by Casey Lane
Over time, deft use of such skills ensured I wasn’t treated too poorly. I’d use them to turn the lash away from myself, or similar things. Another slave would mysteriously get the blame for a meat pie I stole. Yet, I never used my powers to run away. This was, firstly, because the life I was born into was the only one I knew. Certainly, I could have used invisibility to slip my captors’ grasp. But then what? Where would I go? I had no real home, no family. A slave’s bed was as good as any . . . not that we had real beds.
The second reason I stayed was because my powers were something I only gained knowledge of through the years—not all at once. By the time I realized their extent, Fate had stepped in. My life began to change for me. One night, after bragging about how valuable I was, my master lost me in a drunken game of dice. My new owner—a weapons instructor in the army—was quick to recognize my potential, my intelligence. My fighting prowess. And Rome always needed soldiers.
That was because Rome had always been at war. At least, for as long as I or anyone could recall. Not in the modern, literal sense where one country declares war on another. But Rome was in continual need of expansion, or defense from an attack. Battle-readiness was its constant state, and there seemed no end to the killing. The advantage of this was that soldiers enjoyed a very high status throughout the empire. They would never turn into the limb-lost tramps you see on street corners today, begging for the refuse of a country they helped to save. On the contrary, our veterans were given bonuses and often, a plot of land after an honorable discharge.
Learning to fight with actual weapons now, instead of just my fists, was no hardship. I excelled in all manner of combat with ease. I was a master archer long before some idiot would go running through the woods, calling himself Robin of Loxley. At first, my master used me as a sparring partner for new recruits—until I started beating them all. After that, he was hard-pressed to find a reason to keep me from enlisting, especially when, as I said, Rome always needed soldiers. Additionally, the cost of one slave was a pittance compared to the prestige that came from training and honing such a fine fighter. And thus, I was freed.
But it wouldn’t do to have an ignoramus out there in the world, representing you. Oh, no. My master quickly caught me up on reading and writing Latin and Greek. I was also taught philosophy, history, geography, mathematics, music, astronomy, and rhetoric. I impressed my benefactor by excelling in these subjects as easily as I did in mortal combat. At the time, I was unaware that my magical blood was responsible for this gift of superior intelligence. I’ve since learned that it is common among our kind.
After that, my former master gave me the necessary recommendation, and I was posted to a century, or unit of one hundred men. There, our training continued. We used double-weight shields to give us strength. We attacked six-foot-high wooden stakes. I learned to throw a javelin, swim, and ride a horse. I worked a catapult and battering ram. Here, I incurred more wounds than I ever had previously. At times, it was difficult to conceal their rapid healing. But a little mind magic here, an illusion or two there, and I managed. My reputation for resilience and fortitude increased. Three times a month, we marched eighteen miles wearing our full kit. A soldier learns not to complain.
Although the preparations were grueling, I was unused to a comfortable life, so it made no difference to me. Hell, I was fourteen before I even had a blanket to sleep under. I was sixteen before I tasted meat. I never thought of deserting the army. One of the penalties, after all, was crucifixion. Being beaten with sticks—sometimes, to death—was also a common punishment. Besides, I enjoyed my work. Rome paid her soldiers well, though they had to spend much of their time away from home. Since I never had a home, that caveat meant little.
I worked my way up from the equivalent of a modern-day army private to a centurion, or captain. From there, it was a bloody—yet easy—road to lieutenant, and finally to imperator, or general. I say it was easy, because for the most part, the blood spilled was not mine. Then, as far as the military went, the only person who outranked me was the emperor. But I had designs in that area as well.
In those days, one had to be a patrician in order to qualify for the title of emperor. I was, at best, a freedman: a former slave who’d earned his emancipation. However, the reigning emperor had the power to promote men into the patrician class. And the emperor was all too happy to grant me this request after I won a particularly gory campaign against the insurgent Iceni tribe. In ancient Rome, nothing was more important to an emperor than expanding his empire. To be the ruler of all he surveyed and more was to be a god. So, there was no one more valuable—more revered—than a capable general.
