Marching With Caesar-Final Campaign, page 70
I do not know if she was sincere and trying to make me feel better, but I can say that it did not help that much. Accordingly, I changed the subject.
"What do you make of your Cohort, Pilus Prior?"
Although I could see Gaius took my question seriously, I also saw the look of pleased surprise in his eyes when he heard himself referred to in this manner, which had been my real intent in bringing it up. How well I remembered the delicious feeling of being referred to by that new rank, the first on the rung that gives the bearer the sense that elevating himself even higher is possible. Our system is complicated, but all Pili Priores are considered Centurions of the first grade, or at least they had been. With Octavian's reorganization, which doubled the size of the first Cohort, there had been a corresponding adjustment in the grading of Centurions. But old habits die hard, and although the pay was slightly less than a Hastatus Posterior in the First Cohort, for example, a Pilus Prior is still viewed by his peers as being a member of the second-highest grade of Centurions behind the Primus Pilus himself, of which, of course, there is only one.
"They're not bad," he said cautiously, and I felt a pang of envy as I watched his eyes narrow in thought, knowing that as he said this, he was running down the list of the Centurions and Optios now under his command.
For that is the given when one Centurion asks another about the state of their Cohort, that it's the leaders he's referring to, because the truth that I, and I knew Gaius had learned, was that there are no bad Centuries, only bad Centurions.
"I've got a flogger," he told me, and I nodded in sympathy, but I reminded myself that this was no longer my concern.
Gaius was well and truly on his own now, but I had every confidence in him. Although he was several years older than I had been when I was made Pilus Prior, the circumstances had been vastly different. Gaius had been allowed to develop his skills at leadership along a more traditional path and timeline than I had, and that seasoning was crucial. Besides, I thought, he had been a survivor of the most brutal campaign in our history and had excelled. He was ready, I knew. Oblivious to my own thought processes, he continued to give a short description of the strengths and weaknesses of the men under his command. Once he was finished, I did not have to pretend to be impressed. I am not lying when I say Gaius had earned his promotion, but I was not about to let it happen as Camp Prefect without having some idea of what he was getting involved with in terms of the other Centurions. It had been decades before, it was true, but never far from my mind was the memory of my experience with men like Celer and Cornuficius, two men who had done everything they could to undermine me in my position. Fortunately, after talking at length to Macrinus, I was assured that there was not a budding Celer nor a Cornuficius in the Fourth Cohort. It was during that conversation when I let Macrinus know that he had my support for the post of Camp Prefect, in exchange for his promotion of Gaius to the Fourth Cohort, something that I have never uttered aloud until just this moment. I will say that Diocles does not look that surprised; he barely looked up when I made this confession. Such is our system, and while it may not be the most honorable, it clearly works, and I never would have offered Gaius up unless I carried the conviction down into my bones that he was ready.
Our conversation was cut short when Iras asked crossly, "Must you two always discuss business, even when you're at the table?"
Before either of us could reply, Diocles, mouth full of bread, mumbled, "Yes."
Both Gaius and I began laughing, and not even Iras could remain peeved as she joined us, and we laughed long and hard. It is one of my fondest memories of that evening.
Finally, there was really nothing more left to say between us, so we sat in silence around the table one last time. Young Titus managed to stay awake this time, and also behaved himself, more or less, although it was hard to see the large, perfect tears that rolled down his cheeks. I finally managed to cheer him up by promising that, when he was old enough, I would send for him to come spend a few months with me. This not only pleased Titus, it seemed to cheer up Gaius; Iras, on the other hand, sat there silently, trying not to look distressed at the thought of her son braving a journey across our Republic to far-off Gaul, which Iras had only heard about and never seen. After I reflected on it, I realized that neither had Gaius, so on the spur of the moment, I widened the invitation.
"When you've accrued a couple months of leave time, bring the whole family," I told Gaius, trying to sound casual as I added with a shrug, "Naturally, I'll pay for the trip."
