A Pretty Mouth (34 page)

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—and 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.

“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.

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