by R. W. Peake
“Honestly,” he admitted, “I can’t give you any solid reason for my thinking that, but I do think it’s going to happen.” He turned to me and asked, “How much did you talk to him when we were there?”
“Not much,” I shook my head, but then felt it necessary to add, “but that’s because we were somewhat busy, if you’ll recall.”
“That,” he answered dryly, “is one way to put it, but yes. I only had a couple of conversations with him, but both times, he asked me a lot of questions about the Legions.”
“Such as?” I asked, with a sinking feeling that I knew.
“How to enlist.” Alex confirmed my fear. “And whether it would be better for him to enlist in one of the Gallic Legions, or even the African Legions.”
“What did you tell him?” My mother looked disturbed, but it was Algaia who interjected, in a tone that told me she was certain she knew the answer, “And did you tell Birgit about it?”
Wisely, at least in my opinion, Alex chose to answer my mother’s query first, telling her, “I explained in general terms how the process works, and what he would need to provide. And,” he hesitated, and I immediately understood why, “I might have mentioned that it would be better for him to be under the standard in an army where his name was known.”
“Oh, I’m sure you did,” my mother sniffed. “But did you tell Birgit?”
Alex glanced over at me, and I saw the beseeching look he gave me…and I ignored it, looking the other way, so he was left to confess, “It slipped my mind.”
That earned him a derisive snort from my mother, and Algaia essentially echoed her statement an instant before, “Oh, I’m certain it did. But,” she gave Alex a smile that I had seen her wear before, as she asked mischievously, “how do you know I didn’t tell her?”
Alex did not take the bait, answering immediately, “Because I wouldn’t be sitting here in Mogontiacum, I’d still be in Arelate listening to her list all the reasons why Gaius will never enlist in the Legions.”
This did prompt some laughter from the rest of us, and I heard Carissa chortling behind me, but while I joined in, I was chewing my food while my mind was chewing on what he had said, recalling our talk about his forms.
I suppose that was what prompted me to say thoughtfully, “If he does show up, I don’t think we should allow him to enlist immediately.” When Algaia asked why, I was able to explain the idea that had been forming in my mind. “He’s too raw right now. At least for a Pullus.” I still felt somewhat peculiar invoking my family name, but it was growing fainter every time I did. “He told me that Birgit never allowed him to even learn his forms.”
“That,” Alex interjected, “is true. He told me the same thing.” He asked me, “What are you thinking, Gnaeus? Are you going to stop him somehow?” Grinning, he added, “My mother would give offerings in your name for the rest of her days.”
“No, I’m talking about doing what my father did for Gaius’ father,” I answered.
This prompted him to put his spoon down, but his eyes remained on me, and I was certain there would be some kind of objection coming, but when he did speak, it was only to warn me, “That would be quite a commitment of your time, Gnaeus. Because,” he warned, “this isn’t something that you can have someone else do. That would be an improper use of a man who’d otherwise be performing his duties for the Century.”
This was true, and I realized that, as he always did, Alex had spotted the one area of concern, one that I should have thought about. Nevertheless, I was not overly worried at that moment, mainly because that it was only a possibility, and one that I was certain was at least a year away, if not more. In this, I was right; it is now a year later, and young Gaius Gallienus Pullus has yet to darken my door.
Using my scroll from Germanicus for the last time, we secured space on a barge heading to Ubiorum, floating downstream, but after the great sweeping curve of the river at Confluentes, began heading north. I cannot say why exactly, but the idea of traveling downstream while heading north always felt somewhat odd.
“Your father said the same thing,” Alex told me when I mentioned it, then he proceeded to recount his version of the arrival of my father and him in Ubiorum, the first year that the 1st was permanently located there.
“I can’t even imagine what it looked like back then,” I commented, thinking about how much the town has changed to that point, going into my seventh year under the standard.
