by Molly Tanzer
Looking at Henry, John thought meanly that indeed the Company might want for more refined influences if that was the sort of trash they were allowing in these days. However Henry might have improved, he still had acne, and frankly, he looked ridiculous with that black eye. Not at all cool or roguish or dangerous or wicked, really. John congratulated himself for getting over his former crush so quickly. He simply wasn’t worth it. Not like Robert.
But a soft voice inside John teased at him, made him to look at Henry a second time—and admit that, actually, Henry did look pretty cool and roguish and dangerous and wicked with that black eye. And … wait, was he coming over to sit beside him?
“Hallo, Rochester,” said Henry, sliding onto the bench beside John and forcing him sideways across the wood with a thump from his liberal bottom. “How goes it? Have a good time with that fellow last night after I left?”
“Yes, though I wish you wouldn’t shout so,” said John acidly.
“Are you embarrassed? Or—is it that, mayhap, you had a few too many drinks?” Henry grinned, tapping the side of his nose. “I had a few in before I got to the Horse, but not many after the walloping to the face. Should never have gotten between the twins. Lesson learned—not that I’m too concerned about a repeat of that nonsense. St John’s flown the coop, along with his sibling, and given everything, I don’t think they shall ever return.”
“What? Really?” John was surprised by this information. “Why?”
“Well they’d been seen together, hadn’t they—cat’s out of the bag and whatnot about them being twins, plus Lucas Jones has some serious dirt on the Lord Calipash after the incident. Can’t tell you more though. Secret Blithe Company business.”
John’s head was spinning. “St John … had … a twin?”
“Yes, a girl. She was dressing in his clothes to go to classes for him. They’d switch off. Seems like we never knew which of them it was at any given moment, boy or girl, since they came! Well, except when St John would show his pizzle in public. Ha! But really, think of it—silly thing, to think she could hide in amongst us manly men forever, eh?” Henry chortled softly, ho ho ho. “Got what was coming to her, don’t you think? Run out of Oxford in the dead of night for her crimes against the order of things!”
“St John was a girl?”
“Christ, you’re a slow one, Rochester,” said Henry. “But no matter, it seems you’ve got the measure of the situation at last. Sort of.”
“That’s shocking,” said John. Mostly he was amazed St John and his sister had carried it off for so long. He wished he’d known—he had never before heard tell of such mastery of the art of going incognito. Robert had mentioned the necessity of teaching John how best to play at being someone other than himself—a skill he’d need to hone in order to discreetly crash the parties and receptions Robert wanted him to attend as his protégé, apparently—but John doubted Robert could teach him how to masquerade successfully as a woman! Perhaps he’d one day write to these Calipash twins for some advice …
“But no matter, John—look, I’m very sorry about everything,” Henry was saying. Surprised, John tried not to show it. “I’ve been a real shit to you of late, I think getting in with the Company went a little to my head.”
“Really? How perceptive of you,” said John coldly, and felt briefly triumphant when Henry looked wounded. After a moment John relented, feeling as though he’d gotten enough of his own back to be kindly to his oldest friend here at Wadham—and that this was just the way to get into the Company, as Robert had advised. “Well, I’ll forgive you … if …”
“If?”
“If, after class, you let me come along with you lads? And sit with you during Classics?”
Henry looked rather surprised.
“I had no idea you wanted to … I was thinking, now that St John’s gone, you’d want things to go back the way they were?”
John did, oh how he did—but if he’d made the decision to trust Robert on these matters, he was going to trust Robert absolutely. What was it he always said? ‘We have but one life to live, my dear Johnny, so really live it!’ Good advice …
“The way things were?” John smiled, and hoped it didn’t look fake. “What, being Wadham’s leper colony of two? No, I think I’ve finally realized life is for living, not wasting.”
“John … I don’t know what to say,” Henry said warmly, “other than I’m glad, so glad. I was ready to give them up for you, but I … well, I like them, and I like you, and I’m thrilled the twain shall meet! I need an ally—Jones is sort of in charge for now, which is rotten, he’s a ponce and a whip-jack as well as having all the imagination of a shoe, but they’ve promised to give me a chance with a lark at some point soon. I shall show them what Henry Milliner’s made of then! Anyways the plan is that we’ll rotate until we find the proper leader for our little company. It might even be you, Rochester.”
They were momentarily distracted when a lad from their class came running into the room, panting like a racehorse. “No! Logic! Today!” he managed in between breaths, and John realized that indeed it was past time to start class. “Master’s! A-bed! With stomach flu! And! There’s no one! To take the lecture! For him!”
“Flu!” cried someone. “I saw him out last night playing darts at the Spotted Cow with Master Fulkerson, deep in his cups!”
“Things are all topsy-turvy these days, aren’t they?” said Henry wistfully. “Looks like we have our morning free—let’s go over now and see what the Company says about how best to spend our time, shall we?”
John had neglected his Latin homework, as well as his Logic and Classics readings, to go out with Robert the previous night; he knew, to keep up on things for whenever classes got back to normal, he should study … and yet here, as Robert had put it, was an opportunity to live life.
“It’ll be fun!” said Henry. “Come on, Rochester, what do you say?”
