by R. W. Peake
"Not a bad day's work," the Hastatus Prior, commander of the Fifth Century, commented, despite the fact that he had a bloody neckerchief tied around his left forearm.
"No, not at all," the Pilus Prior agreed, his eyes narrowing at the sight of the makeshift bandage. "What happened to you?"
"I got careless," the other man replied casually, but his Pilus Prior wasn't moved by the other man's indifference.
"Make sure you have that seen to," he demanded. "We can't afford for it to get corrupted."
The other Centurion assured him that he would, then the other commanders had gathered. All of them congratulated their Pilus Prior. After all, it had been his sharp eyes that had given them the warning they needed. His reaction was to shrug off the praise, but inwardly, he was quite pleased. More than any of the others, he knew why he was in the position he was in, in both the larger and immediate sense.
"I had the best teachers," was his reply.
To that sentiment, there was nothing but agreement.
"Anyone who has Titus Pullus as an uncle, and had Sextus Scribonius as his Pilus Prior, better be good," joked the Pilus Posterior, and while there had been times this was a barbed jest, with the implication being that Gaius Porcinus had achieved the post of Pilus Prior because of his relationship to the great Titus Pullus, Porcinus knew at that moment, or chose to believe, that there was nothing but praise in this statement.
And he took it as he thought it was meant, with a simple nod in acknowledgement that, yes, he was indeed lucky and blessed to have been trained by the best.
"All right, give me a butcher's bill, and let's get the wounded patched up. I want to keep on the march so that we show up in their village not long after these bastards do," Porcinus announced, the idea of making camp now discarded.
Immediately, his Centurions fell to their tasks, as the Fourth Cohort of the 8th Legion, led by Quartus Pilus Prior Gaius Porcinus, made ready to resume their march and bring a taste of Roman iron to yet another recalcitrant tribe.
Chapter 1
Gaius Porcinus shifted in his chair, trying to ease the ache in his back. He had been seated at his desk for at least a full watch now, but it seemed that he had barely moved the wax tablets in front of him from one pile to the next. His system was simple; tablets on the right were those reports that he had to go through and verify, the stack on the left had been completed and tabulated. Sighing, he was forced to admit that it was nobody's fault but his own for putting it off so long, yet he was still getting accustomed to the workload that came from being the Quartus Pilus Prior, the Centurion in command of not just the First Century, but the entire Fourth Cohort. That, he recognized, wasn't exactly true; he had actually been in the post for more than three years, but he was breaking in a new Optio, now that his old one had been promoted into the Centurionate himself, although his Optio was new only in the sense that he was recently promoted to the post. In fact, he was well known to Porcinus and it had been Porcinus' decision to promote him from the ranks of the First Century. The man's name was Tiberius Numerius Ovidius and, as Porcinus was learning, despite the man's many qualities of leadership, the ability to write legibly wasn't one of them. If Porcinus was being honest, he suspected that this wasn't an accident, and in fact, he found it hard to blame Ovidius for preferring to be outside, on the training stakes with the men instead of cooped up indoors.
Sighing, the Pilus Prior, who was in his late thirties, but looked younger than his years, turned his attention back to the stack, knowing that wool-gathering wasn't going to get this chore done any sooner. He wasn't sure how long it was after he resumed work when there was a rap on the door to his quarters, the front room of which served as the Century and Cohort office. His desk was against the far wall from the door, while there was a doorway to his left that opened into his private quarters. That meant he was too far away from the door to open it himself, so he motioned to the slave who worked as the Century clerk to answer the knock.
The slave was Thracian by birth, and had been captured during a campaign that Porcinus had participated in as a Centurion of the 8th Legion, under the command of the Praetor of Macedonia, Marcus Primus. Since the Thracian's name was impossible to pronounce, he had been given the name Lysander, and Lysander rose to do Porcinus' bidding. Opening the door, he found another clerk, this one from the praetorium, delivering the week's batch of mail for the Century. Lysander took the sack containing the collection of scrolls, tablets, and the thin sheets of smoothly sanded wood that poorer Romans used to write on, and returned to his desk. This was part of Lysander's duties, so he untied the knot and dumped the contents on his own small desk, making enough of a racket that it caused Porcinus to jerk, ruining the letter he had been incising.
