The House of Julii
Introduction
(Rome, Italy, March 12th, 100 B.C.E.)
“Narcissistic fools,” Ankarnius Julius spat as he stormed from the Senatorial Chambers, tugging at his scarlet robe. Beside him, his cousin, Titus Julius, Duke of the House of Julii, strode, his tall form easily keeping pace with Ankarnius’ lumbering gait. “This is how they repay fifty years of loyal service? Campaigns on two fronts, both of which victorious, and they ask us to return to Arriteum for the Spring?”
Titus smiled, folding his long arms behind his back. “They’re just nervous. Marius has returned and the people are embracing him. It only makes sense that they would train their eagle eyes upon the Julii as well. Besides, they just want us close to home.”
“Yes, but we were victorious at their behest, as always,” Ankarnius reminded. “Marius struck out and took the whole Republic by surprise…and now these reforms?”
“Three provinces in as many years,” Titus replied. “Marius has proven himself invaluable. Working in concert with him in Gaul has certainly paid off; we could not have done it without him.”
“And yet it is at us that they aim their suspicion.”
Behind the two, Titus’ advisor, Indimitrianus, called Scales, trailed a meter away, his bald head held low as he went. The three made their way through the long columned causeway of Rome’s Senatorial Chambers, passing through the crush of Senators, pages and slaves. When they reached the marbled steps Scales spoke up. “They fear us, Ankarnius,” he said with a smirk. He turned to look at Titus’ back as they drew up to the stairs. “Power recognizes power, my Duke.”
“But we have served them utterly,” Ankarnius replied, his fat cheeks flushing. “We could fill a fleet to the gunwales with the treasures we’ve captured.”
Titus held at the steps, taking a moment to imbibe the warm spring sun and peer at the urban crowds swarming below. It soothed him to watch the people mill about and maneuver the streets in their business. The Julii were known for their popularity with the plebes, and Titus was an exemplar of requited affection.
“Perhaps it is not the Senate that rails against us?” proffered Scales.
Titus turned to him, a scowl searing his face. “Would we dare to implicate our fair ally Marius?” he asked guardedly. “I should think that if he wished to off us it would have been convenient to do so in the Germanic forests, not amidst the marble columns and silk drapes of the Chambers.”
“I’m not implicating,” Scales replied with a serpentine tone, “just exploring.”
They started descending the magnificent staircase.
“Still, what need do they have of fear?” Ankarnius repeated.
“You’re divining to the priests,” Scales replied. “We already know this.”
“Perhaps that is the problem?” said Titus. “Perhaps they think our Roman blood has been diluted by Mediterranean serotonin?”
Scales shook his head. “Ankar said it himself: We have spent the past fifty years managing Roman-dictated affairs in Hellas. It has served both parties well.”
Titus scoffed. “It was all at the Senate’s beck and call, Scales. You forget that I would never have gone had not my great-grandfather been called to sack Athens.”
“Yes, who can forget?” Scales added with a grimace. “The shadow of the Ibex is long indeed.”
“Not that long, apparently,” Ankarnius said dourly. “No one outside of the Julii seems to give a damn.”
Titus laughed. “Maybe that is a good thing? We have only to surmount the expectations of ourselves and not the people.”
“I suppose that’s meant to be the silver lining in all of this?” the Duke’s cousin inquired.
“Low expectations can be powerful tools, Ankarnius,” Scales remarked, agreeing with the Duke’s implications.
“Still, one can hardly forget such a magnificent battle,” Scales continued, unabated. “Has anyone seen or heard of such a miraculous campaign since? Surely the Brutii remember. I would not be surprised if their sentiments have remained ill in the past ninety years. We all know that their memories are long and their ire has a tendency to brood.”
“Careful, Scales,” Titus warned, lobbing a frail finger in the direction of his advisor. “I would not entreat a wary eye upon our noble Roman allies as well as requite suspicion against Marius or the Senate. That alone is bad enough, especially in these halls hollowed by skulking ears.”
“Do you think our allies will shore us up should we fall out of the Senate’s favor?” Ankarnius inquired.
Before reaching the foot of the Senatorial Chamber’s outer stairs, Titus turned to Ankarnius with a level gaze. “The Scipii and the Brutii have always been there for us. None of us would be alive if it were not for the timely arrival of the Brutii’s maniples or the Scipii’s flotillas. I think we owe them much, just as we owe Marius.”
“And what of the Senate?” inquired Scales.
“I have faith in our fair Republic. They have never forsaken us; there is no reason to suspect they would begin now. Besides, I will not allow one foul congress with the Senate to destroy decades of trust built with the blood of our armies and borne upon the backs of our House.”
“They still seem wary of our popularity with the people, victories over the Gauls or not,” Scales continued. “Are you sure about returning to Arriteum as they asked?”
“It is a tenuous border we Julii dwell upon, Scales, but without it—without the people—we would be nothing. The balance between the Senate’s approval and the people’s affection makes for a volatile mix, but we have maintained our prestige, as well as our popularity, for decades. The aristocracy may never fully understand the lower classes, much less relate to them, but they will respect the power they wield. Rome recognizes our influence, yes, but I think they also recognize our fealty…especially Marius.” With that he descended the last steps and crossed the bustling promenade to a carriage drawn by a team of six jet geldings, all easily fifteen hands high with braided manes manicured to perfection. At the fore of this magnificent team lingered a towering lurch of a man, Halifax. He was a red-haired Makedonean of imposing height, easily two meters tall, with a physique and brow equally as menacing. In one hand rested the carriage whip, coiled about his forearm like a jet serpent. The other clutched a wad of small objects held high into the afternoon air. About him danced and clamored a throng of street urchins, shouting and giggling as they reached for the unattainable prize. As Titus crossed to within Halifax’s proximity he could see the brute lower his mysterious prize low enough to entice the children to jump before yanking it back up into the air, far above any of the brats’ reach. With each of these temptations the giggling would crescendo, overshadowed by Halifax’s own roaring baritone laugh. He would throw his head back and howl jovially as the urchins began to ascend his person, clutching at his tunic and trying to mount from his bended joints. They climbed him like a mountain, trying to reach the prize held aloft until the Makedonean was nearly engulfed in youth.
