An Island of Talking Heads

Caligulus Minus shivered as he boarded the trireme floating off the Gaulish coast. He looked back at the shore. ‘I don’t like it,’ he said to Sextus Paulus, standing next in line to him.

     ‘We’re not paid to like it,’ said Paulus shortly, looking straight ahead of him. ‘Emperor Claudius is sending us, it must be the will of the gods.’ Minus looked at the dark, heaving water beyond them. The open sea was a strange, hostile force to him. He had seen little of it in his lifetime. The elements had their own spaces, and should be respected. Earth; fire; air; water. The god of water would be displeased. He seemed angry indeed as the trireme rocked to and fro. Minus said a silent prayer for a safe homecoming as he boarded, apprehensive, carrying his pack and spear. The long decks stretched below them like a wide empty mouth, the rowlocks awaiting like teeth for a meal. Minus walked to his place, again behind Paulus, stowed his kit and awaited the order to begin rowing. The centurion marched up and down the centre as the rowing positions were filled.

     ‘Stand by!’ he barked. ‘Prepare to depart!’ Minus comforted himself with the familiar procedure, taking orders. This was surely no different to other missions the Ninth had undertaken. But perhaps Neptune would still be angry. The invasion under Divine Julius had failed, after all. His hand shook as he grasped the oar. It was good, firm carpentry, shaped by Roman hands. The galley filled up, and they prepared to cast off. Minus felt better as they began to move with the tide, in and out, in and out, to the beat of the drum. In front of him, it was Paulus who looked anxious, prone to seasickness.

     ‘I’ve heard such things,’ he whispered under his breath. ‘the people of this island are such barbarians! They sacrifice on the wrong days, and I heard from my uncle here in Gaul, who traded with some of them, they have riches in their burials…’

     ‘Riches?’ Minus looked interested for the first time, keeping the rhythm, and out of range of the centurion’s eye.

     ‘Yes, but not as we use them. I heard… of sacrificial totems, of things worshipped after they are dead, of stones with holes in their heads, heads that talk after they are dead.’

     ‘After death?’

     ‘Yes. They are… unholy relics. Their ancestors never leave them in peace.’ Minus thought as he rowed, flexing his large muscles. Perhaps his ancestors would travel with him, to the treasure, to this island of talking heads.