The scent of salt burnt in his nose, and he could almost feel the spray of the ocean

against his skin. He closed his eyes, let it sink in; felt the cool sea breeze, the

gentle breath of the sun upon his face. For a moment he forgot the armor upon his

back, arms and legs; for a moment he did not remember the shield bracing his

body, held in his left hand; he did not notice the clutch of javelins on his breast,

shifting with each breath; and he did not heed any thought to the thrusting sword

upon his right side. He closed his eyes and imagined his arms were free, and he

wore nothing but a light tunic; he smelt the salt and felt the breeze, and

remembered a better time. Walking down the sandy shores, his small hand in his

father's, laughing as the seagulls spun in acrobatic dances overhead. His father

and he had built a sand fortress and used short sticks to play war; he had been the

Romans and his father had been the Gauls, and their sticks had gone together in

fierce battles. The Romans always won. Now he knew the Romans did not always

win; war was not based upon mere manpower alone, but also on the strength and

skills, the talent and experience, of the Army. It was based on moral and strategy.

And a great portion went out to the hand of chance. But back then, the victory

always belonged to the Romans, simply because the Romans were always the

victors. His father had rubbed his scraggly sandy-blonde hair, picked him up on

his shoulders, and ran through the surf. He would raise his hands and look down

at the water churning beneath and imagine he was one of those seagulls,

completely free and unfettered, with the entire world a possible destination. He

would smile and laugh and his father would dive into the waters, and they would

tumble about. Those times were long gone; his father had gone back to the earth

many years before. But now that young child stood again upon the beach; he

heard the waves and the seagulls, smelt the ocean and felt the tingling of the

morning sun.

His eyes opened. Everything came back to him again, so real. The sword upon

his side, the shield before him, the javelins whose spear-tips glinted in the sun. He

could feel the thousands of soldiers behind him, all wondering the same thing: will

we breathe another day? He ached and longed for the good old days, when he did

not worry about such things as death – he did not fear death, but knew that most

of the men behind him were not men at all, but boys: sixteen and seventeen and

eighteen years old, called upon by their native land to defend the gates of the city.

He knew many innocent boys would die this day; but he was determined that the

enemy would suffer the same fate.

The hundreds of feet of rocky shoreline before them lay veiled in a mist of

towering spikes sticking out of the ground and string wrapped between the spikes

to trip up the enemy. Great masses of twisted wood had been thrown amongst the

rocks to hinder the enemy's advance. The shore was silent. A few birds picked at

crabs between the rocks, then flapped their wings and vanished towards the

clouds. The man watched them go, then turned around, stepped back a few paces,

and looked into thousands of pairs of eyes. The great walls of the city were barely

visible in the distance, where women and children huddled together, praying to

the gods for salvation, keeping their husbands, sons, brothers and boyfriends in

their minds. Many women and children would weep for lost family this night, but

nothing could be done about that. He looked over the thousands of soldiers and

spoke loud, voice rising with the sea waves against his back, carrying his words

over the ranks: Friends of Rome! This will be a terrible day; not only for the Carthaginians, but for us as well! Do not be deceived: many shall die this day. Death comes to us all.

What decides whether we are men or not is how we meet that death. We shall not fear death; we shall embrace it. We shall kiss it. We shall smile as we fall! Many of you will not walk back to your friends and families, but the stories of your valor and strength will! You who survive will be heroes; you who fall will be legends! Look forward! Grit your teeth! Take up your sword and shield! Remember who you are: Romans! And even more: you are the sons of Mars!"

Horrendous, thundering cheering washed over the ranks; the man turned, faced

forward, face aglow with an unhindered lightning. Far across the breaking waters,

spreading over the horizon, were hundreds – thousands – of slender enemy ships,

heading straight for the shoreline. Each ship was loaded with a hundred soldiers

or more. He felt the breeze and wished for better days, but knew they would not

come. Not today. For today, many would die.

Over hundreds of years, a small colony of shepherds and wheat farmers has evolved into the greatest world super-power the world has ever known. At the time of its greatest expanse, nearly a fourth of the world's population lived and died under the Roman Empire.

Yet the Roman Empire did not always exist. Before there was an Empire, there was a Republic. Before there was Caesar, there were the Houses of Rome: the House of Brutii, the House of Scipii, and the House of Julii. Before there was an Emperor deciding the day-to-day management of Rome, there was a Senate, a group of politicians controlling everything from the trade market to war.

It is during the Republic where we find ourselves. The Senate is thirsty to push Rome's borders, and does not turn to diplomacy to do it. The House of Brutii's armies are sent overseas to the great nation of Carthage; the House of Scipii marches east for the pine-covered slopes of Dacia; the House of Julii is ordered to march north into Gaul.

This war with the Gallic tribes is the third Gallic war Rome has known. The Gauls constantly harass Rome's borders, raping women and killing farmers on the edges of the Roman frontier. For too long Roman soldiers have resided in Rome and refused to return to their aide, perhaps in fear of living the old wars over again, wars marked with tragedy and defeat.

As the armies of Julii march into northern Gaul, a conspiracy unveils and all of Rome is deceived. Only one man has the power to rescue Rome from the hands of a traitor, and only one man can avenge the deaths of his loved ones and bring harmony back into the Senate.

Book One: The Sword of Rome

Chapter One: Darkness Descending

a few years earlier

I

He did not notice the gardeners walking hunched-back over the balcony, tending the potted and hanging plants, the ferns and flowers of all different shapes and sizes, a vast array of blues and yellows and oranges. Nor did he notice the pearl white marble, the magnificent columns; he did not taste the fresh air, the scent of salt from a distant ocean, hear the birds as they flapped about the roofs of the flat- topped buildings. He did not look down from the balcony and see the foot of the magnificent building, the marble steps and pillars; nor did he see the wide and narrow streets, packed with shopkeepers and children, teenagers running around in groups, playing their pranks and eating sweets from their mothers. He did not hear the din of the market, the yelling and shouting of the entrepreneurs; he did not even seem to notice the land being paved for a gigantic building known as the coliseum. His eyes didn't fall upon any of the eternal city of the seven hills; the giant gates of the city didn't even bring recognition, his eyes were so distant, so glazed, so lost. The roar of the city, the laughter of children, the sound of steam from the baths did not touch him. He only heard one thing, and that sound, although confined to his own thoughts and memories, took his eyes beyond the city, even beyond the cloistered villages where children played with dogs and ran through tilled fields that stretched into seeming oblivion. He stared, dim and unfeeling, over the city's walls, past the miles of green earth being tilled that autumn: he did not see it, but he knew it was there. The dark forest. The murky frontier. He closed his eyes, suddenly felt hot despite the cool Fall breeze blowing over the balcony.

The gardeners scurried about him. He didn't have to try to ignore them. His memories grew stronger, rising in intensity. Sweat beaded over his brow. His fists tightened into coiled knots. He gripped the railing, breathing deep, and he realized his eyes were closed. It all came back to him now; the memory shattered into a million pieces, lost in the wind; it would come again, this he knew. Nothing could

help that. It would come in the silence, in the joy; it would come as he lay down to sleep at night. It would come and he'd try to fight it off. He was never able to. "You're tired," she said. "Aren't you sleeping well?" She did not know. She did not need to know.

He turned from the railing and saw her coming towards him from the living quarters. Her white robe flowed about her. He imagined touching it, feeling the soft fiber, and pulling her close, tasting her sweet lips. He smiled at her, suddenly conscious of all about him. She took his hand, slid past him, and leaned against the railing. He moved behind her, feeling her braided hair. She yawned and looked down upon the city sprawling beneath them. A wonderful city. Unparalleled in its beauty and grandeur. Constant parties and festivals and celebrations. Any time of the day. The candles always burned. She took his hand, paused, said, "Your hands… They're cold."

