by T. A. Uner
Part I: The Praetorian Guard
{January to May, 37 AD}
“Quos amor verus tenuit, tenebit.”
“Those whom true love has held, it will go on holding.” -Seneca
Two/Duo
Tullus awoke from his sleep but didn’t feel rested.
The morning sunlight peeked through the window shutter, casting a faint glow across the rug on the stone floor of his room. His head hurt from drink, and his body felt as if it had fought upon the gladiatorial sands of the Forum. He stood up from his soft bed and sighed. Norbanus had issued him private quarters inside the palace instead of having to live in the Praetorian barracks outside the city, Tullus didn’t see this as a benefit; after serving twenty years in the Legions he was used to hard living.
Tullus dressed in his Praetorian tunic and sandals and slid Cutter into its scabbard. Today he had leave and wanted to watch the fights at the Forum. After splashing water on his face from the wash basin he shaved and exited his room. Two Praetorian Guards standing watch at the palace gate saluted him as he passed through.
Before heading to the Forum Tullus decided to visit the Paladus–or what remained of it. He followed the ancient Paladin milestones, eventually locating Talon Trail which directed him toward the cracked steps of Paladin Hill. After ascending the steps his eyes were greeted by a site that could inspire bravery in any man.
The Paladus.
Even in its ruined state, the Paladus filled Tullus with a sense of awe. Its colonnaded
white marble façade shone brightly under the sunlight despite its pockmarked surface, inflicted by the Roman siege engines during the Last Stand: the infamous final battle of attrition where Augustus’ legions had wiped out the Air Paladins. After the battle, Augustus had ordered the ruins of the Paladus to remain–a warning to anyone who dare practice magic in the Empire. Limestone spires of the Paladus resembling Combat Griffins, rose toward the sky with their mighty beaks open as if screeching in pain; while the ramparts were lined with gaping, and jagged cracks where the rooks once stood watch. Ruined granite statues of great Air Paladins from the past flanked the walkway to the drawbridge which led to the shattered remains of Griffin Gate: the fabled entrance granting access to the Paladus’ inner sanctum. Behind the Paladus stood the remains of the Apex: the ancient tower built by the first Romans kings. It once housed the Great Elders; the ruling council which once governed the Air Paladins. The upper half of the Apex had split from its base and its rubble littered the square surrounding its foundation.
Tullus walked amongst the rubble before he felt someone tugging at his sleeve. When he turned around there stood an old man with long ruffled white hair, wrinkled face, and sad rheumy eyes. He stood dressed in a threadbare tunic with the faded image of a Combat Griffin sewn upon his chest.
“We don’t get too many visitors, here.”
“Who are you?”
“Only a relic from the past.”
“It’s a shame there are no Air Paladins left.”
The old man’s eyes welled up and he wiped the tears away. “Yes, but it’s good to see someone from the new generation come to pay homage to their memory. But do not fret my friend, before the Air Paladins disappeared, the last Ruling Elder, an omnipotent man named Jobius Truthfellow, spoke of The Presage.”
“Presage?” Tullus asked as the old man smiled. “Yes,” he said excitedly, “the return of the Paladins. It is said a Reputer would resurrect the Paladins, and restore light to our darkened world.”
“Well, I must be leaving,” Tullus said, but his heart wanted him to stay. A light, cool breeze descended upon the spot where both men stood. Tullus reached into his leather belt pouch and pressed seven silver denarii coins into the old man’s hands.
The old man stared at the coins in wonder and shook his head. “I cannot accept this gift, my friend…it is too generous.”
“Consider it homage from an admirer of the past,” Tullus said.
“I have a feeling I’ll be seeing you again someday my young friend.”
Tullus smiled before turning to leave. After walking a few paces a warm feeling came over him and he turned around. The old man still stood rooted to the spot where Tullus had left him, watching him intently.
Tullus left the ruins and headed toward one of Rome’s main thoroughfares. The streets were packed with street vendors setting up their stalls, eager to display their precious wares. The smell of freshly butchered meat drifted across Tullus’ nostrils and his stomach growled as he passed by an oven where fresh bread was baked. He purchased a loaf and chewed on it with relish as he navigated past throngs of people while continuing on toward the Forum.
