The Arch (Part 3)
Title: The Arch
Fandom: Rome
Pairing: Pullo/Vorenus (or vice versa)
Spoilers: here and there, for the whole series.
Summary: Yet another post-series life-on-the-farm futurefic.
Rating: NC-17 for occasional strong language and occasional, not very explicit, sex.
Disclaimer: Pullo, Vorenus and their assorted children belong to HBO. The people of Ariminum belong to me. I am not going to make any profit out of either.
Part 1 is here.
Part 2 is here.
The Arch of Augustus is here
Part 3 - The Arch of Augustus
"What deep holes," Uta says, wrapping her cloak tighter around herself and shivering in the late November sun. At the point where the Flaminian Way and the Aemilian Way meet, the walls of Ariminum have been torn down, and the foundations for the Arch of Augustus laid. Vorenus and Uta have gone to have a look before heading for the marketplace. They have been given the day off from the farm, officially because it's market day and the family needs provisions, but the real reason is that one of them has morning sickness and the other has had a bad week with his lungs.
"They have to be deep, they have to support a massive weight for the next thousand years." Vorenus smiles a little at his daughter-in-law. "And look at the distance between them - the arch is going to be wide. An opening too wide for gates is a symbol of peace. Peace after all the civil wars, I guess." Vorenus, usually ill at ease with women, enjoys Uta's company. Both have Gaulish blood, both tend to be quiet; he is warming to her because she loves and trusts her sisters-in-law and is loved and trusted in return, and because when she looks at Lucius her plain face is radiant with tenderness.
"Will my child be born before or after the arch is finished?" "After. The baby is due in Junius, the arch will not be completed before the end of September, beginning of October." So we have less than a year to find out if we're in danger, he adds to himself. "Come, let's walk to the market. Remind me of everything we need to get. And before we go home you and I can sit in the square and eat fish dumplings. They're tasty and healthy, and you have to eat for two."
* * *
In early spring, the construction is halfway through. Slaves and stonemasons have been working flat out, and blocks of rough grey stone have been laid, cemented with mortar and faced with smooth grey-white stone to form the two huge pillars. Now wooden scaffolding is being built for the temporary structure which will eventually become the arch.
Pullo and Vorenus go to town on market day, to buy different varieties of seeds. More or less by accident, they seem to have coaxed their fava beans into flourishing, and now they're looking for cucumbers to add to their beans and onions. They make a detour to see how Augustus' arch is progressing.
"It'll be a bloody big, impressive thing," says Pullo, awed in spite of himself. He turns towards Vorenus, frowns and nudges him in the side. "What's wrong?"
Vorenus thinks for a moment, looking for the right words. "Honour, glory and power to one man," he says, looking at the scaffolding, sizing it up. "Antony used to call me a stonewall Catonian," he adds, almost to himself, his line of thought growing less comfortable with every word. "He meant it as a jibe, I think. He saw me as a conservative, who hated and feared anything new." He grimaces at the scaffolding and lowers his voice. "Now 'the new' is the power of one man, elected by no one, who will never step down."
"Things can never stay the same. And once a change starts, there's no going back," Pullo says.
"Things started going to the dogs when we crossed the Rubicon with Caesar," Vorenus says fiercely. "And I went along with him until the day he died, telling myself that he had the Republic's best interest at heart." He looks down, corruption and crime and civil war swirling around in his head, and his part in all of them. Layers of public morals being peeled one after the other, like the leaves of an artichoke. Until the heart of the artichoke was reached, the notion of shared power for the common interest, res publica. He lowers his voice again, tries to keep disillusionment and hopelessness out of it. "The Roman Republic is dead for ever, brother."
Pullo looks intently at him, then starts off on a completely new topic. "When we left this morning, there was trouble brewing in the kitchen. Lyde was scolding Uta for sewing baby things." Subtlety was never Pullo's strong point, but Vorenus nods his gratitude for the change of subject, and makes an interrogative sound. "Lyde thinks sewing for the unborn is inviting bad luck." "Women's superstitions," Vorenus says impatiently. "The baby's luck is going to be in our hands," Pullo says without smiling, his voice hard with determination. Vorenus turns his back on the arch, half envying Pullo for the way he brings all politics back to the personal, and half hoping - against all realistic expectations - that when Augustus does come the two of them will have a chance to protect the baby, the family, and each other.
A few days later, Probus for the first time invites them to go fishing with him. They take Aeneas along, he has been subdued and listless since they fought the pirates, and needs some distraction. "I stayed away from the boat for a long time," Probus says, as they walk towards the harbour. "But fishing is what I have done since I left the Legions, it's my life. More so now that I'm alone." On the pier they're greeted by green-eyed Aulus, the swimmer who set fire to the pirate ships. "I'm the hired hand. Literally," he laughs, pointing to his maimed left hand. It sounds like an old, practised joke, but they all laugh, the friendship is there between them, rough and unspoken.
The fishing trips become a fairly regular occurrence; Aeneas begins to learn how to steer and how to mend the nets, and hopes that eventually he will be allowed to cast them. Their conversation gradually moves from war experiences, sardines and octopus to what they think about and believe in. Whether the gods protect some mortals and hate others. What the moon and the stars are made of. Whether blood counts more than upbringing. Pullo and Probus enjoy these speculations, Vorenus listens patiently lest he be called a Catonian spoilsport.
One afternoon, the boat is rocking gently and drifting a little over deep sea, with only the hills visible behind the distant coastline. While Aeneas is dozing, the men open a wineskin, and after a while their minds are drifting a little too, and before they know it they're talking about death and dying. Pullo begins to sort out a rope tangle, and, without looking at any of them, says: "I envy Nestia, when I think about her. She died well, doing what she was good at, protecting others. My wife was not so lucky. She was murdered." All of them look at him, horrified. "How …?" "Poisoned," Pullo says, staring at the ropes. Vorenus' insides turn to ice. "Did you ever find out who killed her?" he asks, thinking that he should have been there beside Pullo, and then remembering why he had left for Egypt, hating fate, and circumstances, and himself most of all. "Yes. And the bitch died a moment later." Vorenus opens his mouth, then understands and remembers, It did not end well. It's a long story. He stares into the dark blue water and cannot find any words. After a few moments, he gets up, squats beside Pullo, takes the ropes from his clenched hands, and starts untangling them. Their shoulders brush, Pullo looks at him, and it's enough.
