Wolf and Bull

A horse cantered gently alongside the ill-treated road, guided by the ankles of a skilled rider. Sad fields surrounded man and beast, silent witnesses to the double scourge of war and depopulation. These were the forsaken bones of the Bull, were not even Wolves prowled.

ilhommodilazio.png

Nothing green or golden was allowed to rest in the soil; harvested to the brown and sent to the front. After the grain, it was the turn for Men to depart the land, every single capable fighter needed against the Gallic Terror that had taken Etruria, killed a consul and made heroes and slaves in equal measure. Stopping for a moment to adjust his wide brim pastoral hat, the knight wondered how many of these auxillii would return home and whom would greet them back upon their arrival; the feats of those at the home front went unsung, even as they sacrificed their lives by offering their meager winter supplies. All to keep the troops fighting.

The same scene repeated all over Italia. And yet, the Gates of Janus remained shut.

The rider found himself surrounded by different fields as he pushed forward. These had not been abandoned due to war nor lost their farmers to the needs of the State. The signs of neglect where everywhere: out of season crops rotting away, marks on the ground of inadequate tools, brittle soil eroded by years of careless irrigation. Incompetence had ruined these lands. Who were these people, these miserable stewards that starved themselves and others through mismanagement?

Aiming to learn more about them, the knight forced his horse to halt and dismounted. He toyed with the lance in his saddlebags, fingers dancing along the shaft as he surveyed the bleak horizons. Trusting Fortuna and the other Gods, the rider cleared the dust from his simple and worn tunic before examining the trails crossing the region.

Rabbit droppings, no wheel marks or footprints. All of it made a distressing sight; there was not even the tell-tale sign of wandering sheep or adventurous goats.

Whoever lived here seemed to have given up, no longer attempting to tend the land or learn its mysteries.

“It seems they found the land frigid at the caresses of their thumbs.” The knight concluded. “Where they expecting it to be more welcoming of human seed? Such a disharmonious marriage of spirits, I dread to think about the children of such union.”

His agrarian contemplations were interrupted by the whinnying of his horse. The beast complained as it tore the ground with its muzzle, finding only dead grass.

“Patience.” The man whispered as he caressed its mane. “There is nothing here for you, there is nothing here for anyone decent. You will eat and rest when it is safe.”

The horse mood was not amenable and it kept complaining. The man rose and lined his left hand with his eyes, scanning his surroundings. A haunting spectral melody announced someone’s approach; it was simple, repetitive and lacking in creativity. The same three notes, locked in chains.

Calming the beast by softly slapping its back, the rider took reins and guided it, assuming an apparently relaxed march. The musician made itself known, a balding tall man that blew a pan flute, escorted by two companions: one a starving youth; the other old and wasting away. Their curious bucolic looks stood out against the worn bits of armor that dangled over their torn clothes and dirty bodies; their scythes and rakes had been beaten and whet into nasty improvised weapons - advertising their change of lifestyle.

panhand.png

The dismounted knight lowered the brim of his hat, covering his face in shadows; he kept walking without breaking pace. As the trio approached, the fear felt by the horse became almost palpable. The three men stopped in front of them, blocking their path. The rider’s breath slowed down, reduced to few thoughtful and resolute breaths, his facial muscles relaxed with stoic serenity, his posture attentive to any attempt to surround him.

“Salve.” The youngest greeted. “That is a nice horse you have there. What brings you here, to these Ceres-forsaken lands?”

The horse whinnied, demanding to be appeased with more caresses. It was with delight that the trio studied the knight as he tended to the beast, eyes wandering over the blood-soaked bandages that covered most of his chest and left arm.

“Salve.” The rider finally acknowledged the greeting, his tone calm and confident. “I fear that my purpose here matters only to me and my master. I am new to servitude and eager to please her.”

The old man frowned as the flautist continued to his study of the knight.

“A slave? With such bearing? It really pisses me off.”

Silence.

