by R. W. Peake
Silva looked past the man, but he couldn’t see anything except the forested flank of the lower slope of the ridge, now a little more than a mile away.
“Where is he?”
“He came out of a cave! He scared the cac out of ol’ Postumus.” The trooper grinned, showing a smile missing several teeth. Clearly enjoying the memory of his friend so discomfited, the trooper, Metellus was his name, seemed to forget his real purpose. “I mean, he just came out of nowhere! I thought Postumus would fall off his horse, and you know….”
“Metellus,” Silva interrupted. “Enough of Postumus. Where are they now?”
Metellus started, a guilty expression crossing his seamed features. “Yes, sir. Sorry. They’re up about halfway up the slope, on the side facing the river. At least, that’s where they were.”
“Well, let’s go meet them.” Silva turned and called for the rest of the ala to follow him.
As he did so, Metellus lingered for a moment, rather than ride back to his partner, which would have been the proper thing to do. Silva was about to snap an order that he do that very thing, except he knew Metellus and that, despite his proclivity to wander in his reports at times, he was a good man who wouldn’t be hesitating if there wasn’t a reason.
“What is it?” Silva asked the man quietly.
A frown creased the other man’s features, and he shook his head in clear frustration.
“I don’t know, sir. I mean, I don’t know how to explain it.”
“Well, try. Come on man, something’s eating at you. What is it?”
“It’s just that I know I’ve seen that boy before. And if he is who I think he is…” Metellus shrugged, but when he didn’t say anything more, Silva’s patience finally snapped.
“We don’t have the time for this.” Silva was clearly angry.
“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir. But I think that the boy is Porcinus’ oldest boy. Titus, isn’t it?”
While there were a number of men with the same name, there was only one that Silva, or Metellus for that matter, knew anything about, and of the two, Silva was much more familiar with the family Porcinus. In fact, he had been a guest at their table on more than one occasion.
“Pluto’s cock,” the Decurion swore.
Then, raising his hand and circling it in the air in the signal for a rapid advance, without waiting to see if his men followed, he kicked his horse into a gallop, heading for the ridge.
Titus had spent a miserable night; cold, afraid, and in a great deal of pain. But he wasn’t alone, and he was sure that the only reason he survived the night without giving in to despair was the presence of his giant friend and savior. The horse generated a fair amount of warmth, and if Titus had felt up to it, he would have done more to make the cave impervious to the lonely wind that whistled into the gap between the standing rock and the ridge, before swirling around in the cave itself. He didn’t even have a cloak; it had been in the wagon since the day was warm, and he supposed that when all things were considered, he was lucky it was still summer, even if it didn’t feel like it. He was only vaguely aware that his underlying condition contributed to his chill, and even now, in the early dawn as the outline of Ocelus grew more defined, Titus wasn’t sure where he had gotten the strength to do what he had. Still, he knew it was the right thing to do; even though his shoulder still throbbed, it wasn’t with the same intensity as before. That was because he had removed the arrow from his shoulder, and had done it the only way available to him, by pushing the head of the arrow the rest of the way out from under his armpit. His first attempt had been by grasping the small part of the arrow protruding from the skin, but it was simply too slippery, and too painful. Although he had no idea how much time had elapsed, it was fully dark when he realized that he would be unable to do it by himself. He was in nearly total darkness; all he could see was the bare outline of Ocelus, who was dozing in that way that horses do, his breathing deep and steady. Titus had managed to remember that he had secreted Ocelus’ apple away inside his tunic, but it had understandably been crushed. Still, he fed Ocelus most of the pulpy remains while he saved some for himself. He had also drank his fill of the water, once the small pool had replenished itself after his horse drained it several times. Once he had regained his senses from his first attempt, he had moved cautiously about, feeling carefully until his right