by R. W. Peake
“Well,” the Optio dropped his voice almost to a whisper, which made no sense to Volusenus since there were only three men standing in the office, “one of my little birds in the Praetorium says that there’s a chance I may be leaving the Century, sir. To take a post as Centurion.”
As Volusenus listened, he realized that this made perfect sense; there had been two deaths among the Centurionate in the Third Cohort, and one in his own, and he knew that Gillo had been very high on the list for promotion. This, he reflected, is just another example of the army not wasting any time.
“I’ll make an offering to Fortuna when I get back tonight that your little bird’s song is sweet and true,” Volusenus replied soberly. Then, with a grin to let Gillo know it was in jest, he added, “Besides, you’ve been a rock in my caliga for a long time. Honestly, I’m sick of looking at your ugly face.”
As he hoped, and intended, Gillo laughed at this, retorting, “You’re just jealous that I’m so fucking handsome that the ladies can’t keep their hands off me.”
“Given how many coins fall out of your purse, that’s not hard to understand,” Volusenus snorted, both men falling back into what was ultimately a more comfortable manner of exchange. Turning to Krateros, Volusenus said simply, “I’ll be back as soon as I’m done.” He turned as if to go, then stopped and turned back around and said to Gillo quietly, “And you need to thank Pilus Prior Pullus, because he’s the one who convinced me that you were worth saving.”
Gillo was visibly moved, although he did not look surprised, which he confirmed, “I know that, sir. And I’ve given an offering for his passage across the river.”
Rather than say anything, Volusenus nodded, and the Optio and clerk stood watching as he opened the door and stepped out into the late afternoon sunshine, but it was only after the door closed and they heard Volusenus’ receding footsteps that Gillo turned and resumed their conversation.
“So how is he handling all this?” Gillo asked, essentially repeating the question he had been asking Krateros when Volusenus emerged from his quarters.
The slight delay brought on by the exchange had given the clerk the opportunity to consider the question more fully, and his expression was somber as he answered, “I think that he’s handling it as well as he can. But,” he warned, “I don’t think any of us have any idea of what lies ahead for the Centurion.”
There was a silence, brought on by both men waiting for the other to utter what, as Krateros had instantly understood, was the real purpose in Gillo’s visit. Both men had, in their respective roles, been with the Fourth Cohort for a long period of time, going all the way back to the time when Pullus had arrived from Pannonia as an Optio with a cloudy past. And, like other such veterans, they had observed that there was something about Pullus that had marked him as potentially dangerous, over and above the obvious.
Finally, Gillo was the first to break the silence, and now there was no missing the anxiety in his voice. “Do you think that he’s going to find out that his father was one of Tiberius’ men?”
“Only the gods know, Optio,” Krateros answered honestly. “Only the gods know.”
When Volusenus arrived at Macer’s quarters, he was only slightly surprised to see that the Breuci girl was present, but the fact that the three other members of the interested party were still wearing their mourning attire made Volusenus feel somewhat uncomfortable. Fortunately, Macer was attired as he was, wearing his soldier’s tunic, while the lines of fatigue that creased his otherwise youthful features told Volusenus that the Pilus Prior had been unable to get any rest either. Lucco, who Volusenus knew as well as any of the other clerks in the Fourth since he had been Macer’s clerk for years and gone with Macer to the Second, had already filled the proper number of cups.
Waiting until each of them had one, including Lucco, at Macer’s insistence, the Pilus Prior raised his cup. “To Titus Pullus.” Turning to Alex, he added, “Your beloved uncle.” Then, surprising Volusenus, turned towards the Centurion, and continued, “And your father.” Macer stopped, and he blinked several times, the emotion threatening to overwhelm him, yet somehow, he managed to finish in a choked voice, “And my best friend.”
“To Titus Pullus,” the rest of them intoned, all but Algaia raising their cups slightly before draining the contents, but Volusenus saw it was not intended as disrespect, that it was just unfamiliarity with the ritual.
The loudest sound was the cups cracking down onto the hard surface of Macer’s desk, but this time, Algaia had either heard or seen this was part of the small ceremony, so her cup slammed onto the desk at roughly the same time.
“Now,” Macer’s tone suddenly turned, if not brisk, then more formal, and he picked up the scroll that Volusenus had been unable to tear his eyes away from, continuing, “it’s time for me to read Titus’ will. Although,” he did think to add, making Volusenus wonder if this was required, “I already have an idea who, and what, needed to be here.”
