by R. W. Peake
I felt the flare of anger, yet as soon as it came, I forced myself to acknowledge that, on balance, it was a fair question.
Still, I could not keep the defensiveness from my voice as I replied, “I took his name, didn’t I? Doesn’t that mean something?” Then, before anyone could speak, I heard the words come from me, “But it’s a fair question, Birgit. And I’m still learning what it means to be a Pullus.”
“Apparently, Gaius never learned,” Alex muttered.
“It’s not that simple.”
I was not the only one who was astonished that something I would have expected from Septimus came from Miriam, and now it was her turn to sound defensive as she insisted, “The world that Gaius, Septimus, and I grew up in here in Arelate was entirely different than what Titus, Sextus, and Valeria knew. I was born in Siscia, that’s true, but I don’t have any memories of it, just the stories that Sextus and Titus and my parents told us.”
I was struck by something, which prompted me to say, “But you had those scrolls from your grandfather to read. And you,” I addressed Miriam, “told me that you read them.”
“I did,” Miriam agreed, and Septimus added, “So did I.”
“Well, Gaius must have read them,” I insisted, but the glance the two siblings exchanged told me what I needed to know.
“He always said he would get around to it,” Septimus said.
I know that it might be hard to understand that a set of scrolls could have such a powerful effect on someone’s future behavior, and I confess that, in that moment, I had only a dim understanding about how that is possible. In the year’s time since this event, now that I have finished my father’s account and am almost halfway through that of my great-grandfather, it does not seem nearly as unusual to me now as it did then. In the moment, it left us silent for a long moment, which was broken by Aviola clearing his throat, prompting us to offer a murmured apology for having forgotten him.
“Getting back to the topic at hand,” he said, “and given that there isn’t a mention of Algaia’s name, either her natural name or the one given to her by her previous owner…”
“He didn’t give me my name, Gaius did,” Algaia interjected.
Nodding, Aviola continued, “…then I’m afraid that this approach goes nowhere.”
“It sounds like the only way we can keep Gaius from taking control of not just our money but this villa is to accuse him of crimes,” Septimus said glumly.
“I’m afraid so,” Aviola agreed. “Otherwise, he has the law on his side.”
Thanking him for his time, on this occasion, Birgit saw him out, leaving the rest of us to discuss matters.
“We can’t let Gaius take Algaia.” Septimus was the first to say what I know I was thinking. “Even if we give up the villa, we have to stop him from that.”
“Yes,” Miriam said, but she was looking at Algaia, who understandably looked terrified, “I agree about Algaia. But,” she said firmly, “we’re not going to lose the villa either.” For whatever reason, my aunt turned away from Alex and Algaia to look me directly in the eye. “No matter what it takes, Gnaeus. No matter what it takes, Gaius can’t win. He’s going to destroy this family if we let him.”
If I ever had any doubt that Miriam Curso was of the same blood as my father, it was erased in that moment, because I was certain I understood what her real message was. However, Gaius Pullus may not have been a true member of his family, but he was no fool, and while it pains me to give him any credit, he proved to have a hard lump of iron in his soul that I recognized is as much a part of being a Pullus as our size. And, we did not help matters because we all made the classic error of underestimating our opponent, although I precipitated it.
I only have myself to blame for what occurred, and while it pains me to say it, part of my error was based in my hubris. The other part was based in the fact that I had an itch that only a woman could scratch, so shortly after the sun went down, I pulled Septimus aside, leading him into the triclinium.
“Where’s a good brothel here in Arelate?” I asked, which I thought was a straightforward enough question, but not judging from Septimus’ reaction.
“What?” He gave a short laugh then, I suppose because he thought I was speaking in jest, but he looked at my face, and gasped, “Are you mad? You want to go to a brothel now?”
“I don’t know if I’m mad right now, but I will be soon,” I told him. Then, realizing what at least part of his objection stemmed from, I said, “I’m not going to go into Gaius’ part of town, Septimus. Surely he doesn’t control every brothel in Arelate.”
“No,” Septimus admitted, “but I still don’t think it’s wise to be out in the streets after dark now that we can expect Gaius to try something.”
“Against me?” I scoffed at the idea, and I pointed out, “He brought that bag of meat thinking that he could intimidate us, and how did that turn out?”
“That,” he agreed, “was impressive. And,” he grinned at me, “it reminded me of your father. But Gnaeus,” Septimus became serious, “there’s no doubt you can handle one Prixus, but do you think Gaius will only send one man?”
“How will he even know I’m out in town?” I countered. “I’ll just slip out and go wherever it is you’re going to tell me about, eh?” I grinned at him, “Don’t tell me you haven’t sampled the wares of every brothel in Arelate, uncle.”
As I hoped, this caused him to return my grin.
“I could tell you that, but it would be a lie.” He laughed. He studied me for a moment, his mouth curved upward, and he surprised me by saying, “You know, now that you mention it, I haven’t been to Euphemia’s in quite some time.”
“Euphemia’s?” I raised an eyebrow. “Is it nice? After all,” I joked, “while I may not be in the Equestrian Order anymore, I still have high standards.”
