Marching With Caesar-Revolt of the Legions

by R. W. Peake

  Pointing to a seat at the long table, I told Dolabella, “Sit there,” then turned to Birgit and asked, “Would you please pour Tiberius another cup of wine?”

  “I don’t need another cup of wine,” he protested, but I was certain his heart was not in it, and when I pressed him, he shrugged and said with a grin, “Well, if it means that much to you.”

  This prompted the others to laugh; at least, most of the others were amused, but Gaius was the exception. He opened his mouth, presumably to protest, but I caught his eye, and I did not even shake my head, just looking him directly in the eye, which prompted his mouth to snap shut, just as I expected. Turning away from him, I took a moment to survey this small crowd, and even as angry as I was with Gaius, and to a lesser extent Septimus, I was filled with an almost overpowering feeling of love that it took my breath away. With the exception of Alexandros and his brother Titus, everyone I truly cared about who was related to me by a bond of blood or by decades of service was present, and before I could stop myself, I began to weep. And, before I could have counted to three, I was surrounded by my family, even Gaius, whose eyes were filled with tears as well, and we celebrated this moment, however brief, that the Pullus family was all together.

  We spent most of that night celebrating being together again; Dolabella had graciously agreed that we could afford to leave at dawn the next day, giving me about five full watches of time with my family. Despite the contentious nature of our conversation, Gaius, grudgingly at first, also got into the spirit of reunion, and we passed the time sitting around the table. If he resented the fact that I sat at the head of it, where my father had always been, he was wise enough not to make an issue of it, and although I enjoyed myself thoroughly, I was also paying acute attention to not just what my family members were saying, but how they were saying it. Being a Centurion, at least a successful one, means that he learns to pay attention to not just the words coming out of a man’s mouth, but the manner in which they behave around others. And, the more I watched, the more certain I became of something, that the wrong brother was handling our interests. Septimus did not talk all that much, but when he did, it was always an extremely astute observation, in which he betrayed a razor-sharp wit, and the kind of sense of humor that I appreciated the most. He was clearly very observant, and I noticed that, when there was some point of contention between Gaius and Miriam about some event from the past, which happened quite often, they both looked to Septimus as the ultimate arbiter of the actual truth. Not, I will say, everything; there was a fair number of stories from their early childhood that had become somehow jumbled or altered in the telling, and for that, they looked to me. It gave me a taste of what it meant to be paterfamilias, and I cannot say that it was not pleasing, despite my understanding that it was short-lived.

  During this abbreviated period of time, a great deal of the antipathy I felt towards Tiberius Dolabella was washed away by his graciousness and his choice of not reminding me that time was our enemy. Instead, he sat and listened, and much to my initial discomfort, seemed more than happy to regale the others with tales of my deeds that he had claimed to witness personally. At first, I glared at him, certain that this man who had been such a constant irritation and danger to me would gleefully recount some of my darkest, worst moments in which he had been involved. Instead, he restricted himself to more humorous and lighthearted moments he had witnessed, along with my deeds on the battlefield, though sanitized quite a bit, and fairly quickly, I discerned that the anecdotes he was relating also made me out in a flattering light. I confess that, in the back of my mind, there was a suspicion there that he was up to something, except I made a conscious decision when this pushed itself into the forefront to place it firmly back in the recesses where it belonged. Honestly, I was enjoying myself too much to allow any darker motives to impinge on the happiness that I was feeling, one that I could see my family was sharing.

  Nevertheless, despite Dolabella not bringing it up, I was aware of the passing time, so finally, well after midnight, I made a show of standing up, yawning, and saying, “Well, as much as I’d love to continue this, Tiberius and I have to leave at first light.”

  The chorus of protest at my announcement was both gratifying and painful, but I could not allow myself to give in, as much as I wanted to. Young Manius had fallen asleep, so I contented myself with kissing him on the cheek, while Atia, displaying not just the physical similarity to her mother but her stubborn refusal to succumb to the demands of sleep in order not to miss any of the fun, was still awake. I lifted her and gave her one final spin around before her mother took over, but Miriam did something I found slightly disturbing, going to the bell and ringing it. The Breuci girl instantly appeared, making me wonder if she had been awake all this time or was such a light sleeper that she was able to come instantly alert and respond in a manner that would have done no shame to a Legionary answering an alert.

