by R. W. Peake
“How many ships were lost?” I asked him, as if I was not only interested, but I accepted this version of events.
“Seventeen,” he answered cautiously, “or so I believe.”
Pouncing, I pretended to be puzzled. “What does that mean, ‘so you believe’? Surely you saw the fleet when you inspected it before it sailed.”
Now I was certain I knew the answer, yet when his face confirmed my belief before the words came out of his mouth, I still felt a stab of despair. Not, I should add, about the money that I was certain was lost forever, but that my brother could be such a combination of arrogant and stupid.
“Well, no,” he admitted, “but what would that matter? I don’t know anything about ships.”
“No,” I agreed, “but you’d at least see that there was a fleet. And,” I pointed out, “you could have at least laid eyes on the master who was in command of this fleet.”
“I told you! I told you that you were making a mistake!” Septimus burst out, adding his voice for the first time, rising from his chair.
“Shut your mouth!” Gaius snarled, also coming to his feet, and the pair faced off, fists clenched, faces red.
They, I thought wryly, are definitely brothers, and I was struck by a pang as I thought about the many times Sextus and I had tried to bash each other’s brains in; however, this was neither the time nor the place, so I interjected in a conversational tone, “Both of you sit down, shut your mouths, or I’ll beat both of you worse than anything you’ve ever experienced.” Looking from one to the other, I asked reasonably, “Do either of you doubt that I can and I will?” As quickly as they had turned on each other, now both of my brothers were united, if their expressions were any guide, in turning their anger on me, which bothered me not at all. “I asked you a question,” I put some iron in my tone, “and I expect a fucking answer.” Deciding it would be appropriate to do so, I stood as well, although I did not move closer to them, just using the high ground offered by my height, and I saw both of their eyes glance down at my scarred left arm as if trying to determine how much power I was still capable of producing. Apparently, they came to the same decision individually because they both mumbled that they did not doubt my abilities. More sheepishly than with any defiance, they both resumed their seats, as did I, and I resumed my questioning with Gaius.
“So it’s clear that you didn’t actually meet with the master, nor did you actually see this fleet,” I continued, and while he looked sullen, neither did he argue the point. A thought suddenly occurred to me, and I asked him, “Who arranged to contract with this fleet?”
“Avienus,” he answered, then realizing the name was meaningless to me, “Decimus Avienus. He’s the largest grain merchant in Arelate.” Then, before I could respond, he shifted uncomfortably in his chair as he added, “At least, he was the largest grain merchant in Arelate.”
Nodding that I understood that we were not the only ones who had been impacted, I asked him, “What about these carters you were talking about? Who did you deal with about that?”
“Avienus handled that,” Gaius explained, which made sense, then he added, “as well as the warehouses.”
“Well,” I allowed, “I can see why he’s not the biggest grain merchant anymore, since he had to pay for all of that.”
Once again, I got my hint from Septimus, although he did not say anything; his expression was enough warning that there was something I was missing. It was from Gaius’ lips, however, that suddenly, everything became clear, and much, much worse.
“Actually, Titus,” Gaius said in a voice little more than a whisper, as he studied the floor at his feet, “Avienus isn’t the biggest grain merchant anymore because he moved.”
“He moved?” I echoed, though it was more to gain a moment of time, suddenly suspecting the worst. “Moved to where?”
“We don’t know,” Septimus spoke up.
“How much money did Avienus put into this joint venture?” I asked, yet I already knew the answer.
“Not much,” Gaius answered miserably, but then Septimus made a noise, and I turned to see him glaring at Gaius, forcing his brother to admit with a heavy sigh, “All right. Nothing. He was only providing the services through his contacts and men he’d worked with before.” Perhaps it was hearing it aloud, but he was not quite ready to admit defeat, as he offered a last spark of defiance as he defended himself, declaring, “That’s why I,” he amended, again because of Septimus making a noise, “I mean, we were going to get three-quarters of the profit from it! And Avienus, knowing the business as well as he did, told us that we could expect to get triple the money, and the only limit to how much profit was based in how much grain we could buy!” He paused, his eyes searching my face, and now there was no missing his pleading tone. “Titus, this would have brought more money into the family in one move than Diocles or Tata ever earned before!”
