Hostage to Fortuna

by R. W. Peake

  This obviously puzzled her, so she tilted her head as she asked, “Why are you asking this?”

  “Because,” I answered, “once you learn to read, I want you to read the account that my father, and my great-grandfather wrote, because it might explain things better than I can.”

  Now she was obviously confused.

  “What does this have to do with what we are talking about?”

  “Because I want you to understand why I am saying the things that I’m telling you,” I took her hands. “I don’t want you to ever feel as if I’ve misled you in any way.”

  “I do not believe that you could ever do anything like that.” She did not hesitate, applying the same pressure to my hands that I was to hers. “I know your heart, Gnaeus Pullus. I know that you are an honorable man, and that you are a good man.”

  “I’m not sure about that,” I tried to joke. “At least the last part. But I do try to be honorable.”

  “Gnaeus,” she tightened her grip on my arm, almost to the point of being painful, “I know that, when the moment comes, when you see this man, and when he refuses to tell the truth at first, that you will not do anything that would destroy your family’s chances to see that money they lost returned.”

  “How do you know that?” I asked bleakly, still refusing to look at her.

  With a surprising strength, she spun me around so that I was facing her, and even in the light from the moon and stars, I saw the intensity in her gaze as she retorted emphatically, “Because I know you, Gnaeus Pullus!” Her expression softened a bit, and she continued, “I told you that I would never give myself to anyone who was not a great warrior. But I did not tell you everything.”

  “Oh?” I examined her warily, searching for some sign of duplicity in her face. “What didn’t you tell me?”

  “That I would not give myself to a man who was without honor,” she replied immediately. “My father may have been only a merchant,” she explained, “but one reason he is so successful is because he is an honorable man. He never cheated any of his customers, and that is what he taught me. And,” she went on, “he told me never to marry a man without honor. Which is one reason I had no wish to marry Berdic.” For some reason, this seemed to me to be an odd thing to say, but when I asked her what she meant, she did not hesitate to answer, “He was plotting against Cogidubnus. He believed that he would be a better king than Cogidubnus, and that if our gods had been truly just, he would have been born first.”

  This made sense, and it explained much, but I shoved this from my mind, saying, “I’m just worried that Septimus is right, that I’ll do something foolish.”

  “If you make sure that I am there,” Bronwen smiled up at me, “I will keep you from doing that foolish thing.”

  We were awakened by a shout, just audible enough that it roused us, but even after several heartbeats, none of us could determine what it meant. Since our cabin was directly under the stern upper deck, we had become accustomed to the constant sound of footsteps as the crew moved back and forth above us, as well as when men descended and ascended the ladder that was directly outside. What did not happen often was what occurred then, a pounding on the door that made Bronwen give a small shriek, although the rest of us did not behave much better, but I was the one who opened the door to see the oily-bearded second in command, smiling broadly. He did not speak a word of Latin, but he had learned very quickly that I understood Greek, when he had made a comment about Bronwen that almost got him pitched overboard. Only a while later did I realize that the oily bastard had suspected I understood Greek and had baited me, which did not help his standing in my eyes.

  “We are approaching Alexandria, Centurion,” he announced. “Master Demeter suggests that you and your party might like to come up on deck to see the lighthouse.”

  Naturally, this got us moving, and we followed him up the ladder, making our way quickly to the upper deck at the bow, and I was every bit as excited as the others, and not just because of Aviola. The lighthouse of Alexandria is famed the world over, and yet very, very few people ever get to see it, and I certainly never thought I would have the chance, unless the 1st was somehow sent to Egypt. At first, all that we could see was the light itself, despite it being fully daylight, and I explained to Bronwen about the highly polished brass mirror that is used to reflect the constantly burning flame. Bit by bit, the rest of the structure became visible, a gleaming white, although it was still too far away to see the three geometric shapes.

  As I was explaining to Bronwen about the construction of the tower, she asked curiously, “How do you know so much about something that you have never seen?”

