Hostage to Fortuna

by R. W. Peake

  The moment that I was informed that we would not be facing each other with weapons, I realized what I had to do. My father had explicitly warned me about trying to summon this beast that resides inside men of the Pullus line, and as I learned by reading his account, his belief that he was in control of it was one of the biggest errors of his life.

  “It comes when the gods deem you need it,” he had explained, or tried to, although I was not really listening. “Don’t think that you can summon it whenever you want it.”

  I learned that night in the hall that he was correct; I had thought that just seeing Berdic with Bronwen would be sufficient to unleash this rage inside me that I first remember experiencing when I was about six years old, and one of my childhood friends would not surrender the ball we were playing with. My only memory of that, to this day, was right up to, and then the moment afterward when I saw Lucius lying on the ground, clutching his nose as blood poured out of it, dripping into the dirt. Now, while seeing Bronwen with Berdic and how miserable she was made me angry, it was not enough. Berdic stepping into the square had not done it either, and at first, I was afraid that I would be unable to fulfill my plan, when the fool plunged at me, I sidestepped, and he rammed his head directly into one of the tables, much like a bull trying to smash its way out of its stall. I saw his knees buckle, and I knew that if I hit him just once at this point, this would be over, which was why I just stood there, and as he informed me later, alarming Alex.

  Berdic did recover his wits, and what I saw in his eyes was not just anger but embarrassment, although he did approach me more cautiously as I allowed myself to be maneuvered into the corner, choosing to place myself in the corner where my back would be to the king, the rough surface of the table scraping my back, though I was not aware of it until later. He launched his first punch, which I could have lessened the impact of by rolling with it, but I chose not to, wanting to get an idea of his power. It was not inconsiderable, but I also was watching him, and Berdic was the kind of strong man who thinks that all of his power came from his large arms; his lower body and waist did not move a bit with any of his punches. I believe that it was about his third punch where I felt the skin of my cheek split open, but more importantly, the beast inside me roused itself. Of his own volition, he backed away from me, panting hard, telling me something else about him, that Berdic’s strength was his ultimate weakness. I guessed that, like me, Berdic had always been bigger and stronger than his fellow tribesmen, and he took that advantage for granted. Which, being honest, I had a tendency to do, up until I came to the Fourth Cohort of the 1st Legion, and I was exposed to what it means to be a professional, and going further, what it means to carry the Pullus name. More than anything, meeting a man who was every bit as large and strong, but vastly more skilled in all form of combat is still the most valuable thing I have learned to this point, and often the lessons were learned quite painfully. If I had faced Berdic when I was the paid man Gnaeus Volusenus, it is entirely possible that he could have defeated me. When he backed away to catch his breath, I wanted to shout at him not to do so, because while I could sense I was on the verge of lapsing into my rage, I was not quite there. Then, from behind Berdic, where the crowd of exclusively male faces lined the length of the square, there was movement, and I saw Tincommius, but he was looking away from us, and I saw him beckoning to someone. He wants Mandubracius here, was my first thought, but I was wrong, it was not his grandfather. Even in the orange glow of the torches, I could see how pale she was, which accentuated the purple-black bruise that covered the left quarter of her eye and face as our eyes met. That is the last thing I remember of the next span of heartbeats.

  We never had the opportunity to ask, but both Gnaeus and I are certain that Tincommius’ bringing Bronwen to a spot where Gnaeus could see her was no accident. Whatever his motives, the result was something that left no doubt whatsoever about what Gnaeus is capable of, and I am certain that Gnaeus’ destruction of Berdic is still a topic of conversation among the Parisii. Whereas Berdic had moved quickly for his size, there was no comparison with what Gnaeus did, and as proof, I will simply state that Berdic never threw another punch. I do not want to give a false impression; Gnaeus did not beat Berdic to death with his fists, although he certainly did hit the Parisii, his first punch not with his right hand, but his left, and not aimed at Berdic’s face but directly underneath the breastbone. Even over the shouting of the crowd, we could hear the breath rush from the barbarian’s lungs, his eyes going wide, but while he reacted to the next punch Gnaeus threw by raising his hands to protect his face, which was a right, he was far too late to even partially deflect the fist that struck him directly on the point of his chin. Because of my vantage point, with Gnaeus facing away from me, I was able to see how he used his entire weight, violently twisting his hips in time with the punch, and if he had had a gladius in his hand, I would have judged it a perfect second position thrust that comes over the top of a shield. Gnaeus’ head had certainly rocked back when Berdic struck him; what Berdic’s head did was snap back more violently than I have ever seen before, and I believe that the Parisii was never really conscious after that, which was probably a good thing for him. He reeled backward, his back slamming into the tables on the far side of the square, and even in the moment, I could see that Bronwen was on the opposite side of the tables just a matter of inches away from him. It was what I saw reflected in her face then, which I would describe as an expression of a fierce joy as she watched Berdic staggering that informed me of where her sympathies lay.

