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Vetera was lovely in the late summer. The leaves were still green and the days still long, yet the humidity was falling and the first fingers of frost could be seen on some chilly mornings. It was not as warm as sunny Rome, but it was still a welcome place to be after campaigning on the far side of the Rhenus for two months.

The army was once again back on its side of the border, and the units were already dispersing back to their home stations. The X Gemina marched west to its home of Noviomagus, while the XXI Rapax and VI Victrix headed south. The XXII Primigenia was already home, with the governor in their midst here at Vetera. Outside, a solitary legion occupied the temporary fort along with two ala of cavalry- and two thousand Suevi mercenaries. Inside the castrum, the governor was listening to his quaestor’s odd and totally irresponsible request.

“Explain this insanity to me again,” Cordinus asked his quaestor. He was shaking his head as if that would somehow allow the crazy words he heard to find a gap and come inside to be considered. "You want to do what?”

“I want to go back across the river and make the Suevi prince Segestes king of the Bructeri,” Marcus Rutilius explained once again, as if to a wayward child. “Your campaign this summer destroyed them as a viable tribe, killed one of the two kings, and drove the other into exile. If we do not put some sort of power back into that void, other tribes will move in.”

“So?”

Rutilius shook his head in weariness. The man did try, but he was oh-so-very-lost when it came to tribal matters. How Rome could ever send such a man to govern such an important province? The answer was far beyond his ability to clearly see.

“So, if the Bructeri are not our neighbors, another tribe will be. It is as simple as that. Maybe one that is more numerous, more aggressive, less respectful of Rome, more eager to raid,” he explained again. “The forests over there teem with tribes, and the Bructeri land is fertile. Remember your predicament a few weeks ago. Imagine if a charismatic foe of Rome gained power and moved into the vacant land. He could wield the tribes together and do to you here what the Bructeri did there. Here is your chance to avoid that.”

“And it is also a chance to go directly to the Imperator and be beheaded for exceeding my operational limits,” the governor repeated. “We were ordered to make war upon the Bructeri for their massacre of our legions and recover the Eagles. We did that. We are not authorized to meddle in their internal problems.”

“Rome has been doing that for centuries,” Rutilius reminded him, gently. “Most recently in Noviomagus, where we installed Tiberius Claudius Labeo as king. And before that in Armenia, where your mentor Corbulo installed a king of Rome’s choosing, despite Parthian objections.”

Cordinus laughed at the reference of Parthian objections- Corbulo had fought a war to victory, was replaced by an incompetent fool who ended up surrendering his army to the Parthians, before Corbulo returned to drive those horsemen back into their own lands and secured a lasting peace. But his quaestor was correct- it was indeed a Roman habit of meddling in the affairs of neighboring kingdoms.

Rutilius knew not what was going through his governor’s head. He pointed to the list of casualties and replacement requests on the governor’s table. “Be prepared for more of those- a lot more. Or, you can be smart, and fill the vacuum with a king friendly to Rome. Segestes is that man.”

“He is no friend of Rome! He bore arms against us,” Cordinus cried. “And he harbors a grudge- I enslaved him and intended to sell him for a large sum of denarii.”

“He bore arms because he was led to believe Rome was attacking to destroy the tribe for reasons of whimsy,” Rutilius countered evenly. “And he served Rome admirably thereafter, guarding our border when it was exposed. As to the grudge- that is personal against you- and installing him as king would go a long way to reconciliation. Reconciliation and peace- what both this province and Rome need here right now.”

Cordinus grunted at that. His eyes narrowed. “How much is he paying you? You would not argue this well or long for the cause of a man you hardly know unless there was sufficient cause. Three talents? Four?”

“You still think so lowly of me,” Rutilius whispered, “even after this past summer?”

“What?” cried Cordinus in surprise. “You are acting the advocate, and quite well at that. Advocates are paid. So how much?”

Ah, Roman politics. He still thinks he is in Rome. Time to set him straight. “The price is your head. If I convince you to grant this request, Segestes will forgive his temporary enslavement at your orders and your head may remain where it is. Should I fail, he will most certainly try to take your head as compensation and a trophy with him when he goes to claim the crown alone.”

Cordinus gulped.

“That was a jest, lord,” Rutilius admitted. He smiled broadly to ensure the other knew it was indeed a joke. It was time to once again teach the local customs to the local potentate. “He is not paying me, nor am I receiving any recompense. I offered him the kingship of the tribe to sooth his honor after you so hideously broke mine. He would make a good king- he is already of noble blood, and we are friends in honor. I would like to see that he becomes king as a matter of that honor. And, as stated earlier, having a friendly king on that side of the Rhenus keeps the river border safe for us. We win what we sought- a lasting peace.”

A lantern lit up inside the governor’s head, as if the words suddenly sank in dragging their meaning along with them this time. He sighed, then nodded.

“Good point,” he agreed. “ It makes sense not to let a strong, aggressive unknown tribe move onto our border when we can have a weak, friendly tribe securing it. Yes, it is indeed a good plan. But why exactly do you have to go over there? Can you not have the fleet ferry him and his Suevi across, and let him become king on his own?”

Rutilius nodded. “That is an option, but nothing guarantees that the Bructeri remnants would accept him. My presence, as a Roman magistrate, would show the tribe that Segestes has our support, something vital to our plans of having a secure border. Our support would also be a sign to them that we seek peace. Further, it would show them that we bear no grudge against the tribe itself- just their former kings who led them into problems with us. And it would be a major status boost for the new king. It can probably be done without my presence, but that is a gamble. With me presence, his ascension and our security are all but assured.”

Cordinus thought that over. He still knew very little about what made these barbarians tick, but his quaestor knew well what did. If he felt putting his life into the hands of savages was what could bring peace to the border, then that is what must be done.

“And if they roast you in a wicker cage instead?” he asked, trying to cover all points.

“They would need to defeat two thousand Suevi warriors first, plus whatever escort I have,” Rutilius replied. “They do not have the manpower for that. I will be quite safe.”

“They had a hundred thousand not a few weeks ago!”

“And lost most of them, and the rest went home, badly hurt,” Rutilius reminded him. “All that remain across the river now are the Chauci, who promised peace, the Frisii, who did the same, and the Bructeri, who are all but annihilated.”

The situation had changed, yet again. He hated Germania and its ever-changing situations. Armenia and Africa were far more stable, but this was his chance to bring some sort of political stability to a region that so desperately needed it. He nodded to his quaestor, giving him tacit approval. “Just be careful- I do not want to have to come over there to rescue you.”

Rutilius smiled. “I will be careful, lord.”

Cordinus nodded. “You will also do it on your own. I am going to write a tablet authorizing you to take six weeks leave of absence to settle your affairs. Those two alae in your fort are to patrol an undefined area for the next six weeks, so I do not expect to see them until that time elapses.”

Rutilius understood the hidden meaning- he was allowed to do as he pleased for the next six weeks, and have two strong alae of cavalry as an escort.

Cordinus coughed to clear his throat as he glared out the window. “To be perfectly clear, I am not ordering you across, or even giving permission. I will finish my report and send it to Rome. In it I will have ordered you to report to Colonia, and thereafter were granted six weeks leave of absence. What you do in the meantime...”

Rutilius grinned. The governor was covering his ass, and doing it well.

“Understood, lord,” he said.

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[This message has been edited by Terikel Grayhair (edited 08-11-2011 @ 11:14 AM).]

Hah, I get the first response in the new chapter, and it'll be:


YAY!!!!

I would have commented first, but I still need to read all the other parts. I guess I'll spend some day reading them...

brilliant just brilliant

Great!

Master Skald Strikes again another thrilling start to the chapter Terikel.

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“Gaius, my boy!” shouted his mother in wondrous excitement. “How good it is to see you again.”

The young man snorted at his mother’s greeting. Though he bore her no ill will, her joy at seeing him contrasted sharply with his own pain driving him to come to the home of his parents.

Vettia picked up on the pain her joy caused, though its source eluded her. Still, her boy had come home! She had not seen him in over a year- since his marriage to that rich merchant’s pretty daughter. She was a lovely lass, that Licinia, and had good Roman ancestors, once among the most powerful in Rome. What a wonderful union they made. Two senior families, both powerful in the late Republic, now seeking to rise again. The Licinii had the money, always had, and the Valerii the talented oratory. Her son was working on a poem of his own, one that promised to rival the greats in the field. He had been at it for almost six years now. It was a wonderful piece, a thing for which a mother could be proud. Thus his humorless entry made for mixed signals.

“Hello, mother,” Gaius Valerius Flaccus replied.

The elderly Vettia took her son’s hand and dragged him from the atrium toward the large chamber used for guests- and family.

