by R. W. Peake
“Pluto’s cock,” he muttered, then turned to tell Alex, “I have to catch up with the Cohort. You need to come with me since you’re going to need to…” Suddenly, he stopped speaking, unsure how to say it; fortunately, Alex understood, agreeing, “I’m going to need to prepare his body for the funeral rites.”
Relieved that he did not have to say the words aloud, Volusenus turned and began moving at a brisk trot, Alex just behind him, the pair reaching the Fourth just as they were entering through the open gates of the camp. The wagons were immediately led away from the column, and Alex followed the one carrying Pullus’ body, while the Legion continued to the forum for the final dismissal. Normally, this was not the time for speeches, at least not with Germanicus in command, but this was not a normal situation, and the Propraetor made no attempt to pretend otherwise, remaining mounted, with his back to the Praetorium, as he watched the Cohorts array themselves in their normal spots. It was only when they were in this formation that the losses incurred by the Third, and to a lesser degree the Fourth Cohorts had suffered, but it was in the body language of the men of the disgraced Cohort where the real story was told, none of them willing to look in Germanicus’ direction. The Propraetor had debated making a public statement repudiating the behavior of the Third, but he realized that he was too angry to do so, and if he began speaking, he was likely to order the Cohort decimated. He also recognized that almost all of that anger stemmed from the loss of just one man, and it was this sense that had more to do with the tenor of his words than anything else.
“My soldiers,” he was still mounted, his paludamentum draped across his horse’s hindquarters, and he spoke in clear, ringing tones, “while we have succeeded in our effort to rescue Segestes and his family from probable harm at the hands of Arminius and his…minions,” he put extra emphasis on the word and was rewarded by a guttural growl of agreement, but he did not linger, turning sober, “as I am certain you all know by now, it was at an extraordinarily high cost.” Lifting a hand, he pointed to where Gemellus was standing, with the standard of the Fourth Cohort, but the spot next to him was empty, another tradition that stretched back through the mists of time, that when a final dismissal from a campaign, no matter how short, was held, the posts of the fallen were left vacant, and it was this that Germanicus was indicating as his voice began throbbing with the emotion that he felt as a sudden surge of memories almost overwhelmed him. “I have known…I knew Quartus Pilus Prior Pullus from his days serving as my de facto Primus Pilus of the Legion the Divine Augustus ordered me to raise during the Batonian Revolt. Any of us who have marched under the standard to protect our beloved Rome knows of the Pullus name, and I will confess,” for the first time, he offered the men a small smile, “I was quite intimidated…and that was before I ever laid eyes on him.” Whether the chuckles were genuine or because the men understood that this was what was expected, Germanicus chose to believe that it was heartfelt, and his smile was genuine enough as he recalled, “But when he walked into my office, I realized something, that for the first, and so far only time that I have been honored by the gods and our Imperator to lead you brave men in the defense of Rome, all the things that I had heard about Titus Porcinianus Pullus were not exaggerations, but the opposite, that if anything, others had not done enough justice to the man.” He paused again, except this time, it was more of a falter as he felt his throat tighten, assailed by memories of times shared, “And now,” his voice broke then, “I am not doing his memory justice.” His next words were spoken quietly, at least that was how it seemed, as if he was talking more to himself as he bowed his head to look down at his hands clutching the reins. “I owe him better than this.” Pausing, he lifted his head, his voice suddenly returning to the firm, resolute quality that men expected from a Roman Legate. “And tomorrow, when we send him and our other comrades on their way across the river to Elysium, I swear by my household gods, that I will have composed myself and will give Quartus Pilus Prior Pullus the oration he deserves!”
This engendered a slightly awkward moment, since some men’s initial response was to lift their arms and roar their approval, the normal method by which they let their commander know their words had been heard and appreciated, while an almost equal number of their comrades felt that this was disrespectful; Volusenus barely noticed. Standing next to Macerinus, his mind was barely functioning, and it was with some embarrassment that he realized something; he had not ever gotten the butcher’s bill from Gillo. The memory of this made him suddenly turn about and, for the first time, actually survey the Sixth Century, his eyes automatically going to the empty spots in his formation, which he recalled that Pullus had once likened to how it was similar to viewing a Legionary’s mouth.