“Halifax,” Titus called, his own voice barely carrying through the cacophony. “It’s time to go.” With some hesitation the enormous man sighed, resigning himself to picking the children off of him one by one with his whip-hand, as if removing burrs from his clothing. He gently set them down onto the streets with a flood of sympathetic apologies for having to leave. The children refuted this adamantly, petitioning him to linger a bit longer for a game of tag. Halifax shook his head and offered more apologies, dragging himself away from the crowd of children now gathering in the void where he formerly stood. Their doe eyes leered at him as he backed up and turned away, waving his goodbyes and smiling through his few teeth. The man was hideous, yes, but harmless; a true gentle giant. In no time he had the carriage doors open and the steps lowered to admit the trio of Julii House members. Titus Julius was the first to enter, his aged body finding the frame and hinges of the door for support.
“Nice to see you enjoyed yourself while we were away,” Ankarnius spewed as he approached the carriage steps. “I hope you didn’t fritter away your entire pay on those hood rats.” Halifax withstood this like a bulwark in a tempest.
“Not a single denary, sire.” That seemed to satiate the fat governor, and he climbed into the carriage with some difficulty. Scales entered next, his lithe form practically slithering through the small doorframe. Within a few minutes the door was secured and Halifax was atop the carriage, snapping his whip over the heads of their steeds. The carriage lurched forward and in no time they were driving through the streets. The urchins sprinted alongside, waving and flinging their arms about as they shouted for their Makedonean playmate. Before they left the avenue Halifax released the contents of his hand, that mysterious prize that had so captivated the children earlier. A shower of finely wrapped objects no smaller than fingertips splayed across the road. The children stopped to scoop up the scattered contents. Moments later the Julii inside the carriage turned to see the children cheering and waving excitedly behind them, stuffing their faces with the objects. Candy. The “Mack” had given them sweets. Titus leaned out the window sill to see Halifax’s giant arm waving to the brats scrambling behind him. The Duke of Julii could not help but chuckle. He leaned back inside, his gaze falling upon Ankarnius. His cousin eyed him gravely.
“What vexes you, Ankar?”
The rotund man hesitated, rubbing his thick cheeks before answering. “I just can’t shake the feeling that these proposals are ill omens. I feel like an old salty fisherman whose knee aches before the gale.”
Titus smiled warmly at his cousin. “Marius’ reforms are revolutionary, yes, frightening even,” he said soothingly. “But they, like all other innovations, will be weathered by the Republic. Rome shall evolve.”
“That’s not what worries me,” Ankarnius admitted with a dire tone. “What worries me is: Will we evolve with her?”
(Athens, Greece, March 31st, 100 B.C.E.)
Calipulus Julius made his way across the stone-carved corridor of the Akropolis, lighting his path with a small blue candle. He strode between the ancient marble columns and small shrines that littered the darkened interior of the archaic fortress. At the end of the wide causeway were the residential quarters of the king’s palace.
For three years his family had occupied the Akropolis, commandeering its mighty royal halls of carved granite and immaculate, gold-inlayed marble. Yet even after all this time, Calipulus was still not entirely comfortable here. He missed the decadent palaces of Corinth, the old Julii stronghold in Greece. This place felt pompous and stuffy to him. He couldn’t relax; the old Greek gods still seemed to haunt this place, as did the shades of Hellenic heroes. Patrokles and Alkbiades, Miltiades and Socrates seemed to roam its halls. But Greece was full of redeeming factors. Even Athens had them: The food was excellent, and the metropolis lit like a mirror of Heaven in the summer nights. But nothing captured his heart like Lakedaemon. The simplicity, even after all these years, was still marvelous. The people were strong, and above all, the heritage generated an aura of supreme confidence and honor that could be felt in every Spartan wind, and seen in every Spartan smile. He had even found a woman from Sparta, though that was not without its complications.
Those were about to shine through, he could feel it as he approached the oak door at the end of the hall. Three short knocks and the hinges turned. Light spilled into the hallway. Holding the door open in front of Calipulus was a woman in her mid twenties, her fair skin glistening in the candlelight. Her wet, blonde hair was pulled up into a wad at the crown of her head. A pair of piercing green eyes greeted him, their expression as sharp as the edge of any xyphos. She wore the traditional kleros robe of Spartan women, a cloth gown split at the side to reveal the thigh. It was no modest garment, yet she was a modest woman. The thing was worn only after she bathed, in the privacy of her bedchamber.
“Evening, Adreia” he smiled.
“Hey you,” the woman replied.
Calipulus lingered in the doorway, waiting for the invitation. “Are you going to let me in, or am I going to have to pay a toll, like last time?”
The woman rubbed the nape of her neck. “Hmm, it was a worthy price, Cal,” she said, smiling wistfully at him.
