Avenging Varus Part II

by R. W. Peake

  When nobody spoke up, I asked Aviola, “Are you saying that this is the best way to make sure that Gaius doesn’t get control of everything?”

  He hesitated, then nodded slowly. “In my judgment, given what I’ve seen and heard, yes, I believe this isn’t just the best way, it’s the only way.”

  “Well,” I suddenly felt as if a weight had been lifted from my shoulders, “that settles it, then. We know what we need to do.” It was when I scanned the faces of the others that I got my first indication that, perhaps, the answer was not that straightforward.

  “If,” Septimus spoke up, addressing Aviola, “we decide to…proceed in the manner in which you suggest, will you represent our interests?”

  Aviola did not hesitate. “Absolutely.”

  Septimus stood, then before anyone could interject or say anything, he offered his arm to Aviola, saying, “We’ll let you know our decision as soon as we make it, Lucius Aviola. First,” he turned and indicated the urn, “we need to inter our brother where he belongs, with his family.”

  I was incredulous, but when I opened my mouth to stop the lawyer from departing, Alex shot me a look that, quite unusually, I actually interpreted; even more strangely, I obeyed his silent directive to remain mute.

  At least, I did so until Aviola and his scribe, who had not written a word, disappeared from the kitchen, and I managed to refrain from any outburst until I heard the outer door shut; then, I could not contain myself any longer. “Are you all mad? Didn’t you hear him? This is the only way to make sure that Gaius doesn’t control everything.” I turned on Septimus, pointing at him as I ranted, “You of all people should want this! You’re the one my father wanted to make sure your brother doesn’t make the same stupid fucking mistake he made with that fucking grain deal!”

  “How do you know about that?” Septimus shot back, and as agitated as I was, I could see that he was no less so, given that he pointed a finger in my face as he shouted, “This is my brother we’re talking about! What do you know about him, or our lives? You didn’t even know you were a Pullus until, what, five months ago?”

  I vaguely remember putting one hand on the table and vaulting across it to land right in front of Septimus, yet as angry as I was, I did not strike him, but I came close to it. And, to his credit, while he certainly did not appear happy that I was suddenly standing less than a hand’s breadth away from him, he did not shrink away, and he met my angry gaze with one that was no less impassioned.

  “What did you say?” I asked, but not loudly. “Would you care to repeat that, Septimus?”

  “Gnaeus.”

  I did not look away from Septimus at the sound of Miriam’s voice, but neither did he, and in the back of my mind, I did notice that my head was tilted downward, though not by much.

  “Gnaeus,” Miriam repeated. “Listen to me. Septimus meant no disrespect. But you are talking about our brother. And,” she added, “your uncle.”

  “Who’s running a collegia and who tortures people like her.” I thrust my arm out, pointing where I knew Algaia was sitting.

  Septimus spoke for the first time, his eyes never wavering from my face as he answered, “I know exactly who and what my brother is, Gnaeus. But,” for the first time, his voice displayed an emotion other than anger, “he’s still my brother. And I’m not willing to condemn him to death just to make sure that Titus’ wishes are respected.”

  “Condemn him to death?” I scoffed. “He wouldn’t be condemned. At the most, he’d be exiled.”

  It was Alex who, with a few well-chosen words, brought me crashing back to reality, and in the process, reminded me of something I confess I had forgotten.

  “That’s true,” I heard Alex say. Then, after a heartbeat, he added, “If he was an Equestrian.”

  If he had walked up and punched me in the stomach, the effect would have hardly been greater, and I could not stop myself from groaning aloud, “Pluto’s cock. I forgot.”

