by R. W. Peake
Diocles went on, “And when I looked at all the various ventures that were the safest bets, and had the best potential for the long term, I saw there was one type of business that was better than anything else I looked at.” Now he glanced at Titus, gauging the boy’s reaction, and was cautiously pleased to see the dawning of understanding on his face.
Before he could continue, Titus interrupted, speaking slowly, “So…you’re saying that you invested in the ludus?”
Diocles hesitated before answering, “No, I did more than invest.”
Titus stared at him, comprehension slowly coming to him, and he couldn’t stop a small gasp of astonishment.
“You mean, we own a ludus? We own gladiators?”
When put this way, even if it was true, it caused Diocles to wince, a reaction that Titus didn’t understand in the least.
“Why do you look like that? This is the best!” Titus exclaimed, forgetting in his excitement to keep his voice down, causing Diocles to dart a glance at the door as he held his hands out in a placating gesture to the boy, silently begging him to lower his voice.
Titus understood instantly, and whispered, “Sorry. But, still….” A broad grin split his face, and Diocles imagined this was much the same look as when Titus was reunited with Ocelus. “We own a ludus!”
“Your parents own a ludus,” Diocles admonished sternly. “And it’s much, much more complicated than that.”
Titus understood and acknowledged the first part of the Greek’s statement, but he was prompted to ask, “Why is it complicated?”
Diocles sighed, silently castigating himself for indulging the boy and thereby opening up a topic that he wasn’t sure Titus was ready to hear. Don’t underestimate the boy, he thought as he looked at Titus carefully, evaluating the oversized youth, trying to determine if his internal age matched his size.
Finally, he made his decision and said quietly, “Titus, I’m going to trust you, and I’m not going to treat you like you’re still a child. I’m going to talk to you man to man. Understand?”
Titus’ face was solemn, and while he said nothing, he nodded his head.
“I know you were listening in on the conversation your mother and I had a few nights ago, even though you were pretending you weren’t.”
Diocles got his answer by the rush of blood that came to Titus’ face, confirming what he had only suspected to be the case.
“So you know that because of Augustus, your family has to be very careful. You understand this, right?”
Now Titus answered, his words rushing out in a torrent of emotion that he had bottled up.
“Yes, I know what he did to us! And I’m going to exact vengeance one day! I swear on the black stone!”
If Titus had thought Diocles would be pleased by this show of loyalty to his Avus and family, he was proven wrong. Before he could react, the small Greek had leaped from his chair, moved from behind his desk, and crossed the few paces to where Titus was standing. Grabbing Titus’ left arm in a grip that made the boy wince, Diocles’ face came just inches away from the boy, and Titus had never seen that expression on the man’s face before.
“Don’t you ever say anything like that again, boy! Ever! Do you understand me?”
As he spoke, Diocles emphasized his words by shaking Titus, and while he was alarmed, the boy was also impressed; he hadn’t known this Greek who stood just a couple inches taller than he already was possessed this kind of strength. But it also served to emphasize how seriously Diocles had taken what he said, and Titus’ immediate next thought was the memory of the guard who had given him the black eye for uttering essentially the same thing.
“Y-yes, Diocles! I understand!”
If he had thought that would assuage Diocles, he was wrong, who shook his head and continued squeezing Titus’ arm.
“That’s not good enough! You said you would swear on Jupiter’s black stone that you would have revenge on Augustus. Well.” Now he relinquished his hold on Titus’ arm, but it was only to walk to the large chair with a table next to it that Titus had been told was where his Avus spent most of his time, reading. The table was cluttered, and it took Diocles a moment to retrieve what he was looking for, but when he returned to Titus’ side, he was holding something in his hand. Thrusting it in front of Titus, Diocles said, “I want you to put your hand on this and swear to me that you will never, ever utter those words, or anything like them, aloud again.”
