Glaucus' Story
Prologue
Spain, Early January, A.D. 180
"Now make sure he gets lots of rest, fresh air, and that he eats well. I brought vegatables and milk--"
"Yes, yes, Olivia. We have vegetables and milk here too, you know," said an exasperated Augusta, her hands on her hips as she eyed her sister-in-law.
"I know that," replied Olivia, "but he's used to the vegetables from our farm and I don't want to risk upsetting his stomach--"
"Olivia, the child will be fine. You worry far, far too much about that boy. Look how healthy he is. Even if he does catch Marcus' sniffles, it won't do him any harm. Every child catches colds and it won't ki--" Augusta bit down hard on the words "kill him" before they could escape from her mouth, not wanting to add to Olivia's distress about her younger son. Augusta took the giggling, youngster from his mother's arms and settled him on her hip. Pulling his fingers from his mouth, she kissed his nose then his soft, light brown curls. Glaucus spent so much time with her that she had almost started to think of him as her own son. Trusting green eyes twinkled back at her and Augusta thought, not for the first time, that the boy was aptly named. Maximus Decimus Glaucus -- the praenomen "green eyes" distinguishing him from his great father, Maximus Decimus Meridius. She set the sturdy two-year-old back on his feet and affectionately patted his bottom. "Now run along and play with your cousins, Glaucus, while I continue baking. There'll be apple tarts for supper."
Both women watched the child run into the next room where he was warmly greeted by his three older cousins. The four children immediately set up such a joyous raucous that Augusta covered her ears and rolled her eyes skyward, pretending to be annoyed.
Olivia knew that her sister-in-law loved little Glaucus almost as much as she did. "Keep a close eye on him, Augusta please," Olivia pleaded.
"Oh, I will, I will. Really, Olivia, you are far too protective when it comes to that boy.
Titus skidded into the kitchen and slammed the door just as two pillows thumped against it from the other side. He wiped his brow in mock relief. "I see that Glaucus is back. What's wrong this time? Does Marcus have a cough again?" he teased.
Olivia ignored her brother and headed towards the door. "I'll be back for him as soon as Marcus is feeling better. Thanks, once again, for looking after him. I really appreciate it."
Titus glanced at his wife who jerked her head meaningfully in Olivia's direction, then he followed her outside into the cool afternoon air. "Olivia." He and grabbed his sister's arm, forcing her to turn and face him, and said in a low tone, "Have you written to Maximus yet?"
Olivia raised her chin defiantly, knowing what was coming. "I write to him all the time."
Titus sighed. "I'm talking about the boy, and you know it. Have you told Maximus yet that he has another son?"
"No."
"Olivia, you promised me that you would."
"I I've thought a lot about it, Titus, and I just can't."
"Why not? The boy is healthy and in no danger of dying, even though you think every little fever might kill him. It is not fair to Maximus to keep this information from him."
"Titus you don't understand how much the death of our daughter devastated Maximus. It was terrible for him to have to find out the way he did-- so far from home and the people he loves. It hurt him so much. I saw that for myself in Germania. I I can't risk doing that to him again. He lives in fear of losing another child. He said it would kill him. When Marcus was ill in Germania, Maximus said he would die if another child of his perished."
"Olivia, I can see why you didn't tell him about the boy until you were certain beyond doubt that he would survive -- and he did get off to a rather shaky start. But, he is as healthy as any child could be and nothing will happen to him."
"He could drink bad water and die; he could fall down a well and die; he could get kicked by a horse and die--"
Titus shook her. "Stop it. Stop thinking like that."
Tears glistened in Olivia's dark eyes. "Don't you understand, Titus? It is better that Maximus be surprised with a healthy, beautiful son the next time he comes home than to be expecting one and find out that something horrible happened to him. I I couldn't bear to hurt Maximus like that again to disappoint him again" A sob caught in her throat. "I miss him so much."
Titus gathered her against his chest. He could barely comprehend what life was like for his sister with her husband so far away and gone for years at a time. Nothing in her life was certain not even that Maximus would ever return home again.
He rubbed his cheek against her hair. "How long has it been?"
