From Darkness Read online

  They stayed in silence for a moment longer until the house servants opened the front door. The visitors had arrived.

  ***

  “Nephew, would you mind stepping out of the room for a moment?” Marius asked Caesar later after dinner, while moving off his couch. Caesar nodded, and stood up to follow him out of the dining room. Marius led him to one of the alcoves off the atrium.

  “I’ll keep this brief. My co-consul Cinna and I have been wondering about your future. We noticed the looks between you and his daughter Cornelia last month during one of the dinners at my house.” He openly grinned. “We wondered if there was a possibility for her being with child from you already?” Caesar turned bright red. “I guess you don’t have to say anything, I can see you’d rather not.” Marius laughed open-mouthed, his lopsided face turning into a scary grimace. “You would probably prefer to be anywhere else but here with me right now, am I right?” Caesar did not reply.

  “Cinna gives you his blessing if you want to marry her, but only if you can provide for her right away. What would you say of becoming the next high priest of Jupiter? The old priest just passed away, meaning there’s a vacancy that needs filling. Holding the title would automatically emancipate you. You could leave your father’s house and move into the official priest’s residence with Cornelia. More importantly for me, you would have the right to attend the Senate where you can observe for us from the rear benches, which would be very useful.”

  “But…I’m not old enough for the priesthood, am I? Is it even possible?”

  “Age is not a factor, believe me. If Cinna and I are supporting you, it’s as good as done,” Marius continued, putting his hand on Caesar’s shoulders to push him back towards the dining room. Thinking about Cornelia must have made it all too obvious how much he liked her, since his uncle started to laugh.

  I’ve met the girl of my dreams, no other will ever compare. Joining his uncle in laughter, he walked back to their families. Surprisingly, today had turned out to be a very good day indeed.

  668 AUC (86 BC), summer

  Farmstead outside of Bibracte, Free Gallia, Nation of the Aedui

  The day was warm, allowing Drestan to take off his shirt to show off his new tattoo, a blue bird on his upper left arm. He had plans for another bird on his right and an oak, and a yew tree on each wrist. He was a warrior now, born to one of the noblest families of his nation, and he didn’t want to wait to show the whole world. Oh, how he had begged his father to let him get his first one. Every warrior could wear a torc around their neck, its decoration or choice of metal whatever he or she could afford, but only noble warriors, the nation’s leaders, or master druids were allowed tattoos.

  Weapons training on their estate was for all children, including those of his father’s retainers. Several of the teenagers were good enough that he still felt challenged. During their training, nobody made any distinctions about one’s birth or family, just like later when fighting side-by-side in real battle. A good family connection, however, would get you noticed. His father Haerviu was chieftain of a clan of the Aedui in their nation’s heartland, a member of the nation’s council and recently elected as Vergobret to rule as king of the Aedui for one year in all but name, eligible for reelection after waiting another. Having a father at the top of Aeduan society did not mean that his sons, including seventeen-year-old Drestan, would automatically follow in his footsteps, but it did give Drestan and his many brothers a distinct advantage.

  “Good, keep your footing,” his stout, muscled father commented. Drestan, much slighter than his father, held on to his heavy oaken training sword and his even heavier shield while fighting against a similarly equipped young woman barely younger than himself.

  “No! Don’t overreach! Stop for a moment, both of you. Son, I know you’re good with a sword, better than most of my warriors, but you’re overconfident. If you face a respectable swordsman, he or she will take advantage of that.” In disbelief, Drestan showed his father his raised eyebrows.

  “Alright, I need to show you.” Drestan’s father sighed while holding out his hand to the girl until she handed him her training sword. His father was rarely on their farm, spending most days and nights in the city. It was a treat to have him home; even more so to have him teach or train them.

  “Here we go. Now try that again.” Drestan did the same feint, followed by a thrust meant to stab into his father’s gut. Haerviu, slow and careful most times, broke into a burst of speed to sidestep the blade and moved in closer. He pushed Drestan’s arm with his left, keeping him from moving the blade back to intercept. They both stopped, the tip of his father’s sword against Drestan’s throat.