“Yes I know; my hands are still cramping.” He couldn’t help but return her smile, though not without a twinge of devilishness. “But there’s no time for a massage tonight, I’ve got to talk to you.” His mask of playful villainy sunk to an expression of sobriety. The lightened mood seemed to vanish then, compelling her to recede into the bedchamber with a sigh, admitting him with an outstretched palm. He crossed the threshold and closed the creaking oak barrier in his wake. “I love this time of year, don’t you?” he asked jovially. She scrunched her face up, a disgusted expression coming over her. “Awe, come on, Adreia, love is in the air. Can’t you tell?”
“Is that what that is, ‘love’?” she asked with a smirk. “I just thought that the sewers had backed up again.”
Calipulus laughed. “Your constant aversion to that word still amazes me.”
“The fact that you still cut your hair so short still amazes me!” she retorted, jabbing a slender hand at his crop of dark blonde follicles. “When will you learn to grow it out so it looks half way decent?”
“Agh,” he spat, “It looks like a badger died on my head whenever I grow it out.”
Adreia shook her head. “You’re hopeless.”
“And you’re helpless.”
She nodded at that, proud of the fact that she would forever spurn aid, even from the one allegedly betrothed to her. “So why are you here so late, Cal?”
“What, can’t a guy visit his favorite Lakedaemonean slave girl in the small hours?” She replied with a choice gesture of her hand. He let out a chuckle before settling himself to tell the truth. “I just received word from my father; Rome has recalled the Julii to Arriteum.”
She perked up at that. “For what?”
“The Senate has grown suspicious of our successes against the Gauls. They are coming to inspect our capital for any transgressions. Father, along with every major Julii house member, has been ordered to stay in Arriteum for the spring. Ankarnius is there, along with six of our governors from Alesia, Segestica, Trier, Ariminum, Patavium, and Iuvavum. They’re all under suspicion for disobeying Republican taxation mandates. Even the Scipii and the Brutii are undergoing similar investigations. It’s all bullshit, of course, but still, they’ve got to do the dance.”
Adreia’s eyes lit up; finally, their chance to leave. “Great, so when do we go?”
Calipulus hesitated. “We’re not.” Adreia’s countenance seemed to deflate with disappointment. “Father doesn’t like the way it smells. He’s ordered me to stay here and keep managing our affairs in Hellas.” It wounded him to the marrow to see her saddened.
“Always the dutiful son,” she seethed. But one look at his tortured face was enough to bridle her anger.
“I would not have met you otherwise.” That seemed to shut her up, if for only a moment.
Adreia was a strong woman, but everyone had their limit. She had seemed to reach hers. She was now twenty-four, well passed the age of betrothal. Her mother was a Gaul slave captured in Condate Redonum nearly thirty years ago when Titus Julius’ brother had rampaged through the North. That’s where she got her fair skin and magnificent green eyes. Her father, on the other hand, was a Spartan; a middle class hoplite captured after the Julii’s siege of Lakedaemon and recruited by Titus to help train his legionnaires in the old ways of Lykurgus. It was from this imposing warrior that she had received her blonde locks and imposing stare, along with her powerful aura. Every bit of Spartan heritage flowed through her veins, from the physical perfection to the rigid piety.
Calipulus could not have asked for a more perfect girl. There was even talk that he, the young general who worshipped Hymen for the sole purpose of spurning marriage, had finally found the one to settle down with. He refused this of course, but at times he found his mind wandering to their future together, whatever that might entail. If Titus had his way, Calipulus would be married and put in charge of Hellas, just like he was all those decades ago.
Calipulus Julius, though, was not like his father. But he wasn’t proud to admit it. He was, however, proud to admit that he was nothing like his great-great-grandfather. But even now, after three years spent learning to govern the very city his legion had sacked, the comparisons and contrasts were unavoidable. He looked nothing like his ancestors. All of them were tall and slender. He wasn’t even six feet, and certainly did not carry the same weighted gravitas of his elders. Calipulus loved life, excitement and best of all, his freedom, which was what complicated his relationship with Adreia.
The two lovers’ situation was not helped by her father, who sought vehemently to reclaim the woman and bring her back to Sparta, dead or alive. Twice he had sent assassins to kidnap or kill her, and while both attempts failed, her comfort in Athens was growing membranous-thin. Calipulus was aware of this, dreadfully so, and now found an opportunity to proffer her salvation.
“I know you want to go back, Adreia…”
“-My father will not stop coming after me unless we leave. Not even the faking of my own death has eluded him from the trail!”
“I know, the Arkadians are persistent people, which is why I’m sending you back with our regents to speak on my behalf.”
“What use will they have of a woman?” she laughed. “They will pay me no more heed than a yapping dog!”
He gave her a playful grin. “Well, you always were kind of a bitch.”
Adreia’s eyes turned to saucers and her mouth gaped with the hint of laughter. She playfully thwacked him with a pillow, snatched from her nearby bed. “Jerk!” she shouted with a smile.
Calipulus burst into laughter, taking the hard blow of the pillow with his arm. “Owe!” he yelped. Spartan women were tough, for sure, even those who were a few inches shorter than he. “I’m just kidding! Come on, not so hard, alright? I’m fragile.”
“Oh right,” she grinned. “Well, I guess the ‘bitch’ should have a pup to nurse.” The laughter settled between the two, until both found each other exchanging somber glances.
“It doesn’t matter though, Cal, because I’m not leaving you.”
“I’m ordering you to go.”
She raised her eyebrows, her arms instinctively folding across her chest. “Oh really? And how do you think to manage that?”
“You’re right: Your father won’t stop hunting you. I send you to Arriteum and you’ll be safe; safe from him, safe from our rivals, and safe from the inevitable sieges the Greeks are preparing to mount upon Athens. I want you away from here until things settle down and we get a chance to bring down you father.”
