Marching With Caesar-Rebellion

by R. W. Peake

  “I’m here to fight Spartacus again.” He was proud of himself because his voice wasn’t unsteady at all.

  If he had expected Vulso to be surprised, the lanista didn’t show it. Nor was he particularly welcoming to the idea.

  “You had your chance, boy,” he said dismissively. “Why should I let you get whipped again?”

  Titus had come prepared. From where it was hidden inside his tunic, he produced a leather bag, which he held up and, in imitation of what he had seen men do when making wagers with each other, shook the bag so Vulso could hear the metallic clink.

  “Because I’ll give you this. If I win, I get it back; if I lose, you get to keep it.”

  The eyebrow above Vulso’s patch was the one that arched as he eyed the bag with the other.

  “And how much is in there, boy?”

  “Fifty sesterces,” Titus said proudly, because to a boy of ten, and, in fact, to a vast number of adults in Roman society, it was a huge sum.

  He wasn’t prepared for Vulso’s reaction; he began roaring with laughter, and it was a harsh, mocking kind of laugh that lacerated the boy’s pride.

  “Fifty sesterces,” Vulso managed to gasp as he wiped his good eye. “Boy, I piss that away on one night’s dice.”

  “It’s all that I have,” Titus mumbled, mortified as he felt a sudden rush of tears threaten to embarrass him even more than he already was. Swallowing hard, pushing the emotion down, he looked at Vulso and asked stubbornly, “Well? Are you going to let me fight him or not?”

  “Not for fifty sesterces,” Vulso sneered. “You’ll have to do better than that.”

  A feeling of desperation came rushing up, bringing back with it the tears that he had swallowed. Not only was it important that Vulso agree, Titus was acutely aware that the time he had to effect his plan was limited. Even now, Libo might have found his horse and be riding for Arelate, and Titus knew that it would take no time whatsoever for his mother to figure out where Titus had gone.

  “What do you want, then?” he blurted out, but even as he did, he feared he knew the answer.

  Even so, he thought his heart would burst out of his chest when, in answer, Vulso simply pointed over Titus’ shoulder. Right at Ocelus.

  “If you want to fight Spartacus, you have to put your horse up,” Vulso replied.

  The truth was that Vulso had no real desire to take Titus’ horse. He actually liked the boy a great deal, but he also didn’t need the headache that he knew would accompany giving in to Titus’ request. He had already experienced one taste of Iras, who had come with Diocles to let the lanista know exactly what she thought of a man who would let a boy spar with a grown man. Vulso had made the initial mistake of pointing out Spartacus’ size, but immediately regretted it, understanding that the best and only defense was just to ride out the storm. She was, after all, the owner of the ludus for all intents and purposes, so whether she was a mouthy woman or not was beside the point. Now, with Titus standing before him, he was making a very shrewd guess that this big gray stallion, advanced age or not, meant more to Titus than just a means of transportation. All in all, his judgment was sound, but he underestimated the resolve of the boy.

  Titus swallowed hard, but he didn’t hesitate, answering, “All right. My horse Ocelus is yours if I lose.” He paused for a moment, then added, “But if I win? You have to protect me from Mama.”

  Vulso laughed, but offered his arm, which Titus took.

  “I’ll go let Spartacus know he’s about to win me a horse.”

  As Vulso strode away, the enormity of what he had just done struck Titus, and his knees, which he had forgotten about, started shaking again.

