by Ryan Lew
They were all there, the four slaves of the house—Glacious, Marona, Domitius, and Camilla—when the squadron found them. It hadn’t been hard; slaves always followed the same route out of Rome. When the young legionnaire who had found his parents murdered in their own beds came to him, Braccius knew just where to look—the aqueducts. Slaves always ran to the aqueducts. It was the fastest way to escape the city. If they could make it there before they were discovered, freedom was almost a certainty. His young soldier had wanted to come, but more than twenty years’ experience in the Roman army had taught Braccius not to let an emboldened pubescent boy, whose mind was filled with revenge, accompany them on this hunt. Actions taken out of anger instead of thoughtful purpose were seldom productive, and a member of the Roman Legion unwilling, or unable, to follow orders could find himself on the wrong end of the executioner’s sword.
Braccius was a brut of a man, one well-suited to commanding respect. He towered over most other men, but he wasn’t just tall, he was big. His back was strong, his shoulders wide. Braccius was a hard man. Hardened on the field of battle. Hardened by twenty years’ service to Rome. Killing came easy to Braccius, and he was particularly good at it—some might even say he enjoyed it. Those people would find little argument on his part.
His silver helmet and crest of a Legatus shone brightly in the morning sun, as did the metal strips that, when laced with leather, formed the armor protecting his torso. He pressed his over-sized boot into the back of the slave, took hold of his bone-handled gladius, and pulled it from the dead man’s flesh. Before he could return the weapon to its scabbard, he heard a woman’s scream. Turning, he saw a female slave lunge toward him. A smile formed as he raised his bloodstained sword. He was preparing to strike when a tall legionnaire grabbed her and yanked her backward.
“Well positioned, Fabricius,” Braccius said to his centurion, but he received no answer. Fabricius’ attention was focused on the tormented woman, screaming as she tried, in desperation, to reach her fallen husband.
“It would seem you have a wildcat on your hands, Fabricius,” Braccius observed. He laughed heartily as he watched the legionnaire struggle to gain control.
“Calm down, woman,” Fabricius called out, tilting his head to avoid being scratched. Fabricius had been under Braccius’ command since he entered the service at age sixteen. Fabricius now celebrated twenty-three years of life. He came from a good family, house Livius, the son of a soldier turned butcher. Fabricius was a soldier’s soldier. He took command and followed orders without incident. But more importantly, he was respected. Braccius saw a little of himself in Fabricius, who although only an inch shorter, had the same muscular build and the loyalty of those under him.
Marona was still screaming when Fabricius finally gained control and shoved her to the ground. He hovered over her, looking every bit the warrior. The slave tried to meet his gaze, but the silver on his helmet under the Mohawk-style crest caught the sun, forcing her to lower her eyes. She took hold of the young soldier’s tunic as she yelled Gracious’ name, but he pushed her away. She cried out her husband’s name several times more, before those cries turned to sobs.
Domitius had taken a protective hold of his wife as two legionnaires approached. One of them reached down, grabbed Camilla by her hair, and ripped her from her husband’s grip. She called out, but when he stood to protect her, he was hit sharply and knocked to the ground by the second soldier.
“Careful,” Braccius yelled out, a chuckle in his tone. “Caesar wants these dogs alive. Their punishment, this day, is his pleasure.”
With Marona under control, Fabricius returned to his commander’s side. “Perhaps I was a bit hasty in killing this one,” Braccius said, returning his weapon to its scabbard. He leaned closer to his centurion. “It may be best if we tell Caesar the dog fell by your sword.”
“As you command, Legatus,” Fabricius replied.
Braccius called out to one of his legionnaires. “You there, see that this collar is freed from his head.” He pointed to the dead slave that lay before him. He turned to Fabricius. “I want to present it to Caesar.”
The legionnaire approached the body, then bent down to examine the collar. He fiddled with it for a moment but was unable to free the collar from the dead man’s neck. Braccius expelled a heavy breath. “Fool,” he said. “Have you not a brain inside that thick skull? Must I do all the thinking for you?” He unsheathed his gladius and lifted it high in the air. The legionnaire’s eyes grew big, and he started to cower when Braccius stepped past him. “Shall I wipe your ass as well?” he asked and heaved his sword into the dead slave’s neck, hacking until the head came free.
He tossed the severed head a short distance away. “There, you see? Much easier with the head out of the way.”
The legionnaire removed the blood-soaked collar and placed it in the leather pouch he had around his waist.
Braccius wiped his weapon clean, then sheathed it, and turned to his centurion. “Fabricius, why don’t you take leave?”
Fabricius looked puzzled. “I am well able to stay as long as needed,” he said, the worry evident in his eyes.
“I know you are,” Braccius explained, placing a hand on the man’s shoulder. “But, you have been on patrol long enough for one day. Rank has its privileges. Go home and rest. These men can handle two women and an oaf.”
“As you command,” Fabricius agreed. He hesitated for a moment, and then took his leave.
