by R. W. Peake
He could not articulate why, but Volusenus was suddenly worried, and he heard the note of anxiety as he asked Pullus, “You don’t think he could do it now, do you?”
Pullus shrugged, saying only, “I don’t think so. But if he does, he does.”
This was such a singularly unusual thing for Pullus to say in Volusenus’ view, that he came to an abrupt stop, staring at the older Centurion in incredulity, asking, “Doesn’t that worry you?” Pullus opened his mouth, but Volusenus had worked himself up into a state of real anger and cut him off, saying hotly, “If he tried, I’d have something to say about it!”
Pullus said nothing, and it was yet another moment that only made sense to Volusenus later, because the look he gave Volusenus was one of such intensity, and with an emotion that Volusenus could not identify, that it made the younger man nervous.
“I…appreciate that, Gnaeus.” Pullus using his praenomen had been relatively rare to this point, so it was another reason for Volusenus to remember the moment later. Then, he gave an abrupt shake of his head, and he smiled as he added, “But I don’t think it will come to that.”
“Well, if it does, know that I’ll do whatever you need me to do,” Volusenus assured him. “If the Primus Pilus named you Pilus Prior, that’s all that matters.”
They had reached Pullus’ quarters, and they stopped, Pullus repeating, “Thank you, Gnaeus. Now,” he took a deep breath, and for the first time, Volusenus saw what he was certain was a look of excitement in Pullus’ eyes as he said, “I need to go pack up.”
“You mean, you need to have Alex pack up.” Volusenus laughed, which Pullus returned.
With a wave, he entered his quarters, and Volusenus resumed walking towards his own quarters, his mind racing with the meaning of the night’s developments, all thought of going into town gone. He could not really say why, but he was aware that he was every bit as excited as Pullus was, and while not as happy, it was close.
Chapter Two
As the date for departure of the army approached, Volusenus continued stalling about the purchase of the gladius, and he could tell that Pullus was growing increasingly irritated when he would ask Volusenus about it.
“You’re going to need time to get the handle fitted just right for your hand,” Pullus had said, more than once. “I was fortunate that when I first got my grandfather’s blade, the handle that was shaped to fit my father’s hand fit, but I’ve worn through two more handles, and the last one took a month before it felt right.”
Volusenus knew that Pullus was offering good advice, but finally, one night in Pullus’ quarters, he broke down and confessed to Pullus the real cause for his hesitance. He did so, certain that Pullus would be unable to resist some sort of teasing comment, but to his profound surprise, when he got to the part about his mother, Pullus’ expression changed, subtly but unmistakably. Afterward, he assumed that the most likely explanation probably had to do with Pullus experiencing a similar moment, maybe not with his mother, but with his father, where he was forced to ask for help. At the time, he never imagined the real reason for Pullus’ transformation.
“I suppose,” Volusenus had finished with a sigh, staring down into his cup, “I just need to swallow my pride and write to my mother.” He looked up at Pullus and admitted, “Because you’re right. I need to get that gladius before we march, and in enough time to do what you said. Besides,” he felt the grin form on his face in an unconscious reaction at the thought of the dark, patterned blade, “it really is a thing of beauty.”
Pullus was in a similar pose, holding his cup between his knees and looking down into it, but he did smile at Volusenus’ enthusiasm, understanding perfectly the appreciation a warrior had for a finely crafted weapon, which in their own way, could be things of beauty. Deadly, certainly, and neither he, Volusenus, nor any man who wielded a gladius ever forgot its purpose, but beautiful nonetheless.
Suddenly, without looking at Volusenus, Pullus said, “I’ll give you the money, Gnaeus.”
For a moment, Volusenus was certain he had misheard, and he stared at Pullus, but when the older man finally lifted his head and looked in Volusenus’ eyes, he understood that he had heard perfectly well what Pullus was offering, and he gasped, “I can’t let you do that, Pullus!” He saw the sudden change, and hurried on, “Not that I’m not greatly appreciative, truly. I just…” he shrugged, realizing that he actually could not think of, or at least articulate the reason, not in a way that would not offend Pullus even more, so he finished lamely, “…can’t, that’s all.”
Rather than be put off, Pullus asked, “Why not?” Before Volusenus answered, he held up a hand, “I’m not saying it’s a gift. Although,” he added, “I can certainly afford it.”
