Son of Mars

Vincent B. Davis II

For Conor

Introduction

Dear Reader,

It has been a year since I’ve completed a scroll in my memoir. I’ve made a vow to the goddess Diana that I will return to it soon, but in the meantime, I wanted to share a letter I found amongst my personal correspondence archives.

This is a letter I received from the Consul Gaius Marius after the Battle of Arausio. I never asked permission to share this, but since he is long dead and his enemies have since destroyed his reputation, I doubt this will tarnish his name any further.

Marius was a great man in his time. He wrote this for a few reasons, but I believe the foremost was because he needed to tell the story. He wanted the world to know who Gaius Marius was before he became the Savior of Rome. I’ve saved this letter for 30 years because it has been a great comfort to me when I've had time to reflect on it. The general and I weren’t so different, after all, and there was much I learned from reflecting on these stories he shared. I hope that you, reader, may learn something from the Son of Mars, as he so describes himself, as I have.

Until I write again, I will sacrifice that these short scrolls will make it into the right hands.

Quintus Sertorius

* * *

Haven’t read Vincent’s first book? Make sure to check it out first!

Centurion Quintus Sertorius,

I much prefer writing on wax tablets. They are much better for military orders. This parchment is too soft, it threatens to break under the pressure of my stylus. It makes me feel like a Greek, and you know how I feel about Greeks. Regardless, what I want to share with you is too long to detail on a wax tablet.

I write for two reasons. The first is this: the losses at Arausio grieve me. The reports are being altered every day. When word reached our camp, the stated number of Roman casualties was near 50,000 men. 50,000 good men? It seemed impossible. A tragedy to match the Gallic sack of Rome. Now the reports state that the losses are closer to 90,000. It’s incomprehensible. The one reprieve is that both you and my Son-in-Law Maximus have lived, and that gives me hope. I write this to encourage you before your return to the Army. I can, and in fact already have, issued orders for you to serve in the legions under my command. However, I want you at your best. And if a little encouragement can help you get there, I will now provide it. I have much that I will require of you, Centurion. Be assured of that.

The other reason I write is this: I’m in winter quarters and quite bored. The war against the Numidians is long over, and it isn’t time yet to meet the Cimbri and Teutones again. But I want to fight. My skin crawls with the desire for battle. I’m kept up at night with pleasant dreams of cutting the Cimbri down for what they did. But I cannot have battle, not yet, so instead I will write about it.

First, I must start with my life, and how I made it into the Colors to begin with.

* * *

I was born in a village not too dissimilar to your own. My role was that of a farmhand to my father. We had several iugera of land, nearly 30 to the best of my recollection, and that made us one of the wealthier families in Arpinum. Wealthier, at least in theory. In the village as it is in Rome, the man who owns the most land is the more well-to-do citizen, but we were anything but well-to-do.

My father was a tormented man.

He had an attraction to wine that makes my own look like that of a Vestal Virgin if you can believe it. He also liked to gamble. When he mixed the two, wine and gambling, he’d lose about everything he had.

He’d return home, absent every denarii he earned off the crops grown by the sweat of my brow, stinking of putrid wine, sweat, and urine. We never knew where he went, or how long he would remain gone. Only one thing was certain: when he got home, we’d receive a beating.

My father was angry that he had lost his money, as if Fortuna had cursed him for having inadequate children. He’d line me up beside my brother Marcus and my sister Maria and beat us until we cried. Then he would continue the beating until our tears ceased.

He beat our mother in private.

But he didn’t need a dice games to excuse his beating. Anything could prompt them. He’d beat us when he was displeased with the crops, in quality or quantity. He’d beat us when the wrong gladiator won in a friend’s funeral games. He'd beat us if we looked at him wrong, or if the weather was poor, or if one of the respected men in the village insulted him.

We accepted the blows as a normal part of life. My father had a habit of coming in from gods know where and reclining on a couch for a moment to collect his breath. He would look at each of us with beady eyes, trying to decide who would receive the brunt of his aggression.

I always hoped it wouldn’t be me. But in the strangest sort or way, I actually did want it to be me. It meant that my little brother and my mother were safe, at least for a time. But more importantly, it felt as if I had been selected. He made it seem as though the whip was for our edification, our growth. It was, distorted though it may be, the only affection our father ever showed us. To be selected for a beating was to be at the forefront of a wayward man’s mind, and every young man wants to be the center of his father’s attention.

The beating our father dealt us was nothing compared to what he did to his slaves. I once saw him dunk a slave’s head into boiling water because he stepped in horse shit on his way home.

* * *

My mother wasn’t much better equipped to rear a future Consul of Rome. You trained horses, didn’t you, Sertorius? I’m sure you came across the type of mare that had been beaten into submission, so she would never rebel against you or ignore an order, but had no spirit left within her. This was my mother: a tired old mare. Whatever life had dwelled in her before my brith was absent by my birth, perhaps it was my father’s whip that accomplished the extraction. She would sit and watch him hit us with emotionless eyes, only waiting her turn, which she would never refuse.

She was cold and distant, my mother. Even from my earliest memories, I couldn’t remember a time when she nurtured me. That responsibility was left to our slaves, who could hardly speak our language.

I never held this against my mother. She did as a Roman matron should, educated us and prepared us for how cruel the world can be.

I supported her financially until her death, but I had not seen her in many years.

* * *

My brother Marcus was not much of a recompense either. He was hopelessly devoted to Father and was cursed to become just like him. Perhaps this is why a man of his intellect and ability has never left that shitty village we were raised in.

We shared in the suffering of our youth, and that makes brothers close, but our relationship did not extend beyond that. In more recent years, we have grown closer. Perhaps it is because mother and father are now dead. Perhaps it is simply that no one else remains that shared our youth. Perhaps it is because of the love an uncle dotes on his nieces and nephews as I hold his children dear to my old soldier’s heart.

* * *

My sister was a good woman. She was 12 years my elder, so we were never close, but she often served the role of the mother in our household. When someone needed disciplining, and not the kind my father handed out, she was the judge and the executioner. She was also the one to listen to our stories, and would make sure our cook would save a few delicacies for Marcus and I before my father ate everything prepared.

