[RS2.1 AAR] The Kingdom of Ionia - A Roman Reinterpretation of the Crusades

[Ganbarenippon]

Beautiful...

[McScottish]

C'est formidable! An excellent update, foul play never goes amiss really. Can't wait for the next one.

[Diomede]

A long awaited and no doubt well received update. Half the legates ought to be... removed. <_< >_>

[chaplain118]

Chapter XXVIII

Loose Ends

-----

Alone, Crassus mourned Balbus silently. An empty wine jar rolled on its side with a single ruby drop hanging to its lips. He raised his glassy eyes to the heavens, begging the gods for an explanation but receiving only silence. He looked upon the ring given to him years ago by the Coward King and heard once more his promise:

Absolution lies in safeguarding the helpless...

And there was that question again: was the person who now lay dead before him not helpless? He felt himself growing old under the pressure. His legates are now looking to him for leadership, but more so for power.

Pictor and Bubulcus. Crassus shook his head. The Kingdom would fall were it left to them. They knew only of conquering nations with no thought of repercussion. Brilliant soldiers and masters of strategy they were, their management skills were severely lacking.

But they must continue as planned, push on to Pergamum. How inconvenient, Crassus cursed. He had planned to have an official show of power with both himself and Balbus. It would cement not only Roman authority in Ionia, but with fact that the lands of High Troy was once more in the hands of Trojan-borns would have made Rome send countless legions and pilgrims. The Kingdom would be secure. He rubbed his pulsating brow, trying in vain to alleviate the discomfort. His face felt numb. No, so was his left side. Crassus knew this meant one thing: Apoplexy.

"Slave! Slave!" He called, but his voice became garbled in his paralyzed mouth.

Trying to stand up, he tumbled from his seat onto the ground. Using his one good hand, he pulled himself up. Pain flared through his head and he sank into blackness.

*****************************

"Did you hear that?" Titus asked.

Polybius looked around. "No."

"It sounded as if it had came from the Praetorium. Someone was calling for a slave."

"Then a slave has answered."

"No, it's something else." Without another word, Titus pushed himself from the ground and dashed towards the Praetorium.

"Titus!"

*****************************

"There is still the matter of his riders. We must rid ourselves of them as well."

"Must we? There has been enough killing."

"To secure your throne we must do what must be done."

"But we could use those men. Our numbers are dangerously thin as is."

"Men can be replaced."

"No, I cannot be compliant in so many deaths."

"Yet you were the one who sent Balbus to the ferryman."

"Only by your designs!"

"You would have remained, forever, the criminal that you were had I not come along." Snarling, Pictor grabbed Bubulcus and pinned him against the wall. "Did you think I left behind my life in Rome on purpose? I came here to repay my sin for beating my son into a useless stutterer. Absolution once YOU became King! That was what the Pontifex promised me. Could I have refused the great gens Iunia, when they rid Rome of her tyrants? Dare I refuse the request of the Pontifex, your uncle?"

Hot drops of tears rolled from Pictor's eyes.

"I came here for my son, yet I am stuck with you. By the gods I swear it, I will make you King. Your soft-handedness will not stand in my way to absolution. Your incompetency will not be the cause for my prayers to the gods to be unanswered. I will put that crown upon your head even if I must leave the rest of your body behind!"

Pushing his face close to Bubulcus', Pictor whispered.

"Do we have an understanding?"

"Y-Yes."

Sounds of commotion rose up around them. Dropping Bubulcus to the floor, Pictor rushed outside and barked. "Soldier! I demand an explanation!"

"It's the King, Legatus! The King has fallen!"

Without turning around, Pictor whispered. "Men can be replaced."

A Promise to Return

-----

My child, Atia.

I hope that this letter will find you safe and forever blessed with the spirit of your mother. I hope that when you have this letter in your hand, I will be coming home. I have left you a child and to me, you still are that little girl whose mind never ceased to amaze me. I have been a horrid father to you, the endless months and years away from you while you were raised by slaves. But my child, you must understand that I came here hoping to build you a better world. I'm sure that you know by now, that our beautiful house, our rich number of clients, were all a lie. I'm sure that you know now of how I had deceived the City of its treasures. I'm sure you have endured the stares and vituperation of the masses of Rome.

