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

[chaplain118]

Oh my, I hope the itch won't take too long to scratch

And I think I want to hold off on this month's MAARC so I can have a chance of actually competing alongside with you this time rather than always remaining in your shadow from month to month.

On another note:

I think the jig is almost up for the time period of the Kingdom of Ionia. Does any intrepid reader care to guess exactly which time period this is set in? Hint: the word "Greek" is used very loosely here.

[romulus753]

Good to see your AAR is still alive and kicking!

Ooh, ooh, I want to guess! How loosely is the word Greek used here?

[chaplain118]

Chapter XXXVI

Ripples in the Water

-----

Atia did not see the struggle take place before her doorstep. She only had the unfortunate luck to see the aftermath. The messenger was dead upon the cobblestoned street when she opened the door. Beside the messenger was Quintus Fabius Pictor. There was no color to his face and his lips were ashen. His armored hand attempted to staunch the blood pouring profusely from his shield arm. His glassy eyes rose up and met hers. A single raspy word buzzed from his throat.

"Help."

She remained rooted at the spot. The news of her father's passing was still fresh in her mind. She looked on as Quintus Fabius gasped great gulps of air with his shuddering frame. The other man was pinned under his horse. She looked from one man to another, unsure of whom to tend to first. The horse lifted its head for a few seconds before flopping it to the ground. A trickle of blood leaked from its mouth and it made no movements. She could not move the horse, even if she had help. Taking this as a sign from the gods, she stepped over to Quintus.

The wound was deep. Blood flowed like strands of water between Quintus' fingers. Atia saw that the cut was nearly to the bone. She had seen her father tend to farming wounds before, but that had been years ago. She knew that the blood needed to be stopped, but she had nothing to slow its flow.

Tears streamed from her face and she shook her head. "I'm sorry Quintus, I don't know what to do."

He pointed at her dress and drew a shallow breath. "Tear."

She didn't understand what he wanted. Her shaking hands could not even grasp the fabric. She called over her shoulder for Merricus to come.

When the slave emerged, Atia said, "Help me! What do I do?"

Merricus bent down and cradled Quintus' face with his calloused hands. The lips were already turning blue from the blood loss. In silence Merricus ripped a strip of linen from his own tunic and rolled it into a tight tube. Placing it in Quintus' mouth, Merricus then ripped off another piece and began packing the wound.

Even in his delirious state, Quintus felt the stabbing pain as the rough linen brushed against severed muscles and tendons. A million needles stabbed at his skin and he bit down on the rolled piece of cloth. Had he the energy, he would've screamed. Instead, he could only groan in pain. The needles changed to an endless vibration running through his arm. Sensations overwheled his brain. At times he felt as if his arm was one fire, at times as if it were encased in ice. He felt something slap his face and the world swam back into view. The slave was mouthing words to him, but he could not hear anything. A loud buzzing pounded away at his ears.He focused his eyes on Atia and saw concern on her face. He was slapped in the face again and finally focused on the slave in front of him.

"What is your name?"

"Fabius... Quintus Fabius... Pictor."

Merricus nodded and chewed on his lower lip. The man had lost a lot of blood, but the fact that he can still recall his name was a good sign. Standing up, Merricus said to Atia,

"I will go fetch a surgeon. They are more experienced than I am at this line of work. I have only slowed the blood loss. His life is still in danger. He'll need to be properly cared for, especially the wounds. Without proper washing, they will fester and grow putrid. It's best to prop him against the wall and place the wound below his heart."

Hooking his arms under Quintus' armpits, Merricus dragged Quintus to the wall. He went back inside the house and quickly returned with a bowl of water and clean linens. He left the bowl with Atia and jogged towards the citadel.

She dipped the cloth in the water and wiped away at the caked blood on his arm, chancing a glance every so often at the other man pinned under the still horse.

"What happened?"

"Hmm?" His eyes were unfocused.

"What happened here?"

He mouthed something, but she could not hear the words and so she leaned forward. Locks of hair brushed against his face and he closed his eyes. His armored hand made slight movements. She sat by the wall with him and cradled his helmed head, shocked at how cold the skin felt. She rested her head on his helmet and a single tear slid from her eyes. The gods were cruel to take so much from her, first her father and now the stuttering Quintus who had done nothing wrong. Her soft hand held on to his fingers and her heart skipped a beat when he squeezed back.

Merricus came back with four armed men. Two of them bent down to retrieve Quintus while the other two pushed the horse from the other man. No words were exchanged and the four men departed as soon as they came. Wordlessly, Merricus took the bowl of bloodied water from the ground and walked back into the house. When he returned, he had a clean piece of cloth for Atia to dry her hands on.

"He should be okay. They have permitted me visitation rights." Grinning, he continued. "They think I am his slave, and that you are his betrothed--a story made more believable by your action before they took him away."

"When?"

"Within the hour, I suppose. But with your father's auctoritas, I think you might even be able to see him much earlier."

Atia did not look Merricus in the eyes. "Yes, I would like that very much."

"Come inside, domina, it looks like rain is coming."

The rain came slowly at first, drop by drop. The drops grew larger by the minute, and soon, strands of water connected the heavens and the earth. Farmers rushed back from their fields under the downpour and gullies formed in the farmlands. The cobblestoned roads of Ephesos plinked with the raindrops as brown-colored water rushed through the streets, sweeping away mud and dirt and blood. The dead horse did not budge from its place and the water dashed about it in mini whirlpools, toying with the manes that had grown so accustomed to the grime of battle.

Night and Day

-----

The storm did not reach the road between Pergamon and Sardeis. The dry air from the faraway desert mercilessly stole every drop of moisture from the atmosphere, leaving each man parched and listless. Titus reached for his water skin and shook it, despondent at the lack of sound.

"No water?" Polybius matched pace with him and asked.

"Not a drop."

"How many days have we been walking?"

"Four? Eight? I've lost count." Titus breathed.

They had been traveling endlessly. Each night, the small caravan would stop for a brief few hours to rest before setting out again in the hopes of eluding capture. They had ran out of rations after the first two nights, and now water became a luxury that they only dreamed about. Each torturous step reminded them that they were mutineers from the army, that their lives--if the priests spoke truthfully--would be destined towards a doomed existence in the next world. No man argued with one another. Arguing required energy, which required water. In silence, each man trudged forward. Their water skins slapped against their hips like a hollowed drum--empty, empty, empty.

"Don't suppose your luck with the gods could convince them to send us some rain?"

Titus looked up at the sun and the cloudless sky. It was strikingly beautiful. "No, guess not."