  And, it was true; I had completely forgotten what was, and most likely still is, my mother’s one great concern and objection towards my accepting the adoption by my natural father, that the Pullus family is not of the Equestrian Order. The fact that before Gaius’ misadventure, the Pullus family had enough money to qualify not just for the Equestrian Order, but for a seat in the Senate is still part of my history that I do not fully understand, although I also know that I may not ever truly comprehend it. I have read enough of my father’s story to understand the bare bones of it, that because of some enmity Divus Augustus held for the man who is my great-grandfather, the Prefect Titus Pullus, whose gladius I now carry and who earned his way into the Equestrian Order, his adopted son, my grandfather, and his children, including my real father, were barred from that status. By this point in time, as I stood in the kitchen in Arelate, I was now aware of the family joke, that the Pullus family were the richest members of the Head Count, but right then, it was not a jest that held much humor, because I realized they were right. Things like exile, a heavy monetary fine, or both, are reserved for those in the orders above the vast majority of Romans who are members of the urban tribes that their social betters call the Head Count. For most Roman citizens, being convicted of a crime, particularly of the kind that was severe enough to accomplish our aims, the best they can hope for is a public flogging, but far more likely, especially for the kind of crimes that I suspected Gaius committed, execution was the punishment.

  I dropped onto the bench, feeling a mix of emotions, and I asked glumly, “What do we do now?”

  “We inter your father,” Septimus said quietly. “And when we’ve done that, we’re going to have to talk with Gaius. We can’t put it off any longer.”

  Since the funeral ritual for our dead takes place at dusk, unless, of course, you are under the standard, when it happens within a matter of watches and at whatever time of day works, I took advantage of the time to explore Arelate some. When I made this known, suddenly, Miriam, who had stayed at the villa both nights with Atia and Manius, announced that she would be my guide, and she was immediately joined by Algaia, but when Miriam looked over at her niece, Gisela pointedly looked away, which earned her a scornful smile from Algaia. As intrigued as I was by whatever was happening between these two, I was not fooled in the slightest, although I did wait until the three of us had left the villa. It was the first time I had actually set foot outside the villa since two nights before, since we spent the rest of the day after Aviola left getting to know each other.

  “You’re coming with me to make sure I don’t go to Bacchus’ Delight, aren’t you?” I asked Miriam, who had casually placed her arm through mine, but rather than denying it or trying to change the subject, she admitted cheerfully, “Absolutely.”

  She said it in such a way that I burst out laughing, and she smiled back up at me, while even Algaia giggled a bit.

  “I don’t know how I feel about being so transparent,” I admitted ruefully. “You haven’t known me very long, and if you’re already able to see what I’m up to, it must mean that I’m easy to figure out.”

  “Not really,” Miriam answered, and the change in her tone caused me to turn back from my examination of the forum to see her looking up at me with an expression that was explained as she said, “It’s only because I knew your father so well that it’s not hard to figure out. The moment I laid eyes on you,” her eyes began to shine, “I knew you were his son.” Before I could say anything to that, Miriam continued, “Tell me about your mother, Gnaeus. Tell me about Giulia.”

  I was certainly willing to do so, but I was curious about something, and I asked her, “Did my father never mention her to you?”

  “Only once,” she answered, then for the first time, she looked away from me as she explained, “when he came to Arelate to bring Diocles home.” She heaved a sigh, “And that was only because he’d had too much wine.” I sensed her turn her attention back to me, and while I would not call her tone accusatory, there was definitely an undercurrent of anger there. “A
nd he thought your mother was dead and had died because of you.”

  Now it was my turn to sigh as I acknowledged, “Yes, I know. It was…complicated. And,” I felt compelled to offer some defense of my mother, “she was young, and her mother was…not a good woman, from what I understand.”

  “You never met her?” Algaia asked, speaking up for the first time from her spot on the other side of my aunt.

  “No.” I shook my head, not really liking the direction this conversation was taking, but even in the moment, I recognized that this was the kind of thing that families knew about each other. “My mother wanted nothing to do with her. And,” I added, “once I found out about Plotina, I could see why.”

  “Plotina?” Miriam asked, and I went on to explain the circumstances that led to my grandmother flogging the woman who had been my mother’s nurse from childhood to death.

  Miriam listened but did not comment, at least on this; instead, she said, “You do understand why your father thinking your mother was dead because she had died in childbirth was even more upsetting than it might be for most men, don’t you?” This seemed to be an odd thing to say, but I just shook my head, which prompted her to ask, “Do you know why I’m named Miriam, Gnaeus?”

  “Not really,” I told her, then for the next few moments, she told me the story of the first Titus Pullus, but not from the perspective of a Roman Legionary; never once did she speak of his exploits, some of them I had heard about long before I ever showed up in Ubiorum.

