by R. W. Peake
“How could you let me believe you were dead all these years?” I cannot express what an effort of will it took for me to keep my voice at a reasonable level, but I suppose I was in possession of myself enough to know that bellowing at the top of my lungs would destroy any chance of me learning the truth. To my utter horror, I felt the pricking of tears as I stared down at her, deciding to remain on my feet and in possession of the high ground, so to speak, as I repeated, “How could you?”
This seemed to unleash something in Giulia as well, because she was unable to stop herself from bursting into tears, and she buried her face in her hands, whereupon she began sobbing uncontrollably. Despite my anger with her, before I had any conscious thought, I had crossed over to her, dropping to my knees in front of her, yet when I reached out to touch her, she recoiled.
“Don’t!” She dropped her hands from her face, and I saw the telltale sign of anger in the dilation of her nostrils, which I thought was aimed at me, but she said, “Don’t try to comfort me, Titus! I don’t deserve it! I…I…”
While I recall every moment of that night, I will not speak of much of it, taking the memory with me across the river; all I will relate is the story of why Giulia hid the birth of my son from me, and how she did it.
“My mother told me that if I did anything to try and contact you, she would spend as much money as necessary to have you killed,” Giulia’s voice was flat and matter-of-fact, if slightly muffled because her head was resting on my chest. “And,” there was a slight change then, as she showed a flash of bitter hatred, “after what she did to Plotina, I knew she was perfectly capable of doing it.”
While this made sense, and I completely understood and agreed with her assessment of her mother’s ability for hatred, I cannot lie; the idea she would be able to find someone with enough skill to kill me was something I did not accept easily.
However, there was one thing I did not understand, and I said as much. “But what about your father? I know he liked me; he told me as much.”
I felt her chest expand, and the sigh she let out was one of true melancholy, although she answered readily enough. “As much as I loved my Tata, Titus, I’m not blind now and I wasn’t then. He was a good man, but he was a weak one, and he loved my mother more than she deserved to be loved.” She lifted her head to look me directly in the eye, and in the guttering light of the small lamp on the table next to the bed, I saw those golden flecks that had so captivated me early on, yet her tone was level as she acknowledged the one thing we had never discussed. “That was why he forgave my mother after she had an affair with that Legate.” Before I could reply or react in any way, she turned away and dropped her head back on my chest, and finished, “Besides that, he was as scared of her as I was.”
Now that, I thought, I could understand, and I recalled the short conversation I had had with Lucius Livinius, after my confrontation with his wife Livinia, when he had admitted as much.
Despite my acceptance of her explanation of the early days of her pregnancy and the birth of our son, I was not ready to capitulate on my anger, and more than that, the hurt I felt, prompting me to ask, “That explains early on, but your mother died, what, three years after you left?”
“Four,” she corrected, but I was certain she was stalling, and I brushed this aside, hearing the impatience in my voice. “Three, four, five, it doesn’t matter. Why didn’t you let me know that you weren’t dead? That you had borne a son?” Somehow, I managed to get this past the sudden lump in my throat. “My son?”
Despite my best intentions to avoid it, I could feel the anger growing in me, which caused me to remove myself from our position, sitting up against the wall so that I could look her directly in the eye. In a move that I remembered loving every time she did it, Giulia sat up as well, and did not draw the sheet around her to cover her nakedness, while she looked me directly in the eye, which, even as angry as I was, I respected.
“Because it would have destroyed Gnaeus’ life,” she answered quietly. At first, I was confused, since I rarely called Volusenus by his praenomen, if I ever had. “And he would have been cast out of my husband’s home, been branded as a bastard, and never would have had a chance.”
This, I knew perfectly well, was inarguable, but I was not yet ready to be reasonable; however, her mention of the man who had been my love’s husband took control of my mind, and I asked her, “Did he know that he wasn’t…Gnaeus’ father?”
“Yes, he knew,” Giulia answered but then did not seem disposed to say anything more, except I was not about to let this be all she said on the subject.
“And?” I demanded; for a long moment, she did not answer, and this time, she did look away from me.
Finally, she heaved a sigh and said, “And he was in so much debt that my father was willing to pay him out of that he convinced us both that he wouldn’t ever hold it against me, and that he’d raise Gnaeus as his own son.”
The lump reappeared in my throat, but I forced myself to ask, “And did he?”
“Yes,” Giulia answered immediately, but then added, “and no.”
I listened as she went on to describe what her life had been like, and as I sat there, I realized that, despite myself, I could sympathize with Quintus Claudius Volusenus. What Giulia told me aligned with what little Volusenus had told me about his father, that, while he had not been mistreated by the man he thought was his father, neither had they been close. Now that I knew the truth, I could understand why the older man treated the boy he knew was not his with some reserve, but neither could I suppress a twinge of sorrow for the young Volusenus, not knowing why his father did not seem to love him.
Suddenly, I was struck by another thought and I interrupted Giulia, “How did he treat you? Did he…mistreat you?”
I confess I was not only surprised, but a little put out when she answered immediately, “No, he didn’t. Oh,” she allowed, “sometimes when he’d had too much wine, Quintus Claudius would say something, but he did it in such a way that only I knew what he was talking about and not our son.”
