Hostage to Fortuna

by R. W. Peake

  I had grown hot, so I took my helmet off, placing it on the table in front of my plate; if it blocked my view of the back of Bronwen’s head, I just hoped it was not noticed by the others. Honestly, the most difficult part was pretending to gulp down one cup of mead after another, which I dumped on the dirt floor surreptitiously whenever I had a chance, but this was only slightly more difficult than pretending to be getting uproariously drunk. Judging by the manner in which Ivomagus and Cogidubnus were grinning at me, my ruse was successful. Alex was doing his best not to appear bored, but while he did not know it, he was going to be playing an important role. However, Ivomagus had been speaking truly when he told me I would be surprised, as we were in the midst of a conversation about the fight for Petuar when there was a shout from the opposite end of the hall over and above the noise of the revelry. We turned to see Tincommius, walking very slowly, not because he was hurt, but because he was holding the arm of a truly ancient man who was shuffling along. As unusual as this was, the manner in which the entire hall suddenly got hushed was more so, but it was when men began to stand, with their head bowed in an obvious sign of respect as Tincommius led the old man in our direction that told me this was someone special. Like most very old people, he was bent over, but he held his head erect, and his snow-white beard hung down to his waist, while his hair, what there was of it, was as long. He wore a black robe, and in his free hand, he used a walking stick, and once he was within a few paces, I saw that, while his eyes were open, they were milk white. A quick glance over at Berdic told me that even he was solemn, while Bronwen had turned about on her bench, and I was thankful that only the right side of her face was visible.

  I could tell she was deliberately avoiding looking in my direction, but then Tincommius was standing in front of the table, as Ivomagus explained, “Gnaeus, this is Tincommius’ grandfather. His name is Mandubracius.”

  Old Mandubracius began speaking then, and even if I spoke the Parisii tongue, he would have been hard to understand, between a voice that sounded like a rusty hinge and the fact that he had no teeth, making almost everything he said have the quality of a hissing serpent. A glance at Tincommius, who had given me a smiling nod, told me that whatever it was the old man was asking, it was at the very least unusual, but it was left to Ivomagus to explain.

  Sounding somewhat embarrassed, he told me, “Mandubracius is asking for a favor from you, Gnaeus.”

  “Oh?” I could not imagine what it would be.

  “He asks if you will stand in front of him. Since he’s been blind for so long, he says that this is his way of…seeing the man he’s talking to.”

  This was unusual, but when I glanced over at Alex, he gave a shrug that said, “What could it hurt?”

  Consequently, I got up and moved from behind the table, acutely aware that I was closer to Bronwen, who suddenly turned back in her original direction, her head down, while Berdic glared at me. Not yet, Gnaeus. Not yet. When I was in front of Mandubracius, I was prepared to indicate that I was there, but there was no need, as both of his hands reached out to unerringly touch me, first on the chest. His creviced face brightened a bit, and he said something.

  “Mandubracius says that your armor is of very good quality,” Ivomagus offered, which surprised me, although I quickly realized that a man who has been robbed of his sight is bound to develop his other senses. I said nothing, and then his hands moved, both of them to touch my biceps, and this time, he revealed that he was not completely toothless, smiling to reveal one lone blackened tooth in the top of the center of his mouth as he spoke again.

  This time, I was more puzzled when Ivomagus said nonsensically, “He says that you’re the same size as him.”

  I was about to ask who “him” was, but then Mandubracius did something even stranger, and I almost pulled away; honestly, I do not know why I did not, because he placed both hands on my cheeks, then ran them gently around the contours of my face. There was not a sound now, other than a rustling murmur as those watching whispered only the gods know what about this strange sight. Then he tried to touch the top of my head, but he could not do so, and before I could think about it, I bent down a bit as he patted me on the head. Then he stepped away from me, turned his blind eyes directly to Cogidubnus, and spoke for the next several heartbeats. To my ears, his voice had grown stronger, and I was certain I heard a hint of the man he had been, and while he was speaking, I took the opportunity to move back around the table to take my seat.