Her real service to me was in the man she wed. That man was Marcus Gratidius, a man who beloved by all in our village. His blood had drops of nobility, but his renown was of an individual nature rather than handed down by his ancestors. He was a brilliant lawyer and orator, speaking before Arpinum’s assemblies with eloquence and charisma. He cared a bit more for Greek literature than I liked in a man, but his affable nature made him everyone's friend. Gratidius was a good friend to the Cicero family, as well as the Antonii, who were leading families in Arpinum. But regardless, he married my sister.

His purpose in taking my sister as his bride, when he could have had any lady in the village, will always be a mystery to me. It certainly wasn’t her looks. He married the daughter of a debauched man, into a family with waning fortunes, and somehow that still could not tarnish him. He was so confident in his decision that no one ever questioned it. Gratidius was a hero my hero then, and even now. I can also say he was the only friend I cherish from my youth. He was 14 years my elder, but never lorded that over me. I believed he enjoyed time with me as much as I him. And if it wasn’t for his friendship and silent tutelage, I’m not sure if I would be here, as the First Man in Rome.

* * *

620 years after the founding of the city, Gratidius decided to do his duty to Rome, and joined the legions. We all knew it was the just beginning for him, the first rung on a ladder to glory and power. He seemed to be the only one who was not mindful of this. He simply desired to fight for Rome.

“Gaius, I am leaving soon. You know this?” he said one evening as he dined with our family.

“I do. Where will you go?” I asked, upset at his departure but pleased that he wanted to confer with me about it beforehand.

“To Rome first, and then I’ll depart with the legions from there. Scipio Aemilianus is raising an army to fight the Celtiberians in Spain, and I shall go with him.”

“Scipio? The grandson of Scipio Africanus?” my father asked with raised eyebrows. He was never impressed by anything, save his Son-in-Law. Gratidius was the one man my father never looked down on.

“That’s correct. Aemilianus is the one who finished his grandfather’s work and burned down Carthage. Some say he’s the greatest Roman general since his grandfather passed, and I’m inclined to agree.”

I felt my breath quicken, and I fidgeted. I wanted to know a man like Scipio. I wanted to win glory for Rome. I wanted to impress my father the way Gratidius did.

“Perhaps I could join the legion too, father?” I asked.

He took a long pull of his unwatered-wine and laughed. “I don’t think so, boy.” He said nothing else. Perhaps I was unfit for the legion, I thought.

* * *

With Gratidius leaving, I needed something else to occupy myself. I was uncomfortable as simply a farmhand. I wanted more from life, and the gods whispered in my ear that there was something special about me. Even then, I believe an ember burned that told me I would one day be a great man.

If I couldn’t win glory in the legions, then I would run for office. Local office, mind you, because I couldn’t imagine running for office in Rome, due to my upbringing and family name.

When I tried to run for the local magistracy of grain monitor, I was laughed at.

As I spoke before the local elders about my candidacy, they shook their heads.

“No one would vote for you. The son of a man who sleeps in the street, drenched in vomit and reeking of wine, could never win favor here.” One said.

“Some say your father is cursed.” Spoke another.

“You’ve better odds becoming the Dictator of Rome.” Another scoffed.

They would all be proven wrong, but I didn’t know that then. I was crushed. Had I no prospects for a future? Would I simply inherit my portion of father’s land, work the field, and die? I couldn’t bear it.

When I went home and told my father, his response was much the same, but for different reasons.

At first my proposition was met with hilarity. He laughed until the hiccups stopped him.

“How could you be grain monitor, boy? You can’t even count. You can barely read. There's nothing to gain from the embarrassment.”

After we discussed it for a while, he worked himself into a rage.

He blamed my stupidity for his anger, slapping my face and cursing my foolish heart. In truth, I believe he worried for the first time that I might rise above his station. This, he could not allow.

He did everything he could to squash my aspirations, but it was too late. The hearth fire was kindled. I was no longer willing to work the field with my hands and do nothing more.

So, as every young man is apt to do at least once in his youth, I disobeyed my father’s orders.

I went the next day to the local registrar and joined the legion.

When I returned home, I first told my brother. He shrugged his shoulders.

Next I told my mother. She nodded her head, but said nothing.

Afterwards I told my sister. At first I thought she might weep, but collected herself.

“Take care of my husband,” she said.

I told my father last.

He took a moment to reply as if calculating and trying to make sense of this treason. As it set in, he clenched his first and reared back to hit me. By this time, his body was decaying from his epicurean lifestyle, but he could still beat me to a pulp. I was twice his size, and strong from working the field, but something sucked all the strength from my limbs the moment my father raised his fist.

But for once, he did not strike me. He paused.

“How much did they offer you?” he asked at length.

“What?”

“The legion. How much did they promise to pay you?”

“Does it matter?”

“I’ll double it.” He met my eyes for the first time that day, maybe even the first time in my life.

“You would pay me three hundred denarii?”

“If I have to.” He had tears in his eyes. Now I saw him for what he was: a broken old man, always drunk and always scared, cursed by Dionysius, the god he loved so much. I felt pity for him.

His resistance to my leaving has always been a mystery to me. I like to imagine it came from the still decent part of his heart that feared for his son.

Regardless, I made a decision, and had already sworn my oath. The next day, I left for Rome.

I never saw my father again.

Believe it or not, I was planning to join as a hastati. You may not be familiar with that class, as you served after my reforms, but that was the lowest ranking foot soldier in the legion, save the arrow-fodder velites. When I arrived on the Field of Mars to begin my training, I learned that my noble brother-in-law Gratidius, who was serving in the capacity of Military Tribune, had helped secure me a position on his staff.

I received a horse, a blessing I at first hated. I spent little time riding horses in Ariminum, and they chafed my legs till they scarred and bled. Regardless, I was honored to serve under Gratidius, and be among the few men who could sit atop that thousand libra beast.

