Sons of Rome

by Karrie Roman

  “He struggles with all he saw and endured. I do not know what to do for him.”

  “It is…it is hard. We all listened to the stories from other soldiers before we left Vetera, and then when we got out there it was just as they said. We had those few skirmishes, threw our javelins, and it was over. But what happened in the forest…nothing could have prepared us for that. Even the few stories from the Pannonian war paled in comparison to what Arminius did to us. All those thousands of men, cut to pieces, gone from this world. It is no easy thing to forget, Drusus.”

  “I know. I cannot stop thinking of it myself.” Drusus had yet to fully accept what had happened. At times, he still thought he might awake at any moment to find it had all been a nightmare. He had seen the ruined bodies, heard the harrowing screams, felt the blood of friend and foe mingle together on his flesh, but the disaster still seemed impossible.

  “Cal will be all right…in the end. Time will help him. I do not know if we can do anything more than stand beside him.”

  Drusus was a man of action through necessity if not nature, and the idea of standing around doing nothing while his brother suffered did not sit well on his shoulders, but what else could he do?

  That night, Calpurnius woke screaming. Drusus had heard it building—starting as small whimpers and groans—and was already at his brother’s side when a scream tore from his throat. Calpurnius shook harder than Drusus thought a body could endure while he lay in Drusus’s arms. He shushed and soothed his brother, talking nonsense about anything to draw his mind away from whatever images haunted him. In the end, it was talk of their mother and their home that finally quieted Calpurnius.

  The rest of the men lay quietly throughout. They had all endured what Cal had and saw no reason to mock him; his was a heavy weight to carry around. Eventually, Caius came to lie on the other side of Cal. They kept him between them during the night, and he finally slept peacefully.

  THE NEXT FEW nights were much of the same until, by unspoken word, two of the group cocooned Cal between them each night. The proximity gave him comfort and allowed them all to sleep unmolested by his nightmares.

  After eleven more days, the group of riders caught their first glimpse of Roma. Flags and banners fluttered along the city wall in the brisk wind that had blown up during the day. Far off toward the horizon they could make out the very tip of the imperial buildings and temples that made up the Capitoline and Palatine hills.

  Drusus hadn’t seen Roma since his training days, but he recalled the sense of awe that had struck him as a young man of just twenty summers marching into the city at the centre of the world. The same wonderment struck him again now. The city was even grander, gleaming white marble replacing brick as Augustus’s building efforts continued.

  As they rode closer to the gates, Drusus found it easy to understand how Roma had conquered the world. The eternal city was a shining jewel that vastly overshadowed the muck and coarseness of barbarian villages. Drusus had seen nothing comparable.

  “What kind of greeting do you think we will receive?” Priscus asked.

  He rode beside Drusus, Thumelicus between his thighs as he had been for the entire journey. Drusus thought they could have trusted Thumelicus to ride alone the last few days now they were so far from Germania. They were too close to Roma for him to attempt an escape or do them harm, but Priscus had baulked at the idea. So, he had agreed to have Thumelicus ride with him each day.

  “Caesar knows already of Varus’s defeat, so I pray the gods he has vented his anger by now,” Drusus murmured thoughtfully. In truth, he had no idea how Augustus would react to them. The man had steadied Roma after the chaos of the civil wars, but he had done so by having the viciousness necessary to take power for himself. Did he believe himself the god he wanted his people to think him? If anything, Caesar Augustus was unpredictable. He would either see them as heroes for surviving or cowards for that same deed. Death on the battlefield was considered a noble one. Surviving a battle where few others had was not so easy to judge.

  “We should be given a fucking triumph for surviving that nightmare. Had Varus lived, he’d probably be given one even though it was his fault,” Brutus shouted from a few horses over.

  Drusus had grown accustomed to this band of men over the last two weeks. He imagined they’d scatter to the winds once they reached Roma and gave their report to Augustus. He was surprised to realise he’d miss them.

  As they approached the gate, a legionary called down to them from the tower. “Name and business?”