hand found the wall of the cave. Maneuvering so his back was close to the wall, he leaned forward as he made the final adjustments to his position. Then, taking a deep breath, he sat slowly upright, moving an inch at a time until he felt the feathered end of the arrow touch the wall. As much as he thought he had prepared himself, he still couldn’t stop letting out a cry of pain, but worse than that to him was his eyes filling with tears. He was sure his father wouldn’t cry like a baby, or his Avus either, but no matter how much he tried, he couldn’t stop his lower lip from trembling, which he recognized from his childhood as a sign that he was about to act like his little sister Miriam when she was hungry or tired. Then, through the tears, came the anger, the same kind of anger that had overwhelmed him when he exacted his vengeance on Spartacus. But while it scared him somewhat, it proved to be oddly comforting and, more importantly, it gave him the resolve he needed. Sitting up straight, he leaned back against the arrow, shoving the point through the skin, whereupon he fainted, falling sideways onto the floor of the cave. When he regained his senses, he didn’t think that much more time had passed, but he also knew that he wasn’t finished with what needed to be done. Unfortunately, he was mistaken in the belief that the hardest part was over. His initial idea had been to use his sword to cut the shaft now that he could feel the arrow jutting out several inches from under his left armpit. However, although he could bring the sword up and across his body, even touching the blade to the shaft was too painful to bear; the effort of moving the blade back and forth to saw through the hardwood was unthinkable. Titus sat, slumped over, for several moments as he tried to think what to do, finally arriving at the only solution available to him. He knew that the shafts of arrows were made from the hardest wood available, but he was a very strong boy. Besides, he realized that he had no other choice. One more time, he braced himself as he reached over with his right hand, grasping the shaft right behind the point. Silently counting to five, he violently rotated his hand, using his forearm and wrist muscles. Stars burst in front of his eyes as, for a third time, he passed out. But even as he fell, a part of his mind registered that he had heard a distinct, snapping sound, and it was the sweetest music he had ever heard.
Withdrawing the shaft after he came back to consciousness was the easiest part of all, although it was still extraordinarily painful. Most worrying was that the bleeding had started again. Fortunately, it stopped fairly quickly, and with the immediate crisis over, Titus was left with his thoughts. It was very difficult, but he forced himself to think through what he needed to do. Originally, he had thought to spend a watch or, at most, two letting Ocelus rest, but that had been before he had gotten hurt. Now he was worried about trying to travel at night, afraid that he would somehow lose his way, or even worse, stumble into the Latobici, who he assumed were still searching for him. Not long after he found the cave, he had heard voices shouting in a strange tongue, down the slope from his hiding spot. He fought the urge to panic then and, for a moment, he was afraid that Ocelus, picking up the scent of at least one other horse, would betray his position. Fortunately for both of them, the moment passed, and he hadn’t heard anything since. Now that dawn was here, he knew he needed to press on; in fact, at least two parts of a watch had passed before the sun first peeked over the hill, but Titus had been unable to summon the energy to leave this spot. Finally, it was Ocelus who began expressing his frustration at being forced to stand in one position by stomping his hooves, snorting, and whipping his tail back and forth.
“All right,” the boy mumbled, pulling himself to his feet. “We’ll go.”
Titus had never been this tired, this hungry, and in this much pain in his
life, as short as it may have been, but he knew that he had to push on now; there was no more excuse for delay. Taking Ocelus’ bridle, he coaxed the horse backward and, to his quiet relief, Ocelus obeyed. Once out, but while still in the space between the standing rock and the cave, Titus tied one rein to the trunk of the twisted tree.
“Stay here,” he commanded his horse. “I need to go look and see if those cunni are still around.”
