The Noise of War

by Vincent B Davis II

  “Arrea, I loved you…I love you so much,” I pleaded with her, my head shaking and my eye shimmering.

  “The worst part is that I cannot blame you. I just can’t have you.” She stood then and stepped away from me.

  A single tear developed in the corner of her eye. She brushed it aside with the back of her thumb, making it clear that it was no longer my role to do so.

  “I’ll stay on for a while, Quinuts. I have nowhere else to go. But I don’t know what the future holds.”

  I realized I was shaking.

  “I don’t either,” I whispered. She kissed me on the head and then departed, the expression on her face heavy with sadness but absent anger.

  When I was able to fully compose myself, I wrapped myself in my father’s wool shawl and stepped outside.

  I spotted Volesa in the pastures, where she was leading one of the horses. I exhaled and worked up the courage to approach her.

  As I walked, I saw shades of my past all around. As clear as day, I saw my mother there planting seeds, wiping a bead of sweat from her head and standing with her wrists akimbo on her hips, her dirt-covered and callused hands pointed backward. “I can finish this, Quintus, go and help your father,” the shade said.

  Walking on, I saw Titus shoveling up horse shit in the heat of summer with the concentration and dedication of a philosopher.

  As I opened the creaky old gate to the pastures, I remembered my father leading a horse by the reins there, whispering to her in full sentences all the while, as if the beast spoke Latin.

  “How have the horses been?” I asked as I approached Volesa, who was now feeding the horse a few strands of hay from her hand.

  “I don’t want to remarry,” she said.

  “Mother said one of the mares is about to foal,” I said, not fully hearing her until after I spoke.

  She continued to ignore me as she scratched the horse between its eyes, the stallion’s ears swaying back and forth with euphoria.

  “But I’d sooner kill myself than return to my father,” she continued. “The way he looked at me…touched me…”

  “Volesa, I—”

  “I would stab his eye out with a hairpin if he tried again.”

  “Volesa, I don’t think we should consider suicide. Gavius needs a mother,” I said, firmer now to ensure she listened to me.

  She turned at last, her face as white as spit on a summer afternoon. Her eyes pink, all out of tears.

  “What about Rhea?” she asked.

  “My mother is an aging woman with too much grief in her heart to raise a child.”

  “For Gavius alone, I’ll remain. But I’ll never love another.” She turned back to the horse and rubbed its damp nose. “Titus was so strong, violence coursed through his veins, and yet he touched me tenderly, and spoke to me gently. I will never love another.”

  “I don’t ask you for love, Volesa. I love another…” I said, and I must have posed the latter sentence as a question.

  “You can have as many mistresses as you like. I won’t cause a fuss.” She was completely unconcerned.

  The words made me sad and uncomfortable. I didn’t want Arrea to be a mistress, the kind respectable men hide from their neighbors, the kind one couldn’t fall asleep next to.

  “You can even have children with them if you like. I’ll have no more.”

  “There is only one, and her name is Arrea,” I said forcefully, unable to endure anymore. “And she is barren.”

  “Shame,” she said, and nothing more.

  I stepped closer and forced her to look at me.

  “Volesa, I know that you resent me. And I know nothing else about you except that we both loved Titus. That’s the only thing we share. The least we can do is work together to raise the boy in the way Titus would have wanted.”

  She looked away but didn’t disagree. Her auburn locks fell naturally across her shoulders but still appeared to be perfectly delineated. She had wide hips and a pronounced bust, the consummate mother, but not only in appearance. She was meek and nurturing but had the fire within her soul to defend her brood violently if necessary.

  I believed then that she had inherited Titus’s will. She’d first arrived as a slight, timid girl, afraid of her own shadow. Now, I was certain she could have contended with any warrior the Cimbri could throw at me.

  “Do you have any idea how to raise a child?” she asked at last.

  “No, but I will do my best. I am older now than Titus was when Gavius was born.”

  “The way Titus spoke, it appears he had the experience of helping to raise you,” she said.

  I found myself laughing.

  “That sounds like something he would say.” And for a moment, I forgot everything else and simply missed my brother.

  Looking at her, as the breeze swept through her hair and the sunlight reflected off of every eyelash, I found Volesa more beautiful than I ever had before.

  But not the kind of beauty that a groom sees in his bride. I thought only of how lucky my brother was to have had her heart, and how perfect they had once looked standing side by side.

  We said nothing else, but it was clear that she understood what must be done. We would be married, for the sake of her son and her future, but that didn’t make it any easier for either of us.

  I wished, now more than ever, that Titus were still alive.

  Nine days before the kalends of February 651 ab urbe condita

  “When and where you are Gaia, I, then and there will be Gaius.” I recited the ancient lines as the priest waited for Volesa to do the same.

  “When and where you are Gaius, I, then and there will be Gaia.”

  She wore a stark white dress, the same one she’d worn on her wedding day to Titus, which stood in stark contrast to the black we had donned in mourning since Titus was officially declared dead in November.

  I told myself that the mourning period should have been extended for years, as I was grieving not only the loss of my brother but all the men I had served with. I rarely rose from my bed. I took meals in my room, and spoke little. This period of bedridden depression was to be cut short, however, by my wedding.

