It was only the sound of pounding hooves that penetrated the fog in Volusenus’ mind as he knelt, staring dumbly down at Pullus’ upturned face, partly covered in blood that Volusenus still did not know from where it came, and he looked up without much interest. At least, at first; as he watched the cavalry, led by the Prefect Batavius, who understandably did not even cast a glance in the direction of a knot of men surrounding a fallen comrade, go thundering past, Volusenus turned his head to watch, but his view was blocked by the men standing around him and Pullus. It was when he turned his attention back to the fallen Centurion, trying to force himself to concentrate on what to do next, that his eye was caught by another party of horsemen, although they were coming at the canter. Part of his mind did register the din coming from behind him as the Batavians slammed into the Cherusci, adding a new layer of sound that was distinctly different from what had become nothing but background noise of a battle past its opening stage, with shrill screams of both men and animal, but it was what his eyes took in that did more to rouse him from this sudden lethargy. More specifically, it was his recognition of one of the approaching riders that prompted him to rise to his feet, the habit of obedience such that he did it without any thought. Perhaps if Germanicus, his attention drawn to the small crowd of men standing in a rough circle and, more puzzlingly, seemingly oblivious that no more than a hundred paces further down the track their comrades were still fighting, had just continued on, things might have turned out differently. He did not, however. Instead, he slowed his horse, his personal bodyguards and staff matching his pace, prompting him to snap an order at the bodyguards to continue, presumably directing them to assist the Batavians in shattering what was now clearly a failed assault, although he was still too far away for Volusenus to hear him say as much. The fact that they returned to the canter and went riding past him he took as confirmation, and he gave them only a passing glance, his attention on the Propraetor, who had put on his helmet, with its black, feathered crest. Because his eyes were on Germanicus as he approached, Volusenus was able to read the array of expressions on the noble’s face as he drew closer. At first, he appeared to be angered at the sight of idle men, but then he must have caught a glimpse of the prone figure on the ground, around which these men were standing, which caused his handsome face to take on a puzzled expression. Then, when he got close enough and Volusenus guessed that he spotted not only the transverse crest, but that it was red instead of black, the look of alarm was one that, despite his growing anger, Volusenus could not deny was genuine. Leaping from his horse, Germanicus made no attempt to appear unworried or unruffled in the mold of Roman men like his adoptive father, the Imperator Tiberius, and while it was not quite a run, it was close as he dashed the last few paces.
“What…How…?”
This was all that Germanicus managed, and Volusenus was struck with the morbidly amusing thought, there’s a lot of that going around, recalling that Licinius had behaved in essentially an identical manner just a matter of a hundred heartbeats earlier. Without so much as a glance at the other men, Germanicus dropped to his knees beside Pullus, and Volusenus was in position to see the Propraetor’s eyes as they went to the rent in the mail and the resulting hole, where, now that Pullus’ heart had stopped beating, Volusenus could see that the blood was already congealing, then move to Pullus’ face, experiencing a sense of shame when it was Germanicus, who, with a gentle touch, was the man to close Titus Pullus’ eyes.
When he thought about it later, Volusenus supposed that this was what triggered his outburst, although it was ostensibly because Germanicus asked quietly, “What happened?”
“What happened?” Volusenus heard his own voice, knowing that it should be Vespillo speaking since he had arrived moments earlier, but he could not stop himself. “What happened is that you put the worst fucking Cohort out as bait, and they fell apart, that’s what!”
Germanicus did not rise from where he was kneeling next to Pullus’ body, and indeed, he did not seem to notice Volusenus’ tone, asking simply, “I mean, with the Pilus Prior. How did he fall?”
“Because of me.” Volusenus, again, let this come out of his mouth without thinking, tasting the bitterness of the words. “He died because of me.”
Germanicus stood then, looking up at Volusenus, and he braced himself for some sort of reprimand from the Propraetor, but what he got was quite different.
“Hastatus Posterior Volusenus,” Germanicus began formally enough that Volusenus was certain that his career was about to be harmed, but he was completely unprepared for what came next. “You’re right. I made a mistake in having the Third Cohort march at the rear even after I was certain that Arminius would attack, and for that, I ask your forgiveness.” Germanicus did not wait for an answer, and Volusenus correctly guessed that it was not expected, turning to gaze down on Pullus with what every man present would swear on the black stone was unfeigned sorrow, and which would become part of the story that would grow into legend, almost within watches. “And, no matter how much damage we inflicted on these barbarians today, the cost was too high. I,” he shook his head, correcting himself, “we have suffered a loss that will be impossible to replace. Pilus Prior Pullus was…” Suddenly, Germanicus stopped, his head dropped, and for a moment Volusenus, along with the other men present, thought he would be unable to continue. Then, he took a deep breath, and when he raised his head, he was once more the Propraetor Germanicus Julius Caesar, and his voice was strong as he finished, “…the best Centurion of Rome that I have ever had the pleasure to command. And now,” at this, he spun about and walked purposefully to his horse, “we’re going to finish what he started.”