He took them from her, cupped them together. "I have been out here a while." She turned, resting her back against the railing, and smiled at him. He absorbed that smile, those deep eyes; they suffocated him. The moment he'd seen those eyes, he'd nearly cried out for air. They engulfed you and refused to let go, drawing you deeper and deeper into their sublime and exquisite mystery. He had the urge to explore her; wanted to order the gardeners from the villa, draw her into his quarters, take off the fine robe, and just let his fingers run over her, a latticework of discovery. Instead he leaned forward and kissed her forehead. As his lips touched her smooth skin, she breathed, "What have you been thinking about?"

"The Senate has called me to the floor this afternoon. I don't know what it's about."

"It makes you nervous."

"You know how things have been going for us. The House of Julii's been dodging Brutii and Scipii blows for months now. The Senate's been making harrowing advances on all the fronts. Our armies are being spread thin. Brutii's prepared to go to war with Carthage sometime next year-"

"Carthage?" she gasped.

"Not so loud," he scolded, glancing at his gardeners. He yelped at them, "Leave us!"

They scattered from the balcony, leaving their potting and watering equipment behind.

"Can Rome afford a war with Carthage?" she breathed under her breath.

"We shall discover it soon enough," he said. "And Scipii has been ordered to move east."

"East… Towards…"

"I don't know. No one really knows. Macedon, the Greek Cities, Parthia, Dacia. Who knows?"

"You're afraid they'll send you off to war with them?" "Me? No. They won't send me. I'm just a politician." "You're worried about him, aren't you?"

He swallowed so hard he thought he might've taken his tongue. "He is a warrior. He has the heart of a warrior and the passion. But what does he know about fighting? He knows what he's trained to know. He hasn't actually experienced it. He's been put in command of several cohorts. I'm just afraid… I'm afraid they'll send him somewhere where the enemy has experienced the fighting. Where the enemy knows what they're doing."

"He can take care of himself. Maybe you can pull strings."

"If I took him out of the Army, he'd have my head on a silver platter."

"Not take him out of the Army. Why not relocate him? Promote him to Major or something and give him a job training other soldiers."

"He'll see through that. It's still my head on a silver platter. Even if it's your idea."

She wrapped her arms around him and kissed him. "You're not thinking straight. The Senate isn't going to march you somewhere when they're about to go against Carthage – Carthage! – and when the House of Scipii is sending troops out east somewhere. I don't care who it is, Macedon or Greece or whoever, those western soldiers have been trained in war for centuries. Rome is new. We're fragile in the big scheme of things. We're just a few Latin states thrown together with houses selfishly vying for power; no offense to you, of course. I know you claim rights to Rome."

"We all claim rights to Rome. We all have our part in it. The Senate keeps us from going to war with each other. And the consulate keeps his reigns tight on the Senate." Though lately the consulate—the one who would like to think he were King, though he was checked by the Senate—did not make many appearances on the Senate floor, and many did not acknowledge his presence in day-to-day life. Odd times.

She pulled away and walked between the potted ferns, feeling the fronds on delicate fingers. "Do not be late. I'm not a politician like yourself, but I know that it won't look good for you if you're late. And don't think about this too much. The members of the Senate may be dumb but they're not morons. They won't just throw you and your men away by sending you off to war in some god-forsaken land. Look at me." She walked up to him again, peered into his eyes. "Relax. Breathe. It's a beautiful day. Everyone's enjoying life. Everyone but you. You're blessed by the gods: you're the one who hasn't had to throw good men into harm's way. If we're fortunate, our curried favor will not change. Now go. You are going to be late. Dress quickly. I will be waiting for you upon your return. And you can tell me all about it, okay?"

II

The servant drew up beside him, bowed lightly, and set out his dish; upon it rested several glasses of ice-cold water. The men took up the glasses, nodded appreciation to the servant, and the servant slinked away, humbly disappearing into a nearby building. The four men stood together upon the lawn, surrounded by the scattered effects of a training camp: barracks, archery range, wooden poles for practicing cutting and thrusting, wooden obstacle courses set about in pits of mud. Trainees, some naked, spun about the encampment, covered with sweat and grime, panting and wondering if they could make it. The grueling atmosphere of the camp dispersed amongst gentle afternoon clouds, a brilliant azure sky, birds taking flight between the roosts in the tallest buildings. The air smelt crisp and wonderful, sending luminous pleasure through all who took a moment out of their day to simply taste it.

"We are the temptation of both the House of Brutii and Scipii," he told them, grinning as he sipped water from the cup. His eyes darted over their robes and beards and golden necklaces. He never appreciated fine jewelry, saw it as a waste. He had been born and raised amidst the mud and sweat of the Army, following the family's lineage. Now he stood proud, dressed in his blood-red undergarments, having tossed away his shield, armor and sword for but a moment. He could feel their envy drilling through him; all who looked upon him felt a curious wisp of jealousy, as he was a proud warrior from a proud family, skilled in the magnificent art of war. "Only the best Romans are allowed to train here. And this is not the half of it – we have training camps in Arretium and Ariminum as well. Thousands of troops are ushered under the command of the House of Julii, and we do not take that command lightly. Only the best soldiers

are appointed command positions, and we put our best soldiers on the front lines. Or plan to, anyway," he added with a smirk, "if you guys ever decide to allow us to…" He searched for the right words… "Prove our worth."

The men in togas glanced at one another and finally one spoke. "Your time of reckoning is at hand. Do not look down on us as dogs, as many of your kind do." He wanted to ask what the man meant by 'your kind' but kept his mouth shut. "You parade about the streets of Rome in your red sashes and carrying your red shields and wearing your red horsehair helmets, but you have nothing to be proud about. You have not served Rome in anything important, only trivial matters – border disputes and patrols, the like. Your cockiness, your arrogance, it sickens me."

The commander's brow furrowed, but he released the heat by clenching his fists. "You do not speak well to someone who's been given no chance. We are ready. I have trained this Army to the best of its capabilities, and my father before me was not lax in his title. Do not speak so low of these soldiers, unless you wish to dress up in uniform and walk onto the field of battle." To make sure no rifts gouged the engagement, he leaned forward, eyes flashing red as crimson fire. "But I implore you: give us the chance! Call me cocky and arrogant and staple me with your pompous politician words, I don't mind at all. I cannot sleep well knowing you guys have tossed the torches of glory to Brutii and Scipii and left us groveling in the dust, crying out and just coughing on our own spit. Look at this!" He spun around, waving to the hundreds of trainees filling the camp. "I have the men. I have the firepower. I have the might and the muscle! I know the musings of the Senate – Scipii is marching east. Where to, I dare ask? I do not expect an answer. I do not need an answer. You are determined to send Brutii against Carthage." He saw their eyes widen. "There are leaks even in the Senate, friends. But that secret is safe with me." He touched one on the shoulder. "Carthage is a mighty tyrant with a mighty army. Much blood will be spilled, both Carthaginian and Roman. Do not leave Brutii abandoned – I wish to help my fellow brothers- in-arms."

