Marching With Caesar-Rebellion

by R. W. Peake

  Over the years, Iras had often thought of the irony created by the fact that the burden of carrying her, bound and gagged, had fallen to the man who would become her husband and the love of her life. Their run through the streets of Ephesus (Selçuk), from the merchant quarter where Deukalos lived, to the temporary quarters of the Primus Pilus and his wife had been one of exquisite discomfort and fear for Iras, bouncing around inside the dark sack. When they arrived at Pullus’ quarters, the attack by the group of mercenaries had already begun, but the men Pullus left behind, guarding against this very possibility, had stopped the attackers from breaking in and slaughtering Pullus’ woman. Falling on the mercenaries from the rear, Iras’ only clues about the short, sharp fight came from what she could hear before she was abruptly hauled somewhere else. She was unceremoniously dumped out of the sack onto the floor of what turned out to be Pullus’ apartment, marking the first time she ever laid eyes on a woman who would become the most important figure in her life, even more than her mother. In the very beginning of their relationship, Iras had viewed Miriam as simply a means to an end, the best tool she possessed at her disposal to live another day, because Miriam’s husband made it very clear he had every intention of killing her. While Pullus was occupied elsewhere outside the apartment, Iras had pleaded with Miriam, still a stranger, to spare her life. And it had worked; when Pullus returned, grimly determined to exact vengeance while sending a message to Cleopatra, his woman had bravely stood between the giant Roman and Iras. Reasoning with him that, ultimately, it would alarm and shake Cleopatra more to see that Iras lived, Miriam had persuaded Pullus to stay his hand. From that shaky beginning, a relationship formed between Iras and the woman she rightly viewed as her savior, and if her transferal of loyalty to her new mistress was dictated by a sense of honor, over time, the bonds of affection for this quiet, calm, and good woman had cemented their relationship. Iras was integrated into Pullus’ household, becoming Miriam’s attendant, and she had never wavered in her service and loyalty towards her mistress. It wasn’t until months had passed, and Pullus had relented from his early practice of chaining her every night, never forgetting the circumstances under which she had entered the collective lives attached to the Pullus name, that her relationship with Gaius Porcinus had begun. Oh, she had known from the very beginning, in the barely lit bedroom of a now-dead merchant’s house, when the young Gregarius had yanked the sheet off of her, that he had wanted her. That was something Iras had long grown accustomed to, the covetous and appreciative looks from men, but never before had she been slightly interested in returning those gazes with what could be considered encouragement. And, being truthful, much like the beginning of her relationship with Miriam and Pullus, there was a healthy streak of self-interest when she let Porcinus know that she was as interested as he was in pursuing matters. That, she thought ruefully as she sat on the wagon seat watching her son and Diocles deep in conversation, had been before. Before she had learned what kind of man Gaius Porcinus truly was, before she found herself falling in love with him. She had mistakenly assumed that the nephew was merely a younger version of his uncle, in temperament if not in size, yet fairly quickly, she learned that there was much more to Porcinus than she originally thought. He was as ambitious as his by then-famous uncle, but with a softer side to him that Iras only occasionally glimpsed in Pullus. It wasn’t that surprising that the rolling monotonous rhythm of the wagon took her thoughts to a place of real sadness and loss, and Iras was honest enough to admit that there had been more to Titus Pullus as well, and that much of what had shaped the large Roman was born from tragedy. She hadn’t been part of his household when he lost his first wife and his two children to a plague, while he was off in Africa fighting at Thapsus under the man they called Divus Julius now, but Diocles had been there and seen the aftermath firsthand. The Greek hadn’t spoken of it often, but when he did, it had always been with sense of heartfelt loss and sympathy for his master. However, she was there when Miriam had died during childbirth, and was a witness to the final transformation of Titus Pullus, as the last remaining soft spots in his soul were blasted away by heartbreak. He became, according to men like Sextus Scribonius who had known him since he was sixteen and a Gregarius in the newly formed 10th Legion, the man of his early years, ruthlessly ambitious and only truly comfortable when he was in battle, doing what he did best: killing his enemies. While she and Gaius didn’t speak about it much, it had saddened her a great deal to watch what she considered the best part of Titus Pullus the man wither away and die, just as the mistress she had come to love did trying to give him a son. But even in the midst of death, both physical and spiritual, love had grown between Iras and Gaius and, while she was still relatively young, she was mature enough to reflect on the path the gods had chosen for her life, and realize with quiet satisfaction that she had absolutely no regrets. Still, it was hard for her to quell a pang of unease as she watched her son learn what it meant to be the son of Gaius Porcinus, and the adopted grandson of Titus Pullus. The incident with the sword was enough to worry about; now she had to fret about the exploits of a legend and the impact it would have on her son.