Despite the collapse of the Third Cohort, and the resulting casualties that were inevitable when one side lost their nerve and fled for their lives, Arminius’ attempt to stop Germanicus from spiriting Segestes, and more importantly to the Cherusci chieftain, his pregnant wife Thusnelda, failed. Even with this success, the column that marched across the pontoon bridge at Ubiorum shortly before dark the next day was not in a celebratory mood; truthfully, when the small crowd that had gathered on the opposite bank of the Rhenus saw the Legion crossing the river, it was accepted as a virtual certainty that the raid had failed just by their collective demeanor. Only later would the word spread that, riding in the wagons that had not been part of the departing column, were the faithful Cherusci ally, his family, and those other tribespeople that Segestes had argued were indispensable. What was most distressing to the small army of unofficial wives, their children, and some of the other onlookers was the sight of so many mules that had been relieved of their normal cargo to carry another, more tragic one, although there was one notable exception. Wrapped in a sagum so that the identity was unknown by the onlookers, there was one body that had been placed on top of one of the wagons, serving as a makeshift bier, a body much larger than most Romans. However, the fact that it was not with the other wagons and was led by a Cohort of the 1st Legion gave the keen-eyed and experienced observers a hint about the identity of the corpse.
For Gnaeus Volusenus, as fragmented as the memory of the fight, the rest of the march back to Ubiorum was not much better, while the mood of the Fourth Cohort was so somber that it was the quietest march that any man, no matter their rank or length of service, ever recalled. If anything, the collective sense was one of disbelief; the very idea that Titus Pullus, the grandson of the legendary Prefect, could have been vanquished in battle was so outlandish that, even after multiple watches spent digesting this seeming impossibility, most of the men could not fathom it. This was the cause of the one matter of disagreement that, over the ensuing days, would gather momentum, and that was Germanicus’ decision to use the Third Cohort to march in the rear and his purpose in doing so. Germanicus had been speaking truly when he said that this had been a costly victory, because Pullus was not the only Pilus Prior to fall; the circumstances surrounding Maluginensis’ death, however, were far more mysterious. None of his men in the First Century could, or would, offer a clear account of the moment when their Pilus Prior fell, or how it had occurred, and it did not take long for the tavernae and brothels to become the centers of the various schools of thought about his fate. Not surprisingly, the theories were many and varied widely, and it became clear very quickly that men of the same Cohort tended to hold the same or very similar views, with one notable exception. The men of the Fourth barely registered the fact that another Cohort had lost their own Pilus Prior, and for Volusenus in particular, what transpired almost from the moment his feet touched the riverbank on the Ubiorum side, was so vast in scope, with such a huge impact on his life, that he often thought about it as something akin to a second name day; the major difference was that, even years later, the memory of those days was always tinged with grief. He barely remembered the march, other than it was conducted at the same fast pace, which was why they made it to the Rhenus a day earlier than originally planned, nor did he remember anything of the night following the battle, but when he was told that they only stopped for a full watch before continuing, that at least explained it partially. When he thought about it later, Volusenus was unsure whether this was a good or a bad thing; certainly, it meant that he did not have time to adjust, at least somewhat, to the idea of a world without the Pilus Prior. Even a night’s length of time in which to grieve and begin to accept what had happened might have made a difference, because from Volusenus’ perspective, he was about to commit yet another blunder that, in its own way, was worse than his blatant disrespect of Germanicus. When Volusenus spotted Pullus’ clerk Alexandros, who he thought of as Alex because that was how Pullus always referred to him, his first reaction was relief that, because he was marching with his Century at the end of the Cohort, the task of giving him the news about the man Volusenus knew Alex thought of as his uncle would fall to someone else. He was disabused of that belief when Alex, pushing through a small throng of women and children who were greeting their paterfamilias, rushed up to Volusenus, making no attempt to hide how he was almost frantic with worry.
“Hastatus Posterior Volusenus,” Alex fell in beside the Centurion, “where is he? Is he in one of the wagons? How badly wounded is he? Nobody will tell me anything!”
Of course they didn’t, Volusenus thought sourly, because they’re fucking cowards, but, while his anger was not directed at Alex, before he could stop himself, he answered harshly, “He’s dead, Alex.”
As soon as the words were out, Volusenus regretted it and he opened his mouth intending to say more, but Alex had come to a dead stop, standing completely still, looking as pale as Volusenus had ever seen him. Despite knowing he was technically not allowed to do so, he still stepped away from the Century, Macerinus giving him a sympathetic look, while Ambustus whispered something that he could not hear but assumed it was something in a similar vein. It was the men who, marching past the young clerk, did not behave in the manner in which they might have been expected, mocking or jeering Alex for his obvious grief that, from Volusenus’ viewpoint, exacerbated the harshness of his own words. All of the men on the outer file said something to him, and several of them reached out and offered the clerk a pat, somewhat awkwardly, but Volusenus waited until Gillo marched by at the rear, telling the Optio to take his place at the front. It was unusual, certainly, but the Optio did not hesitate, and as Volusenus watched him trotting up the side of the column, neither he nor Alex said anything. The Fifth was next, but Clepsina took in the situation with a glance and said nothing, while Volusenus led Alex a short distance away from the crowd, ignoring the looks they were getting from the families of the men of the 1st, some of them obviously curious about this unusual sight, but it was in the eyes of the wives that Volusenus saw the look of understanding and sympathy, which made things even worse.
“What happened?”
Alex was actually around Volusenus’ age, but between the size difference and his fresh-faced features, it meant that those who did not know him constantly underestimated his age, and it triggered an unusual feeling in Volusenus. An only child, he had never had a younger sibling, and this sudden rush of what he could only identify as a need to do what he could to protect Alex, along with his residual regret for how he had been so abrupt in essentially turning the clerk’s world upside down, was what prompted him to explain, omitting the graphic details, the circumstances of Pullus’ death.
Alex listened silently, his face tight, and in the dimming light, Volusenus could see that his color had not returned, but when Volusenus finished, he was silent for a moment, then asked, “Did he say anything?”
