Marching With Caesar-Rebellion

by R. W. Peake

  “Master Titus?”

  Titus didn’t trust himself to speak, so he only nodded, but as he did, he walked slowly to Ocelus, who had lowered his head over the half-door of the stall. Truthfully, Titus didn’t have anything to say to Simeon; the boy had instinctively seen the Armenian horseman as a rival for the big gray’s affection, and of all the things the boy worried about, it was the idea that Ocelus had forgotten him, and he belonged wholly to Simeon. As he was about to discover, his fears were unfounded, because when he was close enough to reach out and touch the old stallion, Ocelus, nostrils fully dilated as he breathed in the scent of the boy, reached out with his mouth, and grabbed at Titus’ tunic. Instantly, Titus’ anxiety disappeared, and he gave a laugh of such pure delight that Simeon couldn’t help but smile himself.

  The Armenian had known about his master’s bequest of the horse to the boy, and he had been informed by Agis that the boy and his family were on the way. But he had held out a hope, a slim one he knew, that somehow, someway, the boy would either never show up, or Simeon would at least be allowed to continue caring for Ocelus. When one is a slave, it doesn’t pay to wish for more than the barest of essentials; a kind master, enough food, a safe and warm place to sleep. Wishing for more than that was unwise, Simeon knew, but he had been around horses his whole life.

  Oblivious to Simeon’s turmoil, Titus and Ocelus got reacquainted, and it delighted Titus immensely that it was Ocelus who made the first move. It was a little thing, that tugging at his tunic, but that tug represented what had been a daily ritual that went back as far as Titus could remember. He had vague, fragmented memories of being carried, either by his father or more commonly his grandfather, as the younger Titus clutched the apple he insisted that only he give to Ocelus. Once Titus began walking, he would still be accompanied, but under his own power, he would go to see Ocelus to give him his apple. One day, Titus couldn’t remember exactly when, he had tried to trick Ocelus, approaching the horse with empty hands, telling Ocelus with all the sincerity he could muster that he had forgotten to bring the apple that day. The gray wasn’t fooled, however; his sense of smell was so much keener than Titus’ that the boy never had a chance of tricking the horse. Immediately, Ocelus had thrust his warm, velvety nose into the folds of Titus’ tunic, snuffling and sniffing until he found where the boy had secreted it. And although Ocelus had torn Titus’ tunic in his attempt to get to the apple, much to Iras’ consternation, not once, not ever, had the giant horse bitten the boy. Now, in the stable at Arelate, Ocelus had picked up the game as if it had last happened just the day before, and Titus was sure that there would never be a moment in his life, no matter how long it was and how much he accomplished, where he would be happier than right then.

  “He remembers you,” Simeon’s voice broke the moment, and despite himself, Titus scowled at the man.

  “Of course he does,” Titus retorted with more assurance than he had felt just a moment before. “I knew he would.”

  “They never forget anyone,” Simeon said simply.

  Then he turned to resume his task, and Titus recognized that, at the very least, he owed Simeon a debt of gratitude for taking what he could see was good care of the gray. Not that Titus wouldn’t have happily performed all the mundane and sometimes unpleasant tasks associated with the care of an animal of Ocelus’ size, but he hadn’t been here.

  “Simeon.” Titus’ tone was tentative. “I just wanted to say…thank you. Thank you,” he repeated with more confidence now that he had uttered the phrase, “for taking good care of Ocelus.”

  Simeon’s dark face beamed at the compliment, and he gave the boy a deep bow that, if Titus was older, he might have taken as a mocking one.

  “It was my greatest pleasure, Master Titus. Ocelus and I are old friends. Aren’t we?” He put down the pitchfork to reach up and give the horse a pat on the neck, prompting a soft nicker in response. Or, at least, Titus thought, as much of a sound as a horse can make with a mouth full of apple.

  “Has he been exercised today?” Titus tried very hard to make his tone casual, just one horseman conversing with another, but even to his own ears, he could hear how false it was.

