by R. W. Peake
She looked embarrassed, which made me feel worse, but I led the horses into the yard, and I took the opportunity to ask where everyone was.
“Septimus is at the docks,” she told me. “And Scribonia is at her home, of course, as is Miriam.”
“What about Gisela and Gallienus?” I asked, and an expression that I had long before learned meant she was troubled flashed across her face.
“Gisela is visiting a friend, and he’s out in town,” she said vaguely, and I suppose it was this that made me immediately think that my stepbrother had followed in my younger brother Titus’ footsteps by getting mixed up with the wrong sort.
“By the gods,” I snapped, already angry at my stepbrother. “Don’t tell me that he made the same stupid mistake as Titus and got mixed up with a collegia!”
I could see by her expression that my mother immediately realized why I had reacted the way I did, and she hurriedly assured me, “No, Alex! It’s nothing like that. He…” she hesitated, “…has met someone. A girl.”
“Ah,” I confess that I was not only relieved, I was amused, and I chided my mother, “then that’s nothing to worry about, is it?”
“No,” she sighed, “I suppose not. It’s just that…” She paused again, and I got the sense she was deciding something. Only later, once I had divulged the purpose of my visit and all the trouble that it caused did I understand why. “…the girl he’s…infatuated with is Fabia Cocles.”
“Cocles?” I asked; the name was familiar to me, but I could not think why. “Where have I heard that name?”
“Because he’s one of the duumviri of Arelate,” she answered.
“Pluto’s balls!” Even as it came out, I knew what was coming.
“Alex! Mind your language.” My mother’s tone instantly transported me back to childhood as she continued tartly, “Just because you’re with the Legions doesn’t mean that you should talk like a Legionary.”
I knew better than to argue, simply mumbling, “Yes, Mama. Still,” I returned to the subject, “why is Gallienus seeing this girl a problem? Has her father said anything?” I got my answer with the look, or rather, in how she looked away from me, and I groaned, “He doesn’t know, does he?”
“No,” she admitted. “Or I should say I don’t think he knows.” She looked back at me then. “Will you speak to him while you’re here?”
My agreement was based more in the desire to stable the horses, sit down, and get something to eat and drink than any hope that I would be changing the mind of a teenage boy about a teenage girl who was not of his class. And, I confess, now that I am a Roman citizen of freedman status, I bear the same resentment for the manner in which Romans of the upper orders jealously guard the path into their class from those lower down the ladder.
I was about to ask for Chickpea’s help, out of a habit that was formed when I was young, but I managed to stop myself, asking instead, “Do you have anyone who can help with the horses, Mama?”
“No, I’m afraid not.” She shook her head. “Septimus has…reduced the number of people to help.”
With that, I led the animals to the barn while my mother hurried into the villa to prepare something for me to eat and drink while I waited, leaving me alone to wonder whether this move by Septimus was by choice or by circumstances.
I had been worried that my reunion with Septimus would be strained, given the past we shared, and I was also worried about he had been coping with the aftermath of his killing of his brother Gaius. As necessary as it may have been, killing a brother still has to weigh heavily on a man’s mind, and I was concerned that my presence might not be viewed with any kind feelings by Septimus, since my wife Algaia was the unwitting cause for much of what had transpired. However, when he entered the kitchen and our eyes met, after his initial but understandable shock, he crossed the room and swept me into an embrace as we both laughed, and I sensed no awkwardness in his manner. Which was good, because once the joy of our reunion was over, I was acutely aware that our most dangerous enemy was time.
Where do I even start? This was the thought in my mind, but what came out of my mouth was, “Gnaeus needs your help, Septimus.”
“Of course!” he exclaimed immediately, but then frowned. “But where is he?”
The next few moments were spent with me deciding as the words came out of my mouth about how much to share. I knew that my mother did not like hearing about the exploits of the Pullus men fighting for Rome, but I was equally aware that Septimus would want to hear everything. Deciding there would be time to fill Septimus in on the things in which he would be interested, I gave the bare bones of Gnaeus’ dilemma.
Once I was done, the silence dragged out for more heartbeats than I can easily count, but it was Septimus who broke it by repeating, “His weight in gold?”
“I’m afraid so,” I answered, watching his face carefully, trying to get a hint of whether this was even in the realm of possibility.
“But how much would that be?” he wondered, then asked, “Do you know how much he weighs anyway?”
It was something I had been struggling with, mainly because the Parisii had made no indication whether they knew how much Gnaeus weighed, nor had we been given any time to discuss what the amount they would accept would be, which I was forced to explain, then said, “I know he weighs more than two hundred twenty pounds, but how much more? Or,” I shrugged, “whether these Parisii bastards know that, I have no idea.”
He stared at the cup in front of him for a moment, then took a breath.
“Of course,” he said simply. “He’s my nephew, after all.” Even with the topic at hand, we grinned at each other at the absurdity of Septimus viewing Gnaeus as a nephew, both because of their respective ages, but more than anything, their relative size, although Septimus is tall for a Roman, and with a good build, though not in the same class as the son of his brother Titus. “But,” the grin faded as he thought about the problem, “it will take some time for me to get that much gold in hand.”