“What is troubling you, my boy?” she asked as they walked. “Your son is past the dangers of his premature birth by now, surely. And your work goes well, otherwise you would have been here much earlier.”

She sat him down upon a padded bench, then took a place beside him.

“Little Gaius is fine,” he admitted. “He is crawling now, alone, and babbles. And my work proceeds. I am on my fourth book now- between where the Argonauts lose Hylas to the Naiads and the encounter with the harpies. But I have not come to discuss such things. Is Father about? What bothers me is something with which only he could help.”

The woman echoed the snort he son made upon entering the house. “Fables and fairy tales,” the woman cackled. “I helped make your father the man he is today. I can do the same for you, if you would allow it.”

Gaius shook his head. “No, mother, some things are for men alone. This is one of them.”

Vettia rose and faced her son. “As you wish, young Gaius. Your father is making his rounds of the estate, if he is not off somewhere sipping the proffered wine of someone wishing his patronage. I shall send Aeson to bring him.”

An hour after his mother withdrew, his father entered the chamber. He saw his son’s bleary eyes, and mistook them at first for drunkenness. It was only as he approached to berate the young man for such hedonism that he realized he had been crying. The revelation softened his heart.

“Your mother says you have something with which only I could help,” he said tenderly as he took the seat his wife had vacated.

Gaius nodded. When his father gestured for Aeson to leave them alone and close the door, he turned to his father.

“I am rather confused, father,” the man said. “Something bothers me. And worse, it is affecting my work. I told mother I am working on my fourth book of my twelve-part Argonautica, which you remember I began the summer Titus Flavius Vespasianus became our Imperator.”

“I remember.” How could he forget? The boy spent a fortune acquiring copies of the tale of the Argonauts and studied them profusely, wasting many denarii on tutors that were less talented than was he.

“It has been almost six years, and yet I am only on the fourth book,” the man pleaded. “I should be scribbling out couplets and stanzas at two books per year. The story is well known, after all. It is not like I must invent it as I go along. Yet I stand still. I have thrown out four drafts already.”

The older Valerius Flaccus thought a moment, or at least pretended to do so. He knew a long time ago that this day would come. The boy had been immersed in myth and legend, now the man was overwhelmed by trying to make his boyhood dream become a work worthy of a man, a renowned poet who could stand among the greats and have his work read out before crowds in the theatres. “What you need, son, is time away. Drop your poems, drop the tale of the Argo, and live for once, while you still can. You have a pretty wife- bed her. You have good friends- visit them. And you have a fine son- spend time with him while you can. Clear your mind, son, then resume your work refreshed.”

The mention of the son brought a sob. The older Valerius smiled- his son was such a softie when it came to the little one. But he was dead wrong, and realized it a moment later.

“Is there something wrong with the boy?” he asked with sudden seriousness. The boy had been born early- and early boys come with problems. Still, the dangerous times had passed, and all accounts say the boy is just thriving.

“The boy is fine,” the younger Flaccus said. “He crawls and when he can find something to grab onto, he stands and walks as well. For a seven month old, that is amazing. He also talks- which is the problem.”

“I don’t follow.”

Young Gaius sighed heavily. “Licinia is a wonderful Roman wife- attentive, demure, obedient, and polite. But little Gaius is a proper Roman son as well- playful, martial, and speaking coherently- but incessantly. And Licinia is spoiling the lad rotten. He walks all over her- and she lets him. She refuses to let a nanny touch the lad, doing all the care herself as if the boy came to her from the gods themselves. Together they are destroying my concentration, but doing it in such a proper way that I really cannot complain to them. Thus I sit. And fret. And get nothing done, which frustrates me. I dare not say anything to her about it- but you could. She would understand the dilemma if you explained it.”

Gaius Senior laughed. And laughed, to the frustration of his son, whose face grew redder by the minute.

“What is so funny, Father?”

“A poet- a man of words- has no words himself,” cackled the old man in true glee. “He needs another to speak for him.”

Gaius Junior cracked a smile at his father’s words. But then it was replaced with a frown. “So you will not speak to her for me?”

“And say what?” the father asked. “Ask her not to be a proper wife to my son, or a doting mother to my grandson? That is patently ridiculous.”

“You could ask her to be stronger, and to raise our son sternly, and with more austerity.”

That sobered the older man up. He sighed as he thought of all the missed military service the boy could have had to toughen him into a man who could do his own dirty work, instead of lavish, flamboyant tutors turning him into a sensitive mushroom. There must be something he could do or say to strengthen the lad and let him see the true vision of how he was blessed, and not cursed. Then it dawned on him.

“Go to Lugdunum, in Gaul,” he commanded his son. “Leave your work, and your family, and go to Lugdunum. There you will find a tablet, concerning the speech given by Tiberius Claudius Caesar Augustus back when he was Imperator. Study the text, lad, and know that Valerius Asiaticus was adopted into this family, and Valeria Messalina was born into it. Study the tablet, and study their fates. It will open your eyes.”

The younger man ceased his self-pity. He knew the fates of the two people already mentioned, as he had researched his family very thoroughly for a previous project. He did not see what his father meant, though he knew of the bronze tablet and of the fates.

“You need to travel,” the older man continued. “Get out of the house, get away from Licinia and little Gaius, away from Rome. See Italia, then Gaul. And when you return, you will look upon your wife and child with much more love and appreciation than you do now. So go, my son, go and open your eyes to what you have, or take a journey to learn what you so callously think to throw away.”

The young man nodded. What his father said was true. He did need to get away, to clear his head, to start anew.

“You are correct, father,” he agreed. “I shall travel, to clear my head and see what my heart misses.”

“Good lad,” the older man agreed. “And if you still wish for a change when you return, only then will I have a talk with Licinia and see if things can be worked out.”

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Marcus Rutilius barely made it to his command tent before Publius Arrius stormed in.

“Are you out of your frikkin’ mind?” the legate roared. “You are heading back across to Germania Magna? We just left that infernal place! And going back with but two ala of cavalry as an escort?”

“And four cohorts of Suevi warriors,” Rutilius added. “Don’t forget those.”

Arrius cackled bitterly. “Oh, how can I forget those? The very men who would solidify their king’s ascension by roasting a Roman magistrate in a wicker cage upon the altar of their hideous one-eyed god. Gods forbid I neglect to mention them.”

“Segestes is a good man, Publius,” Rutilius reminded him. “And we need one of those over there.”

“Let me see,” Arrius recounted. “He leads a warband twenty cohorts strong to the north, way out of his tribe’s area, gets thoroughly trounced by you here, then gets thrown into prison to be sold to the arenas. Yeah, sounds like a great man.”

“He bought a truce on his honor, then fulfilled his vow to me by patrolling our border and garrisoning two of our castra while every fighting man under our colors was across the river. And you forget a couple of key points- the cloaks and helmet which allowed me to get within sight of the trapped legions, as well as the ideas we employed- all of that came from him. He was enslaved for his troubles, and my honor brought him out of it.”

“Yeah, I remember. He gave you some great tips, and served you well. What is it with him?” Arrius asked suddenly. “Even that Cananefate kid likes that guy, and he dislikes almost everybody but you.”

“Jorgen and I met him in a Cherusci village in the late winter,” Rutilius replied. “He thought us Germans, not Romans, and we did not disavow him of that notion. We became a sort of friends- a friendship that survived his brief imprisonment.”

The face of Arrius relaxed. He could indeed see how Marcus could become friends with someone under those circumstances. And he knew for a fact that once a German becomes a friend, he remains a friend for life.

“You will still need more than just two ala of heavy cavalry,” Arrius said. “I can offer you the I Rutilia.”

Rutilius shook his head. “The fleet will be arriving shortly to ferry you back to Britannia and your home legions.”

“We will be taking our wounded with us,” Arrius said. “Wounded men take up a lot of space, as will the booty we acquired. Maybe half will go. The rest will have to await the return of the fleet.”

“So for six weeks I’d have the use of a rump legion of four cohorts,” Rutilius mused.

“Five,” Arrius countered. “That cohort of Batavian veterans will not be going to Britannia.”

“Five cohorts, and two ala,” Rutilius mused. “I think Segestes will be more than happy to see his escort. My personal escort will be somewhat smaller- and not as happy.”

“How so?”

“I ordered those of my escort with family to return to their homes.”

“Why would you do a thing like that?” Arrius wondered. “Those are the best troops in the entire army.”

“We took losses over there,” Rutilius reminded him. “Someone needs to do some recruiting. And I do not wish to keep my men away from their families longer than necessary. So I sent Glam and sixteen of others to recruit in Noviomagus first, then head back to their families. No need to keep them apart any longer. My wife is home alone with only a small guard of Ubian volunteers- good men, but my Batavians are better. I’d sleep better knowing Glam was watching over my family as well as his own.”