“This is where all of the men who have been duumvir or held some Imperial posting go,” he countered. “Is that nice enough?”
It certainly was; I lived in Ubiorum, and while I always availed myself of the brothels that catered to Centurions and above, I had known within a matter of heartbeats that in comparison to Arelate, Ubiorum was still a raw, frontier town, which meant that the women who plied their trade on their back were either nearing the end of that career, were fresh from the slave markets, or escaped from poor farms in the province where, as unbelievable as it may sound, the prospect of selling oneself to men was preferable to the alternative.
“Should we tell them we’re going?” I did experience a pang of, if not anxiety, then a certain level of reluctance. “If we just disappear, it might alarm them.”
“That’s true,” Septimus granted, then he said, “But I’m not going to tell Miriam that it’s Euphemia’s we’re going to, so I have to think of somewhere else.”
This seemed an odd thing to worry about.
“Why should she care about where we’re going?”
“Because,” he replied ruefully, “I made the mistake of taking Servius with me.”
“Servius?” I did not immediately make the connection; then, it hit me, and I gasped, “You mean, Miriam’s husband?”
“What other Servius is there?” he snapped. “Of course, her husband.”
I gave a low whistle, and my humor was at least partially based in how Septimus was behaving, “There are actually a lot of Servius’ out there, but I can see why you’re not anxious to go tell her.”
I am certain that she was listening, because this was the instant when Miriam called out, “What are you two plotting in there?”
“Nothing,” we both said in unison, without planning.
Which, of course, Miriam immediately caught, and she appeared in the doorway from the kitchen, outlined by the light, demanding suspiciously, “It doesn’t sound like nothing.” When we did not reply, she became exasperated, snapping, “You may as well tell me now. You,” she pointed at me, “may not know me very well, but Septimus does. And he knows how persistent I can be about finding out s
ecrets.”
“She’s not lying about that,” Septimus muttered, which prompted him to inform his sister.
I braced myself for some sort of lecture about how men are little better than rutting animals, or that we do most of our thinking with the wrong head, so I was unprepared to see her sag with relief.
“Thank the gods,” she said. “I thought you two were planning on doing something even more stupid than going to a brothel.” Miriam turned to Septimus, and I heard the tone of mischief there when she asked, “I assume you’re going to Euphemia’s? That’s your favorite place, as I recall.” Before Septimus could say anything in reply, she added, “In fact, isn’t that where you met your first love, Septimus? What was her name again?”
“I don’t want to talk about that,” Septimus snapped. “And, has anyone ever told you that you talk too much?”
“Oh,” she replied airily, “I seem to recall Servius mentioning something to that effect sometime, but I wasn’t really listening.”
“You,” my uncle grumbled, “need a good beating.”
I did not think he was serious, and Miriam just laughed as I stood there thinking that this was another example of what life with siblings must be like. Later, at some point during our return to Ubiorum, I asked Alex if the kind of behavior I witnessed between at least one brother and his sister was common; I got his answer with the laugh he gave, but he did expand on it.
“You spend half your time wanting nothing more than to kill your siblings,” he said, “and the other half worrying about them getting hurt.”
I confess that this is still something that I have a hard time grasping, and it is something I share with my mother, who was an only child like me. That night in Arelate, Miriam did offer some advice, but it was practical in nature, and it was good guidance, even if it did not work out well.
“You know that Gaius has men watching the villa, and since our brother knows every inch of the place as well as we do, you need to at least make it clear that you’re not heading for the forum.”
Since I had no idea where the brothel was located, I looked at Septimus, and I saw him nodding thoughtfully.
“I know another way to go,” he said, which prompted a snort from Miriam, who countered, “I have no doubt you do, given how often Tata caught you sneaking out to go there.” She tilted her head as if in thought, “What was her name again?”
“Oh,” Septimus grumbled, “go piss on your boots.”
They both stared at me when I burst out into laughter, and I explained, “I had never heard that expression before I joined the Legion, then I heard my father saying it all the time. I didn’t realize that it’s…”
“A family saying,” Septimus finished for me, but then he gave his sister a mock glare, “Although the women of the family aren’t supposed to use it because it’s not ladylike.”
Miriam’s response was to stick her tongue out, then she spun about and returned to the kitchen.
“Well,” I said wryly, “so much for keeping it a secret.”
When I met Septimus in the vestibule, after a quick scraping and changing into a freshly laundered tunic, I could see he was not surprised to see me wearing my baltea and with the gladius attached. I, however, was shocked to see that, while he was not wearing a soldier’s tunic, nor our caligae, he had a gladius in its scabbard attached to his baltea as well, although without the full soldier’s harness.
Pointing down at it, I demanded, “What are you doing with that?”
“The same thing you are,” he countered. “I’d rather be prepared.” Then, he said something that, only in that moment did I realize was another part of what it meant to be a Pullus, “It’s better to have it and not need it than the other way around, neh?”
This was something that Titus Pullus said, back when I thought of him as another Centurion, quite often, but while I agreed in principle, I did feel compelled to point something out to my uncle.
“That may be true, but you’re not carrying this.” I held up my vitus. “I at least have that going for me if we run into the town watch.”
