by R. W. Peake
Diocles was only looking at Titus, although the boy was too absorbed to take notice of the expression on the Greek's face, a curious mixture of sadness, relief, and pride. Titus had no way of knowing this, but while Diocles hadn't been part of his Avus' life when Titus Pullus experienced his first...fit, or whatever it could be called, he was there for what turned out to be the last one. It had been outside Serdica, when the Legions under Marcus Primus were assaulting a fortress that guarded the southern approach to the city. Granted, it had been at a distance, but even from his vantage point, Diocles saw enough of what his then-master had done, and had naturally heard about it in the immediate aftermath of the battle. Now in Arelate, he was seeing evidence of this divine madness somehow being passed on to his master’s namesake, and that recognition had a profound effect on the Greek.
“I know you’re going to punish me,” Titus broke the silence. “But this was something I had to do.”
All the words, all the angry recriminations and haranguing that Iras had been preparing to unleash on her son evaporated in that instant. It wasn’t just what Titus said, or even the expression on his face as he stood before his mother, looking her in the eye, calmly. What stilled Iras’ tongue was the recognition that, as well as she thought she knew her son, there was a part of him that she had never glimpsed until just a few moments before. There was a seething, volcanic fury there, and it was buried so deeply within him that, when she witnessed it for the first time, she was caught completely by surprise. As unprepared as she had been to witness her son’s violence, she was even less ready for the incredibly powerful wave of sadness that washed over her, and for a moment, Iras was sure her composure would crumble in perfect harmony with her breaking heart. What demon put this anger, this rage inside you, my son? Yet somehow, despite the almost overwhelming urge to do so, she refrained from reaching out to Titus, who still stood there, silent. Finally, she opened her mouth, and even she wasn’t sure what was going to come out.
“Let’s go back to the villa,” she said quietly. “We need to pack to go back home.”
Without waiting for an answer, she turned about while Gallus and Libo cleared a path through the men, who grudgingly gave way. Titus was acutely aware of the hard stares of the other gladiators and trainees, but none of them laid a hand on him as he followed behind his mother. Once clear, Titus walked over to where Ocelus was standing, held by a slave who, just as he was trained, dropped to his knees to allow the boy to step up. Titus was thankful; he suddenly felt close to collapse and he knew there was no way he could have leapt onto Ocelus’ back without help. The gray had settled down, but Titus could feel the barely contained excitement of the horse, and he worried that there would be a repeat of his behavior. Fortunately, Ocelus was docile enough as he trotted out of the ludus, pulling up beside the others. Suddenly, the boy leaned down and extended a hand to his mother.
“Mama, let me help you up. You’ve never ridden Ocelus with me!”
Iras hesitated for a moment; unlike her son, she didn’t love horses. However, she also knew that this was about more than riding a horse, so she took his hand as he pulled her up behind him. They both pretended they didn’t see Gallus reaching out to give her a surreptitious boost. Putting her arms around her boy, Iras and Titus trotted away from the others.
Chapter 4
As scheduled, Gaius Porcinus’ family left Arelate shortly after dawn two days later. Naturally, Titus rode Ocelus, but Libo was liberated from the duty of driving the wagon; riding next to Iras was Simeon. That, Iras thought as she sat next to the Armenian, was a surprise, but nothing compared to the shock of the other two extra travelers accompanying them back to Siscia. Thinking about it made her glance back in the wagon, a smile on her lips at the sight of Birgit, sitting cross-legged across from Sextus and Valeria, and cradling young Miriam, who, as was her habit, whenever the wagon started moving, was sleeping soundly. Birgit was telling the two children a story from her own childhood; she was from Gaul, up near the Rhenus somewhere. Not surprisingly, Iras’ gaze turned outward from the wagon, over to the other surprise where Diocles was once more riding next to Titus. Between their respective horses, and the size of their owners, it was the young boy who was actually a full head taller than the Greek next to him, but that didn’t seem to matter to either of them. She had only been informed the night before that Diocles intended to accompany them back to Siscia, although she felt a certain satisfaction as she recalled the conversation. He hadn’t been expecting that, she thought triumphantly, glancing back at Birgit once more.
She was supervising the packing of the last bit of baggage when Diocles had approached her. For several moments, neither of them said a word, standing side-by-side and occupied with their own thoughts. It was Diocles who broke the silence.
“I’ve decided,” he began after clearing his throat, which Iras had learned long before was the precursor to the introduction of a topic that the Greek either thought important or possibly contentious, “that I’m coming back to Siscia with you.”
Iras hadn’t been expecting that, and she looked at him in open-mouthed surprise. She had been preparing herself for a somewhat emotional parting, because as much as she and Diocles differed, they had so much more in common.
“But why?” she asked, not trying to hide her astonishment. “You belong here!”
“No, I belong with Titus,” Diocles said calmly, preparing himself for the reaction that came from what he knew Iras would see as criticism.
“Why?” she flared. “We’re doing just fine without you.”
“I’m not saying that you aren’t.” Diocles tried hard to avoid sounding defensive. “But I’ve noticed that the boy can barely read.”
