Marching With Caesar-Final Campaign, page 55
If anything, he was thinner, though I found that hard to believe. For a brief moment, I had the horrifying feeling that I would pass out, and I was forced to grab at the wall as my mind struggled to comprehend the sight before me. He was still wearing his cloak, although it was no longer the red Legionary sagum that we had both worn for so many years. It was clearly expensive, but very plain; a brown, drab color that looked like thousands of other such garments. For blending in, he could not have selected a better one, or color. I saw how drawn his face was, stabbing me with a pang of such guilt that it took my breath away, but his voice was as strong as I remembered it from our days together as tiros.
"The great Titus Pullus is speechless?" It was not until I heard his dry, sardonic tone that I realized how much I had missed it. "What a shock."
"What...why... how did you get here?" I finally stammered.
"How do you think? I swam," he replied with a deadly serious face.
Finally regaining a bit of my composure, I crossed the room to sweep him into a hug, Scribonius standing just in time. I have never been so relieved, and so guilty, all at the same time.
"I hate the fact that you're here," I told him. "But I am so glad that you are."
"Well, I was thinking of making a trip to Rome anyway," he joked, but we both knew this was not true.
The truth was that Sextus Scribonius was taking a huge risk in showing up here, in Rome, after "dying" on campaign. We had managed to fool Marcus Primus, and he had entered Scribonius' death in the official record of his campaign. Which, of course, meant that the record of his death had reached Rome as well, and neither Scribonius nor I harbored any illusions that this kind of deception, if discovered, would escape the attention of Octavian, who seemed to know the number of kernels of grain that the average Legionary ate on any given day. I was already neck deep in it, but by Scribonius risking detection coming back to Rome, particularly since his family was wealthy plebeian, he was taking a huge risk.
"This time it wasn't my fault," was all I could think to say.
I was relieved when I saw Scribonius nod.
"I know," he agreed. "That's why I came. After I read the letter from Gaius, I made some inquiries of my own. What's happening to you is unjust. And I'm going to do what I can to keep it from happening."
I knew better than to ask why; he was my friend. My best, and now my longest friend, and we had shared so much over the years that we were closer than brothers. Only another fighting man can understand how it is possible to be more closely bound than by blood, but it is true. I can no more explain it than I can walk across water, but I know that it is true in a way that is more elemental than any other thing I know. The reality is, if the situation were reversed, even as much as I valued my career, I would do the same for Scribonius without a moment's hesitation. Such is the bond between men who have shed blood with another. I sat down next to him, and we did not speak for several moments as we looked at each other. While it was true that it had just been a few months since we had last seen each other, on that night after our attack on the Thracians that had been trailing us, and the Tribune Scipio had been killed, so much had happened that made it seem like much longer. For his part, Scribonius had crossed the wilds of Thrace, Moesia, and Macedonia, alone, before taking ship to finally reach Alexandria. As we sat there, he filled me in on what a letter could not have said, especially one written in the form of code as he did.
"I was wondering how much you would understand," he told me.
"You're not that clever," I snorted. "I figured it out almost immediately."
"I would hope so," Scribonius retorted. "I made it simple enough that a child could figure it out."
I cannot express how reassuring and comforting it was that we fell so easily back into our former pattern of banter, and I could see that he was similarly pleased. Soon enough, though, he turned his attention to the problem.
"So, Diocles has informed me of where matters stand now," he began. "You approached Agrippa about Claudius being your defense counsel. That was a good idea, by the way," he added, pleasing me a great deal, but he was oblivious to my happiness as he continued, "but that just makes it more of a problem that it didn't work out. He also tells me that you're not giving up hope on using him?"
I shook my head.
"No, he convinced me," I shot Diocles a grin, "that it would be a bad idea to just give up on that line of thinking."
"As usual, he's right," Scribonius told me, delighting Diocles to no end, who sat there looking insufferably pleased with himself. "But if you can't meet with him, it's only that, an idea."
He took a deep breath as he stared down at the table, lost in thought, that frown on his face so oddly comforting as a part of me fought the urge to relax now that he was here. Unbidden, the thought crept into my mind as he was talking that perhaps this would be the one problem Scribonius could not solve, but I ruthlessly pushed it away, refusing to accept this as even a remote possibility.
