by R. W. Peake
Then, without warning, he looked up and pinned Macer with a look that had no warmth in it as he asked flatly, “And why didn’t you tell me?”
This surprised Macer considerably, yet even as he opened his mouth to protest that it was not his place to do so, he realized that saying as much did not necessarily make it true.
Nevertheless, he protested with a defensiveness that was obvious to his own ears, “It wasn’t my place to do so, Volusenus! Your father made me swear an oath to keep it to myself!”
“Oaths,” Volusenus shot back contemptuously. “Yes, he said in his letter that he swore an oath to my mother, but that was the coward’s way out!”
Now Macer went from being on the defensive to being angry in the amount of time it had taken for Volusenus to utter what he considered a slur, and his voice was harsh as he pointed at Volusenus. “Your father was a lot of things, Volusenus, not all of them good, but he’s no coward, and he never has been. And,” even as he said it, he understood the risk he was running, “if you ever call him that again, you and I will have a problem, is that clear?”
Volusenus glared at Macer, the paleness gone as his face flushed with anger, but his tone was controlled as he shot back, “Is that the Secundus Pilus Prior speaking…sir?”
“No,” Macer shook his head, “this is Titus Pullus’ best friend talking.”
The pair continued glaring at each other, but it was Volusenus who broke the impasse first, although not in the manner in which Macer might have expected, because while he leapt to his feet so suddenly that it knocked his chair over, prompting Macer to brace himself, there was no mistaking the anguish in his voice as Volusenus cried out, “But why didn’t he tell me? Why didn’t SHE tell me? I’m their son!”
He bellowed this so loudly that it made Macer’s ears ring, but more than anything, he felt as if his heart was being rent into two pieces, recognizing the despair and pain of someone whose life had been turned utterly upside down in the span of a few watches. What Macer did not know in the moment, and would only learn the next day, was that there was a deeper reason for Volusenus’ pain, caused by the guilt that stemmed from his own attempt to save the Tertius Princeps Posterior Trigeminus that placed him in such peril that the man who he had just learned was his father had to come to his rescue, not as the Pilus Prior but as a man desperate to save his son.
Now, as he tried to think what to do, Macer adopted a conciliatory tone, saying quietly, “I can only tell you what Titus told me…Gnaeus.” Seeing that Volusenus was listening, nor appeared to resent the use of his praenomen, Macer continued, “The one thing that worried him was the timing. I don’t have to tell you that we’ve been…busy these last few months. Actually,” he added as he thought about it, “it’s almost been a year since the Princeps died, and you know that the mutinies started within days after he died.” Volusenus had at least picked up his chair then dropped back into it, and while he was still breathing hard, he did nod in acknowledgement, which Macer chose to take as an encouraging sign, explaining, “His worry is,” he had to correct himself, blinking rapidly, “or was that if he, or your mother, had told you, then we found ourselves marching the next day, how that would have impacted your frame of mind? Would you have been able to perform your duties?”
Volusenus opened his mouth, about to shoot back that of course he would have been able, then suddenly stopped himself, realizing that, judging by the manner in which he had just behaved, the man he was just beginning to think of as his father’s concerns had actually been justified.
“I suppose,” he finally managed to say grudgingly, “that’s a fair point. But,” he insisted, “I had a right to know!” Before Macer could respond, he shook his head as he muttered, “Still, I see why they didn’t. Not that I agree with it, but I…understand it.”
The pair lapsed into silence. The only interruption came when, over Volusenus’ shoulder, Macer saw the door open a crack, but once more, it only took a glare for it to shut again.
It was Volusenus who broke the quiet, asking suddenly, “How are you doing, Pilus Prior?” Seeing Macer’s surprise, Volusenus mistook the cause, explaining, “I mean, you were his best friend. This has to be hard for you as well.”
Macer’s response was unthinking, saying, “I was. His best friend, I mean. But,” he looked at the younger Centurion, and the smile he offered Volusenus was poignant, “then you came along. Although,” he added quickly, “at first, I was afraid that you two would kill each other.”
