Hostage to Fortuna

by R. W. Peake

  Naturally, we switched out more often than when carrying the sledge, and this time, I took part. And, even under the circumstances, I confess I was unable to refrain from showing off a bit; when it came time to switch out, which was about every quarter mile, I pronounced I was fine. I was not, however; my thighs were on fire and my tunic was soaked in sweat, but I refused to relinquish my place nonetheless, another time where my stubborn, and as my mother loves to point out, foolish pride got in the way. We reached the spot where the farm was within sight, and this time, it was easy to see because of the light from what I assumed was their cooking fire, and this time I relinquished my spot. I called Sextus Cocles and Bibaculus, neither of whom had participated yet; I was holding Bibaculus in reserve for the last push, and while this was slightly earlier than I wanted, I felt certain I was making the right decision.

  We had gone perhaps a hundred paces when, out of the gloom, Gnaeus Dorsuo called out, “Pilus Prior! Off to our left! I see lights!”

  I managed to avoid snapping at him that it was just the farm, registering just in time his use of the plural, yet when I looked in that direction, I saw nothing; the light from the farm was still visible, but farther to my left when I was facing in the downriver direction. Then, as I was about to open my mouth to tell Dorsuo he was seeing things, I saw not one, or two, but three pinpricks of light seemingly appear out of nowhere, and I remembered seeing a patch of scrub trees that we had passed, which obviously had been shielding them.

  “Keep going,” I ordered, but I hurried over to where Dorsuo was standing, and we kept our attention on those lights.

  It was obviously torches, but what I was attempting to determine was whether the men holding them were on horseback or on foot, and whether or not they were heading in our direction. This was how the next period of time passed, as I walked alongside the men pulling the sledge, rarely taking my eyes off those lights, but I fairly quickly determined one thing.

  “They’re heading in our direction,” I called out. “My guess is they’re looking for us.”

  I desperately wanted to pick up the pace, but I knew that whatever speed we gained over this last mile would be squandered because we would have to switch the men out more often, which formed my decision.

  I did call a halt, but when I trotted over to the sledge, I told Acisculus, “You need to pick the best one of those two trees, because we’re dumping the other one.”

  There did not need to be much light to see that Acisculus did not like being put in this position, but he was a veteran, and he knew me well enough to understand by my tone this was an order. It was certainly a risk, but I had determined that not only were these unknown torchbearers heading in our direction, they were close enough for me to be fairly certain that they were mounted.

  It was the work of a moment to unlash the second tree, while I took the opportunity to switch the men out, and once we were ready to resume, I said, “All right, boys, while I don’t know for sure, my guess is those are those Brigantes bastards, and they’re on horseback. We have to move quick now, or they might cut us off before we get back to the river.”

  There was no argument, which I did not expect, or comment, but I believe that was because everyone was catching their breath, and we resumed quickly enough. The situation was serious, yet we still had some advantages; we were working in the dark, and men who are riding or walking while holding torches are essentially blind to any kind of movement outside the arc of the torchlight because they usually hold the torch too close to their line of vision. My father had taught me about the importance of night vision, and whenever we did something by torchlight, he required the men holding the torch to hold it aloft in their outstretched arm, but I had never seen anyone else doing that, hence my cautious belief. After we had traveled another hundred paces, I could also see that, while they were heading in our direction, with our rate of travel and provided they did not deviate by angling towards the river, they would cut across the trail made by the sledge a decent distance behind us. I do not know much about tracking, but given the dark, my hope was that the barbarians would have to spend a few heartbeats trying to determine which way we were headed once they came across our trail. Nevertheless, we moved as quickly as we could, and I had dropped behind the sledge, keeping Cotta and Fimbria from the First, and Tiberius Crassipes with me as we followed behind, stopping every few paces. Thanks to that gentle grade, we could just see the moonlight reflecting off the river, and it looked like we were within a half-mile of the riverbank, but when I glanced back over my shoulder, my heart sank, because those three torches were moving much more rapidly and headed directly for our trail. Even before I could turn back to alert the others, I saw the leading rider draw up directly behind us, about three hundred paces away.