  “Do you remember when we talked about teaching you to read so that you could read my father and great-grandfather’s account?” She nodded, and I went on to explain, “And do you remember when I told you how those carpets in our villa in Arelate came from the palace of Cleopatra, back when my great-grandfather was stuck in Alexandria with Caesar?” Naturally, she did, and seemed a bit put out that I thought she would forget, so I went on hurriedly, “Yes, well, I know about all of this because of my great-grandfather’s account.” Suddenly, something else occurred to me, and I elbowed Septimus, who was standing on the other side of me, and asked him with a grin, “Should we tell her? About the other thing?”

  “What other thing?” she demanded, while I waited for Septimus to catch on to what I was talking about.

  Somewhat surprisingly, it took him a moment as I tried to stare at him in a manner that enlightened him. Finally, his eyes widened in understanding.

  “Ah, yes, the other thing.” He grinned broadly, leaning over to look at Bronwen so she could see him.

  “What other thing?” she insisted, then punched me in the arm.

  I made a show of wincing, then I tilted my head slightly as I said, “You know, assaulting royalty is a serious crime. I could have you put in chains for that.”

  As I intended, this both confused her and made her suspicious as she addressed Septimus, demanding, “What is this nonsense he is spouting about royalty?”

  Septimus glanced at me, and I gave a slight nod of permission.

  “As it happens,” he spoke casually, “you’re standing next to the great-nephew of Cleopatra VII Philopator. Which means,” Septimus inclined his head regally in the same manner I had, “you are addressing the nephew of Cleopatra VII Philopator.”

  I enjoyed watching the play of emotions across her face; amazement that dropped her jaw, followed immediately by the mouth snapping shut and a narrowing of the eyes as she said suspiciously, “I do not believe you. You are having fun with me!”

  “No, they’re not.”

  She turned completely around to face Alex, who was on her opposite side and had been the one to speak up.

  “How is this?”

  Since her back was turned, I could only gauge her state of mind by her tone, and while she still sounded somewhat suspicious, there was at least as much doubt, which I was certain came from who was confirming it.

  Alex caught my eye, and understanding my silent signal, he maintained a straight face as he told her, “It’s not my place to tell you how, but I can assure you they’re telling you the truth.”

  She spun back around, and while I still saw doubt there, I decided not to prolong our fun anymore.

  “My grandmother,” I explained as I indicated Septimus, “and his mother, Iras, was the half-sister of Cleopatra, through Cleopatra’s father Ptolemy XIII.”

  When she glanced over at Septimus, he nodded. Even young Gaius, who had been standing there as a silent witness spoke up then. “That’s right, Bronwen. Everything they’re saying is true.”

  For a moment, I thought she might faint, but then she quickly got into the spirit of the moment, giving the feminine version of a bow as she said with mock gravity, “Then I humbly beg your pardon, Your Highness.”

  I pursed my lips as I pretended to think about it, then said, with an exaggerated leer, “I think I can come up wit
h a just punishment.”

  This made her laugh.

  “Is that a promise?”

  “It is,” I assured her.

