by Peake, R. W.
“It must have been truly horrible.” Pompeia spoke for the first time, and I saw she had noticed Gaius’ stricken expression.
“It was, my lady,” Gaius said suddenly, though he was still staring off into space, his voice hollow with pain. “It was truly, truly horrible.”
“But you survived, and that's what counts,” Uncle Tiberius was suddenly uncharacteristically fierce, leaning across the table to put one spotted hand out, resting it on top of Gaius’, who returned to the present with a startled look at the touch. “Remember that, boy, that you survived. And your survival is what counts in this world. Nothing else.”
I was not so sure about that, and I still am not, but I did not say anything, content to let the old man comfort the young one.
“That begs the next question. Will Marcus Antonius succeed this time around?” Uncle Tiberius asked the question lightly.
However, I could sense that the old man was probing, giving me a strong sense of unease. Still, I answered the question truthfully, or at least with enough truth in it that it made it easier to say and not ring false in my own ears.
“I don't believe that Antonius will make the same mistakes twice,” I replied, which was my honest hope, though not necessarily my belief, for I was always conscious of Antonius’ impulsive nature and how it seemed to govern him at the worst possible moments. “Further, I believe that we'll have the help of forces similarly composed to those that we'll be facing, the lack of which was yet another part of the challenges facing us.”
I made the statement deliberately vague, not willing to divulge the details of the agreement made between Artavasdes the Median and Antonius, but the old man was not so easily thrown off the scent.
“So you'll have cataphracts and horse archers this time? Or at least ones that won’t run away?”
“We will,” I answered.
No matter how much he pressed, I refused to give any more details, and he finally gave up. Seeing that the other guests were openly fidgeting and picking at their food, by unspoken consent Uncle Tiberius and I moved onto safer, more acceptable topics for mixed company. The rest of the evening passed very pleasantly, and it was very late when Pompeia stifled a yawn behind her hand, which Uncle Tiberius immediately saw and I took to be a signal, rising to help Pompeia to her feet.
“Well, young people, I must say that neither Mother nor I have been up this late in some time, but I'm afraid that we must say good night now.”
The rest of us rose, though Gaius managed to snag the last of the brine shrimps to stuff in his mouth, earning a cuff on the back of the head from me as we all made our way to the main entrance of the house while the women hugged each other. I felt a hand grab at my arm, Uncle Tiberius making a clear signal to drop back and let the others continue, so I gave my own signal to Diocles and Gaius to keep moving.
Once they were out of earshot, Uncle Tiberius said quietly, “Titus, I have a confession to make.”
“Oh, what’s that? You lust after my woman,” I joked, then saw that he was very serious.
“While this is my house, and everything I told you was true, my motives are not quite as pure as I would lead you to believe.”
Ah, here it is, I thought, glad at least that my instinct was correct, but I was still disappointed. However, I was not prepared for what came out of his mouth.
“I send greetings from Gaius Octavianus Divi Filius, who insisted that should the opportunity arise this house be offered to you for your use as a token of his esteem and admiration for all that you've done for Rome.” His tone was quiet, making the words all the more chilling. I almost took a staggering step backward, but managed to stop myself. Uncle Tiberius’ face was grave, and the anger I had felt earlier began to flare up again as I cursed a bit louder than I intended, causing both Diocles and Gaius’ heads to turn. “He knew that this is my second villa, and asked me to make it available to you, which I'm happy to do.”
“So you’re one of Octavian’s agents?” I asked incredulously, and while he refused to answer, the look on his face gave me all the answer that I needed.
We stood there for the space of several heartbeats, me glaring down at the wizened little man, he looking back with a defiant expression on his face, and when the silence was broken, it was by him. His face changed before my eyes, his lips pulling back over his rotten teeth in a sneer.
“We all work for someone, Titus Pullus, and I will not apologize for doing what I must do in order to survive. It's no secret that I'm a very, very wealthy man, and I would have been proscribed by the Triumvirs, but I'm more valuable with what and who I know to the truly powerful men like Octavian, who you're foolish to think will not win between him and Antonius.” He grabbed my arm, his tone turning placating and wheedling at the same time. “You and I are but pieces in the game played by patricians, and each of us must do whatever we can to make sure that we're a piece that's not sacrificed. Don't blame me for doing the same thing you did.”
I pulled my arm from his grasp, looking at him coldly, but there was an equal pit of ice in my stomach at his words, fearing what they meant.
“What are you talking about, old man? I don’t spy for Octavian.”
“No, you don't,” he admitted. “Not yet. But I was given specific instructions that should you show the kind of hostility and attitude you're displaying now to remind you of your agreement with Octavian and how dangerous reneging on that agreement would be.”
Now it was his turn to stare at me, his eyes boring up into mine as he sent an unmistakable message, reminding me of that thing, that reptilian coldness I had seen in the young Caesar’s eyes, and I knew that he was right. I had been ensnared and whether it happened willingly, as it seemed to be with Uncle Tiberius, or I had been forced by circumstances did not really matter at this point. I could feel my shoulders slump, the anger and the fight draining from me, while I was almost overwhelmed at the feeling of tiredness and hopelessness that washed over me like a cold flood. I had tried so hard to avoid becoming one of those pieces that Uncle Tiberius was talking about, yet it was clear that it was a hopeless struggle.
