“City dwellers like myself have a harder time with such tasks,” he said, rather uncomfortably, as if he didn’t know what to do with himself as I prepared the fire. “That must have been very cold,” he said eventually.
“It happened to my uncle once, before he died.”
Once the sparks were ignited and puffs of smoke began to bellow out from the little fire, Apollonius rested on the tunic beside it.
“I miss my philosophy books,” he said. He crossed his arms behind his head and lay back.
“Oh? Who do you prefer?” I asked, splitting a blade of grass in two and throwing both in the fire.
“Plato, Socrates, Aristotle…any of the great thinkers.”
“If you had to choose just one?” Content with my fire, I took a step back and lay down as well.
“Socrates, I think. Although it depends on when you ask me. I might tell you something different tomorrow.” The way he spoke calmed me, although I didn’t know why. I hadn’t been much of a conversationalist in some time. “I have a question for you,” he asked when I failed to continue the conversation.
“What is it?”
“Would you object if I fast on Saturdays? My mother would be ashamed if I didn’t.”
“Oh, is she alive?” I asked, guilt suddenly stirring in my gut.
“No, she died…heavens, nearly ten years ago now. You can bet she would rise from the grave to scold me if I didn’t, though.”
“Apollonius, if your only request of me is that you don’t want to eat on a particular day of the week, I don’t think we’re going to have any problems,” I said. He chuckled and nodded his thanks.
“You have sadness in your eye, master,” he said at length.
“Don’t call me that,” I said. The fire crackled as he became silent. “You can say it around others if you’d prefer, to keep up appearances. But I don’t like it,” I said. I exhaled before continuing. “It hasn’t always been this way. Recent events have been rather unfortunate,” I said, feeling guilty about how I’d first responded.
“The rains pour on the just and the unjust. I’m sorry to hear that. You can talk about it if you’d like, but don’t feel obliged,” he said, his words slow and deliberate. I looked over and analyzed him for a moment. I didn’t much want to talk about the last year of my life, but if I were to talk to anyone, this man seemed as good as any. Something in his eyes told me he had no false pretensions or alternative reasons for asking me to speak.
“My brother died in combat, along with many of the men I served with. They say that nearly a hundred thousand died in all.”
Suddenly Apollonius shot up as quickly as his slender frame would allow.
“You were at the Battle of Arausio?” he asked, wide eyed.
“I was. You’ve heard of it?”
“Travelers sang sad songs as they passed through Massilia.”
“I didn’t know there were any songs. How nice,” I said sarcastically.
“I’m sorry for your lot.” He continued to look at me until I met his gaze with my one good eye. I nodded my appreciation.
“And now that my brother is dead, I have been wed to his widow. The only woman I’ve ever loved was forced to watch my betrothal.” I exhaled. I didn’t know why I’d shared so much, but he nodded along in confirmation of my grief, so I continued. “I can’t sleep at night. I can’t forget the things I saw, the enemies I killed, the men I lost… I’m trapped in my own mind.”
He took his time before replying, and for a moment I believed he had lost interest. “Did you know I’m not really a slave?”
“Is that so? I paid a lot of money for nothing if you aren’t.” I meant this in jest, but it was in poor taste. He didn’t seem to be perturbed, though.
“A man can never be free unless he is free unto himself. The man who is freed unto himself, who is in harmony with nature, is always free. It seems that you’ve been enslaved in a different sort of way.” He crossed his legs and touched a finger to his lips as he spoke. His hands trembled slightly, not in a nervous sort of way but as if this were the most important conversation he had ever had.
“And how do I obtain my freedom?”
“Finding a reason for it all. Seeking peace. I don’t know, to be honest. But something tells me the answer is already within you.” The words were well spoken, and I was thankful for them, but I was regretful that such philosophy had lost its impact on me after Arausio. I was done discussing my weakness anyhow. But given that Apollonius was considerate enough to listen to my woes, I decided to extend the offer to him as well.
“Were you born in Athens?”
“Actually, I was born in a caravan near the Red Sea. My father was a merchant on the route from Memphis to Smyrna. Passing through Judea, he met a young girl who was naive enough to be swayed by his charms and good looks. After she became pregnant with me, her parents disowned her and cast her out. So she left with the merchant, my father.” He seemed to lose himself in thought as he spoke. “Or at least that’s how the story goes.”
“And your father took her?”
“Oh yes. From what mother told me, he had always wanted children. He was delighted when he first heard the news, even if it was unintended. But during my mother’s pregnancy, an unfortunate event befell him. Kicked in the face by one of his camels, several of the bones shattering. My mother tended to him as best she could, but it seemed that Egyptian opiates soothed him better. He had become friends of distributors while in Alexandria, who always made sure he had ample supply.” Apollonius’s voice slowly transformed from nostalgia to sadness. “He had a dependence on it for the rest of his life.”
“How did you end up in Greece, then?”
“After my father was disabled, we moved back to his homeland. He inherited the home of his father, who had recently died, and he wasted away there the rest of his life.” He looked down and sighed. “And my mother cared for him the rest of hers, I believe as a way to make up for the sins of her youth.”