And, as had happened with Alex, this caused Volusenus to burst out laughing, agreeing immediately, “I certainly thought so. But then,” he said ruefully, “we had that bout in the baths.” Even though there were still tears in his eyes, he grinned as he pointed at Macer, “And as I recall, you warned me what would happen.”
“I did,” Macer agreed, also swept away in the moment, remembering his exasperation with the pair. “It was like having two rutting bulls in a barn trying to knock down their stalls to get each other.”
“Well,” Volusenus answered honestly, “I learned my lesson that day. And,” he added meaningfully, “I still think of that day as when I started learning how to be a Centurion.”
“I agree,” Macer said immediately. Then, with a grin, he added, “Too bad it was about nine months after you took the post.”
As he hoped, this amused Volusenus, and they shared another laugh, then, turning serious, Volusenus asked tentatively, “Pilus Prior, you’re still his close comrade, aren’t you?” When Macer nodded, Volusenus considered for a long moment, then seemed to come to a decision, asking abruptly, “Have you opened his will yet?”
Macer, not seeing any reason Volusenus should not know, replied readily enough, “Yes, I have, although I haven’t read it all the way through.”
“And?” Volusenus asked anxiously. “Am I in it?” Then, suddenly realizing how this could be construed, the held up both hands, insisting, “It’s not about the money, I swear on the black stone! I don’t care about that. I just…I just…”
Macer, fully understanding now, was torn; Roman law was very clear on the matter. The contents of a will were sacrosanct, and there was a process by which the will was read, by the executor in civilian cases, or the man’s close comrade in the Legions. Before that moment, there was not to be any information from that will divulged, to anyone. Of course, as with any such matter in the Roman world, what was engraved on a bronze tablet and what took place in practice were often diametrically opposite, and any Roman of this age knew of the most famous case of the contents of a will being revealed before it was supposed to be, when Divus Augustus had sent men into the Temple of Vesta to wrest the will of the Imperator of the East, Marcus Antonius, from the literal hands of the Vestal Virgins, ultimately being the cause for the destruction of Antonius, Cleopatra, and dozens of Roman nobles who supported him. Countering this, however, was Macer’s sense that Volusenus was being sincere, that it was not about money; and, he allowed to himself, he’s also sitting here because he’d been kept in the dark for his entire life.
Finally, Macer spoke, and he chose his words carefully, telling Volusenus, “What I will tell you is this, Gnaeus. Tomorrow, after we send your father on his way…you’re going to have a decision to make.”
It was early summer, so dawn did not come as early as it would in less than a month, but it still came soon enough that, just as Volusenus, Alex, and a number of other men expected, they did not get any sleep that night. When Volusenus returned to his quarters with a spinning head that had nothing to do with the amount of wine he had imbibed, he was gratified to see that Krateros had already unpacked his mourning toga, brushed it, and it was now laid out and ready to put on. He thought to thank the clerk, but he was already sleeping, or at least was pretending to do so; instead, Volusenus quietly shut the door to his quarters then sat, almost gingerly, on the edge of his cot, placing his elbows on his knees while supporting his head with one hand. He had no idea how long he stayed in this position, but it was
long enough that he realized the arm supporting his head had become numb, so he used this as the opportunity to change his posture to stand and pace, shaking his arm out. No, Marcus Macer had not come out and said as much, but he felt confident that, as the Pilus Prior had said, he had a choice to make; whether he accepted Pullus’ adoption in his will, which was a fairly common aspect of the Roman practice of the convention. It was, after all, how Divus Julius had done it with Divus Augustus, but that was not what concerned him; there would be no civil war starting because of his decision. Regardless of the scale, however, Volusenus actually had a much better sense of the possible turmoil that might result from his acceptance of what he viewed as an honor no matter what transpired, at least at this moment. Over time, he would come to believe that this was his nothing more than his due, that he had been denied so much of his legacy that the idea of anyone disputing it was an enemy, but in that night after Pullus’ death, he viewed it as perhaps the greatest honor of his life. As their relationship had transformed and he and Pullus had grown closer, the man he was just beginning to think of as his father had been forthcoming about certain matters, most specifically what it meant to carry the mantle of Pullus to the men who, individually, did not matter, but whose power came from their unity of outlook and purpose, those men who did the fighting, killing, and the dying in the name of Rome.