  “Let’s do that one more time. Your enemy has other options,” Haerviu said, waiting again for Drestan to move first. This time, when Drestan moved in, Haerviu moved right, dropping his sword arm and rotating his body into Drestan on the inside of his outstretched blade. His right arm caught his son’s sword arm while the left moved in from below to form a complete trap. The force of the continuing rotation pulled Drestan forward, making him lose his footing and fall forward onto his own shield.

  “I think I made my point. When you lean that far out with your feet still behind, you cannot move back fast enough to react to my moves. If I had a shield, I would have broken your arm between my right hand and the shield edge.” He handed the sword back to Drestan’s sparring partner.

  “You’ll be fighting with me the next time we ride out for a raid. Meaning, you have a few short weeks to forget about how good you are.”

  He looked around the courtyard and raised his hands.

  “Gather round, gather around!” he called the youngsters, waiving for them to stop their mock battles and come closer.

  “Drestan, it’s time we repeated the twelve doors to the soul for everybody. Why don’t you demonstrate with the sword while I recite them?”

  Haerviu looked at the others as they approached.

  “Ganna, you do the same with your spear.” They moved over to the thick pole of green fir, sunk into the ground for use as a training dummy. A smaller pole pushed through a hole represented arms, and a rusty old helmet completed the setup.

  “You have all heard this before. We believe everybody has twelve doors to the soul. You need to know these doors until they are the first thing that comes to mind when you see your enemy. You need to start by finding whichever one is the least guarded and the easiest to reach. You older ones know this by heart.” Drestan’s father pointed at the younger children. “Why don’t we have the younger children answer. Who can tell me where our souls sit?”

  “In the head. That’s why warriors always wear helmets,” a small boy answered.

  Drestan and Ganna both stood ready. Haerviu continued. “Right! The first door, as you said, is the head, or to be specific, the very top of it.” Drestan moved the sword onto the helmet, with the cutting edge facing down. Ganna placed the wooden ball on the tip of her training spear right next to it.

  “You can see the issue when your enemy wears some protection. You need to push off the helmet first or hit hard enough to split it. That only works with a sword, if at all, and you won’t get a second try. Think about how you open your guard when you do a mighty overhead swing. Let’s move to the second door. Who can tell me where that is?”

  “It’s the hollow in the back of the head,” a small girl piped up. She seemed a feisty one, standing with both her hands on her hips, swinging her long red braided hair as she looked around the group. Drestan had to grin at the sight. His father nodded, pointing at him and Ganna to step around the dummy for the lower back of the helmet.

  “Feel the back of your skulls, where the bone ends, and the soft tissue starts. Yes, that’s the point. Same issue as the top of the head, many helmets cover the back, but some don’t cover low enough, so it’s still a valid move. But, who knows the issue with using the second door?”

  He pointed at a small boy, barely big enough to hold his training sword. �
�How about you?”

  “Is it because the back of the head is used for punishing murderers?” came the reluctant answer.

  “Very good! Killing somebody from behind in battle is done as a last resort or if you need to save someone. It’s not an honorable thing to do, and the warriors don’t take the enemy’s head after killing that way. Now, let’s move on. What’s the third door?”

  “I know that one. It’s the temples!” the same young boy answered again. Nodding, Haerviu pointed to his own temples to illustrate the point. “Some helmets cover them, but some don’t.” He motioned for Drestan and Ganna to point to the dummy’s head before moving on.

  “What’s next?” They moved in rapid succession through the doors, from the apple of the throat to the spoon of the breast and the sixth door, the armpit. Drestan had his sword pointed at the joints of the wooden dummy. When Haerviu continued, Ganna shoved Drestan’s sword tip with her spear tip. Drestan looked at her in surprise. She showed him her teeth in a wide grin. His hands turned sweaty, and he felt his heart racing. What am I supposed to do now?