Probus looks at one of them, then at the other, and does not ask any more questions, but Vorenus can tell that there are several churning inside him, none of them easy, none of them safe. Aulus breaks the silence to announce that he has sighted a school of sardines, and they wake Aeneas and start getting the nets ready.
That night, Vorenus lies beside a snoring Pullo, turning things over in his mind. He used to believe in a number of things. The Republic and its elected rulers. The gods. Marriage. Integrity, incorruptibility, propriety. Sex for marriage and procreation, sex with other men an offence against nature. By the day after the Ides of March he had lost all of his beliefs but one. Strange that the least important belief should have been the last to leave him.
When was it that he had started changing? He frowns in the darkness, feeling an unwelcome wave of heat flooding his cheeks. The first time they met Cleopatra? The smells of sweat and sex in the small tent, his own envy at Pullo's uninhibited energy becoming something else, powerful and unsettling, recognized and hastily pushed away. Or was it after the arena, when he was dragging a half-dead Pullo along the back streets of Rome, and for the first time he had seen the vulnerability beneath the swagger? Absurdly, he had felt at home, there, in the dusty streets; angry and tired and scared, with a couple of broken ribs and a knot in his stomach at the thought of the future, yet more at home there, beside his bleeding comrade, than with Niobe, loved but unfamiliar, loved and desperately wanted, yet unable to make him laugh or to force him to face his lost morality that was the price of his, their, social rise.
The night with Caesarion in the desert was the first time he had fully seen that Titus Pullo, no matter where each of them was, was the other part of him. As they lay together by the dying fire, Pullo had tried one last time to get him to reconsider his decision to go off on his own in Judaea - impossible, all his failures and all the harm he had caused to everyone close to him were part of him, were him, and would be extinguished only with his death. "That's it then." "Looks like it. I'm sorry." "Then do something for me, brother," a catch and a little shake of the head at the last word, as if it was inadequate but no others were available, "just this once," and Pullo's hands had touched and caressed and stroked him, and he had gasped and stared, amazed that a man's touch could be rough one moment and gentle the next, stunned at the realization that neither of them had to turn over unless he wanted to. His awkward fumblings in response had been received with a smile, fond rather than mocking: "I've never ..." " Of course you haven't." " We should stop." "Over my dead body." His hands had been taken and shown and taught, here and harder and ohgodsohfuckyes. His failures were still there, all of them, but the man at his side knew every single one, and had failures of his own, and yet pressed close to him and gave him what he needed, with eyes full of light, openly asking for pleasure in return, I've wanted ... Come here. His own release had been a completion and a homecoming, and it had filled him with the silent awe of all momentous discoveries, and at the same time with confusion and grief at the thought, never again?
And the following day there had been the road block, the fight, the wound. The journey through the desert, blood and heat and pain, every breath a stab in the back, every jolt of the wagon wrenching his limbs apart. Easy, now. This woman's going to look after you. It'll probably hurt worse than Mars and Vulcan buggering you. But you're going to make it. The boat, the stink, something tearing inside him at every lurch. We're halfway through. Eat at least a crust. Aeneas and I collected some rainwater. Drink. Slowly. Keep it inside you, now. And every second, every jolt, every lurch forward, the one thought, through every fibre of his body: live and make it back to Rome, for the children and for Pullo. Unfathomably, there were all given back to him, his life, the love of his children, and the other part of him. Almost enough to make him believe in the gods all over again. Almost.
He knows that Pullo still has some sort of belief in the gods, unpredictable entities to be appeased and bargained with. As for himself, now he knows that the only possible beliefs are in the things and people you learn to know first hand. Through your mistakes and failures. The strongest of these beliefs is that what he and Pullo have become to each other, through mistakes and failures of all kinds, is what has kept him alive in body and spirit.
Probus still asks them to go fishing, and still drops in at the farm, he's a deft hand at trimming the vines. The unasked questions are still in the air between them, answering them would be too complicated, and some friendships can grow even though there are forbidden areas. Here be lions, as it said on the maps of Africa Vorenus saw in Alexandria, if you want to survive you keep out. Sometimes Vorenus looks at Lyde, at his daughter, at their sons, and sees clouds of uncertainty in their eyes when they look at him and Pullo, and wonders if here be lions is in their minds as well, together with all their dark memories. One day, soon after they moved to the farm, he was about to enter the kitchen when he heard his name in a conversation between Lyde and the girls, and he stopped and listened. "Maybe it's not right," Lyde was saying, "but they love and protect us. And they love and protect each other." The girls said nothing, and Vorenus left the kitchen quietly and made some noise before coming in a second time, and all he could do was hope.
Farm work keeps them too busy to go to town often, but at the end of Maius Lucius and Aeneas go to the carpenter's shop to buy a crib, and report that the arch is almost finished, and that it's amazing even for big-city people like them, one brought up in Rome and the other in Alexandria. The wedge-shaped stones which make up the arch have been fitted into the wooden structure, the keystone has been wedged into place and the wooden structure removed, leaving a wide stone arch towering into the sky. All that's missing now is the marble chariot on top, drawn by four horses and driven by Augustus. A team of twenty sculptors is hard at work on it, and it should be finished by September.
One Junius morning, while she is kneading dough, Uta floods the floor with her waters. Aeneas runs for the midwife, who chases all the men out of the house the moment she sets foot in it. The men walk to the orchard and try to talk about apricot trees and fig trees, but none of them manages to say anything sensible. As the afternoon slides into evening, they hear a sequence of long, loud howls, and they look at one another, pale with fear. Vorenus, the only one with direct experience, remembers the births of his daughters and thinks about different kinds of strength and courage. Then Vorena the Elder runs towards them: "A healthy boy. They're both well. Come and see."
The youngest Vorenus has long hands and feet, a few sparse reddish curls, and huge grey-green eyes. "He looks like a Gaul," his father says, tickling him. "Then he'll be ugly, all Gauls are ugly," Vorenus states. "You've got Gaulish blood yourself," Uta points out, respectfully but with a little mischievous grin. "Come to that, I'm ugly myself," Vorenus says flatly, and Pullo laughs his head off.