And I know from the bottom of my heart that this letter will not find you at comfort nor satisfied with my justification. I know that I cannot make up for your lost time suffered because of my sins. I know that no amount of riches I turn to the City can erase the black mark on my name and more importantly, yours. And yet, you don't hate me. You have only supported me in all of this. You are the most wonderful daughter that a father can hope for.

I hope that the war will end tomorrow, and that my debt will be repaid soon. I hope that I can return home, to gaze upon a home that I have acquired through my own means. To gaze upon a home worthy enough to raise you. I can only promise you these things. But soon, I shall be in Ephesos and I will personally show you how I have changed. I will show you how your life will change too.

Until then, my child, I can only give you my promise.

Your father,

Quintus Atius Balbus

[SeniorBatavianHorse]

Sad and poignant - what an excellent update. Well worth the wait, chaplain118. This AAR is a rare treat to read.

[Darth_Revan]

awesome updates!!!

[chaplain118]

Chapter XXIX

...Black hair Furies, snarling with unbound rage,
Breath forth the fears of that forgotten age,
The age of Illium, the age of War,
When Greeks and Romans fought on Asian shores.

Above are the fragments of a poem found at the foot of the Pergamum walls. For years the meaning of the poem has eluded academics. The conflict speaks of a conflict between Rome and Greece, but places it at over two thousand years ahead of the wars of the first century BCE that Rome had waged in Greece. To be more puzzling, Roman meddling in the Anatolian Peninsula historically has never been proven to be directed at Hellenic populations, but more of the Hellenistic population. The original fragment's usage for "Greek", however, referred to the Hellenic populations.

This is where the crucial evidence arises supporting the concept of the Kingdom of Ionia. If this had been a Kingdom whose back has been pressed back against the wall while it was constantly inundated with an influx of pilgrims, then a very much violent war is all too obvious. Furthermore, Roman capture of Pergamon would not have gone without looting. Such a capture warrants the removal of treasures to Rome, whether during the Republic or under the Caesars.

This looting would have incurred several responses: Local Greek population would become terrified and speak of Romans as if they were bogeymen (much like how the Romans viewed Hannibal). Furthermore, the intelligentsia of the populations would attempt a rally of the local populace by reminding them of the previous time that a conflict so violent was waged in Phrygia, the province assigned by the Romans to Pergamon. An obvious parallel would be drawn to the Trojan War, explaining this odd fragment that has 'puzzled' academics for decades...

Excerpt from “Forgotten History of the Ionian Coast” by C. Krieger Ph.D and J. Connelly Ph.D

A Temporary Shift

-----

Crassus had regained his ability to sit when the entire camp showed up at his door. Bald head drooping in the flickering light of the torches, he tried to raise it to look upon his men but could not. A spasm snaked across his face and his jaws clenched in protest. He could hear whispers around him. Turning his blurring vision around, he saw two figures push through the crowd towards him. His vision faded but he was still conscious. Strong arms hooked underneath his armpits and the distant grunting of men passed through his ears. He was lifted from the ground and slammed onto something soft. Cold hands ran across his forehead and he smelled vinegar. A surgeons rock steady voice echoed in the room and he realized what they were about to do. The same arms that had lifted him now pinned him to the bed. A scream issued from his throat but he was too far away to hear it. Pain across his head and he felt the bones crackle and break. The lights grew brighter, brighter. Faces became sharper and disappeared. The whiteness of the light burned around him, blinding him to the world.

Then. Nothing.

*****************************

"He will need rest. There is no telling if the affliction will return within a few hours. I will need my assistants to watch over him overnight." The surgeon dipped his hands in the bowl of water and watched as ribbons of red twisted in eerie stillness. He looked up and his sullen Greek face was scrunched up in an awkward smile.

"Oh, you'd like that, wouldn't you?" Pulcher took a step forward. Crassus' blood was still on his tunic. "Leaving you here, alone with the King."

"Pulcher!" Aebutius Drusus raised his hand. "Enough! This man has been with my troops since the day I arrived. Surely you should have learned to trust him! He has tended to you enough times these past months."