"Almost exactly three years."
"Have you heard from him lately?"
"I received a letter just yesterday. His legions are fighting the tribes again but he has great hope that the war will soon be over and he can return home for good." Olivia pulled away from Titus and searched his face for some understanding. "Can you imagine what a gift it will be for him to come home and find not one son, but two? And Glaucus looks so much like him."
"He does indeed. I just hope that once Maximus gets over his initial joy that he is not furious with all of us for keeping the child a secret. I don't relish having to deal with the fury of that man, let me tell you."
"It will be impossible for him to be upset when he sees Glaucus and holds him in his arms." Olivia closed her eyes and smiled. Oh, I can't wait for that day."
Titus still wasn't convinced. "Olivia, what if that day doesn't come for many years?" Titus raised a hand to silence her. "What if the wars go on much longer than Maximus anticipates and he doesn't return for a very long time? Glaucus will be old enough by then to hear about his father -- especially from Marcus -- and he'll have all kinds of questions. It is fair to the boy that his father knows nothing about him?"
"I'll deal with that possibility if it happens. I choose to believe that Maximus will be home soon, Titus, and we'll be a family again. You just wait and see."
Olivia brushed his cheek with a kiss then headed to her carriage before Titus could voice any further objections.
Titus watched until the carriage disappeared and the dust had settled back into the road, then wondered aloud, "And what if Maximus dies in battle? He would die without knowing that he has a son who carries his name." He shook his head sadly and stepped back inside the kitchen, fragrant now with the sweet scent of apple tarts.
Germania...two days later... the middle of the night
Marcianus gestured frantically to Cicero who was standing in the door of his master's tent looking dazed, holding Maximus' sword in his hands. "Cicero! Cicero!" he hissed and waved. What was the matter with the man? Marcianus crept through the shadows of the praetorium until he was close enough to Cicero to touch him. "Cicero!" he whispered again.
Maximus' servant jumped back as if he'd been struck, his wide eyes glazed. But instead of acknowledging the surgeon he stared at the sword as if confused about how he came to be holding it.
"Cicero, something terrible has happened. I need to talk to Maximus immediately."
Cicero just shook his head, his eyes glassy, and mumbled, "He's gone "
Marcianus shoved the man back inside Maximus' tent. "Where is he? It is imperative that I talk to him now!"
Cicero's face simply crumbled. "They've taken him away they've taken him away to be... executed," he choked, his throat tight with shock and grief.
"What!" Marcianus grabbed Cicero by the shoulders and shook him hard. "Who took him?"
"Praetorians."
"Dear God," Marcianus clenched his fists until his nails bit into his palms in an effort to remain calm. "Do you know where they took him?"
Cicero simply shook his head. "Quintus ordered them to ride until dawn then execute him." He stared at the sword again. "I tried to give him his sword but he wouldn't fight... they knocked him unconscious and dragged him out." Cicero wept openly now, his hands shaking so hard that the sword slipped from his grasp and struck the ground point-first where it stuck, quivering as if wielded by some unseen hand. The weapon's unnerving action awoke both men to the terrible reality of the situation. "Marcianus, what is happening? I overheard Maximus say that the emperor has been slain--"
"He's been slain all right. Strangled. I was summoned to sign the death certificate but was forced to write 'natural causes' as the reason for death. I was standing just outside the emperor's tent when Maximus was summoned -- he was still in his nightclothes -- and when he left he was so upset he didn't even notice my presence. Quintus and three praetorians followed him minutes later."
Cicero continued the story. "He came back to the tent and got dressed in his armor then told me to summon the senators because he needed their advice."
Marcianus shook his head knowingly. "He obviously saw what I saw -- the blue welts on Marcus Aurelius' neck. What happened then?"
"They're going to kill his family too."
"His family? Olivia and Marcus?" Marcianus sank to his knees and clasped his hands in prayer, his lips moving soundlessly.
"Why? Why are they doing this to him?" demanded Cicero, his face twisted in agony as he grabbed Marcianus' shoulder and shook him, demanding answers.
Marcianus wearily rose to his feet. "I can guess. Commodus has already declared himself emperor and Maximus probably refused allegiance to him after he realized Marcus Aurelius had been murdered."
