Chapter Eleven: Noble Men

Part 3 – Crying Havok



The crowd of Caesar’s attendants and Roman civil servants standing before Madrid’s Basilica Romanus were trembling, their faces as white as their togas. They looked at one another nervously, their glances furtive and anxious. Yet none of them knew what to do, though all of them knew something had to be done.

For Caesar was in a rage.

“JUPITER’S BALLS!!” the immortal leader of Rome shouted. “This is unbelievable! And more importantly, UNACCEPTABLE!”

Listening to all this just outside the great hall of the Basilica was a most impressive honour guard: the entire, newly-commissioned Fourteenth Legion. Their armour shone in the Spanish sun, sending reflective flashes of light in all directions. Despite their Commander-in-Chief’s rage occurring right before them, the legionaries had enough discipline—not to mention a strong sense of self-preservation—to not show the least reaction. They stood at attention, waiting for the storm to pass.

Among them, standing in the second rank, was Lucius Rutullus Lepidus. As soon as he’d heard the old Confucian Aztec’s story several months ago, he’d understood the implications. The Roman army had, shortly thereafter, begun recruiting—just a precaution, the politicians said, though everyone knew better. Lucius Rutullus had leapt at the chance and enlisted. It was an opportunity for him to prove that the Rutullii could still serve Rome in some capacity, even that of a humble ranker within the Legions. So today he stood amongst his fellow fresh recruits of the Fourteenth Legion, chosen for this duty because of their youth and vigor. For Caesar was determined to impress Montezuma on this, their first meeting. The Aztec leader was expected within the hour.

But something now was obviously very, very wrong. Caesar’s rages were few and far between, and blessedly so, for they were terrible to behold, as Lucius Rutullus now saw. He could feel his fellow legionaries all around him steeling themselves as Caesar berated his hapless attendants, every soldier relieved that the leader’s wrath had not fallen on them, but aware that situation could change at any moment. So they stood at attention and attempted to be very inconspicuous—or at least as much as over four thousand men in full parade gear could manage.

“IDIOTS!!” Caesar was shouting, his pale blue eyes, normally ice-cold, now blazing with fury. His attendants trembled before him. “By Jupiter, I should have every last one of you FLOGGED!”

Several of the legionaries had to stifle laughter. None of them had any affection for civil servants, of course, and watching those high-ranking mandarins—normally so self-assured and supercilious—trembling in utter terror was a source of vast amusement. They had no idea what the problem was, but it didn’t really matter. What mattered was that these puffed-up quill-pushers were getting a dressing-down, and they got to watch. But they knew better than to give Caesar any reason to turn his attention upon them. So they all pressed their lips together tightly, stifled their laughter, and made not a sound.

As least most of them didn’t. “I hear the Queen of England was supposed to make a state visit, but cancelled at the last moment,” one of Lucius’ comrades whispered to him, attempting to explain Caesar’s mood in a gossipy way.

“Tace!” another legionary hissed at him, anxious to avoid incurring Caesar’s wrath.

Caesar threw his arms wide, his eyes lifted heavenwards. “Jupiter and Jehovah and Confucius and Buddha and the great Tao help me,” he said, calling on any and all of Rome’s sacred beings for assistance. “Could you not find one man in the entire Roman empire,” he said, “who speaks Aztec?!?”

Among the rankers, Lucius’ eyes went wide. So that was the problem! He could hardly believe his ears. His military discipline kept him in place and silent, but his mind was reeling. Was this it? Was this his chance? It seemed so, but he had no desire to risk becoming the target of Caesar’s wrath. So he hesitated.

He would later claim that it did not happen of his own volition, that it was unintentional. But happen it did. He coughed. Loudly. Right at a pause in Caesar’s diatribe.

Caesar whirled, turning suddenly towards the assembled Legion, his eyes still blazing, and Lucius felt every man around him tense. He didn’t have to be a mind-reader to know their thoughts: You’ve done it now, Lucius Rutullus. You’ve drawn the old man’s fire. We’re done for, but you especially.

“What’s that, you miserable bunch of cunni?” Caesar said, glaring at the soldiers fiercely as he fell back into the crude patois of the commanding general addressing his troops. Though he was togate, the troops had seen him in his gleaming cuirass and scarlet cloak often enough to be able to imagine him wearing it. “Does one of you mentulae have something to say?”