"You cannot blame me for my suspicion! First Balbus falls from his horse, and now the King falls from apoplexy? And then." He looked up at the approaching figures. "These two."

"Oh do go on, former Legate." Pictor sneered.

"Why do you two still stand, when good men have fallen?" Pulcher's hand reached for his sword.

"We?" Pictor's eyes narrowed. "I believe you were the one who rebelled against the previous King. I believe you have the recent King's blood on your hands. And look, the blood has stained your sword.

Pictor smiled and whispered, just loud enough for the new troops to hear. "Murderer."

"Enough, Numerius Fabius! We must tend to the King, not squabble like children!" Aebutius Drusus stepped forward.

Pictor's smile did not fade. "Oh what is this? The boy who brought his army to die pointlessly? And by the gods, you as well? Stained with our King's blood? So am I to understand that the two of you held the King when he was vulnerable, muscled in this Greek to your trio, and then conspired to murder th--ah, correction, DID murder the King? Am I correct in believing that this is what has occurred here?" He drew his sword and pointed it at a random soldier at the door of the tent. "Soldier!"

"Sir!"

"Was what I described correct? Answer faithfully!"

The soldier looked at the scene within the tent and back at Pictor. He looked again. Finally, after looking a third time, he nodded.

Pictor turned around. "Murderers."

"No, you can't believe that's what happened!" Aebutius Drusus charged forward, but a flurry of shields gathered around him and sent him reeling to the floor. He looked up in a haze of tears and saw that it had been the men from his own army that pushed him back.

"I want these two men locked up and prepared for execution in the morning! Anyone caught aiding them will be declared a traitor to Rome, a traitor to Mars, and a traitor to Juppiter. Anyone caught aiding them will receive a fate blacker than death!"

"You madman! Who will lead us?!" Pulcher drew his sword.

"Certainly not you." Pictor motioned to two soldiers. The two rushed forward, shields ready. Pulcher barely had time to embed his sword in one when the other slammed him to the floor and kicked his weapon away. Two more soldiers rushed forward and pinned Pulcher's arms and legs. Swords rose and fell. Red seeds flew in the air and blossomed on the floor in delicate patterns that lasted for barely a blink before fading into mere black balls coated with dirt.

The soldiers who stood over Aebutius Drusus, still somewhat loyal to him, merely held him down. With tear smeared eyes, he glared back at Pictor.

"How quaint." Pictor breathed. "Keep him in the stockades. I will dispose of him in Pergamon."

"Pergamon?" Bubulcus spoke for the first time. "Are we that close?"

"Oh yes. Another few day of hard marching, and we will be at the walls that the Greeks built atop proud Ilium." He turned to the soldiers that now gathered in the tent.

"Soldiers of Rome! Children of Mars and Venus, the descendants of the proud Trojans! Absolution is near! We have reached the end of our journey! The walls of old Ilium is finally within grasp. We will tear down those walls that the Greeks built atop our ancestors' bones! We will destroy their temples! Raze every bit of their pathetic existence! We will cleanse the holiest of holy cities with the blood of the faithless, to appease the souls that howl for vengeance and to the gods who demand the sacrifice! Only there, only behind the walls of Pergamon, behind the black heart of the Greeks will you find absolution! You have come here with sins carried for life, with sins you've inherited. You were once doomed to the shores of the Acheron and the pits of Stygia! No more! No more! When you take Pergamon, you will take her share of prizes, her share of the rights of the conquered! When you take Pergamon and subdue her, beat her mercilessly into the ground until she lies bleeding and broken and utterly unable to resist, then you will take absolution from her. You will rip absolution from her trembling frame and hear only whispers begging for mercy. There will be no mercy. There will be no even handedness. No bodies will be buried, but fed to dogs and carrion. No house remains untouched, and no safety guaranteed. We unleash upon Pergamon what the Achaeans unleashed upon Troy, but tenfold! What say you?"

A resounding cheer rose up. Tired men were always easy to motivate.

"Get to your tents! We march to absolution!" Turning his attention back to Aebutius Drusus. "and you, my dear boy, will be the Polyxena of our return to Italy."