When I was born, the name my master gave me was Aurelius. As was common in those days, when I was freed, I took the first name of my emancipator, which was Titus. But even as I did so, I swore to outdo him in both name and deed. I was the Titus history would remember.
And so I set out to be the most tremendous general of my age. And that meant causing pain. Pleasure, we forget. But pain . . . pain is burned into our memories, branded on our minds lest we fail to heed its warning. Just like Pompeii is branded on mine.
I didn’t make my men march three times a month; I made them march six. If any man turned on his brothers, I had them beat him to death. I didn’t just threaten to crucify deserters; I told them their families would meet the same fate while they watched. Strangely enough, in all my decades as general, not one of my recruits abandoned his post.
Despite all this, I was popular with the men I commanded. This was because, while other generals let their legions do the fighting for them, I plunged headlong into the thick of it. I never watched from a safe distance, or stood on the sidelines while my men ran to their deaths. You’d be surprised at the loyalty men feel—even to a harsh master—who appears to put his life on the line for them. I did this partly because I was confident my powers would protect me, as they always had. And I won’t lie: I did it partly just for the thrill of it.
I even developed a certain way of speaking, of combining my mundane voice with the magical one into the voice that commanded men to do my bidding. That spurred them to greater acts of violence and self-sacrifice than they had even dreamed possible. My son, Joshua, calls this my “general’s voice.”
He thinks I do not know he does this.
I was also popular because of my generosity with the spoils of war. I let my men take almost anything they wished, after Rome had her share. Gold, silver, slaves, spices . . . I would need the men’s support—and that of their families—in my eventual bid for emperor.
Stop looking at me like that. I don’t care if you don’t think the spoils were mine to take. I’ll have none of that politically correct nonsense. If you were on the receiving end of one of my campaigns, well, “woe to the conquered,” as the saying goes. I won’t bother to recount for the reader further details of my exploits. A cursory glance at ancient Roman history will give you more than your fill. Besides, I wouldn’t want the delicate reader to have nightmares tonight.
But ah, yes. You wish to know more of that other witch I mentioned, back when I thought I was the only one. Well, if you’re certain, then we’ll continue. Her name? Sabine.
She died, too.
Chapter Two
It is the twenty-fourth of August, AD 79, in Pompeii. Just one day after Vulcanalia, the festival of the Roman god of fire. Early in the morning, there are the usual birds chirping, dogs barking, the shouts of vendors, mothers, and street children. Far in the distance, one can hear rumbling sounds. The earth and buildings shake a little. Smoke begins to rise from Mount Vesuvius in the background. Then, all is still.
Two hours later, dogs are barking louder, howling, pacing back and forth. Birds cease their chirping. The ground trembles again. Doors creak in their frames. The meat hanging along vendor stalls sways from side to side. Cups and bowls rattle on their shelves. Pompeii pays these things no notice. They are used to such tremors.
Another hour passes. Wild birds
fly away from the town; tame ones flutter in their cages. Water stops flowing from the public fountains. People curse and kick the basins, the spouts. They yell for a supervisor to check the aqueducts. There is a sore need for water. It is high summer, and a hot, dry day.
I remember thinking how nice it would be if the gods could send rain.
Being a soldier, I was, of course, intimately acquainted with death. Sometimes, we were bitter foes. Other times, we joined forces to rout a mutual enemy. It was my close kinship with death—and the willingness to employ it—that made my formidable reputation. I was one of the youngest generals in the history of Rome, and one who’d earned more than a few triumphal processions. Such renown was also the reason I attracted the attention of the proconsul, or governor, of several African provinces: a Gnaeus Metilius Egnatius by name, whose permanent residence was in Pompeii. It was also how I met the woman whose knowledge would shape the rest of my life . . . and whose face would forever haunt my dreams.