“I say …”
“Say yes!”
John shrugged. “All right, yes!”
“Good,” said Henry, nimbly hopping to his feet after throwing his legs over the edge of the bench. “I say, shall we try to convince Jones to let the two of us decide what we’ll get up to?” He rubbed his pudgy hands together in anticipation.
“Let’s,” said John, feeling, if not happy, then at least as though he was putting his life on the right path for greatness. “You know, you might be on to something, Henry. If we outdo Jones with our suggestions, we could get some serious cred with the rest of the Company. Now that St John’s gone they’ll be waiting for someone to step into his shoes, eh? I think we could really show them a good time …”
Damnatio Memoriae
Petronius hauled himself onto the shore and vomited all over the rocky sand. He had not eaten for he did not know how long, so first he heaved up acid bile that stung his lips, then nothing at all except foamy mucus until he feared he would die. When at last his stomach settled he thanked the gods aloud for their mercy, but privately he felt divine attention at this point was too little too late.
His arms shook and his legs would not bear his weight when he tried to crawl away from the smell of the sick, so he clawed his way along the beach with his fingers. He did not get far. The driving rain blinded him, and brackish tide lapped at his feet and ankles, agonizingly cold. He knew he would freeze to death if he did not get warm but even this could not spur him to move again.
He thought dizzily of his homeland, sunny Syracuse. How warm the rains, how clear the ocean! Here, all the water was treacherously black and icy. During the storm it had chilled him from above and below, raining down upon him as it crashed over the bow of the bireme; he had nearly blacked out from shock when he jumped into the roiling sea after the ship had been dashed to pieces upon the jagged rocks of this unknown, godsforsaken coast. Petronius emitted a sound halfway between a laugh and a groan as he let the darkness take him, his last thought being that perhaps dying quietly of exposure would be better than encountering whatever
horrors dwelt here in barbarian Britannia.
***
Groggy, Petronius opened his eyes. Starlight! The storm had broken while he lay insensate on the sand. He sat up, but the nightmare landscape yawed and he lay back down again, weeping for his misfortune. Oh gods, how could he ever survive this ordeal? Of course this would be his fate, just when everything was going so well! His History of Sicily had sold better than anyone—especially his publishers—had expected, his wife Caelina had just successfully delivered his twin boys, Hortensius Gemellus and Julius Gemellus—and where was he? Some awful, uninhabited coastline, with no one else around for miles. Maybe hundreds of miles. He was profoundly, utterly alone, and would die so. He would never see Caelina’s face—or her fortune—ever again, would never feel a father’s pride watching his twins growing up and donning their toga virilis. Sick at heart, Petronius could almost smell the fire in his hearth for longing …
A riot in his guts brought Petronius out of his misery and reminded him that his chances of survival would be even narrower if he didn’t get something to eat—and more importantly, to drink. Cautiously he rolled onto his stomach and then got to his knees—there! What was that—could it be firelight in the distance? He’d thought he’d scented pine logs burning … and if he really listened, he could just discern the sound of voices. Still unable to stand, he cried out for help, his dry lips cracking.
A few moments later he saw several figures coming towards him, their faces obscure. Petronius felt a moment of doubt until he realized they were speaking Latin.
“Hail, Roman! Whoever you be, we shall—why, it’s Petronius!”
Petronius’ eyes filled with tears. He had not expected the sweet sound of a friend’s voice!
“Manlius!” he croaked, “Can it really be you?”
“It is! Gods, it’s good to see you. We thought you were dead!”
“I nearly am.”
“Not so near as all that. You look fine!”
Petronius doubted this, if Manlius was any indication. The man was in bad shape. He looked gaunt, nearly skeletal, and bruised all over; his cheeks were dirty and dusted with fine reddish hairs, more of a beard than Petronius had ever seen him wear.
“Help me get to the fire, Manlius, lest I freeze.”
“All right, then. Help him, boys!”
With several shoulders to lean on, Petronius was able to get up and begin stumbling over to where twelve, maybe fifteen Romans sat around a campfire just outside the treeline. Petronius despaired.
“Is this all?”
“No,” said Manlius. “They’re not able to tell us much of our comrades, but look down the beach—see the lights? They helped get several other campfires going for other groups before they came to help us with ours.”
“Who’s they?”
“The natives.”
Petronius shivered. “Wild Britons, here? Are they hostile?” He’d heard tales of barbarian savagery from those who’d served during Julius Caesar’s campaign, and indeed, little else had been discussed during the voyage before the storm began.
“Manlius?”
“We … don’t think they’re Britons.”
“You don’t think? Shouldn’t you know? I thought you were our translator!”
Manlius shrugged. “These people don’t seem to understand much we say to them. Also … we sent out a party before it was full dark.”
“So?”
“There’s been no sign of the white cliffs of Dubris.”
Things were even worse than he’d thought. Not only were they shipwrecked, they were apparently shipwrecked nowhere near where they were supposed to be. An illustrious beginning for this mad plan of Caligula’s, to build a sister-tower across the channel from Portus Itius. And yet Petronius sensed he would still be called upon when the emperor demanded an account of the voyage. If he survived.
