Here it is, The Restored Classic edition of one of this forum's greatest tales. Revised, updated, and edited, it is ready for a new online generation (re: six months) to enjoy. Written by three different authors during a time of unprecedented prosperity, it is a window into a simpler time. The three scribes were Argo, Johndisp and Lorentius Vadis, well respected historians and writers. Together, they told of Rome's darkest hour. This edition seeks to streamline their writing, changing differences in how they transcribed dates and locations, for a more clear reading experience. Each of the over 100 pages of original text is here.I sought to provide an authentic as possible experience for today's readers. So please, enjoy.

The Winds Of Remus

March 100 B.C.

Emperor Gaius Marius stomped around the Senatorial antechamber while awaiting the end of the session. He need to speak with Senator Saturnius about their plan. He was beginning to have his concerns about declaring an open war against part of the Roman Empire. He had just put the finishing touches on his retrained troops and they were ready for deployment, but he had his doubts that all their plotting was necessary. As he found himself deep in his thoughts, the senators began emptying the forum.

Marius watched for many minutes as the senators filed out, and finally caught a glimpse of Senator L Appuleius Saturnius. Marius quickly rushed up to him, while avoiding a few senators who approached him to say something. When Saturnius saw him coming he frowned for a moment, about then smiled warmly.

“My Emperor, I was just coming to find you.” Saturnius bowed low as Marius approached, but then noticed several senators had stopped to watch the exchange, but a quick flash of anger in his green eyes sent them scurrying away on some greater task.

“Saturnius, my armies are ready to slaughter the Roman traitors, but I am thinking that perhaps all this is unnecessary. Perhaps we can speak with the families. Surely they will be reasonable. Perhaps there is an alternative to war. Maybe they can be convinced to withdraw their opposition to my appointment as Emperor. Perhaps they can be convinced that a standing army is good for the Empire.”

“It is too late for that! The Senate just agreed to our plan. At this moment, Senators Caesan Julii, Amerigo Scipii, and Mutius Brutii have been thrown into chains and are being taken to the private Senatorial prisons. You seem to forget, that those families tried to get you exiled because they feared your new position as Emperor. You seem to forget that they tried to remove me from the Tribune position in an attempt to usurp power. They must not be allowed to place themselves above the Empire. They must be dealt with, and it must be done quickly. Emperor, your armies are ready to march, and can strike the five family holdings within a month. This is not going to be a long war. The family leaders have all been ordered to return to their homes in order to be honored by the Senate. They have no clue the honor will be to have their traitorous hearts cut out by your Legionary Cohorts. Marius, we must save Rome. This IS the only way!”

Marius thought deeply for many seconds. He had not wanted to believe it when Saturnius brought him documents written by the Julii calling for his removal as the first Roman Emperor. But then Saturnius showed him copies of the same documents bearing the Brutii and Scipii seals. It looked bad for the three Roman families. They were trying to usurp the rightful rule of the Roman Empire, and must be punished. He, as the new supreme leader of the Empire, was responsible for dealing out that punishment.

“Very well Saturnius. They march at dawn.” Marius turned and walked away to finish the supply issues. He was still in doubt, but his loyalty to the Empire was unwavering.

Saturnius let out a deep breath, as Marius vanished around a corner. He knew his plans were risky, especially once he involved that fool Marius. The man may have know how to win a war, but how to fight a senator was foreign to him. It had cost him 5000 denari to get forged copies of the family seals made. Another 1000 had been spent to get the removal papers drawn up using family paper and ink. The forgeries had been perfect and had convinced Marius. Now all Saturnius had to worry about was the success of Marius’ armies. He had seen Marius’ troops used in combat against the Gauls, and 2000 Gauls had died while only 27 Romans had been killed. But they were going to be killing Romans now. Granted the families could only field Hastati, Principles, and Triarii, but they had conquered the world with those meager forces. But all this worry was useless. Marius’ legions were perfect. They would win! They had to win!

April 100 B.C.

This was a horrible month for the Julii, Brutii, and Scipii. In five Roman towns, Arretium, Ariminum, Capua, Croton, and Tarentum; 100000 Legionary Cohorts, archers, cavalry, onager crews, and a few Urbans struck and crushed the family hometowns in Italy. The worst of the fighting took place in Tarentum.

By the time the legions reached Tarentum, rumors were circulating that the Senatorial army had gone nuts and was rampaging through the countryside destroying the holdings of the Roman families. The governor of Tarentum, Claudius Brutus, had insisted there was some mistake, until 20000 Marius Legionnaires arrived outside the gates.

The faction head had not returned to Tarentum when he was expected, and so it fell to Claudius to protect the last Brutii holding in Italy. He had only 5000 troops in Tarentum and most of them were town watch and peasants. The governor ordered all the men onto the walls, because he knew that the gateway would prohibit the use of rams.

And so it was that the 5000 Roman defenders were standing atop the walls, when the first onager rounds came soaring in. Sort of the solid stone rounds fell short, and some flew well over the walls and crashed into the city, but far to many crashed into the gateway and iron gates. One especially dark stone came flying towards Tarentum, like an evil omen of the gods, and as it hit the gateway, the supports broke loose and the entire gateway crumbled. Hundreds of gallons of boiling pitch poured harmlessly onto the ground. A few more stones broke the gates from their hinges and sent them flying. Fortunately, the Brutii defenders had reassembled inside the gates and waited for the charge.

The Marius troops marched forward slowly and methodically. They stopped outside the gates and hundreds of pila flew through the opening and killed several dozen defenders. As the legions prepared to throw again, the Brutii charged out of Tarentum. The Marius units were surprised, and for a few moments they began losing men, but they regrouped quickly, and formed a tight box trapping the Brutii. The legions held the formation and 2000 Urban Cohorts charged into the box to fight the Brutii. The Brutii gave a good accounting of themselves, but they were terribly overmatched. A dozen Urbans died, but the entire Brutii force was annihilated.

Late April 100 B.C.

Emperor Marius and Senator Saturnius received word that the Roman families had been crushed and forced from the Italian Peninsula. Regrettably, all three faction leaders escaped the carnage. The legions could not advise where they had fled too, but it was certain they were scattered to the four winds. Saturnius smiled and turned to his Emperor.

“Emperor, we have done it! Rome is saved! We are saved!” Then Saturnius noticed that a frown was on Marius’ face. “What my Emperor? What is wrong?”

“Can you not read fool!? The faction heads escaped. As long as they live, they are a threat to us.”

“Marius, they are scattered men, with no great armies to command. They are no threat to us. We and Rome are spared!”

“We shall see Saturnius. We shall see.”

April 100 B.C.

Marcus Brutus stood on the observation deck of his flagship, the lanterns of Brundisium a welcomed sight. He hated sea travel, even the short jaunt from Apollonia; his stomach had never become accustomed to that which he found unnatural for men. Land was always a welcomed sight.

The ship moored, Marcus was the first to touch terra firma, grateful for the return to normalcy. He sighed, relieved to have endured another encounter with Neptune, already dreading the return voyage. A soiled courier awaited him, nervously standing at attention.

"Report."

"My lord, I bear terrible news!"

"Go on."

"We---we are betrayed, Tarentum has fallen..."

"Tarentum? What are you babbling about?"

"Armies of the Emperor Marius have taken Tarentum..."

"What! When?"

"I have just come from there, my lord, I believe they are moving on Croton even now."

Brutus was already thinking about a counter attack. "How many troops?"

"I don't know, perhaps a full legion with auxillery and artillery."

"My family?"

"I don't know, my lord, with all the confusion..."

"Stop!"

Marcus Brutus composed himself, his years of training overcoming his emotions. This was no time to go on a fool's errand, desperately searching for loved ones who were probably dead.

"Gather all men at arms to the ships, we return to Apollonia!"

May 100 B.C.

Brutus pulled out as many troops as he could from all of the Greek territories he controlled, and sped the training of more militia to assume town watches. Sparta and Thessalonica in particular had been hot spots of rebellion for years, so stronger forces were left behind, along with an increased cadre of spies.

Smiths were turning out Marius-grade weapons and armor as fast as humanly possible. Training in new tactics was stepped up with an intensity unmatched by any ever endured by Brutii soldiers. Revenge was being instilled into their hearts and minds. Within a month the army would stand at four legions, perhaps half equipped with the newest arms. With the added mercenaries, Marcus Brutus planned to send an army of 30,000 or more to the shores of Apulia.

Brutus turned rage into determination, his mind became fixed on retaking Tarentum and Croton. Once that was done, he would decide where to turn his wrath; Marius would pay for this betrayal, along with any who aided him. Rome would bleed.

One day a courier arrived, a member of the Scipio family, with a messege for Marcus Brutus, pleading for him to attend a secret council at Messana during the Ides of June. An alliance was being proposed, to include the House of Julius as well. There was no need to mention the subject of the meeting, all three families were facing the same dilemna and shared the same passion for revenge. Although he did not trust Julius or Scipio, Brutus made arrangements for the voyage, already planning how he could use the others to further his cause.

June 100 B.C. In the City of Messana

Once the family leaders all finished expressing their mutual outrage over the treachery of their so-called emperor, and voiced similar plans for revenge, while pledging solidarity and fraternity, the council got underway, led by Farious Scipio. Tales of carnage each had endured were traded as wine was passed around. Personally, Brutus was uneasy with the number of slaves attending them, he preferred to discuss such weighty matters in complete privacy, with no unnecessary ears around.

Scipio asked for an agreement of mutual support, openly admitting that his forces were the weakest of the three factions. As he spoke, Brutus pondered about what concessions he would gain for his support, but held back, deciding to hear out Scipio and Julius before interjecting.

The debate wavered back and forth for some time, but it always came back to the need to cooperate and present a unified front against the usurping emperor. Marcus Brutus was fully aware that his new allies were gifted orators, unlike himself; their honeyed word were just that, sweet and tempting. He remained mostly silent unless addressed directly.

The earnestness of their debate was suddenly disrupted by an explosion that shattered the doors and sent shards of splintered wood in every direction. Through the heavy smoke, Marcus saw several dark silhouettes rush into the room---Arcani!

Marcus and his aides drew their swords, forming a square to meet the onslaught. One throwing knife nicked Marcus' left shoulder, another found the throat of the man to his right. The Brutii ducked, their blades at the ready. Four of the assassins rushed them and fell at their feet, blood spurting from the chest wounds they received. Confusion reigned, Marcus and his fellow Brutii slashed at anything that came near. When the fighting ceased, Marcus looked around and saw that two of this retainers were dead; bodies were strewn about the room....

July and August 100 B.C.

Marcus Brutus stood on the observation deck of this flagship and saw that Brundisium was coming closer and closer. His fleet had made the crossing unopposed, much to his surprise, and even now saw no Imperial warships in the harbor. Nonetheless, he expected to encounter Imperial troops on their landing. Archers and ballistae were in position to volley before the lead units of the Brutii legions charged down the gangplanks.

The docks were cleared, almost deserted. The fleet docked and unloaded its cargo of 30,000 armed troops into a town that was eerily serene. A welcoming commitee awaited the leader of the Brutus clan in the town square.

"Welcome noble Marcus Brutus, we welcome your return."

"Thank you. Where are the Imperial troops?"

"They are gone. When your sails appeared on the horizon, they left."

Marcus Brutus shook his head in disbelief, this made no sense whatsoever. "They just left?"

"Yes, my lord, but there weren't that many to begin with. Actually, we have not been mistreated."

Again, Marcus shook his head in disbelief.......

Their march to Tarentum, through countryside seemingly unravaged, was not opposed, scouts reported no enemy troops anywhere. When the walls of the city came ito view, Marcus finally confronted his enemy, an Imperial force that numbered his by half. After a brief and furious clash, the enemy fled, leaving Marcus' home to him, much of the previous damage inflicted now repaired. He was greeted by his family, none of whom seeming the worst for the ordeal.

September 100 B.C.

Even with the troops sent back to Greece to suppress the increasing uprisings, Marcus Brutus had an army of three well trained legions that was supplemented by 8,000 disgruntled Italians who had no love for Rome. Unfortunately, Marcus allowed the lazy summer weather to delay his move to Croton. When he learned that the Scipii had 'liberated' Croton, with the aid of Greek troops, Marcus Brutus was livid, his faith in the so-called alliance shaken.

The House of the Julii, introduced

March 12 100 B.C. In the City of Rome

“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?”

March 31st 100 B.C. In the city of Athens
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 First chapter of the House of Julius

“…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?”

April 100 B.C.

Farious Scipii, head of the Scipii family, stared dumb-founded at his spy.

The spy stood stoic for a second and then spoke, “Milord, did you hear me? Four legions of senatorial troops are marching here on the rampage! They shall be here by sunset!”

The news didn’t make any more sense the second time Farious heard it. “But why? What could we have done to incur their wrath? We are a modest family. We don’t even delve into the politics that much. Why would they be coming to destroy us? Now the Brutii, I can understand the Senate needing to punish them. I mean they never listen to anyone! But why us?!?”

“Uh..milord…”

“Dammit Stephos we have known each other from childhood, call me by my given name when we are alone.”

Stephos the spy relaxed, “Sorry Farious, you know there are protocols to observe. What does the “why” matter? The fact is, they ARE coming, and we don’t have the forces to stop them! Farious, we have to get you and Olivia out of here.”

The mention of his lovely wife snapped Farious out of his awe. “Of course you are right. Order the soldiers to retreat to the caves on Mt Vesuvius. Have them take enough food for a few months. Tell them to leave their family colors behind, so as not to reveal their nature. Perhaps they can pass for homeless families until I can return. Order the citizens to cooperate as best they can. Perhaps civility amongst the citizens will be met with the same. Have out fastest mounts readied and make arrangements for us to meet a trieme at the dockyard on the coast. I will notify Olivia. Use your network of spies to spread the word that I shall return to free our people.”

Farious quickly climbed the central stairs of the governor’s palace, and arrived outside his bedchambers. He calmed himself and threw open the door. There standing before him was the beautiful Olivia. Standing just over 5 foot tall, with light brown hair and eyes the color of the Mediterranean, she was the object of many a man’s affection in her youth, but she has chosen Farious. They had planned for a family, but 8 years had passed and the gods had not yet blessed them. Yet they loved each other nonetheless.

“Ah husband, you are here early today. Shall me make our “offering” of fertility to the gods now?” She smiled mischievously at her husband, but as she saw his face, her smile faded. “What is it?”

“Stephos was headed back to Rome to spy on the Senate and he came across a senatorial army headed here.”

“So? Why does that cause you alarm?”

“My love, the Senate doesn’t send out armies to just walk around. They are coming here for a reason, and their reasons are never good. I have ordered the army to hide in the hills, and for the population to acquiesce to the demands of the Senate. Our horses are ready, and a ship is waiting. We must sail to Messana and regroup. The Senate has no ships, and so they can’t follow us.”

“But what about the other families, surely the Julii and Brutii would help us.”

“Perhaps Olivia, but every sense Saturnius convinced the Senate that Marius should be made Emperor in February, they have been excluded just like us. For all we know they have been attacked too.”

“Nonsense Farious, the Senate would never support attacking all three families.”

“You don’t understand the Senate. They love the Empire, but only because of the power they draw from it. If they thought for a minute someone else would threaten that power, they would crush them beneath their feet.” Farious let his words sink in, and then continued. “My love, if we leave now, we can get away and send messenger to see what is going on. The other families and I agreed years ago that is we were ever banished, we would retreat to secret locations. I shall rally the other heads and bring them to the safety of Messana for a conference.”

“Very well my love. Let us go where you wish.” Olivia quickly packed a bag, and within the hour they were riding south towards the dockyard.

May 100 B.C.

Farious and Olivia had been in Messana for two weeks now. Their cross-country ride to the coast had been uneventful. As they sailed from the dockyard, they could see a large cloud of dust approaching from the direction of Capua. Someone had revealed their location.

Farious had received word that the Senatorial army had been gruff at first when they learned Farious was gone, but their rule had softened and he found out that some of the soldiers had remained behind and had organized a resistance movement. Although it was currently clandestined, they were sorting of detail and info, and determining troop strength for Farious. It appeared that, as Farious feared, the Julii and Brutii had been attacked as well. Apparently both the Brutii and Julii had put up fights, but their units had been slaughtered.

Farious sent messengers to Luvunum and Apollonia to contact the heads of the Brutii and Julii. Only the three family heads knew of the secret hideaways for them, if they were ever outlawed.

Farious had been building a force in Messana to attack Lilybaeum, and so he had 8000 Scipii troops available to him. He knew they would mean nothing to the 20000 Marius Legions, and so he began recruiting mercenaries.

Farious also sent diplomats to Lilybaeum in an attempt to make peace. The heads of the diplomats were sent back. Evidently Carthage was aware of what was going on, and planned to take advantage.

Farious had another problem. With only Messana as a Scipii holding, they had no ports with which to trade and bring in profits.

Farious decided to take a gamble. He ordered his army to capture Lilybaeum. He knew that should he conquer Lilybaeum, he would be able to draw on the Carthaginian populace for more manpower, but he was going to need to take it somehow with almost no losses. That would require careful planning.

Farious called upon his dear friend Stephos. Farious walked into his home, and called out. “Stephos are you here?”

From the shadows a voice answered, “Yes Farious. I’m here. How can I serve milord?”

“You know you are my oldest friend, but I need help.”

Stephos stepped from the shadows with a serious look on his face. “Whatever you command, it shall be done.”

“This is no command, it is a request. I need the gates to Lilybaeum opened in two days at dawn.”

Stephos nodded, grabbed a small bag, and was gone before Farious could say another word.

The next morning, Farious ordered all but 500 troops to march for Lilybaeum. He knew that if they marched hard, they would arrive near dawn the next day.

Meanwhile, Stephos had arrived mid-morning and slipped inside Lilybaeum with a trade caravan. He made a quick survey of the gate mechanism and saw it guarded by three Sacred Band spearmen. It was times like this Stephos was glad to be an assassin as well.

Eighteen hours passed, and Stephos found only two spearmen guarded the closed gates at night. About 3 AM, he heard what he was waiting for. The soft cry of a bird of paradise could be heard outside. This was the signal used by Scipii spies.

Stephos stood up and stumbled from the shadows.

Granos and Cronos were new members of the Sacred Band. They had only signed up a year ago, and therefore had been relegated to the job of standing watch over the gate mechanism within Lilybaeum. Granos and Cronos each had a “girlfriend” in town, but the prices they charged was beginning to cut into their modest savings. It they weren’t such great “girlfriends”, they would have been cut loose.

“Cronos, you won’t believe what she can do! She puts her ankles behind her head and…” A sound caused him to stop his bragging, and both men looked around. A man wearing dark brown clothes was staggering towards them.

Cronos was the first to react. “Hold and identify yourself, or we will run you through.”

The man spoke with obviously slurred speech, “Identify yourself. I’m looking for the Golden Touch. Where did they move it to today?”

Both men jumped at the mention of where their women worked, but Granos recovered first. “Ah it’s just a drunk. Move along old man. The brothel is down the road on the right.” Granos had turned back to Cronos, “Now where was I? Oh yeah, feet behind her head. Well then she…”

No other words escaped the mouth of either guard. They were so interested in their story, that they failed to notice that the “drunk” had walked right up to them.

Stephos threw off the brown robe and slashed with twin daggers. He cut both guards across their throats, and grabbed their bodies on the way down to muffle the noise.

He then returned the bird cry and threw open the gates.

Two hours later, Lilybaeum had been seized.

The Scipii forces had captured 5000 Carthaginian soldiers, and 2500 cavalry. All of these forces chose to take loyalty oaths instead of being executed. But best of all, in the Lilybaeum stables, the Scipii found 250 war elephants. Their riders agreed to work for the Scipii as well, for a very nice price. For the first time ever, Carthaginians would be fighting alongside Roman units instead of against them.

Farious would spend the rest of May organizing his new settlement.

June 100 B.C.

Farious received word in Lilybaeum, that the family heads would arrive in Messana on the 15th of June. He spent the first two weeks of June making all the arrangements for the conference. One thing that had to kept quiet was the fact that he had hired 5000 hoplites from the Greeks in Syracuse. Farious had sent a diplomat to Syracuse in May to bargain for trading rights, and the Greeks had surprisingly agreed, and had offered several squads of their spearmen. Farious knew that should the Brutii discover he was talking to the Greeks, all Hades would break loose.

Farious was getting frequent reports from the resistance units in Capua, and all was well, for the most part. The Senatorial governor was treating the people with respect, but popular opinion was still secretly against him, because he was no Scipii. The tax collectors were secretly withholding money and routing it to Messana.

Finally the plans were done, and the faction heads arrived.

The Brutii and Julii sat at a large table along with Farious Scipii. Farious opened the meeting with a simple speech. When he concluded, the Brutii and Julii applauded Farious, but mostly because he had stopped talking. Farious did manage to announce that he could organize 21000 troops, but failed to mention 5000 of them were Greek.

The Brutii and Julii both spoke their peace, but as the Brutii stood a second time, Farious caught a glimpse of iron, and the doors flew open. Two dozen Arcani flooded the room, all bearing the colors of the Senate.

The fighting was brutal, and several of the slave attendants were killed along with some of the visiting family member’s entourages. But in the end, the Arcani were all slain.

An agreement was quickly made to do whatever was necessary to punish Marius and the Senate, and the family members quickly left.

July 100 B.C.

Things started out slowly in July, as the Scipii just kept gaining more and more recruits and Farious did more and more planning. Farious’ men caught a Carthaginian spy, and Farious attended his interrogation.

The spy had been stripped naked and was nailed to a board. The nails were through his wrists and ankles, and he was losing more than a little blood. Carthaginians had trained the chief interrogator at a friendlier time, and so he knew what would move the spy most. Xargos, the interrogator, had chopped off 8 fingers and 7 toes, and had shoved two burning pokers into his thigh muscles, before the spy finally began revealing information.

He told them his name was Havian and he was the chief Carthaginian spy. He revealed that he had been sent to spy on the Scipii until the Romans arrived.

“WHAT?” roared Farious, “The Senate is coming here?”

“Yes, and they will kill you all! When you stole Lilybaeum from us, we sent a diplomat to Rome to sell them your location. Enjoy your deaths Scipii!”

Farious drew his gladius out and castrated the spy. “Take him to the dungeons and make sure he lives.”

Farious then returned to his governor’s palace.

As he arrived he looked across the sea, and saw a dozen white masted ships bearing the Carthaginian symbol. Not only had they sold the Senate some information, they were ferrying the troops to Messana. If he survived this, Farious swore to make the Carthaginians pay.

The middle of July 100 B.C.

The siege was two weeks old, and the Scipii had fought valiantly in three skirmishes. They had lost, but they had lost with honor. Fortunately, the Senate had only sent 10000 legionnaires and the Scipii had only lost 1000. Unfortunately, another ship had arrived today, and a dozen onagers were being offloaded.

Farious decided his only chance was a full-scale assault, but just as his entire army emptied Messana, Grecian trumpets sounded to the south. Farious feared betrayal, but when a Greek army appeared, they charged into the Senate’s forces. For the first time, the combined Scipii/Grecian armies defeated the Marius legions.

Farious and the Greeks signed a formal alliance a week later. Farious kept this a closely guarded secret. While the Brutii might understand hiring Greek mercenaries, but they might very well go to war over the alliance.

August 100 B.C.

August brought a slew of choices for Farious. He wanted to punish Carthage for their treachery, but he needed to get back at the Senate more. Then his Greek allies offered a deal. They would send 15000 troops, under the command of 500 Scipii troops to take Carthage. Then they offered to protect Messana while Farious took the bulk of his forces to Italy. Having little choice, Farious agreed.

The next choice was where to strike. Capua was the preferred target, but it was too far from the coast to land a large force. The next most logical choice was Croton, but its loyalties lay with the Brutii. Farious made the only choice he could. He sailed with his forces for Croton.

In the Middle of August 100 B.C.

The legionnaires saw the Roman and Greek armies arrayed before them, and scoffed. Not only were the pathetic Roman forces inferior to their Marius units, they formed up with Greeks that hadn’t changed fighting styles in 200 years. They knew this battle would be a first class rout, and based on that information, they sallied out to meet them. That would be the last mistake they would live to make.

Had they paid more attention to the scene, they might have wondered about the large tents at the far rear of the Scipii lines. As it was, they marched out in formation, and when the 250 war elephants charged from the tents and ran them down, they had no hope of escape.

The entire Senate army was killed or captured, and Farious took the weapons and armor from the dead and the town armory to outfit his units. Then he made sure to spend thousands of denari to ensure that the Brutii citizens welcomed his armies in and made them feel at home.

His last action was to send a messenger to the Brutii, letting them know the good news that Croton had been liberated. Farious reluctantly added that he needed to use Croton as a base until this war was over, or Capua was freed whichever came first.

September 100 B.C.

This was the first quiet month Farious had seen in quite some time. He forces regrouped and grew to almost 28000 men in his army that was staged in Croton.

Also the Scipii/Greek forces had besieged Carthage and were having some successes. Farious ended the summer with dreams of peace soon. He was horribly mistaken.

