Hostage to Fortuna

by R. W. Peake

  “As nearly as I can tell, Centurion, we are out in the open waters of what is called the Mare Germanicum. We must have been blown off course in the first storm. Then,” he became uneasy, “it appears as if we are headed away from Germania, not towards it.”

  I was not even angry, at least in that moment; in simple terms, I was too shocked and dismayed for my temper to flare. Indeed, I staggered over to the stool behind the desk and collapsed onto it, barely noticing the cracking sound that usually accompanies someone of my size dropping onto a piece of furniture designed for a lighter man. My mouth was hanging open, yet I could not seem to summon the strength to shut it, but while Alex was clearly as shaken as I was, he recovered more quickly.

  “So now that we know which direction to go, how long before we reach land? And,” he pressed, “where do you think we will end up?”

  “If I am correct, by rowing directly south, we should hit somewhere around the mouth of the Scaldis (Scheldt) River.”

  “The Scaldis?” I had managed to shut my mouth, but I could not summon any information from the map we carry in our memory. “I’ve never heard of it.”

  “It’s more than a hundred miles west of the Rhenus,” Alex interjected.

  “Fuck me.” I felt it slip out before I could stop myself.

  Before I could say anything else, Alex reminded me, “And that’s if Cador is correct.” Addressing Cador, my clerk asked, “When will you know whether you’re right or wrong?”

  We got the answer by the way his eyes kept shifting nervously from Alex to me, which showed me he was not a total fool.

  Realizing we expected an answer, he swallowed hard then said, “At least a full day, provided we head due south.”

  “Well,” I stood up, and the hand I put on his shoulder squeezed hard enough to be rewarded with a wince, “then we don’t have any time to waste, do we?”

  “You want to begin now?” Cador gasped. “In the dark?”

  “You can see the stars, can’t you?” I snapped. “Don’t tell me that you can’t figure out south from north with the stars!”

  “No, Centurion! I can! It is just that…it is more complicated than that.” When I did not break in, he hurried on, “There are tides to consider, and the prevailing wind at this time of the year is from the south and they are stronger at night, so using the crew now means they will get tired more quickly than if they are allowed to rest now.”

  “They’ve been sitting on their fucking benches for the better part of a day!” I shot back, but this was the moment when the idea occurred to me, and while it set my teeth on edge, I modulated my voice to say, “But you’re the expert in these matters, so I will leave it to your best judgment.”

  Even if the lamp had not been lit, I would have seen the relief on his face, and he did not hesitate to rush out of the cabin, presumably to go inform the Hortator and the rest of the crew that they would not be working this night.

  Alex waited long enough to hear Cador open, then shut the door into the main compartment before he turned to ask, “What are you doing, Gnaeus?”

  “Once Cador leaves the main compartment and goes back up on deck, I want you to go find…” I confess I had to search for his name, then recalled it, “…Motius and bring him here. And,” I suddenly thought of something, “bring Saloninus as well.”

  It took longer than I anticipated, but when Alex returned with both Saloninus and the man I now placed with the name Motius, who had saved the oarsman who lost his seat, I did not waste time.

  “What is your position on this ship?” I asked him directly.

  Motius was younger than Cador, but the instant he entered the cabin, with the aid of the light provided from the lamp, while I cannot articulate any reason why, I was certain that the chain of command on this ship was wrong.

  “Now that Vellocatus is gone,” he did not hesitate, although his accent was much thicker than Cador’s, making him harder to understand, “I would be the second in command, Centurion.”

  “Should you be the Navarch of this vessel?”

  “Yes,” he answered immediately, and with no hesitation, but while it seemed to confirm my suspicions, I cautioned myself to refrain from my normal state of simply plunging ahead.

  “Explain why you’re not.”

  “Cador has not been a member of this crew very long,” he began with no hesitation. “And while he fooled Vellocatus, he did not fool me.”

  “Fool him how?”

  Motius turned to Saloninus, who had asked the question from where he was leaning against the side of the ship, arms crossed.