“The first thing you notice when they open their mouths,” he had told Volusenus, although he did not recall the circumstances, “is the teeth that are missing, not the teeth that they have. It’s the same way when you put the men in formation after a fight.”
Now, as his eyes roamed along each rank and moved down each file, he was reminded of this wisdom, and that it was true, although he was somewhat surprised to see that there were not as many empty holes as he had expected. All he had to do next was to get the list from Gillo, and the thought of his Optio reminded him of Pullus, who had counseled him against removing Gillo, despite the initial conflict between them when he had arrived as a freshly minted paid man, so certain of himself because he had been diligent in attending his exercises on the Campus Martius of Mediolanum. As empty as he felt at the moment, the corners of his mouth tugged slightly upward as he remembered who Gnaeus Volusenus had been when he first showed up in what he sometimes still thought of as a cachole in Ubiorum, and how insufferably full of himself he must have appeared. So much, he thought, so much has changed. And this caused him a stab of such deep and exquisite pain it made his vision cloud, something that he had been certain was over for the moment, as he remembered that it had been none other than Titus Pullus who had more to do with turning him into the Centurion of Rome he was; ironically, this would also be the moment he would always think of as the one where the full import of what the loss of Pullus as his Pilus Prior meant. His body responded to the rote memory when Germanicus dismissed the Legion, turning about to issue his own order, although he briefly considered marching his Century back to their area rather than let them make their own way back. He dismissed this almost as quickly as it came to him, if only because he wanted the chance to walk by himself, alone with his thoughts, but he was not bothered by his men, all of them having served under him long enough to recognize the signs of his brooding.
It was a routine that Pullus had drilled into Alex more times than he could easily count, despite his protests that there would never be a need to go through the steps that he was performing now. Pullus’ corpse had been released to him, and he had enlisted the aid of Demetrios and, naturally, his friend Balio, who had remained with the Third Century but whose attachment to Titus Pullus was second in longevity only to Alex himself. It had been difficult, certainly; whether Demetrios’ tears were genuine or simply a result of the influence of Alex and Balio did not really matter, what did was that it took a trio of sobbing men to carry the corpse to the quarters of the Quartus Pilus Prior. Unwrapping the sagum had been the hardest part, as Alex steeled himself for what he would see, but in a small blessing, when he pulled the fold of the heavy cloak back from Pullus’ face, if he did not know better, he would have simply believed the man he thought of as his uncle was sleeping. If, that is, he ignored the dried blood that covered half his face, and he at last found the long but superficial scalp wound that was the cause, but it was the puckering hole in the massive chest that Alex found the most difficult to deal with, yet somehow, he forced himself to gently slide off the mail vest that, in this case, had not done its job, off of Pullus’ body. The padded undershirt was next, followed by the tunic, and while it made no sense to him, Alex’s mind was occupied with thoughts of what it would take to sew the rent
in the red tunic closed, and how much it would cost to have the stain removed. It was only later as he thought about it that Alexandros Pullus understood that this was his own mind’s way of protecting itself, forcing him to focus on such mundane tasks that it kept him from thinking of the wider ramifications of this cataclysmic event in his life. The other two clerks, who were every bit as much comrades to him as those men who held a shield and gladius were to each other, somehow understood that their friend needed them, and forced themselves to retain their composure as they went through what was essentially a ritual, although they never thought about it in this manner. While it was certainly not in either of their minds, this also marked something of a turning point in the relationship between Alex and Demetrios.
Once Pullus was naked, it was left to Alex to use a clean rag and water, which he had insisted be heated, explaining to the other two, “He hated washing with cold water,” to clean off the blood and grime of what would turn out to be Titus Pullus’ last battle.
