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Gaius Valerius Flaccus climbed the slope by the Campus Agrippae toward the Quirinal with leaden feet. His father’s home was just ahead, a few hundred paces more and he would be home. His trip to the north had indeed given him a new outlook on his noble wife- much as his father had predicted. Yet Gaius Valerius Flaccus Senior had no idea of the sort of emotion his son would learn. It was not the appreciation of a proper Roman wife after viewing the power-mad antics of Messalina.
Demetrius was in the doorway, returning from errands for the kitchen, by the looks of the sack of vegetables in his hand. The slave saw the young master arriving, and held the portal open for him.
“Welcome home, dominus,” the slave said with a broad smile. “Polixa is making a stew tonight. Your favorite, as if she knew you would be here tonight.”
Flaccus smiled wanly. “Is my wife in the house?”
Demetrius nodded. “She has your son repeating stanzas from your work- but you did not hear that from me. It is to be a surprise.”
Flaccus let the wan smile grow wide, then fade. His son was learning his poetry, a true Valerius. Then the bloodline of his son brushed away the thought, replacing it with the more sinister thought that the mother was trying her best to make the boy a Valerius Flaccus, instead of the seed of a ruthless magistrate.
Words failed him, so he simply went into the house. The two Gallic maids took his traveling robes and dirty clothes for washing, while the third poured and brought him a draught of the latest wine to come from his father’s estates in Etruria. He accepted the wine, drank it in a single draught, then retired to his room until wakened for dinner.
Licinia was properly attired, as he knew she would be. She had on a long gown of white linen that complemented her fair complexion wonderfully, with her long red hair piled high upon her head in the latest fashion, with two thick strands curling down to frame her face. She took her place at the foot of the table, occupying the lounging sofa almost fully. Little Gaius was in a basket by her head, though it was his nap time so he was peaceful. Polixa placed the stew into bowls and served first her dominus, then her domina before gracefully retiring.
Licinia chatted up a storm between bites. Somehow, while never leaving the house, she had acquired the most fascinating array of gossip and rumors he had ever heard. Who was cheating whom, who was philandering, who was adulterous, who was secretly in love with the latest public favorite of the gladiators. And politically she was an animal- who bribed whom for what favor, how a certain dealer made a killing in the markets, which candidates were going to be nominated for office in the winter.
Through it all, Gaius barely grunted. He opened his mouth only to eat, and never raised his eyes from his food.
Licinia rolled her lovely green eyes towards the ceiling. “Really, Gaius. You, a poet, hardly speaking? You have been away- you should be regaling me with tales of Lugdunum and the roads there. Did you stop at that inn just west of Mediolanium? Sextus Lentulus there makes the best food in all of northern Italia.”
“I did not go to Lugdunum,” he said at last. He still could not look her in the eye. “I went to Patavium.”
“Patavium?” she gasped. “Why on earth would you go there?” She wanted to add, ‘to that pest-hole’ but she knew how her husband thought of women using what he considered ‘strong’ language.
“Martialis was there,” he said noncommittally. “He’s from there, you know.”
Licinia knew. Two poets, together in a city of eloquent Gauls. And his mannerism since returning became clear. He had been wined and dined, then seduced. Either by Martialis, which she doubted, or by a host of Gallic and Roman women there looking to be wooed by such a man of words. Her husband was a fine-looking man, after all. And now he returns from his rut, feeling guilty. Men were so silly.
Flaccus, for his part, peeked up occasionally at his wife. She was a strong one, brushing the memory of her rape aside to continue her life, never letting the horrid incident affect the proper performance of her matrimonial duties. Never once had she shied away from his touch, though he now understood why she never sought out his touch either. Painful reminders, which she brutally ignored. She was scarred for life, yet did not let it show.
Flaccus cursed to himself. That Rutilius... He shall pay for the abuse he inflicted upon fair Licinia. If it was the last thing he did, he would make sure that Rutilius of Germania Inferior suffered eternally and painfully for the rape of his beloved, strong Licinia.
Flaccus grunted to something she said. He did not hear it, as he was lost in his own thoughts. It did not matter. His wife was strong- that did matter. Strong, and beautiful. And proper- even if she did spoil her ill-begotten child rotten in her efforts to make him a true Valerius. Well, she would not have to suffer his touch and be reminded of her awful experience. Gunnhild, the Bructeri domestic he bought in Patavium, would tend to his physical needs, giving his wife the emotional distance she needed from the touch of a man to drive all symptoms of her experience away into that locked corner of her brain where it may one day perish.