“So your escort dwindles to what- twenty seven?”

Rutilius shrugged. “Four hundred forty eight- four hundred twenty Batavians in the cohort, twenty eight more of my mounted Guard. The only thing that mollified the others was that there was now a full cohort of Batavians guarding me. Dieter, though his child is soon to be born, refused the command as I knew he would. He is the Guard Commander, and thinks it his task in life to see that mine is as long as possible- no matter how many Batavian legionaries we had with us.”

Arrius laughed. “You have always been blessed with men devoted to you. Jupiter blast me if it isn’t true, but there is not a manjack in these cohorts of mine that does not feel the same!”

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What a pleasant surprise to come back to two fine posts.
The set up has the makings of another fine adventure for Rutilius!

Wonderful to see you back Terikel after a well deserved break.

Your two chapters were great but I wonder what role that poet Gaius will play in the story especially as he heads to Gaul...........

[This message has been edited by Legion Of Hell (edited 08-15-2011 @ 01:32 PM).]

I love this terikela true master peice

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Gaius Mallius was admitted to the home of Aulus Caecina by a bitter old slave, who bid him wait in the atrium while he fetched his master. Mallius was bronzed deeply by the sun, and the Greek merchant’s hat and cape he wore made him seem a traveling merchant looking to do some business with the senator. Thus the old slave did not recognize Mallius as a senator himself, and bid him wait as he would any client.

Caecina, however, recognized his fellow senator at once, and cuffed the old slave across the back of his head and scolded him, admonishing him to always bring senators to the reception chamber. Then his rage faded as he faced his visitor. A broad smile lit up his face.

“Gaius Mallius!” he said in greeting. His voice had that wonderful timbre he reserved for addressing old friends. His arms opened as if to embrace. “How wonderful of you to finally crawl out from under your rock. As you can see, there is no reason to hide any more.”

“What do you mean?” Mallius retorted. “They murdered Gaius Helvidius! None are safe now.”

“My point exactly,” Caecina replied. His voice dropped to a conspiratorial low. “The traitor’s trail led to him, not you. You are quite safe now.”

“Maybe on that count,” Mallius admitted. “But if Helvidius talked before he died?”

“He did not, otherwise I would not be here,” Caecina replied cynically, as if that was the most obvious answer in the world. Sometimes Mallius could be such a dullard.

“Have you heard any news from the north lately?”

Caecina nodded in reply. “Cornelius Clemens has won a great victory, and conquered the Agri Decumates. He is the Man of the Hour, and a great Flavian hero now.”

“That he is,” Mallius added. “And Cordinus- nothing is said. There are rumors that he fought a great battle as well. The merchants chatter about a glut in the slave market now, but Vespasian says nothing. Odd, that.”

“So?”

“So battle plans had been given to the Germans,” Mallius reminded him. “By Catullus, it is assumed. Titus Junior is investigating. My friend in Mediolanium, Tullius, says the trail will lead to that city in Germania with the unpronounceable name-“

“Mogontiacum,” supplied Caecina.

“Yes, that place, and from there to Catullus. Titus will find him and question him. Catullus will come be sent to Rome in disgrace. And with him comes his entourage. We will have no more ears in the north.”

“Those ears can no longer tell us what they hear anyway,” Caecina pointed out. “With Helvidius and Burrius dead, and now Catullus in trouble... ”

“There is still a chance to succeed,” Mallius said in a voice laden with forlorn longing.

“I have been making a good name for myself lately,” Caecina continued as if he did not hear. He spoke easily now, for he was succeeding in his quest by his lonesome, without having to connive or conspire. Success by one’s own hand was always so much more satisfying, he had learned. “I helped my boorish buddy Eprius Marcellus with his investigation, sacrificed that prig Helvidius to satisfy the anger of Vespasianus, and helped roll up a conspiracy that threatened Rome. I have counseled and aided the son of Vespasian, who speaks good words about me. And tonight, I am going to the theatre and watch some awful Greek tragedy and act like it was the finest thing that ever happened to me.”

“Because Vespasian likes those things?” asked Mallius.

“Oh gods no,” laughed Caecina. “He hates the damned things- he is a comedy man. But his friends love them, and thus often attend these shows without him. I intend to make friends.”

“Joining the circle, so to speak,” said Mallius, with an approving nod. “It might just work. And when the provinces are handed out in December, you will be a shoe-in! You will not forget our goal, now, in your restored glory and honor, will you?”

“I will not forget,” Caecina promised. “It is only a question of whether you will be there to grace with the office, or not?”

“What do you mean?”

Caecina smiled that winning smile of his again, then it lost its charm and turned feral. “Your bumbling cost us Helvidius. I sacrificed him to save you, and myself. Then you ran away, leaving me to face whatever came down the Via Flaminia alone. Well, Gaius, nothing came except the realization that I can further my goals better alone than with your so-called help. So from now on, I will.”

“That’s it?”

“Exactly. I will reach my goals alone. I am convinced I can do so better than with your so-called aid.”

“You have befriended Eprius Marcellus!” cried Mallius.

“Among others,” Caecina confirmed. “Men with position and power, and more importantly- men with the ear of Vespasian. I shall again have a command. And one without your money, interference, or bumbling.”

“I wish you well,” Mallius uttered. Neither he nor Caecina felt that he meant it. It did not matter. Both knew their conspiracy was dead with Helvidius, and that neither man benefitted from the demise of the other. It was a tacit consensus between them never to speak of their past together. So be it.



It was closing night of the Greek tragedy ‘Ophelius and Danaë’. The Theatre of Pompeius was fully packed for the last time before the heat of the summer would drive the rich Romans to the sea shores- a good omen to the actors. Even the front benches reserved for the nobles were packed. The actors backstage were giggling in their tight suits and decorated masks- there was money to be made tonight! Maybe even enough to last through the long, hot summer.

Caecina sat prominently in the fifth row, a handsome man with a formal toga draped upon him. He had the broad purple border of a senator dyed extra rich, while the rest was bleached to a light cream color. Both accentuated his tanned skin, displayed his muscled chest and flat stomach, and set off his piercing eyes, while heightening the glow of his broad smile. No man would be able to resist seeing him in the crowd, and when the other senators see him, it will begin to slowly change their thoughts about him. The man loved Greek plays, by Jupiter! He can’t be all that bad.

Directly before him sat a woman with her dark hair piled high. She was slender, with a lithe body. When she turned to speak with her friends beside her, he could see that her face had a few wrinkles, but not many. He judged her to be around his own age.

Not a bad-looking tart, he thought to himself, but it is a shame she was sitting directly in front of me. Her hair blocked his view of the stage, which meant it was blocking the view of Vespasian’s cronies who should be seeing him. He glanced to his left, to see if he could move to another part of the bench, but alas, it was fully packed. He knew the column against which he leaned blocked movement right. There was a seat available one row further down- directly in front of the woman.

“A thousand pardons, my lady,” he finally said, tapping the high-haired woman lightly upon the shoulder. She turned about, revealing her full face – and a bit of cleavage. Caecina was impressed- she was prettier than he had imagined, though older as well.

“Yes?”

It took a moment for him to gather his wits, but only a small moment, enough to give a good impression. “Your hair, my lady, it is high and proud and wonderfully lustrous in the evening light. It also quite completely blocks my view of the performance. Is it possible that you and your friend switch places? Her hair hangs beautifully down along her neck- and does not block my sight.”

The woman laughed. “I can do one better, lord,” she replied. “Pomponia, slide aside. Let the man between us.”

“My lady is most gracious,” Caecina replied, “but that is not necessary. I can see well enough now.”

The woman barked a laugh. “Pomponia and I will be jabbering most of the evening, lord. I do not wish that disturbed by the guilty conscience of knowing my constant movement will occasionally destroy your view, and thus your pleasure. Pass through us to the vacant seat before us- but do it quickly! I see Sextus Lentulus moving this way.”

Caecina bounded up, gathered his toga, and leapt through the two women to land upon the vacant seat before Lentulus could move into it. He glanced back once, saying, “A thousand thanks.”

“No thanks necessary, senator,” she replied. “Noblemen have the privilege of being seated in the front rows. Women- probably because of our hair- sit farther back. Tradition.”

He nodded, for it was indeed so. Then he turned to the stage. He could see the entire stage. Moreover, he could see where Gaius Licinius Mucianus was seated, as well as Titus Aurelius Fulvus, recently returned from Moesia. Berenice, the Jewish queen who served as a mattress and outlet of lust for young Titus Vespasianus Junior was there, with a covey of senatorial wives in her entourage. Caecina smiled to himself, thinking that the reason Mucianus came to these things- he was lining up his next conquest, the horny old bugger.

