Marching With Caesar-Pax Romana

by R. W. Peake

  It began when, from all people, I was given a message from Lysander in the Fourth Cohort, summoning me to see him. Bemused, I hurried to the office of my former Cohort, yet my hopes for illumination were not answered; instead, all Lysander gave me was a cryptic message to procure a pass from Asinius then hurry to a place I knew very well in town. The fact that it was one of the few tavernae favored by my father only became significant after the fact. At the time, the instant the bucina sounded the end of the day, I hurried to Asinius' quarters, and although he was curious, he still wrote out my pass. It was just approaching sundown, the quality of the light signaling we were still in the grip of autumn, casting its particular golden hue on the muddy streets as I navigated my way through town. Arriving at the spot, I found myself hesitating outside the nondescript entrance into Mars' Lair, a place I knew from childhood when I would be sent here by my irate mother on those few occasions my father stayed out too late. Assailed by a sudden rush of memory, I lingered outside, looking up at the sign that had not changed at all and I believe I can be excused for my reluctance as I thought back to those days when I was somewhat smaller, even if it was not by that much. Remembering those rare moments of discord between the immovable object that was my father and the unstoppable force that was my mother, I was suddenly transported back to those days, finding myself hesitant about entering once more. Get hold of yourself, Titus, I commanded myself. You're a grown man now, and besides, the chances of your father making the journey from Arelate are about the same as you suddenly liking calf's brains. Squaring my shoulders, I still took a deep breath before I yanked open the door. It took an instant for my eyes to adjust to the dimness within, while I was clearly outlined there, standing in my tunic and belt.

  "Titus!"

  The fact that it was two voices echoing my name was confusing enough; the identity of those voices meant that, for an instant, I thought I might actually faint dead away.

  "Sextus? Diocles?" I heard a stranger's voice that sounded like mine call out. "What by Cerberus' hairy balls are you doing here?"

  There are moments in every man's life that are treasured memories. Just as certainly, there are those that are bittersweet in nature, colored by everything that occurs after the initial event, and begins with the foretaste of honey but then thrusts the bitter taste of ash into our mouths when we think about it. Even now, I cannot truly say exactly how I feel about that meeting.

  "Sextus?" I gasped, forgetting I was repeating myself, but then I quickly turned my gaze on the other man, more diminutive in stature, yet who to this day remains a giant in my eyes and one of the most influential people of my life. "Diocles? What are you doing here?"

  I was only vaguely aware I was babbling the same question, yet before I got an answer, at least verbally, the two had run up to me and I cannot exactly say how long we hugged each other, although I will freely acknowledge I was crying.

  Turning my attention to Diocles first, I demanded, "Where's Birgit? And your children?"

  Although he blushed, the Greek did not hesitate in replying, "They're less than a day behind us, with Gallus."

  While that answered my immediate question, it did not mean I was any less confused, prompting me to ask, "But why? Why are you here? Don't tell me you brought your family all this way just to visit!"

  "Is that out of the realm of possibility?" Diocles' tone was stout in his defense, but I was sure there was more to it. "Maybe I thought a change of scenery would be good for them!"

  "That's true," I acknowledged and I must say I was absurdly pleased to see I had clearly caught him out. "But is that why you're here? Just for a change of scenery?"

  Staring up at me, even in the dimmer lighting of the tavern, I did not miss his blush. Still, his voice did not waver as he replied, "No, there's more to it than that. You need me." Then he indicated my younger brother. "You need us."

  Over the years of a man's life, at least in my case, I often think back to moments where, if the gods had granted me the chance to relive them and act differently, I would have gladly done so, and this was one of them. Unfortunately for all of us, I was still a proud, bumptious boy, even if it was in a man's body; that is really the only defense I can offer.

  "That's not so," I snapped, glaring at Diocles first before turning my attention to my younger brother, experiencing my first stab of unease when I realized that although I was looking down at him as I always had, it was not by as much as it had been in the past. "Everything's fine! I have things under control!"