Everyone votes that the boy's name should be Titus, except Pullo, who puts his foot down, and has the last word. "New life, new place, new person, new name. And 'Titus Vorenus' sounds bloody silly anyway." So they name him Publius, the boy who technically speaking is nobody's grandson, but who will be theirs by upbringing. They take turns holding him, Aeneas enthusiastically, Lyde and the girls wistfully, Lucius clumsily, Uta with quiet matter-of-fact tenderness.
By September, Publius has a head of curls and smiles to all and sundry. And Augustus' chariot is lifted onto the big horizontal slab of marble on top of the arch. On the side facing Rome, the best stonemason of the town has carved a golden inscription: the Senate and the people of Rome thank Emperor Augustus Caesar, son of the divine Julius, for the restoration of the Flaminian Way and other roads within Italy.
Augustus Caesar, no longer known as Octavian, arrives just before the Kalends of October. Since Ariminum does not contain any accommodation fit for the First Citizen of Rome and his retinue, the soldiers escorting him erect tents for themselves and a huge pavilion for him outside the walls. On the other side of the arch, they set up a canopy with a golden chair at the centre and rows of chairs behind, on a thick red carpet, for the triumphal procession. The townspeople gather and gawp, but the soldiers' forbidding presence keeps them at a distance.
Vorenus, Pullo and the family are at dinner when one of Sextus Camillus's most trusted slaves arrives with a message, and asks to deliver it to Pullo and Vorenus alone. At his triumphal procession, arranged for two days' time, Augustus Caesar wants "all the heroes who defeated the Dalmatian pirates" to be present and sit behind him. Sextus intends to go, but would like to inform his friends that Augustus already knows both their names, and that he seemed very cold every time he pronounced them.
"Of course he knows about us," Vorenus says grimly. "He must have spies in every town," Pullo surmises. They consider the possible alternatives. Leaving the farm would be absurd - where could they go, with four women and a baby? And, Pullo adds, this is their fucking home, nobody should drive them out, nobody. Hiding would be ridiculous. Should they throw themselves on Augustus' mercy, remind him that he wouldn't be in Ariminum today if they hadn't been in Gaul when he was eleven? They can try. That's what they agree on, and also that the family must know nothing of this whole business. They return to the dinner table and resume eating. Pullo reaches over and snatches the last piece of mutton from Vorenus' plate.
Later, in the bedroom, Pullo takes Vorenus' face between both hands and kisses him hard and deeply, almost desperately, wrapping him up in his arms and holding him almost tight enough to reawaken the old wounds. "Look at me," Vorenus says sternly. "Whatever we do, we do together." He would like to add It's an order, but he doesn't, he says "Swear," and Pullo says "You too," and Vorenus swears, glad that his time as a politician has made him into a convincing liar. And after they have taken and given their pleasure, Vorenus lies on his back, comforted by familiar deep snoring. He would prefer to live, but, like Lyde said to the girls, this is what he and Pullo do, protect each other and the family, and this is the best cause to die for. Before dawn he actually drifts into sleep.
Early the next morning, he opens his eyes and starts getting up without making a sound, when he sees that the other side of the bed is empty. He runs to the kitchen, and breathes in deep relief when Lyde tells him that Pullo has taken Aeneas fishing in Probus' boat. His uniform has been left behind in Alexandria, and he puts on an everyday tunic because Lucius and the women would suspect something if he wore his best clothes. They would get suspicious also if he did what he would very much like to do, embrace and kiss them all, and hold Publius and give him a finger to grab and whisper his wishes for him. So he just briefly tells them that he's going to see Sextus Camillus about buying more vines, and lingers just one extra moment at the door. "Be back soon." His last lie. He never looks back as he walks down the hill.
An autumn breeze is blowing when he arrives at the pavilion. The pennants on top of the poles are fluttering, and the red plumes on the soldiers' helmets are quivering. The guards are a dozen legionaries and a tribune. Vorenus strides up to the tribune and introduces himself with a crisp military salute, "Lucius Vorenus, Prefect of the Evocati." The officer looks uninterested. "I was Marc Antony's tribune in Alexandria." This works immediately. Augustus' tribune disappears into the tent, and Vorenus hears some muffled voices followed by the sound of several men leaving from the other side. A moment later the tribune reappears, gesturing to Vorenus to follow.
Augustus Caesar is sitting not in the centre of the tent but in a corner, behind a marble table, his back against the canvas. The last time Vorenus saw him, ten years ago, he was Octavian, Marc Antony's uneasy ally. Ten years later, he is the vanquisher of Antony and the master of the Roman world; he has a few silver threads in his hair, pale blue eyes whose gaze makes Vorenus think of snakes and rabbits, and a silence that is like thin ice - the man who breaks it will stumble and drown. Vorenus gives him his best salute, and does not waste any time: "I have come to surrender to you, sir. In exchange for my life I ask for your promise that Titus Pullo and all the rest of our family will be left unharmed."
The slightest lifting of an eyebrow. "You're in no position to bargain with anyone, Lucius Vorenus."
Not hard to parry. "Augustus Caesar has come to inaugurate the arch, and to be praised throughout Ariminum and its territory for his generosity and moderation. These virtues would not be apparent if an innocent man were to be slaughtered with his family." A pause. "On the other hand, justice meted out to the right-hand man of Marc Antony, who deserted when Octavian Caesar's army entered Alexandria, would confirm Augustus' reputation for justice."
The reptilian eyes rake over him. "What happened to Caesarion?"
He and Pullo had fabricated that story together. "Dead, sir. A quick death. His head rotted, so Titus Pullo disposed of it."
"So you failed to defend the boy who had been entrusted to you."
Vorenus does not hesitate. "The boy was of no interest to me, sir. He was not worth the friendship with Titus Pullo. I let Pullo follow your orders."
"But, as we both know, Titus Pullo is not very good at following orders." The reptilian eyes are opaque as they turn to the tribune. "Send the other visitor in."
The moment Augustus begins the sentence, Vorenus knows what's coming, and all his muscles tense. Three soldiers march in, and between them, his hands unbound, is Pullo, in his best blue tunic. He comes to stand beside Vorenus, not looking at him or at anyone but Augustus. A rush of anger floods Vorenus, at the idiot hothead, at himself for never suspecting anything, and at himself again for being terrified for Pullo's life. Just like that day in the arena. Worse, because this time the bloody fool has chosen to walk blithely into the death trap.
