Marching With Caesar-Final Campaign, page 71
And that, gentle reader, for all intents and purposes, is the end of my tale. The last two years have been filled with exquisite monotony, of routines that are created by me and me alone. I spend my days exactly as I please, and enjoy the company of other men like myself, but for the first time, on my terms, and my terms alone. I can refuse to see those who come calling, and perhaps it should not surprise you, gentle reader, that it is members of the upper classes who are sent away. Inevitably, they come scurrying to my door with the latest tidbit from Rome that has anything to do with the army, or with men with whom I served. Because one of those men is that Roman now called Augustus, I suppose it is understandable that any piece of news that concerns him, however remotely, sees men who are my social betters standing in my vestibule, begging for a moment of my time. I do not give it to them, ever. However, if a toothless, bedraggled beggar shows up at my door, depending on the words coming out of his mouth, he will find himself received in a manner that those nobles would envy, and they never leave my home without, at the very least, a full belly, a pleasant glow from the Falernian they have consumed, and a purse full of silver jingling in their pocket. These, I fully acknowledge, are my people, not the members of "my" class, the knights who very quickly realized that I had no interest in any congress with them. Perhaps the most important and valuable lesson that I learned as I fought, clawed, and plotted my way to take my place among them is that very few, if any, of these men have anything to offer upon which I place any value. Early on, I did make a modicum of an effort to insinuate myself with these men who I had supposedly joined, but it did not take long for me to recognize that I had more in common, and enjoyed the company of those men that other members of my class sneered at, and looked down upon. Putting it simply, I would much rather spend my time with Spurius Didius than the most successful exporter of olive oil in Arelate.
It should come as no surprise that my attitude severely limited my social calendar, which suited me perfectly well. It was poor Diocles, and ultimately the rest of those attached to my household, who probably suffered more; there is nothing quite so vicious as a slave whose master's social standing is perceived to be superior to that of his potential victim's, and once word of my disdain for the normal social conventions became widely known, no time was wasted letting Diocles and the others know of their inferiority. Regardless, this did not sway my attitude or my actions in the slightest. The only time any of the upper classes of Arelate could count on me showing up was during those festivals that had some meaning to men like me, who had marched under the standard, and bled and died for Rome.
Not taking the social situation into account, Arelate is a wonderful place to live. I still take my daily ride with Ocelus and, if we no longer make sure we leap at least one ditch or hedge every single ride, both of us are content to ignore that fact. Still, we manage to do this at least every other ride. And I had a set of stakes set up in the garden of the villa, and even now, every day without fail, you can find me standing at one of them, with a wooden sword in my hand, using the grip taught to me by Aulus Vinicius forty-two years ago, whacking away just like the rawest tiro. For a brief period of time, I actually enlisted, or forced, depending on who you ask, my entire household staff, all ten of the males, in an attempt to teach them the rudimentary procedures that a man needs to handle a sword. Just in the event that there was an uprising of Gauls, for example, but for the space of a day or two it looked like I would have a miniature version of the Spartacus revolt on my hands, so I relented. Instead, I confined my exercises to just me, still concentrating on the proper forms, placing my feet correctly and twisting my hips as I made the perfect first position thrust. On festival days in particular, I am quite the popular figure, my presence demanded by the other veterans, marching at their head through the streets of the town, so that for a few, brief moments more, we can pretend that we are not old men with bent backs and toothless maws, but still young and vigorous and ready to fight for Rome. It is when I suddenly recognized that these were the moments I was living for, looking forward to as a way to recapture something that is inevitably lost to those of us lucky to last this long, that I decided it was time. Time to begin this tale of mine; time to put Diocles through an ordeal that has now lasted several months. But, despite my lack of education, although I am not truly considered to be an equestrian by those men born into my class, I recognized that I have lived, and witnessed something extraordinary. I, Titus Pullus, was present and witnessed events and acts that, I am sure, will be remembered for generations to come. Who knows? Perhaps those things that the Legions of Rome have accomplished, starting with a little-known Praetor named Gaius Julius Caesar in Hispania, will become so noteworthy, and so well known that they live forever. If that happens, then I want to stake my claim, to make my participation known, in all these events that people will talk about for as long as there are men to gather together and trade stories. But again, as I said when I began this tale, when Diocles had less gray hairs and I did not tire as easily, I do not do so just for myself, although I would not be Titus Pullus if I did not claim my fair share, but for all of my comrades, those I knew and those I never met, who served as Rome's message to the world that there is a better way, a way of truth, of light, of order. Make no mistake; I am acutely aware that it is men like Gaius Julius Caesar whose name will, I fervently believe, travel through the ages and be rightly known for all that he accomplished. But I ask you, gentle reader, would Caesar have been Caesar without us?
Now, I have told my tale, and said all I have to say. There is nothing left; either of my story, or in me. I am now an empty vessel, and I have poured my story out of my soul, through Diocles, my scribe, my friend. I hope that, at the very least, you, gentle reader, come away from my story with a different understanding of all those events that are directly responsible for the world in which you live today. If I have achieved at least that, then I feel that I have fulfilled my destiny, and have satisfied the vow, the very last vow I made to the gods, to tell the absolute, unvarnished truth.
