Hostage to Fortuna

by R. W. Peake

  “Berdic,” he answered simply. “He is gone now, but he might be back by dark, and he will certainly be back tomorrow. If he sees you anywhere near her…”

  He did not finish, but he did not need to.

  Rather than bluster, I decided to take a different approach, which prompted me to ask, “Now that you’ve seen me fight, Ivomagus, do you still think that Berdic could defeat me?”

  This was when I learned I was only partly accurate in my guess because he answered immediately, “No, I know that Berdic could not defeat you, Gnaeus. But,” he looked up at me as we walked, adding quietly, “that is the problem.”

  “I don’t see why,” I countered, but I was just being obstinate, because I knew what he was saying.

  “If you defeat Berdic,” he began, but he caught me glaring at him and corrected, “when you defeat Berdic, you will not just shame him, you will shame my brother, Gnaeus. He has shown Berdic great favor. And,” his tone turned bitter, “Berdic used my…absence to his great advantage. Cogidubnus trusts him. So, while defeating Berdic might win you Bronwen, you will probably lose any chance you have of returning home.”

  My initial reaction was to say I would have liked to see Cogidubnus try, but fortunately, I instantly knew this was a foolish thing to say. Still, it went against my nature to meekly accept Ivomagus’ advice.

  “What about what Bronwen wants?” I asked, then offered up something that I recalled reading in the Prefect’s account, and I wondered if, given the similarities, it would be the same with the Gallic tribes. “I thought that women had more freedom in who they married than we Romans do.”

  He surprised me then by agreeing, “You are right, Gnaeus. Normally, they do. But,” he hesitated, then cast a glance over his shoulder at the others who were trailing us while we wandered around the town, “that is why my brother took…steps to ensure that Bronwen would say yes.”

  “You mean with her father,” I half-guessed, and he nodded.

  “Yes, with Praesutagas. Berdic has desired Bronwen since she became a woman, but she wanted nothing to do with him. Then,” he shrugged, “my brother needed Berdic to do something for him that was…outside what a king would normally command from one of his subjects, and this was Berdic’s price.”

  I do not like being thwarted, in anything and for any reason. In fact, this is the kind of thing that makes the beast within me stir, yet I managed to hold my tongue. It did not stop my mind, however, and this was the moment I began to concoct my plan.

  When Bronwen came shortly before sundown to the home of Tincommius, where I had been staying since the night of the battle, her first reaction at seeing me cleanly shaven was to lean forward a bit and take a sniff, smiling as she did so.

  “You do smell better.” She laughed. “Although you smell like olives.”

  “That’s better than the alternative, isn’t it?” I asked, and she readily agreed.

  Then, she held out the bundle she had been carrying, and a sudden shyness seemed to come over her as she told me, “I apologize if the repair to your tunic is not very good. I,” she made a face, “have never been very good with a needle and thread. My mother died when I was very young, and my father,” she laughed, “is even worse.”

  “I’m sorry to hear about your mother,” I offered, mainly for lack of anything else I could think to say. Then I remembered, “But I’m sure you did a perfect job of it. And, thank you.”

  “You helped save Petuar,” she answered with a shrug. “This is the least I can do to show my thanks. And my people asked me to thank you on their behalf for your efforts. In fact,” she said in a teasing manner, “all the talk is about you. If someone did not know differently, you singlehandedly slew dozens of Brigantes. Some of them,” Bronwen widened her eyes in a ludicrous exaggeration, “with just a glance!” When I laughed and shook my head, she insisted, “It is true! I heard them say it! My friend Verica said her father was there helping to put out the fires and saw it happen, that you,” she suddenly scrunched up her face and narrowed her eyes into slits, “looked at them like this, and they fell down dead!”

  By this time, I was laughing, hard, and I could tell this pleased her, but I decided to have a little fun of my own.

  “Well,” I chuckled, “one time I did fling a man so high into the air that,” I pointed up at the roof, “he would have cleared this house and landed in the next street.”

  “You did?”