I felt a sharp stab of envy at the fact that she had referred to Volusenus as “our” son, assuming that she meant herself and Volusenus, but I was reminded how well she knew me, despite the years that had passed, because she read my face correctly, and said softly, “No, Titus, I’m not talking about Quintus Claudius and me; I’m talking about you and me. He’s our son, and I’ve never forgotten that.”
“Did you love him?” I blurted this out before I could stop myself, yet once more, Giulia did not look surprised, although I was certain I saw a flash of irritation, which she confirmed when she sighed, replying, “You men all think alike. That was the one thing that Quintus Claudius asked, especially in the beginning, if I still loved you.” She tilted her head slightly, a shadow of a smile as she continued, “Now, here you are, asking me the same thing about him.”
“That didn’t answer the question,” I pointed out.
“No, it didn’t,” she agreed readily enough, but then she broke my gaze, looking away as she sat silently for a moment. Then, as if asking herself, she echoed, “Did I love Quintus?” I realized I was holding my breath as she considered this, before she said, “I was…fond of him. Aside from the fact that he was horrible at business, he was essentially a good man, and he provided well for me and for Gnaeus. With,” she added, “my father’s help, since he left us quite a bit of money.” Suddenly, she turned back to regard me with a raised eyebrow, and there was something in her eyes that gave me a moment’s warning, asking me, “What about you? Who have you been in love with since we were together?”
“Nobody,” I answered immediately, and truthfully, looking her directly in the eye.
I saw she was torn – I assumed between being doubtful and being pleased – but she countered, “So, you’re saying that you’ve been celibate all these years?”
That, I admit, caused the blood to rush to my face, but I also had to laugh, admitting, “I didn’t say anything about
celibacy.” My smile vanished, because I wanted her to understand I was being sincere. “But, no, I’ve never loved anyone since you, Giulia.”
Her eyes filled with tears, which caused a similar welling in my own, but this time, I was not ashamed that she saw them, and without saying anything, she reached out and placed her tiny hand on the scar on my left arm. We sat there, silent and motionless for a long moment, both of us absorbed in our own regrets, I suppose.
She was looking down at my arm as she stroked it softly, and she murmured, “I remember the first time I touched this; it made me so sad for you.”
“Sad?” I smiled, mainly trying to make light of it and not betray how touched I was. “Why should it make you sad? You told me you found it quite attractive!”
“I did,” she agreed, a smile coming to her own face, but it only was there for a heartbeat, “but then I would think about how much pain it must have caused you, and it would make me sad.” She lifted her head to examine my face, and she reached out to touch the scar on my cheek, then glanced down at my knees, which were visible now that I was sitting with my legs crossed. “And you have even more now.”
I took her hand from my face, not as a rebuke but because I did not want her to dwell on what is essentially a hazard that comes with the occupation of being a Centurion, but I suppose my thoughts were running in the same direction since I was struck by something, and I realized that I had forgotten to ask, “So, how did you know I would show up? In fact,” I added, “how did you know that I was here in Ubiorum and not still back in Siscia?”
Once more, I sensed by her hesitation that there might be something I would not like, although she admitted readily enough, “I’ve known you were in Gnaeus’ Century ever since not long after he showed up.” She frowned at me then and said severely, “He told me of another Centurion his size who was making his life miserable because he didn’t think Gnaeus belonged in a first line Cohort.”
The blood that had left my face came rushing back, but I was not about to try to defend myself, and I replied flatly, “Because he didn’t.” It was her turn to become angry, signaled once more by the dilating nostrils, but she surprised me by replying, “He admitted as much. And,” she added, “he gave you the credit for making him worthy of being in the Centurionate. Not,” she allowed, “at first. It was probably a year after he showed up when he said that.”
I was awash in a number of emotions, but the one that was strongest was a sense of pride that I had never experienced before. During my career, I had certainly helped other men under the standard, like Marcus Macer, yet this was profoundly different, and I think this was the first moment where I had the slightest idea what it might have felt like for my father.
Setting this aside, I returned to something else that puzzled me, asking her, “That explains you knew I was in the Cohort, but how did you know I’d come here tonight?”
“Because Gnaeus told me he had walked into town to meet me with all the Centurions of his Cohort but one. I thought that you might be the missing one, but I suppose somehow I just knew that you were one of them. And, he wanted to introduce me to all of you.”
I suppressed a gasp, silently thanking the gods for averting what would have been an utter catastrophe, and I was honest enough with myself to know that, if this introduction had occurred, the beast that resides in me could have easily been unleashed.
Giulia must have either sensed this, or simply understood how badly things would go, and she told me, “That’s why I pleaded that the journey had tired me out, and we only spent a short time together before I retired to my room.” She hesitated, and I understood why when she said, “I told him that we’d spend time together tomorrow evening, once he was secured from his duties. But,” she shook her head sadly, and there was no missing the pain in her voice, “we both know that I can’t stay here, so Carissa and I are leaving at dawn tomorrow. Or,” she gave a laugh that held no joy, “dawn today.”
