia were cavalry, the camp sprawled over a greater area than that of the legionaries, and foraging parties went out every day with sickles to cut fodder for the animals.

I found Carbo drilling his spearmen just outside the camp while his scouts lounged around, trying to look too important for such drudgery.

“They don’t look too bad, for barbarians,” I commended.

“Gauls don’t take well to close-order drill,” he said, “but they’ll learn. Once they’ve seen how easily disciplined troops deal with howling, sword-brandishing savages, they’ll get the spirit.”

“If they don’t get massacred first,” I said.

He shrugged. “Not much you can do about overwhelming numbers. A single legion can deal with double the number of savages. Three legions together can handle ten times as many. Ten legions can defeat any number at all. The trick seems to be getting the legions here.”

“It is a problem. By the way, Cnaeus, have you happened to see my German girl today?”

He cocked an eyebrow toward me. “Don’t tell me you’ve misplaced her?”

“Haven’t seen her since, well, fairly late last night, before all the excitement. I’ve been so busy that I haven’t had a chance to look for her. Molon is gone, too.”

“That one’s no loss. The girl, though-a prize like that doesn’t fall to every soldier’s lot. No, I haven’t seen her.” He questioned his men and they talked for a while among themselves, making lascivious faces and many hand gestures indicating the feminine form. Apparently Freda was as well known among the auxilia as among the legionaries.

“No, they haven’t seen her either,” Carbo said. “And believe me, they’d have noticed. You might try in the camp.”

“I intend to. By the way, I’ve come across some more information, but keep this to yourself for a while.” I gave him a brief summation of what Lovernius had told me.

“So now the Germans are in it, eh? Do you think the girl sprinted for the hills to join her kinsmen?”

“I can’t see why,” I told him. “She was just a slave among them to begin with, so why go back? No slave in the world has as easy a life as a Roman house slave. Why trade that for some filthy village where a flea-bitten chieftain’s wife will treat her worse than a dog?”

“That makes sense to me, but who knows how a barbarian’s mind works? She may prefer bad treatment in familiar surroundings.”

“Anyway, that doesn’t explain Molon. That rogue certainly knows whose boots taste better, since he’s licked such a variety of them. He’d never trade the soft billet he has with me for one on the other side of the Rhine. Besides, if he was going to run, why didn’t he run from Vinius? The vicious bastard beat him like a practice post.”

“Good question. I hope you locate her, Decius. If you’ve lost the one item in Gaul that everyone was panting after, you are going to be an even bigger figure of fun than you already are.”

“How true. The gods do not love me, Carbo. I leave you to your drill. Come along, Hermes.”

We went into the camp and began combing it. “I can tell you want to say something, Hermes,” I said as we walked along a street where I could hear at least three languages being spoken.

“You and your friend talk like you know all about slaves, considering you’ve never been slaves yourselves,” he said sullenly.

“Then I shall consult an expert. What are your thoughts on the matter?”

“That maybe they didn’t run over to the Germans and the Gauls. Maybe they went the other way, down the river.”

“Toward Massilia? Whatever for?”

He looked exasperated. “What for? Doesn’t it occur to you that every slave in this army knows that any day the Gauls may pour in and annihilate us? Those that aren’t killed in the slaughter will probably get sacrificed afterwards.”

“You’re making too much of the situation,” I chided him. “Roman armies are rarely exterminated by savages. At worst, we’ll make a fighting retreat downriver and hold Massilia until our reinforcements arrive.”

“Oh, that’s reassuring! I don’t have a lot of experience with armies, but I’ll bet when they’re on the run they don’t take along things like pack mules and baggage and slaves.”

“I can see that it would be a distressing prospect,” I admitted.

“I can guarantee that a lot of slaves here are getting ready to bolt.”

“I don’t suppose that you would be among that fainthearted crew,” I said.

“My loyalty to you is unshakable,” he said, in that straight-faced, sincere fashion that is the mark of a truly gifted liar.

“Excellent,” I commended. “What you say makes a certain amount of sense, but how could they escape?”

“Massilia is a pretty big place, and Molon can pass for a native. Besides, it’s a port city. They could buy a passage to anywhere. Molon could steal passage money in a morning.”