Sighing, Scribonius said, "My father is friends with his father. I can reach out to Claudius that way."
Those simple words froze my blood.
"But that would put you in even more jeopardy than you already are," I protested, then shook my head emphatically. "No, I can't allow you to put yourself in that much danger."
"Believe it or not, Titus, you don't command me anymore," Scribonius retorted. "And I can do as I please. Besides," his tone softened, and his face took on a somber expression, "if I'm being honest, this trip to Rome isn't all about you. As it happens, my father is ailing, and my brother doesn't think he'll survive much longer. He's 78 years old, after all."
Nothing more was said for a moment, then he straightened up.
"Well, there's no time to lose. If not for your sake, then for my father's."
Standing, he offered his hand, but I grabbed him in a hug again. He promised that he would return as quickly as he could and, with that, he left my quarters.
Scribonius did not return to my quarters until the middle of the next day, and I canceled my daily ride with Ocelus while Diocles and I waited for him. Neither of us saw any point in Diocles skulking about Claudius' villa, such was our faith in Scribonius. Despite expecting him, when there came a banging of the door both of us jumped out of our chairs, chuckling at our respective nerves. Diocles went and opened the door, and Scribonius stepped in. I noticed that he had kept the hood of his cloak up, which pleased me that he was not taking unnecessary risks. When he pulled the hood back, I searched his face for any sign of the news that he brought, but his face was closed, betraying nothing. Walking over to the table, he sat heavily and, without him asking, I poured him a cup of wine, but when I went to add water, he shook his head. Scribonius was even more abstemious in his wine than I was, so this was the first sign that something was amiss. As it turned out, it was, but not in the way I thought. After he drank deeply from the cup, he took a deep breath as he gathered his thoughts.
"I'm not sure how to begin," he started, and I stifled an urge to snap at him. "Because it's...complicated."
"You mean more than I already thought?" I muttered, but although I meant it as a joke, he obviously took me seriously, because he gave a grave nod.
"Yes," he told me. "It's much more complicated than even I could imagine."
"That's wonderful," I groaned, but he ignored me, refilling his wine cup before he did anything else.
But when he turned his head to Diocles, neither of us were prepared for what Scribonius was about to say.
"You were right, Diocles, when you counseled Titus that he should have had Claudius brought up on charges for his role in Natalis' scheme."
It took a moment for his words to register, as I was forced to shift my mental frame of reference from this campaign with Primus to the one that had occurred five years before, with Marcus Crassus.
For his part, Diocles did not look very pleased that he had been right, but I saw that he seemed to understand Scribonius immediately.
"The money," Diocles breathed.
Scribonius nodded grimly.
"Yes, the money. Or rather," he amended, "the fact that you caught Claudius trying to take a cut."
Although I had caught up to what we were talking about and thought I understood, I was still bewildered by what Scribonius and Diocles were saying.
"Wait a moment," I interrupted. "Are you saying that somehow the fact that I didn't bring him up on charges is working against me in some way? If anything, that should mean that he's more than willing to help me."
"Normally, you'd be right," Scribonius agreed. "But there's something else going on here. I don't know what exactly it is, but here's what I do know. The person behind this attempt to destroy you isn't Lucullus. It's his uncle, Claudius' father."
"His father?" Now I was thoroughly confused. "Why would his father care anything about me?"
"I don't know exactly," Scribonius conceded. "But I have an idea."
Apparently, so did Diocles, because I saw his head nodding up and down, so it was with some irritation I turned to him.
"You seem to know what he's talking about," I said sourly. "So why don't you catch up the slowest one of the bunch?"
"You're not the slowest," Diocles protested. "You just don't think the same way as someone like Claudius' father." Taking a breath, he glanced at Scribonius, who gave a slight nod. "If I'm thinking along the same lines as Master Scribonius, the very fact that you didn't prosecute Claudius for his...indiscretion with Natalis and his extortion scheme is why you're a danger to him. Consider it this way; as long as you're in the post of Camp Prefect, and as long as your status and reputation is intact, you pose a threat to his son. But if he destroys you?" Diocles gave a shrug. "The threat goes away."
