The Swabian Affair

by Ray Gleason

  They return and take the Pen uh Bran to Gwuhn Fruhn, the “White Hill,” where they bury it facing east to guard them from their enemies beyond the river.

  Peredir mab Evraoug is given guardianship of the Pen uh Bran, which is to be passed down to his descendants for all times. Surrounding the burial place of the head, Peredir builds a great hall and an impregnable dun, which is visible only to the brave and worthy. Thus it remains to this day.

  After the saga was ended, Mani Talus said, “That was quite a tale . . . Do the Gauls really think this head thing’ll protect ‘em from the Grunni?”

  I shook my head, “When I first heard the tale from my Gran’pa, the western isle was Sicily, and the head faced east against the Romans . . . Can’t say it worked too well.”

  Manius laughed, then said, “Maybe we should offer one of our songs to our host in compensation for this grand feast!”

  I wasn’t sure I liked where this was going, so I asked, “What do you plan to do, Mani?”

  Manius ignored my question and called down the table, “Hey! Croci! You sober enough to sing a song?”

  Now, I was really concerned. A singer named Crocius: “Croaker”?

  A rider about my age got up and stumbled over to where we were sitting, “Sure am, Capu’! My singin’s better after a few belts. Whadda ya wanna hear?”

  “What was that thing you was singin’ the other night?” Manius asked. “The one about that Cartheginian broad who offed herself?”

  “Ah! Lamentatio Didonis . . . ‘The Weepings of Dido,’” Crocius nodded, “Comin’ right up, Capu’!”

  Crocius started to climb up on the table, but Manius pulled him down. “Not here, stulte!” he told him. “Up in front!”

  Mani grabbed Croaker by his elbow and herded him up the aisle toward the dias. “You better come with me,” he told me over his shoulder. “I may need you to explain this to them Gauls.”

  As the three of us made our way toward the platform as best we could, trying to stear Croaker and laboring under the burden of a pitcher or two of the cadeuhrn’s finest booze, the place quieted down. I saw a slight look of panic on Publicola’s face; Troucillus just looked curious.

  “Domine mi!” Manius announced to Bran with a bow. “My Lord! We humble troopers of the cavalry turma of the grand and glorious Ninth Legion would like to offer you a wee bit of good Roman entertainment.”

  Publicola was about to stand, but Troucillus shook his head and put his hand on Publicola’s arm.

  Bran was a good host and a good sport. He stood and answered Manius in Latin, “Decurio! Please, come up on the platform.”

  We managed to help Croaker up onto the dias without killing ourselves or anyone else. When we stood before the main table, Rabria asked, “And, what are you going to perform?”

  Crocius bowed and almost followed his head right down into the floor. As Manius and I steadied him, he said, “Matrona bella . . . I’ll sing the tragic and pitiful weepings and wailings of Dido, Queen of Carthage, as she laments her abandonment by her lover, the perfidious and pious Aeneas of Troy!”

  I winced at Crocius’ “perfidious and pious,” but realized that there was no turning back now.

  Rabria seemed not to notice. She inclined her head toward Crocius and said, “Please! Proceed!”

  Crocius turned and faced his audience. I was sure money was changing hands over whether he’d finish or pass out first. My money would have been on his taking a header off the platform before he got too much further. Crocius raised his hands out toward the hall, which fell silent.

  He began the performance:

  Elissa! Sweet Elissa.

  What brings you to this place?

  Why is your face so pale, my sister?

  Why do tears cloud your eyes?

  Elissa! Sweet Elissa!

  Tell your sister, do!

  Amazingly, Crocius seemed to sober up the instant he began singing. His voice was mid-ranged and pleasant. I realized his cognomen e virtute was another example of the ironic humor of Roman muli. This Croaker could sing.

  Thy hand, Anna! Give me thy hand.

  Darkness o’ershadows my soul.

  Coldness grips my heart.

  He is gone, Anna, gone!

  Without so much as a farewell.

  Without so much as a parting kiss.

  Crocius sang the tale of the abandonment of Dido by her lover, Aeneas. I knew the story, but had never heard this lai of despair and tragic death. Today, it is never heard. Princeps noster, our first citizen, frowns at anything that might cast the legendary founder of our race, Aeneas, in a disfavorable light.