“If that’s what they are thinking, they’re out of luck,” I told him. “The place is filling up with slavers. They always flock to wherever Roman armies are fighting. After a successful battle they can buy up all the prisoners dirt cheap. Those scavengers can spot a runaway on a moonless night.”

“Hadn’t thought of that,” he said. “But they might not have, either.”

“Molon would know.”

The truth was, I did not want to believe that they had run. I would not mourn the loss of Molon, and he would certainly seize any chance to better his lot. I was not about to deceive myself on that score. But Freda-I had thought we had reached some sort of understanding the night before, that in her brutish, untutored way she had conceived an affection for me.

Had it all been a cold-blooded ruse? Had Molon feigned drunkenness while Freda had taken it upon herself to exhaust me so that I would not wake when they made their stealthy escape? I did not want to believe it, but I recognized this as a purely visceral reaction. The rigorously logical part of my mind told me that this was exactly what they had done. The objections I had raised with Hermes were still valid, though. How did the two of them expect to better their condition with this act?

Our search of the auxilia camp failed to turn them up, as I had expected. I tried to look cheerful as we returned to the legionary camp, but I was more downcast than I had been since arriving in Gaul. It was the crowning catastrophe in an experience rife with disaster. If my luck kept holding like this, I would be executed along with Burrus and his friends.

“Are you going to post a notice that they’ve run?” Hermes asked when we returned to my tent.

“No, I’ve had enough humiliation to last me for a while. And don’t you say anything, either. It wouldn’t look right, making a fuss over a couple of runaways when the whole country is about to plunge into war.”

“If you say so,” he said doubtfully.

“That doesn’t mean I won’t turn out the guard if you should run, though. That would be different.”

“You don’t trust me!” he said indignantly.

“It’s just that I know you all too well.” I pushed the tent flap aside and went in, suddenly bone-tired. “I’m going to get some sleep. Wake me only for an emergency or if those two return.”

I got out of my armor and boots and lay back on the cot I had abandoned when the summons came to ride into the hills. Even through the haze of fatigue my mind kept turning over the latest bewildering developments. I could not put it out of my mind that Molon and Freda were still two of my suspects in Vinius’s murder. If they thought they were about to be found out, running was the most sensible course they could take. But if they had done it, why the Druidic mumbo-jumbo? And how did it tie in with the three hanged men? If, indeed, the two were tied together at all.

It was the most maddening situation of my by no means uneventful career. Whatever happened to politicians who murdered one another for perfectly sensible, understandable motives? Why did armies and barbarians of several sorts and priests with their disgusting sacrifices have to get involved?

I tossed restlessly, weary to my bones but unable to sleep. I knew that I would have to do something or I would know no rest. In my long experience I knew that, when things reached this awful pass, there was only one action to take. I would have to do something colossally stupid.

I got up, rummaged around until I found a wax tablet, and opened the wooden leaves. With a stylus I scratched my message and called Hermes in.

“Run this over to Lovernius. Tell him to have one of his men deliver it to Captain Carbo at once.” He must have seen something in my face.

“What are you planning?”

“I’m going to go out tonight and maybe get killed. When you get back from your chore you’d better try to get some sleep, too. You’re going with me.”

I dropped back on my cot, suicidally at peace with myself. My mind made up at last, I was asleep as quickly as a lamp is extinguished.

When my eyes opened again, it was dark outside. I felt rested and invigorated, things I rarely feel upon first waking. Then I remembered what it was that I planned to do. It was simple fear that made me so lively. Hermes was on his pallet snoring gently and I prodded him awake. He went out to fetch a basin of water for me.

While he did this, I found my short sword and muffled its sheath with strips of cloth so that the suspension rings wouldn’t rattle. I added my dagger to the harness and belted it all on. I located a pair of civilian sandals and put them on. Not only do hobnails make a lot of noise, but they can strike sparks from stone, visible for great distances on a dark night. I rolled up a hooded cloak and slung it over my shoulder. The night would probably turn very cool and rains were frequent.