One of the senators smirked. "Accuse us of lying through our teeth? Accuse us of throwing politician words left and right to peach up to the superiors? Look in the mirror, General. 'Brothers-in-arms?' You do not seek their benefit, but your own righteousness. You desire glory – and are determined to suffer for it. Is it suffering you want, General? You yourself have never seen the field of battle, except in stories. You've never seen it with your own eyes. The bodies, the

carnage. You've never heard the cries of the broken and the pitiful shrieks of the dying. And you've never smelt that horrible stench – the stench of blood and feces and mutilation all rubbed into one. Glory, friend, is a politician's word." The General leaned close, almost to touching distance. "Have you seen the field of battle? Have you heard the wails of the wounded? Has your nose wrinkled at that awful smell? No? Tell me this: have you even picked up a sword and shield?" He let the silence rub in. "What I ask for is not unreasonable. It is not meant to be. Put us on the field of battle. Give us the chance to win a politician's word: glory. Isn't this the cry of the Roman Army, 'glory and honor'? We have the strength,

the might, the determination. Let us carry our glory into foreign lands – and with it all of Rome shall be known forever."

"You do not know what you ask for."

"Yes, I do. It is what fills my dreams every night." "It fills your father's dreams as well."

Engulfing silence. The General glared at the senator, then turned away, eyes downcast. The senator stepped forward to say something more, but another held him back. The General cast his eyes upon the archery grounds, watched as trainees fitted bows, aimed at targets distant, and released. He watched a volley of arrows scatter amongst the targets, most sticking into the soft bundles of wheat stalks.

Slowly he turned to the senators. "Do not insult my father to my face again. He has seen more of Hell than the fallen gods themselves."

The senator returned, "I was not insulting your father. He is a great and noble man. But I am wondering, perhaps it would be wise of you to invest time and energy into discovering what it is that fills his dreams at night? Or do you not know? No, you do not know. I see it in your eyes. You've heard him speaking to your mother, you've heard him awake in the middle of the night. Perhaps you should draw yourself enough quarter to simply ask why."

"I know why. Do not insult my intelligence, either. He has seen horrific things-" "Do you know your grandfather?"

He shook his head. "I've never seen the man. He died when I was quite young. Memory sickness took him from us."

"Memory sickness?" the senator smirked. He looked to a flock of birds flying near the river, then set his befallen eyes upon a bewildered face. "My young General. You are brash and brave, a concoction worthy of disaster. But if it is glory you want, and you are determined to find such glory on the field, then do

not fret. Your destiny is sealed. Soon you shall have all the glory you could desire. And your nights, I assure you, will be spent walking down gloomy halls, feeling the pounding of a distraught heart. Perhaps your father dreams of the victories and walks the halls in remembrance. Maybe not. Soon, my friend, you shall see."

III

The great room filled with the noise of a thousand elephants: laughter and jokes, gossip and lectures, a roar that bordered on chaotic thunder. The room held close and narrow, each side lined with marble seating, one line of benches higher than the one before it. At the end of the room stood a marble stage with several benches and a podium. Four flags draped beyond the stage: emblems of the Senate, the House of Brutii, House of Scipii, and House of Julii.

The roar died down as a man in fine robes stood behind the podium, cleared his throat, and announced, "As many of us know, we have been on the verge of spreading Roman glory and honor throughout our territories. To the east is Dacia– the House of Scipii marches even now! To the south is Carthage! The rumors are true, friends: we have decided that Carthage does not deserve such a worthy standing in our world, and our honorable family of Brutii stands determined to bring Roman justice and law into their lands!"

Many senators cheered; others looked at each other with hawkish stares imploring, What have we gotten ourselves into now? Carthage was perhaps the most hated of all the nations surrounding Rome – proud and boastful creatures, the inhabitants were, and their fine cities were mockeries of Roman ingenuity. The hatred for Carthage swelled into an abominable rage and many senators felt their blood rush at the sound of Carthaginian overthrow. Still others were not conceited to think Rome's military was so strong as to render Carthage lame in a single throw. Carthaginians were proud, and for that were despised – but their pride rendered them strong warriors, and they would launch themselves at Rome with an insatiable malice. Senators closed their eyes and saw it now – gloom settling over Rome as the news of slaughter came over the seas, and finally the Roman ships returning to port, battered and broken; upon the decks would stand boys who had become men, stained with the blood of friends and foe and self. The cheers and the laughter made many of the senators want to vomit.

The speaker for the Senate waved his hands, ushering silence, and hid behind his faculty smile. He announced, "This day we bring forward Julius Antonius, the leader of the House of Julii!" Cheers spread through the room and a man dressed in beautiful robes and rings on his fingers, closely cropped and greased hair, stepped onto the stage, bowing in eloquence before the Senate, twisting his scowl into a smile. The speaker patted Antonius on the back and said, "After much deliberation, you have been elected, as a friend and protector of Rome, to bring Rome's ideals to those in greatest need of such!"

Shouts arose, bouncing off the walls, cries: Carthage! Carthage! Carthage! Antonius did not move. He had not been told where he was going. He looked over the Senate, imagined sailing across that blue sea, landing upon the shores of Africa, being met with a swarming Carthaginian Army. He imagined the bloody defeat – and if victory, the drawn-out siege, where every night was spent wondering if reserves were coming upon them to wipe them out. The idea of being overseas, easy pickings for a large Carthaginian force, sent shivers up his spine. He would not be there. But in a foreign sense, he would.

The speaker tried to calm everyone down, and when it became silent, he said, "Carthage is a horrible foe! Carthage shall be destroyed!" The cheers burst like a dam again, and it took several moments of patient begging for civility for the speaker to continue. "Yes, my friends, Carthage shall fall. But not by the hands of the House of Julii. The House of Brutii is well-equipped to defeat Carthage single-handedly. We have full assurance that our Roman might – and let us not forget the favor of the gods – will bring us to a sweet and sure victory in the south. But as Brutii sacks Carthage, and Scipii turns the Greek fields red with blood, the House of Julii shall be bringing a long-deserved vengeance to the north. The Gauls shall feel the fury of our brutal strength!"

Screams of infernos rage, destitute on vengeance, shook the room. Gaul would fall. Gaul, the long-standing enemy, the impotent foe, the one responsible for invading villages, raping and murdering women and children, harassing the beautiful ideals of Roman prowess, would be humbled to their knees – and upon their knees, the great Roman sword would sever their head!

The joy did not meet Antonius. He closed his eyes. He had seen it before. His heart burst in sorrow and rage. He saw his son, wearing a banner of innocence, driving Roman forces into the wild and wooded frontier – and he saw his son falling, blood pouring from his wounds, eyes misting, reflecting the snows of a foreign winter, and pitching forward into the grass as the battle raged around him.

He noticed his hand was shaking and clenched it tight. No one noticed. The speaker of the Senate grabbed him by the shoulder, spun him around, and embraced him.

Antonius' eyes danced over the four flags – three Houses going into war by order of the Senate of Rome. Three houses, thousands of soldiers, thousands of lives torn apart. The innocence of Rome fell that very day amidst cheers of joy and happiness. The doors of the room burst open and couriers raced into the eternal city of the seven hills; celebration spread outwards from Rome in a rippling wave, engulfing the towns and villages and the great cities of Arretium, Tarentum, Croton, Capua, and Ariminum.

Antonius closed his eyes, tried to forget, but he could not. He heard it then, heard it so real.