  When I am laid in my tomb, my sister,

  When the black earth swallows my body,

  Offer libations to my restless spirit,

  Chained to this earth by its forlorn passion.

  Offer libations to my restless spirit;

  Let my fate be a warning of hopeless love.

  Our Augustus wants Romans to see the tale of Dido as an exemplum of Roman pietas. Aeneas is the hero, the founder of our civilization, one who must break the chains of earthly pleasure, abandon the luxury and lavishness of Carthage, and the lure of Dido’s bed, to remain faithful to the will of the gods, all in order to protect the posterity of his son, Ascanius, and fulfill the destiny of the Roman nation.

  This cold sword is all he left me;

  I will take it to my breast in his place.

  Remember me, oh remember me, Anna,

  As a woman who placed her love and hope,

  In the care of a faithless man,

  A cold and faithless man,

  Who will beget a cold and faithless race.

  For Gauls, Dido is the tragic victim of an uncaring and heartless lover. Contrary to the Romans, Gauls see no “eastern perversions” in a woman ruling a kingdom in her own right or making her own choice with whom to share her bed.

  The Macedonian was in many ways a second Dido. Dido loved Aeneas, as Cleopatra loved his putative descendant, Caesar. Dido trusted Aeneas and gave herself and all that was hers to him, and he betrayed her. Cleopatra’s tragedy was that Caesar died too soon and bequeathed his domain to a successor who admired Aeneas’ betrayal of a trusting and loving woman.

  With drooping wings, the Cupids come,

  To lay their offerings on her tomb.

  With drooping wings, the Cupids come,

  To weep their bitter tears.

  And on the portal of her marble house,

  These two words alone, “Remember me.”

  When Croaker finished his song, there was silence throughout the hall. Rabria rose, came around the table, put her hands on Crocius’ shoulders, and kissed his cheek. I saw her wipe a tear from her eye. I had to reach over and steady Crocius; his song over, he was back to being drunk, and Rabria was the only thing holding him up.

  Then, Rabria turned toward the hall and raised Crocius’ arm toward the audience. The Gallic warriors stood, pounding the tables and shouting their appreciation. How they understood the Latin, I had no idea. Troucillus came around the table, shook Crocius’ hand, and handed him a purse. Bran himself stood, removed one of the armbands from his right arm, and presented it to the singer. Publicola clapped his hands and seemed to nod.

  The feast lasted well into the eleventh hour. Bran and his comitatus left the hall soon after Croaker finished his lai. They swept Publicola and Troucillus along with them. But Bran, being a good host, ensured that the booze continued to flow.

  As soon as Crocius had gotten back to his table, he lay his head down on his arms and was almost immediately snoring. Manius Talus looked over at him and snorted, “Lightweight!” I stayed with the Roman boys for a while, until Manius reached into his marsupium and pulled out his dice, looking for a sucker to clean out.

  When I got back to where the Sequani were gathered, I saw Guithiru was in much the same condition as Crocius, except Guithiru was laid out on his back on top of our table, rumbling like Mount Etna. Periodically, one of our bo
ys would toss a radish at him, trying to get it into his open mouth. I think there was money changing hands over it. Athauhnu seemed alright. He was sitting up straight as a rod, with a stern, far-away look in his eyes. When he tried to speak, however, all he seemed to be able to say was, “Good party.”

  I didn’t know whether we were planning to move east in the morning. If we were, most of us would be sobering up in the saddle. So, I decided to call it a night. I filled my cup from a pitcher of beer and walked as best I could out of the hall.

  The sun had just sunk below the western hills, for which I was thankful. In my condition, sunlight would have been painful. I could still see a good twenty passus, but the shadows were lengthening and deepening.

  There was a sentry standing near the entryway to the cadeuhrn’s hall; what the poor sod had done to get stuck with guard duty on the night of a feast was anyone’s guess. I had been drinking beer most of the afternoon, so I asked him where the latrine was. He pointed me toward the riverside of the dun, which was just below the top of the hill and behind Bran’s hall, so the area was now obscured in darkness. I thanked him with a lop-sided, drunken grin, handed him my cup of beer, and walked across the courtyard like a sailor in a storm.