The Forum wasn’t packed, as it was still morning, but a healthy-sized crowd had turned up for one of the early fights while latecomers scurried around like mice looking for available seats. A vendor made his way by the benches selling globuli, while Tullus took a seat on one of the benches and continued chewing on his bread.
The first battle scheduled was between a muscular Dacian, a fan favorite named Cotiso, and a sinewy-looking Gaul who called himself “Dead Man.” Both combatants emerged from the dark entranceway as the crowd chanted the Dacian’s name.
“Magnificent, aren’t they?” Tullus turned to inspect the voice’s owner: bushy eyebrows and curly black hair crept out from under a black skullcap while a shaggy black beard peppered with grey specks covered his cheeks. A warm smile revealed a straight set of ivory teeth.
“Indeed they are,” Tullus said. The gladiators made their way onto the sand-covered arena. Both were helmed and bare-chested, revealing glistening muscles under the morning sun. The pale-skinned Dacian carried a trident and net while the bronze-tanned Gaul was armed with a sword and round shield. Both gladiators wore scaled metal armguards and greaves. They bowed to the audience before assuming their fighting positions.
“Do you come to the fights often?” the man asked Tullus. The crowd resumed chanting the Dacian’s name, while Tullus offered the man a thick piece of his bread.
“Not often,” Tullus said between bites of his breakfast, “but I have watched men die.”
“I see.” The man swallowed his last morsel of bread. He removed his skullcap before making a conciliatory head bow to Tullus. “My name is Yeshiva; I am a merchant.”
“My name is Tullus,” he said as he extended his hand to Yeshiva. “I take it you are a soldier?”
“Yes, but how did you guess that?”
“Your grip is quite powerful; not the hand of a common man. Besides, in my occupation I owe my business cunning to my Jewish blood–at least that’s what my Roman competitors tell me,” Yeshiva said jokingly.
Tullus grinned. “I figured something was different about you.”
The gladiators commenced their duel while the noise from the Forum’s crowd increased. Cotiso stirred to attack and jabbed his trident at the Gaul. The Gaul parried his attack by deflecting the trident’s prongs that bore into his shield like talons.
“The Gaul is favored to win this battle,” Yeshiva said.
“Having watched countless fights in my lifetime I can tell you not every victory is won by the favorite.”
The pace of the battle picked up. The Gaul switched to offensive and Cotiso took defensive measures to avoid his opponent’s sword cuts. After much feigning and posturing the battle appeared headed for stalemate as Cotiso tried desperately to wait out the fervent cuts the Gaul peppered him with. This turn of events wore down the crowd’s patience. Spectators cursed and threw stones, rotten fruit and vegetables into the arena. Finally the Gaul was able to move in close enough to score a direct hit, and a nasty cut appeared on the Cotiso’s arm. Thick crimson blood spurted from the wound before he dropped the trident and crumbled to his knees. The Gaul, sensing victory, moved in for the kill.
“The fight appears over,” Yeshiva said.
Tullus smiled and raised his palm. “Wait.”
Cotiso crawled around the arena like a crab–the net still
firmly gripped within his massive hand. When the Gaul raised his sword the crowd hissed its displeasure. Disregarding the crowd’s ignoble behavior, he removed his opponent’s helm and grasped Cotiso’s hair. Tullus’ ears were greeted with more deafening catcalls from spectators. The Gaul looked up at the crowd and spat on the sands.
“Cotiso…Cotiso…Cotiso!” the spectators chanted.
The Gaul turned his attention to Cotiso, and was about to drive his sword into his opponent’s neck when the Dacian came alive, thrusting his wounded arm up around the Gaul’s neck and grasping it with determined fingers. Blood dripped down Cotiso’s arm as he flexed his veined muscles. Yeshiva’s eyes widened at the sudden turn of events. Tullus smiled. “The unexpected victory is always the sweetest.”
Cotiso, with surprising agility, pulled the Gaul down to the sand before wrapping his other arm around his opponent’s neck as blood continued running down his arm. The Forum spectators watched in awe as Cotiso’s stalwart grip caused the Gaul to flail around helplessly like an insect caught in a spider’s web.