After the performance, Caecina rose and thanked the lady again. Then he waved his slave forward to escort him away. As he exited, he grabbed his slave and whispered into his ear, “Find out everything you can about the woman seated behind me, the one who came with Pomponia.” He had heard enough of their conversations to know she had influence high up- very high up. She would be a good friend to have.

On her bench, awaiting the exit and press of the men leaving, the woman turned to Pomponia. “Find out everything you can about the man who sat before us.”

Pomponia gasped. “Are you mad? You already have a man! And are wealthy enough for three!”

The woman cocked her head and shrugged. “Mad? No. Smitten? Maybe. But my man is not my husband, and he is old. He may be called to the gods one day soon, and where would that leave me, Pomponia? Alone, and too old to find another. And you know I am a woman who craves companionship.”

“You are a sharp one, Caenis,” Pomponia conceded. She too was old- over sixty- and had no man, no family, no children to support her. She did have her hobby, which satisfied some of her needs, and provided contacts with men who rode the circles of power. Pomponia was not known as the most exclusive prostitute in Rome for nothing. Caenis could top her, though, if she choose to move into that profession. But judging from the way her eyes followed the handsome senator, she believed her friend might be setting up a way to avoid that ancient profession, maintain her wealthy standing, and live a good life when her current benefactor passed.

“You will know all within a week,” she promised.

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Glad to see the series continue Terikel, eagerly awaiting more.

Good chapter, Terikel.

It looks like Caecina is doing his usual plotting while I wonder Caenis has in mind. I look forward to the next chapter.

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Segestes was indeed happy with the Roman escort. His own warband, now outfitted with the best of the equipment of those who fell attacking this camp, was ready. His second, Aethwyk, led the men in packing, while the Roman praefectus Milus put together a supply train to see the cohorts to the northern part of the Bructeri lands and back.

“Your men look good,” Rutilius said in admiration. “Proud, and strong.”

“They serve now a coming king, no longer a forgotten prince,” Segestes reminded him. “Your offer has restored them, Marek. No longer are they prisoners, or defeated warriors. They are now redeemed, and once again proud. For this I thank you.”

“Serve well as King of the Bructeri, Segestes, and it will be I who thanks you.”

Segestes nodded. “I cannot promise not to come against Rome if the situation warrants it. As king, I must always act in my tribe’s best interest first.”

“I do not ask for such a promise,” Rutilius reminded him. “I ask that you rule wisely, in the best interest of your tribe. If that leads to war with Rome, then so be it. But remember this summer, my friend. It is in no tribe’s interest to make war upon Rome.”

Segestes nodded at that wisdom. “I think my future tribe will agree with that- what is left of them, that is.”

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Gaius Valerius Flaccus did not travel to Lugdunum to visit the tablet describing the damnation of Valerius Asiaticus. He had no need to do so. Claudius, successor to Caligula, was no orator of note, though his texts were required reading by his imperial-minded tutors. Since he knew everything, or at least thought he did, he decided to visit his friend and fellow poet Marcus Valerius Martialis. But Martialis was not at his house in Rome. He had gone to his birthplace to visit with his own parents. So Valerius Flaccus followed, and met up with his friend in Patavium.

Their greetings were exchanged, and Martialis invited Flaccus into his father’s home. The visitor exchanged pleasantries with the lord of the house, then settled into the lounge of the son to drink and discuss the things they both love- styles and stanzas, couplets and images, forms and formats. Everything and all things concerning poetry. The two met and became good friends over that topic and their mutual love for smithing words into beautiful passages. Gaius Flaccus thought Martialis a genius, and sought insight into his satires and wit in order to bring life to his own works. Martialis, on the other hand, wanted the insight Flaccus had into the lives and personages of senators and the people who adorn the halls and courts of the Imperator. Individually, each lacked something critical to become great. But together... the two complemented each other wonderfully. They talked all through the night over poetry, then staggered off to their rooms as the skies to the east began to take on a paler shade of black.

“So what brings the wealthy and idle son of an equally wealthy and idle senator from Rome to the Gallic dwellings of northern Italia?” Martialis asked during lunch the following day.

“What brings the rising poetic star of Rome to such a backwater?” Flaccus retorted with a grin.

“I was stuck,” Marcus Martialis replied. “Poet’s block. Can’t think of anything worthy, and with you running about after your son or having your head stuck in your study, my access to the inner workings of the rich and famous was cut off. So I went home for the summer, to seek inspiration.” He grinned, and offered a cup of wine. “What is your excuse?”

Flaccus nodded. “Pretty much the same,” he said with a sigh and a nod. “Family troubles keep me from concentrating, leading to Poet’s Block. Father suggested a trip to Lugdunum, but if I wanted to visit Gauls, I do not need to travel further than here.”

Piss off, Gaius, he thought to himself. “You evidently tried to escape from your self-built familial prison into my abode in Rome, learned I was here, and followed,” Martialis translated. “Poet’s Block was merely an excuse.”

“No, it is true enough,” Flaccus admitted. “As are the family troubles.”

“Oh?” asked Martialis. Problems in a senatorial family? That piqued his interest. “Do tell.”

“There is not all that much to tell,” Flaccus admitted. “Most of it you know already.”

Martialis guffawed. “You do not fool me, Gaius Valerius. There is more than just a proper Roman wife and son causing your mental blockage. You could merely dismiss both of them to a far corner of your grand house and be able to work.”

Now Flaccus guffawed. “Oh I could, and they would go. But my grand house on the Quirinal is not that grand, nor large. And then I would be sitting there in my study, tablets and scrolls spread before me, and feeling guilty for having banished my family from my presence. Either way, I lose.”

“Be ye a man, or a mushroom?” Martialis wondered aloud. That did not quite sound right, but it got the idea across. “You said yourself just last night that your wife is a proper Roman woman- and obedient. Set the rules. She will follow them.”

“She is obedient enough,” Flaccus admitted. “Maybe too much so.”

“Problems in the bedchamber?”

Flaccus waved the thought away. “None at all. She has hers, I have mine. When I desire her physically, I enter her chamber. She never says no, and always spreads her legs and lets me have my way. When we are finished, if I am sleepy, I stay- and she retires to my chamber to let me sleep soundly. So no, Marcus, no problems in the bedchamber at all.”

Martialis was making mental notes furiously for his next masterpiece. This was wonderful stuff! “And otherwise? At parties, or dinner?”

“Proper, demure, minds her place, drinks little. Always totally in control of herself.”

Martialis was beginning to see his friend’s problem. “And when out visiting?”

“Again, not a thing to complain about. She dresses well, has her hair done up properly, is properly attended to by her slave women, and minds our station. She does not mix with lower classes, nor does she allow herself to be placed into any embarrassing situation. She minds her position as the wife of a senatorial heir quite diligently.”

Martialis thought over what was said. “No problems, no complaints, yet you are miserable. So your father recommends you visit Gaul.”

“Lugdunum, yes. To view the tablet.”

The tablet of Claudius. Martialis knew well what was written upon it, as did Flaccus. The Imperator Claudius had given a rather rambling speech about laws, and in the end turned it into a damnation of Valerius Asiaticus. That man had a property that was desired by Messalina, the wife of Claudius, who conspired to have Asiaticus banished. Asiaticus sliced his veins open and died instead, leaving his property open to be confiscated by Messalina. She came to no good end, that woman, having connived and conspired against the man she married, who had her killed for it. Claudius was nobody to intrigue against. Hell, any of the Imperial Family who survived Caligula had to be a master of intrigue himself.

And Martialis, in remembering the tablet, remembered Messalina’s family name.

“I think I know why your father sent you to Lugdunum,” he said, figuring out the puzzle as he spoke. “Messalina was a Valeria, maybe a relative of yours. She was strong, and independent, and brought down an equally strong and respected relative- another Valerius. Your father tries to issue a subtle warning- be glad with what you have, and do not insist on creating a Messalina out of Licinia- to help you avoid the fate of Asiaticus.”

“Bah, I have no land and no power,” Flaccus retorted.

“But you will inherit both one day,” Martialis reminded him. “Your father wishes for you to learn to be content with what you have, and not wish for changes. Licinia is connected to another powerful Roman family, one that once held much power. It runs yet in her veins. Your father wishes to avoid awakening the beast within her.”

“The beast had awakened already, and escaped her womb,” Flaccus moaned. “She dotes on the boy, and lets him run rampant over her.”

