by R. W. Peake
When he walked back out into the outer office, he resisted the urge to give Pullus one last look, chiding himself for the foolish hope that, somehow, the gods would intervene and bring his uncle back to life.
Of course, Alex followed Pullus’ instructions, although he altered the order in which he carried them out, deciding to go to the Praetorium first, to deliver the scroll that Pullus had left with instructions that it be given directly to Germanicus. Despite having no idea how he was going to be able to achieve this, Alex was confident he would think of something, and when he entered, given permission because of his status as the Cohort clerk, he paused a moment to search the large outer room. Seeing who he was looking for, tucked away in a corner at a desk that was barely big enough for an open tablet and a stack next to it, Alex maneuvered his way past the other men, some slaves, some freedmen, and all of them suddenly hurrying about despite the late hour, which he knew was an effect of the arrival of the Propraetor.
Lysander, the clerk Alex had been looking for, sensed his presence, and he turned with his mouth pursed, ready to chastise whoever this interloper was, but his expression transformed instantly when he saw who it was, and he stood to address Alex formally, “Salve, Alexandros.”
“You’ve obviously heard,” Alex commented, but readily accepted the offered arm, and Lysander nodded gravely, confirming, “Yes, as soon as the Propraetor walked in, he issued orders to begin to build a separate pyre for Pilus Prior Pullus.” The older clerk studied Alex’s face; while they could not be considered close friends, they respected each other, and there was no way that one could be attached to the 1st Legion and not know of the deep connection that Alex had with the dead Centurion, which prompted him to ask quietly, “How are you, Alex? I know that you and the Pilus Prior were very close.”
This caught Alex off guard, although he immediately realized it should not, and that he could expect to be asked this, or some variation for the next several days, and he answered honestly, “I still can’t believe it, I suppose. I mean,” he added quickly, fighting the sudden surge of emotion, “I just finished preparing him for the boat, but it still doesn’t seem real.”
Lysander nodded sympathetically, but while he wanted to help Alex, he also had his own work to do, so he asked politely, “Is there something I can help you with, Alex?”
Alex nodded, raising the scroll so that the light caught the imprint of the seal used by the Quartus Pilus Prior of the 1st Legion, explaining, “My uncle instructed me to give this to Germanicus.”
Lysander, assuming something like this, was already reaching for the scroll, but there was something in the manner in which Alex spoke that caught his attention, and his hand stopped, hovering just an inch away as he studied the younger man’s face.
“Ah,” Lysander said softly. “This is something that your uncle wanted you to deliver to the Propraetor, not just hand it off to the likes of me, eh?” He smiled to show he was making a joke at his own expense, but it vanished quickly, and Lysander turned to look in the direction of the closed door that led to the private office occupied by Germanicus. As always, seated in front of it at a desk that was at least larger than Lysander’s own, was the duty Tribune, but he had not been part of the expedition to snatch Segestes, which Lysander knew meant the young noble was in a foul mood. Finally, he turned back to Alex, saying, “Let me go see what I can do, Alex. But,” he warned, “I need you to wait right here. Don’t go wandering anywhere near Tribune Sabinus. He’s in a snit because he was left behind, and Germanicus took Gaetulicus instead. Can you do that?”