  “Take Atia and Manius to my room,” she told the girl peremptorily, and while the young woman obeyed, I could not help looking at Miriam for a long moment. Seeing my look, she misinterpreted it, smiling, and assuring me, “Oh, we spend a lot of time here, Titus. Servius travels a lot for his work, and he feels better when he knows we’re here instead of being alone.”

  For the briefest moment, I considered enlightening Miriam that my consternation was not due to the idea of her and her children spending time here at the villa, but I suppose I did not want to ruin the moment, so I forced myself to smile at her, which she seemed to accept. Scribonia and Gisela received a hug from me, and I whispered to them that they needed to find husbands, which seemed to amuse them both a great deal, then they retired as well. Fairly quickly, the only ones left were Dolabella, Birgit, Gaius, Septimus, and me. Whispering to Birgit, I asked her to have someone show Dolabella to a room where he could get what little sleep he could, and she answered that she would do it herself; I believe that she had seen and understood my discomfort with my siblings and their easy command of the slaves. Asking Dolabella to follow her, she left the room, leaving me alone with Gaius and Septimus, which neither of them seemed particularly happy about, but I had said my piece, to Gaius at least. Instead of revisiting a sore subject, I turned to Birgit, who had just returned to the room, motioning to her to follow me, and I led her into the atrium of the villa, although before I did, I demanded that Gaius hand over the tablet I had spotted tucked into his tunic, correctly assuming that it was the information about Avienus.

  I was not surprised that my brothers did not follow us, and I wasted no time, asking Birgit, “Where’s Titus?”

  She answered readily enough, although she looked everywhere but up into my eyes. “I told you, he’s out in town somewhere. He’s fine, though.”

  Rather than reply, I just looked at her, and I was rewarded when, suddenly, her shoulders sagged, and she dropped her face into her hands and began weeping.

  “Oh, Titus,” she was hard to understand between her sobs and her hands muffling her words, “I don’t know what to do! Titus is…he’s,” she looked up at me then, her face streaked with tears, and I saw the agony of a mother whose child is someplace where she has no way of knowing if they are safe, “…he’s lost!” Gathering herself slightly, she told me, “He fell in with some bad people here in Arelate, Titus, and I think he’s in the collegia that runs all the gambling and whoring.”

  “Do you know which one?”

  She shook her head because she was not sure, but then she said a name that brought back memories and caused a stab of alarm.

  “I’m not sure, but I heard from a friend that he’s running with the Poplicolas.”

  “The Poplicolas?” At this point, I was more confused than anxious, saying, “I thought that we…,” catching myself, I corrected, “…that the Poplicola brothers killed their father, and they were executed for it.” Her head came up, and she eyed me with a shrewd expression that I had seen from her before, and she said softly, “So that was what you and Sextus did when we brought Dio
cles home.” I did not answer her, but she gave me a smile that was poignant for its combination of pain and fondness, telling me, “It was the one and only secret Sextus kept from me. I knew that you and he had done something about the situation with Vulso and the ludus, but he would never tell me, just that it was taken care of.” Clearly taking my silence for confirmation, she confirmed, “Well, yes, the two brothers were executed.” She paused for a moment, then added, “The two oldest brothers. But there are, or were five Poplicola sons, and they took over their father’s interests. And,” she shuddered at this next part, “they’ve expanded quite a bit. Titus, it was quite bloody around Arelate when they were taking over.” Birgit stopped abruptly, and she seemed to consider something before, closing her eyes, she said, “I think Titus was involved in the last bit of what took place, because the Poplicolas didn’t drive the last rival collegia out until about six months ago.” For the first time, Birgit looked every bit her age, but it was the haunted look in her eyes as she looked up at me that was the most painful as she implored me, “Titus, please help me! Can’t you stay for a bit longer? He does show up eventually, and I know he’ll be coming home sometime tomorrow.”