  Realizing that, he gave Simeon a grin, and of all the things he could have done to soften the Armenian’s defenses, that was it. Instantly transported back in time to when he was Titus’ age, in Armenia, he could vividly recall the intense longing in his own ten-year-old heart when he asked, no, he begged his father to be allowed to take his father’s prized stallion out for a ride.

  “Why, no, Master Titus, he hasn’t had his exercise today.” Simeon grinned back, and at least for the moment, Titus’ antipathy towards the Armenian was obscured by their common love of horses. “I think he could use a bit of exercise. Just to stretch his legs, yes?”

  Without waiting for an answer, Simeon took a bridle hanging from a nail pounded into one of the vertical support beams. Ocelus caught the movement and suddenly tossed his head, his own excitement rising at the thought of being allowed to do what he had been born to do. Obediently dropping his head, Ocelus waited patiently as Simeon brought the bridle up and over his ears before cinching it in place. Taking the bit with no more than his usual reluctance, Ocelus began pawing at the dirt floor of his stall, signaling his eagerness to get started. Simeon had turned to get the saddle, but Titus could wait no longer. Opening the gate, the horse came out almost bouncing with suppressed energy. Impulsively, Titus grabbed a handful of mane, and using a slat of the stall as a boost, threw himself upward and straddled the back of the big stallion.

  “Master Titus! You shouldn’t ride him without a saddle! It’s been a long time since anyone has ridden him bareback!”

  Titus laughed and shook his head.

  “I’m sorry, Simeon, but I’m not getting off. I’ve waited too long for this.”

  Only another horseman could understand, but while Simeon did, he had a more practical objection, and it was one that at least temporarily dampened Titus’ mood.

  “What will your mother say when she sees you go riding by without a saddle? She might have me whipped!”

  Although this last was an exaggeration, as it had been years since any of Titus Pullus’ slaves had felt the lash, it did cause Titus to pause.

  Thinking for a moment, his face brightened. That was when he gave Simeon the concocted story, what the Armenian would tell his mother just moments later. Then, with a kick to his ribs, Titus launched Ocelus at the partly closed stable door, who opened it by simply lowering his head and using it as a battering ram. Titus’ shout of joy was still ringing in Simeon’s ears after boy and horse had disappeared.

  When he would think back on it later, the next ten weeks that Titus and his family spent in Arelate held some of the happiest moments of his life, and some of the most momentous. The first full day wasn’t the best one for Titus, because as punishment, he was barred from all contact with Ocelus. While Titus didn’t like it, he also understood; he had been gone a full watch on his ride with Ocelus, who had behaved and performed as if all the years and associated wear and tear had never happened. The bond between boy and horse that had begun forming even before Titus could remember was cemented on that ride. That made the next day even more painful, but it passed, even if it was too slow for Titus. After that, boy and horse quickly developed a routine, and whenever Titus was missing from the villa, he could be found in the stable caring for his newest and most treasured possession. Iras had expected her son to be eager to perform most of the chores that were involved with the upkeep of a large animal, but when she saw him willingly mucking out not just Ocelus’ stall, but the entire stable, it gave her pause. To Iras, this was the first sign that he was becoming a responsible man, and much like Titus had experienced at his first meeting with Ocelus, albeit not as strongly, she again felt the tug of competing emotions, a sense of pride in her son, and the ache that comes from understanding that time never stood still.

  Fortunately for Titus, Iras’ attention on her son w
as distracted, not just by the other children, as Sextus and Valeria had been left by their older brother to their own devices. And Pullus’ villa was very large, with many rooms, nooks, and crannies that deserved to be explored by the two younger children. That alone would have been enough, but Iras had other matters occupying her attention. Starting the first night, when the family sat down to a meal prepared by Glenora, discussions had begun between her and Diocles, the talk focused on the practical matters involved with not just the villa, but Pullus’ entire fortune.

  “One reason that we’ve escaped notice from Augustus so far as far as the part of Master Titus’ fortune that he hasn’t taken already is because most of it is in property, not cash,” Diocles explained.

  This made sense to Iras, and she said as much.

  Diocles continued. “Master Titus allowed me to invest his money as I saw fit. You know he never really cared about money, other than as a means to an end. And,” Diocles’ mouth twisted as if he were tasting something bitter, “Augustus made sure that he paid for that end.”