“I see, so you’re just going to ship me off like a crate of peaches.”
“More like figs.” She gave him a sign with her finger then, one that conveyed all the witty repertoire of Sparta, absent words. “It’ll just be for a few weeks; long enough for things to settle down here.”
All congeniality fled from her as he said that, replaced instead by frustration. Her temper flared. “I’m not going to be bussed off to the safety of the Julii capital like some fragile sculpture you wish to preserve. I don’t need your protection.”
“I’m not saying you do, Adreia,” he tried. “But it would give me peace of mind to know you’re in a better place than Athens right now. It’ll allow me to focus on what lies ahead.”
“You focus better when I’m around, and you know it,” she said with a sarcastic tone and a sly grin to match.
“Right, like you’ve never distracted me from my work.” He proffered his sore hands as evidence.
“Who me? Never. That’s totally your own doing.” Her sarcasm was mired in anger; indignation at the thought of him seeking to protect her. It fouled her mood.
He shot her a wry look. “Perhaps, but regardless, things have already been arranged. I’ll meet you in Arriteum in a few weeks. I just have to finish preparations here first.”
“Fine,” she said, resigned. “Do what you think is best.” She waved him away dismissively. “I’ve got to go to bed. You should take your leave.”
Calipulus sighed. “Alright.” He made his way to the door, hoping she’d come to her senses and stop him. But he knew her better than that. When her temper was up there was no abating it. The storm must be ridden out. Eventually her fire would cool, and they could make up. But for now, he was in the doghouse. He opened the door and crossed the threshold. When he got into the corridor he turned to see her rummaging through her dresser. Already she was putting him out of her mind. “Adreia,” he called. She wheeled on him, her eyes ablaze and her arms rigid on her hips. Truly, her Spartan blood boiled. Calipulus, though, had learned a few tricks. He motioned with a slight wave for her to come over. Reluctantly, she agreed. When she was less than a meter away, he spoke. “I love you. You know that, right?”
She nodded. In the silence their green eyes locked. Her anger didn’t really vanish, but it did recede long enough for her to comply. He reached up and placed a hand on her slender cheek.
“Do this,” he said, “if for nothing else, than for me. I know you can take care of yourself, all Spartan women can. But there’s something going on right now and I’d like to know that the one I care about the most is safe. I won’t be able to sleep otherwise.”
She shifted her kleros robe. “Alright,” she finally growled, begrudgingly eyeing him. “But don’t think we’re starting a trend here!” She half-jokingly jabbed a finger for emphasis.
All Calipulus could do was raise his arms and laugh. “Okay, okay, just don’t hit me again!” She ebbed a bit, backing off and releasing a grin of her own. “The ship leaves tomorrow,” he continued. “We’ve managed to acquire passage on a Scipii septireme. They’re hauling some Brutii nobles and a cadre of hestati bodyguards back to Italy; no one essential, but important enough to warrant some measure of protection. Apparently Emperor Marius sees fit to call all three families home for this investigation. Father thinks we’ll get a fair shake though, so I’m not too worried.”
“So I’m leaving tomorrow?” she asked. Calipulus nodded. She leaned up and kissed his cheek. “I’ll see you in Arriteum.”
The House of Julii
Part One
“…Marius’ reforms are revolutionary…frightening even. But they, like all other innovations, will be weathered by the Republic. Rome shall evolve…”
-Titus Julius
Spring nights in Iavuvum are sweltering and utterly pitch. It feels as though I am breathing into a furnace when I exit my tent to piss or receive the night watchman’s debriefing. The only relief I get is when it is raining, but even then the downpours drench every stitch of cloth and turn my tent floor into a quagmire of mud. It is a far cry from the marble halls of our family’s palace in Arriteum. Perhaps I should have been an advisor to the new Emperor Marius instead of the Duke of the House of Julii, Titus Julius?
Regardless, here I am. Two weeks ago I would have readily proffered an introduction before launching on such a narrative. But I must confess that, now, I am somewhat embarrassed to reveal myself let alone my station and current condition. But alas, I must, for posterity if nothing else.
I am Indimitrianus, chief advisor to Titus Julius. They call me Scales. Though originally from Hispania, my services were purchased by the Duke when our paths intersected in Aquitania. His campaigns against the Gauls had led him there, along with Marius and his armies. The two had seemed to work well in concert, Marius affording the fame for his campaigns and the Julii receiving the lion’s share of taxation benefits and provincial rule. Things were good for the Julii. My how the winds of fortune can change so swiftly.
We have been betrayed. Perhaps it was our new Emperor’s paranoia or a bit of pressure from the Senators to off the “Faction for the People”? They never did understand or respect the power of the plebes. Either way, we have escaped with our lives and the rags on our bloodied backs. Arriteum is in ashes. Marius’ new legions have seized upon our house’s capital and razed it to the foundation stones. Every hestati and velites who picked up the pilum or gladius in our defense is now charred carrion. Even our legendary equites are food for the buzzards. Only Titus Julius, myself, and my Duke’s bodyguard Halifax have survived to flee north towards our outpost at Iuvavum.
As I ride on the back of one of my master’s sable geldings I cannot help but recall the events that must have led up to such an atrocity. Chief among the Julii has always been trust. It is how we have garnered so much power and prestige among the plebes. They have always been naturally suspicious of nobility, so any effort to afford them the respect and fidelity they deserve has been automatically requited with interest. It is how we have become as powerful as we are…or should I say, once were. But trust has always been the secret to the Duke’s victories in Gaul, as well. His partnership with Marius won him as many campaigns as did his tactical brilliance. Such sentiments carried over into the Senatorial floor, right up until the moment Marius’ new Legionaries battered down our stone barbican and flooded our bailey with the blood of our soldiers and citizens. Perhaps that is what led us to our doom? Perhaps the Julii trust too much?