Under the Walls of Ilium

-----

Morning came as a rude awakening to the people of Pergamon. At first light, flames were hurled into the city. Houses became abalze, and despite the best efforts, the flames only grew stronger as water was thrown upon it.



Pieces of plaster chipped away, revealing their concrete base. Flaming rocks were extinguished and graying boulders were flung against the buckling walls. The citizens inside huddled to each other as dust flew in puffs from the cracks. Children raised their eyes in wonder while their mothers prayed. Their fathers stood watching the wall with quivering spears in hand and split shield upon his shoulders. Dogs barked nervously at the shaking walls. Birds deserted the ramparts in bursts of black patches that obscured the sun for brief seconds with their sudden shadow rolling across the thatched rooftops.

"Heavenly Zeus, mighty father of both gods and men. Hear our prayers, as we lift our arms in praise." the priest droned on as the walls continued to crumble.

A baby cried in the city. There was no one to silence him. A brick toppled from the wall and smashed into a thousand chunks. Dust curled from the impact and fragments tumbled in the air, some glittering in the right conditions so that they looked like drops of diamonds tumbling through the air.

"Bring us sanctuary, protect us from violence. Look down upon pitiful us and have mercy."

The sacrificial victim was brought to the stand. The impending hammer rose up. Ululations rose up from those gathered to steel their nerves as more bricks fell. The victim lowed its discomfort. A pair of hands came slamming down and the steak was driven into the beast's skull. Brains splattered forward and dripped onto the sacrificial table. Blood arced in the air and left moving ephemeral patterns on the the white marble.

"The safeguarding of this city will be honored with a thousand sacrifices of the finest bulls and rams. Oh heavenly father of gods and men, hear our plea."

Men started retreating from the ramparts, shouting at those in front to run faster. The footing gave away in some parts. Those in the rear watched their backs in fear as they felt the wall groaning beneath their feet. The boulders continued thudding against the walls. Tremors grew frequent and some men were thrown off, shrieking to a speedy death as the unyielding ground slam into their skulls, shattering their clenched teeth. Skulls crack open with sickening thuds. Jaws twist and snap. The death twitch in the neck whipping through their backs. No chance of prayer. No chance of final rites. Merely broken pieces of flesh and bones. Those unfortunate few who could still see and feel, watched as pieces of stone, from days long past, slowly tumble and fall--and felt those stones crunching through bones and sinew and flesh. Buried they lie, without the blessing of the living nor respect of the dead.

"Let not these invaders befoul your own sacraments and Holies. Let them not near the walls and let them die breaching it. But let us remain and let us endure so that we will continue to honor thee! Oh heavenly Zeus, might father of gods and men...



So the priests prayed. So the gods answered.

[McScottish]

Just gets better and better, praise be to Chaplin!

[Ganbarenippon]

Honestly, I do not believe that there is anybody on these forums who writes with the emotional impact that you do. AAR fandom and messing about aside; you have a real talent, one that you seriously need to think about developing and turning into a career. The level of writing I see here is that good. You have a genuine gift my friend, and I don't think I'm alone when I say that.

[SeniorBatavianHorse]

What I like about this is the movement from those small details like the blood in the water to the canvas of the cosmos itself in which priests pray and the gods 'answer'. A most accomplished update and worht the wait!

[Yeepeep]

What I like about this is the movement from those small details like the blood in the water to the canvas of the cosmos itself in which priests pray and the gods 'answer'.

Ditto! I just read all of this in one go and what can I say -- beautiful work! +rep

Do you, perhaps, plan to write something from the "other side"? If the talent that you, chaplain118, and SBH stun us with can be channeled into some sort of co-op storytelling from the perspective of those who struggle against the Roman terror, well then all bets are off...

Or even better - you two masters of the pen can challenge each other?!

[chaplain118]

I'm waiting for IB:RO to come out before starting my Crisis of the Third Century AAR focusing on the Gallic Empire, which will tie in nicely with something else I'm working on that's not TW related.

As for a co-op storytelling, I'm afraid I just don't have the time anymore, though to do it with SBH would be an honor.

As for a challenge, I doubt my writing's that good.

