Marching With Caesar-Rebellion

by R. W. Peake

  “But what kind of business?” Titus asked, but Diocles only shrugged.

  “All kinds,” the Greek replied, his eyes never leaving the scroll he was examining.

  Seeing that he wasn’t going to get any more than this, Titus left his Avus’ study, where he knew he could always find Diocles. The boy liked going into his grandfather’s study, mainly because he was sure that he could still smell his presence, a combination of leather from the harness that still hung from the stand that was just like the one his father used to hang his own on, the rich odor of the hundreds of tightly wrapped rolls of vellum that Titus knew was something called a library, but more than anything, Titus was sure he could still smell him. Even if he had uttered this aloud and had been asked, he wouldn’t have been able to explain it, and a tiny piece of his mind chided himself that it was his imagination. How could the scent of anyone still linger, months after they were dead and gone? As far as the scrolls went, when Diocles had told him that one day these books would be Titus’, he had scoffed at the idea. To his surprise, Diocles hadn’t been upset about this lack of interest, and, in fact, had laughed.

  “Don’t worry,” he assured Titus. “Your Avus felt the same way when we first met, and he was a lot older than you. That will change.”

  Titus didn’t see how that was possible; while he had learned his letters, and he could write his name, further literacy was something that had been put off by his parents as something to be done later. And why would anyone want to read when they could be outside, doing something much more interesting? Still, just like his conversations with Diocles on the trip, this exchange planted a seed in the boy’s mind that would gradually take root and grow into a full-fledged idea.

  As interesting as the wharf was, once Titus made his other discovery, the allure of the waterfront quickly fell by the way. Once he had wandered around the western part of Arelate up to the river; he hadn’t worked up the courage to cross on one of the two wooden bridges to do any exploring on the other side, he turned his attention to the area to the northeast of the forum. His Avus’ villa was located at what he had been told was the southwest corner of the forum, just a block away from the southern boundary. Normally, this would have meant just walking straight across the forum, but there was too much construction going on, so he had to skirt around by heading east on the main road, called the Via Aurelia, before turning north. Gallus’ spot was a short distance from the southeast corner, so the day Titus went in that direction, it worked out perfectly.

  Once past the forum, the boy took the first street north, coming upon the newly constructed theater a block later. Despite his general lack of interest in anything to do with theaters, he found his feet slowing as he looked up, slightly awestruck by the sight of the soaring columns, still white and gleaming in the morning sun. The pediment had intricately carved figures, and while he knew that what he was looking at was something from the myths his father and others had told him, he wasn’t sure which one it was. What was unmistakable was the statue of Augustus, who had paid for this building and to whom it, and from what Titus could see just about every other public building here, was dedicated. Stopping, he stood staring at the statue, recalling the conversation he had listened in on at the dinner table the first night, and he felt a cold, hard lump forming in his stomach. It was a strange and unsettling feeling, one that Titus had never experienced before, and his confused mind tried to sort out and identify the rush of emotions. He could easily tell he was angry, but at what? A statue? A cold lump of stone? As he stood there, still staring hard at the statue, his brow furrowed and with a hard scowl on his face, it slowly came to him and, in that moment, Titus took another, tentative, step towards manhood. He recognized that what he was angry at was what the statue represented, that while he didn’t hate the marble, he hated the man who it depicted. For young Titus, it was simple; he had learned that it was because of this man that his mother was upset, and Diocles was upset, and although he didn’t show it, his father was upset. The man represented by this statue had committed an unjust act against not just his Avus, which was enough of a horrible crime in itself, but against his family. Suddenly, the thought of baby Miriam came unbidden into Titus’ mind and, for a moment, he thought that the lump in his stomach was somehow real and was about to burst. She was a baby! Granted, she was a nuisance; she made a lot of noise, and her cac stunk up the whole room, but his mother had assured Titus, Sextus, and Valeria that they had done the same thing, and he had no reason to doubt this was true. But what had she done to this man that her future would be such that it worried his mother to the point Titus was awakened by her crying the night she and Diocles talked? What crime had she committed? Or Valeria or Sextus? What had he, Titus Porcinianus Pullus, done, other than be named for a man who everyone Titus knew told him was a great man, perhaps one of the greatest Legionaries in all of Rome’s history? He still hadn’t moved, but there was a shift inside him, as the anger turned into…something else. Something that he had even more trouble identifying than the original emotion that had rushed through him. It was a hard, bitter resolve that somehow, in some way he, young Titus, still just a boy, would find a way to right this wrong done to his family. And part of that, Titus knew, meant that it was his duty to exact vengeance on Augustus. If he had been even a few years older, this was something that he would have quelled within himself immediately, shoving it back down into his gut, where it would remain undiscovered and unheard. But he was still a boy of ten, and to a boy that age, all things are possible; the only obstacle in the way was his number of years, but that would change and in a few more years, he would be a man. And when he was a man, for Titus, it was a simple proposition.

  “One day, I’m going to kill you.”

  “You’re going to kill who, boy? Who are you talking about?”