Volusenus shook his head, answering honestly, “Not much, Alex.” He suddenly remembered Pullus’ attempt at a joke when he overheard Volusenus offering his thanks to the goddess of war, but quickly decided this was not the time, although he did offer, more as an afterthought, “The only thing he said was for me to tell my mother he was sorry. But that didn’t make any sense.”
As absorbed as he was in his own thoughts, Volusenus missed the sudden change in Alex’s demeanor, nor was he aware that he was staring at Volusenus with an intense expression. If he had, Volusenus might have at least guessed that Alex was expecting this revelation to mean something to him, but his mind was occupied with the one piece of information he had not divulged to Alex, that he had been the ultimate cause of Pullus’ death. He was about to do so when he glanced over and saw that the Tenth Cohort was marching past.
“Pluto’s cock,” he muttered, then turned to tell Alex, “I have to catch up with the Cohort. You need to come with me since you’re going to need to…” Suddenly, he stopped speaking, unsure how to say it; fortunately, Alex understood, agreeing, “I’m going to need to prepare his body for the funeral rites.”
Relieved that he did not have to say the words aloud, Volusenus turned and began moving at a brisk trot, Alex just behind him, the pair reaching the Fourth just as they were entering through the open gates of the camp. The wagons were immediately led away from the column, and Alex followed the one carrying Pullus’ body, while the Legion continued to the forum for the final dismissal. Normally, this was not the time for speeches, at least not with Germanicus in command, but this was not a normal situation, and the Propraetor made no attempt to pretend otherwise, remaining mounted, with his back to the Praetorium, as he watched the Cohorts array themselves in their normal spots. It was only when they were in this formation that the losses incurred by the Third, and to a lesser degree the Fourth Cohorts had suffered, but it was in the body language of the men of the disgraced Cohort where the real story was told, none of them willing to look in Germanicus’ direction. The Propraetor had debated making a public statement repudiating the behavior of the Third, but he realized that he was too angry to do so, and if he began speaking, he was likely to order the Cohort decimated. He also recognized that almost all of that anger stemmed from the loss of just one man, and it was this sense that had more to do with the tenor of his words than anything else.
“My soldiers,” he was still mounted, his paludamentum draped across his horse’s hindquarters, and he spoke in clear, ringing tones, “while we have succeeded in our effort to rescue Segestes and his family from probable harm at the hands of Arminius and his…minions,” he put extra emphasis on the word and was rewarded by a guttural growl of agreement, but he did not linger, turning sober, “as I am certain you all know by now, it was at an extraordinarily high cost.” Lifting a hand, he pointed to where Gemellus was standing, with the standard of the Fourth Cohort, but the spot next to him was empty, another tradition that stretched back through the mists of time, that when a final dismissal from a campaign, no matter how short, was held, the posts of the fallen were left vacant, and it was this that Germanicus was indicating as his voice began throbbing with the emotion that he felt as a sudden surge of memories almost overwhelmed him. “I have known…I knew Quartus Pilus Prior Pullus from his days serving as my de facto Primus Pilus of the Legion the Divine Augustus ordered me to raise during the Batonian Revolt. Any of us who have marched under the standard to protect our beloved Rome knows of the Pullus name, and I will confess,” for the first time, he offered the men a small smile, “I was quite intimidated…and that was before I ever laid eyes on him.” Whether the chuckles were genuine or because the men understood that this was what was expected, Germanicus chose to believe that it was heartfelt, and his smile was genuine enough as he recalled, “But when he walked into my office, I realized something, that for the first, and so far only time that I have been honored by the gods and our Imperator to lead you brave men in the defense of Rome, all the things that I had heard about Titus Porcinianus Pullus were not exaggerations, but the opposite, that if anything, others had not done enough justice to the man.” He paused again, except this time, it was more of a falter as he felt his throat tighten, assailed by memories of times shared, “And now,” his voice broke then, “I am not doing his memory justice.” His next words were spoken quietly, at least that was how it seemed, as if he was talking more to himself as he bowed his head to look down at his hands clutching the reins. “I owe him better than this.” Pausing, he lifted his head, his voice suddenly returning to the firm, resolute quality that men expected from a Roman Legate. “And tomorrow, when we send him and our other comrades on their way across the river to Elysium, I swear by my household gods, that I will have composed myself and will give Quartus Pilus Prior Pullus the oration he deserves!”
This engendered a slightly awkward moment, since some men’s initial response was to lift their arms and roar their approval, the normal method by which they let their commander know their words had been heard and appreciated, while an almost equal number of their comrades felt that this was disrespectful; Volusenus barely noticed. Standing next to Macerinus, his mind was barely functioning, and it was with some embarrassment that he realized something; he had not ever gotten the butcher’s bill from Gillo. The memory of this made him suddenly turn about and, for the first time, actually survey the Sixth Century, his eyes automatically going to the empty spots in his formation, which he recalled that Pullus had once likened to how it was similar to viewing a Legionary’s mouth.
“The first thing you notice when they open their mouths,” he had told Volusenus, although he did not recall the circumstances, “is the teeth that are missing, not the teeth that they have. It’s the same way when you put the men in formation after a fight.”
