“Yes, Father.” He waited for a moment and then nodded his head.
“Come here.” He pulled me down, and I touched my forehead to his. “Take care of your mother first, always. And when you marry, provide for your wife and protect her at all costs. When you have little ones, raise them to be honorable, sacrificing, resilient. Be a better father than I and my father.”
“I could never—”
“Yes, you can. There is so much good in you.” He released me and patted my cheek. He smiled for a moment and then became very serious. “When I am gone, I will leave this village to your care. You know this, don’t you?”
My voice caught in my chest. I felt such a deep sorrow that it resonated as physical pain. How could he talk about leaving me?
“What about Titus?” I asked.
“Titus has a role to fill, and he will fill it well. But he is not you. You are not him. You have your own life to live, and I hope you will live it well.” He rested his head and breathed heavily. “You must look after this village in all that you do. Empower it, serve its people. In this, I believe you will do even more than I.”
I looked down and fidgeted, feeling like a child again. “You don’t know that you are going to die, Papa.” When I looked up, he was wearing a sad smile, and he waved me forward to kiss him.
“I love you, son.” Such affections were rare and cherished in our home, and I understood how real his illness was. “Will you go and get your brother? I’d like to speak with him as well.” I gave him one last nod as I left the room and went and did as he asked.
He died in his sleep that night. The gods took him while he still had his dignity and his honor, and for that I know he was happy.
Sometimes when I am alone and nature sways around me, I sit and reflect on my father. He told me I had a role to play. I sometimes wonder: if he could see me now, would he believe I have played my part well? With all my heart I hope so.
EVERYTHING CHANGED.
Before I could even shave my mourning beard, our farm began to struggle. We had less success training our horses. We were all hard workers and knew how to handle our steeds, but Father had a special way with them.
In the months following Father’s burial, Gaia evidently deemed that Nursia should face even colder conditions than before, and because of this, the village had a hard time producing anything for trade.
Titus married the daughter of a successful drover; her name was Volesa, and the dowry helped bandage our losses for a time. But it wasn’t long before the strain began to wear on us once more.
Before I could even see what was happening, we began selling some of our furniture, some of the decor my father had collected during the military campaigns of his youth. The house seemed bare and cold—but then again, so it had ever since his passing.
It wasn’t long until we faced other consequences as well. Suddenly our grain imports began to slow, and eventually they disappeared altogether. Because my father’s friends in Rome hadn’t heard from him in some time, so the imports had ceased to arrive. As a result, Nursia’s economy struggled. There was little to trade in the markets, and so they stayed closed most days.
Slowly, we began to see more people living on the streets. Families huddling under wool blankets asked for small jobs in exchange for money for food. My mother, Titus, and I all considered it our responsibility to serve the community—as Father had instructed—and so our atrium and guest bedrooms were often filled with our unfortunate neighbors. If we ever had anything left over, Mother and Volesa would take it to the other villagers who most needed it. We would often walk through the silent Sabine streets and offer condolences to those who had become impoverished. More than once we found someone dead from the cold or from a sickness borne of exposure. It was hard to forget those sights, those feelings.
At this time, it was determined that Titus should leave for Rome. There is a process known as the tirocinium fori, wherein a young Roman client lives under the tutelage of his patrons. Generally, the process is intended to teach the ways of the Forum and so begin the young man’s career. Titus feigned that this was his desire, but I believe he simply wanted to secure patronage and ensure that aid would be available to us all.
So, just after his wife gave birth to their first child—a son named Gavius—Titus packed his things and left for Rome. He shook my hand and told me to look after the homestead while he was gone.
Within six months we received a letter from Titus.
Beloved Family,
I write in haste, with news that I am sure you are not expecting. I have left the care of our patrons in Rome. I have proven unable to continue that path. I have failed you, and I am sorry. I am not fit for that life. Instead, I have made the decision to pursue a career in the legions. I have begun my training and sworn my oath. I’ll earn respect through the ranks and begin a political career with the backing of my men. Brother Quintus, I leave the care of my wife and child to you. Please look after them. Do all that you must to ensure their safety and provision while I am gone, as I know you will. If all goes well, I will visit at the beginning of this year when my legion settles in for winter quarters.
Your devoted son, brother, husband, and father.
Of course, we were all devastated. We couldn’t understand it. We wanted to support his decision, his desire to serve Rome as Father had, but with Nursia crumbling, our fear overwhelmed our pride.
At first, I was so startled I did not understand the implications of his letter, and so my mother came to speak with me.
To my surprise she said, “I think you need to go to Rome, my boy.”
“What? I cannot leave you. What about Gavius? How can he be raised with neither a father nor an uncle present?”
“We will be fine, Quintus. The gods will provide, as they always have.”
“And what about Nursia?” I gestured to the doorway and beyond, where so many people were starving. “These people need me.”
“And that is precisely why you must go.” Even as she spoke I saw the life I had imagined for myself evaporating before my eyes. The life of a rural farmer, raising horses, hunting, establishing a family, and serving my village.
“But Titus … if he couldn’t do it, what makes you think I can?” I searched for other excuses. Titus’s path is not yours. I recalled my father’s words, and a chill shot down my spine.
