Marching With Caesar-Rebellion

by R. W. Peake

  “I will try,” he told Porcinus, and the other man would have been greatly surprised to know that Urso was being completely sincere, “to do as good a job as you’ve done with the Cohort. You’ve done a magnificent job, and I just hope that I can follow in your footsteps.”

  Then the two men, long-time rivals and adversaries who only wanted the same thing, clasped arms in the Roman manner, Urso rising from the bench.

  “May the gods watch over you, and I’ll sacrifice to make it so,” were Urso’s parting words, and Porcinus was too affected to respond, just nodding in reply.

  As Urso turned to exit the wagon, Porcinus gave his last order as Secundus Pilus Prior.

  “Go find Philandros. Tell him I’m ready.”

  Epilogue

  It had been an extremely eventful and busy six months, Titus realized one morning, shortly after he had taken Ocelus out for his morning ride. The horse, still knowing the territory better than his rider, had headed west on the Via Domitia, out of Arelate. The fact that this was his old home, and his rider’s new one, was the least of the changes that both Titus and Ocelus had experienced. The day that Titus’ father had undergone the amputation of his right leg was one that Titus would never forget, since it had marked a turning point, not only in his own life, but in the direction of the Porcinus family. Titus was just happy that his father was able to walk, after a fashion at least, even if it was with the help of a crutch. Only now, six months and a couple weeks after that day, did Titus’ father seem to be coming out from under the cloud of despondency and bitterness. The trip from Siscia to Arelate hadn’t been as dangerous as the first time, because the flames of rebellion had been so thoroughly stamped out that not even the normal banditry on the roads was a worry, meaning that the party of travelers, which included Gallus, who was now a permanent part of the Porcinus household, didn’t have to be on constant guard. Not that it hadn’t been arduous; any kind of trip of the length between Siscia and Arelate would be wearing. It was even more so for Porcinus, who was still coming to grips with the new reality that faced him. His leg was amputated just below the knee, and for more than a week, he refused to see anyone, including his family. It was the most trying time of young Titus’ life, but his father had endowed him with a huge responsibility, so he stood firm against his mother, who tried on more than one occasion to charge past Titus. However, he had appointed himself as guard over Porcinus, and Iras had seen another side to her son which, when put together with what she had seen both in Arelate and with the Latobici, had signaled to her that the son she knew was gone forever. Ten years old or not, young Titus was steadfast in his responsibilities, to the point that Ocelus had gone for almost a week without his customary exercise. The paperwork that was required to be filled out was expedited, thanks to Tiberius, who, as expected, had promoted Urso. However, what hadn’t been expected was that Urso had been named Primus Pilus of the 8th Legion to replace the departed but unlamented Barbatus. Even more surprising was the fact that his promotion was ratified, ostensibly by the nameless, faceless bureaucracy of the army. Despite this appearance, everyone in the Legions knew it meant that Augustus had endorsed it. The only one who didn’t appear to be shocked was Porcinus himself, but he made no comment on the event that had the entire army buzzing, although his lack of surprise was due more to indifference.

  Titus didn’t like dwelling on the past, but despite this, as he rode Ocelus outside of Arelate, he couldn’t fight the urge to think back to those dark times when his father had insisted on shutting himself away from everyone, with Titus his only link to the larger world, and the one who kept everyone else at bay. This had tested his relationship with his mother more than any other event, yet even as he understood that his guardianship of his father’s privacy came at a heavy price, he was also proud of himself. Never before had he so consistently stood his ground against his mother; the sword was one thing, but this crisis had lasted for many, many days. Regardless of the strife it caused between the two, until his father was ready, there was no fiercer guardian than young Titus, who barred all visitors to the room that Porcinus had appropriated as his own in their apartment. It wasn’t easy; Porcinus had been surly and hard to deal with, even for Titus, who was the only person with whom the former Pilus Prior had any real interaction. Somehow, Titus had persevered, absorbing his father’s anger and abuse, but in a completely unexpected way, the relationship between the two solidified into a bond that would last them for the rest of their respective lives. For Porcinus, the prospect of life using a crutch was such that it was extremely difficult for him to accept this new reality. Unsurprisingly, he lashed out, and most of the time it was young Titus who had to bear the brunt of the anger and misery from his father. There had been no real scrutiny on what happened; the official story that he had made a misstep and fallen down the steep slope of a gully was accepted without much question. The same was true for the official story of what happened to Barbatus, but while Titus had no reason to disbelieve both, he could tell, just from the reaction of his father whenever it came up, that there was much more to the story, no matter what Porcinus said about it. That, he had mused as he let Ocelus take him where the big gray horse wanted, was understandable. Titus Porcinianus Pullus had become a man, in more ways than one, just as his father had hoped, so it was with the mind of an adult that he recognized that his father carried secrets that would only be revealed when it was appropriate, if they ever were. Titus was still too young to appreciate the irony that the severing of his leg gave Gaius Porcinus a certain level of freedom, yet what he did know was that, not more than three weeks after the amputation of his leg, Porcinus had decreed that his family would be moving to Arelate. Ironically, Iras had been the major obstacle, not wanting to uproot her life and that of her family, no matter that her family, in the form of Valeria and Sextus, had agitated for the move. The fact that it was young Titus who, behind the scenes, was pushing his siblings to put pressure on his mother was something he was sure Iras didn’t need to hear. What he knew was that moving to Arelate would remove his father from the pain of seeing the Fourth Cohort being led by another man, and that was enough, at least as far as Titus was concerned. Everything else was secondary to that reality, and it was with a vigor and sense of command that the other members of the family Porcinus obeyed the new, young, and temporary paterfamilias. For his part, Titus had never felt such a weight on his young shoulders, understanding that this would be the way his life would be for as long as he was alive. That was enough to make him angry, but he found what he needed within himself to quell the flaring of resentment he felt at the injustice of the entire situation. His entire being had ended up focusing on this wrong, but heeding his father’s warning, he hadn’t spoken a word of his true feelings. Instead, he used it as fuel for what he thought of as his quest to right what had been done to his family. Although he never uttered a word about it, Titus Porcinianus Pullus understood that he was on a mission of vengeance. All that remained was the fulfillment.

