by Peake, R. W.
Unfortunately, Pullus thought grimly, there's only one way to find out. Frankly, he hadn't been all that surprised, when he had approached Apollodorus—who not only had survived the battle, but had also gained a shadow in the form of Kiyama, the palace eunuch—and was told that it would be several days before Caesar could see him. Despite somewhat expecting this answer, realizing that Caesar would be busier than he ever had been before, Pullus was nonetheless disappointed. One thing the Primus Pilus had grown accustomed to, but appreciated only when it was no longer the case, was having instant access to his general. Pullus couldn't even begin to count the number of times he had rushed to the praetorium and been ushered in immediately, sometimes even rousing his general from the few watches of sleep he got every night. Now he had to admit that it not only stung a bit to be treated as just another item of business, but it unnerved him, too.
"I think that Caesar is trying to shake you," was Scribonius' judgment, when Pullus informed him of the delay.
"Well, he's done it," Pullus shook his head. "And I can't say that it bodes well for what I'm going to ask him."
"No, it doesn't," Scribonius agreed. Giving his friend a level look that communicated even more than the words that followed, he continued, "But I can't think of anyone better to talk to Caesar about this."
As Scribonius had hoped, Pullus understood the unspoken message, that there was more at stake than Pullus' personal relationship with Caesar, and that he was going to have to be willing to sacrifice it in order to attain the larger goal.
Standing in the large chamber that both the former emperor and current occupant used to receive audiences, Pullus tried to pass the shaking of his legs off to the lingering weakness from his wound. That may have, in fact, been true, but Pullus suspected that there was another cause to this outward sign of his anxiety. He had decided, for the first time since his performance on the day the capital fell, to wear his full dress uniform, complete with phalarae, torqs, and arm rings. Topping it off, he was wearing the signet ring with the dragon seal Caesar had given to him, in what he hoped would be a subtle reminder of how much Caesar had favored his most faithful Primus Pilus. He had prepared himself for the tactic Caesar used with others to throw them off balance, and that was to keep them waiting past the appointed time of their meeting. What he hadn't prepared for was the length of the delay: by the time he heard the door behind the screen open, Pullus was sure that at least a third of a watch had passed. Seeing the shadow against the wall behind the screen as it moved around the carved wood, Pullus saw that there were two figures, and he had a bare instant to try to determine who it might be before the figure of Kiyama came into view. That was the last person Pullus had expected to be part of this conversation; normally it would have been Apollodorus, or one of the other scribes, in order to provide a complete transcript of the conversation that was about to take place.
Perhaps the sight of Kiyama softened the blow of what occurred next—at least as Pullus thought about it later—but it was still quite a shock when Caesar appeared. Pullus had momentarily considered that Caesar might appear in his god costume, but he quickly dismissed the idea, sure that his prior relationship with his general would preclude Caesar's need to present himself as a deity. But standing there, watching the red-faced entity, who was now wearing a floor-length, richly embroidered gown of green stitching over a deep purple background, the material Pullus had long since learned was silk, the Primus Pilus was rocked to his core. Granted, Caesar still wore his paludamentum over the gown, and his head wore the oak leaves that were purely Roman, yet the figure he presented was an amalgam of cultures that Pullus was sure the world had never seen before. Taking this all in, as Caesar, his red face immobile and completely devoid of anything that might give Pullus a hint of his thoughts, moved to the raised dais where the heavy chair was located. You can't see his feet moving; Pullus realized at once that this was precisely the effect Caesar was trying to create, of effortless motion that wasn't accomplished by anything as mundane as two legs. Ascending the step, Caesar placed himself on the chair, which could only be accurately described as a throne, carefully arranging his gown so that the folds were symmetrical, and, Pullus had to admit, pleasing to the eye. Once Caesar was done with this, his red mask tilted to a point where Pullus recognized that his general was gazing at him. Or was he? Pullus wondered. Caesar was certainly looking in the direction of the giant Roman, but was he really looking at Pullus? It was hard to tell, Pullus barely able to discern the glittering blue points that were Caesar's eyes amidst a sea of red.
"Primus Pilus Titus Pullus, it's always a pleasure to see you," the words made Pullus jump with surprise, not only at the sudden breaking of the silence, but also at the seemingly disembodied quality of his general's voice.
Unsure how to proceed, Pullus chided himself. Of course, he thought, he's going to try to keep you off-balance.
"Thank you for seeing me, Caesar," Pullus began, but was cut off by nothing more than a lifting of Caesar's finger.
"That is Divus Julius, if you please, Primus Pilus," the mask intoned.
If Caesar's goal had been to cow Titus Pullus, he had made a serious misjudgment. In fact, what Pullus experienced was a flare of anger that hadn't been quite this strong in some time.
"I'm afraid that I can't do that, Caesar," Pullus said, albeit through teeth that were tightly clenched. "If you'll remember, I knew you before you were a god. And," he finished, "if it weren't for me and the Legions, you wouldn't be a god."
Suddenly, the air in the chamber seemed to be charged with an energy neither man could have accurately described, while Kiyama, despite not understanding the words, knew that something potentially very, very dangerous was taking place. For a period of time none of them could measure, the Primus Pilus and the man who claimed to be a god glared at each other, neither of them backing down. Finally, it was Caesar who broke the silence.