“You are a leader, Quintus,” my mother said. “You inspire others. You love Nursia. I know this, but by staying here you would be sacrificing the gifts the gods have given you. You would hurt Nursia if you stayed. You were made for something greater.” She reached forward and grabbed both of my hands between her own. “I know it.”
“I … I … I want to be like father. I want a quiet life!” I pleaded, as much with myself as with her. As much as a young man dreams of doing important things with his life—like seeking office or holding a command in the army—I had never wanted to make the sacrifices necessary to achieve such heights.
“I know you do. But sometimes men have to sacrifice their own peace to ensure that of others. And if you stay here, will you not be discontented? Knowing that you were destined for something greater by the gods and yet declined to answer fate’s call?” She began to weep.
I knew she was even more conflicted than I was, and I knew her heart broke to ask this of me. I couldn’t imagine her without either of her sons around the farm. But I could think of no other protests. I knew she was right. She always was.
“I will go,” I said in a voice as frail as a whisper.
“You cannot simply go to earn their grain. Because one day you will die and your patrons will die, and we will be left in this situation again. You must change everything, Quintus. You must take the sword into your own hands.” She kissed my forehead and I held her as she wept.
TWO WEEKS LATER, I packed my belongings. In the meantime, I bade farewell to my neighbors and friends and told them to hold on to hope, for help would soon be coming. As I made my rounds, a change began i
n me: I realized that I could truly do something for Nursia.
I embraced Volesa and told her to be strong. I held Gavius and wept as I rocked him gently in my arms, thinking it a grave injustice that this boy would have no father or uncle to help him learn to walk.
My last farewell was to my mother. This was perhaps one of the hardest moments of my life, yet without it, I believe I would never have been able to handle the challenges I later faced.
“I love you so much, my son. You are so brave.” She wept, and I understood this was as difficult for her as it was for me—especially since I was leaving at her bidding. She was making a sacrifice just as surely as I. I held her hands in my own. They were soft as silk but tough as leather; they were callused from grinding our grain, but they had helped birth our cousins.
I was nineteen—a man by all accounts—but before my mother I was still a child.
“Goodbye, Mother.” I kissed her head, then turned for the door.
SCROLL II
As difficult as it was to leave my mother all alone, I had one solace: my dear friend Lucius Hirtuleius accompanied me to Rome. He had been a fixture in my life for as long as I could remember, and along with his twin cousins, Spurius and Aulus Insteius, we’d plundered our fair share of orchards and drained enough wine for all of Nursia. Now, Lucius’s company was the only thing keeping my nerves relatively still.
As we began our three-day journey, a crowd gathered outside our homes to see us off. For the first time, people called me by my family name, Sertorius, rather than Quintus, my given name. Lucius, too, was forever after known as Hirtuleius, except by some of his closest friends.
We took the Via Salaria—typically used for the salt trade—straight for Rome, neither of us daring to look back. This was the same way my father and I had come years ago, but this journey felt so very different. The air heated up as we went, and our downcast spirits slowly warmed with it. Our destinies lay ahead and there could be no better future than to serve our country.
Each night we would find a safe spot along the side of the road and set up camp. I showed Lucius a few things, like how to start a fire.
“I wish my father had been around to teach me things like this,” he muttered to himself. His father had given his life for Rome in a battle against northern invaders. Lucius had been too young at the time to be left with any memories of the man.
“At least you have a friend who can show you.” I patted him on the shoulder.
“And I thank the gods for it.”
In recent years, we’d grown even closer due to our mutual hardships. We had both been bereaved of our fathers, and we shared this common wound together. Unlike myself, however, Lucius had also lost his mother when he was no more than a toddler; she’d died giving birth to his brother Aius. When his father died, both Lucius and Aius had been taken into the household of their elderly grandfather Manius.
The pain he had endured—and endured with the resolve of Troy’s golden walls—kept me moving forward when I faltered. Though I was his elder and often the leader of our merry little band, I looked up to him for how bravely he’d withstood such suffering.
That night beside the campfire, he asked, for what felt like the hundredth time, “Are you excited to get to Rome?”
“In some ways. I’m nervous though.” I split a few strands of grass and idly threw them into the fire.
“I’ve always wanted to be a soldier. Remember when we were kids and we’d play legionnaires? You always wanted to be the general, and I always wanted to be the rank and file, like my father.”
“I remember clearly.” We both chuckled. “I believe that with all the experience we’ve gained from stick-swords, they ought to give you a promotion immediately.”
Lucius smiled and looked up at the stars. “I will miss my brother though, quite a bit.” He took a long pull of water from his wineskin.
“I know you will. But before you know it, you’ll be back home. Either that or he’ll join you on campaign.”
“Eh, I hope not. He’s smart, my brother. He should be a poet or a philosopher … something like that. Leave the swordplay to fools like me.”
“Bona Dea,” I punched his arm, and we fell silent, enjoying the insect orchestra. “Lucius?”
“Yes, amicus?”
“You know how I said I was nervous?”
“Yes.”
“That’s not really it. I’m just plain scared.” I continued to pick at the grass and avoided meeting his eye.