IV

She did not have to wait for him to return home. She had been lying in the bed, awaiting his arrival, when the sounds of the city grew louder. Aroused, she did not rise for the longest time, thinking nothing of it: many celebrations ran throughout the city. Parades here and there jostling through the wide and narrow streets. But the noise grew louder and did not vanish: cheering and laughing and singing. She realized it was no passing parade, and crawling from the bed, glanced at the closed door to the outside corridor, quickly dressed herself in a robe, and walked onto the balcony, feeling the warmth of the sun and catching the vibrant flowers in her eye. She leaned over the railing and looked down to see people – men and women and children – dancing in the streets, joining arms, throwing around drinks and food at the storefronts. She looked over the run of low, flat-topped buildings to the training yards. She could see the blurred, tiny figures of men in groups, running around, moving this way and that. She saw more pour onto the training grounds and could almost feel the excitement.

Except this excitement did not run through her like warm wine, but like a cold sword. She turned from the balcony, closed her eyes as if it would do good, and returned to the bedroom, sitting on the bed. Wait, she told herself. Just wait. She knew nothing. They could be celebrating something else, something… worth celebrating.

She heard the door opening. She jumped off the bed and he entered, his face a mask of gloom and disposition. He stared down at the floor, and raised his eyes,

meeting hers. Eyes are the windows of the soul, hiding nothing, laying bare the most raw and untamed emotions. Nothing could hide behind the eyes – they peered into the deepest dungeons of human existence. She turned her shoulder to him, not in disgrace, but despair; and she looked out to the balcony, the flowers turning their stalks heavenward, and felt the shame of his being wash over her, a tidal wave of lunacy.

He grabbed her hand, having moved forward, and stroked her fingers. Tears billowed beneath her eyelids and she swung around, swinging her arms around him; he let her embrace, and even followed suit, felt her breathing against him, rough and ragged. He felt her holding back the tears, but whispered into her ear; the sobs came, strong and heavy, tears carving swaths of red down her cheeks, pooling upon his shoulders; her body vibrated as if caught in a thunderstorm, and he felt electricity shocking through her. She eventually went limp and he sat down on the bed; she leaned against him, sniffling, breathing into his calloused neck. He let one hand off her side and sent it through her hair, the strands running between embittered fingers.

"Is it true?" she asked, finally able to speak. The crowds celebrated without. "Please. Please tell me it's not Carthage…"

"Not us," he said to her. "Not him."

She paused for a moment, and raised up. "They are celebrating."

"The House of Scipii marches for Dacia. The House of Brutii goes south-" "Carthage," she breathed.

He nodded. "An invasion of Africa is being planned."

She listened to the jubilation floating in from the balcony. "And what about our son? What about us? Tell me we are not to aide such a suicidal endeavor."

"No," he said, wondering how long he could hold it from her. "No."

She thought she had made a fool for herself. And then told her how selfish she truly was. "We are not going to war."

"No. We are not going to war. Not with Carthage." Not with Carthage.

She felt the rage boiling within her; why wouldn't he tell her? "If not Carthage… Whom?"

"The Senate of Rome," he said slowly, as if picking his words from a briar patch, "has decided to honor me in sending my son and the noble soldiers of Rome to Gaul. He is to march in a few weeks' time." He felt her eyes boring into him, and then the feeling vanished; he felt her lean her head against him and she began to cry again. He stroked her bare arm, felt the goose-bumps sprouting upon

her skin. "It'll be okay," he said, in a low whisper. "It will be okay. All right? Don't worry. He is a great warrior. A noble warrior. It'll be okay."

She shook her head, pulling away. "How could you say this? Do you not

remember?"

He winced, the memories flooding back, a knife into his skull, searing agony. The memories, so painful—they physically hurt.

"You do remember," she said. "The Gauls. Those barbarians."

V

Many nights had passed. The celebrations had lasted nearly an entire week, culminating in completion as the House of Brutii boarded ships in Latium bound for the coast of Africa, where a few miles inland lay the magnificent Carthaginian city, Carthage itself. Antonius the First and Antonius the Second granted the Generals of Brutii the gods' favor and watched the ships sail. That had only been but a few days ago. Antonius the Second had noticed a trance-like gaze in his father's eye, as if he had been lost in some maze, confined to beg for mercy and guidance while trapped inside the confines of his own lucrative mind. Antonius the Second had felt his heart prodding him to ask why his father looked such, and the grim words of the senator continued to haunt his every footfall: Did you know your grandfather? He had died when young Antonius was just a little boy; his father told him he died of mental problems, slowly losing recognition of those around him, even recognition of his own family, before disappearing into the shallow shell of a man he was – and eventually passing on to the paradise of Elysium. So his father had said. And as his father walked the grand hallways of the manor at night, when Jr. heard him as he slept, his father would tell only tell him, "I have much work to do, Son. One day, when you are in my position, you will walk these halls, too." The senator mocked him, saying he indeed would walk the halls – but for what end was to be seen, uncertain. He had disengaged from his father and returned to the camps; he had to make sure everything was in good working order for the move north. Many meetings were held, training time was increased, and moral boosted with lots of warm meals, wine, parties and women. Meanwhile Antonius the First groveled about in the Senate, vying with the senators and meager politicians, trying to scrape food on his plate. Antonius' 'adopted' mother retired into secrecy, vanishing into the innards of his father's manor.The streets of Rome returned to normalcy as well. Shopkeepers bartering with customers, children running in the streets, teenagers being yelled at for messing around, women yelling at their children, telling them to clean up after their messes. The Senate resumed talks of sanitation and plague threats towards the north. It aggravated Antonius the First, waiting for news of the Carthaginian invasion to come over the sea. He awoke every morning, anxious and gut-ridden, and then was unable to sleep at night, the memories – those god-awful memories! He pondered whether or not the Carthaginian forces would be waiting on Africa's shores, prepared to dispel the Roman assault. How were things going to the east? Was Scipii meeting the spears of the Greek phalanxes yet? And his son. Oh, the thoughts of his son, blended with the memories. He prayed his son would not experience… family lineage.

Away from the splendor of the Senate, the stately marble-and-column buildings, the patios and gardens and courtyards ridden with trees shedding leaves in the late Fall, the roads became narrower and the buildings became more trodden. Butcheries, wineries, bakeries and black-smiths crowded the paved streets. Houses, with living areas smaller than the very rooms of the mansions in the center of Rome, stuck their patios and jaws out over the alleyways. At night the center of Rome would burn – torches lighting up the streets, casting fiery light against the polished marble, the trees dancing in shadow. But in the slums of Rome, candles burned inside the homes, children tried to sleep, sweating and jostling for position, while parents tried to make sure they had enough food to feed the family's mouths. They worked sixteen-hour days, oblivious to the radiance and parties of upscale Rome.

Within these homes, many would cough and sputter and spent the night scratching at lice. Eyes bloodshot from the fumes of the butchery crawling through open windows. If you closed the window, you would suffocate in the heat, even in the Fall. In a particular housing building, in a particular nest, several candles burned, and several men huddled around a table, listening to the rain patter on the roof. They looked at one another, as if they did not want to speak. The idea of a cross and nails did not appeal to any of the five innate senses.

A voice. "So everything is set." "The die is cast," another said.

"There can be no mistakes. No flaws. It must be perfect. If it is not, we will be the scourge of Rome. We will be stripped naked, beaten, paraded through the streets, spit on and ridiculed, and finally condemned to horrible deaths. I say this

not to dishearten the soul, but to quicken the blood. No mistakes. There is no saying, 'No pressure.' Not here. Not now. The pressure is enormous. It is suffocating." He let his words sink in. "I will not accept failure. And so I say now, and I shall not say again, that anyone refusing to take part in this must step down. They will not be branded cowards or gutless. They will be honorable, true to their word." He looked around about the faces, his eagle eyes glowing under the candlelight. "Is there no one, then, who does not fear the plan? No one who is not sure?"

