The Man With Two Names

by Vincent B Davis II

  “When did all of this begin? Or better yet, how did it begin?” I turned to Aius.

  “I don’t know. He woke up one morning and was feeling particularly feeble and told me to work outside by myself until he could get up. He refused any help. When I returned at the end of the day, he was still here in his cot, shivering and sweating, his head radiating heat like a fire.” I turned back to Manius and looked in his face. Although his eyes were still alert, he seemed to have no idea where he was or what was happening. “He didn’t react to anything,” Aius said. The corners of his lips and the areas under his eyes were black as coal. It reminded me of the faces that lined the streets outside, and I wondered if it was a result of the fever.

  “Aius, would you bring us some well-watered wine?” He nodded and shuffled away, and almost instantly Manius began to convulse. His bony legs and arms began to twitch in an almost epileptic rage. I pulled him up by his shoulders and into my lap. Even in his withered state I had a hard time keeping him under control. Spit and bile bubbled from his lips and ran down his chin. When Aius arrived at the door, I heard the amphora and cups clatter to the ground.

  “Come and hold his hand, Aius,” I said as calmly as I could, ignoring the wine spilling across the floor. He ran and knelt beside us, sweeping Manius’s hands up between his own. Manius slowly returned to his docile state, his shallow breaths returning in irregular patterns.

  I cannot say how long we stayed there. Hours, I guess, maybe even half the day. I do know that what little light had filled the room seemed to die away, and later on some of it reappeared. Manius shifted between angry, restless twitching and utter stillness. Several times we both craned our necks to see if he had stopped breathing, but time and again his chest continued to rise and fall like an easy tide on an early morning. Aius wept quietly but did his best to maintain his composure, knowing how much his grandfather had always valued strength and self-control.

  As time passed, I could see a slight yellow tint begin to cross Manius’s face, starting around the eyes. Suddenly he began to convulse again, but I felt that this time was different. His tongue pushed through his lips and his eyes looked up at the ceiling, so intently I thought they might disappear behind his eyelids.

  “If there is anything you would like to say, Aius, I think now is the time.” I still do not remember exactly what he said. Through bitter tears he told his grandfather how much he appreciated all that he had done for him—his care and his tutelage. He told his grandfather of his undying love, which I assume was the first and only time they had shared such words, and swore an oath to carry on his legacy. I remember trying to calm myself as I pressed my eyes shut, trying to hold back the warm waterfall of tears that flowed regardless.

  “I thank you as well, sir,” I remember saying as Aius finished. Shortly after, a deep, low breath arose from Manius’s chest as if it was being driven from his body, and then he went limp. Aius finally let his emotions go, and he fell back against the stone, sobbing. I slowly returned Manius to his cot and pulled the sheet up over his face.

  I tried not to think too much and had to keep pushing away the thoughts that seeped into my mind. Was I like Manius? Would I be respected and admired? I felt unclean. How could I be wading in the political filth of Rome when I had been reared among such noble men? The thoughts continued to flow, and I tried to push them away. I tried to dwell on Gnaeus’s words about being a great man or doing great things. Perhaps, I thought, I am not to be afforded the luxury of having both. But even then, I knew it wasn’t true.

  IT IS FUNNY HOW DEATH, like the ending of a play or an epic poem, redefines everything that precedes it. In life, Manius had been a cold, unbending man, who we all feared as much as we respected. Now, in death, we remembered him as a statue of the old Roman ways. His death represented the passing of the old breed of Romans, the strong, unyielding, quiet kind.

  Aius and I both returned to my home and told my mother of his passing, but she didn’t seem surprised. At once, we began preparations for a funeral, and the very next day we burned him on a pyre before the same faces that had cheered me the afternoon prior. We mixed his ashes with wine and interred them in his ancestral burial ground, on a grassy knoll atop a hill that overlooked Nursia. It comforted me to think that Manius would oversee my old home, protecting and guiding our people the way he’d always done, just as silent in life as he was now in death.