  “Birgit,” I said as gently as I could manage, “I can’t, I just can’t do it. We’ve already stayed longer than we should, and that’s only because Dolabella allowed it.”

  Cutting me off, her face hardened, and she asked bitterly, “So this Dolabella still has some sort of hold over you that you can’t help me?”

  This was harsh, and despite the sympathy I felt for her plight, this jibe reignited the anger that I had quelled with my brothers. I was about to say something just as harsh in reply, but I just could not do it, yet neither could I afford to delay our departure.

  Sighing, I resigned myself to the idea that I would not be getting any sleep that night, since this was the only help I could offer her, saying, “Here’s what I will do, Birgit. I’m going to go looking for Titus tonight. But,” I hardened my voice, “if I don’t find him by sunrise, I’m sorry, but I can’t stay any longer.” Struck by a sudden inspiration, I decided to at least partially divulge why we were here and why we were heading to Pannonia, telling her, “Something’s happened in Pannonia, and it involves Domitius. Dolabella and I have been sent by Germanicus to see what we can do to help.”

  This, as I hoped, caused a reaction, and her expression softened. “You mean Titus Domitius?” When I nodded, she asked, “What is it? Is he all right? What about Petrilla and the children?”

  “That’s all I can tell you about it,” I replied. “But it’s important that we get there as quickly as we can. You understand now why I can’t stay?”

  She swallowed hard, and I did sympathize with Birgit, imagining the turmoil she must be feeling at this moment; finally, she nodded and said sadly, “Yes, Titus, I understand. Please try to find him and…”

  This was the one part I could not really determine from Birgit, what she expected me to do, but I decided that I would just make it up as I went along. After all, I thought wryly, that’s what I do most of the time anyway.

  “I will,” I promised her, then turned to practical matters. “Now where’s a good place to start looking for him?”

  She mentioned three possibilities – two taverns and one brothel – but I was only familiar with one of the taverns, since it had been the headquarters for the Poplicolas and their gang for as long as I could remember. It had been the spot where Sextus had met with the brothers to set them and the lanista up who served as Vulso’s second in command at our ludus, Gundorix, so I decided that was where I would head first.

  “Titus,” she took my hand, and the tears made her eyes shimmer, “thank you. And,” she warned, “be careful.” I laughed at this, but she warned, “I know you can take care of yourself and then some, Titus, but there are a lot of them.”

  I instantly understood she was right, so before I left the villa, I walked over to where my gear was piled in the corner, strapped on my gladius, then on an impulse, picked up the vitus, not as much as a weapon, but to send the proper signal to anyone I should encounter that I was a Centurion of Rome.

  Just as I was about to leave by the back door, I was struck by a thought and asked Birgit, “How will I recognize him?”

  “Because,” Septimus, who had clearly been listening from the other room, entered and said, “I’m going with you.” He gave me a grin. “It’s been a long time since I’ve seen my big brother thrash anyone, so I don’t want to miss it.”

  Touched, and frankly, happy for the company, I did ask him, “Where’s Gaius?”

  “He went to bed,” Septimus answered shortly, “and I don’t think he’d come anyway.”

  This tempted me to rouse him, but as always, the time constraint was never far from my mind, so I gave Septimus a nod, asking him, “Do you have your gladius? The one Tata gave you?”

  Suddenly, he did not look quite so eager, but he did answer immediately, “Yes, it’s in my room.”

  “Go get it,” I told him, then added, “it’s better to have it and not need it than the other way around. Besides,” I grinned, “I want to see if you still know what end to hold.”

  As I hoped, this prompted not only a laugh, but as he left the room to ascend the stairs, he called out, “I hope I remember!”

  Birgit and I did not speak for a moment, then I was struck by a thought, telling her, “Wait until we’re gone, but someone needs to tell Dolabella in case he wakes up early where we went and that I’ll be back in time to leave.”