Braccius watched the young man as he walked away. It’s not that he wanted him to go; he could not care less how much rest his soldiers had. Duty was above all, and if one of his men couldn’t handle the burden required of a legionnaire, then he had no business being in the service. But he knew Fabricius was not one of those men. He would fight until his last breath, would do as commanded, but he had a fatal flaw—he was honest. Braccius understood the morning’s event would likely require a bit of creative license when being reported to Caesar. He wasn’t positive Fabricius would understand. He was even less positive his young centurion would be able to resist the truth when questioned by Caesar. It was better he wasn’t there when the remaining slaves were presented. He returned his gaze to his men and began barking orders.
Chapter 3
“Begin!” she said and stepped out of the way.
Antonia cherished times like these when she didn’t feel quite so much a slave. It’s not that she really enjoyed watching swordplay, but here, in this room, with skills at the test, she could escape her fate—if only for a moment.
The match was painfully unbalanced, even she could tell that. Antonia had been in this room many times, and she recognized the look of one who was ready, if not eager, for battle. One of the two circling in front of her had such a look. The other did not. Herminius, the middle son of house Livius, clutched the wooden practice sword in his shaky hand so tightly, his fingers were already losing blood. If his shield were larger, Antonia was sure he would have hidden behind it completely. His steps were tentative, sluggish even. He moved as one resigned to his fate yet wary of its arrival. Every thrust of the sword met with an expert parry. Every step countered with sure placement of foot. Had she a denarius, she’d have bet on Herminius’ defeat, but slaves didn’t have coin.
What he lacked in swordplay, Herminius more than made up for with the spoken word. Even Livius, his father, didn’t speak as well as his son. Rome had come to love two skills, those who could fight with weapons and those who could fight with words. Herminius’ skill with words far exceeded his skill with any weapon.
When his opponent took a small step to the right, Herminius jumped into action. He raised his sword, lunged forward, and swung a downward diagonal blow. But his adversary was primed. Herminius’ sword slammed into the opposing sword with a loud smack. Antonia caught his grimace from under his face shield. She had seen many such battles in this room, and though she had never taken sword in hand, she had listened. She knew Herminius’ advance had been slow and was easily block
ed. But it wasn’t his only mistake. In his lunge, he reached too far and neglected to cover his body with his shield. His challenger took advantage of the opening. The wooden shield slammed hard into his chest, forcing him backward. His opponent smiled.
Being the middle brother of three and the only one not choosing combat for his path couldn’t have made life easy in a household that saw their father serve in the Roman Army two decades prior. But Antonia wasn’t surprised at the path Herminius followed. He never seemed suited for battle. He didn’t have the stature of a fighter, not like his older brother Fabricius. There was a soldier. Rippling arms, powerful chest, Fabricius was a man made to wear a uniform. To look at Herminius’ stomach, you would not see a muscle exposed. Although not overweight, he had a politician’s mold more so than one of a gladiator. Antonia had observed many occasions when Fabricius had tried to teach his younger brother the ways of battle, but it all too often ended with frustration by Herminius, and thus, the ending of the session.
Today’s battle wasn’t going any better. Herminius barely got his shield up in time to deflect the blow that echoed off the stone walls. He tried to counter, but his efforts were blocked. Every thrust, every blow, blocked again and again. Antonia winced each time his opponent’s blow found its mark.
Then, as if out of nowhere, a thrust forced improper footing, placing his opponent slightly off-balance. Herminius took advantage, lunging forward with a battle cry. His opponent barely managed to defend the lunge, offering a weak blow Herminius easily blocked. With his adversary still trying to recover, Herminius seemed emboldened. He lunged a second time, swinging his shield high toward the head. Maybe this time, the outcome would be different. It was a good swing, but his opponent’s actions had been a ruse, one meant to goad Herminius into making a foolish maneuver, and that is exactly what he had just done. His opponent ducked smoothly, but Herminius was already committed to the move and was unable to change his motion in time. The blow to his back knocked him to the ground and stole his breath. Antonia gasped. His sword and shield flew across the room. Herminius turned himself over, but before he could rise, his opponent was on top of him, pointing the tip of a sword at his groin.
“I yield! I yield!” Herminius said, raising his hand in submission. “You’ve left me nothing to fight with but harsh words.” He took hold of the tip of his opponent’s wooden practice sword with his thumb and forefinger. “And I desire to keep what little manhood you have left me,” he said and repositioned the sword slightly to the side.
His opponent laughed heartily. With the practice sword removed from his groin, Herminius took a deep breath, pulled off his helmet, and tossed it to the side. “It would seem clear I should discount combat from my list of potential vocations,” he observed. “What is not clear is why you insist on continually challenging me.”
“You rush your attack, brother,” his opponent said and removed her helmet. Her long black hair swung freely as it fell past her shoulders. “And you lack planning.”
If it was hard to lose to a girl, it must have been harder still to lose to one’s own sister, but Antonia had been rooting for Justina anyway. The two had grown up together in house Livius, Justina being only six moons older than she. At the time, Antonia had been the only child in the slave’s quarters. She was always getting into trouble. Playing where she wasn’t supposed to, touching things she was not allowed. She had been caught more than once under the dining room table moderating a discussion between the apples and oranges. It was probably why she had eventually been allowed to play with Justina.