I had been prepared for this, but it was still with some trepidation that I asked, “How long do you think it will take?”
“At least four days, maybe five,” he answered.
I did not bother hiding my relief, and I realized I had held my breath waiting for his reply, since I honestly had been expecting to hear a month, or worse.
“That,” I finally managed to get out, “is much appreciated, Septimus. And I know Gnaeus will be very thankful.”
“How was he?” my mother, who had been silent the entire time, asked. “When you left him, I mean?”
“He was fine,” I assured her, but I did grin as I told her, “or, at least as fine as he could be under the circumstances. I pity the Parisii, though. They’re going to have their hands full trying to keep him from bashing them.”
“What are they like?” she asked. “These Parisii?”
Without thinking, I shrugged and said, “Like every other barbarian tribe that Rome has run into, I suppose.”
I should have known better; my mother may have been part of Rome for most of her life, but while she did not and does not speak about it, she had been born a slave to parents of the Anatilli tribe who had been captured during Divus Julius’ campaigns against the Gallic tribes.
And, as soon as the words were out, I regretted them, so I reached across the table to take her hand, “I’m sorry, Mama. I didn’t mean it the way it sounded.”
“I know,” she assured me, but there was no mistaking what her eyes were telling me, and it was the worst possible thing; I had expected her to be angry, but she was hurt.
“Yes, well,” I hurried on, my mind racing to think of something I could offer that would steer us away from sensitive subjects. Then I remembered, “They use chariots. And they’re quite skilled.” I thought for a moment longer. “Not as many of the men wear beards as the Germanic tribes either. They prefer to wear a mustache, but they let it grow so the ends hang down to,” I gestured to just below my chin, “here. Oh, and th
eir women wear more jewelry than you’d see with the Germanic tribes.”
“Not with the Gauls,” my mother interjected, and I heard the pride there. “That’s the custom with our women as well.”
“What do the women look like?” Septimus asked, grinning as he said it, giving me a wink as he did.
And my mother took the bait, rolling her eyes and sniffing. “Of course that’s what you want to know, Septimus. It’s all you think about.”
“Not all the time,” he protested, but I knew he was teasing, because after a pause, he added, “just most of the time I’m awake.”
This made my mother laugh, which was, and is something that I love to see, but I answered Septimus honestly, “Their women are…” I shrugged, “…women. Some of them were plain, some of them were attractive. But,” I sighed, completely unaware of what was transpiring in Petuar, “there was one woman I saw there that was…” I could not think of the appropriate words, so I shook my head and settled for, “…exceptionally beautiful. She had hair that was not a bright red, but a deeper color, almost like burnished copper. And,” I gave my mother a sidelong glance, knowing there would probably be some sort of retribution, “her figure is…glorious.”
“Then maybe Gnaeus won’t be as unhappy as we think,” Septimus joked.
“And I’ll be sure to let Algaia know in my next letter that my son is making eyes at some native girl,” my mother sniffed.
I knew she was teasing me, but I was more than happy to play the game, holding both hands out as I said in mock alarm, “No! Please, Mother! Not that! Anything but that!” I made a show of shuddering, but I was only partially jesting as I finished, “Algaia scares me more than any German.”
“As she should.” My mother nodded with approval.
We were laughing about this when we heard the door at the rear of the villa shutting, and I recognized Gaius’ voice as he called out, “Whose horses are those in the stable?”
Before any of us could answer, he entered the room, and I had to blink twice to make sure I was seeing correctly, which my mother noticed.
“Yes,” she said dryly, “he’s grown quite a bit the last few months.”
And, it was true that he had, at least another two or three inches, but he was also filling out, his shoulders broader than I remembered from the last time I saw him. This was not what caught me, however; when Gaius Gallienus entered the room and I saw his face, I would have sworn on Jupiter’s stone in that moment that he was a young Sextus Porcinianus Pullus, which made sense, of course, since that was his father. Still, while we had commented on how he resembled my stepfather the last time we visited, now his appearance was even more striking.
“Alex?” He frowned, not exactly the greeting I would have hoped for, but he also is a clever youth, because he immediately asked, “What’s happened to Gnaeus?”
Septimus chose this moment to stand, telling us, “I need to get busy doing what needs to be done so that you can get back to…?”
“Petuar,” I reminded him.
“Right, Petuar.” Septimus nodded, but he was already walking out of the room, calling, “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
“Where is Petuar?” Gaius asked.
“In Britannia,” my mother answered. “And that’s where Gnaeus is right now.”
Gaius did not ask why, nor did he seem to care.
“When are we leaving to go get him back?”
This was his first and his only question, and in that moment, Gaius Gallienus became my brother in more than name.
About the only positive thing I can say that came about from what I had done at Petuar was that I was given what I needed to take a proper Roman bath, or at least as close to what could be created with the materials at hand. A makeshift strigil was fashioned, and one of Cogidubnus’ slaves rubbed me down with olive oil that had been supplied from the cooks. It was familiar and quite foreign at the same time, although I suspect that the latter was more because I was standing naked in front of an audience as I showed the slave what to do that was the strangest aspect.
