Arriving in Scallabis after almost two weeks of hard travel, it was the first time I had been to the provincial capital. To my country-boy eyes, it was the height of glamour and excitement, a bustling metropolis that always seemed to be buzzing with activity as farmers, muleteers, merchants, whores and all sorts of shady characters flocked to the city. Of course, it was not a metropolis, but I had yet to see Rome or Alexandria, another point about which Lucius was only too happy to remind me, seeing it as one more sign of my inadequacy. Just as our party entered the city through the main gate, my father made a loud declamation how this pile of cac was nothing when compared to Rome, going on to relate how his father, who loved him well, took he and his brothers to the eternal city to see none other than Pompey Magnus. His words immediately drew hostile stares from the others around us, and I felt my face turn red from embarrassment, with Phocas turning to give Lucius a warning look as he sat in the back of the wagon, swilling wine and running his mouth, completely ignoring the both of us.
Vibius and his father looked equally embarrassed at this display, and finally I dropped back to the wagon to hiss, “By the Furies, if you don’t shut your mouth, I’ll kill you on the spot!”
He opened his mouth to say something back to me, but evidently the look on my face stopped him, because he snapped his mouth shut and remained quiet, sullenly sucking on his wine skin.
Making our way to the Praetor’s residence, this was the site of the dilectus, the dilectus being the official recruiting effort for the Legion. Because it was just after mid-day, there was a line of young men, accompanied by the men who would vouch for them, waiting for their turn in front of the conquistores, the group of officials charged with finding qualified enlistees to enroll in the name of the Praetor. It was in this line that I first heard the name of the Praetor, a name that every citizen of Rome and probably every human being in the known world has heard of by now. It was by way of overhearing a couple of the older men, obviously the fathers of other boys.
“So do you know anything of the new Praetor, since you’re recently arrived from Campania?” asked one of the men, some sort of artisan by the look of him. The man he was asking was dressed as a member of the equestrian class, although it was clear that his toga had seen better days.
The equestrian nodded, and said, “I know of him. Gaius Julius Caesar is his name, of the Julii.”
The artisan shrugged, responding, “Never heard of him. What do you know?”
The equestrian gave a snort of derision. “He’s ambitious, I’ll give him that. He’s so ambitious,” he said with a sly grin, “that he supposedly became Nicomede’s ‘woman’ when he was serving under Marcus Thermus in Bithynia.”
This caused the other man to hoot with laughter; it has always been the case that the lower classes love any hint of scandal attached to their social betters.
The equestrian became serious, “Whether or not that’s true, that’s what’s said. But what I do know is that Caesar is well-loved by the people of your class.”
He did not say this as a compliment, yet if the other man took offense, he gave no sign,
“Well,” the artisan grunted, “what I care about most is whether or not he can properly lead a Legion. The gods know in my day it was hit or miss.”
The equestrian looked at the other man in some surprise, “You were in the Legions, citizen?”
“One of Marius’ mules,” the other replied with quiet pride, as well he should have.
The men of Marius’ head count Legions were the first of their kind, and showed their supposed betters that they could fight just as well as anyone in the higher classes, better perhaps. In fact, it was the reforms of Marius that opened the door for those of my class to enter the Legions and perhaps advance their own fortunes. For the rest of the time we stood in line, the equestrian was completely respectful of the artisan, and indeed began plying him with questions about Gaius Marius.
Such was the nature of the conversations all along the line as we shuffled slowly towards the entrance to the building, which even I could see was not much more than a large villa. It served as the headquarters and the living space for the Praetor sent by Rome to govern the province, and as I was to learn, carries the same name as the headquarters tent of a Roman military camp, the Praetorium. While we waited, we saw much bustling about, with couriers coming and going, jumping from their horses to walk quickly into the building, then reappearing in a matter of moments, their dispatch bag full, either of answers to the original dispatch they had delivered, or some sort of counter-orders or further questions, or at least so I imagined. Phocas was monitoring Lucius carefully, to ensure that while he was sated enough to be lucid and appear to have all of his faculties, my father was not allowed to render himself insensible. With the day passing and the sun sinking lower, I began to worry that we would be out of luck since my father had not remained this sober for this long in some time, and despite my threats I was worried that he would bring ruin to all Vibius and I had planned because of his thirst. Finally, it became our turn; Vibius and his father would follow us, and I took my father by the elbow, applying extra pressure just before the impatient guard made a comment, giving him a look that was meant to convey exactly what awaited him if he failed. His fear was palpable, but he nodded his head and we entered the building.
There were a series of tables, where not one but three conquistores were actually standing, each behind a slave who was working as a scribe, writing down the necessary information dictated to them by the conquistores. The third table to the farthest side of the room was empty, and the conquistore behind it waved to us impatiently.
“You’re here to enlist no doubt,” he said briskly, but I could only nod dumbly. Turning to my father, the official spoke just as briskly, “And you’re here to swear to his citizenship and age, aren’t you?”
For a moment, my father did not speak, and my heart began to hammer even harder. Glancing out of the corner of my eye, I could see his lips working but nothing came out.
Finally, his words came in a hoarse whisper, “Yes your Excellency.”
Obviously unimpressed with my father’s oratory skills, the conquistore, a middle-aged man wearing a toga with the badge of his office worn around his neck, snapped, “Out with it, citizen. Who are you?”
Finally given a question he could answer, my father replied, with just a hint of pride, “I am Lucius Pomponius Pullus, citizen of Rome and a member of the tribe Pupinia, of the gens of the Pomponii.”
Nodding, the conquistore pointed at me, and asked, “This is your son? Is he the one joining the Legion?”
I spoke up with the rehearsed answer that we were told to give by Cyclops when he explained the process to us.
“Yes, I am Titus Pomponius Pullus, also a citizen of Rome by virtue of my father and his father and grandfathers before him. I am also of the gens of the Pomponii, and my mother was a citizen as well, of the tribe Galeria, and of the gens of the Asinia.”
The conquistore indicated to his scribe to write down the appropriate information.
Once completed, the conquistore looked at Lucius and asked, “And his age?”
Here was the moment of truth; we had rehearsed this many times. As you know, gentle reader, the years of the birth of Roman citizens are recorded by the number of years from the founding of Rome and the Consuls for that year. It had been drilled into me that I was born in the year of the Consulship of Publius Servilius Vatia and Appius Claudius Pulcher but now in order to perpetrate this fiction, we were forced to consult the annals to determine the Consuls for the year before. I could feel the sweat beginning to trickle down my back as I waited for what seemed to be the week that it took my father to answer.