"What?" he asked defensively after I lookedover at him in clear amusement. "I knew that she would want toknow. Besides," he added, "all that time I was wandering around thePalatine looking for Claudius, I couldn't help noticing."
That, I was forced to acknowledge, was verytrue, and was a logical explanation, but I still found it humorous.Gaius, on the other hand, only wanted the latest news on how hisfavorite gladiators were faring, and which of the chariot teams wasmore dominant, the Blues or the Whites. On the former, I couldactually provide something.
"Felix the Thracian," I was referring to thegladiator that Gaius had seen when he and the 8th hadmarched in Marcus Crassus' triumph, and who he had become enamoredwith after watching one of his bouts, "finally ran out of luck. Hewas defeated by a Murmillo, as I recall."
"A Murmillo?" Gaius asked, and I was happythat I had a piece of information that my gladiator-obsessed nephewdid not possess.
"Yes, it's a new style that was introducedby Augustus a couple of years ago, apparently," I explained. "Itreplaces the Gallus, because they're practically civilized now, andhe thought they found it upsetting that they were still consideredso barbarous."
"Ah," he exclaimed as he nodded his head."Now I remember. I'd heard something about them a while back. Sothis Murmillo defeated Felix? How? When?"
Unfortunately, that was all the detail Icould provide. Regardless, I will admit that secretly I was happythat Felix had been defeated, since it would rob Gaius of someoneto worship. Even as this thought crossed my mind, I couldpractically hear the voice of Scribonius ask, "You mean, other thanyou?"
And, in my secret heart, I know this hassomething to do with it, but it also had to do with my overalldisdain for gladiators in general. Prixus, I am aware, had much todo with my attitude, and, almost in reflex, I looked down at thenow-worn leather sling that still covered the stub of my littlefinger. In all probability, I did not need it anymore, but I wasjust more comfortable wearing it, although I had worn several ofthem out. With the night drawing to a close, I cleared my throat,fighting down a laugh as I was struck by the sudden thought of howI sounded like the Senior Tribune.
"Now that this is behind us," I began, "it'stime to talk about what happens next."
"What happens next?" Gaius asked inpuzzlement. "What happens is that you go back to being CampPrefect, and finish serving your time."
"Yes, I know," I acknowledged. "But that'sonly part of it. What I'm talking about is tying up all the looseends that need to be taken care of when that moment arrives."
"Such as?" This came from Iras, but it washer I was referring to, and I turned to look her directly in theeye.
"Such as writing out the documents ofmanumission, giving you your freedom."
It did not surprise me that her eyes filledwith tears; what did surprise me that Gaius was similarlyaffected.
"Uncle," he began, but I cut him off with achopping motion of my hand.
"First, this is long overdue. And second,you need to stop calling me ‘Uncle.’ I'm adopting you, afterall."
"But that doesn't happen until...until,you...." Gaius stammered, which I found grimly amusing.
He was now in his early thirties, but to aman of my age and experience, that is still very young.
"Until I die," I finished for him. "Yes, Iknow. But you might as well get used to the idea that I'm yourfather. Even," I hastened to add, "if it is adopted. I have nointention of replacing your father."
Gaius' eyes took on a faraway look, and Iimagine he was looking across the vast distance between where wewere sitting in his quarters, and the farm on which he had grownup.
"My father," he finally said softly, "was agood man. A very good man. But," he turned to look me in theeye, "he was a farmer, and I never was. As much as I loved him, andstill do, I've learned more from you than I did him. So I would behonored to call you 'father.'"
"As long as you don't call me ‘Tata,’" Ijoked, but that was more to cover up the feeling growing inside meat his words.
Just hearing the word coming from my mouthsparked a giggle in Iras, which was quickly picked up by Diocles.Soon, we were all roaring with laughter, which woke up young Titus.who did not seem the least bit amused.
There is not much more to relate about myfinal battle, such as it was, except for one noteworthy event thatoccurred in the spring of the new year. With the arrival of thefirst of the ships that sailed across from Italia every spring,there comes all the routine mail that is not considered urgent orof official importance. Such a ship carried a letter across thesea, addressed to me, arriving along with a wagonload of othergoods. Once more, it bore the name of a Greek bookseller, but waswritten in a hand I knew well. The letter, in and of itself, wasnothing remarkable; just some commentary on what the weather hadbeen like, which delayed shipments of some books he had beenexpecting, and some talk about some particularly interesting titlesthat had come into his hands. Then, almost in an aside, hementioned that he had taken on a housekeeper, a woman at that. Mostimportantly, he expressed his happiness at how well the newhousekeeper had blended in with his house, and how pleased he waswith the quality of her work. All in all, it was a completely banalletter that made me, Diocles, Gaius, and Iras extremely happy. Intruth, if someone from the outside of our world were to
