by R. W. Peake
For whatever reason, this market day was exceptionally crowded, which I decided then and there to use to my advantage since I was determined to speak to Bronwen. I began by wandering along the row of merchants who could not afford a stall and had their wares spread out on blankets, pretending to be interested in whatever they were offering. My purse had been taken, so I could not have bought anything if I wanted to, but I could see that, after a few moments, both Cunovindus and Lugotorix had become more relaxed. It was when a woman, who I would learn later was Cunovindus’ sister, called his name and they began engaging in a conversation that I saw my chance, aided by the fact that at this moment, Lugotorix was ogling a girl who had to be no more than thirteen. I moved quickly, but not so much so that it would attract attention. Then I found myself standing in more or less the identical spot the day I saw the necklace. She was involved with a customer, a portly man who was arguing with her about a ring that he was holding in his palm. I believe this was the moment I realized something, and I took a careful look around to determine that Praesutagas was nowhere in sight. Nor, I recalled, had he been anywhere around the first two times either, although I assumed he must have been traveling again.
This was why, when, after accepting small stack of coins from the portly man that she carefully tucked into a small sack suspended from the belt around her waist as she turned around to face me, I blurted out, “Where is your father?”
I doubt I would have had as much of an effect if I had slapped her, and her face, which had been prettily flushed as she dealt with the portly man, drained of all color. She actually staggered back, and without thinking, I reached out and took her arm, not hard, but my eyes never left her face, and I saw the truth there. “What did Cogidubnus do, Bronwen? Did he hurt your father? Or threaten him?”
“I…I…cannot talk to you, Centurion.” She finally found her voice, and her eyes began glittering, making the green in them look like a pair of sparkling emeralds. “King Cogidubnus was very clear.”
“All right,” I agreed, but more to put her at ease than from any real humor, I grinned at her as I said, “I’ll do the talking. All you need to do is nod or shake your head, all right?” She still was hesitant, but she gave me a barely perceptible nod, and I asked her, “Was I right? That the king used your father to get you to do what he wanted you to do?” A nod. “Is your father all right?” This elicited two responses; a shrug and an onrush of fresh tears, and I just barely stopped myself from reaching out to brush them from her cheek. Forcing myself to concentrate on the subject, I went on, “Is your father being held somewhere else?” She nodded, and I guessed, “He was taken along with the rest of the king’s party when he went back to Danum.”
“Yes,” she surprised me by answering, although it was barely audible. Then, before I could say anything else, she lifted her gaze from where it had been focused on the ground between us to look me directly in the eye, and I saw what I was sure was anger there, which was confirmed when she said, “I was telling you the truth when I told you I had no choice, Centurion!”
“I know that now,” I acknowledged, but even knowing what I had to do, I still hesitated to apologize, which she saw.
Which made her truly angry; I knew this because as she glared up at me, I saw something I have only seen one other woman do, although I had learned that they do not know they are doing it, as Bronwen’s nostrils flared in the exact same manner as my mother Giulia when she lost her temper with me as a child.
“You called me a whore, Centurion,” she snapped. “A filthy whore!”
Whatever reservations she had about being seen talking to me had clearly evaporated, and I found myself in the unusual and distinctly uncomfortable position of trying to calm her down, because her voice was rising in volume with every word. No, the crowd around us did not know Latin, but they clearly knew an angry woman when they heard her, and I sensed heads turning in our direction.
“I know I did!” I protested. “And I apologize for that!”
“You apologize?” Her upper lip curled up in disdain. “You apologize?”
I confess that in this moment I was baffled; what more did she want? She had actually taken a step towards me, and I noticed that both hands, as tiny as they were compared to mine, were clenched, and I was certain that she was about to strike me.
“Yes,” I repeated, holding both hands out in front of me. “I apologize!” Then it came to me, and I added quickly, “And I was wrong! I know you are not a whore, and you are certainly not filthy!” I knew I was babbling, but I could not seem to stop myself from saying, “So obviously that means you can’t be a filthy whore!”