  It was here, in the frigid snow of winter, that I walked through our village in the same ceremonial tunic my brother had worn when he’d married Volesa years earlier.

  The ceremonial fire and water were brought out before us. We were supposed to meet each other’s eyes, but I looked at her yellow shoes and couldn’t bring myself to lift my gaze.

  Beside us was a bust of Janus, the god of new beginnings, with two faces, one looking to the past and the other to the future. It was supposed to be a joyous day, but even the villagers who joined us knew this was a somber occasion. When the rites were concluded, we walked from the temple to my ancestral home, and the crowds followed us, more like a funeral procession for Titus than a festive wedding march.

  As the doors to the home were opened, I picked Volesa up with ease. It was much more difficult to keep from looking to Arrea. She was in attendance but did not cry. My mother was there as well but did not smile.

  I carried Volesa over the threshold and shut the door, anxious for our well-wishers to depart.

  The rest of the evening was supposed to be a private celebration for our conjoined families, but no one was interested enough to partake. Volesa’s father was visibly disgruntled that he was being robbed of the dowry he wished returned, and my family had our own reasons for being downcast.

  Instead, we invited the priest over once more to conduct the adoption ritual that would officially make Gavius my son. When he arrived, the gray-bearded priest recited a few lines, but we were hardly listening. We had already had a long day, and most deeply wanted to be alone.

  At last the priest instructed for Gavius to take my hand. I reached out to him, but the child quickly hid behind his mother’s wedding dress.

  “I’m not going to hurt you, Gavius,” I said, kneeling to his level. He said nothing, but his eyes were wide with fear. “I
know you don’t remember me, but I have always loved you very much,” I said, unable to articulate myself more clearly.

  Volesa ruffled Gavius’s auburn hair, which he had inherited from her, and grabbed my palm with the other hand.

  “See? He isn’t so scary,” she said.

  Gavius finally smiled and reached toward me, placing his little palm inside my own.

  The priest instructed me to lift him up then, and lead him out to the center of our land. He asked us to lie down on the soil, side by side, until the allotted amount of time had passed.

  I helped Gavius to the earth and then laid beside him. The boy said nothing, obviously embodying Titus’s stern and solemn spirit, even in his youth.

  “Your tata was the best man I’ve ever known. But I will try my best,” I whispered to him. “I know that you don’t understand…” I couldn’t find the right words, so I allowed the rest of the ceremony to pass in silence.

  When the priest rang his bell, we rose, now father and son. But we both still felt like strangers.

  I slept alone that night, neither in my wedding bed nor in the arms of my only love.

  I rose early the following morning and left before anyone else woke. There were no more words to say or promises to make that would make anyone feel better. Not true ones, at least.

  I left my lover, my mother, my bride, and my child alone to the cold, empty halls of our ancestral home, and began my trek back to the battlefield that I had so recently departed.

  6

  Scroll VI

  Eight days before the kalends of February 651 ab urbe condita

  I took the coastal route back toward Gaul. I’m still not sure if this was the correct choice. I imagined that if I was to find any warmth on my journey, it would be near the coast, but whatever tinge of heat I received from the Mediterranean winds was compensated for with a freezing humidity.

  I slept on a thin bedroll and used my tunic as my blanket. It was the only thing that kept my body temperature regulated until morning, when I’d find my armor covered in fresh snow flurries and my tent starched with ice. I moved so quickly just to get somewhere warm that, by the time I reached Genua, the calluses on my heels had reopened as inflected blisters.

  It nearing the end of January, and I still had a full month before war season would begin and Marius would expect my prompt return. Sometimes I regretted leaving Nursia as soon as I had, but there was nothing for me there until my task was complete. In the same way, I couldn’t force myself to stay still for very long. I dreaded returning to camp, but it was the only place I belonged now.

  In Genua, I walked towards the docks where hundreds of small vessels were approaching with their morning’s fresh catch. One boat in particular stood out, large enough to host a small army and shaped like a Roman bireme. I neared the ship and perused the area for a while, flicking bits of bread to the birds who fought each other for them, and watching as sailors haggled over the price for a few freshly caught eel. Eventually a cheerful man approached me. His smile was wide enough to rival the size of his boat, but it was clearly disingenuous. His eyes were at odds as well, as one seemed to swivel away from the other.

  “Greetings, sir!” he said gesturing to the large vessel behind him. He had a mane of waning gray hair that reached down to his shoulders, and his arms were covered in old scars.

  “Where is she headed? I’m looking for passage to Massilia,” I said. As you may remember, I wasn’t terribly fond of water, much less sea voyages. Still, a transport via the Tyrrhenian Sea would cut my journey by half or more. The blisters on my feet beckoned me to be brave.

  “She can go anywhere, for you,” he said with a smile. “Are you a Roman?” He sized me up, attempting to decipher how much spare coin I might have. If I appeared affluent at this point in my journey, then I could hardly imagine how his other customers looked.

  “I am.”

  “Me too. I’m a Roman citizen. My name is Mellus.” He held his back straighter and lifted his chin. If he was a Roman, he hadn’t been one for long. I could tell by his accent, which was rich with a Sicilian enunciation.

