by R. W. Peake
Consequently, once I was done at the post, I leaned the stick against it, and entered the hall to find Ivomagus.
“I would like a flask of olive oil and a strigil,” I informed him, finding him engaged in conversation with four of my guards, thinking that this was not only not unreasonable, but not unusual.
What I received was a blank stare from Ivomagus, which was partially explained when he asked, “Why would you need olive oil, Centurion? Your meals are provided.” Before I could answer that, he asked, “And what is a strigil?”
By the time I was through explaining, with Ivomagus translating, all five men were doubled over with laughter, which I found to be confusing and irritating in equal measure.
When I demanded to know why, Ivomagus had to catch his breath as he said, “We know that Roman men are certainly very…fastidious, Centurion, but this is the kind of thing our women would do, not a Parisii man.”
“Which is why you smell like pigs,” I replied, and I was pleased to see the smile vanish from Ivomagus’ face, but I was not through. “In fact, if you ever tried to ambush us, we would smell you coming from a mile away.”
Since the others did not speak Latin, they had to look at Ivomagus’ expression to get an idea what I was saying, and while they may not have known the words, they could certainly see it was something they would not like, so they all glowered at me. Honestly, it was somewhat amusing, like seeing children mimicking their Tata, although they have no idea what is happening. Ivomagus rose, but I did not know what he intended to say, nor would I ever learn, because from behind us, I heard a commotion, turning just in time to see a man burst through the doorway, spattered with mud and panting, yet it was his expression that was the most telling. He ran across the hall, sliding to a stop in front of Ivomagus, although he had begun talking before he reached the table. Naturally, I had no idea what he was saying, although I was certain it was not good news; it was the way the color drained from Ivomagus’ face as he collapsed back into his chair, while the other warriors began talking at once and making gestures that indicated that it was more than just bad news. Recovering himself somewhat, Ivomagus snapped out some questions to the messenger, which the man answered, although it appeared they were not satisfactory because Ivomagus was getting more agitated. After he was done with the messenger, he turned to address one of the guards; as I recall, it was Matugenus, issuing what sounded like an order, which seemed to be confirmed by the manner in which he rushed out of the hall. Finally, things had subsided enough that I felt it was safe to ask what was happening.
Ivomagus had begun pacing, looking down at the floor while rubbing the back of his neck, and when he glanced up at me sharply, I did not think he was going to answer, but he finally said, “We have just learned something…distressing. The Brigantes are gathering a large number of warriors at,” he named the town, which I cannot pronounce or spell, but was the place I had sent Saloninus on his diversion, “and we have reason to believe they are about to cross the river.”
I was startled certainly, but I still should have held my tongue, yet I blurted out, “Wait…you didn’t know?”
“Of course not,” he snapped. Then he abruptly stopped his pacing, and he studied me closely as, I suppose, the import of my words sunk in, and he asked coldly, “Why? Are you saying that you knew about it, Centurion?” Even before I opened my mouth, his expression transformed yet again, his eyes going wide in shock. “Did you make some sort of bargain with them, Centurion? Is that why you know? That you have somehow arranged something with that…dog Diviciacus to attack us so that you could escape?”
Gnaeus, you better talk like you have never talked before, I thought to myself, while aloud, I injected as much scorn as I could, “How would I have done that, Ivomagus? I’ve been here under guard.”
“You could have arranged it beforehand!” he snapped, and for yet another time, a new expression crossed his face, that of a man who thinks he has solved the riddle, and he pointed a shaking finger at me as he practically screeched, “It was when you were speaking Greek with your slave! That is when you instructed him to make contact with Diviciacus!”
More than anything, this told me how badly Ivomagus was rattled, because never before had I seen anything that would lead me to believe he was not very clever.
“Are you saying that you didn’t have Saloninus and my men followed when they left Petuar to return to Ubiorum?” I shot back, and was rewarded by the flash of what might have been chagrin as I pressed, “Did they report that the ship stopped? Or even slowed down as they passed by? Did they see anyone shouting something?”
He did not answer immediately, but he finally muttered, “Yes, I had your ship followed, and no, nothing unusual was reported to me. But,” he pointed, “I saw by your reaction that you knew about this. How?”
While I was relieved that I had managed to convince him that my instructions to Alex had nothing to do with the Brigantes, I knew I was not out of danger.
“Because,” I answered truthfully, “when Pilus Posterior Saloninus returned and we met, he and the other officers informed me that when they anchored in the river next to their dock, that a large force of Brigantes showed up. I simply assumed that since you followed the ship and caught up with it, you saw them there.”
This last part was a lie, but he did not need to know that, while I could see that he was not completely convinced, asking suspiciously, “Who told you that we saw them?”