That was when another, and in the way that counted, most important aspect of this sorry tale became clear, dissolving that hard knot of anger that had been building, and I actually saw my brother, as my brother, for the first time. I realized in that moment that, while it was in a completely different manner, Gaius had been trying to live up to what it meant to be a Pullus, attempting to live up to the expectations created by living in the shadow of the giant that was my Avus. Our Avus, I reminded myself; no, neither Gaius nor Septimus had known the first Titus Pullus, but I saw in this moment how Gaius at least had been driven, not only by our Avus, but in this manner, at least, more by the example of Diocles and our father.
“That,” I spoke slowly, mainly because the thoughts were forming as I said them, “is why you sold the ludus?”
His face flushed, but he did not hesitate in affirming this.
“What else did you sell?”
While I thought I had prepared myself, I quickly learned I had not, as he spent the next several moments listing what, as far as I could remember, was almost everything we either owned outright or in which we held a stake.
Suddenly, I was struck by a horrible thought, and I cut him off. “Gaius, please tell me that you didn’t borrow some of that money by putting up the villa as security!” My relief when he shook his head was so intense that it made me dizzy, but I was still moved to ask him, “So what exactly do we have left? How much money, not counting the value of our home?”
In answer, he pointed to the tablet that had been at the bottom of the stack, the third one that I had yet to open, saying softly, “It’s all in that tablet.”
I twisted around and picked it up, my heart starting to hammer in my chest, yet even as I prepared myself for the worst, I still let out a gasp when I read the bald truth contained in those figures.
“Three hundred thousand sesterces?” I gasped. “That’s all we have left?”
“Not really,” Gaius answered immediately. “We have more than that in terms of property.”
“I said we’re not counting the villa,” I snapped, but he surprised me by shaking his head.
“I don’t mean the villa,” he replied.
“Then what are we talking about? You just told me we’d sold everything.”
“In real property and businesses, we did,” Gaius answered, but then he seemed to have some sort of thought that prompted his mouth to snap shut, and he returned to his earlier posture, staring at the floor, refusing to say anymore.
I looked at Septimus, wondering if he could interpret Gaius’ sudden reticence; he could, and he explained it by telling me, “Gaius invested in slaves, Titus. We have,” now, Septimus looked to Gaius, asking him, “how many slaves, Gaius?” Turning to me, he said, “He would never tell me how many.”
“Two hundred,” Gaius finally spoke, his eyes still on the floor.
“Two hundred?” I repeated, again more to allow my mind to adjust, but the anger that had vanished a few moments earlier came rushing back, and I glared at my brother as I reminded him, “You know how Mama felt about owning slaves! You,” I indicated the three of us,
“me, Septimus, all of us, come from a mother who was a slave! And you know,” I came to my feet, “that Tata agreed with her! The last slave we had was Simeon, and he was given his freedom so he could return to Armenia!”
Without having a thought to do so, I crossed the few feet and found myself once more snatching my brother up out of his chair, and this time, I was angry enough that with my right hand, I lifted him off the floor, while I slapped him across the face with my left hand, once, twice, perhaps three times before Septimus grabbed my arm. I know he did not intend to do so, but when he did, he grabbed the scar tissue of my left arm, which made me roar in pain, even now almost twenty years after I had been wounded, but it served to get me to drop Gaius, who once more collapsed in a heap at my feet. Unfortunately for Septimus, he became the object of my rage, and I hurled him bodily across the room, flinging him much as a dog shakes a rat and tosses it into the air. He hit the far wall, bounced off, and went to his hands and knees, but I was already turning back to Gaius, drawing my fist back as he struggled to his knees. It was when he looked up at me, and I saw the stark terror in his eyes, that expression created by the fear of dying at the hands of his own brother that did more to quell my rage than anything he could have said or done.
