Roma: Sons of Mars

[Zaknafien]

http://home.online.no/~gubjoerk/eagles4.mp3

This story is going to an AAR, of sorts, but not really. With the work I've been doing on the Romani faction for future builds of EB, I don't have much time to actually play campaigns. This is really then, going to be an excuse for me to write a little of a story I've been wanting to do for awhile, and will contain elements of an AAR as well. It will attempt to follow history to a certain extent, with exceptions made for exciting turns of events that come and a nod to dramatic flair. Critique is welcome, and who knows, maybe if you keep reading you'll see a taste of things to come for the Romani faction in the future.


Venusia, Apulia

May

481 Ab Urbe Conditia
Year of Consuls Spurius Maximus and Lucius Cursor
(272 BCE)

“His honor will see you now,” The slave said, his tone bored with the tedium of daily life on this frontier, complacent with the state of mediocrity. Turning without another word, the slight man disappeared into the adjoining chamber, his sandles clicking on the tiled floor. Cale stood, and, adjusting his tunic to straighten any creases and level his wide leathern belt, shaply turned and followed, snapping to attention as soon as he crossed the threshold of the wide, columned hall wherein his new master sat.

“Cale Valens, sir.” Iacto announced with more force this time, standing to the side of the room, his hands on a tablet marked with names. At the calling of his name, Cale issued a sharp salute, hitting his chest and raising his arm outward in respect, then returned to the most disciplined rigidity he could muster.

The man seated at the desk was poised with perfect posture, his shoulders broad and limbs slender but well muscled. He wore a simple, loose tunic of black and grey, a crimson mantle brooched in gold the only emblem of his rank. Nearby, the shaped lorica musculata of a Roman officer, laced with crimson and studded with iron and silver, hung brightly polished and oiled on a rack. His manner was calm and cool, his eyes steely, but lit with a sort of sagacity. His age was indeterminable, his thick hair dark, but grim face creased with lines of experience and seasoning.

“Be at ease, soldier,” The Tribune Marcus Valencius said calmly, not bothering to look up from the parchments on his cedar desk. Iacto crossed to the desk, and leaned in to hear the Tribune's whispers as he handed him rolled papers for dispatch. After the slave had left the room, he looked up at Cale, and stood. Cale noted the short bladed dagger on the Tribune’s belt, and the easy gait of his steps as he neared to look him over with an appraising eye, a commander’s eye.

“Cale Valens,” he said curiously. “You fought with Publius Decius at Asculum, did you not?”

“I had the honor of being under the Consul’s command, sir, yes.” Cale did not move his eyes, but looked straight ahead, his limbs locked in position.

“As did I.” He stopped walking, and looked out the open windows that overlooked the courtyard of the Roman offices below, where the sounds of men working could be heard. The sunlight was crisp and bright that day, and the Praefectus took in a sharp breath of the cool air. “I was a conturbunalis then,” he reminisced with a hint of longing.

“Personal student of the Consul sir, I know.”

“I see you’ve done your studies, then, soldier. Very good.” He smiled, the kind of smile which made you want to earn his praise. “Now you are here. I said be at ease, Valens.”

Cale went to parade rest, only slightly loosening his muscles, releasing a breath of air.

“Tell me, is it true you slew fourteen Samniti in one battle?”

“I don’t count sir,” Cale replied, meekly. “But that is what they say, yes.”

“You are Etruscan.”

“I am, sir.”

"Family from Veii,"

"Yes, sir."

“Hmm,” was the response.

Cale suddenly felt a movement behind him, the slight brush of air against the hairs on his neck, and ducked to the side just as a short knife swept around where his neck had been. He came up with fury, slamming his palm into the chest of the Samnite who wielded the blade, and brought his right fist in a fast cross into the man’s face, crunching his nose against his calloused knuckles and releasing a spout of blood that sprayed across his white tunic. The Saminte staggered to the smooth tile floor and Cale was within one second of leaping atop the man to crush his throat when the Tribune said, “Hold.”

The Etruscan stopped with a surprising alacrity, and simply glared at the bloody slave who was pulling himself up and holding his broken nose.

“Well done, Cale. You’re hired.”

*****

Minutes later Cale came down the steps of the building and came into the sandy courtyard, a heavy leather satchel and cotton bedroll slung across one shoulder, bulging with packed clothing and sundries of equipment and personal items. Strapped to the side of his pack was the finely engraved scabbard of a gladius, the hilt studded with a silver boss and crafted from polished bone. He flexed the fingers of his right hand, which despite their hard nature still hurt from the brutal punch he had delivered to the Samniti slave moments before. The day was bright, the sky sapphire and scattered with wisps of high clouds. Birds called from lofty heights and he tilted his head to watch them soar for a moment.