He waited for me to look at him before he asked, “What are you scared of?”
“I’m scared that I don’t have what it takes to make it in Rome.”
“What? Quintus, how can you say that? Ever since I have known you—”
“Lucius … I know. I’ve heard it all before. I don’t need to hear how successful I’ll be. I just need someone to be scared with me right now.” We looked back up at the Italian sky, before he reached over and patted my arm.
“I’m terrified,” he said.
“Liar,” I jested, ready to lighten the mood.
“Do you think I’ll be able to join the army in the north? And fight the Cimbri?” he asked as he lay back against his bags. The barbarian hordes of the Cimbri and their allies had taken the life of Lucius’s father as well as grotesque numbers of other Romans. Every soldier dreamed of defeating them, but dreaded an actual encounter with those hordes.
“I’m not really sure, amicus. You could be sent anywhere,” I replied.
“I think I’d like to go to Gaul. All the mountains and trees and snow might feel a little bit like home … don’t you think? Or maybe Spain would. You think I might be sent to Spain?” Lucius always had a habit of chattering when nervous, whereas I often clammed up. “I’d like that. But I don’t really care where I am sent, as long as I have a sword in my hand. Manius says he’ll disown me if I’m not campaigning by the kalends of March!” We laughed, knowing that the first of the month would be fast upon us. But Manius was a hard, unbending man and probably meant it. Given to illness and anger in his later years, he had once been an honored centurion for well over sixteen campaigns. As a result, he often treated his kin much as he had the soldiers he’d once commanded. At the time of Lucius’s father’s death, Manius was Lucius’s only surviving relative—all the rest of their male family had given their lives for Rome in battle. So it made sense that Manius demanded so much of his eldest grandchild.
WHEN FINALLY WE arrived in Rome, we knew we would soon have to part ways. And so we held off for as long as we could, roaming instead around the streets and reacquainting ourselves with the sights and smells of the eternal city. After all the time that had passed since I had last seen Rome, it made me dizzy to look up at the tops of those massive temples and state buildings.
Eventually, we knew we had to say goodbye. Hirtuleius was going to the Esquiline Hill where he was to find housing in a small insula, and he needed to get there before sundown. I, on the other hand, continued fumbling my way around those busy streets I would come to love until I found the palatine, where Gnaeus Caepio and the fortunate rich resided. I remember seeing people of all ethnicities moving busily like an army of ants, executing the tasks before them. Rome was pregnant with energy and vitality.
I arrived at the large domus only after receiving directions from a few busy passersby. I paused in front of a door painted scarlet and bearing two gilt wolf heads with iron rings in their snouts. My fist trembled as I reached up and beat against the door, knowing that once I crossed that threshold I would be stepping into my people’s hopes and dreams.
An old slave answered and eyed me curiously for a long moment before speaking. “You’re an equestrian, are you?” he said, looking at the thin purple stripe on my toga that designated my class. “And you don’t look like a city boy. No, you’re a farmin’ lad, aren’t you? What does an Italian equestrian want from my dominus on a Wednesday afternoon in August? We have three months until the elections, if that’s why you’re here.” He shi
elded his eyes from the sun.
“Uh, no. I am a client of your dominus. This is the home of Gnaeus Caepio, is it not?” I stammered.
“Right you are! Certainly! Indeed! Come on in, lad. My name is Crito, and I am the doorkeeper of this house,” the slave said, opening the doors wider and stepping aside. “Dominus doesn’t typically see his clients after midday, but given that you’ve come here all the way from … where did you say you are from?” He cocked his head and gave me a discerning glance.
“Nursia,” I replied, struggling to take off my muddy sandals.
“Nursia, ah? So you’re a Sabine? I’ve heard many stories about your kind—hardy folk! I’ve heard it’s mighty cold there, too. So are you a turnip farmer? Dominus often buys turnips in droves from that very city. Something about the soil there, I suppose,” Crito rambled.
I’ll admit I was shocked at how chipper this slave was. Later, I would become very fond of him, and even now I smile as I think back to his peculiar speech and amicable disposition.
As I followed Crito inside, the atrium stole my attention. Awestruck, I gazed around at the beauty of the bright frescos that lined the walls. Luscious azures, greens, yellows, and ochres danced across the walls and even up to the ceiling, telling the story of an aquatic adventure. In the center of the rectangular room was a small pool of water below an opening in the ceiling, and a thick stream of sunlight reflected off the shimmering water onto the walls, making the frescos come alive.
“Is it different than your Italian villa?” Crito grinned, as if he was very proud of the domus.
“It is more … colorful.”
The slave let out a raspy laugh. “Very good! Yes, yes, the domina is quite particular about the way her home is decorated. She refuses anything less than the best. Even though the ground floor is the men’s floor, she makes the entire house as elegant as any eastern palace. If you’ll follow me, I’ll take you to Caepio straight away.”
I snapped out of my trance and followed him closely. We passed through the halls, the death masks of Caepio’s ancestors looking on without emotion. Several slaves peered curiously at me from other rooms, and the big Gallic slave guarding the silver and expensive trinkets in the atrium flexed his muscles.
The Man With Two Names Page 2