Regardless, we are all that is left of Arriteum. And we are not much. My master, Titus, has barely half of his leather cuirass left, his scarlet Julii robe in tatters soaked in blood. We have had to lash him to his steed, so exhausted and broken is his aged body that he cannot maintain the strength required to stride his mount. Cuts and gashes pepper his whiskery, gaunt visage. His long limbs hang limply about the flanks and neck of his horse. His hair, once a noble grey, is now caked with a paste of blood and ash. The man is well past sixty and yet his fortitude in the press of battle held as well as any of the principes. These young bucks drew strength from his apparition alone, doubled and tripled by his vigor in combat. Yet now, in the wake of such exploits, he looks well past seventy. His blood has cooled, and with it his life’s strength has seemed to drain from him.
His bodyguard, Halifax, has favored little better. During the battle this giant of a Makedonean never left his side, fighting with a sarissa and a Greek xyphos until the blade sundered and the spear’s haft shivered. He resorted to the halves of the sarissa then, using the flanged buttspike as a mace and the spear head as a warspear. From his bearded, tooth-rotting maw bellowed such roars as to tremble the wood planks and flagstones of our palace. Marius’ Legionaries withered under this Greek brute’s war cry, until their legate himself had to stride forward and spurn them on to attack. The resulting chaos left Halifax with numerous gashes along his broad shoulders and massive arms, the loss of two fingers on his right hand, his scalp sheared in two places, his left ear burnt to a stump, and his right eye plucked from its tendons by the tip of a gladius. Yet the Makedonean never wavered, and only retreated when I managed to bring our team of carriage horses to the rear gates of the palace, affecting our escape. We plunged into the night, knowing that our only salvation lay to the north, at our Gallic fortress of Iuvavum.
We spend the next two weeks trekking through the dark wild lands, Halifax doing his best to cover our tracks while I tend our master’s wounds sustained in battle. But the Duke’s health does not concern me, at the moment, as much as our burly bodyguard. It is he that is securing our safety and navigating these treacherous mountain passes. It is he that is able to pick the best spots to camp in the forests. We are alive because of him. I cannot let him perish, though the wounds make his appearance monstrous beyond all redemption. He looks like a Cyclops now, a gorgon of imposing height and menacing visage. His hideousness will no doubt play to our advantage, though, should the legions of Marius happen upon our trail. And the infamy acquired at such a battle will surely make the Legionaries think twice before seizing upon us. I am eternally grateful to be in his hands.
We arrive safely in Iuvavum in mid May, exhausted and withered like a winter vine from our harrowing journey. The governor of this province, Titus Julius’ nephew Peunisivius, receives us with an extremity of concern that warrants Halifax’s intervention. The boy is so racked with grief that he nearly plunges upon his own sword in angst and sorrow. We relate to him our tale in guarded vagaries as not to overwhelm him. We handle the news of his father’s death—as well as the deaths of many other prominent Julii nobles—as delicately as we know how. Here is where my mastery of words comes into play. But even I am barely able to divulge the entirety of our story without embracing him; to sustain his sobs and weather his cries as the wharf in a tempest. When his composure is ultimately summoned we are ushered in to his governor’s mansion court and presented with fresh clothing and food. Peunisivius, seeing our Duke so fragile, offers his throne and a bear fur large enough to match a quilt, knowing it is my master’s preference to sit thusly. It is here that we entreat his counsel on the affairs of our furthest-flung province.
“We have nearly fifteen hundred legionnaires stationed in the garrison,” he describes over a bowl of wine. “Most of these are veterans from the conquests here ten years ago, so they’re fresh on the hazards of war.”
Titus remains in the nephew’s throne, his tall form swaddled by the bear fur as a babe in a crib. His eyes are sunken in and his cheeks so sallow and gaunt that he resembles a skull. Truly, we fear he is half dead.
“What of the people,” he asks. “How many can we levy for legion training?”
Peunisivius sighs. “Fourteen, fifteen thousand. Though we’d have to conger every suttler’s boy and stable hand to meet the quota.”
My master, slack-jawed and weak, raises his head long enough to utter the words: “Do it.” Titus’ cousin objects, stating that it will exhaust the region of its populace. “We have been tracked,” my master croaks with the volume of a whisper, “from Arriteum. Soon they shall be here.”
Peunisivius exchanges looks of terror with both his uncle and me. To my surprise, it is Halifax who intervenes and elaborates.
“The legions that befell us were Marius’ new cohorts; unlike anything we’ve faced before. Their armor is the chain and scale, and their weapons are all pila and gladii. There are no divisions, no classes. Gone are the equites, velites, principes and hestati. Only the ‘Legionaries’ fill their ranks. They are as fierce and stout as the Titans of old. If we are ill prepared then nothing will stop them. They will roll over us as a juggernaut.”
I second this, stating that the people will surely rally under threat of such a force.
Peunisivius relents. “Most still resent our conquest. It is all we can do to keep them happy. They will not fight for us, and should my garrison uproot these savages will revolt. I cannot convince them to marshal against the Emperor of Rome.”
“Then tell them,” Titus groans, “that if they do not these new legions will find them and put them all to the sword, as they did the people of Arriteum.” With that my master faints. We revive him from the swoon and proffer further evidence to convince his nephew.