  Unsurprisingly, the prospect of the rematch between the dwarf and the boy stopped all the other activity in the training yard, something that Vulso normally wouldn’t have allowed. However, his men had been working hard, and he decided they had earned at least a slight diversion. They formed the perimeter of the rough circle, a living boundary that would serve as the crowd at the same time. And every one of those men, with very few exceptions, were looking forward to one of their own, no matter if he was a dwarf or not, give this rich young sprout a second beating. That was because, to these men, Titus’ heritage and circumstances didn’t matter. All they knew was that he was somehow connected to the faceless owners of this ludus, which in turn meant these hard-bitten men belonged to them as well. How Titus Pullus had earned the kind of money it took to own a ludus, even if it was unknowingly, that it had been by way of his strong right arm and sword, didn’t matter to any of these men. What they were aware of was that this boy’s privilege and rank stank in their nostrils, making what was about to happen something they were more than happy to witness. The fact that it was the first time Titus ever experienced any of this; the hostility of the trainees at the ludus had been completely unexpected, created a huge impression on the boy, something that he would have cause to remember for the rest of his days. In his mind, he was one of them; the son of a Legionary, a man who earned his living with his sword, and the realization that they didn’t reciprocate this view was another pivotal moment in his young life, reminding him that there was often a large gap between what he perceived and what others did. Gripping the rudis and hefting the small, round shield that to Titus was barely bigger than the plate he used to eat his meals on, he was all too aware of the hostility surrounding him, seeming to wash over him in waves as the onlookers jeered and taunted him. Standing there, waiting for the dwarf to appear, Titus had never felt so alone in his whole life, and the unfairness of the hostility on display threatened to overwhelm him. Why did they hate him so? What had he done to any of them to warrant this kind of enmity? They should have been cheering him, his bravery! He was just a boy, after all, and he had come here to face what was a grown man, no matter if the gods had seen fit to encase him in the body of a child. Titus knew from bitter experience that Spartacus was much, much stronger than a child his size, yet here he was, ready to face him again. As he stood there, fighting back the combination of nerves and tears, understanding what was at stake in the horse he loved more than anything in his life, the fear and hurt started to turn into…something else. And in this moment, completely unaware of it, the boy Titus Porcinianus Pullus experienced the transfer of that wonderful but dark gift, something that had first been bestowed to his Avus many, many years before, on a barren hill in Hispania. On that occasion, during Titus Pullus’ first campaign, his First Century of the Second Cohort, 10th Legion, along with the Second, had been ambushed and surrounded by the rebelling tribesmen. The situation was dire, yet in that moment, the young Titus Pullus, still just a Gregarius and barely more than a tirone, had experienced something that he, and others who witnessed it, attributed as a gift from the gods. It began as a fit of anger that quickly grew into something more, a divine sort of rage that gave Pullus the strength of two men his size, while not robbing him of his awareness. By the time the battle was over, Pullus was standing alone, amidst a pile of bloody corpses, and the beginning of the legend of Titus Pullus had been born. It was that gift, that sense of fury that was fueled by the hostility of the men surrounding him that flowed into young Titus at that moment, and he received it as a completely unexpected feeling of an almost molten wrath, which caught him completely by surprise, and frankly, frightened him. A spate of sweat suddenly burst forth, almost instantly soaking his tunic and running so heavily that it threatened his vision. He quickly wiped his brow with the sleeve of his tunic, as the anger in him continued to build, turning into a focused point of rage, hatred, and determination. They were jeering him? They were booing him? That was bad enough, but as he exchanged hard stares with each of the men directly across from him on the far side of the circle, he imagined that these men were just counting the moments before they got the chance to ride his horse. His Ocelus, his beautiful horse; the thought of these grubby, dirty men pawing at his stallion, and even worse, how confused and frightened Ocelus would be at this sudden change from everyth
ing he knew, was the final piece that pushed him fully into the spot where his Avus had been those years ago. The sudden appearance of Spartacus, who had pushed his way between the watching trainees, gave Titus the proper place to focus his killing hatred. But it was the sneer on the dwarf's face, the expression of disdain that sent the clearest sign of contempt and served to launch Titus, much in the same way a bolt from a scorpion is released with the yank of the lanyard.

  Despite his best attempts, Titus was never clearly able to recall the sequence of events that culminated with him standing, panting and bloody, over the prone body of the dwarf that had been known as Spartacus. His first real recollection was the total silence, except for the harsh sound of his own breath in his ears, and it was another moment before his eyes had focused sufficiently on the external world around him to take notice of the faces of the men standing a few paces away. They looked stunned, and the first thought that came to Titus was that their faces wore the expression of the pig he had once seen slaughtered, immediately after one of the slaves had struck it with the mallet right between the eyes. His next sensation was of a slight cramp in his right hand, and he looked dully down at it to see that the rudis was still clutched in it. It was a rudis just like any of the ones on the rack, yet it looked different to him somehow, and it took a moment for him to realize that the one he was clutching was covered in blood. Blood and...was that hair? And what were those pinkish-gray bits that seemed to cling to one edge? The rush of bile was completely unexpected, forcing its way from between his clenched teeth, and he was just able to lean over to spill the contents of his stomach out onto the sand without getting any on himself. Even as he was retching, he expected to hear the mocking laughter from the assembled men, except the silence was still total, although that wasn't destined to last. Just as he felt confident that the last bit of what had been his breakfast was now safely out of his stomach and stood back up straight, his vision was filled with the contorted face of Vulso. And Titus could instantly see that he was angrier than Titus had ever seen him in the short time of their association.

