Marching With Caesar-Rebellion

by R. W. Peake

  “We should have thought of that,” was his only comment.

  The addition of Birgit was slightly more surprising, if only because of the cause.

  “That old dog.” Porcinus had laughed, earning a sharp jab from his wife, who gave him a scowl that was marred by the smile that threatened it.

  “Everyone deserves love,” she had said simply.

  “And if anyone does, it’s Diocles,” Porcinus agreed. “He spent most of his life devoted to Titus. It’s time he enjoys himself.” An impish urge overtook him, and he grinned down at his wife. “And he picked a lovely way to do it!”

  “Thank you for telling me that,” Iras said sweetly. “Now I know I need to watch you like a hawk!”

  “And I need to sleep with one eye open,” he muttered, but burst into laughter at her nod in response.

  Simeon was the biggest surprise, especially after Iras told Porcinus of the way his relationship with Titus had started.

  “But Titus saw that Simeon loves Ocelus as much as he did.” She looked at the dark Armenian, seated at the far end of the table, trying to look like he wasn’t uncomfortable.

  The boy and man had instantly picked up their relationship where it had left off, as Titus relayed to the Armenian Ocelus’ exploits on his dash to get help. Two people who loved horses, Porcinus mused, as he watched the pair, their heads almost touching as Titus related his adventure. In fact, it was Titus who not only insisted that the Armenian be allowed to eat with the family, but that he sit next to Titus. Normally, Iras would have refused on general principles that slaves had no place at the table, but this wasn’t a normal occasion, and still fresh in her mind was the memory of Simeon, bow in hand, giving her and her family time to scramble to safety. If for nothing other than that, Simeon would always have a place in the Porcinus household. There was only one more thing that Iras had yet to relate to her husband, but she made the decision that this was a subject best left until after dinner and when they were alone. For the moment, she was content to let Porcinus enjoy his last night with his family, before he marched off to war.

  It was later that night, after husband and wife had consummated their reunion, when Iras finally told Porcinus the entire story of their trip to Arelate, particularly as it pertained to Titus and the dwarf Spartacus. Porcinus was sitting up, back against the wall as he stared off into space, trying to make sense of what he had just been told by Iras.

  “What was that lanista, what was his name? Vulso? What by Juno’s cunnus was he thinking?”

  Surprisingly, Iras was the more pragmatic and understanding of the two.

  “You know how Titus is,” she told her husband. “I’m sure that he was just like we are; he got worn down by Titus’ insistence to face someone live. And,” she pointed out, “would you rather have had him face a full-grown man?”

  “No,” Porcinus conceded, but he was unconvinced, not to mention that he was made uneasy by the idea that, on this topic anyway, there appeared to be a reversal of roles. Usually, he was the one to try and point out a reason why Titus should be forgiven some transgression, or allowed some privilege. “But that doesn’t mean I wanted him fighting a dwarf. I’ve seen them fight before.” Porcinus was, or at least up until this moment, an avid follower of the blood sport, and kept up with the fortunes of a number of gladiators. “They’re short, that’s true, but they’re strong!”

  “All I can tell you is what I saw that day,” Iras said quietly, and Porcinus could be forgiven that he didn’t see the shudder that came with that statement. “That dwarf may have been strong, but he didn’t stand a chance against Titus.”

  Despite himself, Porcinus felt a glimmer of pride, and he cast a sidelong glance at Iras and asked, “He was that good, neh?”

  He expected an outburst, but instead, she just heaved a sigh and shook her head.

  “I don’t know if he was good, or if he was just…mad. I tell you, Gaius, I’ve never, ever seen anything like that.”

  “I have,” her husband said quietly, but his gaze was somewhere far away, so he didn’t notice Iras give him a sharp glance.

  She had heard that same tone of voice, but it had been from Diocles, when they had discussed the episode at the ludus, and he talked about Titus Pullus.

  “So,” she couldn’t help asking, although she was still hesitant, afraid to hear the answer, “was it with your father? Did you see Pullus do that?”