  Instead, she spoke of him as a man who had suffered unspeakable, tragic loss, beginning with his own birth, and how the size that distinguishes some of us bearing the Pullus name killed his mother, for which his father never forgave him. I learned that Alex’s sister Gisela shared her name with my great-grandfather’s first woman, and that he had had two children, the boy named for his childhood friend and the girl named for one of his two sisters, who, like their mother, died in childbirth. Finally, Miriam explained she was named for Titus Pullus’ second, and first legally recognized wife Miriam, who he met in Damascus while the 10th Equestrians marched for the Triumvir of the East Marcus Antonius, and who died in childbirth, killed by their son, who did not survive either.

  We had been walking slowly as she talked, but I barely noticed anything around me, listening intently, and once she stopped, I was moved to acknowledge, “So, when my father was told my mother died in childbirth, he assumed that it was for the same reason.” She nodded, and I mused, “It makes sense that he didn’t ever try to find out if it was the truth, since it’s happened before.” Suddenly, I was struck by something, and I asked her, “Who told you this? Your parents, I assume.”

  “Some of it,” she said, “but most of it comes from Avus’ scrolls.”

  This not only reminded me of their existence, and how they were with my mother in Mogontiacum, it surprised me a great deal.

  “You know how to read?” I asked, not in a disbelieving manner, but just because it was so unusual, and she shot me an amused look.

  “Yes, Gnaeus,” she answered patiently. “We may have been born into the Head Count, but as you know already, we’re not…typical of our class. And,” she added as something of an afterthought if I am any judge, “my mother insisted on the girls being literate as well.”

  I knew of her sister Valeria, who is named for my natural great-grandmother, and that she had died of illness, but I did not mention it then, asking instead the first thing that had popped into my mind.

  “If,” I spoke slowly as I tried to think of how to articulate my thoughts in a coherent manner, “the Prefect killed his mother because of his size, then Miriam died because of their child’s size…how did your mother manage to have not only my father, but the rest of you? Was she…large?”

  I do not know why I was hesitant to put it that way, but fortunately, Miriam took no offense, laughing as she answered, “Gods, no. She was,” she held her hand to a spot just below the bridge of her nose, “that tall, and I doubt she weighed a hundred pounds.”

  While I certainly did not doubt her, I found it remarkable enough to say, “That’s…strange, don’t you think? That she would be able to have my father and all of you without any trouble?” Fortunately, I caught my error in time, although the sudden expression of irritation helped me to correct, “I mean, more than what’s usual for women when they have children. That’s all I meant to say.”

  Miriam did not reply to this, directly, anyway; instead, she looked over to Algaia, and while I could not see my aunt’s expression, I suspect it was similar to the one Algaia was wearing as she shook her head at the stupidity of men.

  When she turned away from Algaia, Miriam said, “I don’t know about strange, Gnaeus. I just think that’s how the gods like to amuse themselves. Your mother,” she asked, “was she…large?”

  I laughed, both because of her use of my own word and how she managed to mimic the manner in which I said it, but I shook my head as I answered, “No. In fact,” I decided to have some fun, leaning away from her a bit, pretending to calculate, “you’re taller than she is. And,” I grinned, “it looks like you weigh more than she does, even now.”

  “You,” Miriam tilted her head so her nose was in the air, and her tone was as if she was making a pronouncement of an established fact, “are a pig. Did anyone ever tell you that?”

  “Not today.” I chuckled. “In fact, now that I think about it, not in a while.”

  “That’s only because Gnaeus doesn’t have a woman of his own.”

  I turned to glare over Miriam’s head at Algaia, who stuck her tongue out at me, completely unrepentant.

  “I suppose it’s just because none of the women in Ubiorum are that pretty,” I shot back, and I could tell she knew that I was lying.

  We fell silent then, at least about my family’s history, and I mostly listened as Miriam gave a brief explanation about each of the buildings that enclosed the forum. Naturally, we stopped at the statue of Divus Augustus, and I realized that not long before, I had read my father’s account of his childhood vow to right the wrong that Augustus had done his family.