Our general, the famed Scipio Aemilianus, spared no effort in preparing us. He was a strict disciplinarian and gave us but a moment to eat between our marching drills. I have always told my soldiers that any hardship they suffer under me is a light sentence compared to serving under Scipio, but their malice towards me should be directed at him. I learned how to handle a legion from Scipio.

We wasted no time before setting off for Spain. I was a simple provincial boy, much like yourself, and I was about to see the world outside of Rome’s borders. I hadn’t realized that such places existed beforehand.

We took the coastal route through Gaul, straight to Spain. Over ten years had passed since Scipio had razed Carthage, and he was hungry for more glory. You could see it in his eyes, the desire to extend Rome’s reach farther than it had ever been. The untamed, savage, and wild tribes of Spain would soon be Roman subjects.

* * *

When we arrived, the state of things stunned us. The war had been waging against the Celtibereans for ten years. Ten years? By Mars and his bloody sword! I’ve been in Africa for less than 5, and I think the Fates have stalled time. The armies awaiting us reflected what ten years of fighting beasts can do to a man.

They had gone native. Our men had taken foreign “wives” that stayed in the baggage camps. They wore deer pelts to block out the cold when they weren’t in full kit. They ate strange foods and drank ale rather than wine. They took part in strange bathing rituals, such as using the grease of bear fat as the cleanser rather than oil.

In all things, they were the opposite of what I expected of a Roman army. All those tales of military glory now seemed strange.

But our general Scipio would have none of it. Gratidius told me his head nearly burst into flames when he saw the condition of the men he would now lead. So, because of their poor discipline, he treated them as the Centurions treat civilians when they are raw recruits. We marched, always, constantly. We never went far, Numantia was our objective city. We would march fifteen miles in one direction, then turn round and return.

He issued new orders that put our men through routine and boring training exercises: how to conduct battle, how to shave and groom our hair properly, how to clean each link in our lorica hamata. Even myself and other officer staff members were included in the training. He assumed everyone had forgotten how to conduct themselves like Roman soldiers, so decided to train us all on how to do so.

He sent men throughout the camps, collecting any semblance of civilized dining, and did away with it. Couches and tables were removed. A roasting pit, a cooking pan, and a cup was all that remained. That is how a real Roman eats, and Scipio knew it.

We marched often and hard. He made it clear that if we were not fighting, we would be working. Each day, at some designated location, we were to construct a new fortress. Each evening, we would tear it down. We dug massive trenches in the morning, and by nightfall they were refilled. And Scipio watched the whole thing: from dusk till dawn.

The General wore a black cloak, saying he was “mourning the dreadful state of the Army”. His wit was sharp, and everyone found it humorous, but his message was not lost to us either.

* * *

My first taste of combat went like this:

We were moving through an untamed land. The forests had grown up all around us, nothing but a path worn down by locals surrounded by a massive throng of ancient trees and overgrown weeds.

Even after marching like this for days, we were on high alert. Everything frightened us. There were strange animals all around us, and we were as frightened of them as we were the enemy. We had not seen the Celtiberians yet. Most of them were trapped in the besieged city of Numantia, but we knew they had men skulking in the mountains all around us, and many allied tribes who wouldn’t mind seeing a few more dead Romans.

As we moved along the path, we were forced to move into a single column.

Everything was silent before it happened. Even the birds and little animals clinging to the trees seemed to understand something was about to happen. Only us, the Romans, were unaware.

They appeared on all sides as if materializing like Shades of Pluto. They pounced like wild beasts, giving a shout to rival an army ten times their size.

One took a leap right at me. He had the high ground from the hill beside our path and toppled me from my horse.

I hit the ground, my neck whipping and my head cracking against the cold earth. My vision dissipated for a moment as the man climbed atop me with a sword poised in the air.

I remember my only thought because it was so strange: why does this man want to kill me? I’ve never met him, never harmed him. We had been training on combat, and I was prepared physically, but I wasn’t prepared for the aggression from this man I had never met.

Luckily my senses came back like a violent current. I shoved my palm into his nose and elbowed the sword from his hand. He leaned back, blinking rapidly. His eyes watered and his nose bled.

I struggled to pull my gladius from the sheath at my side. The man, recovering, tried to punch me and fingered at my throat violently, trying to get a hold on me. Once I had my sword in hand, I plunged it into his unguarded belly.

His face contorted like he was about to scream, but only blood poured from his lips. Letting out the roar of a Carthaginian lion, I shoved my gladius deeper, to the hilt.

I stood up, over him, and stepped on his chest. I ensured he was dead. And he was.

I hadn’t realized until then that the barbarian Celts were attacking the men around me. I was locked in a world where only I and this strange, angry man existed. Everything outside of our contest was shadow.

Collecting my wits, I ran to the aid of Gratidius, whose plumed helmet and crest made him a target.

That feeling, one you must know well by now, is something I cannot express. My body moved quicker than it ever could. I had more strength in my arms than I ever had before. I was elated. This was battle. I had succeeded. I had done what my father didn’t think I could do. I had taken a life. As powerful as a god.

It was something like sexual gratification, except maybe better.

I rushed into the fray, and pulled a Celt away from my brother-in-law, who was still atop his horse. I flung the man to the ground and plunged my sword into his chest, again and again. The look in his eyes was surprise, more than anything else. When you try to fight the Roman legion, death should be expected. This man didn’t seem to know that.

When I turned again, the Celts were scrambling. They ran off to whatever cave in the hills they had come from.

The order passed down from one end of the line to the other for us to remain in our positions, and to not give chase. It could be a trap. Whether or not it was, I was relieved that the battle was over. And that I had survived it. That I had killed. I was not a coward, and now I had proved it.

I looked at Gratidius, who was breathing heavily. We both chuckled.

Suddenly, whatever force had overtaken me dissipated. My entire body went weak, and I dropped to take a knee. Shame and guilt overcame me. I don’t know why. It was the same shame one experiences after sex.

I vomited a few times, and a tremor ran through my body.

At that moment I felt something wet on my leg. By all the gods, I had been cut. I patted my thigh to find it was drenched. A vein in my leg was severed, perhaps.