"Did you hear what Pinarius tried to do?" Pinarius was one of the younger men who had volunteered his sword to freeing Aebutius Drusus. So far, the boy had spent more time complaining than being useful. He was a rear-line soldier, and only saw fighting during the claustrophobic streets of Pergamon.

"No." Titus had no interest in listening, but he had not the energy to dissuade Polybius.

"Tried to kill himself. Slit his wrists last night."

"Tried?"

"His blood refused to flow. No water."

Titus chuckled and winced in pain when his dry brittle lips cracked. "Blessed by the gods. Maybe we should go into battle like this."

"And stumble every other step? I'd rather bleed."

The two fell into silence. With one foot in front of the other, the ragged group dragged itself forward. By their estimates, it would be another three days until Sardeis, and that is assuming they made the journey at a proper rate. Titus reached up and felt the thick stubble that had grown. He, like the other men, desperately wanted to shave. The heat from the sun was made doubly uncomfortable with the beard. Salt lined their clothes, and each man reeked of ammonia as their bodies subsisted on nothing but determination.

"How long have we been here?" Polybius asked.

"On this road? I told you I don't know."

"No, this kingdom."

"Oh... Years, I suppose."

Polybius coughed--a dry hacking cough that dislodged nothing and created only more discomfort. "Years. Lost count of those too?"

Titus nodded. A gentle breeze rolled through the road, but the air was oppressively hot and did nothing to alleviate the misery of the dry barren plains.

"You know," Polybius said, "I hear that the deserts of the East are hotter."

"Well that's why we're here and not in the East."

"You think we'll ever make it that far?"

"Polybius, I'm more concerned about making it to tomorrow."

Silence descended again and the group continued to walk forward. When night came, they sat beside a fire and looked at each other--too tired to speak. No one looked at Pinarius, whose arms were lined with deep gashes of red. The boy turned his arms towards himself and folded them, fooling no-one and failing to hide his shame.

Four nights later, under the starry skies whose night-time beauty was overshadowed by the blistering daytime heat, the familiar towers of Sardeis swam into view in the distance.

[SeniorBatavianHorse]

Another superb update, Chaplain118. The wound description was masterfully done and contrasted well with the parched men in the following scene. There is a real literary depth here in the way you manage these scenes across the AAR as a whole and each update. Again, I can only lament the wait to the next one, wishing it was published already!

[McScottish]

Can't say much more than that, but I concur with my esteemed colleague.

[chaplain118]

Chapter XXXVII

The Kingdom's Shield

-----

The tired band of men barely struggled behind the gates of Sardeis when Pinarius collapsed to the floor. Cries of alarm and panic rose up in the city and its inhabitants receded from the walls. Signs of the old siege still remained. Here and there in the wall were fresh-colored stones ringed by jagged old edges. A priest was brought forth to interpret the sign. Upon seeing the still body of Pinarius, the priest fell to his knees, extended his hands to the heavens, and screeched--a sound so terrifying that everyone clasped hands over ears in a vain effort to block the cacophony.

"Deaths, plagues, the wickedness will come. This foul blood sacrifice upon our city still polluted by filth and sacrilege will cause the gods to spurn us forever! Oh hear me, immortal gods! Why have you forsaken our city once more?" Tears--genuine or faked from years of practice--rolled down his leathery face. "Deflect our tribulations, direct them elsewhere, somewhere, anywhere but here!"

And so the old priest went on until he finally collapsed from exertion. A pair of attendants rushed forward and carried him back to the temple, all while turning rueful gazes to the body of Pinarius.

In one swift motion, Aebutius Drusus swept forward, clasped the body of Pinarius, stood the youth to his feet, and placed a loose piece of dirt under Pinarius' nose.

The citizenry watched as the piece of dirt moved briefly in rhythm before suddenly flying away at the twitch of a nostril.

"He has brought the man back to life!" Someone shouted.

"A miracle! A miracle!" Echoed a voice in another portion of the crowd.

Suddenly, ecstatic cheers rose up in the crowd and they rushed forward to Aebutius Drusus. Some knelt before him and dedicated their service. Others yearned to touch him, in the hopes of receiving the gods' blessings. Mothers begged him to bring their sons home. Fathers asked for their daughters' chastity to be restored. More men appeared and from somewhere, a chair was brought out. Before long, Aebutius Drusus sat atop the chair and was carried through the city. The crowd parted before him just as water parts before the prow of a warship. Solemn whispers rose up as he passed by and eyes lingered on his seated form.

All the while, Pinarius had collapsed again, and no attention was paid to him.

When the sun had set, Aebutius Drusus had enough men to stand at arms. Torches were passed throughout the city. The blacksmith's towers belched black smoke to the heavens while hammers struck fiery melodies against the anvil. Bronze statues, muddy plows, and even the tiniest of nails were stripped and melted. Agonizing hisses rose from the tepid water each time another red-hot iron plunged in. Farm horses were stripped of their soft bits and fitted with the muzzles of war-horses. Old strips of leather supplanted the mail-coat and the horses snorted in discomfort against the stifling material. Tables were hacked apart and fashioned into spear shafts, arrows, and sword handles. Children pounded the tiny rocks away until the rocks grew razor sharp. The flat-headed ones were fitted to the arrows while the unsuitable ones went into the pouches of teenagers skilled with the sling.

Four days they labored. Four days they toiled in misery and endless motion. When their limbs grew weary from work, when each hammer blow upon the anvil feebly raised its spark, and when there were no more rocks left for the children to fashion, the makeshift army of Aebutius Drusus was completed.

"Sire, what shall we make, for our sign?" A group of soldiers, face still black from the smokes at the smithy, stood before Aebutius Drusus.

Aebutius Drusus looked at them. The morning sun of the fifth day slowly rose up higher and higher into the sky. As the discus of the sun grew larger and larger, an eagle darted across the heavens and screeched as it crossed the glowing orb, that for a moment, it seemed that the sun was seized in the cruel talons of the eagle.

A fitting sign. The soldiers agreed.

And a blessing that the sign of the army was chosen that day. For six days later, the Greeks were sighted over the horizon. Once more, siege and warfare had returned to the Kingdom of Ionia.



Standing atop the walls of Sardeis, Aebutius Drusus wondered if this was what the Coward King had felt when the determined Greek armies rolled forward towards him. Fingers brushed against the rough wall, Aebutius Drusus smiled. He will seek absolution in this battle. The Greeks will be stopped here, and when he has baptized his army with the blood of his enemies, then he will turn his fury and vengeance back upon the proud Kingdom that had spurned him. Fire and steel will send his enemies moaning to gloomy Dis.