  Just a day less than a month after they departed, the family of Gaius Porcinus rolled into Arelate. Unknown to any of them, the paterfamilias had just faced the Rhaeti on the lake, and was now marching with an army of four Legions, now that Drusus and Tiberius had reunited, heading for Noricum. In Arelate, young Titus was almost beside himself with excitement, barely able to contain his fidgeting in the back of the wagon as his brother and sister hung over the side, peering at all the new sights and sounds. Unlike Siscia, Arelate was very Roman in its layout and in the style of building, and while there were traces of this in Siscia, Arelate had been founded from the ground up as a veterans’ colony and was not built on a native settlement. This meant that the forum was in the middle of the town, where the streets were laid out in a manner that any Roman Legionary would instantly recognize, while the brick praetorium was located along one edge of the forum. Augustus had recently commissioned a number of new projects, including an arena and theater, neither of which had reached Siscia at this point, at least in a permanent form.

  Normally, Titus would have found everything that was going on around the wagon as it rattled along the paving stones as interesting as his siblings did. At this moment, however, the boy only had thoughts for a large, gray horse that he had convinced himself knew he was coming, and would be eagerly waiting for him in his stall. Diocles had trotted Thunder ahead of the wagon to alert Agis, now the second most senior member of Pullus’ household, that Porcinus’ family was arriving. Libo had a bit of trouble maneuvering the wagon through the stone archway in a wall that, to Titus, was almost as tall as the one surrounding the fort at Siscia. That wall, made of dressed stones and not the more common brick, surrounded what appeared to be almost an entire block just a few streets away from the forum. As inexperienced as he was in such matters, Titus could easily see that the people who lived in this part of the town were the wealthy ones and, for the first time, he had an inkling that his grandfather hadn’t just been important in the Roman army, but had been one of those rich people that all his friends talked about becoming. Once inside the walls, Titus stood erect in the back of the wagon, craning his neck to take in his surroundings.

  “How many times have I told you not to stand up while the wagon’s moving?” Iras snapped, but before he could either utter a retort or comply, the wagon creaked to a halt.

  Without waiting, Titus leaped over the side, landing on the ground and immediately running up to Agis, demanding, “Where’s Ocelus? Where’s his stable? Where’s Simeon? I need to talk to him about Ocelus!”

  Poor Agis, already hampered by being somewhat slow of mind, was further encumbered with a stutter. Fortunately, this only showed itself in moments of stress; unfortunately for Agis, the sight and sound of a very excited ten-year-old boy, an overgrown one at that, was something he considered very stressful.

 
“M-m-master T-t-t-t-titus?”

  In his excitement, Titus had forgotten about Agis’ stutter; it had been several years since he had last seen the slave, after all. Just as he was about to open his mouth and shout at the hapless man, now in his middle age, balding and with a slight paunch, he had a vision of his grandfather, and their talks. Would Avus yell at Agis for stuttering right now, Titus wondered.

  Knowing the answer immediately, the boy took a deep breath, and asked in a softer tone of voice, “I’m sorry for yelling, Agis. Can you tell me where Ocelus is stabled? I want to see him.”

  Despite being soothed by the youngster’s words, Agis still didn’t trust himself to speak. Instead, he simply pointed to a building at the far corner of the compound. Without a word, Titus spun about and headed for it at a sprint, leaving a confused Agis standing there, unsure what had just taken place. During that exchange, Diocles had helped Iras, who was holding the baby, down from the wagon. Walking with her to Agis, Diocles grinned at his erstwhile friend and compatriot.

  “I’ll bet you can’t guess what young Master Titus is here for, can you?”

  Agis laughed at this, feeling more at ease now as he greeted Iras warmly. For a moment, the trio stood there, regarding each other and, if they had been so disposed to share their thoughts, they would have discovered how similar they were to each other. Each of them had been a member of Titus Pullus’ household; all three had been slaves. Now, each of them had their freedom, and Iras was married to a Centurion, a fabulously wealthy one at that, and had a family. For Diocles and Agis, however, matters were more complex. Whereas they had their freedom, the ability, and the means, thanks to the generous bequest from their former master, to go and do as they pleased with the rest of their lives, neither man had shown any inclination to do so. It was something that Iras had been curious about, and had brought up with Diocles on the journey, but the answer he gave her had somehow seemed, at the very least, incomplete. The Greek had mumbled something about making sure that all the bequests and instructions of Pullus’ will were carried out to the appropriate degree, but when Iras pressed him about his plans after that, he had been vague. Deliberately so, if Iras was any judge. It was something that she was determined to get to the bottom of before they left Arelate to return to Siscia. By this point, the other two children had been helped down by Libo, who held Valeria by the hand as he led them to their mother. Introductions were made; Valeria had been a toddler when she had last seen Agis, and Sextus a babe in arms. Agis turned and called out; immediately, a girl and an older woman who Iras deduced was the girl’s mother emerged from the villa.