Lowering my fist, instead I pointed a shaking finger directly into his face and snarled, “You’re selling every one of those slaves, starting tomorrow morning! Do you understand me?” He did not say anything, but he did nod, and I decided that was good enough, but I was not quite through. Dropping into a crouch so that we were at eye level, now that he had drawn himself up onto his knees, I made sure that we were looking each other in the eyes. I did not yell this, but just told him calmly, “And, Gaius, if you don’t do as I command, I’ll assert my right as paterfamilias, and I will come back here. And, Gaius, I will beat you to death with my bare hands, brother or not. Losing the money is one thing, but you’ve brought eternal shame onto our family by going against the wishes of our mother and father, and there won’t be a jury in the Empire that would convict me for killing you. Now,” I finished by repeating, “do we understand each other?”
He nodded, but this time, I was not accepting that, and I told him as much, and while it took him two tries, he finally stammered, “Y-yes, Titus. I understand you.”
Rising from my squat, I walked over to Septimus, who had come to his feet, shaking his head groggily, and I did feel a qualm about what I had done. Not, however, that much of one.
“You should have written me, Septimus,” I told him, and he immediately dropped his head, looking away as he admitted in a small voice, “I know, Titus. I know I should have.”
Raising my voice so they both could hear, I went on, “From now on, neither of you has any power or authority to make decisions regarding this family. If you have some question, or something comes up, you will write to me, and you’ll wait until you get my answer before acting. Is that clear?”
Both of them agreed, though I could tell that Gaius did not like it, but I did not care; all I cared about was that they obeyed.
“Now, I’m going back downstairs to spend time with the rest of the family,” I told them. “Both of you are free to join us, but,” I warned, “if either of you utter a word about what we just discussed… Well,” I gave them a grim smile, “you’re not going to like what happens next very much.”
Then, without waiting for an answer, I walked to the door. Before I left the room, a thought occurred to me, and I turned to tell them both, “And before you come down and rejoin the family, I want you to write down everything you know about this cunnus Avienus. And I mean everything. His family, where he came from originally, who his friends were, everything. Then, you’re going to come and celebrate your brother coming home.” I gave the room one last glance, then shut the door behind me.
Descending into the main room, I was in for another surprise, except this one was quite pleasant, as Miriam, accompanied by her two children, completely forgot about what is expected of a Roman matron, came running at me, squealing with delight and leaping into my arms. She had launched herself with such force it drove me backward, but I was laughing and crying just as hard as she was.
“You hit me harder than any German I’ve faced,” I joked at her, even as I lifted her up, holding her out from me as I had when she was a child, although it took a bit more effort than when she was ten.
“Swing me,” she demanded, both of us falling immediately back into our childhood, and I protested, “We’re indoors, you silly goose!”
“I don’t care!”
She laughed again, and since I had never refused the most adored member of our family anything before, I complied, whirling her about, although I did it only once since my arms were about to give out, and with not nearly as much velocity as I normally did, not wanting to break anything. When I set her down, she was breathless and happy; her children, a boy and a girl, were standing there gazing up at me in a combination of what I believe was astonishment seeing their mother behaving in this manner and envy.
“I’m your Uncle Titus,” I told them, then before they could respond in any manner, I thrust out my arms and said, “Who wants me to spin them around like I did your Mama?”
As I hoped, any reserve they may have felt at this large, scarred stranger who they had never seen before but, presumably, had at least heard about, was overpowered by the simple joy of being spun around in the air. Somewhat surprising, it was the girl who stepped forward first, holding her arms up in a gesture that any adult recognizes.
“Where are your manners?” Miriam chided her, looking down at the girl who, to my eyes, was my sister as a child, the pride in my sister’s gaze unmistakable.