  Then I decided it was time to tell her everything about how the former slave Iras Pullus found herself ending up a freedwoman married to the former Quartus Pilus Prior of the 8th Legion, and the mother of another Quartus Pilus Prior, as well as a Tesseraurius in Gaius’ father, and the grandmother of a third Quartus Pilus Prior. I will not lie; when I first read the Prefect’s account, learning that my paternal grandmother was once a slave ignited a number of feelings within me, some of them in direct opposition to each other. No Roman likes the idea that anyone in our bloodline was once a slave, even if that ancestor was not a Roman themselves, although Iras was granted citizenship by Divus Augustus when he extended the franchise to the province in which Arelate is located. It is still something that causes me an occasional qualm, but as time has passed, more than anything, I am proud to be linked by blood to someone who, in her own way, was as remarkable as the man who once owned her. And, when I reached this part of the story as I related it to Bronwen, with input from both Septimus and Alex, who corroborated the details that, to someone not familiar with the story, would seem to be completely unbelievable, I enjoyed myself immensely. In fact, it is probably one of my favorite parts of the Prefect’s account, how the slave Iras was placed with the merchant Deukalos in Ephesus during the civil war between the two Triumvirs, Augustus and Marcus Antonius, with orders issued by Cleopatra herself to poison the giant Roman Centurion who, at least at one point, she had held in high regard. So absorbed were we that we were all surprised when, as if out of nowhere, the huge lighthouse towered above us as the Persephone entered the Great Harbor of Alexandria, Demeter expertly guiding us between the two fingers of land, one of them the manmade causeway extending from Pharos Island, upon which the lighthouse is located at the very end. We all stopped talking then, and I confess I was as awestruck at the sight of the massive structure, not just because of its height, which is well over three hundred feet, but the simplicity of its design. And, I remember thinking, the Prefect described it perfectly, so much so that I could point out to Bronwen that it was merely a set of three geometric shapes; a square, albeit a massive one almost a hundred feet tall, upon which an octagonal section rested, with the final shape a circular tower.

  I was quite pleased when she said, “I thought you said you have never been to Alexandria before.”

  “I haven’t,” I assured her. “But everything I’m telling you is from my great-grandfather’s account. Which,” I wrapped an arm around her waist to pull her more closely so that I could whisper, “is why I want to teach you to read, so that you can experience it as well.”

  She did not appear disbelieving as much as skeptical as she asked, “You are saying that I will be able to speak of things like this, just from reading words?”

  “Yes, you will, I promise.”

  Just as I said this, we rounded the lighthouse to get the first glimpse of the Heptastadion, where both sides of the long quay were lined with ships, and while the lighthouse was certainly not forgotten, there were new sights greeting our eyes that made us gape in amazement. In that moment, I remember feeling like quite the provincial.

  “How long is that thing?”

  Before I could think of how it would sound, I teased her, “Why do you think it’s called a Heptastadion?” Her blank expression made me feel a bit foolish, as I recalled, “Ah, yes. You have no reason to know how the Greeks measure things.” After I questioned her a bit about the kind of measurements the tribes of Britannia use, I settled on explaining, “It’s close to one of our miles long.”

  As Demeter guided us through the harbor and we passed under the bridge at the island end of the Heptastadion onto the side called Eunostos or Old Harbor, using just one bank of rowers to keep the speed low but with enough to maneuver, we turned our attention to something that, frankly, none of us had considered.

  “There doesn’t appear to be any empty spots.” Alex was the one to mention what was certainly foremost in my mind.

  I pointed out to the harbor, away from the Heptastadion, where there were easily a hundred ships anchored, but none of them were near the size of the Persephone, and to my eye, appeared to be fishing vessels and small craft designed more for the river than the sea.

  “I suppose we’ll anchor out there.”

  “Maybe you should go talk to Demeter,” Alex suggested. “He can at least tell us what to expect.”

  It was something I should have thought of before we ever reached the harbor, but I blame the distraction for it, and I hurried down the ladder, crossing the deck to reach Demeter, who was barking out orders from the steering oar. He must have seen me approaching, but his eyes never left the prow of the ship as, with an expertise that I could only admire, he wove a path between the bobbing ships who had not been berthed.

  “It doesn’t look like we’ll be able to put in at the Heptastadion,” I began.

  He shook his head, but to my surprise, it was not in confirmation.

  “That depends on how much we are willing to pay for a berth,” he said with the confidence that I assumed came from experience.

  I did not doubt him, necessarily, but I still asked, “How? Everything’s full. No master is going to allow his ship to be moved out into the harbor.”

  For the first time, Demeter’s eyes left the prow to give me an amused glance before returning to the front of the ship.