Now, as his eyes roamed along each rank and moved down each file, he was reminded of this wisdom, and that it was true, although he was somewhat surprised to see that there were not as many empty holes as he had expected. All he had to do next was to get the list from Gillo, and the thought of his Optio reminded him of Pullus, who had counseled him against removing Gillo, despite the initial conflict between them when he had arrived as a freshly minted paid man, so certain of himself because he had been diligent in attending his exercises on the Campus Martius of Mediolanum. As empty as he felt at the moment, the corners of his mouth tugged slightly upward as he remembered who Gnaeus Volusenus had been when he first showed up in what he sometimes still thought of as a cachole in Ubiorum, and how insufferably full of himself he must have appeared. So much, he thought, so much has changed. And this caused him a stab of such deep and exquisite pain it made his vision cloud, something that he had been certain was over for the moment, as he remembered that it had been none other than Titus Pullus who had more to do with turning him into the Centurion of Rome he was; ironically, this would also be the moment he would always think of as the one where the full import of what the loss of Pullus as his Pilus Prior meant. His body responded to the rote memory when Germanicus dismissed the Legion, turning about to issue his own order, although he briefly considered marching his Century back to their area rather than let them make their own way back. He dismissed this almost as quickly as it came to him, if only because he wanted the chance to walk by himself, alone with his thoughts, but he was not bothered by his men, all of them having served under him long enough to recognize the signs of his brooding.
It was a routine that Pullus had drilled into Alex more times than he could easily count, despite his protests that there would never be a need to go through the steps that he was performing now. Pullus’ corpse had been released to him, and he had enlisted the aid of Demetrios and, naturally, his friend Balio, who had remained with the Third Century but whose attachment to Titus Pullus was second in longevity only to Alex himself. It had been difficult, certainly; whether Demetrios’ tears were genuine or simply a result of the influence of Alex and Balio did not really matter, what did was that it took a trio of sobbing men to carry the corpse to the quarters of the Quartus Pilus Prior. Unwrapping the sagum had been the hardest part, as Alex steeled himself for what he would see, but in a small blessing, when he pulled the fold of the heavy cloak back from Pullus’ face, if he did not know better, he would have simply believed the man he thought of as his uncle was sleeping. If, that is, he ignored the dried blood that covered half his face, and he at last found the long but superficial scalp wound that was the cause, but it was the puckering hole in the massive chest that Alex found the most difficult to deal with, yet somehow, he forced himself to gently slide off the mail vest that, in this case, had not done its job, off of Pullus’ body. The padded undershirt was next, followed by the tunic, and while it made no sense to him, Alex’s mind was occupied with thoughts of what it would take to sew the rent in the red tunic closed, and how much it would cost to have the stain removed. It was only later as he thought about it that Alexandros Pullus understood that this was his own mind’s way of protecting itself, forcing him to focus on such mundane tasks that it kept him from thinking of the wider ramifications of this cataclysmic event in his life. The other two clerks, who were every bit as much comrades to him as those men who held a shield and gladius were to each other, somehow understood that their friend needed them, and forced themselves to retain their composure as they went through what was essentially a ritual, although they never thought about it in this manner. While it was certainly not in either of their minds, this also marked something of a turning point in the relationship between Alex and Demetrios.
Once Pullus was naked, it was left to Alex to use a clean rag and water, which he had insisted be heated, explaining to the other two, “He hated washing with cold water,” to clean off the blood and grime of what would turn out to be Titus Pullus’ last battle.
What he found surprising was that, once the blood was scrubbed away, the wound that turned out to be the fatal one did not seem all that significant. By this point in his life and career, Alex had seen more wounds, both of the fatal and non-fatal variety, that looking at what was barely more than a single, slightly puckered hole, without the slashing or twisting that was expected from a professional warrior, no matter for whom they marched, it was hard for his mind to reconcile what he was seeing with the idea that this had killed his uncle. Indeed, once all the gore had been cleaned away, what was left were five wounds, none of them serious except for the one to Pullus’ chest. With the bulk of the work done, only then did Alex let his other two friends depart, leaving him to perform the final part of the ablutions, rubbing the fragrant oils used in Roman funerary rites into his uncle’s skin, the period when the body goes stiff having passed.
“Oh, Uncle Titus,” Alex heard his voice but barely recognized it, “what did you go and do?”
Without knowing any of the details, Alex somehow knew that Volusenus had been involved, and he had to struggle between the anguish and sense of outrage that were competing for his heart. What, he thought, with a despair that was so overwhelming that it seemed to snatch the very breath from him, am I going to tell Mama? It was actually the thought of Birgit, which in turn led to the wider family who shared the Pullus name that caused Alex to recall the next step of the process that his uncle had made him memorize and repeat back to him to the point of distraction. With Pullus’ body prepared for what he had learned would be the funerary rites held at dawn the next morning, which was in direct conflict with normal Roman custom, but was an example of the exigencies of life under the standard, Alex got up and walked numbly to his uncle’s desk. Behind it was a large latticework frame, creating a series of cubbyholes, and while most of them were filled with scrolls of one sort or another, Alex’s hand went unerringly to the scroll that Pullus had strictly instructed him would be the first of a series that he was to open when the unthinkable occurred. Such was his belief in his uncle that it had never really seemed to be anything more than just a vague process that was to be performed at an undefined moment in an equally undefined future, yet here he was, reaching down to pluck the scroll that was in the lowest cubbyhole on the right side of the frame. He saw his hands shaking, but he forced himself to go through with it, turning and sitting down at his uncle’s desk, feeling quite odd because the stool had been made with Pullus’ height in mind, and sitting on it made him feel like he was a child sneaking into his father’s office, where the desk came almost up to mid-chest. Chiding himself for such thoughts, he broke the seal and carefully unrolled the scroll, almost afraid to begin reading the words. Yet, when he did so, despite the circumstances, he felt his mouth curling into a smile, realizing for the first time the enormous sense of relief that what he was reading brought him. As he read the cramped, slightly forward-slanting script that he had long before learned to decipher, the sudden release of the burden that he only recognized he had been carrying after it was lifted was so powerful that he had to sit back, take a deep breath, then exhale it very slowly. So, he thought with a growing sense of wonder, along with a certain level of chagrin that what seemed so obvious now had been hidden until he read the words, the Pullus name will continue. However, there was a lot to do, and sitting there would not get it done. Following the written instructions, Alex selected another scroll, although this one, he set aside, then a second one, which he stuck in the belt of his tunic; this was destined for the Praetorium.