It wasn’t long before I was a comite, as they were called. Comites served as a sort of executive council to the proconsul, helping him make decisions. Although the proconsul was technically the head of the army in his provinces, Egnatius’s knowledge of the military was close to zero. He preferred spending his time at chariot races, or watching gladiators at the amphitheater, to learning the art of war. And so, the fool came to depend on me to manage even the smallest aspects of his militia.
These were the heady days of Caligula, Claudius, and Nero. Contrary to popular belief, that last one did not fiddle as Rome burned. The year was AD 59. I remember, because there’d been a riot at a gladiator contest in Pompeii, and everyone was complaining about the amphitheater’s closure. Little did we know it would remain closed for the next ten years. Without the promise of thrilling violence to while away the hours, I thought Pompeii would hold little draw. How laughable that turned out to be.
Pompeii is about 150 miles south of Rome. She had all the accoutrements of a modern city at that time. Cobblestoned roads. Theaters. Libraries. Slave markets. Aqueducts, like miles-long bridges, with huge dome cutouts underneath. Before us, in the distance, loomed Vesuvius, peaceful and serene as she’d ever been. She hadn’t so much as grumbled for nearly a thousand years. With the volcano on one side, and the shining Bay of Naples on the other, Pompeii was nothing less than a coastal jewel.
It was late in the afternoon, springtime. We’d just come from the baths—myself, Egnatius, and his other comites—and were on our way to the proconsul’s house for some revelry. Egnatius’s bodyguards followed closely—a dozen solidly built men. The primary one marched, stone-faced, steps ahead of Egnatius, ready to clear the way of any rowdy crowds.
The noise of the busy streets was all around, from the shops on the ground floors to the apartment buildings above. Though only eight or nine stories high, they were to us what I imagine skyscrapers are to you, now. We could hear rumblings of the horse-drawn carriages so often used in town. Then, the larger carts came groaning by. The whips of the drivers cracked over and over as they urged their oxen forward. There was the incessant pounding of metalworkers, the cries of vendors, the shouts of drunken soldiers on leave.
From the next street over, we could hear the wails of a funeral procession headed just outside one of the city gates. Soon, the dearly departed would be laid to rest in a lane of tombs that lined the way into Pompeii. These miniature “houses of the dead,” some two stories tall, were necessary because citizens could not be buried within town limits. Of course, this was the law throughout the empire, not just in Pompeii.
Mounds of clothing hid people’s faces as they carried their garments to the fuller’s to be washed. Important men, like Egnatius and myself, wore togas. Egnatius’s had broad, purple stripes denoting his station. The freedmen around us wore only tunics. Because Pompeii was near a port, it was always full of interesting foreign visitors, in all manner of color and costume. A man in Spanish dress next to me splashed water on his face from one of the public fountains. Slaves—in shabbier tunics—shuffled by in chains, single file. I recognized the owner’s name on some of their brands and tattoos—a fate I’d managed to avoid during my own servitude.
We marched past wave after wave of goblet and jewelry displays that glinted in the sun. Carved animal carcasses dangled from above butcher’s stalls, all but waiting to drop into the watering mouths below. Steam rose from vats of rich, hot food in row after row of stalls. Hungry dogs and lazy cats wound their way around a sea of legs. Cripples and madmen slumped in doorways. Children laughed and shrieked, chasing each other, darting between the adults.
If only something could be done about the damn smell. Citizens dumped animal and human refuse directly into the street in those days. Eventually, the rains would wash it away, but never soon enough for my liking. As we made our way over the stepping stones that kept us above the filth, we gratefully inhaled the smell of freshly baked bread wafting through the air. Only the wealthy had kitchens in their homes; the common lot lugged raw dough daily to bakeries to make use of the ovens. We went past fishmongers, frescoes, graffiti, until we finally arrived at the home of Egnatius—so large, it spanned the entire block. Egnatius’s servants greeted us at the door, with word their mistress—his wife—was still getting ready.