Titus looked down at Diocles’ upturned hand, and it took a moment for his eyes to focus on the object he held in his palm. It was a round, metal disk with a hole drilled in it near the edge, through which there was a leather string. As Titus stared down at it, his vision suddenly clouded when his eyes took in the small words etched on the disk. Those words were more accurately described as a name, and it was a name that Titus instantly recognized, because it was almost identical to his own new name, even if in simpler form.
“This is your Avus’ identity disk that’s given to every man when he retires from the Legions,” Diocles quietly confirmed Titus’ guess. “I wasn’t supposed to give it to you until you donned the toga virilis, or,” he added something that Titus found disquieting, “in the event I don’t live that long, your parents were to give it to you. Your Avus wanted you to have it so that you would remember him, and how much he loved you.”
Titus’ composure had begun to crack when he laid eyes on the disk, but Diocles’ words shattered it completely, and he felt a huge, wracking sob coming up from within him. Before it came out, Diocles grabbed his arm again, squeezing it so hard that it served to arrest his grief, even if it was momentarily.
“No. You can’t cry right now, Titus,” Diocles told him firmly. “Not until you put your hand on this disk, like a true Roman man, and swear to me that you will never, ever say anything about Augustus that can be used against you or your family, ever again.”
Titus put his hand over the disk, feeling the warmth from Diocles’ own hand, and he would never know where the strength and resolve came from, but his voice was strong and his eyes clear as he said, “I swear it, on the memory of my Avus, and for my family. I will never give Augustus cause for suspicion.”
For the remainder of his life, young Titus Porcinianus Pullus had cause to remember that day, and every time he did, he silently thanked Diocles for performing one more act of loyalty to his family.
There was a happier outcome to that talk with Diocles, and that was in the form of a small scroll, written by Diocles, and hidden by Titus in a hole he found in the brick wall that made up part of Ocelus’ stable, that he gave to the lanista on the second visit there. The lanista’s name was Maximius Vulso, a man a bit younger than Diocles, but older than Titus’ father, with a shaved head and a large black patch covering one eye. Even with the patch, Titus could see pink, puckered skin that extended down Vulso’s cheek. More impressive was how tightly muscled the man was; his tunic was stretched tightly across his chest, while his biceps bulged so much that, to Titus, it looked as if the muscles were about to burst through the man’s skin. Running down his left arm was another long, pink scar, and he was missing a fair number of teeth for a man his age. Yet, somehow, Titus wasn’t afraid of him, even when Vulso, after reading the little scroll, stared at the boy with his good eye, clearly appraising him in much the same way he would with a new slave brought to the lanista.
“So you’re Pullus’ grandson, neh?”
Titus nodded, but didn’t say anything.
“Speak up, boy!” Vulso growled. “Don’t act like one of those bum boys that hang around down by the theater!”
Despite the man’s fearsome tone, Titus found himself grinning at the man, who was clearly surprised at the boy’s lack of fear.
“Heh. Maybe you are Pullus’ grandson after all,” he muttered, handing Titus the scroll.
Then, he winked at Titus, marking the beginning of a most unlikely friendship.
“Well, according to that chicken scratch I’m to let you wander around
,” Vulso said, then spat on the ground. “But that’s not happening, boy. I don’t need one of my men lopping your head off just because you got in the way. So, whenever you’re here, you’re either by my side, or you’re sitting up there.” He pointed up to the box seats, covered with an awning. “But don’t expect me to have one of the girls wait on you.” Vulso gave Titus another wink. “At least not for a couple more years.”
