“Titus, you idiot! Don’t sit there like a useless lump. Go get Thuria! Then have the boy go get the midwife. My time has come!”
I still did not move; I do not know whether I did not want to believe that the moment had arrived or what, but there I sat. “But…but it’s not your time! It’s not supposed to be another week!”
“Well, apparently,” she said through clenched teeth, “he has other ideas!”
Even through my panic, that one word penetrated through. “He? What do you mean he? How do you know?”
“Because only a man would cause me this much pain,” she howled before slapping me, hard, across the face.
That got me moving, I can tell you. Everything after that is a blur; Thuria did her best to calm the both of us while we waited for the midwife, but finally my anxiety was too much and I was banished to the outer room, for which I was eternally thankful. The midwife arrived, and she was the only one of us who did not appear to think this was unusual. I remember confronting her about what it meant that the baby was early, which she shrugged off.
“It might not be,” she replied. “Maybe there was a miscalculation of the date. Or,” she said over her shoulder as she walked into our bedroom, “it’s early.”
That was not a great help. The labor lasted gods only know how long; afterwards Gisela told me very surely that it lasted more than four full watches, and I imagine she would know. What I remember most vividly of that night and day was the fear, a fear that I never mentioned to Gisela, but one that she learned from Valeria, that my baby would do the same thing to Gisela that I did to my mother. After all, I killed my mother because of my size, so I had to believe there was a chance of the same thing happening again. I sent for Vibius, who sat with me, doing all he could to take my mind off of my worry, and he was a great help. Even so, the waiting was an agony, but finally in the middle of the afternoon we were rewarded with what sounded to my ears, at least at that moment, like a cat that just had its tail cut off. Vibius and I looked at each other before leaping to our feet and rushing over to the bedroom door, almost bowling over a tired but happy looking midwife who was coming to get me.
“Salve, Centurion. Come meet your new son.”
There are moments in one’s life that are frozen in memory, vivid pictures that can be recalled simply by closing your eyes, summoning that day to be savored, all over again. The moment I held my son is one of those. He was like any other newborn, I suppose, yet at the same time, was something I had never seen before. Even as inexperienced as I was, I could tell that he was a large baby, his weight both heavy and unbearably light at the same time. Heavy with the implication of what I was holding, a new life, one that Gisela and I created, yet less than a shield, barely more than a sword, and more fragile in some ways than either. Looking up at Gisela, shimmering there, resting against the headboard, my tears made her dance in front of me, yet even through the tears I could see her smiling at me, and I have never loved a moment, or any other human beings, as much as I loved my family at that moment.
“His name is Vibius,” I said hoarsely, and she did not look surprised in the slightest. I walked over to her, bent down, kissed her forehead and told her, “Thank you.”
She laughed, “You’re welcome. Now, go show Vibius his namesake.”
I was surprised. "How did you know he was here?”
She favored me with that half-amused, half-scornful look that it seems only women can give men they love, and retorted, “Where else would he be? I knew you couldn’t do this by yourself.”
I did not reply; as usual, she was right. Carrying my son out of the room, I studied him, as he did the same to me. He was very pink, and very wrinkled, and he smelled horribly, but I thought he was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. Pushing the door open, I saw Vibius standing there, his face a mixture of happiness and what I realized was regret; by rights, this should have been he and Juno, and I should have been the one waiting. It’s funny, and cruel, how life works at times.
“Vibius, meet your namesake. Vibius, meet your godfather.”
And I handed him over.
Life as a father of a newborn babe was strange, wonderful and extremely trying all at the same time. I think my relationship with my own father in an odd way played a huge role in how much I was involved in the life of young Vibius more than most fathers are, because I was bound and determined that my son would never have the kind of doubt about his father’s love that I had suffered and that I would play a part in his life and make him a man in whom I could be proud. Quite naturally, I took a fair bit of ribbing about this attitude from my friends, yet I bore it with as much good humor as I could muster. One thing that helped was that Vibius was just as doting on the babe as I was, and every day, the moment our duties permitted we would find ourselves walking quickly back to my home to listen to Gisela brag about the boy’s latest achievements. Frankly, at that point his only accomplishments concerned the prodigious amount of cac that he generated on what seemed to be a constant basis. He was a greedy little piglet as well, always hungry, a trait that Gisela laid squarely on my shoulders, which I could not deny. As pleasant as this time was, we all knew that it was just a brief pause in the gathering storm, and young Vibius was just a few weeks old when we were finally given the orders to march, joining up with the bulk of the army. The word was that we would be heading back home to Hispania, where the Pompeians Petreius and Afranius held the province with what we were told was a large and veteran army consisting of some of Pompey’s toughest Legions. To prepare ourselves, we picked up the intensity of our training, beginning with forced marches of increasing length and frequency, trying to shake off the rust of the almost two years of relative inactivity. Now that I was Pilus Prior, I had been forced to relinquish my post as training officer, but I kept up my own personal training regimen. What I could do was to make sure that the men in my Cohort were pushed as hard as they could go, and I heard many muttered imprecations aimed at me, which I took as a sign that I was doing what needed to be done. Of course, I had to deal with Celer at every turn, as he did what he could to stir up trouble among the men. He was smart about it, I will give him that; he never openly questioned my orders, instead taking on the role of the sympathetic Centurion, willing to listen to the griping and moaning of some of the men, promising them that he would do what he could to stop the excesses of my training program. Naturally, he did not speak to me once, something that only served to raise the antagonism of the men because they believed that I was refusing to alter my approach. In fairness, I doubt that I would have softened at all, but it would have been good to know that men were complaining. Meanwhile, other preparations intensified as equipment was readied. The artillery was refitted, the axles of all the wagons greased, supplies of grain and chickpeas came rumbling into the camp in a never-ending train. Caesar would eventually join us, but not until we had already moved across the Pyrenees into the eastern part of Hispania. In command of our march was Fabius, stepping into the role previously played by the traitor Labienus as Caesar’s second in command. The army was together almost two weeks before all the Centurions were called to the forum to receive orders, and they were what we had been expecting for days.