But after a moment of sheer terror, I realized it was piss. When the battle was won, and I victorious, I lost all control of my entire body. I was at once both relieved and ashamed, but looking around I noticed I wasn’t the only one. Most of the men were demobilized in the same way.

I laughed at myself and remained kneeling until I mustered the strength to stand.

Killing men is a strange thing, isn’t it, Sertorius? You should know by now. There is nothing else like it. Nothing so exhilarating, nothing so repulsive.

After our first battle was completed, we returned to Numantia. No one resented Scipio’s discipline any longer. In return for the legion’s new found appreciaton for military bearing, Scipio loosened his reins some. But only a little, mind you.

Scipio increased the fortifications around the city, building two main camps and seven siege towers connected by sturdy walls. Some of this was perhaps unnecessary, but he had a message to send to the Celtiberians: you will not make it out alive this time. Surrender or die.

The Celts received their message and believed it.

The entire bulk of their force outside the city walls, combined with the bravest of their allied tribes, marched against us. As a result of Scipio’s walls, we were besieged as well. But Rome is not a nation one should ever besiege. Scipio, unconcerned, marched us out in full order to meet them.

This was the first pitched battle with the Celtiberians in some years, to my knowledge. Their warriors prefer to hide in the hills and attack our baggage carts or scouting parties. Cowardly, you might say, but they were proficient killers in this manner. Now we would see how they would fare face to face with the Roman legion.

I rode up beside my brother-in-law, who was in charge of all of our cavalry on the right flank. Most of our horsemen were Numidian allies, who were hungry to prove themselves. Their leader, who submitted only to Gratidius and Scipio himself, was a man named Jugurtha. He seemed like a fine man but I had no idea I would forge my career on destroying him. But I'll leave that tale for another day. Scipio placed himself at the rear of our cavalry, and we were all aware of it. This was our chance to prove ourselves. No one felt this more keenly than Gratidius. He had already earned a name for himself in the legions due to his discipline and military bearing, but now he could show his military brilliance.

The tribes halted before us to let out their war cries. They made an awful noise, something that would strike fear in the hearts of the bravest of men. But we were given the order to remain silent. Silent as ghosts, we were told. And our silence disturbed them.

When they gave up their posturing, they ran without discipline into our line.

Gratidius held his gladius and directed us to wheel-about. The thunder created by our thousands of horsemen must have been much more terrifying than their war cries.

Their cavalry charged from the center of their formation to meet us. We knew the Spanish Celts had some of the finest horses, and their riders were respected for their bravery. But they were a smaller force, and they did not have Gratidius at the helm.

We met them like a violent wave against a stone wall. I’m not sure which of the two we were.

Their horsemen shot into the ranks of our own, and all was confusion. All senses were dulled in the tumult.

“Fight them hard, men!” Gratidius shouted, and we meant to obey him.

A few of the Celts met me, long spears pointed at my chest. I batted them away with my sword before they could reach me. I wished I had a far larger sword: the Gladius wasn't crafted for horse combat.

But when the momentum of their horses carried them closer, their spears were rendered useless, and my gladius lethal.

I didn’t have the reach to stab, so I slashed violently, cutting through the thin leather armor of the rider’s chest. I turned the other way and attempted the same thing to the other rider approaching. Both let out screams and crumpled from atop their horses.

By now, chaos was ensuing amongst the ranks of the Celtiberian horsemen, and most had pounced from their steeds.

“For Rome!” Gratidius said, ever a patriot. He led the charge forward, enveloping the broken Celts.

From the wood line in the distance appeared a band of soldiers. They charged our line from the flank with javelin in hand. They launched a volley.

I narrowly dodged a few of the missiles, but before I could thank the gods, I saw one strike Gratidius.

It struck his throat from the side and ripped right through.

His patriotic shouts stalled.

He collapsed to the Spanish dirt, trying to plug the massive hole in his throat.

“The Tribune is down!” some shouted.

“Gratidius!” I alone yelled and pounced from my horse to meet him. It had been my job as his aide to protect him, and I had failed to do so.

When I reached him, I realized how bad the wound was. His head was barely hanging on. His jugular had been severed.

He clasped my neck as I reached him. His mouth was open but he could not speak. He would have said something about my sister, or perhaps the good of Rome, but no words came out.

“I’m sorry, brother,” I said as his eyes rolled back in his head, “I’m so sorry.”

When his body softened, I stood.

I could see nothing but red. Tears filled my eyes, but I only saw red. Who did this? Who took the life of my brother-in-law, my friend? Who killed this great man of Rome, who had so much ahead of him? Never mind all that about “thus is life”, or “thus is war”. He was my friend, and now he was dead.

I ran, not to my horse but at the attackers. I lost all control of myself.

When they spotted me, they were surprised at my daring, and hesitated for a moment before launching a few of their javelin at me. I dodged two and blocked another with my shield. I discarded the shield and ran to meet them.

One Roman was enough to frighten most of them. Those that stayed, died. By my hand.

They tried to surround me, but only made it easier to slaughter them all.

I stabbed one and used his punctured flesh as a guard against fresh assailants. I thrust him off as I slashed at another, severing his throat like Gratidius’. I kicked another in the stomach, and as he bent over to empty to his stomach, I severed his head from his body.

They killed my brother-in-law.

“Reform!” The shout rang out. “Reform!”

I didn’t heed it. I continued to kill. I had to. Roman glory be damned they killed my friend.

“Marius, that’s an order! Reform!” I heard the shouts, but couldn’t discern them over my fury.

They widowed my sister.

The wounded Celts around me crawled off to safety, leaving only one assailant to meet me.

He had wild eyes and a spear as long as a Macedonian pike in hand. He crouched behind a shield, but I knew he wasn’t afraid.

But neither was I.

I grabbed the shield of a fallen enemy and I charged him. I slashed up at him, roaring with fury as I did so. He leaned back like an athlete, narrowly dodging the blade. As he recomposed himself, he brought his pike around with a wicked swipe. My shield was raised, and I was undefended. It sliced through my armor, but only nicked my flesh. The sight of my own blood regenerated me, and I stepped towards him. I bashed his shield with my sword, over and over again. He crouched behind it, and I could see his arm was breaking and his spirit shaking. I batted his shield away, and he stumbled. Then I buried my sword in his stomach, deeper and deeper, until he was falling into me like an embrace. The gladius could go no further, but still I shoved it in, until blood spilled from his mouth onto my shoulders.

