by R. W. Peake
“What does that mean?”
“It means,” he answered my question with a sober expression, “that we will have leaking. But,” he added quickly, probably because he saw my face, “nothing that we cannot deal with by bailing until the plank swells.”
This was not good news, certainly, but I trusted Motius to know better, and he was not overly concerned. Actually, the only real difficulty came about as a result of yet another thing I had not thought about beforehand, but neither had anyone else except for Saloninus.
“What about the Parisii and the other slaves who are still on the ship?” he had asked that morning as we left the camp. “They can’t be onboard when the ship is lifted out of the water, but I don’t think we can afford to release them before the repairs are complete. That wasn’t part of the bargain.”
It was not—he was certainly right about that—but after a brief discussion with the seamen, none of us could come up with an alternative that did not threaten to make matters more difficult. We did talk about the idea of marching them to the camp and keeping them there, but the prospect of those townspeople who had been waiting for their loved ones to be released seeing them being herded down that muddy street out of town was not appealing, because I was certain, as were the others, that the Parisii townspeople would try and free the slaves. Consequently, there was something of a celebration as we allowed the last of the Parisii who had been enslaved to row the Brizo to reunite with their families and friends. I did not notice it myself; it was actually Alex who pointed out that the other slaves who the Parisii crew had been so adamant to see freed were barely noticed and were left to roam around completely ignored. Under other circumstances, it would have been something I would be concerned about, but this was a matter for Cogidubnus from my viewpoint, and I ignored them just like the Parisii. By the end of the first daylight watch, the ship was sitting essentially upright as if it was in the water, with stout timbers on both sides bracing it so that it was in this posture, while Motius, Cador, and two of the other crewmen were hard at work. Because it was out of the water, Motius had requested several men to perform a task that he said was part of a yearly maintenance, scraping the hull free of what he said were small sea creatures with hard exterior shells that, for some reason, could slow the ship down. I did not see how, nor did I argue the point; besides, it held the prospect of unpleasant duty, and even in the short period of time we had been here in Britannia, Mus and Saloninus had put the names of several men on the punishment list. That was why they found themselves using their pugiones to pry the creatures off of the hull, then scraping the wood clean, while trying not to gag because, apparently, these things smell foul. With the ship braced, a ladder had been set against the side, where Cador was busy supervising some of my men as they removed the splintered remains of the old mast, which like almost everything with this endeavor, was not nearly as straightforward as it would seem. Meanwhile, I stood there with Cogidubnus and Ivomagus as the two Parisii watched, and I will confess I had an uneasy feeling because of their obvious and avid interest in how we worked.
More than once, Cogidubnus would say something that Ivomagus translated, and it was invariably along the lines of, “You Romans are the most organized and efficient people we have ever encountered. It is easy to see why you have conquered so many people.” However, I am almost positive that it was coming from Ivomagus when he added, “It is a fault of our people. We are passionate, and we are fearsome warriors, but those passions cool quickly, and it is next to impossible to get the tribes to cooperate with each other for more than a single campaign season. Which,” he finished ruefully, “Vercingetorix of the Arverni discovered with your Julius Caesar as you know.”
I looked at him in astonishment, and before I could think about it, I blurted out, “You know about Caesar’s campaign in Gaul?”
The look he gave me seemed to be equal parts amusement and, if I am being honest, a bit of disdain.
“I know that you do not think much of the Parisii or the other tribes of Britannia, Centurion,” he replied acidly, “but we are not the ignorant and backward barbarians that you would make us out to be.”
Honestly, I felt somewhat ashamed, but I tried to hide that by asking, “How did you learn about Caesar’s campaign?”
“Why,” he answered with a smile, “I read his account, of course!”
I stared at him, not sure whether to believe him or not, but I saw nothing in his gaze that indicated he was lying, and without thinking, I burst out laughing, which clearly surprised him, although after a heartbeat, he joined in.
“Of course you read about it.” I chuckled, then thought of something. “Is that how you learned how to speak our tongue?”
“Partially,” he replied. “My father had two sons, and one he wanted to be a warrior, but the other he wanted to be educated in your ways. And,” he said with what sounded like bitterness, “I was the one who was the student, while my brother became a warrior.”
Perhaps this was what prompted me to say, “You know, I have read Caesar’s account also. But,” I could not keep the pride from sounding, “I also have read another account about it as well.”
This got his attention, and he regarded me with interest.
“There is another account? I have never heard of it,” he said, and I heard the doubt there, although I could not blame him.
“That’s because,” I said quietly, “it was written by my great-grandfather. His name was Titus Pullus, and he served Rome for forty-two years, and he was with Caesar’s 10th Legion.”
“The 10th!” Ivomagus’ eyes widened a bit. “The 10th Legion was very famous, and I remember reading about them in Caesar’s account.”
“You mean,” I grinned, “about the men of the 10th who rode with him to meet the German Ariovistus?”
“Yes, that’s it.” He nodded, and if I had been wavering before, I made my decision then.