Two days later we are met by a boon of unimaginable relief. Titus’ son, Calipulus, has reached us, aware of our ill fortune and burning with news. He reaches my master in the governor’s hall, nursing him while he tells of the legions that razed our capital. His once scarlet tunic is now soiled to a ruddy brown, and his hair is so mussed as to be considered a clump of sod on his crown. He is covered in grime, yet is impetuous in his zeal to debrief his father.
“There are four of them, by my count,” he describes, “all armed and armored in uniformity. By their standards and sigils I could divine their name. They are called the Cordova Legions, and their general is a legate, Senator Galippus of Syracuse. The men chant his name like he is some sort of god, though by the looks in their eyes I would reckon they fear him more than love him.”
My master draws up at this, concerned. “How did you…”
“-Evade them?” Calipulus finishes with a sly grin. “It was easy; I kept to the mountains and only rode at night, just as you taught me.” His smile fades however, as he continues his account. “They are many, Father, all armed to the teeth and as professional as it gets. What’s worse; they’re nearing the Noricum Alps. Unless your scent is diverted they will be here before the end of the summer.” He lingers then, still maintaining his composure as he stands before Titus. My master knows his son though, and beckons him to come close. Even in his weakened state he can discern a sorrow dammed up within his scion’s heart. The young man approaches his father, and in moments his knees begin to quake.
A silence hangs in the court as both men stare at each other’s person. And then their eyes meet, and Calipulus falls to his knees, burying his head in the lap of his elder and sobbing uncontrollably. His whole body quivers, his shoulders shuddering so violently with each issue of sobs as to make me think he has fallen into palsy. Moans and cries flood from his breast as he wallows in the aching remorse. The hall echoes with the sounds of his anguish.
Throughout this Titus sits, his son’s head sunk into his lap, wetting with tears, spittle and snot. I approach to relieve my master of his son’s broken spirit. He waves me back, shooting me a glare with his eyes as to belie any weakness he may have once conveyed. I rescind myself and back away, watching as he places a hand on the nape of Calipulus’ neck.
Halifax and I exchange glances. We are relieved to see our future Duke alive and in good physical health, but his emotional condition is in a fevered extremity, and we are concerned it might tax our faction leader. We also know the reason behind his breakdown.
Calipulus is a prodigy, to say the least. It was he who, three years prior, besieged and sacked Athens. It has practically been his province since, though his father resided as local regent to free up the young buck’s time. Calipulus looks nothing like his elders: he is short and stocky, but fit. His green eyes and short blonde hair are reminiscent of the Gallic foes of old, not of the Greeks or Romans. His appearance misplaces him in Hellas. But his personality is perfect for Greece. Calipulus is a playboy. He loves to enjoy the decadent splendors of life. While the religious pomp of the Akropolis does not befit him, the wild streets of Corinth are a perfect match. He loves to have fun. But, in a strange dichotomy, he also worships Sparta. Perhaps it is his fascination with warfare and the Greek virtue of masculine courage, but the birthplace of Lykurgus, Leonidas, Lysander and Arkidamus compels him.
He has, in this fish-out-of-water situation, met a half-Lakedaemonean woman. She has the grace and fair looks of Helen, and the personality of Gorgo. She is practically a princess posing as a slave. Her indentured service to the Julii house was an imposition of birth (her mother was a nursing maid taken from Titus’ Gallic campaigns). Yet Calipulus, who worships the god Hymen so that his appeasement may aid him in avoiding marriage, has fallen for this pious lioness as a comet plummets to Terra Firma. Rumors abounded that they were considering marriage, which enraged her Spartan father to such an extent as to send Arkadian assassins against her.
Calipulus sought to preserve her from the trials of Hellas, and shipped her to Arriteum to attend the conference on his behalf, the conference that resulted in our betrayal. He wanted to keep her safe, no doubt. Instead, she was killed; just one of thousands of citizens butchered and burned in Arriteum. I could see it in his eyes when he came through the door: he knew she was gone, and it was his order that had killed her.
My master looks at me. “Scales, Halifax, depart from us.”
As his son’s grief plays out Halifax and I excuse ourselves. We take to Iavuvum’s muggy, filthy streets. Two hours later we are met by two heralds who come galloping up to meet us. They present an emissary, bustling him off the back of one of their horses. This messenger is more bedraggled than any of the grimiest street urchins. We cannot even tell what color his tunic is, so worn and soiled from travel he is. Nevertheless he approaches us, wide-eyed and grim.
“My lords," he begins with that dialect of pomp that I recognize in all fellows of the administration corps, “I am Vitrunio Nepalitus.” He bows. “I was sent by Farious Scipii to inform you: the same ill-fated star that has divined your house’s demise has also cursed the Houses of Scipii and Brutii. We have all been betrayed.” I nearly fall on my hindquarters. Halifax can only issue a sigh of such magnitude as to resemble a gale. “Tarentum, Capua, both have been sacked. My master says that, no doubt by the time I reach you, others will have fallen as well. Rome has betrayed us, gentlemen. Flavius Scipius beckons you to join him in his island villa of Messana for a secret council between the three families. It is his hope that fidelity can be achieved and an accord be gained between us. War has come to our noble houses, and my master invites you to meet with those who are up the same creek, so that a solution may be ascertained.”
In moments we are racing inside, ushering Vitrunio into the presence of the Duke. He recounts his message, verbatim, before Titus. Our leader is again assaulted by grief, though this time it is his own. When he has banished the sentiment from his heart he rises and declares to the envoy that he must return to Flavius at once with the following message: “Julius is with you.”