"Idiot," Gaius muttered, but Lysander knew his master well enough that he understood this was as far as Porcinus' berating would go. Instead, Porcinus, once he had corrected his mistake, looked over at Lysander, and simply said, "I'd forgotten today was mail day. Go ahead and stop working on the training schedule for the week and sort that mess out. I don't want to hear more complaints than we already do about how long it takes to get the men their mail."
"Yes, master," Lysander replied with a grin.
He knew even better than Porcinus did about the volume of complaints he would hear, but since many of those comments came with a cuff on the head or kick in the rear, he was more than happy to obey and get the chore done as quickly as possible. Working quickly, he read each name, cursing under his breath when whoever sent their missive forgot to include the Century number, forcing him to either remember or consult the official roster. Finishing even before Porcinus had reached for the last incomplete report, Lysander had divided the mail into six separate piles, one pile per Century. However, there was one piece left over, a scroll, sealed with wax, which Porcinus noticed when he lifted his head from the last report.
Pointing to it, he told Lysander sharply, "Don't leave that one out. Find out who it belongs to!"
Lysander shook his head as he picked up the scroll, and thrust it towards Porcinus.
"No, master. This one is addressed to you."
Porcinus frowned, forced to stand up and lean over his desk to take the scroll, and he examined the seal as he sat back down. A small smile played on his lips, although he said nothing. At least at first; then, conscious of Lysander's curious gaze and understanding that he would be pestered until he gave an answer, he gave an exasperated sigh.
"Fine. I know you're dying to know who it's from. It's from my uncle," Porcinus said, not elaborating any further, but Lysander understood to whom Porcinus was referring, since he only had one uncle.
In fact, Lysander, in some ways knew Porcinus' adopted father very well, even if it was in an indirect manner. It was because of Porcinus' uncle that Lysander was a slave, so unlike Porcinus, he didn't share his master's smile or sense of anticipation. However, he knew better than to let his feelings show, so he kept his expression in that carefully neutral state of any slave who wanted to avoid feeling the lash of their masters, verbally or physically, as Porcinus shook his head.
"He's probably writing to find out why I haven't come to visit him yet," he chuckled. "I think he writes at least once a month about that. Although," he said, frowning now that he had another moment to examine the scroll, "it's a little unusual."
When Porcinus said nothing else, Lysander, almost despite himself now that he had ascertained the identity of the correspondent, felt compelled to ask, "What's unusual, master?"
"Well," Porcinus pointed to the big red blotch that was the seal, "this is his seal, but this writing isn't his. He usually writes everything to me personally himself." Giving another small laugh, Porcinus laid down the scroll and finished, "I suppose he's getting lazy in his old age."
Turning back to his work, Porcinus decided that the letter could wait until he finished his work. It was in that spirit that he pointed mutely at the mail on Lysander's desk.
"It's not going to deliver itse
lf."
Lysander simply nodded, then stood and began the process of preparing to deliver the mail to the Fourth Cohort.
By the time Porcinus was finally through, the late afternoon sun was slanting through the slits and un-shuttered window, casting a golden glow on the office and all its contents. He was thankful that, despite it being winter, the weather the last few days had been mild enough so that he didn't have to squint because of the poor light thrown by the lamps. Now that he was finished, he allowed himself the small luxury of standing up, stretching his aching back as he realized his ass had fallen asleep. Shaking first one leg, then the other, he walked into his private quarters to retrieve a small pitcher of wine and a cup before returning to the desk. With everything cleared away, all that remained on the desk was the scroll. After Lysander had finished his mail duties, Porcinus had sent him with the stacks of tablets to the praetorium and he had yet to return. Probably off somewhere looking for something to steal, Porcinus thought sourly, for he had learned that larceny was one of Lysander's vices. He had been beaten severely for it, but since in every other way he was exemplary, Porcinus had been lenient with him, so he could only hope that Lysander had learned his lesson. Pouring a cup of wine, he eyed the scroll, chiding himself for his reluctance to open it, so sure was he of its contents. What else could it be but another scolding about not bringing his family to visit? Just as he was reaching for it, there was a knock on the door again, and since Lysander was gone, Porcinus called for whoever it was to enter. The familiar figure of his Optio, Ovidius, filled the doorway before he marched to stand directly in front of Porcinus' desk and came to the position of intente.