Alex assured him that he not only could but would do exactly as instructed; the only tense moment came when Lysander held his hand out for the scroll. Alex did not refuse, not outright, choosing instead to simply gaze back at the older clerk, who looked irritated but said nothing before turning and stalking across the room to the opposite side. Thinking that watching whatever Lysander was up to might somehow hurt his chances, he turned his attention to the row of desks where the night clerks, those poor souls who were considered by their fellows as the most unfortunate in the army, had just begun their long night of laboriously copying the small mountain of paperwork that had become one of the most distinguishing features of the reforms made by the Divine Augustus. At least, Alex thought with amusement, if you asked Uncle Titus and the other Centurions, yet as soon as it came, this recollection caused a sharp stab of pain that was almost physical in nature. Forcing his mind elsewhere, he tried to anticipate what he would say to Germanicus, but while this was not painful, it certainly did not help his anxiety. He had been in the presence of the Propraetor more times than he could count, and he recalled with a great deal of pride the one time that Germanicus had not only acknowledged him as Alex had been dropping off one of those reports his uncle loathed, but had even made the connection, which the nobleman demonstrated by asking if his uncle had spoiled Latobius that day. The thought of the chestnut stallion with the white blaze on its forehead unleashed a new torrent of emotions that caught Alex completely by surprise, and he was forced to confront yet another aspect of what this loss meant. He had seen it with dogs, when they had lost their master and with it went their will to live, but while he had never heard of it happening with a horse, he glumly concluded that, if it was possible, it would happen with Latobius.
So immersed in his own misery, it took Lysander to call out sharply, “Alex!” for the third time before he was jerked from his own thoughts. “Really,” Lysander said severely, “there’s not much time. Follow me,” he ordered, turning and walking back towards Germanicus’ office as he did so. Alex had to scramble to catch up, but rather than approach from the normal path one would take to reach Germanicus’ private office, which would take them directly to the Tribune’s desk, Lysander circled behind it, turning and putting his finger to his lips in a warning to Alex, and while they did not tiptoe, exactly, Alex made sure to mimic Lysander’s behavior, sliding along the wall and taking advantage of the shadows caused by the lamps. Reaching the door, Lysander rapped in what Alex had long before learned was the prearranged signal that Germanicus had given certain men among his small army of clerks. Lysander was one of these, which was why Alex had selected him, and he was rewarded by a muffled but distinct call to enter, following closely behind the clerk and into Germanicus’ office. The Propraetor had at least shed his armor, but Alex saw that this was as far as he had gotten, and was now standing behind his desk, although at that moment, he seemed to be just staring vacantly down at the stack of closed tablets lying on the desktop. Other men, some of them wearing the bronze placard that was engraved with the name of their owner, which in this room meant either the army or Germanicus personally, while the rest wore the tunic that Alex wore that denoted his status as a freedman, were variously involved in their own tasks, giving him the impression that they were gathering the various reports from the Cohorts. Lysander made a cautioning gesture that Alex interpreted was a command to remain standing where he was, as the older clerk walked towards the desk, and under other circumstances, Alex would have been amused at the manner in which he was doing it, as if the Propraetor was his quarry and he was a hunter trying to get close enough to kill his prey. Then, Lysander apparently reached the outer edge of Germanicus’ vision, because the Propraetor looked up, giving Alex his first real look at him, and the sight of the nobleman’s face sent another tidal wave of emotion through Pullus’ nephew as he recognized that, along with the fatigue, there was a look of real grief that Alex was certain was even more intense than what a commander might normally feel after battle. Lysander spoke too softly for him to hear, but the meaning was clear when Germanicus gave a brief nod, prompting the older clerk to turn and beckon to Alex. Feeling his heart thudding heavily against his chest, at the bottom of Alex’s vision, the sight of his tunic visibly jerking did not help quell his anxiety, but he remembered to stop at the same distance as men under the standard, although what he offered was a bow and not a salute.
Germanicus in
clined his head in acknowledgement, but there was no mistaking the strain in his voice as he said hoarsely, “You’re…Alexandros, is that correct? Chief clerk of the Fourth Cohort.” He paused barely a heartbeat, then added, “And you’ve served the Pilus Prior for some time.”
While Alex knew that Germanicus meant no offense, he still felt a flare of anger that was powerful enough for him to answer stiffly, “Actually, sir, my name is Alexandros Pullus. The Pilus Prior is…” he swallowed, “was my uncle.”