“Pilus Posterior Saloninus,” I lied, then decided to embellish a bit, “and my acting Optio Mus. And,” I pretended to think, “my Signifer Gemellus. They all told me that they saw your mounted scouts on the opposite side of the river, and that when they turned around to sail back upriver, the Brigantes remained in sight, making sure they left, so the Brizo could not have blocked your men’s view.”
They had said no such thing, and in fact had informed me that the Brigantes had withdrawn before the first of the Parisii who had gone galloping downstream after my men had arrived. Fortunately, they were long gone, hopefully either very close or perhaps even already arrived in Ubiorum, although I also knew, or strongly suspected, that Alex would somehow convince Saloninus to agree to put him ashore further south on the Gallic coast to put him closer to Arelate. And, I was fairly certain that now, when Ivomagus questioned those men of his who had been the quickest to react to follow Saloninus, and they denied ever seeing any Brigantes, he would at least suspect that they were lying to save themselves from being punished.
If that was what was going on in his head and he was convinced by my story, or he simply decided that it was not worth pursuing in the moment, he sat back down and gave a dismissive wave. “Very well, Centurion. I suppose it does not really matter. What does,” his face was set in grim lines, “is that Cogidubnus and the men he has with him arrive before the Brigantes scum work up the nerve to cross the river.”
Because Motius sailed farther south than he needed to, or should have, we put in at Gesoriacum. I did not tarry; the plank was barely down before I was hurrying down it to ask for directions to the nearest stable where I could rent a saddle and packhorse. We had rowed into the harbor before noon, and I do not think a third of a watch elapsed before I was back at the ship, and thanks to Saloninus, I had help in transferring Gnaeus’ baggage from the cabin to the pack animal. Before our arrival, Saloninus had used one of the last wax tablets in his possession to write out an order authorizing me to use the Imperial relay stations to switch out mounts.
“I’m signing this as the Quartus Pilus Prior of the 1st,” he told me, “so I’m not certain it will work. And,” he grinned, “I’d appreciate it if you lost that by the time you and Pullus are back in Ubiorum.”
Frankly, I thought he was within his rights; he had been named the acting Quartus Pilus Prior by Gnaeus, in front of witnesses, but I also understood his caution. More than one man has run afoul of the veritable mountain of regulations that have sprung up over the last few decades, and which seem to be added t
o every year.
He offered his arm on the dock, and as we clasped, he assured me, “I’m going to tell Germanicus the truth as we agreed on. But,” he hesitated, “I’m also going to tell him that the sooner the Pilus Prior is ransomed, the better. If that means he wants to intervene,” he shrugged, “then that’s his choice.”
Even if I had been disposed to try and dissuade him, I am a clerk, he is a Centurion, so I did not even try; that I thought it was a good idea certainly helped. Then I was in the saddle, while the men of the First and Second Century, who were all out on deck now to see me off, shouted down to me.
“Get that money, Alex! Bring the Pilus Prior home!”
“We’ve faith in you! You’ll get him back to us!”
These were the kinds of things the men were calling to me, and I fervently wished that Gnaeus could have been there somehow, because the men of the Fourth Cohort sounded every bit as sincere about the son as they would have been with his father.
Of course, there is always one wit, and I was riding away when I heard someone who, since I have no wish for Gnaeus to thrash him, I will not identify, who shouted, “But if you want to take your time so that we have a slack winter, that’s fine too.”
Of course, his comrades roared with laughter, and I was grinning as well as I made my way down the street leading away from the harbor. Once out of Gesoriacum, I set a quick pace, at least for a period of time, but I realized that I was counting on the idea that Saloninus’ order would be accepted. I reached Samarobriva shortly before sundown and decided to spend the night, then set out shortly before dawn, occupying myself with trying to think through everything I knew about the Pullus family situation as I was aware of it at the moment. Gaius was dead, Septimus had been put in charge by Titus, which Gnaeus had made no attempt to modify in any way. And, despite the circumstances, I was looking forward to seeing my mother, my sisters, and my half-brother, Gaius Gallienus, who I had actually come to know better during the few days I spent with Gnaeus when he brought Uncle Titus home than in all the time before my mother sent me with Uncle Titus to serve him. And, while I confess my feelings towards my stepfather Sextus, Uncle Titus’ brother, are somewhat conflicted, I realized that I like young Gaius a great deal, and in fact, I see quite a bit of Pullus in him. Gnaeus likes to have me write things that make me uncomfortable, or even blush on occasion, but I will exact my revenge with this observation. Every member of the Pullus family has a deep understanding of what it means to bear that name, and every member takes it seriously, and I sensed that in Gaius Gallienus, but it is not just confined to those attached to the Prefect by blood. I am the son of Diocles, once a slave then a freedman who adopted the Pullus name, and my siblings, my brother and two sisters, are just as cognizant of what it means to be mentioned with and connected to the Pullus name in the same breath. Now I was riding to Arelate, as quickly as I could, to ensure that the one man who can carry the legacy of Titus Pomponius, Gaius Porcinianus, and Titus Porcinianus Pullus into the future was freed, and I cannot lie, it was a heavy burden. This was what kept me going when I thought, “It would be nice to stop and rest” as I rode through the heart of Gaul, heading towards Arelate.