There was nothing for it. Taking a deep breath and ignoring the terrified and furious glares from the legionaries around him, Lucius Rutullus stepped out of his place in the second rank. He walked forward, in front of the assembled legion, and stood at attention.

“SIR!” he shouted, ignoring the horrible burning sensation in his gut.

“Back to the ranks, you miserable…” a Centurion growled at him, but Caesar angrily waved the man off.

“What is it, soldier?” Caesar growled impatiently as he closed in on the ranker, his teeth grinding. “Do you have something to contribute to this discussion?”

“SIR, YES SIR!” Lucius said, eyes fixed on a indeterminate point somewhere above and to the right of Caesar’s head. “I speak Aztec, sir!”

There was a long moment of utter silence as every man present seemed to hold his breath, even Caesar, though all were waiting for his reaction. When he finally did react, he shocked them all.

Several very tense heartbeats after Lucius Rutullus had spoken, Caesar’s rage evaporated. A broad grin broke out on his face, and he threw his head back and laughed. Every man present let out the breath he suddenly realized he’d been holding.

“You’re joking!” Caesar finally managed to say as his laughter died down. His right hand rose to his face to wipe away the tears streaming down it.

“SIR, NO SIR!” Lucius answered, eyes still fixed on that point just above Caesar’s head. “I swear it, sir!”

“Where on earth did you learn to speak Aztec, soldier?” Caesar asked.

“I grew up in an insula in the Subura, sir! An Aztec gentleman lived on the third floor. Used to babysit me and my sisters when we were little. He taught us his tongue; its proper name is ‘Nahuatl’, though, not ‘Aztec’. SIR!”

“Remarkable,” Caesar observed. “And providence has guided you here today. Come with me,” he said, all business, and turned to go. Lucius rushed to fall into step beside him.

“What’s your name, young man?” he asked. Lucius answered, and then had to abruptly stop, because Caesar had done so, and was staring at him in genuine surprise. “One of the Rutullii?” He asked. “Descended from Publius Rutullus Lepidus, twice Consul and Governor of Spain?”

“Yes sir,” Lucius Rutullus Lepidus answered, his helmeted head held high, though Caesar saw a little colour appear in the young man’s cheeks.

How on earth did that happen? Caesar wondered. How could the descendants of a family who had served him so long and in so many ways have fallen so far, so quickly? Living in the Subura? Serving as mere rankers in his army?

It happened because I let it happen, Caesar reminded himself. Or, more to the point, because I let them determine the course of their own lives. It’s not my place to interfere. Or so I keep telling myself. And yet, here’s this young man…

“Well, Lucius Rutullus Lepidus,” Caesar said, resuming his brisk pace once again, “your ancestors have served Rome and Caesar for centuries. It seems you’ve been given a chance to live up to their memory.”

“I doubt I could do that, but it would be my honour to make the attempt,” Lucius said.

“See that you do more than make a mere attempt, Lucius Rutullus,” Caesar said gruffly. “Now listen closely. Not only do I need a literal translation, I need to understand every nuance of what Montezuma says. And if possible, I need to know what to expect from him.”

“But I’ve never met Montezuma, Caesar!” Lucius Rutullus objected.

“Neither have I. But you have an advantage over me, besides the linguistic one: you’ve met Aztecs, or at least one of them. What are they like?”

Lucius Rutullus considered this for a moment. “Well, based upon my limited exposure, to the two Aztecs I have met—I’d say that they’re a very demonstrative people. Not reserved in expressing their feelings.”

“Good to know.”

Lucius glanced down at his military regalia, and then at Caesar and the other attendants, who were togate. “Should I change my clothes, Caesar?” he asked.

Caesar glanced at him, then smiled wolfishly. “Oh no, Lucius Rutullus,” he said, his pale eyes so fierce they induced a shiver in the young legionary’s spine. “I’d say you look perfect just the way you are.”

***

“Do you think,” Caesar muttered to Lucius less than an hour later, “that that’s a real shrunken head he’s wearing?”