[SeniorBatavianHorse]

The IB:RO AAR (IBROAAR!!!) sounds like a must read. I hope the mod comes out soon then. As for a co-op, it would be my honour indeed. Perhaps in the IB:RO lies the seed?!

[Winston Churchill]

I signed up to the forum purely to say how much I admire this AAR. I'm hooked!

[chaplain118]

Chapter XXX

The fragment spoke further about desecration and the lament of Ilium, a tragic event whose scope we can only surmise...

Excerpt from “Forgotten History of the Ionian Coast” by C. Krieger Ph.D and J. Connelly Ph.D

Bowed Eyes

--------

The silence was unsettling. When the litholoboi ceased their assault and the dust cleared away, it was as if the judgment of the gods have been laid. No measure of resistance rose to the heavens. The incessant pleading had stopped. The weary Roman troops bowed their heads and eyed the city beneath their helmet brims, careful to shield their eyes from the divine arbitors. Sword pommels, smoothed by a young nervous hand, shone unattended on men's hips. A fly landed upon a bead rolling down a man's face, drank greedily, and settled--a spectator to the games.

Atop his horse, Pictor closed his eyes to the bright sun of noon. He smelled flowers of the Kerkis tree floating over the trampled pastures. It was almost as if he were home. A few coughs from afar pulled him from his fantasies and he gazed upon the pitiable army. Ragged, tired, thin from the lack of provisions. This is no army, he bitterly told himself, it is a horde of beggars and thieves. Turning his eyes to the broken walls of Pergamon, he asked whether that made him the King of Thieves.

Raising his hand for the signal to advance, he decided to consider the question once Pergamon has fallen.



A flash of red rose in the very front ranks, where the Gauls charged headlong into the fray. The battle has begun.



The few men who remained were either too old, or too young, as their sons and fathers perished on the walls. Consolation rested upon the thought of reunited families, not on the concrete shadow of a broken one. The women knew this as well, and many held vials of poison purchased from the apothecary, who has since mysteriously disappeared. Children were washed. Parents scrambled to find ferry tolls. Mere minutes seemed to stretch to hours. Mothers held back tears for sons standing in large armors that did not fit. Sons struggled with the weight and bit back childish beckonings.

But what could they do but stand and feign strength, even as tears streamed from their eyes? What could they do as sheep staring into the eyes of a ravenous wolf on the last dregs of its reason? The eagle rose higher, higher, and still higher until its wings blotted out the sun. They watched the black war horses nodding towards them, reeking of feces and urine and caked vomit. A sharp pain pierced their sides, or their neck. Cold fingers pulled the warmth from wounds. Hands rose up in instinct to stem the scorching flow of wasted youth. The same cold fingers held limbs to the ground, and kissed at noses. Ephemeral lips, cold as ice, feathered against the fallen men shivering to death. Gently, the lips wrapped around the men's mouths and kissed away the last few breaths of life. In slivers, the soul descends into the earth, stretching to connect itself once more, moaning--always--to the gloomy banks.



The Roman brims remained fixed to the ground. The sword pommels plunged up and down, polished with yet another coat of verneer.

A victory in battle is a worthy tale. A slaughter, however, is not.



When the banner of Pergamon was ripped from the citadel and the weighty judgment of the gods reverberated across the city, the Roman troops were at last set loose upon a city without restraints. Pictor sat in his tent upon the citadel and looked out into the screaming night flickering with torches. The only comfort he had was that this was war fought on behalf of the gods. The Pontifex Maximus said so, and so it must be true. He closed his eyes to the sobbing and the screaming, but kept his ears open to the whispers of dissent and vituperation. It was a sound he had grown familiar to in these years.

No Stone Left Unturned

-----

Morning brought neither calm nor end to the horrors of night. Now, faces were associated with crime. What could have been passed off as simply a beast of the night now became men who knew no reason but to ravage. The white-robed priests gathered before the steps of temples. The fires from sacrifices still lit. Hands still bore the bloody knife of prayer. They stood--a frail line--against the pattering footstep of approaching Romans. They raised their hands to the gods and were struck down by mortal palms. The sacred fires were heaved from the temple top and landed upon the paved street. Hobnailed boots stomped over the ground slippery with blood. A few more priests remained within the temple, shielding the gold and jewels with their bodies. Brittle old bones were shoved out of the way as strong arms carried away the chests and amphorae. Wizened fingers clung to the containers while hoarsing voices cried of the gods' wrath.