The Saga continues...

When Saturnius entered the private study, the emperor's back was to him, but the newly appointed consul of the senate could see that he held a message scroll in his hand.

"You summoned me, sire?"

Marius spoke without turning to face Saturnius. "Marcus Brutus has retaken Tarentum with a very large and well equipped army. He has scouts probing the borders of Umbria and Iatium."

Saturnius' spies had informed him of this days before, but decided to withhold that information. "Yes, my emperor, I have just been told. It was expected."

Marius now turned to face his co-conspirator. "I told you that it was a mistake to attack them along with Julius and Scipio, with his means, Brutus is a powerful enemy."

'The man is such a child when it comes to matters of state.' "My lord, Brutus would have remained a strong voice of dissent in the senate if allowed to continue. His ouster helped to solidify your claim to the throne..."

"And now he threatens me, Saturnius! With his resources added to the those of Scipio and Julius, we are vulnerable!"

"Brutus will not be able to maintain such a strong force for long, he has to take Croton and deal with uprisings in Greece---uprisings that we are encouraging and funding. Sire, he will be too busy to turn his fury on Rome."

Marius tossed the missive to the floor, then paced back and forth. He looked to Saturnius and replied, "Let us hope that you are right."

"My lord, by the time that Brutus can mount a threat, we will have even more legions at our disposal. We should not overestimate his abilities..."

"The House of Brutus has long been stalwart, and Marcus is not one to acquiesce so easily."

"He will not be a problem, my lord, even now the rebels fight amongst themselves, and Brutus will be the first to break the alliance."

"So you say, Saturnius, but I have my doubts. Leave me now, I have much to plan."

Saturnius bowed respectfully. "As you wish, my emperor."

As the consul left the room, he smiled knowingly to himself. 'Brutus will not trouble us for much longer, he can only evade so many assassins before one succeeds. I have always like Tarentum, it will make quite a nice winter home.'

October 100 B.C.

As soon as news reached him about Croton, Marcus Brutus gathered his army and made a quick march to Capua. Scipio's explanation for the assault, aided by Greeks, did nothing to assauge the black outrage. Capua would be his compensation for this insult. 'So Scipio needs my town of Croton as a staging area---to do what, ferry Greeks back and forth? To undermine me in Greece? To spy on me?'

Marcus Brutus moved his army with all due haste, straining his men to the limit. All along the road, he instilled the urgency of their goal to his commanders, who pushed their cohorts with speeches of duty and honor. By the time they reached Campania, every soldier was eager and ready for the fight.

Capua was defended by a full legion with no concept of surrender. The Brutii arrived within sight of the city late in the afternoon, the sun already beginning to set at their backs. Onagers and ballistae were deployed and began a bombardment of flaming projectiles that lasted well into the night, creating an eerie glow that outlined the city in tones of red and orange.

When the day dawned, Marcus Brutus saw a city whose walls were battered, its gates shattered and indefensible. The imperial forces did not sally forth, so the Brutii entered Capua and proceeded to decimate all who opposed them. Imperial troops put up a brave fight in the streets, but were gradually pushed back to the city square, where the attackers formed a ring around them.

Marcus Brutus was not an eloquent man. He surveyed the situation, then said, "I want their eagle." His cohorts then killed every last imperial foe, with the exception of one cavalry captain, who was given the head of his commander and instructed to take it to Rome.

Marcus then composed a brief message that was dispatched to his Scipii ally, 'I have taken Capua as a staging area for the assault on Rome---M. Brutus'

November through December in the year 100 B.C.

The month began with two failed attempts on Brutus. Both would-be assassins were taken alive; the first was tortured until he gave up a false name, as he was trained to do, but under added persuasion, finally uttered another,
"Saturnius!" The second agent received the same treatment, with the same result. Both were beheaded, the trophies sent to Rome, where Brutus' best sneak thief stuck them on posts outside the home of Saturnius.

With Capua under the control of his cousin, Clodius, Marcus Brutus returned to Greece to personally oversee the suppression of a revolt in Corinth that seemed to spring up out of nowhere and for no apparent reason. Ring leaders were taken and tortured, and again the name of Saturnius came up time and time again. Once again, heads were dispatched to him, this time to his office in the senate building. Strangely enough, Marcus did not take the actions of the consul too personally, it was all a part of politics, but he did relish the thought of driving a sword through the scoundrel's gut and slowly eviscerating him.

Marcus also made a quick trip to Sparta, where his fleet of quinquiremes was nearing completion, ships that would be needed to counter the superiorty of the Scipii if necessary. He also assigned more spies to watch for any movements of hoplites in or out of the their homeland.

The Julii were gone from Greece, returned to their northern provinces, now fighting for their very existence, pressed as they were between the defiant Gauls and the legions of Emperor Marius. Brutus had always respected the House of Julius, but at the same time had felt that his family had never received proper due for their prowess on the field of battle. In the mind of Marcus Brutus, it had always been his family who had carried the day, while the Julii grabbed glory that was not deserved. He did his best to control the resentment, there was now a common enemy that threatened both of them.

January of the New Year 100 B.C.

He was back in Tarentum, his thoughts torn between Saturnius' treachery, the ongoing problems in Greece and the goals of the alliance. His trust in the latter was tenuous at best, the actions of Scipio had been reprehensible, their alliance with the Greeks, though necessary, was nonetheless provocative. The Julii were off in the north, their actions not of any real concern for the moment. Unless they could fight their way southward and retake Arretium, they would be of no account in the upcoming battle.

While Marcus Brutus was ruminating in Tarentum, an imperial army of two full legions marched on Capua, its proximity to Rome too great a threat for the emperor. The walls and gates of the city had been repaired, but the resentment of the citizens had not; the Brutii had never been genteel occupiers, the concerns of the people not being a priority. As it was, the occupying army was not overly welcomed.

Scouts reported To Clodius Brutus that the advancing imperial army was two days from Capua, which gave him time to prepare. An expanse of wooded high ground to the north of the city was selected as the place to deploy his army, they would be well concealed, the Roman army would be completely surpised.

Clodius marched out every available man in the late afternoon of the following day. Scouts provided hourly reports on the disposition of the advancing imperial army, which outnumbered his by several thousand and was commanded by a grizzled veteran who had fought many battles under Marius. Nonetheless, Clodius Brutus would have the element of surprise and the high ground. His troops were positioned, with cold rations and strict orders to light no fires this night, cold weather or not.

The advanced units of the imperial legions came into view at mid morning. Clodius ordered the onagers to prepare the first salvo, the baskets filled with loads of spiked iron balls. After two volleys, the flaming oil pots would follow, to be lofted over the lead units and create an inferno of death and confusion. Clodius was confident, his older cousin Marcus would be impressed.

The leading units of the imperial legions advanced in tight formation, seemingly oblivious of what awaited them. Once they were in range, the onagers fired their deadly pellets and decimated those in the front line of skirmishers; those who survived went to one knee and raised shield. The next volley was ineffectual, more legionary units advanced, cavalry fanned out on the flanks, scorpions were rushed forward. The main body of cohorts remained to the rear, out of range.

The onagers loosed their flaming payloads, but the enemy forces were so spread out, little damage was done. The scorpions, followed by repeating ballistae, filled the air with a deadly barrage that cut into the concealed Brutii with alarming effect. The final round of Brutii oil pots did nothing to slow the now rushing lines of the invaders.

Clodius looked up to see a score of fireballs arcing downward to the awaiting trees. The ensuing explosions caused general panic amongst the Brutii, many fled. Those that held their ground were utterly disoriented; unit commanders barked orders that went unheard in the pandemonium. Chaos gripped the men of the House of Brutus.

Massed lines of imperial cohorts were advancing at the double quick, closely followed by auxillery archers and heavy cavalry. Clodius formed a defensive line, exhorting his men to stand and fight for the renowned and noble name of Brutus. They roared in defiance of the imperial invaders, then were overrun. Clodius fell to arrows that struck his groin, left eye and throat. The rout ensued.

Capua was retaken without resistance, the citizens not being sorry to see the backs of the Brutii. Most harbored the belief that their lord Scipio would one day return and restore the peace they had once known.

When Marcus Brutus heard of the humiliating defeat, he skewered the messenger, then dispatched orders for all straggling survivors of the debacle to be executed on the spot. His rage reverberated throughout the palace, slaves and aides alike hid for fear of his wrath. One brave Greek slave woman finally eased his anger, but then she was accustomed to his lustful excesses.

The next month was spent in regrouping and rethinking.....

The Second Chapter of the House of Julius

“…It is a tenuous border we Julii dwell upon, but without the people we would be nothing…The aristocracy may never understand the lower classes…but they will respect the power they wield. Rome recognizes our influence …”
-Titus Julius

By the time the fall’s brisk winds and misty mornings had settled behind the stone walls of Iuvavum our army had undergone enough training to bring it up to Julii standards. The attack on the highwaymen’s army back in the summer had afforded Titus Julius’ Gallic legionnaires the confidence and experience necessary to attain higher levels of excellence. It had also proven to him their resolve. If they could kill their own tribesmen then they would have no problem following orders to slaughter Romans. They would follow Titus for sure.

Still, the Cordova Legions were beyond our capabilities. Even our home garrison at Arriteum was not enough. But our survival of the attacks had warranted us insights into how we might defeat them. Of course, we did not have the manpower or the resources to produce Marius-grade weapons like our allies; we would have to rely on numbers. Nor did we have the experience already under our belts of beating some of Marius’ Legionaries. That honor was reserved only for the Brutii at Capua and the Scipii at Croton. My master was vexed by this revelation, stating that it was his opinion that the Julii were lagging behind their allies.

“I have petitioned for an alliance that I am ill-equipped to aid,” he mentions one day as we are observing the newly trained Gauls move about in the city’s courtyard. Their divisions were sloppy, and they refused to remove whatever goop it was that held their hair up in those vile spikes, but nevertheless they enjoyed the bronze armor of our hestati and relished in the veruti of the velites. The scarlet tunics take some convincing, but in the end they wear them. Even the plumed helmets were adorned, though they refused to remove some of their furs and trinkets. “We are so far removed from Rome that, even if I wanted to coordinate with the other houses I would be hard pressed to cross these mountains before winter.” I see him spit upon the frost-encrusted soil then; folding his thin arms across what has become a withered chest. “We are alone here, absent proper arms and equipment to defeat Marius. I have the unwashed throngs of a people I despise while the Brutii have Capua, and the Scipii have Croton. Even if my equites and hestati reinforcements arrive in time we will barely be able to make a push on any of our lost provinces before the heavy snows begin to fall.” Titus’ foul mood cannot be assuaged and so I simply stand and endure in silence, as all advisors must in these dark moments.

A few days later we receive word from our allies’ spies. He comes to us in our private council chambers. Peusivinius is not present, but Calipulus is there, along with the ever-present Halifax. From the shadows we are updated on the events along the peninsula. The Scipii have indeed taken Croton and are using it as a staging area. They also report of successes at Lilybaeum and the fact that they have acquired war elephants. We are relieved, and proffer a message in return. As the blue-tunicked spy recedes from our settlement my master turns to our assembly.

“This will be trouble,” he announces with a solemn face. “I would imagine the Brutii are nearing their limit. First Athens and now this? How long will their fidelity to our cause last if we continue to pluck treasures from their vault in plain view?”

Halifax seconds this, stating that the Brutii are noble, for sure, but even the bravest cannot endure thankless trespasses such as these for long.

“Something must be done,” my master declares ruefully. He leans over our table map as if some weight is bearing him down. “To the south lies Patavium. There is a harbor there, before the spring we can construct a navy.”

“If we push them hard enough,” Calipulus adds.

Titus Julius nods. “This certainly will aid Farious in ferrying troops from Sicilia…”

“-Not to mention help us ship their troops further north to hit the Romans in the back,” his son interjects.

Titus nods. “But, to the east lies Segestica.” His finger draws a path to the city that resides within proximity of the coast. “Should we take that it would allow the Brutii to outflank Marius, along with giving us the option of spreading out our naval quota.”

Calipulus expresses his dissent. “No, Father, Segestica’s harbor is much weaker, if we hit the Senatorial legions there we run the risk of losing Patavium. The Scipii will not have nearly the number of ships to aid their flotillas if we lose it.”

“But the Brutii will have an avenue of advance along the coast,” Halifax adds.

A silence ensues. Titus cannot come to a decision. With one decision he aids an ally whose naval power is unmatched. With the other he aids an ally who deserves our assistance and has a reputation for being the best infantry Rome can field. Titus abstains from either.

It is not long after that we are debriefed by a Brutii messenger, coming in on horseback and recounting the tale of Tarentum’s liberation. We are overjoyed to hear such news, and are told that Croton may lie next. We promise to make sacrifices to the gods in hopes of their success, but the messenger seems none too impressed. With him my master delegates a message: “The path north will be secured, should you seek it. Either way, Julii’s sword is yours.”

Before October is out we receive the bulk of our Roman reinforcements. It is barely eight thousand men. Most of them are cavalry, able to arrive swiftly from all outposts north, east and west of us. A few are some green hestati and velites. Regardless, we are ecstatic to have them shore up our roster. The process of reception is arduous, however, as none of these cohorts are cognizant of the tragedy that has befallen our family. Further shock is induced when we reveal to them both the nature and identity of our opponents. Marius’ Legionaries have garnered a reputation by now, and none of our Julii forces are anticipating a fight with them. All grow anxious. We can feel the tension mount in the highland air. As each dawn brings us closer to the army’s completion our troops become fidgety. Hardly anyone sleeps; restlessness sets in as the realization of having to face our countrymen becomes a reality. You can prescribe this as dread because the equites’ horses remain constantly well-groomed. When the cohorts are put through parade their kit shine as if Mars himself mustered them. Their bronze glows in the sunlight, their horses’ manes are perfectly combed, every stitch of leather is bossed to a sheen, whetted steel sings with a rust-less edge. In short, the men’s arms and armor are immaculate. It’s their hearts that are corroding.

Titus senses this, and moves to spur the advancement of their training. But this comes with its hazards. Noting that the timetable has been progressed, the legionnaires, and especially those forces that have been culled from other settlements, begin to waver. They buckle under the pressure of being mentally ill-prepared for such portents of civil war. They can’t take it. Apprehension reaches a pitch. Titus attempts to assuage their fears by making sacrifices. He burns pyre upon pyre, and even goes so far as to allow the Gauls to invoke their spirits. Madness captivates these savages as they paint themselves and chant to the point of driving our fellow Roman comrades out of the city in disgust, but my master allows it knowing such actions must be taken lest he lose the muscle of his army.

In short, Iuvavum is tearing itself apart at the seams.

Peusivinius expresses his concerns. “Sally now, while their constitution still holds!” he pleads.

To which Titus Julius replies: “If I marshal them now and set out to hunt the Cordovas we will become fodder for their pila! I must move when we are able to seize upon them so as not to wander about and fall into a trap!” Neither can come to an accord, both taxed heavily by the tension that suffocates our province.

But in the end, it is not Titus or Peusivinius who make the decision. It is General Galippus. By November the last of our cohorts are recalled, bringing ill tidings with them. They report that tracks of Roman scouts have been traced across their paths, and in some cases the equites have come across spies in their journeys to Iuvavum pretending to be bought by some of Rome’s Italian allies. Our Duke is smarter than that, though, and knows they are sent by the Senate. Some hestati from our fort near Lovosice report seeing forests cleared along the borders of Boihaemum and Pannonia. Titus recedes to Peusivinius’ governor’s hall to mull over strategy with Calipulus and Halifax.

The heat is on us. Pressure mounts. But still Titus Julius relents; holding his forces in Iuvavum to finely tune their training and make sure hegemony between the Gallic legionnaires and our recalled cohorts is incorporated. The Romans resent these Gauls in Republican bronze and leather. They resent them further for the scarlet Julii tunics these savages don. Each morning they rise and shit over the coals of their evening’s fire. Then they throw on our family’s red garment as if it were a pelt. It does nothing to deter Julius’ disposition against them, but alas he knows their barbarity must be endured. I worry about him though; how will he endure when our newly acquired Dacians arrive?

“The falxmen carry armor heavier than ours,” Titus declares. “Perhaps they are having a difficult time circumventing the Cordovas?” His speculation is ill-founded, showing that our Duke’s constitution is beginning to finally waver under the anxiety. “Galippus is quite close. I can feel it as a brand upon my nape. Whatever formations his legions have arrayed themselves in, I am sure it is the reason for our Dacians’ delinquency.”

No sooner do these words escape my master’s beardless maw than our beloved Dacian scoundrel, Piss Pot, throws open the oaken doors to our council chamber and strides forth.

“Greetings, Titus!” he bellows with that irksome accent that has become his hallmark. He comes upon our table map where we are standing and greets us with outstretched arms and a smiling maw so hideous that I cannot look upon it without my stomach churning. “I no miss your party, eh?” he inquires as he forcibly embraces every one of us. He makes his rounds as Titus tries to reply, laughing as he goes, evoking gasps for air and chokes from all, save Halifax who weathers this affection with crossed arms, as a monolith endures the embrace of a storm. When the Dacian is satisfied he settles himself onto the edge of the table, his buckskin pants secreting some fluid onto our immaculate Roman marble. My stomach churns as it often does in the presence of this rogue, even as the stench of urine recedes from my nostrils. He, however, is as oblivious as always.

“Greetings to you, Piss Pot,” my master replies again with a smile, hoping this time the Dacian hears him. “We have been expecting you.”

The scoundrel shrugs. “Yes, yes, sorry. Many falxes to get…and many Romans in your track.” Titus sort of perks at this, to which Piss Pot reiterates: “All true! I see them south of here. All making camp for winter.” My master inquires as to how many. His eyes grow wide as dinner plates. “As many as yours and half as more!” He means over twenty-one thousand. Titus sighs and sinks his head into his hands. Piss Pot exhibits a paramount concern and rises to comfort him. Halifax moves close to make sure nothing unexpected happens. “No worries, Titus!” Piss Pot exclaims. “All are spread across alps.”

“Do you remember how they were formed?” the Duke asks.

Piss Pot nods excitedly and bolts for the door. We all rise to petition his intentions. He bellows that he is going to get “the eyes”. Knowing how utterly ignorant the man is, we elect to sit and wait. When he returns he has three Dacian Falxmen in tow, all equally revolting in appearance as their headman. They describe the remains of an encampment square in nature and particular in its organization. Titus needs no further explanation. But they continue. They tell him that they are spread as thin as ice over the mountains. Titus seizes upon this opportunity. By the end of the month we are packing our kits and tying on our furs.

I stand before the Noricum Alps less than a week later, mounting my jet gelding alongside Titus. The man dons his old leather cuirass and leather helmet, the tassel from its top wafting in the breeze. We stand over looking a vast encampment, hidden from the pickets by dense trees and mounting snowdrifts. Beside us, on an ass as putrid as the man himself, sits Piss Pot, decked out resplendent bronze armor beneath buckskin clothing.

“Now remember,” Titus instructs the Dacian, “wait until their trumpets sound the night watch, then move. We’ll be right behind you.” The rogue agrees and spurs his mount to go join his people. They are nearly three thousand, with another three thousand in Gallic tribesmen bribed by Halifax a few days before. We are lucky, but our force is as much a motley crew as it is a professional military force. We hope their discipline will carry through. We harbor the same dread when it comes to our Gallic legionnaires. If their constitution wanes we will be but grist for the mill.

Before I know it night sets in and with it, the onset of our surprise attack. Knowing the Cordovaas are spread out so thin, we will hit their left most camp, the one that contains the majority of fresh recruits. It is Titus’ hopes that we can take them by surprise and slaughter most in their sleep. We could use the gear, and to fight them in a pitched battle would only destroy that which we could use the most. In no time the signal arrow is sent screaming into the night, followed by those sounds of warfare that have become all too familiar to a humble Hispanic eunuch. We cannot properly discern the battle, but its pitch is intense enough to perceive that our ploy has worked. The Cordovas are thrown into disarray. I cannot blame them; who would expect a nocturnal assault from three thousand savages in the mountains, in the dead of winter? Add to this general confusion the fact that they are Dacians, dozens of leagues from their own turf, and you have a mania that can only be sobered by the edge of steel. What is worse, the Dacians attack from the haze of snowdrifts and a fortuitous mist that has rolled through the mountains. The night watchmen are taken completely unawares by these heavily armed bronze-armored savages emerging from the miasma of wintry air to cleave their companies while they stand.

When the pickets are killed off the Dacians reconnoiter their positions with the Gauls, who are experts at clandestine navigations of the treacherous mountain passes. With no pickets to ward them off, the Gallic mercenaries invade the camp with a stealth previously unimaginable. At this moment Titus orders the charge. We spur our equites into the camp, knowing that its thunderous clamor will arouse the legion. Behind us trample the hestati and Velites, followed by our princepes. So quickly are we inside the camp and slicing our way through the hordes of rousing Romans that before I can break a sweat the remaining thousand can be seen surrendering, while another two hundred make a desperate stand behind a bunker of baggage. Our Roman cohorts secure the thousand prisoners while Halifax leads the assault against the last two hundred. They fall as wheat before the scythe.

By dawn the next day we are trading our armor up. The Dacians and Gauls who elect it receive our old Roman equipment: the longer pila, the veruti, scale and link mail hauberks, spathas, leather and bronze cuirasses, while we indulge on the spoils of our easy conquest. These Cordovas were fooled, and we were lucky. But it would not happen a second time. Such lightning only strikes once.

But Titus Julius does not wish to use clever tricks and surprises to win the inevitable battle against General Galippus. He knows that by now it would be pointless to try; the man must be aware of the disaster that befell his youngest legion. So the Duke of the House of Julii elects another, more barbaric path. Perhaps he has indulged the people too much. Or maybe it is a derangement that has beset him in the winter of his years. Either way, we are securing a precipice overlooking the Cordovas’ marshalling armies before midday. General Galippus has made the mistake of being over-confident and over-extending his lines. In this way we were able to decimate his first legion with relative ease before their Legionary comrades could respond. But now that Galippus knows we’re here, in the mountains, and above him, he will not allow such mistakes to be repeated twice.

I see them marshaling before our assembled lines a couple hundred meters down the mountainside, cohorts upon cohorts of well-ordered soldiers carrying their two pila and rectangular scutum. Their chain mail hauberks creates a dull, thick bar that nearly stretches from one end of sight to another. They are now seventeen thousand. We are nearly twenty-six. To the right of our line are the Dacians, given the place of honor for their risk the previous day. To our left, circumventing the stout centuries of Romans, the Gauls move with a stealthy intent. Their attack will be crucial.

Titus rides forth, bringing behind him two ranks of prisoners, stripped bare and turned blue by the winter chill. Our triarii are the ones guarding them, thinking that when the battle starts they will not see much action.

“Galippus!” Titus roars into the dense tree line below. “Galippus!” No one sallies forth. My master motions for the triarii to present their charges, and our thousand captives are prodded into plain view. “You have spurned virtue for obedience, you fiend! Arriteum lays in ashes, and with it those who only knew love for Rome! Your fealty to a madman has cost me many that I love. And now it will cost you…” He signals to the triarii again, and the two thousand prisoners are speared in the back. Their heads are ripped from their necks and posted on spare pikes. Others are impaled, living, and planted in the hard earth. A scene of supreme carnage ensues as the winter stillness is broken by Titus’ order. “This is the price of obedience!”

Galippus is mounted on a sable stallion so massive my first impression is that he is a boy playing soldier on his father’s steed. But when he spurs his warhorse up out of the tree line and comes within clear sight of our legions he laughs. My blood curdles at this villain’s hellish trumpeting.

“You truly are a man of the people, Titus!” he proclaims over the howling winter winds. Blasts of snow mask his approach and that of his legions. “Tell me, what rabble do you wish to throw at us now? Will clever tricks again be your mantra, or will you fail miserably as you did at Arriteum, costing you the lives of all you held dear?”

“I have still those among me whom I fight to preserve,” Titus replies. “And the shades of those unjustly murdered by your vermin will find sanctuary in the craggy soil of these Alps, drenched to marshes by the deluge of your blood!”

Before Galippus can provide a retort my master draws his sword and orders the attack. We charge down the mountain face with an impetus that borders on recklessness, shouting and bellowing all manner of words to invoke either fear or the favor of our preferred gods. The howls and barks across our line are monstrous, though, as the Gallic legionnaires draw strength from their dark deities and replicate the very sounds of the damned with their chants and bellows. In the distance I can hear a name being roared over the den: “Adreia!” I know it is Calipulus.

In front our Velites hurl their veruti into the heavy infantry Legionaries. Our maniples move into formation, honey-combing themselves into the traditional hestati, princepes and triarii reserves (of which there are scant few). When this is completed they hurl themselves down the slopes, some moving to the outskirts to dislodge rocks and create an avalanche of granite as much as an avalanche of Roman bravery. Pila whiz overhead, arcing in low trajectories just as Galippus’ own javelins and missiles rise to meet us. But the wind fouls many of those in the first volley, their upwind ascent too steep to properly gain momentum. Most of them fall in front of our lines. But the pila are not what we fear. It is the gladius and the scutum that worries us, along with the chain mail and steel helmets. Our lines collide with a sickening noise, as two complex models crashing into one another. The equites writhe and reel from the missiles that befall them. Many riders are thrown back onto our approaching infantry; others are simply skewered—in many cases to their horses—by the warheads. Those that are lucky manage to block the weapons on our shields, though we must discard them immediately afterward.