  Within a heartbeat of his last punch, as Berdic struggled to regain his wits, Gnaeus’ hand struck again, not in a punch but to grab with his right hand the wide leather belt that the Britons use to keep their trousers up, while his left lashed out to plunge his fingers into the soft flesh around Berdic’s windpipe. What happened next is difficult to describe, but I will do my best. Bending his knees, Gnaeus snatched Berdic off the ground, then lifted a man who, if he did not weigh as much as Gnaeus was very close, up and above his head with his arms not fully extended only because there was not enough room overhead. Berdic had instinctively reached up with both hands to grab at Gnaeus’ left hand, which was clamped around his throat, and it was clear by the manner in which the Parisii’s muscles flexed and went rigid that he was desperately trying to wrench Gnaeus’ hand from around his windpipe with all of his strength. It could not even have been a full heartbeat, but etched in my memory is the image of one man holding another one aloft above his head for what seemed like many, many more. When he performed this move, Gnaeus had turned slightly so that I caught a glimpse of his face, and I suspect that my reaction was the same as those around the square, which was what I can only describe as a stab of fear, and I am speaking as his clerk and his friend. It was the kind of face that yanks grown men from a deep sleep into a terrified wakefulness, screaming in fear at the face of a demon who has invaded your dreams to hunt you down and kill you. Regardless of this glimpse, I suppose what was most disturbing was the seeming ease with which Gnaeus Pullus, in essentially one continuous motion, lifted Berdic above his head so that the Parisii went from standing on his feet to essentially upside down as Gnaeus released his grasp on of the Parisii’s throat, breaking the desperate grip Berdic had with both hands around his wrist as if they were not even there as he slammed Berdic headfirst into the hardpacked dirt floor, using the belt for leverage to increase the power of the impact.

  The shouting ceased as abruptly as what happens when a Centurion calls his Century to intente but in the instant before, when everyone watching was in full voice, the sound of Berdic’s neck snapping, and his skull being crushed like an egg was still clearly audible above the shouting; it is a sound that I know I will never forget, and I suspect the other onlookers feel the same way, while Berdic’s body was, quite strikingly, in almost the identical posture I had seen when my infant daughter Iras suddenly became exhausted as she crawled across the floor, immediately falling asleep on her knees, he
r tiny rump in the air. I understand I cannot do justice to the moment, as everyone in that hall, more than a hundred Parisii and one Roman were instantly frozen in shock at a display of such raw, brutal strength, power, and savagery that despite everything, I found myself offering a prayer to Dis for the Parisii. Berdic, obviously, was dead, although his face was turned towards the table where Cogidubnus was seated next to me, mouth hanging open in shock, although this made him like everyone else in the hall. The dead man’s eyes were open, but with an expression in them that I have seen more times than I can count, one of surprise that the strand of his life was so quickly, and brutally, snipped.

  Gnaeus was standing there, panting, although not that hard if I am being honest, and he was the first person to do anything, suddenly spinning on his heel and walking over to where Bronwen was standing next to Tincommius. This broke the spell as people, recovering their voices, began murmuring to each other, but I kept my eyes on Gnaeus, whose back was to me again, so I saw how every Parisii arrayed along that side of the makeshift square reacted, which was to recoil at his approach, some more violently than others. Still, if I had to summarize the collective demeanor of those people, it was of naked fear and, understandably, awe. Gnaeus’ head never turned to Tincommius, who, while he did react in a similar manner, was more restrained, although he still took a step backward from the square. There was one, and only one person who did not shrink from Gnaeus’ approach, but while I could not see Bronwen, it was clear that it was her.

  “What…what did we just see?”

  It was, on balance, a good question from Ivomagus, and perhaps if I had had time to think, I would have offered a different answer, but what came out was, “You just saw why Rome will never fall, Ivomagus. And,” I turned to look him directly in the eye, “I expect your brother to honor his agreement…this time.”

  This made Ivomagus flush, but Cogidubnus behaved as if we were not there, his eyes fixed on Berdic, whose body had finally toppled over onto the floor, although his face was still visible, only because his head was turned at an impossible angle. Standing up, his eyes stayed on the dead man as he walked to the edge of the table, irritably waving away the men who offered to help him down. For the moment, Gnaeus was occupied with Bronwen, while Ivomagus and I stood side by side, completely ignored.

  “I have never seen anything like that,” Ivomagus’ voice seemed to have gone hoarse, and I noticed that his hand reached up and clutched something under his tunic, which I assumed was some sort of talisman or sacred object, while his gaze was on his brother.

  “I don’t know if it will make you feel better, but neither have I,” I confessed to him.

  With a wave of his hand, Cogidubnus sent the crowd at this corner of the square away, saying something that became clear by the manner in which some of the men reacted, because they dragged the tables that met at the corner of the square apart to allow the king to walk over to Berdic. When he knelt down, he turned slightly so that I could see his face, but his expression was impossible for me to interpret, yet somehow, I had the sense that he was not displeased. Or, perhaps I am now coloring that memory now with all that I learned later. Whatever the case, after a few heartbeats, Cogidubnus rose and walked a pace or two in Gnaeus’ direction, who was obviously warned, because he turned about to face the king. My heart seemed to skip, because I was concerned that the face Gnaeus would present to Cogidubnus was the one that I had caught just a glimpse of perhaps a hundred heartbeats earlier, although the blood streaming down his left cheek partially obscured it. I blew out a breath in relief when the demeanor he presented to the Parisii king was nothing like what it had been, although he did appear cautious.