"Each of you wants the same thing," Augustus Caesar says, and the temperature in the tent cools. "To take all the blame for the deception and die in the other's place." Pullo remains at parade attention, staring straight ahead, his face blank. I'll fucking kill him, Vorenus swears to himself, and then makes a small wry grimace as he considers that he may not have to get his hands dirty, Augustus will crucify them both as part of his celebrations.
"Except," and the temperature cools a little more, "that neither of you is any longer a threat. The pretender Caesarion is dead, the Aventine Collegium has been disbanded, and new legends have replaced Titus Pullo and Lucius Vorenus." Augustus Caesar makes a small gesture, and the tribune and the guards withdraw, they're alone together. "My father once told me that you two have powerful gods on your side. In his memory, and in deference to those gods he believed in, no charges will be brought against either of you."
Pullo smiles, a trace of the old protective pride of the tutor for his bright pupil. "You're a merciful ruler, Augustus Caesar."
"Don't push the favour of the gods, Titus Pullo. And both of you - don't go back to Rome. Ever. And try keeping the heroics to a minimum here."
"Yes, sir," Pullo says brightly. "We'll stick to growing grapes. We will present you with an amphora of next year's wine." Both Augustus and Vorenus give him black looks. Vorenus wonders if he can actually believe this, they may soon be dismissed, they're free, they can go home and he can tear strips off Pullo and play with Publius.
"One last thing." The reptilian eyes show a spark of curiosity. "My sources say that you have five children between you. I know that Lucius Vorenus had only three." Vorenus thinks for a moment, then nods. "Five is right. There's my daughter-in-law Uta. And Titus Pullo's son, Aeneas."
Pullo throws his head back and laughs. "My bastard son Aeneas. A young man who used to live with his mother, and has joined me here after his mother died. He's useless as a farmer, but has the makings of a good fisherman."
"Your bastard son," Augustus says, very slowly, and this reminds Vorenus of Caesar's boast that he could remember every one of his men and everything that each man had ever told him. He remains stone-faced and motionless as his blood freezes. "The 'private joke' between the two of you, the joke that allowed you to recognize each other while Lucius Vorenus was with Antony at Cleopatra's palace." Augustus stands up and Pullo and Vorenus follow him out of the tent to stand below the arch, the solid symbol of his unchallenged, unchallengeable power.
"You can go," Augustus Caesar says quietly. "I'll see you tomorrow, at the ceremony." They salute and march out together, side by side. But as soon as they are no longer in sight of the pavilion, on the start of the rocky path that leads up to their hill, Vorenus wheels around, grabs Pullo by the arm and forces him to turn and face him.
"Explain yourself," he says between clenched teeth.
"Whoa," shouts Pullo, and there's no stopping him after that. "You explain yourself. Explain what a dead man was doing in Augustus' pavilion. Explain what you told your children, you've been with them for what, three years, and you were going to dump them all over again, for good this time. Publius as well." He grabs Vorenus by both shoulders and bites his lips, restraining himself from shaking him, as if he was Aeneas. "And of course, I didn't fucking matter, because I could bloody well cope with everything, right?"
Vorenus shakes himself free and moves a couple of steps around Pullo. "Right," he says, glaring. "A dead man is right. I've had three years of borrowed time," the best I've had so far, but he doesn't add this, "the reckoning had to come sooner or later. And yes, my going was the logical thing to do." He gestures impatiently. "And yes, of course you would have coped. You always do." His anger is beginning to evaporate, then another thought strikes him, and he steps back and looks Pullo over. "And what in Hades did you do with your son, the bastard fisherman?"
Pullo smirks. "He's deep-sea fishing with Probus. In case anyone asked, Aeneas was Probus' slave. I told him not to fuck up this time."
"I suppose he was thrilled to bits when you also told him that you were off to get yourself tortured and killed?"
Pullo looks away. "I didn't. I figured out you could explain to him. If necessary." He sighs and looks at Vorenus, uncertain and open, like that time in the Aventine Collegium, before they beat the shit out of each other. "You want a fight? I'll give it to you if you do. But I don't like fighting you."
Vorenus thinks back to the room of the Collegium. I was insane with grief, and I provoked you and almost killed you, and you left, but then you came back, and found me, and gave me back my children. And myself. He lifts an eyebrow, a corner of his mouth twitching. "You don't?"
Pullo shakes his head, quiet and serious. "I don't."
Vorenus extends his arms. Pullo steps into them. They stand still for a long moment, body to body, each feeling the other's breath warm on his neck, each feeling the other's unseen smile.
"Come on. We've got a long walk uphill."
* * *
It's late afternoon. The family is resting at home after the long day; the only one absent is Aeneas, who has been sent deep-sea fishing for another couple of days. The slaves have unhitched the horses from the wagon. Pullo and Vorenus have walked all the way up the hill and are looking down. The vines and the rows of vegetables are bright green lines against the russet and yellow of the trees, the sea is shimmering in the distance, and they can breathe in the smell of earth and grass. They are both tired, the rush of energy of the last two days is subsiding and leaving them with the awareness that years and adventures are beginning to take their toll.
They sit side by side in the shade of a large oak. "Good ceremony," Vorenus says, stretching out a kink in his back. "Good food, tables set up in every street, free meat and wine for three days," Pullo adds, grinning. Then he takes his mind to a loftier plane: "I'm glad the families who lost people to the pirates received some compensation. Aulus lost half a hand, but he's gained a big bag of silver." He looks at his companion quizzically. "Now will you admit that a single ruler can be a good thing?"
Vorenus shakes his head. "A single ruler is like a god. You bow to him, accept his gifts, and build arches in order to keep his favour and avert his wrath." He shrugs. "But all things considered, it could have gone worse. As long as Augustus lives, we'll be left in peace. Provided we stay away from Rome."
"Do you mind?"
Vorenus stands up, moves a few steps, looks into the distance. "What're you looking at?" Pullo asks, a little drowsily.
"Trying to see if we can spot the Arch from here." A celebration of Rome, of the power they defended for so long. And at the same time a new local landmark, the focus of their new home.
"And can you?"
"No." Pullo is sitting with his back against the trunk, legs stretched out. Vorenus goes back to the oak and sits between Pullo's legs, leaning back against Pullo's chest.
"Do you mind?" Pullo repeats, his voice low and a little rough, running his hands down Vorenus' sides.