Around him, the Roman military colony was a flurry of activity. Established after the Samnite Wars to secure the routes south into Magna Graecia, it was the largest such colony established by Roman veterans and its citizens numbered at some 20,000 former legionaries and their families, all citizens. Founded at the boundary of Samnium, Apulia, and Lucania, on the great road between Tarentum and Samnium, in an uncommonly strong position, was destined as a curb to keep in check the surrounding tribes, and above all to interrupt the communications between the two most powerful enemies of Rome in southern Italia. Layed out in a rough square, the city was defended by stout stockades with foundations of stone and squat towers at close intervals to overwatch the surrounding countryside. The legion camps had sprung up around the city like a field of flowers, with row after row of goat-skin tents being erected in tight order, along with smithies, vendors, mess areas, training grounds, and supply depots. The air was a cacophony of noise of hammers, saws, blacksmith shops, horses, cattle and sheep, men arguing and laughing and talking. A full Praetorian legion with alae was present in the vicinity of the city, some six thousands plus of fighting aged men plus all of the usual camp followers and hangers-on an army drew, not to mention the normal population of Venusia.

“You filthy son of a hairy whore,” came the gruff voice interrupting his thoughts.

Turning, he grimaced a he saw the squat man approaching and recognized him.

“Quintus Sabucius.”

“That’s Duplicarius Principalis Sabucius to you, slave,” Quintus growled. Sabucius was an old hand when it came to soldiering, veteran of a dozen battles as he liked to claim. He was certainly old enough for it to be true at any rate, and his face looked it. He was as hard a man as any though, and their past was one of constant dispute. Sabucius had been the trainer for the first cohort Cale had belonged to as an auxiliary swordsman, years ago, and he had hated the man even then. Now, apparently he had been promoted again, and as he said, wore the short cape and carried the slender bronze rod of a senior non-commissioned officer.

“I am a Citizen now,” Cale hissed back angrily.

“You can dress up a whore in a fine dress and call her a lady but she’s still gutter trash,” Sabucius said, smiling, hands on his wide hips as he got into Cale’s face.

“You insult me,” he replied, his hands curling into fists automatically.

“You’re not as dumb as I thought,” Sabucius joked. Some of his soldiers had stopped their work to approach the two, grinning and whispering to one another, and he thought he could see a few denarii changing hands. It seemed like all the noise of the courtyard had stopped and the entire garrison was focusing on the two men facing one another only. “I want you to understand something,” Sabucius said, getting closer at the urging from his men. “This isn’t Lake Vadimo, and you’re no hero here, slave.”

Cale looked down at the shorter man, his eyes intense.

“Call me a slave again,” he said calmly, “and I’ll kill you.”

Sabucius hesitated, obviously not wanting to test the threat on this day. Licking his dry lips, he stood back, and glared at the men around him.

“What are you dogs doing? Get back to work!” He yelled. “Antonius, if that stockade isn’t completed by nightfall, I’ll skin you myself!” The soldiers dispersed alone and in groups, muttering and joking amongst themselves. Sabucius turned to face Cale, his face set in stone. “I’ll remember this day, Citizen.” And with that he turned and stormed off into the courtyard, barking commands at nearby workers.

Cale watched him walk away for some time, and then stooped to pick up his satchel again, re-adjusting the straps that had come loose.

“You make friends as easily as you break noses, I see,” another voice interrupted while he squatted over his pack, and looking up, he had to raise his hand to keep the sun out of his eyes to see the Samnite slave from earlier looming over him, a crooked grin on his face, his broken nose showing three fresh stitches.

“That man and I have an evil history,” he explained. “Sorry about your nose.”

“It is no great matter, my nose has been broken eight times before. This is just the latest. You throw a good punch.”

“I’ve broken more than eight noses. Yours is just the latest,” he smiled.

The Samnite laughed good-naturedly. “I am called Folco.”

“Cale Valens.” The two shook hands at the forearm, a firm grip from each marking them both as warriors.

"Come on then, let me show you around this place."

[Warmaster Horus]

Nice! Keep it up! But not at EB's expense, of course.

[Laevex]

That was very enjoyable. It's nice to read something which is written at a more personal level. AARs tend to neglect the people behind an empire, generally focusing more on the entire faction's progress, so it's refreshing to read about humble prefects and slaves.

Keep it up!

