“Sorry, amigo, but I have trouble understanding you, too.” I repeated it in Latin, then split the difference. I added, in improvised lingua franca, “Speak slowly, will you?”
“I’ll speak as I please. And don’t call me ‘amico’; I’m a Roman citizen -so don’t get gay.”
That’s a free translation. His advice was more vulgar-I think. It was close to a Spanish phrase which certainly is vulgar.
“What’s he saying?” demanded Peewee. “It is Latin, isn’t it? Translate!”
I was glad she hadn’t caught it. “Why, Peewee, don’t you know ‘the language of poetry and science’?”
“Oh, don’t be a smartie! Tell me.”
“Don’t crowd me, hon. I’ll tell you later. I’m having trouble following it.”
“What is that barbarian grunting?” the Roman said pleasantly. “Talk language, boy. Or will you have ten with the flat of the sword?”
He seemed to be leaning on nothing-so I felt the air. It was solid; I decided not to worry about his threat. “I’m talking as best I can. We spoke to each other in our own language.”
“Pig grunts. Talk Latin. If you can.” He looked at Peewee as if just noticing her. “Your daughter? Want to sell her? If she had meat on her bones, she might be worth a half denario.”
Peewee clouded up. “I understood that!” she said fiercely. “Come out here and fight!”
“Try it in Latin,” I advised her. “If he understands you, he’ll probably spank you.”
She looked uneasy. “You wouldn’t let him?”
“You know I wouldn’t.”
“Let’s go back.”
“That’s what I said earlier.” I escorted her past the cave man’s lair to our suite. “Peewee, I’m going back and see what our noble Roman has to say. Do you mind?”
“I certainly do!”
“Be reasonable, hon. If we could be hurt by them, the Mother Thing would know it. After all, she told us they were here.”
“I’ll go with you.”
“What for? I’ll tell you everything I learn. This may be a chance to find out what this silliness means. What’s he doing here? Have they kept him in deep-freeze a couple of thousand years? How long has he been awake? What does he know that we don’t? We’re in a bad spot; all the data I can dig up we need. You can help by keeping out. If you’re scared, send for the Mother Thing.”
She pouted. “I’m not scared. All right-if that’s the way you want it.”
“I do. Eat your dinner.”
Jo-Jo the dogface boy was not in sight; I gave his door a wide berth. If a ship can go anywhere in no time, could it skip a dimension and go anywhere to any time? How would the math work out? The soldier was still lounging at his door. He looked up. “Didn’t you hear me say to stick around?”
“I heard you,” I admitted, “but we’re not going to get anywhere if you take that attitude. I’m not one of your privates.”
“Lucky for you!”
“Do we talk peacefully? Or do I leave?”
He looked me over. “Peace. But don’t get smart with me, barbarian.”
He called himself “Iunio.” He had served in Spain and Gaul, then transferred to the VIth Legion, the “Victrix”-which he felt that even a barbarian should know of. His legion’s garrison was Eboracum, north of Londinium in Britain, but he had been on advance duty as a brevet centurion (he pronounced it “centurio”)-his permanent rank was about like top sergeant. He was smaller than I am but I would not want to meet him in an alley. Nor at the palisades of a castra.
He had a low opinion of Britons and all barbarians including me (“nothing personal-some of my best friends are barbarians”), women, the British climate, high brass, and priests; he thought well of Caesar, Rome, the gods, and his own professional ability. The army wasn’t what it used to be and the slump came from treating auxiliaries like Roman citizens.
He had been guarding the building of a wall to hold back barbarians-a nasty lot who would sneak up and slit your throat and eat you-which no doubt had happened to him, since he was now in the nether regions.