  “Nero Drusus Tuscus, Centurion of the Eighteenth Legion, Cohort Two, Century Three. We bring news of Publius Quinctilius Varus and his defeat in Germania.”

  The legionary’s face told Drusus all he needed to know. Word had spread of the disaster. “Is that one of the barbarian mongrels?” the man asked, pointing at Thumelicus. “Did you bring him as a sacrifice for Caesar?”

  “No,” Priscus quickly replied. “He fought with us to defeat the bastards.”

  The legionary looked displeased but not enough that he would pick an argument with the seven of them. Instead, he opened the gate, pointed in the general direction of the Palatine, and mumbled something that sounded like “You are awaited at the Domus Augusti.”

  Augustus waited for them at his home. Drusus had never seen it, but knew it stood on the Palatine Hill. He gently prodded his horse to move on and led the way through the gate. They were all in desperate need of a bath and a decent meal, but that could all wait. Augustus expected them, and Drusus would not keep him.

  He did not know the streets of Roma well, but he knew the direction of the Palatine Hill. He would avoid the forum if possible. He did not relish being in a crowd, especially not with a Germanic tribesman in tow. With word out about the legions, any from the Germanic lands might be in danger of retaliation if caught on the streets.

  The city was as vast and overcrowded as he remembered. Brick buildings with three or more levels housed masses of people—so many the walls could not even contain them. Urchins hung out the tiny windows, if there were any, or lounged about in doorways. Drusus ducked what was thankfully only foul water as it was tossed from one of the upper floors. The smell created by so many crammed into such a small space was putrid.

  Man and beast living practically on top of each other horrified Drusus. Granted, there wasn’t much room in the legions, but Roma was a different kind of crowding altogether.

  As much as possible, Drusus kept them close to the Tiber, where there was at least some free space around them, though they still had to jostle through crowds of men busily loading cargo of all kinds aboard ships. He heard Priscus and Thumelicus chattering away—mostly Thumelicus’s gasps as they passed yet another temple or vast building. Quintus kept his own counsel as usual, and Brutus’s only contribution to the conversation was to point out the various brothels he’d visited. Calpurnius and Caius were talking softly together; mostly, he thought, he heard Caius reminding Cal of good times they’d shared when they’d been in Roma for training not even a year ago.

  Cal’s nightmares persisted, yet they’d eased, and he put on a brave face each day. He was jumpy, flinching at the softest noise and reaching for his gladius at the slightest provocation. Three nights ago, he’d almost taken Brutus’s head from his shoulders when he’d tried to wake Cal for his watch. Had it been someone with slower reflexes it would have been a disaster. Drusus made sure Calpurnius’s watch was the first from that night on.

  Once they were within sight of the Circus Maximus, they made their way up the hill toward the palace. It was a grand building but not as imposing as Drusus had expected. He’d heard of Augustus’s opulence, but it seemed he was more interested in building luxurious temples and public buildings rather than his own palace. A political move to win over the populace perhaps.

  Slaves took their horses and a couple of Praetorian guards escorted them up the stairs to the vast door decorated with an oak ring. From there, they were taken into the care of a
servant, who Drusus recognised as a freed slave, and only recently so, from the collar mark that still remained around his neck.

  After discovering who they were, the servant led them through an enormous atrium. It was richly decorated with frescos in the usual reds and yellows. There were images of buildings and people, animals of various types and scenery. There were also paintings in rich blues and a colour Drusus had no name for. It was like blue but more. The colour was not unlike the purple borders of a senator’s or young boy’s robes but lighter and brighter. There was no mistaking the wealth it took to decorate in such a fashion.

  They entered the tablinum—an enormous room with walls painted in a similar fashion to the atrium, and an intricate mosaic of exotic animals covering the entire floor. The curtains at the other end of the room were open, so Drusus caught a glimpse of the peristylium. The garden the perisytlium surrounded was so lush and beautiful Drusus found it hard to believe they stood in the middle of such a dense city. The freedman closed the curtain to the atrium and asked them to wait. He left through the peristylium, leaving them alone in a building unlike Drusus—likely all of them—had ever been in before.