  “Quintus Sertorius.” I shook his hand and ignored the urge the wipe mine off on my tunic. “Can a Roman use your ship?”

  “I am captain of this vessel, and anyone I deem fit can use my ship. For the right price.” He rubbed his forefinger and thumb together. I was already tired of talking with him.

  “Name your price, then, Captain.” He cupped his hands behind his back and swayed on his feet, attempting to decide the highest price he might squeeze out of me.

  “Fifty denarii,” he said.

  “Gerrae! That much?” A centurion was paid two-thirds of a denarius per day, making this day-long trip more than two months’ pay for me.

  “Come now, it’s a large vessel. It’s what we charge all of our travelers.”

  “Now you’re a thief and a liar.” I turned my back to him, and he quickly reached out and grabbed my arm.

  “Forty-five, then? I’ll do you this favor, as a Roman.” He shook his head, as if he were making a grave mistake by offering such a low price.

  I exhaled and thought about it for a moment. What kind of fool would spend two months’ pay like this? But currencies held little meaning for me now, as it tends to lose its value on most soldiers. What would a few denarii count if we were dead this day or the next?

  “Alright.” I pulled out my coin purse and counted out what he would require, careful to not let him see what else I had on me. “Fine, I’ll do it.”

  He turned to his men and signaled for them to prepare for departure.

  “How did you receive your wound?” He gestured to my bad eye as he turned to lead me onto the ship.

  “I lost it in battle,” I said, following him onto the creaking wood of the old vessel.

  “Mine went sideways during a fight with a drunk Thracian at a tavern in Rhegium. Be careful not to turn to drink in Massilia or you might lose your other eye, like I did.” Mellus turned and gave me a sinister grin I didn’t much care for. I didn’t engage.

  The journey wasn’t long, and the seas seemed to be frozen in silence beneath us, but I became sick regardless. I lurched the moldy bread I had eaten into the Tyrrhenian, which the crew found particularly amusing.

  “Is it the wine or the sea, Roman?” one sailor asked as some of them laughed.

  When we arrived at Massilia the next day, Mellus met me on the port side of the boat.

  “It’s been a pleasure traveling with you,” he said, jingling over two months of my pay in the purse tied to his belt.

  “I thank you for passage,” I said, honestly just thankful to see my destination moving closer.

  “And where do you go now? What is in Massilia for a Roman legionary?”

  “That’s not your concern, Captain.”

  “Drink? Woman? I know the finest brothels here—”

  “Stop.” I turned to him. “I need to acquire a slave and a horse. And then I’ll be on my way.”

  He chuckled to himself and patted my back rather aggressively.

  “Well, Mellus can tell you the way. Just through the port, take a left. They keep the slave markets closest to the docks so that travelers can be tempted to…sample their wares.” I glared at the captain but deemed that a discussion of ethics wasn’t worth my time.

  Regardless of my distaste for Mellus, I followed his directions to the slave market. I’ll admit that it was quite uncomfortable for me to purchase another man. My family had never owned slaves. These days, my father would have been laughed at, but during my childhood, codes of morality were not distasteful. My father taught us that owning another man degrades the owner, as he learned from the great Stoic philosopher Zeno. “Whether by conquest or purchase, the title to a slave is a bad one. For those who claim to own their fellow man, have looked down into the pit and forgotten that justice should rule the world.” That’s what Zeno said, and that’s what my father taught me. But Marius had ordered that I purchase some
one to help bear my new load as a tribune, and he was not going to be swayed by either Greek philosophies or paternal sentiments.

  The stench of the slave markets wafted to greet me before I had even reached sight of it: unwashed or rotting corpses, thick incense burning in candelabrums in a vain attempt to ward off the smell. Next was the sound of vendors shouting out the attributes of their human property, and the hollered bids of those attempting to make a purchase. Then I saw behind the massive throng of Massiliots the wicker cages filled with men, women, and children. I have a clear memory of the locals being wrapped up in shawls and wearing mittens, while the slaves wore nothing but old, dirty tunics. It was a wonder that they weren’t all dying from exposure. Perhaps they were.

  The sight was dastardly. Sunken-cheeked children nestled at their mothers’ breasts, seemingly unaware of the urine and excrement that pooled beneath them. Some of them wailed out in protest, not speaking but moaning from a place too deep within themselves for words to describe. Most of them remained silent, their eyes like glass, staring through and past me to something invisible in the distance.

  In Rome, such markets existed, and were considerably bigger in number of slaves, I’m sure. But still, Rome was large enough that one had to decide to visit it. Massilia’s slave market was at the forefront, the cornerstone of the Greek city, and it was impossible to miss.

  The breath caught in my lungs as I walked silently past the cages. It was as if I were subconsciously afraid of picking up disease through the air. Everyone, even the slave masters and bidders, looked like they were running a low fever.

  The feces must have remained in these cages for days at a time. It clung to the fibers of the slaves’ tunics and seeped into the pores of their skin. Their hair was tangled, and more than a few had open wounds that were festering, spewing blood and the puss of infection.