"Optio Numerius Ovidius reporting that the men have completed their weapons drills and are now preparing the evening meal, Centurion."
Porcinus returned the salute, then asked, "How did it go?"
Ovidius, still unaccustomed to his new role, didn't feel comfortable enough at this point to break his position of intente, but he did look Porcinus in the eye as he gave a twisted smile.
"It went the same as always. The usual bunch whining about how we're doing too much stake work and not enough one on one."
"Is Fronto still waving his shield about every time he makes a first position thrust?"
Numerius laughed, but it wasn't a particularly nice one.
"No, I think I've settled that little problem. Fronto's bad habit is gone."
Porcinus raised an eyebrow.
"Do I want to know?"
"Probably not," Ovidius offered, and this time it was Porcinus' turn to laugh.
With the report done, he waved Numerius to a nearby chair, while he rose and went back to his private quarters, returning with another cup.
"Care to join me?" Porcinus asked.
"Have you ever known me to say no?" Ovidius scoffed, then accepted the cup that Porcinus had filled.
Sitting back down, Porcinus filled his own, and the two men chatted for a few moments about the daily training that never ceased in the Legions of Rome. Finally, Ovidius pointed to the scroll.
"Aren't you going to read that?"
Porcinus sighed, looking at the object on his desk, a frown on his face.
"I suppose so," he said finally. "It's just that I know what it's going to say."
Ovidius looked surprised and asked, "How can you know what it says before you open it?"
That was when Porcinus told him who the scroll was from.
"Ah," Ovidius said. "That's different." Giving Porcinus a grin, he added, "And you're right to be worried. I can't imagine he takes 'no' very well."
"It's not 'no'," Porcinus protested. "It's just 'not now.'"
"And how long have you been saying that?" his Optio said, laughing.
"Shut your mouth," Porcinus grumbled. Then, taking another breath, he said, "All right, then. I'll read it. Who knows," he grinned at Ovidius as he broke the seal, "maybe there was an uprising of Gauls or something exciting."
Ovidius laughed as Porcinus bent his head and started reading the scroll. The smile that had been on his face changed almost instantly as he recognized the hand in which this letter was written. Or more accurately, in whose hand it wasn't written. Silence filled the room as Ovidius sipped his wine, thinking of something clever to say, but he quickly saw that something was wrong. Leaning forward, he stared at his Pilus Prior intently as the other man read the letter. When Porcinus still said nothing, Ovidius cleared his throat, yet Porcinus gave no sign that he heard. Instead, his head tilted upward, in a sign that he was re-reading the letter from the beginning. Ovidius cleared his throat again, but when this still got no response, he finally had no choice.
"Porcinus? What is it? What's the letter say?"
Only then did Porcinus react, jerking his head as if he had been startled, and for the rest of his days, Ovidius would remember the look in his Centurion's eyes as he opened his mouth to speak.
"It...it's not from my uncle. It's from his scribe, Diocles. My uncle's dead." Porcinus gave a chuckle that held no humor." Although I suppose he's my father now, since that's what he was planning on doing, adopting me."
For a long moment, Ovidius could only stare, then he finally opened his mouth, but no words came out, because he was no less affected in his own way than Porcinus by this news. He knew that all men died, sooner or later, yet if there had been one man that Ovidius would have bet on as the one most likely to beat those odds, it would have been Gaius Porcinus' newly adoptive father, because Porcinus' father was no less known to Ovidius, even if it wasn't as intimately. In fact, it would have been safe to say that there wasn't a Legionary under the standard who hadn't at least heard of Porcinus' adoptive father. Finally, Ovidius found his voice, after a fashion, although what came out sounded to him like a strangled croaking.
