‘I do not make a good slave. My mouth runs away with me.’ Degmar’s lips quirked. ‘I had just muttered something about the Usipetes being spineless worms for submitting to your tax.’
Tullus snorted in amusement, surprised that Degmar would repeat such a thing to a Roman who yet had the power of life and death over him. ‘Your people would not have bent their knees to me?’
‘In the face of such a force, I think they would have. They hold little love for Rome, but they’re no fools,’ admitted Degmar. ‘I wasn’t going to tell him that, though, was I?’
Now Tullus laughed. ‘You’re one of a kind, Degmar of the Marsi. If you won’t accept my offer of freedom, what would you do?’
‘I will be your servant, and bodyguard, if you’ll have me. I know you have soldiers who serve you, but I will be your hound. Sleep outside your door. Watch your back, protect you against treachery.’
‘Despite the fact that I am Roman?’
A wry shrug. ‘Roman or not, you saved my skin.’
Tullus felt his respect for Degmar grow. ‘How long do you propose to serve me so?’
‘Until I have repaid my debt to you.’
Tullus had never really wanted such protection, but Degmar’s desire to pay him back rang loud and clear from his words. The Marsi warrior was an honourable man, Tullus decided, and to refuse his offer would be disrespectful. I’m getting old, he thought. Sentimental. ‘I accept your offer.’
‘My thanks.’ Degmar bent his head a fraction.
It was the most acknowledgement he would get, thought Tullus, amused once more. German tribesmen could be so different to Romans. Despite the manner in which they had been thrown together, despite Tullus’ senior status and Degmar’s lowly one, the warrior addressed him – almost – as an equal. It was a surprise to Tullus that he didn’t altogether care.
He watched as Degmar got on with preparing the fresh-caught bream that had been a gift from another centurion in the cohort. Tullus still had no idea if he could cook – he would find out before long – but the man looked well able to handle himself in a fight. It was then that an image of Tubero popped into Tullus’ head.
With such a venomous and high-placed enemy, thought Tullus, there was nothing wrong with having a man like Degmar around.
PART TWO
Summer, AD 9
The Roman Camp of Porta Westfalica, Deep in Germania
XV
Falling from the narrow gap between door and doorframe, a thin beam of sunlight on Varus’ face woke him up. He stirred, aware that he’d been too hot under the blanket. Curse it, he thought, refusing to open his eyes and admit that another day had begun. What paperwork will Aristides have to torture me with? What officers and chieftains will come whinging to my office? It would be the same shit; just another day, as it always was.
A faint, dusty smell – the odour of not just his bedchamber, but his entire quarters – reminded him that he had woken in Porta Westfalica, not Vetera. Varus’ burgeoning sour mood vanished in a heartbeat. He opened his eyes, and sat up with a smile. He was in Porta Westfalica! Here his duties were far lighter. The room’s faded grandeur and its dark red-painted walls, the latest fashion in Rome five or more years before, were of no concern. He didn’t mind that the absence of regular occupants and, as a consequence, lack of heating during the winter meant that patches of mould had bloomed in the corners. They had been cleaned off, but the smell remained. This and the numerous cracks in the plaster were badges of his summer sojourn, to be relished.
Opening the door, Varus exhilarated in the warm sunlight that swept in, lighting up the room. Even the temperature seemed warmer than in Vetera. He took a step outside, acknowledging the sentry’s salute with a cordial nod. Along with other chambers, a dining room and the kitchen, his bedroom faced on to a large, colonnaded courtyard, the centre of which was occupied by a herb garden, apple trees and a selection of statues. All of it had seen better days. Although it was the commandant’s quarters, the entire place had a shabby air, like a holiday villa at Capri that hadn’t been used for several summers.
Other than the principia, few other permanent buildings had been constructed here. Porta Westfalica was only occupied during the summer, so there was little point in erecting barracks and suchlike until the place became a fixed camp. The large house had been Varus’ home since their arrival a month before, and would remain so until their departure. He had the slaves burn fires daily in every room with a fireplace, and the place was being scrubbed from top to bottom. It wouldn’t be long before the building was as good as new, he thought.
Freed of his wife, who had refused – again – to accompany him, he was free to behave as he wished within these walls. Sleep all day, drink all night, if he wanted to. Varus smiled. He didn’t want to act like a carefree, single tribune again, but it was nice to know that he could do so without being nagged. Outside, he was also master – governor of the whole region, come to monitor the tribes, to see that Rome’s laws were being followed and its taxes being paid. Vetera lay just over a hundred miles to the west. The distance gave Varus immense satisfaction. Only a fraction of the official messages and letters that were the bane of his life in Vetera managed to reach this island of refuge. It wasn’t a coincidence. The important ones did get to Porta Westfalica, but the rest were dealt with on the spot – Varus had delegated the camp commander at Vetera to open every last letter – relieving him, for the summer at least, of a considerable amount of arse-ache.
He took a deep breath of the dawn-crisp air. Gods, but he felt five years younger.
Footsteps behind made him turn. ‘Morning, Aristides.’
‘Good morning, master.’ Aristides was already dressed, and his hair oiled.
Varus couldn’t resist poking fun. His slave didn’t like his room here, or his bed, or much else, as far as Varus could tell. Even the baths – in particular the baths – weren’t up to standard. ‘Did you sleep well?’
Aristides made a face. ‘My rest was tolerable, master, thank you. And you?’
‘I slept like a babe. Now, I’m ravenous.’ Varus clapped his hands and a moment later, a slave emerged from the kitchen. ‘I want a table and chairs out here,’ he said, pointing at a sunny spot in the centre of the courtyard. ‘And food. Lots of it.’
‘At once, master.’ The slave hurried from view.
‘Enjoy your meal, master,’ said Aristides.
Varus cast a look at his scribe, who was also heading for the kitchen. It was Aristides’ habit to breakfast with the other slaves, a situation Varus knew he hated. It wasn’t surprising. The domestic slaves were of several different races, uneducated types who looked down on the learned Greek. Feeling a little sympathy – he wouldn’t want to break bread with most ordinary soldiers – Varus toyed with the idea of inviting Aristides to join him, before dismissing it. His manumission might be impending, but there was no point giving Aristides ideas above his station, something that sharing his master’s table was sure to do. Just because he’s been with me for half a lifetime doesn’t make him my friend, thought Varus.
After a busy morning receiving visitors, Varus had an agreeable meal with Vala, his deputy, a thoughtful, middle-aged man with a shiny bald pate. One cup of wine with the food – fresh-roasted venison in plum sauce – had turned into two, and then three. Varus had had the wherewithal to call a halt at that stage, but there was no denying the warm glow that encased him as he and Vala rode out of the vast camp towards the local settlement. Aristides’ disapproving expression and protestations about unfinished paperwork had not been enough to deter Varus from taking a look at the site of the proposed forum.
‘It will wait,’ he’d said to Aristides. ‘I’ll be back within the hour.’ Lips pursed, Aristides had retreated to Varus’ office in silent protest.