As quickly as it had come, her anger seemed to vanish, a look of amusement in her eye that made me wonder, Is it because of what I said? Or is it because I’m acting like a bumbling idiot? I suspected I would not like the answer, so I let it lie.
Instead, I said more softly, “Again, Bronwen, I do apologize. And,” I sighed, “I am sorry that your father was dragged into this because of me.”
She opened her mouth, presumably to answer, but suddenly from behind us came a shout.
“Pullus!”
I recognized the voice, and I turned to see Cunovindus, a frown on his face, striding through the crowd towards us.
Before he got to us, I said quietly, “I would like to talk to you again, Bronwen. About…other things besides this.”
“I would like that,” she answered simply, but when Cunovindus grabbed me by the arm to drag me away, if he understood why I was grinning like a fool, he could not have asked me the reason anyway.
The mood on the ship was anything but celebratory at the idea we were returning home, and Saloninus summed up the feeling of the men.
“They feel like we abandoned the Pilus Prior,” he told me glumly.
We were sharing the cabin now, and once we reached the mouth of the river, we had come down below to talk privately.
“They didn’t have any choice,” I argued, although I also knew that it would not do any good. “Not only would we have been outnumbered, but Gnaeus ordered us to leave.”
“What are you going to do?” he asked me, and to this, at least, I felt confident I could give an answer.
“I’m going to Arelate, as quickly as I can,” I replied.
“Do you think your…” His voice trailed off, and I realized that Saloninus was trying to untangle our familial connection, which is not by blood but more than fifty years of our entwined fortunes through my father Diocles and the Prefect.
“It’s complicated,” I laughed, “but I think of Septimus as a cousin and that’s how we’ve always been treated.”
“So do you think your cousin has that kind of money?”
I was about to answer with the truth, that because of Gaius’ horrendous mistake and attempt to cover it up, it would be next to impossible to raise that amount of money, particularly in the form of gold, with any kind of speed. Then I realized that this would undoubtedly filter back to the men and deepen their despondency about leaving Gnaeus behind.
So I lied, “It will be difficult, but yes, he can come up with it. Now,” I turned to the other practical matter, “what are you going to tell Germanicus when we get back?”
“I have no idea,” he admitted.
“Would you mind a suggestion?” I offered, and the look of relief on his face was impossible to miss, although he only nodded.
“Tell him the truth,” I told him. “That Gnaeus ordered us to leave, and that he’s sent me to arrange for the ransom. That way,” I went on, “you don’t have to worry about making sure that none of the men end up saying something that could get back to him that Cogidubnus thought that Germanicus would pay the ransom. Because,” I concluded, “that will create a lot more problems than if you just tell him the truth.”
Saloninus nodded thoughtfully, but the sign that he was truly considering my words was signaled by how he reached up to finger the eyepatch covering his missing eye, something I had noticed he did w
henever he was deep in thought.
“I suppose,” he finally spoke, “that makes the most sense. And you’re right, I don’t want to have to worry about fucking Publius running his mouth in The Dancing Faun that gets back to Germanicus.” He hesitated. “Still, I’ve seen the Pilus Prior and Germanicus together, and you know better than I do how close Gnaeus’ father was with him.”
I certainly could not argue this, so I did not even try, yet at the same time, I wanted to impress upon Saloninus that there was a larger reason behind Gnaeus’ hesitance, but I could not think of a way to describe the complicated and treacherous situations that those who bear the Pullus name had been confronted with because of the men who rule Rome, starting with Divus Augustus’ petty and vindictive act of barring the Prefect’s descendants from sharing the equestrian status that the first and greatest Titus Pullus earned. Having read both the Prefect’s and my Uncle Titus’ accounts, I know very well why Gnaeus was so reluctant to indebt himself to Germanicus. Although, I will also say that not once, not ever had I heard my Uncle Titus give any indication that he saw parallels between Germanicus Julius Caesar and Divus Augustus, who he actually met when he was summoned to Rome for the Atticus tribunal.
Knowing I had to say something, I fell back on, “But that’s not what Gnaeus wants.”