  “I should go,” Ivomagus muttered, and he hopped down and hurried to his brothers’ side, with a haste that I found somewhat unusual.

  I did not know much about Bronwen at that moment, but I did know she could have acted as interpreter, yet for whatever reason, Ivomagus did not seem to want this to happen. Left on my own, I contented myself with scanning the crowd of people, all of them having drifted away from the remnants of the square, but I had to stifle a smile as I watched men who were clearly members of the warrior class as they kept casting nervous glances at the giant Roman who had just destroyed one of their most formidable warriors with an almost contemptuous ease.

  My next memory was staring down into Berdic’s eyes as he seemingly looked up at me, but it only took a heartbeat for me to see that those eyes were no longer seeing anything. Unless, of course, there is an afterlife, but that thought did not cross my mind until later. In that moment, I was more concerned with trying to understand how I had gone from remembering Berdic punching me in the face to looking down on him, with the top of his skull crushed and his neck obviously broken, wearing an expression that I have seen on more men than I can easily count, both on the faces of vanquished foes and fallen comrades. For some reason, I found the pool of blood that was spreading from his skull extremely interesting, although it also reminded me of the warm liquid running down my left cheek. I touched it, wincing as I felt the cut that I suppose must have been caused by one of Berdic’s punches, and I knew that it would require stitches. This was the moment I remembered what I had seen just before…whatever happened, and I turned to see that Bronwen was still standing there, wedged in between the men who, just a few heartbeats earlier, had been baying for blood but were now completely silent or murmuring, seemingly to themselves. Perhaps if I had been in a better frame of mind, I would have found the way they scurried off as I crossed the square amusing, although Tincommius did not react in the same way. Our eyes met, but it was impossible for me to read anything in them; besides, I was concerned with Bronwen’s reaction. Who, I immediately noticed, was the only person, man or woman, who did not shrink back from my approach.

  I had no idea what to say, but somehow, I heard the words come out of my mouth. “You’re free now.”

  Bronwen did not appear frightened, but neither did she seem pleased, yet she did not look away either. I was close enough to her to see her eyes go to my cheek.

  “You’re hurt,” she said, then with a trace of the slightly commanding manner I had noticed in her, she went on, “That will need stitches.”

  “That’s what I have Alex for,” I mumbled, suddenly completely unsure of what to say.

  More crucially, I could feel the wave of what I suppose could be called the lethargy that always follows one of these fits, and I knew that I could not afford to allow it to take hold, because I was acutely aware that my fate still hung in the balance. Nevertheless, I felt that it was more important to speak to her at that moment than Cogidubnus.

  “I want you to know,” I said, hoping that I sounded sincere, “I didn’t do this because I expected anything from you.”

  Somewhat to my surprise, she did not respond immediately, but I felt her eyes searching my face, and it was a quite odd sensation, both uncomfortable, and strangely, reassuring.

  “So,” she finally spoke, “you are willing to leave here, leave Petuar, and we will never see each other again?”

  Before I could think about it, or stop myself, I blurted out, “I hate the very idea, but…yes. If that’s what you want.”

  She did not have time to reply, because from behind us, Cogidubnus called my name, and I turned to face him; in doing so, I was looking back at Berdic’s corpse, which people were now gathering around, and I wondered if, given his high rank, he would be interred with his chariot, which I had been told by Ivomagus was the custom with high-ranking members of their tribe. Honestly, I would have been perfectly happy if he was dragged outside and left for the dogs, but I certainly did not say as much. Although Cogidubnus reached me first, I saw him hesitate, his eyes searching my face as if he was looking for something there; only later when Alex told me what he had witnessed did I understand. He stopped a few paces away from me; just, I thought with a flicker of grim humor, outside my reach, and he glanced over his shoulder at Ivomagus, who had just hopped down from t
he table and was hurrying across the square. When Ivomagus reached us, Cogidubnus began speaking, at length, and I did not need a translator to know that he was agitated.

  Finally, Ivomagus addressed me. “My brother says that this is the most extraordinary thing he has ever witnessed.” He hesitated, then added, “And I say the same thing. Truly,” he shook his head, but his eyes never left me, giving me the sense that he was prepared for me to suddenly attack him, or his brother, as if he could do anything about it, “what you did here will be spoken of for generations…Gnaeus.”

  The use of my praenomen seemed to be some sort of signal, but seeing that they expected an answer, all I could manage was, “He made me his enemy when he obeyed,” I looked directly at Cogidubnus, “your orders to strike me from behind…like the coward he was.” It was, I understood, an incredibly stupid thing to say, but when Ivomagus gave a shake of his head, I said sharply, “Tell him, Ivomagus. Exactly what I said.”

  When he did so, Cogidubnus’ face flushed, but after a long moment, the king gave me a curt nod, and while Ivomagus had nothing to say, I understood this was as much of an acknowledgement as I was going to get, so I decided to move on to other matters.