When Hermes got back with the basin, I instructed him to fetch his cloak and give his sword the same treatment as mine. “We’re going out on a little reconnaissance,” I told him. He followed my instructions with the sort of excitement that only the young and foolish feel when danger is near. I was just finishing my ablutions when Carbo arrived, accompanied by Ionus to guide us.

“Here he is. Now what sort of lunacy are you planning, Decius?”

“I’m going back to that grove, Gnaeus. I want to look it over in daylight tomorrow.”

“I thought it had to be something that stupid. If you’re going to do it, why not go out with your cavalrymen?”

“What would be the use? It would only make us more visible. I wasn’t joking when I said I would feel safe only with the full legion along for security. Either we’ll remain unseen and be safe, or we’ll be detected and killed. Come on, Hermes.”

We walked toward the Porta Decumana and Hermes tried not to strut, his fingers flexing repeatedly on his sword hilt. He had had several lessons and now accounted himself a master swordsman. At the gate I informed the officer in charge that I was going out on a night mission. His jaw dropped at so outlandish an idea, but he had no authority to stop me.

While we went through this rigmarole I gazed along the top of the wall, noting how the sentries were spaced, wondering how difficult it would be for a pair of determined slaves to get away by scaling the parapet and jumping the palisade. Not difficult at all, I decided. The guards were widely spaced, the nights were dark, and everyone’s attention was on danger from outside, not what was going on behind them. Choose a late hour when the men were groggy, be very quiet, and escape would present very few problems. They were gone. I could no longer fool myself about that. But where?

“When will you return?” Carbo asked.

“We’ll have to stay in the hills while it’s daylight. As soon as it’s dark, we’ll head back. I can’t cover ground like your scouts but we should be back well before sunup the day after tomorrow.”

“If you aren’t, I’ll have a cavalry sweep out looking for you at dawn.”

“If I’m not back by then I probably won’t be back at all, but go ahead. It won’t do any harm.”

“Good hunting, then.” He clapped a hand on my shoulder in soldierly fashion, believing that I was a brave man instead of a suicidal fool.

We went out through the gate and walked toward the great rampart. This night we heard no overeager Gallic warriors taunting the men atop the walls. In fact, it was rather pleasant, with a sliver of moon and a multitude of stars in the sky. I could even make out the reflection of moonlight from the white crests of the nearby mountains. Night insects made their chirping sounds and a wind rustled the grass and the rushes in the ponds.

At the sally port in the rampart I repeated my story to the officer of auxilia who was in charge there. This one showed no particular astonishment, just writing down my name and the size of my party. We went on through. A few paces past the wall I called a halt.

“Do you have any paint?” I asked Ionus. He took a small pot from his belt purse and handed it to me. I dipped my fingers into the foul-smelling paste and smeared it on my face, then streaked my bare arms and legs. Then I tossed the pot to Hermes.

“Put this on. The only way we’re going to live through this is by not being seen. Ionus, what’s this paint made with?”

“Just soot and bear fat.”

“Good. Woad or walnut juice leave stains that last weeks. Now, Hermes, once we are one bowshot from the rampart we are truly on our own in enemy territory. Anyone who sees us out there will want to kill us on sight. Stay close to me, but not so close that you’ll bump into me. We have to maintain enough distance so that we can use our weapons if we have to. If you start falling behind us, say something, but don’t shout. Is that understood?” He nodded dumbly, his face a little frightened. Suddenly, this wasn’t such an adventure.

“Ionus, set us a good pace, but we aren’t accomplished cattle thieves who can see in the dark like you. Now let’s be off.”

Ionus set off and I let him go ten paces, then followed. We moved across the dark plain at a pace that was somewhere between a walk and a run; not the steady, plodding military pace but a sort of lope accomplished with the feet widespread to maintain balance on the uneven ground. The turf was springy beneath my feet and now I was grateful for the hard training Caesar had made me perform, for I found the experience exhilarating rather than the exhausting ordeal it might have been.

After about an hour of this we stopped by a little stream, dropped to our knees, and lapped up the cool water like thirsty dogs.

“How much farther?” I asked.

“As much more as we have come,” Ionus answered.

“I was afraid of that,” Hermes said. He was breathing heavily, but seemed to be in better shape than I was. He was no longer the soft city boy who had left Rome with me.