I looked over to Scribonius, who gave a grim nod.
"He's right," my friend said. "My father actually had a conversation with Claudius' father not too long ago, who came to ask my father what he knew about you."
That puzzled me, but Scribonius cleared matters up, looking a little embarrassed, and a trifle defensive.
"I told you that I had started communicating with my father," he told me, then looked away as he continued with a shrug. "And it was only natural that I talked about you some."
"Some?" I asked suspiciously. "Just some?"
"All right," he snapped. "Maybe quite a bit. Titus, whether you know it or not, you're famous. My father was curious about what the great Titus Pullus was like, and so I told him."
There was a time, not that long before, that I would have puffed up my chest at hearing that I was known by members of Scribonius' class, but at that moment, it was anything but pleasing.
"And what my father told Claudius' father apparently convinced him that you were a threat that needed to be dealt with."
"Maybe your father should have kept his mouth shut," I grumbled, but the moment the words came out of my mouth, I regretted them.
"My father only spoke the truth," Scribonius shot back, and I could see that I had angered him a great deal.
I immediately held my hands up in a placating gesture.
"I'm truly sorry, Sextus," I said, and I meant it. "I shouldn't have said that, and I know your father is an honorable man. And I know that you told him the truth. Please forgive me."
For the barest instant, I was afraid that he would not, as he continued to glare at me, but then he relented.
"You're forgiven. As usual." He gave me a tired smile. Turning back to the subject, he continued, "But what we don't know is how Claudius himself feels about this."
I considered this for a moment, trying to recall the young Tribune that had been so haughty at the beginning of Crassus' campaign, and the change that I thought was sincere after I saved his life. Thinking about the conversations we had held, both contentious and inconsequential, I closed my eyes as I attempted to feel some sort of sense about the young patrician's character. Finally, all I could do was shake my head in frustration.
"I'm going to have to talk to him," I said. "That's the only way I can think of to get some sort of idea."
"And how do you propose to do that?" Diocles demanded, but out of the corner of my eye, I saw Scribonius shift in his seat, in a way that told me something was coming.
"Actually," he broke in. "I've thought about that, and I think I know a way. But," he finished, "we have to do it immediately. As in tonight."
"That soon?" Diocles was clearly skeptical. "How do you propose to get Claudius somewhere where my master can meet with him?"
"He'll come to my father's house to pay his respects." Scribonius' voice was calm, but I could see the sadness in his eyes. "And it will be tonight. My father's not likely to survive past sunset tomorrow."
When a Roman of the upper classes dies, or is about to, those men who count him as a friend, ally, patron, or client are duty and honor-bound to come pay their respects before he takes the ride in Charon's Boat, if possible. In an act of friendship that I still find hard to describe without feeling a lump in my throat as I do, my friend Scribonius used that as a pretext to draw Claudius to a place where I could meet with him face to face. It should have been a time for Scribonius to spend a precious few last watches with his father, from whom he had been separated by circumstances for so many years through no fault of his own, but instead, he was busy planning on how to go about fulfilling our plan. Within a few moments after the decision being made, the three of us left my quarters, heading to the villa of Scribonius, on the Palatine hill. We immediately understood that for this to be successful, I would have to be there, hidden away before the visitors arrived. The moment we arrived at the villa, Scribonius sent the servants out into the city, summoning those men that the Scribonius clan considered friends, allies, or clients, alerting them that the paterfamilias was about to meet his end. By rights, that title would shift to Scribonius' shoulders, but on our way to his house, he informed me that he had no intention of taking that kind of risk by asserting his rights.
"No," he said, and there was no mistaking the sadness in his voice. "I'm letting my brother continue playing the part. Besides," he finished bitterly, "he already has everything I want."