  “By lying, of course,” Motius said simply. “He was able to give Vellocatus names of other ships that he said he had sailed on.” For the first time, he hesitated, and I sensed there was something more there as he explained, “Vellocatus was one of the best seamen I have ever sailed with, Optio…”

  “He’s a Centurion now,” I interjected, though I do not know why, since it did not matter in this discussion.

  “My apologies, Centurion.” Motius dipped his head to Saloninus. “But as I was saying, while Vellocatus was a great seaman, he was very gullible, and he was easily persuaded by flattery.”

  “And Cador flattered him,” I put in, but rather than simply acknowledge this, Motius’ mouth twisted into what I would call a sneer.

  “Cador put his tongue so far up Vellocatus’ ass, he probably tasted whatever Vellocatus put in his mouth at the same time.”

  Despite the circumstances, I could not stop myself from laughing, as did Alex and Saloninus, which seemed to please the Gaul; at least, I assumed he was a Gaul.

  It was Alex who, in his customary fashion, cut to the heart of the matter by asking, “How long had you sailed with Vellocatus?”

  “Eight years,” Motius answered bitterly. “But it turned out to mean nothing, not with that…” he paused to search for the right word in Latin, “…mentula showing up.”

  “So,” I decided to return to the larger question, “are you saying that Cador isn’t a good seaman? Or navigator?”

  The look that Motius gave me then was almost lacerating in its contempt.

  “Cador,” he answered flatly, “couldn’t navigate a ship out of the harbor.” This was damning in itself, but then he continued and made it even worse. “Cador spent most of his time aboard ships on the rivers in Gaul or always within sight of land. And,” I could see that he did not like to admit as much, “I suppose that for a riverman, he does a fair enough job, because he knows about the business or running a ship. But,” he said ominously, “navigating a ship? On the open sea?” He shook his head and finished, “He’s just as likely to get us all drowned as he is to get us home.”

  Although this confirmed my suspicion, elaborating on Cador’s shortcomings was not helping matters, and that was not even taking into account Alex’s discovery that Vellocatus’ security rope had been cut, and the most likely suspect was Cador.

  I pointed down to the map, and as Cador had, I pointed to the approximate spot he had indicated as I said, “Cador thinks this is where we are. What do you say?”

  Rather than immediately contradict Cador, Motius said, “I need to go up on deck to look at the stars.”

  Naturally, we followed behind him, but he moved as quickly up the ladder as Cador had come down, so that by the time I was standing next to him, he had had several heartbeats to examine the sky. He did not say anything, at least immediately, slowly pivoting about as he gazed at the stars and constellations that have guided mariners for only the gods know how long. Then, without a word being spoken, he walked to the hole, and as Cador had, slid down the ladder to return to the cabin. It took a few heartbeats for the rest of us to rejoin him, but once we were back in the cabin, he wasted no time.

  “I think,” he began grudgingly, “Cador is right as far as our position.” This was quite deflating; I could see by Alex and Saloninus’ reaction that I was not alone in hoping to discover that he had been off by a hundred miles or more, but he di
d add, “Although I will say that I think we may be at least twenty miles farther west than Cador thinks. Provided,” he pivoted to look at me, “your finger was on the right spot on the desk that he showed you.”

  I did not like it, but I could not argue the idea it was a strong possibility I had been slightly off.

  Preferring to move on, I asked him, “What do you think we should do now?”

  “What?” Motius asked. “Whether we should begin rowing now or waiting until the morning?” When I affirmed this with a nod, he allowed, “Actually, Centurion, on this I agree with Cador. If we are where we think we are, the currents are not going to take us farther north.”

  While I did not care for the answer, I had to acknowledge that Motius had shown his character by agreeing with a man he clearly hated, and my respect for him grew.

  Alex immediately complicated things by asking me, “Should we tell him?”

