by R. W. Peake
I had been hoping that this would suffice, but he gave no sign of softening.
“Thank you,” he said politely. “Of course I accept your apology.”
I felt desperation at that moment, a feeling that I was singularly unaccustomed to, the beginning of a realization that it was entirely possible that I had damaged my relationship with Gaius beyond repair.
“Then why are you still angry with me?” I blurted out, startling me as much as it did him.
“I’m not angry with you,” he said uncomfortably.
I waved his denial off.
“I’ve known you long enough to know when you’re not telling the truth,” I countered. “And I can see that you’re just saying that.”
“That’s not true,” he protested, for the first time showing some emotion. “I'm just very surprised. I never thought that I'd see you standing here, apologizing to me.”
“Neither did I,” I admitted, giving him a rueful grin. “But you can thank a very stubborn friend of mine for making me realize how badly I've been behaving lately.”
“Scribonius.” It was half-question, half-guess, which I confirmed with a nod. He gave a short laugh.
“If anyone could get through to you, it would be him,” he said.
For a moment, we stood there, neither seeming to know what to say next. Finally, I decided that since I had come this far, in both senses of the word, I should continue.
“I didn't want you leaving for Rome, and not see you for the gods know how long, without you knowing that I'm truly sorry for what I said.”
“No.” He shook his head. “What you said was the truth, no matter how hard it may have been to hear. You’re right, Uncle. I don't have whatever it is that you have in you, and I’ve known that for some time. I’m sorry if you're disappointed in me.”
“Gaius.” I placed both hands on his shoulders so he would look me in the eye. “I couldn't be prouder of you than I am. And it’s because you're not like me. Forget the things I said the last time. I was drunk, and I was trying to hurt you. I don’t want you to do anything other than your duty to the best of your abilities, and that's more than enough for me.”
I saw his eyes fill with tears, and felt the beginning of the same in mine, something neither of us wanted to be seen by his men, so I gave him a clap on the shoulder.
“So we're all right then? I can go back to my quarters and you can go to Rome in peace?”
“Yes,” he agreed. “We're all right.”
I felt it was safe to embrace him then. We hugged and I kissed him on both cheeks, the way an uncle to a nephew would.
“Have fun in Rome,” I told him.
“I will,” he grinned. “I’m looking forward to marching in a triumph. I’ve heard that it’s about the most fun a Legionary can have.”
I was about to say something about not getting his hopes up, then bit my tongue. I had repaired things with my nephew, and I did not want sour words from me ringing in his ears when he shipped off to Rome. Instead, I wished him an uneventful voyage, promising that I would see him as soon as he came back. I still refused to wish him the favor of the gods, but he did not seem disappointed. I walked with him back to his men, who had just been ordered to begin boarding, then stood there to watch them board the ship. Giving him a final wave, I turned to go back to my quarters, feeling better for the first time in months.
I did not get drunk that night, the next, nor any night after that for a very long time. Instead, I went to the baths to try to sweat as much wine out of me as possible in one sitting, and I did feel better afterward. When I returned to my quarters, Diocles was still making himself scarce, and I assumed that he was with Egina somewhere in the city. I vaguely remembered him mentioning that he had found a place where Egina and another servant’s woman were sharing space to live, but I had been too drunk to pay enough attention to know where it was. I will say that a part of me found it somewhat humiliating to think that I owed someone who was ostensibly my slave an apology for my behavior, yet Diocles had long before become much more than that to me. While at that point I did not consider him a friend on the same level as Scribonius, it was more due to the longevity of my friendship, and the fact that we were essentially counterparts, than any closeness of feeling. In fact, there were things that I confided to Diocles that Scribonius did not know, although I cannot recall that the reverse was true. By virtue of his position for so many years as the 10th’s chief clerk, Diocles knew all the secrets of the Legion, probably more than I did. I could not really fault Diocles for being missing, given that I had been essentially impossible to live with, let alone serve for a good while. Still, it was technically a violation of our agreement that he was not there to attend to my needs, yet somehow I managed to put myself to bed that night. The next morning, he was there, and I began the morning in the same manner I had for many weeks, at least as far as he was concerned, by growling his name the moment I heard him stirring in the front office. I could hear him heave a sigh, then the door opened and he appeared with what had become my breakfast, a piece of bread and a jug of wine. Seeing the jug, a feeling of shame washed over me at the thought of how far I had let myself go, but I remained in my cot, looking at Diocles with what I hoped was the bleary-eyed look he had become accustomed to.
“Where were you last night?” I demanded, and I will confess that my irritation was not completely an act.
I had wanted to set things right with Diocles the night before to get it out of the way. To his credit, he did not flinch or attempt to make excuses.
“I was with Egina,” he told me. He set the tray down then, without waiting, filled my cup with wine.
“I don’t recall giving you leave last night,” I told him.
He did not say anything at first, looking down at the tray, before turning to look me in the eye.
“Would you remember if you did?”
Instead of answering his question directly, I pointed to the cup.
