At the end of the seemingly endless line of limp bodies, Sextus halted. With his good hand, he shaded his eyes against the brutal midsummer sun, gazing south toward the nearby Alban Hills. The via continued all the way to Capua, rarely veering to left or right. Even when hills, rivers, or cities stood in the proposed path, Rome’s engineers barreled straight through.
Ancient pine trees lining the highway stretched toward the few wispy clouds above him, as if trying to rise above the slaughter. In the distance, family vineyards and peaceful villages dotted the landscape. If he kept walking, maybe he could reach one and forget this nightmare had ever happened.
But he had responsibilities.
He clenched his fists and spun around to trudge back toward the city’s center, trying to shut out the detestable images, only to have them replaced with pictures even more gruesome.
A boy not old enough to shave trying to stop the guards from dragging his little sister away.
A mother desperately clinging to her newborn as one of Secundus’s avengers ripped him from her arms.
A toddler squirming so violently, the soldier trying to pin him to the wood gave up and unsheathed his dagger. Sextus tried to avert his eyes, but the horror compelled him to watch as the soldier nailed the lifeless body to the upright.
He was already dead, so what was the point?
To incite fear. Abject dread. To remind any who dared to go against the world dominating power that was Rome, that she would always win.
Back inside the walls, Sextus ensured his men had the desperate crowd firmly under control. Held back by Praetorians, both citizens and slaves lined the street leading from the Capena Arch to the city center; he avoided meeting their accusing eyes. His stomach roiled. His heart pounded. If he stayed inside the walls, maybe the angry cries from the crowd would drown out the shrieks from beyond them.
He’d seen more death than all the senators combined. So why was he the only one who seemed to be bothered by today’s slaughter? He’d served in the army since he was seventeen years old. More than forty years had passed since he’d first tasted combat. He’d been part of the deadliest battles, left entire villages bloody and burned, all in the name of the glory of Rome.
But no matter how hard he tried, today he found no glory in the death of innocents.
The sun sank low in the west, as if trying to escape from a day that had been long, gory, and gruesome. Perhaps some good food and his wife's beautiful smile would improve his mood, although until Sextus could rid himself of the scent of death and the sound of screams, he likely wouldn’t feel any better.
Near the top of Esquiline Hill, in one of the wealthiest sections of Rome, he opened his front door to the atrium and glanced around. He strode down the hall to the open-air peristyle at the other end of their domus. Empty. Where was Gaia? She'd been gone a lot lately and would only tell him she'd been visiting friends.
Their only son Afranius had been killed in Britannia the spring before last in the uprising by Boudicca, the warrior queen. The pain of that loss had almost destroyed their marriage. For over a year, other than to go to the baths, Gaia had rarely left their domus. She talked to no one but him. And of course, Tiberia, their only female house slave. Recently, however, things had been much improved. She almost seemed peaceful. If these "visits" of hers had made the difference, he should be happy about it.
Maybe her calm would rub off on him.
He stepped into their cubiculum off the atrium, where he unhooked the pin at his shoulder that held his crimson cloak in place and hung it neatly on its peg on the far wall. The leather cross-body strap that held his sword followed, along with the belt and its attached dagger sheath.
Maybe a bath would relax him. Sextus left their modest home and headed for the bathhouse reserved for the guards near the barracks. He was already sweating when he entered the large facility.
There was no admission fee here, but he paid a slave to watch his clothes. He allowed another to apply oil to his skin. It slid down his chest in rivulets, collecting into bigger blobs along the way. The room’s warm air made it easy for the attendant to scrape it off along with the sweat and dirt.
Once clean, he slipped into the large heated pool and sat on the stone bench that ran along the edge. The water came to his neck, and he allowed the heat and softly rippling water to wash away the stress.
But not the horror that refused to leave his mind.
He gave up trying to relax. After drying off and dressing, he stepped outside. He had taken only a few steps toward home when the prefect of the night watch blocked his path.
Tigellinus.
