by Peake, R. W.
“You bastards,” I managed to say, and they both laughed.
“This is for you, Titus. It’s our way of thanking you for all you’ve done for us and the Legion.”
“You had just as much to do with it as I did,” I told Scribonius. “You and all the Centurions.”
“But you set the example, Titus. We followed you,” Balbus put in.
I could not think of anything more to say, instead just shook my head while trying to dry my eyes.
While I was occupied, Scribonius turned back to the Legion. “10th Legion, intente!”
I have to say I was impressed; I did not know that Scribonius could create such volume with his voice. Despite their inebriation, the men snapped to the position smartly enough, facing the dais. Scribonius turned to render a salute, the men following suit, it taking a moment for my fogged brain to understand that they were saluting me, and that I should return it. It may not have been the most perfect salute I ever rendered, but it was the most heartfelt.
When the salute was finished, Balbus turned back to the men and called out, “Enough of the seriousness. It’s time to get drunk!”
That received the loudest cheer of the night.
I vaguely remember being carried back to the apartment, but I do not know who it was that did so. I felt hands stripping my belt and tunic off, that being the last conscious thought until the next day, when I became aware that Vulcan had decided to use my head as an anvil, while it felt like a Legion was marching through my stomach. I barely had enough time to roll over and vomit over the edge of the bed. Hearing a pitiful moan that I assumed came from me, I saw a pair of feet approach the bed, except that it hurt too much to lift my head to see who it was. From the size and shape, I knew it was Miriam. Hoping for a sympathetic voice and perhaps a cool rag for my head, I waited to feel her comforting touch. However, none of that was forthcoming.
Instead, she spoke in a tone that could not be described under the best of circumstances as sympathetic. “You made a mess on the floor. I hope you are satisfied with yourself.”
Tilting my head slightly, wincing at the pain it caused, I squinted to see a pregnant woman that looked like Miriam, except that the scowl on her face along with the hands on her hips were unfamiliar to me.
“I'm dying,” I croaked, hoping that my clear misery would soften her heart.
“You are not dying,” she scoffed. “You are just a miserable drunkard. And you are making a mess on my floor.”
“Woman, I said I’m dying,” I tried to roar, yet the pain was too great, and I am afraid it came out more of a squeak.
“Then hurry up and die so I can clean up,” she shot back, then turned to walk out of the room.
“If I had known you were this cruel, I would never have married you.”
It was the best I could come up with under the circumstances.
“If I had known you were such a drunk, I would never have said ‘yes,’” she scoffed, taking the final honors in the exchange.
I settled back down into my misery, and I am not sure how much time passed before I revived enough to swing my legs out of the bed, holding my head in my hands. Naturally, my feet landed in the puddle of vomit, causing another revolt in my stomach, making me heave but nothing came up. Staggering into the main room, I had to squint to see Iras sitting at the table sewing, with Miriam nowhere to be seen.
“Water,” I gasped. For a moment, she did not move, her expression mirroring that of her mistress, or at least so I assumed.
“Don’t make me beat you, Iras,” I warned her. “I may not be able to do it right now, but I won’t forget. Now get me some water.”
She rose then, going to the bucket, dipping a cup into it and bringing it to me. Her nose wrinkled at my sour smell, but I ignored her, grabbing the cup and draining it.
“Where’s your mistress?”
“She went to the market.”
“Alone?” I asked, alarmed that she would be out in her condition by herself, but Iras shook her head.
“Diocles is with her.”
“Good,” I grunted.
I bid her to get another cup of water, and when I finished it, I felt slightly better. Iras examined me for a moment, saying nothing. Finally, shaking her head, she went to the cupboard by her bed where she kept her belongings. Rummaging around, she retrieved a couple of vials and a jar, bringing them back to the table. Without saying a word, she took the cup from me, filled it back up with water, then taking a small spoon, began scooping contents from the vials and jar, dumping them into the cup. Stirring it vigorously for several heartbeats, she took a sip, making a face before adding a bit more from one of the vials. Tasting it again, she seemed satisfied and she brought the cup to me.
