~ ~ ~ ~
There are moments that stay with a man, remaining as vivid as if whatever event being recalled happened just an instant before, no matter how many years and intervening memories have occurred in between. I was sitting at my desk, the Legion having arrived in Narbo, and was filling out ration reports the night before we were scheduled to board ships and start sailing, when Diocles entered my office, and he did not need to say a word for me to know that there was something terribly wrong.
“Master, you're summoned to General Pollio’s headquarters immediately,” his voice was choked with an emotion that I could not immediately identify, but the distress in it was plain to hear.
I looked at him in some alarm, my fingers tightening around my stylus as I tried to divine what was happening. “What is it?” I asked, more sharply than I should have, but his manner had triggered a sense of deep unease in me that was unsettling.
“I. . I. . can’t say for sure Master. I wasn't told anything specific, just that you needed to report immediately.”
I stood, signaling to him to bring me my armor, but he shook his head, saying, “The General’s messenger was very specific that you didn't need to worry about being in full uniform, that you just needed to get there as quickly as possible.”
My heart was hammering in my chest as I studied Diocles’ face for clues, yet he refused to meet my eyes, which alarmed me even further. “What do you know, Diocles? What have you heard?”
He shook his head, clearly miserable, then I saw a glint of tears in his eyes. “I don't know anything for sure, Master. I just. . I just overheard something, but I don’t know what it means exactly.”
“Then tell me what you overheard, Diocles. I'm not going to punish you.”
He looked up at me then, and I saw what I thought was a hint of anger in his eyes, but his tone was as formal and correct as always. “That wasn't my fear, Master. It’s just that I don't want to repeat something that causes you distress that turns out to be untrue, because what I heard was too horrible to even contemplate.” Seeing that I was not going to let it go, he finished, “It concerns Caesar. Something has happened, but I don't know what exactly, just that it wasn't good. Now you really must go to see the General.”
His words rang in my ears as I hurried to the headquarters building, my mind buzzing with the possibilities. I was one of the few people who knew about Caesar’s falling sickness, having been in his office when it struck one time, yet somehow I knew that whatever had happened had nothing to do with any illness. By the time I arrived at the headquarters, my stomach was churning, my sense of unease only intensifying when I was waved immediately into the building, then into Pollio’s office as well. Pollio was seated at his desk, but his face was hidden from me, his head in his hands, his eyes looking down at a piece of paper. He did not look up when I reported to him, and now I was sure that I was going to vomit all over his desk, such was my agitation. If only I had known that this was the best I would feel for some time.
“Caesar has been murdered.”
I stood there, sure that I had misheard him, even though another part of me knew that I had not, as I waited for him to say more.
The room suddenly started to lurch about. I realized that it was now going to be a race between whether I threw up or fainted, so without asking permission, I staggered to a chair, sitting down heavily. “What exactly happened, sir?” I managed to ask.
He finally looked up. I could see his eyes were rimmed in red, and he looked suddenly old.
He was older than Caesar, though he had a vitality of a much younger man, but now all that life force seemed to have dissipated like smoke, and he spoke with a weariness that only comes when a man has lost all hope. “He was murdered,” Pollio repeated dully.
I waited for more, but he said nothing for several more moments. “Sir,” I prodded gently. “Can you tell me the details?”
Sighing, he indicated the letter in front of him. “He was assassinated in the Senate, the day before he was leaving for the Parthian expedition. He had some final details of business to go over with the Senate, and had called for a morning session. That was where his assassins struck.”
“Who did it?”
He looked down at the letter, reading off the names of those vile bastards, whose deeds mark them forever as the basest, most despicable men in the history of Rome, if not the world. “Publius Casca and his brother; Ligarius; Cimber; Decimus Brutus; Cinna; Gaius Cassius,” at this he looked up into my eyes, and through the pain and sadness I saw a great, burning anger, the same thing that I was sure was mirrored in my own expression, as he read the last name. “And Marcus Junius Brutus.”
I gasped. “Brutus? Brutus was one of them? Why everyone was sure that Caesar was his father!” I exclaimed. Without thinking, I blurted, “If I ever get the chance, I am going to kill that cocksucker.”
In theory, a man of my class had no business threatening violence against a patrician, but I was beyond caring, and besides, it elicited a ghost of a smile from Pollio. “You'll have to beat me to it, Pullus.”
“So what do we do now, sir?” I asked. Pollio sighed, then gave a shrug.
“I have no idea, Pullus. I have absolutely no idea.”
~ ~ ~ ~
I staggered out of the praetorium, not even noticing that the members of Pollio’s staff who were in the outer office looked much the same as I did. Pollio and I had discussed what we should do about the news, jointly deciding that I would break the news to the Centurions, since there was no way that this kind of thing would stay secret long enough to arrange for a more formal announcement. When I came back to my tent, Diocles was waiting, and one look at my face confirmed that what he had heard from the slaves was indeed true. He burst into tears, the sight of his anguish then triggering my own flood, so we sat there for several moments sobbing like babies.
Finally regaining a bit of composure, Diocles asked, “What does that mean, Master? What will happen to you?”
His question caught me completely by surprise, because I had not had time to consider anything other than trying to absorb this cataclysmic change. However, once the words hung in the air, the implication of them threatened to crowd everything else out of my brain. What exactly did this mean, I wondered? I sat there pondering Diocles’ question, my mind whirling with all the various possibilities. It was no secret whatsoever that I was Caesar’s man, so depending on who stepped into the vacuum of power that could be a dangerous thing for me. On the other hand, as I thought about it, I recognized that as high as I might have risen from the circumstances of my birth, I was still a small fish when compared to men like Pollio, who had to be considered an even greater threat to the assassins, should they come to power. What made me dangerous was my position in the army, and the influence I held over my Legion. I would have been a fool not to recognize that, for that reason alone, I could be perceived as a threat. Voicing my thoughts to Diocles, he listened intently, then was silent as he thought about the problem. I had learned to value Diocles’ counsel at times like this; his devious Greek mind thought in ways that were foreign to me, but were nonetheless helpful.
Finally, his face creased into a frown as some idea formed in his mind, then he said, “Perhaps there's a way to turn this to your advantage.”