When I pushed him from the sword, I turned back to my men. And who was there, watching it all? Scipio Aemilianus himself.

Rather than reprimand me for my foolishness, Scipio gave me a crown. The corona aurea- given to a man who kills an enemy in single combat and holds his ground until relief comes. I was honored, and have that crown locked away at my home, even to this day. Sometimes I look at it, and it comforts me. The only thing that haunts me is that this glory was bestowed on me at the expense of Gratidius’ life.

I would have gladly traded the two.

Scipio demanded an audience with me later that night after the medicus patched me up. I had been around the General some, being on an officer’s staff, but I had certainly never addressed him.

He was a larger-than-life personality, and I was rather intimidated at first.

His disposition was as calm as a cup of water, his demeanor serious but never severe, funny but never lax. All the soldiers hung on his every word, not only because he was our general, but because he was Scipio. A few trite old sayings and we were ready to conquer the world under his command.

When I approached the General, he was reading over some old documents. He had poor eyesight, so he was holding the document so close to his face I could not see him.

“Will you have a little wine with me?” He said, stretching out a cup, still barricaded behind his document.

“Certainly, sir.”

“I drink the same swill you do, so don’t get excited about the quality.” Scipio said, noticing my enthusiasm.

“I don’t much care what it tastes like, as long as it gets the job done.” I said, to which he chuckled.

“Very well,” one of his slaves filled the cup and handed it to me, careful to ensure a drop wasn’t spilled on all those documents.

“I saw what you did today. It was reckless, foolish even. You got lucky today, but eventually actions like this will get you killed.”

“The gods favor me, sir.” I said.

“They do? I was unaware. Here I thought Gratidius said you were from a frog-spawned village in the hills. Is that not true?”

“It is, general,”

“Seems like the gods do not favor your then,” he lowered his document and met my eyes. I didn’t know what else to say, and I was afraid whatever I might come up with would be the wrong thing. I declined to speak and kept my mouth shut. He seemed to be testing me. “But the gods certainly looked over you today. How many was it? How many did you kill when you charged them like that?” He leaned back in his chair.

“I lost track, general,”

“That’s a good number. So the gods favor you. And I need men with friends like that on their side. I have issued orders that you are to be made part of my freshly instituted unit: the praetoriani. You’ll be my bodyguard. You’ll protect me the way you protected your brother-in-law.”

“A bodyguard? Forgive me, general, but I thought there was already a designated unit for that?”

He waved the question away like batting a fly.

“Yes, yes. A unit full of senators' sons and magistrates' cousins. They can’t be counted on for anything- lazy, disrespectful, and they quivered in their sandals during that battle today, I saw it with my own eyes. And whats worse, they’re a bore. And who wants to spend time with spoiled little brats like that anyhow? I want men like you, Gaius Marius.”

“I’m honored, sir.”

“You’ll move your gear to the Praetorium tomorrow.” He returned to squinting at his documents.

“Yes, sir.” I stood and saluted.

“One more thing, Marius,” he said peeping over the document. “I want you to kill men the way you did today before I die, and not after.”

I nodded and spun on my heels to depart.

* * *

When I returned to my tent that evening, a surprise was waiting on me.

A prostitute that worked night and day in the baggage camp was standing by my cot waiting on me. She was a savage creature, probably Spanish or maybe a Gaul. She was beautiful, to my recollection. I can remember her face even still although I do not remember her name.

“Who sent you here?” I chuckled.

“Your king,” she said with no laughter in her eyes.

“We have no king, girl. Rome has no need of a king. We have a general.”

“Whatever you call it,” she said.

She had a wild look in her eyes. She would as soon stab you as sleep with you, and it was her job to sleep with people. But there was something about her that fascinated me. She wasn’t a creature that could be conquered or subdued. She was mystery, she was intrigue. She was the opposite of my mother in every capacity.

The next morning I was sore from my time with her than I was from the battle.

“Girl, I’d like to make you an offer,” I said.

“What?” she was already disinterested.

“How about you sleep with only me for the next month or so? Huh? I need some company out here on campaign, and I don’t like sharing.”

“Are you willing to pay me what all the others pay me?” she said, her accent thick.

“How much?”

“200 denarii,”

“Cac! That much? You’re an expensive taste.”

“I work a lot,”

I sifted through my things to find the coin purse I had hidden, feeling foolish even as I did so.

“Here,” I exhaled as I handed her the entire purse.

She tested the weight in her palms and then counted a few of the coin.

“Then I will see you tonight.”

She turned and left, leaving me alone to put on my armor and helm, for another day of battle.

Our next orders were to turn our aggression on the neighboring Vaccaeans. In peacetime, they were great friends to the Numantines, known for their overflowing granaries, and most of their exports led straight to Numantia. This wasn’t peacetime, but old bonds weren’t quickly forgotten. Scipio knew they we had to deal with them.Given the chance, they would rise against Rome just the same as their neighbors had.

“Your General is getting rid of our camp,” my girl said, storming into my tent as I was donning my armor.

“You’re not wrong. I heard the news last night myself.” It was true. Scipio had disbanded all the camp followers: 2000 courtesans and prostitutes, priests and soothsayers. They were told to pack up and leave. If Scipio’s men weren’t fighting, they would be digging, building. “And I think it’s a good thing too. Your women in that camp are a distraction. It ruins the discipline we’ve been taught.”

“What of you? You keep me here,” her lips scrunched.

“Well, you’re not very distracting.”

“And you told me nothing?” There was a fire in her eyes.

“It’s not my job to report the general’s doing, girl,” I said. I could see her anger rising. It was always a visual spectacle: the swift rise and fall of the chest, the twitching lips, the clenching fists. I wouldn’t let it go on too long, but it was great fun while it lasted. She was wild and unpredictable. I had never seen such a spectacle.