  “An entire century could live comfortably in this room alone,” Caius whispered. Even so, his voice echoed in the vast chamber.

  “Must be nice to be emperor,” Brutus mumbled in reply. From what he’d told Drusus, he’d grown up poor, so seeing a place like this must vex.

  “I have never seen such a thing,” Thumelicus added, the awe in his voice easy to hear. “Roma is… I do not know how to describe it.”

  “We do not all live like this,” Brutus said, his face twisted in bitterness.

  “We are not all the great Caesar,” Drusus added. Brutus would need to hold his tongue or risk being overheard by Augustus’s men, or Augustus himself. Surely, Brutus would know that would be a fatal disaster.

  They turned to the peristylium as a group when they heard a ruckus. Praetorian guards marched toward them in a group of four. In the centre of them walked two men. One the freed slave who’d shown them in, and the other was a man Drusus would describe as insignificant in appearance, but who had to be Augustus. He was short, much shorter than Drusus, even with the thick soles on his shoes. His frame was slight, no bulging muscles to signify a life of physical toil or combat. As he got closer, Drusus appraised his emperor; his skin was neither fair nor dark, his hair an unremarkable brown. His features were elegant but not breathtaking. All in all, Caesar Augustus was not a man of any great beauty or significance. Until one met his eyes.

  Once Augustus entered the tablinum, Drusus could see his eyes more plainly. They were a clear and bright brown, warm with fierce intelligence. Drusus imagined Augustus was taking him apart with those eyes as he returned his stare. Every weakness would be discovered and mercilessly used by Augustus for whatever gain he warranted.

  “Caesar, this is Drusus Tuscus, Centurion of the Eighteenth Legion, Cohort Two, Century Three. He and his men are the survivors from the forests of Germania.” The servant spoke clearly and loudly, as if announcing him to a room full of senators—perhaps that was his usual function.

  “Centurion, it is good to see you alive. So few of you…” Augustus’s words trailed off and a look passed over his features as though his thoughts were far away. Dark smudges stood out starkly beneath his eyes to signify the emperor had not slept well of late.

  “Julius”—Augustus spoke to his servant—“see to a meal for these men.” Julius scurried away at his master’s words. Freed he may be, but Julius still had a master.

  The praetorian guards had filtered out, one in each corner of the room. Drusus could easily kill the emperor before they got to him, but there would be no escape afterwards.

  “Sit, all of you.” Augustus gestured to a set of finely carved wooden stools, and Drusus and his men sat. They would jump on the spot if that was what their Emperor asked. He may not be a large, imposing man, but there was no question of Augustus’s authority.

  Augustus remained standing as he addressed them. “Tell me all, Centurion. Tell me how this disaster occurred.”

  Drusus told him everything. From Segestes’s first warning right up to the moment the seven of them had managed to ride back through the gates of Vetera, exhausted, filthy, and heartsore. He told him of Varus’s foolishness and Marcus’s courage. Augustus paced as he listened, letting out an occasional gasp during various parts of the telling. Drusus was careful in his wording—he did not want to lose his head because Varus had not kept his.

  “You saw Varus yourself?” Augustus questioned at the end, a hint of mourning in his tone. Drusus knew the emperor had counted Varus as friend.

  “I did. He fell on his sword, his officers following soon after.”

  “Segestes of the Cherusci tried to warn him?”

  “Several times, Caesar. Varus would not listen.”

  “Were men taken prisoner?”

  “Yes.” And there it was. Any captured Roman would bear Varus’s shame. Varus was gone, Augustus needed someone alive to wear his shame. It could not be survivors who had escaped, the public would not approve. So, any prisoners would be made an example of. No money would be offered for their release, no terms reached for their rescue after the dishonour of being captured in the first place.

  Augustus paced in silence for a while; Drusus could almost hear him thinking. The emperor suddenly pounded his fist on a table and let out a roar. It was quickly followed by the great Caesar Augustus shouting, “Quinctilius Varus, give me back my legions!”