My nephew and his wife exchanged a glance, and when I saw the suppressed excitement between the two, I tried not to smile. Both of them had become travelers of the world, but that had not been the case in some time. In her own right, Iras had traveled the breadth of the entire other side of Our Sea with Cleopatra, while Gaius had done the same, albeit in a different capacity. This was an opportunity for them to see new lands, under more pleasant circumstances.
"We'll do it," Gaius announced, prompting a shout of joy from Titus, and even an excited giggle from Iras. Young Miriam, much like her older brother at her age, had been unable to stay awake.
The farewells we said that night were heartfelt and the hardest I have ever undergone, but we decided that it was best, for all of us, if we did it that night and not drag the children out before dawn. Somehow, I managed to keep my composure; until, that is, just as I was about to walk out the door, little Titus came and wrapped his arms around my legs as he looked up at me.
"Avus," he begged. "Please don't go! Please stay!"
In that moment, I experienced the decidedly queer sensation of straddling two times at once, so that when I looked down, while I knew it was young Titus, the face that I saw was that of another boy, face smeared with honey and snot running freely from his nose as he uttered the exact same words. I was forced to clutch the doorway, both because of Titus' grip, but also from the feeling of dizziness that threatened to overwhelm me. Ruthlessly biting the inside of my cheek, I managed to keep the tears from flowing until Iras came and knelt down next to Titus, and began uttering soothing words to him, yet not in our tongue, but the one in which she grew up. That was too much, as a woman with flame-red hair took Iras' place, and I was so stricken by a sense of loss and grief that I was sure I would be unable to move under my own power. Gently, Iras managed to remove Titus' arms from around my legs, and she looked up at me with her eyes shining as she mouthed an apology. I do not remember what I said, nor do I remember the short walk to my now-bare quarters, except for the fact that Diocles held me firmly around the waist. If he had not been there, I do not know if I would have found my way.
Diocles and I, along with the part of my baggage that had not been sent ahead, left Siscia on a pre-dawn morning two days short of the Ides of April, and a week before my sixtieth birthday. Our journey took a day longer than three weeks, as we traveled by a combination of road and ship. The last four days was spent on the deck of a coastal freighter, prompting me to vow as I stepped off the ship that this would the last I ever boarded, and I have kept that vow. Agis had done an excellent job; despite his stutter, he ruled the villa in Arelate and had been instrumental in making it ready to the point that, after leaving the quay, still aboard Ocelus and Thunder and pulling two mules, I followed Diocles as he led me to where I am now living. Agis had also done such a masterful job of drawing that, after rounding a corner in the street of the town, just one block away from the Forum, which was bustling with people in a version, albeit much smaller, of the one in Rome. Granted, there were not only fewer bodies; there was a more limited number of nations and cultures represented, but it was still the riot of color and sound. There was an arena under construction, now completed, made completely of stone that seats more than 20,000 spectators, and the theater was already laid out, but construction was yet to begin. Frankly, I only had eyes for what I knew was my new home from Agis' sketches, and I pulled Ocelus up to sit and just...look at it.
"Well?" Diocles asked me, and I heard the excitement in his voice. "What do you think?"
Just to torment him, my initial answer was a grunt.
Feeling his glare, I allowed, "I suppose it will do," then gave Ocelus a kick forward, mainly so my Greek could not see my grin.
Obviously, Diocles had managed to send someone ahead as soon as we docked, because my stable slave, Simeon, was standing there waiting for us just outside the main entrance into what was now my villa. Ocelus, either spotting Simeon, who was one of his favorite people, or smelling him, suddenly increased his pace to a trot, despite the fact I had issued no such command, so I suppose I was not the most dignified figure as I sawed on the reins, trying to slow him down.
"Master." Simeon's teeth gleamed white in his dark skin. "It's good to be here to welcome you to your new home. And," he grabbed Ocelus by the bridle as he and my horse touched foreheads, which I had noticed was their ritual greeting, "it's good to see you, my good friend."