“If the camp is leaving, then I must leave too. I have no where else to go.”

I stopped buckling my gear and turned to her.

“That’s unnecessary. You can stay here.”

“Here?”

“Yes. I am a Tribune, I can do as I wish. Every Tribune in the camp has at least one slave to shine and carry his gear. You can be mine.”

“I will not clean or carry.” She shook her head as if asking such a thing of a prostitute was an insult.

“You don’t have to. But I’ve paid you a fair wage. So, you’ll stay here.”

She said nothing else. I was very foolish then. 23 years of age, and perhaps as dumb as my father always thought me. I think I might have loved that girl if she were a Roman. She was meaner than Medusa on the rag, but every so often I could see something in her eyes. That look told me I held a place in her heart that no one else did. And it wasn’t because of power or performance or the money I paid her. That look made me want to keep her around.

I still believe that look was there. But as I’ve said, I was very foolish. Perhaps it was wishful thinking.

Regardless, she wasn’t the type to kiss goodbye. I fastened my helmet under my chin and adjusted it for comfort. Back then, those helmets chaffed me. Now they fit just right.

I gave her a nod, the only form of affection she deemed acceptable, and departed.

It was time again for battle. Time to kill and destroy. I cannot say I desired it, but if given the chance to stay behind, I wouldn’t have. If war was to be waged, I might as well be the one to hold the sword. So far, I had proved to be a proficient warrior. Not only had I earned Scipio’s admiration, but I earned the respect of the men.

I won a crown after the battle, and a girl after that. But the scars across my arms were far more valuable to my career than these. If I could earn a few more, I would.

We left with the sun. It was a one day campaign. A small war within the larger one, it would never be whispered about with admiration in the streets of Rome. It was never addressed again after we walked away, billows of smoke following us.

But for the Vaccaeans, this was the only war that ever mattered. Their city was destroyed. Leveled with the ground. Our Numidian cavalry hunted down the tribesmen who lived outside the city walls and butchered them without pause.

We returned before sunset as if we had only taken a stroll by the harbor.

But that is war.

The Spaniards attacked us from time to time, but never again met the Numantines in a pitched battle. Convinced of their defeat, the Celts returned to their old ways, attacking our baggage trains and scouting parties like bandits. Knowing they would soon die, they chose only to kill one more Roman, and they took far more than one.

But they couldn’t take the one that mattered the most- Scipio Aemilianus. I was by his side for every ambush and made sure that nothing happened to him.

I never left his side. For the rest of the campaign, I went where he went. All of his praetoriani did, but I believe he saw something special in me. He would talk to me when contriving his battle plans or when organizing the next siege wall construction.

One night, as we sat around a fire, one of the other praetoriani asked Scipio a question.

“Who will replace you after you are gone, General?”

“Trying to get rid of me so soon, huh?” he said, eating his porridge.

“Not at all, General. In Rome, I meant. Who will protect Rome, who will lead Her to further glory after you?”

“Have you thought about it, General?” another asked.

“We’ll need a strong leader, sir. Dark days lie ahead,” another shook his head.

Scipio continued eating his food, squinting as he often did, but this time in contemplation. After some time, he turned and grinned.

“Here, perhaps.” He slapped me on the shoulder.

The others laughed as if he meant it in jest, but he didn’t.

And neither did I.

I’ve thought about that moment many times since. He believed in me. He chose me. No one else did. My own father least of all.

I had a home now. I had a family. The soldiers were my loyal brothers, Bellona was my mother, Mars my father. Or Scipio was my father, rather. He taught me more in those months than my father ever had, and he never set to beating me or insulting me.

And for this, I rewarded him with undying loyalty. I protected his person in combat, and I protected his name others slandered him in camp.

* * *

One constant of that campaign was my girl. It’s remarkable that I cannot remember her name, she was there every night… never mind that, long time gone. She was there every night, well almost every night. Once she didn’t come. It concerned me awful, and not only because if she broke her vow I was out half a month’s pay for nothing. Well, she arrived the next morning, and woke me before our formation.

I must have leapt up with a dagger in hand because I remember her screaming. I guess that was when my nightmares started.

“Where on Gaia’s Earth were you last night?” I asked when I realized what was happening.

“I don’t know your Gaia, and where I was is my own business,” she said.

“Yes it is, I want my money back if you’ve been selling yourself.” The thing I liked about her, her untamed nature, drove me the most mad. Women have a way of doing that to a man, don’t they?

“I wasn’t.”

“Well then, prove it.” I said.

She exhaled in frustration.

“I was consulting a priest.”

“A priest? A Roman priest?” I asked, chuckling at the thought of one of our priests mingling with a prostitute.

“No, one of my people.”

“And what do you have to talk to the priests about?” I put on my armor. I always like to be the first at formation.

“I’m pregnant.” She watched my mouth drop with little expression.

“You are?”

“Yes,”

“And it’s mine?”

“I’ve told you,”

“Oh, gods…” I sat back down on my bed. “What will we do?”

“I will visit an apothecary. I’ll find something to take care of it.” I stood and grabbed her by the wrists and made her look into my eyes.

“You will do no such thing. If you harm my child, I’ll kill you myself.” I said.

“It will ruin me!” she pried herself from my grasp.

“You’ll repair,”

“I’ll be months out of work!”

“I’ll pay you.” I said, and with those three words her tantrum stalled.

“You would?”

“Yes. The same rate I’ve already paid you.” I tallied up the sum in my head. My father was right, I could barely count. But I didn’t have to be Archimedes to realize this was the most expensive baby that ever lived.

“Then I will do it.”

Now calm, she allowed me to put an arm on her shoulder, and I made sure she met my eyes.

“Please, do not hurt my child.”

Scipio, clever bastard he was, figured out how the Numantines were still alive after months under siege. His scouts discovered a stream flowing into the city that their allies were using to send them supplies and food. He sent his siege units down the stream and blockaded it. We would kill anyone else hoping to sneak past us, and the gifts meant for the Numantines would feed our men instead.