But Cotiso’s grip held and the Gaul released his sword. He twisted his body around like a wrestler, and soon was straddling the motionless Gaul: who lay helpless, face-down in the sand like an oversized ostrich. Cotiso grabbed the sword with one hand and removed the Gaul’s helm with the other before tossing it away. The crowd came alive again as Cotiso gripped the Gaul’s hair and lowered the sword over his beaten opponent’s throat. Looking up at the fervent spectators Cotiso waited for their decision…
Would the Gaul live? Or die?
A vast majority of the crowd stood from their seats and raised their arms in the air, before giving the thumbs-down gesture.
Cotiso nodded.
Plunging the sword into the Gaul’s gullet, blood spewed from the fresh wound and dripped down into the sand–creating a thick stain of black blood upon the Forum sands. The crowd cheered as Cotiso hacked at the neck of the defeated Gaul before raising the decapitated head in victory, and, strutted around the arena like a peacock. The crowd chanted ‘Cotiso,’ while the Gaul’s bloody head glistened under the morning sun’s rays.
“Be glad I didn’t bet you a day’s pay on this match,” Tullus said.
“You should gamble on these fights, Tullus. I’m sure you would win a fortune,” Yeshiva said. Soon he and Tullus filed out of the Forum.
“I’m not much of a betting man–only a Praetorian Guardsman serving the Emperor.”
Tullus and Yeshiva left the Forum and wandered along a crowed street filled with departing spectators. An unwashed street merchant whose breath smelled like rotten fish approached them and began hustling his trinkets on them. Tullus waved the merchant away in disgust and sighed.
“You seem bored: Or am I overtly curious?”
“You are an astute man Yeshiva. Yes, I guess you could say that. Life was more exciting in Syria when I served in the 3rd Legion. But don’t tell that to my commander or I’ll cut your tongue out,” Tullus said jokingly.
“Your secret is safe with me,” Yeshiva said. They stopped at an intersection. “This is where I take my leave, Tullus.”
The merchant extended his hand which Tullus shook. “I enjoyed our conversation, Yeshiva, perhaps we shall meet again.”
Yeshiva nodded. “I can always be found inspecting my goods in my warehouse: it is located near the docks. Ask for Yeshiva’s Place, everyone knows where it is.”
Tullus indicated that he would and said his farewells to Yeshiva. Not able to think of anything else to do, Tullus headed back to the palace. As he walked the streets he was grateful to have met Yeshiva. The merchant seemed like a kind-hearted, knowledgeable fellow and such men were useful friends.
Tullus arrived at the palace where the same two Guardsmen saluted him again at the entranceway. He returned the salute and walked along the path that led to his quarters. The sun hung lazily in the sky like an orange but did little to calm the chill of the January afternoon. Tullus found his quarters, took off his scabbard and placed it on his desk. Removing his sandals Tullus stretched out on his pallet and stared at the grey walls of his room. As he relaxed he pondered a life without military service. He had been tied to the Legions since he was fifteen, and wanted to be free of duty. But he would miss Decimus, who was like an older brother to him, and the only real family member he had. But Tullus wanted more; he wanted a wife to share his life with, to love him and bear strong children. Of course family life would mean no more gambling or watching fights, but that was a noble sacrifice. Tullus wondered if other soldiers felt like him. He found himself slowly drifting off to sleep before a loud knock at the door awakened him. “Orcus in hell,” he said, shaking his head ruefully. “Come in.”
An adolescent-faced guardsman with blonde, wavy hair entered his room, looking slightly abashed.
“Yes? What is it?”
“Apologies for disturbing you, Centurion. The Tribune has requested your attendance at a banquet.”
Tullus was caught off guard by the message. Tribune Norbanus had not mentioned any banquet when last they spoke.
“So he has,” Tullus said. “Whose banquet is this and where will it be held?”
The young man bristled under the forceful words spoken by his superior. They sure recruit these Guardsmen young. No doubt this fledgling was the son of an influential politician who had secured the post for him. Tullus couldn’t imagine commanding such a delicate creature in the 3rd Legion.
“The banquet is hosted by the honorable Senator Remus Clodius who is an acquaintance of the Tribune,” the young guardsman said. “The banquet will be held in the Senator’s villa.”