Thrusting it at me, she ordered, “Drink this.”
I examined the cup for a moment, seeing the vile green concoction in it, then shook my head. “You already tried to poison me once,” I said. “I’m not about to give you the chance again.”
“If I had wanted to poison you,” she said patiently, “you would have been dead a long time ago. I thought we were past that.”
“Maybe you think you’re doing me a favor by putting me out of my misery,” I suggested.
Iras shook her head again, but I could see that her forbearance was wearing thin. “This will help with the hangover. It’s what my father used when he drank too much. And he drank a lot.”
This was the first Iras had ever mentioned anything about her family, at least in my hearing. I think it was that more than anything that prompted me to take the cup. Drawing a deep breath, I drank the concoction down in one gulp, almost gagging at the taste, feeling the particles of whatever was in it passing down my throat. Slamming the cup down on the table, I staggered a step, suddenly lightheaded, having to sit down at the table to let my head clear. Iras stood watching me, an expectant look on her face, and for a horrifying moment, I thought that she had indeed poisoned me and was waiting to see me keel over dead. However, the opposite happened, because within a few moments I started feeling better.
“It seems to be working,” I said cautiously, to which she just gave a matter-of-fact nod.
“I told you,” she replied, turning back to her sewing.
“Who was your father? What did he do?”
I did not plan on asking the question, it just came out. Her needle stopped, hovering over the fabric, but her face was turned away, and I could not see her expression. Her shoulders rose as she heaved a great sigh, then she set the fabric down.
Without turning to face me, she replied in a very small voice, “My father was Ptolemy Auletes.”
“Ptolemy Chickpea?” I gasped.
“Yes, that is what you Romans called him,” she replied, her tone defensive. “But he was Pharaoh of the Two Kingdoms, King of Sedge and Bee, son of Ptah and Isis.”
“So who was your mother?”
“She was one of his slaves,” she said flatly. “He was bored one day, and he took her.”
A thought suddenly occurred to me, and I am glad I was sitting down.
“That means Cleopatra was your sister,” I gasped.
“Half-sister,” she corrected, then gave a bitter laugh. “Me and half of the palace slaves around my age were related to her.”
“Did she know?” I asked her.
“Yes, she knew.”
Iras turned to look at me squarely, the very last piece of the puzzle of why it was Iras she had sent after me falling into place.
“That is why she sent me to kill you, and why she wanted Deukalos to kill me afterward.”
I struggled to absorb this, not helped by my hangover, yet I had to admit that the concoction she had made me drink was making me feel better. “Does Miriam know this?”
Iras shrugged. “I never told her, but your wife is very smart. I would not be surprised if she figured it out.”
“But she never told me,” I said, more to myself than to her.
“Husbands and wives always keep secrets from ea
ch other,” Iras told me, giving me a look that I could not interpret. “Are you saying that there is nothing you keep from my mistress?”
I was about to answer her, then stopped to think for a moment. “No,” I conceded. “I don't tell her everything, but when I don’t, it’s to protect her.”
“Maybe she did not tell you what she suspected to be true in order to protect you,” she suggested.
“No, I think if she did that, it was to protect you, not me,” I told her frankly.
Because the fact is that if I had known that Iras was related to Cleopatra by blood in those early days of our acquaintance, I would have undoubtedly killed her, and it was then I understood that is exactly why Miriam had not told me. Iras bowed her head, closing her eyes, then I saw her lips move, and I recognized that she was saying a prayer of thanks. I supposed I should have done the same, given the way Iras had become part of our lives and was so important to Gaius by this time, but frankly I was still not feeling that well.
Miriam returned, clearly still angry with me, while Diocles gave me a sympathetic look. I assumed that Miriam had been unloading her feelings about my night of debauchery on him, but she studiously ignored me. Frankly, I was grateful for the peace and quiet, hoping that the storm in the house would blow itself out. My stomach was still too queasy for any solid food, but after cleaning up my mess, Diocles slipped me some broth.