Despite the fact that it was just him and his horse, Titus still darted a guilty glance over his shoulder in a reflexive action, although it made him feel better to utter a word that adults used, but was forbidden for him to use by his mother. Walking carefully, he moved through the trees on the slope until he reached a spot where he could see down to where the river and road ran across his front. It was a fairly small area that he could see, and he honestly didn’t know what he was looking for, but after a moment of observation, he decided it was safe. Returning to Ocelus, he used the tree once more to help him into the saddle, then nudged the horse forward. Moving slowly at first, Titus guided Ocelus along the slope, while the boy craned his neck in every direction, looking nervously about for any sign of the men who were trying to kill him. He had pointed Ocelus in a generally northern direction, with an idea to come down the slope so that the ridge was behind him, and he was parallel to the river. He had no desire to cross the river again, and if all went well, the next time he would do so was at the bridge outside Siscia. Despite his best effort, he couldn’t keep his mind from dwelling on the one topic that frightened him more than anything he could imagine, and that was what was happening to his family. Added to that was a growing sense of guilt at his delaying the resumption of this ride for help; what if that third of a watch or two was the difference between help arriving in time? How would he live with himself? How would he explain to his father that he had failed in this simple, but so very important mission? It was Ocelus who jerked him from his thoughts, when the horse suddenly stopped, his head coming up and ears pricking forward.
Titus thought his heart would leap out of his chest as he stared in the direction Ocelus was looking, whispering to his horse as if Ocelus could answer, “What is it? What do you see?”
Naturally, Ocelus didn’t answer, except with a gentle puff of breath, blown through his huge nostrils, and if Titus had been more experienced with horses in general, he would have recognized the sign that Ocelus had picked up the scent of one of his own. Titus continued staring down the slope, sure that he was following his horse’s line of sight, but he couldn’t see anything. Finally, he urged the horse forward, but they had only gone a few paces when this time both horse and boy stopped, in perfect concert. It was voices! Titus reached down for his sword, although he had no intention of fighting; this would be another chase. He just wanted to be ready, so he slowly drew the sword a short way out of its scabbard before putting it back, making sure it was loose in the event he was forced to draw it.
“That’s when I told her, ‘If you think I’m going to pay for a fuck that bad, you don’t know Gaius Postumus!’”
It was the combination of the name and the fact the man was speaking Latin that prompted Titus to forget all ideas of fighting or fleeing. Kicking Ocelus, he went into a trot as he shouted, “Eyo! Eyo! I’m Titus Porcinus! My father is Gaius Porcinus! I need help!”
Chapter 5
The period of time between his son being brought into Siscia, under escort by six of Decimus Silva’s troopers, and the reunion with the rest of his family, was the most agonizing and frustrating of Gaius Porcinus’ life. Even after it had all been resolved and his family restored to him, shaken but unharmed, the memory of those three days would still cause Porcinus to jerk awake at night, his heart beating as rapidly as if he was about to enter battle. However, as terrifying as the thought was, he couldn’t even have imagined if this horrifying event had happened just two days later, because he and the 8th would have been gone. The men had been busy, as were their Centurions, their new overall commander Tiberius pushing the Legions under his command hard to replenish their supplies and refit so that they could march again. Even in the short period they were in Siscia, couriers seemed to arrive with every watch, bringing news of tribes all across Pannonia who had decided that it was an opportune moment to rise against Rome. Porcinus, like his counterparts, hadn’t been all that surprised; they were veterans of this province, and this was actually a fairly frequent occurrence. This time, however, was slightly unusual because it appeared to be more than just one or two tribes. Still, neither Porcinus nor his men were particularly worried; they had seen enough of Tiberius in action by this point to have a good deal of confidence in their Legate. After the battle on the lake, when Tiberius had assumed overall command of the now-combined armies, with Drusus’ cooperation, if not his approval, he had wasted no time. Marching his army rapidly eastward up into Noricum, in a series of short, sharp actions, the Legions had essentially handed the same fate to those rebels that had befallen the Rhaeti, although for unknown reasons, Tiberius hadn’t ordered all the rebels into slavery as he had the Rhaeti. Nevertheless, in less than a month, both provinces were pacified, only to have Pannonia flare up. Returning to Siscia, they had been there four days when Porcinus, in his office incising yet another interminable report into a wax tablet, was interrupted by Lysander. He had been irritated at the way the slave flung open his door, but one look at Lysander's face told him that something was, at the very least, amiss. However, he was totally unprepared for what came out of the Thracian’s mouth.
