by R. W. Peake
“That’s not true! And,” at this, he turned back to face Alex, Algaia, and me, and announced, “I can prove it!”
Now, I admit, I was intrigued; still skeptical, but certainly I was interested enough to turn and signal the girl serving the customers, indicating that she bring this man a fresh cup of wine. I waited for her to return, then once he had the cup in front of him, he suddenly looked nervous, and I cursed myself for being so gullible.
“What’s your name, citizen?” I asked him, and I saw the bump in his throat bob, but he answered, “Lucius Pacuvius, Centurion.”
“All right, Lucius Pacuvius, let’s hear your proof that’s earned you that cup of wine.” I pointed to it, and while my tone was friendly enough, I saw he understood perfectly.
However, I was not prepared for him to actually smile as he replied, “Oh, Centurion, I can do better than that.” Then, he reached down to his small coin purse, and I had to suppress a smile at the sight of how all the people arrayed behind him craned their necks over his shoulder, each of them trying to see what he was doing.
As he rummaged about in it, Alex asked suddenly, “I’m sorry. What did you say your name was?”
“Lucius Pacuvius,” the man said, although he did not look up, and I heard him mumbling to himself, then he gave a small cry of triumph, but I swear I saw an expression of recognition flicker across Alex’s face, although he said nothing.
I am not sure what I was expecting, and I confess that when I thought about it later, my reaction of disappointment when he extracted what we could see was a coin was somewhat silly, given that it was in his coin purse. It was the manner in which he handled it that gave me a sense that, perhaps, this was something that I would not find disappointing, and he leaned over to place it in my outstretched palm, once I realized what it was.
I stared down at it as he said, “The Prefect gave this coin to my father, Vibius Pacuvius, when he was just a lad. He and my grandfather were out trying to find work, and they ran into the Prefect and his slave. My father,” his voice suddenly altered, matching the faraway look in his eyes as he continued, “was always a bit of a hothead. And my grandfather had his land taken by Divus Julius for his Legionaries when they retired, so my father was unhappy about it. And,” he said proudly, “when he met the Prefect on the road, he told him as much! That it wasn’t right!”
This seemed rather farfetched to me, but when I glanced over at Alex, I was shocked when he gave nothing more than a faint nod, yet I still could not smother my skepticism, and I asked him, “And you’re saying that the Prefect let your father tell him that? What did the Prefect do?”
“He asked my father’s pardon, apologized to him and my grandfather for any injustice done. And,” he pointed down to the coin, “gave him that.”
“A sestertius?” someone behind me scoffed. “That wasn’t an apology! That was an insult! And,” the man hooted, “your father was too stupid to know it!”
This prompted me to look over my shoulder, and I was grimly pleased to see that none of the small crowd seemed interested in meeting my eye. Then, I turned back to examine the coin, but I confess that I was somewhat confused by what I saw.
“It’s a ship,” I murmured. “What does that mean?”
“Turn it over, Centurion,” the man said quietly.
I did as he said…then froze, suddenly enveloped by a feeling unlike anything I had experienced before, and to this point in time, have yet to experience since. On the other side of the coin were three standards, a pair of Cohort standards, with a Legion eagle in the center, but it was the legend underneath it that convinced me this man was telling the truth, even before Alex confirmed it.
“This is from the 10th Legion,” I said it quietly, but I heard the gasps of the people who heard me, but my eyes were filling with tears.
“The Prefect gave that coin to my father,” Pacuvius said, and when I looked up at him, I had to struggle to control myself as I answered him, “I believe you, Lucius Pacuvius. And,” I had to take a deep breath, “I realize that I haven’t introduced myself. I’m Quartus Pilus Prior Gnaeus…Pullus. The Prefect was my great-grandfather.”
I had honestly intended to retire when I stood up, but I suspect that it was another full watch before the three of us staggered up to our rooms. Most importantly, while my coin purse was even lighter, and in fact, at that moment, there was only one coin in it, it was still worth it, and I have that coin today, although I have it tucked away.
