Chapter Eleven: Noble Men

Part 5 – Summon Up the Blood



As Lucius entered the barracks, he did his best to put all thoughts of Claudia aside and focus on mentally girding himself for the good-natured jeers and natural curiosity of his comrades regarding his brief adventure with the Commander-in-Chief. When he walked inside, however, he found his fellow legionaries standing around a dark-haired man in full military gear that was too pristine to be anything but brand new.

“Who is this, then?” the man asked, turning towards Lucius as he entered.

Lucius could see the man was young, about his own age, in fact. He had dark, lanky hair, a shock of it nearly falling over his left eye. His clean-shaven face bore an expression of supercilious boredom, conveying that he cared not one whit who Lucius was, but felt obliged to ask since he’d appeared unexpectedly. Lucius quickly noted that the man’s brand-new military regalia bore the markings of a junior legate, and brought himself to attention.

“Lucius Rutullus Lepidus, Fourteenth Legion, Second Cohort, First Century, SIR!”

“At ease, Lucius Rutullus,” the dark-haired young man said. “So, where have you been?” he asked, still with that bored expression on his face, which now crept into his voice.

Lucius assumed a more relaxed pose, but only slightly. “With the Commander-in-Chief, sir,” he replied.

The man blinked in surprise, his studied boredom vanishing in an instant. “With Caesar?” he said, somewhat petulantly, making it plainly obvious that he’d never spent any time with Caesar but felt himself more entitled to do so than this mere ranker. “Doing what? Polishing his cuirass?” he said with a disdainful snort and a raised eyebrow.

“Translating, sir,” Lucius answered. “He had a meeting with Montezuma and needed someone who spoke Nahuatl.”

“’Nahua… what on earth is that?” Cinna asked, sneering.

“Aztec, sir. What native speakers call the language.”

The military tribune’s nose wrinkled. “You actually speak that barbarian tongue?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, it will soon be a dead language, won’t it, men?” the legate said, then laughed and glanced around at the other legionaries, apparently expecting the men to share his hilarity, though they did not. Lucius glanced at his comrades and quickly gathered that this new legate had clearly not won them over; far from it, in fact.

“I am Marcus Phillippus Cinna,” the young man told him, tilting his chin up proudly. “Grandson of Cinna the Censor, son of Cinna the Consul,” he added proudly. “I am the junior legate in command of the Fourteenth Legion, as of today.”

Lucius’ brows rose briefly. He didn’t remember ever seeing this self-important patrician performing military drills on the Campus Martius. But given his bloodline, he certainly had the clout to be appointed as a junior legate. The Fourteenth was a new legion composed mainly of fresh recruits; there were few veterans available to be distributed amongst the legions, since the only fighting Rome’s army had done since the fall of Spain had been to thwart the infrequent barbarian incursions from the frigid wastelands in the far south and the as-yet uninhabited jungles of the east. Therefore it was unlikely that the Fourteenth would be exposed to the thick of battle right away. That meant it was a safe place to tuck away this privileged but pampered young officer.

“Lucius Rutullus Lepidus…” Cinna said, repeating Lucius’ full name thoughtfully. “Where have I heard that name before?” Lucius silently braced himself. “Ah! Now I have it,” Cinna said, an amused grin appearing on his thin lips. “Yes, you’re from that branch of the Rutullii who’ve found themselves destitute, aren’t you? Living in the Subura with the head count, I hear!”

Lucius merely shrugged his broad shoulders. “It’s not so bad. Never a dull moment in the Subura,” he said, and some of his comrades grinned and chuckled knowingly. Many of them were head count from the Subura and had grown up with him.

Cinna, however, was not yet done. His smile grew broader and a little nastier as he recalled another useful nugget of information. He was not so dense as to fail to see that Lucius was popular with his comrades. And his calm demeanour in the face of someone who was clearly his superior was irksome—as was his unfathomable association with Caesar. Cinna decided that it would be very enjoyable, not to mention useful, to bring him down a peg or two.

“I recall hearing that you were puppy-dogging after one of Marcus Claudius Pulcher’s girls,” Cinna said, his eyes narrowing as he dropped this little tidbit.

Not for the first time in his life, Lucius was glad of his brief stint on the less reputable stages of Rome. His face remained expressionless even as his gut clenched and he struggled to contain a very sudden and nearly-overwhelming urge to bury his fist in Cinna’s insufferably smug face.

