Maximus disagreed with continual Roman expansion. Something inside him had snapped some time before, changing his perspective. The urban mob loved the parades and the booty that came in from the wars, but thinking Romans didn’t want more expansion, he reasoned. Now he saw only the insatiability of a handful of greedy senators who drove the war machine and subjected foreign cultures and people to the plunder, rule, and taxation of Rome. It was not the way he would have it. But there was no sharing his theories. As progressive as the ruling class of Rome perceived themselves to be, they had little tolerance for talk of peace and sharing resources instead of exploiting them.
The opinions Maximus had begun to formulate as a young boy made him euphoric at times. He could not come up with one negative aspect of his private philosophy. He believed that all mankind was genuinely good and, given the chance, would display that characteristic to strangers of other lands. Men went to war because of the greed of a few. He thought if you were the first to trust and the first to be generous, then like behavior would be afforded you. These were not thoughts worthy of an aspiring general. The culture of Rome demanded courage, vision, and belief in imposing its will, and it assured conformity by means of the sword.
Maximus and Androcles arrived at the steps to the Curia and began the ascent. The walk from the house of Gaius Valerius had been long enough for Maximus to subdue any thought he had of giving an honest report of his campaign. He was resigned to telling the senators what they wanted to hear: Rome had been victorious. Rome had solidified its hold on more territory and strengthened its stranglehold on its people and resources. He wouldn’t put it just that way, of course. He didn’t want to disappoint his father or let down his friend Androcles. He had to think of his men, who stood to gain a generous share of the booty for their efforts. He must leave the senators happy about their investment in the latest campaign, not puzzled and questioning. Maximus didn’t care what they thought of him, but he didn’t want to detract from the valiant efforts of his men. They had remained steadfast throughout the campaign despite a multitude of hardships. The weather had been constantly cold and wet. They ate mud with every meal, and cleanliness was a luxury. Fires for cooking were rare, food was scarce, and when they had it, too much of it was eaten raw. Battles were fierce encounters of mayhem. The enemy was neither disciplined nor organized, which removed any strategic advantage the legion might have had. There was rarely a frontal attack, and preparation was nearly impossible. It had been a spontaneous brawl for two years. The men remained dedicated and unified, and their grumbling was minimal. They followed their legate’s orders without question. That was the reason the campaign was successful despite the tenacious foe. His men deserved the best report and the highest praise and honor Rome could bestow. Maximus would hold his tongue and serve his men as they had served him. The time would come soon enough to voice his true opinion. He trusted in the wisdom and understanding of his father. They would have a more honest and intimate talk soon.
“Maximus, my son!” Quintus Fabius Maximus ran down the last few steps to greet his son. The embrace was genuine and emotional. The battle-hardened son, although grateful to be home and see his father, lacked full emotion. So much killing had darkened the tender side of his soul.
“Father, your arms reassure me that life is worth living. There were times I lost faith in this reunion.” Except for the graying of Quintus’s shorter hair, they were a mirror image: father and son, the elegant and handsome senator, the chiseled and tanned legate.
“Come. The senators of Rome await you.” Quintus motioned up the steps to the entrance of the Curia. Suddenly he turned. “Androcles, my son.” He embraced Androcles with equal emotion. “I am overwhelmed you both have returned victorious and healthy.” Quintus’s tears flowed freely.
Androcles was like a son to Quintus. Marauding Gauls had killed Androcles’s family years before. They had carried out a small suicide mission into the heartland of the empire, slaughtering every living thing in their path. His family and their farm had been purposely in the path of death. The leader of the Gauls had somehow discovered the trade of his father and wished to strike a blow to the military might of the empire by destroying its means to create superior weapons. The Gauls ruthlessly attacked the small homestead. The entire family was murdered and their bodies burned. The attack happened so fast that his brothers had had no time to defend their parents or themselves. They were hewn down mercilessly. Androcles was a young centurion then, away on his first campaign, when the massacre occurred.
That was the source of the unbridled fury with which Androcles fought. He carried his motivation around his neck in the form of a medallion his mother was wearing the day she died. It was the only possession from his family Androcles had. A few days after the Gauls’ attack, a neighboring farmer and his sons buried the charred remains of Androcles’s family in a mass grave. As they respectfully moved the disfigured corpses of Androcles’s father, mother, and three brothers to bury them, the farmer noticed something unusual on the blackened chest of one of the bodies. He removed it, spat on it, and rubbed it between his fingers with his tunic. It turned out to be a disfigured gold medallion. He kept it safe for more than a year.
Androcles, upon returning to Rome and learning the fate of his family, immediately acquired a horse and traveled north at full gallop to his home. There was nothing left. Every stone and timber had been reduced to black rubble. He visited the neighboring farm to gain news of the destruction that had befallen his family. It was then that the farmer returned the misshapen medallion. Androcles recognized it immediately as his mother’s. It was the last time he ever shed tears for the dead. From that day forward he wore the medallion on a leather cord around his neck. He clutched it in his fist before each battle, his gaze distant, cold, and fierce. Many good warriors fell by the sword animated by that deformed lump of metal. In the years that followed, Maximus became his brother, and Quintus his mentor and father.
