by R. W. Peake
Volusenus was clean, but he did not feel that way, although he had retired for the night after making the rounds of his Century, including the comrades of the three dead men, giving them the coins from his own purse. He then made a brief trip to the hospital to check on the five wounded who were in somewhat cramped quarters because of the casualties of the Third Cohort, making the same tired jokes that Pullus had insisted did more good than he thought before returning to his quarters. Krateros had prepared his meal, which he picked at moodily, taking it at his desk instead of in his quarters, which was unusual, but the truth was that he did not want to be alone in that moment, though he could not have expressed why. Finally, feeling as drained and empty as he could ever recall, he had finally retired, but was now lying on his back on his cot, in a posture that, had he known it, might have seemed morbid to him, because it mimicked that of his dead Pilus Prior not far away. Staring up at the ceiling, Volusenus did his best to keep the wave of self-recrimination away, but he was having little success, and a part of him did wonder if it would be like this for the rest of his life. Consequently, he heard the knock on the outer door, but he did not rouse himself, choosing instead to listen to the muffled conversation taking place between Krateros and whoever this intruder was. He had a vague sense that he recognized the voice, but was unwilling to invest the mental energy to try and definitively identify it, contenting himself with the idea that, if it was important, Krateros would…
The knock came; three sharp raps, a pause, then a fourth, alerting Volusenus that this was potentially important, but he muttered a curse as he swung his legs off the cot, thinking sourly that there had better be a good reason for the disturbance. He had extinguished the last lamp shortly before, so the light spilling in from the outer office framed Krateros as he leaned into view through the doorway, the shadows making his features almost impossible to distinguish.
“Centurion, there is someone to see you.” The pause was barely noticeable. “He says that it’s urgent and cannot wait until tomorrow.”
Sighing, Volusenus heaved himself to his feet, asking irritably, “Who is it?”
Before Krateros could respond, however, Volusenus had walked to the door, and he looked over his clerk’s shoulder to see Alex standing there. When he nodded to Krateros, the clerk moved out of the way with an almost obscene speed, and Volusenus was struck by the darkly humorous question of whether Krateros would move faster or slower if Germans had managed to get into the camp and were conducting a surprise attack. He assumed he knew the answer, but it was only a passing thought, his eyes taking in Alex who, he could clearly see, was at the end of his tether, and he felt a pang of real sympathy for the clerk.
“Yes, Alex? What brings you out so late? I can only imagine how tired you must be,” he said.
The weary nod Alex gave him was more expressive than the words. “I am, Centurion. Very tired. But,” he took a deep breath, and Volusenus noticed that he closed his eyes just long enough for him to notice, “this is my last task. For tonight.”
This was when he thrust the scroll out, but before Volusenus could move to take it, Krateros snatched it, saying dutifully, “If this is official business, Pullus, it is my duty to give it to my master.”
This was when Alex was reminded that Krateros could be quite the officious little prick when he wanted to be; he never learned the details, but it had something to do with the fact that he had once been a tutor or something of that nature.
Forcing himself to be patient, Alex replied evenly, “It’s not official business, Krateros. Now,” his voice turned cold, and he pointed to Volusenus, who at this moment was more a spectator than a participant, “hand him the scroll.” When Krateros appeared as if he was thinking of saying something more, Alex did something unusual, at least for him, taking a step towards the other clerk, with one hand curled into a fist. Krateros responded even more swiftly than he had in getting out from between Volusenus and Alex, something that the Centurion noticed, the amusement returning, taking the scroll from Krateros. However, when Alex made no move to go, Volusenus looked at him with a raised eyebrow, prompting Alex to explain, “My uncle was very specific. I’m to watch you break the seal and read the contents so that I can answer any questions you may have. And,” he added, “my uncle requested that you read it aloud. At least,” he finished, “the first part.”