  "You little...cunnus! You killed my dwarf! You killed Spartacus!"

  "I...I did?" Titus was no less surprised at this news than Vulso had been just a few heartbeats before when he watched it happen.

  "Oh, don't play cute with me, boy," the lanista snorted. "You saw he was down! You saw him lift his hand and you know what that means! But you kept on until you beat his brains out!"

  Titus had been sure that he had vomited the last of whatever was left in his stomach, but he had been wrong. His reply was to suddenly turn aside and retch one more time, and oddly enough, this did more to assuage Vulso's anger than anything Titus could have said.

  "You didn't know, did you?" he asked softly, more to himself than to the boy, although Titus still managed to shake his head.

  Once the spasms that racked him subsided again, Titus stood erect again, his eyes red and streaming, and it was only partially from the strain of vomiting.

  "No, Vulso, I don't remember." His voice sounded strange to Titus, hoarse and somehow different. Trying to think, he could only add, "The best I can remember is bits and pieces. But I don't remember him going down, and I don't remember anything about what happened...after." Titus looked into Vulso's eye, his expression clearly beseeching the lanista. "Please, Vulso, I swear by all the gods, I don't remember!"

  Although Vulso was still angry, almost despite himself, he felt his heart soften towards the boy. While it was certainly true that obtaining the dwarf had cost Vulso dearly, not to mention the time and effort that had gone into training him, the reality was that it wasn't Vulso's money. In fact, he thought, the boy had just cost his family a pretty penny, and it was with this idea in mind that prompted him to forgive the boy with a grunt and clap on the boy's shoulders, which sagged with relief. The others weren't so disposed however, and Titus heard a ripple of angry whispers and muttered curses all around him, yet if Vulso was disturbed or intimidated by this, he certainly didn't show it.

  "Shut your mouths!" he roared, turning about so that he could glare at as many men as possible. "This is none of your business! It's between me and the bo...between me and Titus!" Returning his gaze back to the boy, he spoke softly enough so that only Titus could hear. "Besides, you've got enough trouble as it is."

  Titus gave him a questioning gaze; Vulso's only response was to indicate with his head something behind Titus. Even as he turned about, the boy had a premonition of what he would see, but despite preparing himself, the sight of his mother, Diocles, Gallus, and a very angry Libo might have been enough to cause a new round of retching. Fortunately for Titus, there was nothing left to come up.

  Whirling back around to face Vulso, Titus whispered, "Remember our deal! You agreed that if I won, you'd protect me from Mama! You'd tell her something that would keep her from being mad at me!"

  Vulso gave a harsh, barking laugh.

  "That was before you killed my dwarf," he countered. "Besides, did you really think there would be anything I could say that would keep her from being angry with you? You disobeyed her, didn't you?" Vulso's tone changed as his gaze flickered between Titus and his waiting mother, who had pushed her way through the small crowd and even now was standing, arms crossed and with an expression that Vulso was sure didn't bode well for the boy. "There are consequences in life, Titus," he continued, not unkindly. "Consider this the consequences for what you just did, that I won't lift a finger to help you with your mother. Besides," he said just before he turned away, "I have a feeling that you'll be paying for this a long time, long after your mother flays you and has forgotten about it. You never will."

