A Pretty Mouth (35 page)

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,
bar
bar?”

“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 their 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.

As it turned out, the forest was thick with ravens. They perched everywhere, on branches, upon fallen logs and stones; flapped through the treetops and hopped through the underbrush. They saw no other creatures.

“She was worried about the
birds
?” whispered Petronius.

“Bar,” said The Thing, holding a finger to her lips as she trod lightly upon the loamy forest floor, her pace quick, her expression grim. She relaxed somewhat after they reached the other side, but would not let them make camp until they were some distance from the treeline. Even then she would not let them light a fire.

“I wish we could talk with her more,” said Spurius, as they shivered in their cloaks, eating cold rations. At the sound of his voice The Thing looked up at them, but when he smiled and waved at her a little she scowled. “She must have had an amazing life.”

“Do wild animals have amazing lives?” asked Petronius skeptically. “She rises with the sun, hunts, eats, shits, mates, and goes to bed when it’s dark.”

“Why, Petronius! She is a woman of strength and courage; a human with a culture! Look at her! Even just her jewelry, the inlaid sheath for her dagger—”

“I have heard it said that magpies bring back shining objects to decorate their nests,” interrupted Petronius. “That doesn’t mean they have a culture.”

“She let me hold her sword earlier, it’s well-balanced and the blade is keen. You do not give these people enough credit.” Spurius shook his head. “If only we could understand one another, I wonder what she could tell us.”

Petronius drew his cloak tighter about his shoulders. A chill wind ruffled his hair. “You are a soldier, which means you’ve killed for Rome,” he said, “so you know that one day Romans will conquer this whole land. Like everyone else, her people will either die in battle, unremembered and unlamented by history … or they will yield to the standard of Rome and become civilized Latin-speakers.” He looked up at Spurius, who looked disturbed, smaller, perhaps, after this description of his career. “
Then
, maybe—if you yet live—you can find out what cradle-songs her mother sang her, and what she likes best for breakfast.”

“By Jove,” said Manlius, “you’re a cynic.”

“You’re not married,” countered Petronius. “Take her to wife, if you think her such a treasure! Or are you a hypocrite, who in his heart sees these savages as the very worms of the earth, as I—”

“Ssst,” said The Thing.

The Romans fell silent, and then they heard it too—a crunching sound, as of leaves trampled by feet.

Something was coming.

Spurius’ dagger was in his fist before Petronius had time to feel afraid. Manlius had his hand on the hilt of his borrowed
gladius
—had the translator ever undergone any martial training? Not even pretending to valor, Petronius elected to pull on his sandals, all the better to make a break for it if things got ugly.

It was less dark than the night before: A thin crescent moon shone through the scudding clouds, as did the myriad stars. Still, in the shadows of these strange hills, the light did little to help them see, and the small group was tense with anticipation.

Another crunch, then a whining that did not sound human.

Petronius’ blood pounded in his ears. He was terrified, and began to slink away from the direction in which The Thing and Spurius squinted.

The Thing stepped forward, sword in hand. Spurius tried to step in front of her, indicating he would go first, but she shoved him so hard he was caught off balance and almost fell.

“Bar-bar!” she cried in the blackness, taking a step forward. “Bar!”

The sound of quickened footfalls on the earth, and then something bounded out of the blackness and struck her in the chest. With a cry she fell backwards and hit the ground, and Spurius, steady on his feet again, rushed over—and then began to laugh.

“It’s all right!” he cried. “It’s—come and see!”

Petronius, nonplussed, cautiously returned to camp, and found The Thing laughing as the mongrel that had sat at her feet during the council licked her face raw. She seemed to have mixed feelings about his presence: While she cooed at and petted the dog, jabbering at him fondly, she kept looking worriedly into the darkness around them.

“Barbar,” she said with a nod to Spurius, when he made motions as if he, too, would like to pet the animal. He reached out his hand and the dog snapped at him. The Thing laughed—but so did Spurius, which brought a ghastly smile to her face.

“Spurius,” said Spurius, pointing at his chest. He pointed at her and said the name Petroinius couldn’t even begin to puzzle out, and she nodded. Then he pointed at the dog.

She said something. Spurius repeated it, and she nodded at him, smiling.

Petronius shook his head. “Gods,” he muttered to Manlius. “And now a menagerie.”

“What is
wrong
with you?” said Manlius.

“Hey,
you
volunteered
me
. If you didn’t want my company …”