“My great-grandfather was one of those men,” I told him. “He was just a Gregarius…a common soldier, but because he was my size and he had already been decorated by Caesar for bravery during the 10th’s first campaign in Hispania, Caesar chose him to be one of them.”
“He was your size?” Ivomagus asked, and I nodded. “How do you know? Did you know him?”
“No,” I answered. “But my father did, and my father was my size as well.”
“He was your size?” Ivomagus, as I had learned, did not miss anything.
“He died,” I said, regretting that I had opened my mouth, but I felt compelled to tell him the truth. Or as much of the truth as I was willing to divulge. “Last year, during our first campaign against Arminius. He fell in battle.”
“I am sorry, Centurion,” Ivomagus said. I know he meant no harm, but then he said, “You did not have to see it happen, certainly, but it still must have been...”
“No,” I cut him off. “I did see it happen,” I said tersely, trying to quell the sudden rush of emotion that instantly transported me to a forest in Germania and all the subsequent events that had transformed my entire world. “I was serving in his Cohort at the time, and I saw him fall.”
“As I said, I am sorry, Centurion. But,” he added, “perhaps it is not such a bad fate for a warrior, is it? To fall in battle? I know my father would have preferred to die that way than how he did.”
More to turn the subject away from me than any real interest, I asked, “Oh? How did he die?”
“He died while trying to defecate,” he answered, his face expressionless. “His bowels had stopped working properly, and…” His voice trailed off, and he shrugged.
I tried; the gods know I tried, but I could not stifle the snicker, and at first, I was worried that I had mortally offended Ivomagus as he turned and shot me a furious look. Which, I was mortified to discover, only made it worse, and now I was certain that I had done so; then, he began laughing as well, to the point where Cogidubnus turned from watching the work to regard us with a raised eyebrow. I have no idea what Ivomagus said
to his brother, although I doubt it was the truth.
When he turned back to me, he wiped an eye and said, “I hated my father, Centurion, and as far as I am concerned, that was a fitting way for him to go.” I felt his eyes on me as he added shrewdly, “But I suspect that you felt differently about your father.”
“I did,” I said. “I did, indeed.”
The work was not finished that day, but all that remained for the next was the setting of the mast, and to my surprise, while the crane was used, setting the mast into place was accomplished more by brute strength, as gangs of my men hauled on a rope, of which there were several, to lift the mast up into a vertical position. From my perspective, the crane was used only to avoid men getting hurt in the event that one of the ropes snapped or, for some reason, the men holding one of them let go. The hardest part was apparently making sure that the mast was perfectly vertical and did not lean slightly in any direction.
“It may not seem like it,” Motius explained, “but even if a mast is off this much,” he held two fingers perhaps an inch apart, “it makes the ship almost impossible to handle because of the balance.”
That seemed unlikely, but I was not inclined to argue, and since there was no reason to doubt that he was telling the truth, I wanted them to get it right. Finally, the work was done, and all that remained of this part of the work was the crane lifting the ship back up off the ground and moving it slowly back over the water. This time was slightly different because two men of the crew was standing on the upper deck, ready to throw out the lines to moor it back to the dock. It took more than a dozen small boats to perform the opposite maneuver, rowing out into the river to pull their lines taut to pull the Brizo back towards the water, while a mixed party of men and animals provided tension on land, thereby keeping the large craft under control from two opposing directions. It also had to be done very slowly to keep the ship from rocking from the motion, which Acisculus had warned was actually the most dangerous aspect of the entire operation and with the highest likelihood of something going wrong. Consequently, I found that I was holding my breath as we watched, and while I doubt Cogidubnus or Ivomagus were quite as anxious as I was, a glance told me their attention was as riveted on the scene as mine. It was then I also noticed how quiet it had become as, during the preparations, there had been a steady buzz from the townspeople surrounding the dock, and a glance over my shoulder saw that they were in a similar state, all eyes on something that, before we arrived, I am certain they never thought they would see, a ship larger than they had ever seen before, hanging in the air. Only later, when I had time to think about it, I formed the belief that, of all the demonstrations we could have made about the might of Rome, none of them would have been as potent as what was taking place in this moment. And, while it was certainly unusual for us, it was only the circumstances and where we were at, because every man of both Centuries had been present for what was a daily occurrence when we constructed our part of the fleet two years before.
