by R. W. Peake
I was surprised to see him there, but when I said as much, he replied, “Why? If we were in Ubiorum, I’d be doing this, wouldn’t I?”
This was certainly true, yet for some reason, it felt a bit odd to me to have him helping me don the snow white tunic, then the mourning toga that I had last worn when my father had been cremated, after a funeral oration by Germanicus. It was a few months later by this time, but the sight of the attire still affected me deeply, and I realized that, in my distraction with the business with Gaius, I had managed to suppress the deeper meaning of why we were there in Arelate. Seeing those clothes brought it back, and I could see that Alex was similarly affected, so he helped me dress in silence.
There was a moment of levity when I jokingly said, “I suppose you’re going to want me to help you dress now.”
“No.” He grinned at me. “I’ve got Algaia for that.”
That did make me laugh, while it caused a stab of envy…and for some reason, Gisela’s face popped into my mind.
Which, much to my horror, Alex somehow divined, because, as he left my room, he said over his shoulder, “Don’t even think about it.”
We were gathered in the kitchen when Chickpea entered, his face pale, but otherwise, he seemed normal enough as he announced, “Dominus Gaius is here.”
Before the rest of us could react, Miriam got up and said quietly, “I’ll greet him in the triclinium, then I’ll bring him here.”
When she returned with her brother, I have no idea why I was surprised to see him attired the same as Septimus and I were, but I was, although this was more of an idle thought. Studying him in the brighter light of the kitchen, while I saw the resemblance to my father, he looked more like Septimus to me. However, it was not his features that drew my deeper scrutiny, but the expression on his face, and while I could see he looked as uneasy as I am certain we all felt, there was a somber cast to his demeanor that ignited a flicker of sympathy. He seems, I thought in the moment, to be as sad as the rest of us, and it made me wonder if, perhaps, things would not go as badly as we feared.
Septimus offered his arm, but then Gaius swept him into an embrace, and I was close enough to see the tears in his eyes as I heard him whisper, “Let’s send our brother on his way, Septimus.”
Miriam embraced Gaius with similar emotion, then he greeted his niece and nephew warmly enough; he gave Birgit, who was standing in a corner of the room watching with what I thought to be a certain level of wariness, a formal bow. Then it was my turn, and he walked over to me, but just as he was opening his mouth, Alex and Algaia entered the room, both of them clad in the same attire they had worn at my father’s cremation. Gaius’ back happened to be turned to the doorway through which they entered, which led to the rooms upstairs, but he must have seen my eyes shift in the direction of the movement, because he turned around. The atmosphere of the room transformed instantly, in such a profound way that I am certain a blind man would have noticed, yet I cannot really think of a way to describe it, and once Gaius turned away from me, I could only read Alex and Algaia’s faces to try and guess what they saw in his expression.
“Salve, young Alex,” Gaius spoke with a geniality that I could tell was completely false, but it was when he turned his head slightly to address Algaia that I could feel…something radiating from Gaius that was impossible to identify but was unsettling. His voice, however, did not change that much as he said, “And salve to you, Juno.”
“I told you,” she hissed, “that is not my name!”
Before she could say add anything, he broke in smoothly, “I’m afraid that you’ll always be Juno to me. And,” he added lightly, “I look forward to…catching up with you during your visit. Maybe,” I heard the slight alteration that made me certain that he was smiling, “I can persuade you to stay here, where you belong.”
That actually made me move, because I was certain that Alex would come charging at Gaius, but I should have had more faith in him, because he only gave a laugh that I could tell infuriated Gaius.
“Gaius,” Alex wore a smile, but there was nothing humorous in his voice, “if you lay a hand on my betrothed, I’ll kill you. In fact, if you try to get her in a room alone with you, I’ll kill you.”
Because I had moved slightly, I could see enough of Gaius’ face to see that he was enraged, but he countered scornfully, “As if you could, boy. With what, your pen? Scribe?”
“Actually,” I had not planned on intervening because, frankly, I was thinking that perhaps this issue with Gaius would be sorted out right then, but before Alex could respond, I spoke up, “Alex is one of my sparring partners, Gaius, so I’d be careful about making any kind of boast. And,” I thought to add, “he’s killed more than one man himself.” I paused a heartbeat, then asked quietly, “Have you, Gaius? Killed anyone?”
Whatever warmth Gaius Pullus may have held for me evaporated in that moment as he transferred his ire to me, but he retorted stiffly, “I’ve spent my share of time at the stakes…nephew.”
This prompted a snorted laugh by Septimus, and we all naturally turned to where he was standing as he said, “Try selling that somewhere else, brother. You were worse than I was about Tata having to drag us to the stakes to work on our forms.”
This earned Septimus a glare from his brother, but it was Miriam who, at least partially, soothed the tension by asking Gaius brightly, “Doesn’t Gnaeus look like Titus, Gaius? I knew it the moment he walked into the room.”