"No." Vorenus lifts his face towards him.
Fandom: Rome
Pairing: Pullo/Vorenus (or vice versa)
Spoilers: here and there, for the whole series.
Summary: Yet another post-series life-on-the-farm futurefic.
Rating: NC-17 for occasional strong language and occasional, not very explicit, sex.
Disclaimer: Pullo, Vorenus and their assorted children belong to HBO. The people of Ariminum belong to me. I am not going to make any profit out of either.
Part 1 is here.
Part 2 is here.
The Arch of Augustus is here
Part 3 - The Arch of Augustus
"What deep holes," Uta says, wrapping her cloak tighter around herself and shivering in the late November sun. At the point where the Flaminian Way and the Aemilian Way meet, the walls of Ariminum have been torn down, and the foundations for the Arch of Augustus laid. Vorenus and Uta have gone to have a look before heading for the marketplace. They have been given the day off from the farm, officially because it's market day and the family needs provisions, but the real reason is that one of them has morning sickness and the other has had a bad week with his lungs.
"They have to be deep, they have to support a massive weight for the next thousand years." Vorenus smiles a little at his daughter-in-law. "And look at the distance between them - the arch is going to be wide. An opening too wide for gates is a symbol of peace. Peace after all the civil wars, I guess." Vorenus, usually ill at ease with women, enjoys Uta's company. Both have Gaulish blood, both tend to be quiet; he is warming to her because she loves and trusts her sisters-in-law and is loved and trusted in return, and because when she looks at Lucius her plain face is radiant with tenderness.
"Will my child be born before or after the arch is finished?" "After. The baby is due in Junius, the arch will not be completed before the end of September, beginning of October." So we have less than a year to find out if we're in danger, he adds to himself. "Come, let's walk to the market. Remind me of everything we need to get. And before we go home you and I can sit in the square and eat fish dumplings. They're tasty and healthy, and you have to eat for two."
* * *
In early spring, the construction is halfway through. Slaves and stonemasons have been working flat out, and blocks of rough grey stone have been laid, cemented with mortar and faced with smooth grey-white stone to form the two huge pillars. Now wooden scaffolding is being built for the temporary structure which will eventually become the arch.
Pullo and Vorenus go to town on market day, to buy different varieties of seeds. More or less by accident, they seem to have coaxed their fava beans into flourishing, and now they're looking for cucumbers to add to their beans and onions. They make a detour to see how Augustus' arch is progressing.
"It'll be a bloody big, impressive thing," says Pullo, awed in spite of himself. He turns towards Vorenus, frowns and nudges him in the side. "What's wrong?"
Vorenus thinks for a moment, looking for the right words. "Honour, glory and power to one man," he says, looking at the scaffolding, sizing it up. "Antony used to call me a stonewall Catonian," he adds, almost to himself, his line of thought growing less comfortable with every word. "He meant it as a jibe, I think. He saw me as a conservative, who hated and feared anything new." He grimaces at the scaffolding and lowers his voice. "Now 'the new' is the power of one man, elected by no one, who will never step down."
"Things can never stay the same. And once a change starts, there's no going back," Pullo says.
"Things started going to the dogs when we crossed the Rubicon with Caesar," Vorenus says fiercely. "And I went along with him until the day he died, telling myself that he had the Republic's best interest at heart." He looks down, corruption and crime and civil war swirling around in his head, and his part in all of them. Layers of public morals being peeled one after the other, like the leaves of an artichoke. Until the heart of the artichoke was reached, the notion of shared power for the common interest, res publica. He lowers his voice again, tries to keep disillusionment and hopelessness out of it. "The Roman Republic is dead for ever, brother."
Pullo looks intently at him, then starts off on a completely new topic. "When we left this morning, there was trouble brewing in the kitchen. Lyde was scolding Uta for sewing baby things." Subtlety was never Pullo's strong point, but Vorenus nods his gratitude for the change of subject, and makes an interrogative sound. "Lyde thinks sewing for the unborn is inviting bad luck." "Women's superstitions," Vorenus says impatiently. "The baby's luck is going to be in our hands," Pullo says without smiling, his voice hard with determination. Vorenus turns his back on the arch, half envying Pullo for the way he brings all politics back to the personal, and half hoping - against all realistic expectations - that when Augustus does come the two of them will have a chance to protect the baby, the family, and each other.
A few days later, Probus for the first time invites them to go fishing with him. They take Aeneas along, he has been subdued and listless since they fought the pirates, and needs some distraction. "I stayed away from the boat for a long time," Probus says, as they walk towards the harbour. "But fishing is what I have done since I left the Legions, it's my life. More so now that I'm alone." On the pier they're greeted by green-eyed Aulus, the swimmer who set fire to the pirate ships. "I'm the hired hand. Literally," he laughs, pointing to his maimed left hand. It sounds like an old, practised joke, but they all laugh, the friendship is there between them, rough and unspoken.
The fishing trips become a fairly regular occurrence; Aeneas begins to learn how to steer and how to mend the nets, and hopes that eventually he will be allowed to cast them. Their conversation gradually moves from war experiences, sardines and octopus to what they think about and believe in. Whether the gods protect some mortals and hate others. What the moon and the stars are made of. Whether blood counts more than upbringing. Pullo and Probus enjoy these speculations, Vorenus listens patiently lest he be called a Catonian spoilsport.
One afternoon, the boat is rocking gently and drifting a little over deep sea, with only the hills visible behind the distant coastline. While Aeneas is dozing, the men open a wineskin, and after a while their minds are drifting a little too, and before they know it they're talking about death and dying. Pullo begins to sort out a rope tangle, and, without looking at any of them, says: "I envy Nestia, when I think about her. She died well, doing what she was good at, protecting others. My wife was not so lucky. She was murdered." All of them look at him, horrified. "How …?" "Poisoned," Pullo says, staring at the ropes. Vorenus' insides turn to ice. "Did you ever find out who killed her?" he asks, thinking that he should have been there beside Pullo, and then remembering why he had left for Egypt, hating fate, and circumstances, and himself most of all. "Yes. And the bitch died a moment later." Vorenus opens his mouth, then understands and remembers, It did not end well. It's a long story. He stares into the dark blue water and cannot find any words. After a few moments, he gets up, squats beside Pullo, takes the ropes from his clenched hands, and starts untangling them. Their shoulders brush, Pullo looks at him, and it's enough.
