Times have changed. The republic is young but strong. Enemies surround her, and many young men are called to fight on battlefields far from home, for causes they do not understand. Many will never see their homes, and those who do, find that things can never be the same. These are the tales of Gaius Decimus, called Ultor the Avenger; exiled by his people, doomed to wander the earth, leading his men across the world, forever in search of a home they could not return to, seeking revenge against the man who condemned him... VII Patience. It is one of the great virtues. Patience allows a man to survive great hardships, knowing that as long as one endures, the time to strike will present itself. Three years, seventy days, and twenty one hours Cassius Numerius Falco has waited. He was once the second son of a wealthy patrician, cut out from the family inheritance by his bastard of a father. When the levy came to recruit soldiers for a campaign into Sicily, his father paid off the army to keep his eldest son out of the service… in exchange for his second. But he would not be banished so easily. Spilling blood came easy to Cassius Numerius, and soon he was the veteran of many wars, a centurion of triarii. Great generals came to him for advice, and asked him for his wisdom. Carthage, Greece, Gaul, they all learned to fear the Falcon. For awhile the violence ended, and the legendary Falco turned to drink and women: drunken revelries and orgies from dusk until dawn, wasting away in decadence without direction, living off spoils from plundered lands, waiting for one last battle, one more great war to finally claim his birthright and status. When Amulius Cornelius, an inbred cousin of the wealthy Roman family, mustered a legion to conquer a weak Gallic tribe, the Falcon was overjoyed. Of course he’d take up his spear and shield once again, of course he would restore the purpose to his bloody life. What Falco hadn’t counted on was how inept Cornelius would be. They slaughtered their intended enemy, and then, hungry for glory, Cornelius pushed on. What he found was complete and utter annihilation. The Gauls Cornelius provoked fought like devils, and after falling into an obvious ambush, three quarters of the legion were killed, the last quarter becoming slaves to Cadwaladur, the tribe’s warlord. Falco held enough influence with the survivors to launch an uprising, but a few hundred wounded and battered legionnaires stranded in the middle of Gaul stood no chance. And so he became friends with his captor. In time, he would be Cadwaladur’s most trusted confidante. Then Gaius Decimus appeared. He was a no-name hastati that Falco saw some promise in, and even brought him into his inner circle. Yet Decimus had a big head, he thought he was better than he really was. An impressive showing at one battle and he thinks that he runs the show now. For a time, it looked as if the Romans would follow Decimus as their leader. Yet Decimus made mistakes. He saved Cadwaladur’s life, dishonoring the Gallic warlord, and leaving the barbarian a cripple. Cadwaladur loathed Decimus, and so Falco turned that to his advantage. Quietly, and quickly, Falco eliminated his rival. A cover message sent to German brigands, then making sure that Cadwaladur led the Gauls off on some wild goose chase. Falco made sure Decimus was left behind with the women and the children. Cadwaladur saw this as a perfect chance to dishonor his foe by leaving him behind, but Falco knew that now, when the Germans raped the village, Decimus would shoulder the blame. It worked brilliantly. Though he rescued Cadwaldur’s daughter, the Gaul played out his role exactly as Falco had predicted. The barbarian took out his anger on Decimus, and was prepared to execute him. Yet that would not be good enough for Falco. He wanted his young rival to know that Falco had won, to know that this wasn’t some fluke or mere coincidence. Falco had Decimus exiled. He knew that Cadwaladur would send assassins after Decimus, but when the men never returned, it was likely that somehow, Decimus had escaped. No matter. That broken boy would never return, and if he did, Falco would break him again. That was almost two years ago. Falco has become Cadwaladur’s most trusted advisor, and the aging barbarian has made arrangements to turn the former centurion into his heir. It was around this time that word circled through the village that three Roman legions were coming, led by Cornelius’ uncle, Lucius Cornelius, the consul, to avenge the defeat of his nephew. Cadwaladur mobilized his army, and the old cripple marches with Falco at his side, believing him to be his adopted son, and therefore, loyal to the Gallic people. Cassius Numerius Falco is loyal only to himself. Three years, seventy days, and twenty one hours Cassius Numerius Falco was forced to endure the humiliation of being a barbarian’s slave. Now, Falco stood in Cadwaladur’s tent, only a few miles from where the Gauls are to meet the Romans in battle. It was after midnight, and the cripple slept. Falco stood next to him, a rock in his hand. He roused Cadwaladur, and the Gaul stirred, groggy from sleep, “What… what is it, Falco? Do the Romans march?” “You are a miserable old cripple, barbarian,” Falco spat. “I wanted to make sure you knew who was the one who murdered you.” He smiled as he lifted the stone, and then bashed in Cadwaladur’s skull. After the first blow, Cadwaladur’s eyes went back into his head, and the cripple was probably dead, but three years is a long time to wait. Again and again, he