“If there is one thing I cannot stand is lack of respect. Do you think you are better than us, slave? Just because your master is rich and pampers you with a horse? We are just like him: free men. Are we not owned the same degree of deference?”

The knight exhaled exasperated, showing a chink in his armor of dignity.

“Are we boring you, slave?”

“The one I serve has no equal in this world. I bring her message to the stewards of Italia and its people.”

“Do we not inhabit these lands?” The old man inquired, rhetorically. “Are we not its stewards? Perhaps that message is meant to us. Have you considered that?”

The slave turned his head around, as if replying by pointing out the sorry state of the fields.

“You cannot hold that against us! This land rejects us like an unbroken horse or lazy wife. There is more salt in the soil than in the sea. The little nurturing patches we scrap are quickly consumed by savage thorns and weeds; blights that poison any man or beast that eats them. Not even goats are willing to call this place home.”

This made the knight ponder, raising chin and hat. The gesture revealed his youth and the scars that blemished his clean-shaven face.

“I am sorry to hear that. However…”

Sextus3banditos.png

“However, nothing. Give us your horse and clothing, slave, as well as anything else you might be hiding on those saddlebags.” The youngest interloper interrupted, running out of patience. “This should be a lesson for your master, for not sending a proper escort and not disciplining his slaves. Remember who bleeds and sweats to keep you fat and safe! If you drop to your knees and beg for forgiveness I may feel generous enough to bring your message to the closest municipium.”

While the other talked, the rider sprung into action, spinning over himself and shocking the trio. They waved their weapons at the air, efforts soon rendered futile as the rider made his spear jump, parrying attacks as he guided the head with his wounded hand. Ferrous scent filled their nostrils.

Pine and steel described a dreadful arc, forcing the trio to separate from each other, trying to flank the slave and exploit his blind spots. It was easier said than done, the shaft spinning at high speed between two hands, rotating towards angles that tricked the eye, seeming to disappear for precious seconds - only the reappear in the attack. The older attacker had more experience than his two companions, capable of delivering tricky rake strikes that never failed to connect with the spear. He forced the rider to slow down and tiring him in order to create an opening.

Having identified the most dangerous of his opponents, the slave struck the horse, making it rise on its hind legs and wave the hooves towards the trio. Fully exploiting the distraction, the knight darted towards the flautist, unleashing a torrent of blows; the man tried to keep him at bay by flaying the scythe in panicked fury, rending the slave’s tunic but failing to meet flesh.

The slave was more efficient, each blow costly. He finished by impaling the spear in the flautist’s leg. As they howled in pain, a knife was smuggled from out of the slave’s clothes and slashed across the throat of the unfortunate musician.

sextusdio.png

Assuming that the knight had lowered his guard, the youngest attacker rushed for the backstab. A surprisingly fast turn and knife throw quickly made him regret his choice. He was forced to retreat with a painful present right between the kidneys.

The rider could feel the blood rushing though his vein, marching at the command of his rising heartbeat, the breathing harsh and pained. It was not enough to let them run away; this had to end with with their deaths.

He whistled, his horse answered the summons; knight mounted with a jump and forced gallop with ankle nudges. Arm raised, spear aligned; the slave narrowed his eyes, feeling the impulse and balancing on the saddle. The youth turned back, face twisted in terror as he realized what was about to happen.

A wet thud as the spear tip met skull, projecting the poor assailant one meter or so. The slave rode by, not looking back.

frescosexto.png

Only the old man remained.

Gazes meeting, they took measure of each other. Slave dismounted; the veteran assumed a defensive posture. The slave shrugged and recovered the spear with a pull. The old man kept his distance, trying to secure his superior reach with the rake. The slave shrugged again and threw his spear with inhuman strength, pinning the old man against the ground.

Horse following behind him, the slave knight approached the wounded veteran. It was funny as the short distance seemed to stretch, space twisted into a scarlet and brown infinite, adrenaline fading and leaving him all too conscious of his actions. The bitter fruits of his excess of zeal and brutality, heeding the call of the Underworld.