Instead he merely allowed an amused half-smile to play upon his lips. “Claudia Pulchra Primia and I were school chums, that’s all.”

Cinna’s expression hardened. Time to bury the knife a little deeper, he decided.

“Not from what I heard,” he remarked, in reaction to which Lucius merely shrugged. “It must have cut to the quick when Pulcher sold her off to one of the Catullii. Understandable, though. They’re very rich.”

He drawled the last word out, letting it sink in. Yet still Lucius’s impassive face displayed no reaction.

“It’s a good match for both families,” he said evenly. “I’m happy for her,” he lied. Oh, if only those two raging queens of the theatre who’d scandalously shared an apartment beside his family’s could see him now! They’d be so proud of the consummate acting skills they’d taught him.

“Huh,” Cinna said, disappointed with Lucius’ muted reaction. But he couldn’t leave the topic alone. “Well, they’re married now. I suppose you heard? Yes, they finally tied the knot just before I left Rome. I suppose they’re busy trying to produce an heir to their combined fortunes,” he said with a licentious grin. If he noticed the sudden tightening along Lucius’ jaw line, he gave no sign of it. “I don’t envy Catullus. Oh, she’s pretty enough,” he said, turning to the other legionaries, who were watching this exchange raptly but in utter silence. “But those high-bred patrician girls are all dead meat in the sack, you know.”

He laughed, and seemed to expect the rough-hewn soldiers around him to join in and appreciate this comradely bit of man-talk. The reason they did not was revealed when Cinna turned his head again, and found the taller form of Lucius Rutullus looming over him, his jaw firmly set, his eyes suddenly blazing.

“I would advise you,” Lucius said in a low, dangerous tone, his arms crossed, their muscles bulging, his hands clenched into fists, “Marcus Phillippus Cinna, to refrain from making any disrespectful remarks about my friends. Especially when that friend is a lady. Do I make myself clear?”

Cinna’s eyes were wide, and he instinctively took a step back. He glanced nervously at the other legionaries, hoping for support, but finding none. Their expressions were either blank or registered muted satisfaction that Lucius was putting him in his place. Cinna quickly realized that Lucius could beat him half to death before their very eyes, and to a man they’d claim that he’d simply fallen down.

Fortunately for Cinna, it wasn’t the first time his sharp tongue had gotten him in a tight spot, and he had grown rather adept at extracting himself from those. He smiled affably, held up his hands, and laughed softly.

“I beg your pardon, Lucius Rutullus!” he exclaimed in his most charming, soothing tone. “You must forgive me. I truly had no idea the girl meant so much to you.”

“That has nothing to do with it,” Lucius told him, not placated at all. “She is a lady and is to be accorded her due respect, even when she is not present.”

“Quite right, quite right!” Cinna remarked with a carefree grin. “It’s good to see the Subura didn’t purge you of all consideration for the rules of social conduct,” he said in a superior tone. He took another step backwards, away from Lucius. “Well! I must be on my way and introduce myself to the other cohorts in the Fourteenth.” He turned to address the assembled legionaries in the barracks. “It’s looking like Rome will be at war with the Aztecs before long. And high time, I say! You men can rest assured in the knowledge that the Cinnae have a military tradition as long and as proud as Rome’s. No Legion lead by a Cinna has ever lost a battle, and I intend to uphold that tradition! I’ll see you men on the parade ground tomorrow morning.”

And with that, Marcus Phillippus Cinna, grandson of Cinna the Censor, son of Cinna the Consul, walked proudly out of the barracks, his head held high.
One of the centurions, Gnaeus Decumius by name, came to Lucius’ side to watch CInna leave. He was tall and dark-featured, his nose flattened by one too many fights in the Subura, where he, too, had grown up, only a mile or so from Lucius’ home.

“Well aren’t we the lucky ones, to be led by one of the legendary Cinnae,” he said, his voice dripping sarcasm. “Hardly an auspicious cognomen,” he muttered, then made a sign to ward off the evil eye, for Cinna was Latin for ‘ashes’.

Titius Ahenobarbus, who was one of the Fourteenth Legion’s few veterans and its primus pilus—‘first spear’, its lead centurion—walked up to Lucius and Decumius, his head turned towards the door Cinna had just used.

“You mark my words, lads,” Ahenobarbus said. “That mentula bears watching. A man like that will lead you into disaster. More blood than sense, if you ask me.”

“For all our sakes, Titius Ahenobarbus,” Lucius responded, “I sincerely hope, this one and only time, that you’re wrong.”