brought the rock down, until Falco was simply beating pieces of bone against the bed. Covered in the blood of his adopted father, brains and bits of skull dripping from his face, Falco smiled. He left the tent, and went to where the captured Roman standards were held. Falco laid his eyes on the golden eagles, and laughed. At dawn, when Lucius Cornelius came, he would find no battle. He would only find Cassius Numerius Falco, the great hero who delivered his men from captivity. The consul was in his tent, putting on his armor in preparation for combat that day. Three years ago, his nephew led a legion into Gaul, and was defeated by the barbarian king Cadwaladur. Now, after hearing rumors that there was a large group of survivors held in captivity, he was finally able to convince the Senate to levy troops on a combination rescue and revenge mission. Two days ago, Cadwaladur marched his horde out to the plains, ready to do battle. After such a long wait, Cornelius will finally taste blood. He fixed his long cavalry sword to his belt, and then put on his helmet, the purple plume standing tall. Cornelius was about to step out of the tent and address his troops with a purple clad praetorian came running in. “What is it, praetorian?” “Sir, there is something you need to see right now.” What Cornelius saw almost brought tears to his eyes. Out from the fog, deep within the Gallic forest, came a man raising a Roman standard. Instantly, Cornelius recognized it as his nephew’s lost eagle. “Quickly! Bring him to me! Bring me the standard that was my Amulius’!” The praetorians rode ahead, and picked up the man, bringing him to Cornelius. “Who are you, man, that you bear the standard of my nephew?” The scarred and battle worn man stood tall, and extended the standard to Cornelius, “I am Cassius Numerius Falco, centurion of Second Cohort of Amulius Cornelius’ legion, sir.” “By the gods, it is true! There are survivors!” Cornelius lowered his head, sighing, “Then my sister’s fears are true…” “I am sorry, sir. The barbarian king Cadwaladur murdered your nephew.” Cornelius nodded, and raised his head, a look of grim determination upon his face, “Then there is no avoiding it. I will have my vengeance. I crush the barbarian, and avenge my kin.” “There is no need for battle this morning,” Falco said. "Cadwaladur is dead.” “What? How?” “Slain by my own hands last night, to take vengeance for my fallen comrades,” Falco said. Lucius Cornelius put his hand upon Falco’s shoulder, clasping him as a friend and soldier, “You are a good son of Rome, Cassius Numerius Falco. Lead me to your men, and we shall free them from captivity, then return to the eternal city in great triumph at having rescued our lost sons!” Deep within the forest, the Roman soldiers came upon the Gallic camp. As soon as the horsemen thundered through the woods and found the clearing, the barbarians went for their weapons, preparing for the battle. Falco immediately dismounted from his horse, and went towards the Gauls, his hands raised, “Friends! No! Friends wait! They do not mean you harm!” Brycham, one of Cadwaladur’s officers and Falco’s friend, came to meet the centurion, his axe still in hand. “What treachery is this, bringing the enemy to the camp of your kinsmen, Falco?” Falco shook his head, and put his hand on Brycham’s shoulder, clasping him as a friend, “Brycham, brother, these are my kinsmen as much as you are mine. They have not come “Why should I believe them?” Brycham said, gesturing with his sword towards the consul Lucius Cornelius and his purple clad praetorians. “You have my word, Brycham,” Falco said. “By all the gods in heaven, you have my word.” Brycham nodded, “Then that is all I need, Falco.” “Come then,” Falco said, “Let us tell Cadwaladur the good news, a great alliance between our peoples!” By now a large crowd had gathered, and as Falco said those final words, the Romans began to cheer, realizing that their liberty would soon be at hand. The process of closing the camp began, and the Romans took what few belongings they had, and left with a small detachment of the praetorians. Though ecstatic that they would return to their homes soon, the men were saddened at the same time. The Gauls had become their family in the past three years, many of the men intermarrying with Gallic women, and fathering children with their barbarian wives. Falco approached the Roman consul, “Sir, if I may...” “Of course, what is it?” Cornelius replied. Falco leaned in close now and whispered into the man’s ear, “There is a village fifteen miles from here. How quickly can your legions surround it?” Cornelius raised an eyebrow, “Not very long at all. Why?” “What would you have me do, Falco?” “Send the legions to their city. Raze it to the ground, and allow no survivors. Make them pay for their treachery, and the murder of your nephew.” “And what of the men, the prisoners?” “Send them back with the guards, and make sure they do not learn of this plot, for they have grown fond of the barbarians, and being good and trusting men, they will not believe that the treacherous Gauls would kill them,” Falco said. “Perhaps this is not a wise move, if you are mistaken, so many innocent lives will be taken…” “The barbarians are not even human, consul. We will be putting down rabid animals. But just as a young child finds it hard to part with his beloved pet, so will my men find it hard to part with the Gauls, that is why you must strike fast, and in secret!” Cornelius thought about this for a few moments, and then slowly nodded, “I will