“A proper son for a senator, learning at such a tender age how to be man of the house,” Martialis said flippantly. He rose, and held out a hand to help his friend rise as well. “Come, Gaius. I grow stiff sitting in the middle of the day. Let us walk through the town and see what inspires us, what can break our Poet’s Block.”

Both men rose and exited the house. A few minutes later they were at the riverside, watching the ships come in to the quays and be emptied by brutes bearing ropes and a padded shoulder. Bored, they went to the market for a bit of fruit. Their wandering led to another market, one laced with armed and armored guards.

“What is this?” Flaccus asked.

“Slave market,” Martialis replied. “Usually it is almost empty, with only a few domestics being sold. But this autumn it is flooded with chattels.”

Flaccus stared at the women lined up on the rostrum. Behind them, in a huddled mass, were more women, some of them with children. They were large, brutish women, with hair of gold, or red, or blends of both. They had little tiny noses, but rather buxom bosoms. And their eyes… So blue. He gawked.

“Never seen a German before?” Martialis kidded, elbowing Flaccus to emphasize his little jab.

“Not like these,” Flaccus admitted. “Most of the German slaves around our latifundia are dark of hair.”

“It has been a while since we had an influx of true Germans,” Martialis admitted. “Most of the Germanic slaves we have had in the past twenty years were home-growns- bastard children of Germanic domestics and their Latin masters.”

Flaccus did not like that at all. He glared at his friend, then stared back at the children. Especially those with red-gold hair, and those amazingly blue eyes. Eyes and hair that matched those of his Gaius. And while he gawked, his mind compared them to the Germanic slaves of his father’s latifundia and their dark hair.

“Do you wish to buy one of those little boys?” Martialis asked. “If your tastes run that way, it might explain your problems with Licinia.”

“Piss off, Marcus,” Gaius said hotly. “You of all know my tastes do not run to little boys. How many prostitutes have we rented in the days before I married? Dozens? Scores? Centuries?”

Martialis nodded. Gaius did indeed have a taste for the women. And he remembered the one time a bordello tried to please him by sending in a beautiful Greekling youth. The master of the bordello was lucky to escape with only one of his arms broken.

Flaccus turned to his friend. “Tell me of the child of Creusa and Zeteles,” he demanded.

Martialis thought over the slaves mentioned. “She gave birth to a little girl, who is now five. Active, but obedient. She will make a great domestic, if she learns to screw as well as her mother.”

“I do not care about what she does. Describe her.”

Martialis did so- rather tall, lovely hazel eyes, and a thick thatch of deep auburn hair.

“Now the son of Ildica and Aaron.”

Again Martialis described the child- brown eyes, strong like his father, little German nose, and black hair.

“I have noticed that when people breed, if one of the parents has dark hair, then the child usually does as well,” Flaccus said with a nod.

“That is true,” his friend agreed. “Mostly. Sometimes the eyes are the same.”

“And the baby resembles the father, does he not?”

Again Martialis nodded. “As a baby, yes, but they often grow out of that.”

“My son…” Flaccus stammered as he lifted his gaze to the slaves on display. “My son never looked like me, Marcus. He was born bald and blue eyed, but many babies are so. I have studied this, with Plinius and others who speak much about Natural Science. But now Gaius has hair, and his eyes are still the color of the sky. And his hair, Marcus…” He lifted a hand to point at one of the slaves. “His hair is that color.”

Martialis gulped at the implication.

“Do you think she was raped? And that a slave is the true father of your son?”

Flaccus shook his head. “Have you never met the guards of her father, Decimus Licinius? They are lions. No slave could get anywhere near her. No, if Gaius has another father, it was not by force.”

“That means…”

Flaccus nodded. “My wife has been unfaithful.”

Martialis sighed. “That explains her near-perfect behavior. She plays the part of a perfect wife, so that you would have no reason to suspect otherwise. A clever ploy, and one which guarantees her son’s inheritance of your estate when you are no more.”

“My wife has been unfaithful,” Flaccus repeated.

“Do you have any slaves or anyone in your estate who remotely resembles the child?

Flaccus thought that over, and shook his head. “She must have her lover secreted away from me somewhere else.”

Rome was a huge city. He could be almost anyone. Then numbers started clicking in his head. He shook his head to clear it.

“She has not been unfaithful,” Martialis determined. “You have her shut away from the world, except in your presence. So if she had a lover, it would be someone in your house, which you admitted it cannot be. Plus, your son was born seven and a half months after your marriage. A bit early, but not rare.”

“She came into our marriage already pregnant?!?” Flaccus roared.

Martialis shrugged. “It is the most likely explanation. Her father is a merchant, after all. Merchants consider everything and anything for sale. Look about- they sell anything, and anyone. Maybe her father sold her for a night to clear some wicked debt.”

He cleared his throat. “But it does not matter, Gaius. The boy is yours now. Enjoy raising your son, for childhood is one of the few pleasures that Janus gives us only once- and is a fleeting joy at that.”

“Go home, Marcus,” Flaccus said bitterly. “You disgust me. I am going for a walk to try to sort his mess out in my own head.”

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Poor Flaccus. But who slept with his wife?

I won't spoil it but I think I know who the wife is and remember her last appearance in the story. Uh oh.

I suffer from foggy memory, especially when it concerns names, but judging from the boy's hair color, I'm guessing Rutilius will soon have another powerful enemy...

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Giaus Flaccus wandered the streets of Patavium until the sun began to settle into its western home. He had a lot on his mind, and none of it good. At last he lifted his gaze from his sandals to find himself staring up at the rostrum from which the slave women were still being sold. Martialis had been right- the market is glutted.

“You look like you could use a decent domestic,” said a voice beside him. He turned to see a man in legionary armor standing beside him.

Flaccus wondered what the man meant.

“I saw you here earlier with your friend,” the armored man said. “Neither one of you looks like you had left your father’s house, yet are of the age to do so. That means you need a domestic, to ease the transition from owned home to own home. I am Hortius, Manius Hortius. Captain of the Guard for the slaver Lucius Vettius Secundus. I can help.”

Flaccus knew what the slave captain meant. The definition of abject poverty in Rome was the inability to acquire even a single slave. Most slaves in the city were domestics- most often women. They did the cleaning, the cooking, the laundry, and if the master was feeling frisky and his wife either not in the mood or menstruating, well, they could perform in that arena as well.

“Some of them are rather striking, what with that hair like wheat in the setting sun,” he mumbled. He declined to mention that he had his own house on the Quirinal in Rome, staffed with four domestics and two Greeks.

“Good harvest this year,” Hortius affirmed. Wheat in the setting sun? Gods, not another poet. Those blokes are long on words but short on denarii. Still, this one had a golden ring- he might be the idle son of some knight or other merchant. “Last summer we went north, but the bloody army made a huge raid with three legions but came back with only thirty male slaves- and they went to that bugger Bolgus. This year, however, thousands upon thousands. A very good year.”

“Thirty? So little?” Flaccus asked in pure astonishment.

“Aye,” Hortius affirmed. “The army got snookered. Would’ve lost their ass had not some legate with his head on straight not taken over when the general got stabbed. Nasty business, sir. That legate got tried for treason for rescuing the army- dumbest thing I ever heard of. Glad I got my discharge before that happened, I’ll tell ya.”

“Do you know the name of that legate, Hortius?”

The guard captain shook his head. “I don’t remember his name, though Vettius, my dominus, and his friend Licinius were called in to serve as jurors. Licinius was on his way back to Rome to marry his daughter off to some senator’s brat, but got hung up because of the trial. They acquitted him.”

Things began spinning in the head of Flaccus. Licinia was with her father last summer. They arrived in Rome at the end of Augustus, when Flaccus married Licinia as had been arranged. A joyful union then, but now...

Gaius had been born almost exactly nine months after the trial...

“Was this legate a blonde, with wide blue eyes?” Flaccus asked. He began describing his son’s features. ”Jutting chin, squarish face, wide cheekbones with a square jaw?”

Hortius thought back. That sounded more like the hard-ass quaestor who enslaved him – albeit for only a few hours. Rutilius. How could he forget? Rutilius was the legate who became the quaestor. “Yes, that’s him. Rutilius. He took over when Cordinus got stabbed. Ran the province for a few months while the old boy healed.”

There were a thousand ways a merchant could bribe a magistrate for better deals or contracts, and even more ways a magistrate could extort a merchant travelling in his district. Having a pretty daughter would be a hindrance to free passage, especially if pressure was applied. He could easily see how Decimus Licinius might have been forced to trade a night of his daughter’s life with the returning hero of the hour, especially when that hero became the acting governor.