The best part of taking a barge was that it meant we did not have to sit in the saddle all day, especially as hungover as I was, although I had come to enjoy riding Latobius quite a bit, and like the gladius and my new coin, the chestnut stallion helped me feel more connected to not just my father, but to his father, and the man I knew was actually my father’s uncle by blood but was his adoptive grandfather. Nevertheless, as with most things, with every positive comes a negative, and in our case, it was that we could not hold a conversation without the risk of being overheard. This was especially problematic because, while we never discussed it, both Alex and I had forestalled talking about what awaited us in Arelate, with my uncles Gaius and Septimus. Finally, I had to use the combination of my size and rank to warn the slovenly master of the barge, a bearded Gaul by his look and accent, and his two assistants to steer clear of the three of us, settling ourselves up at the front, with our horses in between us and the rest of the cargo. I warned the crew of the consequences of their wandering anywhere near the front unannounced, but it still took a thrashing with my vitus to send the message that I was serious, although I did feel somewhat badly about it, because the master had sent the youngest member of the crew, a boy of perhaps fourteen, who I only learned after I beat him was his son.
“Your Tata deserves this, not you,” I said this immediately after applying the vitus to his lower extremities, but he did not seem appreciative of that distinction for some reason.
Alex and Algaia watched me as I thrashed the boy, with two very different expressions; Alex has witnessed more of these moments than he can remember, and I could see he was mostly amused at the manner in which the boy vainly tried to protect his lower body with his arms, learning immediately, as all tirones do, that being hit on the arms hurts worse than on the legs. Algaia, however, stared at me with horror, and it was only afterward, as I was catching my breath that I realized why. Now that I know even more details of what she endured at the hands of Gaius Porcinianus Pullus, I am somewhat ashamed that I behaved in that fashion in front of her. This did not stop her from being extremely valuable, because she knew Gaius in a way that neither Alex, who had not seen him in many years, nor I, who had never met him, ever could. And, as we drifted down the Dubis from Vesontio, heading for the junction with the Rhodanus, which is the river around which Arelate was built, I learned something else, that Algaia is very observant, not just of her surroundings, but of people.
“The thing that you must always keep in mind,” she interjected as Alex and I were discussing the best course of action, “is that, while Gaius is clever, he’s not as clever as he thinks. And, you can use that against him like the man who tricked him out of all that money.”
I cannot say I cared for the obvious delight she took in the thought of Gaius being bilked of what, according to our best guess, was more than a half-million sesterces, but neither could I condemn her for it. The thought of that man, who Tiberius Dolabella had identified before he was killed, made me bring this subject up, but Alex, correctly, demurred.
“We need to handle one situation at a time,” he argued. “And we’re only going to have time to handle one of them, and that’s Gaius.”
The question was, while relatively straightforward, also extremely complex, and it served as a reminder to me about Romans’ obsession with law. In essence, my father, acting as paterfamilias, which was his right, had directed that it would be Septimus making all decisions concerning the Pullus family affairs. And, as long as my father was alive, this was not open to a
rgument or interpretation by anyone, especially Gaius. However, now that my father was dead, according to our laws, Gaius was now the paterfamilias of the family, which raised the question; was my father’s directive still valid? Both Alex and I accepted as fact that Gaius would not see it that way, although neither of us felt confident about much besides that.
I now know it was my naivety that led me to suggest, “Maybe Gaius learned his lesson, and we’re borrowing trouble that isn’t there.”