In answer, Iras just closed her eyes and shook her head.
Finally, she replied tiredly, “I know. It’s something that Gaius and I have talked about, but we were afraid to hire a tutor just for him, because of…” Her voice trailed off.
“Because you didn’t want to attract the attention of Augustus that you were giving your boy an education that’s more like what the son of an equestrian would receive rather than the son of a Legionary, even if he is a Centurion. Is that it?”
Iras nodded, relieved that she had no need to say it aloud.
“Well, that’s why I’m coming back with you,” Diocles said gently. “What would be more natural than a slave who’s become a freedman continuing to serve the family that freed him?”
In that, Iras understood Diocles was absolutely correct. It had been the case for centuries, by this point, that many slaves, particularly those like Diocles who had held high positions in a Roman’s household, once they were given their freedom, chose of their own free will to stay employed in the service of their original masters. That was inarguable, although that wasn’t Iras’ only objection.
“What about you and Birgit?” she had asked Diocles, whose expression instantly became guarded.
“What do you mean?” He was looking everywhere but into Iras’ eyes, and she wasn’t disposed to humor him.
“You know exactly what I mean,” she snapped. “I’ve seen the way you look at her. You’re in love with the girl.”
Diocles’ already dark features became even more so as his face flushed.
“So what if I am?” he asked stubbornly. “What does that matter? Besides,” his face betrayed his misery then, “she doesn’t know that.” Diocles stared hard at Iras. “And I don’t want her hearing it from you!”
“You men are such fools,” Iras scoffed. “Of course she knows how you feel! And she feels the same way! Anyone with eyes can see that.”
The look Diocles gave Iras was so fraught with hope and fear that any temptation she might have felt to torment the Greek evaporated. She recognized that expression; it was the one she had seen on Gaius’ face, and she assumed that it was on hers as well, the night Titus Pullus had discovered the two of them together for the first time. By the time the Primus Pilus discovered the affair, the two had been s
eeing each other secretly for months, and were hopelessly in love. Iras’ mistress Miriam had known and remained silent, and it was her influence that night that stayed Pullus from demanding that Gaius sever all ties with the then-slave. And, being honest, she wouldn’t have blamed Pullus; Gaius was a free Roman citizen, and Iras was a slave. Although Iras knew that Miriam still harbored hopes of bearing Pullus a son, the giant Roman had already made it clear by this point that Gaius would be his heir. And all that was threatened by Gaius’ love for Iras.
This memory was in Iras’ mind as she looked at Diocles, and was what prompted her to say in a more kindly tone, “Diocles, I promise you. Birgit feels the same way about you as you do about her. Does that change anything?”
Diocles hesitated as he thought about it before reluctantly saying, “I imagine it would. If Birgit feels as you say she does, then yes. I would probably stay here.”
Iras considered this for perhaps a half-dozen heartbeats before speaking again.
“That’s why she’ll come with us.”
Naturally, it hadn’t been quite that simple. Glenora had wailed at the thought of her daughter going somewhere she had never heard of, but she also was aware of Birgit’s feelings for Diocles. So it had been a tearful farewell earlier that day, although very quickly, Birgit’s tears had dried as she was swept up in the excitement of a journey, and of a new life. Now, as Diocles and Titus rode alongside one another, it was hard for Diocles to keep his attention on what Titus was saying, his thoughts still whirling from all that had transpired since the previous day. While he and Birgit hadn’t had more than one hurried conversation, it had been one of the happiest talks of his life, because she had shyly informed Diocles that, yes, what Iras said was true, she felt the same way that he did. It hadn’t been long after this moment, snatched between the various chores as the entire household bustled to make ready for departure, that Diocles was struck by another thought and it was this one that he was wrestling with as he rode with Titus. If she had felt the same way, how long had it been so? How much time had he wasted, had they wasted? Diocles was in his late fifties, and although he was in excellent health, since the passing of his friend and former master, he had become acutely aware of the passing of time, and the fleeting nature of human life.
“So did Avus ever have something happen to him like what happened to me?”
It took Diocles a moment to make the shift from his internal musing to focus on Titus’ question, but even then, he didn’t make the connection to what Titus referring to, prompting him to ask, “Like what happened to you? What do you mean?”
Titus looked over at him, giving Diocles a level stare without saying anything, giving Diocles the answer.
“Ah,” the Greek said softly. “That.” He paused for a moment, trying to decide the best way to answer the boy. Finally, he decided there was only one approach to take. “Yes,” he answered, “Your Avus did indeed have that same kind of thing happen to him. I wasn’t there for the first time it happened. Or times,” he corrected himself, not seeing Titus suddenly sit up straighter, “But I certainly heard about it from people like Scribonius. You remember him, don’t you?”
“Of course I do,” Titus said, somewhat indignant at the inference that he might have been too young to recall his Avus’ best friend. “He’s the first one who taught me my letters. I remember him very well.”
“Ah, yes. I’d forgotten about that,” Diocles said lightly. “Sorry, Titus. It’s part of getting old.” He frowned for a moment, trying to gather his thoughts. “Anyway, I heard about the first time from Scribonius and Vellusius.”
