by R. W. Peake
The date for leaving on the campaign was announced, setting it for two weeks after the first thaw, although as Volusenus and every man who had experienced a few winters knew, it was just as likely that the warming would be temporary, and winter-like conditions could return for several more weeks. That Germanicus was unwilling to wait was due to the scope of the plan for this campaign, one in which he was determined to finally close with and destroy Arminius and his confederation, in one season if at all possible and not two or more. In recognition of, and as a reward for the hard work that his Legions had put in during a period of time where they were traditionally allowed to rest, particularly after the trying circumstances of the recent mutiny and the abbreviated campaign against the Marsi, Germanicus allowed men to take short leaves, of no more than five days, staggered over the first two weeks of March. When the Propraetor made this announcement, predictably, there was a rush of men heading for their respective Legion offices, eager to put in for time. And, Volusenus was one of them, feeling no compunction about asserting his rank to get to the head of the line, remembering how, for reasons he still did not know, his mother had vanished after a brief visit, her first to Ubiorum. However, when he entered the Cohort office, he immediately sensed that, for some reason, Alex, who was now the new Cohort clerk, was not only expecting him, but was not happy to see him. Which, he quickly learned, was the case.
“I’m sorry, Centurion,” Alex said, and Volusenus had a presentiment of what was coming in the way that Alex refused to meet his eyes as he spoke, “but the Pilus Prior decided that the men of the first three Centuries would have the first week, and the men of the last three the second.”
“Surely that doesn’t include us,” Volusenus protested, then expanded since Alex did not seem to grasp his meaning. “I mean, the Centurions. He didn’t mean the Centurions or the Optios in this order…did he?”
“Actually, Centurion,” Alex looked extremely uncomfortable, “he was very specific that it included every man in the Cohort, including the officers.”
Frowning in irritation, Volusenus demanded, “Well, where is he right now? I’d like to talk to him about this.”
This was when Volusenus learned why Alex seemed so unhappy, when the clerk answered, “Actually, he’s not here.” Volusenus opened his mouth, irritated at what he viewed as Alex’s attempt to forestall him talking to Pullus, but Alex hurried on, “I mean, he’s not here in Ubiorum, Centurion.”
Now Volusenus was baffled and made no attempt to hide it, asking, “Where is he?”
The change in Alex’s demeanor was so subtle that Volusenus missed it, although there was no mistaking his words.
“He didn’t tell me, but he said he’s taking his five days, and that when he returns, only then will the last three Centuries take leave.”
Volusenus’ first impulse was to indulge himself in a fit of temper, feeling the anger welling up inside him, but whereas in the past he was both unwilling and unable to stem the outpouring of ire that he would heap on whoever he deemed worthy of receiving it, much had changed since he first took up the vitus. Realizing that Alex was only relaying orders and venting his frustration on the clerk, who would of course be forced to endure it without any attempt to defend himself, would avail him nothing and would only alienate someone who, despite his seemingly lowly status, he knew Pullus trusted and valued, Volusenus managed to refrain. He could not bring himself to thank Alex, but he did offer a curt nod, then turned and left the office, missing how Alex sagged in obvious relief, while Balio, the second clerk, who, like Alex, had been elevated to the First Century, watched from his desk with interest.
Only after the door slammed shut did Balio ask his friend and superior, “Where did the Pilus Prior go, by the way?”
Alex, who had returned to incising figures in a tablet, did not raise his head or look away from his work, saying flatly, “Mogontiacum.”
Giulia had received barely a watch’s worth of warning that Titus Pullus was on his way to see her, and if she had been asked how she felt about that, she would have been hard pressed to articulate the emotions that were flooding through her. Anticipation, certainly; their one night together shortly before Germanicus had led them against the Marsi had been far too brief in one way, but it had been fraught with tension and all manner of unspoken feelings in another. The only thing that she knew with any certainty after Titus had left her was that the love she had always felt for him, which had never waned, was shared by him for her, perhaps even more strongly. Afterward, she admitted to herself that his confession that he had never had a permanent relationship with another woman made her happy, for which she only felt a slight sense of shame. The predominant feeling rushing through her, though, was a sense of dread at what she was certain Titus would demand, which she had forestalled once because of the impending winter campaign with Germanicus. This time, she felt certain, he would not be willing to remain silent, or more likely, would demand that she travel to Ubiorum to tell her son the truth. However, when Carissa, her body servant and companion, left the triclinium when the knock came at the door, returning with Titus, wearing his soldier’s tunic and a fur-lined sagum, every one of her fears and doubts vanished, and in what her son would think a scandalous display even if it had not been his Pilus Prior, she ran across the room and launched herself into Titus’ arms.
