Nobody Loves a Centurion(10)

“Young Burrus!” I grasped his hands. He was the son of one of my clients, an old soldier who had served with me in Spain. “I was going to look you up. I have letters for you from your family.” I also had letters for a half dozen or so other soldiers in the legion, sons of other clients of my family. Any time word gets out that an officer is going out to join a particular proconsul or propraetor, he becomes a mail carrier. But Burrus was an especially close client, having backed me in some decidedly rough situations.

“How is Father?” He grinned, showing that he had lost a tooth on one side.

“As mean as ever. He swears that you’re living easy up here, that soldiering isn’t what it was in his day.”

“That sounds like the old brute.” Lucius Burrus had been a boy when I had last seen him. Now he was a handsome young man, of medium height, well knit and with the enduring strength of the Italian peasant, just the sort every recruiter looks for. He was a bit the worse for the wear, though, with bruises on his arms and neck and anywhere else his skin showed.

“They must be training you hard here,” I commented.

He winced and looked sheepish. “It isn’t that. It’s . . .” His voice tapered off and his gaze went to the entrance of the tent. So did mine. There was an abrupt cessation of activity around the tent as the door flap swept aside and a goddess walked out.

How does one describe perfection, especially when it is barbaric perfection? She was taller than any woman should be, taller than any man there. She was about an inch taller than I, although my thick-soled military boots put our eyes on a level. Her face was made up of features that should have robbed it of beauty: her jaw too long and narrow, her eyes set too close beside a nose that was too long and thin, her mouth too wide and full-lipped, her lips pushed outward by teeth that were too large. Taken together, the effect was devastating.

Her thick, gold-blond hair fell over her shoulders and to her waist, contrasting with her straight, level, dark brows. Her eyes were ice blue, paler even than a Gaul’s, her skin whiter than a candidate’s toga, her body as slender as a charioteer’s whip, and as strong and supple. That body was rendered abundantly visible by her scanty tunic, which was made of red fox pelts.

You may take it from this that the woman made a powerful first impression. You would not be wrong. Outside the tent she stood there, a flat-bottomed jug balanced on her shoulder, quite aware of the attention she drew and quite contemptuous of it. She didn’t just look like a goddess, she stood like one. Any athlete can look good in motion, but few mortals have the ability to stand superbly. Roman statesmen struggle for years to achieve such dignity and self-possession.

And yet, here was near divinity embodied in a German slavegirl.

My somewhat addled thoughts were interrupted by an ugly smack of wood against flesh and the thud of a falling body. I turned to see young Burrus on the ground. Titus Vinius stood over him with his vinestaff raised. Down it came across Burrus’s shoulders. The stick must have been soaked in oil, because it bent without breaking.

“Don’t have enough work to do, you lazy little shit?” The stick came down three more times.

An officer is never supposed to interfere with a centurion disciplining one of his men, but this was too much. I grasped his wrist before the stick could descend again. He wore a silver bracelet, a decoration for valor in some past battle, and it flexed slightly beneath my fingers.

“Enough, Centurion! He is a client of mine. I was giving him news from home.”

The eyes that glared into mine were not quite sane. “I don’t care if he’s the high priest of Jupiter and I saw what he was doing! Now release my arm, Captain. You are interfering where you have no business.” He seemed to have regained self-possession so I let him go. He lowered the vinestaff, but he kicked Burrus in the ribs with his hobnailed boot.

“Get up, Burrus! If you’ve nothing better to do here than stand and ogle my property, then go join the latrine detail.” He turned his wrathful gaze on the others. “Shall I find work for the rest of you?” But they were already working furiously, looking anywhere except at him or the woman. I noticed that they all bore bruises, although none of them was as extravagantly marked as Burrus. The slave girl herself walked past us without a glance, as if we did not even exist. Even under the circumstances, I had to force myself not to stare after her.

Burrus got to his feet, stooped with pain, his face flaming with rage and humiliation. He would not look at me and I was acutely embarrassed to have witnessed his degradation. He gathered his arms from one of the pyramidal stacks and trudged off.