  Once I entered the shadows, I was able to follow my nose to the jakes. It was basic Gallic sanitation: do your business off the side of the bluff; try to hit the river; don’t fall in. I seemed to have the place to myself. I pulled up the hem of my tunic and was fumbling with my skivvies when, for reasons I still to this day do not understand, I seemed to sense movement behind me in the shadows. I turned back to my right–my right hand still searching my drawers–and I caught the knife that was intended for my kidney under my armpit in my bicep.

  I froze, unsure of what had just happened. I saw the shape of a man in the darkness. He pulled his knife back with his left hand and was about to strike again. Instinctively, I again turned to my right. The knife crossed in front of my abdomen. Something tore as the knife went in; I felt nothing.

  The knife withdrew again. I needed space, but I was standing almost at the edge of the river bluff. I tried to maneuver, but the figure shadowed my moves, keeping me back against the cliff.

  I reached for my pugio. It was not there! I had left it back on the table in the feasting hall. My right hand ripped open the buckle of my leather belt, and grasping the buckle, I flicked the end at my attacker’s face. When he flinched, I moved in.

  I dropped the belt and drove my left shoulder into his chest. I grasped the wrist of his knife hand with my right. I was going to take the knife with my left when I realized something was terribly wrong. When I drove into the man, he had not moved. I realized that even his arm was immobile, despite both my hands now grasping his forearm. It was as if I had driven myself into a marble statue.

  The man remained totally still for a heartbeat. I could smell sweat, garum, and garlic. Then he hissed, “La Matrona has offered five librae of gold for your balls!”

  It was Bulla!

  He flung me back toward the cliff, as if I weighed no more than a pillow. I had to grasp and scramble to keep from going over the edge.

  Bulla moved in on me slowly, as if he was relishing my fear. I imagined I could see the blade of the sica cradled in his left hand. I looked around for a weapon. There was none. Even my belt was now out of reach somewhere in the darkness.

  Bulla was almost on top of me. I heard a crash. Some drops of liquid hit me in the face. I smelled beer. Bulla stumbled. I heard a voice in the shadows, “You! You there! ‘Alt! ‘Alt, in the name of the Cadeuhrn of Vesantio!”

  Bulla recovered. He cursed and quickly moved past me. To where? I wondered. There’s only a straight drop down into the river.

  A hand reached out of the darkness and touched my shoulder. “You alright, a Pen?” I heard a voice ask. I saw a drawn spatha. It was the sentry I had passed.

  “I saw someone follow you down to the latrine,” he was saying. “At first, I’m thinkin’ it’s just another drunk goin’ to take a leak . . . No offense, sir . . . But somethin’ just didn’t seem right about ‘im . . . so’s I followed ‘im on back . . . I saw you two goin’ at it . . . and ‘im with that nasty little knife o’ his . . . ‘e was about to do for ya, so’d I flung me beer cup at ‘im . . . the one you gave me . . . I think ‘e went over the cliff.”

  The sentry helped me to my feet. I stumbled. I felt a burning pain in my right arm. I looked down. I could see what looked like streams of black liquid running down my arm.

  The sentry was looking down over the bluff. “‘E went right over ‘ere . . . Can’t see a thing down there . . . too dark.”

  I joined him. I made sure I was a bit behind him, and I placed my hand on his back to steady myself. I didn’t know whether it was the beer or the shock, but I was dizzy and didn’t feel like joining Bulla in the river.

  Straight below us, it was pitch black. To our right, burning torches marked the river docks. The Dubis ran black and smooth in the torchlight. There was no sign of Bulla.

  We watched for a few heartbeats as if we expected Bulla to appear dripping wet out of the black river. Then, I said, “Please . . . walk with me back to the hall . . . I must report this incident.”

  We found my disgarded belt, and the sentry brought me back to the hall. As he handed me over to one of the internal guards, I thanked him and asked his name so I could commend him to the cadeuhrn. The inside guard took me back to the same room where we had our first audience with the cadeuhrn that afternoon. As I entered, I must have been a sight: my military belt over my shoulder, my tunic ripped and shredded, and blood flowing down my arm.