In the general chaos I see Galippus wheel his mount and charge at Titus’ position, their color guards clashing in a fury of equestrian terror. Through this tumultuous sea of carnage I see that both Galippus and Titus have remained astride and draw within one another’s proximity to duel like the heroes of old. These aged men, both well past their prime, fight with an animalistic ferocity I have not seen in any of our generation. Perhaps it is a virtue reserved strictly for the old men? Either way, the two ancients meet and clash, their horses rising back while legs of both mount and rider kick violently to inflict pain upon the other. Titus wheels his jet gelding around and slams its body into that of Galippus’ left side. I can tell from the sound of the hit and the yelp from the Roman General that the impact has crushed his greaved leg. Nevertheless this finely armored bastion of Senatorial excellence continues to fight. Their gladii cross and thrust with such velocity that I can hardly assimilate it. And in a way I am transfixed.

But no sooner do I enter my state of witness than danger sets upon me. The Cordovas have employed the testudo at the last moment of impact, and our forces have lost their charge upon them “as waves break upon the rock”. From beneath this hardened cyst burst the newly outfitted Romans, roaring into the lines of Julii scarlet and carving up the hestati before I can summon the reserves. Now the chain mail armor works its protection. Our hestati’s weapons falter upon it, and they must resort to ganging up on segmented centuries and maniples to gain the upper hand. Those that have remained in the testudo, though, are broken by our charging equites, who lunge into the formation and scatter it as leaves before the trunk. These suicide missions cost us dearly, but without them the Legionaries would remain a wall of dominance. But where I am the action is thickest, much to my concern. Hestati attempt to hold their ground while the princepes follow up. More pila soar overhead, striking those in front of me with a merciless violence. I see two Legionaries transfixed by the same pilum, the iron warhead sinking through both of their hauberks and pushing out the spine of the rearmost. To the left I see men begin to slip and falter in the mud that sluices bodily fluids. Snow turns to rain in the humidity. The frost melts. And the stench? Well, I need not remind anyone who has endured combat that the stench alone can deprive a man of life-saving breath. Many double over, on both sides, from want of air. These unfortunate souls are instantly set upon by members of both armies seeking a quick kill. Dozens die in my proximity from this advent alone.

Then come Piss Pot’s Dacians. They thunder in from the right flank and push upon the beleaguered Julii’s wing with their heavy falxes and chosen swordsmen. The Dacians despise life and show great remorse over its endurance, believing that death is the great deliver and the first step into what they consider “the real world”. In the following two hours many Dacians succeed in gaining that which they have so longed for: and end to their suffering. But nevertheless the Cordovas endure this new threat as well, holding their own as our honey combed cohorts block up to create bars of Julii scarlet. The last pila are thrown and the reserve princepes join the fight. Behind them plunge the triarii, jabbing their spears over the heads of the entire frontline in the hopes of hitting any of the foe. Those that are brave enough wedge their way to the fore and begin pushing back the Legionaries, lodging their spears into the scuti and pinning them down, or maneuvering them out of the way so that the Legionary is defenseless.

But what does it are the Gauls. They hit the central Cordova, the First Legion, from behind. Their warbands are lightly armored, and against such heavy infantry they would be skewered and cut to ribbons. But here, in the press of the melee and the chaos that reigns, they are the perfect tool: Light, flexible and crazed, these bloodthirsty maniacs spare no one in their attacks and hit with such frequent speed that they are gone before the rear ranks can turn and affect a defense, so pressured are they from our combined front. Only corpses belie their wake, littering the ground until they slide through the muck.

Then it happens. I hear a trumpet sound throughout the madness, just as I am sinking my gladius into the exposed throat of a Legionary. We all turn towards the center of the battle line to see Galippus’ color guard thundering pell-mell down the mountain. In the corpse-choked void I see Titus standing atop a mound of corpses, his body covered in blood and glued with grime and black crust. He holds a bloodied gladius aloft, and on it is the spiked, bare head of Galippus. That does it. The Cordovas lose heart. All but three cohorts flee down the mountainside. A great cheer erupts from the Julii legions. Our battered equites and Velites give chase, along with the Gauls and the savage Dacians, but most of the hestati and princepes simply set up a guard, hoping that the enemy will kill themselves in their flight down the mountain. Many are trampled by their comrades, and those few that remain are quickly swarmed upon by our troops. They are butchered mercilessly. All pleas for clemency are denied without a moment’s hesitation. A cluster of cries and screams bursts from their location as Titus orders them all slaughtered. Further nexuses of murders take place down into the tree lines, close to the foot of the mountains. Those Cordovas that escape are hunted like hares by our Gallic mercenaries. In no time it is over and the Julii legionnaires are cheering.

The Romans salute their victory and muster for sound off and then sacrifice and prayer. The Gauls relish in the carnage, rending bodies apart and painting themselves in blood. Various berserkers skin the Legionaries, while others commit further acts of deranged barbarity that I will not speak of. The Dacians, ironically, are the most stoic, beholding their dead and plucking them from the muck. It is a great victory for the Julii. Revenge is the sweetest of nectars. The Cordovas, those fiends who perpetrated such merciless injustice upon those who have only loved Rome, have now been punished. Were it not for our alliance I am convinced Titus would quit the campaign there. But holding to his oath, we continue to plan events.

Two days later our army has commandeered the Cordovas’ camps. Our medics begin their work in earnest while Titus, Halifax and Calipulus discuss our next move.

“Ariminum,” Halifax suggests, thinking we should hit the northern coast and immediately begin pushing south. “It is weak and ill-defended. We can capture it before the spring.”

“No, Patavium first,” Calipulus objects. “We’ll need the harbor.”

“I cannot spare my officers for a double-fronted campaign,” sighs Titus.

“Send me to Patavium with the Romans. You take the Gauls and Dacians and retake Ariminum. We’ll meet up two months from now.”

During this congress a messenger arrives bearing a dispatch from the Brutii. It says that two legions will indeed aid us in taking Segestica if we move upon it. Halifax grows silent under the new offer. He becomes further removed when it is revealed that the Brutii are amassing forces near Hellas. We all become fearful. Now would be the perfect time to take back what the Brutii have always thought was truly theirs.

“It is none of our concern,” Calipulus argues in advance. “Let the garrison fight their own war for once, we are talking about provinces that have belonged to the Julii since before any of us were born! Patavium, Segestica, Ariminum, all of these are hallmarks of our people. To lose them is to lose that which we have inherited through the blood and toil of our ancestors.”

Titus eyes his son, though not without a glint of pride. Calipulus is showing himself to be his father’s son. But a darkness quickly follows my master’s visage, as his thoughts return to duty. I know the look in his eyes; he is about to ask Calipulus to do that which he will hate the most. “Our garrison in Athens is weak,” Titus declared, discarding the messenger’s scroll with a scowl. “And it would seem that the Brutii are looking to cash in their chips.” He says this while looking at Calipulus. “We’ll need everyone we can find, and someone who knows how to procure them to muster it up.”

The young buck sighs, but retains his dignity. “Direct, and I shall go.”

Before Calipulus can wipe the begrimed crimson and black sludge from his bronze armor, Titus has him on a Dacian caravan and moving southeast to the coast. With his son off to Athens to gather reinforcements, he summons Piss Pot.

“Still up for a little dung-heaping on Rome?”

“Always!” the Dacian madman replies, scrunching his face in a fart.

Titus nods. “Good, we’ll hit Patavium next and then Segestica.” Halifax asks him when. Titus shoots him a look. “As soon as we’re ready.” This is unheard of: to cross the mountains in winter, fresh from a battle, and descend upon a settlement in hopes of taking it? But war demands extremity, and in this regard Titus has no compunction about pushing us to our limits. We march into Venetia the following month. Before February hits we are setting our siege equipment up. For three weeks we surround and harass the settlement, it’s wooden walls no sanctuary to our firebrands, tow bolts, arrows and even javelins. The Gauls jeer and bark like beasts at the waiting army, while our Dacians hunt ravenously for stragglers and runners to bludgeon and gut. Patavium reels under our presence. On the last day of February we assault her barriers.

We launch four rams at her walls; two near the gate and two on the left. A furious missile battle ensues as Patavium’s home guard is mostly archers. Two of our rams go down, burning like bonfires as the hestati bolt for cover. The gate falls, however, and before our third and fourth ram can punch through the defenses Titus is spurring the legions into the city. For whatever reason, Marius’ legions were few. Only a pair of mostly missile troops were held to guard it, and though this meant our forces would be hit by veritable walls of arrowheads, our entry proved overwhelmingly successful. First among the invaders was Titus, his once-withered form now animated and vibrant as he spurs through the battered section of palisade.

“Into the breach! Into the breach!” he shouts as volleys of arrows trade fire overhead.

Halifax roars beside him, leading a team of elite equites into the city and carving up the archers before they know what to do. I am there as well, the tendons in my arm screaming in agony as I cut through man after man. When the third and fourth ram have done their jobs the Gauls and Dacians flow into the city, while we proceed to hit the capital from two directions. The Gauls are first, their lightly armored troops easily outpacing those heavy swordsmen and falxmen of the Dacians. Ahead lie three cohorts of Legionaries, supplemented by two auxiliary cohorts and a maniple of Legionary Cavalry. As powerful a force as this is, we are simply too numerous. Many die, throwing themselves upon the weapons of our enemies. The Gauls happen to nearly break in this moment, and it is the words of Halifax alone that reanimate their resolve to fight. But I must say I cannot blame them, for who can expect to strike against such hardened infantry and survive? The Legionaries are efficient and grand, but they are simply not enough, our two-pronged assault leaves less than a hundred to plead for their lives. None retreat. When it is over I see that Titus has been wounded, his cavalry unit decimated in the final moments of battle where they launched themselves upon the Legionary Cavalry. Only the falxmen and triarii saved them, but arriving so late as to cost Titus over half his color guard. My master is wounded as well, a broken leg and a sliced deltoid hindering him as he attempts to dismount.

We take nearly a week to rest and recover. But time is short and we must move. In our scrounging around for supplies we happen upon a few batteries of onagers and some ballistae. These we elect to lug with us when we hump it to Segestica. And we must move quickly. By then our force numbered nearly twenty thousand total, losing roughly seven hundred Dacians, three hundred Gauls and five thousand Julii legionnaires. We are now less than any of Marius’ divisions that he can field against us. Nearly a third of our forces have perished since setting out in November. Yet we are battle-hardened, and when we arrive in the farmlands and outskirts of Segestica, we are at ease. Experience and Necessity have made us star pupils of war. Even the Gauls know how to compose themselves for the fight. Nevertheless we are worn thin. The battle at the Noricum Alps proved to tax us more than we predicted. It hit us at Patavium, when such an assault nearly broke our ranks. That battle, however quickly it may have ended, was hard-fought and barely won. A kernel of fear takes root in our hearts as we begin to construct new siege equipment and position the onagers. We’re not sure if we’re up for another siege.

But we are met with a miracle from the gods. It would seem they still have some use for the Julii! Smoke billows into columns that transcend to the heavens. We can see ash and soot cloud within the walls of Segestica. As we approach we happen upon a runaway, just some local farmhand. When we interrogate him we learn that Segestica is in revolt to SPQR forces. We instantly chuck the rams and bolt all units for the city, leaving our siege engines to bash a hole into the walls so that we may pass at the moment we approach.

Segestica has never been an enormous settlement, but it is sprawling, capable of holding half a dozen medium-sized engagements within its city limits. We try to remain cognizant of this as we flood through the breaches in search of harried Legionaries. Titus lingers behind, choosing to play saddle-commander while Halifax and Piss Pot lead the charge. While he sits a scout brings a message to us indicating that two Brutii legions, some eight thousand men, lie just south of Segestica wishing to know when Titus will be attacking. They indicate the smoke and insinuate that said assault should be soon. Titus smiles at this and scribbles a reply in his own hand. I managed to catch a glimpse of this dispatch and it read simply:

“The party’s begun, can the Brutii run in their dancing shoes?”

When he finished he turned to me: “Find Halifax and tell him the Brutii will hit from the south before sunset. Tell him to hold with what he’s got and not overextend.” I nod and gallop towards the burning city, now lit aflame by the combination of our assault and the revolt taking place. Even as I leave Titus is calling after me: “Guard what he’s got! Don’t get careless dammit!”

When I enter the city, I feel as though I am entering Hades. Fires incinerate everything. Conflagrations abound consuming livestock, supplies and buildings. Men run from structures, bursting with flames and shrieking madly. Firebrands from archers pelt every space of cobblestone floor. The paved roads of Rome are broken and burnt black by the ash and soot. In this infernal chaos I find Halifax, he is striding through the ranks of a group of Julii princepes, about to lead them in an attack upon the capital. I rein in beside him and spew my message. He cups his sword hand up to his ear, glaring at me with one eye. I repeat my message to him, this time shouting it from my toes. I know he hears me when he wheels about and cusses, hocking a massive wad of phlegm onto the broken flagstones of the street. I learn later that he was about to make his move on the capital, and that such a moment was being coordinated with our barbarian allies.

Alas, it was three hours before the last Roman Legionary fell, pinned like a cushion by a hail of arrows and literally torn to shreds by the Brutii’s gladii. The fight was hard, even with the guerilla tactics used by the revolting populace. Whole centuries were trapped inside burning buildings, their comrades unable to retrieve them before the things imploded. Those that did not burn to death or suffocate in the smoke and haze were ended on the tips of pila and gladii. I myself watched as a single Roman Legionary thrust a Gaul with his gladius through the neck, its tip bursting blood and vertebrae out the back, while simultaneously bringing down the bottom rim of his shield on the unarmored crown of a Julii princepes, shearing off his crown and spilling his brains onto the grime-slicked streets. All of these Legionaries sold their lives dearly, yet in the end it was the Brutii who prevailed.

Gods I admire those bastards. They fight fearlessly, and like the Spartans of old, prefer the gladius to the pila. They will plunge in and sink their swords into the mail-covered guts of a Marius Legionary before any of us can muster the courage to unsheath our weapons. And they don’t give a damn whether it means the death of them. They’re in it for the honor, for the glory, and to exceed the deeds of their forbearers. I must confess I have never seen Brutii fight, let alone alongside Julii. But today I understand why Titus Julius holds such high regards for the men of Marcus Brutius. They are knights incomparable. Where the Julii will examine and reconnoiter the Brutii will charge and pluck victory from the very grasp of the wary. And though many of these fine warriors perished on the tips of Marius’ cohorts, their valor was unmatched. Even Piss Pot took notice of their bravery.

“When war over, you stay in Hellas!” he declares to the Brutii leader, Captain Valerius, when the battle has ended. He smiles and takes in the carnage that surrounds the city streets with a wave of his arm. “No Dacian go south of Bylazora after this day!” Captain Valerius eyes the wretch grimly. Long have the Dacians and Brutii fought for the provinces just north of Hellas, and many have perished upon each other’s swords. Now, face to face, these two captains of their people seemed to edge towards one another, the Dacian wishing to congratulate—albeit begrudgingly—the Brutii general, and the Roman wanting to skewer the Dacian vagabond.

Titus sees this, and hobbles over to intercede. “Captain Valerius!” he yells across the corpse-choked causeway of Segestica’s outer gate. “So glad you could make it.” He approaches and extends his forearm for a shake, smiling.

Captain Valerius relents, seething at the Julii Duke. “You didn’t tell me Dacians would be here.” He bares his teeth at both Titus and Piss Pot. “When Marcus Brutius hears of this…”

“-Forgive me, please, noble general,” Titus attempts to amend. He waves me over and scuttle to assist him as he kneels before the petulant Brutii officer. “The Dacians have provided their services to us since the fall. We would not be here if it were not for them. I beseech you, hallowed heir of Brutius, do not spurn our alliance on the matter of a couple thousand…wild men.”

“After today, no hard feelings for Brutii!” Piss Pot declares excitedly over the two. The scene has fallen silent, and all are afraid of an outburst from the seething Brutii.

Titus shushes the Dacian with a flick of his wrist. “I cannot thank thee enough for coming to our aid, Captain. We would have lost were it not for you.” I help him rise to his feet. In the purple dusk of the coastal settlement I see these two leaders meet eyes, as an eagle regards another. Halifax approaches at this time, cognizant of the situation and fresh from the battle. “Follow your heart, Captain Valerius; you have been ordered to aid us, and we will ensure that such magnanimity is requited tenfold. The Julii will always cherish the Brutii, and we will fight for you just as you have fought for us. Remember your oaths, and the honor that compels you to greatness. Allow these good warriors to continue in our service and I promise I will make it up to you.”

Captain Valerius refuses to take his eyes off of Piss Pot. The Dacian’s savage smile begins to fade, his rotted, scattered teeth vanishing behind a bearded maw. “If I do,” the Brutii officer says, “you must swear to obey a single order of the Brutii, no matter the loss, no matter the circumstance.”

My master ponders this for many moments. His tall, broad body is riven in this train of minutes, surrounded by a city feeding on the battlefield detritus and the mangled mix of flesh and armor. A sickly smell permeates the air, and in the distance we can hear foundations giving way and buildings surrendering to the flames. Yet none take their eyes off of Titus. His aged, withered, broken apparition commands the attention of nearly twenty-five thousand men.

“For the sake of all that has transpired,” he replies. “And for deeds done in centuries past…it is the least the Julii could do to honor such noble and heroic allies as yourselves. May the gods continue to bless us both, Captain Valerius, for your fidelity to the cause and your unerring honor. You are legends in the flesh, generous and pure, and I am venerated to requite the virtues.” He bows to the man, and before his shattered limb can touch the flagstone the assembly of onlookers erupts into cheers. The alliance has been preserved.

When he rises, Captain Valerius speaks. “So, where to now?”

“Now?” Titus repeats. “Now, my new friend, we begin our march on Rome.”

October in the year 100 B.C.

Farious was in Croton sorting through his parchments. A shipment of rare Egyptian spices had arrived in Messana, which was sure to fund the war for a few more months. Lilybaeum was plugging along nicely, working on the fleet that Farious had ordered months ago. But there was no news of the Senate and worse, no news on his allies. Then a messenger hurried into his chambers with a huge smile on his face.

“Yes, what is it?”

“Great news milord, Carthage has fallen!”

Farious jumped to his feet and took the parchment and read it. Instantly, he was transported 500 miles away to Carthage.

Helos Scipii, commander of the small Scipii contingent, and fourth cousin to Farious, sat atop his sorrel mare, and watched the siege with much interest. Onagers bashed the stone walls, and towers crept forward. The legendary Sacred Band Spearmen could be seen atop the walls, but they had no idea what was awaiting them.

As the walkways on the towers dropped, 300 Spartans, freshly trained in Syracuse before we set upon this invasion, poured forth onto the walls. The quickly formed a phalanx and began driving the Sacred Band backwards, and more than a few fell from the ledge to their deaths. The Spartans, with their longer spears, were able to keep the Sacred Band back and eventually pinned them against the wall. The Carthaginians died quickly, but with honor.

As the Spartans took the gateway, they threw open the gates and permitted the Scipii legions entry into the city. The few hastati and principle squads secured the entrance, and a long line of Grecian phalanxes filed into the city. They formed a box formation and began heading west towards the central plaza.

As they marched, the ground began to shake and roll. The Greeks began looking around for the source of the sound, and suddenly 2500 Carthaginian cavalry rounded a corner at the rear of the formation. Before they could turn, the cavalry slammed into their lines, and several hundred Greeks were killed. But then two things happened. The Greeks were able to turn, and the Spartans left the walls and sealed off the street trapping the cavalry between two forces. The cavalry tried to break free, but the walls of spears wore them down. All the Carthaginian cavalry died on that street, and Carthage was taken.

Farious smiled as he finished the report, and couldn’t believe his fortune. Then another messenger arrived.

Still smiling, Farious addressed him. “And what glorious news do you have to report?”

“Uh…milord…Capua had been taken by the Brutii, and they mean to use it as a staging base for attacks on Rome.”

Farious’ smile faded. Of course, he should have expected that. This would be a delicate alliance at best.

November in the year 100 B.C.

Finally all of Farious’ Grecian and Carthaginian allies had been outfitted in Scipii blue tunics, and to an untrained eye, it appeared that Farious had added several new units to the Scipii retinue. He was sure to surprise the Romans in their next battle.

Also while planning in Croton, Farious received word that the Scipii fleet was at last ready and had set sail northward. Farious had plans to blockade the Roman harbors and cut into the revenue available to them.

The fleet was a few days out when on the horizon, they could see purple sails. The Scipii fleet numbered 24 ships. It had 4 quiniremes, 10 triemes, and 10 biremes. The Senate fleet numbered 40 biremes. While the numbers were against them, the Scipii were well-trained sailors and were led by Admiral Scientius. Scientius ordered the quins to form a center flanked by an equal number of tris and bis. Twenty-four archers had supplemented the standard Scipii crews. They brought burning braziers on deck and readied their arrows. As they drew closer, the smaller ships sailed faster than the quins and in effect formed a giant naval “V” with the quins at the point. The Romans appeared unsure about this development, and as they tried to counter it, the sides of the “V” began to envelop them. The archers opened fire, and the Senate ships couldn’t get turned quickly enough to get away.

A few of the Senate’s ships tried to use their rams to break the formation, but when they did, Admiral Scientius just ordered the target to move away and let the ship out of the trap. Isolated thus, the ship was an even easier target for the Scipii archers.

In just over two hours, the Scipii sailed away to Rome. They had lost 3 biremes, but the rest of their fleet was almost unscathed. The Senate however had lost their entire fleet.

By late November, the Scipii had blockaded Rome, and were seizing goods from the ships and sending them back to Messana. A few ships had come from other senatorial ports to try and break the blockade, but these were always beaten. By December, it was obvious that the Scipii were once again master of the seas.

December in the year 100 B.C.

Farious received three important bits of news in December. Olivia was pregnant with their first child, the Carthaginian government in Thapsus had contacted him asking for peace, and the Julii had started their attempt to reclaim northern Italy.

Farious had waiting so long for a child that he refused to take any chances and once the treaty with Thapsus was signed, he ordered Olivia to go stay in Carthage. Olivia, of course, refused to listen, as is common with wives. But guilt and fear for her unborn child wore her down and she relented.

For their part, the Carthaginians only asked for an end to the hostilities, but Farious demanded more. He insisted they sell him another 250 war elephants, and although reluctant, the idea of losing Thapsus was too much and they agreed.

But for all the good news December had brought, nothing was heard from the still brooding Brutii.

January and February in the New Year 99 B.C.

The news arrived in Croton late in January that the Brutii had been routed from Capua, and Farious arrived upon an idea. He knew enough to know that the Brutii must have hurt the Senate army badly, and that if he struck quickly, perhaps he could arrive before reinforcements.

Farious ordered 15000 of his men in Croton to march on Capua. Farious then sent word to the army in the hills, to be in Capua within a week. He wanted them to work there way into the town in small groups, and be ready to fight.

By mid-February, Farious army was outside Capua, and the legionnaires refused to sally forth. He tried time after time to get them to come to him, but they refused. Farious brought up the onagers and targeted the gates.

The onagers threw 100 pound stones and these crashed against the iron gates with amazing force. Even so, it took 2 hours of constant pounding to see cracks begin to form, and when the gates did give way, 2000 legionary cavalry charged out. The Scipii were surprised by the maneuver, and it almost cost them the battle. But their archers stood facing the charging cavalry and sent arrows flying into both horse and rider. Several dozen archers were run down, but many others kept firing and finally drove the cavalry back within the city.

The defenders tried to push wagons in front of the wrecked gates, but the Scipii swarmed in too fast. Even the SPQR units manning the oil cauldrons couldn’t dump the loads on enough Scipii to stop them. These were men fighting for their capital and home.

Even so, the superior trained and equipped Romans started to resist, and almost forced the Scipii back out of Capua. Until the army that had been forced to live like animals for almost a year, emerged from within the city to strike at the defenders. With their element of surprise, the Romans didn’t stand a chance.

Finally ten months after he had been driven from Capua, Farious returned home. His first action was to order 400 of his 500 war elephants brought up to Capua. He had held them from the battle in order to maintain an element of surprise when he attacked Rome. He then had his men return to their homes for a weeklong furlough. His Grecian and Carthaginian armies were given lodging at inns and larger homes throughout the city.

March of the year 99 B.C.

Most of March went by uneventfully, with one exception. While regrouping and retraining his men, a messenger arrived from the Brutii.

“Honorable ally,

I am pleased to hear you have freed your home. Much as we were relieved to free ours. However, Croton, a noble Brutii city, still remains in your hands. I expect that you have simply been too busy to remove your armies. Please alert me as to when you will be able to withdraw your forces.