"Titus Pullus is dead?"
As hard as the news of the death of the great Titus Pullus hit Gaius Porcinus, it was a shade when compared to the reaction of his children, particularly his oldest son, Titus, who had been named in honor of Titus Pullus. The youngster was nine years old, but although the man he thought of his grandfather had moved away three years before, rarely a day went by where young Titus didn't make some reference to his "Avus," although the subject of his Avus' horse, Ocelus, was usually involved. The boy and the giant gray stallion, who had been presented to Titus Pullus as a gift on his retirement from his post as Primus Pilus of the 10th Legion and assumption of the newly formalized office of Camp Prefect, appointed there by the man now known as Augustus, had formed a bond that was almost as strong as that between the horse and his master. Porcinus' oldest son, in fact, had been inconsolable, rushing off to only the gods knew where to sob out his grief, leaving Porcinus to comfort his wife and the other children. Iras, Porcinus' wife, was grief-stricken as well, but her husband understood that the emotions she was feeling were much more complex, and he didn't begrudge them. For the truth of the matter was that Iras had once been Titus Pullus' property, although it was the way into which she became part of his household that made the feelings that overwhelmed her so tangled. Pullus hadn't been Iras' first owner; she, in fact, had the honor, or misfortune, to be born into the service of the house of Ptolemy XII of Egypt, and like all his property, she had passed into the ownership of Cleopatra VII when Cleopatra's father, derisively nicknamed Ptolemy Chickpea by his Roman masters, had died. Complicating matters further, Iras was Cleopatra's half-sister, the product of a union between Ptolemy XII and one of his slaves.
The way Iras had come into the ownership of Titus Pullus merely added another layer that made her confusion of emotions at the news of his death understandable. Iras had been an instrument, wielded by Cleopatra, to seek the death of Titus Pullus, when he had been part of the force assembled at Ephesus, waiting for a fleet to be built to carry Cleopatra and her husband, the Roman Marcus Antonius, to their ultimate confrontation with the man who now was the undisputed single master of Rome. It had been Pullus' misfortune to be present when Cleopatra had uttered words
that in essence revealed her plans to install her son with Julius Caesar, Caesarion, as sole ruler of Rome. And although she hadn't used the word "king," she didn't have to; after all, just the worry that Caesar's ambition was to crown himself king of Rome had seen his death. Afraid that Pullus would divulge her lapse of judgment, she had sent Iras as her weapon, with the mission of providing the household slaves already belonging to Pullus with poisoned provisions, under the guise of working for a merchant. This merchant had been well paid, but was given his own set of instructions; once Iras accomplished her goal of enamoring Pullus' slave, named Eumenis, and selling him the tainted food, the merchant was to dispose of the evidence, cutting Iras' throat. Unfortunately for Cleopatra, Deukalos the merchant was a man of huge appetites, and Iras was one of the most beautiful things he had ever laid eyes upon, so instead of doing as he had been paid, he took Iras into his bed. In fact, that was where she had been found, literally, when Pullus, with the aid of his friends Sextus Scribonius and Gnaeus Balbus, had unraveled the circumstances and learned the identity of the merchant, paying him a visit in the middle of the night. Accompanying Pullus that night had been his young nephew, still a Gregarius, the lowest rank of Legionary, and to say that he was smitten from the first moment was putting it kindly. In fact, it had been Porcinus who deduced that the young girl with the sheet pulled up to her eyes was Iras, and although Pullus' first plan had been to kill the girl, that plan had obviously changed. At first, it was because of the intercession of Pullus' woman, Miriam, who prevailed on Pullus to stay his hand, pointing out that Iras' very existence was perhaps the best revenge on Cleopatra. Over time, Iras had won first Miriam’s, then finally, Pullus' trust, earning a spot in his household, and it wasn't long before she had won Porcinus' heart.
