by R. W. Peake
How, he wondered miserably, can I tell her? How will I find the words?
So certain was he that nothing would come, he was surprised to hear his own voice, sounding, if not completely steady, at least strong, saying, “Yes, Mama, I saw it happen. I saw it happen because,” now, his voice broke, “I’m the reason he’s dead. He saved my life by sacrificing his own.”
For the next several moments, he explained the events that had upended their lives, but in order to get through it, he fell back on the habit of turning it into the kind of report that he would offer his Pilus Prior or other superior officer, a flat recitation of the facts. The only telltale that it was something other than this was the tears that rolled, one after the other down his cheeks in stark contrast to the monotone, matter-of-fact voice that he was using. His mother, similarly affected, sat not only quietly, but without making any kind of move from her posture she was holding when he began, perched on the edge of her couch, leaning forward slightly with her hands folded in her lap, chin tilted up slightly in what she imagined was the proper attitude of a Roman matron. Like her son, her stoic demeanor was betrayed by the tears that she shared with him, her heart aching for her only child as he excoriated himself with his own words. Competing with that, however, was a sense of anger, with her son and his father, even as she knew that it made no sense, but she could not help herself. She was angry with her son because, as much as she loved him, she was not blind to his faults, and of all of them he possessed, it was his massive sense of pride in himself because of his size and natural ability that enabled him to excel in anything of a physical nature. And, once she had seen that he had inherited more than just his size from his father Titus, that he not only displayed an aptitude for martial matters but had a true interest that bordered on a passion, she had subtly and deftly steered him in that direction, knowing that this was the only thing that would make him truly happy. But, she reflected bitterly as she listened, that pride had gotten him into at least as much trouble as it had helped him achieve his goals, and this was what she blamed his father for, because in her mind, in that mysterious way that none could define but knew was there, the power of blood had prevailed. He was, she thought, his father’s son in every way. Finally, he was finished, and only then did he behave in a manner that betrayed this was anything other than an after-action report, dropping his head to stare dully at the floor, and she wondered what he was feeling in that moment. Judging by his demeanor, she guessed he was simply spent, all of the grief and emotion of reliving that day that, as he told her, had occurred less than a week earlier, draining him of his last reserves of energy. She stood and crossed over to him, sitting next to him on the couch, but rather than draw him to her, Giulia simply placed her hand on his shoulder; if he wanted her to embrace him, she was there. He seemed content for the moment, and they sat there like this for some time while he moodily sipped from his cup.
Finally, he broke the silence by saying, “There’s something else, Mama. Something else I need to tell you.”
By the gods, she wanted to cry out, what more could they possibly do to them? Instead, she managed to keep her voice level, and asked almost lightly, “Oh? I can’t imagine what more need be said.”
For the first time since she had moved to him, he lifted his head to look at her, and the sight of his red-rimmed and swollen eyes told her more than anything he could have ever said about what he was feeling.
“Remember when I said that Macer said I had a decision to make?” She realized at that moment that she had, in fact, forgotten it, but she nodded at him, which prompted him to continue, “My father didn’t just give me his gladius and scrolls, he also offered to adopt me. Although,” he added quickly, “with a condition. And,” he took a breath before he finished, “I’ve decided to accept it.”
To Giulia, it felt as if her body was suddenly frozen, although her mind was anything but as it raced through the meaning of this, which prompted her to blurt, “Have you signed anything?” When he nodded, she had to bite back a most unladylike curse, choosing instead to ask, “Do you know if the document has been filed at the Praetorium?”
Now Gnaeus was visibly confused, although he answered with a shrug, “I have no idea, but I would guess probably not since we marched here so quickly.” As he spoke, his features slowly transformed, his mouth turning down in a frown, and she heard the sudden suspicion as he demanded, “Why? What does it matter? I’ve made my decision.”
She shook her head so adamantly that the curly hair that Gnaeus’ father had loved so much, now showing streaks of silver, moved about her face.
“No, Gnaeus,” she countered, “you can’t do it.”
He looked at her in surprise, although she also saw the beginning of the anger that she knew far too well, although he asked evenly, “Why not, Mama? Explain it to me.”
