“How did you know?” I gasped, and he threw back his head and laughed.
“I didn’t, until now anyway,” he responded, clearly pleased with himself.
The other two at the table looked bemused, glancing first at me then at Caesar. It was clear that Caesar had no plans on punishing me. As I thought about it, I realized that if he took any action against me, it would be as much of an embarrassment to him as it would be damaging to me, something his political enemies would use to make him seem gullible at best, and at worst, as being an accomplice in flaunting the ancient rules and customs of Rome.
“So, Pullus, how did you do it? It couldn't have been that hard to pass yourself off as the appropriate age because of your size, but you had to present proof of your age. I wouldn't like to think that the conquisitore took a bribe, though it’s been so many years ago there’s not much that can be done about it.”
I shook my head, saying, “There was no bribe, Caesar. My father lied for me.”
Caesar raised an eyebrow. “He must have loved you very much to do that.”
I was thankful that I did not have a mouthful of wine because it would have been all over Caesar at his last remark.
Now it was my turn to laugh. “Hardly. He just wanted to be rid of me and this was the easiest way to do it.”
Octavian asked, “Were you a younger son?”
I shook my head again. “No, I was the only son.”
When I did not say anymore, Octavian looked about to speak again, but he was stopped by a shake of Caesar’s head. I had no intention of going into any detail about the hatred my father and I held for each other, and I was suddenly struck by the thought that I did not even know if he was alive or dead. I assumed he still lived because I had not heard from Livia that he had died, but in truth, I did not know for sure. There was an awkward silence at the table, then Caesar spoke again, this time to Pollio, asking him about some details concerning Caesar’s planned departure in the morning. I breathed a silent sigh of relief that nobody had pressed the matter about my father, and I soon got bored with the conversation. Finally, the dinner was over, at least as far as Caesar was concerned, as he stood, the signal for us to make our farewells.
Caesar clasped my hand, his other hand on my shoulder as he said, “Good night and goodbye for now, Pullus. I hope your recovery continues well. I have no doubts that the men will be trained to my satisfaction when they arrive in Rome. I'll see you in a couple of months.”
I wish I could remember exactly what I said to Caesar that night, since it was the last time I ever spoke to him, but it was nothing memorable, and even more to my eternal shame, I never properly thanked him for his confidence in me, and for the rise in my fortunes that was due all to him. Diocles continues to admonish me because hindsight has perfect vision, but it really does not make me feel any better.
Chapter 10- Fall of a Titan
Just as it had started 16 years before, the 10th Legion was reborn in a fury of toil, sweat, and frenzied activity, every moment liberally spiced with the cursing of Centurions and Optios. The only difference was that now my comrades and I were doing the cursing, while using the vitus on the hapless boys who had thought that joining the Legions would be a huge adventure and a lot of fun. To be accurate, my Centurions were doing the bulk of the work, since I was still much too weak to put in a full day, even if most of what I did was supervise under the best of circumstances. I was very judicious in my expenditure of energy, making appearances at places and times where I thought my presence would have the most impact, always in full uniform, adopting Crastinus’ numen waving the invisible turd as my own. Now it was under my nose as I made my disgust at what I saw clear to the tiros shambling about trying to learn how to march and hold a weapon without stabbing themselves to death. To the rankers, I had to appear as if I were a son of Mars, not quite mortal but not a god either, something more than flesh and blood, a demigod who knew exactly what the youngsters were thinking at any given moment. I would suddenly appear while a Century was drilling, correcting a tiro with a poke of my vitus, or using my size to tower over some poor youngster. I had never been much for yelling, preferring to get my point across in other ways, but I had to be even more reserved than normal, because any outburst on my part caused my head to swim, and the worst thing that could happen was the sight of the Primus Pilus of the Legion keeling over in a dead faint. I am sure that the men knew that I had been wounded at Munda, but I gave strict instructions to my officers that the extent of my injuries remain a secret. The one factor in my favor was that I no longer had to worry about any challenges to my authority from any of the Centurions in the Legion, since they were all hand-picked by Caesar and me. Any man who I had even the faintest suspicion would pose a problem down the road either was passed over or sent to another Legion. Regardless, in the beginning, I could only manage to make three or four appearances a day, retiring to my tent after each to rest. The first week was the worst; by the time I would enter my tent, I would be shaking all over, my tunic as soaked as if I had gone for a swim in the river. It would be all I could do to remain standing long enough for Diocles and my body slave to remove my armor before I collapsed. My strength gradually returned, though I never took my health and vitality for granted again after that. I had always been robust and healthy, and in fact had never really been sick, other than a cold a time or two. In retrospect, I possessed the same impatience and barely concealed contempt for anyone I considered weaker than me that most men like me have, but this period of my life changed my outlook considerably. The training progressed in the same manner that it always had in the armies of Rome, though I found it interesting to experience the building of a Legion from the other side, as it were. However, I did institute some changes in the training regimen, but more importantly, and more unpopular were my reforms of hygiene and dietary practices. I put special emphasis on weapons training as, taking a page out of the manual as written by Gaius Crastinus, I selected weapons instructors personally, not confining my evaluation to men who were considered the proper rank, preferring to focus on ability to the exclusion of all else. This produced some grumbling, yet it was nothing compared to the howls of protest when I increased the ratio of meat to bread, particularly from the veterans salted into the ranks. I even got a visit from Vellusius, who was willing to risk incurring my wrath, gambling on his status as one of my original tentmates to avoid it.
He was right; I was more amused than anything, pretending to listen intently as he vehemently protested at the injustice of being forced to eat more meat. “We’re not wolves, we’re men. We need our bread,” he began, and I could not resist the urge to have a little fun at his expense.
“So you’re saying you would rather be a cow or sheep than a wolf?” I asked, stifling my grin at his obvious confusion.
“Cows? What do cows have anything to do with this? Besides, if you force us to eat cow for most of our meals, we might as well become one.”
He beamed at me triumphantly, sure that I would at the least be impressed with his logic.
Instead, I feigned puzzlement, replying, “First, I've ordered that you and the rest of the men eat more meat, I never said what kind. Second, the reason I ask if you would rather be a cow than a wolf is because cows eat grain. Bread is made from grain, so you're eating the same thing as a cow when you eat bread.”
Now he was completely flummoxed, and stammered, “I don’t see what that has to do with us eating meat.”
“Simply that if I were given the choice, I'd rather be a wolf, the beast that eats dumb animals like cows, than the beast that gets eaten.”