Once he read everything and had a good idea of what needed to be done, only then did he stand up, and while he knew he was not going into battle, he imagined that the feelings surging through him were not that much different. Despite the swirling thoughts and emotions that seemed to be conspiring together against Alex to keep his attention elsewhere, he was acutely aware that what he was about to do was going to upend other people’s lives, and he would not have been Diocles’ son if he had not paused to consider the wider ramifications of that. Standing there, although his body was not moving, his mind was working with a rapidity that would have done his father proud as he thought through the outward pulsing ripples that would be created by walking out the door. Despite his relative youth, Alex possessed an insight into people, yet another gift, although it would have surprised the other members of the Pullus family to know that this did not come from Diocles but his mother Birgit, just one of the reasons that, despite outward appearances, the diminutive Greek and tall, lithe Gallic woman two decades younger had been such a good match. As Alex well knew, and would have acknowledged with rueful amusement, between the two of them, neither he nor his siblings ever got away with much. It was natural that his thoughts turned to the southwest, across the expanse of what was now called the Empire, to Arelate, but now it was not his mother and her reaction that concerned him. In his mind, the question was; how would Septimus, and more importantly, Gaius Pullus react to this news? It was with this in his mind that he actually stopped, slowly withdrew the scroll from his baltea, and hefted it in his hands, examining it thoughtfully.
While it was true that he had been gone from Arelate many years, what Alex nor his uncle ever talked about was how much Alex knew of the younger Pullus brothers, and while most of it was through his brother Titus, who had just arrived with Pullus months before and was now working in Ubiorum, Alex trusted his brother implicitly, and he had seen enough of who and what Gaius Pullus was before returning to Siscia with his uncle that it gave him pause. Maybe, he thought, his eyes still on the scroll, I should just throw this in the fire and let the beasts lie where they sleep; maybe I’m doing everyone a favor, because there is no way this ends well, and besides, he already has money through the man he thinks is his father. He would never know how long he stood there, carefully thinking through the dilemma he had created for himself, yet ultimately, what prompted Alexandros Pullus to act was nothing that he could actually point to as a tangible cause for his decision, and while he never was, if he had been asked, the best he could have summoned was that what he was about to do felt right, nothing more substantial than that. Having made his decision, he moved towards the outer door, but before he did, he turned and entered what he still thought of as his uncle’s private quarters. Pullus’ body, now cleaned and dressed in his parade tunic, was lying on the cot where, with help, Alex had laid him, his hands folded on his chest, and it was a posture that Alex had seen Pullus adopt more times than he could count, when he had decided to catch a quick nap. The only thing missing was the coin that was placed in the mouth to pay Charon, the ferryman, but Alex was certain that someone, he assumed Germanicus, would want to perform this small but important ritual himself, although in every other way, Titus Porcinianus Pullus was prepared for his journey to the afterlife. Suddenly, Alex was aware that, in all likelihood, this would be the last time he would have time alone with the man who, next to his father Diocles, had had the most influence on him. Tentatively, he walked over to gaze down at Pullus, the flickering light from the lamps creating shadows across the craggy features of a man who, just three days earlier when they had last been in each other’s company, had been full of life, his features animated by something that amused him, or irritated him, and suddenly, unbidden, a memory of the day that the Legion departed popped into Alex’s head, and despite the grief, he felt his lips turn up into a smile that was very close to a laugh. The recollection was so intense that, without thinking, he dropped onto the edge of the cot, and for a panicked heartbeat, the sharp cracking sound as the wood strained against the added weight seemed to signal the imminent deposit of both Alex and the corpse of his uncle on the floor. Thankfully, that did not happen, and once he was certain that, for the moment, he and Pullus were safe from being dumped on the floor, he contented himself with simply gazing down at the inert form, the tears streaming down his face.
“Oh, Uncle Titus,” he finally broke the silence, speaking in a whisper, “what are we supposed to do now? What are we going to do without you?” He paused, almost as if he expected an answer, which elicited a self-conscious laugh before he continued, “Oh, how you’d love this, seeing all of us a mess. And,” he hesitated, although he chided himself for doing so, as if Pullus would somehow sense it, “I just don’t know how Volusenus is going to react to all of this, but it’s Gaius I worry about the most, Uncle Titus.” Perhaps it was the sound of his own voice that prompted Alex to continue, and he spent the next several moments, calmly and dispassionately offering his uncle’s body the same insight and advice he would have offered if his uncle’s animus was still contained in the massive body. By the time he was finished speaking, Alex felt both relieved that he had gotten this burden off of him, but worried because, hearing it spoken aloud seemed to make the chances of all that he feared coming to pass even higher. Finally, he heaved a sigh, and pushed himself up off the cot as he finished, “All right then. I’m off to do the things you’ve asked me to do.”
When he walked back out into the outer office, he resisted the urge to give Pullus one last look, chiding himself for the foolish hope that, somehow, the gods would intervene and bring his uncle back to life.