Probus looks at one of them, then at the other, and does not ask any more questions, but Vorenus can tell that there are several churning inside him, none of them easy, none of them safe. Aulus breaks the silence to announce that he has sighted a school of sardines, and they wake Aeneas and start getting the nets ready.
That night, Vorenus lies beside a snoring Pullo, turning things over in his mind. He used to believe in a number of things. The Republic and its elected rulers. The gods. Marriage. Integrity, incorruptibility, propriety. Sex for marriage and procreation, sex with other men an offence against nature. By the day after the Ides of March he had lost all of his beliefs but one. Strange that the least important belief should have been the last to leave him.
When was it that he had started changing? He frowns in the darkness, feeling an unwelcome wave of heat flooding his cheeks. The first time they met Cleopatra? The smells of sweat and sex in the small tent, his own envy at Pullo's uninhibited energy becoming something else, powerful and unsettling, recognized and hastily pushed away. Or was it after the arena, when he was dragging a half-dead Pullo along the back streets of Rome, and for the first time he had seen the vulnerability beneath the swagger? Absurdly, he had felt at home, there, in the dusty streets; angry and tired and scared, with a couple of broken ribs and a knot in his stomach at the thought of the future, yet more at home there, beside his bleeding comrade, than with Niobe, loved but unfamiliar, loved and desperately wanted, yet unable to make him laugh or to force him to face his lost morality that was the price of his, their, social rise.
The night with Caesarion in the desert was the first time he had fully seen that Titus Pullo, no matter where each of them was, was the other part of him. As they lay together by the dying fire, Pullo had tried one last time to get him to reconsider his decision to go off on his own in Judaea - impossible, all his failures and all the harm he had caused to everyone close to him were part of him, were him, and would be extinguished only with his death. "That's it then." "Looks like it. I'm sorry." "Then do something for me, brother," a catch and a little shake of the head at the last word, as if it was inadequate but no others were available, "just this once," and Pullo's hands had touched and caressed and stroked him, and he had gasped and stared, amazed that a man's touch could be rough one moment and gentle the next, stunned at the realization that neither of them had to turn over unless he wanted to. His awkward fumblings in response had been received with a smile, fond rather than mocking: "I've never ..." " Of course you haven't." " We should stop." "Over my dead body." His hands had been taken and shown and taught, here and harder and ohgodsohfuckyes. His failures were still there, all of them, but the man at his side knew every single one, and had failures of his own, and yet pressed close to him and gave him what he needed, with eyes full of light, openly asking for pleasure in return, I've wanted ... Come here. His own release had been a completion and a homecoming, and it had filled him with the silent awe of all momentous discoveries, and at the same time with confusion and grief at the thought, never again?
And the following day there had been the road block, the fight, the wound. The journey through the desert, blood and heat and pain, every breath a stab in the back, every jolt of the wagon wrenching his limbs apart. Easy, now. This woman's going to look after you. It'll probably hurt worse than Mars and Vulcan buggering you. But you're going to make it. The boat, the stink, something tearing inside him at every lurch. We're halfway through. Eat at least a crust. Aeneas and I collected some rainwater. Drink. Slowly. Keep it inside you, now. And every second, every jolt, every lurch forward, the one thought, through every fibre of his body: live and make it back to Rome, for the children and for Pullo. Unfathomably, there were all given back to him, his life, the love of his children, and the other part of him. Almost enough to make him believe in the gods all over again. Almost.
He knows that Pullo still has some sort of belief in the gods, unpredictable entities to be appeased and bargained with. As for himself, now he knows that the only possible beliefs are in the things and people you learn to know first hand. Through your mistakes and failures. The strongest of these beliefs is that what he and Pullo have become to each other, through mistakes and failures of all kinds, is what has kept him alive in body and spirit.
Probus still asks them to go fishing, and still drops in at the farm, he's a deft hand at trimming the vines. The unasked questions are still in the air between them, answering them would be too complicated, and some friendships can grow even though there are forbidden areas. Here be lions, as it said on the maps of Africa Vorenus saw in Alexandria, if you want to survive you keep out. Sometimes Vorenus looks at Lyde, at his daughter, at their sons, and sees clouds of uncertainty in their eyes when they look at him and Pullo, and wonders if here be lions is in their minds as well, together with all their dark memories. One day, soon after they moved to the farm, he was about to enter the kitchen when he heard his name in a conversation between Lyde and the girls, and he stopped and listened. "Maybe it's not right," Lyde was saying, "but they love and protect us. And they love and protect each other." The girls said nothing, and Vorenus left the kitchen quietly and made some noise before coming in a second time, and all he could do was hope.
Farm work keeps them too busy to go to town often, but at the end of Maius Lucius and Aeneas go to the carpenter's shop to buy a crib, and report that the arch is almost finished, and that it's amazing even for big-city people like them, one brought up in Rome and the other in Alexandria. The wedge-shaped stones which make up the arch have been fitted into the wooden structure, the keystone has been wedged into place and the wooden structure removed, leaving a wide stone arch towering into the sky. All that's missing now is the marble chariot on top, drawn by four horses and driven by Augustus. A team of twenty sculptors is hard at work on it, and it should be finished by September.
One Junius morning, while she is kneading dough, Uta floods the floor with her waters. Aeneas runs for the midwife, who chases all the men out of the house the moment she sets foot in it. The men walk to the orchard and try to talk about apricot trees and fig trees, but none of them manages to say anything sensible. As the afternoon slides into evening, they hear a sequence of long, loud howls, and they look at one another, pale with fear. Vorenus, the only one with direct experience, remembers the births of his daughters and thinks about different kinds of strength and courage. Then Vorena the Elder runs towards them: "A healthy boy. They're both well. Come and see."
The youngest Vorenus has long hands and feet, a few sparse reddish curls, and huge grey-green eyes. "He looks like a Gaul," his father says, tickling him. "Then he'll be ugly, all Gauls are ugly," Vorenus states. "You've got Gaulish blood yourself," Uta points out, respectfully but with a little mischievous grin. "Come to that, I'm ugly myself," Vorenus says flatly, and Pullo laughs his head off.