This was certainly unusual, but it had been that kind of day, Volusenus reflected, though he was already moving to sit down at his desk, grunting at Krateros to light the lamp on it, which the clerk did with a rapidity that the Centurion did not miss. Regardless of this diversion, Volusenus assumed, correctly, as it would turn out, that this was something potentially very important indeed, if it was sufficient to rouse young Alex on what had to be one of the most trying and painful days of his life. By the time Krateros had reignited his lamp, he had cracked the seal and was unrolling the scroll, whereupon he began to read, clearing his throat and feeling slightly ridiculous, as if he was reciting poetry in front of his tutor. It was a feeling that was not destined to last long.
“My son,” Volusenus began, but he did not look surprised to Alex, who correctly assumed that the Centurion was still thinking that Pullus was addressing him in figurative terms. It was the next few sentences that changed everything, for two of the occupants of this room, and for several more people currently spread over the Empire, which became clear as Volusenus continued to read, “I suspect that when you read this greeting, you are not thinking that it is anything more than just that, a greeting an old man like me would offer a young pup like yourself.” Volusenus smiled at this, but it was gone as rapidly as it came as he continued, “However, that is the purpose of this letter, and you undoubtedly know by now that, if you are reading this, it is because I have crossed the river. But before I go, I must do so with an unburdened heart and a clean conscience.” Suddenly, Volusenus stopped reading, and again, Alex correctly guessed that he had reached the part of his uncle’s message, which he had not read personally but now knew its contents in a general sense, and indeed had himself learned not much earlier, which meant that he watched Volusenus keenly. Even in the light of just two lamps, Alex saw the color drain from Volusenus’ face, and he felt a shiver run up his spine as the thought came, unbidden, that in this moment, he was almost an exact replica of his father now lying a short distance away. Volusenus’ expression as he looked up at Alex was one of such utter surprise, and shock, that it made Alex angry to think about, that both his uncle and Volusenus’ mother had hidden the truth from the Centurion.
“Is…is…this true?”
Alex had actually anticipated this as Volusenus’ first question, and he had prepared an answer, yet when he opened his mouth to offer it, what came out instead was, “I’m standing here, looking at you and wondering how in Hades I ever missed the connection.”
Volusenus responded with a shake of his head, not in a dismissive manner but more as if he was trying to dislodge the thoughts that were running through his mind, but he did manage to drop his attention back to the scroll. When he resumed reading, his voice was so husky that it was almost unrecognizable.
“I do have one request,” he resumed reading. “Consider it my last request of you, and that while I have the right under Roman law as paterfamilias to demand it, I also recognize that I have not earned that right, which is why I am humbly asking of you for this one thing. Please do not hate your mother for this. She was in an impossible position, and she made the best of it, and the one thing I do know is that she loves you and wants the best for you. My one regret, however, is that the last time your mother and I saw each other, we quarreled, because I did not, nor do I now agree with her decision to withhold this information from you. But she did manage to persuade me to make a vow that I would not tell you, that we would do so together when the time was right. Well, since I cannot be there, I suppose that I am breaking my vow to her with this letter, and for that I would also ask you to apologize to your mother on my behalf.”
He dropped the scroll, sitting back in his chair as, suddenly, the first of the pieces of what he was just learning was the great puzzle of his life fell into place. “Well,” he said slowly, “that explains why he asked me to apologize for him.” When he made no move to pick it back up, seemingly choosing to stare off into space, Alex and Krateros exchanged an alarmed glance, temporarily forgetting their clash of a few moments earlier, and neither of them knew exactly what to do.
Finally, Alex cleared his throat before asking, “Is that the end of the letter, Centurion?”