Lucius Rutullus glanced at Montezuma, doing his level best to keep his expression neutral. The Aztec leader was certainly a sight to behold. His muscular chest was bare and shaved clean of all hair. His loins were clad with a long, pleated kilt. Atop his head was a resplendent headdress of long, colourful feathers; in the middle of this eye-catching headgear, just over his brow, was what appeared to be a shrunken human skull.

“Shall I ask him, sir?” Lucius asked under his breath.

A smile tugged at the corners of Caesar’s mouth. “I’d rather not give him the satisfaction.”

Finally, the augurs, both Aztec and Roman, indicated that they were finished and that the omens were favourable for the meeting, as expected. The two leaders, speaking through their interpreters, got the initial greetings and pleasantries out of the way, then got down to business.

“It has come to Rome’s attention,” Caesar said placidly through Lucius Rutullus, “that there is a small community of Confucians in the city of Calixtlahuaca.” He smiled a little smugly; Lucius had coached him on the pronunciation, and he’d executed it flawlessly. “Rome respectfully requests that these brothers and sisters of our faith be granted the right to practice their religion in peace and without persecution.”

If Caesar’s request had been voiced in the gentlest and most reasonable of tones, Montezuma’s reaction was the exact opposite. His dark eyes flared, then his cheeks flushed crimson. He leaned forward and yelled his response at the top of his lungs, his muscular arms gesticulating wildly.

“WHO ARE YOU, CAESAR, AND WHAT IS ROME, TO TELL THE AZTEC EMPIRE HOW TO DEAL WITH HERETICS IN OUR MIDST!?” Montezuma raged. “Their infidel blood is unworthy of staining our streets, but stain them it will, and SOON! I shall oversee the slaughter of your precious Confucians MYSELF! I will burn them in pyres and feast on their roasted flesh!”

“You will do no such thing,” Caesar said calmly but firmly, interjecting into Montezuma’s diatribe when the Aztec leader paused to take a breath. Lucius, translating, did his level best to convey Caesar’s words in the same even, emotionless timbre, despite the fierce glances Montezuma kept casting in his direction.

Caesar’s words and tone, however, only seemed to goad Montezuma to greater heights of agitation. Spittle flew from his mouth as he shouted his response.

“WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE?!?” Montezuma yelled. “Montezuma rules in Tenochtitlan, Caesar, not you! YOU do not give me orders! YOU do not rule the Aztec Empire!”



“Not yet,” Caesar said quietly, but with an edge in his voice that cut through Montezuma’s mounting anger.

The Aztec leader took a deep breath and glared at Caesar. Then he smiled wolfishly—not a comforting sight. “So it is WAR, then,” he said, looking as though he relished the prospect.

“The future is unwritten, my Aztec friend,” Caesar said reasonably, his hands spread. “War if necessary, but not necessarily war. The Roman Empire is interceding on behalf of our Aztec brothers and sisters who share our state religion. What form that intercession takes is, really and truly, up to you,” Caesar concluded with a deceptively friendly grin.

Montezuma laughed derisively. “And what of your Senate, and your… what is it called… ‘Plebeian Assembly’ with whom you so foolishly share your power?” the Aztec asked with a sneer.

“Oh, I am here today with the full blessing of the Senate and the People of Rome, my dear Montezuma,” Caesar said, flashing his own wolfish grin at his counterpart. “Do not make the mistake of thinking that Rome is in any way weaker because of our unusual political institutions. Far from it. I sit before you today knowing for certain that I have the full backing of my people, while you merely presume it.”

“Bah! You know NOTHING of the Aztec people!”

“That, I suspect, will soon change,” Caesar said smoothly.

“We shall see,” Montezuma hissed, then rose from his chair and abruptly left the room. The Aztec envoys followed in his wake.

“That… didn’t go well,” Lucius Rutullus said once the Aztecs had gone.

“On the contrary, my dear young man,” Caesar said. “It went exactly as I expected.” Caesar frowned thoughtfully and glanced at Lucius. “What did you think of him?”

“Well, sir, “ the younger man said hesitantly, surprised that Caesar had asked his opinion at all. He assumed it must be because of his ancestry. He was mistaken. Caesar had always been an excellent judge of character, even before he’d acquired several thousand years of experience at it. “Remember how I told you the Aztecs are a demonstrative people?” Lucius said.

