by R. W. Peake
“Even Caesar?” Gaius asked, his face revealing nothing. “Was Caesar doing it to further his own ambition at the expense of Rome?”
Oh, he knew that was the way to get me. I glared at him, and I must confess I almost struck him.
“Caesar was ambitious,” I said finally. “But his ambition was aligned with what was best for Rome, so in that he was different.”
“Ah,” Gaius replied, his tone neutral. I saw him swallow hard, the struggle he was feeling clear to see on his face while he tried to frame his thoughts. When he spoke, he was very careful with his words.
“Uncle, I hear what you're saying, and I understand, as much as it's possible for me to do, given my position. But just because all these terrible things happened to you, doesn't mean it will happen to me.”
“Then you’re a fool if you believe that boy,” I said scornfully, before draining another cup of wine to wet my throat before continuing. “And that’s precisely why it will happen to you, because you’re not me. If it happened to Titus Pullus, it will happen to you.”
Gaius said nothing, just regarded me evenly for a long period, making me feel very small.
“Are you still planning on marrying Iras?” I asked abruptly, surprising him with the change of topic.
He nodded, replying, “Yes, Uncle. I am.”
“Another stupid idea,” I snorted. “You haven’t learned anything from watching me?”
“You loved Miriam a great deal, Uncle,” Gaius said quietly.
“Yes, I did, and look where it got me.” I slammed my hand down on the table, making Gaius jump a little, but I was once again trying to fight back the tears and needed the distraction of hitting something.
“Iras is young and healthy,” Gaius insisted. “There’s no reason to think that what happened with Miriam will happen to her.”
Seeing that yelling wasnot getting me anywhere, I leaned forward to gaze directly into my nephew’s eyes.
“If you don’t hear anything else I’ve said, hear this.” My voice throbbed with the intensity of the emotion I was feeling. “You might have a career in the army that is rewarding in every way. And you might have a long, happy married life with Iras and have many children, and you'll both grow old together.”
I jabbed my finger at him to emphasize this last point.
“But you can't have both. The gods will not allow it. You're many things, Gaius, but you weren't born to this the way I was. As hard as you work, you'll never achieve what I have, because you're not hard enough. But that very lack is what will make you a good, even a great paterfamilias. So you have to choose one, or the other. But if you follow my path, you will never be where I am now; you just don't have it in you. And that's not a bad thing.”
I sat back, spent. Until I articulated what I had just said to Gaius, I had never given it a great deal of thought, but now that it was said, I realized that I was speaking the truth, at least as I saw it. Now, I waited to see how Gaius would take it. I expected him to be hurt, except he was not. Studying his face, I got the sneaking suspicion that he was looking at me with pity.
“Uncle, when's the last time I said I wanted to be like you?” Gaius asked me quietly. “Not since I was a boy. I realized long ago that I'm not the same as you when it comes to the Legions. But that doesn’t mean that I don't love the army in my own way, and that I can’t be proud of what I have, and will accomplish. Yes, I may die, but we all die. And I understood and accepted the risk long ago. I just want to be Gaius Porcinus, and I'd like you to be proud of me, even though I will never be like you.”
All I had to say to make everything right between us was to be honest, to tell him how deeply proud I am of the man he was, and is to this day. But I could not, or more accurately, would not. Instead, I said harshly, “The only way I'll be proud of you is if you listen to what I say and finish your enlistment, then go back to the farm with Iras. You'll still inherit everything I have, because I gave you my word.”
Now it was Gaius’ turn to get angry, and he abruptly stood up, glaring down at me.
“I'm sorry you feel that way, Uncle,” Gaius said stiffly. “But if I’m not worthy of you being proud of me the way I am, then I have no desire for your money, or your name.”
“Then get out,” I roared at him, slamming the table again, this time so hard it knocked my cup over, spilling wine across the table.
“Don’t worry, I am,” he shouted back, and turned to stalk out before I could say another word.
That night, I got the drunkest I had ever been; in the morning, the pain was still just as raw as it had been when I watched his retreating back.