"Marcianus, we must stop his execution. The soldiers will never put up with this when we tell them what happened. They will rescue their general!"
"Don't you see, Cicero? The legion is under the control of Commodus now. Any man who defies him will be killed. Maximus has probably been already branded a traitor accused of treason."
Cicero spread his hands in disbelief. "No one will believe that."
Marcianus nodded, thoughtfully. "You're right. You're right. Go quickly and spread the word, Cicero. Every moment counts--"
His words were cut short when two praetorians barged into the tent. "Surgeon," said one. "You are required to prepare the body for the journey to Rome."
Marcianus looked at Cicero.
"Now!" demanded the guard and he waited while Marcianus passed then followed him out. The second Praetorian stood by the door where he crossed his black-clad arms arms and glared at Cicero.
Maximus' servant summoned his courage and approached the guard as if intending to pass. "I have tasks to see to." He was stopped by a beefy hand on his shoulder.
"You're not going anywhere," he said as he pushed Cicero backwards. The servant stumbled and sat down hard on Maximus' bed where he remained, staring at his general's sword where it stood upright and strong in the middle of the floor.
Cicero could not believe that Maximus could be led to his death like a lamb to the slaughter. No... he would fight! But, he was bound... unconscious. Where was he now? Was he awake and in pain? Was he frightened? Was he thinking of his wife and son who were also condemned to die by the madman emperor and deeply regretting his decision to defy him. Could he change his mind? Was it too late?
Cicero didn't realize that he was twisting his hands until he pain shot through his fingers. Good, the pain would keep him focused. He twisted harder, knowing that what he felt was not one fraction of what Maximus and his family would endure. Somehow the pain made him feel less impotent, less useless as he sat here, guarded, waiting for the terrible dawn to come. He closed his eyes and prayed to every god he knew to spare his general's life -- to take his own if need be, but to please spare Maximus' life.
If only he could get out. He could rally the soldiers and there still could be time. Five thousand angry men would soon put a stop to this nonsense! He glanced at the huge, fully-armed man who seemed not to blink as he stared at his captive. Cicero started to rise but was only half-way to standing when he felt the sword at his throat.
"Don't do anything foolish," the guard taunted him, "or I'll cut you down and feed you to the dogs."
Dogs. Hercules hadn't even been here to defend his master. The veterinarian had kept the animal overnight after removing a long thorn that had worked its way deep into the dog's paw. It was just as well, thought Cicero, or the dog would have been slaughtered trying to defend Maximus.
Hours passed as slowly as time could crawl, Cicero's mind a swirling cauldron of confusion, guilt and hate. The two men remained motionless and mute, the sword between them, dividing them, until dawn's light finally touched the canvas of the tent and a stirring of activity could be heard outside the praetorium. A slow, victorious smile creased the guard's face as he pulled back the tent flap and glanced at the brightening sky. With a final look of total triumph he sneered at Cicero, kicked over Maximus' sword, and left.
Cicero simply remained on the bed, staring at the weapon that he had cared for so diligently, tears of unbearable grief finally streaming down his cheeks. He forced his legs to work and moved painfully to the door of the tent. Four armed Praetorians guarded the entrance to the praetorium. Beyond it, soldiers moved about as usual, having no idea yet what terrible things had happened during the night. He returned to the bed and sat down again and he was still sitting there, totally defeated, hours later when Marcianus re-entered the tent, his demeanor calm, his voice steady.
"Word is spreading throughout the camp. Soldiers can't believe what transpired as they slept. Commodus is already gone and Quintus has gone with him." Marcianus walked to the sword and picked it up. "Smart of Quintus. The soldiers would have killed him." Marcianus held the sword aloft and looked down its gleaming length. "Praetorians are still here and they are holding the officers in the emperor's tent so they can't organize a rebellion. A number of men have already gone over the wall, though. They couldn't get to the horses so they had to set out on foot to try to find Maximus' body. We must give him the honor that he deserves." The surgeon sat down beside Cicero and felt the rolled up parchment press into his skin where it was hidden under his tunic. "This is much more complicated than we ever suspected, Cicero. Marcus Aurelius intended for the empire to be very different from what it is about to become and Maximus was to have played a major role in that." He shook his head sadly. "Maximus is... was... the finest man I have ever known. The murdered emperor obviously thought so too. Maximus deserves to have his memory preserved but I believe that the praetorian intend to erase all signs that he ever existed, Cicero... his family, his estate...," Marcianus looked at the sword in his hands..., "his belongings."
