by Peake, R. W.
The silence that fell over the table was uncomfortable even for me, who was the primary beneficiary of Uncle Tiberius’ misstep, so I imagine it was excruciating to the old man and his wife. I felt a pang of sympathy for Pompeia, who had been nothing but kind to Miriam and had proven to be a good friend to her. My feelings towards Uncle Tiberius were not so tender, however, especially now that we had a sword with a very sharp point to dangle above his head. I had no idea whether or not the three of us would be believed if we were to go to Antonius and claim that Uncle Tiberius was one of the sources spreading the idea that he had made the bonus payment in Cleopatra’s name, but that was not important. That Uncle Tiberius believed Antonius would accept our version of events was all that mattered, and he clearly thought that very thing, for he said barely a word the rest of the evening, instead looking down at his plate, picking at his food while muttering to himself. The only sound was the smacking of lips as food or wine was consumed, and it was becoming more oppressive by the moment when Miriam, clearly desperate to reignite some sort of conversation, chose that moment to make an announcement.
“I’m pregnant.”
It felt as if all the air was sucked out of the room, as I suddenly found it difficult to take a breath, my eyes fixed on her face. She was looking directly at me, calmly but with just a hint of defiance, her chin tilted upward.
“By the gods, that’s wonderful!” Pompeia had leaped off the couch to run over to where Miriam was seated to my right, embracing her tightly.
The older woman beamed over at me. “Isn’t that wonderful, Titus? You're going to be a father!”
I felt my mouth opening and closing, but nothing seemed to come out, my eyes fixed on the face of the woman sitting next to me.
“It’s certainly . . . interesting,” was what came out, and I winced at the sound of the words, knowing that I had just said perhaps the worst possible thing.
“Interesting?” Pompeia’s face showed undisguised horror. “That’s all you can think to say?”
She turned back to Miriam, whose eyes had filled with tears, the older woman patting her hand.
“Don't worry about the things that come out of a man’s mouth at moments like these, my dear. They're worthless when it comes to expressing proper emotion.”
She turned to glare at me with a severity that I imagined my own mother or sister would display at my callousness, and I immediately felt ashamed. I looked over at Scribonius and Balbus, both of whom looked as if they would rather be standing in the arena facing a hungry lion than where they were at that moment, and truthfully, I wished I could have joined them. Reaching for Miriam’s hand, I patted it awkwardly, though I was heartened to see that she did not jerk away immediately.
“I'm sorry, Miriam,” I said. “It’s just that you caught me by surprise.”
The face she turned towards me almost rent my heart in two, so full of anxiety and sorrow as her eyes searched my face.
“Are you angry with me? I know that you did not want children, and I was careful, but . . .” she shrugged, then gave a self-conscious laugh. “These things happen, no matter how careful you are.”
“These things do happen,” I echoed, my mind still whirling from the import of her words.
I had not wanted children for purely selfish reasons; I remembered the pain of losing my family all too well, to the point where it still haunted my dreams at times, and I did not want to relive that pain. But as I sat there, I was suddenly reminded of all the other moments, the joyful ones, few and far between as they were because of my long absences, of seeing my son walking and talking, of the smell of my daughter’s hair when I held her. Who says that it has to happen again? This was the question that kept crowding into the front of my mind as I struggled with the unexpected news.
Moved by impulse, I reached out to embrace her, whispering in her ear, “I'm truly, truly happy at this news.”
She pulled back, again searching my face, her own clearly imploring me to assure her that it was true, and it was. I wanted this child, and I held her tightly, whispering this truth to her, over and over.