I am Titus Pullus, and these are my words. I have finished my task, and I am now ready for whatever comes next. It is my most fervent hope that I last long enough for Gaius and his family to fulfill that promise I made to them, to come and visit. Before I step into Charon's Boat, I want to gaze on my nephew and adopted heir, but I do not think Gaius would be that upset if I confessed that it is young Titus that I want to see the most. For what is a man who leaves nothing behind, no matter what he accomplishes in his life? Now, I will rest. My hope is that I have fulfilled this last task in a manner that is worthy of the Legions of Rome. For, at the end of it all, no matter what other honors and titles I have earned, I am and always will be first and foremost, Titus Pullus, Legionary of Rome.
(Diocles' note: Exactly two months to the day after my master and friend dictated the end of this story, he did not come down for breakfast. At first, I was not alarmed; he had started a habit of rising later than the rest of the household. But finally, when it was long after even his latest time for rising, I went up to his room. Still, I was not unduly alarmed, thinking that he had just had a particularly hard night. That meant that I was unprepared for what I found. Sometime, in the watches of the night, Titus Pullus breathed his last breaths, and took that ride in Charon's Boat. Frankly, I do not know whether or not he would be happy to know that he died peacefully in his sleep, but I for one am very thankful. As violent as his life was, my master earned the right to pass into the shades as peacefully as any man who ever walked this Earth. His expression was one of peaceful slumber, and my hope is that he is now with his loved ones, as he deserves. I cannot make any comment about whether or not Gisela or Miriam are by his side; if there is true justice, they will both be with him, because I know he loved them equally, even if it was for different reasons. Hopefully, the gods have worked this out. I cannot claim that I have particularly enjoyed being a slave, although I am now free, by command of my master's will. Yet, I find it hard to think of an alternative whereby I could have been more content with my overall lot in life if I had not been plucked from that enclosure at Pharsalus, by a young, admittedly haughty Roman who needed someone to dress him properly. If I had not been taken slave? I imagine that the best outcome I could have expected was to be a poorly paid tutor of a middling merchant's children, and that was if I was lucky. Instead, because of my status of "bondage," I was able to be in the presence of kings, queens, and most importantly, the most powerful men in Rome. As hard as it was on the nerves at times, and as much trouble as Titus got himself into, I am hard-pressed to come up with an alternative, as a supposedly free man, that would have afforded me the same opportunities.
That does not mean there were no dark days, or that I was not subjected to hardships that in all likelihood I would have escaped, if I had been "fortunate" enough to live a more mundane existence. There were many, many times where I feared for my life, and I have witnessed the best, and the worst, that a man can do to another. Because of my status, I was forced to learn more about the human body and how to repair it after it has been subjected to some of the most horrific things one man can do to another. I have witnessed more death that any man should, and it is not lost on me that much of it was at the hands, directly or indirectly, of my master. Yet I would ask, what was the alternative? With all apologies to those who disagree, I would submit that of all the fates that awaited me, I could not have chosen better.
The death of my master was, not surprisingly, a matter of great moment in Arelate. Men of the upper classes, and those men who might have once marched with my master suddenly flocked to his villa, despite the fact that I made no official notice to the Praetorium. His funeral was attended by easily more than two thousand mourners, and I know he would have been happy at the thought that the outpouring was such that I did not have to pay for professionals. What I found the most difficult to deal with were not those nobles who, for some reason, had the idea that presenting themselves at my master's villa to pay their supposed respects would somehow be communicated all the way back to Rome. No, it was the men who were genuinely grief-stricken when the news of the passing reached their ears. From around the region, and all the way to Placentia, came men that I am sure the patricians of Rome would sneeringly call “The Head Count,” but these were the men whose grief was real and hard to witness. For four days straight, I stood by the bier on which my master lay in his final repose, listening to man after man recount some episode they had shared with the great Titus Pullus. When Caesar died, thousands upon thousands of this class of people came to mourn his passing. I cannot say that my master's death brought numbers equal to that; what I can say is that of all those men of his class, I doubt any of them received such an outpouring as Titus Pullus. What I, and others it must be said, had tried to impress upon him was that he had become a symbol of all that was possible for men of his class. It is no secret that men talk; old men who have marched with Caesar talk more than most. And when they gathered, in their multitude, in the inns, the wine shops, the whorehouses, and gambling parlors where men of this type tend to congregate, it should not surprise anyone that the story of Titus Pullus, the huge, strong, raw country boy and all that he achieved was one of the subjects that came up. Despite the fact I had been vaguely aware of this, it was not until his death that I witnessed, firsthand, the impact my master had on others. If Titus Pullus could do it, I heard more than once, why could they not accomplish the same? I must admit that it became something that irritated me a great deal, hearing such thoughts uttered, as if what he had done was of such little moment that simply uttering it would make it possible. Although only my master alone can describe all that it took, which he has done in this account, I do claim my role, however small, as witness to the challenges and dangers that he faced, unflinchingly and with a courage that I can only aspire to show, should it ever be needed. I found myself wishing that Titus was there to guide me, to let me know which mourner to accept, and which one to turn away, which one he thought was sincere in his prayers, and which one was just there to be seen by others. More than once, I had to stifle a laugh, as a thought would cross my mind while watching the histrionics and contrived grief of the men that belonged to the same class, thinking about what Titus might have said or done. The only thing of which I was sure was what a farce he thought all of this was, but of all the many parts that made up Titus Pullus, he was a Legionary of Rome, and even if he did not believe in some of the people who called themselves Roman, he believed in Rome itself. This was the only thing that kept me going, as I performed all those rituals, big and small, that are expected when a great Roman dies. And I will go to my grave with the belief that, of all the Romans I have known, Titus Pullus' name belonged among those first called for such an honor.