“This is good for you,” I assured him. “My father has always told me that suffering is the best thing for a man, and that young people these days don’t suffer enough and that’s why we’re such a degenerate lot.”

“If it’s all the same to you,” Hermes said, “I’ll let your father do the suffering, if he likes it so much.”

Ionus listened to us with a look of great puzzlement. He lived his whole life like this. Hardship for him had an entirely different meaning. He was barefoot, wearing trousers and a brief cloak that covered only his shoulders and upper back. He seemed perfectly comfortable thus attired.

After a short rest, we went on. The night grew chilly, but our exertions kept us warm. I strained my ears to hear approaching Gauls, or a cough or rustle from warriors lying in ambush, but we seemed to be protected by a spell of invisibility. Or perhaps the Gauls had turned sensible of a sudden and decided that nights were better spent sleeping instead of skulking about with weapons.

When we reached the foot of the mountain, I called another halt. “This is a hard climb and I don’t want to be out of strength when we get where we’re going,” I said. “If there’s anyone up there, we could have a fight on our hands when we arrive.”

Hermes and I sat down, gasping. Ionus just squatted, one hand resting idly on the hilt of his short, leaf-shaped sword. With his paint and his bushy hair sticking out in all directions, he looked like some forest goblin come calling.

The night chill struck our cooling, sweaty bodies and I donned my cloak. Hermes did the same. “Why do people live in a place like this?” he asked. He couldn’t understand why anyone would live anyplace except Italy, and Rome in particular. I was not far behind him in this.

“I’m sure it must be better in summer.”

I surveyed the moonlit plain and pointed to the southeast, where a series of silvery crests reared against the starry sky. They were the high Alps.

“One of those mountains over there is said to be the highest in the world.”

“I thought Olympus was the highest,” Hermes said.

“Olympus is just the highest mountain in Greece. If the Greeks had lived here, they would have thought their gods lived up on that one. Ionus, what do your people call that mountain?”

He shrugged. “I am not from here. My people dwell in the lowlands. If it is the tallest, maybe it is where Taranis lives. He makes the thunder.”

“Must be their name for Jupiter,” Hermes said, muffling himself in his cloak.

“That could be,” I said, but I doubted it. The Gallic gods seemed to me quite different from our familiar Italian and Olympian deities. “Does Taranis bear the thunderbolt? Is he accompanied by eagles?”

“The thunderbolt, yes. No eagles,” was the reply. “His is the wheel with which the sacred fire is kindled. We always start the fire of Beltain with a wheel.”

I remembered the little wheels that I had seen adorning so many of the helmets worn by Gauls. It seemed like an awkward instrument for starting a fire though.

“He’s not Jupiter, then,” Hermes said with the certainty of a pontifex. “Vesta’s in charge of starting fires.”

“Where would the gods be without us mortals to apportion their duties?” I said, standing. “Come on, enough of this philosophical chitchat. We have work to do. Hermes, from now on we move slower and stay closer together. If you need to say something, touch my shoulder and then whisper. We are going into the woods and enemies can lurk very close without our seeing them. There is no hurry, dawn is still an hour away. It is utterly important that we move quietly. Ionus, lead off.”

So we began our climb. As before, the trees were oppressively close and accumulated dew dripped on us. Ionus swept ahead of us, his footsteps as silent as a ghost’s. He did not ascend in a straight line. Instead, he zigzagged from one side to another, sniffing for ambushes like a hound searching out game scent. I felt that my own ascent was commendably quiet, although I had nothing like the Gaul’s level of skill. Behind me, Hermes seemed to be making an unconscionable racket. I was probably overcritical, but my nerves were taut with suspense, and every rustle he made was to me as the sounding of trumpets.

We carried no torches this time, and we lacked the unjustified confidence that comes with having a number of companions. A slow step at a time we climbed, our eyes, our ears, even our noses quivering in search of impending doom. Even at this pace, it was not long before we reached the clearing. This time, without torches or the glowing embers of the bonfire, I could see almost nothing.

