Marching With Caesar-Revolt of the Legions

by R. W. Peake

  Turning to Septimus, I told him, “Go get Gaius. And,” I paused, “the Breuci girl.”

  “The Breuci girl?” my brother echoed, clearly not understanding, then his face cleared, and he asked, “Do you mean Juno?”

  “That’s not her name,” I snapped without thinking, then I relented, saying, “but yes, that’s who I’m talking about.”

  Suddenly, I saw the dawning of understanding on my brother’s face, and his eyes went wide.

  “Gaius isn’t going to like that,” he told me, but I was unmoved, and I replied, “I don’t care. And,” I said grimly, “I want him here to see this.”

  “Titus,” Septimus kept his voice low, but there was a pleading quality to his tone that I chose to ignore, “this will humiliate Gaius! Please,” he reached out to touch my arm, “don’t do this. I understand that she needs to be sold, but taking her?” He shook his head. “I don’t know how Gaius will react.”

  “Well,” I replied, looking into his eyes, knowing that what he saw there was not his brother, but a Centurion of Rome who expected to be obeyed, “there’s only one way to find out. Now,” I ordered, “go get them.”

  He did as I directed, while I spent the time walking over to where young Titus was standing there, next to his mother, who had tears in her eyes but was smiling broadly at the same time. Without saying anything, I bent down and began rummaging through his two large bags, pulling out and throwing away one item after another, while Birgit stood there protesting and Titus just looked slightly dazed. Once I was to the point where what was left fit into one of the sacks, only then did I relent, thrusting it into his chest.

  “Go tie that to your horse,” I told him, and he moved without protest, while Birgit glared at me for a moment.

  “Maybe,” she admitted, “I packed too much.”

  Laughing, I agreed, “Yes, maybe you did.”

  Then, I turned to Gisela and Scribonia, giving each of them a long, hard hug, trying to maintain my composure as they wept, then I squatted down to solemnly offer young Gaius my arm, man to man, which he accepted with equal gravity, causing me to remember what it was like when my father had treated me like a man and not a child. Which, naturally, meant that I ruined it for him by sweeping him into an embrace and a kiss on each cheek, stuffing down the emotion caused by seeing my brother Sextus in his son. Miriam’s children were next, but frankly, they were more excited at being roused to participate in what they viewed as this very adult farewell, but young Atia began crying as well, which did not help. Manius, his scare at being swung around apparently forgotten, I hugged as well, then, as I had with young Gaius I offered him my arm, in our manner, being very solemn as I told him to watch out for his mother and sister, something that he promised to do with the same solemnity as his cousin Gaius. By this point, Septimus, Gaius, and the girl had emerged from the house. As I expected, Gaius was still sullen, refusing to look me in the eyes; until, that is, I stepped forward, grasped the Breuci girl by the arm, then pointed to the black mare.

  Speaking in her tongue, I told her, “Go get on that horse, girl. I’m taking you home.”

  Gaius may not have understood the words, but he divined my intent instantly, and this animated him.

  “No!” he shouted, then turning to the girl, he pointed back to the house. “Juno, get back in the house!”

  The girl was clearly terrified, but it was not lost on me that she looked to me first, not my brother, and I assured her, “You don’t have to do what he says, girl.” Struck by what I believed was an inspiration, I said, “Unless you want to stay here with my brother. If you love him…”

  “I do not,” she answered instantly and with such vehemence that, whether Gaius understood the words, he at least comprehended that whatever she was saying was not to his benefit.

  As I hoped, this prompted her to turn and walk, her back straight, to the mare, where the slave Berdic, who looked slightly dazed, helped her into the saddle.

  Finally, Gaius found his voice, and his courage, because he came lunging at me, shrieking at the top of his lungs something that, while unintelligible needed no translation, both his fists bunched as he launched himself at me. He was stopped cold, not by me but by Septimus, who stepped in front of me and timed his punch perfectly so that Gaius’ head essentially met his fist, snapping his head back and dropping him, unconscious before he hit the dirt, where he lay in a heap.