follow your counsel, Cassius Numerius. I will not lose these men after journeying so far to rescue them from these barbarians.” Lucius Cornelius gestured for a praetorian to come, and the consul relayed the plan and orders for the legion to move into position. Falco now rejoined Brycham and led him towards Cadwaladur’s tent, “I apologize, there was something I needed to speak to him about. Now, let us go and inform our great chief of the good news!” They went to the old man’s tent, Brycham entering first. “Cadwaladur, rise, there is important news for you to here –” Brycham found Cadwaladur laying in his bed, the top half of his skull crushed in, a dead, empty stare in his eyes. “By the gods!” There was a pause. “Y… you! Falco, you did this you lying bast --” Falco came up behind Brycham, and before the Gaul could react, Falco snapped his neck, the barbarian officer’s dead body falling to the ground. The cavalry rode through town, killing the men, as well as any woman or child who fought back. The infantry went from house to house, looting and pillaging, setting fire to the homes after they had what they wanted. The Gauls were put to the sword, and ichor flowed like a river. When it was all over, the women and children were led off to slavery, any surviving males executed by the Roman legion at Falco’s command. As the train of captives went by, a young woman caught Falco’s eye. It was Verica, the youngest and most beautiful daughter of Cadwaladur. “You there!” Falco called to a legionnaire. “Do you see the woman with the red hair? Bring her to me right now.” The Roman dragged the sobbing Verica towards the centurion. She clawed and bit at him, and was set in front of Falco. “Hello, Verica,” he said. “You bastard! What have you done! You have slaughtered my people! You have killed women and children! You are a monster! My father will take your life himself --” “Your father is dead,” Falco said solemnly. Verica’s tears and cries stopped. She froze, her eyes going glassy, staring blankly into space, “M… my father…” “He tried to kill me this morning when I told him that the Roman army wanted a peaceful solution. All he had to do was return the captives, and our people would have formed a great friendship… But instead he swore that he would kill my men if they left. He gave the names of a hundred men in the village who would carry out his order, even if Cadwaladur did not survive to command it. Your father lunged at me, and the only way I could save myself was to kill him… I am so sorry, my Verica…” Verica’s lip trembled, “No… no he wouldn’t, there was no order like that… He saw you as his son!” “I am sorry, but I cannot lie about this matter. I did not want to fight him, but he forced me to. Later, Brycham would not listen to reason, and I was forced to defend myself again.” She shook her head, “Brycham, no, he can’t be dead, he can’t be dead!” Verica began to hit Falco upon the chest, her hysterics even more dramatic now, “But why the city? Why? They were only babies… They were only babies!” “I had to… I am so sorry… But I cannot let my men die…” Falco spoke in a calm and soothing voice. “Come with me to Rome, and I swear to you that I will use my own money to purchase all of your kinsmen and free them.” “They were only babies… They were only babies…” Falco sat at the head of a table in one of Cornelius’ officers’ tents. Around the table were the surviving officers of the captured legion, and none were happy to hear of the village’s destruction. “I did what I had to do, they would have slaughtered us during the journey home,” Falco said flatly, his voice monotone. “You bastard! You know as well as I do that they would not have attacked us! Those people loved us like their own kin!” “Cadwaladur hated all of you,” Falco responded. Tiberius stood up, and pointed his finger at Falco, “He made you his heir, Falco! He took you as a son and you killed him!” Falco’s voice rose now, anger in his words, “The barbarian attacked me.” “That is a lie! That is a goddamned lie! You murdered him, just like you murdered every person in that city!” Tiberius screamed. Falco raised an eyebrow, “Are you accusing me of something, Tiberius?” “You are a lying bastard and a murderer! I stood by while you had Decimus killed, but I will not fall into line behind you anymore!” “I am your commanding officer, plebian, you will not speak to me that way!” Falco shot back with a terrible rage. He stood up, throwing back his chair, and walked up to Tiberius. “Apologize for your insubordination right now, and I may forgive you, dog!” “May the gods curse your entire family, and send you straight to hell!” It happened fast. Falco went for his gladius, Tiberius did not react quick enough. Before he could see what was happening, Falco’s blade was out of its sheath, and Tiberius was slammed down onto the table with a crash, lying on his back. He cried out when the sword went through his chest, impaling him to the wooden table. Falco held the gladius tight, not releasing the blade as Tiberius twitched, his body convulsing. With one final spasm that shook the table, his eyes went dead, and his body limp. There was silence in the tent. “You all saw it!” Falco exclaimed. “You all saw that he attacked me! I had no choice, and you all saw it!” The silence remained. “I swear to Jupiter himself, that I will kill all of you with my bare hands, is that understood?!” No one spoke. “You accursed dogs, do you understand?!” The murmur was quiet, but soon all joined in, “Y… yes, sir.” One of the younger men spoke