This was the manner in which the next weeks passed, at least as much of it as I remembered. Crassus left for Rome, meaning that I was in command, and I did manage to curtail my drinking enough so that it did not affect my duties. At least, that is what I told myself, while everyone who was in a position to tell me differently was too afraid to speak up. I was never drunk on duty, but I was almost always hung over, making even the smallest problems that had to be dealt with more difficult. Before he left, Crassus tried to have a talk with me, and I listened politely enough before immediately forgetting it the moment I left his office. I became a virtual recluse, much in the same way that Antonius had when he returned from Actium, albeit on a more modest scale, since I did not build my own house. Off duty, my only contact with the outside world was Diocles, our only discourse my growled commands for more wine, or occasionally food to be brought. I had finally stopped my daily exercises, meaning the inevitable happened, and I watched in dismay as my waist grew thicker, the body of which I was so proud quickly losing its definition. Ocelus was suffering from a lack of exercise as well, because I had given up going on my daily rides, preferring to spend that time drinking instead. The 8th was in its final preparations to embark for Rome, scheduled to leave as soon as the weather broke, which would be soon, it now being late Februarius. I still had not spoken to Gaius, and while I longed to make things right, something in me refused to budge. One night, I was brooding about this, and as a result, I drank even more than had become normal for me. I had been finding that it was taking more and more wine to achieve the desired state of drunkenness, so I really have no idea how many cups I had consumed that night, nor do I remember how I made it to bed. My next conscious memory was being awakened in the worst possible manner, when someone poured a pitcher of cold water on me. One moment, I was passed out, blessed with no dreams, for a short time at peace with myself and the world; the next, I was gasping for breath at the shock of the water soaking me while I opened my eyes, trying to understand what was happening. Before I could gather my wits, another shock was waiting for me, when a pair of strong hands grabbed the edge of my cot, tipping me onto the floor. Adding to the jolting pain of hitting the hard wooden floor was the indignity of landing in a pool of foul-smelling liquid face first, the sour odor making my stomach lurch. Evidently, I had vomited at some point in the night, a not uncommon occurrence. Now the results of my night of drinking were soaking my face and the upper part of my tunic. I was just shaking my head in attempt to clear it when what I assumed was the same pair of hands that had dumped me to the floor now grabbed the back of my tunic then, albeit with a great deal of difficulty from the sounds of his grunting, hauled me to a semi-upright position. This gave me my first opportunity to see the face of my attacker, and despite my vision still being bleary, the room dimly lit by a single lamp, it was a face with which I was very familiar. Sextus Scribonius stared down at me, his face a mask of disgust and contempt. That look more than anything he could have said cut me to my very soul. At least, so I believed until he spoke.
“Diocles told me you were this bad, but I refused to believe it until I saw for myself.” His tone was scornful, his lip curled in a sneer that I could not recall ever being on his face before.
“What do you want?” I was now on my knees, feeling sullen, stubborn, and ashamed all at the same time, glaring at Scribonius.
; “I don’t want anything. I just came to see how far the great Titus Pullus has fallen.” He shook his head, then added quietly, “I never thought I would see you like this.”
“Well, now that you have, you can leave.”
“No,” he said simply, going to take the chair from my desk and dragging it so that he could sit across from me.
Taking a seat, he studied me for several moments, making me feel extremely uncomfortable. My head felt like Vulcan had moved his shop inside it, my stomach was roiling from the stench of the stale vomit still soaking me, and now I was being examined like a man deciding whether it was time to send the horse to the butcher’s or not. When he spoke again, there was no mistaking the sadness in his voice.
“You refused to let me die, so how can I not do the same? Titus, do you realize how much it hurts me to see you like this? Or Diocles? Or Gaius?”
It felt like I had been stabbed in the heart by his words. Even with the shame, I also felt the anger starting to burn. I had been so taken by surprise by Scribonius’ attack that I had not had time to get angry, but now I was feeling it growing inside me.
“What should it matter how I choose to live my life?” I retorted. “All of my adult life, you've been feeding off of me. First it was Vibius, now it’s you, and Diocles and Gaius. All of you, expecting me to be your champion, your leader, your protector. Well, I’m tired of it! No more!”
I imagine that if I had uttered these words to anyone other than Scribonius, they may have gotten up and walked away, but he was having none of it.
“Oh, spare me your self-pity,” he snapped. “You're the one who set himself up as all the things you just described. How often have I heard you boast about what it means to be Titus Pullus? How many times have I had to listen to you describe how you killed this man, or that one?”
He jabbed his finger at me while he spoke, plainly angry, perhaps as angry as I had ever seen him.
“You chose the path you're on, and now you complain because the burden is heavy? Why now? What makes this time any different from all the rest?”
“You know why,” I shouted. “You of all people know better than anyone else why I've had enough!”
Scribonius’ face softened, suddenly all the anger seeming to rush out of his body, and he sagged back in his chair. For the first time, I could see every one of his more than fifty years showing.
“I miss him too, Titus.” His voice was barely audible as he hung his head, looking at the floor. “Maybe more than you. Whenever you were off doing what it is that Titus Pullus does, it was always Balbus and me together who were left behind. While you were consorting with the generals, and playing dangerous games with the patricians, it was Balbus and I who were there to pick up the pieces.”
I had never thought of it in this light, and that only made me more ashamed. I finally blurted out what had been gnawing at me since I saw our friend die.
“I watched it happen, and I couldn’t stop it,” I said, feeling the bitterness rising up in my throat, threatening to choke me. “What good is it being Titus Pullus, hero of the Legions, a legend in the army, if I can’t even save my own friend?”I spat a glob of bile onto the floor, trying to clear my throat of that feeling of failure before I continued.
“That's why I'm tired of being Titus Pullus, Sextus. I’m just sick of it all, and if I could stay drunk for the rest of my days to stop from feeling this way, then that's what I would do.”
Scribonius gave me a smile, but it was one filled with sadness.
“Titus, the only man expecting you to do all of those things is you. Nobody blames you for what happened to Balbus. It was his time, and nothing you could have done would have stopped it from happening. Even if you had managed to warn him in time, somebody or something else would have killed him. The only difference would have been the way it happened.”