“Like a cachole.” He laughed. “At least, that’s how Uncle Titus described it. And we were both certain that it would never be improved. That was the year Tiberius was Legate and he kept all but one Cohort over the Rhenus for most of the winter.”
I had certainly read about it in my father’s account by this point, and now that I had gotten a taste of what campaigning in winter is like, I cannot say that I cared for it all.
“It’s no Mogontiacum,” I said as both of us leaned on the rail and watched the snow falling into the water, which already had chunks of ice along the riverbank, “but it’s a lot better than it used to be.”
“I wonder how the Cohort did while you were gone?”
I considered Alex’s question, then shrugged.
“I trust both Saloninus and Structus,” I said; then, struck by a pang of insecurity given my relatively new status, I asked, “Why? Don’t you trust them?”
“I do,” he assured me, but there was something in his manner, and how he kept staring at the riverbank that made me nervous. I suppose he sensed me watching him, because he shrugged, “It’s just that Uncle Titus always said that it’s inevitable when a Pilus Prior leaves that there’s some slacking.”
As soon as he said it, I recalled that my father had said that very thing, but I promised grimly, “Well, if they did, I’ll be sure and straighten them out.” I did not need to, but I still lifted my vitus, “Even if I have to break a lot of these.”
Fortunately, that was not necessary, not least because the men had been kept busy, thanks to the ambitious plans Germanicus had for the coming spring.
“Well? How was your journey? Was there any excitement?”
That, I thought, was a decidedly odd thing to ask, and was even more difficult to answer, and the idea did flit through my mind that perhaps Germanicus had some sort of information about what transpired in Arelate. The fact that we had arrived in Ubiorum barely two watches earlier, and here I was in the Praetorium, standing in front of the desk of my Legate and the Propraetor of Gaul, and if everything I had been told was accurate, my patron, meant that I considered Germanicus’ question more carefully than if someone else had asked it. Finally, I decided to play it safe by playing a version of the Stupid Legionary.
“The journey was fine, sir,” I answered, and this was true. “As far as excitement?” I offered a shrug as I added, “None to speak of,” which was anything but the truth.
And, for a heartbeat, I was certain that I had blundered, because Germanicus stared at me in a manner that made me feel that he did not believe me.
Then, he compounded my suspicion by asking skeptically, “Really? I find that hard to believe.” Before I could say anything one way or another, he explained, “I’d imagine that your family would at least be happy to know the truth, that you’re the Pilus Prior’s son. And, from what I recall, the Pullus family is well known there.” Suddenly, his face clouded, and I understood why when he added, “Perhaps I shouldn’t have used the word ‘excitement’, given the circumstances. I apologize, Pullus.”
The truth was, and is, that no man in Germanicus’ position ever has any cause to apologize for their words to those of us lower down our social ladder, and that is doubly true with the Legions, but I believe this is a mark of the man Germanicus is that he would think to do as much.
I assured him that no apology was necessary, but seeing that he seemed to expect more than that, I settled on a partial truth. “The funeral rites were well attended by people in the town, and yes, most of my family was happy to learn that I existe
d. Or,” I added, feeling a bit self-conscious, “that I am a Pullus.”
He was watching me as I talked, and I had the strong feeling that he was searching my face for something, which he confirmed by asking, “And, have you given any more thought to your…situation, Pullus? I mean, about the adoption and everything that comes with it? Both good and bad?”
How much does he actually know about me and my family? That was the predominant thought as I stood there, and a part of me acknowledged that since he knew the bare facts of my birth and circumstances, it was not a hard conjecture to make that I might have some sort of second thoughts. However, I was almost certain that he knew more about everything than I was comfortable having him know, and I think of this moment as one where my father’s inherent caution when dealing with our upper class must have rubbed off without my knowing it, simply because the Gnaeus Volusenus who first came to Ubiorum would have been eager and happy to have a personage like Germanicus Julius Caesar interested in me.