“Centurion, you need to report to the praetorium immediately.”
It was Lysander’s face more than the words that initiated a surge of fear in Porcinus, but he didn’t hesitate.
Moving from behind his desk, he demanded, “What is it? Why do you look like that?”
Lysander hesitated for a moment, but seeing Porcinus’ own expression, hurriedly replied, “It’s your son. He’s here. He was brought in by some of Silva’s men.”
Porcinus froze while his mind raced as he tried to make sense of what Lysander was saying.
“Titus?” he asked. “You’re saying that Titus is here?”
Lysander nodded, but seemed at a loss to explain further. Cursing, Porcinus pushed past the slave. Under normal circumstances, he would have been careful not to be seen running in the direction of the praetorium, knowing the kind of panic this caused with the rankers; this time, he didn’t care. The guards outside had either been told to expect him or, seeing his face, had no desire to try to stop him, and he pushed past them and into the building without being challenged. Entering the main room, where minor clerks had small desks and the Tribune named officer of the day had his own area, where he served as both commander of the guard and watchdog for the Legate, it took a moment for Porcinus’ eyes to adjust. Then his attention was drawn to a small group of men, huddled together, except that as Porcinus headed in that direction, he saw they were actually surrounding something. Nearing within a few paces, he saw that the something was someone, and that someone was his son, Titus. But it was a Titus he had never seen before; drawn, haggard, and most disturbingly, with a large dark patch on his tunic that Porcinus recognized all too easily. For a moment, he was sure his knees would give way, but he forced himself at least to appear calm as he walked to the group. Then Titus saw him, his entire being becoming animated as he pushed past the men to run to his father. Completely forgotten by the both of them was any sense of decorum or sense of how a Centurion of Rome, or the son of one, should behave. In that moment, it was a scared but relieved little boy greeting the one man who could make everything better, his father.
Porcinus almost fell backward as Titus, momentarily forgetting the awful pain in his shoulder, barreled into him. On the fast ride to Siscia, one of the troopers assigned by Silva to accompany him who was experienced in such things, bandaged Titus’ shoulder. The bandage was little hindrance now as the boy threw his arms around his father, although the sudden movement elicited a yelp of
pain from him.
Alarmed, while Porcinus returned the embrace, he asked, “Titus! What’s the matter?”
Looking down at his son’s arm, he gasped at the sight of the bandage, which had a small spot of red on it.
“Pluto’s cock,” he said without thinking. “You’re hurt!”
“Mama’s going to be angry you used that language.” Titus’ voice was muffled by Porcinus’ tunic, the boy having buried his head in his father’ chest, breathing in the scent of leather, olive oil, and sweat that he had always associated with his father.
Despite the situation, Porcinus couldn’t help laughing, although it was quickly cut off by the mention of Iras.
“She’ll forgive me,” he replied quickly. Then, with considerable effort, both because Titus was clinging to him so tightly and from his concern that he would hurt his son, Porcinus gently pried Titus loose so he could look the boy in the eye. “Titus, where is your mama? Where are your brother and sisters?”
Titus had sworn an oath to himself that he wouldn’t cry, especially here in the praetorium, in front of the hard men his father worked with, but the mention of his mother and siblings was too much, and to his horror, he felt his eyes filling with tears. Despite his distress, he managed to give Porcinus what was in essence his very first report to a superior, even if it was his father. When he was finished, Gaius looked to one of the troopers who had brought Titus in, a man he knew by sight, but not by name.
Understanding the unasked question, the trooper hurried to assure Porcinus.
“Decurion Silva’s already on his way to your family, sir. In fact, he might be there by now.”
While this was indeed good news, unsurprisingly, it did little to assuage Porcinus’ worry. He took Titus by the hand, something he wouldn’t have normally done, yet it was a sign of their mutual distress that Porcinus did so, and Titus allowed himself to be led from the praetorium. However, when it became clear that Porcinus was leading him to the building adjoining the headquarters, where the hospital and medici were located, Titus balked.