  HOW EASY IT must be for you, Reader, to disassociate yourself from these woes, as it often is for me so many years later. But so very long ago, those sights left me forever altered. To lose Manius, to see the burden of my people, left a scar on my heart that has never fully healed. It created in me an attachment to the very land beneath my feet, a need to do what I could to leave Italy better than when I was welcomed into it. Despite such intense feelings, it is difficult to put myself in those shoes again. Perhaps it is because my mind has refused it, or just because memories—even the bitterest, most formative ones—fade away with the passage of time. But after rereading some of my personal correspondence, I am reminded of the pain that was so prevalent at that time.

  After the funeral we were left to answer Aius’s question of what he would do. He was too young to live alone, too young to leave for Rome. There was no alternative. My mother and I decided it was our duty as his clansmen to take him in. He would be well cared for, I knew, by my mother and Volesa, even though we were enduring hardships of our own. But, then, what are friends for if we are unwilling to suffer alongside one another?

  We returned to my family home immediately after Manius’s ashes were interred. Aius followed reluctantly, looking back at Manius’s house. Within no time at all of our arrival, Aius was fast asleep on a couch in the triclinium.

  I felt much the same as he did, and found a couch of my own, dropping down onto it like a sack of old wine. I was too exhausted to do much of anything, but too anxious to sleep. I spent a few moments staring at the old walls of my home, as if shades of my youth circled around me, reminding me of both happy times and sad, the things that shape us into who we become. Finally, my mother came in and sat down beside me, smiling at the sight of me home again. It was the first moment of rest we’d had since my arrival, and there was a natural understanding, a peace between us, that I can’t explain.

  “So tell me about Rome, my son,” she said quietly, so as not to rouse Aius across the room.

  “There isn’t much to tell, honestly. It is all that I had hoped, in a way. I’ve been given a great opportunity, but perhaps it’s not exactly what I’d expected.”

  “And what of our patrons? Are they good to you?”

  “They are. I’m growing increasingly loyal to them for the good they have done me …”

  “Yet you are not sure you trust them,” she said.

  “I find that good or bad can both be taken in stride and handled accordingly, but ambiguity is a hard thing to conquer. What am I supposed to do when I don’t know what is right?” I looked to her for an answer and realized for the first time that my eyes were incredibly weary.

  “But you do know what’s right, my son. Look within yourself. You’ve been raised to value what is right, and you are a good man. I don’t say that simply because you are my son, but because you are the hope for so many people. Search within yourself. Your instincts will always lead you on the right path.”

  “I only wish it was as easy and as noble as that sounds. Thank you, Mother.” She stood and knelt to kiss my head, and I guess I fell asleep shortly thereafter, because I don’t remember anything else from the evening, nor did I wake until late the next morning.

  When I arose, I strode through the corridors of my home the same as I did the Caepiones’, in search of something I couldn’t find. I finally approached the shrine to the household gods in what used to be my bedroom. I lit the candles and knelt before it, closing my eyes and resting, feeling as if my father were there with me.

  “I pray that I will be led down the right path, that I shall see right and wron
g and choose the former. I ask that you’ll guide me to help my people, to better my country. If it pleases you, I vow my life—if only you will use it for good.” At length I stood.

  I spent some time that day catching up with my mother and with Volesa and the baby. We cheered and gasped as Gavius stood upright and began to walk between us, a feat that surprised me, since he’d hardly been able to crawl when I left for Rome. I walked around the house and smiled at the dents in the walls and the scratched paint where Titus and I had caused some mischief or another in our youth, the paw print in the cement on the floor where my ancestor’s dog had stepped during the house’s construction. All these things reminded me why I loved my home, but they also reminded me of why I had to leave.

  I packed what little I had left and told each of them farewell in their turn, trying to keep the moment as calm and peaceful as possible given the emotional turmoil we had endured. “Goodbye, Mother,” was the final thing I said from that doorway, giving my home just one last look before I turned away, eyes facing west, to Rome.