Closing her eyes, she composed herself for a moment before she explained, “Because by attaching his name to yours, you also take on his status in the census, which means…”
“That I won’t be in the Equestrian order anymore,” he finished for her, although in a way that told her he was aware of this already, which she found quite confusing.
“That’s right,” she nodded, then, thinking that he had not thought the matter through clearly, “and that means that any children you have will be a member of the Head Count tribes. Even if,” at this, she could not keep the bitterness from her voice, “you manage to marry a woman of our order, since the status is only counted with men.”
“I know all that, Mama,” Gnaeus answered patiently. “It was the first thing I thought about.” He took a swallow of wine, as if he was fortifying himself for something. “And,” he admitted when he resumed, “I can see why you’d think that would be important to me, because when I left to join the Legion, it was important to me. Now?” He shrugged, although he did turn to look at her as he said quietly, “I’m not the same man I was as when I left, and it’s not nearly as important anymore.”
For the first time on this extraordinary night, Giulia was truly torn; even more unusually, she had no idea what the right answer was, because in that moment, she was intensely proud of her son for recognizing what she had learned all those years ago as a seventeen-year-old girl in love, that a man’s status did not define his quality. Or, she thought ruefully, how much money they had. Competing with her pride, however, was the recognition that the rest of Roman society cared not one whit about whether a man’s character made him worthy of his place in their rigidly controlled world. It was, after all, why her father had forbidden the marriage with Titus, and while she had been infuriated, she also recognized even then that he had been acting in what he saw as her best interests. And, she realized, it was not until this very moment that she truly understood how her father felt, certain that it was identical to the surge of competing ideas and emotions assailing her at that moment.
Deciding on a cautious approach, she spoke in what she hoped sounded like a thoughtful tone, “Well, at least you won’t lack for money. Your father told me how much his family was worth, thanks to what his Avus won marching for Divus Julius and Divus Augustus, and that Diocles managed and grew.” There was a subtle but unmistakable change in her son’s demeanor that caused her to examine his face closely, and she asked sharply, “What? What do you know that I don’t?”
Gnaeus shifted uncomfortably, but he did not hesitate in answering, “About that. It appears that there was a…setback, brought on by my father’s brother Gaius…” Suddenly, he stopped, confusing Giulia until he continued, “…which, I suppose makes him my uncle.” He gave a soft chuckle, admitting, “I never thought of him that way before.” Shaking his head, he went on, “Anyway, Uncle Gaius made a bad investment that, according to my father’s will, was the result of some sort of scheme by a man pretending to be something he wasn’t. That’s really all I know about it, but what I do know is that they aren’t worth nearly as much as they were. Besides,” he pointed out, “just because I’m Titus’ heir, i
t doesn’t mean I get anything more than whatever share was left to him by his father.”
This, she knew was true, and indeed was a cause of her worry. While she was aware that Titus’ oldest sister and brother Sextus had died; when they had reunited, he told her about Sextus dying in an ambush in Pannonia and the death of Livinia, there were still Miriam and her children, this brother Gaius, and the brother Septimus, so whatever share of what Titus had told her was a million sesterces had shrunk thanks to this incident.
Finally, she sighed and asked simply, “Are you sure about this, Gnaeus? I mean…really sure?”
She received her answer not in the words but in the manner in which, without hesitation, he replied, “I am, Mama.” He lifted a hand that she knew was meant to preempt whatever she had to say, something she despised, “Oh, I know that at some point in the future, I may have second thoughts. But, Mama…he saved my life. And, while I didn’t know it, he was teaching me about how to be not just a good Centurion, but a good leader, and that is something that will always be with me.”
Her ire at the gesture softened somewhat, then she remembered, “You said something about a condition? What was it?”
“That while I could retain my praenomen, I would take Porcinianus as my nomen,” he replied.
“And?” she asked, more out of idle curiosity than any deeper worry. “What did you say?”
“No,” Gnaeus answered. “I told them that I couldn’t do that, not in good conscience.”
“So you’re just going to have the name Gnaeus Pullus?”
Again, he shook his head, “No, Mama. I had the name Volusenus for all of my life until the last week. So I’m now Gnaeus Volusenianus Pullus.”