The dinner ended and as I reflected on it later, it had been a momentous night and worthy of the event that it was marking. I was marching off to war again, but this time I had something more to come back for; the start of a new family, so I suppose it was a natural thing that my thoughts then turned back to the idea that it was time to retire. I would be 43 in April, and I had served in the Legions since I was sixteen. I had been frugal, so that between the money I made in Gaul and the resulting increase in investments in certain businesses that were made in my name by the plutocrats that had worked for Caesar, along with the bounties and plunder I accrued during the civil wars, even with my expenditures, I had more than enough money to purchase my way into the equestrian class, along with enough to live on in a decent style. When I talked to Scribonius about it, for the first time, he did not laugh as he had every other time I brought it up, instead giving me his thoughtful look.
“Maybe it's time,” he said. “But let me know, because when you do, I will as well.”
I looked at him, not trying to hide my astonishment. “But you'd be Primus Pilus if I did. I’ve made it clear with everyone, and they agree. Besides, you have more than enough money to sway Antonius.”
For this is the flaw in our system of promotion. Scribonius was the most qualified, but even if there were no other contenders for the position the ultimate decision was up to Antonius, who was so strapped for cash at this point that it was not a stretch of the imagination to think that Antonius would simply auction off the post.
Now, Scribonius laughed, shaking his head at me. “Titus, I am not, nor have I ever been as ambitious as you. In fact, I think you could give Caesar a run for his money when it comes to that. Also,” he pointed out, “I'm older than you, and I'm just as tired, if not more so, as you are. No,” he concluded. “If you retire, I will as well.”
I did not know what to say. Never before had any man made such a clear and open declaration of loyalty to me and to my horror, I felt tears pricking my eyes at the thought, forcing me to fall back on the defense of a gruff exterior.
“You’re right, you probably aren’t up to the job,” was all I could think to say.
Fortunately, he saw through my words and just laughed.
“Probably not,” he said. “So it’s a good thing that we’ll never find out.”
“You are truly not angry with me?”
I looked over at Miriam lying next to me then shook my head. “No, I'm not. I thought I would be, but the truth is, I’m happy that you're pregnant.”
She searched my face, but I was being honest. I was leaving in the morning, so this would be our last time together for the gods only knew how long and I forced myself to discuss the possibility that I would be gone for the entire pregnancy and the first months of the child’s life. The corners of Miriam’s mouth turned downwards, the sign that she was about to start crying again, which made me miserable, so I stopped talking and just held her until she fell asleep. The next morning I arose a few thirds of a watch before dawn, dressing myself in the darkness and wondering how long it had been since I had done so without the help of Diocles or Agis. I had already packed the belongings that I would not be carrying on my mule and had them taken to the baggage train, while everything that I would carry was already stowed and ready. Miriam got up to sit on the edge of the bed, neither of us talking much, then it was time for me to leave. I stood looking down at her, not sure what to say, remembering that I had done this before.
“Take care of yourself,” I said, sounding awkward even to my own ears.
To my surprise, she laughed at that. “I am not the one marching off to war. You take care of yourself, Titus Pullus.”
“All right. Take care of the baby then,” I amended, reaching down to pat her belly, which was still flat, though she insisted it was not.
I took her in my arms, we kissed, and then I picked up my gear, leaving
the villa.
The camp was a swarm of activity, men racing about attending to all the last-minute tasks their Centurions could think of, the mules loaded with the freshly made tents and stakes, the braying of the animals competing with the shouted orders of the officers. The baggage train was assembled outside the main gate, waiting for the rest of the army to march out so that it could fall in behind us. Antonius was not yet with us and would be joining us somewhere along the way to Zeugma, so Canidius was in command. He still clearly remembered our conflict in the last campaign because he barely had two words for me and those were always sarcastic or biting in some way. Finally, a third of a watch after dawn we were ready to depart, the front gates swinging open as the vanguard stepped out to a waiting crowd of people, composed in seemingly equal parts of well-wishers, gawkers, camp followers and army wives seeing their men off. Like the last campaign, Antonius had imposed a strict rule that camp followers and army wives would not be allowed to tag along with the army, but unlike last time, there was very little argument.