For a long moment, I thought Gaius would not take the hint, because he continued to glare at Alex and Algaia, the latter standing there with the same look I had seen on her face when we had gone to Bacchus’ Delight. Finally, though, I saw his body relax slightly, and he turned to examine me, giving us both the first opportunity to look each other in the eye up close.
I saw his features soften slightly, and there was a sudden sheen in his eyes as he said so quietly that even I had a hard time hearing him, “Yes, sister. Yes, he does look like Titus.” Then that moment passed, and his expression changed subtly. “I don’t know exactly how he died. I assume you were there, nephew?”
Not only did I find it impossible to think of myself as Gaius’ nephew because it was still such a new concept, the fact that he was only about six years older than I was meant that I mentally rejected his appellation; I also knew that his use of the term was not meant as an endearment.
Nevertheless, I had been dreading this moment, and frankly, I was surprised that it had not come up the day before or earlier this day, but I decided on the fly that I would not allow him to manipulate the situation, so I answered him, “Yes, I was there. And I’ll be happy to tell you everything…but can we send my father on his way first…uncle?”
As I hoped, the way I said the word scored, and he flushed slightly; more importantly, he understood my tacit message, so he gave a curt nod, but he still had one more dart in his quiver.
“Of course, Gnaeus. And since I’m now paterfamilias, I will of course lead the family procession to the family tomb.”
Then, without another word, he turned and reached over to pick up the urn, which was still in the center of the table, but that was where I drew the line, almost literally, placing my hand on his outstretched arm and squeezing, just enough to send a message of my own.
“I’ll carry him,” I said quietly.
For a heartbeat, he looked like he would argue, but then gave a shrug as if it was no matter, which I knew was his way of scoring his own point.
“Very well.” Straightening up, he said in what I assume he thought was a commanding voice, “Let’s get started.”
I let him lead the way, while Septimus shot me an apologetic glance, and Miriam patted my arm, guiding Manius and Atia with her other hand, with Birgit, Gisela, and Gaius Gallienus following them, leaving Alex and Algaia, and the three of us walked out together.
“I think,” Alex spoke in a near-whisper, “that Gaius has something planned.”
“What makes you say that?” I asked, th
en added before he could reply, “And what could he do?”
“I don’t know,” he admitted, then looked up at me with troubled eyes. “And that’s what worries me.”
As dramatic as the scene in the kitchen had been, our procession through the forum was not, somewhat surprisingly. The professional mourners were waiting at the statue of Divus Augustus, along with the priest, augur, and small band of musicians who played tunes that, while not identical to the dirges that are used by the Legions, were similar in their somber quality. They led the way, mainly to announce that a funeral procession was coming, while the professional mourners, all women and dressed in black, wore masks that, had we been members of the patrician or high-ranking plebeian orders, would have been of ancestors that had gone before us, but for the lower orders are simply representations of men in the event that the deceased is male, or female if it is a woman. Gaius did make one more attempt to carry the urn, but I could tell his heart was not in it; I dissuaded him with nothing more than a look, but while he walked beside me, I could see that he was fuming. Because of the time of year, early November, the sun was setting rapidly, and by the time we reached the city gates, men carrying torches had joined the procession, all of which Septimus had organized. More striking, at least to me, was how quickly a small crowd gathered, and I saw more than one old man who was wearing a tunic that may have been red at one time, but it was their battered, weathered features, or in some cases a missing limb that identified them, and I felt a tightness in my chest at the sight. While I had known in a general sense that the Pullus family was well known in Arelate, that night showed me the truth of this in a way that I will always remember. Because I was essentially leading the procession, I did not see the size of the crowd as we walked through the gates, where the men of the night watch stood at what I supposed was their version of intente; it was not until we arrived at the family tomb about a quarter mile from the northern gate, on the road that leads to the Via Aurelia, the east/west main road that connects Hispania and Italia, that I saw how many people were now part of the procession.
“Pluto’s…” I gasped, just stopping myself from uttering an extremely inappropriate term given the circumstances. “How many people are there?”
I did not aim this at anyone in particular, but it was Septimus who answered, “Chickpea said he counted more than five hundred, Gnaeus.”
I felt as if I had been struck a solid blow in my stomach, and the tears came, but I saw that everyone in my party was similarly affected.
“You know,” Septimus said, “for someone who actually never lived here all that long, this is quite a turnout.”
There was murmured agreement, and while I tried to be discreet, I kept my eye on Gaius, trying to determine his true feelings, but in the flickering torchlight, I saw the shine on his cheeks, so I do not believe they were counterfeit.
We stood outside as the priest conducted the ritual that, as with all things Roman, is an important part of the process. Then it was my duty to enter the tomb which, at least to my eyes, was every bit as large and ornate as those adjacent to ours, and it was Miriam who whispered to me that the tombs on either side were actually for the leading families of Arelate, one patrician and one a high-ranking plebeian. I was certainly paying attention to her, but my mind was more occupied with what my eyes were taking in, and I pointed up to the figure that was chiseled into the marble frontispiece.