Her surprise was twofold; first, she realized that she should have known this, but it was the second that was more powerful, as she felt a flare of anger igniting from somewhere in her. She opened her mouth to snap that Quintus Volusenus had not done anything to warrant being honored in that manner, that he had been a thoughtless, sometimes cruel husband who had never failed to remind her of the favor he had done her and her family. However, the words never left her lips, because in the span consisting of a heartbeat of time, she forced herself to recognize that her grievances against Volusenus were not shared by her son, and that by sharing the details of the things that she had only hinted about before this, it would not do anything other than make her feel better in the moment. Then, tomorrow would come, and she would be left with the inevitable regret that she had allowed her own anger to sully Gnaeus’ memory of the man he had thought was his father.
What came out of her mouth was spoken with as much sincerity as she could muster, “I think Quintus would be very proud.”
He surprised her then, in more ways than one, with a mirthless chuckle before countering, “Oh, I doubt that. He’d view it as a public humiliation to have his name attached to a dirty member of the Head Count. But,” he sighed, “he was good to me, relatively speaking, especially knowing that I wasn’t his real son. And I want to honor that somehow, so I suppose this is the best way.”
Then, without saying as much, they both realized that they had exhausted this topic, although they were both equally aware there would be more questions in the future as Gnaeus Volusenianus Pullus was confronted with the challenges that came to anyone carrying the Pullus name. As if by a signal, outside the villa somewhere, a cock crowed, and it was with a fair amount of surprise that he realized it was just before dawn.
“Pluto’s balls,” he groaned, although this time, his mother only glared at him, “I’ve got to get back to camp. There’s a lot to do.”
Trying to maintain her composure, Giulia asked in an offhanded way that did not fool her son in the slightest, “When is the army marching?”
“You know I can’t tell you that,” he answered with a straight face, although he could not keep it as he grinned. “You might be a spy for Arminius.”
“Don’t tease me.” She gave him a playful shove, and both of them were secretly relieved to return to safer, less treacherous ground as they fell back on their normal manner when they were together. “I can tell your fellow Centurions all sorts of secrets about you, Gnaeus…Volusenianus Pullus.”
She said this tentatively, and not without some reluctance, yet she saw by his smile that she had done the right thing.
He surprised her by pointing to the box as he said, semi-jokingly, “And now that I’m a Pullus, I bet I have even more of them, which is why it’s against my better judgment, but I’m still going to leave these with you while I’m gone.”
At first, she thought he was still teasing her, but despite the smile he was wearing, she sensed that he was serious, and this made her stomach do a queasy turn, although it competed with a strong, almost overpowering desire to immediately begin reading.
“I’ll guard them with my life, Centurion,” she assured him.
“Please do,” he replied, then gave her another grin, “and then when I can get back, you can tell me what’s in them and steer me to the good parts.”
“I suspect that your idea of what constitutes a ‘good’ part and mine are very different,” she said tartly, and he laughed.
They had come to their feet and he was moving slowly to the door as they were talking, carrying the gladius, of course, but she also noticed the small leather bag was in his hand as well, and she felt a shiver go up her spine as she wondered if her son intended to wear that as his father had, and whether whatever mystic power it had held to protect the first Titus and his adopted son Gaius, then the grandson, had finally been exhausted, but she did not say anything to this effect.
“Fortuna bless you, my son,” she said formally, “and may Mars and Bellona guide you in your duty, and protect you and your men.”
Leaning down, Gnaeus kissed her and promised, “I’ll be fine, Mama. And we’re going to end this business with Arminius once and for all. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
And with that, Gnaeus Volusenianus Pullus left the villa as, like all mothers and loved ones of men going off to war, Giulia wondered if she would ever see him again. Watching him from the gateway, when he turned the corner and was out of sight, she turned and returned to the triclinium. She knew she should be exhausted, both because of the long night and all that had taken place, but she was not, so she returned to the couch, picked up the scroll that she had picked from the box, and resumed reading.