This startled Volusenus to the point he physically jerked in his chair, which flustered him, and he fumbled to pick the scroll back up, mumbling, “Ah, no. Sorry.” He scanned the scroll, then found the place where he had left off, continuing, “Where was I? Yes, here it is…apologize to your mother on my behalf. I can only imagine how much this is to take in, and that is one reason I wanted Alex there, because I am certain you will have so many questions. Some of them will have to wait until later, when my will is read, but for now, I have asked him to make himself available to you. And,” at this, Volusenus glanced up at Alex, who looked somewhat uncomfortable, “know this, Gnaeus. Alexandros Pullus is a strong, clever, and loyal friend, worthy of stepping into his father’s shoes, and you would do very well to heed whatever advice he might have to offer you in what is to come.” He heard Alex’s choked sob, but he did not look up, certain that it would shatter his own composure, although at this point, it was mostly because he was numb to the changes being wrought in his world, all in the form of a few lines penned by a hand obviously indifferent to some of the finer points of penmanship. “Also,” he went on, “I want to let you know now that, while not many people know the truth, that you are my son, there are those who do, and one of them is Marcus Macer. He is also a true and loyal friend, and if you have questions, you should go to him as well. Now,” Volusenus read, except there was a subtle but unmistakable shift in his demeanor and tone, which caused Alex to look at him sharply, “this is the last of this letter that I wish to be read aloud. What remains is for your eyes, and your eyes only.”
Volusenus stopped then, looking up at Alex, creating a somewhat awkward moment as they both realized they were completely baffled about how to proceed, and it was Alex who asked, “Do you have any questions?”
The absurdity was such that both of them spontaneously burst out laughing, quickly building to a level that sounded to the third man present like there was a hysterical edge that made Krateros extremely uncomfortable, and he debated on whether it would be wise to absent himself.
Before he could reach a decision, the pair subsided, wiping their eyes, and Volusenus turned serious, considering for a moment, then decided, “Not right now, Alex. You,” he pointed to the clerk, suddenly struck by the thought that they were now more than just a Centurion and clerk, although he had no idea what their relationship was, “need to get some rest.”
Alex did not try to hide his gratitude, thanking Volusenus, then thought to add, “Pilus Prior Macer will be reading his will tomorrow if he already hasn’t done so by now, and I’m sure there will be things you want to know after that.”
Volusenus stood and walked out from behind the desk, but when Alex began to bow, he stopped him, shaking his head as he said softly, “No, that’s now how it is between us anymore, Alex. Not anymore.”
Alex offered his arm, his eyes brimming, but Volusenus ignored that, and swept him into an embrace; it was a moment Alex would long remember, because his first thought was not about his uncle Titus as the Centurion and Pilus Prior, but as the comforting presence he had been in the days after his own father had died. It was somewhat different this time, but the similarities were strong enough that this was when he would look back and think, this was the moment he had transferred his loyalty from the father to the son, just as Diocles had done with what he now understood was Volusenus’ grandfather. Ending their embrace, he left Volusenus’ quarters, leaving Pullus’ son to return to his desk and continue reading.
Marcus Macer was not asleep either and was actually seated at his desk, working on his Cohort’s action report for the Legion diary. It was something that should have been done long before this, but he had just returned from Sacrovir’s quarters, where he and the remaining Pili Priores had spent almost the entire time since Germanicus had dismissed them, save for a quick cleaning, a gobbled meal, and a brief meeting with their own Centurions. The two missing Pili Priores were represented by their Pili Posteriori, and Vespillo had done everything he could think of to remain as anonymous as possible, thankful that his counterpart of the Third Cohort faced a much sterner test. Not, Macer thought wearily now that he was back in his own quarters, that anything had been accomplished of any substance, other than a general consensus that the only thing saving the Third Cohort from being decimated was that their mission had been successful. As far as the corpse of the former Tertius Pilus Prior, the treatment of his body stood in sharp juxtaposition to how Pullus had been honored, having been relegated to being slung over a mule like a common Gregarius. Not for the first time, Macer found his thoughts pulled away from his work, which was one reason why his report was taking so long, but he was no less grief-stricken than any of his former comrades in the Fourth Cohort. It had only been a few months that he had taken the post of Secundus Pilus Prior, and Pullus had started as his Optio, yet in many ways, his feeling towards Pullus were more akin to those that Germanicus had expressed to Alex, which was understandable. Like Germanicus, Pullus had saved Macer, a newly minted paid man who had been the Princeps Prior, and unlike Gnaeus Volusenus, was not endowed with the size and natural gifts, from making an utter fool of himself in the first year of his time under the standard. Every step of the way, he had learned he could rely on Pullus, not just his experience, but his judgment, gleaned from a lifetime spent either under the standard or surrounded by men who were. The one thing that he shared with all of those most directly impacted by his friend’s death was the sense of disbelief, but in this, he supposed that watching his friend’s body consigned to the flames, burning away the fleshly encumbrance and freeing his soul to join Pullus’ brother, parents, and in some ways most importantly, his grandfather, would serve to remove this sense that it was all a dream. When the knock came at the outer door, he was not surprised, and in fact, felt fairly certain that it would be one of two possibilities; he recognized Lucco’s voice, but it was the heavier footfall that told him who would be coming through the door.