Gracan Brutus, cousin of Marcus”

Farious smiled. Noticing the note was not sent from Marcus meant something. Marcus was too angry to deal with him at all, and so had his inferior cousin contact him.

“Oh the joys of politics…” mumbled Farious.

“Milord”, spoke the messenger, “do you have a message for me to take back?”

Farious stared at the messenger for a moment and then responded. “Of course, tell your lord that we need Croton as a staging area for contacting Messana, but we shall remove our forces from Croton as soon as this war is over.”

In the March of the Second year of the reign of Gaius Marius, Emperor of Rome

Four additional imperial legions had been hastily commissioned and trained; three were sent north to retake lost territory. Marius wanted these threats to the empire crushed once and for all, and it needed to happen soon if he expected to hold onto power. Grumblings in the senate were becoming more pronounced, despite the fear of retribution should anyone draw the attention of Saturnius. He had just married a young niece of the emperor, and added the title of Praetorian Guard Commander to his list of offices. This most feared body of soldiers had become a personal police force for the emperor, 'Praetorians at the door' was now equated to impending death. Saturnius was the boogeyman parents scared their children with if they misbehaved.

The loss of the Cordova Legion and its commander, Galippus, along with Patavium and Segestica, had instilled an increased sense of urgency in Marius and Saturnius. The new legions, along with whatever forces remained in the north would move to retake Patavium first, then proceed as ordered.

The fourth new legion, named in honor of Mars, had a very different mission. Marius surmised that the activity to the north would leave the Dalmatian coast lightly defended, so the Mars Legion would take Salona and threaten Brutus in his own territory. The timetable called for an assault on Apollonia by early summer that would deprive the Brutii of that vital port and gateway to Greece, and prevent them from rushing to the aid of their allies. It all sounded like an excellent plan, but Marius knew full well that the winds of war could not be so easily controlled.

Marcus Brutus had plans of his own for the upcoming months, the first of which was another assault on Capua, for strategic and personal reasons. Following the previous disaster, Brutus' engineers had been building their own scorpions, repeating ballistae and heavy onagers. His cohorts had been increased six hundred, his legions to six thousand. Italian mercenaries were enlisted in ever increasing numbers.

On the coast of Dalmatia

Marco Drusus had been greatly honored when command of the Mars Legion was given to him, his pledge to fight and die for the empire heartfelt. The Brutii at Salona would be swept aside under the onslaught of his Mars legion; visions of Apollonia were already in Drusus' thoughts.

Poor navigation had put the Mars legion further north of their objective than planned, but once this was discovered, Marco Drusus was not about to reload the ships, they would march to Salona and crush their enemy.
Some of the experienced cohort commanders silently questioned the decision of the newly promoted general, but they too did not expect much of battle ahead.

Rain and mud slowed the progess of the Mars Legion to a point that the artillery units could not keep up with the infantry. Drusus was becoming increasingly impatient, the march to Salona was taking too long. Without consulting his commanders, he decided to move the bulk of the infantry and half of the cavalry forward, leaving the rest to move on as quickly as possible. Drusus' adjutant protested the need to hurry along without reconnaisance, the generals response was to place him in command of the artillery. Drusus planned to encamp within striking distance of Salona by mid afternoon.

The advancement and progress of the Mars legion had been observed by scouts ever since they had landed. When news reached the Brutii general that the enemy had split their force, he could not believe it. 'What kind of fool leads this army, who did he pay off to get this command?' The order was issued to prepare his full strength legion, instructions were given to the commanders.

The rain had stopped, the ground not so unforgiving, so Marco Drusus pushed his troops forward and reached the spot where he wanted to make camp. Riders were sent out to observe any movements in and around Salona, most of which were ambushed by awaiting patrols of Brutii. Encampment procedures continued.

One frantic scout galloped into camp, an arrow impaled in his shoulder. He was rushed to Drusus, but his report was sketchy as best; Brutii were approaching in undetermined numbers was all the man could say. Hurried orders were given to cohort commanders, "Take the battle to them, death to the Brutii!"

The way to Salona was slightly inclined, the ground rocky and uneven of either side of the poorly paved road, so troop movement would be slow and cumbersome. Drusus eyed the terrain, not knowing what to do next. In the past he had always been given orders by superior officers, trusted in their command expertise, and had tried to learn from them. This situation had never arisen in his experience. He knew that all eyes were on him, awaiting orders and growing increasingly apprehensive by the general's hesitation.

"First four cohorts form in column on the road, deploy beyond that second line of boulders; fifth and sixth to the left, seventh and eighth to the right---hold your lines. Praetorian cohorts up the road and hold; auxilia forward on the flanks, archers behind. Cavalry go wide to protect the flanks!"

The Mars legion moved with all of the precision they could muster, given the unfavorable ground. More commanders now questioned their general openly, they did not know what was coming. Drusus relieved them all of their commands and ordered them to the rear, then directed members of his own bodyguard to take charge of the leaderless cohorts.

In the time it took for the imperial troops to deploy, the Brutii had formed up, largely out of the enemy line-of-sight. Spotters estimated the distance to the lead cohorts and relayed it to the onagers and scorpions, who concentrated their first volley on one confined area. The first round of deadly missiles and fractured boulders, designed to fragment into thousands of small projectiles on impact, took out almost half of a cohort. Repeating ballistae appeared and fired round after round of bolts that pinned down the invaders. A fiery volley followed that was largely inaccurate, but caused the panic that was intended. Several more artillery bursts ensued.

With the Mars legion incapacitated, archers moved forward, their hails of arrows just adding to the destructive storm.
The leading centuries all broke ranks and fled to the rear, which caused a ripple effect throughout the legion. Others sought cover behind any rock or stump they could find.

As soon as the artillery barrage ceased, the Brutii cohorts moved forward, presenting as much of a shield wall as the terrain allowed. Mars commanders reformed their cohorts and awaited the onslaught. Javelins were exhanged, followed by vicious hand-to-hand combat over rocks and in depressed ground. Lines moved back and forth, clashing and hacking, every encounter a personal war of survival. The depleted Mars legion fought bravely, but were overmatched by the field and the ferocity of the Brutii.

The outnumbered Mars cavalry was quickly put to flight, the Brutii wheeled and harassed the flanks of the dwindling imperial infantry. Retreat and slaughter followed, the two Praetorian cohorts holding out to the last man.

Marco Drusus watched the destruction of his legion, then fell on his sword after apologizing to his ancestors.

Horses were gathered for any infantry or archers who could ride, the cavalry was marshalled. The general then led this force forward to cut down the stragglers and destroy or capture the enemy artillery. All fallen Brutii were to be given a proper burial, the invaders would be burned in one great mound.

Within Apulia

Marcus Brutus reviewed his plans, anxious to makes his moves. The newest fleet and legion, commanded respectively by his cousins Flavius and Germanicus, were on their way to Sardinia, which had become a haven for rebels and pirates. The addition of this western territory would give Brutus more flexibility, and would show Farious Scipio that he was not alone in the Mediterranean Sea. Once Capua was retaken, the Brutii would be positioned to strike at will, depending on how well this questionable alliance lasted.

Brutus, at the head of two full legions, added artillery and Italian auxillaries that numbered more than 20,000, was one day away from Capua when a scout returned with disturbing and disappointing news---the Scipii were already outside that oft fought over and scarred city. He took the report stoically, but his aide, mounted to his right, knew that Marcus Brutus was seething inside.

"What will we do, my lord?"

"What would you do, Cornelius?"

"That would depend on whether or not you wish to wish to honor this fragile alliance. The Scipii have not been very forthright so far."

Brutus closed his eyes and remained silent for some time. Scipio held all of Sicilia, Carthage, Croton---and soon Capua. Farious Scipio's use of Greeks and elephants gnawed at him, but the Julii were no better, having embraced the barbaric Dacians, even housing them on Italian soil. His allies had both turned their so-called Roman armies into camps full of mercenaries that were the enemies of the Brutii. So many insults taken, so much pride swallowed---and for what?

"My lord?"

"Let them have Capua, or what's left of it. I suppose Scipio will try to march on Rome next. We will make our camps along the borders of Apulia and Umbria, then wait to see if our noble ally asks for help."

Marcus Brutus smiled ever so slightly, the time had come for him to re-enter Rome in a different manner, one that did not require legions, barbarians or circus animals. A one word was dispatched to an agent in Rome---'Go!'

Within the city of Rome

Livia had been Saturnius' mistress for the past four months. The exotic looks she inherited from her mother, softened by those of her Roman father, had lured and ensnared the man from the time of their first encounter outside the senate. That night she had come to the apartment he kept in the city, guarded by six Praetorians. Saturnius had enjoyed the encounter so much, he made arrangements for her come regularly, he was intoxicated by her charms and willingness. In time, the guards came to know that their master was not to be disturbed once Livia arrived, and that he would sleep late the following morning.

Livia stood over the body of Saturnius and spat in revulsion. She had endured the repulsive snake night after night, always pleasing his every desire as she gained his complete trust. Marcus Brutus had promised a great reward once the mission was completed, and he had always kept his word. Finally, the word came, a simple word---Go. Livia was overjoyed.

That night she gave Saturnius her most seductive smile, then said, "Tonight will be very special, my lord, I have a wonderful surprise for you."

She waited until wine and her gentle massages had left Saturnius thoroughly relaxed and vulnerable. Rubbing his neck with one hand, Livia extracted the small, razor sharp knife from beneath a pillow and drove it into the base of the skull, then twisted violently. Saturnius was dead before his head hit the floor.

Livia got dressed, then casually walked out of the apartment, pausing as she always did to flirt and tease the guards. As always, they appreciated and looked forward to the attention.

"I don't know when he'll awaken, he's dead tired."

The guards watched Livia vanish into the night and fantasized. An hour later she was smuggled out of Rome.

Within the Imperial palace of Rome

A respected senator from the Pompey family begged an audience with Emperor Marius the next afternoon, shortly after Saturnius' body was discovered. He claimed to have a missive that bore the seal and crest of Marcus Brutus. The senator was ushered into the emperor's private study after being searched three times by Praetorians, who were now stationed throughout the palace.

"How did this come to be in your possession, Servilius Pompeius?"

Still holding the letter, he lied. "I was outside the senate, trying to learn more about this vile disaster, when a man I have never seen, approached and and pushed it into my hands. Without a word, he moved off into the crowd."

"Open it."

"But, my emperor..."

"Open it!"

Pompey broke the seal, maintaining his composure. "'To the Emperor Marius---You chose the wrong advisor and must bear the consequences of your actions. It is time to reconsider, before it is too late. Marcus Brutus.' That is all, my emperor."

"Give it to me."

Marius recognized the handwriting and the terse manner of the author. He then looked at Pompey, silently questioning the senator's account of how the note came to him. Who were his enemies in the senate, could anyone be trusted?

"Servilius, you are a man with many contacts throughout the empire, perhaps even those who are of questionable loyalty. No, do not protest! I want you to find someone who is trusted by Brutus---no, even better, I want you to carry an oral message to him."

"I don't know if..."

"I want it done. You will be sent for later, be ready to ride."

Pompey bowed. "As you wish, my emperor." He left Marius, thankful to be alive.

Marius read the message once more, then burned it. He felt no real loss over Saturnius, indeed, there was a sense of relief. Here was his opportunity to bring the rebellion to a favorable end, assuming that Marcus Brutus would not ask too much. The first entreaty would be subtle.

Within the city of Tarentum

Marcus Brutus sat in the atrium, enjoying the afternoon breeze and the solitude. The household slaves knew better than to disturb their master at times like this, unless absolutely necessary. All were to remain quiet, lest they wanted to face his fiery wrath.

The past few weeks had been very productive for his family interests, the endgame he envisioned was coming to fruition. Brutus was already looking forward to time when he would be able to think about marriage and producing and heir, the next Marcus Junius Brutus. All of the surviving noble families would offer up their daughters to him, hoping to share in the power he would wield.

Three cohorts, cavalry and assorted auxilia had entered Athens, 'relieving' the Julii of their responsibilty. All of Greece was subdued and very profitable.

Valerius, now approaching Ariminum, relayed the agreement with the Julii, and their oath to fulfill one command. Marcus would have to think about it, other factors would dictate his actions.

The rebels and pirates on Sardinia had surrendered at the first sight of Germanicus' legion, then offered their services to their new Brutii master. They were given the lesser of the two islands as a base; when the time came, they would called upon to act. In the meantime, they were free to maraud at their own risk.

Two legions of Brutii and one comprised of Italians were encamped in fortifications, awaiting news of the expected Scipii assault against Rome, ready to assist if asked. The commanders would then wait for the arrival of Brutus himself.

Therein was the crux of the matter. Marius' response to Marcus had been vague---"Please refrain from any rash actions, the fate of our empire hangs in the balance. The death of Saturnius, by assassins unknown, has united and heightened the resolve of the Roman people. I ask for your patience."

Marcus was not a patient man, and seldom circumspect, but Marius was forcing him to play the game. What was in the emperor's mind? What did he mean by 'our' empire? Did he really think that he could play the Brutii like so many pawns? As Marcus Brutus saw it, he would win either way, his legions would decide the battle and set the course of Rome's future. When the Scipii moved, and if they sought his aid, Marcus would have to decide.

The Third chapter of the House of Julius

“…We have only to surmount the expectations of ourselves and not the people…”
-Titus Julius

We spend the next two weeks encamped outside of Segestica, unable to move our legions an acre. Our legions are utterly taxed. A third of our forces are dead, and nearly half of those left standing require days of rehabilitation and mending of wounds. Exhaustion has descended, flooding into the void of inaction. At first this seems preposterous, but nothing about warfare can be discerned by those who have not experienced. The expectations of civilians are shattered all too often.

After a campaign, victorious or otherwise, the army finds itself languishing in aftermath. It is here that our adrenaline expires; the impetus of our struggle withers and dies as a grape upon the wintry vine. We find our innards no longer possessing the fortitude born in trial, but in its stead a chasm where our virtuous strength once resided. Into this breach rushes fatigue, remorse, apathy, laziness, boredom and frailty. Struggle nurtures strength and endurance, hardship breeds virtue. Take away these elements and you are left with nothing but weakness, even in victory.

Titus knows all of this, and if he could he would whip us into formation and make haste through a forced march, for Patavium to refit and rearm, or perhaps for Ariminum to liberate it from SPQR control. But he can do neither, and thus we are stuck licking our wounds outside of Segestica’s charred corpse. My master knows that idle hands are detrimental to morale so he orders us to cull what useable equipment we can from the corpses of Marius’ garrison and set to work. With the tools and salvaged materials we have managed to construct a fortified encampment, since the city itself is in so much disrepair. Behind these walls of timber and mortar we try to reinvigorate ourselves. But it is no easy task. The men barely rouse each morning to the cornu’s blare, and getting them to undergo their fitness routines is a veritable nightmare of slouches and grumbles. The past four months have been a blur, and since leaving Iuvavum we have seen great hardship, tit for tat for every moment of triumph. To put it simply: We have pushed them too hard.

Our only boon in this quagmire are the Brutii. These emerald-cloaked Romans are as hardy as oxen and as heroic as lions. They keep to themselves, in a camp void of fences or walls, roughly a league north of us. It is my guess that they are hoping to entice the Dacians to send down raiding parties, at which point they will be able to turn on Piss Pot’s mercenaries, as well as the Julii. I express this concern to Titus one day, as I take up a seat in the war chamber of his praetorium.

“I hardly think that Captain Valerius has trucked eight thousand legionnaires across twenty leagues of coast to stir the shit pot,” my Duke declares as he rises upon the crutch provided for his shattered leg. Halifax moves to aid him, but Titus spurns this. “They will hold the oath,” he says with finality. I inquire as to the duration of our residence in the fallow fields of Segestica’s outskirts. “Not much longer, now.”

He’s not joking. Before the summer has arrived we are packing up our kits and setting fire to our fortified camp. We leave the citizens what rations and supplies we can, hoping that they will be successful in their reconstruction of society. While they have benefited greatly from our presence, it has somewhat eroded our warrior edge. Campaign legions corrode under police action, so when we leave we set up cohorts of town watchmen, equipping them with whatever arms and armor we can spare. Hardly can the new governor say his thanks before we are setting upon the road west, towards Patavium. Our destination is Ariminum. We stop by Patavium long enough to reequip ourselves and dust off the onagers we picked up when we “reacquired” the place some months back. Merchants offloading their cargoes along Patavium’s shipyards tell us that Imperial forces have occupied our second oldest city since November, and that Ariminum has fallen into ruin under the yoke of Marius’ cohorts. This city’s populace has always been fiercely loyal to the House of Julii, and despite its enormous size we know that they will not harbor these egregious usurpers once the scarlet standards of our house crest the hills surrounding the Umbrian coast. We anticipate a situation much like Segestica.

What we find, however, is far from hopeful. No columns of smoke ascend to the firmament, no runaways scamper up to our advance pickets. The populace is not in revolt, and when we draw within proximity of the high stone walls we are harassed by militia cavalry. These mounted corps range about the tilled fields of surrounding farmland in the diamond formation, a highly responsive tactic used to facilitate an adjustment in trajectory at the drop of a denary. Some of Captain Valerius’ triarii manage to capture a few of these citizen soldiers one afternoon and interrogate them. The information we gather from this seems to be invaluable. Apparently there is a weak spot in Ariminum’s defenses. Some ten thousand Legionaries hold vigil over the large city, but their ranks thin to less than three cohorts along the eastern gate. These soldiers, some fifteen hundred men, are barely enough to quarter off the massive double doors of Ariminum’s eastern entrance. Although it is simple hearsay and scuttlebutt, we discern that these equestrian conscripts are telling the truth and set to work on planning our attack. The reason being is that the coast lays less than two leagues from the city proper, well within visual range of the towers. To field any forces there is to put them on display for the defenders.

But by June we are positioning our onager batteries and finishing up our construction of the necessary siege-towers and ladders. A ram has been constructed, but it will simply be an arrow soaker. Our force, now, is less than twenty-five thousand, including both Captain Valerius’ Brutii (some eight thousand legionnaires), Piss Pot’s Dacians (roughly fifteen hundred), and our Gallic tribesmen (some two thousand). Roman forces equal about thirteen thousand, broken into three legions, two of which are Gallic conscripts. We look like a ragged bunch. Our campfires ring the city at night as a mirror of Heaven; a halo around the metropolis for which we so desperately burn to retake. As the pickets continue we begin to sequester the incoming merchants and supply convoys still unaware of our siege. For once the combined forces of Roman allies along the north are well-fed and well-stocked. When first these baggage trains are sighted they are forcibly seized upon. But when the summer heat waves of July hit we are resorting to more cordial and civilized affairs to maintain the flow of traffic. Many merchants, after first encountering the siege, abandon Ariminum and never come within a league of her proxy, while others, seeing fiscal opportunity in the ranks of our forces, frequent our camps to proffer their wares. The men love this, especially Piss Pot’s Dacians, who are indescribable packrats. These grime-toothed bastards will hoard anything they can, purchasing all manner of cloth, metal, food, equipment, cutlery and trinkets for which they can muster up the cash. They even purchase kitchenware, though for what purpose I haven’t the foggiest and would prefer to remain oblivious. These mongrels do not know how to cook, and I would reckon that their wives (or whatever the Hell it is you call their women) do not know how to use pots and jars either. Nevertheless they gobble these items up as if they were misers in a river of gold.

By contrast, the Gauls resent these profiteers and their wagonloads of goods. Being savages of a truly hopeless nature, they continue to spurn civilization and all it entails, save for whatever furs or natural substances the merchants have available. The Dacians seem to show a lust and, at the least, curiosity for Roman society, but the Gauls hate it all with a passion. They camp furthest from the city, and each morning is presaged by their vile chants and invocations. Being of a somewhat kindred spirit, the Dacians entertain their sentiments and share a laugh or two. They snicker behind our Roman backs whenever we form up our centuries for the day’s orders. They laugh outright when our principes and hestati perform their janitorial tasks upon our via principalis, sweeping the promenade clear so that our troops may muster upon it each morn. When at first the legionnaires bitch and moan about this, Titus reacts with a clever wit.

“Let them scoff at Rome,” he says casually one day as a tribune relays his cohorts’ resentment. “And let your men see them scoff; for it only further distinguishes the light from the darkness. The ways of civilization are not understood by these savage idiots. And yet they prove themselves the fools by mocking the tributes of a society that has already conquered them. It is in this way that your men will discern Roman virtue from savage inequity. So yes, let your men behold the ridicule and endure it as a martyr may endure the righteous injustice of the fetid mob. For these jibes that are meant to harm and jest as slings and arrows are—in truth—unwitting criticisms of praise upon our noble people. Let the savage mind make fun of what it cannot understand, it will only bolster our resolve to cherish our Roman blood, as a miner cherishes the gems plucked from worthless soil.”

I must admit, that, although my master cherishes the plebes of Rome and entreats the Dacian horde, he reserves no agape for the Gauls. I think his age coupled with his wars of subjugation have addled his mind a bit. Throw into this equation the fact that each Gaul reminds him of his campaigns with Marius and you begin to understand how such a noble duke may resent an entire people. It is my opinion that he wishes these Gauls were a bit less inferior, for if they were perhaps Marius would not have been victorious over them. Perhaps he would be dead, and all of the tragedy that has since befallen our royal houses would have never existed. But alas, this is not the case, and we must all cease to entertain such regrets and set our minds on the task at hand. Ariminum beckons our pila.

Our attack begins at dawn on a muggy day at the end of July. Our Velites harass their watchmen manning the ramparts, while our artillery takes potshots at the towers and gates. However it is not long before the full bombardment is underway, pummeling Ariminum’s walls and towers with a constant barrage of boulders. The men entertain themselves by inscribing blue-humored messages onto these projectiles’ smooth surfaces. Titus compounds this tactic by instructing the Gauls to hold their morning rituals two hours before dawn and well within earshot of the city’s proxy. He wishes to fracture the SPQR garrison’s resolve by putting the Gauls on display. He hopes that this irritant will erode their fortitude and fracture their fealty to the centurions and tribunes. I must admit that, were I in their caligas, it would be a potent distraction.

The assault itself comes at dusk, two weeks later. With the gatehouse’s towers sufficiently demolished and the flanking sections of wall razed to the ground we are afforded our necessary breaches. The Imperial garrison attempts to ford these by hastily constructing secondary redoubts, mostly made of wood. The onager crews are ecstatic in light of this development, as they have new targets to send their pitch-filled incendiaries against. The ballistae are also invigorated by the Legionaries frantically moving about in the city avenues, behind the opened sections of wall. Their missiles cut a whistling path through the air before skewering two or three men at a time, or shearing horses in half with their meter-long projectiles. But the greatest spectacle is watching the onagers; their fiery bombardments crash into the makeshift bulwarks setting them ablaze and scattering whatever formations have gathered behind the shoddy fortifications.

As the sunset devolves into night our legions take up their places in front of the artillery. Titus is there, atop his gelding, with me astride my own mount beside him. Halifax is there as well, wearing the bronze armor of the triarii and carrying entirely Roman equipment, save his trusty xyphos; that Greek short sword used by all hoplites of Hellas’ golden age. It is not long before this hulking, one-eyed gorgon is turning to my master from his place at our right.

“Send them the Fists of Zeus!” he petitions, nearly hopping up and down on the sandy turf.

Titus chuckles to himself, and gives the order. Ten minutes later the onager batteries are sending salvos of firebrands roaring through the night and into Ariminum’s breaches. A tapestry of serene beauty births from this as the purple and crimson dusk is mirrored by the amber and titian flames lapping into the defenses, billowing smoke and ash into the humid night.

While they are wildly inaccurate, these fusillades serve a psychological as well as strategic purpose. First, the pitch-filled vessels soar through the starlit night leaving a burning trail of cinders and fume in their wake. They are brilliant and frightening to behold. It is as if we are standing a mere handbreadth below Heaven’s meteors. The men love this, especially the superstitious Dacians, who are baffled by our mastery of the technology and regard it as an omen from beyond. Even the Gauls begrudgingly admire the scene.

Yet, however magnificent such a barrage is to behold, it serves a far greater purpose. It screens our movement. In the pitch darkness of night the ocular senses are blinded by the intensity of light emanating from the blaze we create. Wherever there is shadow the garrison cannot see a thing, their eyes overloaded with the conflagration’s light. This affords us an extreme advantage. We reposition three thousand legionnaires from their posts at the northern gate (where most of our forces reside) to the lightly-defended eastern entrance. Titus gives them his blessing and sends them on their way, fifty siege-ladders in tow.