Chapter One
The punitive winter campaign that Germanicus Julius Caesar conducted in the aftermath of the mutiny of the Rhenus Legions against the Marsi had been largely successful, at least in its real aim of providing the disgruntled rankers of the Legions an outlet for their rage and frustration. That it also resulted in the enrichment of those men, in the form of plunder and the proceeds from the captive Marsi who were sold into slavery, all of which Germanicus turned over to the ranks, probably did more to assuage the men than the actual outlet of battle. This, at least, was the opinion of the Centurions of the Fourth Cohort, 1st Legion, in which Gnaeus Volusenus served as Hastatus Posterior, commanding the Sixth Century, a post for which his father had provided the sum that the Princeps required for purchase to members of the Equestrian Order. It was not the first action that Volusenus had seen; the year before what he, and every other Roman alive during that period, would think of as the year that Augustus died, for the rest of their collective lives, he had marched on a short campaign, also led by Germanicus, against a combined force of Sugambri and Tencteri, numbering some five thousand infantry and five hundred cavalry. As such things went, it was not much of a campaign, but to Gnaeus Volusenus, it was noteworthy not only because it saw him blooded, but for the first time in his life, he experienced something that was both frightening, and to a degree he would never articulate to anyone, save one man, empowering. The event that triggered it was the one and only battle that was the culmination of Germanicus’ maneuvering elements of his two Legions into what was an elaborate ambush of the raiding German warband that w
as intent on attacking the prosperous trading town of Blariacum, located twenty miles west of the Rhenus, on the banks of the Mosa River. To Volusenus’ more experienced counterparts, like Pullus, it was an elaborate plan, and experience had taught them that the more complicated such a plan was, the higher the chances of it failing, yet this time, it had gone off without any complications, save one, in the form of Gnaeus Volusenus essentially losing his senses.
Even after he had sat and talked about it with Pullus, Volusenus was never able to completely piece together events after a certain point. As battles went, it had not been much of one, but it was Volusenus’ first, which is always memorable; what he did when the Sugambri and Tencteri broke and began fleeing the battlefield had been when whatever he had done took place. He knew about the aftermath, and he did recall the moment when, seeing the backs of the barbarians fleeing the field, something inside him, which he was only dimly aware was lurking there, finally came bursting out of him. Just the sight of these men running for their lives enraged him, although he had no idea why, because his rational mind understood that it was better for his Century and the rest of the Legion in the sense that his men would not be facing further harm. Regardless of this truth, before he could recall making a conscious decision to do so, Volusenus was racing after the fleeing enemy, not as a Centurion leading his Century in accordance with the orders of his Pilus Prior, who was Marcus Junius Macer at the time, but as a man who had lost all sense of control. Only after talking with Pullus did he recall that much, the sense of overwhelming anger that these savages who had thought they could raid Roman territory with impunity did not have the wherewithal to stand and fight, but instead ran like the cowards they were. He could recall reaching the edge of the forest into which the barbarians ran; then, his next conscious recollection was sitting with his back against the base of a tree, every inch of his exposed skin covered in blood, and feeling an almost crushing fatigue that was far and above what would be expected by running the distance he had apparently covered. He was found by his Signifer Vibius Macerinus, although he had not been the only man to follow Volusenus, who Volusenus first noticed standing a few feet away, wondering why he was there and panting as he held the pole of the standard like he needed to use it to support himself. Volusenus had thought it odd in the moment that Macerinus had not seemed to be paying much attention to him, but at the pile of bodies that were somehow strewn around the tree, which Volusenus only slowly connected to himself in some way. Indeed, his first question to his Signifer, who had been joined by other men from the Century by this point, also panting from the exertion and seemingly as disconcerted as their standard bearer, was whether or not Macerinus had been the slayer of the barbarians. This was the moment he was informed that neither Macerinus nor any of the men were responsible, and that the dozen barbarians spread in a rough semicircle around the tree were already dead when they spotted Volusenus after being drawn to the sounds of shouting and screaming during the search for their Centurion. That in itself was unsettling; when Volusenus actually examined these men he had supposedly slain, he saw that they had not just been killed with a thrust. In almost every case, these warriors were suffering multiple wounds, and several of them were dismembered in some manner, not any of which Volusenus remembered doing.