  Finally, Ivomagus spoke, his voice suddenly hoarse. “Mandubracius says that you are exactly as he remembers you.”

  “Remembers me? How could he remember me?” I asked, completely bewildered, but when I glanced over at Alex, he could only offer a mystified shrug.

  “Forgive me, Gnaeus.” Ivomagus addressed Mandubracius, and his face cleared. “Ah, yes. My apologies, that was my mistake. What Mandubracius means is that you are exactly like the Roman he saw when he was a young man.”

  When Ivomagus relayed what Mandubracius said, my initial response was to snort in disbelief; by the time the old man was through, I was, and am convinced he had seen the Prefect, my great-grandfather, in the flesh. My reasoning was based in a couple of simple but important points; what Mandubracius described of the events of what was the second time Divus Julius invaded Britannia, specifically about the lopsided fight when the 7th, 9th, and my great-grandfather’s Equestrians were sent out to forage, and the Britons attacked them, the details were accurate. Most importantly, he also spoke about the only battle that could be called a Roman defeat that occurred before this one, when two Cohorts of the 8th Legion suffered heavy casualties, something that is in the Prefect’s account, but not in Caesar’s, at least as far as the casualties. Even through the laborious process of Ivomagus translating, I found myself breathless with anticipation as I waited for what Mandubracius said next, and I was not alone. The entire hall was spellbound as he talked, first about that day, then later, when, heeding the call of the chieftain Cassivellaunus, who led a coalition of tribes that, while Mandubracius did not say as much, clearly included the Parisii, they forced Caesar to pursue them, while laying waste to their own lands.

  Fairly quickly, Ivomagus had stopped starting what Mandubracius said by essentially relaying that he was translating, so that he would say, “When we did not defeat the Romans in battle, Cassivellaunus led us back across the river you call the Tamesis, where he had a hillfort that belonged to the Trinovantes, and we were told this would be where we would either win, or we would die.”

  My eyes stayed on Mandubracius, and even with his milky eyes, I could see a faraway expression that I have seen in other men, usually older men, when they are no longer where they are, but have been transported back to the day and time they are talking about.

  “The walls were made of dirt, but they were very high and very strong. Or,” Mandubracius had offered a rasping sound that I believe was a chuckle when he mentioned this, “we thought they were very strong. But Caesar’s men did not even use their machines. They just came forward carrying ladders.” Just before Ivomagus continued, there was a point where Mandubracius suddenly looked directly at me, or in my direction, and I am certain it was when he related, “That is when I saw the giant Roman. He was the first of them up the ladder, and I watched him slay two men. One of them was my cousin, the son of my father’s sister. I was very young. No more than fifteen, and I did not even have a beard or a mustache.”

  When Ivomagus finished this part, Mandubracius did not resume, at least at first, and this time, he was looking down at the floor, and now I could see the sadness there as he was reliving that day more than sixty years ago. He chuckled again, but once more it was without humor, and he went on, “Oh, I thought of myself as a great warrior then, and even as large as he was, I was certain I could defeat this Roman. I attacked him with my spear, and I knew that I had never made a thrust as quickly as I had that day, but he swatted my spear away as if he was swatting a fly, and he did it so powerfully that
it turned me partway around and moved my shield out of position. And,” Ivomagus sighed exactly as Mandubracius had an instant earlier, “I learned that I was not quick, nor was I great warrior.” Mandubracius shook his head as Ivomagus finished for him, “I did not even see his blow coming. He struck me in the head with his sword, and that is the last thing I remember until it was dark, and I woke up in a pile of bodies. Including my cousin.”

  Cogidubnus had been listening as intently as everyone else, and while I was equally absorbed, I had to force myself to keep from looking at Bronwen as I wondered what she was thinking, but now he spoke up, addressing Mandubracius. The old man listened, then spoke a bit more forcefully, giving me the impression he was unhappy about something.

  This was confirmed when Ivomagus relayed, “My brother asked Mandubracius how he could still be alive after taking a sword to the head. That does not make sense.”