  “This is Glenora.” Diocles indicated the older woman, whose iron-gray hair was pulled back tightly against her skull, while her hands were red and chapped, something that caused Iras a momentary pang of guilt.

  It had been quite some time since she had done the kind of work around their house that caused hands to look like Glenora’s. Oblivious to Iras’ discomfort, Diocles called the other female, and as she approached, Iras saw that she was older than Iras had first assumed, perhaps in her early twenties.

  “This is Birgit,” Diocles announced, and in a flash of what her husband would have called feminine intuition, Iras understood that, whatever this Birgit’s role was in the household, she played a much bigger one in Diocles’ life.

  As the two women greeted each other, Iras and Diocles’ eyes met, and her suspicions were confirmed by the rapid flush that swept over the Greek’s features. Why, you’re old enough to be her father, Iras thought with some amusement as she introduced her children to the other two women. Gallus and Libo had unloaded the wagon by this point, and Agis beckoned to them, moving towards the wing of the villa where they would share a room. Before they entered, while the whole group was outside, a shout caught their attention. It came from the stable, and Iras, her mother’s instinct immediately engaged, turned and thrust the baby, who had managed to stay asleep, into the unready arms of Diocles, who was the closest to her. While he took the little girl immediately, if Iras had been in a better frame of mind, she would have burst into laughter at the look on the Greek’s face, who held the sleeping child in his arms as if he was afraid the infant would turn into some sort of deadly serpent. By this point, Iras was already several paces away, heading for the stable when the door to the building flew open, flung wide as if it was kicked. Iras’ mind barely had time to register this before a gray blur burst into view, the sight accompanied by a drumming, thundering sound that came up from the ground into Iras’ body. Before she could do anything more than gape in astonishment and fear, a large gray horse, with no saddle, but with a boy on its back clutching a handful of rein and mane, went thundering past her, shooting through the still-opened gateway and into the street. Within a half-dozen heartbeats, Ocelus and Titus had disappeared from view, although their progress could be tracked by the shouts of alarmed citizens in the streets. Closing her eyes, the image that was burned into her mind was the last thing her eyes had managed to capture, the sight of her son wearing the broadest smile she had ever seen him wear. She was only vaguely aware of being joined, but when she turned expecting to see Diocles, she was surprised to see that not only was the Greek there, but there was another man beside him, panting heavily. It took her a moment to recognize the face of Simeon, who, up until a few moments before, had been Ocelus’ caretaker. He had come sprinting after his charge and the boy, but even in his old age, Ocelus was the fastest horse he had ever seen, and Simeon came from Armenia, where horses were their life, and had seen many, many horses.

  “I’m sorry, mistress,” Simeon said, his Latin still carrying the heavy influence of his native tongue.

  He had come into Pullus’ ownership as part of the spoils of the campaign in Armenia conducted by Marcus Antonius, back when the 10th Legion was under the command of the Triumvir of the East, and Pullus had proven to be a fair master. But unlike Diocles and Agis, Pullus hadn’t manumitted Simeon, meaning that he technically belonged to Porcinus, which meant Iras, and she wheeled on him, ready to take her anger out on him.

  Before she could speak, Simeon hurried on. “I tried to stop him. I swear it by all the gods, I did! But he tricked me! He promised he wouldn’t ride him yet, that he just wanted to put a bridle on him to walk him out! He waited until I turned my back, then he hopped on Ocelus, and before I could do anything, he was gone!”

  Iras’ anger instantly deflated. Between the fact that she still was very sensitive to the lot of a slave, having been born into servitude herself, and the understanding that what Simeon said was, in all likelihood, the truth, her only reaction was to shake her head.

  Oblivious to the obvious relief of Simeon, she muttered, “That boy is going to be the death of me.”

  Titus knew that he was going to be punished for what he had done, but in all honesty, he felt that whatever his mother meted out would be worth it. His reunion with Ocelus had been everything he dreamed of and more. Flinging the door to the stable open, he had startled Simeon, but Ocelus was standing in his stall, ears pricked forward and looking in what Titus was sure was an expectant way at the door. Titus was right, as far as that went; Ocelus had picked up the boy’s scent in the short period of time it took Titus to run to the stable. Sliding to a halt, Titus’ view of Ocelus started shimmering as he felt a torrent of emotion burst forth, coming up through his chest and his throat so strongly that he physically felt like he was going to choke with it. He had known he would be excited, and happy to see what was now his very own horse, but he hadn’t expected this sudden feeling of sadness and loss that threatened to overwhelm him as the import of why Ocelus was his hit him. Simeon was frozen in the position he had been in when the door burst open, with a pitchfork in his hand, about to toss the sweet hay it held into Ocelus’ stall. Squinting for a moment, Simeon relaxed when he realized that it was the boy, his master’s grandson or something. Simeon had never been sure exactly what the familial connection was.