Ocelus' response was a gentle nicker, and I could feel him relaxing under me as he responded to the familiar odors and sounds. His behavior had been exemplary the whole trip, but I also knew him well enough to know that it had been an ordeal for him to be handled and rubbed down by strange hands belonging to unknown men. Sliding off, I handed Simeon the reins and clapped him on the shoulder; despite his relationship with Ocelus, I do not have a close relationship with Simeon. I suppose it is because of his origins, and how he came into my possession. He is an Armenian, and was one of the slaves I was awarded as part of the spoils against Armenia, when Marcus Antonius tried to avenge the humiliation of our campaign in Parthia. As much as I do not care for the Armenians in general, they are horse people, and Simeon was one of the best I had ever seen. Taking the offered reins, Simeon started to lead Ocelus away, but not before I stopped them.
Grabbing his bridle, I pulled him close to whisper, "This is your new home. You'll never have to travel anywhere, or fight anyone again."
My answer was in the form of his velvety nose shoving into my chest as his huge nostrils dilated, and his lips grabbed my tunic and gave it a tug. I laughed at his usual response to our conversations, which I have always thought of as his way to tell me that he heard and understood what I was saying. Then, Simeon led him away, and Diocles stood next to me, his wiry body quivering with anticipation.
"Well?" he repeated. "Are you ready to see your new home?"
"Absolutely," I told him, and together, side by side, we entered the villa.
That, gentle reader, was almost two years ago. Since that time, I have made some minor changes to what I now consider my home. My biggest alterations have been in the murals that decorate the walls, particularly those that are the first thing I see when I awake in the morning. I am certainly no prude; I enjoy sexual congress as much as any man, but I am of an age where it no longer consumes my thoughts the way it did when I was younger. Consequently, waking up every morning and having the first thing I see be acts that I am no longer that interested in, performed in positions that I am no longer limber enough to attain, meant that this was the first of what could be called a major change. The next alteration was having an actual fireplace built into what is my library, although often as not I end up sleeping in there. This has become so common that Diocles had a cot placed in the room. It is an oddity, this fireplace; because of the wealth of the owner, I have hypocaust heating, and I must say that it is quite a nice feeling to put my feet down on the floor in the morning and not having it be freezing cold. But the fireplace is not really for heat. I simply realized one day that there was something missing as I would sit and read, which is my favorite occupation at this point, despite the growing troubles I have holding the scroll so I can read it. So much of my life has been lived next to a fire that it only seemed natural that it be added in a place where I spend most of my time after the sun goes down. Very quickly, my identity became known, which has turned out to be equal parts blessing and curse. I cannot deny that it is nice to have the perhaps two dozen men of the two Cohorts of the 6th that I commanded for Caesar in Alexandria so long ago coming to visit and pay their respects. What is not so pleasurable are the visits from members of the classes above mine; the richer plebeians and the lesser members of the few patrician families who have, for one reason or another, found themselves in what they consider the hinterland of Gaul. These men do not come to pay their respects; no, their purpose is much more irritating, and obvious, and that is to try and extract any nugget and kernel of information regarding the political situation in Rome that, I suppose, makes them feel as if they are still connected to what is ultimately the lifeblood of our Republic, and that is politics. Since my arrival here, I have actually made friends with a number of men of the merchant class, and I know they would be howling in protest at my last utterance, insisting instead that the real ichor that fuels the entity known around the world as Rome, is that of commerce, of trade and the profit that comes from it. I cannot dispute that there is some truth in this; however, I have not changed my opinion that the pumping heart of our beloved Republic, even if it is one in name only now, is power. Power, wielded by a precious few men, perched at the very top of the hierarchy of our society. To those merchant friends of mine, I would merely point to those men who, under any other circumstance, would not have deigned to cast a glance in my direction. But since I represent what is ultimately the muscle behind the power, as exercised by this very, very small group of men, suddenly my opinion matters, and my favor is curried, especially because I had attained the ultimate position available to the lowly scum of Roman society like me.