In the fore our siege-towers advance, under a nightscape scorched by the onagers’ salvos. Banks of archers loose their firebrands when our towers are in range, most of the warheads snuffing out harmlessly upon the prow of our iron-plated fronts. But Arimium’s defenses are strong; after all, we built them. She will be a tough bitch to bag. Through the breaches our equites will ride, using the old Makedonean “Hammer and Anvil” tactic of Alexander’s day to good effect. On the far flanks the siege-towers will spill out their hestati, principes, Piss Pot’s Dacians, and triarii onto the ramparts so that we may gain command of the towers and draw fire away from our cavalry. The Gauls will come in behind our equites to protect the wedges’ flanks and harass the enemy (as well as hunt them down when they are inevitably routed). Through the gates we will send Captain Valerius and his Brutii, their tough-as-nails persona will, at the very least, hold the enemy in position while we move to enfilade. But the real gem will be the three thousand legionnaires we send up the ladders on the east. Halifax has been elected to lead this troupe, and no sooner have the onagers expended half their payload than he is donning the Gallic Type II helmet and hoofing it for the eastern beachhead. No one will expect such a flanking maneuver over bottlenecked ground. The plan is a bit complex, for sure, but necessary. Titus has tried to keep things as simple as possible but the city is well-equipped for a siege. It will be hard-won.

But misfortune finds us in the form of a single tow bolt, which I see shoot from the leftmost tower and sunder the second wheel axel on the left. The two-meter long projectile gets wedged inside the sinew and iron bindings and causes the siege-tower to roll over it. My heart catches in my throat as I see the tower, filled to the brim with our Julii legionnaires, pitch violently to the right as the wheel pushes the iron missile beneath the undercarriage. The tower reaches the apex of its lean and rocks back the other way, and a wailing of unimaginable volume and proportions ascends to the gods as it capsizes to the left, taking some four hundred and eighty men with it. With one down, it will not be long before the Legionary archers train their fire upon the second tower. It will be set alight, and then we will have nothing but the breach points and the ladders.

Somehow, though, it holds, and in no time the cohort inside is rushing onto the gangplanks and battlements to carve up the defenseless archers, who are already trying desperately to flee. Piss Pot’s myriads ascend the tower’s heights next, and are rushing to the right to gain control of a tower and prevent any SPQR reinforcements from hitting our Julii in the back atop the ramparts.

With one tower down, my master decides we must hasten our timetable. “Equites to the wedge!” he shouts to the cornu trumpeters. The signal is given and the horsemen immediately begin reconnoitering to obey the order.

I whip around to him, astonished. “The pitch-fires in the breaches have not subsided, my Duke!” I declare over the roar of the onagers’ last bombardments.

Titus nods. “The flames are low, now. We can jump them.” With that he draws his gladius and whips the gelding to the fore of our army. The blaring of the cornu trumpeters is eclipsed by a roar, as the earth quakes under hundreds of horses’ hooves, all of them galloping past their general towards the city. They are a sea of equestrian fury. I watch this mass of riders and beasts surge to the no-man’s-land betwixt the siege-engines and Ariminum as a single body, and then at four hundred meters it splits in twain and diverts to each of the nearby breaches. We see them, as surf upon a shore, crest the burning barricades and land in the city streets. But something queer occurs in this moment, and we all feel a gnawing in our gut as we watch rank after rank falter in their landing. As seconds pass we begin to see a flood of floundering knights crash into Ariminum’s promenade amidst plumes of blood and far distant screams. I grow physically sick as I note that not a single squadron manages to escape the thrashing crush. Titus curses violently, his voice echoing over the acre or so of flatland that separates us. Moments later his color guard taking up a point formation and I begin readying their kits. I nearly piss myself. My faction leader, who is well past sixty and still nursing a broken shin, brandishes his sword and makes for the city.

I spur my horse as well, kicking my caligas into the bare flanks of my warhorse in order to catch up with my master. It is a dangerous task Titus has elected for himself, broken leg or not. I come to within twenty meters of his position when suddenly his contingent draws up, going from full, desperate gallop to immediate halt. I reach him in time to see looks of supreme horror on his face. I follow his line of sight to the fiery breach. Behind the lapping flames I can espy a forest of diagonally-pointed steel warheads, patches glimmering in the firelight where blood has not sullied them. Below, atop, and inside of this bank of old triarii spears I can see carnage unimaginable as our entire force of horses writhes in their death throes. Men and beast clamor in convoluted unison to escape from the trap, but it is useless. All are sliced to ribbons, impaled and skewered, or crippled by severed limbs and halves. It is a total loss. Those that have been fortunate enough to survive the tragedy are cornered by Legionaries and turned to pin cushions in a hail of pila.

With a look of extremity, Titus clamps his jaw and wheels his color guard about. I follow, and find myself racing for the Brutii before I know it. But it is too late for them as well. Though they have breached the gates of the city with a ram that has surprisingly not burned up, they are met on both flanks by Marius’ Legionaries, who attack with the lighter pilum first before rushing in with the heavier. A furious battle ensues there, and my master feels that he is nothing if he cannot participate.

In the glimmer of firelight he catches my eye. “If you value life, Scales, you’d better bugger off.” At that he takes off and heads straight for the left breach, huggin the city wall so as to provide him some cover against the archers. I watch in true terror as he vaults his horse over the secondary redoubts and lands in a space no bigger than half an acre of cleared flagstone, right in between the spears and the rubble. His color guard leap over in pairs and triplets, and by the time I am at his side he is already reforming their ranks to hit the leftmost Legionary cohort.

We smash into their lines with a deafening crack. It takes barely two minutes of reared kicking, stabbing, bowling over and shoving to get the Legionaries to retreat, sandwiched between Titus’ mounted color guard and Valerius’ Brutii. With one flank secured we bolt over to the right, shoot past the entrenched Legionaries, and double back to hit them in the same fashion. Again a route ensues. The Brutii cheer, and so do we.

Taking a moment, Titus reins in to Valerius’ proximity. “Fine job, Captain,” he bawls over the roar of combat. “Now, to Halifax.”

Captain Valerius signals the two legions to move out, even as their cohorts are still filing in through the gate. “Press on, sons of Jupiter!”

We push through two furlongs of nightmarish cityscape, harassed on all sides by reinforcing battalions of Legionaries and held back by a knot of hardened centuries. Beset at every turn, we commit ourselves to grinding away at our seemingly impervious foe, until at last we reach the eastern gate. We expect to be greeted by a boon here; after all, Halifax’s triumph is all but expected. Surely there will be thousands of scarlet-cloaked Julii holding the walls and redoubts. What we find breaks our hearts. There are indeed embattled Romans lining the walls with scuta and pila ready, but they are a sea of SPQR purple. Only pockets of Julii red remain. At first glance I cannot accept what my eyes are beholding. But they are soon jarred to reality by the discernment of hundreds of pila descending upon us. The Brutii mimic their foes and form the testudo, while what is left of Titus’ color guard and I gallop our steeds around the corner of an avenue and use the buildings for cover until the shafts have been spent.

“What curse befalls us this night?” I hear one of the color guards spew over the roar of city fires and shouts of combat.

Titus wheels on him. “Damn the gods, soldier! Set your mind on the here and now!” With that he spurs back to the street where Valerius is charging the Imperial forces.

We find Halifax in a frantic bout over the gatehouse, his armor beaten and warped by the heat, his helmet sheared along its crown. Blood covers the gorgon’s body, sheeting down his face and gurgling out of his mouth as he compels his comrades through roars of hatred to carpe diem. A duel of magnificent proportions takes place between Halifax’s harried maniple and a lone century of Legionaries. The battle is furious and enduring, and does not break until Titus orders us to charge into the Legionaries’ right flank. Some generals think it is just as effective to charge into the left as it is to charge into the right. Such logic is unimaginable fallacy. A charge into a phalanx’s or century’s left is an attack on their shield side, and while a breach in their formation will almost certainly be affected, it will surely not be maintained. Crashing in on the shield side allows every soldier to find protection behind his scutum or aspis. They will recover. However, attack a formation on their unguarded right and you will find yourself carving them like a wheat thresher before you know it. We hit on the right, though it takes many precious moments to reform our menial wedge and affect any momentum. Nonetheless we hit them with everything we’ve got and the bout is won before I can spit. Many of us falter as the deluge of fleeing Legionaries tries to cut themselves a path to freedom. In the end we are left with barely a hundred men under Halifax’s command and the reign of the eastern gatehouse.

“Halifax!” Titus roars. “What has happened?”

The man glowers as he readjusts his kit. “We’ve been duped, sir! Those damned militia cavalry lied to us: this gate holds four thousand!”

Titus curses under his breath. “Any chance of gaining the wall?” Halifax shakes his head. My Duke takes account of the grisly situation around him before turning to the Makedonean bodyguard. Half of Valerius’ Brutii are too incapacitated to fight and must seek protection behind their lines as well as ours. It takes everything we have to simply hold our ground in the square, protecting our wounded. Gaining any ground or pushing on the Ariminum garrison is out of the question. “Then throw the winch,” Titus Julius commands, “this battle is over.”

The cornu trumpeters blare their signals and we are making for the countryside in no time. The retreat was organized, bust still desperate. All siege equipment and artillery are abandoned in the ensuing madness. Chaos envelopes our legions and we are driven to race for the hills. Titus does nothing to rein this in, and in the impetus he falls from his gelding and is nearly trampled. My heart stops in this, and although Halifax and I leap to his aid and pluck him from the chewed up turf we fear for his health. The man has reached extremity more times than I care to recount in the past year and a half, and although he finds his saddle quickly we notice that this time his body trembles.

We hit the southern boundary of Venetia by dawn, hoping to return to Patavium to recover. But we are too exhausted, and must make camp on a ridgeline three leagues away from our coastal settlement. What few tents we have we pitch, my own going to Titus. The next day is spent tending our wounds in the Duke’s tent. Halifax nurses a strained hamstring, three broken ribs, and a concussion. I manage my time by stitching up the lacerations that have turned my thighs to ribbons. Titus’ palor worries us, and his physical constitution seems less resolute than it had been a year ago. Campaigning has taxed our Duke. His age shows. At first we are unsure as to the cause of our master’s ailment, so sick and weak he becomes that he can hardly rise from his cot. But then, after our master surgeon’s apprentice (for the surgeon himself died in action the previous eve) reviews him, the source is revealed. Gall stones. Barely does the doctor utter these words before our seer enters the tent, throwing open the flap and filling the sunlit void with his bearded countenance. He lumbers into our assembly, unable to take his glaring lamps off of Titus’ prone form.

“What I have to say, you already know,” he declares darkly.

Titus sneers. “Then spare me your condemnation, for it will neither hasten my demise nor salvage my soul.”

“You are forsaken, Titus. You have cursed the gods, and in so doing the hedge that has burned about your person since the setting upon of this enterprise has been removed.” The seer folds his arms across his chest. “Your sins will now find you, and there is nothing I can do to remedy your plight.”

My master rises on an elbow, and after much labor manages to address the seer directly. “You are relieved, priest of Bacchus.”

With those words, the man departs our tent and is never seen again.

Two weeks later we are preparing to move out. Our force now numbers around ten thousand. Such was the cataclysm that struck our ranks at Ariminum. We are hoping to return to Patavium for a refit and rearm. Perhaps we will spend the winter there and recruit our much-needed replacements. Whatever we desire, though, is dashed upon the rocks when we come within visual range of our retaken city.

It too has fallen back into Imperial hands. We see the magenta banners of SPQR wafting in the late summer wind. Our legions, now consolidated to two, break down and weep, so stricken with grief and despair are they. Even Piss Pot cannot manage a word as we behold so much of our labors come to ruin, and so swiftly on the heels of defeat.

“Perhaps she can be retaken?” Halifax muses as we stare at the settlement from atop a bluff a league away. All is deathly silent among Titus, Halifax and me. We can only watch as Marius’ Legionaries patrol the surrounding farmland.

Titus sighs heavily in this mired moment, turns his gelding about with the reins and descends the bluff back to our camp. I sidle up next to him and inquire as to what we will do next.

“We will make camp in Arriteum,” he says in a voice so low it seems almost a whisper. My master has not recovered strength in the past few days, and it seems that each dawn saps him of more and more of his life. I try to discern what setting up camp in the burnt corpse of a city will do for us, and I fear more of how it will affect our troops’ morale than whatever ill omens it may portent. My Duke alleviates none of these, simply stating, “The Legionaries of Marius will not seek to conquer ashes. There we will be safe and may plan our vainglorious endgame.” I have never heard my master speak in such a way, and as we break camp I must spend several occasions composing myself.

Much to my surprise, Captain Valerius decides to accompany us. We are extremely grateful, if for nothing else than the fact that it brings our numbers up to fifteen thousand. When we reach the corpse city of Arriteum, however, Valerius cannot help but whistle at the devastation that has taken the place of our once marvelous capital.

“I know,” is all Titus can convey.

We post camp on the northwestern end of the settlement, upon a ridgeline that looks out over the city. Parties are sent in every day to scavenge the dead metropolis for supplies. There is little to recover; much has rotted away in the year and a half of our absence. And as if this were not enough, the matter is compounded by the degradation of our legions’ morale. All cannot help but behold the ruined Julii capital, decayed from over a year of neglect and populated only by wolves. Reports from the centurions and tribunes assail Titus daily, speaking of a malady that sweeps through the camps and captures all but the most resolute of soldiers. Depression sets in. It is not long before the rosters of sick double and triple, and men begin to grow petty and squabble as old maids. Piss Pot sees this as a supremely ill omen.

“Spirits left Julii,” he mumbles sadly one day as we stroll the avenues of our camp. “Dangerous now; all alone.” I ask what that means exactly. Piss Pot smiles, “We will stay, no worries. Forget gods, make own fortune. Dacians have no love for life, perhaps now good time for Julii to feel same way?”

I must admit that I give this theory some serious thought. We have fallen on dark times, into an age of fire and blood. And just when I think it cannot get any worse, I am rushed to our praetorium by Titus’ color guard. He is lying in his bed, as he often has since the disaster at Ariminum. His eyes can barely part their lids, much less focus on my apparition as I draw up to him. The surgeon is there, packing up his instruments with a grim expression. As we pass the doctor touches my arm. I share a look with the man that conveys everything. I am glad my master cannot see the tears that sully my cheeks as I kneel beside him.

“Can forgiveness be given for single sin, Scales?” he asks me, sensing my presence. I say yes, with all my heart, should we seek it. Titus grins, ever so slightly through his grimaces of agony. “Then take me to the altar.”

I am summoning Halifax and before I know it we are carrying the limp form of our master up to the altar our legions have erected on the northernmost slope. It is a simple stone structure, burnt black by fires and crusted with the black stains of blood. Halifax holds on to our master while I descend to the stables and fetch Titus’ jet gelding. When I return our master has stripped himself to a single loincloth and produced his gladius. Halfiax and I build and light a fire large enough to contain the sacrifice we are about to make.

Titus’ form is almost a grey hue, his eyes sunken so deep into a gaunt face as to make me think he is a cadaver. His withered limbs tremble with such measure that he must be steadied every few moments. Yet when it comes time to do his work he rallies the last stores of his life’s energy. He strokes the gelding’s muzzle and whispers words to it that I cannot discern, then plunges the gladius’ blade up to the hilt in its side. The weapon’s iron pierces the heart of this magnificent beast and it thrashes about twice before expiring upon the straw and kindling we have gathered. Titus covers himself in the animal’s blood until he is a sullied crimson, then mounts the altar and commands us to set it alight. We watch as he places the tip of the blade to his sternum.

“Jupiter and Terra, forgive me!” At that, the Duke of the House of Julius, Titus the Bold, plunges the gladius into his breast, with such force that its tip splatters out the back just to the left of his spine. He pitches forward and falls into the flames. And with that, our master dies.

Long moments are spent in heavy silence as Halifax and I pour our mourning stares into the flames. The altar burns magnificently, as if the gods in fact chose to honor Titus’ atonement. But eventually the grief overcomes us as well, and even the brave Makedonean sinks to his hind quarters on the earth and weeps. We embrace each other, sharing our sobs in this moment of tribulation. What are we to do, now, after all that we have achieved? Who can lead this army? None of us have the character to carry our enterprise to its completion.

Then I see it through the blur of my own tears; on the dawning coastal horizon I espy what appear to be several black squares slowly piercing the blinding glimmer of morning sunlight, just below the skyline. I wipe my eyes clear and choke back my sorrow long enough to discern what marvel this is that continues to grow and grow before my sight. I touch Halifax on the shoulder and point to the horizon where the number of black squares has doubled and increased in size.

“Has the degree of my sorrow reached a fever,” I inquire to no one in particular, “or are those ships approaching the shores of Arriteum?”

Halifax turns to investigate my query, wiping the saline from his own eyes as he looks. His cries are subdued by a wary knowledge.

“I know those sails,” he says suspiciously. It is then that we see it. The ships are Greek. The fleet bears the black and white-lambda sails of Makedon. Yet above each of their prows flutters the all-too familiar scarlet banner of the Julii. Our sobs redouble as our grief is replaced with jubilation. Halifax utters a single word in this instance that surmises our joy:

“Calipulus.”

April of the year 99 B.C.

Farious was beside himself with what to do now. It had taken a year to reclaim his home from the Senate, and now that he was back home he planned to insure that no one could oppose him. He sorted through maps and papers to assess where he now stood.

Farious could call upon 9672 Hastati, 1211 Velites, 345 Principles, 35 Triarii, 546 Roman Cavalry, 1112 archers, 400 War Elephants, 1457 Carthaginian Cavalry, 8546 Greek Hoplites (including 700 Spartans) and 4 onagers.

Throughout his settlements, 5000 troops guarded Carthage, 1500 held Lilybaeum, 4000 were in Messana, and 2400 held Croton. Farious had already planned to leave 4500 in Capua. All this meant that when it came time to attack Rome, he could field roughly 21000 able bodied troops of varying nationalities.

April was a very quiet month for Farioous otherwise. A spy said that an army of Brutii bound for Capua, had withdrawn shortly after the Scipii regained their hometown. A courteous message to the Brutii of thanks for their effort to assist the Scipii was received and unanswered. This told Farious that perhaps the Brutii were a bit upset with him. He knew that something must be done, but not now. The Brutii would hold to the bargain, no matter how upset they might be.

May of the year 99 B.C.

Farious learned that the Spanish had fielded a fleet and was well on its way to Messana. Farious immediately ordered the bulk of the fleet blockading Rome, to break away and engage this new threat. Twenty-seven biremes, and 18 triemes sailed to find and destroy the Spaniards.

The smaller Scipii fleet sailed southwest and found the Spanish fleet just off the coast of Lilybaeum. The Scipii moved into their "V" attack pattern and was prepared to envelope the Spaniards as they had the Romans, but the Spanish would not go quietly.

The Spanish ships began firing small onager rounds from their decks and as the balls of pitch hit the Scipii ships, they were quickly engulfed in flames. Admiral Scientius frantically tried to come up with a counter to this new threat, and decided all he could do was spread out the fleet. With the ships further apart, the onager rounds were less accurate and most rounds landed harmlessly into the water. Finally, the onagers went silent, and Scientius ordered his ships to turn and ram the Spanish fleet.

At first, the Spanish ships seemed too fast to be rammed, and so Scientius ordered his archers to target at the rowers with regular arrows, and as the workers died, the Spanish ships slowed. Eventually the trieme rams were able to find the Spanish sides. The solid oak and bronze rams crunched into the oaken sides and the wood gave way. Scientius ordered his men to row forward and drive the rams deeper into the wood.

Finally as the ships threatened to capsize, Scientius ordered his ships to withdraw and in his words, "Let the bastards drown!" As the 15 Spanish biremes began to sink, the sailors abandoned the decks and began swimming. Scientius scanned the field and saw the burning wrecks of his fleet, and issued another first-time order.

"Archers, target the swimming Spaniards and introduce them to Neptune."

It was customary at the time to offer salvation and an employment contract to any surviving sailors from enemy ships, but the loss of most of his fleet wore heavy on Scientius and so he ordered their deaths. The archers looked astonishingly at Scientius and then followed orders. Four hundred and fifty Spanish sailors were killed like "fish in a barrel", and left to drown. The fifteen surviving Scipii ships turned and headed northest to Rome.

June of the year 99 B.C.

Farious was sitting atop the gates of Capua staring northwest. He knew 10 leagues away lay Rome and the bastard Marius. He wondered if Marius knew fear. He wondered if the Senate was sorry for what they had done and would seek peace. Sadly, his answer came in the form of 15000 Marius legionnaires that marched over the rise ahead of him.

"Men to arms! The Romans are here! Ready the pitch and onagers! Men gather your arms and armor, there is blood to spill this day!"

The Marius Legions had brought all necessary seige equipment with them, and so attempted to storm Capua that first day. Onagers fired for two hours and broke gaps in the walls near the main gates, although miraculously they held.

The onagers went silent, and dozens of seige ladders carried by hundreds of men ran across the open field. The Scipii archers picked this moment to shine. All the archers had been placed atop the walls, and they rained arrows upon the lead runners. When these men went down, the others behind them would trip over the bodies and the entire ladder crew would fall. Prone men are much easier to hit than running ones, and so hundreds were lost to the Senate's army.

The army's general, ordered four seige towers forward, and they rumbled along the rocky ground. As they closed to 100 yards, a few of the archers began firing arrows topped with large metal hooks and trailing ropes; most missed but several did not. The hooks caught on the top of the towers, and the archers threw the ropes to cavalrymen on the ground. They tied the ropes to their saddles and charged away from the walls. At first the towers merely rocked a bit, but then they began to lean. The men pushing them stopped and the towers toppled against the walls. Although cracks were made, the walls managed to hold, and several hundred Romans died.

By now the Senate's forces had lost a quarter of their men, and all of their seige equipment. They began a standard seige, but as the days dragged on, the signs of their disaster became too much for them. Near the end of the month, they abandoned their assault on Capua.

July of the year 99 B.C.

The Arcani sat within Farious' chambers and awaited him. He had been paid 3500 denari to kill Farious Scipii and he was determined not to fail. He sat in the shadows near the window, and waited for his prey to come to bed. Finally near midnight, he heard the scrape on sandles upon stone, and drew a poisoned dagger.

Seconds later, two men entered the room. Both matched the description given the Arcani, and so he wasn't sure which one was Farious. With no other choice, he slid from the shadows and slashed at the closest one.

Grumhold had been Farious' servant from birth, and as he did every night, he came to Farious' chambers and lit two candles. This night however, instead of turning down Farious bed, his lifesblood was spilt upon the floor. Grumhold tried to reach the vicious slash across his back, but the poison seized his heart first. Grumhold fell to the floor dead, just as Farious was drawing his sword.

Farious had seen the Arcani come from the shadows, but was unable to speak a word before Grumhold was killed. He drew his sword and prepared to defend his life.

"Assassin, unless you were paid to kill a harmless slave, you have missed your mark, and I shall make you pay for it!"

The Arcani seethed beneath his mask, and a ragged voice spoke, "My blades can claim two as well as one. You are my prey, and I shall have your life."

With that the Arcani opted to fight with a gladius and a dagger, and Farious simply held his golden gladius.

The Arcani came in quick. He sliced lines at Farious' face and belly, but caught only air, and Farious' blade. The Arcani tried again to score a quick cut with his poisoned dagger, but this time, caught a gash across the forearm for his trouble and his dagger fell to the ground.

Sword to sword, now Farious went on the offensive. He cut low, high, and for the Arcani's middle but couldn't catch him in one place long enough to score a hit. Farious tried to pin the Arcani into a corner, but the assassin just braced himself against the wall and leaped over Farious.

Farious tried to turn and block the Arcani, but he swung first, and knocked the gladius from Farious' hand. The force of the hit knocked Farious off his feet and he fell to the ground.

The Arcani placed his sword to the side of Farious' neck, and spoke.

"It brings joy to my heart to see my prey kneeling before me. Know that you have hurt me, and so I shall take vengence on your family after your death. Your wife shall die at my hands for free."

The Arcani drew back his sword, and a blade flashed. Fortunately, it was Farious who cut first. He had grabbed the assassin's dagger from the floor and rammed it up into the Arcani's belly.

"When you aim to kill, do so. Bragging is never a good idea." With that, Farious gave the knife a sharp twist and ripped the poisoned blade out of the Arcani.

August through September of the year 99 B.C.

These two months crawled by as Farious awaited the agree upon date to attack Rome. At their conference a year earlier, the three family heads had agreed to attack in December of this year. Farious heard reports of successes and failures with the Julii, and it seemed like nothing could oppose the Brutii juggernaut.

For the Scipii, they had known victories and defeats, but things had been good for the last little while. They seemed to have a large enough army to hold their own in the battle for Rome. Farious' spies told him that a large army was being prepared by the Brutii, and he hoped the Julii could claim the same.

Near the end of September, Farious sent Marcus Brutus a letter.

"Glorious Marcus Brutus,

The last year has been hard on both our peoples and we are fortunate to say that we have survived. Our brothers in the North are fighting in a far greater situtation than we are, but I hope we can all reunite after freeing Rome.

Marcus, for any hard feelings I apologize. I know that my usage of Greeks has been distressing to you, but I pray you understand that I had no choice. I know also that my holding Croton has been a sore spot for you, and I again renew my promise to return ownership of said city to your people as soon as possible.