Of course, Alex followed Pullus’ instructions, although he altered the order in which he carried them out, deciding to go to the Praetorium first, to deliver the scroll that Pullus had left with instructions that it be given directly to Germanicus. Despite having no idea how he was going to be able to achieve this, Alex was confident he would think of something, and when he entered, given permission because of his status as the Cohort clerk, he paused a moment to search the large outer room. Seeing who he was looking for, tucked away in a corner at a desk that was barely big enough for an open tablet and a stack next to it, Alex maneuvered his way past the other men, some slaves, some freedmen, and all of them suddenly hurrying about despite the late hour, which he knew was an effect of the arrival of the Propraetor.
Lysander, the clerk Alex had been looking for, sensed his presence, and he turned with his mouth pursed, ready to chastise whoever this interloper was, but his expression transformed instantly when he saw who it was, and he stood to address Alex formally, “Salve, Alexandros.”
“You’ve obviously heard,” Alex commented, but readily accepted the offered arm, and Lysander nodded gravely, confirming, “Yes, as soon as the Propraetor walked in, he issued orders to begin to build a separate pyre for Pilus Prior Pullus.” The older clerk studied Alex’s face; while they could not be considered close friends, they respected each other, and there was no way that one could be attached to the 1st Legion and not know of the deep connection that Alex had with the dead Centurion, which prompted him to ask quietly, “How are you, Alex? I know that you and the Pilus Prior were very close.”
This caught Alex off guard, although he immediately realized it should not, and that he could expect to be asked this, or some variation for the next several days, and he answered honestly, “I still can’t believe it, I suppose. I mean,” he added quickly, fighting the sudden surge of emotion, “I just finished preparing him for the boat, but it still doesn’t seem real.”
Lysander nodded sympathetically, but while he wanted to help Alex, he also had his own work to do, so he asked politely, “Is there something I can help you with, Alex?”
Alex nodded, raising the scroll so that the light caught the imprint of the seal used by the Quartus Pilus Prior of the 1st Legion, explaining, “My uncle instructed me to give this to Germanicus.”
Lysander, assuming something like this, was already reaching for the scroll, but there was something in the manner in which Alex spoke that caught his attention, and his hand stopped, hovering just an inch away as he studied the younger man’s face.
“Ah,” Lysander said softly. “This is something that your uncle wanted you to deliver to the Propraetor, not just hand it off to the likes of me, eh?” He smiled to show he was making a joke at his own expense, but it vanished quickly, and Lysander turned to look in the direction of the closed door that led to the private office occupied by Germanicus. As always, seated in front of it at a desk that was at least larger than Lysander’s own, was the duty Tribune, but he had not been part of the expedition to snatch Segestes, which Lysander knew meant the young noble was in a foul mood. Finally, he turned back to Alex, saying, “Let me go see what I can do, Alex. But,” he warned, “I need you to wait right here. Don’t go wandering anywhere near Tribune Sabinus. He’s in a snit because he was left behind, and Germanicus took Gaetulicus instead. Can you do that?”
Alex assured him that he not only could but would do exactly as instructed; the only tense moment came when Lysander held his hand out for the scroll. Alex did not refuse, not outright, choosing instead to simply gaze back at the older clerk, who looked irritated but said nothing before turning and stalking across the room to the opposite side. Thinking that watching whatever Lysander was up to might somehow hurt his chances, he turned his attention to the row of desks where the night clerks, those poor souls who were considered by their fellows as the most unfortunate in the army, had just begun their long night of laboriously copying the small mountain of paperwork that had become one of the most distinguishing features of the reforms made by the Divine Augustus. At least, Alex thought with amusement, if you asked Uncle Titus and the other Centurions, yet as soon as it came, this recollection caused a sharp stab of pain that was almost physical in nature. Forcing his mind elsewhere, he tried to anticipate what he would say to Germanicus, but while this was not painful, it certainly did not help his anxiety. He had been in the presence of the Propraetor more times than he could count, and he recalled with a great deal of pride the one time that Germanicus had not only acknowledged him as Alex had been dropping off one of those reports his uncle loathed, but had even made the connection, which the nobleman demonstrated by asking if his uncle had spoiled Latobius that day. The thought of the chestnut stallion with the white blaze on its forehead unleashed a new torrent of emotions that caught Alex completely by surprise, and he was forced to confront yet another aspect of what this loss meant. He had seen it with dogs, when they had lost their master and with it went their will to live, but while he had never heard of it happening with a horse, he glumly concluded that, if it was possible, it would happen with Latobius.