“Come, you lions. The emperor awaits.” Quintus walked proudly between them, his hands on their shoulders.
The three men entered the chamber, and as if on signal, the low buzz of important men discussing critical issues was suddenly silenced. The sight of Quintus entering with the two soldiers froze them. A wall of white stood to cheer the returning warriors. Quintus stepped back and added his applause. Maximus and Androcles stood numbed and embarrassed. Even the emperor was standing in their honor. Androcles smiled from ear to ear. For the first time in many years, Maximus forced himself to hold back tears, tears not of gratitude and pride but of sadness, loss, and confusion.
The voice of a herald rang out above the applause: “Lucius Fabius Maximus, honored son of Rome and general of the legion!”
The cheers grew louder. “Lartius Androcles, primus pilus and deputy commander!”
The volume of cheering once again spiked, then slowly returned to silence as the emperor Tiberius approached the two men. They bowed and knelt.
“Arise, noble sons of Rome,” Tiberius said emphatically. “We are equals here.” He stretched out his arms with his palms upward, signaling the two men to stand tall and look into the eyes of their dignified admirers. Then in a very nonimperial way he embraced them both as brothers of privilege and honor, a gesture many in the Senate had never before witnessed. More applause, then the senators quieted and with a rustle of togas took their seats. The emperor turned and walked to his seat. Quintus led the two honored guests to a space opposite the emperor. They were directed to cushions on the first level of the rectangular chamber. Quintus went to his assigned seat, sat down, and waited with great anticipation for the report of his sons.
The herald announced, “Maximus, you have returned with news of the success and expansion of the empire. The senators of Rome await your report.” It was his cue to speak and then face the inquiries of this powerful group of men.
Maximus made his father proud. He praised the strength and endurance of his men. He endorsed the vision of the leaders of Rome.
His speech ended to a thunderous roar from the throng of senators. Quintus cheered and clapped loudly, beaming with pride at the speaking ability of his son. Maximus’s description of the battles was exciting. He had a way with words that would serve him well in the future. He gave direct answers to direct questions, and his report was without guile or self-serving pride. He selflessly gave credit to the obedience and duty of his men and the example of his worthy captains, deflecting all personal praise. His value as a general, leader, and citizen of Rome rose significantly. After his report, the senators held the legate in the highest esteem.
Androcles could hardly contain his excitement. This could translate into a large reward and maybe an assignment of his own as a legate. While the senators cheered, Androcles stood and embraced his friend. They stood side by side, accepting the accolades of the Senate. The emperor remained seated but looked upon them with favor and pride. Two slaves came forward to place the traditional laurel wreaths on their heads; they bowed graciously to receive the honor. Then the two soldiers were escorted from the chamber into an anteroom to await Quintus.
Androcles slapped his friend on the back. “You gave us favor with the gods. You were masterful, my brother,” he beamed at Maximus.
“It would be more important to have found favor with the senators, my friend. They are the ones who make the decisions that affect us.”
“Yes, but the gods influence the thinking of the leaders,” Androcles countered. “The gods can invoke the feeling of generosity upon the senators and influence our entitlement.”
“But the senators approve the allotment and regulate the disbursement. I would still lean toward pleasing them,” Maximus responded sarcastically as he ate grapes from the wooden bowl on the table at the center of the room.
“You did well, my brother, but your true thoughts border on treason. You must keep them to yourself,” Androcles cautioned his friend quietly. He and Maximus had spent many nights during the last campaign discussing the gods. Androcles was aware of his friend’s internal struggle. He didn’t come right out and say he didn’t believe in the gods, but his guarded words betrayed his heart. Maximus thought man had control of his destiny and that the gods were bystanders. Androcles couldn’t grasp Maximus’s thinking: “It places too much power with men. Man cannot use such power well; only the gods can manage universal power.”
They had debated late many nights, never coming to agreement. Androcles didn’t mind his friend’s unconventional thinking—in fact, Roman culture encouraged it—but Androcles understood things on a simpler level. He believed in the power of the gods and had no wish to offend them with his own inventions and explanations. Maximus did not advocate a new ideology; he just didn’t agree with the Roman ideological and political machine. That was good as long as Maximus shared his thinking only with Androcles. The danger lay in his sharing his thoughts with someone less trustworthy. Betrayal of confidence had played a large part in the progression of many men who had sought the power, wealth, and comfort of the title of senator.
Maximus had been born into the bloodline of senators, but he no longer wished to find advancement in the Senate. The success of the recent campaign had led him to believe that his next assignment would be another campaign, possibly in the east. Though the plebs had no appetite for the spices and foods and fabrics of the eastern lands, the nobles did, and the Senate’s order would be to conquer the will and might of another culture. The objective would ostensibly be metal ore and precious wood and the taxes that could be collected. But the real mission would be for spices and fabrics. Rome had no need for spices other than to satisfy the peculiar tastes of the wealthy. Expending the lives of Roman citizens and killing men in a far-off country to possess luxuries was immoral. What self-serving god would inspire such a campaign? These were thoughts Maximus dared not share even with Androcles.