But most wondrous treasure was the large altar to Zeus, standing upon the Acropolis. The massive walls towered over men, daring them to lay hands upon the rock. Paintings of fierce giants at war with each other graced the walls and their eyes bore down to the insignificant men watching in horror as blood, bones, and sinew splashed across the expanse. The artist, name long forgotten, was blessed with unparalleled skills that drew what men feared most. Shadowy figures of armed men stood at the feet of the giants, and in the dim could be mistaken as real men. The echoes of footsteps grew to loud poundings, and the walls quivered with hidden whispers.

"We cannot destroy this..." Titus Rufus' voice was among the many who dared to step into the altar. "The gods will punish us for it."

Derisive laughter rumbled about him. So run away. The riches is for ours to take.

Dropping his shield and sword to the temple ground, Titus Rufus backed away. "The gods will punish us for this." Backing out, he turned and dashed into the city. No one questioned him, no one chased after him.

The Kingdom had expanded beyond its borders. It stood almost at its former glory. Yet the soldiers felt no safer, they were just as tired as they were those years ago under the Coward King. The promises of absolution came and went and never materialized. So they sat within their tents outside the city's gates, waiting for the moment that their swords would be called up to fight once more. Always, their eyes turned east, facing sunrise not with joyous anticipation.

[SeniorBatavianHorse]

I love the last paragraph - bitter and weary and resigned all in one. Wonderful writing as always!

[chaplain118]

Thanks!

Shame that I ran into the largest chunk of writer's block. I know what would happen soon (for several more turns), but I'm starting to feel that the narrative is starting to drag. It's just one battle after another, hardly any room to develop characters...

Doesn't mean the AAR is over in any way, oh no.

There's a few more narrative turns before I run out of ideas.

[ReD_OcToBeR]

Thanks!

Shame that I ran into the largest chunk of writer's block. I know what would happen soon (for several more turns), but I'm starting to feel that the narrative is starting to drag. It's just one battle after another, hardly any room to develop characters...

Doesn't mean the AAR is over in any way, oh no.

There's a few more narrative turns before I run out of ideas.

I know what you mean, with "battle after battle". Sometimes it leaves you with an endless trail of death with no room for the people and somewhat blocks the progress. I started the Lone Eagle, up again and instantly ran into it. The last update suffered but oh well. To give it the ending it deserves I think I'll end it on the largest battle of the campaign before it just drags into oblivion. In a way battles can push you forward, or put an end to things.

Maybe between battles you can come up with storylines or something. I've done it before, but its quite difficult i found.

either way +rep

[chaplain118]

Chapter XXXI

The Dead have Few Words

-----

Aebutius Drusus sat behind the bars of his cell while noises rose up around him. Pulcher was beside him. Neither had been fed since Crassus fell. There were times that Aebutius Drusus swore that he had seen images of his father scowling at him for his failures. He was sure that he had since cried out during his nightmare-filled sleeps. A drop of brackish water fell on his forehead and he did not bother wiping it away. It must have been raining. The old prison system of Pergamon, located deep underground, concealed daylight and weather from all those whom it had swallowed. The only source of light came when a sentry was sent down to check up on the prisoners to make sure that they were alive. Pictor's words still echoed in Aebutius Drusus' mind.

"and you, my dear boy, will be the Polyxena of our return to Italy."

Polyxena. He muttered the name with his parched tongue, twirling the ungainly syllables in silence. He had long lost track of the days that turned to months and years he spent in this holy kingdom. He knew that he had originally came here a boy full of zeal and idealism, but now he was simply tired. Training his eyes to where he guessed the porthole the sentries would descend from, he wondered if Polyxena felt the same way as she was led to the grave of Achilles.

He wondered if this prison was on the very spot that her blood was spilled.

How many of his men were left? How many of them still believed in the tales of absolution? Would they cry when his lifeless body crumple like a pile of ashen twigs after a midsummer night's flames? More importantly, will he cry out in fear when the gleaming silver of the priests rises up in preparation for the killing blow?