  Finally, Titus realized that it was time to turn around and head back for Arelate, although Ocelus was clearly eager to keep going.

  “No, boy,” he admonished his horse, who kept trying to jerk the reins from Titus’ hands.

  It was a game that Ocelus had played with his Avus, Titus knew, and while it was somewhat irritating, it gave him an odd sense of security, a sign of stability in his world that had seen so much upheaval. Finally, Ocelus accepted that they were indeed headed home, and Titus settled back into his reverie, focusing on what he was sure had been the turning point for his father, and seemed to be the reason for his return to the land of the living. Although Diocles had continued his tutoring of Titus, and the boy had begun to get a glimmering that perhaps there was something to be learned from books, it was still surprising to him that it appeared to be a book that was responsible for his father’s recovery. Actually, he thought, it wasn’t really a book. It was more like a lot of books, just judging from the number of scrolls contained in a bo
x that Titus had seen in his Avus’ study. During his visit, Titus had only expressed an idle curiosity, since the box was clearly not part of the library contained in the cubbyholes lining two walls of the study.

  However, when he opened the box and started to pick up one, Diocles had spoken to him, using a tone he rarely heard from the Greek.

  “Don’t touch those,” he had snapped.

  Titus was more startled than afraid, but he had jumped away from the box, the lid slamming shut with a bang that made both of them flinch. That had seemed to snap Diocles out of his irritation, because he gave an embarrassed laugh.

  “Sorry about that, Titus,” he muttered apologetically. “It’s just that those are very…valuable.”

  This was something that Titus still had problems fathoming, that there could be anything worthwhile in a bunch of scrolls, but his curiosity was now fully aroused.

  “Why?” he asked, with more than a little suspicion. “What’s in them?”

  Diocles didn’t answer right away, but when he did, if anything, it confused Titus even more.

  “That,” Diocles finally said quietly, “is your legacy.”

  Whatever was in the scrolls, however, had elicited a change in Titus’ father that the boy would never have dreamed possible. Although his mental state had improved somewhat by the time they arrived in Arelate, Porcinus was still withdrawn and prone to bouts of sullen melancholy that was hard to endure, even for his family. Then, one day, Diocles asked to speak to Porcinus privately after the evening meal. Their conversation took place in the study, which, to that point, Titus knew Porcinus had avoided entering. But after that night, it was almost impossible to get him out of it, and every time Titus came to check on his father, he found him poring over what Titus was sure was a scroll from the box, since it was sitting next to Porcinus’ chair. Porcinus began staying up late, and while it was gradual, his family began noticing a change coming over the paterfamilias, and even on one occasion, he had laughed at the dinner table when Valeria hit Sextus over the head with her spoon when she caught him trying to filch an extra candied fig from her plate. Yet, when Titus finally worked up the nerve to enter his Avus’ study while his father was reading, to ask Porcinus what was contained in what he had begun to think of as some sort of magic scroll, his father’s answer had been anything but satisfactory.

  “You’ll find out soon enough,” Porcinus said, rolling up the scroll he had been reading when he saw Titus leaning forward, trying to catch a glimpse of what was on it. “In fact,” Porcinus held the scroll up and pointed at Titus with it, “you’ll inherit these. But not until you’re a man.”