“I would like that one,” Flaccus said suddenly, pointing randomly to where buxom blonde women stood in their nakedness upon the rostrum. The one his finger ended up upon was a large woman, with strains of red in her otherwise flaxen locks. “Send her to the home of Martialis. In the meantime, Publius Hortius, let us talk of magistrates and their flagrant abuses of power. I am quite curious.”

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Quintus Lutatius Catullus was asleep in his own bed for the first time in over two months. The governor of Germania Superior remained with the legions, examining the new border and tying its new defenses in with the existing ones of the Danube. While he was doing military work, it fell to his quaestor Catullus to return to winter quarters at Mogontiacum and handle the administrative work. A lot of requests had to go out, and a lot of transfers had to be arranged, but most were completed by nightfall. The governor had given him a special task to be arranged, and that scroll too went out with the evening post, though delivered by a trusted slave, not the legionary detailed as his aide. The ordinary work could wait until tomorrow, when he would be king of the province for a fortnight. He was looking forward to it, and slept well.

He awoke with a cramp, and an awful thirst. He reached for his flagon of water which he kept by the bed, but encountered nothing. In pain, he sat up and bellowed for that useless house slave of his to come and tend his master, and be damned quick about it!

The door opened, allowing some light from the hallway torches to enter his room. A figure came in, bearing a pitcher. It was not a familiar person.

“Who are you?” he gasped between contractions. It seemed as if his gut was trying to compete against itself in how fast it could form a knot, then untie itself.

“I am Roscius, an arcanus,” was the reply. He poured a goblet of water from the pitcher and handed it to the quaestor of Germania Superior. “Here, this will help.”

Catullus drank it eagerly. Indeed, it did help. The pain receded, allowing him to sit more upright.

“Why is an arcanus in my house serving me water, instead of my house slaves?”

“Because the house slaves are dead,” Roscius replied. “And water helps ease the pains of the poison I put in your wine.”

Catullus sat bolt upright.

“You played a little game, quaestor, and that game got a good friend of mine killed,” Roscius explained. “And now you shall join him.”

“What are you talking about?” Catullus demanded.

“Playing it to the hilt,” Roscius replied with admiration. “Bravo. But it will not help. You are a dead man. The only real choice you have, Quintus Lutatius Catullus, is how you die. Slowly and in great agony when the poison really kicks in, or swiftly upon the blade of my dagger. Failure to decide is the same as choosing the former. The choice is yours. Talk.”

“About what?” Another wave of convulsions hit him, twisting his words into a cry of agony.

“About a little business venture, which involved you sending secret military documents to the Germans up north,” Roscius explained. “I know it was you- I found the proof already. I would just like to know why. Was it a vendetta against that pompous ass who runs Germania Inferior? Or was it for greed- knowing your boss was moving into the arms and armaments business? Or was it ideology- are you secretly a Germanophile?” He laughed. “No, your treatment of the prisoners taken was horrendous. You bear no love for the men of the forest. So why? Why would you risk death to aid them?”

Catullus bit his lip in frustration, but the pain wracking him was too strong. He gasped again.

“Your little operation could have cost Rome all of the north,” Roscius continued. “And it has already cost me a dear friend, threatened the life of a second, and caused a man I owed to vanish. I do not have many friends, Quintus, so I tend to treasure the few that I have. Septimus Tullius almost died sending post to Caius Laurentius, who has been dead for years. You have been receiving that post, and that post turned out to be military documents you forwarded to the Germans up north. Publius Sollus, my friend for more than sixteen years now, lies in a grave north of here because the Suevi moved north in response to your letter. And Titus Burrius, the man who helped me get a job with his competitor and friend Septimus Tullius when I needed it, has disappeared from the face of the earth. Burrius is a creature of comfort- he cannot simply disappear. It is not in his nature. So he has been murdered. And you are the piece of the puzzle I have caught, the man who sent the word to the Germans that began this awful mess. So talk, Quintus. Tell me why.”

Spasms shot through the man’s body, arcing his back in a tight bow. Roscius sighed and poured some water into the man’s mouth. The spasms subsided.

“Time is running out,” he reminded the poisoned man. “Soon not even water will ease the pain. Talk fast, and death will be swift and painless.”

Catullus had had enough. “Vitellius,” he gasped. “Vitellius had set us up with the Germans to keep the peace when he went off to be Imperator. We were friendly.”

“So?”

“So when he died, and Vespasian took over, we who served Vitellius were disdained and discarded. Arrrgh!” He convulsed heavily, cutting off his words with a knife of pain.

Roscius slapped the man and poured another goblet. Catullus drank eagerly, and the pain subsided again.

“We came up with a plan,” he continued, gasping. “Based on what the Old Owl himself did. If we used our German contacts to cause some turmoil in the north, Vespasian would have to send a new governor. And keep sending one until we asked the tribes to cease the turmoil. He has not so many to choose from- he must eventually choose one who had served here before.”

“So this is about politics? Bloody political games? My friends died for that?”

Catullus cursed. “One of us would be in command of four Vitellian legions- just up the Via Mala from Rome itself. My task was to keep the legions here tied up, and thus give the legions of Germania Inferior a straight march to Rome- with nothing in the way.”

Now it made sense. “Your comrade would make himself Imperator!”

Catullus nodded. ”Just like the Old Owl did. Helvidius was a member of our group. He foolishly thought that the conquering general would restore the Republic, but we all know that any man with that much power keeps it. Helvidius is to be killed alongside the Imperator he so despised, and the rest of us would again be favored.”

“Burrius is the man of Helvidius,” Roscius said, seeing immediately the connection to Burrius. “And my benefactor. He cares not for politics. He would not partake in such stupid plans.”

“Burrius was a messenger, nothing more. He never knew what he was sending.”

“So this was both a usurpation and a political game,” Roscius said bitterly.

“Game to you, life to us,” Catullus moaned. Another spasm hit him, this one sending fire up and down his body. He screamed in agony.

Something did not quite make sense. “If the plan was for one of your pals to lead the Army of Germania Inferior to Rome, then why was your last message to them the battle plans? You would get the army you needed destroyed!”

“No, it would not,” Catullus replied. He grimaced in the effort. “Not if he was any sort of general. We wanted Cordinus humiliated, and unpopular with his legions so he would be replaced, disgraced, or both. Preferably both- he was a personal favorite of Vespasian. The disgrace would also fall on the Old Owl. But we did not think a man who had served under Corbulo would be such an incompetent general!”

“But he was, and nearly lost the army you needed.”

Catullus nodded.

“Who else is in this little group of yours?”

“Rutilius of Germania Inferior.” There, if I die, so does that sanctimonious little shit who screwed up our plans!

Roscius shook his head. “He’s the one who pulled those four legions out of the cauldron up north.”

“He has been in Germania Inferior for over a decade- lots of contacts here and there. Mostly low-level. But he has since climbed high, has he not? How better to gain the recognition and trust of the Imperator he will bring down?”

Roscius thought that over. It made sense in a twisted sort of way. Build a low-level network, just as he himself had done as an arcanus. Earn the love and trust with which to make the betrayal easier and that much more cruel. He could see with brilliant clarity how that had come about and will progress. But it did not add up- Rutilius had few connections in Rome, while the roots of the treason were in Rome.

“I want the names of those in Rome,” he repeated.

Catullus shook his head. “Those I shall take to the grave.”

“That should be very shortly,” Roscius said bluntly. Then he fished a small vial out of his purse. “Unless, of course, I give you this, and two weeks head start to get out of Roman territory.”

“An antidote?” Catullus gasped.

Roscius nodded. “Names.”

“I don’t know the others, only that they are few,” Catullus moaned. He considered lying to the man, but resisted the urge in case the anti-dote had to be administered more than once. He told only what he knew could be verified, in case that second dose became necessary. One does not lie to a potential antidote with one’s life on the line.

“I know the idea came from Aulus Caecina Alienus,” he began. I always hated that man! Now I can be rid of him. “He was a legate here in Germania before becoming consul under Vitellius, but has been shunned ever since. Rutilius worked for him- as a legionary, then centurion, and finally transferred to that butcher Vorenus as a tribune. I don’t know if Caecina is part of a conspiracy, or merely the supplier of the idea. Gaius Mallius has wealth and a boring life- he is definitely a conspirator, and in it for thrills. He finds a sick sort of delight in playing with men’s lives. Helvidius has the contacts, so Mallius dragged him into it, promising to restore the Republic. Cornelius Clemens was bribed to take me as his personal quaestor to put me in place, and we must have recruited someone inside the Imperial House, based upon the plans Helvidius sent.”

The pain seemed less now, as if his confession was freeing him. He even said so.

“That means my poison is wearing off,” Roscius said bluntly. He stabbed his dagger deep into the man’s abdomen, then sliced sideways to spill the entrails out over the bed.