And for a moment he was lost. No longer in the lands of the Bull. Back in the Wolf’s den.

Working in a cold and humid cell, the light barely enough for the task at hand. The woman, tall as no other. Black, golden and scarlet. Offering him a hand entwined with rope and leather. A smile.

“I am beyond impressed. Even after all that happened, you found a way to continue serving the Republic.” She told him, her Latin unpolished and full of plebeian vices. Her words still ringed sweeter than those of any eloquent patrician. “The world has moved ahead without you, Sextus. Nobody expects anything from you, not even the Senate and People. You already gave everything you were, performed the ultimate sacrifice. You could have allowed the waters of Lethe take you, indulged on the right to be forgotten and leave a humble quiet life. But it would offer you no comfort, would it? No, it would torment you. You cannot stand by; you need to be needed.”

Her eyes wander towards the pile of documents that the slave was expected to audit before dawn. It was still civic service - even if it was a subtle and unglamorous one.

“I will not insult you by offering you freedom.” The woman cloaked in red continued. “I offer instead the possibility to become someone that can protect the Senate and People; perhaps then you can find true liberation. Or at least, contentment.”

She threw a heavy bag on top of the scroll pile. It was full of silver disks.

“You are not the only one with a debt to repay. Who better to settle Rome’s accounts? Erase the debt, save our future.”

The slave was back to the mistreated field, spear held in his hands, shaft pressing against the neck of the vanquished old man. That one murmured something, trying to catch the attention of the rider.

“Louder.”

Cis romanus sum.”

The knight put the spear aside.

“Perhaps it would have been wiser to have had started this dialogue of violence with that.”

“A free citizen does not have to answer to a man that only lives through the clemency of another.”The veteran gestured in compliance, searching his clothes for something. He pulled out a worn military scarf, wrapped around a metallic plate. “Here it is, my diploma.”

“The slave planted his spear in resting position, examining the legitimacy of the document. Certified by the Senate, granting the man and his kin full citizenship.

diploma.png

A true veteran.

Returning the diploma with reverence, the slave picked up his weapon and turned his back, lost in thoughts. He had no right to censure the old man. Being a good soldier and auxiliary had granted him citizenship and lands. However, it did not come with agricultural knowledge and the talent to be a farmer. He was good at one thing fighting. Who can be blamed for trying to make a living with the skills they have? His flaws did not rob him of his humanity; if anything, it allowed it to be expressed upon the world. Besides, he no longer stood between him and his mission; he had already unleashed more violence than the situation demanded.

Tending to his horse and making sure the beast had not been hurt during the fight, the slave returned to the struggling veteran with a proposal.

“You don’t have to pretend to be someone you are not; you don’t have to betray your legacy either. Go North. I am sure you will find purpose once again.”

celerescoin.png

The old man rose and spat on the ground.

“Manes take you, slave! You do not know me; who are you to say such things?”

Looking for something on his saddlebags, the slave returned with something. A single silver coin.

“I know enough. I learnt that you are a Roman citizen, someone even more fitting than I am to carry this message. These lands and its peoples once gave everything they had to Rome. Together we presented a united front during the wars against Greeks and Carthage. We survived together, and earned our peace. It is only fair that we pay them back, return what was borrowed, show how well we took care of the secrets to us entrusted.”

Those words roused the curiosity within the old man’s heart, forcing him to accept the coin. A horse on one side, the words “CELERES” engraved in the other. The veteran made the coin dance between his fingers, as if expecting further insights.

“Give it to the first magistrate or priest you meet.” Mounted, ankles pressed and horse galloping. The slave had said what he had to say.

“Wait!” The old man stumbled behind the speeding beast. “What the Dis Pater is this?”

“A promise. ” The knight shouted in return. “One that we will all see fulfilled.”