Once their little ruse was up, the Numantines knew their time was done. They had defied Rome for too long and gotten away with it. But Scipio was the type of general to make them pay even if he wept while doing so. They sent two tribal elders to meet with us.

I was there at the meeting. Scipio was courteous and fair, he even offered them wine and bread, which their hungry bellies and parched throats were much in need of. But when they attempted to discuss terms, he made it known that no leniency would be given. His cordiality was almost more unnerving than if he were rude. They tried to phrase their capitulation several ways, but he would have none of it. Total surrender or death.

“Your people have insulted Rome for far too long. If I accepted terms, people would laugh at me in the streets.” Scipio threw up his hands as if nothing could be done, and he was just as exasperated as they were. “Nothing I can do. Total surrender or death.” He said, empathy present in his voice.

When the elders returned to their village, in defeat but well fed, a mob of their own people butchered them. Their heads were tossed over the walls for all the Romans to see.

I always wondered if they did this because the ambassadors had failed to achieve peace, but word soon spread that they killed them because they had so much as attempted to ask for peace. Tossing their severed heads before Roman eyes was a response to Scipio’s unbending terms. They would not surrender, they would accept death.

* * *

So the siege lasted for another eight months. Everyone felt as though the war would last forever. The city had been barricaded for over a year, and all supplies blocked off for several months. How could they still be alive? Where they were getting their water, one can only guess. But, as the months continued, we noticed the nights became far more quiet. There was no more howling for the dogs within the city. So, that is how they fed themselves.

There were only two things that made those months bearable. One was the girl, and the baby growing in her belly. The pregnancy made her meaner, but it didn’t bother me. As long as the baby was healthy, there was nothing that could bother me too much.

The other was spending time with Scipio and the other legionnaires. We all wished for the war to end soon, but this was not a standing army. When Numantina was taken, the army would be disbanded. Scipio would return to Rome with the glory of a Triumph, and I would be free to return to my little village. The thought of bending knee to my father once more, after all I had endured, seemed impossible.

Perhaps I didn’t want the war to end.

As the months dragged on through the brutal winter, and then blossomed into the Spring, we had stopped wondering when the war would end. So it was rather abrupt when the Numantine tribal elders showed up once again at our gates. This war would in fact end. Scipio had left them no other options.

They were far more haggard than they had been before. Whatever elements of nobility the last few had possessed, these new diplomats had none of it. They were as poor and starving as any poor and starving man has ever been.

And their starvation had changed their demeanor since the last time we had discussed terms with the Numantines. They now agreed to total surrender.

“Rally your citizens before your gate at first light tomorrow morning. They will come out to meet me. I will select fifty of what good men you have left to return with me to Rome.” Scipio said, considering the Triumphal parade that awaited him. “The rest will be sold into slavery. If they resent their lot, remind them that Roman slaves eat better than Celtic peasants.” He said, forcing them to meet his eyes. He was far less cordial this time than the last.

“We would ask one favor of you, great general.” One of them said. He prostrated himself on the ground before Scipio and kissed his feet. The other elder followed his example. “We would ask only for a few days delay, so that those who intend not to live, will have the time to take their own lives in the way that they see fit.”

Scipio exhaled and made the men stand.

“Two days. Tell them they have two days.” The elders were as grateful as they might have been if Scipio had accepted terms months earlier.

They returned to their city, and this time no heads were tossed over the city walls.

The gods must have known the war would soon be over, and that I would return to Italy within a few days time. The girl went into labor before the Numantine window of surrender was up.

I must have made many men angry that night, for she gave birth in my tent. Her screams echoed throughout the entire camp.

When at last she completed her labor, her screams were replaced by that of a baby girl.

“Look, look, it’s a little girl.” I said as the Greek camp doctor handed me the child. She was covered in blood and what looked like mucus, but I had never been so in love with a sight in my entire life. What was before me was something I created, something that time nor incompetence nor war could ever take away from me. She was mine, and I hers. “Would you hold her?”

I said when at last I could bring myself to part with my child.

“Get away from me, you stupid man. I need water.” She said, still gasping for breath like a wounded deer.

“Dampen her forehead.” I ordered the doctor as I wrapped up the baby in my soldier’s cloak.

The child’s face was plump but beautiful, a head scant of hair that now resembles her father’s in his old age. It was so remarkable, this thing before me. And she was begotten by a war that had brought about nothing else but pestilence, disease, and death.

“Welcome to the world, my little flower.” I said bouncing her in my arms. I knew nothing about taking care of children, save what I remembered of my responsibilities when my brother Marcus was born. But there was something natural which developed inside me. Perhaps the gods saw what lay ahead and gave me all the tools necessary to care for a babe. Regardless, if you live long enough to have children of your own, Sertorius, you’ll know what I mean.

“What will happen next?” the girl asked after she had cooled down. She still refused to hold the child, but I could see that softness in her eyes as she watched the baby’s every feeble move.

“She has her father’s strength.” I said as I allowed my daughter to clutch my forefinger in her tiny hands.

“What will happen next, Roman?” she asked, her Latin much improved since I first met her.

“You can come back to Rome with me. You can live under my roof, as an accountant or a cook, whatever you like.” I said, doing all I could to seem more disinterested than I really was.

“I have only ever lived one life.” She said, and I at last accepted that she would not give that life up.

“We can change our lives, girl. You’ll be fed, have a warm bed…”

She did not reply.

I would have liked to ask her again. I wanted her to come with me. The war was now over, but I was unwilling to part from her. But honor forbade me from begging. She had made up her mind, and I would not change it.

“The girl will come with me to Rome. I will raise her,”

“She will go with you?” she asked.

“No daughter of the Marii can be raised by a prostitute. If you will not give up your work then I have no other option.” I said, and again she did not reply. She understood.

At last she asked to see the girl. For once, as she looked upon the sleeping child in her arms, she did not hasten to cover up the softness within her.

When at last she summoned up the courage, she handed me back my daughter. She slept until the morning and then parted.

I never saw her again.

Another day followed, and then the Numatines assembled at their gates. Scipio ordered us to formation, so we could see what had been done.