As far as the men went, those not involved in the work were still cooped up in the camp, although I had allowed the officers to come and watch this final part. Finally, the Brizo was suspended a couple of feet above the water, parallel to the dock as the men rowing the boats strained at the oars to keep their individual lines taut, but rather than lower it slowly into the river, Acisculus yanked the handle that worked the ratchet, the piece of iron that engages the cog by inserting itself in between the cog’s teeth. By doing so, it allowed the ship to just drop straight into the water, but while it was only a matter of a couple of feet, it created a huge splash that sent water high up into the air…and drenching every person standing on the dock. Acisculus swore on the black stone that it was unintentional, but I still have my doubts. And I will say this, it pleased the crowd, the air filling with their roars of laughter at seeing their king, his brother, and I assume the large Roman standing next to them get soaking wet. Cogidubnus apparently had his mouth open, because once I wiped my eyes, I saw him gagging and spitting out river water, while Ivomagus was shaking his head like a dog, sending spray everywhere. There was a moment where I thought that Acisculus had done for us, because Cogidubnus’ initial reaction was one of fury, his eyes narrowed as he glared over at my Immune, the water still streaming from his tunic. Then, just as I was tensing to put myself in between Acisculus and an enraged king, as he had done in the hall when confronting me about our raid, Cogidubnus apparently decided to join his people in seeing the humor of the moment, and he began laughing. Ivomagus was not similarly disposed; the most he could muster was a wan smile as he wrung out the hem of his tunic. Honestly, I was more inclined towards Ivomagus’ viewpoint because I was, and am, certain that Acisculus had seen an opportunity for some fun at his Centurion’s expense. I do not want to represent that I am unique; one of the things that fill the time and imagination of every ranker under the standard is to come up with ways to embarrass their officers, but in a way that does not get them striped or carrying buckets of cac. This, at least, was what I told myself as I glared at Acisculus, who I admit was just as wet as the rest of us, and I decided to let it pass. All that mattered, I told myself, was the ship was in the water would be ready to depart the next day, and all that remained was reassembling the shed.
Cogidubnus, no longer dripping quite so much, addressed me, which Ivomagus translated, “My brother wants to inform you that while you and your officers will be feasting, he has arranged for your men to have as much meat, bread, and mead as they can consume. The food will be delivered shortly before sundown.”
This was extraordinarily charitable, and I am afraid that my first reaction was to gape at him in surprise, but I found my voice to say, “Please thank your brother for me, Ivomagus. That is most generous, and I know my men will appreciate it greatly.” I hesitated, and the reason for my pause was that I intended to ask that the drink being offered be changed to water, but what came out was only, “I do request that he not supply the men with all the mead they can drink, because,” I grinned at the two of them, “they can drink a lot of anything intoxicating. So, may I ask that he supply only enough for two cups per man?”
Ivomagus translated, and Cogidubnus did chuckle, I presume at what he probably thought was a boast about the capacity of my men but was really a statement of fact. What mattered was that Cogidubnus readily agreed, and to me, he looked slightly relieved. King he may have been, but supplying the food and drink for almost a hundred thirty men is not an inconsiderable expense. I used this offer as an excuse to return to camp so that I could inform the men that they would be able to gorge themselves, although I knew that most of them would be more interested in the mead. I also was acutely aware that, while there are not that many, there are men who have no taste, or the head for intoxicating drink, and would use their ration to strike a bargain with one of their comrades who were inveterate debauchers. Usually, the barter involves some sort of unpleasant duty, and the reality is that the man who is offering up his ration has the upper hand; I have seen men who offered up to six months of extra duties in exchange for a single extra cup of wine. Once I entered the camp, I had Poplicola sound the call for assembly for both Centuries, which did not take long, since most of the men had been outside their tents.
“We,” I wasted no time dispensing the most important news first, “are departing tomorrow. We’re…” Before I could get out “going home,” I was drowned out by the bellow of joy issued by every man present. I was smiling so much that it actually made my face hurt; watching their happiness and relief was one of the more enjoyable moments I had experienced in some time. I finally got them to quiet down enough to inform them, “Also, King Cogidubnus is holding a feast tonight, and while only the officers are invited to the feast being held in the hall, the king has ordered that you will be supplied with the roast meat and bread that will be served in his hall. And,” I’m making a huge mistake, I thought ruefully, “he’s also supplying mead…”
I cannot say that the outburst was at
the same volume as the one heartbeats earlier, but it was close, and as they were carrying on, I decided that I would not mention that their consumption would be limited to two cups. I’ll let their Sergeants tell them, I thought, since they would be the only officers left behind. I briefly considered leaving the Tesseraurii, but Mus was acting as Optio, and I had not appointed someone to replace him in that office, even temporarily. Nor did I feel right leaving Herennius behind, meaning that it would be up to the Sergeants to keep the men under control, and most importantly of all, inside the camp. Dismissing them, I went to my tent, stripping off my armor and my wet tunic, explaining to Alex what had taken place.
“You know that Acisculus did that on purpose.” He laughed, and I glared at him.
“I’m glad you think it’s funny,” I growled, although by this point, I could see the humor as well.
He turned serious and asked, “Are you all going to wear your armor to the feast?”
I had given this some thought, but I had been unable to reach a decision, so I asked him, “What do you think?”
“I think that you’re running a risk either way,” he answered immediately, telling me he had been thinking about it as well. “Naturally, if all of you show up wearing your armor, the king may take this as a sign that you don’t trust him.”
“I don’t,” I replied, and I know that the warning from the copper-haired girl was in my mind, although I already had my suspicions.
“But the question is, how obvious do you want to be about that distrust?” he asked, then before I could say anything, he went on, “And, let’s be honest. There are going to be seven of you attending, and even if you’re all wearing your armor and carrying your gladii, if Cogidubnus has some sort of treachery planned, could you really hold them off, just the seven of you?”
No warrior likes being reminded that they are not invincible, but Alex was speaking the truth, and I knew it.