Still, I also realized that he was expecting an answer of some sort, and again I prevaricated slightly. “Yes, sir, I’ve thought about it some, and while I know there will be some…challenges,” I could not determine if the look he gave at that word was a smile or a grimace, “I still intend to remain as I am now, as a member of the Pullus family.”
“I see.” He nodded, yet aside from that quirk of expression a heartbeat earlier, his face gave nothing away. Then, just as suddenly, he changed the subject, becoming businesslike in his manner. “You’ve come back just in time, Pullus. I’m afraid that because our defeat of Arminius wasn’t as complete as the Imperator, or I,” he added this in a tone that made me think he was the one who was most upset, “wanted, that I’m cutting the winter routine short. However,” Germanicus held up a hand as if to cut off any objection I might have made, which was not coming, “we’re not going to be marching. Instead,” he reached over to a stack of tablets, rummaged through them, then flipped open the one he selected so I could see what was on it, explaining as he did, “the men are going to be building a new fleet.” I had to lean over slightly to get a better look, but I could clearly see a drawing of what appeared to me to be a bireme, and as I examined it, he continued with a grim smile, “We are going to build the fleet up to a thousand ships, of three different types, and we’re going to use that fleet to sail up the Amisia again, and this time, Arminius isn’t getting away.”
As might be expected, Germanicus was telling the truth, and I learned the full details from the Primus Pilus, the second day after my return when he summoned the Pili Priores to his quarters. Naturally, he could not resist throwing a barbed comment my way, but I had become accustomed to Sacrovir’s style, which is not all that different from Vespillo’s, at least in how he seems to view anyone in a position to do so as coveting his post, although when he saw that I was not rising to the bait, he turned to business.
“We’re responsible for building part of the fleet that Germanicus intends to use for the spring campaign,” he began, and I quickly learned that, if Germanicus had given me advance warning, by this time, the word had spread, because none of the other Centurions reacted one way or another, so Sacrovir continued, “Naturally, there will have to be lumber for this endeavor, and from what I’ve heard, the Propraetor has scoured all of Gaul for seasoned timber to build the hulls. That lumber arrived while you were gone, Pullus,” he did not say this as anything other than a point of fact, to my ears, anyway, “and the men have been kept busy to an extent by unloading the wagons and building sheds to store the wood. What we’re going to be doing first is cutting down the trees for use as decking, masts, and the like.”
“What side of the river are we cutting this wood down, Primus Pilus?” Macer asked; as usual, he cut immediately to the bare bones of what we were all concerned about.
“This side,” Sacrovir answered, so quickly that I suspected this had been prearranged between the two.
“But most of this area has already been cleared,” Munacius, the Sextus Pilus Prior, pointed out, which was certainly true.
“Which is why we’re going to be making a march,” Sacrovir replied. While it was predictable that there would be a small chorus of groans and muttering, our Primus Pilus is not a patient man, and he snapped, “Quit whining! There’s good wood southwest of here, about twenty miles away, so that’s where we’re going!” None of us said anything, but while it was not quite sullen, there was certainly an air of resignation as he went on, “We’re not going to be marching in armor, and we’re not going to carry shields or javelins. Just balteae, and of course, a full set of tools and three days rations. We’re going to be augmenting the Legion wagons with wagons from the businesses in town.”
“That’s going to go over well,” I heard Clepsina mutter, but for whatever reason, Sacrovir ignored him.
“The plan is a day’s march there, and we’ll go immediately to work. Since we’re on this side of the river, the Propraetor has decided a full marching camp isn’t necessary, so while the slaves are erecting the tents, we’ll be chopping down the trees that the woodworking Immunes select for us. We’ll trim them there, and the wood that’s going to be used for everything but the masts will be cut down to size and put in the wagons. Then we’ll march back here, where everything necessary to begin work immediately will be ready. The Propraetor has already requisitioned all of the seasoned timber he can get his hands on from this side of Our Sea, and some of it began arriving a couple of weeks ago. What we cut down will be used for everything but the hulls.”