They were the most destitute humans I had ever seen, somehow more beast than man. None wore the armor of their ancestors, probably boiling the leather and eating it in their starvation over the past few months.

And their numbers were few. Scipio had given them two days to take their lives if they saw fit, and more than a few took advantage of Scipio’s leniency.

They were rounded up, resigned to whatever fate awaits slaves. The men, surprisingly, did not mistreat them. They did not need to be humbled any further. Hunger and disease had already done our work for them.

Once the city was empty, Scipio ordered it to be razed. Just as the village of the Vaccaeans had been leveled with the earth, so would the once great city of Numantia.

As the city burned, Scipio ordered the men to tear down our walls and siege equipment. The general would waste no time getting his men home. But as the smoke of the fires lifted into the night, Scipio only watched, the flames close enough to warm his face. I stood by his side, eager to know what he was thinking.

For hours he stood watching and saying nothing.

When at last he spoke, I did not catch his meaning.

“A day will come when sacred Troy shall perish… and Priam and his people shall be slain.” He said, the flames reflecting in watery eyes.

“General, what does this mean?”

At length he turned to me, “All great nations shall fall… The Persians, the Medians, the Babylonians, the Macedonians, the Carthaginians. Now the Numantines are no more.”

“All for the glory of Rome,” I said. He shook his head at my foolishness.

“It is for Rome that I am afraid,” he said, “All great nations shall fall.”

* * *

The city of Numantia was no more. Its land was then divided amongst the neighboring tribes who had provoked the ire of Rome. I packed up my things with the rest of the men, aware that I was taking back nothing with me but what I brought. Save the only thing that mattered: my daughter Maria. I would have taken her over all the plunder in Spain, what little there was.

As I gathered my things in the Praetorium, the laticlavius tribune came to speak with me. This Tribune was of the senatorial order, and was second-in-command of the legion, along with the Legates. The man himself is someone you should be familiar with: Quintus Metellus, now called Numidicus.

Thus far, we hadn't interacted much, and I had no reason to hate him the way I do now. Here, he gave me my first reason for disdain.

“Marius, I need to speak with you.” He said, just as arrogant as a Tribune as he would later be as Consul.

“Yes, Tribune? What can I do for you?” I said.

“We need to talk to you about the girl.”

“The girl? Which girl?” I asked. I was already taking his meaning from the tone of his voice.

“The child. The one you begot through a Spanish trollop.” He said, hands clutched behind his back and his head high. At last I sat down my things and turned to address him.

“Yes? What of her?”

“You cannot possibly believe you are bringing her along with you.” He said. “It is highly irregular that you were permitted to keep that woman while she birthed your ill-born child. We cannot allow you to bring her back to Italy. It will reflect poorly with the people.”

I approached him closer still and looked him directly in the eyes.

“I do plan on bringing her with me, Tribune.” I said, and nothing more.

“Scipio has instructed me to address this issue with you. We cannot have a screaming babe traveling with us across the Alps to Rome.”

I met his gaze and said nothing.

“Let’s not be unreasonable.” He said. In a swift motion I grabbed the gladius atop my cot and placed it on the table beside us.

“Yes, let’s not be unreasonable.”

His eyes glanced over to the sword and he flushed with indignation. He tried to calm himself and exhaled.

“If you disobey me, Gaius Marius, I will have you flogged and crucified.”

“You may. You may very well have me crucified. But what will that do to the morale Scipio has worked so hard to build? To execute the soldier who so recently was awarded a military crown for meritorious conduct.”

Scipio turned to a few of the other Tribunes, who avoided eye contact.

“If anyone comes near my child, he shall die.”

Metellus spun on his heels and left, the first of many times I would provoke such a response.

Nothing more was said of the matter.

We departed within the week. It had been a year and three months since we had arrived, and I could not calculate how much I had changed in that time. I’m sure you’re experiencing similar feelings now, after your first campaign.

I held Maria the entire journey. Something about the gentle bobbing of the horse soothed her. Perhaps it is why she loves riding, even to this day.

When we arrived in Italy, we halted and set up camp not 30 miles away from Arpinum, where my family remained.

In camp that night, as we stood in line for our portion of wine and soup, Scipio pulled me aside.

“Marius,” he said, “Rufus told me you live in the hills outside Arpinum. Is that true?”

“It is, sir,” I said, not guessing his meaning.

“We’re not far now. I’ll grant you leave if you’d like to go directly to your home. I know that Gratidius was your brother-in-law, and you might be eager to inform your family of his death.”

I considered it for a moment. I looked over the Italian hills, below the sunset where my home resided in the distance. Then, I turned my gaze to the tent where my daughter now lie sleeping.

“I think not, sir. I’ll stay on, if you’ll allow me.”

He was confused for a moment, but eventually nodded.

“Very well,” he said.

So, I returned to Rome with Scipio. I took part in his Triumph, hearing a quiet voice somewhere in my heart saying that one day I would have a Triumph of my own. After the festivities, I decided to stay in the city. Arpinum no longer had anything left for me.

I was poor, perhaps poorer than I was when I left, as I spent most of my earnings to pay for my daughter. What little I had left, I had invested in the stone quarries opened by the tribes who took over the Numantine land. They’ve made me a fortune since, but at the time, I had little to my name. All I had was my daughter and the scars I earned in battle.

But a young man can always find work, and that’s what I did.

I moved to an Insula on the Caelian hill, just my daughter and I. The war was over, but my career had only begun. I was determined to make something of myself in Rome. I would prove my father wrong, along with all the men who doubted me. I would say now, as I am being elected to my third Consulship, I have done so.

I will write more about this chapter in my life later. For now, I must return to whipping these soldiers into shape, as Scipio did before me.

I hope that this letter has encouraged you, Centurion. My first taste of war was, I believe, not much different from your own. No matter how bad it was, young man, I believe you can make something good of it.

The losses you experienced at Arausio are unimaginable, but that doesn’t have to be the end of it. We will hunt those bastards down and give them worse than what they gave us.

I expect you to report to my camp in Gaul no later than August. Let’s put those scars to good use, Centurion.

Gaius Marius

650 Ab urbe condita

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