  Then, everything became clear, and before I thought about it, I drew the gladius. Which, I immediately understood, was not the wisest course, because the men nearest to our table leapt to their feet, as did Ivomagus, who placed himself in front of Cogidubnus.

  Somewhat abashed, I held up my hand, saying quickly, “I apologize, Ivomagus. Tell the king I have no intention of doing anything.” To prove it, I laid the gladius on the table, and once everyone sat back down, I said to Ivomagus, “Ask Mandubracius to describe that gladius that hit him.”

  Ivomagus looked uncertain, but he did turn and speak to Mandubracius, who, as I expected, answered immediately, and I could see the import of what he said dawning on Ivomagus because his eyes went from Mandubracius to the gladius. It was Cogidubnus’ reaction that was even more telling as he let out a small gasp, then he reached out to gently touch the blade that had been forged by a Gallic master some sixty-five years earlier.

  I knew what he would say, but Ivomagus explained nonetheless. “He said it was quite dark, much darker than anything that he had ever seen before. But,” he paused, “what he remembers most was the pattern on the blade, because he stood there watching it plunge into the body of his cousin.”

  Rather than say anything, I bent down, grasped the gladius, then held it up and out in front of me with the blade turned parallel to the ground but with the width of the blade facing outward so that everyone who was close enough could see it, and there was an explosive reaction that, to my ears, was equally divided between gasps of astonishment and exclamations.

  Poor Mandubracius could not see why the people were reacting as they did, and without asking for permission, I walked back around the table again, but when I stood before Mandubracius, it was Tincommius who was most affected, his eyes shining with tears. Very deliberately, and very gently, I reached out and took Mandubracius’ right hand, and while he was clearly surprised, he did not pull away.

  I turned his hand so his palm was up, then I gently laid the hilt of the Prefect’s gladius in his hand, saying as I did so, “Tell Mandubracius that this is the gladius that was carried by my great-grandfather, who would become one of Rome’s most renowned warriors. He turned the blade sideways because,” I cannot say this was divinely inspired, but I like to think that perhaps the Prefect had a hand in it, “he did not want to kill a brave man who was not yet ready to face someone like him.” I glanced over my shoulder and indicated Cogidubnus with my head as I said to Ivomagus, “Tell your brother that as well. That like my great-grandfather Titus Pomponius Pullus,” I made sure to emphasize his name, “I have no desire to kill anyone simply for being courageous enough to stand against me.”

  There is no way for me to know whether or not Ivomagus realized that I was not speaking in general terms and was talking of what was about to happen, but judging from the reaction, he did relay my words exactly as I said them.

  Turning back to Mandubracius, I continued, “That giant Roman was my great-grandfather, and you are now holding the very gladius that he used to spare your life.”

  This was when Mandubracius burst into tears, his right hand curling around the hilt as he used his left hand, much like Cogidubnus, to run his fingertips along the blade, and I noticed his fingers actually tracing the whorls of the pattern that is one reason the blade is so distinctive. It was another lesson in how highly developed other senses become, because when I closed my eyes and tried it later, I could not feel anything, while Mandubracius did. I cannot say there was not a dry eye in the hall, but there were quiet sobs, and when I scanned the room, I saw that even the eyes of the Parisii men were shining from the torches placed on every column. The only reason my eyes were dry was because I was thinking of what was coming, but it was a very moving moment.

  “Pullus,” Tincommius spoke for the first time, and as might be expected, the tears made shiny tracks down into his beard. “Thank you,” he said, in Latin, and although I knew he had just exhausted his knowledge of my tongue, save for calling me a cunnus and a few other things, I understood and respected the solemnity of this moment.

  “Mandubracius,” I spoke loudly, counting on Ivomagus to translate, “is a great man, and I am honored to have met him. And,” I paused long enough for Ivomagus to translate, “I am certain that my great-grandfather, Titus Pomponius Pullus,” I made sure to repeat his name, “will be happy to meet with Mandubracius of the Parisii in the afterlife. Where,” now I grinned broadly so that all could see it, “they will get drunk and talk of the great battles they fought.”