I was content to let the conversation end there, but Apollonius continued. It must have been a long time—before his captivity, at least—since anyone was willing to listen.
“I was tasked with caring for my father too. Namely, in talking down his anger after one of his drinking binges or opiate comas. I helped raise my brothers and sisters too, who all moved as soon as they were able to get away from that man.”
“And your mother?” I asked.
“She was…she was my mother.” He was at a loss for words. “She was…unstable. The toll of caring for my father weighed heavily on her, especially in her later years. I’ll always believe it led to her death. While she lived, though, I was tasked with nurturing her as well, in a different way.”
“And you did all this while working in the Athenian libraries? Sounds quite stressful.”
He chuckled. “Heavens no. I loved my work. Before I was a librarian, I swept the streets after festivals and cleaned the public latrines. I can honestly say it wasn’t much preferable to slavery. But in those libraries…in those dimly lit halls, surrounded by boundless knowledge, the intellectual intensity…” He came alive, squeezing his fists and drifting off to a place at the forefront of his mind. “I very much miss it.”
The winds had tampered the fire, so I tended to it.
“How did you become a slave, then? A librarian must be a fine job in Athens. Did it not pay well? You said something about debts?”
The glossy look in his eye dissipated as his mind returned to the present.
“My father’s debts, yes. By the time he died, he was ruinously impoverished, but still gambled when he could and was always determined to have his ‘fine Egyptian opiates.’ A few legitimate institutions came to me about the debts after he died, but the worst were some nasty Phoenician thugs from across the sea. They took everything we had, and when it wasn’t enough, they sold me for the sum owed. They sold me and…and…the girl.” Tears welled up in his eyes.
“Your child?”
H
e shook his head.
“Not mine. My brother’s, born out of wedlock and abandoned by both mother and father. I was all she had, and she was all I had.” He dabbed his nose with the hem of his tunic.
“She was sold too?” I found myself choking as well.
“Yes. Just four years old now. No, five. Five years old.”
“Here you are comforting a fool like me… I’m sorry for what has happened to you, Apollonius.” I warmed my hands over the fire, and couldn’t bring myself to look at him.
“The rains pour on the just and the unjust alike.”
“Perhaps you’ll find her one day.”
“Perhaps.” He smiled and nodded, but I could tell from his expression that he didn’t believe it.
“We should get some sleep,” I said, looking up at the shrouded moon, full and bright in the sky behind the clouds.
“Yes, go ahead. I can stay awake for a while longer if need be.”
“Apollonius.” I turned to him. “I can’t sleep, remember? I’ll keep watch for a while. Get some rest. We have a few more miles tomorrow before we’re back at camp.”
“Are you certain, master?”
I exhaled and shook my head. “Get some sleep.”
8
Scroll VIII
One days before the nones of February 651 ab urbe condita
I had just reentered the camp when I heard Marius’s shouts from halfway across the camp. As I approached his praetorium, he was slamming his fist on the desk.
I entered and stood at attention.
“How can they do this? It’s a sham! A travesty. Every news report of the battle made it clear what happened. Caepio was at fault for the defeat!” The blue veins in Marius’s forehead and neck were bulging.
“Those reports have been silenced,” Sulla said, leaning against a wooden post with his arms crossed. He had a look of bemusement at Marius’s anger.
“Sertorius here was at the battle. You saw it, Tribune. Tell us…what happened at Arausio?” Marius exhaled and tried to regain his composure.
“Maximus was in the middle of discussions with the Cimbri. Caepio marched us to meet them before the talks were concluded, and placed us against the Reds with our backs to the river,” I said.
“See”—Marius held out his hand to me and looked at Sulla—“everyone knows what happened.” Marius lowered his head.
“Permission to ask what has happened presently, sir?” I asked.
“At ease.” Marius waved at me to relax. “My son-in-law is being brought to trial for the Battle of Arausio.” He tossed the scroll he had received across his desk for me to look at it.
“They seek to have him stripped of his rank, fined one million sestercii…and exiled?” I said in disbelief. Marius was right, I did know what had happened at Arausio. Caepio was the real culprit, he and the boundless egos of the nobles.
“Perhaps you could go to Rome and testify in his defense?” Marius said to me with a spark of hope.
“That would never work. If it’s mentioned that Maximus was in deliberations with the Cimbri, he’ll be painted as a coward and a traitor.” Sulla shook his head.
Marius threw up his hands but didn’t disagree. He plopped down in his chair and scratched at his balding head.
“Have you purchased your slave and horse?” he asked.
“I have, sir. The mare is in the stables and the slave is preparing my quarters.”
“Good. With the stipend I gave you, you should have purchased the finest steed and servant in all of Rome,” he said, but it didn’t take long for his mind to wander back to the matter at hand. “What shall I do, Sulla? What am I supposed to do? Let my son be persecuted? Allow my daughter to be cast off in disgraced exile alongside him?”
“What other choice do you have?” Sulla replied.
“That is what I am asking, damn it. You’re supposed to be the crafty one.”
