by R. W. Peake
“Yes,” he answered immediately, then frowned. “But you haven’t told me why you left so sudden…” He stopped then, his face transforming with the dawning realization, and he slapped his forehead, groaning, “Of course. That’s the night he suddenly got sick and turned around and went back to camp.” The look Volusenus gave Giulia was one with which she was unfamiliar, as if he was seeing her in a sudden new light, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “He must have seen you getting out of the carriage.”
Swallowing the lump in her throat, Giulia nodded. “Yes, he did.” Then it was her turn to become interested in her cup as she continued, “But he came to see me later that night. And that’s when I made him promise that he wouldn’t tell you the truth. He told me that you were about to go on campaign, and I didn’t want you burdened with…this,” she waved a hand in a gesture that encompassed them both, “when you were about to cross the Rhenus.”
Volusenus listened without interrupting, then when she fell silent and he understood she was not inclined to say more, he demanded, “Is that all that happened? He just came to see you?”
The look that his mother gave him was direct, but he also recognized the set of her jaw, and most tellingly, the slight dilation of her nostrils, so he was not altogether surprised when she replied flatly, “That is all that I am going to say about this matter, Gnaeus. You can choose to accept it, or not, but I have no intention of discussing anything else.” She paused a heartbeat, then said more softly, “At least, for now.”
“Well,” Volusenus snorted derisively, “that basically tells me, doesn’t it? If all that happened was conversation, then you’d say that, wouldn’t you?”
Her reply was in her silence, and for a span of long heartbeats, mother and son stared at each other, neither yielding, until, with a sudden exhalation of breath, Volusenus’ shoulders slumped and he looked away, which she knew was his sign of capitulation, but she was wise enough not to revel in this little victory.
“So,” she repeated, “how did you find out that Titus was your father?” Now that it was the turn of Volusenus to talk, he quickly learned that he needed more fortification, but the amphora was already empty, so he waited while Giulia summoned a slave to bring another one, then he quaffed an entire cup before beginning.
“It was the night we got back to Ubiorum after we had rescued Segestes and…” Volusenus stopped himself, seeing the sudden look of pain on his mother’s face, then said only, “…well, you know.”
He stopped talking, suddenly seemingly more interested in what was contained in his cup than in continuing his story, and it took Giulia quite an effort to refrain from prodding him to continue, which she did by reminding herself she had not wanted Gnaeus to rush her in explaining the circumstances surrounding his birth. Consequently, she managed to stop herself from saying anything, deciding to take a sip from her own cup as she waited for him to continue, in his own time and in his own way.
Finally, Volusenus continued, “I got my answer when Alex showed up in my quarters.” Giulia saw the sudden glisten of tears on her son’s face, visibly moved at the memory, and she understood why when he said sadly, “Naturally, he was crying, and I could see how hard it was for him, but he carried out his duty. First, he handed me this.” From inside his tunic, he produced a small scroll, which he waved in her direction, and while the anger had faded, she heard that it was still present when he continued flatly, “And I’m sure you know what it says, that I am…” his features twisted, and the anger was replaced by pain as he corrected himself, “…or I was his son.”
She knew that she was running a risk of enraging him, but she could not restrain herself, and she extended a hand, asking her son gently, “May I read that, Gnaeus?”
For a long moment, she was sure he was going to refuse; then, with a shrug, he stood, crossed the mosaiced floor, and handed it to her. Before he returned to his spot, he stopped once more at the amphora, igniting a motherly worry in Giulia that he was drinking too much, and depending on how the rest of this night went, he might become impossible to handle. Wisely, she said nothing, if only because she was so intent on reading the scroll, which she pulled open with trembling hands. Despite trying to prepare herself, seeing her lover’s own words, written in his own hand, which she instantly recognized, made her gasp aloud, but while she sensed Gnaeus’ head come up sharply at the sound, she ignored him, reading Titus’ words with trepidation, halfway expecting to see some sort of condemnation of her contained within. She was completely unprepared for what she read, however; indeed, nearly half of the letter was a defense of her own behavior and the decision to withhold the information about her son’s birth, not just from Gnaeus, but from himself. So overwhelmed with relief was she that twice she dropped the scroll in her lap to collect herself and to wipe the tears away. It was while she was doing so the second time that, suddenly, she sensed Gnaeus’ presence in front of her. When she looked up at him, he was holding her cup, which she had set on the table next to the couch, and she saw that it was full once again, but it was the gentle smile he was wearing as he looked down at her that caused her heart to feel as if it would burst, from a combination of relief, sadness, and a sense of loss so poignant that she felt as if it would smother the breath from her.