  That she immediately took this seriously was both amusing and it made me a bit ashamed at seeing her eyes, now wide open again and her mouth hanging open so that I could see just how even and white her teeth were.

  “Well,” I admitted, “that’s the story. Just like the one you just tried to tell me.”

  This made her giggle, and I sensed that, like me, she had completely forgotten everything and everyone around us. A silence fell between us, and suddenly, her manner changed abruptly, something I had noticed tended to happen with some frequency, and I wondered whether this was unique to Bronwen, or if this is a trait common to the tribes of Britannia, or even just the Parisii.

  “Do you really not have a woman where you are from?”

  “No!” I shook my head as adamantly as I could manage without rattling my brains. “I told you the truth. Not only are we not allowed to marry, I don’t have a…anything,” I finished lamely, mainly because I did not know what to say.

  I had no idea if my immediate response helped, because she seemed more troubled than pleased; only later did I realize that it made sense, given her own situation.

  “It is just that some of my friends wanted to know,” she said.

  The two red spots on her cheeks betrayed her, and I have never wanted to kiss a woman more than I did in that moment. Which, of course, is when Tincommius chose to clear his throat after entering the main room from where I am certain he was listening in on the conversation. Obviously, it was not what we were saying since he could not understand it, but the manner in which we were saying it that brought him.

  “Ah, yes,” I took the tunic from her, our fingers brushing, “thank you for this.”

  “It is nothing,” she said, then before anything else could happen, she spun about and practically fled through the open doorway, disappearing down the street, leaving me with my clothing and a spinning head.

  When I turned about, Tincommius was standing there, and there was no mistaking the sadness in his face as he shook his head.

  “No good, Pullus,” was all he said. “No good.”

  “I know,” I sighed.

  Yet, if anything, I was even more determined that, when I left this place, I would not be alone.

  Septimus’ prediction was exactly right; four days after my arrival, he asked me to go somewhere with him, though he did not say where in front of my mother and sisters. Both Scribonia and Miriam had come, and Gisela had returned a bit after Gaius Gallienus the first day, although Miriam’s children Atia and Manius were not with her, while Scribonia introduced me to my new nephew Marcus, a babe of six months, and while it was nice to catch up, I had not withheld the reason why I was there. As I had observed when Gnaeus and I brought his father’s ashes, despite her lighthearted manner and, since she is not here, I will call it her silly ways, Miriam proved to be every bit a Pullus. She is also extremely clever, which I will never admit in front of her, but while I did not say as much, once she had heard, absorbed, then thought about Gnaeus’ dilemma, her verdict came swiftly.

  “There’s nothing else you can do,” she said at the kitchen table of the villa, and if she saw me slumping in relief, she made no sign of it. “Gnaeus was right to want to handle this himself. I know, or,” she amended, “you’ve told me how much Germanicus thinks of him, but if there is anything our family has learned when dealing with the patrician class, it’s to be cautious in trusting them.”

  She was right, of course, yet at the same time, I felt the need to offer a defense of Germanicus, who, while I certainly do not know him very well, I have heard enoug
h about from both my Uncle Titus and Gnaeus.

  “He’s not like Divus Augustus was, or Tiberius is,” I said, then, before she could respond, “but you’re right. We can’t take the chance that Germanicus wouldn’t expect some sort of oath of loyalty to him that puts Gnaeus in a bad position.”

  What I did not say was that I had seen the toll the oath of loyalty that the late Dolabella had maneuvered Uncle Titus into taking to Germanicus’ adoptive father Tiberius took on him, and I can attest that his dreams were haunted by what he had done. This was something nobody needed to know, even those people I trust above all others; setting that aside, I also think it is a wise policy to adopt.

  Now I was following Septimus out of the villa, and I was only slightly surprised to see two men waiting for us, and even if they had been wearing normal attire, it was impossible to not know that they were former gladiators. One of them could have been the twin of Aroborix, who had been so foully betrayed by his supposed friend Bellicanus, but most importantly, both of them carried themselves in a manner that practically shouted that they were to be trifled with at your peril. Which, I acknowledged to myself, makes sense, given what I assumed we were picking up. What I was not prepared for was the sight of the wagon, just outside the gate, which had been shut, but when the gladiator climbed onto the seat, I was compelled to ask why Septimus felt the need.

