A Pretty Mouth

by Molly Tanzer

  “I think she likes you,” said Manlius, sitting back down.

  “I wish I’d drowned,” said Petronius.

  ***

  Morning-time was beautiful in Britannia, Petronius had to admit it. The dawn was actually rosy-fingered, big cloud bands of coral-pink and yellowish orange, and the racket the birds made! The sparrows and whatnot in the forest seemed to drip like dew from the branches of the looming black wood, twittering their joy into the gentle breeze; their cousins the sea-birds dove into the water for their breakfast, crying like lost children. The wild glory of the landscape did much to stay Petronius’ irritation at having been awakened so early on a morning when he needed far more sleep to feel human.

  But Petronius’ appreciation was not long-lived. Daylight had revealed how dire the Romans’ situation really was: They were not actually on the coast. Instead, they had somehow managed to navigate up a wide, winding river and wreck on the rocky bank. The ocean proper, shockingly, was nowhere in sight, but what remained of the bireme was. Great boards, bits of sackcloth, and damaged cargo lay about everywhere. Several soldiers were already gathering debris and sorting it into piles.

  “Ugh,” said Manlius, coming up behind him. “Where the hell are we, do you think?”

  “Britannia.” Petronius shrugged. “Maybe.”

  “Cheerful, aren’t you.”

  Petronius turned slowly and raised an eyebrow at his friend. Manlius shrugged and pulled a “what can you do” face, his not-unhandsome features contorting comically. Petronius sneered.

  “I wonder if any of my writing materials will be salvaged,” he said. “Or do you think the Caesar will be pleased with an account scratched on leaves with charcoal?”

  “What, you don’t think the locals have a stockpile of ink and parchment?” Manlius poked Petronius in the gut. “You never know! Maybe that woman from last night will surprise you with a love-letter.”

  Petronius already had a mild headache, and Manlius’ remark made the pain far worse.

  “If she comes near me, I can’t be held responsible,” he said. “Better to snap a tendon in retreat than suffer that embrace. Ugh! I cannot wait to be home with my wife, balls deep in good white Roman womanflesh.”

  “I think you’d be missing out,” said Manlius thoughtfully. “Just think of the stories you could tell.”

  “Horses have vaginas, too,” said Petronius, “but that doesn’t mean I’d brag if I fucked one.”

  An agonized, blaring sound, like a herd of sick cows giving birth in unison, distracted the pair from watching the salvage operation. It wasn’t a trumpet, though—Petronius didn’t know how to describe the vaguely musical tootling.

  Then the big blonde fellow from the night before jogged up to them from the shoreline, wearing only a piece of tattered cloth wrapped around his trim waist and massive, muscular thighs. He was even more impressive in the daylight: Not a scrap of fat clung to him, his muscles were on display as if he’d been flensed. In the bright sunshine his sweat shimmered like gilding, and his tousled locks were blazing like Helios’ own. His cheekbones could have been used to slice cheese, his chin for a battering ram, and he was smiling like he’d just been awarded a quaestorship instead of having spent his morning hauling waterlogged supplies out of an icy river.

  “Salvēte, Romans!” he cried, as he jogged in place beside them. “We are summoned! See you not our standard upon yonder rock? Hail Caesar!”

  Petronius snorted. “Oh, is he here? I didn’t see him.”

  “We had heard some sort of noise, but did not realize what it was,” said Manlius quickly, when the giant looked confused.

  “Oh!” said the golden man. “You see, they’ve actually made themselves trumpets by taking a big shell and boring a hole in the narrow end!” He was still jogging. “These people are absolutely ingenious! And beautiful.” This he said breathlessly.

  “Indeed,” said Petronius. “Well, you’d better get over there. We’ll be right behind you.”

  “Come! Run with me!”

  “Er,” said Manlius, eyeing the man’s mighty, glistening thews.

  “I … am not feeling well enough to jog,” Petronius made excuse.

  The Roman turned his back to the pair and squatted down on his heels. For a brief moment Petronius thought the giant might take a shit right there to show his opinion of such weakness, but then he looked over his shoulder and gestured to Petronius.

  “If you are in need, friend, then I shall carry you!” he said, when Petronius stared at him dumbly.