He raised his hand and the order was relayed. A red flag rose up atop the towers, the gates swung open, and the Army of Sardeis marched forth to face the rolling spears of the Greeks.

Shattered Mirror, Unbroken Frame

-----

The rain did not cease for days in Ephesos. Atia draped her traveling cloak closer to her body, but still the rainwater penetrated the material. She was soaked and very cold when she arrived at the house of the surgeon Olympiodoros. Averting her eyes from two passing soldiers, she knocked on the door and expected an answer. She had not seen Quintus in the intervening days. It was not that she didn't want to, but that an endless stream of officers and soldiers now visited her house. Always they brought the same questions. Where had the horseman come from. Why had the horseman come to her house. They didn't show malice in their questions, but she still felt uncomfortable around them. Each man was covered head to toe with iron, that they may as well have been statues blessed with the ability of speech.

Especially frightening were the horsemen's masks. With only black pupil-less slits for eyes, she felt as if those horsemen were dissecting her soul piece by piece and examining it for lies. Their breathes rasped with each word behind the still masks. She squeezed her own fingers for assurance each time she met their gaze. Only single word answers stammered forth when she faced these horsemen.

And after the first day of questioning, only those horsemen paid her visits. At night, her nightmares were filled with them. Within the unbound range of her own mind, these horsemen were no longer absent of emotion. They were filled with rage and lust. She ran from them in her dreams, but always her foot would be caught on a vine and she would fall forward. An armored hand would sweep her up and throw her like a bound pig upon the horse's saddle. Always, she woke up screaming before the worst could happen. And each time she would clutch her knees and sob, awaiting a dawn that took too long to come. Her father's letter would swim to the front of her mind, evoking fresh tears.

So, she waited in the rain and kept her gaze to the ground. A short while later, a young slave opened the door and let her in.

"Oh my, have they let you remain outside for so long? You look dreadful!" The lilting voice of Olympiodoros floated into the atrium.

"No, the rain has only gotten worse." She smiled.

Casually glancing at the streams of water splashing into the compluvium at the center of the atrium, Olympidoros nodded. "Hmm, I must have missed it. Ah, such is the life of one too devoted to his work. How can I help you?"

"I'm here to see Quintus Fabius Pictor."

"Fabius Pictor eh?" Olympiodoros scratched his chin. "He's sleeping. But you can see him. I'll have one of my assistants bring you to him."

"Thank you."

As she followed after one of the Greek youths who bowed when he entered the atrium, Olympiodoros called out after her. "You're lucky he's still alive. But I'm afraid you'll never be with him in whole."

"What do you mean?"

"You'll see."

He was lying in a small bed made of sticks and a tarp. There was no padding save the natural curvature of his own body. He was still wearing his armor, and there were sections where the blood had caked on it.

"He had lost a lot of blood when he first arrived. We almost thought he wouldn't make it." The assistant said. There was no emotion in his voice. It was one of simple facts, pure analysis and zero attachment.

"The arm had been nearly hacked through. Luckily, the sword had not gone deep enough to cause major bleeding. He was lucky that it was the outside of the arm that had been attacked. However, the bone had been shattered beyond repair. I had thought our operations alone might have killed him. But in the end he pulled through."

"Operation?"

"Here, I'll show you." The assistant motioned Atia over to the other side of the bed. She gasped.

His arm was set between several planks of wood. Several bloodied and foul-smelling bandages were strewn within pans. Black lines criss-crossed his arm, and a foul smell emanated from it.

"Hmm, it seems that the putrid has not yet faded. We'll need to clean the wound again. Excuse me." He reached over to a jar upon a tiny hearth and poured out a measure of warm wine. Dipping a clean sponge into the wine, the assistant began wiping away the pus that oozed from the black lines.

"Perhaps." He turned around. "You may want to step outside. This is nasty business to look at."

"No, I'll stay."

And stay she did, watching with tears in her eyes as the Greek assistant wiped away the pus and changed out the dressing. Constantly, her lips whispered prayers. Now to Apollo, now to Asclepius.

A Dark Shadow Falls

-----

[Boustrophedon]

Great update! I'm still following btw just haven't posted in a while.

[SeniorBatavianHorse]

Great update again, chaplain119! The wound scene was especially effective (and I was eating breakfast while reading it, too!).

[chaplain118]

(and I was eating breakfast while reading it, too!).

I hope the breakfast went down and stayed down.

[chaplain118]

Chapter XXXVIII

Pitfalls

-----

When the battlements of Pergamon saw the coming Greek forces, only then did Bubulcus realized his problem. The purge of centurion officers and jealous soldiers had rendered the once formidable Army of Ephesos a mere husk. Numbers and soldiers existed only on paper. Commanders were mixed and disarrayed--a trait commonly seen in inexperienced men thrust into positions of responsibility. And thus, as he had always done, Bubulcus enclosed himself in the citadel of Pergamon with his elite troops and left the defense of the city itself to Pictor.

On the other side, the Greeks were prepared. Endlessly, flaming bundles crackled over the battlements into the city. Soldiers were pulled from the walls in order to combat the fire. And endlessly, the Greeks pounded away at the city each night. Each night, new areas of the city would be held under fire, but the lithoboloi were not accurate, and errant missiles often streaked into untouched corners to ignite an unsuspected inferno.



During those nights, soldiers grunted as they pass buckets of water and mud through the streets while women and children shrilled at their ears. The heavy smoke sucked the air from their own lungs and many a time one would collapse to the ground. Two runners stationed throughout the line would inspect the integrity of the efforts. Those who collapsed were dragged away to a nearby house, given water and spare rations until conscious, and sent back into the lines.



The endless psychological warfare continued for two months. The Greeks began a mixed cycle of night-and day artillery barrage purely to throw the Romans off balance. Days were muddled until finally, a new recruit still familiar with civilian life suggested keeping a tally of the days on a wall. That was when the realized how long the siege had been going. At least, that's when they started to keep track.

The summer sun did not fade easily in Anatolia, and as early summer gave way to mid-summer, the men found themselves in an unbearable state to remain in under siege. The constant fires and smoke, when mixed with the rising perspiration of the great host of men and beasts gathered around the city, created rain that would come suddenly and unexpectedly. As soon as the sun re-emerges, it steams the ground and send a great number of men panting to collapse.