While Alex clearly disagreed, it was Algaia who, with lacerating scorn, shot back, “The only time Gaius will learn his lesson is when he is crossing into the afterlife!” To emphasize her point, she actually spat over the side of the barge, then muttered something I assume was a curse in her native tongue. She actually had to take a breath before she continued, and I sensed she was making an effort to remain calm. “What you must understand, Gnaeus, is that in Gaius’ mind, nothing is ever his fault. Oh,” she waved a hand, “he might say he made a mistake, but if you listen to him closely, you’ll soon learn that those mistakes were not really his. With that grain dealer, the mistake he made was not in asking your father first, or even in making sure that there was an actual fleet, or there was actually grain, but that he trusted the wrong people. He tried to blame Septimus, and,” she turned to Alex, “your brother Titus for not stopping him from going through with it, once we knew what had happened.” Shaking her head, she finished flatly, “Gaius did not learn anything, because he does not think he made a mistake in the first place. It’s always someone else’s fault.”
I would have cause to recall these words; in the moment, we moved to more practical matters, mainly what we would do when we arrived in Arelate. It is probably no surprise that I was in favor of going directly to the villa, informing whoever was there of the news of my father’s death, my status of adoption, and letting matters develop from there. Alex, with Algaia’s support, argued against that.
“I think we need to find a lawyer in Arelate, show him your father’s will, your adoption, and explain why Uncle Titus removed Gaius as the de facto head of the family in Arelate. I think you would be better served knowing exactly what the law says before you confront Gaius and Septimus, rather than be forced to react to how they handle the news, because then they have the initiative.”
“I wouldn’t worry about Septimus,” Algaia put in, adding, “at least, not like you need to about Gaius. He is a good man, and if the gods were just, he would have been born before Gaius. Septimus will do what is best for your family, not what is best for himself.”
This was comforting, but I was certain I detected a wistful note in Algaia’s voice, and I sneaked a glance at Alex, who was looking at her in a manner that convinced me that I had not been hearing things. What, I wondered, is that about? Since it did not have a direct bearing on the matter, however, I quickly forgot about it; not surprisingly, Alex did not. After two of what turned out to be four days spent on that barge engaged in protracted discussion, mainly due to my stubborn refusal to heed what turned out to be not just sound, but crucial advice, I reluctantly agreed that, when we landed in Arelate in the late afternoon of the fourth day, we would do our best to do so unobserved by anyone connected to my new family. We would take rooms at an inn then try and find a competent lawyer before we made our presence known to the family. This was the plan, certainly; none of us had any intention of drawing any attention, but as I learned very quickly, a man of my size, especially in Arelate, is hard to miss. Even worse, several of those who saw me either knew my father by sight or perhaps had spoken with him personally, because, while we never learned their identity, they immediately made the association. And, while it did not seem to be the case at the time, we were fortunate that, when our unseen observer ran to report to a member of the Pullus family, it was to the right brother. We found an inn down by the docks along the river that was not too infested by vermin of both the two and multi-legged variety, and I, grudgingly, paid for two rooms, although the three of us were actually in my room, discussing what the next day would bring, when there was a barely audible rap on the door.
“Are we expecting anyone?”
Alex shook his head to my whispered question, while Algaia suggested that it might be the innkeeper, and he shook his head again. I nodded to him to open the door, but not until I stood, drew my father’s gladius from my pack, and moved as silently as possible over to the corner opposite the door. Only then did Alex get up, and before he reached the door, there was another rap, slightly louder.
“Yes?” Alex called out. “Who is it?”
“Alex?”
I could see Alex was surprised, yet he did not appear alarmed, and before I could say anything one way or another, he pulled the door open.
“Septimus!”
This did not come from Alex, but Algaia, who leapt to her feet, and forgetting Alex, at least temporarily, ran directly to the man in the doorway, jumping into his arms while wrapping her arms around his neck, squealing with a girlish delight that seemed completely unlike her. It was quite awkward for Alex, but while Septimus seemed happy enough to see her, even as he was hugging her, he was staring over her shoulder at me. Naturally, I was looking at him as well, so I saw that, while he did look me in the eye, it was only a glance, his eyes dropping to the gladius in my hand, and since I was watching him intently, I saw his eyes widen, then fill with tears. Gently but firmly extricating himself from Algaia’s hug, he stepped into the room, absently accepting Alex’s outstretched arm.