  It was his turn to be surprised, and he made me immediately feel foolish when he answered, “You do know about how much Gnaeus weighs, don’t you? I don’t think we should be lugging around that much weight through the streets.” He added, “The Pullus family may be respected and feared here, but that’s far too much temptation,” and he actually laughed as he finished, “Who knows? If it was someone else’s gold, I’d be tempted myself.”

  This was impossible to argue, so I did not try, although we contented ourselves to walk ahead of the wagon since we did not have far to go. The building Septimus led us to was another villa, just a block off the forum but on the opposite side at the far end, and if anything, it was more heavily fortified than the Prefect’s, which had been my home for so many years. And, unlike our villa, this one had not two but four men standing just outside the gateway, although I suspected it was because they were expecting us, and they were men cut from the same cloth as the two with us, whose names I did not bother to learn. One of the men confirmed my suspicions by giving Septimus a nod, then snapping an order to open one of the gates, which was wide enough for the wagon to pass through. Following Septimus, we entered the courtyard, where a portly bald man with thinning hair that he grew long and combed over the crown of his head and clad in a toga, somewhat unusually, was waiting for us at the door of the villa.

  “Salve, Septimus Pullus,” he called out, and there was something oily in his manner that I immediately disliked and distrusted. “Everything is ready as you requested.”

  He made an expansive gesture, and as if he timed it, the door opened, and two more men appeared, each of them holding a handle of a wooden chest that, as a clerk of the Legions, I recognized was of the type in which the payroll is delivered. Nothing was said as the two men, walking slowly and clearly struggling with the load, headed towards the wagon, and while I do not know why this was the case, when I saw another pair of men emerge, almost an exact copy of the first pair in their appearance and the identical chest carried between them, I gasped in surprise. I suppose it had never really occurred to me what this much gold looked like, at least as calculated by a greedy petty king in Britannia.

  “Most of it is in coin,” the toga-clad man said to Septimus as we watched the four men make their way to the wagon. “But there is perhaps a quarter part that is in gold ingots. All told, it is more than two hundred pounds of gold.”

  Of the pair of us, only Septimus seemed unimpressed, behaving as if this sort of thing happened to him every day.

  “You have my note, Salinator,” was all Septimus said, and when Salinator offered his arm, while he hid it, I knew Septimus well enough to see the distaste as he accepted it, clasping arms in the formal sealing of a bargain.

  “That I do, Pullus. That I do.” The man seemed inordinately pleased with himself, and this marks the first moment where I had a presentiment that something more was happening than Gnaeus would have been comfortable with, and as his representative, I felt the same way.

  Nevertheless, nothing more was said, and the gladiator driving the wagon laboriously turned it around, but quickly enough he had the ox pointed the right way, and once more, Septimus and I led our party through the gate. I was extremely nervous, but whether it was because of the Pullus name or the intervention of the gods, we made our way back to our villa, albeit by a different route, unmolested. I did not say anything, but Septimus interpreted my sidelong glance correctly.

  “I’m not going to make it easy for any light-fingered bastard,” was all he said with a shrug. “Only a fool like…” He stopped himself, but I knew that he was about to utter his brother’s name, and I used this as an excuse.

  “How have you been doing, Septimus?” I asked him, then pitching my voice low so that only he could hear, “with…you know…”

  “Yes,” he sighed, “I know what you mean.” He said nothing for a few paces, then said, “Honestly, I go back and forth. I mean,” he went on, “yes, Gaius had done horrible things, and yes, his foolishness put the family in danger. But,” he paused, and I understood why when he continued, “if Juno hadn’t…”

  I cut him off immediately, and I made sure to turn and look him in the eye as I said calmly, if through clenched teeth, “Her name is Algaia.”