up, “Tiberius attacked you and you defended yourself.” Falco yanked the bloody weapon out of Tiberus’ corpse, and sheathed it. “Good… Dismissed.” The triumph was beautiful. Falco rode with Cornelius in his golden chariot, led by two white horses. The crowd filled the streets of the eternal city, and Falco had to admit he was moved by the outpouring of affection. The centurion held his legion’s standard, and the people cried out in joy at its return. Gorgeous women tried to push forward just to touch the returning heroes of the legion. They began at the Campus Martius, moved through the Forum Boarium, and were currently circling the Palatine. Soon, the procession would lead through the Forum itself, up the Sacred Way to the Temple of Jupiter Optimus Maximus. The Senate walked in front of the consul’s chariot, the old men constantly reminding the people that they were the center of the Roman world. Let them have their delusions, Falco thought. This glory was won by my sword and my cunning, not the arguments of senile men. Behind the Senate, prisoners from Gaul were led in chains, the few survivors taken from the village. Then came the golden chariot, followed by the Roman survivors, attired in full armor and carrying laurel wreaths. Cornelius’ legion was last, with the prizes captured from the razed village. The musicians and dancers filled the air with their energy as the procession went through the Forum. Falco looked around at the sheer splendor of it all, and a chill ran up his spine. By the gods, this was what he needed: the glory of it all, the honor and the cheers. For years he had fought endlessly, the battle never quenching his spirit, never fulfilled. That ended today. Cassius Numerius Falco was complete. “Remember thou art mortal.” Falco’s attention was turned to the slave standing behind Cornelius, holding a golden crown above his head. Again and again the slave spoke the words of warning to the consul. Mortality. Falco had never cared about his own death. In fact, he wished for it at times. Yet now, in his moment of glory and triumph, his own mortality frightened him. “Remember…” “Will you not be silent for a moment?” Falco snapped at the slave. “Falco, though he may be a tool in the Senate to remind me of my place,” Cornelius began, “His words are not without value. At times… it is hard to remember that we are but men, and nothing compared to the gods, or even the glory of Rome herself.” Falco bit his tongue, “Yes, of course, sir.” He forced a laugh, “It’s just the damn repetition of it all.” The horses came to a stop in front of the Temple of Jupiter Optimus Maximus. Falco craned back his neck to see the entire structure, and indeed felt small before the house of the greatest of the gods. The Pontifex Maximus stood on the steps, his hands extended. “Greetings, sons of Romulus,” the old man spoke. Cornelius walked before the Pontifex, and knelt down, raising the laurel leaves of victory to the priest. “I offer victory to Jupiter in the name of Rome.” The man smiled and nodded, “The gods accept your offering, Lucius Cornelius. Rise now, and let us sacrifice to the heavens.” Cornelius stood up, and one of the younger priests led forward the bull. The animal’s throat was slashed, and the sacrifice made as the Pontifex uttered an incantation. The remains were lit on fire, and the smoke rose to the sky. “The gods are pleased!” The Pontifex cried out, and the crowd cheered. Lucius Cornelius turned back to the people, and silenced them. “My fellow countrymen, good Romans, let us welcome home our lost sons!” The thunder of applause and cheers made the very earth shake. The trumpets sounded, and Falco felt the vibrations in his bones. The consul went on and on about the virtue of the rescued Romans, about the sorrow of loss, and about the victory over the barbarians. Falco’s attention wandered, until he heard his own name mentioned. “—And we must give great glory to the leader of our returned brothers, Cassius Numerius Falco! Without his strength and his sharp mind, all these men would have been lost to the barbarians.” Falco nodded politely as the crowd roared in approval, his heart filled with joy. The thrill of the applause was almost too much for him, yet with all his strength, he remained standing before them. “And so, after great contemplation and prayer to the gods, I have made a decision. As you know, the heavens have not blessed me with a son… Until now… Cassius Numerius Falco, will you let me adopt you as my own, and welcome you into my family as blood?” Falco froze. It took him a minute to realize what had happened. He cleared his throat, “What?” Cornelius leaned in close, smiling, “I’m adopting you. Accept it already.” Falco nodded quickly, “Yes, of course, sir.” “No more sir… Father.” Falco swallowed hard, “Yes, father.” Cornelius threw his arms around his new son, and embraced him. The consul then raised Falco’s arm, “My son!” Falco was the first son of the consul. He was the man’s heir. His entire life, he had been the bastard, the second son, never to receive his family’s favor, and now, he was the heir to the most powerful man in Rome. A slow smile crept over his face, and if he were not in front of the entire city, he would have laughed in triumph. Damn that old man who dared to call himself his father, damn his wh*re of a mother, and damn his brother. They were dead to him now. He had a new family. “As my gift to you, son, ask anything, and I shall grant it,” Cornelius said. This was it. He would win the hearts and minds of the Roman people with