Our conversation was cut short by a rap on the door, and when I opened it, Motius entered the cabin, but it was Saloninus he wanted to speak to.
“Centurion, now that we have reached the channel, I wanted to let you know what to expect.”
Before Motius could continue, Saloninus asked, “How are the boys doing at the oars?”
Motius’ first response was a short laugh, but I suppose he saw Saloninus’ face, because he said quickly, “They are doing their best, Centurion. And,” he allowed, “since they have had some practice, I think we will make good time. Which,” I admired how he adroitly moved past the subject, “is what I want to speak with you about.” Before he continued, he moved to the small chest and withdrew the map that showed the coast of northwest Gaul and Germania, spreading it out on the desk. “We are heading to Lugdunum Batavorum first.” He glanced up at Saloninus and asked, “Did Centurion Pullus explain why?” Saloninus shook his head, and Motius briefly explained what Gnaeus had told me about the coating that the mast needed. Then he hesitated for a heartbeat. “Also, as you know, once we deposit you in Ubiorum, we will be completely without a crew. And,” he said this matter-of-factly, but I was certain I heard a note of bitterness, “we will lose any chance of carrying at least one more cargo before the winter sets in.”
“What does that mean?” Saloninus asked.
“We will be ruined,” Motius answered. He took a breath, and I got the sense that he was not happy about what he was about to say. “My brother was a good seaman, Centurion. Perhaps the best I have ever seen. But he did not have a head for business. So,” he sighed, “there are people to whom I owe payment at the end of the sailing season because of loans my brother took out to purchase those Parisii that we just released. The others we had to let go had been paid for, but while there will be some money left over, it will not be nearly enough to replace an entire crew.”
It was, I reflected, a true dilemma for Motius, and I knew Gnaeus thought highly of him, or more highly than he did Cador. Who, I will say, I believed could count his days before Motius avenged himself for the death of Vellocatus.
“What are you asking me?”
“That you give us time in Lugdunum Batavorum, where we will put in, paint the mast and to buy a new crew,” Motius answered Saloninus’ question.
This did not make sense to me, and I pointed out, “You just said that you’re already in debt, Motius. How can you afford to buy a new crew?”
“I will have to borrow the money,” he answered, but before I could point it out, he acknowledged the flaw. “Yes, Alexandros, I know that I am already saddled with debt. But,” he spread his hands, “what choice do I have?”
“How long would it take you in Lugdunum Batavorum to find enough men to replace us?” Saloninus asked, and Motius suddenly shifted on his feet, choosing to look down at the map.
“It is hard to say,” he answered finally. “It could be a matter of three or four days. Lugdunum Batavorum is the largest port in northern Gaul.”
I thought I saw an opportunity, because I know how far Lugdunum Batavorum is from Arelate, so I asked, “Would it make sense to sail farther south first?”
“It might,” he allowed.
“Where are you most likely to find slaves quickly enough?” Saloninus asked, and Motius considered for a moment.
“Perhaps Gesoriacum,” he answered finally. “They are supposed to have a very active slave trade there.”
This worked for me because it was closer to Arelate. While we never discussed it, I believe that Saloninus realized this as well.
“If that’s what you need,” he said, “then I suppose that’s the least we owe you. Besides,” he shrugged, “it’s not like we’re going to be doing anything except going into winter quarters and getting fat.”
With that, I was given the opportunity to reach Arelate faster and talk to Septimus. The problem was, I had no idea what I would say, or even if he could help.
Chapter Six
It was in my third week at Petuar that, when I realized I had to use a different notch on my baltea, I decided to take matters in my own hands to find some sort of activity to do, and I turned the large post in the yard of the hall used to hitch the horses as a training stake so that I could resume practicing my forms. When I asked Ivomagus for their version of a rudis, however, he looked at me as if I was mad, though not for the reason I thought, which was that he had no intention of letting me have anything that could be considered a weapon, for which I had an argument prepared, but it proved to be for a much simpler reason.
“You say,” he asked with obvious bafflement, “you Romans train with wooden swords?”