  Porcinus didn’t answer, verbally at least. He gave a slow nod, his gaze never wavering from the opposite wall. There was a silence for several moments, but he was acutely aware that she was still staring at him, and he sighed, understanding that she needed to hear.

  “It was in Parthia,” he began.

  Over the next few moments, he described events that he had never spoken of before, at least to her or in her presence, and despite herself, she listened in rapt fascination. She had seen Titus Pullus in action; more accurately, she had seen the aftermath of what he had done, on the night she had been taken at Deukalos’ villa. But she had never witnessed it firsthand, nor had her husband ever gone into detail about anything concerning his adoptive father. Only once, back when Sextus Scribonius and Gaius Porcinus had spent a night at the table talking, in that horrible time after Quintus Balbus, Pullus and Scribonius’ best friend, had been killed and Pullus, blaming himself, had begun drinking heavily, had she heard anything remotely like what her husband talked about this night. For once, Porcinus spared no detail, telling Iras everything. Once he was done, Iras sat, absorbing it and trying to decide how honest she should be with her husband.

  Finally recognizing that she had never hidden anything from him concerning their children, she turned to him and said, “That sounds almost exactly like what happened to our son. It was horrible, but…” Her voice suddenly trailed off, unwilling to continue.

  Porcinus finished for her, “But it was awesome and, in a terrible way, beautiful to behold.” He looked over at her, giving her a strange, level look. “Isn’t that right? There was something horribly beautiful about it?”

  Iras shuddered, but then, she nodded.

  “Yes,” she said softly, even as she hated herself for admitting such a thing about her son, her beautiful, first-born son. “Yes, it was. It was if he was…”

  “Born for it,” they said in unison.

  They sat, both of them absorbed in their own thoughts, staring off into space, side by side, but both alone.

  Porcinus slipped from the house in the pre-dawn, kissing his youngest children as they slept, then on an impulse, he roused his oldest son.

  “Come with me,” he whispered.

  Despite being groggy, Titus could tell that this was important, and he didn’t make his normal protest about being roused. He was a boy who liked his sleep, but he understood this was different. Leading his boy to the table in the main room, Porcinus indicated that Titus should take a seat, which he did, watching quietly as his father lit a lamp that he placed on the table between them. Sitting down, he regarded his son for a moment, thinking with more than a little sadness how much older Titus seemed since he had left for Arelate. He tried to tell himself that it was the light, but he knew better. Gathering his thoughts, he finally broke the silence, keeping his voice low.

  “I have to leave in a little while,” he began, but Titus spoke up.

  “I know,” the boy said simply. “I heard you telling Mama.”

  Porcinus couldn’t stop a smile as he shook his head. Of course you did, you little sneak.

  “So you know that I’m going back on campaign?”

  This time, Titus only nodded, looking down at the table.

  “Before I left, I wanted to talk to you.”

  “About what?”

  There was something guarded, wary in the boy’s tone as he looked up and studied his father’s face.

  Sighing, Porcinus realized he only had one choice, and he said, “I want to talk about what happened in Arelate.”

  At first, Titus gave no reaction, sti
ll watching his father, before he asked suspiciously, “What about Arelate? We were there a long time.”

  Biting his lip, Porcinus fought the urge to speak sharply to the boy, knowing that it would do more harm than good.

  “I think you know what I’m talking about,” he replied gently.

  Neither spoke for the next several heartbeats, but it was Titus who broke first, his shoulders suddenly slumping and, in that moment, Gaius once more saw the boy.

  “You mean,” Titus whispered, “about Spartacus?”

  At first, Porcinus was confused; Iras hadn’t mentioned the dwarf’s name, so it took a moment for him to make the connection.

  “Was that his name?”

  Titus nodded, his eyes suddenly looking everywhere but at his father, and Porcinus could see them shining in the lamplight.

  “Titus, let me ask you a question. Did you set out to kill this…man?”

  Porcinus found it hard to form the word, thinking, by the gods, he’s just a boy! Only then, did Titus look up, shaking his head emphatically as his eyes searched his father’s face.