his generosity and mercy. “Father… release the prisoners. Set them free, and let them become allies of the Roman people. I forgive them for the tortures then put upon us, and want to show them the greatness of Roman clemency.” “Then so be it!” Cornelius cried. The Gauls began to cheer as their bonds were released, mothers finding their sons, and what few men remained searching for their families. Falco found Verica in the crowd. The daughter of Cadwaladur lowered her head and wept. Cornelius put his arm around Falco’s shoulder, and patted him on the back, “Come now, my son! Let us celebrate with our people!” The cheering stopped. Two months after the triumph, Falco was just another new man, no longer the hero of the masses, showered with praise everywhere he went. So Falco went out looking for something to do. He drank, he attended the games and the races. He listened to poetry. He womanized. Nothing filled the void. The overwhelming joy was gone, and it seemed that he could do nothing to get it back. Then life threw him a little pleasantry. “Sir?” The servant entered the courtyard where Falco reclined upon a couch, watching a girl swim in his reflecting pool. “You have a visitor.” Falco slowly got up to his feet, and straightened out his toga. “Who is it?” The sunlight blinded his eyes for a moment, and then Falco was able to make out the figure. It was his father, the old bastard, a bright smile upon his horrid countenance. “My son! My son! I cannot believe it is you!” Tertius Numerius exclaimed. “I thought you were lost! Your family has missed you so much, you should have come to see us as soon as you returned to Rome.” The veteran centurion folded his arms across his chest, his face like stone, standing silent before his father. Tertius’ face sunk, his smile vanished, disappointment showing, “What… what is wrong, my dear Cassius? Why won’t you welcome your father into your new home?” “What do you want?” Tertius now stood up taller, anger in his voice, “Don’t you talk to your father that way, boy.” “You’re not my father, you old bastard. You never were,” Falco spat. “Speak or leave.” Rage seethed within Tertius’ soul, “You insolent child…” He took a deep breath, and attempted to be pleasant once more, “With the recent reforms your dear patron Cornelius has imposed, the Republic has seized your family’s estate, and is redistributing it to soldiers. “We have been cast out of our home, and your brother, mother and I are forced to live in an apartment in the city itself,” Tertius continued. He smiled, and raised his palms in supplication to his son, “If you could, please, talk to the consul about this, and restore us to our lands. Give back to the family that has given so much to you.” Falco sneered, and turned his back upon his father. “Why would I do that? It was my proposal in the Senate.” Silence. Falco smiled, curling his lip up over his teeth. Moments such as these are meant to savor. “Tell mother not to worry, I’m sure she can become a wh*re and provide for you. Lucius would fetch a pretty penny in the Greek quarter.” Falco heard three steps, father lunging at son, murder in the man’s heart. He turned and his fist went right into his father’s gut. The old man’s ribs cracked underneath the strength of the veteran soldier. Tertius slumped to the ground, groaning, and gasping for air. Falco went back to his couch, and gestured for a slave to take away the broken old man. The wheels of the two chariots slammed together, the shockwave almost knocking Falco from the vehicle. Coming up on his right were the white and green riders, their chariots coming towards the inside edge of the track for the turn. Falco put the whip to his horses, screaming out a profane curse to the beasts. He gritted his teeth, and used his forearm to wipe sweat from his face. The blue racer on his left bumped him again. Falco saw that his wheel was starting to loosen, and couldn’t take many more of these collisions. Cassius Numerius Falco, riding for the red stable, decided to take matters into his own hands. Like hell he’d let some pissant suckled by the tit of a wh*re humiliate him, the son of the consul. Falco led his chariot away, then snapped the whips, and charged at full speed into the blue racer. The horses, trained to obey his commands no matter what, complied, and the two chariots crashed against each other. The blue rider’s eyes went wide, his chariot veering into the track wall. “What are you doing? Gods above, you’re going to kill me!” Falco did not cease his drive, forcing the man closer and closer to the wall. The centurion turned his head away when it happened. The blue rider hit the wall at a harsh angle, and his horses was cast onto the ground, the chariot launching up into the air. It hit the dirt track of the Circus Maximus with a violent blast, a thick dust cloud kicked up into the air. Falco crossed the finish line, his heart pounding, adrenaline flowing through his veins. The virgins came down to crown him with laurels, the fans of the red stable chanting his name. When the wars end, man must turn to sport to satiate his bloodlust. God bless Rome, Falco thought to himself. God bless Rome. The slaves pulled out the body of the blue rider. The man’s wife and four year old child wept in the stands. That night he celebrated his victory in the games. Only started racing a month ago, and already defeating his enemies… No. Winning matches. That’s it. Not everything is war. Falco lifted his two handed cup up to his lips, and drank deeply of the thick, unmixed wine. He