After the deprivation and hardship that we had suffered and after hearing the tales of the barren wastes we would be marching through, it did not take much to dissuade anyone from following us this time. Consequently, the men would be leaving their women and children behind. It was the families who wailed the loudest at our parting, children running alongside their fathers, begging them to stay. It was a wrenching sight, the tears of the children softening even the hardest hearts in the Legions, and no man chastised or mocked the fathers of the children for matching their emotions. Women called out men’s names as they marched by, wishing them luck and that the gods watch out for their men, while for a moment I regretted making Miriam stay at the villa instead of coming to see me off, though I reckoned that it was best that way. We marched through the streets of Damascus, the tramping of our feet echoing off the stone walls of the buildings as even more people lined the roofs and side streets, all 16 Legions taking more than a full watch to march past a given point, the baggage train following us taking at least that long by itself. We would not post a rear guard on the baggage train while we were in Syria, then only when we left Zeugma would we march in the quadratum, with the train in the middle. Since we were determined not to leave the train behind, we were prepared to move at perhaps a third of our normal pace, which was why we were leaving at the beginning of the year.
It was the year of Antonius’ second Consulship, ironic considering he had not set foot in Rome in at least two years, and the junior Consul was Lucius Scribonius Libo, a distant relative of my friend and Secundus Pilus Prior, though it was something he did not want known. I was fitter than I had been in years, thanks to the work I did with the new tiros that we had drafted to replace the men lost more than a year before. The Legion had more than a year in which to get the new men trained and integrated into the ranks. While they were not completely raw, a little more than a third of the Legion was still unblooded and until we faced battle, there was no way really to tell how they would perform. They did well in all the mock battles, including the one Legion on Legion exercise we had conducted, which turned into a bloody brawl that sent hundreds of men across the army to the hospital with broken bones. But that was not the same thing as standing in line, waiting for the thundering cataphracts to slam into you, or holding a shield above you and your comrades for what felt like thirds of a watch as the sky seemed to rain arrows. Only after that happened the first time would I and the other Centurions know what the new men were made of, though with men like Albinus stiffening the ranks, I was cautiously confident that the 10th would acquit itself well. We had been doing conditioning marches as well, but it is never the same as when you are marching off to fight, though I do not know why. Whatever the cause, it seems harder on the body to know that you are marching for real rather than just on what is essentially a pleasure jaunt out in the countryside, knowing that you are at most going to spend one night under leather. Perhaps it is the knowledge that you are not going to be sleeping under a roof, or be in familiar surroundings for the next several months, or even longer, that wears a man down. Whatever the cause, at the end of the first days on the march, men were exhausted, while there was a minimum of horseplay and spirited talk around the fires at night, though I knew that this would not last. The weather was mild, even for winter in this part of the world, which helped, but the farther north and east we marched the colder it got. Still, it was nowhere near the bitterness we would be facing once we crossed the Euphrates.
With the influx of new men, there was the requisite shuffling in the ranks, Scribonius having promoted Gaius to Sergeant, leader of his tent section, which I had mixed feelings about, to say the least. On one hand I was proud that he was viewed as worthy of a leadership position, even if it was the lowest rung of the ladder. On the other, I was justifiably worried about whispers of favoritism shown to my nephew, but when I voiced my concerns to Scribonius, somewhat to my surprise he got angry.
“It sounds like you're questioning my judgment, Titus,” he said stiffly.
“You know it’s not that,” I protested. “I just don’t want him to have to face difficulties because he’s my nephew.”
“You're underestimating the boy,” he retorted. “Besides which, so what if he does have to face some questions about how he came to be promoted? Maybe you should let him fight his own battles. I remember there were more than a few questions about how you got promoted.”