“Here, Mama.” His tone was gentle, without any ire; apparently, she deduced, watching her read this letter had served to melt away the last vestige of anger from her son at least for the time being. “At the rate you’re crying, you need this more than I do, or you’ll dry up like a raisin.”
As she was certain he intended, this did cause her to laugh, softly and briefly, but it was still a laugh, and she accepted the cup, drinking from it as he returned to his spot once more.
“That,” she finally managed, “is quite a letter.”
Now it was Gnaeus’ turn to laugh, and he raised his cup in a salute, though whether it was to her understatement or to the man who had written it, he did not divulge, only agreeing, “Yes, it’s quite a letter. But,” the smile faded as he turned back to that moment, “then I got another surprise. I got summoned to Secundus Pilus Prior Macer’s quarters. Remember, he was my Pilus Prior when I entered the Centurionate.”
Giulia hesitated, wondering for an instant if her son was setting a trap for her, but she saw nothing in his demeanor that would indicate this was the case, so she told what was, in essence, a small lie, answering him, “Yes, I do recall that, and that Titus was promoted to command the Fourth Cohort.”
Despite her belief, she was nonetheless relieved when Volusenus only gave an absent nod at her confirmation, as he continued, “I didn’t completely understand why, at least at first, but Alex explained to me that he was the holder of Pilus Prior Pullus’ will.” Pausing to take a deep breath, he told her, “That’s when I got my first hint that something more might be going on, because he said that he had read the will, and that,” he did not do so with any thought, and Giulia had no way of knowing, since she had never spoken to Macer, but Volusenus managed a very close impression of the Pilus Prior as he mimicked, “I ‘would have a decision to make.’” He chuckled and acknowledged, “He was certainly right about that.”
Suddenly, before she could press him on what that meant, he seemed to realize something, which he confirmed when he stood, saying only, “I left something outside the front door. I’ll be right back.” Without waiting for her to reply, he left Giulia alone, for the first time since he had burst into the villa, which she occupied by trying to collect herself, marshal her thoughts, and begin to cope with this sudden, dramatic upheaval in not just her life, but most importantly, the life of her son. This was short-lived, because Gnaeus quickly returned, but this time, he was carrying a scabbarded gladius and a rather large wooden box that her son carried with an ease because of his size and strength that reminded her that Gnaeus had actually already inherited something from Titus Porcinianus Pullus that, in his profession, was more valuable than money.
Setting the box down in front of h
er, he brandished the gladius first, saying, “I suspect you know what this is. I mean,” he managed to grin at her, “aside from the obvious.”
She was strangely moved by the sight of something that she would ordinarily shy away from, since, like most mothers, even Roman, she never forgot its purpose. Actually seeing the smooth, worn, and grooved handle brought back unexpected memories of a time when she had been seventeen, in love, and had demanded that her lover allow her to hold this very same weapon. More than that, however, it was the look of what Giulia thought was an awe bordering on reverence that suffused her son’s expression as he slowly drew the blade from the scabbard, remembering that his father had worn the same expression when he had shown it to her. For a span of heartbeats, there was silence, both of them seemingly under the power of some spell as they examined the metal, which was much darker than other such implements, but with a pattern of whorls and loops that, while faint, were still clearly detectable, even in the lamplight.
“This,” Gnaeus’ voice was choked with emotion, “was carried by Prefect Pullus, then by…my grandfather,” his words were tentative, as if he was trying them out for the first time, which Giulia understood was exactly what he was doing, “…then by my…father.”
