Hostage to Fortuna

by R. W. Peake

  “How did you get separated?” I asked him, not that it mattered in the moment.

  “I…I do not know,” he admitted.

  Then it was time to talk about the reality of our situation, and before I began speaking, I glanced over my shoulder, down towards the southern street, but it did not appear that the Parisii defending the eastern gate had been pushed the three blocks to the street where we were standing. Tincommius, seeing where I was looking, nudged me, then gave me a nod that indicated he would watch in that direction so that I could talk to Ivomagus.

  “The town is lost,” I told him bluntly. “The only chance we have now is to get to the northern gate before Diviciacus’ men do, and head for the camp.”

  Ivomagus stared up at me, and I noticed for the first time that his face was spattered with blood, but he seemed unwounded.

  “I cannot do that, Centurion!” he answered immediately. Shaking his head, he continued stubbornly, “I will not abandon these men.”

  I actually understood him, and in fact, I sympathized a great deal, but as green as I may be when compared to my father, I was still infinitely more experienced than Ivomagus, so I am afraid I did not sound like it.

  “Your men are the only thing standing between their families being slaughtered,” I said harshly. “And you’re not a good enough warrior to make a difference in whether Petuar stands or falls.”

  I did not expect him to like it, and he clearly did not, but after a hesitation, he gave an abrupt nod. He turned to Tincommius, and they held a brief discussion, and the Parisii bodyguard pointed to a spot down the street, and as I suspected, it was another passage to the next street. This was how we made our way all the way to the western wall, then turned to hurry towards the northern gate. The men of the town, at least some of them, were gathered a short distance away from the gate, but they had been careful to stay out of sight of the northernmost street paralleling the wall, and Tincommius and I hurried to the corner and took a peek around. The Brigantes were less than two streets away from the gate, held back by what I could only guess appeared to be a row of Parisii four men deep. The street behind the rearmost rank was littered with figures, some of them moving, others not.

  Running back to Ivomagus, I said, “Order some of the townsmen to go help get your wounded out of here. We’ll bring them with us.”

  Ivomagus did not respond immediately, looking past me to where the civilians were huddled together, understandably terrified.

  I learned why he was hesitating when he asked, “What if they refuse?” Before I could reply, he added, “Turning that corner will put them at risk, Centurion. They will know that.” Shaking his head, he said, “I do not think they will listen to me any longer.”

  It was clear that Ivomagus was indulging in self-pity, and there was no time for that, which I reminded him by grabbing a handful of his tunic and snarling, “You can feel sorry for yourself later, if we survive. But,” I thrust my other hand at the men, “I can guarantee that they’ll obey you.”

  “How?” he asked doubtfully.

  “Because you’re going to tell them that this will be the only way they’re allowed into the camp. Otherwise, they’re going to be left to fend for themselves once the last of your warriors fall. Which,” I finished, “won’t be long from now.”

  He did not reply, but he did nod, then trotted over to the men, who clearly did not care for what they were hearing, but when Ivomagus turned and headed back in our direction, they followed, and they only briefly hesitated, talking to each other before the first of them turned the corner and ran down the street to begin collecting their fellow tribesmen. Waiting long enough to see them returning in our direction, with some of them slinging a man over their shoulders, while others paired up and carried a man between them, I walked over to the northern gate, which was still closed. I honestly cannot say why I did so, but before I opened it, I pressed my eye up to it, peering through a crack between two of the boards. Up to this moment, I have not been kicked in the balls, but I cannot imagine it feels much different than what I experienced upon seeing, just a short distance away up the road that led to the camp and to Segovax’s hall beyond it, a mass of shapes that, from their height, had to be mounted men. There was a sullen glow behind them that helped in my identification, and my guess was that it was from a fire about a mile away, which would put it in the area of Segovax’s hall.

  Ivomagus must have sensed something in the way I slumped and put my head against the gate, because he was in my ear, asking, “What is it? Centurion? What is it?”

  “It,” I had trouble forming the words, “means that we’re fucked, Ivomagus.” I straightened up and moved aside so that he could see what awaited us. As he did so, I continued, “I seriously doubt that is Cogidubnus sitting out there letting his men and the people inside the town get slaughtered. So…”

  “Diviciacus,” he breathed more than said the word, turning around and placing his back against the gate, sliding down to the ground.

  He looked up at me, and even in the dim light, I saw the haunted expression in his eyes.

  I suppose this was what prompted me to say, honestly, “You did everything you could, Ivomagus. Once Cogidubnus gets here, he’ll see the truth.”

  His reaction puzzled me, as he gave what could only be called a humorless laugh.

  “Not that it will matter, Centurion,” he said bitterly. “For I will be dead.”

  “I doubt that.” I shook my head. “You’re the brother of the King of the Parisii. You’re far too valuable to kill.”