  It will be to his eternal credit that Diocles did not simply turn about and stalk away, taking his wife Birgit and their four children with him. But this man, despite being in his sixties, had served Titus Pullus before he had been my tutor, which meant he was accustomed to the bluster and threats of insecure, overgrown boys. Truthfully, my claim to the contrary notwithstanding, I needed him now more than ever, despite the fact I would never admit it. Therefore, he stood there, staring up at me with his direct gaze, one that when I had been his pupil had struck fear into me as I tried to conjugate some Greek word, or solve some thorny problem of mathematics. However, it was never the fear of punishment I felt but that I would let him down or disappoint him in some way.

  "Well," he responded quietly, "that does my heart good to hear it. But who knows?" He gave an elaborate shrug. "You might need us at some point in the future." His face split into a grin as he looked up at me, poking a finger in my chest as he added, "And you are your Avus' grandson, so it's a certainty you're going to do or say something that gets you in trouble."

  Even I could not disagree with that and the taberna filled with our laughter as we embraced again.

  "What," I pointed my finger at my younger brother, although I was addressing Diocles, "is he doing here?"

  Although we were still seated at a table in the tavern, after I arrived, Diocles had insisted we move to a table in a far corner where we could have more privacy.

  Before Diocles could open his mouth, Sextus protested, "You don't have to ask him! I'm sitting right here!"

  "All right," I retorted, "you tell me why you're here." A sudden thought struck me and I felt my stomach do a twist. "Please tell me you didn't sneak off," I groaned, "and that Mama and Tata don't know where you're at!"

  "Actually," Diocles interjected, and I did not miss his hand reaching out to grasp Sextus' forearm to stop him from answering, "it was your father's idea that Sextus come with me. He needed a…change of scenery. Just like I did." He grinned.

  When I think about it now, of all the signs informing me that Diocles was now truly an old man in his sixties, it was the sight of his hand, covered in the light brown spots that are unique to the elderly, that had the most impact on me. His hair had already gone completely white, although that had happened even before I left, yet as I thought about it, I could not recall ever seeing his hands showing these significant marks that proclaimed that our Greek was nearing the end of his own story, one that even then I understood was no less remarkable than that of the man he served, even if it was in a different way.

  Turning my attention to my younger brother, I noticed the telltale sign I had learned when we were younger that indicated trouble. Unlike the rest of the children of Gaius and Iras Porcinianus Pullus, when Sextus was embarrassed or flustered, it was only his ears that turned red rather than his entire face. Even in the dim light of the tavern there was no missing his bright pink ears; his refusal to meet my gaze was mere confirmation.

  "What," I asked him, my tone severe, "did you do?"

  "Nothing," he objected, but when he did lift his head to try and look me in the eyes, it quickly dropped and he mumbled, "At least, nothing much."

  "It appears," Diocles informed me, "that your brother has developed a bit of a…reputation around Arelate."

  "A reputation?" I was bewildered. "A reputation for what? He's still a child!"

  "I'm about to turn sixteen," he shot back, and for the first time, I experienced a glimmer of what it must have be
en like dealing with me at that age.

  Following hot on the heels of that thought was another one: Has it really changed that much?

  Before Sextus could continue, Diocles cut in, "Which means you're still fifteen. And," I must admit his severe tone as he fixed Sextus with his stare brought back my own memories of past transgressions, "that's too young to be carousing about in a drunken stupor."

  "Drunk?" I was shocked, to put it mildly. "You're getting drunk? Already?"

  Suddenly, my sibling was not quite as defiant, becoming particularly interested in a small puddle of spilled wine on the table.

  "Only a couple of times," he mumbled, his only other response a sullen shrug.

  "'A couple of times'?" Diocles' echoed incredulously. "You stayed drunk for almost a week the last time!"

  My brother looked back up and gave us both a grin as he replied, "True, but since I was never sober that week, it only counts as one time!"

  Despite my shock, I found myself bursting out in laughter, prompting a scowl from Diocles, although I could see he was fighting his own urge to join in.