The rain tapped on the roof.

A quiet voice. "Might I speak?"

All eyes fell upon him. "You have the floor, Friend."

The man looked about the table, into everyone's dark and insidious eyes. "I have been having dreams. Horrible dreams. I dream that something goes wrong. I dream the woman escapes, and we cannot catch her. She goes over the balcony, and as she lands, several people see her. They panic and run upstairs. We complete the rest of the task, but as we are leaving, guards break into the room, and seeing the hideous acts our blood-stained hands have performed, slay us upon the spot. It is then that I awake."

The silence smothers. He seeks pity, and finds… Something. The leader stands, walks around the table, the candlelight throwing his wonton shadow over the narrow walls. As he circumvents the table, he speaks: "You know I am not a superstitious man, Arminius. But I am a believer in the gods. Sometimes the gods deliver dreams to tell us something we need to know. They speak to us in the dreams, and the dreamer becomes a messenger. A holy messenger." He kneels down next to his chair, looks into his eyes. His arm is moving in the shadows beyond the table. "Do you believe in the gods, Arminius?"

Arminius did not answer.

"The gods have chosen you as a messenger, and you profane their name by silence?"

"Yes," Arminius breathed, the tension shattering. "I worship the gods. I sacrifice."

"Sacrifice? Yes." He nodded, breathing deep. "Sacrifice. Sacrifice to please the gods. I believe in the gods. I believe in sacrifice. I believe," he said, looking up into Arminius' eyes, "that the gods speak to us, and they show us their will. I believe they will show us… I believe they will show us what needs to be done. They bless us with a foretaste of the future, and give us allowance to change it."

He spoke slower now, chewing on each and every verb. "I believe the gods are speaking to you, telling you what will happen if changes are not made. I believe the gods are calling for the strong to overcome the weak. And we must please the gods, don't you agree, Arminius?"

Arminius nodded, quietly: "Yes."

"We cannot have the gods angry at us on this one." His arm behind the chair shuddered.

Arminius' mouth dropped open and his eyes burned with sulfuric fire. His hand reached up, but the other man grabbed it, held it tight. The knuckles glowed white and the man sputtered, eyes cozying up into his skull. Blood dribbled from his mouth, dripping like saliva down to the table.

The man said, "No mistakes, right, Arminius?" He stood, and yanked his arm back. A sickening sound, the sound of flesh being ripped off a pig, slurped about the room. The man pitched forward onto the table; blood dripped down his back. The long knife in the murderer's hand glinted in the light, the blood growing a purplish black. The other men in the room sucked in their breath and said nothing. The killer wiped the blood on his brown pants, twisted the blade downward in his hand, and thrust it into the wooden table. It stuck. The others stared at the knife, blood dripping down the blade, and their friend who had collapsed upon the table, the skin turning a ghostly white, marred by blood-tinged lips.

"No mistakes," the man said again. "I hope by now this is understood." He walked around the table and knelt beside Arminius' corpse. He kissed the cold forehead and said, "I do pray the gods are pleased with this, your last sacrifice." A wicked smile crossed his face.

VI

News came at last, greeted by hundreds of Roman citizens upon the dockyards several miles from the great city of Rome. The news, heralded by three or four Roman triremes, tasted bitter-sweet in the mouths of the people. Several hundred wounded shoulders, prizing their sword and shield and battle wounds, descended from the ship. All their comrades who had fallen upon the shores of Africa were buried in unmarked graves within Carthaginian soil. The battered soldiers managed to smile, greeted by a host of hugs and kisses and cheers; they smiled, but standing aloof, Antonius the First could see their smiles were hollow, fakes; the eyes, ever windows of the soul, masked his own. He remembered smiling and

waving his hands and putting on a cheery accent for his family and friends upon his return from the north. But his body had ached, his heart had grown cold and lifeless, and all the joy of existence had devolved into rudimentary depression. He never knew the treasure of a good night's rest; he could not remember what a good dream felt like. While many Romans had fallen in a vicious battle on the shorelines, the Brutii command had been able to push the Carthaginians back, and when the wounded left bound back home, Brutii was camped many miles from the city of Carthage, under threat of a counter-attack by the Carthaginian Army. The House of Brutii had not reached Carthage as soon as planned. The Senate gathered together, pondering what to do. They came to a decision: the House of Julii's march north would have to wait. Antonius the Second growled under his breath, fuming just beneath the skin, but his father drew a victorious sigh of relief. A temporary sigh, and this he knew so well. The leader of the House of Brutii declared that there was nothing wrong; they had sufficient numbers in enemy lands and excellent generals: they would sack Carthage. "Just give us some time!" The Senate took the bait, and issued reorders to Julii – come the first month in the new year, the Army's first and second legions would march out of Rome's gate and head north for the Gallic frontier, a campaign to bring justice to those barbarians who had so savagely molested Roman citizens for dozens of years.

Antonius the Second attended many meetings, all about the strategies for taking Gaul. Many plans surfaced, but they settled upon one plan in particular. While the second legion would stand guard against any northern invasion of Rome, the first legion – the elite Julii legion, led by Antonius the Second – would march into Gaul and seize the unprotected town of Segesta, just north of the Roman province Etruria, home to Arretium, the capitol of the House of Julii. A small band of rustic mountains protected the soon-to-be-taken Segesta from a counter-attack from the northern Gallic warbands. Any Gallic attempt to sneak around the mountains, at least in the way of passing through Rome, would be met with the second legion. Antonius the Second knew the Gauls could plan an assault from the west, towards Germania and Hispania and the like. He would have to take care of that as opportunities presented themselves.

But for now, he gave his stamp of approval on the plan and said, "We move out in two nights. There will be much partying and celebration in Rome. I want us to look our best. All the shields, armor and weapons must be polished. Every soldier will bathe – yes, thousands of soldiers. I don't care how you do it, just make sure it happens. I will be speaking with the Senate and making sure our plans float like

honey in their ears. Does this sound reasonable?" He looked at all the commanders and captains surrounding him and said, "Let us depart. Sleep well. Or don't sleep at all, if that's your thing. Enjoy these next few nights. We won't be home for a long while – and some of us will not be home at all!" Gentle laughter. He excused them. As they departed, he waved over his personal guard, Helonius. "How is your wife?"

Helonius looked taken aback by the question.

Antonius smiled. "Helonius? Your wife. What's her name?" "Celesta," he said.

"It is a beautiful name. Listen to me. I want you to go home tonight." "Sir-"

"Don't worry about me, okay? Spend these last two nights with your wife. Kiss her. Embrace her. Pleasure her. Make sure she knows everything will be fine, and you will return in a year or so. Tell her she has my word. You will be by my side the entire way – I will cover your back and you will cover mine. How does this sound?"

"I have your back, sir."

"Yes. I know. I'm talking about going home, Helonius." He seemed at a loss for words. "Sir-"

"You are stubborn. That's why you are my guardian. But unless your destination is the front lines, I highly suggest you say, 'Thank you, Commander,' and go on your way." He patted the young man on the shoulder. "You are a fine soldier and a fine husband. Go make your wife happy tonight and tomorrow night. Return tomorrow morning at daybreak. We have much work to do. I am sure your wife will be very appreciative."

"Yes, sir." He turned to go, paused, turned around. "What are your plans for the night, sir?"

"My plans? I have none."

"As a gracious thank you for allowing me temporary leave, sir, might I ask you to join my wife and I for dinner tonight? She would be very honored to fix a meal for you, and she is a good cook. An okay cook, at least. But I would be deeply honored to have you in my home."