The city itself was nearly gone. Much of the wooden buildings have been burned down. Only ashes and remnants remained. The few stone houses have been jam-packed with so many refugees of the artillery attacks that disease soon festered and grew beyond control. Entire city blocks were sectioned off. No one allowed to enter or leave. Those strong enough to try were subdued. Those too weak to resist were left to languish in the houses. When they died, the soldiers were tasked with the grim prospect of removing and burning the bodies. Putrid air blossomed over Pergamon. The souring ashes of bubbling fat and melting hair overwhelmed the scent of charred flesh. An on top of those unnatural noxia was the ever constant smell of panicked dying people.



Each day Pictor retched at the smell. It permeated everything, from his clothes to his hair to even the food he ate. And whenever he chanced a look outside at the Greek lines surrounding the city, he wondered if the same pestilence has befallen them.

He inspected the men in the towers and saw their emaciated faces. He had a piece of bread left still--hard as rocks and burrowed by a single worm determined to escape his grasp, but bread nonetheless. When they objected to this, he merely shrugged and tossed it to the nearest man.

"Legatus, the Khaldean quarter has been emptied." A runner approached Pictor when he descended from the tower.

"And the bodies?"

"Disposed, as per usual standards." The man looked away and blinked his eyes.

"Have them remove anything of use to the army and relocate the civilians there. What are the news on the construction of our counter-siege engines?"

"Not good sir. There's not enough materials for us. The sinew alone... it would require several farms to produce the amount to--"

Pictor held up his hand. "I understand, no need to waste your breath. Any other news?"

"No sir."

"You may go, relay the messages down the line to the remaining centurions."

"Yes sir. Do you have anything you would like me to bring to them?"

Pictor looked up at the dimming sky. Within the hour, the flames would come. It would be another sleepless night. At least the flames would keep him warm.

He looked down and back into the eyes of the runner. "No, nothing."

At least there were still enough wood left within Pergamon to let them continue burning the body and keeping a constant supply of torches at night. When those have disappeared, the Greeks' attack will become ever more terrifying. Already now, at night, daring raiders move to touch the walls. Graffiti left by the daring attackers taunted the Romans. On rare occasions, a slow one would be found straggling behind its group. Those were pelted to death by stones. But they were starting to run out of stones to throw. Pictor knew this game well. It would appear that the Greek commander did as well.

Baskets

-----

The hills around Sardeis were sloped towards the south and east. In fact, often times travelers from the East would refer to Sardeis as the Hill Gates of Ionia. The curiosity was due to the original Greek nature of the city, designed to be difficult to assault from the sweeping plains to the north.

Due to its hilly nature, Sardeis received much less harassment from the Greeks. No major siege engines accompanied them. Perhaps they knew that Sardeis will fall easily if they swept back later. But for now, the army of Sardeis sat within their bunks and listened to the noisy chats of the Greeks outside.



The Greeks understood that their purpose was to merely pin the army at Sardeis. There was no pressing need for attack. As such, they did not forbid traffic, but merely halted all merchants at their camp ground. Their presence drew enterprising homeless from the surrounding lands to claim a piece of land for themselves. Citizens behind the walls of Sardis wailed at the loss of their lands but could do nothing.

Then, a month after the siege began, a Greek horseman rode up to the gates of Sardeis, bared his arms to show he carried no weapons, and asked the gatehouse guards if they had wanted anything from the market.

Murmurs went up as they discussed whether or not it was a trap. Finally, the men decided to ask for some apples. When they lowered a basket with the proper amount of payment, they waited. Someone tugged at the string and they raised it up. To their delight, they saw several large apples.

Day by day, more goods were exchanged from the defenders to the enterprising attackers. More and more men asked to guard the gates for the steady flow of goods. Some men, more sure than others, left from the city to deal with the Greeks directly. For these men, there was little reason to feud with the Greeks. Many had been long trading partners.



In a way, life in Sardeis continued despite the siege. Only once in a while would an errant arrow be fired from either one line or another. But for the most part, life continued as it normally would.

[SeniorBatavianHorse]

I like the contrast here - darkness and flames to sunlight and apples. Wonderful stuff!

[chaplain118]

Chapter XXXIX

The 35th Day

-----

No one behind the walls of Ephesos thought that the siege would only last one hundred days. Those who still remained in the city remember scenes of smoking towers rolling to a halt before the city gates. They still remember the massed Greeks beyond the city walls and the sound of hatchets against solid pine. They remember the steady hammers and the grunting men. Now, silence descended upon the city and only the sound of a few Greek men barking orders could be heard.

Upon the parapets of the famed Porta Orientalis, guards stood and fanned their eyes out towards the horizon. Blinded by the sun, they could only make out the shapes of men shuffling back and forth like ants. They carried small pieces of lumber and shielded those men behind spears as soon as they revealed themselves.

Daily, the cavalry rode ahead to scout the location of the enemy army. Daily, they returned with inconclusive news, or worse, news that had already been reported. For the first fifteen days, scouts came back with reports that the Greeks were amassing in the south and not the east as had been expected. The young Sulpicius Camerinus decided that to assert his own tenuous grasp of the throne, he must march out and meet the enemy at once. But when he had marched for four days to the south, until he had almost reached Noturia Ponta, he was forced to the realization that his scouts have lied to him.

For six days the rotting heads of the scouts were hung upon the gates of Ephesos.

After that, scouts returned with news, but not always fresh news. The Greeks were tightening their grip around Ephesos. Already in the distance, the forests were felled. If one wanted to, one could follow the progress of the advancing Greeks by the day, make the right calculation for food and sleep, and conclude where the Greeks will be. Almost every time, one would be right.

The sound of hatchets against pine were not accompanied by the other sounds of siege engines frightened those who still remember the previous sieges the city endured.

Yet the Greeks still did not come closer. For thirty-five days, the city held out against an invisible foe. The gates remained shut though no spears could be sighted. Only the occasional crash of a particularly tall tree broke the stillness. Daily, the scouts rode out. Daily, their news brought back nothing.

In the span of those thirty-five days, Quintus Fabius Pictor had already left from Olympiodoros' house. His arm was still put within a sling and he was told that it must remain stationary for at least two more months. As such, he was labeled an immunis, and freed from the duties typically expected of him as a common rank and file soldier. This drew reproachful looks from his comrades, but it was all done in jest.

They were living on a constant sense of dread. The Greeks could appear over the horizon at any moment. These youths who had grown up in far more gruesome warfare than their fathers knew of the dangers a properly equipped army against an ill force. They knew that when such an army were to come within sight of Ephesos, the battle would be lost. The trade routes would be cut off. Reinforcements would have been destroyed. They would remain alone, and helpless to starve as the Greeks simply sat beyond the walls in sight.