  "Don't encourage him, Titus," he sighed. "This is serious." Waving a hand in disgust at Sextus, he continued, "And this is why it's happened. He has your mother wrapped around his finger, and your father…" Suddenly, his expression turned, if not sad, then melancholy. "Well, your father has other things on his mind."

  "Yes," Sextus' good humor instantly evaporated; the scowl that replaced his smile was also one with which I was familiar, mainly because, according to my mother, he had copied it from me when we were children, "he's so busy worrying about you he doesn't have time for the rest of us!"

  "Sextus," Diocles sighed again, but although he was addressing my brother, I felt his eyes on me, "that's not true. Exactly," he amended, which caused me to shift uncomfortably as he continued, "but while it's partially true he's been worried about your brother, that's just a part of it. He's worried about your entire family. And," Diocles suddenly thrust a finger at Sextus, his voice returning to its harsh tone, "you know why. Your behavior has drawn a lot of attention in Arelate, and it's the kind of attention your family doesn't need."

  Whereas a moment before I was sure I had a grasp of the situation, I suddenly was unsure about the direction this conversation seemed to be headed.

  "Wait," I objected, "how does Sextus getting drunk a…" I admit that when I glanced over at Sextus, I could not stifle a grin, "…couple of times mean that our father is worried about drawing attention?"

  There was no immediate response, but I did not miss the look the pair exchanged.

  Finally, Diocles asked quietly, "Do you want to tell your brother, or should I?"

  Like quicksilver, my younger brother's expression had gone from sullen defiance, to laughing, and now back to staring down at the table with that scowl on his face, so when he shrugged and said nothing, I looked to Diocles for an explanation.

  Shaking his head, Diocles explained, "Your brother's revels with Bacchus are just part of the story. It seems that young Master Sextus has fallen in love with the gladiatorial games."

  "And why shouldn't I?" Sextus suddenly interjected, his tone clearly defensive. "We own the…"

  Before he could finish the sentence, I reached out and clamped down, hard, on his arm, his yelp of surprised pain stopping him from blurting out something that none of my family would want widely known.

  "We," I bit off each word, "Don't. Talk. About. That."

  Sextus glared at me, but it was a look I returned, so that after a moment, as had always happened before when we were growing up, he was the one to lower his eyes, his shoulders suddenly slumping.

  "Fine," he muttered.

  Turning back to Diocles, I asked him, "I still don't understand. So he likes watching blood in the sand."

  "He was doing more than watching," the Greek replied quietly. "He was wagering on the outcome."

  "Because I know what I'm doing!" Sextus exclaimed, his defiance coming back once more.

  I must admit his constant change in attitude was something I had quite forgotten; of all my siblings, Sextus' temperament was such that his wild fluctuations between extremes became something we accepted was just part of him. Whenever he became interested in something, he adopted whatever it was with unbridled enthusiasm, immersing himself completely in all the trappings of his newfound passion; unfortunately, while his ardor about the subject was intense, it was never long lasting. The room we shared growing up was littered with the odds and ends of his various pursuits and all of them had been discarded as he moved from one interest to another, much like the way a bee buzzes from one type of flower to the next, never staying long at any one type. It drove my mother to distraction, although my father was more indulgent, at least in this quirk of his. Obviously, since I left, it had not changed much; from what Diocles was telling me, however, matters had actually become worse.

  "You do," Diocles granted, which surprised me since I had assumed the source of the difficulty was the opposite. "But that's the problem."

  "I don't see how it's a problem," Sextus retorted. "It's not like I'm using Tata's money for my…fun."

  I confess that, at that moment, I could see Sextus' point, and I looked to Diocles for an explanation; as usual, he was able to provide it.