That was how Titus found himself spending part of his day at the ludus, usually after taking Ocelus out for a ride, rubbing him down, and attending to the other chores required for keeping his horse happy and healthy. None of this went unnoticed by his mother, but no matter how much she pestered and questioned her oldest son, she never learned his true destination. This didn’t come to Titus without a cost; very grudgingly, he began to allow Sextus and Valeria at least to witness his daily ritual with Ocelus, making them stand to one side and watch as the horse nosed about for his apple. That was how it started, at least; within a few days, Titus gave in to the constant begging by both of his siblings to be allowed to feed the horse their very own apple. Not surprisingly, Ocelus was clearly in favor of this concession, but it only took one time for Titus to discover, much to his chagrin and disgust, that three apples a day was too rich a diet for his horse. He did exact some revenge by forcing Sextus and Valeria to participate in cleaning up the mess, but this didn’t stop them from clamoring to be allowed to feed Ocelus. Very grudgingly, at least at first, Titus allowed his siblings to participate, each of them allowed to hand Ocelus his apple, alternating between the three of them. And while at first, Titus was very put out, he began to enjoy watching his brother and sister and the joy they got from being allowed to participate in what they knew was something very important to him. This he would never admit to anyone, especially to them, but it made him feel like…a big brother. There was another price Titus had to pay in order to spend his time at the ludus, and that was a hefty bribe to Gallus. Naturally, Titus didn’t have money, nor was that what Gallus was interested in; he was an avid fan of gladiatorial games, so the price of his complicity in the conspiracy to keep Iras in the dark was accompanying Titus to the ludus. Although Titus was somewhat apprehensive, Gallus and Vulso hit it off immediately, both of them recognizing a kindred spirit in the other. Titus was mature enough to understand that Gallus’ enthusiasm for the blood sport, and his obvious appreciation of some of the finer points helped Vulso’s acceptance of this sudden addition to the spectators. Very quickly, Titus came to value Gallus’ presence, as he would point out some nuance or provide some clue as to why one of the sweating men down in the training arena performed a certain maneuver. Therefore, nobody involved was surprised when Titus worked up the courage to initiate a conversation with Vulso, who hid his amusement and treated the youngster with a gravity that Titus was too young to know was mostly feigned.
“Can you show me how to fight?”
The truth was that Titus had rehearsed in his mind a much lengthier, more compelling request, but when actually in the moment, all those carefully rehearsed arguments were nowhere to be found in his mind.
“Show you how to fight? For what?” Vulso laughed. “You’re rich. Don’t you know that, boy?”
Titus opened his mouth to explain how this was not the case, but stopped himself, Diocles’ demand fresh in his mind.
Instead, he just said, “I don’t care about that. I want to learn how to fight. To protect myself.” Suddenly inspired, he added, “In case someone tries to rob me!”
Vulso stifled a smile, deciding not to point out that a boy as rich as Titus Pullus had been, no matter what his origins, would be able to hire men like Vulso and Gallus to protect him.
“All right,” he relented. “I’ll show you a few tricks of the trade. But,” he glowered at Titus, “if I do, you have to agree to do what I tell you, when I tell you to do it, without any questions. Understood?”
Titus actually hesitated a moment, wondering about the deeper implications of his oath, a sign that even in the short period of time since he had left Siscia, he was beginning to mature. But the lure of what was being offered was too strong for anything more than a momentary pause.
“I swear,” he said to Vulso.
While he was satisfied, Vulso still had a surprise for Titus.
“Good,” the lanista grunted. “Then you can begin by doing this.”
Dropping to the ground in a prone position, Vulso began to push himself up and down, performing several repetitions while Titus stood and watched. Once he was finished, Vulso stood and indicated that Titus should perform the same action. The boy did, but if he had known what he was about to experience, he might have instantly regretted his decision.
Understandably, it was Iras who noticed her son moving gingerly about the villa a few days after his second trip to the ludus.
“Why are you limping?” Iras demanded of her son.
Titus froze; he had been heading to the stable with his brother and sister with him; it was Valeria’s turn to feed Ocelus his apple.
“I…I tripped yesterday,” was the best that he could come up with, and he saw his mother’s eyes narrow, the sure sign that she wasn’t fooled.
But then, salvation came from what was, to Titus anyway, an unlikely source.
“I saw him, Mama,” Valeria spoke up. “He tripped over his own feet when he was trying to show off.” She gave a girlish giggle at the imagined sight. “It was really very funny!”
It was Titus’ expression; crestfallen, embarrassed at the thought that his little sister was witness to his clumsiness, that convinced Iras the cause for her son’s limp was as her daughter had described it, and her response was to roll her eyes.