  “We’ve got to go faster!” I did not shout, but I am certain they heard the urgency, because the pace did pick up.

  My hope for the delay as they tried to figure out which direction the trail led was dashed by the time I glanced once more over my shoulder, where I saw by the bouncing of the lights they were moving at a trot, directly for us. Our advantages were melting away almost like a patch of snow suddenly exposed to sunshine; they still could not see us, but this was only going to last for perhaps the next thirty heartbeats. Now that they were closing, we caught glimpses of other riders, betrayed by the sudden gleam of the torchlight reflecting the light off the hides of the darker horses.

  “How many do you think there are, Pilus Prior?” Crassipes asked me, and I had to fight the urge to snap at him that his eyes were seeing the same thing I was.

  “I can’t tell,” I said instead, “but I’d guess it’s more than a dozen.”

  The words were barely out of my mouth when there was a sharp cry, a loud one, but it was not from the pursuing Brigantes. I whirled about to dimly make out a figure writhing on the ground, and most crucially, the sledge had stopped.

  It was no man’s fault, really, just the gods deciding to make things interesting, but putting the pieces together later, it appeared as if Gaius Stolo, who was the first man on the left side, stumbled slightly over some unseen obstacle. In itself, this was no catastrophe; I had stumbled during my stint, as had the others, but this time, the man behind him, Quintus Gallus, stepped on the back of Stolo’s heel, causing Gallus to land awkwardly and somehow twist his knee, whereupon he collapsed to the ground in agony.

  I honestly do not know how, but I only hesitated for perhaps an eyeblink before I snarled, “Throw Gallus on the sledge.” Then I turned and grabbed Crassipes by the arm, shoving him roughly towards the sledge, and for a moment, I thought I had compounded the problem by hurling him with enough force that he stumbled. Thankfully, he regained his footing as I ordered, “Take Gallus’ place.” Then I called to Acisculus, “Get moving!” To Cotta, as calmly as I could, I told him to draw his gladius. “You and I are rearguard, Cotta.”

  I was facing the oncoming Brigantes, so I only heard the rest of the men begin moving again, with Gallus moaning in pain.

  “I hope he remembers to hold on, the stupid bastard,” I heard Cotta mutter, and despite the situation, I laughed.

  “If he knows what’s good for him, he will,” I replied, shifting my attention back over my shoulder as the sledge started pulling away in the darkness before returning it to the oncoming barbarians.

  “Are we really going to fight, Pilus Prior?” Cotta asked, but before I could say anything, he added, “I’m with you either way, sir, to the death.”

  “I know you are,” I answered, and I was being honest; as I mentioned, it was for more than his strength that I had selected him, but I also had no intention of fighting if I could avoid it. However, all I said was, “Let’s see how things develop, eh? I think these bastards will be every bit as confused about what to do as we are.”

  Our cause was aided when, suddenly, the leading rider, who was also carrying a torch, drew up suddenly when, from what I could estimate, they were a bit more than a hundred paces away from
Cotta and me.

  “See?” I told him, trying to sound as if I had anticipated this all along. “What did I tell you? They’re fucking confused.”

  Before he could respond, the leading rider shouted in our direction, although I did not understand a word, but I shouted something unintelligible back, using what few curse words I had learned in Germania. I heard an exclamation of some sort, and a rider who had drawn up next to him, and was within the pool of his torchlight, thrust his arm in our direction.

  “That bastard is trying to get the leader to charge us,” I said aloud, though I did not intend to.

  We were still backpedaling, and the men pulling the sledge were now well more than fifty paces ahead of us; it was going to be desperately close whether we made it to the boat. And, while we could throw ourselves in and shove away from the riverbank, we had to attach the tree to the stern so that we could haul it across. Everything depended on how these Brigantes behaved, and perhaps another four or five heartbeats elapsed before, with a shout, the leading rider kicked his horse, going immediately to the canter.