“Come in,” Macer called out, even before Lucco knocked, and he caught just a glimpse of Alex’s best friend’s face as he opened the door to let Volusenus in.
When Lucco lingered, a questioning look on his face, Macer appreciated the gesture, but, understanding that if Volusenus got angry, the clerk would be as useful as a gnat buzzing around the head of a lion, he shook his head. Lucco obeyed, closing the door, albeit clearly reluctant to do so, but Macer had understandably turned his attention on the large young Centurion who was standing, unsteadily, in front of his desk. He looks, Macer thought, as if someone just hit him between the eyes with a hammer, but when Volusenus attempted a salute, Macer was already standing up and waving it off.
Joining Volusenus in front of his desk, he offered his arm instead, having long before become accustomed to the height and size disparity between anyone with Pullus blood, and he tried to hide his relief when Volusenus accepted it as Macer said, with all sincerity, “I grieve with you, Volusenus. He was my best friend.”
“I know he was,” Volusenus replied, but while his tone was not overtly hostile, Macer immediately sensed that there was an undercurrent of tension that, having witnessed firsthand the explosive temper of both father and son, made him wary. “I suppose I just have some…questions.”
Macer decided it was wise to return to his spot behind the desk, offering Volusenus some wine, which he accepted, and the Pilus Prior called Lucco, who opened the door so quickly that it earned him a warning glare from Macer. There wa
s silence that was only broken by the sound of liquid pouring, but when Lucco glanced inquiringly at Macer, his hand now on the pitcher of water, the Centurion shook his head. Handing the cup to Volusenus first, then to Macer, Lucco moved to the door, but with such a deliberate slowness that Macer rose from his seat, prompting Volusenus to look over his shoulder curiously; all he saw was the door shutting as Lucco scurried out.
Sitting back down, Macer lifted his cup, then said, “To Quartus Pilus Prior Titus Porcinianus Pullus; a valiant man of the Legions, a stalwart Centurion of Rome; and…” his voice cracked slightly, “a truer friend no man has ever had.”
Volusenus, too overwhelmed to say anything, simply nodded, then the pair drained their cups, slamming them down on the desk at roughly the same time, performing one of the small rituals that punctuated the lives of every man who marched under the standards of Rome, no matter their rank. This small moment of competition, since they were both trying to be the first to finish, did prompt a small smile from both of them, even if there were shining eyes.
Fortified thusly, Volusenus took a breath before he asked bluntly, “So when did you know that he was my father?”
Macer went on to explain, going all the way back to the evening, shortly after the mutiny had ended and they were about to embark on their winter campaign, they had been going into Ubiorum when Volusenus’ mother Giulia had arrived, and his subsequent questioning of Pullus shortly after that, when he had learned the truth Volusenus sat, mostly silent, although he did stop Macer to ask a question occasionally, listening intently while Macer studied his expression as thoroughly as he could as he talked, without betraying the fact that he was doing so, in preparation for some sort of outburst. Finally, he reached a natural stopping point, culminating with the last conversation he and Pullus had had about the subject, shortly after their return from the first part of this season’s campaign, then there was a silence as he stood and refilled their cups. Although Volusenus accepted it, he quickly set it on the desk, choosing instead to stare down at his feet, elbows on knees as he absorbed all of this.