Everyone votes that the boy's name should be Titus, except Pullo, who puts his foot down, and has the last word. "New life, new place, new person, new name. And 'Titus Vorenus' sounds bloody silly anyway." So they name him Publius, the boy who technically speaking is nobody's grandson, but who will be theirs by upbringing. They take turns holding him, Aeneas enthusiastically, Lyde and the girls wistfully, Lucius clumsily, Uta with quiet matter-of-fact tenderness.
By September, Publius has a head of curls and smiles to all and sundry. And Augustus' chariot is lifted onto the big horizontal slab of marble on top of the arch. On the side facing Rome, the best stonemason of the town has carved a golden inscription: the Senate and the people of Rome thank Emperor Augustus Caesar, son of the divine Julius, for the restoration of the Flaminian Way and other roads within Italy.
Augustus Caesar, no longer known as Octavian, arrives just before the Kalends of October. Since Ariminum does not contain any accommodation fit for the First Citizen of Rome and his retinue, the soldiers escorting him erect tents for themselves and a huge pavilion for him outside the walls. On the other side of the arch, they set up a canopy with a golden chair at the centre and rows of chairs behind, on a thick red carpet, for the triumphal procession. The townspeople gather and gawp, but the soldiers' forbidding presence keeps them at a distance.
Vorenus, Pullo and the family are at dinner when one of Sextus Camillus's most trusted slaves arrives with a message, and asks to deliver it to Pullo and Vorenus alone. At his triumphal procession, arranged for two days' time, Augustus Caesar wants "all the heroes who defeated the Dalmatian pirates" to be present and sit behind him. Sextus intends to go, but would like to inform his friends that Augustus already knows both their names, and that he seemed very cold every time he pronounced them.
"Of course he knows about us," Vorenus says grimly. "He must have spies in every town," Pullo surmises. They consider the possible alternatives. Leaving the farm would be absurd - where could they go, with four women and a baby? And, Pullo adds, this is their fucking home, nobody should drive them out, nobody. Hiding would be ridiculous. Should they throw themselves on Augustus' mercy, remind him that he wouldn't be in Ariminum today if they hadn't been in Gaul when he was eleven? They can try. That's what they agree on, and also that the family must know nothing of this whole business. They return to the dinner table and resume eating. Pullo reaches over and snatches the last piece of mutton from Vorenus' plate.
Later, in the bedroom, Pullo takes Vorenus' face between both hands and kisses him hard and deeply, almost desperately, wrapping him up in his arms and holding him almost tight enough to reawaken the old wounds. "Look at me," Vorenus says sternly. "Whatever we do, we do together." He would like to add It's an order, but he doesn't, he says "Swear," and Pullo says "You too," and Vorenus swears, glad that his time as a politician has made him into a convincing liar. And after they have taken and given their pleasure, Vorenus lies on his back, comforted by familiar deep snoring. He would prefer to live, but, like Lyde said to the girls, this is what he and Pullo do, protect each other and the family, and this is the best cause to die for. Before dawn he actually drifts into sleep.
Early the next morning, he opens his eyes and starts getting up without making a sound, when he sees that the other side of the bed is empty. He runs to the kitchen, and breathes in deep relief when Lyde tells him that Pullo has taken Aeneas fishing in Probus' boat. His uniform has been left behind in Alexandria, and he puts on an everyday tunic because Lucius and the women would suspect something if he wore his best clothes. They would get suspicious also if he did what he would very much like to do, embrace and kiss them all, and hold Publius and give him a finger to grab and whisper his wishes for him. So he just briefly tells them that he's going to see Sextus Camillus about buying more vines, and lingers just one extra moment at the door. "Be back soon." His last lie. He never looks back as he walks down the hill.
An autumn breeze is blowing when he arrives at the pavilion. The pennants on top of the poles are fluttering, and the red plumes on the soldiers' helmets are quivering. The guards are a dozen legionaries and a tribune. Vorenus strides up to the tribune and introduces himself with a crisp military salute, "Lucius Vorenus, Prefect of the Evocati." The officer looks uninterested. "I was Marc Antony's tribune in Alexandria." This works immediately. Augustus' tribune disappears into the tent, and Vorenus hears some muffled voices followed by the sound of several men leaving from the other side. A moment later the tribune reappears, gesturing to Vorenus to follow.
Augustus Caesar is sitting not in the centre of the tent but in a corner, behind a marble table, his back against the canvas. The last time Vorenus saw him, ten years ago, he was Octavian, Marc Antony's uneasy ally. Ten years later, he is the vanquisher of Antony and the master of the Roman world; he has a few silver threads in his hair, pale blue eyes whose gaze makes Vorenus think of snakes and rabbits, and a silence that is like thin ice - the man who breaks it will stumble and drown. Vorenus gives him his best salute, and does not waste any time: "I have come to surrender to you, sir. In exchange for my life I ask for your promise that Titus Pullo and all the rest of our family will be left unharmed."
The slightest lifting of an eyebrow. "You're in no position to bargain with anyone, Lucius Vorenus."
Not hard to parry. "Augustus Caesar has come to inaugurate the arch, and to be praised throughout Ariminum and its territory for his generosity and moderation. These virtues would not be apparent if an innocent man were to be slaughtered with his family." A pause. "On the other hand, justice meted out to the right-hand man of Marc Antony, who deserted when Octavian Caesar's army entered Alexandria, would confirm Augustus' reputation for justice."
The reptilian eyes rake over him. "What happened to Caesarion?"
He and Pullo had fabricated that story together. "Dead, sir. A quick death. His head rotted, so Titus Pullo disposed of it."
"So you failed to defend the boy who had been entrusted to you."
Vorenus does not hesitate. "The boy was of no interest to me, sir. He was not worth the friendship with Titus Pullo. I let Pullo follow your orders."
"But, as we both know, Titus Pullo is not very good at following orders." The reptilian eyes are opaque as they turn to the tribune. "Send the other visitor in."
The moment Augustus begins the sentence, Vorenus knows what's coming, and all his muscles tense. Three soldiers march in, and between them, his hands unbound, is Pullo, in his best blue tunic. He comes to stand beside Vorenus, not looking at him or at anyone but Augustus. A rush of anger floods Vorenus, at the idiot hothead, at himself for never suspecting anything, and at himself again for being terrified for Pullo's life. Just like that day in the arena. Worse, because this time the bloody fool has chosen to walk blithely into the death trap.