  If it was possible for a boy of ten to drop dead of fright, Titus was sure that it would have happened to him at that moment. He whirled around, his heart suddenly hammering so hard that he could hear it in his ears, beating so loudly and so fast that he was afraid the man staring down at him would hear it as well. Did I say that aloud? he wondered. He must have, but he certainly didn’t remember doing so.

  “Who are you talking about, boy? I’m not going to ask you again.”

  Titus opened his mouth to answer, but nothing came out. The man’s features were completely obscured because he was standing with the sun to his back, causing Titus to squint up at him, but he still only saw the man’s outline. That meant he didn’t have any warning when a hardened hand lashed out to slap him across the face.

  BAM!

  Stars of every color burst in front of Titus’ eyes, and he took a staggering step backward, but he didn’t lose his footing. Although he didn’t know it, his assailant was secretly impressed by that; he had hit the boy hard, and he was sure that other twelve- or thirteen year-old boys would have been on their backs, crying their eyes out. Titus’ eyes were certainly filling from the pain, but somehow he managed to avoid crying out or letting the tears spill down his cheeks.

  Instead, he managed, “I…I…I wasn’t t-talking about anyone. I was just…talking.”

  The man laughed, but it wasn’t a pleasant one.

  “So you’re just talking to yourself? Are you addled in the brain, boy? Is that it?”

  By this time, Titus had managed to shift his position just a bit so that the man blocked more of the sun, giving the boy the opportunity to see his assailant more clearly. What met his eyes wasn’t encouraging; the man looked much like Gallus and Libo, an older, hard-bitten man whose eyes watched him coldly. There was a scar, white with age, running down the side of his face from just below his left eye to the corner of his mouth, which pulled one edge into an expression that looked as if he was leering with just one side of his face, but there was nothing friendly or humorous in his countenance.

  “No.” Titus decided that answering the man’s question about his mental state was the best way to avoid a subject he didn’t want
to go into. “I’m not…addled.”

  WHAM!

  This time Titus did fall backward, and for a moment, he was suddenly sure he had lost the vision in his left eye. Despite the pain and what would quickly turn out to be temporary blindness, the boy scrambled to his feet, more out of instinct than anything else. It was a good thing that he did so, because the man had aimed a hard kick with his foot at the spot where Titus had been just a moment before. Staggering, Titus held one hand to his left eye, although he kept the right one fixed on the man, who again gave him a smile of pure malice. It was only then, now that he had some distance between the man and himself that he noticed the tunic and belt. His heart sank; was this man an off-duty Legionary? But while he couldn’t immediately identify it, he sensed that there was something different, that while similar in style, what he was looking at wasn’t a Legionary. That was when Titus saw that instead of a sword, the man had a cudgel, held by a leather thong strapped to his belt.

  “I think you were talking about murdering the Divine Augustus,” the man spoke.

  “No, I wasn’t!” Titus’ reply was instant and uttered with as much conviction as he could muster, even if it was a lie.

  “Oh?” the man sneered. “You just happened to be staring at his statue and talking about killing someone else?”

  “Yes!” Titus cried. “I just happened to be staring at the statue and I was thinking about someone else when I said it.”

  “Who?”

  Titus’ mind raced, but he was almost as surprised at the words that came from him as the man to whom he was speaking.

  “Simeon,” he replied.

  “And who is this Simeon? And what’s he done that you’re going to kill him? Is he a playmate of yours and he stole one of your toys?

  Although the mocking tone lacerated Titus’ already bruised pride, he understood that he was being baited.

  “No, he’s a full-grown man. Like you. Bigger than you,” Titus added, happy to see the smirk on the man’s face fade a bit.

  Something came over the man’s face, and he shifted slightly as he tilted his head, as if looking at Titus with new eyes.

  “Ah,” he said softly. “It’s like that, is it? He’s made you his bum boy?”

  The part of Titus’ face that hadn’t already been reddened from the two blows suddenly flushed with a heat that made him feel as if he had been out in the sun all day.

  “No! It’s nothing like that!” he insisted. “He’s…he’s our groom. And he wants to keep my horse even though my Avus gave it to me!”

  The man didn’t say anything, clearly waiting for Titus to continue, so he did, telling essentially the truth to this man he had come to believe was some sort of city guard. At least, it was the truth as Titus had believed it when he had first arrived in Arelate, but it was close enough that when he told the guard the story, it had the ring of sincerity to it. When he was finished, the guard scratched his chin, squinting at the boy thoughtfully.

  Finally, he asked, “What’s your name, boy?”

  The change that came over the man the instant Titus gave his full, newly adopted name was instantaneous, and it caused Titus to chastise himself for not saying it sooner. Already his eye was swelling closed, and in the back of his mind, he knew he would have to come up with quite an explanation for it when he went back to the villa.

  “You’re the grandson of Titus Pullus?” the man asked doubtfully, as he suddenly didn’t seem to be so sure of himself as he had been a moment before.

  “Yes,” Titus answered, his voice throbbing with pride. “My father is Gaius Porcinianus Pullus. He’s the Quartus Pilus Prior of the 8th Legion.”