While Titus knew who Publius Vellusius was, he only had a vague recollection of the man; by the time Titus was a toddler, Vellusius was just about to retire from the post of bodyguard for the Camp Prefect, a job that had been invented out of thin air by Titus Pullus as a way to allow one of his oldest friends and a member of his original tent section to stay connected with the army. What Titus remembered was of a man with very few teeth, but whose completely gray hair always stuck up, making him look like some sort of odd bird.
“It was in Hispania, as I recall,” Diocles continued on, “in your Avus’ first year with the 10th. That was when he won his first set of phalarae, you know.”
Titus did indeed know, although he had learned this from his father and not his Avus. The set of three gleaming disks, which in those days were emblazoned with a bull, was the original symbol of the 10th Legion, and were in a chest that Diocles had brought to Siscia with him, containing all of Pullus’ decorations. Titus had longed to touch and hold them, but Porcinus had forbidden it, not wanting them to get smeared with childish fingerprints.
“But while that was the first time, it wasn’t the last. From what I know, it happened at least twice more before I came into his service. All I can tell you is that I was there the last time it happened to him. Or,” he corrected himself, “for him. Because it definitely saved his life.”
As Titus listened, Diocles explained what he had seen that day outside Serdica. When Diocles finished, Titus didn’t say anything for quite some time, the two plodding along a short distance from the wagon in total silence.
“So,” Titus finally spoke, “what caused it? And why did it happen?”
Diocles thought for a moment, then shrugged.
“That I don’t know for sure. What I can say is that the men who saw it happen all attributed it as some sort of…fit, but one that came from the gods. As to why? The only thing that each time had in common with the other was that your Avus and the men around him were in mortal danger. And then…whatever it was that possessed your Avus took over, and they were no longer in danger.”
Diocles looked over at Titus, trying to determine how the boy was digesting this, but Titus’ face was expressionless.
Finally, Titus asked, “So he didn’t have any control over it either?”
“No,” Diocles replied. “As far as I know, he didn’t know when it was going to happen. It just…did.”
Titus considered this for a few more moments, staring off in the distance.
Finally, he turned back to stare straight ahead as he said, “Do you think I have what my Avus had? That I was having a…fit?”
Now it was Diocles’ turn to be silent as he thought about his answer, knowing that he had to be careful in his response to the boy.
“I don’t know,” he said finally. “But from what I saw, it would appear to be so. Yes,” he finished thoughtfully, nodding his head, “I think that very well may be the case, that whatever it was that your Avus had, you do as well.”
“Well, it’s a curse.” There was no mistaking the bitterness in Titus’ voice.
“No.” Diocles’ tone was sharper than he intended, and he took a breath before continuing in a calmer manner. “I can see how you’d feel that way. But it kept your Avus and the men around him alive! And it only came to him in moments of great danger. It wasn’t as if he was just walking down the street and suddenly drew his sword and started chopping people’s heads off.” Despite the grim subject, as Diocles had hoped, the image he was depicting caused the boy to grin. Seeing that he had the boy’s full attention, the Greek continued making his case. “Now it’s true that it’s a terrible, terrible gift. And I know that your Avus felt the same way about it that you do. I think that’s the most important thing, to be aware that it comes with a price. Titus,” he turned so that he could make eye contact with the boy, “I can’t tell you the number of nights that your Avus woke up drenched in sweat, crying out because of the dreams that haunted him. And while he’d never talk about them, I know that at least some of them had to do with those times he had his fits. That’s the price that comes with it, Titus. But your Avus died, in bed, in his sleep, and I can tell you he was at peace when he did. And the only reason he was able to live to the age he did, and die the way he did, was because of that gift from the gods. But it’s not without cost. I won’t lie to you about that.”
Titus didn’t say
anything, instead responding to Diocles’ words with a slow nod, before turning away to resume staring off into the distance.
It wasn’t until much later that he said anything, and Diocles had become absorbed again in his own thoughts, so he missed Titus muttering, “If I have to have these fits, I should be able to control them.”
Much as had happened on the trip to Arelate, very quickly the monotony of what seemed to be endless days plodding along encased the travelers. Moving east, they retraced their journey on the Via Aurelia, traveling along the coast. Most of that time Titus spent with Diocles, who had decided to start his tutoring of the boy as soon as possible. Naturally, it was impossible for Titus to work on anything requiring writing, so Diocles confined his lessons to topics that could be orally transmitted. It came as no surprise to Iras, or Diocles, for that matter, that Titus’ favorite subject was history, particularly that part of history in which his Avus had participated. Very quickly, Diocles determined that if he did as Titus wanted, they wouldn’t talk about anything else but the conquest of Gaul and the civil wars. Therefore, Diocles made a rule that the mornings were devoted to the topics that he wanted to cover; early Roman history, of course, but also Greek history, which was Titus’ least favorite, and mythology, in which he was moderately interested. Only after they stopped for their midday break and Diocles then questioned the boy on what he had learned earlier in the day would the Greek relent and begin talking about Titus Pullus, the Republic, and Caesar.
