by R. W. Peake
It took most of the night for Giulia to tell her son the story of her ill-fated romance with Titus Porcinianus Pullus, who she had met when he was still a young Gregarius serving with the 8th Legion in Siscia, the town where her father ran a prosperous business supplying grain, oil, and wine to the Army of Pannonia. One reason that it took so long was that it came in fits and starts, because Giulia would suddenly be overcome with emotion as she delved back into her past, remembering how she had been as smitten with him as he had been with her from the first moment, contrary to her outward attitude and treatment of the brash young Legionary who, despite being barely twenty years old, was already developing a reputation for bravery and prowess in battle. Her son sat there, rarely interrupting, awash in his own set of feelings, many of them directly conflicting with each other. When she began speaking, both of them holding cups of wine, his entire being radiated the anger that was still coursing through his body at his mother’s confirmation that Pullus was his father.
And, at first, he was determined to remain angry, but as he watched his mother essentially relive what he understood was the most poignant, heartbreaking time of her life, Volusenus found that he could not hold on to the feeling of rage. Before she had even gotten to the moment her father had informed her that she would not be allowed to marry the man she loved, Volusenus felt tears threatening to push their way from behind his eyes, while his anger slowly but surely ebbed away.
Before he could stop himself, he burst out, “But why did your father forbid you from marrying him? I mean,” he added, “if he approached Pullus to arrange it.”
Giulia sighed deeply, taking a swallow of wine before she answered, and as she did, she regarded her son with an expression that he knew was meaningful, but he could not immediately place.
“Because Tata found out something about Titus’ family.” She answered calmly enough, but when she said no more, it was only after her son pressed her that he understood why she had been looking at him in the manner she was, as she replied, “He learned that, contrary to what everyone in Siscia thought, while Titus’ grandfather, the Camp Prefect, had been entered into the rolls of the Equestrian order, that didn’t extend to his son by adoption or the rest of the Porcinianus Pullus family. It,” she finished, and her expression turned bitter, “was a direct order by our beloved Princeps.”
This was the first moment that Volusenus was struck with feelings that were in direct conflict with each other; the anger was still there certainly, but in that instant, some of it was transferred from his mother to the late Augustus, while he felt a sudden and unexpected stab of indignation on behalf of a family of whom he knew only one member. That it was the man he had learned was his father explained the feeling somewhat, yet even in the moment, Volusenus was slightly puzzled that he should take this slight so personally.
“But why?” he asked his mother. “Why would Augustus do something like that?”
“That,” she sighed, “was something that my father never learned.” Giulia paused then, staring down into her cup, then she continued, “But Titus told me what he thought was behind it. And,” looking up at her son, Giulia’s full mouth twisted into a smile that Volusenus saw was full of bitter amusement, “now that he’s dead, I suppose it won’t put either of us in any danger to tell you what Titus told me.”
For the next several moments, she recounted what her lover had related to her, during those relatively few and painfully brief moments when they were alone together, always in the spare bedroom of the apartment occupied by the long-time Pullus family servant Diocles and his family. What Giulia did not divulge was that, while she was presenting the first version Titus had expressed to her all those years ago, he had since related the details that he had learned, directly from the late Princeps, during his one and only face-to-face meeting with the most powerful man in the Rome. That this confirmation had occurred recently, during one of Titus’ visits to Mogontiacum, which had taken place without her son’s knowledge, was something that, in the moment, she decided Volusenus did not need to know, at least right then. Maybe later, she thought, as she continued talking, but not now; it would be too much, for both of them. Nevertheless, she did not see the harm in weaving in the details that she had learned from Titus over the previous several months but presenting it as if it had been told to her more than two decades earlier.
Once she was finished, Volusenus’ demeanor was almost identical to his mother’s, as he sat there staring moodily down into his cup of wine, and he broke the following silence by muttering, “So, your life was basically ruined because Augustus held a grudge against a man who served Rome faithfully and well for more than forty years.”
That Volusenus had characterized it in this way caused Giulia to experience a sudden flare of hope that, perhaps, her son might forgive her.
The feeling did not last long, because he looked up at her, and she saw that the anger was not only still there, but was now redirected back in her direction, which he confirmed as he continued flatly, “But that still doesn’t excuse what you did, Mother.”
Giulia sighed. How could she make her son understand? she wondered, although she was not particularly surprised by his attitude. Gnaeus may not have been his natural son, but Quintus Claudius Volusenus had managed to impart in her child a rigid set of morals, along with an unforgiving sense of judgment of others that, at least in her husband, had not been extended to himself. For years, Giulia had worried that Gnaeus would adopt both parts of this outlook, but she had been cautiously pleased to see that her son was at least aware that, if he wanted to apply such a strict standard of behavior on others, he was expected to toe the same line. Not, she knew, that he was always successful, but in that he was like most other men of this type.
“Gnaeus,” Giulia’s patience, never her best asset, was wearing thin, but she tried to keep this from showing, “I was young, and I was in love. In fact,” she suddenly remembered, “I told Titus that I was willing to run away with him and get married by a priest at one of the temples.”