  Turning to me, my youngest brother gave me a sad smile and said, “I’m sorry how your homecoming went, Titus.”

  Honestly, I was in such a turmoil of emotions that, while I said something, I cannot recall what it was, but after taking his arm, I embraced Septimus.

  “Don’t worry about Gaius,” he whispered, “he’ll be fine.” When he broke our embrace, he grinned up at me and added, “When he wakes up.” Shaking his hand, he observed, “How can something hurt but feel good at the same time?”

  Despite my sadness and the sum of the memories that were crowding in on me, I had to laugh at this, and I clapped my brother on the back, then turned and leapt into the saddle. After one last check to make sure that Titus, the girl, and Dolabella were ready, I lifted a hand to my family and led my party out of the gates; the only people who were not crying were the two slaves, and I remember the thought that they would be joining everyone else once Septimus told them of their fate that they would be going to new masters. Or, I thought grimly, they would be thanking their gods that they were getting away from my other brother.

  Nothing was said between our newly enlarged party for the first third of a watch as we rode east on the Via Aurelia, weaving our way through the mixture of traffic; the wagons hauling goods, the poorer people for whom their only method of transport were their two feet, although most of them were pulling loaded carts and were heading in the opposite direction, towards Arelate, reminding me that it was market day. Titus and the girl Algaia were riding behind us, but while I heard some whispering, neither of them spoke up loud enough for me to hear; I guessed that Titus was informing her of the momentous events of what was now the night before. Dolabella looked somewhat refreshed, yet he seemed content to just gaze ahead, examining the road and the variety of people on it. As for myself, simply put, I was in a daze, one created from a combination of exhaustion and all that had transpired in my life and that of the Pullus family in such a short period of time. Trying to make sense of it, I took the approach with which I was most familiar, composing what would be the kind of report after an engagement or notable event that I would write as a Centurion, albeit only in my head and not on a tablet. It was the thought of tablets that prompted me to break the silence, as I suddenly remembered something.

  Reaching into my tunic, I withdrew the tablet that Septimus had given me, and I turned to Dolabella, not sure how to start, so I just began by blurting, “Dolabella, I need another favor.”

  This prompted a slight smile from him, but he turned to look at me and said, “If I can.”

  I did not hand the tablet over immediately, instead giving a brief account of all that I had learned about the horrendous damage done to my family’s fortune, making the decision to leave nothing out, including my judgment of my brother.

  For his part, Dolabella simply listened as we rode along, saying nothing until I was finished, when he asked, “What was the man’s name again?”

  “Avienus,” I answered. “Decimus Avienus. At least I think so.” Slightly embarrassed by my realization that I had not even opened the tablet, I did so then, reading the contents, precious little that there seemed to be to my eye, but it confirmed the man’s name. “It says here,” I felt a frown forming, though that was nothing compared to the twisting in my gut, “that, while he was reputed to be the biggest grain merchant in Arelate, he hadn’t been there all that long, just three years. Which,” I sighed, snapping it shut, “explains why I never heard of him.”

  “I don’t know the man’s name, but what you just described sounds familiar,” Dolabella said, and I glanced over to see
what I assumed to be the same kind of frown that was on my face. Shaking his head, he reached out for the tablet, which I handed to him, then watched as he perused the contents. He did not hand it back; instead, he pulled the bag he always wore slung over his shoulder around in front of him, dropping the tablet into it before swinging it back around behind him. Only then did he resume speaking. “As I said, that name isn’t familiar. But,” this was when he looked over at me, “the circumstances of what happened to your family are, and while I don’t know with any certainty, I wouldn’t be surprised if this is the same man.”