[Imperator]

Another excellent story- you really are talented

[Zaknafien]

The Lemuria of Maius

481 Ab Urbe Conditia
Year of Consuls Spurius Maximus and Lucius Cursor
(272 BCE)



Venusia, Apulia
Italia

*****

The month Maius was sacred to the gods, and thus was full of their festivals. Around the Ides was the three-day long feriae of the Lemuria, in which Romans would appease the spirits of their household dead, for on the Ides of Maius was the time in which the nether world touched closest to our own plane of existence. The tradition was said to have been founded by Romulus himself, to appease the restless soul of his brother Remus. The head of each household would arise early at midnight and make the sign of mamo fico, walking bearfoot through the house, chanting the phrase, 'Ghosts of my fathers and ancestors, leave me and mine alone,' spiting as he did so and leaving behind beans which the restless spirits would take in exchange for leaving the living members of the home alone. Finally, on the 11th day of the month, sacrifices would be made to Mania, the Mother of the Lares and the goddess of death.

"Mense Maio malae nubent," Marcus Valencius said under his breath with a smirk, noting the common proverb of May weddings and their ill-luck because of the netherworld's influence. Was the wedding of an army and its commander any different? He wondered.

"Sir, did you say something?" The soldier riding alongside him asked.

"Thinking to myself, soldier," Valencius responded sourly. He sat upon a fine white courser as it cantered through the muddy courtyard towards the heavy oaken gates of the villa on the Via Principalis. Beside him rode Iacto upon a brown gelding and his newest personal guard, the Etruscan called Cale, on a black palfrey. With them rode ten men of the escort, soldiers of Rome, with a song on their lips. He did not mind the singing, not really.

The horse-hooves clottered on the cobble stones laid around the gate of the villa only, spattering mud from the courtyard on the men who rushed to heave the heavy doors open for them, and out they rode into the city.

Accepting the task of the mission in Venusia had been the price he had paid for promotion to tribunus laticlavius, or a wearer of the broad stripe, and was a price he had been perfectly willing to pay, a year ago. Now, the doldrums of the assignment and the increasing personal danger had caused him to be bitter, for it. Venusia was in truth a military fortification, not a colonia. Here in the wilds of Lucania he was truely on the fringes of civilization, as far as he considered it. This would be his second year of assignment at the military colony, and he had come to loathe both it and the Lucanians whom he had to deal with almost daily.

Marcus was a fine young Roman officer, though perhaps not as young as he once was. He still sat tall, and proud in his high saddle, the leather of both it and his armor well oiled and polished to a high sheen, the discipline instilled in his youth as a legionary still ingrained in his customs. He was not nobilitas, nor were the lands his family owned large or wealthy. That he, pleb by birth, could rise to broad-stripe Tribune, was an achievement by itself that merited praise, that he did it by the age of thirty-two was even more impressive. He had impressed both his peers and superiors to achieve this position, he knew, and had been appointed, through the Senate, by the request of the Imperator, Publius Cornelius Scipio, himself. And now, he would soon meet his old commander again, for the first time two years.

The Tribunus Marcus Valencius

The streets of the colony they rode through were narrow and muddy, lined on each side with squat clay and timber buildings. The air was full of foetor and decay. There were walls with peeling paint, dark hovels and muddy tenements, narrow ditches alongside the road that served as gutters oozing with slime. Venusia was not large, but was heavily populated. Its many buildings were compacted into a small, congested area built upon a rocky plateau in the foothills, overlooking the forested vales of Basilicata. On the hillsides surrounding the city shepards tended great flocks of sheep.

In the past year though, the situation had become tenuous, at best. The Greek landowners and the native Lucanian farmers and herdsmen were at loggerheads in the Venusia city council. The Greek citizens were in a furor over the conquests of the Pyrrhic armies in the south, and continuously sent envoys to plead to Rome for aid and protection from aggression, whilst the Lucanians preferred détente with the Epirotes, seeking to negotiate rights of trade and passage in return for safety, and had recently become outright hostile to the Roman mission. There had been no less than three attempts on his life in the past four months, and a riot by the Lucanian minority had turned quite ugly at market day last week, requiring the deployment of the city guards after two of his men that had been procuring food were attacked by the crowds. All these problems did not even take into account the Roman citizen colonists, veteran legionaries and their families, most of whom had fought against the Lucanians and Samnites for years.

Their path took them past the very market, and Marcus squinted through the sudden bright sunlight as they passed the open forum on a side avenue, noting the charred ruin of several peddlers’ stalls that had been burned when a fire broke out, still littering the place. He frowned in disgust. In Rome, such disobedience would not be allowed, and the remains would have been cleaned up the very same day. He did not care to look at the city-folk who glared up at them as they rode by, many of them with thinly veiled hatred in their eyes.