While he initially had denied it when he first arrived from Mediolanum, the truth was that Gnaeus Volusenus had heard a great deal about Titus Pomponius Pullus, one of the first five Camp Prefects, and the Primus Pilus of the legendary 10th Equestris. That he had denied this to his father had been nothing more than a fit of youthful pique, fueled by his arrogance, and only now did he recall that, when he had informed his mother in writing of how he had put the Prefect’s namesake, the upstart brute Titus Porcinianus Pullus, in his place, she had sent a letter back that, frankly, contained language in it he had not been aware she knew. Her admonishment had been couched in terms that, for someone who did not know the underlying story, made sense; she had grown up in Siscia, as she had pointed out, and was acutely aware that not only was any man who carried the name Titus Pullus a formidable foe, in every sense of the word, the Pullus name had attracted powerful friends. As loath as he was to admit it, this was something that Volusenus had learned very early on, thanks to Pullus’ time as the de facto Primus Pilus of the Legio Germanicus, and he had been warned by more than one of his fellow Centurions that crossing Pullus could be hazardous to not just his health, but his career. It had been an extremely bitter draught for him to swallow, but it was after that, when he and Pullus had started building a relationship that he was only now beginning to grapple with, that he knew it ran even more deeply than that. Pullus had never given him any specifics, but over the years, he had gotten a strong sense that the current Imperator was somehow involved; he had been much more forthcoming about the Pullus family, especially after his return from his task to find Germanicus in the early days of the Legions’ mutiny. His father had not divulged more than the bare bones of what he had learned in Arelate, but even before they had discussed it not long before his father’s death, Volusenus had been aware that the Pullus family had suffered a considerable loss, and while Pullus did not initially come out and blame his brother Gaius directly, there was no doubt in Volusenus’ mind that the man he still could not think of as his uncle was responsible for whatever bad thing had happened. Like most of those who had grown up with wealth, at least relatively speaking when compared to the vast majority of the men filling the ranks of the Legions, Volusenus had never really concerned himself with money because, after all, he had always had it. Consequently, the idea that there might not be much hard cash involved in whatever his father was leaving to him in Pullus’ will was not troubling, which was a good thing because he certainly had concerns beyond that. These were the thoughts that still occupied him when the time came to prepare, Krateros helping with, like all things Roman, what was a ritual that had to be conducted by mourners, starting with a cleaning, except there was a different oil that Volusenus’ clerk used. As he stood naked and shivering slightly while Krateros briskly rubbed the oil into his muscles, Volusenus tried to empty his mind, which had been running nonstop for more than a day and had been the reason he had been unable to get what little sleep had been available. He was singularly unsuccessful even at this, so giving up, he occupied himself compiling the list of questions he had for Alex, and to a lesser extent, Macer. While he was confident that he had the bare bones of the story that, literally overnight, had become the great mystery of his life, there was so much more he wanted to know. Such was his preoccupation that he did not notice that the clerk’s use of the strigil had stopped, and finally, Krateros gave him a small nudge.
“I am done, Centurion,” he informed Volusenus, who grunted what might have been an apology, then walked to where his clothing was laid out.
The tunic, again as custom dictated, was a snowy white; he was no Marcus Porcius Cato, the famous, or infamous old Roman who had refused to wear a tunic under his black toga, which he ostentatiously displayed as a symbol of mourning for the “old Republic.”
As Volusenus slid the tunic over his head, he was suddenly struck by a thought that was so startling that he stopped with the garment still bunched around his face, muffling his voice as he exclaimed, “Pluto’s cock!”