The time is near when we must fight together to finally free all of Italy from the yoke of oppression. I pray to the gods, that we shall achieve victory in our endeavour. I shall see you in December my brother.

Farious Scipii"

A messenger was sent out with this note on September 3rd, unfortunately for Farious, the messenger he chose was a Marius' spy, and substituted a very different note to Marcus Brutus.

"Marcus Brutus,

It pleases me to inform you that your people in Croton are doing well under my leadership, and there is talk of electing my cousin as their governor. I, of course, shall return it to you, but perhaps since I have rebuilt so much of the city, some compensation is deserved.

I am sorry that my forces freed Capua before your army could retake it, but perhaps our timely arrival has spared you a few men for the final battle against Rome. I have heard about your "liberation" of Athens and I congratulate you. I know it has rubbed your nose raw these many years that the Julii beat you to it.

Finally, since we soon march on Rome, let me give some insight as to how I think things need to be done. I shall lead the march with you at my right flank. When we reach Rome, I shall lay seige to the southern and eastern halves, and perhaps you could move to the north to help the Julii.

Let us not fail to carve a place in the rulership of Rome. Perhaps the idea of an emperor is not so farfetched.

Yours,
Farious Scipii"

This forged note and it’s messenger were not well recieved.*

Spring of the year 99 B.C.

Marcus Brutus read over the recent troop strength reports, pleased with what he had amassed. Five full legions, one that was made up with Italians, were equipped with the best weapons and armor; the artillery captured in Salona had been transported to Apulia and added to his already considerable fire power. In addition, the Sardinia legion was poised to make the crossing to Latium whenever the order came. The Salona legion was being expanded to include another three cohorts, a force of 8,000 that could move north or east as needed.

A huge fortress had been erected on the plains where Apulia, Umbria and Campania joined. The bulk of the Brutii were housed there, more than 30,000 troops and most of the artillery. Training continued on a daily basis, but entertainment was also provided to keep up the moral of the men---brothels, taverns and an arena that presented weekly gladitorial contests were there as well within the walls of what had commonly become called Brutusium.

While the army was idle through the summer months, Brutus was very busy with his plans for the final encounter. All of the pieces---Scipio, Julius and Marius---were in his thoughts daily, their faces etched in his Brutus' mind. As reports reached him, Marcus Brutus added the details into a journal, one that he would someday present as the ultimate lesson in how to wage war. He was restless, but tempered by prudence, knowing that he alone would decide the fate of Rome.

Messages were now regularly moving back and forth with Emperor Marius. Pompey used his own network of spies to relay the verbal correspondences, while paying close attention to the feelings of the senate and citizens. With Saturnius dead, vocal opposition to Marius' policies were more commonplace; the voices of discontent, their names and degree of influence, reached Brutus, who put them in one column of this journal, while those who expressed support for the emperor went into another column, the death list.

Slowly, Brutus presented his plan to Marius, but always worded in language that was vague. He promised nothing, but alluded to a desire to nothing more than hold all the lands south of Rome, along with Greece. Marius, in kind, would respond in equally subtle tones, always saying that he was considering Brutus' proposals. The bond of trust between them was fragile at best, but Brutus knew that Marius had no choice but to continue the negotiations if he wanted to stay in power.

Reports from Valerius were becoming less frequent, but the news was not especially disappointing. The Julii were hard pressed in the north, their ability to make any move upon Rome seemed to be dashed. Marcus regretted the sacrifice of so many noble Brutii to a lost cause, but the endgame justified the moves. All of the fallen would be honored, their names entered into the scroll of heroes. The Julii seemed to be on the verge of complete destruction, at great expense to Marius, which left only the Scipii to deal with---or the emperor. Brutus weighed the possibilities at great length.

Summer turned to fall, and still the troops remained in Brutusium, their skills further honed by relentless instructors, their lusts satisfied as well. Everyone counted down the days until they would march on Rome.

A messenger arrived in early October, bearing a dispatch from Farius Scipio. Upon first reading the message, Marcus Brutus was outraged by the impertinence of the man. What arrogance to suggest that he would lead the attack and personally take Rome. But then Brutus' dark fury was abated by reason; he knew Farious Scipio, knew his mindset. This was not right, he smelled treachery.

"Guards, take this man to the house of pain, I will speak to him there. Fetch Torquimadius."

The messenger struggled, but two brawny pair of arms led him away after first searching for weapons or vials. He was taken to a dark, dingy room behind some stables, furnished only with a long, stained table and a large tool chest, where was was laid out spread eagle, hands and feet bound by rough lengths of rope.

Torquimadius, a slight man dressed in a black robe and cowl, entered the room without fanfare. He went to the chest and withdrew a long iron rod that had a hammerhead on one end, and a sharp spearpoint on the other. The torturer stuffed a filthy rag into the man's mouth, then commenced without a word, methodically and emotionlessly.

After a few ribs, some fingers and an elbow were broken, and one eye gouged out, Torquimadius removed the rag. Brutus entered the room with a heated poker and poised it over the man's genitals. Now facing castration, the spy confessed, naming Marius as his master. Torquimadius continued, smashing one knee, then the other. He then extracted a small curved blade from within his robe and began peeling layers of skin. The spy's story did not change as he pleaded for death.

"Is he telling the truth, Torquimadius?"

"Yes, my lord, no one can withstand such pain."

"Well, gut him just to make sure, then report to me."

The man screamed that he was telling the truth, then begged for an end to his torment. He wept out of pain and the fear of more to come.

"Make sure." Brutus left the house of pain. 'Marius continues to deceive me! Well, two can play that game.'

A dispatch was sent to Farious Scipio, confirming their rendezvous in December and recommending a site beyond the view of Rome. Another verbal message was sent to Marius that express his feigned outrage with Scipio and detailed plans for the final battle.

Orders were sent to Brutusium---"Prepare to march on Rome as soon as I arrive from Tarentum." The fastest ships were sent to Sardinia with instructions to sail with all due haste to Latium. The endgame was approaching, but Marcus Brutus had not yet decided where his unleased fury would fall.

The First of December in the year 99 B.C.

The armies of Brutus and Scipio were encamped on opposite ends of a broad plain of fertile fields, to the south of Rome, that was surrounded by low hills. This pristine lands had been spared the scars of war so far, but would soon run red with blood.

Farious Scipio and Marcus Brutus met in a nearby villa for the first time since the night of the assassins in Messana. They embraced, exchanging words of brotherhood, regrets for the miseries heaped upon their noble families
and love of the Republic. Brutus wasted no time in presenting his plan for the battle of battles.

"Marius will come out to meet us once he sees the disposition of our armies..."

"But surely he will hide behind his walls and await our siege."

"No, I think not. If we were to march within sight of Rome and show our numbers, the ensuing panic within the city would cause such widespread chaos that Marius would face rebellion from the senate and the people. My spies have reported great dissent already, rumors of our approach have preceded us, and my agents have added to that fear with tales of the ferocity of our armies."

"Yes, I suppose you are right, Marcus. I have not had the luxury of such an intelligence network as yours. Please continue."

"Marius is a seasoned commander, his natural talents are best displayed in battle, at the head of an army. He has five legions housed in Rome and in fortifications just to the north, and much of this force is made up of new conscripts who have been hastily trained and will piss themselves once the battle begins. His arrogance and confidence will impel him to face us in open combat."

"Even when we outnumber him with veteran legions? Is he so filled with vainglory as to think that he can defeat us?"

"That is all the more reason for him to display his superiority, by achieving a great victory against superior numbers, his position of power will be assured. We have both learned from him, we know his tactics. I have a battle plan that will bring about his doom..."

Brutus then outlined his strategy and tactics. Scipio listened, commented, then listened some more. In the end he agreed that it was a sound plan.

Marius knew that they were coming, preparations for battle had already begun. With the dawn, he would march out at the head of his legions, all of whom had been given several rousing speeches that assured them of victory against the battered and beaten rebels who dared enter the sacred land of Latium. Marius' confidence had been bolstered by one final message from Brutus---"The time has come, Scipio will suffer the loss of all he possesses for the insults he has heaped upon me. Stay with the plan and await my signal. Tonight we will celebrate." Pompey had embellished the words of Marcus Brutus by saying that he had never sensed such resolve.

Upon the Battlefield

The imperial legions arrived at midday to find the armies of Scipio and Brutus already deployed, their lines placed at a forty-five degree angle from the center. To the right was Brutus, his six legions lined up side to side, standing four deep, their javelin points flashing in the wintry sunlight. All of the Brutii onagers were positioned in the gap between the allied armies. To the left was Scipio, his numbers not as imposing up front, but the sight of so many war elephants positioned behind made for an ominous spectacle to the newly trained soldiers of Emperor Marius.

The ground was flat farmland, now covered with winter grass that would not impede the movements of the armies. The day was cool and still, with only the slightest breeze to stir the standards. Here the armies eyed one another, awaiting the first move.

Heralds from Brutus and Scipio met in the center of the field, then approached the imperial army, where in turn they were met by a counterpart. A parlay between the three leaders, in open ground, each with two bodyguards, was proffered and accepted. And so it was that Farious Scipio and Marcus Brutus faced their betrayer for the first time since the invasions had devastated their homelands and led to furious battles that had ensued.

Marius was the first to speak. "I most humbly greet you Marcus Brutus, Farious Scipio, and ask that you hear me out. The mistakes of the past cannot be forgotten, but can be atoned for. Since the death of Saturnius, I have come to rue the decision to attack you who have always been amongst the noblest of Romans. If Titus Julius were here, I would say the same to him. I do not wish to spill more Roman blood today, we would all lose by such actions. So, here is my proposal---I will restore your places of honor in Rome and make you co-consuls of the senate; lands and estates will be granted in compensation for travails you have endured; your armies will lead the further expansion of the empire to the shores of Egypt and eastward from there, where you will become kings. I make these offers with no conditions save one---leave this field and turn your armies homeward. What say you, Marcus Brutus and Farious Scipio?"

Scipio was quick to respond. "Your words are feeble and twisted, Marius. Look about you, can you not see that our armies are here in greater numbers than your collection of green recruits? You say the past cannot be forgotten, and I will add that it cannot be forgiven either! You are the one who tore the Republic asunder, it was you who ordered the deaths of suffering of our families, and it was you who made himself emperor in defiance of all Rome stood for, and must now stand down and face the consequences. Take your empty promises, they are made from desperation. Your army will stand down or be trampled under!"

Silence ensued. Marcus Brutus looked to Scipio, then Marius, his calm demeanor unreadable. The game was playing out.

"General Marius, Farious Scipio speaks for me as well. I am not one who forgives and forgets injustices wrought upon me and my people. There is no adequate compensation you can offer other than your fall from power and the restoration of the Republic. Perhaps your eyesight is failing you, and you do not see what faces you; even your martial skills cannot overcome such a force of arms. We place you under arrest here and now. You will be escorted to the senate and placed on trial this very day. If you are fortunate, there will be exile, but if not..."

Marius fumed, too angry to speak. He wheeled his mount and rode back to his army. Scipio and Brutus watched in silence as the usurper returned to his command position. Scipio broke the silence.

"Is he insane, Marcus?"

"He wishes to die a soldier's death rather than live in disgrace. Well Farious, to the bloody work at hand, tonight we will drink a toast of victory in Rome. Come, we will lead our armies as one."

As Brutus rode back to his vantage point, his mind raced for the moment of decision was now. He had two endgames of equal outcome for the Brutii. Honor would have him side with the noble Scipio over the usurper Marius, but it was not so simple as that. He had to think about the future, not just here and now, and where he wanted to be in five years, ten. But then there was posterity, how would he be remembered? Then, in a moment of clarity, Marcus Brutus decided.

Every hundred, cohort and legion came alive as preparatory orders were issued; cavalry readied itself; artillery fires were lit. The eyes of every Brutii commander were turned to Marcus Brutus and one of two signals. The Scipii also prepared for the planned assault which resembled a 'V' that would shrink as it closed in after the massed artillery barrage.

Marcus Brutus grabbed the family standard in his left hand and held it aloft. Every single onager unit executed a swift and well practiced right wheel, then loaded the baskets with incendiaries that were launched in the direction of the war elephants. The unleashed inferno fell in and around the formations, causing instant panic as the beasts bolted in every direction.

Several things then occurred in a matter of moments---

Every scorpion and ballestae fired into the closest Scipii ranks...

Another fiery volley from the onagers was loosed, falling shorter this time to present a deterrent to any of the rampaging elephants coming in their direction....

Five Brutii legions, numbering 40,000, turned and marched toward the Scipii left and center, with the Sardinia legion deployed to the rear to watch for any unforseen actions...

The imperial legions turned to attack the Scipii right...

December of the year 99 B.C.

The months had flowed forward and the time had arrived. Farious Scipii ordered his legions to march out of Capua headed north and slightly west. His numbers had swelled in the last few months and numbered nearly 28000 total troops. They left hearing the cheers of the populace sending their heroes off to glorious battle to reclaim the rightful place of the Scipii.

In mid-December, Farious met with Marcus just south of Rome, and although he expected a rough encounter, Marcus was strangely warm and joyous. The honor of their alliance was strong and Farious was delighted. Despite the outward appearance of a lax attitude, Farious had his spies too. He was aware that Marius and Brutus had been speaking in secret. Farious had first learned of their communiqués in November, and had trembled with fear. But then his spies told him that nothing Marcus did spoke of treachery. Farious decided to just play along and watch his back. Now he was delighted to have trusted the man.

When they spoke of the coming battle, Farious expected a siege, but Marcus was sure of Marius’ intent. So sure in fact, that doubts again circulated in his brain. However, the end was at hand, and Farious had no choice, but to continue.

As Farious returned to his tent that fateful night, he found a pigeon awaiting him. As he read the message, his heart jumped.

“My Dearest Farious,

It is with a warm heart I announce to you the arrival of your son. I shall name him Claudiusus, after your famous uncle who beat back the Carthaginians at Messana 20 years ago. I love you my husband, and I know the time approaches when you shall be taxed to the limit. Hold true to your cause, and know that the righteous shall win.

Love,
Olivia”

Farious smiled at the thought that his line would continue. He then frowned a bit, he took out a piece of paper and scrawled out a quick message.

“Olivia,

The news of my son’s birth is a lighthouse to the lost sailor within my heart. My wife, you have been a wonderful person with whom to share my life, but you are right. The end is near. I do not know if I shall stand at the end of tomorrow. I also do not know that if I fall whether the sword shall come from the front or the back. My wife, if I fall, keep yourself in Carthage. Should we lose, I have made arrangements for all my garrisons to abandon their posts and travel to Carthage to make it unconquerable. I do not know what tomorrow holds, but my heart tells me it shall be a day that decides the future of the Empire. My love, if I fall, give this second note to my son when he is old enough.

Love,
Farious”

He then composed another note.

“For my son,

Know that I loved you though we never met. Remember that honor and devotion are the utmost in life. Hold to the code of the Scipii that your mother will teach you. Whatever choices you make remember that honor is the one thing no one can take from you.

I love you my son,
Farious Scipii, loving father”

Farious read and reread the notes, and placed them within the pouch and attached it to another bird. The pigeon was sent out the window and flew southwest to Carthage.

Farious suddenly found himself in the heat of battle, but it had started at his rear. Marcus had betrayed him! Farious began to issue orders to turn to the left and engage the Brutii forces, when his crazed elephants hit the rear of his lines. Farious could do nothing but watch as hundreds of men were trampled by creatures that had moments earlier been the backbone of his forces.

The Brutii had closed, but stopped to wait out the elephants. The pachyderms thrashed and stomped as they ran. The drivers reached for hammer and spikes, but they were missing. Treachery again! The weapons used to stop elephants from doing as they were now, had been stolen during the night. Noble Scipii soldiers, and their Greek allies were stomped into the snowy grass, never to rise again. All appeared lost, when the elephants reached the Spartans.

Their blood red tunics shining, they turned and formed a long thin line in front of the elephants and raised their spears. Suddenly the rampaging beasts found themselves raging into a wall of spears, but could not stop themselves. Other Greeks formed up along side the Spartans and they formed a channel absent of men, and the elephants chose this path to flee harmlessly away.

Farious quickly surveyed the damage. A full legion had been killed, but now his forces had turned to face the Brutii and were standing face to face. Farious watched as pila were exchanged, and then noticed the Roman army. It was moving to hit the Scipii flank.

“Greeks, Spartans, the time comes for you. I beseech you to form a giant phalanx and hold the Romans at bay until we can kill the Brutii!”

Aranious the Spartan saluted, and issued his orders. With one movement, 8000 Greeks turned and formed a phalanx and faced the Romans.

“Time. I need time.” Farious mumbled to himself. “Hasaruba, take your Carthaginian cavalry and capture their artillery. The Brutii have silenced it, and moved most of their forces to fight us. Get it, and use it!”

“Aye my general, aye!”

With this simple reply, the Carthaginians rode off to their fate or destiny depending how the battle went.

“Armies of Scipio, charge the traitorous Brutii so that we may yet win this day!”

With that, 10000 Scipii troops charged 40000 Brutii.

Farious saw that the Romans had reached the Greeks, but even the new cohorts were stymied by the phalanx. Good! Farious thought. Now if we could just make the Brutii break.

“Archers, hit the rear of the Brutii lines.” Over 1000 archers began raining arrows onto the Brutii, but their cohort armor stopped most arrows. “Keep firing until your quivers are dry, then draw swords and help the infantry!”

Farious surveyed the scene and could see Marcus at the rear of his forces directing their attacks. Farious then pulled out his only remaining wild card.

“Fledious, now is the time. Unleash the hounds directly at Marcus.” The Scipii dogmaster suddenly ripped down two tents and revealed 400 caged wardogs. His handlers ran around and released the beasts and they charged the Brutii liked possessed demons.

“Smartian, take your Roman cavalry and hit Marcus too! If we can make the bastard rout, we can still win this day.”

Farious again turned to survey the scene. The Greeks were still holding, although they were quickly losing men. The Scipii forces were barely holding against the Brutii, but his forces were starting to feel the superior Brutii numbers. Then a miracle occurred, 50 of the wardogs had kept on target and reached Marcus Brutus and his bodyguards. One of the dogs clamped down on Marcus’ arm and pulled him down.

“Die bastard die!” chanted Farious.

But suddenly Marcus was on his feet. He slashed and chopped with his gladius and dozens of dogs died. Farious’ Roman cavalry was hit by thousands of Roman firebrands, and the few hundred cavalry died. Worse yet, just as his Carthaginian cavalry reached the artillery, they found a full 2000 Brutii waiting to ambush them. Farious’ lost every cavalry unit within 10 minutes.

But the worst news came from his lines. The Scipii infantry finally gave way and the Brutii overran them. Green slew blue by the thousands. The Greek lines held for a few moments longer, but as the Brutii overwhelmed the Scipii, the Greeks found themselves outflanked.

Twenty agonizing minutes went by as Farious watched his entire army slaughtered. Even as he ordered a retreat, his men were too cut off to comply.

Farious had jumped into the fray and fought bravely, but even his courage couldn’t stop the inevitable.

Ninety minutes after the battle started, Farious found himself face to face with Marcus Brutus. Two of his bodyguards held him, and Marcus came close.

“Release him, he is no danger to me. So Farious, do you regret your treachery to our cause? Surely you knew that allying with my age-old opponents would not be acceptable. Surely you knew that daring to hold a traditional Brutii city would cost you. Only now do you see how weak you are.”

“I may be weak, but at least I remember the meaning of honor. At least I held true to our cause, even under overwhelming forces. At least, I shall die knowing that my place is secured where noble warriors go. For you, there is only the darkest layer of Hades, bastard!” With that, three things happened, a knife suddenly appeared in Farious’ hands and slashed Marcus across the cheek leaving what would be an ugly scar. He then spit in Marcus’ face, and plunged the knife into his own heart.”

Marcus roared as Farious died, “I shall take your cities and slaughter your people! All of your men will die, and your women will serve me as slaves!”

Spring of the year 93 B.C.

Marcus Brutus stared at Carthage yet again. He had thrown 100000 men against the walls, and still they were repulsed. Five years earlier he had begun his planned vengeance against the Scipii, but every Scipii city he found was abandoned. They had all fled here. Nearly 1 million people, and 400000 men guarded this city and Farious’ wife and child.

Marcus realized the time had come. “Order the men to return to the boats. We are going home.”

The Fourth chapter of the House of Julii
“…The shadow of the Ibex is long indeed…”
-Scales

We reach the Arriteum harbor just as Calipulus’ quinqireme flagship pulls up to the wharf and throws out her mooring lines to the deck crews. By the time our descent from the altar’s promontory is complete Calipulus is leaping from the gunwales and striding down the deck to meet us. I try to espy his appearance, but it is difficult from such a distance. He wears a scarlet cloak with a cowl pulled over his face. I only recognize him as my master’s scion by his height and mannerisms. His short arms give it away too.

“How did you find us?” Halifax inquires.

Calipulus raises his palms in an innocent manner as he strolls towards us. “I have seven thousand,” he declares over the bubbling roar of the ocean. “Surely it will be enough to retake Patavium.” His tone is triumphant; he expects swift victories in light of our bolstered ranks. For a moment I have a glimmer of hope that our heir to the mantle of Julius believes our house’s destiny will be a fortunate one. Yet when I draw close to him my hopes are dashed upon the rocks as I behold his chilling countenance. Perhaps it is requited from him viewing our bedraggled apparitions. Surely we look like a pair of beggars at the end of their rope. Either way, when I come close to him I see that his eyes are like emeralds set in a marble visage. His daemon seems cold to me. He shows no emotion when he asks to see his father.

With hesitancies and sighs, we point the way up the hill, to the still-burning altar. Without a word or a tremor Calipulus takes the track up the sandy bluff. We follow silently in his footsteps. For long moments we simply stand and watch as the flames lap and feed on the indescribable black husks protruding from the straw and embers. From beneath the scarlet cowl I see Calipulus’ jaw mouth a question.

“How,” he asks.

“The surgeon said it was gall stones,” I reply. “But the priest said it was because he cursed the gods.”

“Did he?”

I nod. “He did.”

“Was this his repentance?” Calipulus asks. I tell him it was indeed. The man seems satisfied with this answer and proceeds to make for the camp. “Scales, Halifax, accompany me and report on our disposition.” I give him the news. We’re less than fifteen thousand. Patavium has been lost. Ariminum was a complete disaster. And if things carry on for much longer Segestica will fall as well. Calipulus takes all of this in stride as he enters into the camp. In fact, he never says a word, but I can tell by the shifting of his eyes that he is listening and plotting. Nevertheless, Halifax and I are uneasy.

Winter brings reinvigorated training for our Roman legions and the incorporation of the Greek army into concert with our corps. New tactics must be devised to accommodate the ponderous phalanxes, and it is certainly difficult to compel the Greeks to do anything during winter. They have their wars in the summer. Thankfully, our conflict will not come until spring. We have plenty of time to whip them into shape and maintain some hegemony. Of course, it must be said that we look less like a Roman army and more like an auxiliary corps. Piss Pot’s Dacians number around a thousand, as do our Gauls. The Greeks are seven thousand, Captain Valerius’ four thousand Brutii, and our conscripted Gallic legions number close to three thousand. That leaves less than a thousand pure-blooded Roman legionnaires to fill out the ranks. But the Julii have always been a house of the plebes, so we find it fitting that our army’s composition is so diverse. It does not concern us.

During this season of martial reconnoitering we are afforded another boon. It comes in the form of solidarity, however, as opposed to any physical manifestation. It is this: Halifax takes a liking to the Brutii, in particular, he and Captain Valerius become friends. Being a Mack, he has little to say to the Athenians, whom his people once ruled until our house rested control of the city from them. The people of Athena are cordial at best around the gorgon, requiting his lack of social grace. But around the leader of the two Brutii legions Halifax shines. His gnarled face twists further with smiles, and his massive lungs bellow roaring laughter across the campfires at night. Valerius returns this in kind, slapping our brutish Mack on the back as they share meals in the Brutii camp. They become fast friends, brought together as much by winter’s chill as by their similar daemons.

I happen upon one of their conversations one night as they sit in congress around a campfire, wrapped in furs and huddling so close to the pit as to make the snow drip from their faces. The topic of conversation is, of course, honor.

“What of commitment, is that not a hallmark of honor?” Valerius asks.

“Obviously, or you would not be here,” Halifax responds. “But should honorable men hold to oaths—however sacred—when other parties prove themselves fiends?”

The Brutii captain eyes Halifax warily before answering. It is only a flicker of an expression, a moment as swiftly changed as the lapping flames that illuminate it, but regardless I catch it. “What is an honorable man who makes excuses so that he may break his oaths,” he finally answers, albeit hesitantly. “Even in the discovery of treachery and evil, we must still do our noble blood justice. We must perform our duties. Is this not what makes men heroes?”

Halifax shakes his head, his mangled hairy crown barely visible as it swivels above the fur mantle. “Perhaps holding to an unholy alliance is what makes men fiends? It would seem there is a fine line between heroes and villains.” As soon as I approach the nucleus of this conversation shifts; the intensity of its microscopic focus dissipates. We turn our minds and tongues to more prudent matters and the night fades into obscurity.