Cicero rose again, his numb legs surprisingly co-operative as he moved to Maximus' altar. "We were not able to save him, and only the gods can save his wife and son, but we can preserve his memory, Marcianus. We owe him that much." Cicero reverently picked up the carvings of Maximus' wife and child. "His wife made these for him."
"Keep them, Cicero, in memory of Maximus. I know how much you loved him."
Cicero nodded as he picked them up. "This time yesterday I was preparing his breakfast--" His composure crumpled and he finally sobbed, his shoulders heaving with unbearable pain.
Marcianus watched him, able to contain his own grief only from years of caring for the dying. "Cicero... Cicero, listen to me. Help me gather together his property. I'll go back to Vindobona and collect the rest. I can't stay in the army without Maximus. He is the only reason I stayed as long as I did. I will take his possessions and leave. You must keep the carvings for yourself."
Cicero stuttered through his sobs, "How... how... will you get out?"
"All hell is about to break loose around here when the soldiers' grief turns to anger. And when it does -- and the Praetorian are occupied trying to control them -- I'll slip out."
"Where will you go?"
"To a Christian community somewhere," replied Marcianus bitterly. "I've had enough of Roman justice."
A month later... Rome
Septimius Severus hunched by the dim light of one smoking oil lamp and eagerly poured over the words scrawled upon the translucent papyrus scroll, savoring them and rolling them on his tongue as if they were fine wine. He tilted it this way and that to catch the best light as he read the script for the second time that night, his heart pounding as he continually licked his lips, hunger evident in every aspect of his being. Oh yes... this is what he had hoped for all right. He put down the scroll and turned the cryptic words of Amalthea's prophecy over in his mind. It was finally over -- the reign of Marcus Aurelius, and it was he, Septimius Severus, who was destined for greatness, not that sniveling twit of an emperor named Commodus.
A smile twisted his mouth as he smoothed the papyrus almost reverently with his palm, ignoring the dried brown spots of blood that had once flowed though the veins of the unfortunate scribe who had recorded the words of the Sibyl. The man had lived only a short time after exiting the cave, the only witness to the prophecy, and a victim of a knife plunged between his shoulder blades by the praetor who had hired him. The unfortunate scribe's body had tumbled down the steep stone steps where it lay mangled and broken like a shattered stone statue at the base.
The poor man had trustingly followed the Roman praetor, who had just received a promotion to a legionary command in Syria, down the coast of Italy south of Rome to Cumae and the pretty little Greek temple that marked the entrance to the cave of the Sibyl. Together they had made their sacrifices then braved treacherous stairs before crawling into the cramped entrance of the dark, bat-infested cavern that had been carved out of solid rock. They clutched each other in terror as the Sybil came into view, lit by an eerie red light from an opening somewhere high above. She was horrible -- a shrunken old woman with a toothless grin and glowing eyes. Terrified, Septimius addressed her and it was quite some time before the men realized that her silence was due to death. The figure was the mummified body of the former Sybil, Deiphobe, who now shared the cave with her predecessor, Amalthea -- a beautiful, mad-looking young woman seated on an ivory throne bathed in a shaft of pure white light hidden behind Deiphobe.
Septimius forced his tongue to formulate his question again. "Oh Sybil, I have come to question you about Rome's fate and my own." Gradually Amalthea's face changed as the prophetic powers overcame her and she struggled and gasped, her voice raspy and raw. As she spoke a wild wind rushed through the cavern and the scribe had to struggle to keep a firm grip on the flapping papyrus. Septimius brushed away bats that swooped at him out of the darkness as he struggled to hear her words -- those same words which he now read again:
For lengthy eighty years and another four
the mighty She-Wolf consorted with those
who were iron but they also were gold.