“You can afford five thousand sesterces?” Volusenus asked, again without thinking, and even he heard the skeptical note in his voice, but rather than being annoyed, Pullus seemed somewhat amused.
“Why, yes, I can, Gnaeus,” he assured Volusenus, then he seemed about to continue but suddenly stopped himself, frowning in a manner that Volusenus knew meant he was thinking about something. Then, muttering something under his breath that Volusenus could not hear, he went on, “I’m guessing you’ve heard some…rumors about me?”
“Which ones?” Volusenus countered, but while he was trying to sound flippant, he was simply speaking the truth; there were so many stories about Pullus that it was difficult to know to which the older man was referring.
This did prompt a smile, but Pullus said, “Not the ones about how I ended up here from Siscia. The other one.”
“Ah,” Volusenus nodded, “you mean the one about your family being so wealthy that you could be in the Senate?”
“That’s not true,” Pullus replied, then added as an afterthought something that shocked Volusenus to his core. “At least, not anymore.”
What ensued over the next few moments was a story that Pullus had shared with very, very few people, and even as he sat there trying to absorb the details of the Pullus family fortune, Volusenus wondered why Pullus was being so forthcoming. Following hard on the heels of that was another thought, one that actually made Volusenus acutely uncomfortable; if Pullus was to be believed, and Volusenus never doubted he was speaking the truth, Pullus’ family fortune far exceeded the value of his own. Suddenly, all of the little comments he had made, the snubs he had inflicted on not just Pullus, but his fellow Centurions in the early days of his tenure with the Fourth Cohort, came back to Volusenus, and he felt a bit silly, particularly where it concerned Pullus. And, he realized now, that by behaving as he had, Volusenus was confirming the very characteristics and behavior that the other Centurions accused him of during the first months of his time with the Cohort.
This was what prompted him to interject, when Pullus paused to take a sip from his cup, “I feel like a right fool now, Pullus.”
“Why?” Pullus asked, but Volusenus saw the grin and understood Pullus knew very well why, confirmed when he continued, “Because you didn’t know that my family can buy yours? Or,” he amended, and the grin turned into a grimace, although it was not aimed at Volusenus, “at least we could.”
“Something like that,” Volusenus admitted, but he found himself repeating a question that, only later, did he realize had become a common one between the two men, asking, “Why are you telling me this?”
Pullus shrugged, answering, “I suppose that going back home to Arelate when we were looking for Germanicus has something to do with it.”
While this made a sort of sense, Volusenus felt confident that there was more to it than this, but he decided to refrain from pushing the matter, and Pullus looked relieved when he returned to the subject. “So what you’re telling me is that you can afford five thousand sesterces. But,” he leaned forward to emphasize his words, “that still doesn’t explain why.”
Pullus actually seemed prepared for this question, answering by pointing out, “I’m your Pilus Prior now, which means that every man in this Cohort i
s my responsibility, and that includes the Centurions. So if I think the best way to help your Century and this Cohort is to make sure that you’re properly armed, are you going to argue with your Pilus Prior?” Pullus said this last part with a humorous tone, although Volusenus saw by Pullus’ eyes that he was serious, but before he could respond, Pullus’ face split into a grin as he added, “Besides, if I have a Centurion who likes trying to stab barbarians through the head, I want to make sure they’re carrying a gladius that can do the job. Although you better not keep doing that, not with a blade that costs five thousand sesterces.”
Volusenus yielded the point by groaning, then said, “By the gods, you will never let me forget that, will you?”
“Not as long as I draw breath,” Pullus admitted cheerfully.
Volusenus laughed, then turned serious, and he made sure to look Pullus in the eye.
“I thank you for your help in this, Pilus Prior.” The fact that Volusenus used Pullus’ new rank not only served as signal of his acceptance of the reason Pullus stated, but he saw the sudden expression of pleased surprise on Pullus’ face, and it felt good that he was one of the first to refer to Pullus by his new rank. “I swear on the black stone that I’ll repay you for this. Although,” he made a face that elicited a chuckle from Pullus, “if you don’t mind, I’ll do it without writing to my mother. And,” he assured Pullus, “I know that while it will serve me as well as your grandfather’s blade, I can never hope to match his or your record.”
