"No sir," he assured me. "You're notrequired to open it in my presence. You are," he looked at me now,"required to acknowledge that you've received it."
"I do," I assured him. "I inform you that I,Titus Pullus, formerly Camp Prefect of the Army of Pannonia, hastaken receipt of this message."
The messenger's posture relaxed a bit and henodded his head in thanks. Without saying anything more, he turnedto go.
"Would you care for some refreshment?"Diocles suddenly asked, reminding me that I had forgotten mymanners. "You've obviously ridden hard to get here."
The messenger hesitated, but clearlyregretful, shook his head.
"No, thank you. My orders don't coverthis...situation," he finished. Then, as quickly as he came, hedeparted.
Such, I thought, are the times we live in.Men are too afraid even to accept the offer of hospitality in theform of a cup of wine, or even water. Shaking my head, I tried toignore the trembling of my hands as I broke the seal, which wasindeed Octavian's impression of a sphinx. Which, I was reminded, hehad stolen from the palace of the Ptolemies, but I banished thatline of thought as I stared down at the scroll. The writing was sounique that I recognized that this had been written in Octavian'sown hand, and this only increased my agitation. Thankfully, as partof his emulation of his adopted father, he used the dot over thelast letter of the sentence. Although I could feel Diocles pressingin on me, trying to see what the scroll contained, I read itsilently, not without some twisting and turning.
"Well?" he finally demanded.
For the briefest moment, I consideredtormenting my friend, but I could not do it, knowing that he was asinvested in this as I was. Almost, anyway.
"My petition to move into the equestrianclass has been approved, by Augustus himself, with him as mysponsor," I told him. "With all the rights and privileges that comefrom said elevation."
Oddly enough, there was no immediatereaction from either of us as I stared down at my little Greek, whocould only do the same. Finally, he broke the silence with a shoutand, without thinking, at least so I hope, leaped into my arms, asmy voice joined his. I had done it, I realized; that goal I had setfor myself when I was all of perhaps twelve years old had finallybeen accomplished. The fact that it had taken 48 years, and 42 ofthose had been wearing the uniform of a Legionary of Rome, justseemed to make it all the sweeter. In that moment, as I dancedabout, even as Diocles clung to me in much the same way as youngTitus did, it was not lost on me that I had achieved something thatmany, many men aspired to, but never achieved. It had taken thedeaths of more men than I could count, and the sacrifice ofeverything that makes a life to men other than to me, but I had,somehow, prevailed. I was an equestrian.
And that, gentle reader, for all intents andpurposes, is the end of my tale. The last two years have beenfilled with exquisite monotony, of routines that are created by meand me alone. I spend my days exactly as I please, and enjoy thecompany of other men like myself, but for the first time, on myterms, and my terms alone. I can refuse to see those who comecalling, and perhaps it should not surprise you, gentle reader,that it is members of the upper classes who are sent away.Inevitably, they come scurrying to my door with the latest tidbitfrom Rome that has anything to do with the army, or with men withwhom I served. Because one of those men is that Roman now calledAugustus, I suppose it is understandable that any piece of newsthat concerns him, however remotely, sees men who are my socialbetters standing in my vestibule, begging for a moment of my time.I do not give it to them, ever. However, if a toothless, bedraggledbeggar shows up at my door, depending on the words coming out ofhis mouth, he will find himself received in a manner that thosenobles would envy, and they never leave my home without, at thevery least, a full belly, a pleasant glow from the Falernian theyhave consumed, and a purse full of silver jingling in their pocket.These, I fully acknowledge, are my people, not the members of "my"class, the knights who very quickly realized that I had no interestin any congress with them. Perhaps the most important and valuablelesson that I learned as I fought, clawed, and plotted my way totake my place among them is that very few, if any, of these menhave anything to offer upon which I place any value. Early on, Idid make a modicum of an effort to insinuate myself with these menwho I had supposedly joined, but it did not take long for me torecognize that I had more in common, and enjoyed the company ofthose men that other members of my class sneered at, and lookeddown upon. Putting it simply, I would much rather spend my timewith Spurius Didius than the most successful exporter of olive oilin Arelate.
It should come as no surprise that myattitude severely limited my social calendar, which suited meperfectly well. It was poor Diocles, and ultimately the rest ofthose attached to my household, who probably suffered more; thereis nothing quite so vicious as a slave whose master's socialstanding is perceived to be superior to that of his potentialvictim's, and once word of my disdain for the normal socialconventions became widely known, no time was wasted letting Dioclesand the others know of their inferiority. Regardless, this did notsway my attitude or my actions in the slightest. The only time anyof the upper classes of Arelate could count on me showing up wasduring those festivals that had some meaning to men like me, whohad marched under the standard, and bled and died for Rome.
Not taking the social situation intoaccount, Arelate is a wonderful place to live. I still