Quintus, however, had other things to deal with. Much like Atia, he was also heavily questioned. Also much like Atia, his birth automatically put him upon the list of suspicious individuals who may potentially dispute the crown to Sulpicius Camerinus. Much to his own delight, he found that the encounter with the dead man had somehow cured him of his stutter. He was eager to talk, even under questioning. Because his tongue was so loose, the questioning sessions grew longer until they caught the attention of Sulpicius Camerinus. Yet Quintus managed to talk the Usurper into an amicable relationship and even became an advisor.

The advisor council was gathering today, and Quintus had to be present.

The council's meeting quarter was within the Great Temple today. Quintus greeted the priest at the altar and took his place among the rest of the council.

The priest carried on with the votive prayer that each man in the crowd had already memorized by heart from hearing. Many were content to carry on their own side conversations, not caring for the blasphemy. When the priest finally plunged the knife down upon the sacrificial victim, the conversations stopped. Blasphemous they were, but still superstitious. The gathered advisors peered at the bloody results with rapt attention. The priest muttered words like "mottled liver, unfavorable times..." and "defective lung..." as he sifted through the entrails until finally, he looked up and said. "The omens are too unfavorable. This meeting cannot happen."

Just as everyone rolled their eyes and were about to leave, a ringing voice said. "Do another one."

It was Sulpicius Camerinus. He had his battle dress on.

"Dominus, it is the will of the gods." The priest stretched out his shaking hands and mustered a weak smile.

"Then the gods can confirm their will, can they not?" Sulpicius Camerinus stepped forward.

"Dominus, you must understand... The gods do not like to be challenged. They do not divulge their information to us easily, and in such a holy place. It is blasphemy!"

"I'll tell you what is blasphemy, old man. Blasphemy is having seen men swear their lives to bring you what you deserve, finally fighting every inch to where you are, only to find those men gone on an adventure with a man who usurped MY crown! Blasphemy is sitting behind these stinking walls and questioning just when the Greeks will roll over this city! Blasphemy is YOU standing there obstructing the one sane man in this demented land demanding to bring a semblance of order here! Now find another victim and conduct another sacrifice!"

"Dominus, please." The priest rocked back and forth. "You do not understand the gravity of what you are saying here. You cannot push the gods with incessant demands."

"Am I pushing them with incessant demands?" A vein throbbed above Sulpicius Camerinus' brow. "How many prayers from us have they heard today? I'll demand one final time: do another sacrifice!"

"Dominus, I cannot. Please."

Roaring in frustration, Sulpicius Camerinus knocked the old priest to the ground. The impact forced blood from the priests nose and mouth. Wincing, he turned to his side, coughed up mouthfuls of blood, and tried to get up. Instead, his head snapped back from the impact of Sulpicius Camerinus' hobnailed boot. Blood rainbowed and splattered on the priests' flawless robes. Sulpicius Camerinus seized the old man's snow-white hair and dragged the old man through the ground. A sword was drawn. The old man's face was pressed against the altar slippery from the entangled guts and fat that the flies have greedily begun to suck on.

"Listen to me!" The sword was pressed against the old man's neck. Breathed words brushed against his ear. "Do another sacrifice."

When the old man nodded, stuttering and weeping, Sulpicius Camerinus slammed the old man's head against the stone and fumed away. Nobody rushed out to help the priest stand up. They let him weep on the floor and watched him try to wipe away the blood on his face. His trembling hands only smeared the grotesque pattern into nightmarish shapes. Finally, he gave up, curled into a ball, and whispered prayers. Dirt mixed and clumped with the blood on his stained priest robes. The sacrificial dagger sat where he last left it. The flies buzzed in delight at the entrails still left on the altar.

A Bad Apple

-----

After enough days, the Porta Orientalis of Sardeis became the Porta Malorum. Men rotated the baskets throughout the city. Shops re-opened. The forum became alive with life once more. Young men deserted from their posts to flirt with the few girls still holding their maidenhead. Mothers had little way of stopping these young men. But these youths were civilized, and in good spirit they laughed when the girl flipped her hair away and held up her nose. They laughed uproariously and hooted when she blew one of them a kiss. They clamored after her until she rounded the corner and they saw their Centurion. A sharp swoosh and the whipping stick was beating every single one of them back to their posts.

The number of armed men and a general lack of things to do was threatening to sink the city into anarchy. It was a fact that Aebutius Drusus was well aware of. At night, listening to the hoots and jeers of his soldiers, he wondered if this had been the intention of the Greeks all along. Warfare was changing before his eyes. He had learned that sieges take months, years even, but he had seen the rapid and unbelievable sieges alongside Papirius Crassus. And just as he grew accustomed to believing that sieges can be shortened, the Greeks camp out before his city, and even passing food and supplies! It was as if they were here on a trading expedition rather than a mission to burn and pillage.

Whenever dawn began peeling back the thick veil of night, Aebutius Drusu thought that perhaps this was the Greeks' grand strategy all along. Perhaps they intended to make the citizenry so incapable of believing that they are a threat and instigate a revolt from within. And as day dawned, he told himself that he was overthinking. He needed sleep. The Greeks posed no threat for now, but he would still like to keep an air of hostilities between the men on both side of the walls. It was only proper to do so in war.

Tired, he collapsed into bed, telling himself that he would do so at the moment he awakens.

He needed not come up with a reason, the Greeks would do that for him.

When Aebutius Drusus woke up, he heard the noise of clamoring men.

"What's going on?" He rubbed his eyes.

"I think they're shouting that some foul play has occurred, dominus." A slave said.

"Well I gathered that. But what are they shouting about?"

"Something about an apple."

Puzzled, he walked towards the source of the noise. His presence parted the crowd. He reached the Porta Orientalis, touched a soldier on the shoulder, and asked. "Soldier, what is going on here?"

Surprised at the presence of Aebutius Drusus, the soldier scrambled to stand up straight. "Dominus, it's Vibius Pansa. He's been poisoned."

"Poisoned? By what?"

"One of the Greek apples."

Shaking his head, Aebutius Drusus cursed. "What have I told you about the Greeks."

"That you fear them, even bearing gifts."

"And right you should. How are the rest of the men, or at least the ones you've seen."

"Angry, dominus. They want to march out right this moment."

"Find your centurions. I want them in my tent before sundown."

"Yes dominus."