  “Move, you bastards! Get to the river!”

  I heard the shout, and I suppose it came from me, but it was as if I was hearing it from someone else. My gladius also was somehow in my hand, and a quick glance at Cotta told me he was prepared.

  “Get behind me,” I ordered. “If I can’t slow them up, it will be up to you.”

  The fact that he disappeared from my peripheral vision was all that I needed, because I could not afford to take my eyes off this warrior, who, while he had not put his horse into a gallop, was still closing rapidly. However, I also noticed that while his companions were following, they were moving at a trot and were behind him by about twenty paces. Suddenly, I was certain what was taking place, that this Brigantes was not intending to try to run me down as much as he was trying to intimidate me. Nevertheless, I did turn slightly to put me in the position we use to defend against a mounted attacker, although I did not bring my blade up to the ready position. Now that he was so close, I saw that, despite wearing a long, flowing mustache, this Brigantes was young, even younger than I was, but the torchlight illuminated the glittering of the gold torq around his neck that bespoke of his high status. Nevertheless, by the manner in which he abruptly drew his horse up, while it was close enough to spatter my legs with dirt, I could see that he was as hesitant as I was about initiating combat. He was holding one of the torches, but when his comrades arrived, drawing up around but just behind him, he swung his arm back, snapping something that became apparent when the warrior to his left reached out and took the torch from his hand. The man carrying the second torch was on the opposite side, in essentially the same position, and I noted this, understanding that, while he might have been young, he wanted the light from the torches behind him. Even as the torch was taken from him, the young nobleman was drawing the gladius hanging from his waist, another sign of his high status, since we had observed that these seemed to be reserved for the higher order of warriors among the Parisii, but rather than attack me with it, he pointed it at me and said something, his tone harsh and demanding. Naturally, I understood nothing of what he said, so all I could do was shake my head and, with my free hand, held it palm upward as I shrugged in what I hoped was the universal gesture that signaled I had no idea what he was saying. Unfortunately, rather than soothe him, or at least make him recognize that I could not understand, this seemed to anger him, and in one smooth motion, he lifted his leg up and over his mount’s head and dismounted, snarling something. This was certainly not good, but it was the movement from his companions who suddenly began spreading out around me that was the most disturbing development.

  “Pilus Prior! We’re at the boat! We’re waiting for you!”

  I recognized Acisculus’ voice from the darkness, which caused a stir among the barbarians, and the young nobleman stepped to the side to look past me, peering into the darkness, but I did not react, keeping my eyes on him while trying to keep track of the other warriors spreading out. Most distracting was the warrior carrying the third torch, because he had placed himself at the farthest end to the left of what was now a semicircle of about a dozen riders facing me, in a perfect position to cut me off. The nobleman extended his gladius, pointing it behind me and, with the same tone barked out what I was certain was a demand to know who was shouting from the darkness.

  Suddenly, and before I could talk myself out of it, I pointed to my chest and said, “Roman.” The nobleman’s complete lack of reaction made me feel a bit foolish, and I muttered under my breath, “He already knows that, you idiot.” Then, more loudly, and still pointing to myself, I said, “Centurion.”

  This did elicit a reaction, not just from the young nobleman, but the men around him as they began muttering to each other, while the youngster began thumping his chest with his left hand and started speaking loudly. It took a couple of heartbeats, but I recognized what I was certain were names. He’s reciting his heritage, I thought, but it was what followed on that knowledge that almost made me stifle a groan. Did I just challenge him to a fight? I wondered. Is that what he thinks, that by saying I was a Centurion, he took that as an invitation to combat? I have no idea how long this demonstration was supposed to last, because he was cut off, not by me, but by a sound from behind me; the sound of hobnailed soles striking the ground in a rhythm that told the ears whoever was coming was doing so at a quick trot in perfect step. I could not afford to look over my shoulder, so I watched the nobleman and his men for their reaction, and I was slightly encouraged to see that the youngster suddenly did not seem nearly as belligerent, while the men I could see within the circles of torchlight were shifting about on their mounts, all of them looking to him for a signal about what to do. The sound behind me stopped abruptly, and I risked a glance to see that Acisculus had formed up the other men in a double line, five men across, and they all had their gladii drawn.