shuddered, and his mind flashed back to the heavy liquors of the Gauls. When Falco opened his eyes, a smile came across his face. The mist of drunkenness made his head spin, and he had to blink once more. For a moment, it was the old days, the good days. He was back in Gaul, Cadwaladur’s chosen one, the leader of the Romans… before Decimus. No, he shook his head, don’t think about that bastard. He was no longer in his estate, drinking with his entourage, attended by the blonde and redheaded Gallic women, but in the glorious hall of the barbarians, celebrating a victory, worshipped like a god. He eyed the youngest daughter of the chieftain, Verica, lust stirring within him as decadent thoughts filled his mind. Wait, that was not then. This is now. Verica is his. His wife. That dirty cow, they had been married for months now, and yet she had not become pregnant with an heir. Falco bit his lip, and glared at the redheaded woman. They’re all miserable harlots, every last one of them. His mind drifted again. The lotus he smoked clouded his head, causing undesired memories to drift in and out. The death of Hrodgar. The insolence of Gaius Decimus. The murder of Cadwaladur, and the sacking of the village… The triumph. Remember thou art mortal. Falco threw his cup to the ground, the bronze chalice spilling its contents of the floor of his home. “Damned fools, they do not understand!” The guests were silent, watching their host. Verica approached her husband, and put a hand on his shoulder. “Cassius?” Falco swatted her away, knocking her backwards, “Quiet, woman. Quiet. I’m fine. Go away, go spend time with your barbarian friends.” Verica stepped backwards, still trembling. * * * Falco f*cked the two women until he had his fill. He had grabbed the two slave girls who most appealed to his taste, and took them to his bed. They moaned for him, and told him how handsome and glorious he was, how much they wanted and needed him inside themselves. Lying sluts. He knew that they only wanted to appease him, but he didn’t care. He needed release. The three of them lay on the bed, naked, sweating, and tired. Falco’s head pounded. He was still drunk, but the high of the lotus had left him. He wanted to sleep. Remember thou art mortal. Again and again, the words of that slave dog echoed in his consciousness. Why could he not have peace? Why wouldn’t that damn slave shut up and leave him alone? The door opened, and a woman stood in the entrance. It was Verica. He knew her figure. He knew her scent. “What do you want, woman?” There was silence. “I said, what do you want?” “You might be my husband… But you don’t need to humiliate me like I’m some common slut. At least the real men don’t have to resort to drunken prostitutes.” Falco leapt from the bed, and was on her in an instant. His hand struck across her face. “Don’t you ever talk to me like that!” Verica stood her ground. He wrapped his giant hand around her throat, squeezing her tightly, choking her. Verica’s eyes went wide, and she gasped for air. “You f*cking cow! Don’t you ever talk to me like that, I swear to the gods above that I break your little neck! Do you f*cking understand me?! Do you understand me?!” Verica nodded, tears streaming down her face. Falco released his grip, then slammed her against the wall, again and again, before throwing her to the floor. He turned to the two slave girls in the bed. “Out! Both of you! All of you filthy, sycophantic sluts leave me alone! Now!” The slave girls didn’t even bother to reach for their clothes, running past Falco and the crying Verica. Falco looked down at his wife, “Now get in my bed. Show me you’re still worth something.” Another day, another war. The gladiator’s skull caved in as Falco’s mace struck. The dead man fell to his knees, and Falco cut his throat with a gladius for good measure. The chariot races were one thing… but the funeral games… the gladiatorial combat. This was something else all together. Blood sport in its purest form, killing and destruction, death and mayhem. A wealthy senator, a praetor, died of a stroke about a week ago. Twenty men would be murdered to celebrate his life. Well, nineteen. Falco intended on being the survivor. He dodged a trident, almost caught by the net, but using his years of combat experience and flawless reflexes to get out of the way. The trident hit the sand, kicking up dust, momentarily blinding the pair. The net snapped down, and the gladiator committed enough for Falco to strike. He swung the mace and shattered the left elbow of the gladiator. A stab forward with the sword, and his intestines spilled across the amphitheater. It was such a privilege, to have a war hero like Falco competing in the games. Why would he risk his life, if not to honor the late praetor? What great honor and respect for the Senate Cassius Numerius Falco possesses! A final blow of the mace to the gladiator’s spine, and he fell. Only two left. They came with spear and scythe, two convicted felons, fighting for their lives and a possible pardon. They lacked experience, they had never fought a trained legionary. The spearman and the scythe wielder encircled Falco. The spearman stabbed forward, the scythe slashed. Falco dove forward, and the scythe sliced the chest of the spearman. Falco hit the ground, and his sword struck, severing the Achilles’ tendon of the scythe wielder. The man fell, letting out a cry of agony that filled the theater. The veteran centurion slowly rose to his feet, and then looked to the ground. The mob cheered in approval for their victorious