  “Don’t forget, instead of stabbing to kill, you can also slice, which will make the arm useless,” Haerviu said. Drestan walked to the front of the dummy to hold his sword to the joint, then making a pulling motion. He glanced at Ganna to see if she was still smiling at him. She was.

  They moved on to the breastbone, then to the naval or womb, depending on the enemy’s sex. Drestan found it increasingly hard to focus. Ganna seemed to toy with him. His father droned on about the remaining doors, from elbow, to the ham at the back of the leg, to the groin area, to the foot. Giving himself a jolt, Drestan looked back at the girl, keeping eye contact. She was fifteen, and only half a head shorter than him. He had known her all his life. As the daughter of one of his father’s most trusted retainers, she lived with her parents in a house right across the courtyard from his house. Yet, he had somehow missed her turning into this intriguing girl.

  She is perfect.

  She could dish out hell with her spear. Her smile added to the sunlight. Her watery blue eyes drew him into her depths until, amazingly, he found brown flecks the same color as her hair.

  669 AUC (85 BC), summer

  Rome, Italia, Capital of the Roman Republic

  Gaius Julius Caesar, now fifteen, was beyond himself. Why me? Why did this have to happen to my own father? At age fifty-five, Gaius Julius senior had sat down on a bench in the vestibule to put on his street shoes and passed out. Just like the story he remembered about his grandfather, who had fallen dead one morning during a visit to Pisa forty years ago, also without apparent cause.

  “Ready?” Caesar whispered to his mother Aurelia, finally letting her out of his embrace. He hugged both of his sisters before getting in place behind his mother. Tears flowing, he searched for his young wife Cornelia’s hand to hold. Instead, her arm reached around him for a squeeze. His mother started the long walk away from their domus; the family followed with a long procession building behind them. His father’s most treasured clients carried his body in a wooden sarcophagus to the eastern Necropolis, one of several big cemeteries outside the city limits. His mother had hired over two hundred professional mourners, who now walked all around the sarcophagus in darkened togas, loudly wailing. Many wore the ancient wax masks of the Julii family ancestors over their faces. He was grateful, a procession this size left little chance of his father’s spirit escaping along the way to become a shade to haunt the living.

  They arrived at the cemetery and walked right up to the hole dug in preparation. The sarcophagus was lowered, and while it was covered, everyone loudly lamented the early demise of Caesar senior. With the burial complete, Aurelia sent the professional mourners away while the inner family lined up next to the burial site.

  Caesar spotted his aunt Julia and cousin Gaius Marius next to uncle Sextus’ widow Horatia and his young cousin Sextus Julius Caesar. They were close to the end of the many people moving through to give their condolences.

  He received a hug from six-year-old Sextus, and another one from his aunt before they moved on to his wife and his mother. Cousin Gaius Marius stepped in to give him a solid arm grip and made way for his father.

  “I am so very sorry about your father. He was a great man.” The older Marius said. “You are now the head of the family. Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help you. Anything.”

  His aunt Julia was next, enfolding him in a big hug. On a sad day like this, he appreciated the family’s affection. He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. Aurelia excused herself from the line and came over. “My son, it’s time for the eulogy. Are you ready?”

  He nodded and made his way to the small podium. He stood there waiting until everybody had taken their seats. His mother had rented many stools, anticipating a big showing. As it turned out, they were not enough, with at least as many guests standing as seated, maybe more. Since he was now the official high priest of Jupiter, almost all of Rome’s priests and many Vestal Virgins had come to honor his father.

  The guests looked at him in anticipation. The first two rows were filled by family, the next several by long-standing friends and family clients. He nodded to many familiar faces in acknowledgement before looking down at his script to gather his thoughts. It was time.

  “Family, friends, clients. Thank you all for coming to honor the life of my father. As is custom, I will start this eulogy with our family’s ancestors.”

  He pointed at the incredibly lifelike death masks of his ancestors, now on little stands on small tables to either side of the one taken from his father’s face.

