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."