by Ryan Lew
Justina was done with this, done with Atilius, done with the way he treated Antonia, and she was not about to let it go on any further. It was one thing to say ignorant things to make yourself feel powerful, quite another to fondle an innocent woman. She forced herself between them, knocking Atilius’ hand away with her body. She faced Antonia, positioning her back against Atilius to create a barrier. The two women were almost the exact same height, so when Antonia would look towards the ground, it would almost appear as she was looking down at Atilius. Justina tried to catch Antonia’s eye, but she would not look up. “It’s okay, Antonia,” Justina said quietly. “Just leave and tend to your remaining chores.”
“Of course,” she whispered and moved to leave, but Atilius stepped right back in front of her, blocking her path.
“Be sure to pay particular attention to the latrine, slave,” Atilius said. “I plan on filling it again for you.”
Antonia was still looking down when Justina turned and touched her arm. “Go now.”
“Stay where you are,” Atilius barked. “I have not yet given you permission to leave.”
In one swift move, Justina turned to face Atilius. She was taller than him—taller by a good two inches—and she used those inches when she stepped in closer with a glare. Atilius met her look with one of his own. In many families, when siblings are the same age, they form a bond so strong it endures long past their own lives. That was not the case in house Livius. Instead of being born into the house, like Atilius and Herminius, Justina had been brought in as a baby by their father. An act done without discussion or consent. Not that Atilius would have had a vote, being Justina’s age, he too was but a baby. But he seemed to take it personally. For almost his entire life, he had done everything he could to show Justina that in his eyes, she wasn’t his sister at all. She was simply an interloper existing under his own roof.
“At least when I spar with Herminius, he has gladius in hand,” Justina said. “Is it your habit to attack a person unarmed? Or am I mistaken? Perhaps promoting your prowess with bowel movements is how a boy flirts these days.”
Atilius grinned. “A person unarmed, you say? A person unarmed?” he repeated, emphasizing the second word. Then with a slight chuckle he continued, “Justina, you have mistaken a slave for a person.”
“Oh, trust me, dear brother, I am well aware who does and who does not deserve the honor.”
“Then you should know how to treat a slave.”
“How? By fondling her breasts? Is that how you treat your slaves?”
“I treat them as I see fit.”
Justina was trying her hardest not to curl up her fist and slam it into her brother’s face. She knew how to do it. Fabricius had taught her how to throw a punch. How to curl her fingers tightly into the palm of the hand, tuck her thumb back so it didn’t get caught, and make the surface of her fist flat to do the most damage and protect the hand. Her resistance was waning. “Is that the first breast you’ve touched, brother?” she asked. “Did you get a good feel? Did your meager penis rise at the touch? Does your puny brain even grasp the sensation?”
Atilius did not back down. “You worry too much about the size of my cock, Justina, when what you should be concerned with is the magnitude of my arm and its ability to wield a sword. As I recall, it is one you have yet to better.”
Justina stepped even closer to her brother. She wanted nothing more than to wipe that smug grin from his face. But Atilius was right. Try as she might, she had not been able to beat him. While her skill matched, if not succeeded, his own, he was just too strong and too fast. Still, she was not afraid of him. Nor did she have any desire to listen to his mouth run.
“It may bring you some small comfort knowing you have bested me in the past, but that was by but a breath. If you desire, I am more than willing to put it to the test right now,” she said and slammed her practice sword into Atilius’ chest. The blow sent him backward a step. Antonia let out an involuntary laugh, and though she immediately brought up her hand to muffle the sound, it was too late, Atilius had heard her. He grabbed Justina’s sword and pulled it from her hands.
“Challenge accept…”
“Children of house Livius!” The sound of their mother’s voice was all that was needed to command presence in the room. Justina took a step back from Atilius, and Antonia seized the opportunity to slip past and leave.
“Have I interrupted?” Alba asked.
“Justina was just expounding on her prowess with a sword,” Atilius said.