hero, the conqueror of the Gauls, the son of Cornelius. Thumbs turned. The screaming man cried out for mercy. Falco embedded his sword in his heart. “City life is not for you, Falco.” Falco looked up at Lucius Cornelius shaking his head in disapproval, pacing back and forth before his adopted son. “Why do you say that?” “You have to ask?” Cornelius said. “You are a patrician now, yet you act like a common soldier. You lust for violence and the drink, not to mention women. Normally this would not be an issue, but damn it, you are the son of the consul! I am going to be up for election soon and I cannot have you screwing it up!” Falco laughed, “So I’m just another pawn to you, Cornelius? The war hero returned to give prestige and honor to his newly adopted father, the consul?” “Indeed,” Cornelius replied. “You’re not as foolish as I thought.” “Then what are you to do with me, dear father?” “I need to send an ambassador to Egypt. Their king, Ptolemy, wants to forge an alliance, and I need someone to negotiate it. It should be a simple job, and you’ll be off on some important mission instead of here making a fool of yourself in Rome. “Fulfill your lusts in another land where you are out of my hair.” Falco pondered it, rubbing his chin as he lay upon his couch. He reached for a piece of fruit, and chewed it. “Anything else?” “Your wife has bruises and a black eye. Don’t let it happen again, the people don’t approve of my heir beating the mother of his child.” “She’s an infertile cow.” “Maybe you just need to stop trying to have sex with her while you’re piss drunk,” Cornelius said, as he left the room. “You leave tomorrow, there will be a parade. Don’t be drunk.” Egypt: the ancient land. A place of pyramids, great monuments, picture writing, libraries, and incest. Falco was bored by the time he hit harbor. The welcoming party was attired in the traditional Egyptian garb, the headdresses and clothes of their ancestors, the pharaoh riding up on a chariot. It was all for show. Egypt had been almost entirely Hellenized when the first Ptolemy took the nation after Alexander’s death. Once, Egypt would have been an important player in the world scene. Now, they were little more than a granary. The trumpets sounded, and the pharaoh’s chariot came to a halt. Brown slaves wearing heavy eye make-up and tan loincloths lifted the young pharaoh out of the chariot, sitting him upon a golden throne. The servants then carried the throne up to the end of the procession to meet Falco and his bodyguard of one hundred legionaries. “Greetings, Cassius Numerius Cornelius Falco, ambassador of the glorious Republic of Rome. I, Ptolemy, Pharaoh of eternal Egypt, am honored to entertain you,” Ptolemy said with the Latin of a toddler. Falco smiled, and went to one knee in front of the king, his armor rattling as he moved, his scarlet cloak flowing in the slight breeze off the Mediterranean. He responded in perfect Greek, the pharaoh’s first language, “And I am honored to be the guest of such a distinguished land, and great king, my lord. May our business be swift, and our friendship everlasting.” Ptolemy’s face brightened at hearing his own language, “My, I am impressed with your knowledge, Sir Falco. Certainly your Senate has sent one of its best.” The centurion laughed, rising when the pharaoh gestured. “Perhaps not its best, but certainly one of the better.” “Indeed,” Ptolemy said nodding. “Now come, let us feast and celebrate your arrival!” The slaves lifted the king back onto his chariot, and the pharaoh rode towards the palace. Falco put his hands behind his back, and walked after his host. Standing next to Ptolemy on the chariot was a young woman of perhaps eighteen or twenty years old. She had the bronze skin of the Egyptians, black eyeliner, matching her raven hair that fell down past her shoulders. The white dress clung to her body like a second skin, revealing every inch and curve of her form. She looked at Falco, and gave him the slightest of a smile. Falco returned it. Perhaps Egypt wouldn’t be so dull after all. Negotiations continued, the treaty was secured, yet Falco was not allowed to return home. “Remain in Alexandria, be the eyes and ears of Rome in a foreign land,” Cornelius told him. Stay away and keep yourself busy, in other words. So Falco did as such. Ptolemy, upon receiving favor from Rome, damn near shit himself in excitement, Falco noted. Suddenly, the Roman ambassador was the most important dignitary in the nation. Even Heraklides of Athens, the envoy from the Second Hellenic League, lost some of his popularity. Made no difference, he was off to go pacify some city in Greece, Megara or Megapolis or something. With the increased importance came a close relationship with Cleopatra, the pharaoh’s sister and wife. The young woman was gorgeous, especially for an inbred foreigner, and Falco could barely control his lust for her. At a dinner Verica and Falco hosted for the royal family, Cleopatra expressed her interest in history and philosophy, and that she frequently studied in the city’s legendary library. When Falco jumped in on the conversation, citing that he enjoyed the rhetoric of as many philosophers as he could possibly think of, Verica made a snide comment9, “When did you become a student of philosophy and not of the sword, my husband?” He beat her that night. * * * It started small, reading Homer and Hesiod, Callisthenes, Ptolemy, stories about great warriors and battles. When he’d exhausted himself reading about Achilles and Alexander, he decided to dabble into