Then, without saying anything more, she suddenly threw herself into my arms, and we held each other for a long, long moment, both absorbed in our own thoughts, our tears mingling together for all that we had lost.
After we made love again, Giulia’s demeanor changed, becoming, if not distant, then somewhat agitated and hesitant.
“Titus,” she had put her dressing gown back on and was sitting on the edge of the bed, and I noticed the distance between us, “I have a request to make.”
“You want me to keep my mouth shut and not let our son know that I’m his father.” I was certain that this was her request, yet even so, I felt another stab of anger when she simply nodded, and that probably contributed to my response. “I don’t know if I can do that, Giulia.”
She surprised me then, because she did not get angry or even impatient at my intransigence, countering instead by asking, “And what would be accomplished, Titus? Yes, he’d know the truth, but,” now her lower lip quivered, and I heard the mother in her, “he’d also hate me. And think horribly of me. Please, Titus, at least don’t tell him now, not before you both go out on this campaign he told me about!” Tears reappeared, yet despite my anger and conviction that Volusenus had a right to know the truth, I felt a deep twinge of guilt, and I was forced to ask myself, was telling him the truth for Volusenus or for me? A part of me reminded myself that I was the wronged party in this, at least as much as Volusenus, but while I wanted to be angry at her, I simply could not bring myself to feel that way towards her. And, I thought, being brutally honest, what would be accomplished?
Nevertheless, I was still surprised to hear my voice saying, “All right, Giulia. I won’t tell him.” Then, I added, “Now, anyway. But he needs to know at some point in time.”
Only after this came out of my mouth did I get a sense of how tense she was, because she literally collapsed forward on the bed, holding her head in both hands, once more weeping uncontrollably, which of course prompted me to move to her and take her in my arms again, cursing the gods who had placed me in this impossible position.
“I swear I’ll tell him, Titus,” Giulia whispered, “but in my own way, and in my own time.”
Honestly, I was not happy about this, especially the part about doing it in her own time, acutely aware that it was extremely likely that my idea about the length of the appropriate time and hers was probably quite different. However, the end of our time together was signaled by the call of the slave whose only function is to keep the time, announcing that the morning hour was just moments from occurring.
“Will you come back to Ubiorum sometime?” I asked, hating myself for the note of hopefulness in my voice.
In answer, Giulia reached up to touch my cheek and smiled at me, her eyes shining as she answered, “One reason I came was to tell Gnaeus that I’m thinking of relocating. Not,” she warned, “to Ubiorum. That would be too close for his comfort. But to Mogontiacum. It’s become quite habitable, actually, and Quintus’ sister lives there now. We grew quite close over the years, and she’s a widow like me. Although,” she made a face, “the weather is wretched.”
“That’s not so far away,” I answered, trying to match her light tone, but neither of us were fooled. I could not restrain myself from reminding her, “And it’s all the more reason to tell Gnaeus the truth, since he’s going to wonder why I’m suddenly visiting his mother.”
She did not say anything, but that was because I kissed her, one more time, then opened the door and left her standing there. I felt her eyes on me as I descended the stairs, but I managed to refrain from looking back. Judging by the way Giulia’s slave Carissa suddenly darted across my line of sight, and the manner in which the slave Mandalonius was shifting uncomfortably on his stool while tugging at his tunic, it appeared that Giulia’s judgment about Carissa’s interest in the slave had been sound. Winking at the German, who gave me a self-conscious grin, I exited the inn, breaking into a run almost immediately. Even for a Centurion, being absent for the morning call without permission was an offense, but honestly, I re
member even less about my return to camp than I do about my journey into town. So many thoughts, many of them in conflict with each other, were competing with the equal tug of warring emotions, but overpowering it all was a sense of hope that, perhaps, just perhaps, Giulia and I could be together again. And, I had a son.
The moment I laid eyes on Gnaeus Volusenus, when we marched to the forum for the morning orders, was even more difficult than I thought it would be, yet despite being certain he would sense something was amiss, he gave no sign that he did. There was one moment that threatened my composure, when, as we were walking back to our area, Macer asked Volusenus how the visit with his mother had gone.
“It wasn’t much of a visit,” Volusenus answered, and I actually slowed a bit so that I was out of his line of sight, just as a precaution, “because she was so tired from the ride. We’re going to see each other tonight.”
“You better make it a good one,” Vespillo interjected, “since we’re leaving tomorrow.”
This had been the word given to us by Germanicus, that he deemed the Legions ready to march against the Marsi, which was true enough; the only task left to the men of our Cohort was to grease their sagum, which we always do last because the waterproofing wears off fairly quickly.
I said nothing, but it was difficult, fighting an almost overwhelming urge to let Volusenus know that when he went to the inn that night, Giulia would be gone; however, I could not think of any way to bring it up in a manner that would not raise all the questions I had promised Giulia I would not mention. It was surprisingly agonizing, frankly, as for the first time I looked at Gnaeus Volusenus, who was completely oblivious to the fact that his father was just a pace behind him, not as a comrade or as a young Centurion who I had seen promise in, but as flesh of my flesh. I suppose this was what prompted me to call Alex into my quarters as soon as we returned.