“What are they like?” he asked.
“You’ll see,” said Manlius.
Petronius said nothing, feeling weak and horrible enough without contemplating unknowns. He focused instead on clumsily walking toward where the fire crackled cheerily in a night black as Pluto’s left nostril. Then a strange sound reached his ears through the sound of the wind in the trees. It was a strange sound, like laughter, but also like speech. Squinting, he saw that a handful of those whom he had thought were Romans were not Romans at all, but outlandishly dressed barbarians who squatted around the campfire warming their hands and jabbering nonsense. He nearly pissed himself in fear.
“Manlius, I—”
“It’s fine. Come on!”
Petronius was going to say that no, it was not fine, when something occurred to him, and he found the courage to take the few, final steps that would bring him within the ring of firelight. He might never get to Dubris, he might never be able to write an account of building a lighted tower to guide Roman ships through stormy seas (a project that seemed much more sensible now, come to think of it) but if he kept it together, he just might be able to use this wretched voyage to earn a name for himself. The very first ethnography of whatever blighted group of savages lived here would sell sensationally well back in Rome, he was sure of it.
***
Petronius was quickly passed a shallow wooden bowl full of some heinous-looking gruel that he ate so quickly he didn’t taste it—probably for the best—and then some sort of liquor in a stone jug that reeked of rotten fruit. Petronius sipped it gingerly and afterwards felt both better and worse, but invigorated enough at least to sit for a time with his fellow Romans … and the natives.
They seemed nice enough, he supposed, what with the gifts of precious provisions and not stabbing them to death, but they smelled bad and were dreadful to look upon, and he also couldn’t tell who among them were men and who were women. All had long black hair bound back with bits of rope or leather, and all wore similar garments, sleeveless tunics of rough wool and animal-fur capes with deep hoods that kept their features in shadow. Each of them—even the two of the five who Petronius suspected might be female—carried an assortment of brutal, inelegant weapons: hatchets, knives, short maces. All carried swords, and one had a rudimentary bow, as well.
“So they’ve no Brythonic at all?” Petronius asked Manlius, who squatted next to him.
“I’ve managed to communicate a little,” he said, snatching the booze. “Well, I think we have. Lucius pointed out that really, what shipwreck survivors wouldn’t be asking for dry wood, food, and drink—but hopefully their language is some thick dialect of the Briton tongue, and we can get by on cognates for a little while.”
Petronius nodded, and chanced another look at the savages. What a find—a culture unknown to civilization! Upon his return he would be the only person in the whole world to have the authority to publish such a ground-breaking study …
As he pondered, the savage he felt least certain was female of the two possible candidates caught his eye and scowled at him. He realized he’d been staring at ‘her’ and immediately looked away lest these people be like wolves and take his gaze for a challenge—but this action, he saw out of the corner of his eye, only caused one of the other barbarians to elbow her in the ribs and, Petronius presumed from his tone, set to teasing her. Petronius was appalled. Even if she was female, she was a brute, a grotesque. A thing. Ha, thought Petronius. Thing.
The Thing’s arms, brown as a nut, were covered in scrapes and bruises, and nearly as brawny as a man’s. She could not be thirty, but he could see that two of her teeth were already missing. Her nose had been broken, and her eyes, though bright, were small. Yet at the teasing from her comrades The Thing tossed her black hair in such an elegant, Patrician manner that Petronius was intrigued—but when she caught him looking at her again she hurled a knife through the fire at him. It sank into the earth between his feet.
The camp went quiet.
Then several things happened at once: The barbarians leaped to their feet—along with Manlius and all the Romans save Petronius, who had frozen in fear—an
d all began to shout and gesture at one another. While a flustered Manlius tried to ascertain what in the world had happened, the soldiers began to cast about for objects that could serve as weapon or shield. When nothing came to hand, one of the troops, a tall, mighty blond-haired fellow picked up a log upon which three Romans had been seated and brandished it like a club.
This actually seemed to impress most of the barbarians and they quieted—except for The Thing, who began to cackle like a witch at the sight.
Everyone looked at her, and she opened her maw to speak.
“Barbar bar, barbarbar-bar, bar,” she said, or something like.
The savages paused, then all started laughing and slapping The Thing on the back, as if she had told a tremendously entertaining joke. Manlius paused, confused—so did the rest of the Romans—but everyone quickly relaxed upon seeing the barbarians’ obvious mirth. The big Roman with the log looked bemused but gave the seat back to his companions, and, running his hands through his blonde locks, began to grin like an imbecile and laugh along with the rest.
It seemed to Petronius he was the only one who didn’t find the whole incident hilarious. These people were clearly insane and dangerous, so when The Thing came over to him to pluck her knife out of the ground he stood, not wanting to offend her. He was surprised to find she was far shorter than him.
He bowed; she made a slicing motion across her neck with the blade. Petronius’s heart sank down between his kidneys, but her pantomime simply caused the wild people to say oooooOOOoooh as one, which then in turn caused The Thing to sheathe her knife and leap over the fire at them, fists balled. She struck one in the face, another in the balls, and soon there was a proper brawl on the opposite side of the fire.