Ionus squatted at the edge of the trees, peering grimly inward. I looked long enough to determine that I would see nothing of use for some time, then we backed a little way downhill. I gestured for the others to sit and we hunkered down to wait. With the hood of my cloak drawn over my head, the sounds of the night were muffled except for the patter of dewdrops striking the wool. Hermes looked miserable, his adventure turned into a boring tedium, waiting in the cold and dark.

Gradually, I grew aware that I could see tiny details of my surroundings that had been invisible. Then I heard a single bird call melodiously. Dawn had arrived. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, visibility expanded until I could see trees a hundred feet away and the sky overhead was a leaden gray. My two companions had dozed off and I nudged them awake. Hermes yawned and stretched, then he started to say something. I clamped a hand over his mouth and shook my head vehemently.

I leaned close to Ionus and whispered: “Scout the clearing for us.” He bobbed his head and set off in his crouching lope, making a sweep of the treeline surrounding the grove. A few minutes later he returned.

“All clear.”

I got up. “Come along, Hermes. We can talk now, but don’t raise your voice and don’t let your guard down. Ionus will provide security while we see what we can see.”

We went into the clearing. The bonfire was now just a heap of cold ashes. I looked up and saw that, as I had expected, the bodies had been taken down, along with the ropes from which they had dangled. It was no surprise, but still I felt a rush of relief when I saw that they were gone. It would have been too ghastly to have them there, silently watching. At the very least, it would have been an unbearable distraction.

“What are we looking for?” Hermes asked.

“Anything that looks like it didn’t grow here naturally,” I told him, having no idea myself what I expected to find. We began combing over the turf in the growing light of morning. The surface was springy, covered with moss and overlaid with rotting oak leaves. The ground was much trampled, which came as no surprise. In the last day or two it must have seen an inordinate amount of traffic for so small and remote a spot.

“Found something!” Hermes said eagerly.

“Keep your voice down,” I told him. “What have you got?” He held out a small, curved object of brownish color. It appeared to be the tip of an antler, pierced in its center for a thong, either a part of a necklace or a toggle of some sort.

Ionus looked it over. “German,” he said. “For fastening one of their fur tunics here.” He clapped a palm over his shoulder.

“Lovernius was on the right track, then,” I said, inordinately pleased. “Let’s see what else we can find.”

A minute later Ionus, prodding at the ashes of the fire, called us over. Protruding from the cinders was a charred bit of wood that still bore a recognizable carving: three faces turned in three directions.

“That’s adding sacrilege to murder,” I said, “burning the Druids’ staffs in the bonfire.” For it had to be the staff of Badraig or possibly one belonging to one of the others.

Further search turned up more than I would have expected, but nothing terribly helpful. There were some wisps of dyed wool, probably from the garments of the Gauls who came and took down the bodies. There were some bits of fur that might have come from the clothes of the Germans. Hermes even found a couple of tiny arrowheads beautifully fashioned from flint, but these might have lain there for centuries.

Ionus turned out to be something of a disappointment. It seems that among the Gauls, hunting is pretty much restricted to the upper aristocracy, so common warriors like Ionus did not develop great facility with things like tracks and other signs. Their skills were those of cattle raiding and warfare. Hermes and I, sons of the City that we were, displayed even less acumen.

At midday, we halted our desultory search and dug into our provisions. I had brought along some bread and dried figs. Hermes had prudently dropped a hunk of cheese into the front of his tunic before leaving the camp and Ionus had some salted fish in his pouch, along with a few early onions bought from one of the peasants who hawked their produce in the fora of the camps.

“Have we learned much?” Hermes asked, munching away.

“Not yet,” I told him. “But we have plenty of daylight yet. There’s still the ground under the trees all around here to look at, and it might be worthwhile climbing into the trees.”

“Climbing?” Hermes said. “What for?”

“Somebody had to go up there to arrange the ropes,” I told him. Actually, I was not certain of this. I had never dealt with a hanging before.

The food was so dry that I barely choked down the last few bites. I asked Ionus where we could find some water.