“Well, you just need to be more careful,” she admonished, something with which Titus wholeheartedly agreed, assuring his mother that he would indeed be more careful.
As the trio of children made their way to the stable, Titus didn’t say anything to his sister, but favored her with a wink and pat on the head that she would remember for some time to come. If Titus were being honest with himself, he would have been secretly relieved that his mother discovered the truth, because he had never been this sore in his short life. The first exercise that Vulso had demonstrated had only been the first of many, and the lanista hadn’t relented at all just because of Titus’ age. Although he didn’t know it, young Titus had started a training regimen, preparing for combat, at an even earlier age than his Avus, who had wheedled and begged a veteran of Sertorius’ rebellion in Hispania to provide a twelve year-old Titus Pullus and his best friend at the time, Vibius Domitius, a similar type of instruction. While the two styles of fighting were different; Legionaries were part of a tightly knit team and trained in a manner that reflected the knowledge that there were men on either side providing support, while with a gladiator, he was almost always the sole combatant, performing for a crowd, the underlying fundamentals were the same. And the basis for both was a solid platform of overall fitness, although Titus wasn’t in the right frame of mind to appreciate this. Still, he performed the exercises prescribed for him by Vulso, while Gallus served as observer and morale booster, encouraging the boy as he struggled through the regimen. And while he was loath to admit it, it wasn’t long before Titus noticed a difference in himself; he was slower to tire, and tasks like mucking out the stables that had taxed him before left him feeling as if he hadn’t done them at all. That made it easier for him accept the fact that he had, to this point, been unable to show Vulso what was still his second-most treasured possession, the sword given to him by his father. Finally, perhaps a dozen days after he had begun the program given to him by Vulso, he managed to smuggle the sword out of the villa, hidden under his cloak. This day, Titus was determined to force Vulso to allow him to begin training with his sword, prepared to argue and use his status as the grandson of the owner of the ludus to allow him to do more than the infernal exercises. When he and Gallus arrived at the ludus, and Vulso pointed to what had become the boy’
s accustomed spot for doing his exercises, for the first time Titus didn’t obediently move. When Vulso, so accustomed to obedience that it took him a moment to understand what was happening, finally stopped to stare at Titus, the boy still didn’t move.
“I want to start training with this.” Titus’ voice shook, but he stood defiantly, still not moving.
He had produced his sword, and for a moment Vulso stood rooted himself, then burst into laughter at the sight, pointing at Titus’ small weapon.
“Boy,” he was laughing so hard that his words came out in wheezing gasps, “where did you get that thing? You couldn’t kill a dog with that, let alone a man!”
Titus was infuriated by Vulso’s dismissal of his sword.
“My father had this made for me!” His voice throbbed with the fury and passion that coursed through his body. “It’s not a toy sword! It has an edge just like yours!”
While Vulso’s first instinct was to continue laughing, he saw the boy’s face, and something in him relented. Instead, he took the time actually to look at the blade that Titus had drawn from his scabbard, and realized with some surprise that it wasn’t the toy sword he expected.
“Let me see that,” he demanded, and with only a slight hesitation, Titus presented it to Vulso.
Examining it closely, despite his initial skepticism, Vulso was impressed.
“That,” he admitted, a bit grudgingly, “isn’t a bad sword. Even if it is a bit small,” he added.
Handing it back to Titus, he gave the boy a grunt whose meaning only became clear when, without saying anything else, Vulso turned and beckoned Titus to follow him. Leading the boy out into the training ground, he strode to the far corner of the yard, where there was a series of wooden stakes. Titus immediately recognized them; there were several rows of similar stakes just outside the walls of the camp where his father worked in Siscia. He couldn’t count the number of times he had watched men of the Legions, from the rawest tirones to men like his father working the stakes. So he wasn’t surprised that Vulso expected to start here, nor when Vulso picked up one of the wooden swords that were placed on a rack attached to the outer wall of the building. In one motion, Vulso whirled about, tossing the sword to the boy, who just managed to catch it without fumbling too badly.