  “Ta…Father,” Titus corrected himself, making sure not to whine. “I’m as big as a man. And I’ve killed in battle,” he pointed out, although he said it quietly, not in a boastful manner at all, just a simple statement of fact.

  For a moment, Porcinus seemed to waver, regarding his son with an appraising expression.

  Then, he shook his head and replied, “Not yet, Titus.” As much as Titus tried to hide it, his father saw the disappointment in his son’s face, which prompted him to add, “I’ll make you a deal. When you put on the toga virilis, I’ll let you start reading these. But,” he hurried on, “I’m going to keep them in my possession, at least until I die. Only then will you have them.”

  Titus would remember this conversation, and it was with some chagrin he recalled that, in the moment, he hadn’t cared about this last condition, not seeing how having physical possession of these scrolls would be meaningful. Over the years, he would have cause to regret that.

  “Get up.”

  The command, rousing Titus from sleep, had come a little less than two months after they had moved to Arelate, and the boy opened his eyes to see his father standing there, his now customary crutch under one shoulder. However, it was the expression on Porcinus’ face that brought him fully awake. There was no hint of warmth, no smile or any other sign that would give Titus a hint about what was to come. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he hurried to obey his father, hurriedly throwing on his tunic. His father watched, face impassive, then when Titus was dressed, turned about.

  “Follow me,” he said curtly, the now-accustomed sound of his crutch thumping across the floor as he left the room without looking back over his shoulder.

  Titus followed his father, and was surprised when they didn’t stop in the room where the meals were prepared; Titus was hungry, but he saw his father didn’t seem interested in either his own hunger or that of his son. Porcinus continued moving, throwing open the door that led to the courtyard, and Titus saw that it was only then beginning to dawn, the eastern sky above the enclosing wall rimmed with pink. Following his father, Titus was completely confused, but he had to hurry to match his father’s pace, since he had become adept at moving quickly, even with a crutch. It was only when Porcinus stopped that Titus understood; actually, it was where his father was standing that gave Titus a hint about what the coming day held for him. Porcinus, who still hadn’t spoken since his initial command, had clearly prepared for this beforehand, because there were a pair of rudii thrust point-first into the dirt, just a few paces away from the set of stakes that Titus Pullus had placed in the courtyard when he had first moved into the villa.

  “Show me your forms,” Porcinus commanded, pointing first to a rudis, then to a stake.

  Titus only hesitated a moment before walking over and picking up the rudis, holding it in the way that Vulso had required. Before he could take more than a step towards the stake, his father spoke again.

  “Wrong,” Porcinus said, his tone flat, his face still showing no hint of warmth. “You’ve seen the way I hold…held,” Porcinus corrected himself, and now there was no mistaking the bitterness in his voice, “my sword. Hold it like that.”

  Titus did as he was told, but the grip felt awkward, made even more so by the fact that the handle of the rudis was normally sized, and although the boy was large in every aspect, his hands were still on the small side of a full-grown man’s at this point. Porcinus saw this and grunted.

  “We’re going to have shave down the handle a bit so it matches your real sword,” he muttered, yet when Titus reverted to the conventional grip, his father shook his head. “No, today I just want to see how bad you are on your forms, so it doesn’t matter if your hand is a little sore. Besides, I’ll show you some exercises I want you to do to make your hand stronger. Now,” he indicated the stake again, “show me.”

  And Titus did as his father commanded, dropping his body into the required position as he scowled at the wooden stake, which had apparently been his Avus’ favorite, since it was the one that showed the most scars from countless strikes and thrusts. He performed the series of movements that he had watched hundreds, if not thousands, of men do when they were training for the Legions, including his father, who continued to stand there, observing impassively, the boy’s own muscles quickly recalling the training with Vulso. Only when Titus had performed one complete set of the movements did his father make any comment, and it was a day the boy would long remember.

  “I’ve seen worse,” Porcinus said, and for the first time, Titus saw just a glimmer of a smile on his father’s face. “Granted, you’ve got some bad habits to unlearn that they taught you at that ludus, but nothing that can’t be undone. No,” Porcinus concluded, “all in all, not a bad beginning.”

  So began Titus’ tutelage in the art of being a Legionary, trained by a man who had been taught by Titus Pullus, the next link in a chain of iron men who marched in the Legions and for Rome. Gaius Porcinus had rediscovered his purpose, even if his command was shrunk to a complement of one, and Titus Porcinianus Pullus began training for the Legions at an even younger age than his Avus, which Porcinus was quick to point out. And both of them, father and son, were united in their desire to find a way to right the injustice done to their family, the beginning of that quest prompted by a set of scrolls.

  ; R.W. Peake, Marching With Caesar-Rebellion