  “No, Tata! I swear it on the black stone! It was just that…he beat me the first time.” Titus closed his eyes, swallowing hard, then continued. “And yes, I wanted to beat him. But I didn’t want to kill him!”

  “I know you didn’t, Titus.” Porcinus reached out and put a hand on his boy’s shoulder, careful to grasp his right shoulder and not the injured one. “But in battle, sometimes, some men, something happens to them…” He stopped, struggling to find the right words.

  “What, Tata? What happens to them? Are they…” Porcinus saw Titus swallow hard, as if the word was blocking his throat, “…cursed? Is that what it is, Tata? That I’ve been cursed by the gods?”

  Porcinus was suddenly scared that his own composure would break as he tried to force the words out in a rush, assuring his son, “No, Titus! No!” He shook his head emphatically, and forgetting himself, squeezed his son’s shoulder as he shook the boy. “In fact, it’s the opposite.”

  “How is it the opposite?” Titus struggled with the big word, triggering the thought in the back of his mind that Diocles hadn’t returned a moment too soon.

  Instead of answering directly, Porcinus asked his son, “You remember how much everyone looked up to your Avus, don’t you?”

  Titus nodded vigorously, the memories of Arelate still fresh.

  “Oh, yes,” he replied. “Hardly a day went by when one of his men didn’t come by and talk about what a great Legionary he was! They talked all about the things he’d done!”

  And most of them weren’t there, Porcinus thought with a grim amusement, but decided this wasn’t the time to bring that up.

  “Well, when your mother told me what you’d done to…Spartacus, you know what it reminded me of?”

  Titus shook his head; he was still too sleepy to recall that there was some relation between his Avus and him that Porcinus was driving at, just as Diocles had mentioned to him on the trip back.

  “It reminded me of your Avus, when we were in Parthia,” Porcinus said. “I saw your Avus do something very, very much like what you did, when we were in a great deal of danger. When I asked him about it later, do you know what he told me?”

  Titus shook his head again, but there was a dawning expression of hope on his face that made Porcinus’ heart ache, understanding how desperately his son needed this.

  “He told me that it was a gift from the gods, Mars and Bellona, to be specific. And it was a gift that only came to him at moments of great danger, and he was suddenly blessed with the strength and speed of two men. Is that how you felt?”

  “Well,” Titus’ tone was doubtful, “I don’t know about two men. But while I didn’t remember any of it right after, over the next few days, I remember bits and pieces.” He considered for a moment, then gave a thoughtful nod. “But yes, I think that might be something like what happened to me. The one thing I remember more than anything was how slowly he seemed to be moving, like, like…” He struggled for a moment as he tried to come up with an appropriate example. Then he brightened. “It was like he was in honey, but the way honey is on a cold day. And I wasn’t.” As quickly as it had come, the spark vanished as his shoulders slumped, “But, I should have stopped, Tata. I should have stopped beating him. But, I…I just couldn’t.”

  That was when the tears finally burst forth, and Titus leaned forward, into his father, who put his other arm around his boy, holding him closely and murmuring the kind of things he did when he was holding his newborn son for the first time, experiencing a complete, yet terrifying love that he had never encountered before. Finally, Titus was spent, and Gaius’ tunic was soaked, but he didn’t mind. In fact, unknown to anyone but himself, as soon as he returned to his quarters in camp, he changed his tunic to a fresh one, but put this one down at the very, very bottom of the pack that would go on his mule, and he would forbid Lysander from washing it. When Titus sat up, he had returned to his state of being a boy who wants to be considered a man, and Porcinus felt compelled to offer him some sort of encouragement while at the same time impress on his son the gravity of what they were talking about.

  “Titus,” he began, sounding awkward to his own ears, although Titus didn’t seem to notice, “you’ve been blessed like your Avus was. If you continue growing as you are, you’ll be his size.” Suddenly inspired, he joked, “And your mother and I will be broke.” He was rewarded with a grin. “But,” he became serious again, “this other…gift, because that is what it is, Titus, it’s a gift from Mars, it comes with a price. It’s not like the toy gifts you get on your name day, or on Saturnalia.” Thinking for an appropriate analogy, he settled on one that he thought would make sense to Titus. “It’s like Avus’ gift of Ocelus to you. Because Ocelus isn’t a toy, or a candied plum. He’s a living, breathing creature, and with that comes responsibility. Do you understand?”