  Iras would never be able to decide whether it was better that she arrived at the ludus when she did, or if it was some sort of punishment by the gods. Not particularly religious, she nevertheless couldn't help the feeling that being forced to watch her firstborn son perform the kind of act that she knew, albeit indirectly, that her husband and men like him took part in quite often was a sentence by the gods, and a harsh one at that. She had been prepared to come charging in, completely unafraid and unmindful of the type of men she was shoving aside as she pushed her way through the ring of spectators. But she arrived too late; or, as she was forced to admit to herself later, she had arrived just in time to get another glimpse of the man her son would become. All of the words she prepared had clogged in her throat, which shut closed almost as soon as her eyes had picked out her boy. It was just as he knocked Spartacus to one knee, and while the dwarf still had his shield and was holding it up above him as he vainly tried to regain his feet, she had watched as her boy, her precious baby, had rained down blow after blow, battering the small round shield. Even from where she was standing more than two dozen paces away, she heard a sharp crack an instant before the shield split in two, but Titus didn't relent at all. Instead, he immediately shifted his attack to the dwarf himself, knocking aside Spartacus' attempt to block the wooden blade with his own as if it wasn't there. And when Iras thought about that moment, as she often did, she also had to admit to herself that she felt a moment of a savage satisfaction, watching Titus strike the first scoring blow directly on the dwarf's helmet. That little vermin, after all, was the one who had given her boy what would become a prominent scar, so he was getting no more than he deserved. And she was completely aware of why this was happening in the first place, understood that more than Titus' scalp had been lacerated, that his pride and image of himself had taken a beating as well, qualities that her son had more of than most boys his age. But she was totally unprepared for what came next. Clearly stunned, Spartacus had held up his hand in the signal of surrender, and with his other removed his helmet because it had been knocked askew and was obscuring the dwarf’s vision. Titus clearly didn't see, or even worse to Iras, didn't care that he had done it; he had conquered his opponent because he hadn't stopped. To Iras' untutored eye, the only reason she could see as a possible source of Titus' confusion was when the dwarf, still
holding his own rudis, had tried to clamber to his feet and, in doing so, gave Titus the impression that he wanted to continue the fight. Whatever the truth was, what followed would be seared into Iras' memory, as it was in that of Diocles, who had managed to reach her side. Spartacus had tried to defend himself; to Diocles, that was his mistake, because it sent the obvious signal to Titus that he had yet to capitulate. The first blow Spartacus somehow managed to deflect, but that was the last one, and in just another moment, it was over. Neither Iras nor Diocles, nor, for that matter, any of the onlookers were able to count the number of blows, or tracked which was the one that cracked open Spartacus' skull and spilled his brains out onto the sand. Despite the training and harsh reality of their lives, gladiators and novices alike had been shocked into silence and immobility. There was just a blur of motion, then Titus was standing over the body of the dwarf, who still twitched, his limbs jerking spasmodically. Then there was the exchange with Vulso, which Iras could only partially hear, although for a moment she had tensed, ready to launch herself at the lanista if it looked like he was about to strike Titus. But he hadn't, and that was when Titus had turned around and walked, no, he had marched to face his mother. As he approached, Iras was struck by an irrational wave of fear, her eyes drawn to the rudis still in his hand, wondering why he still clutched it, all manner of horrible images leaping before her mind's eye, no matter how hard she tried to shove them back. But then, she looked into her son's face, now close enough to see the expression in his eyes, and any thought of her son as a possible threat vanished. He looked, she decided, like what he really was, despite his size, a little boy. A boy who had just been scared out of sleep by a bad dream and was coming to his mother to be comforted, so it was pure instinct that pushed her forward, intent on rushing to meet her son, to be there. Fortunately for both of them, Iras caught herself, stopping her motion before she had gone more than a couple paces. Instead, she stood erect, her head tilted up and her expression impassive, like one of the statues of Livia Drusilla that were popping up everywhere. A Roman matron, waiting for her son to greet her in the proper manner; at least that's what she told herself she was doing. After all, she was still angry, and it wouldn't do to start fussing over Titus until that matter was resolved once they were away from prying eyes. Nevertheless, as Titus closed the remaining distance, he saw her eyeing him up and down, looking at what he assumed were the bloody spots on his body and tunic, trying to determine if it was his own. Just before he stopped in front of her, he remembered to drop the rudis, and the thudding sound it made as it hit the sand was the loudest noise to that moment, as everyone still stood, motionless and silent. The boy was as acutely aware as his mother that all eyes were on the pair, with perhaps the only exception being Diocles, who stood directly to his mother's right.