My one regret, and I am sure that it was Titus' as well, especially given the circumstances, was that Gaius and his family never made it to Arelate when he was alive, although Iras and the children did come several months later to pay their respects. Master Gaius, as Quartus Pilus Prior, could not find enough time to do the trip justice, so sent his family instead. Young Master Titus took the death of his great-uncle especially hard, according to Iras, with whom I am not ashamed to say I share a bond with since both of us were at one point property of Titus Pullus. I was reminded of all that had transpired with Iras when her first question concerned the last days of my master and friend, and of whether he had honored all that he had promised. Although this was not something that we discussed often, I felt confident that I knew Titus' wishes and his heart, so I assured her that, according to his will, all was in order. The only matter that remained was that it be ratified in Rome, when the copy was checked against the original that he, like almost every Roman with property, had deposited in the safekeeping of the Vestal Virgins. It is in the basement of their temple where all the wills, the originals, that is, reside and are compared to the copies presented. I assured Iras, who I refused and still do, to call Madame, that the delay in the matter of her manumission was merely a technicality. Somewhat to my surprise, she did not appear interested in her own fate in the least; what she wanted to know was when her children could rightfully claim their status as equestrian. That was when I recognized the lengths a mother will go to in order to both protect and to advance the fortunes of her young. Understanding her true motivation, it was easier for me to provide the words that gave her comfort, which she accepted gratefully, and most importantly, without question. In my defense, I must at least say that at this point, I did not know what I know now.
I am happy to relate that there was one provision in my master's will that was not subject to the manipulation of Rome, and that concerned Ocelus. Even with his young age, young Titus Porcinus Pullianus, as his new name is now known despite what happened in Rome, had no problem in clambering aboard the back of Ocelus who, I must say, did not so much as twitch a muscle when Titus was helped up onto his back. Even now, I am assuming that the two are still getting along perfectly.
Which is cold comfort, considering the message I received six months after my master's passing. Once again, it was brought to his door by a dispatch rider and, if my memory serves, it was the same man who brought the message confirming my master's elevation to equestrian status. What was unmistakably the same was the seal affixed to the scroll that was handed to me. As had happened the last time, the rider was only required to obtain my official acknowledgement that I had received the message in my formal capacity as the executor of my master's estate. Agis was with me; it was my now-longest compatriot who had brought the rider to me, and the pair of us moved into my master's study, thinking it the appropriate place to read a missive from Augustus. I know now that my memory of what happened is colored by the knowledge of what the scroll contained, but I swear by all the gods that even before, I experienced a subtle message of fear and disquiet even before I broke the seal. Unrolling it, I found that I had to read the letter twice, not because it was hard to decipher, but that it was close to impossible to understand. Agis, clearly sensing something wrong, edged closer as he tried to peek over my shoulder, although I do not know why, since he cannot read.
"W-w-w-w....."
Not wanting to put him or me through the ordeal of making him stutter his way through the question, I told him what was contained in the letter, despite the fact that I still did not understand why.
"It's from Augustus," I began, surprised that my voice was steady, "and it says that the status as an equestrian that was awarded to our master," I stopped myself as the first shiver of a huge anger hit me, "that our master earned," I corrected, not willing to just read the written word because of the injustice of it, "will not be allowed to pass on to his heirs, because of some 'new information' that Augustus says he has been made aware of that wasn't available when he served as our master's sponsor."
I had to stop for a moment to compose myself, while Agis gaped in open-mouthed astonishment. Then, a look of real fear came over his face as the full import of what this might mean hit him.
"W-what a-a-b-bout us?"
He did not need to say anything more, and I dropped my head back to the scroll, reading with a growing sense of unease. When I reached a certain part, I will not lie, and I hope my master does not begrudge either Agis' or my reaction, I sagged in relief.
"All other bequests and orders pertaining to the disposition of his property are to be honored exactly as written," I told Agis, barely registering the shout of joy and relief he gave as he collapsed to the floor.