Krateros had turned around and was lifting the heavy folds of the mourning toga, and now he spun around in clear alarm, his first thought that somehow Volusenus had become stuck in trying to don his tunic.
“Centurion?” he asked, torn between placing the toga down and helping Volusenus or garnering at least another heartbeat’s worth of amusement at the sight of Volusenus in what was a ludicrous position. “What is it? Do you need my help?”
Even before he was through, Volusenus had dropped the garment down onto his shoulders, and he wore an expression that, while not quite fearful, certainly indicated a level of worry that meant it was more than trivial.
“I just realized something. The fact that I’m not in uniform is going to immediately tell everyone the truth, that I’m somehow related to the Pilus Prior.”
As soon as the words were out, Krateros realized that Volusenus was not only correct, but that he had a right to be concerned. When men of the Legions were being consigned to the flames after falling in battle, the men were paraded in at least a partial uniform of tunic and baltea, although it was up to the discretion of whoever was in command, and Germanicus, after consulting with Sacrovir, had sent runners out to the 1st’s area to inform them that only the Fourth Cohort would be wearing their full kit, minus, of course, their packs, shields, and javelins. While this might have been considered a punishment, the men of the Fourth knew that it was actually the opposite because they were going to be involved in two separate events. The pyres for the men who had fallen, the relative few during the assault on the camp, and those of the Third and Fourth who had been slain during Arminius’ failed attempt to retrieve his wife and unborn child had been constructed outside the camp in their normal spot, with one exception. On Germanicus’ order, the pyre for Titus Porcinianus Pullus had been constructed in the forum, in front of the Praetorium, the kind of signal honor that was normally reserved for men of Legate, Camp Prefect, or Primus Pilus status. As far as the uniform, there was one exception to the regulation that a man of the Legions be in whatever uniform deemed appropriate, and that was for those men who were related to the deceased by blood. By donning this black toga, Volusenus was announcing his familial relationship to one of the men undergoing their funerary rites, although as he thought about it, he supposed he could rush back to his quarters to change into his full uniform for the larger ceremony, which would follow Pullus’. Either way, the moment he set foot outside his quarters, he was aware that he would be announcing to his world that he was related by blood, and Volusenus instantly recalled the night before and Alex’s comment about how obvious the resemblance was to Titus Pullus, so it
was unlikely that there would be much confusion among the men who were observing what and to whom the connection was. He stood for a long moment, aware that the moment to decide was at hand because the bucina had just blown the special call summoning his Cohort to the forum. Turning, he pointed at the toga in Krateros’ hand without speaking, just giving a slow nod to the clerk that he interpreted immediately, stepping forward and, with a slight grunt, lifted the heavy woolen fabric up over his head, while Volusenus crouched slightly to aid Krateros’ effort. This was the easy part; the next few heartbeats were consumed with Krateros fussing over the folds in a manner that, to any non-Roman, seemed frivolous and oddly obsessive, but were almost as important as the garment itself. Nobody would ever ask a slave like him, but Krateros was one of those non-Romans who thought this was a bizarre custom the Romans had, and in his mind, it actually reinforced their vulgarity and the resulting sense of cultural inferiority that stemmed from the fact their entire race had been founded by two men who were barely more than bandits who were good at killing and little else. Naturally, none of these thoughts were in evidence as he busied himself pinching in some fabric here and tugging out a fold there, until, at last, he stepped away to examine his handiwork.
Krateros would never know why, exactly, but this was the moment when, really for the first time, he felt a stab of genuine and surprisingly deep sympathy for his Centurion, so while it came out awkwardly, it was heartfelt when he said quietly, “Centurion, I believe your father would be very proud of you.”
Of all the people Volusenus expected to hear from on this day once the news became more widely known, his clerk had never entered his mind, which was one reason why he was affected so strongly, a lump suddenly appearing that threatened to choke off his wind; even worse, he felt the sudden stinging that signaled the return of the tears he had thought he had wept out during the dark watch of the just concluded night.