I was about to ask for Chickpea’s help, outof a habit that was formed when I was young, but I managed to stopmyself, asking instead, “Do you have anyone who can help with thehorses, Mama?”
“No, I’m afraid not.” Sheshook her head. “Septimus has…reduced the number of people tohelp.”
With that, I led the animals to the barnwhile my mother hurried into the villa to prepare something for meto eat and drink while I waited, leaving me alone to wonder whetherthis move by Septimus was by choice or by circumstances.
I had been worried that my reunion withSeptimus would be strained, given the past we shared, and I wasalso worried about he had been coping with the aftermath of hiskilling of his brother Gaius. As necessary as it may have been,killing a brother still has to weigh heavily on a man’s mind, and Iwas concerned that my presence might not be viewed with any kindfeelings by Septimus, since my wife Algaia was the unwitting causefor much of what had transpired. However, when he entered thekitchen and our eyes met, after his initial but understandableshock, he crossed the room and swept me into an embrace as we bothlaughed, and I sensed no awkwardness in his manner. Which was good,because once the joy of our reunion was over, I was acutely awarethat our most dangerous enemy was time.
Where do I even start? This was the thoughtin my mind, but what came out of my mouth was, “Gnaeus needs yourhelp, Septimus.”
“Of course!” he exclaimedimmediately, but then frowned. “But where is he?”
The next few moments were spent with medeciding as the words came out of my mouth about how much to share.I knew that my mother did not like hearing about the exploits ofthe Pullus men fighting for Rome, but I was equally aware thatSeptimus would want to hear everything. Deciding there would betime to fill Septimus in on the things in which he would beinterested, I gave the bare bones of Gnaeus’ dilemma.
Once I was done, the silence dragged out formore heartbeats than I can easily count, but it was Septimus whobroke it by repeating, “His weight in gold?”
“I’m afraid so,” Ianswered, watching his face carefully, trying to get a hint ofwhether this was even in the realm of possibility.
“But how much would thatbe?” he wondered, then asked, “Do you know how much he weighsanyway?”
It was something I had been struggling with,mainly because the Parisii had made no indication whether they knewhow much Gnaeus weighed, nor had we been given any time to discusswhat the amount they would accept would be, which I was forced toexplain, then said, “I know he weighs more than two hundred twentypounds, but how much more? Or,” I shrugged, “whether these Parisiibastards know that, I have no idea.”
He stared at the cup in front of him for amoment, then took a breath.
“Of course,” he saidsimply. “He’s my nephew, after all.” Even with the topic at hand,we grinned at each other at the absurdity of Septimus viewingGnaeus as a nephew, both because of their respective ages, but morethan anything, their relative size, although Septimus is tall for aRoman, and with a good build, though not in the same class as theson of his brother Titus. “But,” the grin faded as he thought aboutthe problem, “it will take some time for me to get that much goldin hand.”
I had been prepared for this, but it wasstill with some trepidation that I asked, “How long do you think itwill take?”
“At least four days, maybefive,” he answered.
I did not bother hiding my relief, and Irealized I had held my breath waiting for his reply, since Ihonestly had been expecting to hear a month, or worse.
“That,” I finally managedto get out, “is much appreciated, Septimus. And I know Gnaeus willbe very thankful.”
“How was he?” my mother,who had been silent the entire time, asked. “When you left him, Imean?”
“He was fine,” I assuredher, but I did grin as I told her, “or, at least as fine as hecould be under the circumstances. I pity the Parisii, though.They’re going to have their hands full trying to keep him frombashing them.”
“What are they like?” sheasked. “These Parisii?”
Without thinking, I shrugged and said, “Likeevery other barbarian tribe that Rome has run into, I suppose.”
I should have known better; my mother mayhave been part of Rome for most of her life, but while she did notand does not speak about it, she had been born a slave to parentsof the Anatilli tribe who had been captured during Divus Julius’campaigns against the Gallic tribes.
And, as soon as the words were out, Iregretted them, so I reached across the table to take her hand,“I’m sorry, Mama. I didn’t mean it the way it sounded.”
“I know,” she assured me,but there was no mistaking what her eyes were telling me, and itwas the worst possible thing; I had expected her to be angry, butshe was hurt.
“Yes, well,” I hurried on,my mind racing to think of something I could offer that would steerus away from sensitive subjects. Then I remembered, “They usechariots. And they’re quite skilled.” I thought for a momentlonger. “Not as many of the men wear beards as the Germanic tribeseither. They prefer to wear a mustache, but they let it grow so theends hang down to,” I gestured to just below my chin, “here. Oh,and their women wear more jewelry than you’d see with the Germanictribes.”
“Not with the Gauls,” mymother interjected, and I heard the pride there. “That’s the customwith our women as well.”
“What do the women looklike?” Septimus asked, grinning as he said it, giving me a wink ashe did.
And my mother took the bait, rolling hereyes and sniffing. “Of course that’s what you want to know,Septimus. It’s all you think about.”
“Not all the time,” heprotested, but I knew he was teasing, because after a pause, headded, “just most of the time I’m awake.”
This made my mother laugh, which was, and issomething that I love to see, but I answered Septimus honestly,“Their women are…” I shrugged, “…women.