The Brigantes did not tarry as long as Ivomagus hoped they would. Two days after the warning had been sounded, another rider came in, this one seriously wounded and barely evading capture to warn us that the village, the first one where we had put in, had already been attacked. I am experienced enough to take the immediate reports in the aftermath of a sudden attack with some skepticism, but even if it was not as dire as the courier claimed, the news was grim. The only question was whether or not that, now that the Brigantes had crossed the river, whether they would move west, upriver towards Petuar, or whether they would strike inland, moving southwest towards Danum. However, the one piece of information that I felt certain was accurate was in the number of the attackers, because they more or less aligned with what I had been told by Saloninus. Not, I will freely admit, that I mentioned this to Ivomagus. Speaking of the king’s brother, he was understandably nervous, but I also noticed that he was not taking the proper precautions in the event the Brigantes chose not to give Cogidubnus the opportunity to arrive. Consequently, it was with mixed emotions and a fair amount of doubt on my part that he would respond positively that I approached Ivomagus when he was shouting out orders to some of the Parisii warriors.
I waited him for finish, but before I could open my mouth, he saw me and snapped, “What? What is it, Centurion? I am very busy.”
“No doubt you are,” I agreed, which seemed to surprise him considerably. “There’s a lot of things that a commander has to remember.” Taking a breath, I plunged forward, “Which is why I am offering to help you and your men in any way that I can.”
Perhaps, just perhaps, if I had kicked him in the balls rather than speak, he might have reacted similarly, and I confess that I felt a stab of satisfaction seeing his jaw drop.
“What did you say?” These were the first words, but before I could repeat myself, he went on, “You want to help us? Are you serious, Centurion?” He did seem genuinely baffled. “Why would you want to do that?”
Personally, I thought the answer was obvious, but it clearly was not, at least to Ivomagus, so I answered honestly, “Because if the Brigantes come before your brother gets here, you’re going to need every able-bodied man you can get, particularly someone who has experience.”
“But why would you offer your help?” he persisted, and my patience, which has never been my strength, evaporated to the point where I shot back, “Because I think you’re in over your head, and I don’t want to fucking die, that’s why.”
His mouth snapped shut, and he glared at me for a span of heartbeats. I thought perhaps I had gotten through to him, but he was not yet ready to submit.
“What makes you think that you will die, Centurion Pullus? You are,” suddenly, he looked a bit uneasy, “a prisoner, for lack of a better term. The Brigantes have no quarrel with you.”
“How many towns have you seen attacked? And,” I added, “how many attacks on a town have you participated in?” I knew it was a risk to his pride, but I asked as if I already knew the answer. “One? The one that you led when you were captured?”
For a long moment, I was certain that I had gone too far because he regarded me with a look of naked hostility and, if I am any judge, a sense of shame that told me I was right.
Finally, he asked stiffly, “What are you proposing, Centurion?”
“That I help you make Petuar here better able to hold off an assault or raid of some sort,” I answered.
“I have already taken those steps,” he said dismissively.
“If you think that what you’ve done is going to hold back a force of more than fifty men,” I imbued my words with as much contempt as I could muster, “then every man, woman, and child in this town better be prepared to meet whatever gods of the underworld you people pray to.”
I had the feeling he wanted to strike me, but he was no fool, although he was behaving like one at this moment.
Finally, he let out a harsh breath, as if he had been holding it in, demanding, “And where do you think my preparations are lacking, Centurion?”
“Follow me,” was all I said, walking out of the hall.
First, I made an encompassing gesture of the hall and outbuildings as I asked, “Do you plan on defending Lord Segovax’s hall as well as the town?”
“Of course!” he exclaimed.
“That’s your first mistake,” I said bluntly. “The town is too far away for you to effectively protect one or the other, not with the men you have.”
“I have thought of that,” he insisted. “We will have horses ready to carry men back and forth!”
“How many men?” I countered, and his face fell.
“Twenty,” he admitted, yet he was not ready to give in, “but they will be the best and most experienced of the warriors available, like Cunovindus.”
“How many mo
unted Brigantes have been reported?” I asked, and while I thought I knew the answer because Saloninus had counted fifty armed men on horseback, I knew it was possible that there were more that had been out of sight.
This was confirmed when he sighed, “Almost a hundred. And twenty chariots.”