“Indeed!” Caesar said with a laugh, thinking of how demonstrative Montezuma had certainly turned out to be.

Lucius Rutullus shook his head warily. “Montezuma… goes far beyond what I’ve seen in other Aztecs.”

Caesar laughed derisively. “He’s a raving loony,” he said, then considered that statement. “Crazy, but not stupid. He wouldn’t have come in here, blustering at us about war, unless he felt he was ready for it.”

“Will it be war, then, sir?” Lucius asked. Though he did his best to keep his tone even, Caesar could hear both the eagerness and the fear in it.

“I don’t see how it can be avoided. We’re clearly at an impasse.” Caesar said, then glanced at the younger man and smiled. He rose and held out his hand. Lucius extended his own and the two men shook hands. “Well done, Lucius Rutullus,” he said. “I’d say your ancestors would have been proud of you today. Montezuma did his best to throw us all off, but you kept your head about you.” Caesar gave a brief quiet laugh. “And it was worth it just to see that surprised expression on his face when he first spotted you in full battle gear! Your presence, clad as you are, backed up what I was saying quite nicely.” Caesar placed a fatherly arm about the younger man’s shoulders. “You know, I could use a man like you on my staff. What would you think of joining me as a junior legate?”

Lucius Rutullus drew a deep breath. He could hardly believe what he was hearing. And it was all happening so quickly, so suddenly! Perhaps too much so. In his mind’s eye, he saw himself going back to the barracks and explaining his sudden rise to his comrades. Something about that bothered him. How could he be on the command staff of an army when he’d never fought a battle himself?

“I’m… honoured to be asked, Caesar,” Lucius Rutullus said respectfully. “And the offer is very tempting indeed. But, please understand, I don’t feel I’ve earned it just because I happen to speak Nahuatl.”

“I’m offering you the position for more reasons than just that,” Caesar said. “I see great potential in you, Lucius Rutullus. And not just because of your ancestry.”

“Potential…” Lucius Rutullus muttered thoughtfully. So many people had gone on about his potential. His father. His teacher, Akiro Matsugane. The Confucian High Priest, Mencius. Even Claudia. Claudia… how could he face her again, even if she was married to another man, if he’d spent a war safely behind the lines as a translator? Oh, he knew it wouldn’t matter to her. But it mattered to him.

“I’m sorry, Caesar,” Lucius Rutullus said. “But I think I’ll have to refuse the offer.” He shrugged beneath the weight of Caesar’s arm. “I joined Rome’s Legions to fight, not talk.”

Caesar smiled and nodded. He’d spent most of his long, unending life around soldiers. He liked them and understood them, and here was a true soldier. His ancestors would indeed be proud of him.

“Very well then,” Caesar said. “I admire your decision and I appreciate your candour. But let’s consider it a postponement rather than a refusal, eh?” The younger man looked at him, then nodded with an abashed smile. “Whatever is to come won’t happen just yet. In the meantime, soldier, I need you to get some of these useless mentulae,” he muttered, nodding back in the direction of his clerks and attendants, “speaking Nahuatl like a native. On top of your duties with the Fourteenth. Can you do that?”

“It will be my pleasure, Caesar,” Lucius said. He turned and favoured the slender-bodied clerks with a nasty smile. “I had a very strict but very effective pedagogue when I was a boy. I know how to… motivate a group of students.”

Caesar watched as his clerks actually blanched and trembled beneath the withering stare of this formidable young legionary and had to stifle a laugh. Oh, he liked this young man! Which, unfortunately, brought out his paternal instincts. War was imminent, and when the fighting started, Lucius Rutullus Lepidus had just elected to be in the thick of it. He’d be at risk, and Caesar found that fact—though inevitable—bothered him.

“Good,” Caesar said. “There’s just one thing more. A direct order from your Commander-in-Chief to keep in mind once hostilities commence and you find yourself in the midst of battle.”

“What’s that, Caesar?” Lucius Rutullus asked.

“Just this,” Caesar said, his expression and tone suddenly very serious. “Stay alive, my young friend. Stay alive.”