Within the hour, the centurions were gathered before Aebutius Drusus in his tent. Most of them were the soldiers who had rescued Aebutius Drusus from Pergamon. Their faces were grim when they entered the tent. A quick round of announcing their individual situations revealed that every man was on the verge of entering into combat. The betrayal of the Greeks could not have come at a better time, Aebutius Drusus thought. He caught the eye of Titus Rufus. The man must truly be blessed by the gods, to be able to bring such a stroke of fortune to this desperate situation. Outwardly he said,

"Truly, this is precisely what we did not wish to have. The Greeks outnumber us, that much we are certain about. Our weapons are of such quality that we cannot afford a direct assault against them. Does anyone have suggestions of possible strategies?"

Silence.

"Very well. We shall then begin to contemplate the impossible, yes?" He rapped his knuckles against his table at the word "impossible". His centurions said nothing. He shook his head. These weren't centurions. These were enlisted men thrust into a position of command without prior training in command. Veterans, yes. But not fit for commanding.

"So, how many of our men are trained in archery and other missile weapons?"

"The majority." Modestus said. He had overlooked the training of each unit personally, and the other centurions trusted his judgment.

"The majority. Well, that gives me an idea of what is going on. How many arrows and javelins can we muster for them?"

"Enough for each archer to fire one hundred volleys, and for each javelin tosser to launch two volleys."

"And no more?"

"And some, though not enough for an effective assault." Modestus looked away.

Aebutius Drusus stared at Modestus for several moments before he looked down, sighed, and continued talking. "Then here is the plan. Modestus, you will command the main line of infantry outside the city walls."

"Dominus?"

Aebutius Drusus looked up. "You heard me correctly, Modestus. Outside the city walls."

"With light infantry not fit for prolonged hand-to-hand combat? That's suicide."

"Maybe, maybe not."

"But pray tell, dominus, how can we be expected to hold the line?"

"We'll let the mountain do that for us."

Aebutius Drusus cleared a space on his desk. Grabbing a stack of scrolls, he stacked them upright. "Now, imagine that this is Sardeis." Reaching over to an unfinished letter, he quickly glanced at it, determined that its content was worth discarding, and ripped it in half. He placed it on the opposite end of the table. "This is the main Greek line.

"Now, they'll be expected to climb up from the eastern and northern plains. The hill is far too steep for heavily armored men to negotiate at a sufficient speed easily. That's where your missile troops are needed, Modestus.



"The theory is simple: we'll let them tire themselves out by running up these mountain passes. Moreover, the men upon the parapets will provide additional arrow fire to harass the enemy infantry. It will force them to rush up the hill in an attempt to decrease casualties. This is where I will be also testing your mettle as centurions. Your men must not charge forward at any time. Beat it into their heads, make them chant that until their voices give out, whatever. They must not charge, nor must they release their volley before the signal has been given."

"What will the signal be, dominus?" Modestus asked.

"I will personally be at the head, providing the signal.



"Those few horses we have should be good for something. I will be personally along the lines to ensure that your commands are carried out to the letter, centurion. Is that agreeable?"

"Completely."

Aebutius Drusus smiled. In the dim light, his face grew leathery and worn. His receding hairline flashed gray for a moment, though he was hardly halfway through his twenties. "We'll instruct the archers to lay down a line of lime before themselves. The arrowheads will be coated in lime and set aflame before firing."

"But that will slow our volley rate!" Modestus said.

"For the greater good, centurion. We'll need to preserve those arrows. You should also remember that those men will be tired from their run. They will be terrified and frustrated by the constant harassment our archers upon the walls have inflicted, and they'll be utterly disheartened by a single volley of fire.



"We're more than capable of resisting them in shorter bursts such as this than in an attempt to cut them down. Height will become a vital factor in this engagement. Remember, the conservation of our ammunition is of utmost importance. Without them, we will be butchered where we stand. When we have broken the resolve of the enemy, then fire at will. They will have their backs turned toward us. Their shields will be discarded. Their swords will lay bloodless and un-dulled upon the slopes. We will re-arm ourselves from the remnants of our enemy. Any questions?"

"No dominus!" They answered in unison.

"So be it. May Mars and Bellona be with you."

May Mars and Bellona be with them indeed.

[Luxchamp]

Interesting update there!

"Timeo Danaos et dona ferrentes" indeed

[chaplain118]

Interesting update there!

"Timeo Danaos et dona ferrentes" indeed

Oh yes, just wait for what the Greeks bring for the next few updates

[Yeepeep]

Honestly, I've no idea where are you taking this to. Who lives and who dies, I wonder?!

[EgyptianWarLord]

What mod is this?

[McScottish]

What mod is this?

Roma Surrectum, my friend.

[King-Of-Sparta]

The biggest problem with this forum is that I don't actually get time to write my AAR because I'm too busy reading everyone else's

This is awesome! Keep up the good work

[chaplain118]

Chapter XL

The 40th Day

-----

On the fortieth day, the scouts returned to Ephesos with blood on their horses. The enemy had been sighted amassing near the northern wall. It was a move that had caught the entire garrison in surprise. It also made them realize that Ephesos was surrounded on all sides. With only a small road pressed towards the ocean in the west, all other avenues had been cut off.

The fortifications along the Kingdom's borders had been broken through.

The scouts answered that the enemy had not been completely within siege distance to Ephesos. They believed that if the army were to march out now, it could keep open the road north to Pergamon. The Council was convened and a decision reached: northward.



Quintus Fabius Pictor stood outside her door and bounced on his knees. His heart threatened to leap from his throat and his fingers were tied into knots. Sweat dotted his brow and he waited even as the sun rose higher.

Finally, the door swung open. Atia looked at him in puzzlement.

"Quintus? What are you do--"

"We're marching out soon!" He blurted out.

"What?"

"In an hour. We're meeting the enemy. It will be a pre-emptive offensive. We'll crush them before they can be of a threat."

"Y-You're leaving?"

"I just came to say... thank you. You saved my life. Perhaps you'll be with me in spirit on the battlefield and protect me there as well."

"Quintus..."

He turned around and left.

The two armies met over the former fields now lying fallow in the summer. In a way, the battle seemed almost primitive, two armies meeting over farmlands to settle a dispute. But the knell of armor and the regimented blasts of the cornu had a sense of modernity within it that made the battlefield seem horribly antiquated.



The farmers had carved out tiny paths between each plot of land to facilitate their own movement. The regular paths of packed dirt made it a firm footing for horses. The farmlands themselves, with their tilled soil overgrown with weeds were soft and slowed a man to a bare crawl. Horses fared no better. The battlefield dictated what strategies both sides were to employ.