Carissa, completely forgotten, exited the room, a broad smile on her face, happy because of her mistress’ obvious joy, but she also knew the terrible dilemma Giulia faced. She had been present when Pullus first showed up at the inn in Ubiorum, although Giulia had refused to divulge any details to her about who he was and what role he had played in her life. Carissa had been with Giulia for more than a decade, and over that time, she had seen her mistress endure the subtle but unmistakable punishment from Quintus Volusenus, and had grown fond of young Gnaeus, although she also feared him because of his temper. She also knew Giulia quite well, and when her mistress refused to talk about Pullus, Carissa knew that she just needed to be patient, so that before they had returned to Mogontiacum, where Giulia had just finalized the purchase of the villa in which they lived now, Carissa knew everything. Not, she thought with some amusement as she carefully shut the doors into the adjoining rooms, leaving Titus and Giulia alone in the triclinium, that she had not known the instant she laid eyes on Titus Pullus that he was, without any doubt, Gnaeus’ father. What Giulia divulged were the details of their love affair, and the role Giulia’s mother played in what was now a secret to only one last person, the most important player in this little drama. And now, Carissa was afraid that the moment Giulia had been trying to forestall had arrived, because like her mistress, she was certain that the huge, scarred Centurion would no longer be put off; he was going to either force Giulia to tell their son the truth or he would do it himself. That, however, would wait; right now, Pullus and her mistress were two people in love, and nothing else mattered. Morning would come soon enough.
“So?” Pullus asked, although he did not expand on the one-word question.
At least, Giulia thought wryly, he waited until after we made love, but she knew what he was asking, and she was thankful that he could not see her face, cradled on his chest as it was, and she took care to control her tone, answering, “So I suppose this is about Gnaeus.”
“What else would it be?” He snorted, although she heard the note of humor in his voice. “Did you think I was asking what your cook was preparing?”
“Oh, you mean you don’t care about food anymore?” she teased, but when she turned her head, resting her chin on his massive chest as she looked up at him, all the humor was gone from her expression, and she heaved a sigh before she said, “May I ask you a question?”
“Of course.”
“Why,” she asked quietly, “are you here?”
This clearly caught Pullus by surprise, and he answered with a slightly defensive tone, “Why? Because I love you, Giulia! Why else?”
Realizing she had erred, she shook her h
ead. “I apologize, meum mel. That’s not what I meant. I mean, why are you here, now? In Mogontiacum?”
She kept her eyes on his, so she saw the dawning look of understanding, which he confirmed. “Ah. You mean, what’s the occasion? Why would I be on leave right now?” Suddenly, his eyes narrowed, and he asked her suspiciously, “Why do you ask? What have you heard?” Before she could say anything, he said, almost accusingly, “You’ve heard that we’re leaving on campaign, haven’t you?”
“Of course,” she replied evenly, still looking him in the eye. “I may not have been an army wife, Titus, but remember, I grew up in Siscia. And,” she added, “now that my son is a Centurion, I know how to listen.” Suddenly, she smiled at him mischievously, asking what was in essence a rhetorical question. “Besides, didn’t you tell me that there are no secrets in the army?”
“Yes,” he laughed, “I did tell you that. I just didn’t think that it would come back to bite me in my ass,” he said ruefully. Turning serious, he admitted, “Yes, we’re going to be leaving soon. Not,” he added quickly, “before Gnaeus has a chance to come visit before we do.”
She realized that she had been curious about something, but circumstances had been of a nature that it was temporarily swept from her mind, so now she asked inquisitively, “How did you manage to get here before he did?” As quickly as the words came out, she stiffened, and she looked at him with wide eyes, her breath catching in her throat. “Is he on his way? Titus, will he be here soon?” Now that this had occurred to her, she made to push herself away from him to sit up, but he caught her by the wrist, except when she turned back to ask him to release her, she saw him grinning broadly at her. “What?” she asked, wary now. “Why are you smiling like that?”
“Because,” he said cryptically, “rank has its privileges.”
“Rank?” She frowned, shaking her head. “What does that mean? I know that you command the Third Century and he commands the Sixth, but you’re the same rank. Aren’t you?”
Still enjoying himself too much to stop, Pullus agreed, “Yes, essentially the Princeps Prior and Hastatus Posterior are the same rank, except on the battlefield. But that’s not what I meant.”
“Well?” she demanded, getting cross now, “What did you mean?”
“What I meant,” he said proudly, “is that you’re now sleeping with the Quartus Pilus Prior of the 1st Legion. So,” he grinned, “as Pilus Prior, I simply made sure that he won’t be taking his leave until after I return to Ubiorum. And,” he teased, “you should pay me the respect due me because of my lofty position.”
She stared at him for a long moment, then, without any warning, she dropped back down into her former position, turning her face away from him so that he could not see her smile as she said, “Honestly, I’m not sure how I feel about that.” Unable to hide her amusement, she turned back to face him, repaying his teasing with some of her own. “So does that mean you’re paid more? Should I be expecting more expensive gifts?”
She had meant to be funny, but she saw the sudden flash of concern on his face, and he stammered, “I…I forgot to bring you something, Giulia!” Before she could reply, he slapped his forehead, muttering, “Gods, I’m such an idiot! I should have thought of that.”
Reaching up, she tenderly pulled his hand away from his face, assuring him, “This is the only gift that I want, Titus, truly. I was just teasing.”