With the other, he pointed down to the gladius, asking hoarsely, “Is that…?”
“Yes,” Alex answered before I could, and Septimus tore his gaze away from it, looking first at Alex, then me, then back to Alex, whispering, “So that means…you’re bringing him home?”
Alex’s response was a simple nod, which triggered a full display of grief by Septimus, who began sobbing as Algaia led him gently over to the lone couch at the foot of the bed, with Alex following close behind. It was left to me to walk over to close the door, then I turned to greet one of my uncles.
“I suppose I always knew it could happen.” Septimus was recovered somewhat, hunched over the cup of wine from the amphora I sent Algaia to fetch from the taverna downstairs. “But,” he shook his head numbly, “I never really believed it would.”
This was the first moment that he turned to examine me in more than a cursory manner, and as I had become accustomed to seeing, I watched the range of emotions cross his face as his mind put together the different pieces of information.
For the first time, he addressed me, “I’d ask who you are, but I’m pretty certain that while I don’t know your name, I know whose son you are.”
He stood then, and I could see that he was as unsure what to do as I was, but then, when I offered him my arm as I opened my mouth to at least introduce myself properly, he stepped closer and embraced me, kissing me in the manner we do when meeting a relation or very close friend. I accepted this gesture, albeit feeling somewhat awkward about it, yet I sensed that this was not only important to him, it was crucial to the success of our plans, such as they were at that point.
“What’s your name?” he asked me as he stepped away, wiping at the tears, and I realized that, while I was taller than he was, it was not by that much, and although he was more slender in his build, I had felt the tight musculature under his tunic during our embrace.
“Gnaeus,” I answered, and while I am not normally a shy person, it felt as if my tongue had swollen to the point it was difficult for me to form words, yet somehow, I managed, “Gnaeus Volusenianus Pullus.”
“Volusenianus?” He looked startled, then he thought for a moment before he shook his head as he said, “I don’t recall ever hearing the name Volusenus.”
“There’s no reason you should,” I assured him, then added, “and it’s a long story.”
“Giulia is his mother,” Alex said quietly, and I saw this had an impact on Septimus, because he had turned towards his seat on
the couch, and this stopped him. Returning his attention to me, Septimus informed me, “I’ve certainly heard about your mother, Gnaeus, but I was born here in Arelate, not Siscia, so I’m afraid we never met.”
While I was certainly curious to know how, and more importantly, what Septimus knew about the relationship between my parents, I also realized that this was not the most pressing matter.
Alex either divined my thoughts or, more likely, had reached the same conclusion more rapidly than I had, because he was the one who asked, “What about Gaius? Does he know anything about us?”
Septimus shook his head, but our relief only lasted for the time it took for him to reply, “I have no idea, Alex. But I would assume he does.” Despite having just met, I saw the grim expression on his face as he muttered, “Especially now.”
“What does ‘especially now’ mean?” Alex beat me to the question, but before he replied, Septimus pointed to where Algaia had placed the amphora and other cups, which were empty.
“You’ll want some of that,” he said quietly.
As it turned out, he was right, and our situation became even more complicated. That it became more dangerous was something we would be learning soon enough.
“Gaius basically disappeared a couple of days after my brother left with you and young Titus,” Septimus said to Algaia. “And I didn’t see him for a few weeks. Then, when he did show up,” he paused to take a deep draught of his wine, and I was certain his grimace had nothing to do with the quality, which was not that bad, “he was…different.”
“Different?” Algaia interjected. “What do you mean?”
“He was meaner,” Septimus told her. He gave a small shrug, then went on, “Naturally, we’ve never talked about it, but before Titus showed up, he had always at least tried to hide his cruel nature. Not anymore. Now,” Septimus took a deep breath, exhaling slowly before he finished, “it’s out in the open for everyone to see.”