Feeling his way to the bars, Aebutius Drusus clung to them and peered into the void. He ran his hand over his face and felt the stubble of a beard that he had long wanted to grow. Its coarseness matched that of his hands and he absent-mindedly rubbed at it.

"You can rub it all you like, it's not going to make the end come any sooner." Pulcher coughed in the darkness.

Aebutius Drusus chuckled. "Was that what you believed? At Colophon?"

"No. I had made my peace then. To think that I needed to do it again. It's an... odd feeling."

"Perhaps the gods will smile upon you for a third time."

"Do you believe that for yourself?"

"No."

"Then why should I?"

Leaning against the bars, Aebutius Drusus had no answers for Pulcher. He thought back to the first days of when he arrived at the Holy Kingdom, of kneeling before the Coward King and vowing his allegiance. He remembered Pulcher then: brash, headstrong, and ambitious. How similar the man had seemed to the current usurpers of the crown. In a way, both his own fate and Pulcher's fate were inexplicably intertwined. Both owed their lives to Crassus. Both saw the man that was their absolution fall helpless to the earth. Now both sit within this dank cell, awaiting certain execution. Were it not for the grisly nature of the coming terminus, Aebutius Drusus would have found this state of affairs terribly funny.

"Do you think they'll feed us? Before we die?" Pulcher asked.

"Why would they?"

"It'd be the human thing to do."

"We fight on behalf of the gods. What does it matter what we humans do?"

"Hmm, there goes the last bit of absolution I'm praying for." After a long pause, Pulcher said. "You know, Aebutius Drusus, you've grown a lot over the years."

"Have I?"

"I always saw you as a fool, an honest fool, but a fool nevertheless. But now, I'm not so sure."

"Fools have a way of surprising people."

Pulcher was about to respond when the sound of moving stone cut the conversation short. Light flooded the dank recesses. Rainwater pattered downward into the mushy ground. A ladder clanged against the lip of the hole and a man with a torch descended. He wore several rings on his finger and his eyes were glassed with wine. The keys that hung on his belt jingled with each stumbling step he took. With voice tainted with the sweet smell of wine and bread, he belched.

"Numerius Aebutius Drusus and Maximinus Pulcher, your presence is demanded at the citadel of Pergamon. There, your souls will be sacrificed to the black gods of the Underworld and your blood will be used as repayment for the sins committed in this Holy Kingdom of Ionia. You will be escorted to your ends. Have you any last words?"

Though his eyes still could not see from the sudden influx of light, Aebutius Drusus recognized the voice. It was one of his own soldiers, Pupinius. Sighing, he replied.

"Yes, Pupinius, I do. How dare you stand drunk before a superior officer."

Pupinius hiccuped. "You aren't my officer anymore. You're a criminal."

Four other men descended from the ladder. They were armed, even though there was no need. After a few moments of fumbling from Pupinius, the cell gates were unlatched. Four pairs of rough hands grabbed the two prisoners. Shackles were placed around their wrists and ankles. In single file, the soldiers and prisoners shuffled towards the light. Aebutius Drusus could hear the sound of the roaring crowd above. The Greek populace screamed for Roman blood while the Roman soldiers demanded the sacrifice to initiate their voyage home. Awkwardly, he placed one foot on the rung of the ladder and hesitated. Now would come the moment of decision. The name ran over his tongue once more.

Polyxena.

Steeling himself for what is to come, he finally understood how the young girl felt as she was led to her death. There was a difference in approaching the altar of execution with one's head raised high and being dragged kicking and crying into death's embrace. If Pictor would have him be the Polyxena of the Kingdom of Ionia's return to Italy, then he shall be Polyxena in both spirit and resolve. Staring into the brightness that he could not see, Aebutius Drusus placed his hands on the next rung of the ladder and pulled himself upwards.