While I am talking of matters of class, I will say that, good to his word, a month after I arrived in Arelate, I was roused one evening by Diocles, who brought news of a messenger from, of all places, Rome.
"I think I know what he's here for," Diocles told me, making no attempt to hide his excitement. "He's from Rome, and I got a glimpse of the seal on his scroll!"
"And?" I tried to ignore the sudden increase in the banging of my heart against my ribs.
"It's a sphinx," he replied, saying nothing more.
Truthfully, he did not need to, and I brushed past him and hurried to the vestibule, where messengers are traditionally made to wait, although this was my first.
"Yes?" I asked the man who, I must say, looked especially weary, as if he had ridden hard.
"Am I addressing former Camp Prefect Titus Pullus?" he asked me, and even without his words, his tone told me that this was something that had been drilled into his head as far as the precise wording.
"Yes, you are," I replied, matching his formality. "And you are?"
"Who I am isn't important, but I do bear an important message." The man kept his eyes at a spot above my head, telling me that he was at the least attached to the army in some way, as he thrust his hand out.
In it was the scroll that Diocles had described, and no matter how much I cursed at myself, I could not keep the tremor from my hand. Fortunately, the messenger's eyes were still above me, so he did not see. Taking it, I paused for a moment, reminded of the sudden appearance of the man sent the night of my Tribunal. Neither of us spoke, or moved, and a confused look crossed his face, then clearly understanding my hesitation, his expression cleared.
"No sir," he assured me. "You're not required to open it in my presence. You are," he looked at me now, "required to acknowledge that you've received it."
"I do," I assured him. "I inform you that I, Titus Pullus, formerly Camp Prefect of the Army of Pannonia, has taken receipt of this message."
The messenger's posture relaxed a bit and he nodded his head in thanks. Without saying anything more, he turned to go.
"Would you care for some refreshment?" Diocles suddenly asked, reminding me that I had forgotten my manners. "You've obviously ridden hard to get here."
The messenger hesitated, but clearly regretful, shook his head.
"No, thank you. My orders don't cover this...situation," he finished. Then, as quickly as he came, he departed.
Such, I thought, are the times we live in. Men are too afraid even to accept the offer of hospitality in the form of a cup of wine, or even water. Shaking my head, I tried to ignore the trembling of my hands as I broke the seal, which was indeed Octavian's impression of a sphinx. Which, I was reminded, he had stolen from the palace of the Ptolemies, but I banished that line of thought as I stared down at the scroll. The writing was so unique that I recognized that this had been written in Octavian's own hand, and this only increased my agitation. Thankfully, as part of his emulation of his adopted father, he used the dot over the last letter of the sentence. Although I could feel Diocles pressing in on me, trying to see what the scroll contained, I read it silently, not without some twisting and turning.
"Well?" he finally demanded.
For the briefest moment, I considered tormenting my friend, but I could not do it, knowing that he was as invested in this as I was. Almost, anyway.
"My petition to move into the equestrian class has been approved, by Augustus himself, with him as my sponsor," I told him. "With all the rights and privileges that come from said elevation."
Oddly enough, there was no immediate reaction from either of us as I stared down at my little Greek, who could only do the same. Finally, he broke the silence with a shout and, without thinking, at least so I hope, leaped into my arms, as my voice joined his. I had done it, I realized; that goal I had set for myself when I was all of perhaps twelve years old had finally been accomplished. The fact that it had taken 48 years, and 42 of those had been wearing the uniform of a Legionary of Rome, just seemed to make it all the sweeter. In that moment, as I danced about, even as Diocles clung to me in much the same way as young Titus did, it was not lost on me that I had achieved something that many, many men aspired to, but never achieved. It had taken the deaths of more men than I could count, and the sacrifice of everything that makes a life to men other than to me, but I had, somehow, prevailed. I was an equestrian.