  "It's a problem," Diocles explained patiently, except he was actually addressing me; later, I learned this was a conversation with which Sextus was intimately familiar since he had heard it so many times, "that stems from two causes. The first is that, a boy," as he clearly expected my brother opened his mouth to protest before I just gave his arm another squeeze, causing it to snap shut, "who's winning as much as Sextus has been winning on his wagers is bound to draw attention. Specifically, it doesn't take much intelligence to determine that this youngster somehow has inside information…"

  "Which I do," Sextus boasted.

  "From Vulso," I sighed, to which Sextus nodded proudly.

  Closing my eyes, I took a deep breath, suddenly seeing where Diocles was headed, and most importantly, why it was such a concern. Maximus Vulso was the lanista of the ludus in Arelate, and even before my father began tutoring me, the one-eyed former gladiator had indulged my fervent desire to learn the art of combat. Even now, I am grateful to him because, before I learned how to fight like a man of the Legions, I was tutored in how to fight like a gladiator, which meant I was familiar with every dirty trick available. It was not without cost, however; I can never think of Vulso without the image of the broken, battered body of the dwarf Spartacus following closely behind.

  "So," I said grimly, "you've been using his inside information to bet on the bouts."

  "Yes," there was no mistaking the pride in Sextus' voice, "and, Titus, you wouldn't believe how much money I've won!"

  "Which," Diocles interjected, "is only part of the problem."

  Suddenly, I did not feel well, wondering as I did, how much worse could it be? I quickly learned.

  "The other difficulty," Diocles continued, "is that young Master here is…generous. To a fault," he finished ominously.

  Now I could not stifle a groan as I dropped my head into my arms, shaking it in dismay.

  "What?" Sextus had returned to the defensive, but I could tell just by his tone he knew exactly why both Diocles and I were upset. "So I'm generous to my friends! Is there anything wrong with that?"

  "Your friends?" I scoffed, lifting my head to resume glaring at Sextus. "It's just your friends you're being generous to? Is that what you're saying?"

  "So I'm just a friendly sort of person and I have a lot of them," he protested. "There's no crime in that!"

  "Name them," I countered suddenly.

  Sextus' expression turned wary, whereupon he played for time by asking, "What? What do you mean 'name them'?"

  "Just what I said." I refused to be thrown off the scent. "Name these friends." Using his own tactic, I shrugged and finished, "After all, I'd know them too, wouldn't I? I mean, I lived there as well
."

  The silence drew out for several heartbeats before my brother finally shifted in his seat as he mumbled, "You wouldn't know them."

  "Oh?" I asked, affecting a look of surprise that was designed to be transparently false, "Really? I wouldn't? You mean you've made so many friends since I've been gone I wouldn't know any of them?"

  "You know one or two of them," he insisted stubbornly, but when he offered two names, I suspect the moment they passed his lips he knew he had made a fatal blunder.

  "Those two?" Now I made no attempt to hide my scorn. "Those mentulae? Sextus," despite my best intentions, I could feel my composure slipping as my anger, my real anger that posed such a danger to everyone and everything around me, started rousing itself, uncoiling in my gut like a huge serpent, "how many fucking times did I warn you to stay away from them? They're nothing but trouble, and they'd just as soon slit your throat as look at you!"

  "You don't know them!" Sextus shot back, and my detached observer saw he was now at least as angry as I was. "You barely even talked to them because you think you're so much better than they are!"

  "I am better than they are!" I pointed my finger right in his face. "And so are you!"

  "No, I'm not!" Sextus suddenly stood up, shouting now, and I saw Diocles give an alarmed look around the tavern. "I'm no better than they are and," now he pointed his own finger right back at me, "neither are you! Just because we have mon…"

  My younger brother was unconscious before he hit the floor, and I had rarely felt as guilty and ashamed as I did at that moment, staring dumbly down at my fist and the reddened knuckles.

  "That," Diocles said dryly as he leaned over to check on my brother, having seen this scene before, "is certainly one way to shut him up. I just hope you didn't kill him."

  I carried my unconscious brother over my shoulder, following Diocles to the apartment he had rented for his family, but before we left, I tossed a handful of coins to the proprietor of Mars' Lair.