  Drusus cast a wary gaze at his men. They were all watching Augustus, varying looks of concern on their faces. Was the emperor filled with anger or grief or both? Would they still be made to suffer for Varus’s failure?

  “The legion numbers Seventeen, Eighteen, and Nineteen will never be used again,” Augustus continued, calmer now and looking to Julius who had re-entered the room while Drusus had been sharing his tale and was now scribbling as Augustus spoke. “The Numerus Batavorum will be disbanded immediately. Cast them out of Roma. I do not think we can feel safe with them about.” Drusus knew there was a select group of Germanic men chosen as personal bodyguards for the imperial family. They were selected from Germania, mostly from the Batavi, because they had no political affiliations with Roma, and therefore Augustus had felt safe with them—until now.

  Augustus would be wondering the same thing as Drusus had been for some time now. Would the whole of Germania join Arminius after his success? Would this be the beginnings of all-out war? Was Germania looking to rout the Roman armies all the way into Gaul? Or would Arminius be satisfied with driving them from his lands? Augustus might have all the money in Roma, but Drusus did not envy him. But then, money and power had never held much appeal for Drusus.

  Drusus felt a warm hand on his knee giving a little squeeze, and Drusus turned into the warmth of Caius’s eyes. He was healing well. The wounds on his arm and where his fingers had once been were clean and dry. The skin was knitting together. Caius’s pain was easing; though, at times, Drusus could see the ache etched into his handsome face.

  He covered Caius’s hand with his own and squeezed back. Augustus was still pacing the length of the tablinum, occasionally stopping in his instructions to Julius to vocally lament the loss of his legions. Finally, he returned to stand before Drusus and his men.

  “How long have you left in your term in the legions, Centurion?”

  “A little more than two summers.”

  “And your men?”

  “Various lengths. For two of my men, this was their first campaign.”

  Augustus raised a brow, and for the first time, had a good look at Drusus’s men. He took in each face, studying them as though committing the images to memory much like Drusus would do.

  “This one is an auxiliary?” He asked, pointing to Thumelicus.

  “He is from the Chatti. He fought with us. He wishes you to know that many of the Chatti are still loyal to Roma. Segestes, too, asked
me to report he and many Cherusci remain loyal.”

  “Hmm.” Augustus kept his gaze on Thumelicus. “He is to be kept under your guard, Centurion.”

  “He does not leave my sight,” Priscus answered.

  “Your wounds, legionary—” Augustus turned now to Caius. “—they are from the battle?”

  “Yes, Caesar.”

  “He has lost three fingers; his thumb and last finger are misshapen.” Drusus added.

  “He will be retired. As will you all if you so wish it. You have served Roma well, and your sacrifice will be rewarded.”

  The sun shone within him at Augustus’s words. They would all be released from the legions. Caius and Calpurnius would be safe. They would never have to suffer twenty years fighting, bleeding, suffering.

  “Julius,” Augustus called, “see to these men.” He waved them away. They were dismissed.

  Julius gestured for them to follow him. They left Augustus to his pacing and his muttering; he had some decisions to make—difficult ones that Drusus did not envy him.

  Julius led them to another part of the palace to several small cubiculums where they would spend the night. Drusus had expected to be tossed into the barracks, but perhaps Augustus did not want them talking to others, spreading word of the details of their defeat and spooking the public.

  Of the three rooms, Priscus and Thumelicus took one, Quintus, Brutus, and Calpurnius another, and that left the final one for Drusus and Caius. As he stood at the door, Drusus marvelled at the comfort of the room. He had never seen such bedding.

  He glanced over at Caius, a smirk on his face. He had plans for that bedding and from the gleam in Caius’s eyes he was thinking along the same lines.

  As comfortable as the bed looked, though, Drusus’s most urgent need was to be clean. He expected the palace of the emperor to have its own bathhouse, and he could not wait to make use of it. Three days had passed since they had last stopped at a stationes with a bathhouse, so he had three days’ worth of grime and dust and filth from the road to wash away.