some Egyptian history. He learned about pyramids, pharaohs, and chaos brought by sea peoples. But something peaked his interest. The Egyptians of old were obsessed with death. It consumed them; it formed the basis of their lives. They were constantly preparing for a life afterwards, an eternal existence where man walked again. He dug deeper. On the surface, the practice of mummification, the Book of the Death… they all seemed to be normal religious practices. Nothing special. But in the older texts, the ones found in the basements and subbasements, mention more. Ways to bring life into dead matter, to wield powers that allowed one to control the wills of men. These were only hints, whispers, footnotes that were hidden within the papyrus. Bedding Cleopatra became a distant concern. Day and night Falco studied in the library, trying to find some clue that would lead him towards the eternal life that he so craved. To a time when he would never have to worry about cheering ending, to a time when he would not age, nor lose everything he had worked so hard to achieve. He found hints of ancient lands, lands destroyed by a cataclysm whose cause was unknown. No. The cause was known. Passages were cut out of these scrolls. He recognized the names of mythical places, Hyperborea, Asgard, Lemura… Atlantis… A land of black pyramids in the south that ruled all mankind. A great war. Destruction, death, apocalypse. Someone had gone through these documents, these myths and legends, and removed all mention of something. Some ruler or king, a people or an empire. What had caused the war, the cataclysm. All lost. No longer was this merely an old story told to frighten children. This only confirmed it for Falco, there was something to these scrolls. If someone cared enough to purge these scrolls, to censor and edit them… There was something dangerous and powerful here, and he was on the verge of discovering it. More research. More digging. “And beyond the sky, in the infinite darkness, there is life eternal, death conquered by…” Falco whispered as he read the line of text, the last words cut away. “By… by who?!” Falco slammed the scroll down and overturned his desk, roaring with a terrifying fury. “Gods be damned, by who?!” Cassius Numerius Cornelius Falco left the library, consumed by anger and despair. The answers were at his fingertips, yet he could not find them. He was so close, he knew it. Immortality was almost his, and yet he could not grasp it. No longer would he worry about women and heirs, politics and war, cheering and the thrill of the crowd. He would be a god. He would outlast everyone around him. When they all withered away and died, Falco would still live. He craved it, he was consumed by it. “Remember thou art mortal...” Falco was stopped dead in his tracks, hearing the accursed words of the slave again. Now, he heard them again, leaving the library of Alexandria, and walking in the streets of Egypt. He would not stand for this insult, this mockery. He went for his sword, and immediately put it to the neck of the one who spoke those words, a filthy, sickly old man wrapped in rags, seated against a wall like a beggar. “I swear I will cut your throat, old dog!” Falco screamed, lifting him up by the collar. “Remember thou art mortal,” the man whispered, “...except through the Nameless One.” He raised his right hand, and upon it was a ring in the shape of a serpent. It was then that Falco knew. The old man smiled, “We have been waiting for you, Falcon of Rome.” [This message has been edited by Vasta (edited 10-17-2005 @ 02:08 AM).]
The Falcon of Rome
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A thick fog fell upon the plains of Gaul the next morning. Winter was approaching, and soon, Lucius Cornelius would retire his men back to safe territory and camp for the season.
When the guard would not reveal any more, Cornelius called for his horse, and rode out of the camp escorted by his praetorian horsemen.
Falco nodded, “Nearly three hundred, sir. I am their commander.”
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Falco rode with the praetorians and Cornelius back towards the camp. They went at a break neck pace, and Falco had to admit he was shocked at how good a rider Cornelius was.
to fight, they have merely come to take my men home.”
“Wait here just a moment, Brycham. I must speak to the consul regarding an important matter,” Falco said before running back to Cornelius.
Falco’s voice became hushed, grave in tone, “The Gauls are planning a treachery. As soon as our baggage train is underway, they will assault it and slaughter us all. Though we have tried to build strong bonds with our captors, they still regard us as possessions. They will not try to attack now because they wish to lure us into a false sense of safety, but they will certainly take us when we are traveling without the protection of the infantry.”
***
Cassius Numerius Falco and the consul’s legion took the village of Cadwaladur by surprise. Before the Gauls even saw the Romans, siege engines were assaulting the city, catapults and ballistae ripping the buildings to shreds.
***
Tiberius the Scout did not take the news well. “You did what?! They were our families! We had wives and children!”
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His visits to the library of Alexandria were infrequent at first, just merely making his presence known. The Egyptians were astounded to see a Roman dignitary reading scrolls. Perhaps all the stories about short, stupid, and violent Italians weren’t true.