“Is that what he really looked like?” I asked, although I did not really aim it at anyone in particular.
“I…think so,” Gaius said, then admitted, and I was certain the sadness in his voice was unfeigned, “but none of us here were born when he was alive. Just,” he turned and indicated the urn I was holding with his head, “your father, Valeria, Sextus, and Miriam.”
“And Sextus,” Miriam spoke up, “wasn’t four yet, and I was just a few months old when he died.”
Without any warning, I was struck with such an overwhelming wave of sadness that nobody here knew the man whose deeds and the money that came to him as a reward for them, that it felt as if my feet were fastened to the ground. I was also struck by the thought that, of those four siblings, only Miriam was still alive, and I would be lying if I said the thought did not cross my mind that, given my profession, it was not likely I would be dying of old age either.
I stood there long enough occupied with these thoughts for Miriam to ask, “Are we going in, Gnaeus?”
More embarrassed than anything, I nodded and began moving to the entrance with a heavy wooden door, while Chickpea hurried in front of me and, producing a large key, unlocked the door. As he did so, I was struck by the thought of what a sad commentary it was that even tombs are not considered sacrosanct and have to be locked. Chickpea actually went in first, but I quickly learned that it was only to light the lamps that were placed in sconces on the walls, then standing to one side, motioned for me to enter. Inside, there was a set of three stone shelves along the three walls, and on the highest shelf to my right were seven urns, far more than I had anticipated, based on my limited knowledge of my family.
I felt someone touch my shoulder, and I was surprised to see that it was Gaius, who pointed to the first urn on the left as he said in a choked voice, “That’s my grandfather, and your great-grandfather, Gnaeus. He,” he made a sweeping gesture, “is why this is here. He’s the one who made this all possible.”
“That,” Septimus had entered and was now on my opposite side, and he was pointing to two urns, “is our parents, and your grandparents. Did you know,” he asked, “that you’re related to Cleopatra?”
I turned and stared at him, certain that he was having fun at my expense, but his expression was completely serious, and while I felt odd for doing so, I actually glanced over at Gaius, who nodded and said simply, “It’s true.”
“You might want to read our Avus’ scrolls, sooner rather than later,” Miriam spoke up, and I assured her that I would do that very thing. She was the one who pointed at the urn next to the two containing the remains of my grandparents, and there was no missing the grief in her voice as she said, “That’s your uncle Sextus. He was in the 8th, and…”
“My father talked about him,” I interrupted her, not to be rude, but because I wanted to demonstrate that I too had a connection. “And,” I added, “while I haven’t finished it, I’ve read my father’s account and I know that he joined the 8th.”
“Wait,” Gaius spoke, his tone sharp, “are you saying what I think you’re saying? That Titus did the same thing as Avus?”
“Yes,” Alex beat me to it, and it was impossible to mistake the satisfaction in his voice as he told Gaius, “and he was actually caught up before he died. He wrote about the revolt…and everything else about that time.”
Even in the dim light provided by the three lamps, I saw Gaius’ expression, and I am certain that if I had walked up and punched him in the stomach, he would not have looked more stricken than he did at that moment. And, I will confess, I felt not a flicker of sympathy for him.
“I…I…” Then, without another word, Gaius turned and rushed out of the tomb, leaving his brother, sister, and nephew standing there to look at each other.
“That,” Septimus spoke up now, and his voice had gone husky, “might change things.”
“For the better or worse?” I asked him, but he could only shake his head.
Meanwhile, Alex had walked to the opposite side of the tomb and pointed to a chiseled block of marble on the floor, which I confess I had missed when I entered.
I heard the emotion in his voice as he explained, “This is the marker for my father. He wanted to be buried near your great-grandfather, but your grandfather insisted that he be buried in the tomb, with the rest of your family.”
He pointed down at the floor, and I saw the outline in the stone floor that was just barely noticeable that indicated where Diocles’ body rested. Perhaps it seems strange that his remains were not in an urn, but Diocles was Greek, and this is their custom, whic
h my great-grandfather clearly commanded to be honored, and my grandfather carried out.
While I certainly noticed this, my eye was caught by a lone urn, sitting on the wall opposite from the others, and I asked, “Who is that?”
“That,” Septimus said, “is Servius Metellus.”
Since I had not yet reached this part of my father’s account, I was completely mystified as to who this was, and it was Alex who explained, “He was a comrade of your father’s in the 8th Legion when Uncle Titus was a tiro. When the Batonian Revolt happened, Uncle Titus convinced Metellus to come out of retirement to serve as a Centurion in the Legio Germanicus. He fell during the siege of Raetinium, and his actions saved your father’s life, along with the lives of hundreds of other men of the Legion. He didn’t have any family, so your father decided that he would rest here with the rest of the family.”