And Gunnhild had red hair, too.
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A man ran along the edge of the open field, trying to stay low as low as possible and inside the treeline where possible. From the reactions of those observing him, only the small group of men expecting him saw his movement.
“Something is not right,” the man reported when he joined those waiting. “I saw lights in the main house and those of most of the cottages behind, but only about forty men outside.”
“Cacat,” murmured the leader of the small group. “That means our target might not be at home.”
“Or he lost very many of his precious Guards this summer,” replied the scout. “He did take on the whole warhost basically by himself.”
“Shall we pull back and try again at a later date, Burgis?” asked one of those waiting.
The leader, Burgis, thought over the situation. He was hired to do a job, a wicked job, but one that would pay him well enough to retire wealthy in his native Aquitania. But he had spent a portion of that coming wealth already hiring a ship to facilitate his escape- being caught by vengeful Germans would be detrimental to his plans, and if he and his band fled by land they would definitely be caught. He had no doubts. Hiring another ship willing to transport him on the Rhenus between Roman territory and that of wild Germania was too bloody expensive- there would be little left over if he came again another day.
“How many are on roving patrols?” he asked.
“Samnix killed two over that way about ten minutes ago. Nobody else has seen anything.”
Cacat! I hope he lost more than anticipated over there, rather than not being home. Either way, we are now committed.
“Spread the word,” he said softly, making up his mind. “We strike when the sun sinks low enough to blind those guards on the portico, as planned. Maybe our target is just being cagey- he has that reputation, or maybe he lost many Guards across the river- making our job easier. Either way, they number less than we. This is our only shot. We strike.”
The scout nodded. “I’ll spread the word.”
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The summer heat was dissipating, bringing Rome back to a more bearable temperature. The retreat of the heat dragged with it an influx of people. The senators and First Class returned from their summer homes to the city, and citizens from throughout Italia came to enjoy the Ludi Romani, given this year by the aediles Titus Junius Montanus and Lucius Antonius Saturinus. Both were men from formerly powerful clans that had fallen hard since their glory days, but now wished to return to their former status.
The best boxers, racers, tumblers, dancers, horsemen, and charioteers were brought in, while the food provided was to be of the highest quality. Neither aedile wished their games to be remembered as less than the best, lest they fail to be remembered in six years when they become eligible for consul. Vespasian was sure to put himself and his son as consul each year, but the Old Owl was also relatively free with handing out suffect consulships, which were the best an aspiring senator could hope for in these days.
Thus the games were on, and the people flocked to the city to watch them. People also came to talk and listen, as the city buzzed with the latest news from the edges of the Empire to the center of the world. Merchants and other travelers helped to spread the news, but there was nothing like the Ludi Romani to catch up on everything that was happening anywhere.
There was not much said about the events in Germania Inferior, as those few who knew the truth of the events up north were keeping their mouths shut- at imperial request. What word was spread through slavers and the like was of a raid by the legions, which ended well. The other events were overshadowed by the tremendous victory of Cornelius Clemens in conquering the Agri Decumates, closing the Germanic gateway to Rome permanently and building roads to cut the travel time from Patavium and Raetia to Vindonissa and Mogontiacum by two thirds.
In Britannia, Frontinus had relieved Cerealis and immediately set about reducing the troublesome heathens of the Silures and Ordovices into subservient, docile peregrini. It was going to take a while, but Frontinus had a solid plan. The first thing he did was order the II Augusta to a new base at some backwater he named Isca Augusta, then commanded the auxilia to build castella in a network around it. From there he could control the rich gold mines of nearby Dolaucothi. As for his conquest... That remained to be seen.
Spain was relatively quiet, so quiet that only a single legion was required to garrison the entire peninsula, with no auxiliaries needed. Several influential families from the area had been given the citizenship, and those Romans who had settled there were doing well in both politics and the military. One of them, Marcus Ulpius Traianus, had served under the Imperator in Judea, commanding the X Frentensis. He was now back from Mauretania, and competing with several local nobles for a new governorship somewhere in the East.
Africa and Aegyptus are looking forward to near-record harvests, providing a relief for the poor who had been close to rioting after three poor harvests in a row. Sicilia had bumper crops in those years, easing the effects of the drought affecting the southern shores of Mare Nostrum.