"Very well," despite the emotionless mien the red paint gave him, Pullus knew his old general well enough to hear the seething anger underneath the soft voice. "You may call me as you've known me before, as Caesar. But Pullus," Caesar's voice dropped in tone and volume, so that Pullus could barely make out the words, "you will refer to me as Divus Julius in public. Or there will be...consequences. Do you understand me?"
Pullus understood very well; this was as far as his general was willing to bend, and despite his misgivings in doing so, Pullus gave his assurance that the Primus Pilus would always refer to Caesar in the manner in which he desired when in front of others. With this tension dispelled, at least for the moment, Caesar's body seemed to relax as he sat back against the high throne, intricately carved out of one of the native woods.
"So, now that this matter has been settled, what is it you wish to see me about?" Caesar asked, and while to others his tone may have seemed almost cordial, again, Pullus knew Caesar intimately enough to detect that his general was being anything but genial, that there was still a vestige of anger left over.
Despite knowing this, Pullus plunged ahead, undeterred. "I wanted to talk to you about the future."
"The future?" Caesar repeated, now making no attempt to hide his mocking attitude. "Of all things, I thought Titus Pullus never thought about the future. Your performance when the capital fell is a perfect example of that."
Despite the barb in his words, Pullus couldn't deny the truth in them. However, he refused to allow his general to put him on the defensive, no matter how hard Caesar tried.
"Maybe it's that...'performance', as you call it, that's prompted me to think about it."
"And?" Caesar's tone was still pleasant, but Pullus had known him long enough to hear the dangerous undercurrent. "What are your thoughts on the future?"
Pullus took a deep breath, but his gaze never wavered from the seated man, whose stare was equally fixed.
"That it's time to request permission from our general for those Roman citizens among us who choose to do so to be allowed to return to Rome."
&n
bsp; Despite Caesar’s thick red makeup, Pullus could see that the general was surprised by this. No, Pullus thought, he's more than surprised: he's shocked. For the span of several heartbeats, the only sound in the chamber was the raspy sound of breathing, and the detached part of Pullus' mind noticed that he wasn't the only one who sounded as if he had just run a short distance. At least he had an excuse for it; in fact, Pullus was aware that the trembling in his legs was still there, making him realize that this was the first time he had been in a vertical position, with his armor on, and for this long a time, since the day Caesar had mentioned. Feeling beads of sweat starting to form on the back of his neck, Pullus knew that it was only a matter of time before his face would be covered in a sheen of moisture.
"This is a surprise," Caesar broke the silence, his voice thick with some emotion Pullus couldn't identify.
"Why?" Pullus immediately shot back, again without thinking, a habit of his that had caused him more than his share of trouble. "Surely you didn't think that we'd continue marching forever, that we wouldn't want to go home at some point!"
"To what?" Caesar responded, no less quickly. "Don't you remember what happened the day before I left? What do you think has happened all these years since I've been gone? That Cicero and The Boni," even through the red paint Pullus could see his lip curl in contempt as he spat out the name that a small group of Roman Senators had given themselves, "wouldn't be working tirelessly these last ten years to poison the minds of the people?"
That's when Pullus realized that, somewhere during the past decade, Caesar had somehow convinced himself that his own grievances against those Romans who composed The Boni were suffered and carried equally strongly by his men, that their identities had become so intertwined that whatever Caesar felt, he was sure the men of his army felt as well. How could Pullus let Caesar know that this wasn't necessarily the case? In fact, the events and actions of The Boni were rarely, if ever, the subject of conversation around the fires. The Romans in the army had long since moved on to more immediate topics for conversation, and the most common subject that occupied the men at night were the prospects for loot, women, and a better quality of wine than the swill made from fermented rice. However, in the last few weeks that had changed, slowly but inexorably, to the thought that had previously been, by unspoken consent, forbidden. Would they ever see home again?
"Caesar," Pullus spoke slowly, trying to arrange the words in such a way that they would not only convey what he was trying to tell his general, but do it in such a way that he himself left this chamber alive. Because the conclusion that Pullus had come to in just the opening of what looked to be a long conversation was that Caesar had, putting it simply, lost his mind. Not in a way that one would associate with most madmen; he wasn't raving, he made perfect sense, but he was no less unhinged for all that if, as Pullus was sure he did, he believed that he was actually a god. "The men of this army have followed you across the known world, and there are no words that even as great an orator as you could utter that would do justice to the sacrifices and suffering they have endured at your command. Would you disagree with that statement?"
Silence stretched out between them, growing tauter and tauter, like a string on a harp, and Pullus could almost hear an imaginary note rising, as the harpist turned the tuning knob to increase the tension on the string. At some point, Pullus was sure, that string had to snap. Finally, it did, in the form of a long, slow exhalation, which was Pullus' first indication that Caesar had been holding his breath, presumably to contain an explosion. Yet, when he spoke, his voice didn't contain a trace of ire.