They came presently to the slight rise on which was built the columns of the Venusian Council Hall, walled off by slabs of white granite with a high gate of bronze and timber. It was not luxurious, but served its purpose as fortress and assembly hall in one. Outside the walls stood two Lucanian guardsmen, with long pikes and rounded copper helmets with bright red plumes, who issued a curt salute as the Tribune neared and dismounted.

“His Honor, Marcus Valencius, Tribunus Laticlavius!” Iacto shouted, the first words the slave had spoken on their short trip from the Roman villa. Dismounting as well, the Greek took the reins of both his and the Tribune’s horses in one hand. Shortly, the doors of the compound swung slowly inward, and a short, swarthy looking man n a long grey toga and a necklace of gold came out, flanked by guardsmen.

“Marcus, my friend,” He greeted, in Greek.

“Phillipus,” Marcus replied respectably, though he made no move nor removed his own horse-haired helmet.

“I am glad you could come,” the city councilor said, motioning with his hands as he spoke. “The others fought you might be…reluctant…after the unpleasantness last week.”

Marcus frowned. “It takes more than a rabble to intimidate the power of Rome, Phillip, and your opponents on the council would do well to remember that,” He said sternly.

“Yes, of course—that’s why we so value your friendship!” The Greek replied, smiling largely. “Come inside, we have much to discuss. A courier has come this past evening.”

Marcus looked about for a moment, then removed his helmet without undoing the chinstrap, simply sliding it over his head, as a veteran does. Wiping the hair from his brow with one hand, he then breathed sharply in. “Very well,” he said, and with a click of his hobnailed sandles took off after the Greek councilman, into the Venusian compound, followed by Iacto and their horses.

*****

“What do you think they’re talking about?” Folco asked, for the third time, or maybe fourth, Cale didn’t know. They leaned against the white stone that formed the wall around the Venusian city hall, their horses nearby tended by one of the other bodyguards, another Samniti named Fuca with long muscled arms and a shaved pate. The last was keeping a watch on the gate for the return of the Tribune.

“Who cares?” He asked, holding a small block of wood in one hand, and using his short knife to carve into it adroitly.

“Well I do, for one. You should, for another.” Folco seemed to find the workings of politics a fascinating thing, while the Etruscan cared little for the workings of important men that didn’t concern him.

“Life is simple, Folco,” Cale mused, almost to himself, whittling with his knife. “For men like us, that is. We’re told whom to kill and whom to leave alive, and get paid at the end of the month. It’s too easy.”

The Samnitii was not satisfied. “There’s rumors of war again, in the south,” he said, hoping to ignite intrest.

“There are always wars.”

“Not like this one. The Epriotes are said to be ransacking the countryside and pressing thousands of Graeci into their army. They’ll come north, soon, I guarantee it.”

“Let them come, then.” He held up the tiny carving, a small figurine of a soldier with a long spear. Smiling in grim satisfaction, he showed it to Folco.

”And that is?”

“Mars Ultor. The Avenger.”

The look in Cale’s eyes made Folco uncomfortable. He was a fearsome looking man, broad shouldered, chisled muscles looking like more of a greek sculpture than a living man, dark furrowed brows and a smooth shaven head, pricked with several tiny scars. His face was clean shaven, as were those of all Romans he knew, but covered with a perpetual stubble of beard growth despite the hour. The way he carried himself was devoid of any weakness that warriors were trained to look for when appraising an opponent, and his equipment and weapons were superbly cared for. Whomever this man’s enemies were that he prayed for vengeance to be executed on, Folco was certain they would meet that vengeance eventually, and he did not ever want to be counted as one.

Changing the subject, he ventured, “I think the old man likes you—the Tribune, that is. He spoke to you in the courtyard, before we left?”

“He did,” Cale answered, suddenly canting his head as if hearing something the others did not.

“Well, what did he say?”

“Never mind.” He replied, and rested his hand on the pommel of the ivory hilted gladius at his side. “Look sharp, there’s trouble coming.”

*****[/CENTER]

“Twenty thousand men?” Marcus asked again, unsure he heard correctly the first time. He threw back the small cup of wine, and set it back on the table.

“At the least,” The messenger, a tall, lanky Greek fellow said easily, nervous from all the eyes upon him at once.

There was a general murmur of discontent and disbelief that ran through the assembled group of city councilors, some leaning their heads upon the table or others rubbing their brow with worrisome hands. The news was troublesome, to say the least, and potentially disastrous. The messenger had delievered word that the son of Pyrrhus had led several campaigns the past summer against the more troublesome Italic tribes in southern Italia, smashing most, and enslisting the lucky few that submitted in what was tantamount to outright slavery. The Lucanian malcontents in Venusia had approached him, claiming mistreatment at the hands of the Greek and Roman land-owners and asking for assistance in pressing their legal claims—just the sort of excuse a bellicose general needed for war.