Justina wasn’t about to simply stand there and be mocked by her brother, even with her mother in the room. “One day I will master the sword,” she said, “and then I will show all who care to see, the role a woman can play in the Roman Army.”
“Oh, Jupiter’s Ass!” Atilius cried out. He tucked the sword under his arm, looked to the ceiling, and clasped his hands in prayer. “Please carry me to the underworld and spare me such an unlikely aversion.”
Justina’s face tightened.
Atilius pulled the wooden sword from under his arm. He tested its balance and smiled, then looked at his sister. “Date soldiers, Justina,” he said. “Stop trying to be one.”
Before she could react, Alba spoke, “Son, friend Lucilius awaits you upstairs. Terrible news accompanies him. His parents were killed last night by their own slaves.”
Justina gasped.
Atilius’ face hardened, and his grip on the sword tightened. “How is he holding up mother?”
“Poor child, he is distraught,” Alba said, “I’m afraid that Lucilius feels responsible for being on patrol last night instead of being home where he could have prevented such a tragedy. You are his closest friend. Go, bring solace to his heart, Atilius. He is in deep mourning.” Atilius dropped the wooden sword and rushed from the room.
Justina was about to leave as well when her mother stopped her. Alba was a proper Roman woman whose presence filled the room with the fresh scent of flowers. Her multi-colored silk robes cut low enough to expose a good portion of her ample breasts, which were decorated by a modest necklace adorned with garnets. Matching earrings dangled from her lobes. Her brown hair was mostly wound up behind her head, but strands of curls hung down from both sides, accentuating her face. Alba was striking, yet had a tired look about her.
Disapproval painted Alba’s face. “Look at you, dressed like a man. You’ve been sweating,” she said, curling her nose, “and you smell.”
This was not the first time Justina had heard these words, but hearing them once again did not lessen the severity of their cut. She looked down at the floor as her mother stepped closer.
“Believe it or not, Justina, you are a woman. You are not a legionnaire and you never will be. It is time you cast away this misguided pursuit. You may not have been born into this house, but we have taken you under our crest. You represent us just as if you had come from my womb, and while you are not one of us, you bear our name.” Alba lifted one leather strap on Justina’s shoulder and let it drop back in place. “Now remove this clothing meant for men and wash yourself. Put on something more befitting a woman of stature. Then treat your body to the essence of flowers before presenting yourself again. Lucilius has suffered enough and needs not his eyes, or nose, assaulted by this absurd charade of yours.”
Alba stepped aside as Justina left the room, still looking at the floor. She would have looked up at her mother, but she didn’t want her to see the tears welling in her eyes.
Chapter 4
He had invited them to a lunch, and they had come. Most of Rome’s most noble, of her most rich. There to be seen, to show their respect, to be included. Caesar had no delusions. He understood why his dining hall was full. Why they were there eating his food, drinking his wine. It wasn’t out of respect. No, it was fear he saw in their eyes when he spoke to them. Not the fear a soldier feels before a battle. That fear must be pushed deep down inside or a man would never make it out alive. No, it wasn’t that fear. It was the fear only the ric
h knew, the fear of losing one’s rank, one’s position in society. But he had earned their fear on the battlefield, and he would take it. Respect was for fools.
He took another bite of lamb. There were times when Caesar was amazed at how his life had progressed. Though he was born with his father’s given name of Gaius, he chose long ago to discard that name and, instead, go by his middle name Julius, though now he was mostly referred to simply as Caesar. The decision on his name was purposeful, one designed to separate him from his current place. While his parents were aristocrats in Rome, they were nowhere near as wealthy as most, if not all, of the people in this room. Few would have expected him to rise to such stature. But even as a young boy, Caesar had higher aspirations than his birthright may have granted. And now, here he was in his own estate, a room filled with nobles, all there to kiss his ass. The thought pleased him.
The festivities were in full swing when Braccius, accompanied by several members of his legion and three shackled slaves, made a grand entrance into the dining area. His sudden appearance drew the attention of both the nobles and their would-be leader.