“Don’t let the mistress know I helped you,” he whispered.
“You belong to me, not her,” I grumbled.
“True, but she runs the house, and we both know it. Besides, I learned from watching my mother and father that upsetting a pregnant woman isn't a good idea.”
“Fine,” I muttered. “Let’s just get out of here and get to camp. I have work to do.”
The sun was blinding, making me sure my head would split while I used Diocles’ shoulder for support. The poor man looked like he would collapse under the weight, so we were both miserable for the walk to camp. I was perversely happy to see that most of the men and Centurions were in much the same state I was, stumbling about holding their heads while they tried to attend to their duties. Some of the whores that had been rented were still about, and I told Diocles that they had to be dispersed immediately. In reality, it was a farce, and if there had been an attack on us from some enemy, the 10th Legion would have been slaughtered. Thankfully, there was no prospect of that happening, and Statilius, still left in Nicopolis as both the commander and with Propraetor imperium, had given his consent to the banquet in the first place. Entering my office, I fell into the chair behind my desk while trying to gather my wits through the headache. A few moments later, I heard a knock, immediately after which both Balbus and Scribonius entered, the former looking obscenely fresh while Scribonius looked like I felt, making me feel better.
“Don’t speak above a whisper,” I warned them, to which Balbus gave a mocking laugh.
“You have the head of a woman when it comes to wine,” he jeered.
“I can’t even think of something to say back to that, so I guess you’re right,” I admitted. Turning my attention to other matters, I asked Balbus, “You said something last night, at least I think you did, about the post of Camp Prefect rating a Public Horse. How do you possibly know that? Or were you just making it up?”
In answer, Balbus turned to Scribonius, who explained, “No, it’s true. Camp Prefects are entitled to a Public Horse, though I don’t know if they're going to call it that. But the funds come from the treasury, so it’s the same thing.”
“How did you know about it? I didn’t know that Octavian had announced the position, let alone put out any details.”
“He didn’t,” Scribonius confirmed. “That’s why I asked him.”
“You what?” I could not hide my surprise at Scribonius’ boldness.
“Not in person,” he added hastily. “I wrote to him, told him what we planned as far as honoring you in some way. He’s the one who came up with the armor and the horse.”
“Really?”
Scribonius nodded. “Yes, really. In fact, he thanked me for making him think more about the position, and that he was going to make this standard for every Camp Prefect.”
I must say that I was a little disappointed; I would have liked it better if I were the only one to be honored in this way.
“Did he say how many Camp Prefects there will be?” I asked curiously.
“Actually, he wrote that at first there would be no more than four, maybe five, with each army that's stationed throughout the Republic, but he didn't go into any more detail than that.”
Thinking about it, I realized that I had no idea where Octavian would place these armies around the Republic. I wondered if I would be given any choice in the matter of where Miriam and I were placed.
“Thank you for all of that,” I said.
“You thanked us already,” Balbus replied.
“Did I? I don’t remember doing it.”
“I don’t remember ever seeing you that drunk.” Scribonius grinned at me painfully. “And I haven’t been this bad off myself in some time.”
“So what are you going to name the horse?” Balbus asked. I confess I had not given it any thought to that point, barely remembering that the beast existed.
“Bucephalus,” I blurted out the first name that came to mind.
“That’s a bit presumptuous, don’t you think?” Scribonius offered. “Naming him after Alexander’s horse is a lot to live up to, even for an animal as fine as this one.”
“Then what do you suggest?”
He frowned, obviously not liking having the burden of coming up with the name on his shoulders.
“Mars?”
“Mars!” I scoffed. “Bucephalus might be presumptuous, but don’t you think Mars is a bit . . . predictable?”
“Well, it’s not my horse! You name it then.”
“I tried to but you pissed all over the name.”
“What about Ocelus?”
I looked at Balbus, who had offered the suggestion, trying to place the name.
“Isn’t that one of the Gaul’s names for Mars?” asked Scribonius, and Balbus nodded.
“He is from Gaul, after all. And he is a war horse,” he added.