While he heard Macer’s emphasis that, to his ears, seemed to concern an object, what it might be completely mystified Volusenus; glancing over at Alex, he was in time to catch his small nod to Macer, as if he was confirming something to the Pilus Prior, but he resigned himself to the idea he would be finding out shortly.
Macer was forced to squint, and they all heard him mutter, “I keep forgetting how horrible his hand was at his letters.” Clearing his throat, he began, “This is the final will of Titus Porcinianus Pullus, a member of the Urban Tribe of the Pomponii, whose father was Quartus Pilus Prior Gaius Porcinianus Pullus, retired from the 8th Legion, and now deceased, and whose adoptive grandfather was Camp Prefect Titus Pomponius Pullus, formerly Primus Pilus of the 10th Legion, known as the Equestrians, and retired as Camp Prefect for the Army of Pannonia, also now deceased.” This, Volusenus knew was standard practice for a Roman citizen, establishing his lineage, however humble it may have been, but as Volusenus was discovering, Pullus was a man of surprises, because Macer then added, “And beloved brother of Tesseraurius Sextus Porcinianus Pullus, formerly of the 8th Legion, now deceased after falling in battle defending Rome.” Volusenus glanced over at Alex, correctly guessing that it would be the clerk who had the only personal connection to Pullus’ brother, but he was surprised at Alex’s expression; did he look…angry? Not that it mattered, so Macer read on, “As the oldest son, and with my father deceased, I am now the paterfamilias of my family, and it is as paterfamilias, and with the force of Roman law and revered custom that I make these bequests.” This, Volusenus sensed, seemed to mean more than the words implied, catching out of the corner of his eye the glance that Alex exchanged, except that it was with both his brother Titus and the girl, who suddenly stiffened and let out a small gasp. One thing was clear, Volusenus thought, that means more than it might sound, but Macer was continuing, “To Alexandros and his brother Titus, whose father Diocles did the Pullus family the honor of taking our name on his manumission from the servitude of my grandfather, I give the sum of fifteen thousand sesterces each, but to Alex, by virtue of his service as my personal attendant and chief clerk, I also bequeath to him all of the profits from the businesses in which I have invested here in Ubiorum.” Now it was Macer’s turn to be surprised, while Volusenus was becoming more bewildered by the heartbeat, yet the Pilus Prior managed to continue, “This includes the building that contains the smithy of Decimus Scrofa.”
“What?” This outburst came from Titus, sitting on the opposite end from Volusenus, with Alex and Algaia in between, and the younger brother had come to his feet, his face flushed. “He chose to back Scrofa instead of me?” Whirling, he pointed an accusing finger directly at Alex, who, to Volusenus, certainly looked uncomfortable, but not, he observed, surprised. “You talked him out of it,” Titus almost shouted accusingly at Alex. “You said you didn’t think I was ready, and while I don’t agree with you, that’s fine. But then he went out and…”
“Sit down, Titus,” Macer’s voice was not raised, but there was no way f
or any of them to mistake the iron in the Pilus Prior’s tone, and Volusenus had to hide his grin at the memory of the times Macer had spoken to him in the same manner. Titus stood for a heartbeat longer, then dropped back into his chair, muttering under his breath, which Macer ignored, saying, “Now, if you’d allow me to continue.” He had placed a finger on the spot where he had left off, resuming, “While Alex will maintain possession and control of the building, I hereby bequeath the contents to his brother Titus, and direct Alex that Titus will use this building in any manner in which he sees fit, for as long as he wants, and will not be required to pay any rent. Control of the property, however, will remain in Alex’s hands until Titus turns the age of twenty-five, whereupon I direct him to cede the property to his brother, the only provision being that if Titus sells it, he gives Alex one-third part of the profits.” Macer stopped reading then, regarding Titus with a raised eyebrow and asking dryly, “You were saying, Titus? Something about…”
“Nothing.” Titus waved a hand, slumped down in his chair, and Volusenus could imagine the embarrassment the younger man was feeling, although he did grumble, “But I don’t turn twenty-five for another two years.”