  The man closed his eyes for a moment as he swallowed hard.

  “Well,” he finally said, “you should have said something earlier.”

  Titus stared at him in astonishment, but as he was about to open his mouth and argue, he caught himself. Thinking quickly, he realized that he was going to have enough to explain without prolonging an argument about how this guard had come upon him, and what he had been saying. For reasons he couldn’t articulate, he understood that he would be in just as much trouble from Iras, and Diocles for his indiscretion, as he was from this guard.

  “Yes, sir,” he mumbled. “I’m sorry, sir.”

  Clearly surprised, the guard stood there for a moment, unsure what to do. Like Titus, he had no wish for this little incident to become known by those above him. It was true Titus Pullus had been dead for several months, but the man was a legend, especially here in Arelate. And legends, dead or not, had friends. If it became known that he had cuffed Pullus’ grandson, while he didn’t think much bad would happen to him, it was enough of a question that he had no intention of finding out.

  “Well, young Pullus.” The guard now did favor Titus with a grin, but while Titus wasn’t disposed to make an issue of this incident, neither was he willing to forgive, and he glared at the man, who ignored the look. “I need to be on about my business, and I’m sure you do as well.”

  Still not completely mollified, Titus nevertheless turned to go, but by this point, he had forgotten he wanted to explore the northern part of the town. Besides, he was no longer in the mood, so he began heading for the forum. Seeing the boy heading in that direction, the guard had a sudden disquieting thought; what if the little bastard was going off to find one of the officers of the vigiles? Or even worse, went straight to one of the Urban Praetors?

  “Oy! Boy! Master Pullus!”

  Titus turned slowly, his expression wary, but he didn’t say anything.

  “Do you like the arena?”

  Unsurprisingly, this got Titus’ attention and interest. Still unwilling to speak, he answered with a nod.

  “Would you like to take a peek at some of the gladiators training? The ludus is just up the street.” He jerked a thumb back in the direction that Titus had originally intended to go. “And I know the lanista. He owes me a favor, so I can get you inside the grounds while they’re training.”

  Strictly speaking, this was a lie; if anything, it was the other way around, and the guard owed the trainer, but the guard was determined to get in this pup’s good graces, and if he had to owe the trainer more, so be it.

  Suddenly, Titus forgot all about his eye.

  That day, Titus found a new pastime, one that almost rivaled spending time with Ocelus, and for the remainder of the time he spent in Arelate, whenever he wasn’t with Ocelus, he could be found at the ludus, watching the gladiators train. The fact that this happened more than once, that the lanista allowed him to watch, and not just from some hiding spot, but up in a small box of seats that overlooked the training arena, came about as a result of what Titus was certain was the best news he had ever heard. When he had returned to the villa after his run-in with guard and after his first glimpse of the ludus, once he had endured the thorough questioning from Iras about the cause of what was well on its way to becoming a black eye, he had sought out Diocles. Naturally, he had lied to his mother about the cause of the damage, insisting that he had simply not been paying attention to where he was going and walked directly into a low-hanging beam of some sort. Iras had been completely unconvinced, but quickly determined that she would never learn the real story behind her son’s first black eye. Finding Diocles in the study as usual, Titus began the conversation by casually mentioning that he had wandered by the ludus. The reaction he got was totally unexpected, as Diocles looked up sharply from the ledger he was writing in, piercing Titus with a gaze the boy was sure he had never seen before on the Greek’s face.

  “And what were you doing over there?” Diocles’ tone told Titus instantly that he was in dangerous waters. “That part of town is no place for you, Titus. Very…unsavory people inhabit that area.”

  Titus shrugged, suddenly becoming intensely interested in a loosely rolled scroll that was lying on a waist-high cupboard crammed full of them, fingering it idly with his eyes fastened to it.

  “I was just curious,” he said. “I’v
e never seen where the gladiators train before.”

  Diocles said nothing for a moment, just continued staring at the boy, and Titus had the sense that he was deciding something. Finally, without saying anything, the Greek got up from what he still thought of as his desk, tucked in a corner of the spacious study, and walked to the door. At first, Titus thought that Diocles was leaving the room; instead, he shut the door, taking care not to slam it, but easing it closed before throwing the bolt.

  Seeing Titus’ face as he turned around, Diocles grinned at the boy as he said, “Your mother has very, very sensitive hearing.”

  Immediately seduced by the idea of some sort of conspiracy aimed at keeping his mother in the dark, it brought an answering grin to Titus’ face, and he waited as Diocles returned to the desk and took his seat again. Immediately, all signs of levity left his face and demeanor.

  “What I’m about to tell you is a secret, Titus,” he began, which naturally arrested the boy’s undivided attention. “In fact, it was the only secret I kept from your Avus, and for that, I do feel some regret. But he trusted me to invest his money.” Diocles’ voice trailed off as he stared at something Titus couldn’t see, and as impatient as Titus was for his grandfather’s secretary and friend to continue, he sensed that this was something that had to come out on its own, without any prompting.