“And,” Ivomagus asked, “you do this every day?”
He, Tincommius, and a handful of other men who had been my guards had essentially invited themselves to come and watch the strange spectacle of a Roman man bathing; I was not asked if I agreed. Honestly, I considered refusing, but I itched, and I stank more than my pride would be bruised.
“No,” I told him. “Not every day. If we do some sort of work that makes us sweat and get dirty, then yes. Otherwise, it’s every three or four days.”
Ivomagus translated this, eliciting a low chorus of sounds that seemed to register astonishment and amusement in equal terms. Cunovindus, the Parisii who had been my first guard, said something in a jocular tone that elicited both some laughter and agreement.
Looking over at Ivomagus with a raised eyebrow, he said, “Cunovindus says that you may smell like a Parisii woman, but you fight like a Parisii man.”
I knew that it was meant as a compliment, yet I only offered a smile in reply, returning my attention to the slave who was running the strigil down my injured leg that fortunately had not required stitches, and I was thankful that this was the last stage of this part of the process. All that remained was to shave, but there had been some back and forth between Ivomagus and the king that, while I did not understand, I was certain meant that Cogidubnus was unwilling to hand me a sharp implement. I have no idea what took place, but I would like to think that Ivomagus pointed out the absurdity and the foolishness behind denying me a razor after I had spent a night with a spatha in my hand, defending his people. Yes, I was more worried about myself, but there was at least one other person in Petuar whose welfare I worried about that night. All that mattered was that, once the slave was finished, I was handed a polished brass mirror and a bronze razor. This was the first moment I had to see my reflection, and I was taken aback by the jagged and still very pink scar that ran from the edge of my hairline to just above my right eyebrow, the remnant of my colliding with the log during our escape back across the river. Using the rest of the olive oil, I managed to do the job with only a couple of nicks, all while my audience commented on my performance, which I was curious about but did not ask. Speaking of Bronwen, she had insisted that, while I was bathing, my tunic and loincloth be surrendered so that she could have them washed, and the tunic mended, which meant that for a period of time I wore a Parisii garment that, naturally, was too small for me. When I donned it, I believe that this brought home to the Parisii just how large a man I am, even for a barbarian tribe, because the fabric, much rougher against the skin, was stretched so tightly across my chest, and the sleeves squeezed my arms so tightly that I could have torn it apart simply by contorting my body. I did not need a translator to read their eyes, if only because this has been the way even back when I was a child, and like my father, and my great-grandfather, I had learned long before the value in using my size to my advantage.
“I would say that our dress suits you, Centurion,” Ivomagus broke the silence, “but you still look like a Roman.” He grinned at me as he stroked his mustache. “You need one of these, Gnaeus.”
“If I come back to Ubiorum with a mustache and,” I indicated the tunic, “wearing something like this, I’d look like a porcupine before I got to the gate.”
I said this with a smile, but Ivomagus did not look amused, only puzzled, and I quickly learned why.
“You have mentioned this…porcupine before,” he said. “What is it? Some sort of beast?”
“You don’t have porcupines in Britannia?” I asked in surprise, although I have no idea why.
He shook his head, so I tried to explain about the animal with bristling quills that are its only defense, although it is certainly effective. Ivomagus translated to the others, and there were some questions as to its size, appearance, and the like, which I tried to describe the best I could. Now that I was clean, shaved, and relatively refreshed, we left the building that had been set aside
for my bath, which, while it had been cleaned out, I was certain had been a stable. Nevertheless, it was better than nothing, and I felt at least somewhat like a Centurion of Rome again, although I was missing my vitus. The work on repairing Petuar was ongoing, but in something of a small miracle, while some of the outbuildings of Segovax’s hall had been burned, the hall itself was intact, and Cogidubnus had taken up residence again. He had sent Berdic out with the bulk of his army, which I estimated to be a bit more than two thousand men altogether, but from what I gathered from Ivomagus, there was no prospect of another fight because Diviciacus and his men were already retreating back across the river. When I asked Ivomagus what this meant, he could only offer a shrug.
“My brother has not decided,” he said in what I sensed was an evasive manner. Seeing I expected more, he went on, “It is customary that we conduct some sort of reprisal raid, perhaps further inland, but my brother does not like doing things just because that is the way they have always been done.”
Before I could think about it, I replied, “Then he would hate being a Roman.”
This made him laugh; matters between us had become easier, and even then, I sensed that he was more sympathetic to my plight than he had been before the Brigantes attack. Regardless of this, I stifled the urge to press Ivomagus on whether Cogidubnus had made a decision. I was certain that the king was avoiding me; other than the night he arrived, I had seen him just one other time, and it was now two days later.
Seemingly out of nowhere, Ivomagus said quietly, “Gnaeus, you must stay away from Bronwen.”
“Then how am I going to get my tunic back so that I can stop looking ridiculous?” I asked in a joking tone, but he was not fooled.
“Once she has washed and mended your clothing, you must avoid her, Gnaeus.”
“Why?” I challenged, although I was certain I knew the answer; I was right, but only partially.