  Of course, I knew what he was talking about, but Saloninus did not, nor did Motius, both of them looking at me with sharp interest. Why, I thought, do you have to be so fucking thorough all the time, Alex? Feeling their eyes on me, my mind raced as I tried to think through all the possible outcomes if I acquiesced and told Motius. And, I freely admit, if I had to do it over again, I would have kept my mouth shut.

  But, when I nodded, I left it to Alex to inform Motius, “The rope that Vellocatus used to secure himself from being swept away wasn’t snapped; it was cut through by a knife. And,” he added before Motius could respond, “only Cador was anywhere near Vellocatus during the storm.”

  Motius’ face twisted into a mask of hatred, but there was something more there, and while I did not know him, I thought that it was grief.

  He opened his mouth, but what came out were words that I did not know, although I did not really need to in order to understand; when he spoke in Latin, everything was explained, “Vellocatus was my older brother.” Taking a deep breath, he continued, “Just before we left to come to the Amisia to transport you home, he told me that he planned on making me second in command. He had come to realize that Cador was not the seaman that he claimed, and he intended to put Cador ashore as soon as we returned home.”

  “Juno’s cunnus,” Saloninus muttered, and this was the instant I regretted my decision in telling Motius the truth.

  However, while I certainly sympathized and understood Motius’ grief and would not blame him for wanting to avenge the death of the man we now learned was his brother, I could not allow what was ultimately a personal matter to harm our chances of reaching home. While I was concerned about that, however, I was not at the point where I worried about our survival, but that was not going to be long in coming.

  In the moment, I tried to proceed carefully, beginning by telling Motius, “I’m sorry for your loss, Motius. We didn’t know Vellocatus was your brother, and I grieve with you. But…”

  “Centurion,” he cut in, “you do not have to worry about me killing Cador. At least,” his mouth twisted again with what I think was from the bitter taste of the words, “not until you and your men are safely returned to Ubiorum.” I did not try to hide my relief, and I heard Alex’s sigh that expressed the same sentiment. “Besides,” he gave a laugh that held no humor, “we are already shorthanded as it is. Killing him now will make matters harder for all of us.”

  “Thank you.” It was all I could think to say, and there was an awkward silence, which Motius broke by saying, “If you will excuse me, Centurion, I need to inform the others and make sure that Cador has set the watch.”

  I waited a moment after he closed the door and I heard him scamper up the ladder before I turned to the other two, but it was Saloninus I addressed first.

  “Aulus, have you been keeping an eye on our ration situation?”

  To my relief, he nodded, because I had completely forgotten; I blamed the blow to my head.

  That feeling was not destined to last long because he answered glumly, “Men are already on their last loaf, and while it’s better with the pork, it’s not by much.”

  “What about water?” I asked.

  “That’s better,” he admitted. “Apparently, during the last storm, the crew managed to fill most of the barrels with rainwater. Although,” he added, “the barrel I tasted has some seawater mixed in it. It’s salty, but it’s drinkable…barely.”

  I thought for a moment, then made my decision, knowing that by doing so we were creating a whole host of other problems.

  “We’re going to pool the rations we have left, and we’ll have Herennius from your Century and Mus from the First keep them, with Gemellus and Tetarfenus helping them to keep those thieving bastards from filching more than their share.”

  “That’s going to let them know we’re in bigger trouble than we’ve been letting on,” Saloninus correctly pointed out.

  “I know,” I admitted, “but if we’re at sea more than another day, and it looks like we will be, we’ll be even worse off if we don’t start cutting rations now.”

  I saw that Saloninus understood this, although I was not certain he agreed, but then he tried to look on the bright side by pointing out, “At least we don’t have to worry about them mutinying and taking over the ship.”

  “Oh?” I was a bit surprised; I did not share his optimism. “What makes you say that?”

  “Because then they’d have to fucking row,” he answered simply.

  Within a couple heartbeats, all three of us had tears from laughing so hard, but it was the kind of laughter that had an edge to it, like I have seen happen after a hard battle.