In June we are sailing for Messana. This time there are five of us: Titus Julius, Calipulus Julius, Halifax, Peunisivius, and myself. When our bireme moors on the docks it is dusk. An orange sky burns the horizon to our right, cascading the small mountain peaks of Messana in shadows of pure pitch. All around us the dark waves crash and roll, the surf of the dock rough during this summer season. Our hearts empathize with such violence, for we are adrift in a sea of madness.
Our assembly is silent as we mount the sand-encrusted steps of Farious’ palace, an immaculate settlement carved from the sandstone of the very island itself. It is an evening vista bursting with ruddy browns against the cobalt shadows and winking, starlit heavens. When we enter the building we are ushered into the governor’s hall, an open-air flagstone court ringed with low-arched rooms. At the center is a circular table filled with food, a feast that we are surprised could be culled together in such terrible times.
Seated are eight nobles, four from each house. Farious Scipii is at the end opposite us, with his wife and two retainers flanking him. To our right sit the delegation of Marcus Brutius and his fellow Brutii, their green togas swaddled about their athletic forms. The Brutii are warriors of renown, hardened by Greek foes and tested by Dacian raiding parties. They are the best fighters Rome can muster. By contrast, Farious Scipii and his crew are all sea-weathered salts, tanned to the tone of hide by decades spent on the summer seas. Though not as gifted with the pilum or gladius, the Scipii are masters of the word and pen, and even greater prodigies when it comes to the mast and oar. I have seen many seafaring people in my day, but none can outmatch the hosts of Farious.
Then, we begin.
“Gentlemen,” croons Farious, “long have the fates afforded us the recognition we so deserve. We are the oldest and wisest, bravest and truest of the royal houses, and Rome has always rewarded us for our unerring service to her name. It was we, the Scipii, who quelled mighty Carthage at the sea. The Brutii who held back the seemingly-indomitable hosts of Hellas, and the Julii who worked in such magnanimous concert with Marius to bring the Gallic tribes into the light of Rome’s civilization.
“Yet now a dark age has dawned upon us, one that has shivered us as a broken mast from the galleon of our exploits. Fame has soured to villainy. Savior has been branded outlaw. And yet, through all the tempests of such ruin, we are not to blame.” Marcus Brutius second this, stating that barely had he set foot on Appollonia’s docks before hearing the news of Tarentum’s demise, razed by Marius’ maddened Legionaries.
Titus ascends this, stating the following: “I cannot confess to you the degree of ire that burns in my heart. Arriteum is in ashes, along with Patavium, Segestica, and no doubt Ariminum. My family is dead.” He places a hand furtively on his son’s knee. “Many who we care about have perished, all innocent and at Marius’ hand. I first must offer an apology of supreme consternation, for it was my hand that served Marius all those years in our campaigns against the Gauls, and my purse that sustained the funding for both of our armies. I fear that I have fostered the development of a beast; that I have ensured a monster live to wreak havoc upon those who have propped him up.” He takes a moment to compose himself. “The Julii hate a traitor. Those who would stab us in the back are as vile as the very barbarians we have warred against. And yet, now, we have been betrayed by a man whose friendship was almost as dear as the Brutii themselves!” His tone reaches a fevered pitch, and for a moment it seems he cannot continue. Damn the gods for sucking the vigor from my master’s daemon. “Yet, as one alliance has brought about our ruin, perhaps that of another will proffer our salvation?”
Farious seizes upon this. “That is exactly why I have called you here. Let us make a pact: to destroy these new legions of Marius and restore ourselves to the Senate. Surely our fellow politicians have been deceived, for who would seek to depose Rome’s most magnificent stock?”
Marcus Brutius relents at this, stating that such truces have often deprived his people of the rewards they so desperately have earned. This seems to strike my master like a hammer blow. He turns to Marcus Brutius.
“We of the Julii can hardly forget the exploits of the Brutii, and their sacrifice on our behalf at Athens. Your memories are great, yes, but your fealty to honor and valor is greater. The Ibex of Jupiter, which looms over Athens, stands as a testament to what can be achieved when good men act in concert for the sake of benevolence. Do not forsake the old alliances, my dear Brutius, join us and the Scipii and let us make our revenge upon the Senate and their tyrant-Emperor.”
Reluctantly, Marcus agrees. No sooner does this occur than a thunderous clamor arises within our congress. I am knocked unconscious by some unknown object, yet when I arise it is to the sound of my name.
“Scales! Scales!” I hear someone calling me. “Wake up.” It is Calipulus. He shakes me until my eyes open. I behold a scene now all too familiar. The court is trashed, decimated by combat. Strewn about are the armored and shrouded bodies of our assailants. All are masked. Arcani. We have been beset by Roman assassins. As I come to my senses I hear Marcus Brutius roaring in outrage. He calls for the traitor to name himself and face judgment like a virtuous man instead of skulking about "like a ****ing rat”. Needless to say, no one takes the offer. I espy the condition of our council, noting that one of the Brutii has been struck through the neck with that long dagger made infamous by the Arcani. Peunisivius has been struck in the hip with one of these monstrous knives. He cannot stand, let alone walk. Calipulus has lost the tips of two fingers and managed to have his left ankle run through. How the buck could have sustained such a wound to his ankle I shall never know, yet, there it is.
When all is safe and secure it is decided that the delegation has ended. All of us return to our ships, swearing the oath to one another that we will work to bring down Marius. We exchange information on available forces and where we plan to move them. Marcus states that he will move to retake Tarentum, Farious for Capua, and my master indicates that he will indeed set out to retake both Patavium and Arriteum. When all is agreed upon we depart company, our wounded from the attack in tow.
