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Authors: David Drake, Janet Morris
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fort’s residents were disciplined soldiers, not a city rabble. Varus simply
didn’t want to have to look at the men he commanded.
The reception room was intended to be lighted through the front colonnade, so oil lamps were the only illumination when Varus
boarded up the windows. The open skylight of a Mediterranean-style atrium wasn’t possible because there were rooms on the
floor above. German winters would have made that a bad plan anyway, though Pauli couldn’t be sure Varus, fresh from a profitable
governorship in Syria, quite appreciated the differences in climate. A Roman aristocrat didn’t trouble himself with details
of geography.
The majordomo was having his nails buffed by a young boy. Three ushers lounged in the reception room, all of them pointedly
avoiding looking at Pauli; a fourth usher had been sent off at his arrival.
The ten-man military guard outside the building had let Pauli through without delay. They didn’t see their job as requiring
status games.
Pauli wasn’t bored: he was listening to Beckie and Gerd through the bone-conduction output of his headband. It worried him
that the other two were operating without him, though time contraints and common sense required it. He worried more that they’d
only located half the revisionists Central briefed them to expect. He worried that he was going to make a blunder at dinner
and compromise the mission.
Oh, no, he wasn’t bored. But still…
He smiled at the majordomo. “Do you visit Rome often?” Pauli asked in a tone of mild interest.
The plump servant flicked his eyes sideways, caught Pauli’s smile, and jerked his hands away from the manicurist. If this
barbarian
did
chance to have the emperor’s ear …
“Stupid donkey!” he shouted and slapped at the startled boy. “Rufio!” he ordered an usher. “Take the gentleman’s cloak. Blaesus,
conduct Master Clovis to the garden.”
To Pauli the majordomo added, “I don’t know what’s become of the boy who was supposed to fetch you. It’s so difficult to buy
good help these days.”
“I can imagine,” Pauli said mildly as he unfastened the ornate gold pin that closed his knee-length military cloak. He handed
the garment to Rufio. Underneath he wore a dining cape of cerise linen, tied at the throat with ribbons. Most of the team’s
baggage consisted of Pauli’s garments and equipment. His slaves could wear the same tunics and cloaks throughout the operation
without arousing curiosity.
Blaesus, a sad-looking man of Egyptian or Levantine origin, guided Pauli through the building. Varus had brought a huge household;
there were a number of slaves in every room.
The furnishings were sparse by the standards of later days, but the bronze work, statuary, and ceramics on display were obviously
expensive. Slaves were packing many of the items into traveling chests. Pauli almost walked into a wall as he realized Varus
intended to take the goods along to decorate the new camp to be built on the lower Weser.
Dinner was laid in the garden at the back of the building. Three benches were set against a round serving table; the fourth
side was open to permit servants to change the dishes. Diners reclined on their left elbows in eight of the nine places; the
lowest in status, the end place on the right arm of the U, waited for Pauli.
A quick glance convinced Pauli that the garden was converted from a section of the stables that were part of the building’s
original design. Trees stood in pots and roses had made a start on the trellis. Suncatchers of colored glass wobbled on threads
from the branches.
The orange tree certainly wasn’t going to survive its first German winter. On the other hand, its owner wasn’t going to survive
the remainder of this month …
“There you are, Clovis,” Varus said. “We’d wondered what happened to you.”
He took in Pauli’s dining cape and added approvingly, “Ah, yes. Very urbane. Well, there’s
didn’t want to have to look at the men he commanded.
The reception room was intended to be lighted through the front colonnade, so oil lamps were the only illumination when Varus
boarded up the windows. The open skylight of a Mediterranean-style atrium wasn’t possible because there were rooms on the
floor above. German winters would have made that a bad plan anyway, though Pauli couldn’t be sure Varus, fresh from a profitable
governorship in Syria, quite appreciated the differences in climate. A Roman aristocrat didn’t trouble himself with details
of geography.
The majordomo was having his nails buffed by a young boy. Three ushers lounged in the reception room, all of them pointedly
avoiding looking at Pauli; a fourth usher had been sent off at his arrival.
The ten-man military guard outside the building had let Pauli through without delay. They didn’t see their job as requiring
status games.
Pauli wasn’t bored: he was listening to Beckie and Gerd through the bone-conduction output of his headband. It worried him
that the other two were operating without him, though time contraints and common sense required it. He worried more that they’d
only located half the revisionists Central briefed them to expect. He worried that he was going to make a blunder at dinner
and compromise the mission.
Oh, no, he wasn’t bored. But still…
He smiled at the majordomo. “Do you visit Rome often?” Pauli asked in a tone of mild interest.
The plump servant flicked his eyes sideways, caught Pauli’s smile, and jerked his hands away from the manicurist. If this
barbarian
did
chance to have the emperor’s ear …
“Stupid donkey!” he shouted and slapped at the startled boy. “Rufio!” he ordered an usher. “Take the gentleman’s cloak. Blaesus,
conduct Master Clovis to the garden.”
To Pauli the majordomo added, “I don’t know what’s become of the boy who was supposed to fetch you. It’s so difficult to buy
good help these days.”
“I can imagine,” Pauli said mildly as he unfastened the ornate gold pin that closed his knee-length military cloak. He handed
the garment to Rufio. Underneath he wore a dining cape of cerise linen, tied at the throat with ribbons. Most of the team’s
baggage consisted of Pauli’s garments and equipment. His slaves could wear the same tunics and cloaks throughout the operation
without arousing curiosity.
Blaesus, a sad-looking man of Egyptian or Levantine origin, guided Pauli through the building. Varus had brought a huge household;
there were a number of slaves in every room.
The furnishings were sparse by the standards of later days, but the bronze work, statuary, and ceramics on display were obviously
expensive. Slaves were packing many of the items into traveling chests. Pauli almost walked into a wall as he realized Varus
intended to take the goods along to decorate the new camp to be built on the lower Weser.
Dinner was laid in the garden at the back of the building. Three benches were set against a round serving table; the fourth
side was open to permit servants to change the dishes. Diners reclined on their left elbows in eight of the nine places; the
lowest in status, the end place on the right arm of the U, waited for Pauli.
A quick glance convinced Pauli that the garden was converted from a section of the stables that were part of the building’s
original design. Trees stood in pots and roses had made a start on the trellis. Suncatchers of colored glass wobbled on threads
from the branches.
The orange tree certainly wasn’t going to survive its first German winter. On the other hand, its owner wasn’t going to survive
the remainder of this month …
“There you are, Clovis,” Varus said. “We’d wondered what happened to you.”
He took in Pauli’s dining cape and added approvingly, “Ah, yes. Very urbane. Well, there’s
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