At first, Volusenus thought he had erred, watching Pullus’ expression change. He thinks that I’m licking his ass, he thought dismally, knowing that he had been completely sincere while understanding how the words could have been interpreted after he heard them himself.
However, Pullus was not angry; he was moved, which became clear when he had to clear his throat twice before, in a gruff tone that sounded half-hearted, he said, “That goes without saying, but I learned some time ago that I’d never match my grandfather’s deeds. Although,” he added in a musing way, “I never thought I’d even be a Pilus Prior.”
Deciding that a change of subject was in order, Volusenus returned his attention to something that he had learned when Pullus had explained the truth of his familial wealth, asking, “Have you found out any more about the man who cheated your brother?”
If Pullus was surprised at the switch, he gave no indication, shaking his head as he answered, “No, nothing yet, but I have a…friend who actually works for the Imperator who’s looking into it. If anyone can find that fucking son of a whore, it’s him. But,” he suddenly reached down to pick up an unrolled scroll, which he waved in Volusenus’ general direction, “there is some good news. This is from my brother Septimus, and we’ve already recouped a bit more than a hundred thousand sesterces.”
Volusenus whistled appreciatively, saying, “That didn’t take long. Your brother Septimus must be very clever. More than…?”
Pullus supplied, “…Gaius.”
Volusenus nodded, “Yes, Gaius. So,” he added cautiously, “that’s a good sign, neh?”
“It is,” Pullus agreed, “although this was something of a one-time thing. He just sold off some property that we had no business owning.” Volusenus said nothing, just regarded Pullus with a raised eyebrow, but this served its purpose. “Slaves,” Pullus explained. “He sold all of our slaves off.”
“I’ve heard that slaves are a tricky business,” Volusenus replied. “There’s a lot that goes into maintaining them, and then they can take sick and die off, or are lazy. But,” he added, “my father always said that while it was high risk, the profits were even higher.” Shrugging, he said offhandedly, “I’m certainly not trying to tell you your business, just that it seems like slaves might be the quickest way to rebuild your wealth.”
“My family doesn’t own fucking slaves,” Pullus snapped, the change in his demeanor and tone catching Volusenus by such surprise that he felt himself starting to rise from his stool. Before he came to his feet, Pullus held up a hand, saying placatingly, “I apologize, Gnaeus. That wasn’t directed at you.” He hesitated, then said, “It’s just that there’s a…complicated history with the Pullus family and slaves, and it was my parents’ decision that we divest ourselves of them. My brother Gaius ignored their wishes, because after they were dead, he proceeded to buy slaves. That,” he concluded, “is why it’s a sensitive subject.”
Despite sensing that Pullus was unwilling to talk about it, Volusenus was intensely curious, and asked, “What kind of history? What does that mean?”
Pullus gave him a smile, but he shook his head, “No, you’ve learned enough of my family’s secrets tonight. That one will have to wait. Besides,” he signaled he was finished by rising to his feet, “you need to retire for the night. Tomorrow, you’re going to go to Scrofa and take delivery of that new gladius.”
While Volusenus had agreed to allow Pullus to loan the money, the fact that he had just done so led him to say, “But don’t you need to let Scrofa know beforehand that you’re the one paying him?”
Pullus grinned at him.
“I already did.”
The next several days were a blur for Volusenus, as he spent almost every watch awake either conducting the training regimen that was devised for the Cohort by their new Pilus Prior or supervising the myriad tasks, large and small, that had to be carried out to prepare his Century for marching. Nevertheless, he also managed to cram in at least a third of a watch, standing in front of one of the stakes, working on his forms, as they were called, alternating between a rudis and the new gladius. With some inward embarrassment, Volusenus was forced to acknowledge that he had fallen hopelessly in love with an inanimate object, although to him, it was anything but lifeless. As Pullus had warned him, it was not nearly as straightforward as just becoming accustomed to the lighter weight and different balance; the blisters on his palm were a testament to the need for the handle to be slowly, excruciatingly so, shaped to fit his, and only his hand. After every session, he would spend part of his evening carefully rubbing the hardwood with a piece of pumice, so that bit by bit, the difference between wood and flesh became minimized. However, it was not just the normal process of shaping a handle, because, finally, Pullus had prevailed on Volusenus to change the kind of grip he used to hold his gladius. Very soon after his arrival to the Fourth Cohort of the 1st, Volusenus had been introduced to what was called the Vinician grip, although at the time, he had no idea why. And, not surprisingly, the Gnaeus Volusenus who assumed the post of Quartus Hastatus Posterior had absolutely no interest in learning a new grip; once he learned that, somehow, his then-nemesis Pullus was involved, this only deepened his antipathy to the idea.