  Titus nodded solemnly, assuring his father, “I do, Tata. And I take care of Ocelus!”

  “I know you do,” Porcinus agreed. “Your mother has told me how well you’ve taken care of him since you were in Arelate. And I’m very proud of you for that. Well, this other gift, this ability that you have in moments of great danger, that comes with a responsibility as well. Do you know what that is, Titus?”

  Porcinus was expecting a shrug, or a mumbled response that Titus didn’t know, so he was extremely surprised when instead, his son nodded.

  Looking his father in the eye, he said quietly, “I can’t abuse it. I can’t just use it when I’m mad at Sextus or Valeria. Because I could hurt them very, very badly.” His lower lip began to tremble at the very thought, and he hurried to finish. “Because I would never forgive myself if I hurt my family, Tata.”

  It was hard for Porcinus to contain his relief, but he wanted to make sure he drove home the whole point he was trying to get across.

  “That’s very good, Titus,” Porcinus assured the boy. “I’m really proud of you for understanding that. But,” he held up a finger, and his voice hardened just that fraction that told Titus his father was deadly serious, “that needs to extend to more than just your family. You’re probably going to be bigger or stronger, as it is. So if you were to abuse this gift of the gods with anyone other than an enemy, and I mean a real enemy and not just when you’re mad at your friends like Quintus Pacuvius or Gnaeus Figulus,” Porcinus named Titus’ two closest boyhood friends, “then you’re going to draw the wrath of the gods down on your own head. You must know when the time is right, and only then should you open your heart and let that gift flow through you.”

  Titus considered this, which Porcinus took as a good sign, that he didn’t immediately give his father his promise. But he could see Titus was still troubled.

  Finally, he blurted it out. “How will I know when it’s going to come? How can I call it if I really need it? Did Avus tell you how he did it?”

  Porcinus hesitated, but he understood he couldn’t lie to his son, not about th
is. This wasn’t about something inconsequential, like whether or not he was getting something he had asked for.

  “No, Titus,” he said at last, shaking his head sadly. “As far as I know, and from what Avus told me, he never knew when it was going to come. Just that it was going to come, and when it did, it was always when he needed it most, never before. Or after,” he added.

  Porcinus stood then, and he had never been more reluctant to leave his family than he was that night. However, he also knew that it was highly likely that Barbatus was going to be checking his quarters to see if he was there. As long as he returned soon, he could simply tell Barbatus that he had either been wandering around his Cohort, or was with another Pilus Prior. He had said his goodbyes to everyone else, but as he did when they left for Arelate, Porcinus offered his son his right arm, thinking the boy would appreciate another sign that his father viewed him as a man. But when Titus stood up and threw himself into his father, wrapping one arm tightly about Porcinus’ torso, Porcinus was more than happy to return the hug and savored this moment when his son still acted like a little boy.

  Chapter 6

  The Army of Pannonia, four Legions strong, marched out of Siscia; the fact that it was just after dawn didn’t dissuade the crowd that lined the road leading out of the Porta Praetoria to see the men off. As was normal and had been the case for centuries, Tiberius and Drusus, riding side by side at the head of the column of men, pretended they didn’t hear the shouts of “Tata” and “husband,” also ignoring the sight of young children suddenly darting out of the crowd to run alongside a part of the column. Whether or not it happened to be next to the man who fathered them was not of any interest to Tiberius, Drusus, Quirinus, or any of the high-ranking Romans who, if they had taken an interest, would have been forced to do something about it, since it was expressly forbidden by regulations for any rankers to have families. Centurions were allowed to marry, but only with a special dispensation, although this was also generally ignored. From the time that the Roman army on campaign first gained the “tail” that constituted those women and their children who insisted on coming along, there was one requirement and one only; that the tail neither impede nor require any assistance from the Roman war machine.