Sulpicius Camerinus had arranged this battle here for the knowledge that he would receive the upper hand. Motioning to his archers, he swung his sword in the air three times. A trumpet blasted, and arrows streaked towards the enemy.



The enemy did not back away. Giving a defiant roar, the Greek lines charged forward into the mud.

The mud was deep and the Greek armor was heavy. Soon, men were slipping and falling while arrows fell about them. Shields and spears were cast aside in favor of swords. The Romans held their line in the upper hills as the Greeks labored through the sinking mud.

Quintus stood nervously in line as he watched the Greek army inch closer. The noise from the Greeks were deafening. He had never imagined that men were capable of making such noise at such intensities for so long, but the waves of shouts crashed against Roman ears. All around him, men stood impasse at the din and Quintus marveled at the nerve that others are showing.

He heard another blast from the trumpet and heard hooves slapping against the muddy ground. In a rush of colors and shouts, the cavalry of Sulpicius Camerinus--shielded from head to toe like the cataphracts of the East--thundered down towards the coming Greeks.

Spears shattered. Shields splintered. Hooves left imprints on men's skulls.



The pincer of horses closed through the mud, and the Greeks desperately fought to preserve their broken lines.



Those who had fallen on the 40th day of the siege of Ephesos received burials worthy of the old heroes of Troy. Their arms were laid to rest and their likeness preserved forever in imagines--death masks--forged of the steel and bronze from their armor. Songs were raised on the 40th night, beckoning to the gods of the lower world to receive these men and guide their unerring souls to Elysium.

Behind the Walls amidst Thundering Engines

-----

It was late when Quintus pulled himself away from the celebrations and walked down the familiar path that he had traveled on so many days ago. He did not drink or sing with the rest of the men. It was inappropriate, he thought, to be so celebratory of victory when the siege had not been lifted. It was also grossly irresponsible to revel when he had done nothing to win the victory.

He raised his hand to knock on the door and waited for her response. As he waited, his fingers played with the tiny figure that she had given him all those months ago. He felt beads of sweat sprouting across his brow and almost laughed. He hadn't felt this nervous when he stared at the Greeks.

"The domina is resting now. She will take a message in the morning." Merricus opened the door and said.

"Please wake her. Tell her Quintus Fabius Pictor calls."

"I think it would not be wise."

"I will be a Legate of this Kingdom when Sulpicius Camerinus consolidates his grasp on the throne. There is authority to be respected, slave."

Merricus looked on with a bored expression before he nodded curtly and shuffled back into the house.

Quintus smiled when he saw Atia but his smile faded when he saw her expression.

"I do not appreciate men who bully others through their rank and power."

"I..."

"Well, here I am. What do you want?"

He was more hurt by her curt remark than the sword of the assassin. In that moment of hurt, he threw away his hesitancy and his uncertainty. He stepped forward over the limes of her doorway, took her face in his hands and kissed her.

She was taken aback by this at first but slowly yielded. They drew closer from the passion and Quintus Fabius Pictor felt his heartbeat quickening.

When they broke apart, he reached into his pocket and pulled out the tiny figure.

"I love you."

"Quintus..."

"There may not be many days left for this city. For us."

"Are you..."

"I am if you are willing. No need for fancy ceremonies, no need for the approval of our fathers, and no need to put on a show for the rest of the world. The privatitude of two should remain exactly as that."

She looked at him and time stood still. Finally, he heard the most beautiful words in his life.

"Where you are Quintus, so I shall be Quinta."

Their lips locked once more and Quintus closed the door behind him. News will spread, of course. News always spreads.

[chaplain118]

Chapter XLI

The Heart of a Daughter

-----

Atia rose with the sun to the warm body of her husband rising and falling beneath her. Their marriage had been consummated though no one yet knows of it. She looked at Quintus’ peaceful face as he continued sleeping with a twinge of sadness. Her marriage was something that her father had looked forward to. But now there was no way for her father to know that the final duty of a daughter has been performed. The messenger that had came before was not clear on the details of her father’s death—only that the answer lies on the fields north of Sardeis.

Dressing herself, Atia pondered what could possibly wait for her there on those open plains. Her father was beloved by his troops. Surely they would have left something of him for her to find. Or perhaps they would offer her comforting words that her father had finally repaid his debts with an honorable death in battle.

The lack of information was maddening. Her own conscience clawed at her and demanded that she set out to Sardeis at once to find more information. But her mind answered back with logic: the roads to Sardeis are blocked and that it would be too dangerous for her—as a woman—to embark on such a mission alone.

Atia looked back at her husband, noting the glistening scar that ran along the outside of his shield arm. What had he said last night before proposing? That he would be a Legate of this Kingdom soon? The same position her father had held. Perhaps he would have the influence necessary to sway an expedition.

No, she told herself. The soldiers around the city are already stretched thin. Daily, the ragged line of tired soldiers descending from the walls begging for a morsel of food was growing longer. Ephesos was approaching her final days of the siege. The Greeks outside will either bring their full wrath upon the city or else a sally must be made. But no matter the outcome, there were no men available to indulge in Atia’s venture.

But perhaps there is no need to raise a full army for this purpose.

“Quintus, wake up.”

He opened his eyes lazily and smiled at her. “Good morning.”

“I have something to ask you.”

“Anything.”

Atia bit her lip and hesitated. Finally, she said. “I want to find out what happened to my father.”

Quintus sat up in the bed. His brows furrowed together. “Are you sure about this?”

“Of course. His death has been a mystery to me. I’ve had two messengers come about this matter. One of them nearly killed you. I fear there’s more to this matter than what I am to believe at this moment.”

“This isn’t something you ought to pursue.”

“What do you mean?”

“Your father had a lot more enemies than you thought. One of them was my father. I think I’ve told you enough of my father for you to understand what he would do for power.”

“All the more reason for me to find out what truly happened.”

“And what of my father’s honor?” Quintus asked plainly. “Will his name—and by consequence, mine—be dragged through the mud to satisfy your curiosity? Let the matter rest with the dead.”

“But you yourself do not stand level with your father on most things.”

“He is still my father. My filial duty still lies with him. I’m sorry, but I cannot help you with this.”

“You would not help me in the one affair that I need your influence the most?”

“It would be most un-Roman of me to do so. I will have no more discussion of this.”

Atia reeled at the harsh tone of his voice. “I cannot believe what I am hearing right now! I am your wife, not one of your soldiers!”

“My wife and thus you will submit to my potestas.”

“A marriage without the proper religious rites—sine manu. The potestas you wield has no authority over my decisions. You are still under my roof, Quintus Fabius. I will uncover my father’s fate, whether you choose to help or not.”