  “As you may know, our family was founded by Aeneas, prince of legendary Troy, son of prince Anchises and the goddess Venus, cousin to king Priam’s sons Hector and Paris. After Troy fell to Agamemnon’s host, Aeneas led a group of survivors to Latium, where he founded the kingdom of Alba Longa. His son Ascanius Julius is the first to bear our family name. His line also led to Romulus and Remus, the founders of our beloved Rome.”

  He went on to name every single one of their ancestors, a long litany stretching from the early days of Alba Longa through the forced joining of that kingdom with the kingdom of Rome. Next, he listed the varied history of the following rule by the Senate and People of Rome, finally arriving at his own father’s time. Only now was he allowed to talk directly about Julius Caesar senior and his achievements. The rare politician who had become proconsul without ever holding the post of consul. The man who loved his family, his city and his countrymen.

  He knew this would be a long day. A lengthy feast back at his parents’ house was waiting after he wrapped up here. He would need to attend until every single guest had left, and he was already weary to the bone.

  Both of his sisters came up from behind to join his wife Cornelia and his mother Aurelia, already standing close in support. They would all get through this day together, a simple family grieving for a husband and father.

  672 AUC (82 BC), late fall

  Praeneste and Rome, Italia, Roman Republic

  Marcus Licinius Crassus sat on his horse on a hill, overlooking the small city of Praeneste. Exhausted, he slumped his shoulders. He viewed the fields of a heavily farmed countryside beneath his tired eyelids, followed by a clear view of the city gleaming in the setting sun, presenting him with a peacefulness so very unlike the brutal reality surrounding it.

  “You don’t look too well, Marcus!” Sulla called from his side. Crassus turned to the general who had ridden up on his famous white horse. The man who had brought a huge force of five veteran legions from Greece two years earlier looked no less tired, blue eyes warily peeking out from under unkempt flaming red hair. They had both seen constant campaigning in Italy while fighting the Senate and its troops still loyal to old Marius. The old thorn in Sulla’s side had died three years earlier after catching a cold, soon after the start of his seventh consulship. Sulla had also been through many years of continuous fighting in Asia while Crassus hid in Hispan
ia, where he had fled after Marius had his family killed and their property confiscated. Once word had reached him of Sulla’s arrival in Italia, he had raised his own force to join the fight.

  “Too bad that Pompeius is not here to share in our glory when we sack the city,” Crassus said in reply. Gnaeus Pompeius was their third commander, currently holding Italia’s north. “The young pup down there does not have the balls or the skills of his old man, so it shouldn’t take us too long.” Crassus referred to Marius’ son, who had made a desperate retreat into Praeneste after losing an open battle, only to be besieged by Sulla’s men.

  “Don’t underestimate him, Marcus. His name alone will keep his men fighting to the bitter end. I can fault my dead archenemy all I want, but he inspired a devotion in his sycophants and their soldiers that still holds.” Sulla turned in his saddle to face Marcus. “We will not be able to take Praeneste soon. Our scouts reported that the senatorial relief force we’ve kept from reaching the city has instead marched out this afternoon. They are going north, towards Rome.”

  “No rest for us then,” Crassus responded wistfully. “I better let my men know we need to break camp in the early morning. I assume you want us to follow them posthaste?”

  “Yes. I already sent all the cavalry ahead to hold the field in front of the Colline gate, so we won’t lose access to the city. We’ll only leave enough men here to keep the siege going.”

  ***

  Early morning the following day, Crassus moved his men in a single column towards Rome, paralleling Sulla’s men. The city in sight, the bigger force spread wide to cover the left and middle. Crassus gave the command for his soldiers to become the right flank of the attack line. Their forces reached the wall and gate before the enemy showed itself. Hidden in nearby woods, they rushed in to trap Sulla and Crassus’ men against the wall. The left wing became overwhelmed, and the Colline gate, standing wide open in invitation, became a rallying cry for their troops. Many of the soldiers and the loyal senators traveling with Sulla ran for presumed safety.