“Sorry, Mama,” she mumbled, then looking up at me, she started, “Salve. My name is…”
“Wait,” I interrupted her, “don’t tell me. Let’s see if I can guess.”
Clearly intrigued, she regarded me with wide eyes as I pretended to think about it; naturally, I knew her name because my sister had informed me of her birth in a letter written in her own hand, but I was enjoying this too much not to indulge myself.
“Let me think,” I mused, then looking into her shining eyes, I asked, “Is it Fulvia?”
“No!” She shook her head, her curls flying around her face in a manner that brought back even more memories, and I guessed again, “Is it Sabina?”
“No!” she howled, giving me a grin that was notable because it displayed that she was in the last stages of losing her baby teeth, and I decided that this had gone on long enough, so I made a great show of thinking, before I finally said, “I know! Your name is Atia!”
As I hoped, this delighted her, and she clapped her hands, squealing much like her mother had moments before. “Yes! That’s right! It’s Atia!”
“Well, Atia,” I scooped her up, and in one motion, began spinning her around, telling her, “I hope you’re ready to fly!”
I completed a few revolutions, just enough that I felt the beginning of dizziness, then I realized that I had yet to do the same for her brother, and set her down, breathless and happy.
I turned to the boy, who I knew was seven; he was a bit leerier, though he came willingly enough when I extended my arms to him.
“I know your name as well,” I decided to forego the game I had played with his sister, “you’re Manius.”
He did not speak, his eyes wider than his sister’s as he gazed up at me, but he did nod, and that was enough. Picking him up, I spun him around, but unlike his sister, Manius was clearly frightened, beginning to wail before I had finished a complete revolution. His fear was so clearly evident that I immediately put him down, looking at Miriam in apology, but she gave me a look that held no censure, even as she stepped forward to kneel down and comfort the crying boy.
“It’s all right, Titus,” she assured me. “Manius isn’t as…adventurous as Atia.”
“He’s a big baby,” Atia spoke up, looking at her brother scornfully. “He won’t even ride Ocelus
!”
That name brought me up short, sending an unexpected stab of sorrow into me, and I looked down at Miriam, who was kneeling and hugging her son.
She looked up at me apologetically and answered the unspoken question. “Servius bought me my own horse, and I named him Ocelus. But,” she assured me, “this one is a gelding. But, he’s gray, and,” Miriam’s eyes misted a bit, “I always remembered Ocelus. So,” she shrugged, “that’s what I named him.”
“It’s a good name,” I assured her, not wanting her to feel badly for using the name of my Avus’ horse, despite the fact that he had specifically willed him to me, surprised by this feeling of protective jealousy of what, next to my Avus’ gladius and his scrolls, has been my most prized reminder of Titus Pullus. “I can’t think of a better one.”
By this time, not only had Gaius and Septimus rejoined us, but Birgit reappeared; frankly, I was not aware she had vanished, but when she came back into the main room, she had Dolabella with her.
“I was concerned that your guest was feeling neglected,” she said with a casual tone that, perhaps, only I could tell was forced, and I was reminded that, while she may not have known Dolabella’s identity exactly, she was aware of his role in my life. “So I went and got him.”
Dolabella looked distinctly uncomfortable, yet I was unwilling to banish him back to the triclinium, where he had now spent almost a full watch. It was true that he had been fed, and I was certain he had been offered wine, but never far from my mind was the recognition that the only reason I was standing here was because of this man.
Consequently, before I could actually think about it and talk myself out of it, I said, “Thank you, Birgit.” Extending an open hand in his direction, I said, “This is my…friend, Tiberius Dolabella. He’s the reason I’m here.”
My family, both by blood and extension, turned and greeted him, and I was amused by how flustered it made the otherwise unperturbable spymaster. Still, it obviously pleased him, and he made an awkward bow to the small knot of people who now filled this room, almost all of the people I loved and cherished in the world.