Catullus screamed at the incision, and wailed at the steaming mass of intestines that littered his bed. He looked up at Roscius and mouthed “Why?” as the shock of the attack hit him.

“I already told you,” the arcanus said sternly. “Your games got my friends killed. It was time you paid the same price they had.”

The disemboweled man made one last feeble attempt to stuff his guts back in before collapsing back onto his bed. Roscius sliced his jugular to be sure, then covered the mess with its bedsheet before slipping back out of the house the way he had entered.

Rutilius? I’ll have to check that out, but Mallius and Helvidius are definitely going to die, he thought to himself, not knowing that the last man was already dead. Or knowing who had really sent the plans. Or that others in the political game- unnamed others- were still active players. In short, he learned a few suspicions, very little truth that was not already known by someone else, and a lot less than he could have learned.

Some secrets did indeed go to the grave with Quintus Lutatius Catullus, quaestor of Germania Superior.

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Roscius seems to have a brain and also a man of honor, so it shouldn't take Rutilius long to convince him that he's been lied to. But it also seems like Caecina will slip away once again.

Another excellent installment!

Another excellent installment although I am getting kind of confused with all these characters and how they are intertwined. These long Roman names can make a person confused. Sadly that person is me.

This episode was a bit of a recap of all that had gone before, because people like you tend to forget these things over time.

If you have a lazy Saturday afternoon and want to catch up, start from Part I and go forward. It will all be clear then.



Speaking of Saturday afternoons, I am posting far more than I am writing for the moment. Real life and all that. So posts will come every Monday for a while, instead of Mondays and Thursdays. Hopefully this busy period will slow down, giving me more time to devote to this.

My faithful Magic Box died recently, but a priest with a tong resurrected it. I merely have to re-install all ninety or so of the programs I use on a daily basis (including RTW). This will take a while as well- I have exactly one hour each weeknight with which to work upon it.

If I were you, Terikel, I would self-publish this whole story in novel format so that people can read it even without a PC at their disposal. Plus you can reap in a little profit.

Thanks. I might do that one day.

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When the fleet arrived to begin ferrying the cohorts back to Britannia, Rutilius had them ferry his force across first. It was a five day journey along paths known well to all before they reached the northern villages of the Bructeri- those untouched by the war. Here, a large warhost awaited them.

“Germani ahead,” Lucius Albius reported to Rutilius and Segestes, who were riding together. The cavalryman described a warhost of five thousand, mostly spearmen but with very little cavalry. Most had on brown cloaks, though a few wore armor and a few were naked. Typical mixed Germani rabble. He closed his report with, “They are deployed for battle.”

“Sounds like Ricgard and his Chauci,” Segestes said.

“Chauci,” Rutilius mused. He remembered exchanging words with the Chauci king, words which sparked the idea of giving the Bructeri Segestes as king. He turned to his bodyguards. “Tell Arrius that the legion will continue to march, but shall deploy in a defensive square once in sight of the warhost, and then go down to one knee. Both ranks.”

He turned back to Segestes and Albius. “Lucius, bring forward the turma with the white linen covers on their shields. Segestes and I need to go forward, with only them as an escort.”

Ahead the legionaries began their deployment into a square, with the Batavian cohort in the center. The ala of Albius came forward, while the other took up a position on the right flank. The Suevi under Aethwyk fanned out to the left. Segestes and Rutilius continued straight, stopping only fifty paces from the Chauci warhost while Albius halted his horses at one hundred paces..

It was indeed Ricgard, and his men were deployed for battle. But battle was not in his heart, at least not yet. He rode forward with a few housecarls to stand proudly before the Roman and the Suevi.

“I did not think you would break our truce so quickly,” the Chauci king stated flatly. “Yet here you are.”

“I have not broken our truce,” Rutilius replied. “Do you have any confirmed reports that myself or my men have committed any acts of war since we last spoke?”

Ricgard shook his head. “No, yet here you stand with an army at your back, heading for the last of the Bructeri villages. I will not let you exterminate them, as we agreed earlier you would not do.”

“These men are my escort, not an army,” Rutilius retorted. “Five cohorts are enough to deter raiders, brigands, and the like. One cannot conquer an entire tribe with so little.”

Ricgard smiled wolfishly. “From what I have seen, Rutilius, you could,” he laughed. “But you speak in riddles. Why do you come, Roman?”

“The Bructeri are kingless, as you said to me last we met,” Rutilius said. “Udo is dead by my hand, and Ulfrich fled. Rome does not wish for another hostile tribe to move into the vacant lands of the Bructeri. That would bring much war. To avoid this, I bring the Bructeri a king.” He gestured to the man to his left.

Ricgard looked now over anew the man beside the Roman and recognized him. Segestes. Of course! He remembered him well from the councils with Horobard the Chatti, and favorably. He had thought the man dead, yet he lived.

“Much of my tribe has been conquered this summer past,” Segestes said. “Including the area in which my father was king. I have no home, no inheritance, and no wish to be a lackey of the Romans. My fate was dark, until Marek here told me of this tribe, and how they had been misled for many years. He offered me his support in becoming their king, with no obligations. I was to be a free man, a king that my noble blood promised. I accepted, and am here to claim the kingship, if the Bructeri will have me.”

Ricgard knew Segestes well. He was a bit overcome by the obvious friendship between the Roman and the Suevi, but he knew it borne of respect- much like the mutual respect he and the Roman shared. Maybe that too could one day turn to friendship.

“Segestes would make a fine king,” Ricgard agreed. “But he is a warrior. He has not much with which to make war- far too little to go to war against your people, Roman, and I would not wish him to make war on mine. Does Segestes still follow the ways of war?”

The Suevi shook his head. “Only if war is brought to me will I levy a warhost and march,” he promised. “As you said, there is little enough in this tribe with which to wage war- even with two thousand Suevi leavening the warhost. No, Ricgard, my war-fighting days have ended.”

The Chauci nodded deeply. “As have mine. I have no objection to Segestes inheriting the kingship over the Bructeri.”

“Nor does Rome,” Rutilius said. “Now that we agree he is the best man, let us proceed to present him to the Bructeri, who must ultimately accept him.”

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Aulus Caecina was dressed up again. The summer heat was fading, and the evenings quite pleasant again. People were returning from their summer houses, bringing with them life and bustle. One of the people returning was Titus Clodius Eprius Marcellus, henchman of Vespasian and the man he had helped roll up the summer’s conspiracy. Eprius was celebrating his return to Rome in style, with a luxurious dinner for his friends. And one of the invited men was Aulus Caecina.

He arrived early as was his custom. Eprius lived in a large house on the Esquiline. Like most Esquiline homes of wealthy senators, it was a bit less in quality than the homes on the Aventine, but more than lavish compared to the houses of the Quirinal. It had a large garden behind, a small one in front, and the entire premises were surrounded by the standard wall. It was painted white against the summer heat, making it no more or less distinguishable from its neighbors. It was the inside which did that.

Eprius had a fresco or a mosaic upon every wall, most Greek in fashion. They relayed his tastes in the art of Lycia, where he had served three years as governor. Between the frescoes and mosaics hung Persian carpets behind pedestals bearing busts of his ancestors, or golden idols from the East, or simply silver bowls bearing fruit. There was a long table in the center of the receiving room which was heaped high with delicacies. His tastes in food were extraordinarily Epicurean and hedonistic. If a bit of meat or fruit was considered a delicacy somewhere in the world, it was on his table that night. Pomegranates, sugared dates, and dried figs contested with smoked fish, raw oysters and steamed crab for attention. There were sweetmeats, and pork in spicy sauce. Fruits and breads intermingled in the spaces between the meats and fishes.

There were already some guests inside, early birds who like Eprius were culinary snobs. They wanted to ensure that whatever was their favorite was on the table and they could enjoy it before it was gone. Caecina paid them no mind, instead searching for his host. He found him in a corner, whispering with Nonius Clacus, a senator from Capua who was said to be one of the advisors to the Imperator. The elderly Nonius had evidently seen Caecina waiting and decided he would rather dine than listen to more of Eprius’s tales of conspiracy and absent heroism.

“You throw a nice dinner,” Aulus said in greeting. “I can honestly say I have never before seen such luxury.”

Eprius grinned broadly, and hugged the slender man before him briefly. “Thank you, my friend. The recent demise of my enemy with no heir has left his property unattended. It was auctioned off yesterday- and I bought most of it for a fraction of its worth. And to top it off, I was appointed consul suffectus. Thus I share this unexpected bonus with my friends.”

Caecina smiled. “I am glad to be counted as one of them,” he said earnestly.