  “That—that won’t be necessary,” said Petronius. “I think a walk would be good for me. Salubrious. Don’t want the legs to atrophy and all that.”

  “Mind you walk quickly,” said the man, straightening up. “You are wanted, Manlius, but I shall try to help while you are on your way.” He grinned at them with teeth whiter than a toga candida. “I stayed up late trying to learn a few words of their language. Things like meat, drink, earth, water … love …”

  “Then you’d better get over there,” advised Petronius. “We’ll be right behind you.”

  “Hail Caesar!” he agreed—and was gone, his big bare feet making dents in the sand as he ran swiftly along the shore.

  “Who in the world is that?” asked Petronius, as they ambled after. “He knew your name.”

  “Do you really not know?”

  “Should I?”

  “Gods above! That’s—that’s Spurius Calipash, the greatest warrior in the Roman army! He’s famous! I know it’s treasonous to think so, but I reckon that long after people have forgotten the name Caligula, they’ll still be talking about Spurius. He’s fantastically strong and brave, he’s been awarded honors for courage many times over. They say he’s been offered the command of his own century thrice, but each time he says he’s better as a follower of orders than a giver of the same.” Manlius shrugged. “Supposed to be terrifically nice too, if a bit daft.”

  “A bit, you say?” Petronius sniffed. “Imagine, being impressed by a barbarian with a shell for a horn. Seems rather un-Roman, if you ask me.”

  “That’s Spurius. Never spoken a mean word to his fellow man.”

  “Why, Manlius! You almost sound impressed.”

  Manlius shrugged. “I am. Maybe for the same reason Spurius liked those shell-trumpets.”

  “Eh?”

  “Difference is always fascinating,” said Manlius, and picked up his pace as he headed toward the gathering Roman army.

  ***

  As he tramped upland with a pack strapped to his scrawny shoulders, Petronius decided his life could—officially—get no worse. The borrowed caligae on his feet were already giving him blisters, his helmet was slightly too large, and the stupid heavy short-sword at his side slapped his thigh annoyingly. Why the general had required him carry one was beyond him—he’d never fought with a sword, and had doubts as to whether he could even swing the stupid thing, much less hit a target. At least they hadn’t given him one of those fancy new-fangled long swords, the spathae, that were even bigger and stupider and heavier.

  But the worst part was he had no idea how long he would have to endure this torment. He and the rest of his party had been sent to scout out whether the white cliffs of Dubris were still mobbed with savage Britons (and if they were, to head north to Rutupiae, to beg some aid), so it could be weeks—nay, months, of constant danger, making haste through the wilds of Britannia. Angry natives were probably the least of their worries. What monsters lurked in these black forests, what horrors would he encounter on these blasted heaths?

  Spurius slowed his pace and fell back beside Petronius, who briefly mused that he had been wrong—if the giant was going to talk to him the whole time, then his life could get worse.

  “Are you excited, Roman? I am excited,” he said, grinning. “Think of it!”

  “Think of what?” gasped Petronius, out of breath from his exertions.

  “Why, exploring this place!” Spurius looked ecstatic, as though he was act
ively having a religious experience. “This fresh new country, the wildernesses, the sights! I have been a military man my whole life,” he said happily, “but never have I been assigned to this sort of mission! We’ll be the first Romans to see this realm!”

  By Jove, the man was tearing up! Had he no shame? Winded, Petronius couldn’t sigh, but he really wanted to.

  “Funny, isn’t it, how we just met—and now, look, we’re traveling companions!” Petronius had a sudden vision of Spurius running in circles and peeing himself like an excited puppy. “It’s just you, me, and Manlius out here—and of course,” here he uttered something guttural and incomprehensible.

  “Oh, is that her name?” said Petronius, looking over at The Thing, who had a pack twice the size of any of theirs and yet seemed far less fatigued by the arduous pace of their journey. Like so much else associated with this voyage, she appeared even more sobering in the light of day.

  “She is a vision,” said Spurius, and even Manlius, who’d been moody and silent since they set out, laughed. The staccato sound caused The Thing’s head to snap around, and she stopped and bared her teeth at them.

  “Barbar,” she said. “Bar?”