"Each of you wants the same thing," Augustus Caesar says, and the temperature in the tent cools. "To take all the blame for the deception and die in the other's place." Pullo remains at parade attention, staring straight ahead, his face blank. I'll fucking kill him, Vorenus swears to himself, and then makes a small wry grimace as he considers that he may not have to get his hands dirty, Augustus will crucify them both as part of his celebrations.
"Except," and the temperature cools a little more, "that neither of you is any longer a threat. The pretender Caesarion is dead, the Aventine Collegium has been disbanded, and new legends have replaced Titus Pullo and Lucius Vorenus." Augustus Caesar makes a small gesture, and the tribune and the guards withdraw, they're alone together. "My father once told me that you two have powerful gods on your side. In his memory, and in deference to those gods he believed in, no charges will be brought against either of you."
Pullo smiles, a trace of the old protective pride of the tutor for his bright pupil. "You're a merciful ruler, Augustus Caesar."
"Don't push the favour of the gods, Titus Pullo. And both of you - don't go back to Rome. Ever. And try keeping the heroics to a minimum here."
"Yes, sir," Pullo says brightly. "We'll stick to growing grapes. We will present you with an amphora of next year's wine." Both Augustus and Vorenus give him black looks. Vorenus wonders if he can actually believe this, they may soon be dismissed, they're free, they can go home and he can tear strips off Pullo and play with Publius.
"One last thing." The reptilian eyes show a spark of curiosity. "My sources say that you have five children between you. I know that Lucius Vorenus had only three." Vorenus thinks for a moment, then nods. "Five is right. There's my daughter-in-law Uta. And Titus Pullo's son, Aeneas."
Pullo throws his head back and laughs. "My bastard son Aeneas. A young man who used to live with his mother, and has joined me here after his mother died. He's useless as a farmer, but has the makings of a good fisherman."
"Your bastard son," Augustus says, very slowly, and this reminds Vorenus of Caesar's boast that he could remember every one of his men and everything that each man had ever told him. He remains stone-faced and motionless as his blood freezes. "The 'private joke' between the two of you, the joke that allowed you to recognize each other while Lucius Vorenus was with Antony at Cleopatra's palace." Augustus stands up and Pullo and Vorenus follow him out of the tent to stand below the arch, the solid symbol of his unchallenged, unchallengeable power.
"You can go," Augustus Caesar says quietly. "I'll see you tomorrow, at the ceremony." They salute and march out together, side by side. But as soon as they are no longer in sight of the pavilion, on the start of the rocky path that leads up to their hill, Vorenus wheels around, grabs Pullo by the arm and forces him to turn and face him.
"Explain yourself," he says between clenched teeth.
"Whoa," shouts Pullo, and there's no stopping him after that. "You explain yourself. Explain what a dead man was doing in Augustus' pavilion. Explain what you told your children, you've been with them for what, three years, and you were going to dump them all over again, for good this time. Publius as well." He grabs Vorenus by both shoulders and bites his lips, restraining himself from shaking him, as if he was Aeneas. "And of course, I didn't fucking matter, because I could bloody well cope with everything, right?"
Vorenus shakes himself free and moves a couple of steps around Pullo. "Right," he says, glaring. "A dead man is right. I've had three years of borrowed time," the best I've had so far, but he doesn't add this, "the reckoning had to come sooner or later. And yes, my going was the logical thing to do." He gestures impatiently. "And yes, of course you would have coped. You always do." His anger is beginning to evaporate, then another thought strikes him, and he steps back and looks Pullo over. "And what in Hades did you do with your son, the bastard fisherman?"
Pullo smirks. "He's deep-sea fishing with Probus. In case anyone asked, Aeneas was Probus' slave. I told him not to fuck up this time."
"I suppose he was thrilled to bits when you also told him that you were off to get yourself tortured and killed?"
Pullo looks away. "I didn't. I figured out you could explain to him. If necessary." He sighs and looks at Vorenus, uncertain and open, like that time in the Aventine Collegium, before they beat the shit out of each other. "You want a fight? I'll give it to you if you do. But I don't like fighting you."
Vorenus thinks back to the room of the Collegium. I was insane with grief, and I provoked you and almost killed you, and you left, but then you came back, and found me, and gave me back my children. And myself. He lifts an eyebrow, a corner of his mouth twitching. "You don't?"
Pullo shakes his head, quiet and serious. "I don't."
Vorenus extends his arms. Pullo steps into them. They stand still for a long moment, body to body, each feeling the other's breath warm on his neck, each feeling the other's unseen smile.
"Come on. We've got a long walk uphill."
* * *
It's late afternoon. The family is resting at home after the long day; the only one absent is Aeneas, who has been sent deep-sea fishing for another couple of days. The slaves have unhitched the horses from the wagon. Pullo and Vorenus have walked all the way up the hill and are looking down. The vines and the rows of vegetables are bright green lines against the russet and yellow of the trees, the sea is shimmering in the distance, and they can breathe in the smell of earth and grass. They are both tired, the rush of energy of the last two days is subsiding and leaving them with the awareness that years and adventures are beginning to take their toll.
They sit side by side in the shade of a large oak. "Good ceremony," Vorenus says, stretching out a kink in his back. "Good food, tables set up in every street, free meat and wine for three days," Pullo adds, grinning. Then he takes his mind to a loftier plane: "I'm glad the families who lost people to the pirates received some compensation. Aulus lost half a hand, but he's gained a big bag of silver." He looks at his companion quizzically. "Now will you admit that a single ruler can be a good thing?"
Vorenus shakes his head. "A single ruler is like a god. You bow to him, accept his gifts, and build arches in order to keep his favour and avert his wrath." He shrugs. "But all things considered, it could have gone worse. As long as Augustus lives, we'll be left in peace. Provided we stay away from Rome."
"Do you mind?"
Vorenus stands up, moves a few steps, looks into the distance. "What're you looking at?" Pullo asks, a little drowsily.
"Trying to see if we can spot the Arch from here." A celebration of Rome, of the power they defended for so long. And at the same time a new local landmark, the focus of their new home.
"And can you?"
"No." Pullo is sitting with his back against the trunk, legs stretched out. Vorenus goes back to the oak and sits between Pullo's legs, leaning back against Pullo's chest.
"Do you mind?" Pullo repeats, his voice low and a little rough, running his hands down Vorenus' sides.
"No." Vorenus lifts his face towards him.