I bit back a sharp reply, knowing that he was right in every way. I had indeed faced some bitterness and resistance when Calienus was promoted and I had moved into his spot, and I bitterly recalled the troubles I endured at the hands of Spurius Didius. But Gaius was not me, I thought, he does not have my size and while he burned with an ambition similar to mine, I was worried that he did not have the savagery needed to not only achieve but to secure a promotion. Still, I knew that Scribonius was right, so I relented in my questioning, allowing that I would sit back to let him either thrive or fall flat on his face. My fears proved to be unfounded, though what seemed to help Gaius was that he was so likable and earnest that even the most hard-bitten of the men in his section did not want to let him down. He had proven to be a good Legionary, now he had to prove that he could be a good leader, and I offered a prayer to the gods that he would be as happy and successful in the army as I had been. I was struck by how fitting it would be if he began his rise through the ranks at a time when I was seriously thinking of leaving the army to begin a new chapter in my life.
The army plodded towards Zeugma and as expected, the weather turned colder but this time all the men were prepared so there were no complaints or illness because of the weather. We finally reached Zeugma almost three weeks after leaving Damascus, only to find that Antonius, who had supposedly gone by ship from Alexandria up the coast to Antioch, then was coming overland to Zeugma, still had not arrived. Unsurprisingly, almost immediately the grumbling began, the men blaming Cleopatra for the delay without having any evidence to support their belief, which I took as a sign that Octavian’s agents had been successful in painting her as the cause of every Roman ill. Fortunately, we were there less than a week before Antonius arrived, thankfully without his queen in tow, causing the complaining to cease. He looked fit, with no signs of the dissipation that had so marked our stay with him at Leuke Kome. We stayed at Zeugma only a day after he arrived and despite it being very early in the season, with the land still in the grip of winter, by setting out immediately, Antonius was making two gambles. One was on the weather, the other on the fact that our slow progress would actually be to our benefit this time. Unlike what was now two years before, the winter of this year had been exceedingly mild and I do not know whether he consulted astrologers or some other soothsayers, but he seemed confident that the trend would continue. Adding to that was the knowledge that we were going to move only as fast as our baggage train, and this time we were not marching with the tail of auxiliaries we had before. This was an almost completely Roman ar
my, with the exception of some 7,000 Galatian cavalry and 2,000 slingers, both of these forces proving themselves useful in fighting the type of enemy we would be facing.
Our slow progress would actually play in our favor, or at least Antonius so believed, since it meant that by the time we reached the higher country it would be late spring, and Antonius had made it clear that we would wait if need be until the passes cleared. As he pointed out, it was a much better proposition to be poised in position to march the relatively short distance left than to wait at Zeugma or even Samosata for it to happen. Artavasdes the Median would supposedly be joining us, which was the one question hanging over our collective heads that would ultimately determine the success or failure of this campaign, none of us having any confidence in the trustworthiness of these allies of convenience.
Accompanying Antonius was Ahenobarbus, who had waited in Antioch for him and, because of his seniority, he took over as second in command from Canidius, who did not like that a bit, I can tell you. Titius was left behind in Africa to govern, along with Plancus and a few others, but Fonteius was in his usual spot tethered to Antonius’ side, his nose tilted in the air at its accustomed angle whenever he was forced to deal with the likes of us. Along with the Macedonian Legions came the 23rd Legion, with old Torquatus as Primus Pilus, who I greeted as an old friend. The events that led to his relief as Primus Pilus of the 10th having happened long enough in the past and not being of a personal nature, it seemed to me that whatever rancor there might have been between us had long since faded. Unfortunately, the same could not be said for Torquatus’ feelings for Balbus, although I cannot say I was surprised, given the nature of their dispute. The woman over whom they had fallen out died in childbirth many years before and I believe that most of the bitterness was borne by Torquatus, which I suppose is natural since he was the loser in that contest of the heart. They greeted each other politely enough, but the tension between the two men was thick enough that it would require a dagger to cut through it. The feelings between the two were so obvious that even Gaius commented on it the one night that I made the regrettable mistake of inviting both Torquatus and Balbus to dine with me.