“I like it,” I announced. “Ocelus is his name.”
I stood and told the two, “Now let’s go get acquainted with Ocelus.”
Fortunately, Ocelus was already broken to the saddle, making it more a case of getting acquainted with him, and him getting accustomed to my weight on his back, which at first he was not happy about. After a few days, however, he and I seemed to have established a bond that sometimes happens between man and animal. It was not something I had ever experienced before, this feeling of attachment to an animal, even when I was a boy on the farm back in Astigi, but I welcomed it. We developed a routine where I would hide an apple or carrot on me, which he would nose about for, sometimes even grabbing the fabric of my tunic with his teeth in his search, more than once getting more than fabric in his mouth, giving me quite a bruise. I took to spending more and more time with Ocelus, saying as the reason that I needed to become proficient at riding, since Octavian expected it of me. The truth was that in the last months of her pregnancy, Miriam was becoming increasingly hard to live with, and I grew tired of being snapped at for things I did and did not do. At first, I did not remember Gisela being so irritable, until I recalled that I had not been around for either of her pregnancies, making me feel a stab of guilt at my anger at Miriam. She was clearly uncomfortable, and I did not need the midwife to tell me that it was a difficult pregnancy. I sent Iras to the temples of Bona Dea and Juno Lucina every day to make an offering, even incorporating one of Miriam’s gods, Malakbel who protected pregnant women, into my household gods. In short, I was doing everything I could think of to help Miriam, both with the gods and for her physical comfort, except spend time with her. The plain truth was that I was extremely uncomfortable being around Miriam, not due to any lack of
love for her, but because I felt so helpless seeing her in such distress. I am afraid that the only comfort I could offer her she did not want, which did not put me in a good temper, and for the first time in our marriage, I was actually tempted to seek release with one of the whores in town. The only thing that stopped me was the knowledge that it would hurt Miriam. I had learned to accept that her people did not view sex outside of the union of marriage the same way that Romans did, meaning that the only time I sought female company outside of her was when we were separated for long periods of time. Normally this was not a hardship, since I truly loved Miriam, and when we were together, I had no desire to stray, but because of her condition, this was more difficult. We were a week away from the final dismissal of the bulk of the 10th, with most of those days spent in the men turning in their gear, which was then inspected for serviceability. Those pieces that were still usable were put back into stores, with the rest either sold as scrap, or the pieces used as parts for repair. Worn metal bits like spades and turfcutting blades were melted down to make new ones, while the links of chain mail shirts were kept to use as spares. The only things that were not sold, even if they were worn were weapons, including javelin shafts, since we did not want them to fall into the hands of possible enemies. Helmets and shields were also items that would not be sold; helmets were generally not melted down, but hammered back into shape, while the wood from the shields was stripped down to be used for other purposes. Grinders, wicker baskets, pots, and the various leather bits were the pieces that merchants lined up to buy, sold in lots to the highest bidder. Men also packed their personal belongings while they made their plans for where they would go. Most of them were going to at least make an attempt at farming the plots of land that they would be given, despite the fact that experience told me that a large number of them would fail for one reason or another. Usually it was due to boredom, once the reality of the grinding hard work that it would take to make a farm work set in, even one in Italia that was confiscated from Antonian supporters, where the most senior men of the first dilectus would go. The rest, those men of the second dilectus would be settled in Pannonia, recently conquered as part of Octavian’s campaign in Illyricum. This was most of the men, and they would find it much harder going in a country that was conquered just six years earlier and was still largely uncivilized. Granted, their tracts were along the river bottoms, where the land was more fertile, but there were stories of the Panonnii and their warlike nature still causing problems for those Legionaries that had already been retired there by Octavian. Speaking of Vellusius, there had been no opportunity to discuss keeping him on as my bodyguard with Octavian, not that I tried very hard, telling myself that he would not like being bothered by such a petty matter when he was back at Rome, essentially rebuilding the Republic. Then, Diocles came back from the Praetorium one day, just days away from the retirement with a look that was equal parts excitement and anxiety.