“Hail, Caesar!” Braccius called out, slamming his fist into his chest, before extending it outward. The metal clank echoed through the room.
Caesar, a mouth full of food, sat at the head table when the interruption came. He looked intently at his general and waived him to speak.
“We have captured the slaves from last night’s massacre, Caesar, and have brought them here as commanded.”
Caesar stood, as the nobles looked on. The eyes of the entire room were now on him and he basked in the attention. He was in his element, relishing it. Breathing it in like one would a fine wine. As the nobles watched, he slowly finished chewing, deliberately wiped his mouth on a red cloth, then dropped it and approached the group.
Though he was younger than many of his guests, just in his forties, Caesar moved easily with the assurance of a man who had headed great armies. A man unaccustomed to defeat. He was clothed in the finest fabrics Rome had to offer a purple-striped tunic loosely fastened by a belt, muscular arms exposed on each side. A gladius hanging from his waist. Atop his head was a flamboyant laurel wreath, which he had taken to wearing when in public. It hid, or more appropriately distracted from, his baldness, a burden of weakness he was forced to bear. He looked first at Braccius, then to the three slaves, before returning his attention to his guests.
“The work of an emperor is never complete,” he said. Though he had not yet gained it, he used the title intentionally. He paused ever so slightly, scanning the room to gauge the reaction of his guests. If the nobles objected, they dare not show it openly. He continued, “It appears Caesar cannot even finish a meal without Rome demanding his attention.”
The comment brought resigned laughter. Caesar smiled, then turned back to the slaves.
“Excellent work, Legatus,” he said without looking at Braccius, “but I see only three slaves.” He paused purposefully, “The report was that four had escaped.”
“Yes, Caesar,” Braccius said keeping his eyes forward. “During the capture, my centurion was a bit, overzealous.”
Caesar raised an eyebrow, but before he could speak, Braccius quickly snapped his fingers and extended his hand. One of the legionnaire stepped forward, pulled the blood-soaked collar from a pouch, and went to hand it to his commander.
Braccius made a motion to wipe off the collar. The legionnaire searched for something with which to wipe and finding nothing returned Braccius a blank look. The Legatus motioned to the soldier’s cloak. With all watching intently, the legionnaire did his best to wipe the mostly dried blood from the collar, then handed it to Braccius, who immediately presented it to Caesar.
Caesar nodded, leaving Braccius to hold the collar. He returned his attention to the captives. “I asked for four,” he bellowed, “I get three and…” he eyed the item in Braccius’ hand, “a collar where a slave is supposed to be.” He glanced at Braccius as he said the words, then turned to his guests. “I suppose a loss of one slave shouldn’t be a concern. I suppose I should be happy with the three that are left.”
Braccius shifted his weight, sweat beginning to show on his brow.
“Gaze upon these ingrates. They have turned against their masters. Masters who fed them and clothed them, kept them out of harm’s way. Let it be known that Rome wastes no time in capturing insolent, disobedient slaves. And you can rest assured, we will move just as quickly in dispensing punishment.”
The crowd cheered. Caesar smiled.
He turned to the slaves. “Your fellow conspirator was given a merciful death,” he said, more for the benefit of the crowd than the slaves kneeling before him. “Much better than he deserved. Let that bring you solace as you dangle from the cross.” The words brought approving cheers.
Caesar paused and turned to his guests. He soaked in the attention, then continued, “Your broken, bloodied carcasses will best be served as an example to others of your kind who may plot similar treachery.”
As the crowd cheered yet again, a lone voice yelled out, “I welcome death for I shall at last be free in the afterlife.”
The room went suddenly silent, Caesar’s guests collectively intent on the female slave Marona, who now stood in defiance. Her tunic was covered in dark maroon splashes of dried blood, as was her face, hands, and legs.
Caesar turned slightly. Braccius leered at the legionnaire behind the slave. Seeing his commander’s look, the legionnaire grabbed hold of Marona and tried to force her to the ground. But it was no use, Marona was resilient, intent on standing. Caesar eyed his guests. Their attention was quickly shifting from the slave to him. Action was needed, and it was needed quickly. Just as Braccius moved to unsheathe his sword, Caesar waved off the soldiers and walked purposely to the slave.