I knew he was referring to his brother's wife, who was initially betrothed to my friend, but when he followed his oldest brother, enlisting in the so-called army of Catiline, he threw all of that away. His oldest brother was killed, and Sextus went on the run, moving from one place to another, until he decided to enlist in the 10th Legion, along with me and Vibius. Despite reconnecting with his father years later, who forgave him his transgression and asked him to come home, Scribonius had chosen to stay in the army. While I know that our friendship played a role in it, I was sure the real reason that he never returned was because he had learned that his love had married his brother. Regardless, it was still touching to realize that he was unwilling to put me in any more jeopardy by claiming what by rights was his. Diocles and I followed Scribonius to the rear of the villa, where the stables were located, and entered through the back entrance. Immediately, I could sense the presence of death. Certainly a great deal of my perception was due to the manner in which the slaves were acting, and while I found it interesting, I was not surprised that they appeared to be genuinely sorrowful. If the father was anything like the son, I thought, then it is easy to see why they are so sad. However, I have long since learned that death has a certain smell, one that a person actually exudes the moment they expire, or perhaps even in their last moments, as the inevitable happens. It is a smell of decay; subtle, at least in those early moments, but still overpowering, and even from where we entered and passing through the kitchens, I was sure I detected it. At first, I thought it was my imagination, but out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Diocles wrinkling his nose. Scribonius, not surprisingly, either did not notice or chose to ignore it, as he led us to a room that, he informed us, was once his bedroom. His house was not nearly the size of that of Octavian, but it was still a good size, and it took us several twists and turns to get there. Showing us into the room, he pointed to a small desk with a chair, and a small couch sitting next to it against the wall.
"Make yourselves comfortable," he told us. "I don't know how long it will be before the Claudii show up. And," he gave us a tight grin, "I don't know how I'm going to get the younger away and in here. But I'll think of something."
Just before he turned to go, I called to him.
"Can you send some wine?" I asked. "I think I'm going to need it."
While we waited, it gave me time to think through all that I had learned from Scribonius. As usual, his knowledge of the incredibly entwined and complex composition of the Roman upper classes provided a deeper explanation of what was going on. When I first met the young Tribune Claudius, I had heard from some source I no longer remember that he was of a minor branch of that family. That, as far as it went, was true. However, the piece of information that I either was not given or did not hear was that, while not as famous, in the current world of Roman politics Claudius' father had something even more important; the favor of Octavian. As it turned out, Claudius' father was the natural nephew and adopted son of Appius Claudius Pulcher, and while born as Gaius Claudius Pulcher, he understandably took the name of the man who was famous for being a Consul and the prosecutor of Milo after he murdered Clodius. In the immediate aftermath of Caesar's assassination, this Appius Claudius Pulcher had been sympathetic to the cause of The Liberators. Then, sniffing the changing winds, he had changed his allegiance to that of Marcus Antonius, but had been one of the first patricians to defect to the side of Octavian, once it became clear that the two men were headed for a showdown. Octavian had clearly believed that his support was genuine; seven years before the final fall of the last Triumvir at Actium, Appius Claudius Pulcher the younger had been Consul. What this told me was that the Tribune's father was clearly a very skilled navigator of the treacherous waters of Roman politics, and, apparently, he had huge ambitions for his son. Whatever dreams he held for the young Claudius, he obviously felt that I represented a threat to them, but honestly, I was still having trouble understanding why. Surely, I reasoned, there were more scandalous matters than a Tribune participating in the skimming of money from a Legion. The fact that I did not think it important, I recognized, was irrelevant; Appius Claudius Pulcher obviously did. Sitting in Scribonius' old room, Diocles and I did not talk much; there was no need, really. When it got dark, slaves came in to light the lamps, trying not to let us catch them shooting sidelong glances. It was perhaps two parts of a watch after the servants lit the lamps that we heard a stirring sound in our part of the house. Listening carefully, I heard the scrape of a leather sole on the mosaic floor and, taking this as my sign, I stood up and grabbed Diocles by the arm, who had dozed off. Acting on our plan, we rose and moved into the small chamber on the far side from the door that I assumed was either for storage or perhaps a private shrine for the occupant's personal gods. Whatever it was, it was a tight fit for the both of us, but it had a curtain across it, blocking our view of the room and. more importantly, screening us. We were just in time; no sooner had I dropped the curtain than I heard low voices, too muffled to make out their words. Then, the door opened, and I heard Scribonius talking.