“This is the first time you’ve ever been in my home, isn’t it, Titus?” Egnatius barely glanced at the bowing servant as we made our way to the atrium at the house’s center. His bodyguards stepped to the sides and lined the room, ever vigilant. “Welcome, welcome! I hope it meets your expectations,” he said slyly.
“I’d wager it exceeds them, my lord.” Indeed, the home was among the most impressive I’d seen. Servants scurried back and forth over mosaic floors and their thousands of delicate tiles. Intricately woven tapestries cascaded down the walls. Scenes of landscapes and dancing gods mingled, courtesy of murals boasting bright colors characteristic of the region. There were rich blues, greens, and a deep crimson called Pompeian red. Every stick of furniture that was not marble was made of rare and expensive wood, inlaid with silver, gold, or ivory.
Not far off, I could see doors opening into not one, but several dining rooms, where I would later enjoy many feasts held by Egnatius. Beyond that, I glimpsed a peristyle surrounding a sizable open-air courtyard, well laid out with hedges, paths, fountains, and statues. We passed Egnatius’s prominently displayed ancestral shrine, the busts and wax masks of his ancestors following us with their glowering eyes.
A few yards away, statuettes of the protector gods of the home, and of the genius—Egnatius’s life force—sat serenely in a shrine among their offerings. This tiny altar, more private than the ancestral one, resembled the entrance to a temple, with two columns supporting a triangular pediment nestled into the wall.
“I hear Publicus Valerius is building himself a villa in nearby Herculaneum,” Egnatius said. “I was thinking I might do the same. Good to get out of the city every once in a while.” He waved vaguely around him, the rings covering his short fingers catching the dusky light. In his fifties, Egnatius was a good six inches shorter than I, with tufts of hair sprouting everywhere except the top of his head. His eyelids drooped so much, one worried the next blink might shut them permanently. He was also one of those men whose weak chins were on too-familiar terms with their necks.
Cispius, a fellow comite and magistrate, nodded. “A wise idea, Proconsul. Splendid way to take advantage of the view of the Bay of Naples.” He expertly sidestepped the sunken pool of water underneath the atrium’s skylight.
“More and more are doing it these days,” agreed Nerius, a senator. “Herculaneum’s garnering a reputation as a resort town among the best sets.”
“You could join me there, Titus.” Egnatius smiled at me broadly. “What with you soon having the funds to build your own villa. Think of all the fun we could have, dashing about unsupervised!” he chuckled.
It was true. I’d just come off a particularly successful campaign and was quite
pleased with myself. Of course, I’d had to torture a few of the conquered in front of the rest—just so I could quell the dissidents long enough to sell them off. Bloody lot of trouble, too. But my men were rallying around me more than ever, and my personal coffers were growing nicely. I was only a few years past twenty, and in my prime. All in all, it was an invigorating time to be alive. But my mind was never far from the next campaign, the next prize.
“Indeed.” I gave a quick smile. “But what about what I was saying earlier, Egnatius? Should we commit more legionnaires to the border to solidify—?”
“Oh, Titus, your mind never rests for a moment, does it?” Egnatius took a cup of honey-sweetened wine off the tray held out by a servant. “Rome can be left to her own devices for one day without falling down around us. Now, what I want to know is, did you see Plautus’s The Haunted House?”
“I did; it is a most excellent play, your grace.” Cispius took a cup of wine, and a large swallow from it. “Truth be told, I haven’t enjoyed myself so much at the theater since . . .”
The conversation drifted into talk of which actors were better than which, and what salacious goings-on might be happening backstage. I doubt Egnatius would even remember my query, let alone think on it for the rest of the night.
I know what you’re thinking, dear reader. If Egnatius was such a fool, how’d he become proconsul? It will come as no surprise that, in ancient Rome, such appointments owed as much to social connections, bribes, and favors as they did to ability. At times, I think some of the more feebleminded politicians in your modern era would have been quite at home in mine.