  Publicola rose. “Mammas Veneris, Decurio! What happened to you? Were you in a fight?”

  “Bulla!” I said. “It was Bulla.”

  Rabria told the guard in Gah’el, “Quickly! Get my surgeon! Bring him here!”

  She came around the circle of tables and helped me onto the bench. She pulled up what was left of the sleeve of my tunic and examined my wound. Without so much as a word, she reached over, took a cup of wine, and poured it over my wound.

  The pain struck in a flash of light, first yellow, then red, finally white as it exploded in my head. I had to screw my eyes closed, suck in my breath, and clench my teeth shut to keep from making a sound. Even so, a strange combination of grunt and whimper escaped my lips. I felt a single tear roll down my right cheek.

  As the flashes of pain began to recede, I remembered the cut I had taken to the abdomen. I looked down, fumbling with the shreds of my tunic, terrified that my belly had been sliced open. Most of the damage was to my garment; there was only a shallow scratch across my stomach.

  Then, I heard Publicola’s voice, “What do you mean, ‘Bulla,’ Decurio? Has he been hurt? Is he involved? Nuntia, Decurio! Render a proper military report!”

  “I was attacked by Bulla, Tribune,” I began. “Down by the river bluff where the latrines are.” I told the story, making sure I named for Bran the sentry who had saved my life.

  “I’ve had enough of this merda about that thug, Bulla,” Publicola said. “Where is Metius?”

  “The last I saw, he was in the back of the hall with the merchants,” Troucillus said.

  “I’m going to get to the bottom of this if it takes all night,” Publicola announced. He looked around the room for someone to dispatch on the errand to fetch Metius, then realized there was no one to send. Finally, he got up and went to the door himself. He practically collided with Rabria’s surgeon.

  Rabria nodded toward me, “The Roman officer . . . knife wound . . . right, upper arm.”

  The surgeon lifted my shredded sleeve and examined my wound. “A sharp, thin blade,” he muttered to himself. “Not too deep . . . No major blood tubes cut.”

  Then, “Did you pour wine on it, my lady?”

  “Of course,” Rabria nodded. “This is not my first dance.”

  The surgeon nodded. “No stitches, I think . . . just a tight binding.”

 
As the surgeon fumbled around in his capsa, Bran said, “Gratias dis!” Then, he asked Rabria, “Should I summon the barnuchel?”

  I then realized that a grievious breech in hospitality had been committed. A guest had been attacked and injured while under a host’s protection—not just a guest, but a Roman officer.

  “No need, a Pen,” I said in Gah’el. “I make no claim against you. This was a . . . a Roman issue . . . We ourselves brought this trouble under your roof, and we alone are to blame . . . In fact, it was your guard who prevented my death.”

  Bran nodded. In front of witnesses, I had released him from any liability. The gods and the law were satisfied.

  Publicola burst back through the door. “No sign of Metius . . . I sent the least drunk of Manius’ troopers down into the lower town to look for him.”

  The words “look for him” awoke Bran. “Guard!” he shouted.

  A warrior stuck his head into the room. “Yes, a Pen!”

  “Dai mab Gluhn is the officer of the guard this evening,” Bran stated. “Have him report here to me immediately.”

  The sentry nodded and left.

  Publicola was talking, “I don’t understand why Bulla would attack you, Insubrece. Do you have any ideas?”

  I gritted my teeth as Rabria’s surgeon tightened a wrapping around my arm. “Nescio, Tribune,” I shrugged. “I don’t know. Unless it has something to do with what happened outside your tent the other night.”

  Publicola shook his head. “That seems to be a pretty flimsy reason to murder someone . . . especially a Roman officer.”

  “He did mention something about ‘La Matrona,’” I offered. “And a bounty of gold.”

  “‘Her Ladyship,’” Publicola shook his head. “Certainly this thug was not referring to the lady of this hall, Rabria.”

  Dai then entered the room and reported to Bran. “Take a detail of your men with torches,” Bran told him. “I want you to search for this Roman . . . He may be in the water, so commandeer some boats from the fishermen . . . Go about a mile downstream . . . If he’s still alive, bring him here to me.”