  I knew when Ivomagus got to my last statement, because the relative silence was shattered, and while the Parisii men leapt to their feet to roar their approval, I gently took the gladius from Mandubracius’ hand, as I realized with a bit of surprise that I was being completely sincere.

  The gods know that I was profoundly moved by Mandubracius’ appearance, and one glance at Alex assured me that I was not alone, but it was getting late, and I knew the time was rapidly approaching. Tincommius had escorted Mandubracius, not out of the hall, but to the table where Tincommius and Esselt were sitting over in the row next to the wall to the right of our table. I decided it would be politic to at least appear to imbibe more mead, and thankfully, both Cogidubnus and Ivomagus were clearly under the influence, their laughter becoming more raucous, and I lost count of the number of times Cogidubnus clapped me on the back in appreciation of something I said. Honestly, I cannot really remember what we were talking about; the most difficult part for me was ensuring that my observation of how much Berdic was drinking was not obvious.

  Finally, after what I was certain was two full watches, Cogidubnus gave me the opening I needed, when Ivomagus told me, “My brother says that he’s glad that his wife isn’t here for this.”

  “Where is she?”

  “Back in Danum,” Ivomagus said carelessly, then he gave me a drunken grin. “I cannot say I blame him, Gnaeus. Cartimandua is a lovely woman, but,” he made a face, “she does not like gatherings like this.”

  “One thing that we Romans have seen,” I tried to sound casual, “is how Gauls and Germans treat their women. They,” I shook my head as if it was a tragedy, while silently offering plea for forgiveness from my mother, “let their women do things that we would never allow. Is that the same here?”

  To my intense disappointment, Ivomagus did not take the bait.

  Shrugging, he said only, “I do not know how the men of Gaul and Germania treat their women. But,” he waved his cup at the attendees, “I know that there are tribes here who do not value their women as much as the Parisii.”

  “I’ve heard,” I maintained my casual tone, trying to impart that I was talking more out of boredom and because of the mead than any real curiosity, “that you don’t force women to marry if they don’t choose to.”

  Now, it had been Ivomagus who had told me this, but I was counting on his inebriation, hoping that he would not recall this.

  And he did not seem to, because he shrugged. “That is our custom.” He gave me a drunken grin. “After all, Gnaeus, who wants to try and bed an angry woman?”

 
; I laughed, only partially feigned, but then I asked, “What reason could a woman use, then? How could she get out of marrying someone she didn’t want to marry?”

  He frowned, but thank the gods not for the reason I thought, because he was actually thinking about it.

  “If he is proven to be unfaithful before their wedding,” he answered. “If he is proven to be lying about his status and wealth. And,” he added in an obvious afterthought, “if he is cruel to her.”

  “Ah,” I nodded, ignoring Alex, who had been paying keen attention and was clearly sensing there was something going on. “I see. That makes sense.” I stood then, but when the two Parisii looked up at me, I said, “I need to relieve myself.”

  Then I weaved my way through the hall, which was made somewhat difficult because it seemed that everyone present wanted to call my name, and while we could not communicate, they made it clear that they were offering me their well wishes, and more than once I heard “Petuar,” so I assume that I was being thanked for my role in its defense. It helped that I did need to relieve myself, but despite not drinking nearly as much mead as I had pretended, I welcomed the sharp night air, which helped me clear my head. I lingered a moment, as part of me argued with the rest of me, trying to convince me that this was a horrible idea, and it would, at best, keep me in captivity. The worst possible ending would mean that I would never leave this island alive, but I refused to entertain that thought. Finally, I took a breath, then made my way back into the hall, resuming my half-stumbling, half-weaving progress back towards the table, and I was encouraged by how both the king and his brother gave me a quick glance, then returned to their conversation. It felt like it took an interminably long time, but then I was standing at the table occupied by Berdic, Bronwen, and some men I knew were loyal to him who had drifted over during the course of the feast, and I stopped walking. I also stopped weaving about as I stared down at Berdic, who did not notice me immediately. Bronwen did, if only because I was closer to her than I was to Berdic since a table was between us, which was not ideal, but it could not be helped.