“Are both Legions going?”
Sacrovir shook his head to Clepsina’s question, but before there could be any complaining about this, he explained, “They’re going to be responsible for building a shipyard from scratch, which includes adding to the wharf that’s already there.”
“At least those bastards will be getting wet during the winter.”
This came from Gallus, the Octus Pilus Prior, and this was met with a few chuckles; the idea that someone might be more miserable is always a cheering thought to men of any rank, including Centurions.
“When do we march?”
“We depart at dawn day after tomorrow,” Sacrovir replied, then added what was the most important thing, “so the men will have the liberty of the town tonight.”
As we filed out, Macer tugged at my arm, wearing an inquiring expression that told me what to expect.
“We haven’t had a chance to talk since you got back. How did things go?”
“I don’t even know where to begin,” I answered him honestly.
“I know I’m not in the Fourth anymore,” he grinned up at me, “but now that I know who the owner is, I think I should be safe at The Faun, don’t you?”
This made me laugh, and we arranged to meet at The Dancing Faun later, all of us returning to our respective Cohorts to give the good and the bad news to the men.
“That,” Macer said, his tone quiet although he had to raise his voice to be heard, “must have been hard to watch.”
This was certainly true, but I did not say anything, waiting for Alex to respond instead. The fact that my clerk was sitting with me and Macer undoubtedly raised some eyebrows, but we had actually had a discussion and we both decided it was better to keep the fact that I was the owner of this taverna a secret, something that Turbo, the ostensible owner, was only too happy to agree to, since it gave him the status of owning the place.
Finally, Alex took the hint in the form of my stare at him, and he shot me an irritated glare, but he did speak up, finally, “It was and it wasn’t. At least for me. I was more worried for Algaia and how she would come out of what was a huge mess.” Shaking his head, he lifted his cup, and just before he put it to his lips, “I certainly wanted to solve the problem Gaius posed, but I never thought it would be the way Septimus did it.”
“Since I’ve never met your uncle Septimus,” Macer observed, “I can’t comment on that one way or another. But,” he turned and gave me a look that
I knew signified something, but could not discern what it was, “I would have expected you to do something like that, Gnaeus.”
Now, I knew he was right to feel that way, yet I still felt compelled to protest, “Why would you think that?”
“Because,” he did not hesitate, “you are your father’s son, and Titus always thought the best way to solve a problem was to kill it.” As I am sure he intended, this made me and Alex laugh, and we raised our cups to Macer in salute. “But you still haven’t talked about what you intend to do,” Macer persisted. “If Septimus does manage to recover enough money to meet the requirements for you to enter the Equestrian Order again, but under the Pullus name, surely you’d take it.”
While this would certainly seem to be an easy decision to make, I still was hesitant about it, and while I did not, nor do I now like to talk about it, I trusted both men at the table to express my misgivings.
“And if I do, then it’s likely to damage my mother’s reputation even more than it already has been,” I answered. “I’m not sure that it’s worth it, especially since I plan to stay under the standard for as long as I can.” Shrugging, I finished my thought before emptying my cup, “The other Centurions I can deal with, especially after Petronius. But Tribunes and the like?”
“It’s not for you, Gnaeus,” Macer countered, and while he was not speaking sharply, I felt the barb as he added, “and I suspect you know that. This is about finally achieving the goal that your great-grandfather had when he enlisted under Divus Julius, of his family becoming Equestrians. Now that Augustus is dead, between Germanicus’ interest in you and the…things,” I heard how awkwardly he said it, “your father did for Tiberius, the threat is gone.” I noticed that he was becoming more animated as he spoke, and I wondered if it was the wine. He began emphasizing his point with his finger, stabbing it at me with every word. “And make no mistake, Gnaeus. This is for your great-grandfather’s, grandfather’s, and father’s memories just as much as it’s for whatever children you may have in the future. You owe it to them to accomplish what they couldn’t!”