Antonius tried to hide back his smile but could not. "Helonius, I'm the one honored."

VII

Antonius had gotten used to sleeping in the officer's barracks with his men, and it turned into a rude shock as Helonius led him into their home. The walls were made of wood, inlaid with delicate carvings from an earlier resident. There were several rooms, including a resting area with several chairs, a board game set upon a low table, and pillars in the corners. Helonius' wife had placed a washbasin in every room; Antonius kicked off his shoes and washed his hands before greeting Helonius' wife with a kiss. She was more than delighted to see him, and feeling the remarkable coolness of December, they decided to eat on the rooftop. Antonius was excited, and he and Helonius waited at a makeshift table, watching the farmers beyond the city gates, the stretching woodlands miles away, their backs to the magnificent forums and baths, backs to the heart of Rome. It was well that way – they would be leaving it all behind in a few scattered hours. For this brief moment in time, rank became nothing, and barefoot and relaxing, they let the sun go down, and spoke of their lives at home, jokes played at the training camp, the daily rigors of Army life. Antonius explained why he had never had a wife – not for want of desire, but want of chance: he had dedicated his life to the Army, following in the footsteps of his father; one day he may even be a politician. Helonius laughed and told he'd be better off to retire from the Army, find a beautiful girl, and settle down and raise a family. As the sun dropped and the farmers called their children inside and the birds began to disappear with their winter songs, the feeling of gloom overcame them. Helonius became mightily downcast, and Antonius did not need to ask why.

"What is war like, Antonius?" Helonius asked. "I have only heard stories-" Antonius coiled his feet together. "It is a holy mystery to me as well. My grandfather fought the Gauls, and so did my father. Both of them survived the wars, so I am hoping the favor of the gods will pass on to me. But to answer your question, I've no idea what war is really like. My wealth of knowledge is comprised of scholarly teachings and stories from the veterans."

"I am afraid," Helonius said, "that I will tense up on the field, and freeze. I am afraid everything I've learned will disappear and I will be killed." He looked over to Antonius' steel profile. "Does this fear haunt you as well?"

Antonius drew a breath, looked over at him. "No. I have spent my life learning and teaching the techniques of war."

"if I were you, I'd be even more frightened. A life's work flushed in a moment upon the field."

"I am afraid, Helonius," Antonius said, "that my men will not follow me. I am afraid my men will fall apart when the enemy comes at us. I am afraid that they will not be encouraged by my presence. An Army who has no morale is no Army at all. I know strategy. I know techniques. But if I cannot get my men to fight, to fight well, and to hold their ground despite insurmountable odds and all the fear of the heavenly stations… All will be lost." They heard Helonius' wife below preparing to bring the food and drinks up. Antonius leaned in his chair and looked back at his bodyguard. "That is why I have chosen you as my bodyguard. I see strength in you. I see courage and bravery where others do not. I do not fear your freezing; indeed, I feel that you will be my strength and comforter. Just to look in your eyes, Helonius, is to see the might of Hercules prepared to unleash. You are a warrior to the core. That is why you are my right-hand man."

Helonius smiled and stood. "I may not be able to stop my fear until the first battle, sir, but this I promise: you need not worry. I shall not fail you." He turned and headed for the stairwell leading down into the mouth of the villa. "Please excuse me while I help my wife bring up the food."

They ate extremely well. His wife concocted a wonderful soufflé of small fishes, a dish she called patina de pisiculis. She passed around a bottle of wine and they all drank, eating their fill, laughing and talking. She was a beautiful woman, dressed in splendor as if she were the daughter of the gods themselves. Her every moment was lacerated with grace, every word punctuated with charm. Antonius was mesmerized, happy and sorry for Helonius at the same time: happy because he had been blessed with such a wonderful wife, and sorry because he would be leaving her in a short while.

The sun set, the stars began to vibrate so thick, and Antonius marveled: you could see two thousand just by looking up with the naked eye. They stared in fascination, and Helonius' wife said, "Do you ever wonder if there is any life out there? Anyone else, too, wondering, Is there anyone else out there?" Antonius had never thought of the concept before; Helonius' wife explained, "Our sun, I believe, is just like all of those thousands of bright dots." Antonius said it was impossible – the sun was so much brighter! She said, "It's only bigger and brighter because it is so close." Antonius laughed. Helonius said she was a nut and hugged her. She just smiled and kissed him.

As the night rolled to a close, Antonius kissed the woman on the cheek, thanked her for dinner, and when her husband was out of earshot, he spoke to her in a low whisper: "I don't want you to worry about him. He is going to be at my right-side

the entire time. If in the radical case that the enemy is able to ride our flanks, I will sacrifice my own life for him. He is a dear friend and he means much to me. He cannot hear this, as such words are not proper for a general of any stature." She smiled and kissed him on the cheek. "May the gods bless and favor you. All of you."

Helonius showed him to the front door. As Antonius stepped out into the narrow street, shivering in the winter cold, Helonius tapped him on the shoulder. Antonius spun and Helonius said, "Thank you for coming tonight. It means a lot to the both of us."

"No, thank you. I've said it before, and I say it again: I've been honored." He turned to leave.

"Sir," Helonius croaked. Antonius tenderly faced him, smiling. Helonius swallowed. "May I confide in you about something, sir? Something personal? I do not know if it is a breach of authority… It has nothing to do with the Army, but… I don't know how to deal with such things. Can we speak friend-to-friend?"

"Of course. Yes."

"I am afraid of losing my skill in the heat of battle, sir, because I am frightened of death."

Antonius bit his lip. "We are all frightened of death to some degree. Death is a mystery. Who can really know what is on the other side? Silence, paradise, hell? Anything at all? No one has returned to tell us, and I doubt anyone ever well – unless he or she were the gods incarnate. Do not be ashamed of your fear for death – let it fuel your passions upon the field."

"I am not afraid of what lies on the other side," Helonius said slowly, "but of what lies here."

"What lies here?" He stepped up closer, looking up and down the street. "You are afraid she will be… unfaithful?"

"No, sir. I love her with everything and she loves me. It's that… She's pregnant."

A pause. Then, "Pregnant? How do you know?"

"She's on a strict diet of fish and vegetables, sir, and her tummy is beginning to become round-" He was breathing hard.

Antonius said, "Calm down, calm down, okay? That's wonderful news."

"Yes. I am going to be a father, Antonius… But what will happen to my child if he or she has no father?"

Antonius' brow furrowed. "Listen to me, okay? Don't think like this. Nothing will happen to you. Nothing at all. You are going to be right beside. If you fall, I fall. And remember what I have told you? My family has been blessed by the gods – our history is one of survival, fame, glory and honor. I say this not to boast but to reassure you: my family name be damned if you cease to be by my side. I swear on the gods and everything sacred, you shall enter this home again, you shall kneel down, kiss your son or daughter on the cheek, embrace your wife, and smile under the brilliant sun. We may be entering into a season of darkness, but light shines bright on the other side. Patience and courage, Helonius. And that's not all."

"Strength and honor," he concluded.

Antonius nodded. The decree of Rome. "Strength and honor."

VIII

He had spent the day making sure all of the Army's affairs were in order and quickly mounted his horse and rode to his father's manor. Leaving the horse with the stable hands, he quickly climbed his way to his father's private flat and entered. His mother-in-law was dressing, and she turned, embraced him, kissed him. He always felt awkward around her; he had not grown up having a mother, and this woman was not his mother but an impostor. A lousy impostor.