  Diocles’ anger at what Augustus had done was fully shared by Iras, who had her own reasons for the sentiment she now expressed by uttering an oath, in her native language, as she spat between two fingers. Despite the fact that they were alone, in Pullus’ villa, Diocles nevertheless visibly flinched.

  “I hope you know better than to do that where anyone other than me can see it,” was how he put his concern to Iras. “Especially around here. We came through the forum, remember. Didn’t you see that statue of him in the center?”

  “I saw it, and I’m not stupid,” Iras assured the Greek. “Remember, I grew up with the Ptolemies.”

  Mollified, Diocles continued, noticing as he did that young Titus was trying very hard to appear as if he wasn’t listening, engaging in desultory conversation with Valeria next to him. The boy is trying to become a man, all at once, he thought, although he gave no outward indication that he was aware of what Titus was doing.

  “The only restriction Master Titus put on me was that none of his money went into farms.” He gave Iras a smile, and she noticed for the first time that the Greek had lost a lower tooth. Had it been recent, she wondered. Diocles paused for a moment as he sipped from his cup. “So most of the estate is now invested in a couple of mining ventures, a shipping company, that sort of thing. All of them are doing very well. The income just from the interest is a few thousand sesterces a month.”

  The way Diocles so casually mentioned a sum that was beyond Titus’ imaginings had a tremendous impact on the boy, but he could see his mother was no less impressed. She had let out an audible gasp at the news, and she sat back in her chair, her meal completely forgotten.

  “And we can’t touch any of it,” she finally spoke, her voice laced with bitterness.

  “No,” Diocles granted. “At least, no, you can’t touch most of it, not in a lump sum anyway. I’ve figured out a way to divert some of the money in a way that I don’t think will attract any attention. I think you’ll be safe if we don’t take more than a thousand sesterces a month from the sum.”

  While this didn’t satisfy Iras completely, she was forced to acknowledge that just that amount would be more than her husband’s yearly pay several times over. Still, it wasn’t enough, but for Iras, it was about more than just the money. Born a slave, she had been subject to the whims of the small proportion of the wealthy of both her native Egyptian and adopted Roman society for her entire life. In her view, while her former master Titus was the one who had achieved what was an impressive rise in the rigid hierarchy of Rome, he had actually been fortunate enough to die ignorant of the malevolent gift that the man called Augustus would bestow on his heirs. It was her husband, and, most importantly, her children who were bearing the real brunt of Augustus’ vindictiveness. And although it was nothing she would ever utter aloud, especially around Diocles or her husband, a part of her anger was directed at Pullus himself, who in life had always seemed determined to antagonize his social superiors at every opportunity. It had almost cost him everything; she still could easily recall, the memory even now causing her to shudder, the dread inspired by that period of time when Pullus had been recalled from Siscia to go to Rome to stand trial. Every day, she worried that a knock on the door would bring the news that Pullus’ luck, almost as celebrated among the men of the Legions as that of his first general, Divus Julius, had run out. That knock had never come; at least, not right away. It was only after he died that his family and heirs learned of the poisonous gift bestowed on them by the man who controlled Rome. If only he had just kept his mouth shut more often, Iras thought as she sat at the table, listening to Diocles.

  Focusing on Diocles’ last words, Iras interrupted, “You think you can do this? You’re not sure?” She shook her head emphatically. “Augustus has eyes everywhere. That’s too big a risk to take.”

  “I didn’t say it wasn’t without risk,” Diocles retorted with asperity, clearly nettled by what he saw as Iras’ lack of faith in him. “But not even Augustus can track a hundred sesterces here and a hundred there. Besides,” he added, “he thinks he’s won already, and I’m sure he’s got other, more pressing concerns by this point.”

  That, Iras had to concede, was all true, but she still couldn’t resist a bitter jab.

  “He thinks he’s won? That’s because he did win!” She pointed at Titus and the other children. “They won’t be equestrians! They won’t have all of this!” She waved a hand to indicate the villa. “They’ll have to make their own way in the world!”

