1 - At the Ventii Estate - Late Summer 1129

The late summer heat baked the red earth. The helot scythemen had taken shelter from the afternoon sun, hiding in whatever shade was left beneath the wild-olive groves at the edges of the fields. Even the cruelest slave-drivers could not bring themselves to force the men back to their reaping, though delay would surely keep the men on both the sides of the whip laboring long into the night. A scant few women remained in employment to bring in what had been cut to the threshing floors, but aside from these hardy few the entire estate of the Ventii had settled into a midday stillness. The rare moment of quiet was broken only by the sound of hoof-beats from the two mounted strangers now approaching the estate’s manor-house.

The old master of the house struggled to clip a branch off the barkrose bush which had lately become his magnum opus. Even though he had this morning demanded the estate’s farrier repair his pruning shears, the old helot lacked the skills to do anything more than hammer the blades into a simulation of sharpness, and the pair still struggled to cut through the stubborn knots of the plant. Or, perhaps, it was the master’s own withered condition that stopped him from making a clean cut. Proconsul Ventius was now the better part of seventy-four years old and had not taken all of those years well. Foiled again by a messy cut, he stabbed the open blades into the loam and sat back in the wrought-iron chair under the garden pavilion. Though they were not at all dirty, he took his handkerchief from his breast-pocket and began to clean his spectacles, as was his usual custom when so frustrated by his infirmity or incompetence.

“Master, two men from the Capitol…”

The voice belonged to one of the dozens of housemaids assigned to the manor. A girl of perhaps seventeen or eighteen, she seemed to tremble more and more as she approached the Proconsul. The old man’s impatience must have been seeping through his facade of resignation.

“Well? Go on then, girl, finish your thoughts. What of these men?”

The slave girl glanced backwards. The two men she spoke of had just appeared there at the garden’s edge. Then she stammered back her reply:

“Y-yes, Master. Two men from the Capitol have j-just called. They are here on-”

The old proconsul was back on his feet already. Taking his ivory-handled cane into a sword-grip, he lifted it above his head and brought it down with a quick thwack onto the helot girl’s temple. The young girl was thrown off her balance and into the fresh soil, muddying her previously spotless white apron. The two men she had brought stood stunned at the display.

“Girl! Which of these dirt piles did you find your manners in? All guests, whether they call for business or pleasure, are to be greeted in the foyer. They are NEVER to be brought into the private pleasures of the household unless the master HIMSELF invites them!”

The girl was still struck back on the ground in terror, unable to form either an excuse or apology. The old man above her glared down on her, awaiting an explanation. It did not come from the girl.

“My apologies, Your excellency. I asked her to bring us directly to you. The error in protocol is mine.”

The man who stood at the pavilion entrance was only a little shorter than six feet tall, with slicked black hair that ran down to bushy sideburns. His garnet tailcoat hid well the dry dust that caked his white breeches above his riding boots. As the saying went, the uniform of a republican officer did not look proper on a man unless it had some signs of a hard day’s march on it. Yet, in the punishing heat, the uniform still looked inappropriately heavy. Certainly, this man’s ensemble had far less majesty than the gleaming ivory tailcoat of the man next to him. Well over six feet tall and with well trimmed golden hair, the second man looked like some marble statue from antiquity more than a gentleman on errands. Even his black riding boots seemed less caked with dirt than those of his garnet-clad companion. The old proconsul turned his eyes to his new callers.

“Protocol must be respected, sir. Our forefathers left it to us in wisdom, not ignorance. It is not the place of a servant to choose to violate it, even if it is at the request of a guest. Up, girl.”

The maid collected herself and rose to her feet. She did not dare to look the old man in the eye again. That, however, did not prevent him from snapping back at her.

“Well? What are you standing there for? We have guests! Fetch some tea from the ice house, at once!”

At these words, the girl was at last routed from the pavilion.

“I must apologize for the rudeness of my staff. It is never befitting of a lord to scold his charges before company, but I fear I may forget to do so if I do not do it in the moment the offense is made. I hope you will excuse an old man. It is harder and harder to remember things as the days grow long…”

The old man now brought his full attention back to the two callers.