"No, Pullus. I would not disagree with that statement," Caesar broke the silence, and although there was no anger in his voice, Pullus knew his general well enough to detect some emotion there that he couldn't easily identify. Was it...sadness? "In fact, I think that this is perhaps the most accurate statement you've made, since we've been together. And that is a long, long time. Neh, Pullus?"
"That it is, Caesar," Pullus agreed, and then there was another silence as each man's mind moved, unbidden, through their respective pasts, touching on and treasuring in their own way specific memories of moments, when they had acted in concert, because of circumstances and common goals.
For Pullus, his mind flew back, not to the occasion of his first decoration by a then-Praetor of one of the provinces in Hispania, but when Pullus, his former best friend Vibius Domitius, and his current close comrade Sextus Scribonius had first laid eyes on Gaius Julius Caesar. Even then, Pullus liked to think he had seen something memorable in this man—older than most Praetors by a few years—although he was honest enough with himself to acknowledge that it was just as possible that he was coloring his memory with all that had transpired. Caesar, meanwhile, had been transported as well, but not that far back, to a memory that still pained him: when at Pharsalus his most favored and trusted Legion, the first one he had formed, the 10th Equestris, had refused to obey his command to follow the fleeing Pompey Magnus and the handful of men who still kept faith with the older general. It had shocked Caesar to his core, and sitting now on his throne, he could still almost taste in the back of his throat the bitter vetch of what he saw as a betrayal—except for one man, one giant Roman who, at that time was the Secundus Pilus Prior, leader of the Second Cohort, and who had shown himself willing to strike down even his best friend in support of Caesar.
That man, standing before him now, had proven his loyalty to Caesar over and above what could be expected of a man. Caesar knew this, but how could he accomplish all that he wanted to without him and the true core of his army? Despite Caesar's decision to remain, to build a kingdom here, modeled on his beloved Rome—but with the necessary modifications his native city desperately needed but that The Boni resisted with every fiber of their beings—he was Roman to his core. And although he would never admit it to anyone but himself, he needed to hear Roman voices speaking his native tongue with the accents that betrayed their origins in the Republic. This was something he had acknowledged to himself for some time, but what Caesar was just realizing was that, of all the voices, it was Pullus' he wanted to hear spoken to him in the future, as they faced whatever came their way. Another silence had descended on the two men, while Kiyama continued kneeling, eyes cast downward, but with his mind racing.
"So, you want to go home?" Caesar asked, but now his words came so softly that Pullus had to lean forward to catch them. "You want to leave me here to face whatever comes next without you, my giant friend?"
Of all the things Caesar could have said, none of them would have rocked Pullus as much as this, the first time Caesar ever uttered the word "friend" that was related in any way to himself. There had been nothing, Pullus had told himself many times over before this meeting, that Caesar could say that would shake his resolve. And Pullus now realized he had been wrong. Were they truly friends? Pullus wondered, his mind reeling at the enormity of everything this one simple word implied. For, if they were truly friends, didn't Pullus, in fact, have an obligation to stand by his friend's side to face an uncertain future? Pullus opened his mouth, but then, completely catching him by surprise came a voice, speaking as clearly and loudly as if the person owning it was in the room.
"Caesar is a patrician by birth, and a god by choice," the voice of Sextus Scribonius admonished him, "and he's not friends with anyone. He is friendly with you, but that's not the same thing as being a true friend. Like me. Let's go home, Titus," Scribonius' voice finished.
For the rest of his days, Titus Pullus would always wonder about the exact circumstances of that voice, but his own was steady, as he replied, "Yes, Caesar. I, and most of the other men," he added, "want to go home." In a quieter voice, Pullus finished, "It's time, Caesar. We're ready to put our swords down."
Caesar closed his eyes, leaning back against the throne as he tried to absorb Pullus' words. It had been a desperate gamble, he admitted to himself, to call Pullus a friend, but as much as Caesar respected, and in many ways admired Titu
s Pullus, he could never be a friend. However, it wasn't for the reasons the voice of Scribonius had whispered to Pullus. The truth was that Caesar, the man, no longer existed, and gods did not have friends, they had worshippers. Also, contrary to what Pullus, Scribonius and a large segment of the army for that matter, believed, he hadn't lost his mind or his grip on reality. Caesar knew he was mortal and he knew he would die, probably fairly soon, although he still felt the same vitality as he had for many years now. But he believed that, in order for his plans to become realized, he had to convince everyone, not just on this island, but in the whole known world, that he was truly a god. The audience he had granted to Pullus had created quite the dilemma, and his mind raced for a way out of it. Ironically enough, if Pullus had been aware of just how caught off-guard Caesar had been, he would have felt somewhat better about his general's mental state. After all, gods can't be surprised.
"I'm afraid," Caesar opened his eyes to stare down at Pullus, "that what you're asking isn't possible. At least," he allowed, "not yet."
Pullus stood immobile, his mind working as quickly as it was capable, and although he didn't have the towering intellect of his general, despite his lack of education, Titus Pullus had a first-rate mind, something that his friend Scribonius had seen in glimpses, but very few others had.
"Very well, Caesar," Pullus replied, forcing his tone to remain calm. "What I heard you say was not 'no', but not now. Is that correct?"