Uncle Tiberius’ face, I suppose on seeing my capitulation, softened as he whispered to me, “There's no shame in doing what you must do to survive, Titus Pullus.”
“There is for me,” I said bitterly.
Nevertheless, when he offered his hand, cutting his eyes to the others, who were now watching in open curiosity, I took it, shaking it warmly while loudly thanking him for all that he had done for us.
After the old couple left the house, the other three gathered around me, clearly intent on finding out what the whispered conversation between me and Uncle Tiberius was about, since it clearly had disturbed me. Surveying their faces, I made the decision right at that moment to say nothing about the true nature of the words spoken between us, just making something up on the spot, and I do not remember what it was. If the others had their doubts, they did not voice them, though their faces told me their probable feelings on the matter. I pushed Gaius out the door after handing him the pass that I had written for him to get him back into camp and excuse his absence, warning him that I was not willing to make this a habit. With that, we retired for the evening, and as tired as I was and with my mind occupied elsewhere, I suspected that there would be more conversation that night with Miriam. I was lying in the bed, watching as she brushed her hair by the light of the single lamp still lit, reveling in the quiet beauty of these moments when I believe a woman is at her most desirable, and I felt my pulse quicken with a surge of new energy. Finished, she came to the bed, pushing her back against me in her favorite position for sleeping, meaning her face was turned away from me. Her tone was playful and teasing as she asked the question I had known was coming since my defense of Cleopatra earlier that evening.
“So is the queen of Egypt as lovely as some say she is?”
Despite myself, I let out a laugh.
“Gods, no. She's homely, and thin as a stick. If you stood next to her
and she weren’t dressed with all that claptrap and finery, no man would cast a second glance her way.”
I smugly congratulated myself at both deflecting and complimenting with one stroke, however Miriam was not so easily put off.
“But she must have some appeal for a man like Marcus Antonius to fall so madly in love with her,” she insisted.
“How about her money?” I suggested, earning an elbow in the ribs.
“More than that. She must have something.”
I should have known that a trap was being baited, but I was too tired to see it, so I actually answered honestly, “She's unlike any woman I ever met in the way she can be so many different things. One moment she can curse worse than any Centurion I ever met, and I've seen her make men blush with her language. Then she can tell a joke that you'd expect to hear sitting about the fire in camp that makes you laugh until you cry. Just when you think you have her figured out, she starts to speak of art and music in perfectly accented Attic Greek, or so Diocles informs me. That's how she beguiles men, by being so many things to a man.”
The words were barely out of my mouth when she whirled about, her eyes wide and mouth open, as she exclaimed, “So you DO love her!”
“What? What are you talking about? I didn’t say that.” I knew I was babbling, but she spun back around.
Scooting to the edge of the bed, she shot back, “You did not have to; it’s obvious. You are completely in love with her.”
“How did you reach that conclusion?” I was completely mystified, thinking for perhaps the thousandth time in my life that I would never understand women, remembering all the way back to Juno and Vibius.
Miriam gave me a derisive snort, tossing her head, her hair now that it was unbound whipping across my head.
“Conclusion,” she scoffed. “What is this word ‘conclusion’? I know what I know, and you are in love with Cleopatra, the queen who beguiles men of all classes!”
This launched a tirade in her native tongue as she mumbled to herself, her body rigid, sending a clear signal that there would be nothing happening in our bed that night except fitful sleep.
“Fine,” I snapped, still trying to understand where it had all gone so wrong. “I was tired anyway!”
With that, I rolled to my edge of the bed, both of us spending the next few moments angrily talking to ourselves until we fell asleep.
Fortunately for me, Miriam was not the type to stay angry long and in the morning all was forgiven. While I still did not know what I did wrong, I had become experienced enough with women to just apologize and accept her forgiveness. In truth, I did not need the distraction of fighting with Miriam, because my head was still swimming from my conversation with Uncle Tiberius, the implications continuing to mount as I peeled each layer back. How had Octavian known so quickly that we were headed back to Damascus?
By this time of year, the prevailing winds had shifted, blowing from here in the East in the general direction of Italia, which makes sailing this direction usually more difficult. I remembered hearing talk that the winds had been extremely mild for this time of year but still, it seemed to me that Octavian had to have some sort of advance information for him to react so quickly or perhaps, I thought, he truly is guided by the gods. More specifically, perhaps it was Caesar, who really was a god as people said, who was giving Octavian the gift of second sight. I shook my head, chiding myself for letting my mind run to places that would not actually provide any value to thinking through my dilemma. Aside from divine intervention, the next most likely possibility was that Octavian’s network of agents was much more extensive than I, or anyone for that matter, knew; that he had men on almost every ship crisscrossing Our Sea carrying messages and information back and forth. This meant that the possibility that I would run into more men like Uncle Tiberius was very high, so I resolved to guard my tongue as much as I was capable. The only men I trusted enough to discuss the matter with were back in camp, and I decided that it would be better to talk with them away from slaves and servants who worked for Uncle Tiberius.