He pointed to the eastern edge of the clearing. “There’s a spring a little way over there.” We got up, brushing crumbs from our tunics, and followed his lead. A few minutes of walking brought us to a little gorge carved into the side of the hill where water tumbled noisily over jagged rocks. We found a relatively calm spot and knelt by the stream, thrusting our faces into the water and drinking deep. It was delightful stuff, far better than anything you can get from a well.

I can’t really say how we were caught so easily. It may have been that concentrating on the ground sapped our alertness to our surroundings. Possibly the noise of the stream deafened us to other sounds. Most likely, it was simply that Romans ought to stay in Rome. I never would have left, given a choice.

We had our faces out of the water, taking a breath, when Ionus’ head jerked up abruptly. “We are not alone,” he said quietly.

Hermes and I scrambled to our feet as the Gaul straightened from his crouch effortlessly, pivoting to scan this way and that. Then I saw them; shadowy shapes coming closer, weaving between the trees. They were hulking figures, more like beasts than men, for they wore the hides of animals.

With a single bound, Ionus dived headfirst into a clump of brush. Wriggling like a snake, he was gone from sight in an instant and no sound betrayed his passage.

“I wish I knew how to do that,” I said.

“He’s deserted us!” Hermes cried, panic in his voice.

“Wouldn’t you?” I demanded.

One of the men barked something to the others. Some of them continued to approach us, not bothering any longer with stealth. Others combed through the brush, poking it with their spears, trying to find Ionus. There were at least a dozen closing in on us with their weapons leveled. I heard a rasping sound next to me and saw out of the corner of my eye that Hermes had drawn his sword. With the edge of my hand I chopped at his wrist and he dropped the weapon with a yelp.

“What did you do that for?” he demanded. “They’ve come to kill us! We have to fight!”

“Settle down, you idiot,” I told him. “We’re not going to fight our way out of this.”

“Well, we’re certainly not going to talk our way out! Do you know some magic that will get us away from here?”

“No.” I struck my haughtiest pose and addressed the appreaching men. “Gentlemen, you seem to think that some sort of hostility lies between us. I am Senator Decius Caecilius Metellus of Rome, and Rome desires only the friendliest relations with the great German people.” Dressed and painted as I was, the effect must have been ludicrous, but when there is no substance, sheer style must suffice.

One of them said something in their fighting-wolves language and the others laughed heartily.

“You’ve made a good impression,” Hermes said shakily. One of them stepped up to him and clouted him alongside the head with a spear butt. Another did the same for me, staggering me sideways. Someone grabbed me from behind and I was quickly divested of my weapons.

“Yes, it seems we’re not to be killed instantly,” I said. “So far, so good.” My hands were bound behind me and Hermes was hoisted to his feet and likewise bound.

Our captors were big men, even bigger than Gauls, and twice as savage-looking. Gauls painted themselves and bleached their hair with lime and made it stand up in spikes for a frightening effect. These men exuded wildness and menace just by standing around breathing. Their hair and beards were every shade of yellow and their eyes were frighteningly blue.

Their heavy furs made them seem even bulkier, but they were not massively built, like the big-shield gladiators so familiar to Romans. Although they were immensely strong, they were built like wolves or racehorses, with lean muscles stretched over long bones. They had absurdly small waists and moved gracefully despite their size.

“Oh, we’ve had it now,” Hermes said, blood trickling from a lump rapidly swelling on the side of his head. “Why didn’t we break and run for it when we had the chance?”

“We never had the chance,” I told him. “Look at these beasts. Do you think you could have made it all the way back to the camp with them at your heels?”

He looked them over, cringing at their outlandish fearsomeness. “Well, no.”

“So be calm and we may get out of this alive. As yet, there’s no war between Rome and the Germans. They just aren’t pleased with the way Caesar has handled the Helvetian migration. Maybe they’ll hold us for ransom.”

“Would anybody pay to get you back?” he demanded.

“No, but there’s a special fund for just that purpose,” I assured him, hoping it was true. I knew that the eastern legions maintained a ransom fund, because ransom was a major source of income for the Oriental kings.

A German yapped something and swatted me in the ribs with his spear butt. “I think we’ve been told to shut up,” I wheezed. Hermes just nodded. He learned fast.

A man fastened a noose around my neck and then did the same for Hermes. I thought: They hang their sacrifices.