Maximus and Androcles grew impatient at sitting quietly in the anteroom. Androcles sipped the wine that had been provided. Maximus sat on a bench, his back against the cool stone wall, and closed his eyes. He longed to be away from this formality. The accolades did not assuage his restlessness to distance himself from the heart of the Roman empire. There was still much to do this day. There would be individual inquiries to learn the specifics of the campaign. Military strategists in the senate would want to know what Maximus had learned about the enemy and if they had experimented with any new stratagem that had proved worthy of teaching to other legions. The war machine that drove the Roman empire fed on dealing death.
Quintus finally entered the room. “My sons,” he exclaimed. Holding out his arms, he embraced first Maximus and then Androcles. He slapped each on the back heartily. “You make an old father proud. Sit and let us talk for a moment.” He motioned toward the stone benches. “We’re finished.” He smiled at them both. “No more inquiries today. Your report was without reproach. The senator Gaius Valerius would like to talk with you sometime soon but not today. You’re free to go.”
The words free to go held a different meaning for Maximus. He was glad there would be no more reports today. He was tired, but he would have preferred to answer all the inquiries at once and have it over with. Maybe there wouldn’t be another day? He could only hope. “So we can just leave? Go home?” Maximus asked his father.
“Perhaps tomorrow.” Quintus answered cautiously. “I will ask Gaius Valerius to speak with you first thing in the morning. Now go, both of you.” He glanced at Androcles, who was grinning from ear to ear. “Enjoy your night in Rome.” He handed each of them a small purse full of coins. “This should carry you through for the time being.”
Androcles was bold enough to open the purse. In it he saw a generous number of gold coins, sufficient aurei to fulfill any desire he might have for many nights. Maximus embraced his father. He had no intention of spending the coins.
“Now off with you two. Leave before a further demand on your time is required.” Quintus escorted his sons to the steps outside the Curia and held up his right hand in salute as they walked down into the Forum. He sensed he had a difficult talk forthcoming with his son and was certain he knew the subject of that discussion. He turned, dismissing such difficult thoughts, and began pondering the business of Rome once again.
Androcles was like a child, giddily clutching the bag of coins as if it held the keys to the empire. “There’s nothing we can’t do tonight with this. There must be fifty coins in here.” He shook the bag and slapped his good friend on the shoulder. Maximus winced as the friendly blow hit the bone in his shoulder injured by the blunt end of a stone battle-axe.
“Androcles, my friend,” Maximus smiled at his loyal companion, “I’d prefer to go home and rest. I feel I could sleep another two days.”
“You have been swinging swords with your men for months now,” Androcles reasoned with Maximus. “Come swing a cup with them. They will love you all the more.”
“Androcles, you are surely the firstborn son of Bacchus, the great god of celebration. Tell the men how proud I am of them.” He took five gold aurei from his purse. “Use this to provide food and drink and whatever pleasure it will buy sufficient to dull the senses and help them celebrate the good battles they waged. Repeat my report about them to the Senate—I meant every word. Make my apologies for not being with them. I am sorely tired, my friend, and have a lot on my mind.”
Androcles looked at him inquisitively but did not question his decision. “I will do what you ask, my brother. You are most generous. The gods be with you and give you strength.” Androcles once again pounded his heavy hand on the tender shoulder of his friend. Maximus was anxious to part himself from the giant warrior and enjoy a quieter evening alone.
When Androcles finally found his men, perhaps a hundred had gathered. Some legionaries were off into the countryside, reuniting with families and neglected farms. Many had gone directly to infirmaries with mortal wounds, grasping onto a few more days of life. Some had died since arriving. Some were simply unable to fight any longer, victims o
f heinous wounds, blindness, loss of limbs, and other incapacitating afflictions. They had retired to whatever home they had left or whatever family they could muster to care for them. These were the effects of battle that loyal citizens of Rome did not discuss, senators denied, and Maximus had poured out to Androcles under the moons of many nights in the hills of Gaul.
4
As Maximus walked toward the house of Gaius Valerius, he visited once again the ghosts of his thoughts, the ones that had haunted him and he had ignored for far too long. He revisited the visual horrors of battle, the worthy lives lost on both sides, the causes for which they fought, and the vain effort to exert control over another people. There were other points he had unsuccessfully argued with himself. Killing and conquest would ultimately not serve the best interests of the empire; sane gods certainly couldn’t support that kind of behavior. It went against everything he felt to be true about human nature. As a young student he had pondered and studied Aristotle’s writings—how men should best live and the virtues of character, magnanimity, courage, gentleness, and self-mastery. Maximus absorbed Aristotle’s writings and philosophy like a sponge; they had become part of him and his character.
He remembered a conversation he’d had with his teacher on the subject of moral virtue: How could a warrior display moral virtue and still do the treacherous bidding of the empire? How could a community of people, or on a greater scale, two countries, work together for mutual happiness and goodness? Where did the goodness inherent in man originate?
He recalled his teacher’s failure to answer his heartfelt questions: “Why do I feel good when I do something good for my mother? Why do I feel bad when I disobey the wishes of my father? Why do I feel protective toward my sisters? Why do I feel hollow and cold when I fight with other boys, even if I win?”
Maximus Page 2