“You could contact your allies in Rome. They could file a counter lawsuit against Caepio. Perhaps they can expose him as the real villain.”
“And with a juror of senators? No. They won’t convict one of their own. You know better than that. It will only seem that we believe the verdict is already decided.”
“The evidence is quite damning, sir,” I added. “Even the nobles can’t ignore the facts.”
“No, Marius is correct. But we do already know the verdict. He will be convicted, and exiled,” Sulla said.
“Then I do not know what to do.” Marius exhaled.
“You could always kill someone,” Sulla said with a shrug. I’m still not certain it was a joke, although Marius treated it as one.
“Tribune Sertorius, you’re not here for political advice. What did you see in Massilia?” Marius said to me at last.
“There were signs of mutinous behavior. I can’t speak to the extent of it, Consul, but there were a group of foreigners in the city who had been there for a few weeks, according to the slave I purchased. They conspire in dark corners and keep to themselves.”
“Is that it?”
“There was a woman with them, wearing the same tunic. She tried to kill me. I found on her neck a branding: ‘VOLC TECTO.’”
“The Tectosages.” Marius leaned back and crossed his arms.
“Our suspicions are confirmed, then,” Sulla said, striding across the room to hand me a cup of wine as a thank-you for the intelligence.
“Yes, they are. But what if they managed to win the Massiliots to their cause?” Marius stared at the ground and contemplated the possible outcomes.
“Well”—Sulla sat on the corner of Marius desk and took a sip of his own wine—“we deal with the Tectosages first. We punish them, fully, for their transgressions. Then we’ll see if the Massiliots have the stomach to do what the Tectosages could not. A commerce city like that? I doubt it.”
Marius stood and began pacing around the room. “You did quite well, Tribune. This is valuable intelligence,” he said, approaching a bust of Scipio Aemilianus, his old commander and mentor, in the back of the tent. He ran his fingers over the contours of the face and admired the features. “Now we have a new mission for you.”
“What is it, sir?”
“Nothing you can’t handle,” Sulla added.
“Given the nature of the assignment, I won’t order you to do it. You’re only being asked to volunteer.”
I didn’t like what I was hearing, but I waited patiently.
“We want you to infiltrate the Cimbri camp. To collect intelligence,” Marius said, turning to me at last. For a moment, I wondered if I was supposed to laugh. What an absurd proposition? No Roman had ever attempted anything like that before, not since the days of King Tarquinius at least.
But Marius didn’t appear to be joking. “Sulla has been the one planning the mission,” he said, “so I’ll allow him to detail it for you.”
“We need to know more about the Cimbri, Tribune,” Sulla said. “Desperately. We still do not know enough about how they fight. How they think. What their motives are… You know more than anyone because of your previous experience in combat against them. You are one of the few who has lived. But we also understand that you have a grasp on the Gallic tongue.”
“I do, sir. But the Reds do not speak Gallic.”
“Right you are, but their allies do.” Sulla wagged his pointer finger. “When the Cimbri return from their rapine romp in Spain, they will call for all the tribes of Gaul to meet with them at the base of the Alps. We’ve already confirmed this through interrogation. When they do this, we want you to be with one of these allied tribes. Then you can return once you’ve learned all that you need to know.”
“Now you understand why we asked you not to shave,” Marius added.
“You want me to don Celtic garb, infiltrate a Gallic tribe, and spy on the Cimbri and Teutones?” I asked, poorly disguising my incredulousness.
“Correct,” Sulla replied without blinking.
“In all due respect, that sounds like suicide.”
“If it is true that I am not being ordered, I must think on this.”
“Take the night,” Marius said.
“Let us know by first light,” Sulla said. “We have a Gallic prisoner waiting in the brig to tell you what you need to know. If you cannot do this, someone else will. I’m certain we can find another Gallic-speaking man among us. We need more intelligence, Tribune, and that isn’t negotiable.” Sulla drained the rest of his wine.
“I’ve dreamed of punishing the Reds since they killed my brother. But this is not how I imagined doing it,” I said. What I truly felt was something more than revenge. I wanted to regain my honor. I wanted to prove to myself that I was not a coward. And the baser side of me wanted to prove that to everyone else too. I knew a lot of people believed the survivors of Arausio were traitors, and I wanted to prove them wrong. But this mission would never be recorded. Even if I did return, it would be lost to the sands of the time, leaving my legacy forever marred by the last thing I was known for: surviving a battle where everyone else died.
“Take the night,” Marius said again. “If you’ll excuse us, we have other important matters to discuss. Namely, finding a way to stick one up the arse of those decrepit old nobles who are trying to destroy my son.”
The tribunes stayed in a small barracks adjacent to the legion they were assigned to. We had six tribunes assigned to the Seventh Legion, and so within were six beds each precisely four feet apart. Each had a trunk at the foot in which we could store our personal items, and a stand by the head where we could hang our armor. In the back were a few desks for the dreaded paperwork that came with the position.
There were only a few present when I entered, but I was happy that Lucius was among them.
“Is everything to your liking, Quintus?” Apollonius asked, making sure the creases in my blanket were perfect.
The Noise of War Page 8