  SCROLL VII

  NOVEMBER 648 AB URBE CONDITA; TWO MONTHS UNTIL ELECTION.

  I arrived at Caepio’s domus around dusk three days after I left Nursia. The home was relatively empty when I entered; a few slaves leaned against the walls, talking idly, and only straightening as I neared.

  “Sertorius!” I heard Caecilia’s voice from the tablinum. She rushed out to embrace me. “How was your journey? How was your home?” she asked, brimming with delight.

  “It was good to see my family and friends again,” I said, as she patted my shoulder.

  “Well, we are happy to have you back home. Yours is a most welcome presence here.” Her cordiality caught me off guard.

  “I’m very honored to hear you say that, madam. I have great respect for this house, and I hope that I have done my humble part.”

  “Humble no longer.” She leaned in close, a sly grin on her face. “I overheard Gnaeus and Quintus speaking a few days ago. They both agreed that despite your origins, you are a man who commands respect. They plan to utilize you more often in the future and seek to continue assisting you in whatever way you need.”

  “I-I’m taken aback, madam. I very much appreciate your trust in me.”

  “Very good,” she said. “Forgive me, I must be getting ready. Gnaeus and Quintus are dining on the roof, if you would like to join them.” She pointed to the staircase. I was eager to do so, hoping for some further praise.

  I set my bags down and marched up the stairs to the roof.

  “Sertorius! You’ve arrived. We were beginning to worry about you,” Quintus said upon sight of me.

  Gnaeus waved me over, saying, “Come and have a seat.” Both he and Quintus were tucked under heavy woolen blankets, and their faces were pink from the wind. “How was your first speech?” he asked, pouring me a cup of wine.

  “It went well, I think. The village cheered and all expressed how much they look forward to the aid you’ve promised. I would say Nursia is now among the staunchest of your supporters.” I took a sip of the wine, pleased to discover it was far better than the swill I’d tried to drink on the Aventine.

  “Very good. How exciting that must have been for you!” Quintus said. I was overjoyed to find both my patrons in such good moods. I stared over the vast ocean of temples, insulae, and state buildings to the horizon, where the pale blue sky convalesced into a silk apricot that covered the coast.

  Suddenly Gnaeus spoke up. “Sertorius, we’ve been invited to the home of Aurelius Cotta for a wedding ceremony this evening, and you are more than welcome to come along.”

  “Really? Who is getting married—anyone I’ve met?” I asked, sounding more ignorant than I liked.

  “The daughter of Cotta, Aurelia, is to be married to a man I don’t believe you’ve met,” Quintus replied. “His name is Gaius Julius Caesar. It’s not the best match in my opinion, but I would never say that. The Julii are an ancient and respected family, but there’s been little to tell of them for over a century now. Regardless, I’m happy for Aurelia.”

  “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure of making her acquaintance yet, nor that of Gaius Julius, but I’d be happy to join and offer my congratulations.” I was honored by the invitation.

  “Master Sertorius?” came the peculiar voice of Crito from the entrance to the roof.

  “Yes?”

  “I’m sorry to interrupt, sir, but some mail arrived for you while you were away. I’ve laid it in your room. Just wanted to let you know.” I nodded my thanks and returned my attention to Gnaeus and Quintus.

  “Go on, boy, we know you want to read it.” Gnaeus grinned.

  “Thank you, sir.” I sprang to my feet and made my way back downstairs.

  “Sertorius, you might want to begin preparing yourself presently. We’ll be leaving within an hour or so,” Quintus shouted from above.

  “Certainly, sir,” I called back and continued downstairs. I hurried to my bedroom to find a single letter beside my pillow. Instead of wax on the seal, it was dried mud. Despite the rough insignia, I made it out to be the image of my family from my father’s ring, now worn by my brother, Titus. It seemed a life-age since I’d heard from Titus, and I was overjoyed to run my fingers over the soft parchment before breaking the seal and poring over the familiar, rough penmanship.