“Now, gentlemen, how may I be of service to you?”

At this, the taller of the two men stepped forward and made a polite bow.

“I am Gaius Fulvius Aureus, General of the 14th Legion. This man next to me-”

He swept his hand over in a flourish to indicate the man in the garnet uniform, who stood with a rigid bearing before taking a stiff, short bow. The proconsul noted now for the first time that this man had a small scar running from his left cheek to his jaw. It was the only sign that his caller was not some fresh lieutenant straight from military school. He looked young despite his rank clearly indicating that he should be at least twenty-eight years old.

“This man next to me is Lucius Servilius Quintus. He is the centurion of the 4th Cohort of the 14th Legion.”

The proconsul raised his eyebrow.

“Fourth?”

General Aureus returned a pleasant smile.

“Yes, Fourth.”

The proconsul’s expression soured again. The general continued.

“We are here on orders of the senate. I had been under the impression that the young master Agricola was now managing the Ventii estate in Frumentivecla. I must apologize- when I asked for the master of the house, I did not anticipate that I would get to meet Your Excellency.”

The old man did not buy the general’s flattery.

“Is it the common opinion in the Capitol that I have departed this dear world? That I have left everything to that useless creature?”

The general did not allow his placid smile to break under the old man’s broadside.

“No, Your Excellency. We have merely heard nothing from you in the Capitol for a decade.”

“What use would it be, to send invective to those pig-heads in the senate? I know already that they won’t listen to me. Young men like them have no respect for the customs of our forefathers. Why, they’re even changing the structure of the legions now. When I held the privilege in command, there were three cohorts to a Legion. Not four. Not two. Not seven, or six, or any other number. And do you know why, General?”

Aureus was more visibly exasperated now.

“No, Your Excellency - why is that?”

“Because our ancestors won this great republic, this great province, this very estate, on the backs of the three cohorts. There is a place for everything. The first cohort bloods the young. The second cohort bears the burden of the long fight. And then, when all else is lost, the third cohort carries the day. That is simply how it should be!”

The old man was getting quite agitated now. Quintus stepped forward to bring things back to the matter they had come for.

“With all due respect, Your Excellency, we did not come here to discuss tactics, or the structure of the legion. We’ve come to bring our man to muster.”

“Your man? My son?”

The proconsul scoffed.

“Yes, Your Excellency. He’s being recalled to active duty. I have the orders of the senate here.”

Quintus pulled out a scroll tube from his uniform’s flank pocket. It was only half a palm in diameter, but it carried an ornate wax seal bearing the emblem of the republican senate. He moved to break the seal. The old Proconsul leaned backwards, slumping down into the garden chair. He resumed polishing his eyeglasses, pausing only once or twice to regard his two guests before continuing with little vigor. The maid girl returned with a crystal-glass pitcher of tea and began to pour out three cups for the gentlemen on the garden table. Condensation beaded up on the pitcher. Quintus, having at last unfurled the tightly-wound scroll, cleared his throat. He stopped himself for a moment to scan for the renewed attention of his audience. His eyes were drawn to the serving girl. A visible welt had now formed where the old man had struck her on the temple. Quintus grimaced, then straightened himself and began to read the lengthy decree.

“By order of the senate and people of the noble republic of Mediola, We, the senate, do enact and declare-”
“You may dispense with the puffery, please. It’s very hot.”

The old man took a sip of his chilled tea, staring at nothing in particular. Quintus and the General had not even taken their seats yet.

“Very well, Your Excellency, I shall attempt to summarize the order. The senate has declared that the 14th Legion Libertavictrix, in light of its destruction last summer at the hands of the traitor Mariomajorax, shall be reconstituted. Furthermore, the senate declares that Suffect-Consul Gaius Fulvius Aureus, on account of his skilled command and years of loyalty-”

“I said, ‘skip the puffery.’”

General Aureus didn’t seem to mind this apparent barb from the old man. Quintus paused, then continued in staccato.