Seeing that she was sincere, he mumbled, “I suppose I’m just out of practice. I forgot how we used to do that to each other.”
“Don’t worry,” she assured him, crawling up to kiss him, “we have all the time in the world to get back in practice.” Giving him an impish grin, she added, “For all sorts of things.”
As she hoped, this did make him laugh…and do more than laugh. For the rest of her days, Giulia would replay many moments from her time spent with Titus Pullus, but of all those moments, this one would remain the most poignant and painful of her life.
Of course, it was inevitable that the subject of Gnaeus came up between them, but Giulia would always love Titus for waiting until the morning he returned to Ubiorum before he broached it again.
“I know,” he began, speaking slowly, “that we’re about to go on campaign, and that last time I agreed to wait for you to tell Gnaeus I’m his father.” He had been looking into his cup as they sat across from each other at the small table, eating what would be their final meal together. Now he looked up and met her eyes, as he continued, “But I don’t think we should wait any longer.”
It took quite an effort on her part to avoid responding sharply, carefully saying, “Titus, you know why I didn’t want to tell him then, and you agreed.” He opened his mouth, but before he could respond, she hurried on, “And now you’re about to go on campaign again. I know you’ve been waiting, and have been patient,” she said honestly, “but Gnaeus doesn’t know that you’ve been waiting for months. It will be just as much of a lightning bolt from Jupiter now as it would have been then. Right,” she finished, softly but emphatically, “before you go on campaign. Which we both agreed was a bad idea.”
Pullus had listened, and it was with a touch of irritation that he replied, “I didn’t say I agreed with you then, Giulia. I just said…” suddenly, his voice trailed off, “…I didn’t disagree.”
If it had been any other subject, Giulia would not have hesitated to pounce on this and declare victory; as Pullus had learned when she was seventeen, Giulia was extremely competitive, a trait that was viewed as being completely unacceptable for a proper Roman matron, but it was one of the things Pullus loved most about her. Not this time, however; this was far too sensitive a matter to crow about.
Instead, she said quietly, “Be that as it may, Titus, the circumstances are exactly the same this time as they were last time. But,” she promised, “I will promise you this. As soon as you return, send a message to me, and I will come to Ubiorum, and we will tell him the truth. Together.”
Pullus had returned to the moody examination of his drink, but his head came up now, and his face wore an expression that, while she had never seen it before, she found extremely disquieting.
“And,” his tone, if anything, was even softer than hers and she had to lean forward to hear him, “what if I don’t come back?”
She stared at him, unable to speak immediately because of the sudden feeling of fear that seemed to grab her heart and squeeze it, a feeling so real and intense that it took her breath away, and she gasped, “Titus! Why would you say that?” When he did not reply, she reached across the table and grabbed his arm, although she was careful not to grab the scarred left one, and she asked, “Have you had some sort of dream?”
“No.” Titus shook his head but still refused to look at her. “Nothing like that. I haven’t had a dream, and I don’t go to soothsayers like so many of the men, because I think it’s a load of cac.” He fell silent for a moment, then he did look up and offered her a shrug, saying only, “I suppose it’s because I’m getting older, and every man my age knows that whenever we march, the odds against us are even higher than the time before. And,” he swallowed so that she saw the bump in his throat bob, “I’ve never had this much to lose before.”
For a long moment, Giulia and Pullus regarded each other, both of them wondering what the other was thinking, both of them wanting to say something, anything that might make this better, somehow. It was Giulia who broke the silence.
“Nothing,” she said firmly, “is going to happen to you, Titus Porcinianus Pullus, do you understand me? Not now.” Suddenly, she felt the tears coming, threatening to overwhelm her, but she forced herself to finish. “Not now after we’re finally together. The gods wouldn’t be that cruel, Titus. Not to us.”
Pullus opened his mouth, closed it, then offered her a smile, saying only, “No doubt you’re right. I suppose I’m just getting old.”
“You are,” Giulia agreed, then reverting back to their normal behavior when in each other’s company, she whispered, “We
only made love three times last night!”
As she hoped, this caused him to laugh, and he admitted, “That’s true.” Grinning, he finished, “But now that you’ve given me a challenge, when I come back, I’ll show you that I haven’t aged as much as you think!”
“Do you promise?” she asked him, but while she was smiling as she said it, he understood what she was asking.
“I do,” he answered her.
Then, they exchanged one last, passionate kiss, and he left her villa for what would be the final time.
“Really?” Giulia asked her son. “Is that a good thing? I mean,” she added, “for you. Of course, being promoted is good for him.”
Her son had arrived just a couple of days later, unknowingly doing the same thing his father had done by paying a premium to use the fastest means of transport to reach Mogontiacum. They were now having dinner the first night of his visit, and unlike her time with Pullus, now she and her son were reclining on couches in the manner of people of the upper classes do. It was silly, she knew, but she had harbored hopes that Gnaeus would have eschewed the couches for the more common method by which Romans took their meals, seeing it as a sign of his privileged upbringing, and frankly, it was not nearly as comfortable as it looked. Now, she watched her son as he finished chewing the mouthful of food before answering her question.