What he found surprising was that, once the blood was scrubbed away, the wound that turned out to be the fatal one did not seem all that significant. By this point in his life and career, Alex had seen more wounds, both of the fatal and non-fatal variety, that looking at what was barely more than a single, slightly puckered hole, without the slashing or twisting that was expected from a professional warrior, no matter for whom they marched, it was hard for his mind to reconcile what he was seeing with the idea that this had killed his uncle. Indeed, once all the gore had been cleaned away, what was left were five wounds, none of them serious except for the one to Pullus’ chest. With the bulk of the work done, only then did Alex let his other two friends depart, leaving him to perform the final part of the ablutions, rubbing the fragrant oils used in Roman funerary rites into his uncle’s skin, the period when the body goes stiff having passed.
“Oh, Uncle Titus,” Alex heard his voice but barely recognized it, “what did you go and do?”
Without knowing any of the details, Alex somehow knew that Volusenus had been involved, and he had to struggle between the anguish and sense of outrage that were competing for his heart. What, he thought, with a despair that was so overwhelming that it seemed to snatch the very breath from him, am I going to tell Mama? It was actually the thought of Birgit, which in turn led to the wider family who shared the Pullus name that caused Alex to recall the next step of the process that his uncle had made him memorize and repeat back to him to the point of distraction. With Pullus’ body prepared for what he had learned would be the funerary rites held at dawn the next morning, which was in direct conflict with normal Roman custom, but was an example of the exigencies of life under the standard, Alex got up and walked numbly to his uncle’s desk. Behind it was a large latticework frame, creating a series of cubbyholes, and while most of them were filled with scrolls of one sort or another, Alex’s hand went unerringly to the scroll that Pullus had strictly instructed him would be the first of a series that he was to open when the unthinkable occurred. Such was his belief in his uncle that it had never really seemed to be anything more than just a vague process that was to be performed at an undefined moment in an equally undefined future, yet here he was, reaching down to pluck the scroll that was in the lowest cubbyhole on the right side of the frame. He saw his hands shaking, but he forced himself to go through with it, turning and sitting down at his uncle’s desk, feeling quite odd because the stool had been made with Pullus’ height in mind, and sitting on it made him feel like he was a child sneaking into his father’s office, where the desk came almost up to mid-chest. Chiding himself for such thoughts, he broke the seal and carefully unrolled the scroll, almost afraid to begin reading the words. Yet, when he did so, despite the circumstances, he felt his mouth curling into a smile, realizing for the first time the enormous sense of relief that what he was reading brought him. As he read the cramped, slightly forward-slanting script that he had long before learned to decipher, the sudden release of the burden that he only recognized he had been carrying after it was lifted was so powerful that he had to sit back, take a deep breath, then exhale it very slowly. So, he thought with a growing sense of wonder, along with a certain level of chagrin that what seemed so obvious now had been hidden until he read the words, the Pullus name will continue. However, there was a lot to do, and sitting there would not get it done. Following the written instructions, Alex selected another scroll, although this one, he set aside, then a second one, which he stuck in the belt of his tunic; this was destined for the Praetorium.
Once he read everything and had a good idea of what needed to be done, only then did he stand up, and while he knew he was not going into battle, he imagined that the feelings surging through him were not that much different. Despite the swirling thoughts and emotions that seemed to be conspiring together against Alex to keep his attention elsewhere, he was acutely aware that what he was about to do was going to upend other people’s lives, and he would not have been Diocles’ son if he had not paused to consider the wider ramifications of that. Standing there, although his body was not moving, his mind was working with a rapidity that would have done his father proud as he thought through the outward pulsing ripples that would be created by walking out the door. Despite his relative youth, Alex possessed an insight into people, yet another gift, although it would have surprised the other members of the Pullus family to know that this did not come from Diocles but his mother Birgit, just one of the reasons that, despite outward appearances, the diminutive Greek and tall, lithe Gallic woman two decades younger had been such a good match. As Alex well knew, and would have acknowledged with rueful amusement, between the two of them, neither he nor his siblings ever got away with much. It was natural that his thoughts turned to the southwest, across the expanse of what was now called the Empire, to Arelate, but now it was not his mother and her reaction that concerned him. In his mind, the question was; how would Septimus, and more importantly, Gaius Pullus react to this news? It was with this in his mind that he actually stopped, slowly withdrew the scroll from his baltea, and hefted it in his hands, examining it thoughtfully.