“Pour that out,” I commanded. The look of surprise on his face was sweetly satisfying. “And fill it with water. I’m done with wine until I tell you otherwise.”
Diocles made no attempt to stifle his smile; if he obeyed all of my commands with the same alacrity that he showed then, he would have been worth his weight in gold, and I would have sold him to someone. Fortunately for both of us, I did not and do not need the money. I waited for him to return with another pitcher, this one with water, taking a breath before getting to what I wanted to say.
“I've been behaving badly, Diocles. And unfortunately, you've borne the brunt of that behavior.”
The little Greek man, just beginning to show signs of gray at the temples of his curly dark hair, inclined his head in acknowledgment of what I had said.
“That's my duty, Master,” was his reply, which was true enough, except we both knew that there were more masters who would have never considered the feelings of both slave and servant than would have thought to render an apology, but I was determined to be different. In the past, whenever I found myself taking Diocles, or any of my household slaves for granted, I would remind myself of Phocas and Gaia, both slaves according to the law, yet who were my parents in everything but name. These past weeks I had forgotten them, along with everything else good in my life, and it had taken Scribonius dumping water on me, then throwing me to the floor to remind me.
“I know it’s your duty,” I said, feeling a bit impatient, but I could not really blame him if he did not want to make this easy for me.
“But that's no excuse for the way I've treated you. I've never treated you that way before now, and for that, I want to apologize, and to tell you that I've recovered from whatever it was that was eating at me.”
“Self-pity,” he responded matter-of-factly, which did not make me feel better, I can assure you.
Everyone around me seemed to know what had been bothering me, but I had been too absorbed in my own misery to realize it.
“Whatever its cause,” I said, a little
stiffly perhaps, “I can assure you that it’s gone now, and I'm back to being my old self.”
“Master, I can’t tell you how good it is to hear you say that.” Diocles seemed to be genuinely relieved, and happy, judging by his smile. “So, are you going to resume your daily exercises?”
“Yes,” I said firmly. “But first, there's one more thing I must do to make amends.”
When I finished my breakfast, I turned to that last chore, going to see Ocelus, who was clearly happy to see me, immediately sticking his soft nose into my tunic while I stroked his neck. For some reason, I found it much easier to apologize to my horse than to the people I had wronged. We went for a good, long ride, finishing up with a gallop that left me breathless and happy, for the first time since Balbus had died. I would experience bouts of sadness, happening at odd moments, usually catching me by surprise, but that was the last time I suffered from a prolonged depression to this day. Unfortunately, there would still be cause for sadness in my life, and it was not long in coming.
Somewhat to my surprise, Tribune Claudius had remained behind with the army, while Cornelius and most of the other Tribunes had, as is the custom, returned to Rome. While part of the reforms of Octavian called for the Tribunes to serve a longer term than just a campaign season, there was nothing in the rules about them returning home. Many Legionaries did the same as well, going back to Italia, which was possible to do, then still return in time for the next season. Those men still in the army from Hispania were not so lucky; it was simply too far a trip for them to make with any assurance that they would return in time to start a new campaign season. There had been a great change in young Claudius, very much for the better, since his brush with death. I had seen such things happen many times before, usually with younger men, and while at first I had been skeptical, the change seemed to be genuine and heartfelt. Our relationship had improved dramatically; speaking indelicately, it was as if the stick had been removed from his ass, just like I had remarked to Crassus. That is not to say that he was no longer a snob, but it was not as obvious, while he seemed to have a deeper appreciation for the men of the ranks than before. Most importantly, at least for his own career, he and Crassus had reached some sort of understanding as well. That is why I was surprised when he did not accompany Crassus back to Rome, but I had been so absorbed in my own misery that I had not bothered to ask Claudius about it. Finally, perhaps a week after I stopped drinking, I found myself in the Praetorium, with just Claudius, who had stopped by for some reason. Crassus’ private office was now mine to use in his absence, so I called him into it to find out. After exchanging pleasantries, I asked him why he had not gone to Rome with Crassus.
He hesitated before answering, finally saying, “He asked me to accompany him, and I was going to, but…..” His voice trailed off, and he looked away, clearly torn about what to say.
I had a suspicion I knew what he was going to answer, and decided to finish for him.
“But someone told you it wouldn’t be a good idea.”
He looked a bit surprised, but nodded unhappily.
“My father,” he said at last. “He wrote me and basically forbade me from accompanying the Legate back to Rome. He said that doing so would threaten my future.”
“Did you tell Crassus about this?”
He hesitated before giving a nod.
“Even though my father swore me to secrecy. I just felt I owed him that much.”
“What did Crassus say?”
“He laughed it off.” He shrugged. “Said that he appreciated my loyalty to him, but that I was worried about nothing.”
Something in the way he said that bothered me, so I asked him, “Didn't you tell him that it was your father who warned you?”
A look of what I took to be guilt crossed his face.
“No,” he admitted. “I was already betraying my father’s trust by telling Crassus. I suppose I was being a coward.”