  She nodded her assent, then Septimus was back, fumbling with the baltea and the scabbard, causing me to shake my head in mock dismay.

  “Come here.” I sighed. “Let me make sure you’re not going to trip over it. And,” I added, “let me see if you kept it sharp.”

  The way he walked over to me, his head hanging, evoked memories of other times, when I had been the one with bowed head as my father admonished me for something, but a quick tug on his baltea informed me that he had at least strapped it on correctly. His blade, however, was another matter; it came out smoothly enough, which was a good sign that he had not allowed it to rust into the scabbard, but that was where the good news ended.

  “You might be able to cut a loaf of bread with this,” I scoffed after running my thumb along the edge, then handed it back to him, “but that’s about it.”

  “Hopefully, all we run into are loaves of bread, then,” he responded, and I took this as a good sign, that he was able to laugh.

  “Let’s go,” I said simply, then with a nod to Birgit, I led the way out of the villa and into Arelate.

  I suppose it would be appropriate to acknowledge the hand of the gods in what took place that night; or, perhaps it was just a probability that the one tavern where I knew the Poplicolas congregated would be the same one as when I was living here as a youngster. Whatever the cause, we made our way quickly through the deserted streets, heading for the tavern, which we could have found just by the noise generated by the men, and women, who frequented these spots, present in every military town or any sizable town or city.

  As we walked, I talked with Septimus, asking first, “Anything I should know about young Titus?”

  “He’s a hothead,” Septimus answered instantly, then he hesitated for a moment before he added, “Actually, he reminds me of you in that way.”

  I looked down at him, amused and somewhat surprised, but I could not dispute the truth in what he said, at least as far as I was concerned.

  “Maybe it’s the name,” I sighed, though it did prompt me to ask, “Can he fight?”

  “Oh, yes.” Septimus nodded, then turned his face and pointed to a spot above his eye, asking me, “Did you notice that scar? He gave it to me.”

  I had not noticed, and it was too dark now to see, but I had no reason to think he was not telling the truth, and I asked him, “So do you two get along?”

  “Most of the time,” Septimus answered, then with what I clearly heard was a ti
nge of sadness, he added, “In some ways, Titus and I are closer to each other than I am with Gaius.”

  “What happened with Gaius?” I asked this without thinking it through. “How could he have gotten to a place where he thought buying slaves was the right thing to do? After all that Mama and Tata drilled into us about how this family would never own other people ever again.”

  My brother did not answer immediately, and I realized that I was putting him in an awkward position, but this was not the cause of his hesitation.

  “Gaius,” he said slowly, “thinks he is the cleverest person, not just in our family, but in all of Arelate.” After another pause, he said, “But that’s not what worries me about him, Titus.”

  “Well,” I assured him, “it shouldn’t anymore. Not now that I’m involved. Remember,” I felt it appropriate to remind him, “neither of you are to make a decision without clearing it with me. Gaius doesn’t want me coming back here; I was serious about that, Septimus.”

  “I know you were, Titus.” Septimus sighed, then shook his head, his eyes still straight ahead down the street we were walking down. “But that’s not what I’m talking about.” Now I was thoroughly confused; a part of me wishes I had remained that way. “Gaius likes to…hurt people, Titus.”

  Only then did he look back up at me, clearly trying to gauge whether I was accepting this, yet as soon as the words were out of his mouth, I somehow knew they were true.

  “Hurt people?” I echoed, then I met his gaze and asked, “Or just slaves?” When he nodded, another thought came to me, and this brought me to an abrupt stop. Grabbing my brother by the arm, I demanded, “Is that Breuci girl one of them? Does he beat her?”

  “He does more than beat her, Titus,” Septimus answered bitterly. “He hurts Juno in…other ways. And,” his face turned hard, and in that moment, I saw my brother Sextus more clearly than ever, “she doesn’t deserve that! She’s a wonderful girl! And he treats her…” His voice dropped to a hush, and he admitted, “If Gaius wasn’t my brother, I’d...I’d…”