“Very well, I’ll truncate. Suffect-Consul Aureus is to take command of the reconstituted 14th Legion. He is furthermore empowered to reconstitute the legion by promotion of any survivor of the 14th Legion. He is furthermore empowered to rebuild the officer cadre by impressing any officer found absent without leave after the Ides of Vernia, republican year 1128. He is furthermore-”

The Proconsul shook his head.

“Pah. I haven’t a clue what you’re expecting from a deserter. Girl!”

The maid jumped back to attention. The proconsul did not look her way, but continued to gaze idly into the distance.

“Fetch my son. Make sure he is presentable for our guests.”

“Y-Yes, Master!”

The girl dashed off towards the screened porch of the manor house. Quintus watched her back as she nearly plowed into another serving girl bringing a tray of sponge cake out into the garden. The shining general now spoke, continuing where Quintus had left off from the decree.

“Furthermore, I have been empowered to arrest and send for summary execution any officer of the legions found absent without leave who attempts to resist or evade impressment. That includes, I’m afraid, one certain Marcus Ventius Agricola Secundus, who has been found to be absent without leave since the end of the winter of 1125 and has forfeited his rights and privileges of rank.”

The proconsul said nothing for a moment. Then, he gestured to the other wrought-iron chairs neatly arranged opposite the table.

“Gentlemen, please have a seat.”

The two obeyed. The proconsul let out a sigh full of the weariness of many years under the summer sun.

“I have long, long given up on making anything useful out of that boy. I think you shall see well enough that he’s not worth the journey you men have taken from the Capitol. I must beg your forgiveness that I have raised such a profligate. You shall have of him what use you will, but…”

Quintus took his seat across from the old man, who still struggled to find a resolution to this thought. Another maid came to deliver sponge cakes to the table. The general leaned over in his chair to inspect the bark-roses that had caused the proconsul so much grief.

“I must rely on your son. I fear we have no other candidates for his billet.”

This piqued the old man’s curiosity.

“Oh? What billet is so special that only a wastrel can fill it? Is he to be loaded into a cannon with the grapeshot?”

Quintus leaned forward as if to deflect the old man’s sarcasm.

“He’s to be the deacon of the 4th cohort.”

“Oh, yes, yes, that nonsense you mentioned before. Are they to be a cohort for forlorn hopes and suicide charges? Perhaps they would be even better as ritual sacrifices for the soothsayers, in place of the bulls. At least an ox can pull a wagon.”

“The 4th cohort will be mustered from freeborns and freedmen.”

The old man’s resigned expression twisted into a snarl.

“I see. No wonder you need someone as debased as my son.”

Quintus pulled back in the face of this acidic skepticism.

“Your Excellency doesn’t approve?”

The old man turned his eyes to the general, who was still admiring the exotic blooms aside the pavilion. He spoke in a voice loud enough for the general to hear.

“The fools in the senate- no, all you young men- you don’t know the proper place of things. You see my garden? Imagine if I had been so careless with how I spread seed that I let the honeybirds and the bark roses grow together. As careless as my son has been…”

The old man turned his gaze off into the distance. Some 300 paces away, at the far edge of the garden, a helot girl was sweeping leaves off of a shadowy path through the ornamental pines. A young child played beside her, streaks of blond fluttering as he jumped. He turned back to Quintus.

“They’re parasites, you know. If you plant them together, they will entangle their roots until one chokes the life out of the other.”

General Aureus returned to the conversation with his ever-placid smile.

“Thank you for your horticultural knowledge, Your Excellency.”

Just then, another man strode up to the pavilion. He was wearing the same Garnet tailcoat as Quintus - except it was not the same. One side had been bleached to nearly a salmon pink by the sun, as if it had been hung up and used for window dressing. Both epaulets had been torn off. The man had raggedy blond hair parted crookedly to both sides. He hadn’t shaved in weeks. His bearing was slouched- totally unbecoming of an officer of the republic. Only his blue eyes indicated any nobility, any sense of lingering dignity at all.

“So, this is the man I’m to march off into hell with? No, not impressed.”

These words did not come from Quintus.