Only in the East were there problems. A tribe of Sarmatians called Alani, Alauni, or Halani, or some other such nonsense had raided the western provinces of the Parthians a few years back before being driven off. Now they were back, and plaguing the lands of Friend and Ally King Tiridates of Armenia- a man enthroned by Nero through the successes of Corbulo. Vespasian, who served in the east before usurping the office of Imperator, still had far to go to supplant mad Nero’s popularity in the East. He was trying, though, and dispatched Bassus to help the Armenians through constructing fortifications near Armazi to keep the marauders at bay.
The visitors to Rome gloried in the games. Local hero Titus Bessus won the first heat of the quadriga chariot races, thrilling the crowd by demolishing his competition in his last-second maneuver at the final hairpin turn. Gratius collided with the wall in trying to avoid Bessus and flipped over, giving Bessus the victory and a new title.
While the games were on, so were reunions with family members. Among the more popular activities for those returning citizens was viewing the latest changes to the city. Vespasian’s Forum was complete, turning rubbled heaps into a wonderful open-air garden complete with fountains and statues, surrounded by a colonnaded portico. At one end of the forum was the Templum Pacis, the Temple of Peace. This structure was supposed to celebrate Vespasian’s triumph over the Jew and his conquest of Jerusalem. It even housed the original seven-branched Menorah, taken as spoils from Herod’s Temple. The fact that the foundations upon which the Temple of Peace was built were from houses destroyed by his troops while seizing the city provided a stern, subtle message to all. It was not a true forum, in that the forum had no official civil function, yet it was still a place where men could walk in the shade on a hot afternoon and discuss the stability and peace the Old Owl had brought to Rome over the bones of those who would deny him.
Many also walked to the top of the Capitoline hill, where the reconstruction of the Temple of Jupiter was almost complete. The building had been put on hold for the Ludi as most of the builders were local boys and the ludi were public holidays. But soon after it would again be open to the public. Those who did not know why the building needed repairs were informed by the guards watching over the area. They were told of the Last Days of Vitellius, when Vitellian supporters drove the Imperator’s brother and family into the temple then set it afire. Only Domitianus and his cousin Sabinus escaped the flames. The others, including Vespasian’s brother, perished. The Temple would be restored in their memory, to honor Jupiter Maximus Optimus for allowing Vespasian and his men to gain vengeance for their kin’s brutal murder in this holy site.
The Imperator and his Family were attending the games, as were most of the aristocrats and senators. A few were conspicuously absent, but their absences were counted as blessings. Others were absent and not even noticed, like Caecina. He had gone to the baths that day, but left early as the press of visitors became too much for him to handle. He returned home hot, bitter, and in a foul mood to find his servants had departed. Cursing, he entered his study and poured himself a goblet of wine, drank it straight, then another, this time watered properly. He felt better. He dropped his towel over a stool and wandered into his bedroom to grab a clean tunic.
“My my,” said a seductively low voice. “One would assume you knew I was here.”
He whirled about in surprise, his eyes searching the shadows. The light that filtered in through his shutters was enough to reveal a slender woman lying in his bed, with but a sheet over her.
“Caenis,” he said, identifying the minx. “What game are you up to?”
“I am tired of games,” she said, rising. His eyes were adjusted enough to the low light to see clearly. Her breasts were not large, but appeared very firm. Her stomach had wrinkles- some deep, but was still very flat for a woman her age. Between her legs was a triangle shot with gray- the first true signs of age he saw. Her legs were still muscular and firm, and her eyes were locked upon his.
“All day, I hear of nothing but the games,” she said. “Games, games, games. My man is out there now, cheering and praising those partaking, while shoving me back into the shadows like a common slave. I do not like the games, but can play my own. So this afternoon you will take me, Aulus Caecina, and take me thoroughly.” Her eyes glowed as she spoke, “A woman has needs, too.”
Aulus thought of running, but Caenis held his fate in her hand. Invitations to where the powerful met would dry up, and those with whom he had been rubbing shoulders would soon shun him. She held not only his fate in her hand, but with a few words his life as well. And then she held his manhood in her hand as well. That treacherous organ began to rise.
“I see you have needs as well, my champion,” she said huskily. “Come, let us have our own games. The prize is a wonderful career.”
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The Games would be great. The city was shining, the Empire was at rest, and the foes defeated. A feeling of accomplishment and satisfaction would settle over the city. That feeling would remain until after the games.
Elsewhere in the Empire, that feeling would be brutally and viciously torn asunder.
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