This caused Germanicus to react with clear surprise and, to Alex’s eyes, some embarrassment, which seemed confirmed when he said hastily, “Ah, I see. Then you have my sincere apologies, Pullus. I didn’t realize that you were related by blood.” He cocked his head slightly, examining the clerk, and while he did not sound doubtful as much as openly musing, he added, “I confess I don’t see the resemblance. But, again, I apologize.”
Realizing what needed to be done, Alex did not hesitate. “No, Propraetor, it’s me who needs to apologize.”
Then, in as few words as possible, he explained the connection and how his father had taken the Pullus name on his manumission, something that was so common that Germanicus did not seem the least bit surprised.
When Alex was finished, Germanicus did surprise him by saying with a nod, “Yes, that’s right. Your father was the Greek who served Pullus’ grandfather, yes? He,” Germanicus added with the kind of sincerity for which he was known for among the men of Alex’s class, “was almost as famous as the Prefect himself.”
For a brief instant, Alex’s grief lifted as he was struck by the profound hope that the shades of his father and the giant Roman he had never known but who had shaped the lives of himself and his siblings so profoundly were present and hearing this accolade from a man who, depending on who one listened to, was either the second or third most powerful man in the Empire.
“Thank you, sir.” Alex hoped that the heartfelt gratitude he felt was conveyed in his tone. “And,” he had to fight the sudden surge of tears, “yes, I was, and am very proud that Diocles is my father, and that our family has served the Pullus family.” Fighting to regain his composure, Alex drew himself up to his full height, which was no more than average, but he felt he needed to at least try to sound like he imagined Pullus would want him to when addressing Germanicus, and his voice sounded strong as he went on, “Which is why I asked to see you, sir. I’m fulfilling my uncle’s instructions in case…in case…” His voice faltered, and to his horror, the sight of the Propraetor began shimmering, to the extent that, when he felt the gentle hand on his arm, he jerked in surprise. Thinking it was Lysander, he was mortified to see that, somehow, Germanicus had moved from behind the desk and was now standing beside him, and he was the man offering him this comfort.
“Alex,” Germanicus began gently, then added, “May I call you Alex?” It was actually an absurd question, but it was another example of why Germanicus was not just respected, he was beloved by those who were the farthest underneath him on the social ladder, and naturally, Alex nodded, and he continued, “While I won’t lie and say that I know how deep the grief you’re feeling right now is, I assure you that I grieve with you. Your uncle was a remarkable man, Alex,” Germanicus’ voice did not raise in volume as much as it became more intense. “And he saved my life when he served under me, but more than that, he kept me from making a fool of myself with my first command.”
“You saved him too,” Alex replied without thinking, turning slightly away from Germanicus to hurriedly swipe at the tear he felt rolling down his left cheek.
“That’s what comrades do for each other, neh?” Germanicus said softly, nodding as the memory came back to him. “But yes, I remember. We were assaulting Splonum, going through the breach that we had burned through their log wall.”
They were both silent then, each absorbed in their own thoughts, before Alex reminded himself of why he was there, and he lifted the scroll he had been holding, extending it to the Propraetor with the words Pullus had written for him. “This is a request from my uncle, sir. He also wanted me to express to you his gratitude for all that you did for him, and that he considered you the finest Legate he’s ever served under.”
In an odd way, seeing Germanicus affected by these words pleased Alex, but while the Propraetor took the scroll, he did so cautiously, telling Alex, “Alex, all I can promise to you is to do everything within my power to honor whatever this is. But,” his tone was still gentle, except Alex clearly heard the firmness there, which was accentuated by Germanicus making sure their eyes met, “without knowing what it is, I’m afraid I can’t immediately agree.”
Alex nodded his understanding, which he did, saying simply, “I know, sir. I’m just bringing this to you as my uncle instructed.”
Staring down thoughtfully at the scroll, Germanicus sounded relieved as he said, “And, as I said, I’ll do what I can.” At this, he looked at Alex, surprising Pullus’ nephew by saying, “Now I have a favor to ask of you.”