“You would be the guest of honor had you not so tactfully withdrawn your name from the investigation,” Eprius said, gloating inadvertently. “It was your advice that led me to uncover the traitor in our midst. I was made consul for it, along with Quintus Cerealis who did something while in Britannia that saved the day for Cordinus Gallicus in Germania. I am not sure exactly what, but I do not care.”

“Quintus Cerealis is Vespasian’s brother in law,” Caecina said flatly. “He needs only fart downwind and the Imperator would reward him with whatever he wanted.”

Eprius coughed as he choked on an oyster. “That was rude and uncalled for,” he gasped. “But funny... And true. You, on the other hand, have to move mountains and conquer strange new lands in order to even have a chance at impressing him. And that will not happen without a command.”

“I will not get a command,” Caecina conceded, “at least not from him. But his sons are not as bitter, and the younger one is a good friend. I intend on demonstrating my ability and loyalty to the elder one as well, so that when the inevitable happens, I may offer my services and have them accepted for a change.”

“You have made a friend of me this summer,” Eprius admitted. “And I enjoy good relations with the Imperial Family. I shall help you, Aulus Caecina, just as you have helped me. Together we shall get you the command you so richly deserve. Inviting you tonight was just a part of it. Mingle with the friends of the Imperator and impress them with your charm, my friend. Word will get back to Titus Flavius Vespasianus in good time.”

“I know, my friend, I must be patient.”

Eprius stuffed a small roll into his mouth and chewed. He waved at another guest, then turned back to Caecina “Have you heard the news from the north?”

“Gnaeus Cornelius Clemens won a huge victory and conquered the Agri Decumates,” Caecina repeated. It was only the fortieth time this week someone had asked him that.

“No no,” Eprius said with a wave of his fat hand. “Not the mundane news. The news of Germania Inferior? Have you heard?”

Caecina shook his head.

“This stays between us, yes?” Eprius asked. When Caecina agreed, he continued, “Cordinus Gallicus marched into a trap. Again. Yes, again- like the blunder he made last year. Well, this time he managed to get trapped with all four legions by a hundred thousand Germani.”

My legions! Gone! Caecina almost cried.

“Anyway, his quaestor was left behind with a dozen or so auxilia vexillations. Do you know what that young fool did next? He went and got himself trapped in Vetera with all of the auxilia. Then the gods smiled, and he managed to break out, cross the river, attack the one hundred thousand Germani, and drive them off. Him, with a dozen auxilia. Isn’t that a laugh?”

“More likely he exaggerated the numbers to make himself look good, while Cordinus broke out on his own,” Caecina replied. “What does the Senate believe?”

“They have not yet been told,” Eprius said. “They were shown the dispatches from Cordinus relating his progress, then of his return. Nobody really knows what happened in between. Titus Flavius will not let them see the dispatches of the quaestor- too incredible, too much fantasy, tastes of cowardice. He trusts that quaestor as much as he does you, I am afraid.”

Caecina’s mind was racing. He knew Cordinus’s ability- or rather lack of it. And he knew the numbers the Germani could field if they united. One hundred thousand was on the low end of his scale, not the high end. If they had invested four legions, a small group of highly-professional auxilia attacking from outside the circle could definitely break the mob. No, things happened there as was reported- whether the fool on the throne of Caesar believed it or not. Either way, his chance of earning a command in Germania was gone. It was time to move onto the next plan.

That idea would have to wait. A shock of black-dyed hair was slinking through the crowd, and he caught it from the corner of his eye. It was her, the lady from the theatre, the one with the high connections. He excused himself from Eprius with a grunt and moved to intercept the woman.

She was well-dressed in white linen, and adorned with a brooch, a bracelet, and a modest necklace. All pieces were silver, to set off the whiteness of her skin and contrast vividly against the darkness of her hair. Her hair was not piled high as was the fashion, but rather set into curls framing her face with longer locks embracing her neck in a gentle grip. In this light, Caecina could see the red highlights bringing life and depth to her hair.

“I see you are a friend of Titus Clodius as well,” she said, noticing his approach.

“Ah, the gracious lady from the theatre,” Caecina said, lifting her hand to kiss is gently. “I never got the chance to properly thank you for allowing me to see the play without the constantly shifting about.”

She smiled at the reference to her piled-high hair that night and her comments that she would be constantly in conversation. “Pomponia and I talked quite a bit indeed. I am glad you were able to enjoy the performance without our interruption.”

“To be honest,” Caecina said with his winning smile, “I was already distracted. I spent more time paying attention to the audience and to the lovely ladies behind me than I did the performance.”

“You did not miss much,” she said with a dismissive wave. “It was an awful performance.”

“I would not say it was a total waste of an evening,” he countered.

She gasped, then laughed. “Oh, you are a bad one,” she giggled. “And I could tell you were not there to watch the play. Orphelius and Danäe? Definitely not a classic. It’s script will be in the rubbish before the summer is over. So why were you there?”

She had expected to be flattered with a confession that he was there to meet her. First the theatre, then at a nobleman’s party? Coincidences are for fools, and she was no fool. Yet the words he spoke rang true for a senator exiled from politics, which she knew him to be.

“I came to the show because I knew those who advise those who make decisions would be there,” he said honestly. His own research into her was not as thorough. He knew only she was involved with somebody important- important enough that he knew better than to get too close. He was into making friends in high places now, not cuckolding them. “I wish to regain a political life. Doing the things those in power do will bring me into contact with them, which increases my chances. It was merely politics.”

“I have some influence with the decision-makers,” the woman replied. “I will definitely mention your interests, Aulus Caecina. Maybe together we can get your political career back on track.”

Aulus was impressed. “You know my name, and that I once had a career. I am impressed.”

“Your name was easy to discover,” she replied, then her voice turned cold. “Your career was less so. You held a number of low-level posts, mostly military, before being assigned as quaestor to Galba in Hispana. He sent you as a legate to a German legion, the IV Macedonica. From there, you aided Fabius Valens in persuading Vitellius to revolt against Galba- knowing your charm, I would probably say Valens used you to persuade Vitellius, but that does not matter. Vitellius made you consul- quite a jump from a simple legate, over the entire cursus honorum in fact, and since then you joined the Flavians and have not been called upon to serve. Do I have my facts straight?” she asked quaintly, “There was a military career but never a political one, despite the office you held. Sort of like Young Marius. You remember his fate, do you not?”

Caecina was taken aback. The woman knew much of him, and so succinctly. In effect, she said his career was nothing. Then the horror peeled away and let Truth stand firm. The woman was right- he had never served any political office save consul, and that at the grace of Vitellius.

“I am at a loss,” he said with a slight bow. “Your knowledge astounds me. But rest assured, dear lady, I do not intend to be a Young Marius. I intend to climb the cursus honorum honorably. But to do so, I must be able to start, which I have not been able to do. Thus the theater, and this gathering, and anywhere else where the circles of power meet. I shall attend, I shall flatter, I shall lick their arses if need be, and I shall have my career.”

The woman laughed, then hugged him. “You are quite the little soldier,” she said, only half mockingly. “And a man who knows what he wants and lets nothing- not even his pride- stand in the way. I like you, Aulus Caecina, and I shall help you.”

He thanked her, but added, “I am again at a loss. To whom shall I send my thanks? My slave could not find out much about you, other than you live somewhere out beyond the Quirinal and are friends with Pomponia.” The tone he used in naming the other woman let her know that he knew of Pomponia’s trade, yet did not consider it repulsive as did some wealthy men.

“I am Caenis,” she said. “A freedwoman. And I do live on the Quirinal, on the downslope near the Nomentana Port in a petite house with an herb garden behind. Pomponia is a friend I met through mutual interests when my man went and married another. She helped me through that bitter time, and without having to take up her trade to survive. Now I have a decent income from business- enough to let me keep my house. And a lover, of course.”

“Ah, the dreaded lover,” Caecina said bitterly. “A married man who despises his stupid wife, thus comes to you for bright conversation and adult company.”

“Close,” she laughed. “I do have a lover, but he is a widower, too. He does seek me out for adult conversation- he so despises those with whom he must deal every day. I pick up his mood, which makes life easier for all.”

Eprius was motioning for Caecina to come, a summons he wished to ignore, but Caenis had seen it as well.

“Your host beckons,” she says. “He has powerful friends. I would answer his summons, were I you.”

“Alas, I must,” Caecina agreed. “But I would like to talk more with you. You have such a delightful way of seeing clearly.”

She laughed as she pushed him toward Eprius. “That’s another thing my lover loves about me as well. Good luck, Aulus Caecina. May we meet again.”

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[This message has been edited by Terikel Grayhair (edited 08-29-2011 @ 04:52 AM).]