  Dolabella went on to relate another story that, the moment I heard it, I understood why he had said as much, because it did sound strikingly similar. A young, wealthy plebeian had just taken control of his family’s fortune; this had been in Massillia, and a relative newcomer to the city had rapidly become reputed to be the most powerful and influential merchant in his business, although this was in wine and not grain. And, just like with Gaius, this young plebeian had been approached with an offer to not just triple, but quadruple his family’s fortune by this well-established merchant, and as Dolabella told this version of the tale, I knew this was no coincidence.

  “This young pup was shown the vast warehouses capable of holding so many amphorae of wine,” Dolabella explained, “and then he was told by an associate of this merchant,” he paused for a moment, cocking his head before continuing, “I’ve been trying to remember this merchant’s name. I think it was Servius Nobilior. Anyway, the youngster met with a man the merchant claimed was the owner of the largest vineyard in Hispania, who explained to him that there had been a blight of some sort on the year’s grape crop. Naturally, this would drive the prices up. However, the merchant told the boy he had excellent connections in Syria and Judea, and there was no blight there.”

  “At least he didn’t use the drought,” I interjected. “Although,” I allowed grudgingly, “that was real. What about this…blight?”

  Dolabella shrugged, saying, “I don’t know if it was real or not. But the boy thought it was, and he scraped up something like a million sesterces to hire the merchant’s warehouses, contract with a fleet that,” now he gave me an amused look, “was provided by the merchant, and of course, all the transportation on both sides of Our Sea.”

  “Let me guess,” I said bitterly, “that plebeian never actually saw either the fleet or met the master.”

  “Actually,” Dolabella replied, “while he didn’t see the actual fleet of ships, he did insist on meeting the master of all those ships, which was arranged by the merchant.”

  I did not know whether to laugh or cry that Gaius had not even taken that precaution, so my only comment was, “That ‘merchant’ probably went down to the docks, grabbed the first deckhand who looked the part, and paid him to pretend to be the master of a fleet that never existed.”

  “Probably,” Dolabella agreed.

  “So where did you hear about this?” I asked him, and he suddenly looked away, warning me that what he was about to say was probably something to which I needed to pay attention.

  “As it turns out,” he said after a short silence, “the boy’s father was known to Tiberius, and had supported Tiberius during the time he was in Rhodes. So,” he shrugged, “I was told to look into it. But then, all this,” he waved a hand in the air in a manner that communicated his meaning, “happened. I suppose that once this is over, he’ll want me to get back to it. Unless,” Dolabella’s tone turned almost glum, “he deems it necessary to tie up some loose ends with these rebellions.”

  He looked at me again; there was no need for him to say anything more than this, because the moment the words left his mouth, I understood what he meant. And, given that I had been one of those men that Tiberius had used in the past to tie up those “loose ends,” I suddenly felt a stab of alarm and not a little fear. Was that really why I was accompanying Dolabella to Siscia? Had Tiberius given Dolabella orders to have the ringleaders removed? And, most importantly, was Dolabella counting on my relationship with Titus Domitius to enable me to get close enough to him to carry out Tiberius’ orders? My mind began running so quickly with all that it meant, I was getting physically dizzy, and I had to reach down and grab the saddle with my free hand.

  “Titus. Titus!”

  Dolabella’s voice finally cut through the noise inside my head, and I turned to stare at him, but I was not expecting the look he was giving me, with an expression that was difficult for me to identify, but seemed to be at least partly composed of sadness. Which, I must add, only served to reinforce this sudden conviction about why I was riding on this road with Tiberius’ spymaster.

  “No,” Dolabella said, quietly but firmly, then nothing else.

  “No?” I repeated. “No, what?”

  He heaved a sigh, then there was no mistaking the sadness in his voice as he answered, “I know what you’re thinking, Titus. And the answer is, no, Tiberius hasn’t given me any orders concerning Domitius. And,” he actually moved his mount closer to me so he could look me directly in the face, his one good eye fixed on me, “I would never ask you to do something like that. I told you,” another sigh came, “I’ve reached a point where I can’t do those things anymore.”