Septimus actually laughed at this, which confused me until he explained, “And I know every man of the town watch by name, and they’ve taken a fair amount of our silver over the years.” Clapping me on the arm, he assured me with a grin, “Don’t worry, Gnaeus. The town watch is one thing we don’t have to worry about.”
It was not until we were at the postern gate and about to enter the street that I thought to ask, “Do you actually know how to use that thing?”
Septimus was reaching for the latch and he froze, turning just his head, but even in the darkness, I could see his expression, although it was the glint of unshed tears that surprised me.
“When your father was here last year,” he said quietly, and I could hear the emotion there, “and we went and retrieved Alex’s brother, he asked me essentially the same thing. And,” he shook his head, “you sounded so much like Titus right then that when I turned around, I expected to see him standing there.” He gave what sounded like a self-conscious laugh. “But, to answer your question, I’ve actually been more diligent with my forms over the last year after your father visited, because I expected trouble from the Poplicolas.”
I did know enough to understand this was the family from whom Gaius had wrested control of their collegia, and while I did not mention it then, I reminded myself to ask him about the fate of Poplicola. In the moment, however, I followed him through the postern gate, where Septimus stopped for a moment to scan the street. Since it was still early, and it happened to be the eve of a market day, the street was not packed with people, but it was busy enough to make spotting anyone watching us next to impossible.
“I forgot that tomorrow is market day,” Septimus said, but I was growing impatient.
“Are you going to stand around trying to remember what day it is?” I demanded, which prompted a laugh as he said, “Patience, nephew. Patience.”
All I cared about was that he was moving as he said it, and as Miriam had suggested, I followed him as he actually turned and headed in the opposite direction of the forum. I may not have been as confident that this would announce to whoever Gaius had watching us that we had no intention of pursuing this matter officially since we were avoiding the forum and the Praetorium there, but I approved it as a prudent measure. Since I had no idea where we were going, I was content to follow Septimus, but I continually scanned the street behind us, and twice, I was certain I caught movement that was suggestive of someone ducking into a doorway or alley when they saw me turn my head, but that was all I saw. I at least knew we were headed in the direction of the river, which I admit made me begin to doubt Septimus’ boasting about the quality of Euphemia’s, since in my experience with the towns of the Rhenus, the word quality would never be associated with any establishment located along the river. Fortunately, he made a turn along a street running parallel to the Rhodanus, but a few blocks away, before he made yet another turn that took us back in the direction from which we had come. We were close enough to see the southern wall, or so I believed it to be, although I was thoroughly lost. Not surprisingly, the traffic on the streets had thinned considerably, but then we began running into more people again. When he finally stopped outside what could have been a copy of our family villa, it was only when I looked down the street and made out the large opening of the forum that I had any idea where we were.
“You mean this place is only two blocks from our villa?” I gasped, and Septimus laughed.
“Your aunt said to take a roundabout route,” he said. “Besides, you didn’t think a place like Euphemia’s would be down by the river, did you?”
“No,” I lied, but before I could say anything else, he had rapped on the door.
The response was immediate, the door of the peephole opening, and I barely made out an eye.
“Salve Dominus Pullus,” an accented, gravelly voice said genially.
“Salve, Aroborix,” Septimus answered in the same to
ne, and the door was opened immediately.
What greeted me was a man who was truly my size, though he appeared to be in his fifties, wearing a tightly fitting tunic, with the broad leather baltea that marked him as a warrior, but one who battled in the sand. He was missing an ear, and in his features, he reminded me of Prixus, but what I found astonishing was how, after a brief clasp of arms, he and my uncle actually embraced.
Either sensing or anticipating my interest, Septimus turned to explain, “Aroborix here was one of our gladiators back when we owned the ludus, Gnaeus. He won his freedom, right here in Arelate.”
I could hear the pride in Septimus’ voice, but I noticed that Aroborix was looking at me with an intensity that was, while not hostile, unsettling in its intensity.
Thrusting out my arm, I began, “Salve, Aroborix, I’m…”
“You’re Dominus Titus’ son,” he cut me off. “I would recognize you anywhere.”
Not for the first time, I was struck by the thought, if it was so obvious to so many people, how did I miss it? Although I did not say as much.
Turning to Septimus, he said with a smile, “Euphemia will be happy to see one of our best customers.”
“Shhh,” Septimus hushed him over his shoulder, but he was still grinning as he jerked a thumb at me, “my nephew doesn’t need to hear about my bad habits.”
“How can fucking be a bad habit?” Aroborix called after us, which meant we entered the premises laughing and looking forward to the evening.
My uncle chose well; actually, both of them did, although I did not appreciate one nearly as much as the other. Septimus’ tastes and his boast about the quality of the coital entertainment proved not to be exaggerated in the slightest bit; indeed, I quickly realized that if Arelate was my permanent residence, I might have fallen in love with a prostitute named Niobe. Between my distraction and the usual effects of post-coital bliss that makes it difficult for a man to be in the proper frame of mind for action, my uncle Gaius was able to spring his trap, aided by his intimate knowledge of his brother.