  Before anything more could be said, the townsmen had arrived, panting and puffing from the exertion of carrying men, most of who were moaning, using the universal language all men do when they are in pain, although I heard someone whispering what sounded like a prayer. It was left to Ivomagus to inform them that their efforts would be in vain, and no translation was needed when they learned. They were still reacting when, out of the darkness, another note from a horn sounded, but while I could not differentiate that there was anything to it other than a noise, it was the reaction of both Ivomagus and Tincommius that indicated this was meaningful, because they came alive, and even more oddly, ran to and embraced each other.

  I cannot deny I was feeling a bit left out, but when I demanded to know why they were behaving in this way, Ivomagus only had to say, “That is Cogidubnus’ signal, Centurion. Cogidubnus has arrived.”

  He had indeed arrived, and not a moment too soon. The Parisii king had driven what I would learn was the bulk of his army hard, but even so, the main force was still several miles away when, making a gamble, Cogidubnus had come galloping ahead, along with the entire complement of mounted warriors of his bodyguards and chariots. When he was within sight, Cogidubnus had ordered his horn player to sound the call that would alert his men defending the town that the king had arrived. This was true, certainly; he had ignored the burning outbuildings of the Lord Segovax’s hall and was just a couple hundred paces on the town side of our old camp when he had ordered the signal that the king had arrived with his army. What was not true was that he had brought up a force with him that had any hope of defeating Diviciacus. As we would learn, even if he had pushed the infantry and missile troops to their limits, they would not have arrived before dawn, and they would have been too exhausted to do anything but watch the fall of Petuar. It was a gamble, certainly, but the important thing was that it paid off, because with a speed that, frankly, was quite astonishing to me, Diviciacus had ordered the withdrawal of his army, not even attempting to put up a fight. By the time the sun was up, the battle for Petuar was over, and all that remained was to count the dead, tend to the wounded, and clean up the mess.

  To this day, I have no idea whether or not I ever laid eyes on Diviciacus, King of the Brigantes, but it was still dark when Cogidubnus, who had chosen to ride his horse instead of using his chariot, trotted through the opened northern gate, coming to a stop where Ivomagus, Tincommius, and I were still standing. He barely glanced
in my direction, though I did not fault him for that, striding over to Ivomagus instead, who he embraced in a sweeping and, to my eyes, quite heartfelt manner, the pair of them talking and laughing at the same time. After a moment, Cogidubnus turned his attention to Tincommius, who had dropped to one knee, which I thought somewhat odd given the circumstances, but the king pulled him to his feet. Their greeting was amiable enough, though nowhere near as effusive as it had been between the brothers, which was understandable. Being forgotten for the moment, I took that time to give myself a cursory examination. My leg throbbed, but the bleeding had stopped, and from what I could see in the reflected light, I did not need stitches, which was confirmed later. I was more put out by the fact that my tunic, just above the waist, had been sliced open, although I did not have a corresponding scratch across my stomach, and the left sleeve of my tunic was torn, but again without being scratched. It was when I was absorbed with this that I heard my name called, and I looked up to see that Cogidubnus and Ivomagus were standing together.

  “Centurion,” Ivomagus began, his expression grave, “I have informed my brother that you saved my life. And,” he hesitated, not long, before going on, “that your assistance in setting up the defenses was very valuable.”

  “Does that mean he’ll let me go and we forget about this ransom nonsense?”

  This clearly did not surprise Ivomagus; that was reserved for when he turned to his brother, presumably translated my words, and his brother answered in a manner that made Ivomagus stiffen, giving me a hint of the answer. There was a short, and sharp, discussion between the pair, but it was Tincommius whose demeanor was the most telling, his mouth dropping open before he gave me an apologetic look. Whatever Ivomagus said, it clearly was not enough, but when he turned to me, I was prepared for an outright refusal.

  Instead, Ivomagus said stiffly, “My brother thanks you for your actions tonight. And,” if he was feigning looking angry, he did a good job of it, “he said that he will take that into consideration in his deliberations about your…situation.”

  I would have pressed the matter but, obviously at Cogidubnus’ order, not only had the northern gates been opened, the townspeople of Petuar who had been sent to the camp were flooding back into the town. Even with my fate hanging in the balance, or so it seemed in the moment, I found my eyes kept straying to the people streaming past, looking for one of them in particular.

  Cogidubnus said something else to Ivomagus then, and this did not seem to upset him as much, because he turned back to me and translated, “Whatever you need in the meantime will be supplied, Centurion Pullus.”

  I cannot say why I responded the way I did; the gods know I was still angry, but what came out of my mouth was, “Now that we’ve shed blood together, you might as well call me Gnaeus.”