“Which will fly by,” Macer countered. Then, seeing that Titus was settled back down, he turned his attention back to the will to continue, “The establishment known as The Dancing…” Macer stopped suddenly, his jaw dropping in shock, although he was no less surprised than Volusenus, the Pilus Prior looking at Alex, who shifted uncomfortably and studied the floor. Pointing at Alex, Macer demanded, “You knew about this? That he fucking owned The Dancing Fucking Faun?”
“Yes,” Alex answered simply. “I knew.” He was still staring down at the floor, but he felt the glare focused on him, which prompted him to shrug and offer, “He hasn’t owned it that long.”
“How long?” Macer asked, and Volusenus saw that this concerned the Pilus Prior, though he was not certain why; it was an open secret that, if not a majority, then a substantial minority of the businesses in Ubiorum were either owned outright by officers or they held a large stake in them.
“Since he got back from Arelate,” Alex admitted, and Macer swore bitterly.
There was a silence then, and as it stretched out, Volusenus began growing impatient, thinking that it was not like he was not interested in this news, but it was not what he had come to learn.
Finally, Macer heaved a sigh, saying disgustedly, “Well, I suppose it’s good to know that he was making money off his own men but that it was legal.”
Volusenus sensed Alex stiffen, but it was the controlled anger in his voice that Volusenus noticed, although he spoke respectfully enough as he replied, “May I explain why he did that, Pilus Prior Macer?” Macer frowned, then gave an abrupt nod, and Alex continued, “He didn’t do it for the money. He did it to protect the Cohort.”
“Protect the Cohort?” Macer echoed. “What do you mean?”
“How many brawls have there been at the Faun?” Alex asked quietly, then before Macer could reply, he added, “And that’s not just the Faun. At any soldiers’ taverna? How many times have the provosts been called, just to The Dancing Faun since the mutiny ended?”
Macer considered for a moment, while Volusenus had the sense that he was beginning to understand, and he answered finally, “Just from what I can recall, probably four or five times.”
“Wait,” Volusenus spoke up, “then that means when he and I brawled with those cunni from the 15th, and he paid Turbo for the damages, he was paying himself!”
“And,” Alex pressed, shifting from Macer to glare at Volusenus, “how many times have we had to dip into Cohort funds to pay for the damages in the last few months?”
“None at least before I moved to the Second, and he would have told me if he had to do it once he was Pilus Prior..” Macer more breathed the word than said it, slumping back in his chair. “Pluto’s cock,” his tone changed, and Volusenus heard the recognition of the truth in it, “you’re right, Alex.” He looked at the clerk directly. “And I apologize for my outburst. You’re right,” he repeated, “and,” suddenly, his eyes began to shine, “I should have known him better than that.” Surprisingly, he gave a short laugh then, which was explained when he said, “I’m going to have to figure out a way for the Second to buy Pan’s Grotto. My boys are tearing that cachole apart every month!” He picked the will back up, found his place, and resumed, except he read silently for a moment then gave another laugh. “That clever bastard. As I read this list, it looks like he’s basically invested in one of each of the types of businesses. Including,” Macer named one of the establishments that, along with wineshops and brothels, was a staple of any army town, this one specializing in offering replacement equipment that Legionaries often used when they did not want to run afoul of the mountain of regulations, most of them instituted by Divus Augustus. “He directs that this business stays under your control, Alex. But,” for the first time since he began, he looked over at Volusenus, “only for as long as Gnaeus Volusenus remains stationed here in Ubiorum. When he transfers or leaves at the end of his enlistment, you can either keep or dispose of it as you see fit.”
This made no sense to Volusenus, and it was Alex who illuminated him, explaining, “You know that this business offers the best quality equipment and not the inferior stuff that some of these other thieves offer. I think that he wanted to make sure you could take advantage of that until you don’t need it anymore.”
This not only made sense to Volusenus, it caused a hard lump to form in his throat, and he was struck by the thought that it was actually becoming sore because of this involuntary reaction, so he only managed to nod that he understood.
“Yes,” Macer interjected, “that concludes his businesses. Now we move on to…other matters.” He was looking directly at Volusenus when he spoke, and the Centurion braced himself, except that Macer suddenly turned away and said, “But first, there’s the matter of Domina Algaia.”
“Algaia?” For once, Alex and Titus were in perfect agreement, at least vocally, but when Volusenus looked over Alex’s head at the girl, she looked no less mystified. “What is Uncle Titus giving to Algaia?” Titus asked, and once more, Volusenus sensed there was another layer of emotion there; if he had to guess, he would have said that it was jealousy on Titus’ part.