  “Give us the order, Pilus Prior,” Acisculus spoke loudly enough for the Brigantes to hear, “and we’ll gut these cunni.”

  I must say that I appreciated the sentiment, but I saw one of the mounted Brigantes behind the nobleman stiffen in the saddle, then turn and mutter something to the man to his left, prompting the thought, They’re like us. They may not know much of another tongue, but the words they do know are invariably curses and oaths. Just as the offended warrior turned his attention back to the nobleman and opened his mouth, I very deliberately sheathed my gladius, then held both hands out in what I hoped he viewed as the kind of placating gesture it was meant to be.

  “Thank you, Acisculus,” I did not take my eyes from the nobleman, “but I don’t think that will be necessary. Go back to the boat. I’m right behind you.”

  I heard the mutters, but more importantly, I heard their footfalls as they obeyed me, and I very slowly began backing up, still holding my hands out. None of the Brigantes reacted, at least not much, although one of them called out to his leader, who suddenly did not look nearly as fierce, or as eager for a fight. The same could not be said for all of his men, and there seemed to be at least two warriors who, judging from the way they were shouting at the nobleman, were eager to attack, although they were staying in their spot for the moment. I had moved perhaps a half-dozen paces backward when, finally, the youngster apparently had his fill of the importuning, because he jerked his gaze away from me to snap at the loudest warrior. Frankly, I must take some responsibility for what happened next, because I decided to take advantage of what I believed was the momentary attention of all of the Brigantes on the small drama playing out in front of them. I turned around, not intending to run but definitely to quicken my pace, and when I did, the third Brigantes bastard carrying the torch on the far end shouted something; even worse, he kicked his horse into a gallop, angling towards me in an obvious attempt to cut me off.

  “Push off! Push off! Get into the river!”

  I bellowed this as I broke into a run, but I was quickly drowned out by the roaring
of the other Brigantes, who I could only assume were joining their torch-carrying comrade in coming after me. This was really the last sound I heard aside from the shrieking of the wind in my ears and my breathing as I ran faster than I ever had in my life, desperately racing for the river as I hoped that Acisculus had obeyed me. I got the answer when I saw the moonlight reflecting off the river suddenly disappear, destroyed by the splashing from the paddles being thrust into the water, or perhaps from the men splashing as they waded out into the river as they shoved the boat from the riverbank. The torch-carrying Brigantes was coming at the gallop, and I did not even have to turn my head to see him hurtling towards me in an attempt to block my path. He actually succeeded; suddenly, more quickly than I could have imagined, I was confronted by the bulk of his horse, a chestnut, directly across my path, with the river no more than a couple paces on the other side. I saw mostly the horse, but I caught a glimpse of a bearded face, contorted in rage looming above me, the torch held in his left hand above us, and I knew I could not stop in time, so I did not even try. Instead, without slowing down, I turned my body slightly so that my right shoulder slammed into the flank of the horse. The pain was terrific for me, and judging from the shriek from the horse, it as well as it reared up onto its hind legs, while my momentum allowed me to go staggering directly underneath the animal. As I was passing, I reached up in a blind grab for where I believed the Brigantes’ right leg would be, intending to shove upward and sending him flying off on the opposite side, but there was no need because he was already on his way to the ground. I tried but could not maintain my feet, stumbling forward onto all fours, but my hands splashed into the river, and I began churning my legs to go floundering into the water.