  “Where’s the ludus?” I asked.

  This surprised Miriam, and she glanced over at Algaia, although she did not really hesitate much.

  “You mean the one our family used to own?”

  “Yes,” I nodded, but could not stop myself from adding, “the one that Gaius sold to finance his…scheme.”

  It was not my intention to use the ludus as the pretense for discussing Gaius, but neither did I falter to talk about him now that I had brought him up, and as we walked to the ludus, I asked Miriam, “What do you think we should do, Miriam?” Before she could say anything, I assured her, “And I understand now why you and Septimus are reluctant to do as Aviola suggested, and I should have remembered your…” I stopped and corrected myself, “…our status. But we have to do something, don’t we?”

  “I honestly don’t know, Gnaeus.” Miriam sighed, and I saw her eyes begin to shimmer again, although she continued looking straight ahead. “But,” she admitted, “yes, you’re right. We have to do something. I just wish I knew what it was.”

  This was something about which we were in complete agreement, but I suppose we should have had more faith in Gaius and the fact that he was not like the rest of his family.

  Chapter Eight

  We returned to the villa in a somber mood, both because of what awaited us and from the direction our conversation had gone on our way to the ludus. The state of which, Miriam confirmed, had declined rapidly, something that was obvious to the eye, even before we stood watching through the open gate for a few moments at the gladiators conducting their training.

  “I wouldn’t have one of those bast…men in my Century,” was my pronouncement, but Miriam was more amused at my clumsy attempt to watch my language.

  “Gnaeus, you’re talking to the child of a Centurion,” she chided me, but in a laughing way. “I’ve heard men being called bastards before. And,�
� she added mischievously, “cunni. And mentula. And…”

  “All right, all right!” I held up my hand, giving her a mock wince. “I believe you! Maybe,” I grinned, “I could pick up some new words from my aunt.”

  “You probably could,” she assured me. “Servius is always on me about my language at home.”

  She made a face as she said this that made me laugh, and I asked, although I was certain I knew the answer, “Does it do any good?”

  “What do you think?” she scoffed.

  That, however, was about the only lighthearted moment for the last third of a watch of our time out in the town, and when we returned to the villa to make the necessary preparations, there was not much humor to be found.

  “Chickpea has the caldarium ready,” Septimus told us when we returned. “We’ve already bathed, and there’s fresh water waiting.”

  I had discovered that the villa had its own bathhouse, minus only the apodytarium; I had been informed by Miriam that it originally did not have a frigidarium, but Gaius had added one, which is understandable since it is attached to the house, and I confess I was immediately envious. Despite my relative wealth growing up, Quintus Volusenus could not afford the expense of a private bath, although the one we used was reserved for members of the upper orders. At the time, I had thought this was normal, and as I got older, I ascribed it to the fact that it was Mediolanum, but Arelate is a provincial town as well. It is also, I am somewhat ashamed to admit, much more prosperous than Mediolanum, but I am certain that is because of its strategic location on the Rhodanus and its status as the largest inland port in the region. None of which, I will confess, was in my mind as I sat on the bench with Miriam and her children and Algaia in the steam-filled room, feeling the heat seeping into my muscles. Manius and Atia were, naturally, curious about our excursion, and I found their chatter both charming and annoying, almost in equal measure. Which, I could tell, did not escape Miriam’s notice, and I saw how amused she was, so I prepared myself for another teasing at some point in the future. I recall being struck in the moment as I pretended to ignore her and Algaia watching me with open enjoyment, how under normal circumstances I despise being the butt of any kind of joke or banter, yet this was decidedly different. Once I thought about it more, I realize that it was because this was the kind of thing that was completely missing from my childhood, and while I ascribed it originally to being an only child, I no longer believe it was just that. My mother and I definitely had, and continue to have this teasing kind of relationship, but when there are only two involved, it is not really the same thing as what I had been experiencing in Arelate. Despite only lighthearted topics, which we tacitly agreed to confine our conversation to because of the children, it was impossible, at least for me, to keep my mind wandering to what lay ahead. Nevertheless, the time passed, and once we were clean and refreshed, we walked the dozen paces back into the villa, where I found Alex waiting for me in my room.