  Petronius and Spurius turned to Manlius.

  “Danger?” asked Spurius.

  “Are we lost?” asked Petronius.

  The Thing unslung her pack and began to root around in it, finally withdrawing a strip of smoked meat. She started to chew on it. At them. Open-mouthed.

  “Oh, a break,” said Manlius.

  “You’re really an excellent translator, do you know that?” said Petronius, as he stripped off his gear and sat down with a grunt. “How you parsed that grammar is beyond me, it was so very complex. You are to be commended.”

  “Shut up,” said Manlius. “Save your breath for when we start walking again.”

  And save his breath he did, during an extended debate wherein Manlius and Spurius tried to ascertain why their guide was taking them due north, when the river they’d wrecked along had flowed south, and according to what they’d understood from the barbarians during the council, the coastline went vaguely east.

  Dubris and Rutupiae were both on the coast.

  “Bar, barbar,” insisted The Thing, pointing northward, looking frustrated. She turned to Petronius, as if expecting him to agree with him. “Bar?”

  Spurius looked unhappy. “She’s saying … yes,” he said uncertainly.

  “She’s definitely saying yes,” retorted Manlius, “the issue is, what is she saying yes about?”

  Inevitable, thought Petronius, turning away from them. He’d known something like this would happen, the previous day’s council had been a total mess. The barbarians, to their credit, had gone hunting and brought them a reasonable amount of food—a surprising show of hospitality—but beyond their understanding that the Romans would be hungry, Petronius had his doubts how much had been made clear to them.

  “Well, ‘stones’ is ‘bar,’ I think,” Manlius had said, as they sat around after the feast with a group of savages, all wearing their outlandish garb and facepaint, weapons clacking against each other whenever they shifted. He’d lifted a rock and pointed to it. “Bar?”

  The barbarians had nodded enthusiastically, laughing and poking one another.

  “All right. So what if we try … many piled stones?” he had said to Nerva, the legion’s general.

  “You are the translator, not me,” Nerva had replied. He hadn’t snapped, but his tone had been rather brusque.

  “Well, I mean, that’s what the fort would look like to them, right? They build with wattle, daub, and thatch, far as I can tell. And ‘people’ is ‘bar’ so I’ll … here we go.”

  Manlius had then turned and bowed to the man with the nicest sword and the crown on his head, a great barrel-chested personage with a penetrating gaze and a black beard streaked white. He was scarier than any person Petronius had ever seen, save for The Thing—who seemed deep in the man’s council. She sat on his right side, idly scratching behind the ears of a ferocious-looking mongrel with keen, yellow eyes and a shaggy grey coat that lay panting at her feet.

  Manlius cleared his throat. “Er, barbar bar, bar-bar?” He gestured to the assembled Romans. “Barbar.”

  “Barbarbarbarbar,” the man with the crown on his head had replied, looking very perturbed. “Bar? Barbarbar, bar, bar-bar, barbarbarbar.”

  “Barbar,” murmured the rest of the savages.

  “Barbar,” said The Thing, shaking her head. “Bar.”

  “Well?” Nerva had asked.

  “I think he said there was such a place, far from here, but his people do not like to go there,” Manlius had said uncertainly.

  “You think?” Nerva crossed his arms over his chest. “Thinking is less useful than knowing.”

  Manlius had deflated somewhat at this reprimand, but nodded and turned back to the assembled savages.

  “Barbar?” Manlius then said to the king or chief or whatever he was. “Barbar, bar, barbar?”

  “Bar,” The Thing had shouted, leaping to her feet. Her dog had done the same, howling like a wolf.

  “Barbarbar,” the king had said to The Thing, and she’d sat back down again, looking mutinous. Then he’d said “Barbar, barbarbarbarbarbar, bar,” to Manlius.

  “He says that yes, he’s sure there is a great place of piled stones, and that his people avoid it because it is, ah, dangerous.” Manlius had laughed nervously. “He says that many great terrible battles were fought there by his people and that the enemy was legion and skilled. They wore armor and were ‘like us’ apparently.”

  “It does sound as if they’d been thrashed by the Roman army,” Nerva had said.