“Very well,” Tullus said. “You can tell the Tribune that I would be honored to attend the Senator’s banquet and please be sure to thank Tribune Norbanus for his gracious invitation. You are dismissed.”
The young man saluted Tullus before closing the door behind him. Tullus returned to the comfort of his pallet, wondering why the Gods had forced this banquet upon him.
{II}
“I simply have nothing to wear to the banquet,” Eliana said while her slaves gently washed her nude body. The warm water soothed her milky soft skin as her slaves poured water over her long chestnut hair.
“Nonsense. You have a closet full of nothing-to-wear,” Sylvia said, “I think you have more clothes than I do.”
Eliana laughed. “Well is that my fault? Perhaps you should ask your husband to buy you more,” she said. Eliana stepped out of her bath while her older sister Sylvia averted her gaze to give Eliana privacy. Eliana stared at her naked body in the mirror while her slaves dried her body with silk towels which felt like silken fingertips caressing her bare skin. “I feel as if my breasts are too small dear sister,” Eliana said. The slaves dried the stray drops of warm water that trickled down her slender thighs.
“Nonsense! They look fine. I’m sure that you will look beautiful tomorrow night. Perhaps you may even find yourself a husband, dear sister.”
Eliana scowled at Sylvia. “Not this argument again; I am still only eighteen years old,” she said as her slaves wrapped a towel around her body.
“And more than old enough for marriage,” Sylvia retorted. “It’s not for any lack of suitors–both mother and father have impressed upon you the need for a husband.”
“I want to marry someone I fall in love with,” Eliana said, “then it will mean something.” She and Sylvia left the bath, escorted by the slaves and strolled down a corridor before entering Eliana’s bedroom.
“Silly child, love is a bit overrated,” Sylvia quipped. “Besides, once we find you a fine suitor to marry you will come to love him. Look at me, when I was betrothed to my Pontius I knew so little about him; and now, I absolutely adore him.”
Eliana balked at her sister’s feigned enthusiasm. “More like you enjoy the prestigious social galas you attend as the wife of one of Rome’s wealthiest traders. And how old is Pontius anyhow? Fifty?” Eliana asked as her slave dressed her in a muslin t
unic. The slaves attached her armlet and sprinkled perfume on her neck and wrists.
“He’s only forty-nine. But he doesn’t look a day over forty.” Both women looked at one another sheepishly and giggled like small girls.
After Eliana was dressed she and Sylvia moved toward the atrium where their breakfast was waiting for them. In the garden, their mother, Adolpha, was trimming the leaves of one of her prized crocuses, its violet petals revealing an orange three-branch stigma which delighted Eliana.
“Good morning mother,” Eliana said. She kissed Adolpha on the cheek. Sylvia followed suit before both sisters sat down and nibbled on their breakfast. Extravagant plates of fish and fresh fruit greeted them. Freshly baked bread was brought to the table by attentive slaves; Eliana slowly tore off a piece of bread and dipped it in her wine goblet before savoring it.
A few moments later their father entered the room. Senator Remus was a tall man with a balding pate dressed in the white toga of a politician–the broad garnet stripes on his toga indicating his Senatorial rank. He kissed his wife and two daughters before tucking into his breakfast with fervor, while one of his slaves brought him a water flagon. As Eliana watched her father eat his breakfast, the Senator waved the doting slaves away.
“How is life in the senate treating you these days, Father?” Senator Remus paused and looked up at Eliana from his breakfast.
“Forgive my ill manners, my dear,” he said. “I hadn’t realized how hungry I was this morning. Things have been predictable. Nothing can be agreed upon and our Emperor, Tiberius, still insists on residing far away in Misenum.” The Senator stuffed a piece of buttered bread into his mouth. He took another piece of bread and dipped it into olive oil. After noticing the oils dripping down his chin, Senator Remus wiped his mouth with a napkin.
One of the slaves approached the Senator. “Pardon my interruption Senator but you have a visitor.”
Senator Remus reluctantly raised his head from his breakfast while Eliana was still chatting with Sylvia. In the background their mother was still tending to her arboretum while two slaves now assisted her. “Tell our guest that I am still eating and he can wait in the entrance hall,” Remus said.