Early the next year, only a few days after the feast of Mars had
signaled the vernal equinox, they brought an injured slave to the
master's house. This was on a Samnian latifundium owned by Gnaeus
Valerius Flavius.
It was a raw day--low smoky clouds scudded over the fields, with a
cold whistle of wind and a few rain-spatters. The rolling land lay wet
and dark, its trees nearly bare save for a clump of pines. A rutted
road gleamed with wind-ruffled puddles, and a few cows and goats, still
winter-shaggy, huddled behind the sheds. The field slaves stamped their
feet, blew on chafed hands and bent to their task; no idleness now,
this was plowing and sowing time, that the flax might clothe Rome next
winter. Their overseers rode up and down the lines, touching a back
here and there with a skilled lash, but lightly; today the air did all
the needful whipping for them.
Phryne came out of the house and felt how the wind bit. Her stola
skirts streamed from her girdle, and she almost lost the blue palla
before she got it on. Nevertheless, she could not have stayed another
hour in the villa. Mistress Cordelia would have it hot as Ethiopia, and
drown the brazier fumes in enough incense to throttle a mule!
As she walked over the sere lawn, smiling to old gardener Mopsus
but hurrying on (he was a dear, and so lonely since the master sold
his last grandchild--and a Greek--but _how_ he talked), she saw two
field hands approach. They were common dark men, some or other kind
of barbarian, she didn't know what. But the one they supported was
something else. She had not seen so big a man in a long time, and his
unkempt yellow hair and beard tossed a blaze across the sunless sky.
Why ... he must be a Cimbrian ... one of the very people who had
captured Master Flavius in Gaul! It was a Euripidean situation. Phryne
went down the hill for a closer look. One of the dark men saw her and
bobbed his head with coarse deference--a household slave, personal
attendant to the mistress herself, was not common folks.
"What is the matter?" asked Phryne. "What happened?"
The Cimbrian lifted his head. He bore a strongly molded face, heavy
about the jaw and brows but almost Hellenic of nose. His eyes were wide
apart beneath a tattooed triskele (how had the yelping barbarians of
Thule ever come on that most ancient symbol?) and a green color like
winter seas. He was white about the lips. His left leg dragged.
"He got hurt by a bull," said the first of the dark slaves. "The big
white stud bull broke out of the pen and come ramping down in the
field. Gored one man."
"They didn't dare kill him," added the other. "He's worth too much, you
see. And we couldn't lay a rope on him. Then this fellow got in, took
him by the horns, threw him and held him down till help come."
Phryne felt how the blood flew into her face. "But that was wonderful!"
she cried. "Another Theseus! And only hurt in the leg!"
The Cimbrian laughed, a short inhuman bark, and said: "I would not
have been hurt at all--we used to throw bulls every year at the spring
rites--but when those trained pigs of cowherds let him up they held the
ropes too slack." His Latin was rough and ungrammatical, but it flowed
quickly.
"Foreman says get him to the barracks and fix the bone," said one of
those who upbore him. "Best we go."
Phryne stamped her foot. At once she realized that she had driven her
small shoe into the mud. She saw the Cimbrian's eyes slide down, and a
grin went like a ghost over his mouth. He looked back at her and nodded
wryly. He knew.
She blurted in confusion: "Certainly not! I know what you would do,
have that fool of a blacksmith splint it--and he will limp for the rest
of his life. Up to the villa!"
They followed her, bashfully. No, not the Cimbrian--he jumped
one-footed--but, when they entered the kitchen and put him in a chair,
he sprawled as if he owned it. He was caked with mud, he had on only a
sleazy gray tunic, there were shackle scars on his wrists and ankles,
but he said, "Give me some wine," and the chief cook himself poured a
full stoup. The Cimbrian emptied it in three long gulps, sighed, and
held it out again.
Phryne went off after the house physician. He was Greek like herself,
all the most valuable slaves were Greek, even as the only valuable
free folk had once been--an aging man, with a knowledge of herbs and
poultices to ease Cordelia, who suffered loudly and would not be
without him. He came readily enough, looked at the wound, called for
water and began sponging it.
"A clean break," he said. "The muscle was little torn. Stay on a crutch
for a few weeks and it should heal as good as new. But first we'll
hear some of those famous Cimbrian howls, for I must set it."
"Do you take me for a Southlander?" snorted the hurt man. "I am a son
of Boierik."
"There are philosophers in _my_ family," said the physician, with an
edge in his voice. "Very well, then."
Phryne could not look at the leg, nor could she look away from the
barbarian's face. It was a good face, she thought, it would be handsome
in a wild fashion if some god would smooth off the slave-gauntness. She
saw how sweat spurted out on the skin, when his bones grated, and how
he bit his lip till the blood trickled.
The physician splinted and bound the leg. "I will see about a crutch,"
he said. "It might also be well to speak to the major-domo, or the
mistress. Otherwise, if I know the chief field overseer, they'll put
this man back at work before he is properly healed."
Phryne nodded. "You may go," she said to the gaping sowers. The cook
bustled off on some errand. Phryne found herself alone with the
barbarian.
"Rest a while," she said. She noticed his cup was empty for the second
time; she risked the steward's wrath and poured him a third.
"Thank you." He nodded curtly.
"It was heroic of you," she said, more clumsy with words than she was
wont.