Honestly, it was the first time I had ever thought about it and how it might be viewed by someone with limited contact with Rome.
“Yes,” I answered, somewhat reluctantly. “But they’re not just made of wood. They are lined with lead on both edges, and the handle is hollowed out, and that’s filled with lead as well.”
“Why do you do this?”
“It makes the rudis heavier than a gladius,” I explained to Ivomagus. “And when we train with a heavier weapon, when it’s time to fight, the gladius feels so much lighter that it speeds up our movements.”
I could see that he was impressed, and he said as much.
“That makes sense. But,” he sniffed, “I still do not see how you can fight well with a sword that is so short.”
“Would you like to find out?” I asked, and while my tone was pleasant enough, he was not fooled, his face darkening.
“When Berdic returns with my brother, I am certain he will be more than happy to show you what a real warrior using a real sword and not,” his mouth twisted into a sneer, “the kind of toy we give our children to play with can do.”
I was about to retort, but I realized there was no point, so I simply shrugged and said, “We’ll see. But,” I returned to the original subject, “I would like to be allowed to work on my forms, using the hitching post, and all I require is a straight piece of wood,” I held up my hands, placing them apart from each other, “this long.”
I thought he would say no, but he surprised me by shrugging. “I do not see why this could not be arranged.” That was when he caught me completely on the back foot again. “But I in turn have a request of my own.”
“Oh? What’s that?” I asked warily, yet I still was not expecting him to say, “That you not go into Petuar on market days anymore.”
I instantly knew this was about Bronwen, but I was still unprepared for what was coming, and Ivomagus’ attempt to sound casual failed miserably as he explained, “I received a message from my brother with some good news. He has arranged a match for
Bronwen, one to which her father agreed. She,” he smiled at me, “will be marrying Berdic, as soon as they return to Petuar.”
I did try, but I do not believe I was successful in hiding my feelings about this, which I tried to shrug off by saying, “She has my sympathy. Too bad he’s even uglier now.” Grinning, I asked Ivomagus, “In that message, did your brother mention how Berdic is recovering?”
His reaction made me feel a bit better, but he dismissed me with a wave, calling out to the two guards and rattling off what turned out to be instructions to accommodate me, because I was led outside to the post by one of them, while the second guard disappeared. He returned soon enough, carrying a bundle of sticks of varying thickness, although they were roughly the same length, and I picked through them until I found one that was the closest to being suitable, grumbling as I did so. Then I shrugged out of my tunic and tied it at the waist, dropped down into the first position…and I instantly felt better. There is something comforting in this ritual that I had adopted a few years earlier when I stopped resenting my father and started trying to emulate him, although I did not know of our relationship then. Even as I dictate this, I have qualms because, while it was only in hindsight, I think deep down I had known Titus Porcinianus Pullus was my father, perhaps not from the moment we met, but not long afterward. And, I suppose in my own way, my adoption of the ritual of a third of a watch a day at the stakes that had been begun by the Prefect was my own sort of homage, both to my father and to the legacy of the Pullus name and what it means to those of us who march under the standard. My actions drew a small crowd, but this was not unusual, and soon enough, I was barely aware of them as my muscles fell back into the familiar rhythms of thrusts that originate not from the arm but from the hips, over and over. By the time I was through, I was panting from the exertion, another reminder of the fitness I had lost in just a bit more than a month. There was another thing that I was reminded of, and this was even more unpleasant; I stank. I had managed to convince them to provide me a basin, a rag, and some tepid water, but I had not had a good oiling and scraping since before the campaign started, let alone a true Roman bath of Tepidarium, Caldarium, and Frigidarium, along with a massage by a trained slave. It did not help matters that I was wearing the same tunic and loincloth I had been wearing the night of the banquet, and I had not thought to request that I be allowed to have my spare clothing. Even worse, at least as far as I was concerned, I was not allowed to shave, I suppose because Ivomagus did not want to tempt me with a sharp razor when we were essentially living under the same roof, and my face itched terribly.