“And now,” she interjected quietly, reaching up to touch him lightly on the arm, “it’s yours, Gnaeus. And,” she added this without thinking, “I know that Titus was looking forward to handing it down to his son.”
Her son’s head came up sharply, his examination of the blade forgotten, his eyes narrowed in sudden suspicion, and for a second time, she was aware that she had possibly made a crucial error.
“How do you know that?” His voice was flat, which told Giulia that her son’s suspicions were fully aroused now.
With a calm she did not actually feel, Giulia replied evenly, “Because we talked about it during our time together. I,” she pointed to the gladius, “made him show it to me. Honestly,” despite the moment, she felt a smile tugging at her lips, “I was a bit jealous of that thing, because I could see how much it meant to him. But he showed me, and when he did, he told me about its history, and what it meant not just to him, but to the Pullus family.”
The relief that flooded through her when she saw Gnaeus nod thoughtfully, his attention returning back to the blade, almost caused her to betray herself, but he missed her sudden sagging back against the couch.
Thankful that she had managed to navigate through these treacherous waters once again, she pointed to the box and asked him, “What are those?”
Sliding the gladius back into its scabbard, then laying it down with something close to awe, he turned his attention to the box, answering, “Honestly, I’m not sure. I mean,” he amended, “I took a quick look, but they’re just a bunch of scrolls.” With a shrug, he said, “They’re probably his personal library, but I’m not much of a reader, so I’ll probably either sell them or give them to someone who will appreciate them. There’s actually another box of them, but I only brought this one. Although,” he added this carelessly, “Alex insisted that they’re valuable, so I might sell them, I suppose.”
Giulia had frozen, alerted by Gnaeus’ informing her of the contents of the box, because she instantly knew what they were. More importantly, she also knew that she needed to be the one who made her son aware that, in many ways, this legacy from his natural father was a gift even more priceless than the gladius he clearly already treasured. And, she knew, in order to do that, what she had been trying to conceal from Gnaeus this night would have to be exposed. Or, she suddenly wondered, was there another way?
“Actually, Gnaeus,” she began, “may I see one of them?” Smiling at him, she reminded her son, “You know that I’m one of those decadent Roman matrons who like to do things no woman has any business of doing. I might want to read some of this.”
Whether it was pure happenstance or a final blessing of Titus Porcinianus Pullus by Fortuna; this would always be a question that, from time to time, for the rest of her life, Giulia Livinia Volusenus would wonder. Not that it truly mattered; what did was that the scroll he handed her instantly and irrevocably changed Gnaeus Volusenus’ life.
She did not recognize the hand in which it was written, but after scanning the first couple of lines, she knew to whom it belonged, and her heart was suddenly hammering in her chest, which meant it took an effort to sound composed as she began reading, “These are the words of Titus Pullus, formerly Gregarius, Optio, Pilus Prior, and Primus Pilus of the 10th Legion Equestris, now known as 10th Gemina, Primus Pilus of the 6th Ferrata, and Camp Prefect, as dictated to his faithful former slave, scribe, and friend Diocles.” She looked up, and as she expected, her son’s attention was suddenly and completely focused on her, his jaw hanging open in what, to her eyes, was an equal mixture of disbelief and awe. Continuing, she read on, “This is being written in my sixty-first year, three years after my retirement as Camp Prefect, in the tenth year of the reign of Augustus, and four hundred eighty-nine years after the founding of the Roman Republic. I have more than forty military decorations, including three gold torqs, three set of phalarae, two coronae civica, three coronae murales, and a corona vallaris. I have more than twenty battle scars on my body, all of them in the front, and my back is clean, never having been flogged in my forty-two years in the Legions, nor turning my back to the enemy. Although my record is not as great as the revered Dentatus, I am well-known in the Legions, and I have given the bulk of my life and blood to Rome. My goal is straightforward; with these words, I plan on recording all of the momentous events that I participated in as a member of Rome’s Legions, during a period that changed the very foundations of Rome itself.”