He kissed her and asked where his father was. She said, "Waiting for you in the guest dining hall. He has had the servants prepare a delicious lunch. A going- away treat." He told her thank you and headed towards the stairs. She called after him, "Do be careful, okay? Our hearts are heavy with you in mind." He nodded her direction and climbed to the guest dining hall. He never would've expected she truly did experience grief at the thought of his departure.

His father waited for him at the far end of a long table. The son took his seat. Servants poured them glasses of wine, and the two of them reveled in the silence. Antonius the First looked at his son, remembered when his father had sat across from him, when he had been in his son's position. He remembered what his father had said, the encouraging words. Both he and his father, though, had been going off to war against the Gauls. Only one returned. No, he told himself. Not yet. Soon. But not yet. The servants delivered giant shrimp, sea mussels, tuna and steamed lamb. The son picked at his small portions, feeling the weight of the room growing heavier and heavier. Pears and apples, dates and olives were

delivered. The son relished the olives, eating them slowly, just looking at his father. The time slipped through their fingers. The date was approaching. "Tomorrow morning," his father said. "There will be a parade."

"Yes. Just as there was a parade for Brutii and Scipii." "Do you look forward to the parade?"

"I guess."

The conversation was strained, awkward. It didn't flow well, didn't jive right. The son shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Finally, his father dissolved the chit- chat.

"The night before my first campaign, my father – your grandfather – set me down across from his own table. He told me to stay sharp and stay clean. He told me to sleep when I could and eat all I could. He told me to be brave and heroic, if needs be, but not foolish. I do not need to tell you this. You are a commander. You've been in charge of the training of thousands of soldiers. These credos are engraved into your mind. Instead I wish to talk to you about something else. See, there was a difference when my father sat across from me so long ago. I was in my uniform, just like you. Not my armor and shield and sword, just my undergarment uniform with my knife. Exactly like you now. But here I sit before you in a tunic. When my father sat across from me, he wore a uniform as well. He did not serve one tour in the name of Rome, but two."

Antonius the Second let an olive corrode in his mouth. "I was told-"

"You were told a lot of things," Antonius the First said. "And it is my fault. The politicians and senators know more about your own family than you do. I pray the gods do not curse me for shaming my family name like this. I just didn't want you to be tarnished in mind and spirit."

"Tarnished?" His voice raised. "What have you not told me?"

"Your grandfather was more a man than I could ever hope to be. He was the epiphany of Roman glory, strength and honor. You should've seen the way he fought those Gauls. The way he tore them down and led his men forward amidst the blood and sweat of battle. He was a true Roman if there ever was one. It was my goal to live up to his name, and I felt honored – and I feel honored now – to sit across from him so long ago. We were in different legions, he and I, and that would be the last time I ever saw him. You've been told your father died of memory loss. No. Your grandfather was the keenest, smartest, cleverest, wiliest man you'd ever known. I was not there to see it, but I have heard the stories. I have heard how he pressed the attack bravely against the Gauls. I have heard how

he turned a battle completely around. And I have heard how a sect of Gauls hidden in the woods overtook the flank and cut him off. He had saved hundreds of men from pure carnage, and yet they fled in fright, leaving him and several others stranded. They were surrounded, and…" He paused, took a breath, drank some wine. His son clung to every word. "They tore out his eyes. They put his eyes in a basket, gave it to a courier, and sent it to the fleeing Romans as a going-away present. It was the last contact we've had with the Gauls. The last contact till now, when you – his grandson – take the fight back to them."

Antonius the Second absorbed the words. His appetite lessened and he felt full. "Gouged out his eyes?"

"The Gauls are savages. Who knows what they did to him after that. No one can tell."

He stared at his plate. A servant entered, saw the tension, quickly left.

His father's voice dripped with a venom his son had never heard before, an undisclosed passion surfacing in his guile speech: "I hate the Gauls. I hated them even before they tore out my father's eyes, and the gods know I hate them now. They are ruthless, heartless barbarians, and they exist in throngs on our frontier. We do not need barbarians at our gates. Son, what I implore of you here and now shall never leave this room. No secret agendas are to be waged in Rome's wars. I want you to bring justice to the Gauls. But even more, I want you to bring revenge. Spill their blood. Make them pay for their atrocities. They have shamed your noble family's name, and they shall pay for it with their precious lives. Every one of them deserves to die. Do you understand me?"

He had never tasted such malice from his father's mouth, and now he stood, unsure of what to do. "Father…"

His father rose. Alarm rippled through his son as he moved around the table, knocking over his glass of wine. He let the liquid dribble onto the stone floor as he grabbed his son hard by the shoulders and stared deep into his eyes. Antonius the Second went stiff, a million shrieking alarms roaring in his head; Your father is crazy! Now Sr. said, "May the gods pour their favor upon you, and your grandfather's spirit empower you. Revenge, Son. That is all I ask for. No, it is all our family asks for. Our honor and nobility rest on your shoulders. Make those filthy Gauls pay."

IX

She greeted him at the exit as he was about to leave. Hearing his voice, he turned and saw her coming towards him from the balcony. She smiled lightly and beckoned him inside. He glanced down the corridor, to the stairs leading to the dining hall, where his deranged father still sat, bemoaning the terrible truth. Antonius bit his bottom lip and followed his stepmother into the bedroom. She told him to stand still for a moment, and she vanished into a branching room. He walked over to the balcony, amongst the hanging pots filled with dry soil. He could see the preparations for the outgoing celebration going on in the major streets; Julii's march into Gaul was the talk of the city, entering everyone's ears and extracting in their speech. He could not blame them – the hatred of the Gauls was ever so high. The elders in the city particularly hated "those savage barbarians," and now Antonius understood why. His grandfather was not the sole victim of the Gauls' barbaric ways – many had fell to torture and mutilation at their hands. The Gauls would steal into the Roman colonies bordering the frontier to rape and murder villagers. The older generations had experienced the worst of it and salivated for payback. Antonius felt proud that he would be the one leading the revenge – and a little frightened at the same time. If a Roman General ever fell to Gallic hands, there would be a hellish ending.

His stepmother returned to the room, holding something in her hands. A soldier, he recognized it immediately. She handed him the three-foot long sword. The handle had initials engraved into the wooden boss, and the leather wrapping around the handle lay frayed, torn in some places. The blade did not glint, but only dully reflected the light from the balcony. He took the handle in his hand and twisted the blade through the air, feeling the balance and weight and agility of the weapon. "A fine sword. Excellently made." The spatha sword was larger than the swords the infantry carried, which were a little under two feet long. The spatha was meant for the cavalry soldiers. "It is old."

"It belonged to your father's father before it belonged to him," she said. "Now it belongs to you."

"It's been in many wars," he said, looking at the blade, imagining its adventures and heroism.

"Yes," she said in a low voice. "It has slain many Gauls. It would be wise to carry it with you."

"I would be honored," he said quietly. He held the hilt close to his chest, the blade running down the length of his chest and abdomen. Much barbarian blood

had clung to the sword in latter days, and now that blood would smear it again. "I will do my family's name much honor."