“Not really,” I told him, except I did think it was a bit cowardly, but I could remember what it felt like to fear your father. “You were in a tough spot. I probably would have done the same.”
He seemed genuinely relieved to hear me say as much, but my mind was occupied with what Claudius’ father had told his son, sure that the Tribune was leaving something out.
“Tribune, if you don’t mind my prying, what exactly did your father say?”
His face took on a guarded expression, and for a moment, I thought he would not answer.
“He said that Caesar was very unhappy with Crassus’ performance, both with the Bastarnae and the Moesians,” he said finally, if a bit grudgingly.
While this confirmed what Scribonius and I had been speculating for some time, it was nonetheless chilling to hear it confirmed.
“Did he mention specifics?”
“He did,” Claudius replied, but said nothing more. I waited; finally seeing that I was not going to be put off, he heaved a sigh before continuing. “Specifically, the Legate’s plans for a triumph, and for his dedication of Deldo’s armor as spolia opima. You are aware, aren’t you, that the spolia opima has only been claimed three times in our history?”
“I'm as well versed in Rome’s history as any man,” I said stiffly, while in truth I could not remember who, other than Romulus, was the first to make such a claim.
“Then you know that only Romulus, Aulus Cornelius Cossus, and Marcus Claudius Marcellus have done so, and Marcellus, who's one of my ancestors by the way,” he added with obvious pride, “was the last and that happened two hundred years ago. The fact that Crassus was making such a claim apparently infuriated Caesar.”
He paused for a moment. When he spoke again, his voice dropped to almost a whisper, despite us being the only two in the room.
“But that’s not what's going to do him in,” he said. If he was pretending to be saddened, he was doing a good job of it. “It’s the fact that he was hailed as imperator three times. My father says that Caesar simply can't let that be known, since it would make Crassus a challenger for his position as Princeps Senatus.”
“Princeps Senatus?” This was the first time that I heard this title applied to Octavian, although it would become his first official title conferred by the Senate.
“Yes, that's how Caesar is being referred to now,” Claudius confirmed. “My father says that Caesar is in the last phase of consolidating his power, and matters are very delicate right now. Crassus poses a threat, especially since the army has declared him imperator.”
“But it wasn’t the army,” I objected. “It was only the Centurionate, and not the whole army.”
“That’s not how it was reported back to Caesar,” Claudius said, confirming another prediction that Scribonius had made.
I regarded the Tribune for several moments, trying to decide the best way to frame what was an obvious question. Finally, I took the same approach I always did, charging straight ahead.
“Tribune, please forgive me for asking this, but are you the one who informed on Crassus about this matter?”
For a moment, I thought the Tribune would lose his head and strike me, or attempt to do so, but then he got hold of himself.
“No, I did not,” he said stiffly. “And I resent the implication that I did, Prefect.”
“Forgive me, Tribune,” I said gently. “But you must admit that until recently, your relationship with the Legate has been . . . strained, to say the least. And if I remember correctly, you once swore that you would get even with the both of us for insults done to you.”
His body stiffened for a moment, but he slowly relaxed, letting out a long breath.
“You’re right,” he conceded, trying to smile as he said it, except I could see that he was still rankled. “But that was before . . .” He did not finish, nor did he need to, and I nodded in understanding.
“Again, forgive me, Tribune. I was just making sure.”
“You do believe me, don’t you?” His face was anxious, and I could see that it was important to him.<
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“Yes, I do.”
“Good.” His relief showed in his face, but I could only think about what was facing Crassus.
“Did your father tell you what's going to happen?”
Claudius shook his head.
“Not specifically, but I can guess.”
“And?”
“Marcus Crassus is going to disappear from public life. At least that's what I think will happen.”
“But how?” I was truly curious how Octavian would affect someone as well known and wealthy as Crassus to do what Claudius was suggesting.
“Oh, I would imagine that Caesar will be very persuasive,” he said evasively. “Probably there will be a triumph. The campaign out here is too well known by now for even Caesar to ignore. But I'm as sure as I can be that there will be no spolia opima, and shortly after the Triumph, there will be some public announcement that Crassus was seriously ill, probably as a result of the rigors of the campaign, and that he'll retire. For a short time, anyway, or so the announcement will go. But then Caesar will count on people forgetting, and Marcus Crassus will spend the rest of his life in exile. Comfortable exile,” he added hastily, perhaps seeing my expression. “But exile nonetheless.”
I considered what the Tribune had said for several moments, before I finally voiced my thoughts.
“But what if Crassus refuses?”
I was sure I knew the answer, but I wanted to have it confirmed.
“If he refuses, I'd imagine that the business of the ambush by the Thracians, when your friend Balbus was killed, would be used to convince him otherwise.” Claudius looked away when he said this, as if ashamed that it would occur to him.
I knew he was more than likely correct; it was exactly the sort of leverage that Octavian would use, and by the time he was through, Crassus’ reputation would be ruined.
“It hardly seems fair,” I said. “Crassus was only doing the best job he knew how to do.”