Only then did she stop, the scroll dropping to her lap, while she studied Gnaeus’ face, fascinated and overjoyed to see the slow dawning of realization as he began to fathom the extraordinary nature of what, moments before, had been a box of old scrolls of negligible value.
Finally, he spoke, his voice suddenly hoarse. “I suppose I’ll keep those after all.”
As he had hoped, this made Giulia laugh; as long as he could remember, one of the small joys of Gnaeus Volusenus’ life was his ability to make his mother laugh, something that, if his comrades in the Legion knew about, they would have mocked him mercilessly. But, he thought with grim humor, only behind my back.
“That would probably be best,” she agreed, smiling. Then, she looked down into the box to count the number of scrolls, but before she could, her eye spotted a small leather sack, the strings of which had been tied around the spool of one scroll. Pointing to it, she asked, “Have you looked in that sack, Gnaeus?”
Following her finger, he grunted in surprise. “No, Mama. I hadn’t even noticed it.” He bent down, untying the string and lifting the bag, saying dismissively, “Although I can’t imagine what it would be; the sack is too small to hold more than a few sesterces.” Then, he hefted it in the palm of his hand, frowning slightly, then with his free hand, he felt through the leather, telling her, “If there is a coin in here, there’s only one. Although,” he shook his head, “it feels bigger than a coin.”
“Maybe,” Giulia suggested dryly, “you should open it up and see.”
He gave her a sheepish grin, doing as she had directed, untying the string and opening the mouth of the bag, which he upended above the palm of his other hand. While what dropped out of the bag was round and made of metal, both of them knew that it was not a coin, if only because of the leather thong that had been threaded through the hole drilled in the disc. It was almost black with age, but Volusenus tilted his palm towards the nearest lamp, and in doing so, saw some faint etching on the face of the disk. Giulia, who had come to her feet so she could examine this find, was the first to determine not only what it was, but its meaning, causing her to let out a gasp of surprise.
“I know what that is!” Her excitement was such that she reached out and grasped Gnaeus’ forearm with enough strength that it elicited a yelp of surprise and some pain fr
om him, but she ignored him. “That’s the identity disk of the first Titus Pullus! Your father wore it around his neck whenever he went on campaign. Although,” she frowned, going to her tiptoes to get a better angle to see the disk, something she had been doing unconsciously whenever her son held something in his hand ever since he was ten and already was taller than her, “I can’t really make out the writing, but I’m sure that’s it.” She gave a laugh, saying, “He clearly didn’t take care of it as well as he should have. There’s so much grime on that it’s impossible to see the name!”
After a handful of heartbeats, she became aware that her son had fallen silent, which at first she had assumed was because he was trying to read the inscription that was almost illegible. In reflex, she glanced up at his face, and the laugh died on her lips when she saw his expression, reading the anguish there.
“It’s not grime, Mama.” Gnaeus’ voice was barely audible. “It’s his blood. That’s why you can’t read the name.”
She never could precisely recall the next span of time, as she and her son collapsed into each other’s arms, both of them weeping uncontrollably, overcome with this tangible, brutal, and final sign that Titus Pullus was truly dead. It was several moments later, and they had both regained a semblance of control over their emotions, that it was now Volusenus’ turn to glance at his mother with trepidation, and a fair amount of fear that what he was about to tell her might be too much for her to bear. But, much as Giulia had earlier, he understood that this was the night for all of it to come out, as painful as he was sure it would be.
“Mama,” he began, “I told you how I found out that the Pilus Prior was my father. But,” he swallowed the lump that felt as if it would choke the words before he could get them out, “I didn’t tell you how he died.”
“I don’t want to know,” she replied instantly, accompanied by an adamant shake of her head that made her hair, still naturally curly, fly about her face in a movement that both her lover and her son had always treasured. “I don’t think I could bear hearing it.” Her expression changed, and she let out a small gasp, looking at her son with widened, horrified eyes, “Oh, Gnaeus, my poor boy! Did you see it happen?”