The man had made it clear he wanted to rise in the ranks of Rome’s protective services and would do anything to make it to the top. So far, he’d reached the level of prefect, but only of the vigiles, the universally hated night watchmen.
“I saw you on the via earlier today.” Tigellinus sneered.
“And?”
“Couldn’t handle Roman justice? Had to retreat within the walls?”
“It was not my job to oversee the executions.” Sextus stepped around the man.
Tigellinus fell into step beside him. “I understand. You needed to supervise your men.” He sneered.
“My men perform quite well without my direct supervision. That’s why they are Praetorians and not merely vigiles.” An unnecessary barb, even if true.
Tigellinus growled. “Your men are no better than any other soldiers.”
Sextus chuckled as he thought about the quadruple pay, the shorter length of service, the pristine weapons they bore, and the fact that every single Guard was a citizen from Italia, not merely freedmen like the vigiles. He couldn’t resist answering back, even though he knew it would only lead to more rancor. “If you truly believe that, you are more foolish than I thought.”
Linus raised his chin. “I still say you should have been visibly supporting the retribution.”
Sextus clenched his jaw. “My Guards were called out for riot control. That’s their job. We took care of the people, and the City Guards were handling the executions. You were unneeded to begin with, and I most certainly will not endure a reprimand from a lower officer.”
Linus glared, his face reddening. “I am the prefect of the vigiles. You are the prefect of the Praetorian Guard. I am not a lower officer.”
Sextus halted and stared down at the much shorter man. He leaned near, using every tactic he knew to control his anger. “And yet you report to the prefect of the City Cohorts, while I answer to Nero himself.” Sextus had had enough of this worm who had schemed and clawed his way to his position. “The only reason you have your position, Linus, is because the emperor shares your enjoyment of horses. Every man in Rome has seen you out at night with him, going to the houses of seduction, getting him drunk, and pouring lies into his ears.”
An evil smile slid across his face. “I am closer to Nero than you will ever be. You are losing influence to me daily, and I will soon have your job, your house, and your prestige.”
The modicum of relaxation he had gained in the bathhouse evaporated like steam. “Perhaps. But for now, I am your superior, and you will not address me in such a manner again.” Sextus turned and left the officer standing in the street.
Linus was probably right. He would be Praetorian Prefect sooner or later. His deceit and maneuverings would pay off, and Sextus would be dismissed. But until then, he would seek justice and not acclaim, live his life with integrity, and protect the city and the emperor with honor.
Though if Rome continued in the direction it had taken today, there may not be much left worth protecting.
Sextus had been in countless battles. He’d seen bodies in worse condition. Uglier deaths, even crucifixions. The images, the smells, the sounds—these were nothing he hadn’t experienced thousands of times over, but today’s spectacle would not leave him, and it made him sick to his stomach. Why must this one incident bother him so fiercely?
Maybe because it was four hun
dred “incidents.” Three hundred and ninety-nine innocent people slaughtered for the sins of one man.
His throat burned. He’d say it was a result of all the dust kicked up by the Urban Cohorts as they took their vengeance along the Appian Way, but it had been bothering him for a couple months now. His ears had begun to ache recently as well.
Back in his bedroom, he reached for an amphora of honeyed wine and filled a goblet. He’d been drinking too much of it lately, but the honey was one of the few things that soothed his throat. He’d lost weight from undereating, and if he wasn’t careful, he would lose strength as well. The drink felt cool and smooth on the irritated flesh as it slid toward his stomach.
After unlacing his boots, he perched on the side of his bed, and whistled for Fidus. He downed one more goblet before jamming the stopper into the neck of the pottery and setting the jug on the low table next to the bed.
His enormous Molossian hound bounded in from his spot in the atrium, sitting patiently before his master.
“Good dog.” Sextus scratched behind the dog’s ears. The faithful animal had to worry about pleasing only one person. No scheming, no lies, no theatrics.
If only Sextus’s life could be so simple.
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