So immersed in his own misery, it took Lysander to call out sharply, “Alex!” for the third time before he was jerked from his own thoughts. “Really,” Lysander said severely, “there’s not much time. Follow me,” he ordered, turning and walking back towards Germanicus’ office as he did so. Alex had to scramble to catch up, but rather than approach from the normal path one would take to reach Germanicus’ private office, which would take them directly to the Tribune’s desk, Lysander circled behind it, turning and putting his finger to his lips in a warning to Alex, and while they did not tiptoe, exactly, Alex made sure to mimic Lysander’s behavior, sliding along the wall and taking advantage of the shadows caused by the lamps. Reaching the door, Lysander rapped in what Alex had long before learned was the prearranged signal that Germanicus had given certain men among his small army of clerks. Lysander was one of these, which was why Alex had selected him, and he was rewarded by a muffled but distinct call to enter, following closely behind the clerk and into Germanicus’ office. The Propraetor had at least shed his armor, but Alex saw that this was as far as he had gotten, and was now standing behind his desk, although at that moment, he seemed to be just staring vacantly down at the stack of closed tablets lying on the desktop. Other men, some of them wearing the bronze placard that was engraved with the name of their owner, which in this room meant either the army or Germanicus personally, while the rest wore the tunic that Alex wore that denoted his status as a freedman, were variously involved in their own tasks, giving him the impression that they were gathering the various reports from the Cohorts. Lysander made a cautioning gesture that Alex interpreted was a command to remain standing where he was, as the older clerk walked towards the desk, and under other circumstances, Alex would have been amused at the manner in which he was doing it, as if the Propraetor was his quarry and he was a hunter trying to get close enough to kill his prey. Then, Lysander apparently reached the outer edge of Germanicus’ vision, because the Propraetor looked up, giving Alex his first real look at him, and the sight of the nobleman’s face sent another tidal wave of emotion through Pullus’ nephew as he recognized that, along with the fatigue, there was a look of real grief that Alex was certain was even more intense than what a commander might normally feel after battle. Lysander spoke too softly for him to hear, but the meaning was clear when Germanicus gave a brief nod, prompting the older clerk to turn and beckon to Alex. Feeling his heart thudding heavily against his chest, at the bottom of Alex’s vision, the sight of his tunic visibly jerking did not help quell his anxiety, but he remembered to stop at the same distance as men under the standard, although what he offered was a bow and not a salute.
Germanicus inclined his head in acknowledgement, but there was no mistaking the strain in his voice as he said hoarsely, “You’re…Alexandros, is that correct? Chief clerk of the Fourth Cohort.” He paused barely a heartbeat, then added, “And you’ve served the Pilus Prior for some time.”
While Alex knew that Germanicus meant no offense, he still felt a flare of anger that was powerful enough for him to answer stiffly, “Actually, sir, my name is Alexandros Pullus. The Pilus Prior is…” he swallowed, “was my uncle.”
This caused Germanicus to react with clear surprise and, to Alex’s eyes, some embarrassment, which seemed confirmed when he said hastily, “Ah, I see. Then you have my sincere apologies, Pullus. I didn’t realize that you were related by blood.” He cocked his head slightly, examining the clerk, and while he did not sound doubtful as much as openly musing, he added, “I confess I don’t see the resemblance. But, again, I apologize.”
Realizing what needed to be done, Alex did not hesitate. “No, Propraetor, it’s me who needs to apologize.”
Then, in as few words as possible, he explained the connection and how his father had taken the Pullus name on his manumission, something that was so common that Germanicus did not seem the least bit surprised.
When Alex was finished, Germanicus did surprise him by saying with a nod, “Yes, that’s right. Your father was the Greek who served Pullus’ grandfather, yes? He,” Germanicus added with the kind of sincerity for which he was known for among the men of Alex’s class, “was almost as famous as the Prefect himself.”
For a brief instant, Alex’s grief lifted as he was struck by the profound hope that the shades of his father and the giant Roman he had never known but who had shaped the lives of himself and his siblings so profoundly were present and hearing this accolade from a man who, depending on who one listened to, was either the second or third most powerful man in the Empire.
“Thank you, sir.” Alex hoped that the heartfelt gratitude he felt was conveyed in his tone. “And,” he had to fight the sudden surge of tears, “yes, I was, and am very proud that Diocles is my father, and that our family has served the Pullus family.” Fighting to regain his composure, Alex drew himself up to his full height, which was no more than average, but he felt he needed to at least try to sound like he imagined Pullus would want him to when addressing Germanicus, and his voice sounded strong as he went on, “Which is why I asked to see you, sir. I’m fulfilling my uncle’s instructions in case…in case…” His voice faltered, and to his horror, the sight of the Propraetor began shimmering, to the extent that, when he felt the gentle hand on his arm, he jerked in surprise. Thinking it was Lysander, he was mortified to see that, somehow, Germanicus had moved from behind the desk and was now standing beside him, and he was the man offering him this comfort.
“Alex,” Germanicus began gently, then added, “May I call you Alex?” It was actually an absurd question, but it was another example of why Germanicus was not just respected, he was beloved by those who were the farthest underneath him on the social ladder, and naturally, Alex nodded, and he continued, “While I won’t lie and say that I know how deep the grief you’re feeling right now is, I assure you that I grieve with you. Your uncle was a remarkable man, Alex,” Germanicus’ voice did not raise in volume as much as it became more intense. “And he saved my life when he served under me, but more than that, he kept me from making a fool of myself with my first command.”
“You saved him too,” Alex replied without thinking, turning slightly away from Germanicus to hurriedly swipe at the tear he felt rolling down his left cheek.
“That’s what comrades do for each other, neh?” Germanicus said softly, nodding as the memory came back to him. “But yes, I remember. We were assaulting Splonum, going through the breach that we had burned through their log wall.”
They were both silent then, each absorbed in their own thoughts, before Alex reminded himself of why he was there, and he lifted the scroll he had been holding, extending it to the Propraetor with the words Pullus had written for him. “This is a request from my uncle, sir. He also wanted me to express to you his gratitude for all that you did for him, and that he considered you the finest Legate he’s ever served under.”
In an odd way, seeing Germanicus affected by these words pleased Alex, but while the Propraetor took the scroll, he did so cautiously, telling Alex, “Alex, all I can promise to you is to do everything within my power to honor whatever this is. But,” his tone was still gentle, except Alex clearly heard the firmness there, which was accentuated by Germanicus making sure their eyes met, “without knowing what it is, I’m afraid I can’t immediately agree.”