Marona was bold. Her head was high and her chest puffed out, challenging her captors. He almost admired her. He would take a challenger over a coward any day. He moved until he was directly in front of her, his gaze fixed. His eyes didn’t convey anger. Instead, they sent the message that this slave carried no weight in his sight—no purpose, no worth. As if he didn’t see her at all. As if he were looking past her, through her. He didn’t stop his approach until he was sure she could smell the meal that had just crossed his lips.
With the room quiet as a tomb, Caesar and Marona stood facing each other. She tried to return his unblinking gaze. Caesar stood motionless. It didn’t take long for her resolve to fail. He saw it in her eyes. Her courage receded, and she looked to the ground. Caesar leaned in so close his lips almost touched her ear.
“You are a slave,” he said softly. He could almost feel the nobles leaning in to hear him. “Lower than a dog. Since the very day you vomited forth from your demon mother’s womb you were a slave. That is your fate.” He continued, saying the words slowly, forcefully, emphasizing each one, “You will always be a slave.” Marona shook.
Caesar took a step back. He turned to his guests but resumed speaking to the slave, “Do you not think there are Romans in the afterlife? We rule this world, and we damn sure rule the next one. If all were equal, there would be no reason to die.”
The crowd was on their feet, cheering their leader. Caesar basked in the moment. He scanned the crowd, watching them clap, taking in their cheers. Then, when he was sure he had the attention of each and every noble, he drew his sword and drove it deep into Marona’s gut.
The crowd went silent. Women gasped.
Marona’s eyes widened in surprise. Her mouth opened involuntarily, but there were no words. Blood soaked her tunic and began collecting on the floor below her legs. Caesar took a step closer and looked directly into her eyes. “I condemn you to Tartarus,” he said and moved the sword from one side to the other, disemboweling her. With the crowd looking on, he stepped back and pulled the weapon from her midsection. Marona stood motionless, staring forward, blood pooled in her mouth. She was more dead than alive. Caesar smiled. He used the slave’s tunic to w
ipe the blood from his sword, then he turned to face his guests. Just as her husband had done, Marona dropped first to her knees with a heavy thud and then fell slowly forward.
The nobles were stunned. Caesar sheathed his sword. “Once a slave, always a slave.”
“And what of these other two?” Braccius asked. But Caesar didn’t really need to answer. When one slave disobeyed, the entire household of slaves was destined to suffer the same fate. It was Roman law.
“Crucify them,” Caesar ordered, “and let the crows feast upon their eyes.”
In the back of the room, one of the nobles slowly began to clap. The others quickly followed suit, clapping and cheering for their leader, and as the cheers grew louder, Caesar smiled and took a bow. It mattered little if they respected him, but they did fear him and that was all he needed.
Chapter 5
“Pardon for the intrusion,” Lucilius said to Livius. “I knew not where to go. But I couldn’t go back to…” His words trailed off.
Only moments earlier, the young Roman legionnaire, who just that morning had suffered the loss of both his father and mother in a brutal slave uprising, knocked at the door to house Livius. Cato, the primo servus, had a decision to make. His first instinct was to turn the boy away. The murder was so fresh, Lucilius had not changed from his uniform, and the stain of his parent’s dried blood yet covered his chest plate. Cato didn’t much care for the young soldier. He was impetuous and had disturbing opinions on the treatment of slaves, ones he had little qualms voicing.
Had he been able, Cato, whose height and weight towered over all who entered, would have sent Lucilius home to change and gather his thoughts, but Cato understood well that the decision was not his to make. The death of Lucilius’ parents put every house in Rome on edge. Tensions were high. On this day, even the most well treated slave was viewed through suspicious eyes, and every slave felt it. This was a day not to provoke the masters. This was a day to know your place in the house, so he let the boy enter, hoping the soldier’s stay would be brief.