By contrast, Calipulus is almost indistinguishable from the Greeks. His time with them has been long and, in many ways, isolating. With the death of his father perhaps he feels that they are his only real connection left in this world. Though this wounds me, I take it in stride. He spends many nights drinking and debating with the diminutive scions of Hellas, and though they are a rowdy bunch, I can tell that their presence is a soothing tonic to my new master’s soul. In the mornings he wakes up and goes out alone, far from the camp, to pray and make sacrifices. And in all my dealings with him I never see him absent his scarlet cloak and cowl, even in the day. He hides his emotions and thoughts as much as his appearance and I only hear him speak when it is time to plan a movement or entreat a debriefing of military options and logistics. Truly, we are not what we were two years ago.

I am reminded, however, of another anecdote which takes place some two months later, in February. By then the army had inched its way south, closer to Rome. Cut off from our garrison at Segestica, we had to resort to shipping supplies over the Noricum Alps from Iuvavum. It would seem that this province, along with every other Gallic city under Julii control, has remained untouched by SPQR forces since the beginning of this civil war nearly two years ago. Apparently Emperor Marius cares only for the provinces within Latium’s proximity, which is why we were so hesitant in our approach to Rome’s northern borders. The moment we cross the Arno River we are met with complications. Our supply train is stretched dangerously thin. We keep foraging and pillaging to a minimum in order to conceal our position and numbers as much as possible but it is difficult to curb the trend given our dire straits. In time this predicament takes its toll on the men. They begin to bicker and squabble with one another over trivial matters and possessions. Cleaning supplies become threadbare; the men cannot wash their clothes or properly bathe. The mood of our army quickly darkens.

This is where our Gauls and Dacians prove their worth. They are masters of clandestine foraging. We know this for it has been a thorn in our Roman sides since the beginning of our wars against them. But now, given the plight, we are glad to project this irritating tactic onto our brotherly foes. And what is better; our Imperial adversaries think that this incursion of Gauls is nothing more than a consequence of their recently weakened northern border. In the wake of their war against the Julii the provinces north of Latium have become somewhat porous. Some of the braver Gallic tribes have been daring small scale invasions since last summer, which means the presence of our Gauls are taken for granted. To boot, Marius’ Legions believe our army, racked with the strains of tenuous alliances, to be disbanded. Our losses at Ariminum and Patavium have only further convinced even the hardest of skeptics that our potency has dissolved. It is a saving grace; they will never see us coming.

During this foraging the Gauls discover a hot spring some twenty furlongs west of our camp, set in the cleavage of a pair of mountains. This lightens the corps’ mood tremendously. Funny how the smallest things can have the biggest impact. One day I come looking for Calipulus in his praetorium. He is absent, and his inherited color guard direct me to the hot spring. I trek up the mountain one afternoon to find him bathing in the mist-swirling pools. He sees me through the fog and exits the reservoir. When he comes close to me I am struck by a revelation that, until this point, had escaped me. The man has shaved himself bald as an infant. In fact, there is not a single follicle on his person, even his eyebrows are gone. He notices my consternation and approaches, wrapping himself in a long scarlet cloak as he picks his way over the smoldering obsidian rocks.

“It’s one less thing I have to worry about,” he declares as the water continues to sluice from his face. I take a look into his eyes as he expands his chest and exhales. My blood runs cold. I have known the lad since he was a boy of ten, when he would wrap himself in an over-sized scarlet cloak and play “Thermopylae” in the bath houses of Arriteum’s royal palace. Perhaps that is why he is here now, high up in the mountains. I hope it is not the case.

“I have known you for a dozen years, Calipulus,” I tell him with a grave expression. “I have only seen you wear those eyes once before: When you decided to confess to your father that you had stolen his panoply and taken it out into the hinterlands and broke the cuirass’ hinge. You knew he’d punish you severely, yet you felt compelled to tell him. You wore that expression then; you wear it before me now.” I lean in close to him. “What are you planning to do, Calipulus?”

For a long moment all is silent save the hissing and bubbling of the nearby hot spring. Eventually, though, Calipulus takes to the path of flagtones that wind down the mountain, to our camp below. He beckons me to follow him with a wordless wave of his hand. When we reach sight of the Julii encampment he speaks.

“Sometimes, no matter how much we pray, our fate is fixed. All of our pleas to the gods, all of our sacrifices will go unrequited; we beseech Heaven in vanity. Even Hell spurns our cries. Nothing can stop Ananke’s will, no matter our virtue or strength. We fall short of grace, of glory.”

“I know that look in your eyes, Calipulus. Do not send them to their doom because you feel the gods have abandoned us. They may still live, should you command them in the coming weeks.” I touch his cloak, so that the lad looks at me. “Do you not know the weight that rests on your shoulders? We can still win this war. The Brutii and the Scipii have met with success in the South. Marius’ attention is not focused on us. Surprise is on our side. You can lead these men to victory if only you will remember hope.”

“I cannot command like my father did,” he confesses. “I do not have his charisma; I am not as good of a leader as he was.”

“The army doesn’t need someone as good as Titus, m’boy,” I tell him desperately. “They need someone better. They need his scion; someone who knows piety, reverence, strength, and youthful vigor. They need you.”

At that he turns to me, his face set as stone. Water continues to bead and collect upon his features, dripping away in single droplets from his nose and chin. An eternity seems to pass in the stillness of this moment, as his cold eyes pierce me. It is then that he nearly levels me with the revelation I had long since feared.

“Our garrison at Athens has been overrun,” he says matter-of-factly. I ask him when. “I received word just this morning. Our lands in Hellas are gone. This is all we have left.” I hazard to inquire as to whom it was that sacked our hard-fought jewel of the Cradle. “The Ibex now rests in the hands of those who deserve it most.” He leans in close to me, so that only he and I can hear, should other Roman spies be lurking about. “The Brutii have retaken Athens; we have been betrayed.” With that he takes to the track, picking his way precariously down the craggy slopes towards the camp. I am paralyzed, and spend long moments just staring into nothing as my advisor’s mind races inside its balding carapace. When I come to my senses I race down the track and catch Calipulus in his praetorium, dressing. I shoot past the guards, who admit me, and labor to keep my voice level.

“What are we to do, then, with four thousand Brutii encamped barely twenty furlongs from our tents and palisades?”

“We do nothing.”

“But how can they be trusted!” I plead.

Calipulus shrugs. “They can’t. But we must employ their services until this war is down to the triarii. If we turn on them now, as we should, the ensuing battle would only cripple us.”

“But if we wait until the eleventh hour they will surely capitalize on our fidelity. Let us infiltrate their camp and strike them now, while we still have control of the situation.”

Calipulus shakes his head. “I need Captain Arturion Valerius and his Brutii legion. I will need them for the display of power they will bring and for the initial successes in battle that they will ensure. But rest easy, Scales, I will not let them stab us in the back. At the appropriate time, the son of Julius will stab them first.”

Three weeks later we are packing up and fording the Tiber River. When we cross the border into Latium we begin to slowly make our presence more and more known. Why prolong the inevitable? The Greeks are perfect for burning and pillaging the countryside, and with every new moon cycle we manage to rewrite the definition of havoc. When our entire force, now bolstered to some seventeen thousand, crosses into the northern plains surrounding Rome, we are met with a vista both soothing and terrifying.

Rome herself we have not seen in years, and even though she is a distant grey hedge on the horizon, our hearts are warmed to know that we are in such close proximity to her gates and temples. But our jubilation is marred by the sight of Marius’ Legions, so great in number that they wax nearly to the horizon. Their patrols of heavy cavalry range for nearly half a league from the camps. And it is the sight of so many tents and palisades that sink our hearts and dash our hopes upon the rocks of adversity. For if there are Legions encamped outside of Rome’s walls that can only mean one thing: Rome proper has no room to house their forces. So, even if we manage to win the day on the field, we will still be faced with a full garrison. Nevertheless, our five legions are not deterred.

On the third day after our arrival we take to the field. By now are cohorts are a mish-mashed grouping of old and new; those that were fortunate enough to strip the panoplies from Marius’ defeated Legions are in the fore while those of the old order march in support. We rise in the small hours of night, hoping to maximize the potential of our surprise. By the time we marshal our force and field the army it is two hours before sunrise. Still no Roman Legion opposes us, even as we draw our corps up in battle order.

Simply, the formation is thus: The Greeks, some seven thousand (two legions), will be placed in the center. Their immobility compared to Rome’s legions will be used as an anchor for our wings. The Romans, about five thousand, will comprise the two secondary legions. On the flanks will be the Brutii, their single legion now busted into two divisions of triarii. They will keep us safe from any cavalry pincers. In the fore will range the Gauls and behind Piss Pot’s Dacians will maneuver in auxiliary support. Calipulus likes to keep things simple, and while our battle line is not complex, it is certainly sturdy.

We march our force south, deeper into the plowed fields and fallow farmland, unchecked and unguarded by our Imperial adversaries. The battle actually starts in the predawn, though we are too far away to see it. Some of our Gauls have ranged too far, and have run right into Marius’ rear lines. They hit the baggage train an hour before dawn, setting fire to the wagons and depots before being beaten back. We watch as a thin orange line pierces the spring mist on the horizon. Magazines and weapons caches catch fire and burn in the far distance, followed by the faster ignition of the supply wagons and quartermasters’ caravans. Few of our Gauls reach the safety of our lines, so bloodied and confused they are in the darkness. But regardless, it is enough. Calipulus nods his approval at this, signaling to me that all is going according to plan.

By the time the sun rises we can hear batteries of artillery shattering the earth and its masters with their barrages. Volleys are counted by the men as they march—still unopposed—into Rome’s proximity. At mid morning Calipulus draws the entire force up for an hour’s rest. They have marched for five hours straight. They need a minute to catch their breath and stretch out the cramps. I advise against this, stating that the battle against our allies rages now, we must hurry to engage and throw our numbers in with the other houses to maximize our potential against the foe. Captain Valerius rides up to our post not long afterwards, stating the same sentiments. Halifax agrees with the congress: push the men on and engage while Marius’ back is turned. But Calipulus says he smells a trap, and waltzing into a cave because you think the bear is sleeping will only get you mauled. Against all of our judgments, he waits.

When noon hits we are hitting the fields again. By now our force can vaguely discern the battle. An ocean of Brutii emerald and Scipii sapphire meld and crush against a long, deep line of SPQR magenta. All battles are nothing more than violent shoving matches, and this one proves to be on such a grand scale as to encompass the entire horizon from our vantage.

But a queer thing occurs when we come within range of the battle: We suddenly see the line of Scipii troops burst open in pockets throughout the battlefront. Explosions are seen in certain places, as if those from onagers. Into these gaps the Legionaries of Marius plunge, forcing their way deep into the rotating ranks of Scipii. We send out scouts to discern the tragedy, but none can get close enough to unravel the mystery before being spotted by Legionaries of the reserve line.

Now feeling as though he should hasten, Calipulus orders the legions to the quick march. He leaves the immediate control of the legions to his tribunes, while he, Halifax and I ride out to the fore. We halt at the apex of some small hillock, gaining the only elevation of the entire region. Below us the color guard form a guard for the battlefield council.

“Scales, can you see anything?” he asks me. I tell him I cannot, that the whole thing seems like some wicked curse. The Brutii’s lines hold well enough, and even seem to merge at times with the Scipii. But the dusty miasma kicked up by the writhing oceans of men mask any clarity of vision. We can’t see a thing through the damned fog.

“Maybe they’ve buckled?” Halifax proffers.

“Unlikely, the Scipii are going for broke like the rest of us,” Calipulus replies. “We can really capitalize on this if we can hit them in the right spot. If we play our cards right this battle will be over in an hour.”

This forces a smile to my lips. Though he does not intend to elicit this response, it makes me proud to hear the son of Titus speak with such assurance. “What will you do, when Marius is defeated,” I ask, “and all of Rome lays prostrate at the feet of our three great houses? Will you take up the mantle of Julius and seek to contend for the throne, as the Brutii and Scipii will? Or will you recede to the north and rebuild our shattered provinces, as your father would have done?”

Calipulus simply shakes his head. “I will do neither,” he replies. “Should we find victory here I will return to Lakedaemon and find her father. And upon an altar of his choosing I will make myself as unto a sacrifice to him, on behalf of the daughter he lost. Whether it is upon this field of slaughter or the fertile valley of Sparta, I will not live to see the rising of our house’s sun. Either way, I will die on the whetted edge.”

I can feel my face grow hot with anger. “Don’t do it then,” I plead. “Don’t take all of these brave souls with you. If the path to death is the one you have chosen then do not drag us all down to Hades in your wake. Spare these noble sons of Julius. Besides, who will be left to claim the mantle of Julius if you shuffle loose your mortal coil?”

“Relax,” he says with a wry grin. “You will of course have my authority when I am gone.”

I am shocked into humility. “That is not what I meant.”

“Don’t be so humble. I know you’ve always wanted it. I will give it to you. Just be sure to use it wisely in the wake of our triumph or tragedy.” With that Calipulus dismounts and summons his armor bearer. Up until now the scion of Titus has ridden onto the field wearing nothing but his under tunic and caligas. Needless to say Halifax and I exchanged many glances along the way as our master refused to don his armor. Each volley of artillery compelled me to tighten the straps on my small bronze chest plate and pull the feathered helmet down closer to my brow. Halifax showed the same subconscious concerns, as all warriors do. He would tug at his linothorax and swish the bronze of his greaves against the horse blanket as we rode. His tran- crested horsehair Corinthian helmet hid his eye and gnarled mouth, but I knew he looked afraid underneath the nasal bridge. All warriors do, even gorgons such as Halifax. But now our new Duke decides to strap on his panoply, a sure sign that he is ready to fight. But again, he shatters my expectations.

Instead of the standard leather and link mail armor of the Julii, Calipulus Julius stands as an old bronze hoplite panoply is fastened to his body. Halifax and I both stare, wide-eyed and slack jawed as our young master dons what is without a doubt the heaviest, most cumbersome, and awkward suit of armor ever devised. Weighing at nearly forty pounds, with a shield to match, the ancient Greek panoply may as well be an anchor. Mobility will be shot, and though Calipulus will be better protected than the rest of us, he will not have the speed or agility to maneuver when combat is joined. I see, then, that his resolve is unshakable. He will die upon this field, and with this ponderous panoply he will ensure the demise. He waits until he is back on his mount before donning the red, horsehair-crested Corinthian helmet. His face disappears behind the nasal bridge and cheek pieces, and when he draws a sword it is not the Roman gladius but the short Spartan xyphos. His shield, the infamous Greek aspis, bears no markings save a splash of red at its center. With a shout to the cornu trumpeters he signals the advance, raising his sword into the shimmering sunlight so that all may know who their commander is.

We march at the double quick across a thousand meters of ground, hoping to reach the foe’s troops before they realize we are behind them. But at five hundred meters the Roman Legions under Marius turn to face us. This happens in a sort of rolling tide from right to left. A collective gasp erupts from our ranks, but they recover quickly and Calipulus orders in the first wave. The hestati file forward and form a wall with their maniples.

“Shields to high noon!” Calipulus shouts, sitting with a cold indifference atop his steed. The legionnaires respond and raise their scuta to the ready position. “Pila ready!”

In moments the missiles are cast as the last fifty meters are crossed. These missiles thrum harmlessly into the forward elements of Marius’ Legionaries, who form the testudo with amazing efficiency. The second volley is thrown and the hestati draw gladii and commit. They reach thirty yards and are met with a wall of pila that erupt from the testudoed ranks. Another volley of pila and the Julii hestati falter in their charge, the momentum cut by the pila’s cast. Nevertheless the lines meet and a clamor ensues as the light infantrymen begin sundering their swords on the stout chainmail armor and wider scuta of Marius’ cohorts. These advanced forces hit our flanks, and eventually their center starts to draw out in an attempt to outflank our hestati from the inside of the formation. This is the moment that Calipulus waits for. He orders forward the Greeks, their long sarissa pikes able to skewer the Legionaries long before they can close for hand to hand combat. But the Greek phalanxes only meet with success on the right, where the Legionaries suffer grave losses from being hit on their unshielded side. Hundreds fall in heaps of thrashing, bloody carapaces as the sons of Hellas make short work of those on the central right.

A sickening cacophony erupts now, as the battlefield is brought to hellish life before our eyes. A siege is one thing; a battle on open terrain is something else entirely. In a siege one never realizes the full scope of carnage. You only see the few dozen meters around you. The entire battle, even if it lasts for hours, is nothing more than one acre of small-scale combat to the next. But in a large, open battle such as this, there is no blinding your eyes from the madness. Humans die by the second, dozens by the minute. Upon the frontline the two forces grind away at each other, as two wheels shaving one another down in a shower of sparks and clouds of rust-colored dust. What is worse is that the Greeks, with their heavier armor and longer pikes, multiply the noise and confusion by tenfold. No one can hear a thing in the central battle line, the Athenians rage so heavily and with such fervor as to drown out the voice of the man next to you. In time blood and other bodily fluids begin to sluice and course runnels through the fertile earth. As the Greeks begin to meet with success in the center the lines begin to advance, and we gain ground purchased with buckets of flesh and dozens of souls. As I step my horse over the corpses of fallen comrades and foes I begin to draw close to the former frontline. The frequency of corpses mounts until I cannot discern one body from the next nor the ground from fallen flesh and panoply. Wounded writhe in great heaps, buried beneath stacks of dead that seem to stretch into mindless clouds of dusty miasma. The effluvium of warfare is grotesque beyond imagining. Yet still we must press on.

Calipulus holds himself back from the front, taking up a position in that span of ground between the Greeks and our reinforcements. Piss Pot’s Dacians march behind us. And on our flanks, out beyond the Roman Julii lines, we can see the emerald masses of Brutii readying their long triarii for the battle. Halifax begs to be sent to the fore to fight with his Greek brothers, and Calipulus agrees, nodding to the Mack and saluting him with a clasp of forearms. Halifax gallops to the nexus of the battle, roaring at the top of his lungs and waving his xyphos until he becomes lost in a sea of surging armies and billowing dust.

On the left and right of the Greek legions the Romans begin to buckle, though, and in moments the Julii lines become tenuously thin. Ranks are pushed apart by SPQR forces, and wedges begin to form. My master sees this, and in seconds Calipulus is ordering the principes to reinforce their beleaguered comrades. More pila are hurled into the fronts of Marius’ ranks and are soon followed by the press and crush of some two thousand armored bodies. What had, for a moment, become a waning defeat on the flanks is now bolstered into a reinforced bulwark, potentially victorious. However, the carnage does not escape us. Screams still mount and blood still erupts into the space above our heads, resembling waves as they crash upon the harbor’s rocks and send their salty spray pluming into the air.

But then it happens.

On the far flanks we can see dust storms kick up and move with relative speed across the open plains of combat. These are barely discernable through the dust and haze but we know, judging by that sickness in our guts, what they are: Legionary Cavalry. These cohorts, some two hundred horsemen each, thunder towards our army’s flanks, ready to deal swift death to our infantry cohorts who are already hard pressed on the front. But we, for a moment, feel relief, for the Brutii are stationed on the flanks as triarii. But then I remember Calipulus’ words at the hot spring, and suddenly I realize why he has kept Piss Pot’s Dacians in reserve.

He turns to a dispatch rider and gives him a signal. The man races off on his short horse and returns with Piss Pot in tow, five minutes later.

“Time to dance?” the Dacian scoundrel asks Calipulus.

My duke nods. “Wait for the cavalry to pass before you make your move. We want them too busy carving us up to notice you when the counterattack comes.” Piss Pot nods and salutes, ready to gallop off. Calipulus halts him. “Piss Pot,” he begins hesitantly. “Come back to me in one piece, I’ll need you later on.” The Dacian grins, his hideous maw revealing even less black teeth than I remembered. He then charges back to his lines and readies them for the counter-betrayal.

I look back to see the Legionary Cavalry close with our Brutii triarii, coming to within a hundred meters. I wait half-heartedly for the spears to lower from their thicket upright positions to the porcupine-esque horizontal. It never comes, and instead the triarii lag in their march, opening up gaps on the left and right for the Legionary Cavalry to shoot through, hitting our Roman legionnaires on the flanks. Fresh crescendos of screams and cries of anguish erupt from these quarters as the horsemen begin carving their way through our lines. The Brutii erupt into cheers, and I see Captain Valerius rear back on his horse, an emerald Julii standard fluttering in his hand.

But then, while they are cheering Piss Pot’s Dacians charge, and slam straight into the cohorts’ backs. The Brutii are neck-deep in Dacian falxes before they can turn and spit. The triarii spears are too long to be effective, and so Piss Pot’s men manage to get up underneath the primary weapons of Captain Valerius’ legion before they can ply their trade. It comes down to swords and grit, and as much as I want to charge back there and exact revenge on Valerius, I know that our task lies ahead, in preserving our line.

Calipulus orders the color guard to form a wedge and charge, and our small mounted corps thunders at the diagonal across the open acreage of our rear lines towards the right flank. Lances are couched under arms and swords are poised overhead as we draw in on our targets: the right Legionary Cavalry division. We smash into these heavily armored horsemen with our full contingent, the wedge piercing their ranks until our entire fifty-man cadre is engulfed in a sea of armored equestrian might. The thunderclaps that erupt from our proxy as weapons meet armor and shields is ear shattering, to the point that a horse’s whinny and neigh is no longer discernable in the tempest of clanging metal and shrill screams. We fight and grind in this mindless chaos for what seems to be hours. But the ranks of our foe are deep and we soon become bogged down in the fighting. Our charge loses the advantage of its impetus and we are reduced to stationary dueling with our foes. Calipulus tries to order us free of the mess to regroup and charge again, but in the madness he is knocked from his horse. I see my fall from sight; his body cast into a sea of horses and violence, and my heart nearly bursts free of its cage. We rally and push on his position, but in the press it is nearly impossible to gain any ground.

His salvation comes in the form of our last principes reserves, who decide to abandon their posts, double back to the open ground left in our army’s wake, and hit the Legionary Cavalry while their formation is muddled. That does it; coupled with Calipulus’ color guard the Legionary Cavalry cohort finds itself too hard pressed to be effective and withdraws, leaving a quagmire of churned earth soaked to mud by the fluids of warfare’s purchase in their wake. Steam and stench hang in this acre of Hades as we sift through the carnage for our Duke. When we find him we are relieved to see that he is not harmed, save a sore hind from the fall. He comes striding out of the mist, shouting orders at us that none discern, and barely a few can even hear. The battle’s proxy is so near to us and so intense that unless someone is shouting directly into your uncovered ear it is impossible to communicate. So we resort to signs and notes. He gives the order for both the principes and our color guard cohorts to reform and shoot the battle line’s rear to hit the other Legionary Cavalry on our left flank.

When I ask him about the right, he simply says, “We cannot hold the flanks, it will come down to Halifax and his Greeks.” This much is true, for the Greek legions have indeed begun to fan out from their central positions in an attempt to flank the central brigades of Romans with their indomitable sarissas. We hold and fight with our Roman brothers for as long as we can, but our doom is sealed, and when our maniples are withered down to stumps they begin to buckle, the sheer press of the foe’s bodies too great to withstand. Calipulus leaps into this losing battle with a reckless abandon. I see him dance among the foes, swiping pila aside with the convex bronze facing of his shield and then moving in close to plunge the xyphos straight into the Roman chainmail. A hail of whetted iron and oak assail him when he gets within reach of the enemy ranks, but his bronze panoply saves him. In the storm of iron my duke loses the crest of his helmet along with the tip of his right cheek piece, both sheared away in a flurry of gladii. Blood pumps and sheets down his face, painting his neck in red life. His bronze cuirass receives blows as well, transfixed in two places by pila hits. It is these that nearly incapacitate him; not for hazard of bodily damage, but for the awkward movement they produce. He lumbers about for moments when he is struck with these things, one hitting him in the right ribs and another hitting him in the left abdomen. The warheads become lodged in his bronze armor and then bend, as the pila do, so that he walks about with two meter-long wooden hafts dragging the ground from his torso. Seeing their opportunity, a contingent of Marius’ centurions, their maniples crushed and withered, seize upon Calipulus, as wolves upon a wounded prey. There are four of them, all armed with the gladii in their left hand and their swagger sticks in the right. One or two pluck shields from the detritus at their feet, while another produces an upturned Roman Eagle Standard that had been used to nail a man to the turf. Obviously that is what they were defending, yet now given the opportunity to off the Julii heir they hazard to move their standard. Calipulus sees them coming, and begins swinging wildly with both arms in an attempt to stave them off.