  “He says we should not go there, but he will assign us a guide if we will not be dissuaded.” Manlius sounded unhappy.

  “Well, even if they’re leading us on some wild goose chase you’ll have time enough to learn more of their language,” mused Nerva. “We can try again when you get back.”

  “Yes,” Manlius had agreed, not looking too pleased about the prospect of traveling with the party. “So … you intend to send me along?”

  “Of course. You’re the only one who can speak their language,” Nerva had said. Then he’d pointed at Spurius. “You, Roman, shall lead the endeavor, by your own request. Manlius shall translate. I want you to travel light, and with great haste, so only one other in your party. Whom do you choose?”

  Manlius had piped right up. “If Petronius came with us, he could keep a record of the mission.”

  Petronius’ mouth had fallen open at this betrayal, but he’d shut it quickly when he saw The Thing pointing at him and whispering to the king. “I’m still, ah, recovering from my trials,” he’d said, when he recovered his power of speech. “I shall slow everyone down, so—”

  Nerva had silenced him with a dismissive wave of his hand. “All of us are still recovering. Some have severe injuries, broken legs and arms.”

  “I’m sure they—”

  “Roman!” Nerva had shouted, pointing at a solider whose arm was in a sling. “Would you go, if asked?”

  “Sir yes sir! I live only to serve Rome through my general’s orders!” the soldier in question had cried, having stood the instant Nerva’s eyes alighted on him. “Were my leg broken I would crawl to serve you, sir! Hail Caesar!”

  “A bit wordy, but admirable nonetheless,” Nerva had said wryly. “Now, Petronius, do you still think yourself unable?”

  “I …” Petronius could find nary a sympathetic eye. The barbarians had looked amused; they might not speak Latin but they clearly knew a call-out when they saw one. The Thing’s eyes in particular had been glued to his face; she openly laughed at him, snorting like a horse. “I shall go. Hail—hail Caesar.”

  “Horsemaster Bronius has already informed me that none of our surviving steeds are strong enough to bear riders,” Nerva had said, and for a moment Petronius had a mad impulse to ask if the horses were not Roman enough to serve the
ir Caesar, but decided it would be best to keep his mouth shut, “so you shall have to go on foot. Light armor and weapons only. Now, Manlius—tell them to elect a representative to guide you.”

  “Barbarbar,” the king had replied, gesturing to The Thing. To Petronius’ deep surprise, she did not protest. Instead, she looked very sober indeed, and nodded once in assent.

  “A woman?” Nerva’s tone oozed incredulity.

  “He says she is the best scout among his people,” Manlius had said.

  And now, of course, they were lost—or going to the wrong place—or something, thought Petronius, gazing out over the mist-wreathed, heathered hills.

  “I just don’t understand how we can be heading towards Dubris if we’re going north,” insisted Manlius in low tones when Spurius trotted off on an urgent natural errand. “We could be taking a short cut, I suppose.”

  “Or heading towards our deaths,” said Petronius. “That seems far more likely.”

  Manlius did not reply, but shouldered his pack when he saw Spurius returning. Then the soldier doubled back and disappeared again.

  “I wonder if their food disagrees with him,” remarked Manlius.

  “Surely not,” said Petronius. “It’s just that tortoises always lay two eggs.”

  Manlius laughed. “You’re nasty. Is that true?”

  “Of course. Everybody knows that.” Petronius glanced up and groaned. “But here he comes again. Godsdamn it, that means back on our feet. I’m already tired of this adventure.”

  “Cheer up!” said Spurius, trotting back into camp. “You look glum as a hooked fish, Petronius. Let us sally forth—exercise is the best thing to chase away the blues, you know.”

  Petronius sighed.

  ***

  Late in the day they left the hills behind them and entered a beech-wood. The dim light and rustling branches were spooky—even The Thing seemed nervous. She had made it very clear before they set foot in the forest they should make their way through the slender, parchment-barked trees as quickly as possible, though Manlius had not been able to ascertain why she felt so strongly about it. Not for lack of trying, to their mutual frustration: The conversation became heated after a time, and ended with The Thing cawing like a crow and then throwing up her hands in disgust when the Romans stared at her without an inkling of what she might be trying to tell them.