While house Livius was well-appointed, it wasn’t so large that people did not come in contact with each other during everyday activities. When she was young, the word “slave” meant nothing to Antonia. It was only after her parents passed that it gained meaning. Before that, all she understood was she lived in one part of the house with her mother, father, and several other adults, while the people called Livius lived in another. She also understood the people who lived with her had different rules from those who lived in the other part of the house, but she didn’t know why.
Antonia had seen her in the house many times, but the two were never allowed to play. It didn’t make any sense to Antonia. She would sneak over to the room where the little girl named Justina sat, playing with her dolls or a horse on wheels. Antonia played the same games, only she had to use fruit—until it got taken away from her. Then she’d use nutshells. If they were playing the same games, why couldn’t they play together? Why did they have to stay in different parts of the house? Still, every time she was caught there, she would be shooed away by one of the adults from her side of the house. It didn’t matter, Antonia’s fruit had better conversations than Justina’s dolls anyway.
One day, she was allowed into the room. She couldn’t believe it. She was finally going to get to play with Justina. She held her hands up under her chin as she entered. She wanted to run but was warned against it.
“Why didn’t you come sooner?” Justina asked her.
“I don’t know,” Antonia said, twisting her foot back and forth. “I was told I couldn’t.”
“I saw you watching me, you know. You should have come in.” Justina handed Antonia one of her dolls. “Her name is Cassia. She can be yours.”
The doll didn’t look like much. It didn’t even have hair. But it smelled of cinnamon. Antonia hid it under her cot, only taking it out when it was time to play or when she was alone. From that day forward, the two were inseparable. They played together, shared each other’s secrets, and dreamed of the future. Justina was the only one in house Livius who treated Antonia like an equal, even after they both learned what the word slave meant.
Now Justina was standing above her downed brother. She held her sword and helmet in one hand and offered Herminius the other. At first, he simply laid there, looking at the ceiling, most likely pondering the collapse of his manhood. But eventually, he took the offered hand and allowed Justina to pull him to his feet.
“Whether it proves to be your chosen vocation or not, improving your abilities with a gladius is a skill that will always serve you well, brother.”
Herminius seemed unconvinced.
“Well then, if you do not care to practice for battle, then spar with me to aid my own self esteem,” she said, and with a sly smile, added, “Besides, I’m taken to understand women are fond of a man who has a certain skill with his sword.”
Herminius returned his sister’s smile. “Such a beautiful woman. Long flowing dark hair, tall, with a smile that could melt any man’s heart. And yet, you would prefer to stab his heart instead.” The two laughed at this observation.
Just then, a slow, deliberate clap came from the opening of the room. Justina glanced over and frowned at the source. Antonia looked too and immediately shifted her gaze to the floor. The sight of the youngest male in house Livius was not one that was welcome.
“Well played, Justina,” Atilius said as he entered the room. “Your skill is more than adequate for a competitor who hardly knows which end of the gladius to point at his opponent.”
Antonia kept her head down, raising her eyes only slightly. She saw the look Atilius flashed at his older brother. It was not well received. Herminius walked heavily as he retrieved his sword and shield.
Justina’s eyes narrowed, and her mood darkened. “It is your utter lack of charm that amazes, Atilius,” Justina said. She crossed the room, seeming to walk deliberately in front of Atilius, though she did not look at him as she passed. It was only when Justina stepped in front of her that Antonia dared raise her head. When their eyes met, Justina smiled.
Atilius continued, “Though, I fear the outcome may be vastly different should you fight someone with actual skills.”
Justina didn’t comment. Instead, she began to remove her armor. Antonia allowed herself a quick glance at Atilius. He was looking directly at Justina, and the expression on his face wasn’t pleasant. She turned her attention back to Justina, taking the armor as it
was removed.
“You would serve this house best by spending your free time finding a husband and leaving the fighting to the men,” he said. “Those who can defend themselves anyway.”
Antonia didn’t have to look at Atilius to see where his gaze was directed.
Justina turned to Herminius. “Bare him no mind as little minds are consumed with meager thoughts.”
Even from across the room, Antonia could feel the heat emanating from Atilius’ brow.
“I will take my leave, dear sister,” Herminius said.
“As will we,” said Justina, still wearing most of her armor. “Come, Antonia. Leave the equipment. I’ll return later and put it all away.”
Atilius was standing at the doorway, arms folded. Herminius stepped to the side and slipped by him. Justina, however, didn’t adjust her path or move to go around. She simply walked right up to Atilius. Antonia stayed a couple of steps behind. The two siblings locked eyes. Justina’s mouth went thin. Before she could react, Atilius suddenly made a grand display of stepping aside to allow Justina passage. But as Antonia moved to follow, Atilius stepped back in front of her.
“And you had best remember your station in this house, slave,” he barked and placed his hand on Antonia’s chest to stop her. She shrunk and immediately lowered her head, daring not to respond. “You are neither friend nor confidant,” he continued and slid his hand down her chest until his fingers had moved just below the edge of her tunic. She gasped. “You live solely for the graciousness of our father,” he paused, “and the glory of Rome.” Antonia froze as Atilius’ fingers swept downward, outlining her breast.