Hello all, been awhile. This is a new project, pretty massive in scope, actually. It should keep me busy, and hopefully keep me on track (if not, badger me to death)
By the way, after writing this first chapter, I believe I have done something to solve my over-use of commas, at least to an extent. Criticism is welcome as always, as is praise, and a healthy mix of both will be most appreciated.
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238 BC: Outside of Sulcis.
The priest approached the sacred bull with his knife, sharp and shining in the early hours of dawn, with a singular purpose. As he stood next to the bull, which stood so patiently it seemed as though it wished the deed to be performed, the priest raised the knife above his head. A hush came over the on looking soldiers, the Consul Tiberius Sempronius Grachus inhaled deeply as his eyes focused in on the victim. The priest placed his knife on the opposite side of the bulls neck, with a silent, personal prayer to the gods he pulled the blade quickly across the throat of the victim sending a spray of crimson red all over stand. The bull did not kick, it only threw it’s head up as though it was a tragic actor, it’s legs buckled and collapsed with a thud.
What little pity might have been felt for the poor beast was lost as the priest, after a few minutes of slicing open and tearing out the innards, began to examine the liver. For what seemed like eternity, but may have perhaps been five minutes, the priest and his assistants looked over and argued amongst themselves what signs they may or may not have seen. Then the priest, perhaps sick of the argument or of looking the fool in front of the assembled army, turned towards the Consul, bidding him to come over to him. Grachus shuffled over quickly, listened to what the priest had so say, and with a look filled more with puzzlement than distress, called out his a booming voice to his soldiers, “Men, the gods have sent no signs, good or bad, to us. Since the gods have refused to give us their divine advice, I shall take council with the armies staff as to whether we should go about our business today or wait until further signs are given. Take the chance to rest, give yourself a meal and assure yourself that you have your belongings.”
The Consul turned now, followed by the lictors assigned to him and his personal staff of tribunes, personal relatives, and a Quaestor assigned by the senate, and made off the dias as quickly as possible. To those soldiers that could see he appeared to be muttering, his hands balled tightly into fist. When he left, the centurions began to lead about their men to their places in camp. It was a large camp and thus a large gathering, a full Consular army of two Roman legions along with two Italian Alae. They had been in Sardinia for nearly six months, and had seen little action since the beginning of the campaign.
Two of the Military Tribunes following Grachus walked slower than the rest of the staff, who hurried after the annoyed Consul. Publius Cornelius Scipio, arms crossed in front of his belly, asked his elder brother Gnaeus Calvus, “Do you think we will march against our foe today, brother?”
Gnaeus Calvus answered as though he had not witnessed the morning’s events. “Why wouldn’t we?”
Turning his head up towards his brother, Publius responded, “The auspices, for one. None of the legionnaires would feel comfortable marching without the approval of the gods.”
“Do you think he believes about the gods? Let alone worries about their sanctioning his desires. He’s a patrician, he has more confidence in his own divinity than anything else.” Gnaeus answered his brother yet again, his words delivered with little emotion, and little humor.
“We’re patricians as well, and do you know anyone more god-fearing than our father?” Publius remembered now that he had not seen his father for over half a year, nor his mother.
“Our father is a special case, perhaps. The Sempronii tend to be a bit more arrogant anyhow. I suspect we will be marching out today.” Gnaeus to was overtaken by thoughts of his family at home.
“Tiberius Sempronius is a friend of other family, remember that when you speak about him, brother. I would hate to see you in the forum, disgraced.” Publius had a feeling his brother was right.
“Well, you know what I say is true. And yes, I remember he is our father’s friend, how could I forget? Father reminded us every other minute on the way to Ostia.”
Both brothers quickly rushed up ahead to rejoin the group. They arrived just in time to hear Tiberius ask if anyone had an opinion. No one spoke up, each man eyed the others waiting for the first one to make a comment. Most were hoping the Consul would simply make up his mind, so that they might agree with him. Tiberius Sempronius stared at each individual, hoping they would say something, hoping even more that they would say what he wished them to say. But the more he stared, the less willing the staff became, the more nervous they all felt. He saw the two brothers Scipio glance at one another, smiled with a shake of the head, and finally turned towards the Quaestor assigned to him. This man, Livius Drusus, grunted and then began to speak, “I believe we should march out against our foe, today. If we fear the lack of response from the gods, we can always simply make camp when we’ve come into the presence of our enemy. Sitting here, impotent as we are in this camp, is simply a waste of funds.”
Though few expected to know what Drusus’ answer would be, even fewer were surprised by his motive for doing so. The people were certainly on to something when they elected to the office of Quaestor a man who could out bargain even the most cunning market men, and who could receive a talent and still worry about spending an extra sestertius on a marketers bread. He was the perfect man for a job in which his duty was to overlook the Republic’s treasury, and the jokes about him, as well as the grumbles, from the legionnaires about his habit of spending as little as possible for supplies were not without some truth. It was for their benefit that Grachus often made sure that they had enough to eat. Heads nodded throughout the council, and when no one else spoke out against his advice, Grachus spoke with confidence to his staff, “Comrades, do not fear if the gods do not answer every question we ask, or else you’ll worry all your life. We shall move out against our foe, who sits but a dozen or so miles from where we stand, here outside this city. Our natural courage will grant us victory in any engagement, that is, if the enemy is willing to face us. Tribunes, give your orders to the legions, we march within the hour.”