  “Hopefully, this will be over soon,” I said as I opened the door to head to the main compartment to break the news.

  And the gods laughed again, although, at least this time, they did not send a storm.

  When we resumed movement at dawn the next morning, I was cautiously pleased. The men were certainly not happy at having their rations reduced, but I think they understood that our predicament was through no fault of their officers; if anything, they were angry with the gods. The Hortator set a steady rhythm, and we began rowing south, and while it was cloudy, they were mostly white or only slightly tinged with gray. The wind was stiff, and coming from a southerly direction as it was, it made our progress slower than we would have liked, yet without a sail and only oar power, Motius assured me that we were making the best speed possible. Once we got underway, we allowed the men up in small groups, and I used that as an excuse to remain on the deck, spending most of my time on the raised deck at the stern, although on the opposite side from the steering oar. While I tried not to be obvious about it, I doubt Motius was fooled that he was the one I was watching the most closely, but fortunately, Cador clearly thought he was the target of my suspicion. After about a watch, I concluded that Motius must have been able to hide his true feelings and intentions towards Cador to the point that Cador did not notice anything unusual. I did observe that the cut rope had been removed, and I wondered if this was something Cador had done or whether he had any concern that Motius had noticed it. Regardless, there was no overt sign of trouble, and I slowly relaxed, moving down on the main deck to circulate among the men. When it was the turn of Mus and Gemellus to come up on deck; the rations were never left unattended, and Tetarfenus and Herennius had been up first, I walked over to them. Honestly, Mus probably should have been on one of the ships with the wounded because of his leg wound, but he convinced me that he would not be a burden, and I was a pliant audience. I did ask him how the leg was, but he waved it off.

  “Barely feel it, Pilus Prior,” he assured me; I knew he was lying, but I saw that he knew that I was not buying it, and it was just one of those things men do not mention. Probably to change the subject, he asked in a lower tone of voice, “Sir, how fucked are we? I mean, really?”

  I should have known, so I only had myself to blame, and perhaps I felt a need to unburden myself, because I did feel badly about hiding the truth, and it did not make it easier when I could see that a large number o
f my men did not believe me. Yes, as I have learned from reading both my father’s and my great-grandfather’s account, and have seen firsthand, there are times when the best service a Centurion can do for his men is hide the truth, but I found I did not like the taste, and I doubt I ever will.

  Taking a breath, I decided to throw the dice, though I did begin with a warning. “If I hear one ranker utter a fucking word that makes me think you two ran your mouths, I will pitch you overboard, do you understand?”

  I was pleased to see that my tone convinced them and they believed I was sincere, and I will say that in the moment I was, but I proceeded to explain the series of events, the accidents, and the errors that led to us being bobbing about only the gods knew where, with only the knowledge that as long as we continued rowing south, we would reach land eventually. They took it better than I thought they would, although I could also see they were deeply troubled, not that I could blame them. It was Gemellus who brought something up that I had never thought about, though I should have.

  “What’s the ration situation with the slaves?”

  Truly, I did not know whether to laugh, curse, or cry, because I realized that this was yet another assumption on my part and was something I needed to talk to Cador about, and I had just turned towards the stern when a ragged chorus came up from the opposite direction. Since it was not in unison, or the same language, it took a heartbeat for me to understand.

  “Sail! I see a sail!”

  The call came from some of my men who had climbed up to the raised deck on the bow, and one of the crewmen who was always posted there. Since I was already heading that direction, I broke into a run to the stern, climbing the ladder to where Cador, Motius, and one of the other crewmen were standing, shielding their eyes and looking in the direction the lookout on the bow was pointing. It was only that moment that I realized something; I had taken for granted having the advantage of height that comes from keeping a lookout posted on the small platform at the top of the mast. When you do not have a mast, your range of vision is seriously limited, and while like all land dwellers, I had always thought of the sea as being essentially flat, it is anything but, something that was brought home to me as I copied the crew and strained to look off the left quarter of the bow.