The Flames that Engulfed Us

Chapter 32: Paulus Caepasius Ulfila

Somehow, I hadn't noticed that the men all had different uniforms. They were all a blue, darker than Lincoln's, but they looked like a team of high budget historical reenactors had gotten together. One man had a breastplate and the armored skirt thingy that history books always showed people wearing. He started to speak rapidly, stepping forwards so my breath caught as he gripped Lincoln's shoulder. Lincoln tried to shrug him off, but from what I saw, it only made the man grip even tighter.

He wasn't speaking English, and I noticed he had olive skin. I listened, realizing he was speaking in Latin. That made sense with his clothes. My guess would be that he was from Ancient Rome, in which case we were especially screwed.

I didn't understand what he said. I'd tried to teach myself Latin, thinking it would be cool, but I promptly gave up. I did the minimum of my foreign language courses in Spanish, which was very unhelpful just then.

"C.C" I asked, "the man talking now, is he from Rome?"

"You're observant, Glowstick. He is, but I wouldn't mention anything after Constantine to him. He's touchy about how Rome converted to Christianity."

I was glad for my fascination with history, looking back up at C.C. "So, then he's pagan?"

"Yes."

"When specifically, is he from? After Augustus, I would assume? If he knows it's an Empire?"

"I don't know. All that stuff went right over my head."

I wanted to make him let go of Lincoln. I wanted to figure out how to wrap him in a bubble and have him be safe. But as I watched the Roman, his lips moving to make sounds I didn't understand, I felt that it was going to be what I would expect.

Crash course in Ancient Roman history: politicians paid for the people's entertainment to gain support to win elections, and the entertainment was basically just gory death. The Coliseum was brutal, and as I watched him move his hands along with his animated speech, I was sick to my stomach.

"Does he speak English?" I asked.

"Broken English."

"Oh," I said, not sure what to do.

"Hey, Paul," C.C. called, "can you use your English please?"

He glared at us, but kept speaking in a very, very broken English. "His name is Paul?"

"Well, his full name is Paulus Caepasius Ulfila, but I call him Paul."

"He doesn't get a nickname?"

"Hell no. I'm too afraid he'd find a way to kill me again. And I don't envy the people he really did kill. He's vicious."

I watched even closer for that comment.

"My turn to decide punishment," Paul said, jabbing his finger at himself, and stepping away from Lincoln. "My turn."

"But you always go overboard with it," one of the other men whined. "I don't want to get in trouble again."

"You not get in trouble. I control myself. I officer. You trust me."

Lincoln turned his head to look back at me. For a moment I thought he was going to walk back to me, pull me up, and wrap me in a hug, but then he just turned back around and paid attention to the conversation again. But that one look, one glance at his chocolate brown eyes, and I saw the fear that was lapping in them. He was brave, I didn't need anyone to tell me that, but the situation was out of control. My heart was beating extra fast, and not in the way he usually made me.

"My turn! You swore."

They weren't going to let Paul decide. But then, all at once, they all gave in.

"Fine," one of them said, now I realized he wore overalls from the industrial revolution, "you can choose, but we ain't letting you go willy nilly like last time, you hear?"

"Yes."

"We ain't got all day, you know."

Lincoln met my eyes again. I made a move to stand up, but C.C.'s hand was immediately pushing me back down. Lincoln looked like he wanted to punch the man who called himself Clam Chowder, but he stayed rooted to the spot.

"Don't mix in, Glowstick. It's better to be on the sidelines."

Lincoln had given up on the men around him and was only looking at us. For a moment, I honestly thought he was going to move over towards me.

"I take it that's the kind of thing you still have to try," I told C.C., trying to discretely wriggle my way out of his grasp.

Lincoln opened his mouth to say something, but it was drowned out by Paul's voice again and he closed it without a sound. He stared distrustfully at the hand pushing me into my chair. I barely felt it, and I knew if I wanted, I could throw it off with minimal effort, but I had the sinking feeling that C.C.'s advice was sage, but I was still young. I could still afford myself stupidity.

"Forward, boy."

There was Paul again, and Lincoln snapped his focus away from me, to the man who called for him. I felt myself starting to heat up as I saw the whip the Roman clutched. I didn't burn C.C., but his hand quickly became slick with sweat. I could feel the way he didn't want to touch me anymore. I made sure I didn't burn him, but he took his hand off my shoulder. No one noticed. They all were looking at the Roman, annoyed that he took his time.

He held the coiled weapon up to Lincoln's face.

"You know this?"

Lincoln nodded slowly, and Paul shoved it closer to his face.

"Say it."

Lincoln didn't look as rattled as I felt, calmly answering. "That's a whip, I believe."

I flinched in my seat, but Lincoln seemed like he was only holding a polite interest in the conversation. He didn't twitch. He looked strong.

"Don't mix in," C. C. whispered urgently.

"I can't let them hurt him," I murmured back.

I was standing, but only C.C. noticed. "You know how this used?"

"Yes."

It was amazing I didn't choke on the lump in my throat, as I stood, watching. The Roman grunted, reverting to Latin.

"The boy only speaks English," someone called to him.

To be fair, Lincoln had also taken a foreign language course in Spanish, but neither of us could hold that much of a conversation in it, so I guess that statement was correct.

"You," the Roman started, sounding annoyed, "describe how."

"You want me to describe how a whip is used?"

"Yes."

"No." Lincoln said, his voice just as level and detached, "I don't want to."

The man went on for a good while in his native tongue, sounding angry. I assume some of what he said was profane from the reaction of the few men around him who seemed to understand it.

"Just get on with it," someone interrupted, slinking away as they were fixed with a hard stare.

The Roman didn't seem like he wanted to get on with it though. He was just being antagonistic, and Lincoln's one defiant line only spurred that on. My idiot was going to get himself killed.