While it was true that he had been gone from Arelate many years, what Alex nor his uncle ever talked about was how much Alex knew of the younger Pullus brothers, and while most of it was through his brother Titus, who had just arrived with Pullus months before and was now working in Ubiorum, Alex trusted his brother implicitly, and he had seen enough of who and what Gaius Pullus was before returning to Siscia with his uncle that it gave him pause. Maybe, he thought, his eyes still on the scroll, I should just throw this in the fire and let the beasts lie where they sleep; maybe I’m doing everyone a favor, because there is no way this ends well, and besides, he already has money through the man he thinks is his father. He would never know how long he stood there, carefully thinking through the dilemma he had created for himself, yet ultimately, what prompted Alexandros Pullus to act was nothing that he could actually point to as a tangible cause for his decision, and while he never was, if he had been asked, the best he could have summoned was that what he was about to do felt right, nothing more substantial than that. Having made his decision, he moved towards the outer door, but before he did, he turned and entered what he still thought of as his uncle’s private quarters. Pullus’ body, now cleaned and dressed in his parade tunic, was lying on the cot where, with help, Alex had laid him, his hands folded on his chest, and it was a posture that Alex had seen Pullus adopt more times than he could count, when he had decided to catch a quick nap. The only thing missing was the coin that was placed in the mouth to pay Charon, the ferryman, but Alex was certain that someone, he assumed Germanicus, would want to perform this small but important ritual himself, although in every other way, Titus Porcinianus Pullus was prepared for his journey to the afterlife. Suddenly, Alex was aware that, in all likelihood, this would be the last time he would have time alone with the man who, next to his father Diocles, had had the most influence on him. Tentatively, he walked over to
gaze down at Pullus, the flickering light from the lamps creating shadows across the craggy features of a man who, just three days earlier when they had last been in each other’s company, had been full of life, his features animated by something that amused him, or irritated him, and suddenly, unbidden, a memory of the day that the Legion departed popped into Alex’s head, and despite the grief, he felt his lips turn up into a smile that was very close to a laugh. The recollection was so intense that, without thinking, he dropped onto the edge of the cot, and for a panicked heartbeat, the sharp cracking sound as the wood strained against the added weight seemed to signal the imminent deposit of both Alex and the corpse of his uncle on the floor. Thankfully, that did not happen, and once he was certain that, for the moment, he and Pullus were safe from being dumped on the floor, he contented himself with simply gazing down at the inert form, the tears streaming down his face.
“Oh, Uncle Titus,” he finally broke the silence, speaking in a whisper, “what are we supposed to do now? What are we going to do without you?” He paused, almost as if he expected an answer, which elicited a self-conscious laugh before he continued, “Oh, how you’d love this, seeing all of us a mess. And,” he hesitated, although he chided himself for doing so, as if Pullus would somehow sense it, “I just don’t know how Volusenus is going to react to all of this, but it’s Gaius I worry about the most, Uncle Titus.” Perhaps it was the sound of his own voice that prompted Alex to continue, and he spent the next several moments, calmly and dispassionately offering his uncle’s body the same insight and advice he would have offered if his uncle’s animus was still contained in the massive body. By the time he was finished speaking, Alex felt both relieved that he had gotten this burden off of him, but worried because, hearing it spoken aloud seemed to make the chances of all that he feared coming to pass even higher. Finally, he heaved a sigh, and pushed himself up off the cot as he finished, “All right then. I’m off to do the things you’ve asked me to do.”