“What was his name again?” The Tribune asked.

”Helenos, he is the son of the King,” the messenger said. “He is a fearsome strategist, your honor, they all say.”

“He would be a fool to attack us,” Phillipus said reassuringly.

More murmuring from the group of men, some laughing, others shouting their agreement.

“Phillipus is right.” Marcus announced, standing. He took the cup of wine from the returning servant, and looked into the eyes of the men assembled around the table. “Why should he attack Venusia?”

This drew nods and reflective looks from the men, who seemed bolstered by Marcus’ wise words.

“Because he knows the Senate has voted to attack him,” Came an unexpected voice.

All turned to see the figure who had unbeknownst to them entered the chamber and been watching the exchanges. His name was Ambraxis, and he was as guilesome a man as any that had yet walked the earth. A wealthy land-owner and merchant, Ambraxis owned at least two silver mines and possibly three, though his tax records were suitably shadowy for his purposes. Tall and lithe and of unrecognizable ethnicity, he posed a striking contrast to the resigned councilors in the sparse chamber.

“Ambraxis,” Phillipus said sourly. “What idiocy do you speak?”

“Idiocy or not, I’ve heard that the son of Pyrrhus despises the Romans—I can’t say I blame him.”

Marcus Valencius sighed. “We have no time for your goadings, Ambraxis. Speak your mind if you have something useful to share. If not, show yourself the doorway.”

“Of course, your honor,” Ambraxis replied. “I have sources in Taras that say Helenos will march north soon. Is that useful enough for you?”

Marcus’ reply was cut short, as Iacto entered the room and leaned to whisper into his master’s ear. The Tribune stood abruptly, and straightened his tunic, reaching out as the greek slave handed him his crimson cloak and secured the brooch about his shoulders.

“We will continue this debate tomorrow,” he said, as others in the room were rising and beginning to talk. He walked with a purpose out of the room, Iacto following quickly behind him.

*****

The crowd had appeared and surrounded them before they could do anything about it, with only Cale having heard their approach despite there being over a dozen men in the group, armed with clubs and rocks, perhaps a knife or two glinting in the sunlight. They were shouting, though he could not understand what they said for he did not speak their language.

One large man, the apparent leader of the unruly crowd, was enegetically shaking his fist and shouting back to his companions. Rearing back, he suddenly threw a rock into the guardsmen, sending them moving away as it hit the wall of the Venusian compound.

"They want Roman blood," Folco shouted, backing away from the crowd, though they were literally up against a wall. "They blame you for the wars in the south," he said.

"Me? Don't you mean, us?" Cale shot an angry look.

"Yes, us," he grimaced.

Another rock sailed through the air, this one hitting a Lucanian guardsman on the shoulder causing a grunt of pain.

"I'm putting a stop to this," Cale said, and calmly drew his gladius.

"No," Folco argued, and then there was the clatter of horse hooves from within the gated compound and the great doors were swung open with a brassy screech.

Marcus Valencius was astride his white horse, his plumed helmet bobbing as he rode, followed by six Roman soldiers with spears and shields. His own short sword was out, polished and glinting in the afternoon sunlight, and he was shouting orders to the men in their own tongue. The Roman soldiers formed a wall of shields in front of the gate and began advancing, pressing the crowd back slowly as more rocks sailed over their heads, a few thumping hollowly against their round shields.

"Rally on me!" The Tribune shouted to his own men, motioning for them with his sword. "Calmly now, boys, calmly," he spoke, as if speaking to a skittish horse.

The crowd surged forward as a wave upon a stormy coast, and was broken as surely as water upon the rocks on the wall of shield-bearers before the gates. One man flung himself fully over the shield-wall and crashed into the cobbles of the street behind them, where he was quickly apprehended by two soldiers and drug away by his short tunic. The Roman guardsmen were pressing forward with their shields and using their spears as staves, here slamming a shield-boss into one rioter's face, and there grapping with another and using the shield as a device to push them back.

The bodyguard contingent were ahorse now, all of them, and the Tribune gave the command to ride home. A short horn-blast was issued by one of the lead bodyguards, and the column of riders set off into the streets, the crowd melting away before them, fearful of the horse-hooves.

Cale looked back and saw an empty Roman helmet rolling down the street, a large dent in the side...

[Wolfshart]

Really good writing. It really shows the attention to detail, character development and evironmentaly discriptive styles that makeup good story telling. Keep it up!