  “No?” He chuckled. “And how many times have you been in Alexandria, Centurion?”

  “You know perfectly well,” I snapped, but then remembering what I was there to do, I modified my tone. “And you obviously know more about how things work here, so what are the chances of us having a spot along the Heptastadion?”

  I was not particularly surprised when he answered with a shrug, “It depends on how much we are willing to spend.” Then, before I could say anything, he turned back to me to give me a direct look as he said, “And whatever that amount is does not come out of the money you gave for your passage. We,” he used his head to indicate his crew, “have no problem anchoring in the harbor.”

  My first instinct was to argue, but with my father’s admonition about the cost being measured by the need in my mind, I refrained, and instead, I asked Demeter for advice.

  “Since you know what we’re here to do, do you think it matters if we’re out in the harbor or at a berth?”

  “Yes,” he answered immediately, telling me he had already thought this matter through. “Being moored along the Heptastadion will make it easier to come and go, for one thing.” He used his free hand to indicate the long causeway that was lined with boxes, sacks, and amphorae of cargo, while a crowd of mostly men were moving about, some loading and others unloading or scurrying down the causeway on some errand. “It is much harder to keep track of someone in a crowd like this. Out in the harbor, if someone knows what ship to watch, all they have to do is keep a lookout to see when anyone leaves the ship in their small boat.”

  This clinched it for me, and I asked, “How much do you think it will take to bribe whoever you have to bribe to get a berth?”

  “It is the harbormaster,” he answered, then delivered his verdict on the man by spitting over the side. “His name is Eunoios, and he has been in the job ever since I was a young man and made my first voyage here. He,” he looked at me with grim amusement, “is a greedy bastard.” Perhaps he understood this was not a particularly helpful answer, because he hurriedly added, “I suspect that it will take a minimum of one of those aurei, Centurion.”

  “Fine,” I answered immediately, pleased with myself that I had correctly guessed the likely cost. “I’ll leave it to you to make the necessary arrangements.”

  Talking about this prompted me to think of another subject, and I asked him if he knew of anyone where we could change some of our hoard of gold coins into silver.

  “I do,” he nodded. “I will take you to hi
m as soon as I have secured a berth.”

  With this taken care of, I left Demeter to do his job and went to inform the others that we would be berthing on the Heptastadion, and what Demeter had said about making it easier for us to come and go.

  “Aviola doesn’t know we’re here,” I spoke to the group now as a Centurion, “and if all goes well, he won’t know until it’s too late. But,” I warned, hardening my voice, “we have to plan for the possibility that someone alerts him.”

  “Who would do that?” Gaius asked, but it was Alex who answered nonverbally, pointing to the rear of the ship, and Gaius protested, “But Demeter hates Aviola! You said you believed him!”

  “I did,” I agreed, “but I could be wrong.”

  “I don’t think you are, actually,” Alex put in, surprising me a bit. “I wasn’t talking about Demeter as much as I was talking about that oily bastard second man of his. There’s something…off about him.”

  That certainly aligned with my view of the man, although at the time, I had put it down to the way he was always ogling Bronwen the way a starving man eyes a steaming loaf of bread, so I was pleased to see someone else felt the same way. The sun was close to setting, and by the time Demeter had been rowed ashore, gone to wherever the harbormaster’s office was located, then returned back to the Persephone, whereupon we waited for the master of a bireme who was unceremoniously forced to back out of their berth to allow us to take his place, it was almost dark. Thankfully for all of us, whatever the bireme master was shouting at us as he went slinking off into the harbor was impossible to make out, and once we were secured, we had decided it would be foolish to venture out into the city. As the de facto commander of this small campaign to save my family, I bear the full responsibility for what was to come, if only because it never occurred to me to prevail on Demeter to keep the crew aboard ship overnight, assuming that Demeter would not allow it. If there is any positive, however, it is that Alex and I were right about that oily cunnus.

  Chapter Eleven