This surprised Volusenus, and he asked with a note of incredulity, “So why didn’t you?”
“Because Titus wouldn’t allow it,” she replied evenly. “Since he was still a Gregarius, he couldn’t apply for a dispensation, so our marriage wouldn’t be legal. And he didn’t want me to be a camp wife.”
As soon as she said it, Volusenus realized that his natural father had been correct, and he suppressed a shudder at the thought of what his mother would have had to endure now that he had been in the Legions long enough to witness firsthand the kind of life the women and children of rankers faced. Regardless of this understanding, however, he was still not quite willing to let go of the anger that, whenever he was being honest with himself, he knew was always just below the surface even under the best of circumstances, and these were far from that.
“You could have let him know that you were pregnant,” Volusenus said stubbornly. “He deserved to know.”
This, Giulia knew, was nothing more than the truth, albeit a painful one, but she resolved to herself that she would tell Gnaeus everything and not leave anything out just because she found it personally painful, or in this case, shameful.
Her tone was even enough, but Volusenus knew his mother well, and he plainly heard the bitter anger as she explained, “Believe me, Gnaeus, I wanted to. But my mother wouldn’t allow it. She made it clear that if I tried, she would take…steps to punish Titus.”
Volusenus laughed scornfully, and in the thoughtless manner of sons, scoffed, “And what could your mother have done to Titus Pullus?”
It took a fair amount of will on Giulia’s part to keep her anger from flaring; as accustomed as she might have been to the men in her life holding to the notion that women were weak and incapable of such things, it did not make it any easier to endure.
With a patience she did not feel, instead of replying directly, she asked her son, “Do you remember me talking about Plotina?”
This caught Volusenus
by surprise, and he was forced to think for a moment before he said, “Only a couple of times. She was your servant, wasn’t she? When you were a girl?”
“That,” Giulia acknowledged, “is the bare bones of it. But she was much, much more to me than that. She was more of a mother to me than my own and was one of the most important people in my life.”
This clearly puzzled Volusenus, who replied skeptically, “For someone you say was that important to you, I can’t remember you mentioning her more than three or four times in my entire life.”
Giulia had managed to stop crying, but now the tears came again, and her voice suddenly became choked with emotion as she explained, “That’s because talking about her is too painful, Gnaeus.” Her features, still beautiful despite what Volusenus thought of as her advanced age of forty-three, twisted into an expression that, had he ever met the woman, he would have known was identical to that worn by her mother Lavinia on a regular basis. “The reason it’s painful is that, when my mother found out that Plotina had been helping, she flogged Plotina to death.”
This caught Volusenus completely by surprise.
“Gerrae! I can see having her whipped, but having her flogged to death?” Volusenus shook his head as he gave a low whistle. “I can see why that’s painful, Mama.”
While she was encouraged by his use of the name he had called her since he could talk, Giulia comprehended that Gnaeus still did not understand, and she corrected him. “No, Gnaeus. She didn’t have someone flog Plotina. She did it herself.” Ignoring his gasp, Giulia continued, “She was happy to remind me about that whenever the mood struck her. And,” she added, guessing correctly that Volusenus was about to point something out, “she knew that she didn’t have any chance of doing the same to Titus herself, but she had enough money of her own that she could hire as many men as it took to kill him too.”
“Now I know why you don’t talk about her either,” Volusenus commented, which elicited a bitter smile from his mother, but he was not quite done with this topic, and he pointed out, “But surely your father could have stopped her.”
The look Giulia gave her son contained a mixture of fondness and amusement, yet it was tinged with a sadness that was explained when she said, “You know I loved my Tata, Gnaeus, I truly did. And I still do even now, and he’s been dead for several years. But,” she sighed again, “he was a weak man in many ways.” Hesitating for a moment, she decided that this was a night to bare all, or almost all, and she went on, “My mother had an affair with the Legate in Siscia when I was in my early teens.” Giulia pretended to be staring down into her cup, but she was intently studying her son’s face through her lashes as she continued, “It was the worst-kept secret in town, and my father was humiliated, as you can imagine. As was I,” she added bitterly, recalling the one and only time she had confronted her mother Livinia about it, and had gotten a slap across the face for it, “but my father still forgave her, and I never once heard him mention it to her, even when they argued. No,” Giulia concluded, “my father couldn’t have done anything to stop my mother, and it wasn’t just Titus I worried about.” She paused to take a sip as she thought back to those days, which she related to her son by saying, “Despite not being together very long, I grew very close to Diocles and his family.” When she saw the quizzical expression on Gnaeus’ face, she explained, “Diocles was the Prefect Titus Pullus’ slave. At least, that’s how he started out, but by that point, he’d been a freedman for a long time.”
Although Volusenus had only recently learned the name of this Greek, he was certainly aware of his existence, if only because he knew the Greek’s son; it was this moment he realized that his mother was not the only one who was not being completely forthcoming.
“That’s the father of Pullus’ clerk and scribe Alexandros,” he said, mainly to stall for time to think, and for a moment, Giulia almost betrayed herself by agreeing, but just before she opened her mouth, she realized that by affirming she knew of this connection, it would require her to explain how she knew this was the case.