“You really believe that?” I asked, feeling the first tinge of something that was different from the unending despair that had dogged my every waking moment.
“I do, very much,” he replied firmly. “And none of us, not me, not Diocles, not Gaius ever considered for a moment that he died because of something you did or didn’t do. You take too much on yourself, Titus. You always have, but that was a choice you made for yourself a long time ago. And it’s not like you to whine about it, and frankly, I'm tired of it, and so is everyone else. So consider this your final warning, from your oldest friend. Unless you change this path that you’re on, our friendship is over, and I'll never speak to you again and purchase my remaining time out of the Evocati and go home.”
I had remained on my knees, which had begun to hurt, but suddenly the pain was forgotten as I regarded Scribonius, trying to determine if he was bluffing. It did not take me long to recognize that he was not; I had seen that set of his jaw before, telling me now that he was determined to follow through on this course. Even if I had been inclined to say or do something that would force him to carry out his threat, what he said next clinched it for me.
“The real tragedy in all this, Titus, is that two friendships might die because of Balbus. Do you think he would want that, for either of us?”
I shook my head slowly, feeling the anger ebbing away, my mind thinking through what the rest of my life would be like without the friendship of Scribonius.
“No, he wouldn’t,” I admitted, then offered my surrender. “Very well, Sextus. I'll do as you say. I'm through getting drunk every night, if that's what it takes to get you to stay.”
“That’s not all,” he interrupted.
“What else?” I asked, knowing I sounded peevish, but I felt like I had given him what he wanted and he was now stretching the boundaries of the territory he had just gained by my acquiescence.
“You need to apologize to Gaius, and you need to do it now, before the 8th ships to Rome.”
“Apologize? What for?” I demanded.
“For the things you said to him the last time you two were together,” he replied.
“How did you know about that?”
I suspected I knew, and it was confirmed when he said, “Diocles told me.”Seeing my eyes narrowing while I felt the anger coming back, he hurried on. “Don’t blame him. He's as concerned about you in his own way as I am, and I asked him to let me know if you did anything exceptionally stupid, which of course you did.”
“Why, thank you,” I snapped. “It’s good to know that no part of my life is safe from your prying.”
“Somebody has to save you from yourself.” Scribonius was unruffled by my irritation, while I was secretly relieved.
I had been agonizing over how to approach Gaius to make amends without sacrificing my dignitas. Now I could pretend that I was doing so only because Scribonius essentially ordered me to do so in order to salvage our friendship. It’s a thin porridge I know, but a starving man cannot be choosy.
“All right,” I said finally. I was almost afraid to ask, but I did anyway.“Anything else?”
My heart sank as he nodded, rising from the chair.
“Yes, take a bath. You stink.”
I did take a bath, but not before I went to see Gaius. Diocles, quite understandably given all that had transpired, had disappeared, forcing me to clean and dress myself up the best I could before I left my quarters, donning my full uniform for the first time in weeks. The men of the 8th had transferred down to the docks to begin the process of boarding, their equipment and baggage already stowed in the cargo holds of the transports they would be using. It was too early for the Etesian winds, meaning their progress would be slow, and not without risk. Despite it being past time for the winter storms, it was still early enough that a late season gale could blow up. It was not unheard of, in fact happening fairly often, which was in my mind as I watched the men filing up the wharves. The standards for each Century and Cohort were on display, telling men where to gather, while Macrinus’ chief clerk called out the order in which they were to board. At first, I was afraid that the Seventh had already loaded, but
I finally found them on the farthest wharf, most of them sitting on their personal packs, talking or playing dice. I spotted Gaius standing, talking to Vettus, his back turned to me. As customary, since I was in uniform, men climbed to their feet, coming to intente when I passed, with me waving them back to what they were doing in an attempt to keep from making a fuss that would alert Gaius. I do not know why, but I had this irrational fear that if he saw me coming, he would turn to flee in order to avoid having to talk to me. For all intents and purposes, I was sneaking up on him. However, Gaius could not help but notice men leaping to their feet, and he turned to face me. I saw his body stiffen, yet his face betrayed none of his thoughts at my approach, both he and Vettus snapping to intente while rendering salutes worthy of a formation on the forum. I returned it, then stood there for a moment, unsure how to broach the subject that had brought me there. I did know I had no intention of blurting it out in front of others.
Finally, I said awkwardly, “Come with me.”
Inwardly I winced at my tone; I had not meant to sound so harsh, but it was too late to go back. Besides, I reasoned to myself, if it sounds like an order, he is much more likely to obey. I sensed that he was following me while I looked about for a spot that offered a bit of privacy. Finally, I spotted an alley on the other side of the street that ran the length of the wharves, in between two warehouses. Beckoning to him, I strode to the alley, turning to wait for him to reach me. He was a few paces behind, his face set, still revealing none of his thoughts, yet his tone was polite enough.
“Yes, Prefect?”
My heart sank at the use of my title, instead of his usual “Uncle,” recognizing that he was still angry with me.
“Gaius,” I hesitated, searching desperately for the right words. “I just wanted to, er, apologize for what happened between us the last time you came to visit.”