  Even if I had not known him, I could see this pleased Ivomagus, and he inclined his head. Then I was essentially forgotten as the people of Petuar and the handful of men who had defended this town began the process of assessing, then recovering from the damage. Cogidubnus required Ivomagus’ presence, leaving me and Tincommius standing there to watch and, at last, I spotted Bronwen, walking quickly but not quite at a run, and I suppose she spotted me as well, not that it would have been difficult.

  I was opening my mouth to speak to her as she approached, but I saw her eyes going to the area around my waist, and she demanded, “Why is your gown sliced open like that? And whose blood is that on your face?”

  Because she had used the Latin term for a woman’s dress, I gently corrected her, “It’s a tunic, not a gown. And,” I added, having forgotten about the blood, “it’s not my blood.”

  It was not my intention to divert her attention, but she clearly took it in this way because she snapped, “It does not matter what it is, Roman! That,” she pointed down at the rent in my tunic, “was made by something sharp!”

  I had, and still have no idea why I was put on the back foot, but before I could reassert a control I never had, I found myself replying, “Yes, that tends to happen when people are trying to kill you.”

  The look that she gave me seemed to me to be as scorching as the fire that burned all the hair off my arm.

  “The Brigantes,” she replied passionately, “are not people! They are dogs! They are vermin! They are…” she had to search her mind for this last bit, “scum. Ha!” she finished triumphantly, “That is what they are! Scum!”

  Even if I had been inclined to argue, I had spotted the flaring nostrils, so I simply agreed, “You’re absolutely right, Bronwen. The Brigantes are scum.”

  I thought this would assuage her, but she retorted scornfully, “That is what I said, Centurion.”

  Sensing that I was in a losing position, I held both arms up in a gesture of surrender, which returned her attention to my tunic.

  “This needs to be repaired,” she said decisively, and I did not believe it was in my interest to assure her that I was aware of that fact.

  “There will be time for that,” I said, not necessarily to evade her attention, but because I felt I needed to say something, but she looked up at me sharply.

  “Time?” She shook her head, and I found myself staring down at the top of her head as she ran her fingers along the edge of my tunic. “You will be leaving almost immediately,” she said. “And I do not think it is right to have it said that the Parisii treat their hostages in a cruel manner.”

  Instinctively, I grabbed her wrist, perhaps the second time we ever touched, and I cannot say if she felt the same jolt of lightning that I did, but she did look up at me suddenly, her green eyes wide.

  “I might,” I spoke cautiously, not wanting to make my situation worse than it already seemed to be, “be here longer than you might think.”

  “Why?” she asked, genuinely puzzled. “Surely the King will reward you for what you did!”

  “He…might.” I tried to sound optimistic, yet I had seen Cogidubnus’ eyes when Ivomagus had been making my case, and frankly, I thought I saw a man who was more in love with the idea of so much gold than he was worried about his word as a king.

  Chapter Seven

  My journey to Arelate was as uneventful as it was as swift as I could possibly make it, so that less than ten days after landing, I was within sights of the walls of what is now a small city. I had not been away from it all that long, certainly, but as I approached the northern wall, I could see new buildings that had not been there when I last visited when I came with Gnaeus to inter his father and to introduce himself to his new family. A family that, never far from my mind, was less one member than when I had arrived with my Uncle Titus’ son. Despite the mix of feelings that assailed me, I kept my mind on why I was there. The northern gate was open, and the town watch barely gave me more than a glance, and I was not certain whether I should be offended or relieved. Things had not changed so much that I could not find my way to the villa, and fairly quickly, I was dismounted and pounding on the smaller door set into the gate. I was not sure who I would see first, but I certainly did not expect it to be the eye of my mother who peered out after she opened the small peephole. I suspect that I am not unique; I believe any child would instantly recognize the eyes, or eye of their mother no matter what age it was, and it did make a smile break out at the sight of how wide it went.

  “A…Alex? Alexandros?”

  “Yes, Mother.” I laughed. “It’s me.”

  The peephole door shut, and I heard the rattling as she lifted the bar, then one door swung open, and I barely had a moment to prepare myself for her to rush at me and fling herself into my arms. For a moment, just a moment, I forgot everything else and just savored the feeling of being reunited with my mother, although I was as eager to see my sisters Scribonia and Gisela, and I am ashamed to say, not quite as eager to see Gaius Gallienus.

  “Why are you here?” she demanded, and I ruefully reminded myself of how clever my mother was.

  “There’s a lot to tell you,” I admitted. “But I want to tell this just onc
e.”

  All the color drained from my mother’s cheeks as she gasped, putting a hand to her mouth as she staggered back a step.

  “Is it…Titus? Or Algaia?” Before I could say a word, her mind leapt ahead, and now the tears came as she moaned, “It’s Gnaeus, isn’t it? You were on campaign, so it must be Gnaeus!”

  I had to grab her by both shoulders and practically shout, “No, Mama! Nobody’s dead!” Even as I said it, in the back of my mind was the prayer that this was still the case. “Mama, can I come inside?”