Septimius nodded his understanding. For eighty-four years the Antoninii dynasty had ruled the Roman Empire, from Nerva to Marcus Aurelius. During that time the empire had prospered and grown.
For the last twenty her Consort brought
swords and wisdom, wars and gold.
Like sun he was and as sun he shone.
Yes, he had been good, Marcus Aurelius, he had been good. As consort, he had expanded the empire and made it strong. But the empire had seen nothing yet ...
But he sired no wolf-cub, but a Mad Dog.
No wolf-cub to follow his shining steps.
The Dog brings only sorrow, tears and blood.
Septimius laughed -- a loud, triumphant laugh. The Mad Dog was Commodus, without question. He'll bring pain and sorrow to everything he touches. Everyone will turn against him then welcome him -- Septimius -- with open arms.
The Consort was wise and saw the truth.
He asked the Lion to save the She-Wolf.
But the Consort was betrayed and the Lion was too.
Here, Septimius' smile faltered. Marcus Aurelius had asked a Lion to save Rome from Commodus? Then who was this Lion and where was he now?The Mad Dog's and Lion's blood
will flow together yet will not mix
on crimson sand under a sun like gold.
No more Golden Consorts for the She-Wolf.
The Lion's blood will be paid with darkness
then the Iron Eagle will take her by the sword.
So, the Lion will destroy Commodus then die too. How convenient. And Septimius -- the Iron Eagle -- will sweep to power after a period of darkness. Darkness could mean anything... wars, famine, plague. Who cared, really? But he liked being termed the Iron Eagle. Iron was so much stronger than gold. He'd rather be iron than gold any day. He'll lie low and make his preparations while waiting for this Lion to appear then do his duty to Rome then die. After a period of darkness he, Septimius, the Iron Eagle, will act. He chortled with glee.
Iron footsteps, iron men, iron and power but no gold.
No more shining or compassion; no more wisdom.
The Eagle will subdue the She-Wolf and his nestlings go along.
Ah... the empire will be all his. He will rule her with his strength and might. Rome had had enough of Marcus Aurelius' writings and philosophy -- his wisdom. She was ready for a strong leader again... an Iron Eagle followed by his iron nestlings. Soldiers, obviously. Lots of soldiers! He thought of his posting in Syria. It was the beginning.
Iron feathers, iron claws, iron eyes, in his hand a sword.
Merciless with his enemies and merciless with his friends.
An iron heart for the Iron Eagle, his word not true or trusted.
Rivals will threaten the Iron Eagle; lesser eagles full of greed.
Yet those rivals are no rivals and will be torn by his claws.
Invincible! Septimius sneered. He will be invincible and destroy any man who challenges his power, friend or foe, any way he has to!
But no threat is like the Hidden One and hidden he must be
for his blood is golden even if crimson flows.
Hidden from every one, hidden from himself.
Even in hiding the sun shines where he goes.
The sneer changed to a scowl. Who was this "hidden one" who was hidden even from himself? What did that mean? And what kind of threat could he be? That Amalthea was spouting nonsense now. This part made no sense. Still, Septimius shivered in dread at the prospect of a challenger that he could not know.
The Iron Eagle hunts for cubs and those, he devours.
Yet the Hidden cub is growing and he's Lion, not a Wolf
for his blood is golden Lion's blood that crimson flows.
Another lion, this one a cub with golden blood? Could Marcus Aurelius have another son? No... it says he's lion not wolf, so no son of an emperor of Rome. Could he be the cub of the Lion who kills the Mad Dog? Well, then this Hidden One should be easy enough to eliminate. He simply had to wait until the Lion made himself known then destroy his progeny.
Almost reverently, Septimius re-rolled the papyrus and tied it with a purple ribbon, then he hid it inside another scroll before stashing it deep inside a drawer at the bottom of his desk. He stretched, arching his back, and listened to the bones crack as they settled into alignment. For now, he was off to Syria to take his first important army appointment. He would fly through the ranks and soon be general. After that... nothing was impossible for the clever Septimius Severus.