"It's not true. Some have great stories, pretty stories that take place at lakes with boats and friends and noodle salad. Just no one in this car. But, a lot of people, that's their story. Good times, noodle salad. What makes it so hard is not that you had it bad, but that you're that pissed that so many others had it good." Jack Nicholson
By the way, after writing this first chapter, I believe I have done something to solve my over-use of commas, at least to an extent. Criticism is welcome as always, as is praise, and a healthy mix of both will be most appreciated.
------------------------------------------------------------ --
238 BC: Outside of Sulcis.
The priest approached the sacred bull with his knife, sharp and shining in the early hours of dawn, with a singular purpose. As he stood next to the bull, which stood so patiently it seemed as though it wished the deed to be performed, the priest raised the knife above his head. A hush came over the on looking soldiers, the Consul Tiberius Sempronius Grachus inhaled deeply as his eyes focused in on the victim. The priest placed his knife on the opposite side of the bulls neck, with a silent, personal prayer to the gods he pulled the blade quickly across the throat of the victim sending a spray of crimson red all over stand. The bull did not kick, it only threw it’s head up as though it was a tragic actor, it’s legs buckled and collapsed with a thud.
What little pity might have been felt for the poor beast was lost as the priest, after a few minutes of slicing open and tearing out the innards, began to examine the liver. For what seemed like eternity, but may have perhaps been five minutes, the priest and his assistants looked over and argued amongst themselves what signs they may or may not have seen. Then the priest, perhaps sick of the argument or of looking the fool in front of the assembled army, turned towards the Consul, bidding him to come over to him. Grachus shuffled over quickly, listened to what the priest had so say, and with a look filled more with puzzlement than distress, called out his a booming voice to his soldiers, “Men, the gods have sent no signs, good or bad, to us. Since the gods have refused to give us their divine advice, I shall take council with the armies staff as to whether we should go about our business today or wait until further signs are given. Take the chance to rest, give yourself a meal and assure yourself that you have your belongings.”
The Consul turned now, followed by the lictors assigned to him and his personal staff of tribunes, personal relatives, and a Quaestor assigned by the senate, and made off the dias as quickly as possible. To those soldiers that could see he appeared to be muttering, his hands balled tightly into fist. When he left, the centurions began to lead about their men to their places in camp. It was a large camp and thus a large gathering, a full Consular army of two Roman legions along with two Italian Alae. They had been in Sardinia for nearly six months, and had seen little action since the beginning of the campaign.
Two of the Military Tribunes following Grachus walked slower than the rest of the staff, who hurried after the annoyed Consul. Publius Cornelius Scipio, arms crossed in front of his belly, asked his elder brother Gnaeus Calvus, “Do you think we will march against our foe today, brother?”
Gnaeus Calvus answered as though he had not witnessed the morning’s events. “Why wouldn’t we?”
Turning his head up towards his brother, Publius responded, “The auspices, for one. None of the legionnaires would feel comfortable marching without the approval of the gods.”
“Do you think he believes about the gods? Let alone worries about their sanctioning his desires. He’s a patrician, he has more confidence in his own divinity than anything else.” Gnaeus answered his brother yet again, his words delivered with little emotion, and little humor.
“We’re patricians as well, and do you know anyone more god-fearing than our father?” Publius remembered now that he had not seen his father for over half a year, nor his mother.
“Our father is a special case, perhaps. The Sempronii tend to be a bit more arrogant anyhow. I suspect we will be marching out today.” Gnaeus to was overtaken by thoughts of his family at home.
“Tiberius Sempronius is a friend of other family, remember that when you speak about him, brother. I would hate to see you in the forum, disgraced.” Publius had a feeling his brother was right.
“Well, you know what I say is true. And yes, I remember he is our father’s friend, how could I forget? Father reminded us every other minute on the way to Ostia.”
Both brothers quickly rushed up ahead to rejoin the group. They arrived just in time to hear Tiberius ask if anyone had an opinion. No one spoke up, each man eyed the others waiting for the first one to make a comment. Most were hoping the Consul would simply make up his mind, so that they might agree with him. Tiberius Sempronius stared at each individual, hoping they would say something, hoping even more that they would say what he wished them to say. But the more he stared, the less willing the staff became, the more nervous they all felt. He saw the two brothers Scipio glance at one another, smiled with a shake of the head, and finally turned towards the Quaestor assigned to him. This man, Livius Drusus, grunted and then began to speak, “I believe we should march out against our foe, today. If we fear the lack of response from the gods, we can always simply make camp when we’ve come into the presence of our enemy. Sitting here, impotent as we are in this camp, is simply a waste of funds.”
Though few expected to know what Drusus’ answer would be, even fewer were surprised by his motive for doing so. The people were certainly on to something when they elected to the office of Quaestor a man who could out bargain even the most cunning market men, and who could receive a talent and still worry about spending an extra sestertius on a marketers bread. He was the perfect man for a job in which his duty was to overlook the Republic’s treasury, and the jokes about him, as well as the grumbles, from the legionnaires about his habit of spending as little as possible for supplies were not without some truth. It was for their benefit that Grachus often made sure that they had enough to eat. Heads nodded throughout the council, and when no one else spoke out against his advice, Grachus spoke with confidence to his staff, “Comrades, do not fear if the gods do not answer every question we ask, or else you’ll worry all your life. We shall move out against our foe, who sits but a dozen or so miles from where we stand, here outside this city. Our natural courage will grant us victory in any engagement, that is, if the enemy is willing to face us. Tribunes, give your orders to the legions, we march within the hour.”