On my walk back to camp, I pondered whether it would be possible to remove them from the villa while we stayed there. Thinking it through, I did not see any way where it could be done gracefully and not be insulting to Uncle Tiberius, not to mention that it would signal to him that I suspected that there were spies among the slaves. I would just have to watch what I said, and as soon as I could think of a way, I would warn Miriam, though she very rarely discussed politics and never talked about our private conversations, or so I believed. The morning formation was held, then I made my way to the small house that served as the Legion office and my private quarters when I was in camp. Now it held only a cot, table, and chairs, along with the rack to hang my armor, helmet and baldric, the rest of my possessions already transferred to the villa.
Diocles, as was his habit, had risen earlier than I and was already sitting at his desk in the Legion office, with Argus and Eumenis in their places, copying out ration reports, and I sent Eumenis to fetch Scribonius and Balbus. They arrived in moments, and I motioned for them to follow me into my quarters. When they were seated, I recounted all that had happened the night before, leaving nothing out. Once I was finished, they sat silently, Scribonius with his frown while Balbus stared at the floor, which I knew was a sign that he was also lost in thought.
Finally, the scarred face turned upwards and he said flatly, “Get out. Go find something else.”
“No,” Scribonius said sharply. “He can’t do that. Weren’t you listening? This Uncle Tiberius character specifically warned him that refusing Octavian would be suicide.”
Balbus’ face reddened, for it was very unlike Scribonius to speak harshly to any of his friends, and it was a sure sign to me that he was extremely worried about this development.
“I heard, I heard. I just can’t think of anything else he can do,” Balbus protested.
Scribonius took a deep breath, my heart sinking as he shook his head.
“Neither can I,” he admitted. He looked at me, his face grave.
“You’re trapped, and I have to say that it was neatly sprung. This old bugger sounds like a crafty one and you’re going to have to step very lightly. But I don’t see any way out of it now. You already accepted his offer.”
“I didn’t know at the time that he was working for Octavian!”
“Which is why I say he’s as straight as a snake. He waited until you stepped into the snare before he yanked it closed. Titus,” he said in a firm, almost harsh voice. “You're going to have to guard your tongue more than you normally do.”
“I will,” I assured him. “I hardly ever talk about Octavian anyway.”
He shook his head, surprising me. “I’m not talking about Octavian. You mustn't say anything about Antonius either.”
I did not understand why he believed this was important. “But that’s what Octavian wants, I’m sure of it. He wants information about Antonius.”
“I’m sure he does, but you can't be the one who gives it to him.”
“Why not?”
Balbus was clearly as surprised as I was, for it was he who asked the question.
“Because if this Uncle Tiberius is as slippery as I think he is, I'm willing to bet you a thousand sesterces that he’s working for Antonius as well.”
That had not occurred to me and the doubt must have shown on my face, because Scribonius patiently explained how he had come to this conclusion.
“No matter how many agents Octavian may have, the East is Antonius’ and has been for some time. And Antonius has been squeezing everyone he thinks has a few sesterces rattling in his purse, yet this Uncle Tiberius is doing so well that he can build a lavish second villa? Didn’t he himself say that he’s managed to avoid being proscribed by the Triumvirs? That would indicate to me that he’s managed to escape Antonius’ depredations as well as Octavian’s, and I seriously doubt that it’s because Antonius has a soft spot for an old man who marched for Sulla.” He shook h
is head again to emphasize the point. "I would say that it’s because he's working both sides of this game. Antonius probably lets him report to Octavian because Uncle Tiberius will feed Octavian information that Antonius wants him to have. And on the other side, Octavian probably does the same.”
I was impressed, and did not bother to hide it. Nonetheless, a problem occurred to me, which I pointed out. “That’s a really, really dangerous game for an old man to play.”
“You said it yourself. He was a Sullan, so he learned to play it very well. The fact that he’s made it to his age is proof that he's very good at it. That makes him dangerous, Titus, and you must never forget it. I think your best and only course is to steer right down the middle. Say nothing that you wouldn't want either Octavian or Antonius to hear coming from your lips.”
I could not deny the sense of this, although I saw another problem.
“What if the old man gets impatient that I’m not providing him with grist for either mill and decides to make something up?”
For there was one conclusion I had reached sometime during the night, and that was that Uncle Tiberius was not one to worry about such niceties as whether something was actually true if it meant that it kept him from getting what he wanted. I had little doubt that back when he was working for Sulla in the proscriptions more than one man he turned in had done nothing wrong, but still had been condemned by the kindly old Uncle Tiberius.
“Then,” Scribonius said grimly. “You kill him, slowly and painfully.” He paused, peering intently into my eyes. “And you need to make sure that he understands that. Remind him that both Octavian and Antonius are far away, and before either of them could lift a finger to help him, you'd flay him.”
“And turn his shriveled ball sac into a coin purse,” Balbus added gleefully. “Make sure you tell him that.”