  GREETINGS, brother,

  I have heard that you are now under the tutelage of the Caepiones. I am very proud indeed that you have taken the first step in what I believe will be a long career for you. The politician’s toga will suit you adequately. I am sure they have been very kind to you and that you are adjusting fine. Still, I implore you to remember your values. I will not tell you how to live your life, but I want you to remember that loyalty to dogs is no better than disloyalty to good men.

  Things here in Gaul are about what you would imagine. This winter has been boring and frigid, nothing but marching and building and sleeping in mud. I look forward to the beginning of war season again, when we can take the fight to the Cimbri. If it wasn’t for Volesa, Gavius, mother, and yourself, I would very much like to stay here. A soldier’s life suits me, just as it did our ancestors. Perhaps you will join me here, if you ever decide that life among Rome’s finest is beneath your station. I look forward to our reunion, brother.

  Titus, Prefect of XI Cohort, IV Legion

  I SAT BACK and pondered my brother’s words for a long time, not for the first time wishing that he would be more direct and forthcoming. It irritated me that he was trying to discourage me from what I was doing with the Caepiones, but it did make me think. I had to silence my mind before I started to dwell on the subject for too long. Regardless, I was happy to hear from him.

  Imagining the two of us fighting on the open frontier for the glory of the Republic gave me a thrill that politics didn’t seem to ignite in me. After a moment, I set down the letter and changed into a new toga. Despite Titus’s misgivings—and Lucius Hirtuleius’s for that matter—I was doing something I knew was for the good of Rome, and therefore I had to prepare myself for whatever lay ahead.

  I’LL ADMIT, for all my professed excitement, I was dreading another dinner party with the nobles. After what I’d experienced while home in Nursia, I wasn’t particularly looking forward to a night of the nobles’ duplicity, no matter how genial they were.

  “I thank you again for this invitation, patron,” I said to Quintus, as he helped his wife into a litter before crawling in himself.

  “Dear me, you’re part of the family now, after all,” he said with a wink. Though I was flattered, I couldn’t help but notice that they were all carried in litters while I walked behind.

  Two slaves led the way, one with a cane to whip away undesirables, the other with a lantern, though it was still light outside. We moved slowly and deliberately, like a funeral procession, toward the home of Caesar II, where that night’s feast was to be held for the man’s son and new daughter-in-law. It came to my attention that the
formal ceremony had been conducted the night prior, an event from which I, no doubt, would have been excluded. This was the social celebration. Gnaeus explained it as, “Verbal consent fulfills the legal expectations, the sharing of the hearth fire and water fulfills the religious expectations, and this celebration will fulfill the social expectations, and the first night … the practical expectations.” He winked again.

  We arrived in the Subura, where I was surprised to find the noble residence of Caesar. I would have figured a patrician like our host would have a home on the Palatine, where all his colleagues resided, but one could at least say that this home was triple the price of the shabby townhouses that surrounded it.

  We ignored the heckling of citizens on the road and halted before the domus. My patrons took their time getting down from their litters, and we waited there to be addressed. One of Gnaeus’s slaves beat the door ring to signal our arrival, and the steward slave answered.

  “Greetings, masters! Welcome,” the slave bellowed, bowing low and holding the doors open for us. Quintus waved the litter-bearers away, and they found their place along the adjacent wall among the litters of the other guests.

  The home was packed. Compared to Gnaeus’s domus, this home was small enough to make one feel quite enclosed—especially with the thick gathering of nobles. We moved slowly, formally, through the house, as if we were admiring some ancient temple. Caecilia took the time to critique everything she saw. I started feeling antsy walking behind those old nobles and quickly squeezed my way through to the less-crowded tablinum. Much like Gnaeus’s desk, Caesar’s was covered in legal documents and recently read texts. The only item of note was an old sword and scabbard on the far wall, sitting atop a small Greek column of ancient stone. I analyzed it with deep interest. It was certainly timeworn. It was the color of rust and looked as though it might dissolve in my hands.