Only later would he have a better understanding, once he learned the entire story, but in the moment, Macer only answered, “If you’d let me read, you all would know.” Returning his attention to the scroll, Macer read, “As far as the Breuci girl, whose name is Algaia, and who I promised I would officially free, I have written the necessary manumission document, which I have placed in the care of Marcus Junius Macer, my close comrade.” While it was technically a violation of Macer’s direction about remaining silent, he said nothing at the gasp, then small squeal of happiness that burst from the girl’s throat, and Volusenus glanced over to see that she had buried her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking from the sobs of what he was certain was joy. Alex, while he was not weeping, certainly looked happy, which made sense; for even a freedman to marry a girl who was a slave would be seen by Roman society as a step down the ladder, to the rung below the lowest. It was Titus, however, whose reaction intrigued Volusenus, because he was plainly worried, looking down at the girl’s bowed head. Loudly clearing his throat, Macer said gruffly, “Yes, well, that is certainly joyous news for you, Algaia, but I’m afraid that there’s more.” Algaia’s head shot up, and Volusenus was struck by how quickly the tears seemed to vanish, her face set in an intense stare that, while understandable that she would be so interested, was still unsettling. Macer resumed reading, “And, in recognition of and compensation for Algaia’s treatment by my family, and specifically my brother Gaius…” Volusenus did not understand a single word that issued from the girl’s mouth, which was delivered with such force and vehemence that it cut Macer off and informed Volusenus of the general tenor if not the specifics of the string of what he was certain we
re oaths. “…my brother Gaius,” Macer repeated forcefully, which served to settle the girl down somewhat, “I bequeath to her the sum of five thousand sesterces, to do with as she sees fit, including returning to her Breuci tribal lands in Pannonia.” Suddenly, Alex did not look so pleased, while Titus seemed to be happier about this piece of news than anything else that had been said since the subject of the girl came up.
For her part, Algaia looked stunned, and there was nothing defiant or angry in her words or demeanor as she asked timidly, “So this means that I can go home? Back to my people?”
Macer smiled at her, affirming, “That is exactly what it means, Algaia.” She dropped her face back into her hands and resumed her sobbing, but Volusenus did notice that, as she did so, she leaned over and placed her head on Alex’s shoulder, who suddenly looked far happier than he had a few heartbeats earlier. Macer’s demeanor changed, and now he looked over at Volusenus, informing the young Centurion that the moment had arrived. He saw Macer’s chest rise as he took a deep breath, but his voice was strong as he read, “It is my final wish to at least partially right a wrong that, through no fault of his own, was done to the Roman citizen known as Gnaeus Claudius Volusenus, who currently serves in the posting of Quartus Hastatus Posterior of the 1st Legion. He is my natural born son, who, if I had been in position to do so, would have been named Titus, not after myself, but in honor of my beloved Avus. But,” there was a slight change in Macer’s tone, and Volusenus could see he was struggling to control himself, “the gods, in their wisdom and affinity to use we mortals as their playthings, deemed that this choice was not to be made available to me. That is why, should he choose to accept it, I have drawn up the documents that will adopt Gnaeus Volusenus, whereupon he will claim his rightful legacy. If he does accept this adoption, I would only require that he take the nomen and cognomen of Porcinianus Pullus, but he is free to continue using his praenomen of Gnaeus.” Stopping again, Macer took yet another deep breath, which Volusenus understood why when he continued, “Should he decide not to accept my offer of adoption…” Macer chose to look directly at Volusenus, “…this will not change the rest of my bequests, which includes all of my possessions, including the gladius that has been carried by a Roman bearing the name Pullus that my Avus had forged in Gaul many, many years ago. While I would certainly prefer that a Roman bearing the Pullus name wield it, what matters is that it continues to defend our beloved Rome from her enemies, therefore there are no conditions in this bequest. I also bequeath him ownership of the horse named Latobius, but with this, there are conditions.” Macer glanced up, apparently trying to gauge how Volusenus was taking all of this before he continued, “The conditions are simply that, should my son not have any desire to keep and ride Latobius, I direct only that he be cared for, fed, and watered for however many more days the gods have to give him. Finally, in the event that he does not accept the offer of adoption, I bequeath the sum of fifty thousand sesterces, and the best wishes of his natural father for his future achievements.”