  He did flush, and he also corrected, “Yes, you’re right. I meant Algaia. But,” he immediately continued plunging into territory that, as far as I am concerned, was beyond the boundaries, “if Gaius hadn’t been…” I suppose he was trying to think of a word that wouldn’t cause me to hit him, “…persuaded,” was what he settled on, “by Algaia, I don’t think any of this would have happened.”

  I knew he was trying to be careful, but I also refused to let this go unchallenged, and I came to an abrupt stop, which in turn forced the gladiator driving the wagon to halt.

  It took an effort, but I managed to keep my tone even as I asked Septimus, “Are you saying that if Algaia hadn’t been here, that Gaius would have turned out differently?”

  Even if I did not know him as well as I did, I could see that Septimus desperately wanted to shout “Yes.”

  But, to his eternal credit, he suddenly exhaled then admitted, “No, that’s not what I’m saying.” He resumed moving, as did I, and for several paces, nothing was said, then finally, Septimus spoke first. “You know why, don’t you, Alex? You know why I’m saying this?”

  “I do,” I answered, completely honestly. “And I don’t bear you any ill will. He was your brother.”

  “Yes,” he sighed, “he was.”

  There was nothing more to be said then, and we finished our journey in silence, and without any attempt by some misguided fool to make himself as wealthy as Croesus in one bold move. And, I thought as we walked through the gates of our villa, it is a lot of money.

  It took a day longer than I would have liked to arrange passage, mainly because, following Septimus’ example, I felt the need to hire security for the voyage back to Britannia, but instead of former gladiators, I circulated the wine shops and tavernae looking for old, bored Legionaries. In this endeavor, I had a secret and powerful weapon.

  “I need to sail to Britannia to bring the great-grandson of Prefect Pullus and Titus Pullus’ son back,” was how I put it, although not always in those exact words. “He’s being ransomed, and we’re going to pay those savages and bring him home.”

  It was more a case that I had to be selective once I began using this, and before the sun set, I had hired four men: Servius Marcellus, who had been an Optio in the 4th Legion, Appius Hemina, Decimus Celer, and Marcus Trio. My one, and only, hope was that I was as good a judge of a man’s character as I belie
ved, but there was only one way to find out. We spent a nervous night with those two chests under our roof, but it was also an occasion for great joy, because my mother had cooked a meal, and everyone connected to the Pullus family who was not separated by vast distances sat at the long kitchen table. It was noisy, it was somewhat chaotic, and it was a perfect reminder of my childhood and why it had been so happy. And, honestly, it was only because of a chance comment by Miriam that my appetite was ruined, not that she meant to do anything of the sort.

  “I wonder,” she spoke as she passed me a hunk of bread, “what will happen with the villa.”

  I did not understand her, frowning as I asked, “What about the villa? What does that mean?”

  She seemed surprised as she explained, “Septimus was forced to sign over the villa as security for the ransom. When Septimus couldn’t come up with the entire amount, he was forced to go to Salinator for the rest. And,” she shrugged as if she was discussing a matter of no consequence, “Septimus signed over the villa to him.”

  I have never had the floor suddenly vanish from underneath me, but I am certain that the sensation I experienced was close.

  “He did what?” I managed to gasp.

  “Septimus had to sign over the villa,” she repeated, but with a tone that I was certain she would have used with someone simple.

  “But what will Septimus do? And my mother? And Gisela and Gallienus? Where will they go?”

  “We’ve talked about it,” Miriam replied calmly. “And we’ve decided that your mother, Gisela, and Gallienus will come to live with me because I have the most room, and Septimus?” She shrugged. “He’ll stay with Scribonia until he finds something for himself.”

  Aside from the fact that this arrangement was somewhat backwards, since Septimus is Miriam’s brother, and Scribonia and Gallienus are my siblings, I could not credit the idea that, after all that Titus Pomponius Pullus had sacrificed in his struggle to elevate his family, the one tangible symbol of his achievement was going to fall into the hands of some oily merchant. In simple terms, it was too much for me to bear.