Although it had not been without a certain amount of argument, Titus Pullus had agreed not to tell Volusenus that he and Giulia had renewed their relationship, just as she had prevailed upon him not to tell Gnaeus that he was his father. Not surprisingly, this had caused even more issues between them than the resumption of their relationship, and in fact, their last time together, before Titus left on what she now knew was his final campaign, had been quite acrimonious. This, she dimly understood at this moment, would be something with which she would have to grapple for the rest of her own time on earth; first, however, she had to get through this difficult night, although she also knew there was no way to avoid acknowledging that she had at least seen Titus when she moved to Mogontiacum.
Giulia did not try to hide her relief when Gnaeus said, after a moment’s silence, “I can see now why you didn’t let him know.” But that sensation did not last long, because he glared at her as he continued, “But once your mother was dead, you should have told me!”
While she understood why her son felt this way, she also was more certain about her decision in this matter, and she did not hesitate.
“To what end, Gnaeus? You were ten when she died. If I had told you then, it would have ruined your life. And,” she was guessing, but it was a shrewd one, based on her intimate knowledge of her child, “I suspect you know that.”
Volusenus did not reply immediately, but his expression softened, then he admitted, “Yes, I do. I may not like it, but I understand.” His features changed subtly, but even in the relatively dim light, what his mother saw in his expression gave her a hint of what was coming. “Did my fath…did Quintus know that I wasn’t his son?”
In the brief time she had had to come to terms with not only the death of the man she loved, but the recognition that her son had finally learned the truth, Giulia had been dreading this, but once more, she did not flinch, replying tersely, “Yes. He knew.”
She was not surprised to see that this clearly rocked Gnaeus, who actually jerked in a manner she imagined was similar to what he would have done had he actually been physically punched, which was accompanied by a gasp of shock.
“Pluto’s thorny cock!” He blurted this, and out of habit, Giulia snapped, “Mind your language, Gnaeus!”
Again, this was such an incongruous thing to say, given the subject matter, that Volusenus once more burst out laughing, except this time, she joined him, and before a span of a half-dozen heartbeats, both were consumed with mirth, although it was of the type that was tinged with equal amounts of grief and hysteria.
Once they had regained control of themselves, Volusenus asked his mother, “How could he have endured raising a son he knew wasn’t his? I mean,” his mouth turned down, “it makes sense now why we were never close. But he wasn’t cruel to me.”
“No,” Giulia agreed, “he wasn’t, but that’s because I wouldn’t have allowed it. You do know that much, don’t you?”
“I do,” Volusenus admitted, but he was still troubled at this incongruity, which just served as another reminder to his mother how differently men thought about such things than women. “Still, I suppose that I just don’t quite understand how he could treat me with relative kindness since he knew he wasn’t my father.”
Giulia actually hesitated, but then reminded herself that she had resolved to answer most of the questions her son had on this night, for all the secrets of the past to be exposed save the one that she and Titus had reunited, so she told him.
“It was because of money,” she said frankly. “Quintus was in massive debt, and my father agreed to settle them, along with giving him a large amount of money over and above the amount he owed. All he required was that Quintus treat me kindly and raise you as his own son.”
Of all the things that his mother had told him to this point, Volusenus was least surprised by this; in fact, he had surmised as much long before, although that did not necessarily make it sting less to have it confi
rmed. It also caused Volusenus to reflect on something that, quite unexpectedly, caused him to feel a pang of sympathy for this man who he now had confirmed was not his father.
“No wonder he drank so much,” he mused aloud. “It must have been hard for him knowing I wasn’t his son, but he had to treat me as if I was.”
This surprised Giulia, and her initial reaction was a flare of anger, but she forced herself to acknowledge that her son was making a fair point, and one that was made without the knowledge of how Quintus had treated Giulia, something he was at least careful to hide from Gnaeus, and for which she was thankful. Still, she could not bring herself to acknowledge her son’s observation, so she remained silent, which he noticed but chose to ignore. This also prompted her to change the subject, despite knowing that, as painful as this had been so far, it was only going to get worse, because the conversation would inevitably lead to learning how the man she loved died.
“So,” she began, “how did you find out that Titus was your father?”
Volusenus did not reply immediately, instead studying the contents of his cup intently before finally saying, without looking up, “Before I do that, I need you to explain something to me that doesn’t make sense.”
Giulia felt as if her insides suddenly froze, but she managed to keep the strain from her voice as she asked lightly, “Oh? What’s that?”
“How could the Pilus Prior…my father,” he corrected himself, albeit awkwardly, “promise you not to reveal he was my father to me? I mean,” he hurried on before she could respond, and now he did look directly at her, “how could he have known about me if you disappeared?”
When Giulia opened her mouth, it was with the intention of denying the truth of this, but her mind quickly traveled down the path this lie would take, so that, just as quickly, she discarded the idea.
However, neither was she prepared to tell the entire truth, not yet, so instead, she settled for a half-truth, beginning with a question, “Do you remember when I came to see you in Ubiorum?”