Alex nodded his understanding, which he did, saying simply, “I know, sir. I’m just bringing this to you as my uncle instructed.”
Staring down thoughtfully at the scroll, Germanicus sounded relieved as he said, “And, as I said, I’ll do what I can.” At this, he looked at Alex, surprising Pullus’ nephew by saying, “Now I have a favor to ask of you.”
“Sir?” Alex could not possibly fathom what someone in his position could offer that a personage like the Propraetor would need, but he assured Germanicus, “Anything you need, sir.”
“I’d like to place the coin in Pullus’ mouth for his journey.” Germanicus did not hesitate, and even with his grief, Alex felt a sense of satisfaction that he had guessed correctly.
“Of course, sir,” Alex agreed, although he did not say anything more than that.
Taking a deep breath, Germanicus glanced over at Lysander, which Alex correctly interpreted as the sign that his audience was over, so with another bow, he thanked Germanicus again, then turned and walked to Lysander, who had been standing just a couple paces away. Only then was Alex aware that all the bustling in the office had momentarily stopped, and he felt the eyes on him as Lysander, placing his arm around the younger man’s shoulders, walked to the office door. Alex did not look back, his mind already moving on to what came next, which was the most momentous in a personal sense, not just for himself, but for the entire Pullus family. If he had, he would have seen that Germanicus, sitting on the edge of the desk, had unrolled the scroll, turning it slightly so the light could catch it, and he was far enough away that he did not hear Germanicus’ soft gasp of astonishment. Just as Lysander opened the door, Germanicus opened his mouth to stop them, then thought better of it, certain that Alex knew the contents. Instead, he chose to sit for another moment in a state of dazed bemusement, although most of his internal chiding was aimed at himself, wondering if he had let Pullus know of his suspicions that the Centurion was Gnaeus Volusenus’ father, if that would have changed the outcome. After a moment’s reflection, he realized that it probably would not have; if anything, it made Pullus’ sacrifice even more likely.
“
Alex returned to the Cohort office, fighting down the sudden onset of a hope he knew was fruitless, yet when he entered Pullus’ quarters and saw the body of his uncle lying there, he still felt an almost crushing disappointment. Stop, he shouted at himself, acting like a child. There is no magic potion, there is no spell. He’s dead, and you have a job to do. It was with this in mind that he walked over to the small table, on which an amphora, a pitcher, and two cups were sitting. Pouring a cup full to the brim from the amphora, he did not add any water from the pitcher, and he drained the cup in one long swallow. He set the cup down and wiped his lips, recognizing that he could delay no longer. It had grown late, and while he doubted he would get any sleep this night, he did want to lie down and rest at some point, so he strode to the door, opened it, and stepped into the outer office, where Demetrios, who should have been lying on his pallet in the corner, was sitting at his desk with his head in his hands, and Alex heard the quiet sobs.
He was walking to the outer door when Demetrios spoke up, not lifting his head, asking dully, “What’s going to happen to me?”
Alex stopped, staring at the other clerk, a sudden pulse of anger causing him to open his mouth, about to shout at the man for his selfishness, but he managed to stop himself, silently acknowledging that it was a bit much to expect a clerk who was a slave to be overly concerned with the death of one of the men who kept him in bondage and not his own personal situation.
“I don’t know,” was all Alex could offer, then was out the door before Demetrios could ask something else.
There was not much traffic on the Cohort street; those men who had prepared their comrades for the pyre were finished for the most part, making most of the few men out and about clerks like himself, Optiones, and Tesseraurii, the latter performing essentially the same duty Alex was at that moment. It, he reflected as he walked down the steps of the Cohort office, is army efficiency at its finest, and while he thought it was somewhat heartless, enough of Pullus’ attitude had rubbed off on him to recognize that this was not done out of callousness as much as it was the recognition that the rising of the sun the next day might bring news of one of Rome’s enemies on the march, thinking to take advantage of the situation, which was why the army custom was to cremate their dead within a matter of watches and not always at dusk as Roman civilians did. The more quickly the Legion recovered, the more lives it saved in the long run, he knew; still, it rankled him that this was how things had to be, but he shoved this into what was now a crammed compartment of his mind as he strode the short distance to the office of the Sixth Century.
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 was 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.
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.
“I…thank you, Krateros,” he managed, and he was at least rewarded by the look of surprise on the clerk’s face as he said the words. He reached down and patted Krateros on the shoulder, an awkward gesture, yet he felt sufficiently moved to add, “And I also want to thank you for the lengths you’ve gone to in order to get me ready for today.”
“It’s my duty,” Krateros replied simply, but if there was bitterness there, it was either more muted than normal or Volusenus chose to ignore it, only agreeing, “Yes, I know it is, and you’ve done it well. But you went over and above that for me today, and I do appreciate it.” Before Krateros could respond, Volusenus stepped around him, walked to the door that led to the outer office, and opened it. Crossing the few paces to the outer door, he took a breath, squared his shoulders, then in a barely audible voice, said, more to himself than to the clerk, “Let’s get this over and done with.”
Then he stepped outside into the larger world of the Fourth Cohort area, announcing to the men something that, while many of them would go on to claim to have suspected as much, none had actually been serious enough to place a wager, the surest sign of a man’s certainty. It was with a bit of wry amusement that this recognition crossed Volusenus’ mind, which was quickly followed by the thought of the amount of regret and moaning that would inevitably be uttered in the tavernae by those who claimed to have harbored these suspicions…and had not used it to make money. Some things, he recalled Pullus telling him once, will never change, and the fact that Legionaries would bet on anything was one of those.