X

The day had finally come. That feeling one gets when he awakes on a festival morn or during a holiday, or when he opens his eyes to see the trees in the gardens sprouting buds, stole precedence over the soldiers as they stood in their ranks. Antonius mounted his horse in the stables and rode with his horsemen before the assembled Army. In the cool of winter he did not sweat under the heavy bronze helmet or armor. His eyes gleamed with an impenetrable power, only equaled by the crying babes of the gods and goddesses. He looked over the stoic-faced men, remembering: five months ago, to the day, those boys had found themselves in the training courtyard for the first time. It had been different then. They had been unruly and disheveled; Aristotle's observances had been keen: All youth are immature, lazy, and only want to party. Boys whose most ambiguous desire was a night of partying and love-making had stood here on the sacred ground, and now they stood again, yet changed by months of hard work and sadistic training. They had been rebellious; now they were disciplined. They had been lazy; now they were hard-working and loyal. Then they hadn't been ones to use their heads; now they were trained not to think, simply to obey orders. Five months ago they had stood about, anxious, fidgeting; now they stood in perfect rows, shoulder-to- shoulder, stock-faced, expressions set. They had then worn dusty and grimy tunics; now each wore crimson battle dress, heavy armor, a sword, a clutch of javelins, a bronze helmet and blood-red shields stamped with the emblem of Julii. They had completely evolved from nervous school-kids to trained killers. Such was the way of the Roman soldier. And Antonius smiled, knew these boys would prove their worth; yet under that smile was a grim reality. Many of these boys – most of them, even – may never enter the city again, may never touch the lips of their sweethearts or be embraced by their mothers, ever again. War was a mother's worst nightmare. Yet the words of the poets rung in Antonius' head: "War spares not the brave, but the cowardly."

Helonius rode beside Antonius as they patrolled the columns. None of them had ever before seen the entire legion joined together, and it was a sight to behold. Thousands of helmets, shields, thousands of arctic eyes burning incense to the moon. Three thousand sixty foot soldiers assembled alongside six hundred-odd

cavalry. Behind Antonius and his entourage of bodyguards was the gigantic arch gateway leading to one of the main roads in Rome. He could hear the cheering beyond the doors, the expectant crowds ready to wish their friends and family a safe and glorious tour. The steel gate was closed now, and Antonius rode before it; he drew his sword from its sheath, and raising it above his head, kicked his horse; the horse reared back on its hind legs, pawing at the air. Antonius' steel glare spread across every pair of eyes in the encampment, and his cry tore through every pair of ears: "Strength and honor!"

The men banged their hands against their shields: "Strength and honor!"

"Let us not forget our true home! Let us not forget the Light! Let our thoughts never travail from our motherland: Rome!"

Helonius felt the fire wafting off his friend and felt overtaken. Glory poured from his very being.

The soldiers echoed: "Rome!"

Antonius wheeled his horse before the gate and snapped the orders. The guards began to raise the gate. One hundred fifty cavalry joined Antonius and his bodyguards, and as the gate opened, revealing the milieu of hundreds waiting to beckon them off, the first glimpses were off horse's hooves, sleek bodies, and finally the heroic Roman soldiers dressed in their battle clothes. The people erupted, inspired by the glowing red insignias sewn onto the clothing and the red horsehair helmets whispering in a quiet breeze. Thousands – even millions – of citizens crowded the sides of the street, beating their chest, hollering blessings. Children ran between the parents' legs, aspiring to be a soldier and waving them off. Antonius ordered the march and they left the camp, numbering well over six thousand. The soldiers did not wave or look to the crowds, but stared forward, marching in rhythm. They sought glory not within Rome's gates, but without. Antonius and his cavalry led the way, and Antonius was suddenly blinded by red: buckets upon buckets of scarlet flowers thrown onto the departing Army to honor Mars, the god of war. The air seemed alive with the smell of the roses, and Antonius breathed it in deep. Energy coursed through him as a severed live wire; he suddenly understood the draw of power, the draw of fame and glory. Antonius rode proud upon his steed before the people, eyes intent on looking forward, past the gates of Rome, past the manicured farming villages and outlying towns, and into the dark miles upon miles of uncharted woodland: the realm of Gaul.

X

Antonius the First watched the parade fill the streets below, the soldiers being draped in flowers and praise. He ached, remembering the day he, too, marched out of Rome. That had been the day after his last visit with his father. A steaming hatred for the Gauls swelled within him, but he shoved it down, feeling the shakes crawling into his fingers. He heard her behind him, and she wrapped her arms around him. Sunlight danced off the bare pots, the flowers long removed due to the winter's chill.

"So it comes to this," she said.

"Yes," he replied, and said nothing more.

"You cannot hold him back. He is too much like you. He is a warrior at heart. He will never be satisfied."

"That is what I am afraid of. His own stubbornness and brashness will be his downfall."

"Really?" she asked, walking around him, kissing him on the cheek. "And was it yours?"

"It was my father's."

She breathed deeply for a few moments and retired into the bedroom. He decided to follow her. She sat upon the bed, her gown flowing all around her. He looked deep into her eyes, but was drawn to the bags forming underneath. "Have you not been able to sleep well?"

"No," she said.

"Neither have I. Dreams keep me awake." "Memories of the war?"

"Yes. The same dream. Over and over." "I've been having dreams, too."

He sat down beside her. "Good dreams?"

"No. Terrible dreams." She took his hand. "I dream there is yelling and shouting and crying. And I dream I am falling. It is so real, Antonius. I am falling, and it is in complete darkness. I just keep falling, hearing the screams of a woman. I realize they are my screams, and once that realization comes to me, I awake with a start, dripping sweat."

"It is caused by the stress, no doubt," Antonius the First said. "The stress over our son's leaving."

"Your son," she pouted. "I don't think he considers me his mother."

"In time, he will. That is a promise. In the meantime, do not worry about the dream." He heard the cheers outside. "It means nothing at all. Besides, we have bigger things to worry about. But you are right – it is only good for him to leave. He is part of my family, and my family is a breed of warriors. He will do well, yes." He said this to comfort himself. The butterflies in his stomach did not die down. He turned his mind from his son, who would be passing under the raised gates of Rome this very moment. "Your dream does not mean a thing."

XI

The Army of Julii snaked its way through the city, the great iron gates of Rome grinding open, revealing a sprawling panorama of crop fields, farming colonies and dirt roads stretching to the horizon. Far to both to the east and west, the Great Sea sent its waters crashing against the rocks, throwing up blinding spray and foam. Within the city, the group of men heard the chanting of the Army, the men young and old, proudly wearing their shields and swords and bronze helmets; their words floated through the windows, sliced into the crowded upper room, and caused those within to both wince and smile. The Army was departing; they had been set back but now the time was ripe. A few nights and the Army would be far away, intent on one thing and one thing alone: Gaul. The chant vibrated the stone walls of the home, wafting between the stone pillars out front:

in ut bellum, Romanorum miles militis (on to war, Roman soldier)

in ut bellum (on to war)

victoria vel evince (victory or defeat)

vires quod veneration (strength and honor)

in ut bellum (on to war)

in ut bellum, Romanorum miles militis (on to war, Roman soldier)

"Gently they sing, with courage and bravado," a man sneered. "We shall hear their chants again, but they will be bowing before us." He faced the men. "We have been set back, but we did not let it deter us. The gods favor us; this we know. I have had the visions, I have experienced the breath of Mars: he commands us to act, and act with honor! If we fail, we shall be seen as traitors; if

we succeed, we will be heroes! Much hinges on this, but do not fear: the war god Mars rests his likening upon us. We will not fail. We cannot fail."

Someone leaned forward, and said over the distant chanting: "When?"

He drew his dagger and thrust it into the table; it wobbled back and forth. He smiled at the knife and snarled, "That decision rests in the hands of the gods; we shall wait for them to speak, or waste our energies on a futile cause. Yet do not be mistaken. Our time of glory is at hand." He ripped the dagger from the table and stormed from the room, awash with abominable fury.