“Sir?” Alex could not possibly fathom what someone in his position could offer that a personage like the Propraetor would need, but he assured Germanicus, “Anything you need, sir.”
“I’d like to place the coin in Pullus’ mouth for his journey.” Germanicus did not hesitate, and even with his grief, Alex felt a sense of satisfaction that he had guessed correctly.
“Of course, sir,” Alex agreed, although he did not say anything more than that.
Taking a deep breath, Germanicus glanced over at Lysander, which Alex correctly interpreted as the sign that his audience was over, so with another bow, he thanked Germanicus again, then turned and walked to Lysander, who had been standing just a couple paces away. Only then was Alex aware that all the bustling in the office had momentarily stopped, and he felt the eyes on him as Lysander, placing his arm around the younger man’s shoulders, walked to the office door. Alex did not look back, his mind already moving on to what came next, which was the most momentous in a personal sense, not just for himself, but for the entire Pullus family. If he had, he would have seen that Germanicus, sitting on the edge of the desk, had unrolled the scroll, turning it slightly so the light could catch it, and he was far enough away that he did not hear Germanicus’ soft gasp of astonishment. Just as Lysander opened the door, Germanicus opened his mouth to stop them, then thought better of it, certain that Alex knew the contents. Instead, he chose to sit for another moment in a state of dazed bemusement, although most of his internal chiding was aimed at himself, wondering if he had let Pullus know of his suspicions that the Centurion was Gnaeus Volusenus’ father, if that would have changed the outcome. After a moment’s reflection, he realized that it probably would not have; if anything, it made Pullus’ sacrifice even more likely.
“
Alex returned to the Cohort office, fighting down the sudden onset of a hope he knew was fruitless, yet when he entered Pullus’ quarters and saw the body of his uncle lying there, he still felt an almost crushing disappointment. Stop, he shouted at himself, acting like a child. There is no magic potion, there is no spell. He’s dead, and you have a job to do. It was with this in mind that he walked over to the small table, on which an amphora, a pitcher, and two cups were sitting. Pouring a cup full to the brim from the amphora, he did not add any water from the pitcher, and he drained the cup in one long swallow. He set the cup down and wiped his lips, recognizing that he could delay no longer. It had grown late, and while he doubted he would get any sleep this night, he did want to lie down and rest at some point, so he strode to the door, opened it, and stepped into the outer office, where Demetrios, who should have been lying on his pallet in the corner, was sitting at his desk with his head in his hands, and Alex heard the quiet sobs.
He was walking to the outer door when Demetrios spoke up, not lifting his head, asking dully, “What’s going to happen to me?”
Alex stopped, staring at the other clerk, a sudden pulse of anger causing him to open his mouth, about to shout at the man
for his selfishness, but he managed to stop himself, silently acknowledging that it was a bit much to expect a clerk who was a slave to be overly concerned with the death of one of the men who kept him in bondage and not his own personal situation.
“I don’t know,” was all Alex could offer, then was out the door before Demetrios could ask something else.
There was not much traffic on the Cohort street; those men who had prepared their comrades for the pyre were finished for the most part, making most of the few men out and about clerks like himself, Optiones, and Tesseraurii, the latter performing essentially the same duty Alex was at that moment. It, he reflected as he walked down the steps of the Cohort office, is army efficiency at its finest, and while he thought it was somewhat heartless, enough of Pullus’ attitude had rubbed off on him to recognize that this was not done out of callousness as much as it was the recognition that the rising of the sun the next day might bring news of one of Rome’s enemies on the march, thinking to take advantage of the situation, which was why the army custom was to cremate their dead within a matter of watches and not always at dusk as Roman civilians did. The more quickly the Legion recovered, the more lives it saved in the long run, he knew; still, it rankled him that this was how things had to be, but he shoved this into what was now a crammed compartment of his mind as he strode the short distance to the office of the Sixth Century.