When we return to Iuvavum we learn that the levy raised to fill the ranks of our new legion cannot exceed fourteen thousand. This is disheartening.
“It will not be enough,” my master declares. He orders riders and runners both sent to every province and outpost not yet touched by the Cordova Legions. “To all provinces of the Julii: The sun will rise. Retribution. Send what you can.” Yet even with such culled forces, we are unsure. The Gauls are not taking to Roman discipline as well as we had hoped. In a rare occasion, I see Titus become incensed.
“I hate these Gauls,” he declares with a shout. “I mean it, I despise them the way a man despises cowardice, disease and death. I hate them to their fetid core, every last one of them!” Halifax and I move to calm him, but Calipulus intercepts us, hinting that our master must be allowed to vent. “If given the chance I would wipe them from the earth, purge them as a plague to prevent their seed from further infecting the splendor of this world! They are mindless barbarians barely worth the flesh it takes to wrap their savage souls! Damn these bastards with their ridiculous hair and guttural shield banging. These tribal mongrels would not know true courage if it sunk a gladius into their guts!” At that he draws up and sinks into Peusivinius’ throne to rest. We close upon him and offer our empathies. The truth of his outrage is that the Gauls will not provide him the elite fighting force required to achieve revenge. Their inferiority will render his job all the harder. Yet part of it is simple stress. Nevertheless we love our Titus Julius and commiserate in his angst.
In July our fears are somewhat abated. A band of rebels gathers in the hills just before the Noricum Alps. These raiders have commandeered old Roman equipment and arms, along with some Italian horse stock. They descend upon caravans and harass our supply lines. They are a menace, though nothing as imposing as Roman legions. However, they are all Gauls, and as such my master wishes to seek the resolve of his new legions in training. Titus decides to send them out. The battle is hard fought, but upon the craggy slopes of the Noricums these new Julii legions prove themselves. We exterminate the entire rebel army, down to the last bung-holing bandit. Nevertheless the legions are not ready for a face off against the Cordovas.
And what is worse is that we soon receive word that General Galippus is crossing the mountains. He’s picked up our trail. Red herrings are sent out in the form of dummy caravans to make false tracks in the summer mud. Forests are cleared twenty leagues away from our original path to Iavuvum, in hopes that the legions will think we made camp and headed more east than north. Such ploys work, and our scouts report that the Cordovas have been fooled.
But we all know it is a temporary fix. They will grow wise, and when they do we will not be able to trick them again. But our host is aided by a miracle of the most unlikely sources in this dark hour. It comes in the form of a Dacian.
His name we never knew, yet all simply called him Piss Pot. He reeked of urine that always seemed to emanate from his bronze bowl helmet. The man was a Dacian of the purest savage stock, blowing into town on a foul-stenched breeze to sell his stolen wares. He spat and cursed in every corner of our city, in the presence of women, clerics and priests, even our statesmen—what few remained. Yet, our Titus seemed to be drawn to this man as a moth to a flame. He enjoyed the company of this lewd tyrant, whose lack of pretense was a relief. He also claimed to hold half of Dacia under his thrall.
“All tracks past Tribus Iazyges,” he declares with a toothless grin. It’s all bullshit, my master is certain. But such a claim must come with some validity. Maybe the madcap has some pull? The Dacians call provinces ‘tracks’ for that is all they are to them: tracks of land to facilitate the movement of an army in its conquest. Every territory, no matter how large, is nothing more than a space to ship their roving bands of ragamuffin heavy infantry. As to what their true destination is, who knows? But it is obvious that they have not found it yet. My master hopes it is Rome.
“Every stitch of turf is yours?” Titus asks. The Dacian nods excitedly, launching into a stream of curses at how ugly our palace is and what a difference some pig shit would make on the floor.
“Romans like it so clean!” he roars with outstretched hands. “Give me dirt of earth and scent of hog!” Titus laughs, thoroughly entertained. It is the first time I have seen him do so since March. “I like to see Rome covered in shit!” he bellows.
“What if I gave you the chance?” Titus asks. Immediately all laughter ceases, replaced by an earnest gravitas. “Rome has betrayed the Julii, scattering us to the appetites of wolves and the ravages of nature.”
“Ah, yes, wolves, very nasty buggers…but tasty when you get to the ass.”
Titus smiles, while I wish to vomit. “I need an army, Piss Pot. We have some trained, but they're…” he feigns delicacy and leans in close to the Dacian. “…Gauls.” He says it in a tone that indicates Piss Pot knows what he is implying. The Dacian, for whatever it’s worth, seems to understand, though it could be imagined.
“Ah, yes, yes. Not good for tough weather.”
“No,” Titus shakes his head, “they’re certainly fair-weather friends. Not like good Dacian warriors: bronze armor, falxes, hardy men and hardier horses.” With each of these Piss Pot erupts into exclamations of higher and higher ascent until the room is filled with his trumpeting. In the impetus he loses control and farts.
“We are greatest warriors! Great enough to beat new Emperor’s metal army!”
“I’ll pay you to try.”
The Dacian savage’s eyes alight. “How many you need?”
Titus, in that fashion that only the Julii can master, simply smiles.
“How many you got?”
To Be Continued….
"All right, but apart from the sanitation, medicine, education, wine, public order, irrigation, roads, the fresh water system and public health, what have the Romans ever done for us?"
"Sometimes, a view from sinless eyes,
Centers our perspective and pacifies our cries..."
[This message has been edited by Argo (edited 06-30-2005 @ 01:29 AM).]
posted 27 June 2005 12:55 EDT (US)