  “Is that really such a bad thing?” Diocles asked quietly. “Iras, you’ve seen what happens to the generations who haven’t had to work for anything. Look at Rome. Look at the patricians and the old plebeian families and how they’ve done nothing noteworthy despite all the advantages they’ve been given. By Hades, look at some of the rich equestrians, the merchants who give their children everything, and how they do nothing but drink, gamble, and carouse and cause all sorts of trouble! Is that what you really want for Titus? For Sextus? Or Valeria? Or…Miriam?”

  His voice caught as his throat threatened to close over the last name, that given to the babe who even then was cradled in Iras’ arms. Diocles, if for different reasons, had loved Miriam as much as Iras did, and it was another tie that bound two together who otherwise would have had little to do with each other. Although, in most ways, Diocles understood the dilemma facing Iras when she was sent to murder his master, Eumenis had been Diocles’ closest friend, the second slave that Titus Pullus had brought into his household. It had been extremely difficult for Diocles to forgive Iras, and even now, there was a barrier between the two, a reserve that Iras sensed, and understood. Nevertheless, they had much more in common with each other, and over the years had often worked in concert behind the scenes to affect an outcome between their respective masters. If there wasn’t much affection between them, there was respect, and Iras took what Diocles said seriously.

  Sighing, she replied, “No, that’s not what I want. For any of them. But it’s just so…unfair that Augustus can do something so petty and underhanded to a man who served him so well.”

  “That, I completely agree with,” Diocles said. “But you of all people should know that fairness, justice, whatever you want to call it, isn’t part of the world we live in.” Chuckling, he finished, “No matter how much philosophers talk about it.”

  Turning to other matters, the two adults at the table continued their discussion. Meanwhile, Titus had heard and absorbed everything they had said. The fact that it was the first time that his mother, Diocles, or anyone had actually discussed the circumstances behind what had happened to Titus’ Avus so openly in front of Titus meant that it had an impact that would have tremendous implications.

  When Titus wasn’t riding or caring for Ocelus, he explored Arelate, always finding something new and interesting, usually in the side streets and alleys. Initially, Iras wouldn’t allow him to go out without an escort, and for s
ome reason, it was always Gallus who volunteered for the duty. But very quickly, Titus and Gallus came to an understanding that the fact that Gallus spent all of his time sitting in a tavern drinking wine as Titus wandered around alone wasn’t something Titus’ mother needed to know. Consequently, Titus and Gallus would leave the villa, walk to the far end of the forum and around the corner, where Gallus would stop at his spot, while Titus continued his exploration. Although, at first, Titus was a bit nervous in unfamiliar territory, he grew in confidence each day, gradually increasing the distance each trip. By the end of the first week in Arelate, he had traveled down to the river harbor, where the wharfs were located, a bustling, noisy place that he found particularly exciting. Although he couldn’t articulate why he did so, he always made sure that he remained in a hidden spot as he made his observations, watching the gangs of slaves assigned to the loading and unloading of the ships, while their overseers walked about, whips at the ready. Other slaves, identified by the bronze placard worn around their necks with the name of their owner inscribed on it, were hurrying in all directions, some carrying crates or pushing small carts, others carrying tablets that Titus assumed were messages of some sort. There were several wharfs jutting out into the river, which was very wide; in fact, it was the widest river Titus had ever seen, which made the two bridges across all the more impressive. He had heard someone say that it was the Rhodanus (Rhone), but that was all he knew about it. It was still a remarkable sight, even if it did smell so much that he had to cover his nose with his tunic when he got close, at least until he became accustomed to the stench. Each wooden dock was long enough to accommodate at least two wide ships on each side, and whenever Titus came to the river, he rarely saw any berths empty. Across an open area that had been built up from the riverbank and was made of wooden planks, there was a line of stone buildings, and around the entrance into each building, there were usually at least a couple of men talking. Titus never got close enough to make out what these men talked about, although sometimes, they looked like they were having a very friendly conversation or even sharing a funny story; other times, they did a lot of shouting, waving of arms, and pointing fingers at each other. One day, he had sought out and asked Diocles about what he had seen, thinking that the Greek would know, so he was disappointed when the answer was one word, “Business.”