Now, more than five years later, when Pullus offered to show him the grip, and to provide a demonstration of the advantages, Volusenus was at least willing to do that much. It was when, no more than a hundred heartbeats into a sparring session that, in a demonstration of not just his skill but brute power, Pullus sent Volusenus’ rudis flying from his hand while spraining Volusenus’ thumb in the process, that he was ready to accept that it was indeed a superior method. Not that it was something that was easily done, and as many adherents of the grip first taught by Aulus Vinicius, the Optio of the First Century of the Second Cohort of the Legion that would become known as the Equestrians had learned, his hand required strengthening. This was why, next to his cot, there was a bucket filled with sand, and before he retired for the night, no matter how tired he was, he would plunge his right hand into the bucket, fingers splayed out, then curl his hand into a fist. Then, after Pullus mentioned that, as a way to emulate the first Titus Pullus, he performed the exercises with his left hand as well, so did Volusenus.
Nevertheless, even with the exercises, it felt awkward at first, because by placing the thumb under the fingers, it did hamper the ability to move the blade outward with a lateral stroke, not much but enough to be noticeable. The most common complaint, and one that Volusenus initially shared, was
the idea that, in the event that it was necessary to strike an enemy with the pommel or handguard, the base of the thumb would come into contact with either with enough force to damage or even dislocate it. Pullus had listened patiently, then had slammed his rudis into the stake, with his usual tremendous amount of power, and from a variety of angles. Only after he demonstrated that his hand was undamaged did Volusenus try it, and that was the last time he brought this concern up. Gradually, he became more accustomed to the grip, and while he retired every night near the edge of exhaustion, he could feel the assurance growing in himself; his confidence in his Century was even greater, and while he would never say as much aloud, he was convinced that, as well-trained as the Fourth had been under Macer, their new Pilus Prior had definitely elevated the readiness of the Cohort. How they would perform in battle would not be answered until it actually happened, Volusenus knew, but he was certain that there would be a corresponding improvement when it came to killing Germans. Despite thinking about it quite a bit, Volusenus was unable to pinpoint exactly why he believed this to be the case, but he had a sense that it had as much to do with the personality of their new Quartus Pilus Prior as his training regimen. While it was perhaps not to the same degree as his grandfather, Pullus nonetheless had a reputation that Volusenus had been assured by more experienced men extended well beyond the 1st Legion, not just for the skills that he continually honed, but for a ferocity in battle that no man who had witnessed it was likely to forget. And somehow, Volusenus believed, Pullus had begun transferring that sense of power, the fierce desire to not just survive in battle, but to impose their collective will on the warriors they would be facing, to the men of the Fourth.
The fact that this campaign was the long-awaited reprisal for the Legions lost under Varus meant that that sense of ferocity, if it did exist, might provide the edge needed to finally salvage Roman pride and erase the dishonor that came from the loss of three Legions and, in some ways more importantly, their standards. Despite his rocky start, one that bore similarities to Volusenus’ own because of his status as a man who purchased his posting, Macer had transformed into a hardened, highly competent Centurion who had developed a well-earned reputation for being fair while enforcing the mountain of regulations that were now a daily part of Legion life. However, he did not possess the advantages of both Pullus and Volusenus in their physical prowess, nor Pullus’ vast experience accrued over the majority of a lifetime being involved with the Legions. There was one unexpected benefit from this sudden change; very quickly, Volusenus and his fellow Centurions were approached by the Centurions and Optios of the Second Cohort, engaging in what was essentially a time-honored a tradition, as the officers of the Second plied their comrades with wine as they interrogated them about their new Pilus Prior. It was Volusenus’ first time to undergo this kind of courtship, and it was a pleasant diversion.