I race to the fore, where a space has been cleared to watch these officers duel. I sink a gladius into the back of the nearest centurion, the blade piercing the body all the way to the hilt. Speed will not allow me to retract the blade, so I reach down and pick up a spatha lying near my feet. The weapon is long and heavy for a sword, but my adrenaline allows my slight form to use it. I catch the blade of another centurion with my own, just in time to keep him from bringing it down on my master. When he turns in confusion I nearly buckle. He is enormous and terrifying, I cannot defeat him. He sees my fear and lumbers towards me, as a predator. But three steps are not taken before I see a Greek spear burst through his sternum, rivets and links of mail showering my face in a spray of blood and bone marrow. When he falls I see Halifax standing behind him, plucking the spear from the centurion’s body. He wheels about to face the other two. They square off against the new challenge, but it is obvious they cannot prevail. All can see the fear in their eyes; it burns as coals upon their brows. They show the same sentiments that all of us secretly feel: That these centurions are men, weak and finite compared to this towering gorgon who lumbers bloodied before them, his face masked behind the shadows of his crested Corinthian helmet. Fear envelops the two foes, and before we know it one is slain by Calipulus, his xyphos opening up that space of guts between the right ribs and right hip. The centurion doubles over, screaming. The other leaps upon our duke and manages to plunge his weapon down onto Calipulus. But Halifax is there and knocks him onto his back with the haft of his spear. Before the centurion can regain his wind Halifax is upon him, kneeling upon his body and severing his head with the edge of his aspis.

Cries of triumph erupt along the line of Julii spectators, jeers and groans from those of the watching Legionaries. As if shaken from a dream these two forces then return to the fray, the Julii invigorated, Marius’ Legionaries shaken. Halifax manages to grab Calipulus in the onrush of friendly forces and drags him out into the open ground behind us, all the while Calipulus screaming at his bodyguard, “Grab the Eagle, you damned fool!” I snatch the thing up just as we are navigating our way through the crush of soldiers. When we reach relative safety I see that Calipulus cannot stand. The centurion’s blade opened the outside of his right thigh. Blood pumps from this gash like a cistern. Halifax kneels over him as our master lies on his side, propped by an elbow.

“Took you long enough,” he spits through the blood in his mouth. “Some bodyguard you are.”

“You always were a jerk,” Halifax growls dismissively as he strips a tourniquet from his tunic and strains to cinch off the blood flowing from Calipulus’ wound. “What happened?”

“Valerius…” Calipulus coughs, “he betrayed us; all of the Brutii have.”

A moment of silence follows, and I can tell that this revelation to Halifax saddens them both, as a wound cutting to the very core of their hearts. Only the distant battle’s cacophony remains to remind me I am alive, and as I stand over the two with the captured Eagle I see that a valedictory look is exchanged between them. Halifax is forty-four, Calipulus is twenty-six. The two have known one another for nearly twenty years.

Halifax removes his helmet, and then that of Titus’ scion. “You fought well, Calipulus,” he says, “better than your father.” This seems to satiate the young duke, and he relaxes a bit as the life drains from his wounds. He reaches up and places a hand on the bare, broad shoulder of his old Mack friend, his sweaty palm sliding around on the blood that oozes from the shoulder’s cuts.

But no sooner is this exchange made than a flurry of noise erupts from twenty meters behind us. Halifax is a blur as he dons his helmet and plucks the sarissa from the earth. But he is too late, the danger is upon them. It is Captain Arturion Valerius, galloping forward on his massive stallion. He rides past them and swings with his captain’s spatha. The blow swings past Halifax’s intercepting shield and hits Calipulus on the nape of the neck as he tries to rise. The man lurches for a moment, suspended on his feet, before pitching forward and landing face first in the muck. It all happens in less than a brace of heartbeats, but it is enough to see the finality of the events. Calipulus lies face down in the mud, still as stone, while Captain Valerius gallops away, headed towards the rear lines of our embattled Julii.

Halifax roars with a fury I have never beheld, his entire body flushes red and the hair, plastered to his neck and armor by the sweat and blood, twirls about as he wheels on the Brutii attacker, flinging fluids in a spray. Before I can blink the monstrous man has plucked the Eagle standard from my hands, still bellowing his warcry, and hurls the thing like a javelin towards the Brutii officer. I watch, fixated on the sigil, as it soars through the air, straight and true, and finds its mark on the back of Captain Valerius’ horse. The metal shaft pierces the beast’s hips and innards, almost up to the eagle’s feet, causing the mount to play out in the dirt. The Brutii captain sprawls from his horse and rolls in the dust, limbs flailing. Halifax draws his xyphos and strides towards the traitor, his long trunk-like limbs covering the ground as a Titan.

“Arturion!” the Mack bellows with a baritone voice so loud that it eclipses the noise of the battle. “Arturion!” In an instant a volley of arrows descend upon Halifax’s position. He catches one low with his shield, and another at mid port. He takes both of these in stride, never slowing even as the last warhead beats the bronze facing right off of his aspis. He raises the shield and then casts it down, flinging it off of his arm and sending it crashing into the dirt. The aspis, beaten and staved by a thousand blows, shatters when it slams into the turf. But Halifax could care less, the brute’s ire is up and nothing will stave him.

Valerius sees the gorgon approach and picks up a nearby pilum. He hurls the thing at Halifax. It sails high, straight over the Mack’s left shoulder. Valerius plucks another pilum from the detritus and throw it. I watch in amazement as Halifax deflects the missile with a swing of his short slashing sword. When the two come within twenty meters they charge at one another.

A furious duel ensues behind the lines of the armies as Halifax and Captain Valerius clash. Their swords bite and sting in a blinding fury. And where whetted steel and iron fail to find the mark they succeed with blows of the knuckle, knee and elbow. Halifax smashes his scarred forehead into Valeruis’ nasal bridge, shattering his nose. Blood sheets from the stocky Brutii as he stumbles backwards to recover. Halifax seizes him, but the short officer is quick. He lands a series of elbows into Halifax’s ribs, and though the bronze breastplate covers them I can tell that such force is sent into the attacks that the Mack’s ribs become cracked. This is confirmed when he lurches in pain. Valerius capitalizes on this moment and sinks the blade of his spatha into Halifax’s unprotected thigh. Blood fountains from the wound, but before he can recover his weapon Halifax slashes his xyphos and shivers the spatha’s blade. The wounded Greek falls to one knee, a half meter of steel stuck through his leg. Valerius falls on him with the broken blade, and I watch in confusion as both sink their weapons into each other and fall. As I approach I see that both are living. Their mouths seem to be moving, as if they were having an exchange. I never know what they say, for a moment later Captain Valerius rises with the aid of Halifax’s broken sarissa haft. The Greek lies at his feet, immobile in the fetid mud.

As I come near Captain Valerius hobbles away, to a line of gathering Brutii. Their emerald tunics and glimmering armor form an enveloping line behind our Julii scarlet, and it is then that I know the battle is truly lost. Our forces never even get a chance to route. They are surrounded and slaughtered to the last.

A half hour later I am captured and brought to a hillock near the battle’s rear. It is the same hill that Calipulus and his color guard took to earlier when they sought a better view of the battle south of Rome. My hands are bound and I am herded to the slope where three dozen others are sequestered, guarded by a century of Brutii and a file of Marius’ Legionaries. A nightmarish landscape of dust and rust-colored haze swarms around my vision as the extremity of battle finally fatigues me. The adrenaline leaves my body and I find myself drifting in and out of consciousness. Rome lingers before me, a jewel on the horizon to my right, some leagues off. In between the fields are choked by a carpet of dead and writhing wounded. Lone figures move throughout this carnage, as farmers of Charon moving through their harvest fields.

My vision is interrupted, however, by the arrival of Captain Valerius. He hobbles in through the haze, his form broken and bloodied, and steadied by the same sarissa haft. He comes up to the group of prisoners at the hillock, pointing me out of the mix.

“That is Scales,” I hear him say. “Bring him forward.” I am plucked from the earth and prodded to within a few meters of Valerius. He looks beaten and exhausted, but there is something more. He looks stricken with some ailment of the spirit. For a long time he just regards me. “What have we become?” he asks me. “Are we angels void of flight, or are we devils granted dominion over the earth?”

“We are men,” I reply, “who do what we must to appease the gods and give ourselves as a sacrifice to honor.” He smiles wryly at that. “For what is left to us when we pass, save our virtues committed in life?”

“You think me a villain,” he confesses. I spit at his caligas. “I am a villain,” he confirms grimly. “But we must hold to our oaths. And my first oath is to Marcus Brutius. You knew that, Scales, as did your master, Titus, and his son, Calipulus.” He scratches the stubble on his pronounced chin before picking ribbons of bloodied cloth and flesh from the wounds at his shoulder. “We all knew this day would come,” he continues, “as the moon will eventually eclipse the sun. And though such portents frighten us we know that we must endure them, as a galley in a storm. For it is the way of things; the way of the gods.”

“Heroes are men that change fate, not endure it.”

He scoffs at that with a sardonic grin. “Look around you, Scales, there are no heroes here. We are drowned in a sea of blood, blind and terrified. But Rome will forever be the beacon in the night; the stars in the sky that proffer our salvation from this ocean of finite human power. If we choose not to serve that, then what are we but beasts of the land.”

“The Brutii are wolves,” I declare, “sinking their fangs into a prey only when it is asleep or wounded. You are already beasts.”

“And the Julii are lambs, sent to the slaughter as sacrifice for our wrongs; penance to the gods for all of Rome’s transgressions.” He means the indulgence of the plebes in light of the Republic. “Your house has always loved the people, and so have the Brutii. But you forget that order must be maintained. Republic and chaos stride hand-in-hand on either side of a thin white line. We seek to preserve the tenuous balance. Order must be maintained.”

“Even if it means betrayal?”

Valerius does not speak. His eyes answer for him. He is racked with guilt. “The Ibex belongs to us now, as it was always meant to, and so the Julii will at last pay the piper.”

“You don’t really believe that.”

“I have no choice. I cannot correct the sins of my past, no matter how recent.” With that he turns to an aide and motions for him to bring up a cart. When the horse drawn buggy arrives the hatch is lowered and two people are ushered out. Their heads are covered in robes and cowls, one shorter and wider than the other. When the covers are pulled they reveal a man and a woman carrying a babe. “But perhaps I can atone for them.” He indicates the family to his left. “This is Gaius Julius, Aurelia, and their son. They are the last nobles of your house’s line.” He points to the cart and a pair of guards usher me over to it, unbinding my hands and handing me the horsewhip. “The House of Julius is sundered under the caliga of Marius and his Empire, as are the Scipii. And though a new power rises, I cannot foretell how long it will endure. Until that time I wish to preserve some seed of your family, so that all will not be lost when the end comes.”

I climb the carriage and take hold of the reins as the family herds themselves into its wagon bed. “I don’t suppose Marcus Brutius has ordained this mercy?”

Valerius shakes his head. “Arrangements have been made. You will take charge of the family and raise them in Rome. The Julii are broken, yet in time you will be restored to the Senate…when they discover that some of your scions yet survived this day. When that day comes, have the boy and his father trained and ready to accept the mantle of Titus Julius, of Calipulus Julius, and become a senator of Rome once again. I have a feeling we will need him in the coming decades.”

“Why are you doing this?” I ask.

Valerius sighs then, his eyes squinting as they take in the hazy spring sunset. “All winds change, Scales, especially those of power and fate. Even the winds of betrayal cannot blow in the same direction forever. As I said, I seek to preserve Rome. If that is true then I must provide her with all available options. Thus, I will ensure that a member of the Julii lives to see the day Rome needs him. Prepare them for that day.”

“Will you have your spies watch us?”

“Always,” he smiles. “I have a cousin, Junius, whose own son is about that age, and will surely produce more before the light of his star fades. Perhaps they will be friends?” He smiles wistfully then, and I must admit, despite my ire for the man, I cannot help but share in the thought.

“Time will tell, Captain. Time will tell.”

He nods at that, satisfied. “Verily. Until then, Indimitrianus of Hispania, called Scales, care and tutor these last branches of your house’s tree. One day Rome may call upon them. Make sure that they are ready.”

With that we are led under guard into the city of Rome. It is the first time I am within her walls since the betrayal two years ago. We are shown to our home and left with a single century to patrol the villa. As the family overcomes the shock of witnessing a battle, and supplants it with confusion and simultaneous joy over their new abode, I cannot help but be stricken with worry. I take to the cloistered garden at the rear of the villa, where a nurse tends my wounds and I watch the dusk. As the sun sets the couple brings their babe to me, so that I may bless him and perform the rites of acceptance. I look into this child’s eyes and shed a tear for his fate…for all of our fates.

When Rome calls upon him what will it be for? Will the gods bestow honors upon him and make him a virtuous man, or will the winds of Remus blow again and scatter him as ashes before the blaze? I pray that the gods will have mercy on him, as they have on me. But in the end, that is all we can do. All we have are prayers.

The Beginning of the End

Marcus Brutus surveyed the field, oblivious of his wounds, deaf to the moans of the fallen who were feeling their lives draining away on blood soaked ground. He had won the day, one enemy was crushed and the other would be dealt with very soon. Today, all scores would be settled.

Brutus looked down at the lifeless shell that was Farious Scipio, reluctantly feeling remorse and some regret for what had occurred, this noble Roman deserved better. A single tear formed in his eye, welling up, then slowly rolling down a cheek until the droplet was spent. Brutus' vision was briefly blurred, he saw Scipio through a soft haze that clouded the periphery of sight, then suddenly the face of the fallen hero was starkly outlined in sharp detail. Brutus bowed his head and whispered a final farewell.

He was brought back to reality by the voice of Cornelius, who approached his duke, bloody, battered and limping painfully as he led his mount.

"My lord, the day is yours!"

Once again Brutus looked down at Farious Scipio. "Is it, Cornelius, is it indeed?"

"You did what was needed to be done," replied the loyal Cornelius, who then turned his gaze to approaching riders.
"Marius comes, my lord."

"You know what to do, Cornelius?"

"Yes, my lord."

The emperor, surrounded by his escort, came to the leader of the Brutii, then jumped down from his steed and embraced Marcus, who instinctively flinched at the contact.

"You have done well, Marcus Brutus, I salute your prowess and that of your legions. I see that you have learned my lessons well, with your men at the fore, we will conquer the world. I will expect a report from you, but that can wait, this day is over."

"The day is not yet over, General Marius."

Marius felt the reproach as if slapped in the face. The emperor stepped back, his jaw grinding. "I allowed you to refrain from using my proper title earlier as it was a part of the ruse, but do not speak to me in that manner again. I am your emperor..."

"You are usurper, you are scoundrel, you are murderer---but you are no longer emperor!"

"How dare you!"

"Look around you, general."

Marius turned to see a cohort of Brutii behind him, and others forming up left and right; the approaching thunder of cavalry could be heard on all sides. Beyond Brutus, two full legions seemed to suddenly materialize, drawn up into a solid wall of shields.

"More treachery, Brutus? What will you do now, make yourself emperor?"

"I told you earlier that there would be a trial today, so here are your choices, General Marius. You can be escorted to the senate, where your case will be presented, or we will fight here and now, where you will fully see the worth of my men. Look around, your legions are chewed up and spent, whereas mine are eager. On my order they will annihilate your army, and still you will be put on trial. Choose, Marius!"

Anger turned to an unconvincing smirk. "Do you think that the people and senate will allow you to just ride into Rome with me in tow? You overestimate yourself, Marcus Brutus."

"And you have deluded yourself into thinking that you are loved and respected. But prove me wrong, Marius, ride with me to the city and we will see if the gates are opened in welcome or not. Choose now!"

Marius' mind raced, but he maintained a stoic demeanor. He looked Brutus squarely in the eyes and saw the determination of one who is in control. The emperor desperately tried to think of options, but could find none, he needed to stall.

"You have me at a disadvantage, Marcus, but I think that there is another choice. You are the protector of Rome, your deeds today have shown that only too well. Well, why not make it official, we will go to the senate and declare that Marcus Brutus has preserved the sanctity of Rome, and is hereby proclaimed Protector of the Empire, with authority second only to my own. We..."

"Shut up, buffoon! I tire of this pointless debate. Cornelius, order the legions forward, no soldier of Marius is to be spared!"

"Wait, Brutus---wait."

The ring of Brutii that was formed around Marius, came to the ready, awaiting the order to strike. Brutus gazed at Marius and saw defeat in his eyes.

"Cornelius, change that. Assemble all imperial commanders here, Marius wishes to address them and issue orders." Brutus then issued orders to Marius.

The confused commanders gathered around Marius, surrounded by grim faced Brutii. Unease had spread through Marius' army as the confrontation between their emperor and Marcus Brutus had commenced. They saw Brutii legions redeploying in a threatening manner on their flanks, scorpions being wheeled into position.

"What are you orders, my emperor?" asked Anarius Varro, the senior commander.

"All legions will return to the forts, attend to the wounded and await further orders."

"Ye--yes, sire."

Within the City of Rome

The gates were thrown open in welcome for Marcus Brutus and Emperor Marius. The streets were filled with citizens, mostly silent, but curious about what this procession of Brutii cohorts and cavalry portended. The murmurs of the crowd were occasionally accentuated by a "Hail, Brutus!" or "Marcus Brutus returns!" There were no such exclamations for Marius, but less pronounced comments of an uncomplimentary nature spread rapidly.

Before entering Rome, Brutus had handed two scrolls to Cornelius. "Take this list to the commander of the Praetorian Guard, each senator on it is to be arrested where they sit. Those not in attendance are to be rounded up with all due haste. This one is to be given to Pompey."

"Yes, my lord."

As Marius rode through the streets of Rome, his fear grew but he would not allow his desperation to show. Once in the senate chamber there would be one last chance to salvage his life and position. He tried to assemble his thoughts and come up with a speech that would turn the tide against Brutus.

On the Floor of the Senate

Brutus and Marius entered unescorted, the former torn and bloodied, the latter unscathed. All that remained in attendance fell silent as the two men walked to the center of the chamber. Before Marius could speak, Marcus Brutus' voice filled the room, carrying to every corner and niche.

"Rome is safe, the armies of the noble Scipio and Julius have been reluctantly destroyed. Now it falls upon you senators to end this horrific chapter in the history of our great city and culture. Excuse me for my lack of eloquence, it is not a skill I have ever cultivated, so allow me to speak plainly. The man who planned the betrayal, who plotted against three great Roman families, who seized power that was not his to hold, stands before you now. Gaius Marius, the usurper, is here to be judged by you noble senators here and now!"

Hushed murmurs quickly spread throughout those assembled, then grew louder and louder as the impact of what was occurring became ever clearer. At first one by one, then in groups, the senators came to their feet, pointing accusing fingers at their emperor.

Brutus continued. "The vote is simple, will Marius remain as emperor, or will he be sent into exile to a tiny isle where he will rule the crabs and sea birds? Wait, noble senators, wait! Before you cast your votes, he will speak."

Marius puffed himself up as best he could. "Senators, fellow Romans, Marcus Brutus is inciting an illegal action in defiance of the law. There is no precedence for removing an emperor forcibly from his rightful seat..."

"That's because there had never been an emperor before you seized power through deception and intrigue!" yelled one senator.

"You broke Roman law, Gaius Marius!" added another.

All voices were turned against Marius, loudly condemning him for crimes against the state. Scattered cries of "Death to the tyrant!" soon became a chorus. Brutus nodded and a company of Praetorian Guards marched into the chamber, forming a ring around the fallen despot.

Brutus addressed the assembly. "Here me now, noble senators, let us not fall to lawlessness at this very moment when all the wrongs will be righted, it is not our way." Silence ensued, all eyes on Marcus Brutus. "We are all agreed that General Marius will step down, but let us remember his service to Rome before his ideals became twisted and perverted. Allow him exile, where he will be tortured by thoughts of his misdeeds for the rest of his days. What say you, senators?"

The unanimous approval of Brutus' edict was voiced loudly and with great enthusiasm. A new chant then grew, disassembled at first, then in perfect union---"Brutus, Brutus, Brutus..."

"Praetorians, take this man to his rooms and be sure that he does not take his own life,"

A single voice then proclaimed, "Hail, Emperor Marcus Brutus! and was added to by many in the chamber.

Marcus Brutus roared, drowning out everyone else, then turned his fiery anger to all in attendance. "I have not deposed one tyrant in order to supplant him with another! Rome will have no emperor ever again! What I give you is a return to the Republic, the return of rule by the people through the senate. I will not rule, and will fight any who strive to."

Again the chamber fell silent for a time, slowly replaced by more murmurs of confusion, no one would speak openly for fear of angering Brutus. After a long pause, Pompey stepped forward from the assembly, walked to the center of the floor and bowed to Marcus Brutus.

"What do you wish of us, honorable lord?"

"That you rule Rome as in the days before the tyrant Marius. As for me, I care little of politics, my place is on the field of battle. Grant me command of the armies of Rome, I will spend my days in service and expand our influence to all the lands of the world! I will serve Rome!"

A very brief debate ensued, one sided as all possible dissenters had already been arrested. The senators knew full well that granting Brutus' request would make him de facto ruler of Rome, but they also saw personal gain. Rome would be a Republic again, at least in name if not in full spirit.

And so it was that Marcus Brutus triumphed.

The Aftermath of the Turbulence

Brutus took possession of the provinces south of Rome without resistence, the Scipii had all fled to their fortress at Carthage. The Republic expanded, spreading enlightenment at the point of a sword. Moving north and west, Gaul and Germania were assaulted time and again, the warbands retreating, then resisting, making for an expensive Roman investment in lives and resources.

Marcus Brutus personally led the campaign to exterminate the Dacians, sparing none. Those once fearsome people were reduced to small bands of refugees, fleeing to any haven that offered respite from the rampage of the Romans.

Brutus then turned his sights to Carthage and the last of the Scipii. He amassed an army of 100,000, a force to rival the Greeks at Troy, and laid seige. The walls of the city were equal to the task, assault upon assault was repulsed with great damage to the Brutii. One year led to another, but still Carthage stood, defiant and enduring.
Reinforcements were dispatched, but could not sway the tide, the passion of the defenders was such that they would have faced the gods themselves, their resolution was as one.

When it became clear that Carthage would not be taken, Marcus Brutus called for a return to the homeland. His frustration was crushing, the final victory denied. The legions boarded the ships and sailed away, leaving no Trojan Horse. Brutus lost all taste for battle and retired his office, leaving the campaigns to trusted generals. The senate accepted his resignation with feigned reluctance.

The Epilouge

Sixteen years had passed since Marcus Brutus 'freed' the Roman Republic. His time was now spent between Tarentum, where his family resided, including his young son, Marcus Junius Brutus the Younger, and Capua, where he housed a score of young women who satisfied the carnal urges that had replaced his battlefield lust.

His return to Capua was marked by the usual feast and orgy; despite his advancing years, Marcus Brutus had the energy of a young man, and he displayed it well that night.
He had 'initiated' three new women and was feeling the effects. As the last slave woman left the bedchamber, a shadow slipped within. Marcus was on his bed, his energy spent. He reached for the wine goblet and drained it to the last drop. A sudden chilling sensation grips his legs, then moved to his arms and chest. He was paralyzed, only able to draw quick and painful breaths. Nothing comes from his mouth, his eyes race from side to side; Marcus Brutus knows fear like never before. Then a figure approaches. Marcus' eyes focus, it is a young boy, perhaps sixteen. His features are familiar, but they have never met. The boy comes closer and speaks.

"So, at last the great Marcus Brutus is helpless. You know, from the time I was born, I was told of this moment. Mother had me trained by the best assassins from around the world. Money is a wonderful thing, but you already know that, don't you? I have often wondered if it was money or power that led you to betray my father at the Battle of Rome."

Brutus stared into the face of the boy and was reminded of another. He knew the features, those of Farious Scipio. Unable to speak, his eyes asked the question.

"I see that you know me. Yes, I am Clausious Scipio, and I grew up without a father because of your treachery. I have waited for this day, my mother has instilled it in me since the time I could appreciate its importance. I have learned well from her, but here I will disobey her wishes, for she always instructed me to make a quick end to your life. I have a different thought, given your insatiable love of women---live as a eunuch or die!"

Clausious drew a dagger and removed all of Brutus' genitalia. He then grabbed a poker from the fire and cauterized the wound. The boy then saw that Brutus' legendary sword was mounted on a nearby wall, a testament to the man's deeds. He drew the sword from its sheath and laid it next to the still helpless master of Rome.

"Soon the pain will wear through the drugs, and you will be able to move. Then your limbs will become useful again, but you may pass out from the pain. You have two choices---
live as half a man, and never know the pleasure of women again, or use your strength to fall upon your sword. You will never find me, I am a shadow, a nightmare. Oh, and should you dream of vengeance, mother died a month ago, within the walls of Carthage that you could not break. Goodbye Marcus Brutus, betrayer to the alliance of three. Oh, you should begin to feel the pain in a few minutes."

And with that, the boy vanished as if he had never been there at all.

Fiery waves of excruciating pain engulfed Marcus Brutus, his screams echoed throughout the corridors, alerting all.
Those who entered his bedchamber were repulsed by the sight of their master emasculated and helpless. With one last primal roar, Brutus ordered everyone to leave him.

Alone with his agony, Brutus picked up the sword and pondered his fate.....


The End


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Edited from Original Text due to unclear intention. What was written seemed like an endnote, as it is written in a completely different style.