“No, you will not.” Quintus stood out of bed and blocked Atia from the door.

“Out of the way, Quintus.”

“Or what?” The cruel authority of his father echoed in Quintus’ voice.

“Or… Or…” What could she do? He was her husband by practice if not yet by law. The world could burn to the ground and she must still submit to him. In a brief moment of passion and lust she had signed away her freedom. Flustered, Atia fought back the tears welling up. But she could not and the hot drops fell into her lap.

“Merricus, make sure she is guarded at all times. I will send two men to watch the house. She will need to be escorted to the market.”

“I…” The slave stammered.

“By the divine laws of Father Jove and ancient Mars, you—a slave of my wife—are a slave of mine. My authority spells both life and death for you. Is that clear?”

Merricus bowed. “Dominus.”

“Good, I’m glad that has been cleared up. The King is expecting me today. Fetch my clothes, Merricus.”

Once dressed, Quintus left Atia and headed towards the citadel. There were rumors that the Greeks were preparing for another attack. The defenders have started the rallying process. There would be much bloodshed by morning, and Quintus did not want the thought of his wife’s tear bothering him as he prepared for battle.

A Throne Among the Putrid Dead

-----

The citadel of Pergamon barred itself from the world. A wall of Praetorians stood before the entrance, swords ready and face screwed up from the pungent odor of death wafting over the city. What little food left in the city was brought to the citadel for Bubulcus and his Legates. Soldiers marched abreast with the food wagons, fending off ravenous civilians.

A man was caught picking up bits of rotten oats. His body hung upon a stake in the forum, skin flayed and entrails exposed for the birds.

Within a day of the incident, riots began surfacing throughout Pergamon. Men deserted their posts. Officers were found murdered and their bodies defiled. By night fall, the soldiers manning the walls had been pulled down to guard the empty granaries.

Standing at their head was Pictor. A lack of sleep had sapped his willpower to fight on. A section of the soldiers were given pails of water to fight the fires that would erupt. The sound of a crowd was growing larger. He drew his sword and noted the redness along its edges. Whether caked blood or rust, he neither knew nor cared.

The inevitable smell of flames mixed with the odor of death rose up to greet Pictor’s nose. He raised his sword. There was no need to bellow orders. His throat could not muster up the strength to do so even if he wanted to.

The sound of the crowd grew louder. Torches were raised in chant. Kitchen implements became bludgeons and clubs. Knives were fashioned to brooms to make spears. Tables were carried between men as one large shield.

The movements were automatic. Shield raise, bash, and stab. The line of infantry moved along him in a line. Jars filled with flaming oil were hurled forward and promptly slapped away by shields. Some exploded on the street and fanned upward. Pictor raised his sword and motioned the fire-fighters forward.

Water was poured around the flames. Afterwards, one man tossed the content of his pail onto the flaming oil. With a rush, the flames shot up and blocked the road.

The line of soldiers waited behind the wall of flames. No man came through.

Sheathing his sword, Pictor nodded at the soldiers and walked towards the citadel. When he arrived at the top, he looked back at the city and saw that similar fires had sprung up. An entire section of the city had been blocked off by the flames in the streets. The inhabitants of the section were scrambling from their buildings as the fire leapt from rooftop to rooftop. All around, soldiers were busy pulling buildings down to keep the fire contained.

Then, the sounds of screaming women and children rose up above the crackling flames.

Pictor turned away and opened the citadel. The riot was under control. In the morning, the people will understand to bend their wills to their new masters. The siege will be broken, and life can resume. But until the siege is broken, Pictor reasoned, those who do not fight must lay down their lives to aid those who do.

“Ah, our final legate has seen fit to join us. Welcome back, Numerius Fabius. I trust the situation in the city is under control?” Bubulcus asked from his throne.

“The rioters have been pushed back into their quarters. We’ve formed a defensive ring around the area to keep them violence localized and to minimize casualties. The fires will be put out by morning.”

“Excellent work. As always, your service has not gone unnoticed.” The mocking smile on Bubulcus’ face grew wider.

Pictor mustered a fake smile and bowed. “Of course, dominus. Are there further measures that you wish me to take, either in the application of our counter-siege efforts or to further pacify the city? Or shall I take my leave now and return in the morning?”

“Actually, I do believe that there is something for you to do.” Bubulcus rose up from his seat and approached Pictor with his arms extended. “I would like for you to find the instigators of this incident and bring them forward for questioning.”

“Instigators.” Pictor nodded. His fingers tightened on the grip of his sword. “Shall I call for them now?”

Bubulcus was surprised. “You have them? So soon?”

“Of course.” Pictor fought the urge to draw his sword. “They stand in this room. Here, before both of us are the instigators of this incident. Your hand-appointed Legates pillage this city of its last bastions for defense. You sit here in luxury, drinking wine and dining on the finest foods while the city itself burns and starves. You shut the windows and light incense to chase away the miasma that has engulfed the city in its putrid scent while disease and death dance in the streets. You have taken a city full of life and turned it into a graveyard. You’ve purged the soldiers, put the centurions to death, and have taken even cut down my most trusted men.

Pictor paused and turned his head to each of the Legate sitting at their seats in the court.

“And you, sycophants all. You dare sit there with your newfound titles while your soldiers are dying on the walls and in the streets. You sit here with your slave girls and dancers while the blood of your men flow freely throughout the city. Oblivious to the world, you call for more defenses, for more men, for more food and wine. We have none. This city has at last reached the nadir of its existence. Men who fall down now have no chance of survival. If he is not taken by disease, then he will be a feast for the rats that grow fat in the city.

He turned his gaze back at Bubulcus.

“I promise you. There is only so far that a man such as myself, and men such as those that I stand by will be pushed. You will soon taste fear and I will be your only route to salvation. You will beg me for forgiveness and leniency and I will refuse it. You ask me to bring you the instigators of this riot and I have delivered. Do with them what you will.”

Silence descended in the court. The other legates, insulted, reached for their swords. But no-one dared to draw. Even Bubulcus was flustered.

“I ought to have you crucified and corpse paraded through the city.”

“Then do so.” Pictor unbuckled his sword and tossed it to the marbled floor. “I am unarmed, King of Ionia.” There was no mistaking the bitter contempt in his voice.

Bubulcus did nothing. He returned to his throne, sat down, and said. “Pick up your sword, Legate. Return to the defense of the city. I will call upon you once more for your services.”

It was Pictor’s turn to smile. “I am but an instrument of your wishes.”

He picked up the sword and departed from the court. He had a city to defend.