  This version of Dolabella was one with which I was still struggling, yet something in me told me that he was being sincere.

  Still, I felt compelled to point out, “But what if Tiberius does order you to do one of those…things?”

  “I don’t know,” he answered immediately, which convinced me he was being honest about this, at least. “I honestly don’t. But,” his voice dropped a bit, presumably so that neither Titus nor Algaia could hear, “what I do know is that even if Tiberius doesn’t do it, Drusus is likely to, which is why we have to get there as quickly as we can.” Nodding that I understood, Dolabella told me, “On this other matter with your brother. As soon as we’re done, I’ll look into it.”

  “He’s probably run off to Rome,” I said glumly, “and we both know he’s not going by Avienus, or Nobilior, for that matter.”

  I was a bit surprised when Dolabella shook his head.

  “I don’t think he went to Rome,” he said without hesitation. “I think he is living across Our Sea by now. My guess would be Alexandria, or maybe Damascus.”

  “Why?” I asked him, and again, he answered quickly.

  “Because the one common theme in both of these things is Africa. The wine was coming from Africa. The grain was coming from Africa. From everything that I’ve read in what you gave me, and what little I learned about what happened in Massillia, that’s the one common thread.” Suddenly, he turned and asked me curiously, “Which of your brothers wrote all this down?”

  “Septimus,” I told him.

  “Well, if these observations are from him, and I think they probably are, given what little I saw of your other brother, he’s a clever young man. And,” he pointed out, “did you read that line about the one time Septimus met with this Avienus? How he had an accent that Septimus couldn’t place?”

  I had, in fact, missed that, and I told him as much.

  “Because of its location on the Via Aurelia,” Dolabella explained, “that means that your brothers were likely to hear all manner of accents, but from this side of Our Sea. People from Hispania, Gaul, and Italia would be familiar to him as far as their accents. And,” he pointed out, “I know that he was very young, but I’m sure that he heard enough of the Pannonian accent to recognize it again when he heard it.”

  I digested this, and I confess that I was deeply impressed by Dolabella’s reasoning.

  When I complimented him, he actually flushed and looked quite pleased, though he warned, “I could be wrong about this.”

  “You could be,” I agreed, then before he could react, I added, “but I don’t think you are. Still,” I sighed, “we’ve got other things to worry about.”

  “Yes, we do,” Dolabella replied grimly.

  Chapter Eight

  Somehow, I
survived that first day without toppling from the saddle, although at our first rest stop, I barely got off Latobius, then staggered over to a tree, dropped down at its base, and was asleep before a count of ten. Dolabella took pity on me, and we stayed put for two parts of a watch, but while I felt a little better, I was far from recovered. Nevertheless, we made good progress along the Via Aurelia, heading for Italia, continuing on the Via Julia Augusta, reaching Genua late the second day. By this point in time, I was somewhat better, but the biggest change had come over the girl, Algaia. Understandably, she had been apprehensive about this sudden and dramatic shift in her fortunes, and I learned later that she had actually been suspicious that this was some sort of ploy cooked up by my brother to test her loyalty to him. I knew that it was no such thing, but even if it had been, he would have viewed it as a spectacular failure on her part, because she did not mention either his name or anything remotely resembling concern for him. Indeed, once she accepted that I was not up to something sinister, and then was convinced that I did intend to return her to Pannonia, quite frankly, it proved almost impossible to get her to shut up. Not that most of our party minded, especially young Titus, who hung on every word out of her mouth, causing Dolabella and I to exchange amused glances on more than one occasion. There was one thing that I did, ostensibly to her but more for the girl, and that was when I took notice that she was still wearing the little brass plate around her neck. She had tucked it under her simple shift, which was the entire extent of her belongings, save of a bracelet made of hammered silver that she said Gaius had given her as a gift. When we stopped to acquire different spare horses in Genua, I took a bit of extra time, handing the girl a handful of coins.