The Tears of a Daughter

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The messenger galloped until his horse's legs gave out at Colophon. From there, he rode forth upon a donkey towards Ephesos. The soot of the funeral pyre still covered his face and his hand was wrapped tightly around a single scroll bearing few words. Gazing at the battered gates of Ephesos, the messenger stopped and raised the small banner he carried from Sardeis. The sign was accepted and the doors swung open. Dismounting from the donkey, the messenger headed towards the acropolis of Ephesos. Children passed by and pointed at his dirty appearance. Women averted their gaze and old men whispered rumors of defeat and death among themselves. A hushed silence followed the messenger wherever he went. A group of soldiers paused in their steps and nodded at him. He returned their gesture and continued on. He knew the winding paths of the city and knew where he needed to go. He had been in the service of the King for his entire life. The steps to the palace on the acropolis was like a second home to him.

His steps carried him to a small house in Ephesos, one that nobody would have thought belonged to the Prince of the Kingdom. Careful to wipe the sweat from the wrinkled scroll, he knocked on the door. When the door opened, he nearly gasped at the sight. The resemblance between father and daughter was uncanny. Those same piercing eyes that seemed to stare into souls he had grown accustomed to seeing stared at him once more. In that brief moment he wanted to throw himself at her feet and pledge his fealty as he had to her father. But this was not wise, nor was it fitting for a man such as himself.

"Can I help you?" She asked.

"Atia Balba? Daughter of Quintus Atius Balbus?"

"Yes." Chancing another glance at her intimidating eyes, he saw the unmistakable flash of hope and joy. He could not look further. Fumbling with his dirty clothes, he handed the scroll to her.

"This came from your father."

"Father?!" Her hands shot up to her mouth and the letter remained in his hands. He could see that she was trying to hiding tears even as her mouth widened into a smile that she could not--did not--hide.

He looked away. "Yes."

"Well, do come in. You must have traveled a long way to reach here!"

"No, domina, I must be on my way. The King is still expecting me to return soon."

"At least have a drink of water! Merricus!" She called over her shoulder. A sullen faced slave lumbered over. "Bring water for our guest. He has news about my father."

"Please, I should be on my way. It's late enough as it is."

She waved it away with a delicate flick of her wrist. "Nonsense! You must have traveled a long way to reach here. The least I can do is show you proper hospitality. Oh where is Merricus? You'll have to excuse him. He's not very good with these household tasks. Much better suited for a common fieldhand, my father always said. Please, make yourself comfortable here while I get some water. Oh you must tell me everything that has happened! Oh what am I doing standing here talking? I'll be right back!"

And like that, she disappeared into the simple house. He heard the sounds of clanging pots and tinkling glass. The house may not seem fitting of a Prince on the outside, but its interior was decorated with fine friezes captured from the wars of Sulpicius Camerinus and masterfully wrought trinkets. He really should go, but she still has not taken the letter from him. With trembling hands he felt the other letter tucked by his breast. Which one would he give her first? He had not read the one that Balbus himself wrote for her, but he can guess its contents. Gingerly placing himself on the edge of the divan, he waited for Atia to return.

"So!" She practically shoved a large goblet of cool clear water into his hand, spilling a few drops on his tunic. "What has been happening? Is my father well?" Noticing the spill on his tunic, she said. "Oh by the gods, I am so sorry about that! I've never been as graceful as other girls. I'll have Merricus find you another tunic... unless you're not allowed to change into the clothes of a private citizen?"

"It's fine. I've been splashed with worse things." He saw her recoil at the remark and mentally kicked himself.

"Well... okay." She said, half her face hidden behind the lips of her goblet. "You must be so tired of me asking, but what news do you have of my father?"

He stared back at the piercing eyes and took a deep breath. "Your father..." How could he put the words appropriately? Placing the scroll on the tiny table between them, he said. "I've not read it. I trust it has things within it that you will understand. Your father..." he could see the corners of her smile dipping. "He had been a brave man, an honest and upright man who cared deeply for each of us. I..."

The goblet clanked to the floor and disgorged its content on the floor. The water, darkened by the floor beneath it, looked like a pool of expanding blood. The words came haltingly from the messenger as he looked into his own goblet. He did not chance another glance at her. When he stood up to thank her for the water, he only saw the top of her head. Her hands were folded neatly in her lap and the goblet rolled slowly on the floor. Without another word, he left from the House of Atius Balbus.

[McScottish]

Packed with emotion and character development, I really enjoyed that read. Most excellent, and you've not lost your touch. +rep