Son of Mars Read online

  Son of Mars

  Vincent B. Davis II

  For Conor

  Introduction

  Dear Reader,

  It has been a year since I’ve completed a scroll in my memoir. I’ve made a vow to the goddess Diana that I will return to it soon, but in the meantime, I wanted to share a letter I found amongst my personal correspondence archives.

  This is a letter I received from the Consul Gaius Marius after the Battle of Arausio. I never asked permission to share this, but since he is long dead and his enemies have since destroyed his reputation, I doubt this will tarnish his name any further.

  Marius was a great man in his time. He wrote this for a few reasons, but I believe the foremost was because he needed to tell the story. He wanted the world to know who Gaius Marius was before he became the Savior of Rome. I’ve saved this letter for 30 years because it has been a great comfort to me when I've had time to reflect on it. The general and I weren’t so different, after all, and there was much I learned from reflecting on these stories he shared. I hope that you, reader, may learn something from the Son of Mars, as he so describes himself, as I have.

  Until I write again, I will sacrifice that these short scrolls will make it into the right hands.

  Quintus Sertorius

  Haven’t read Vincent’s first book? Make sure to check it out first!

  Centurion Quintus Sertorius,

  I much prefer writing on wax tablets. They are much better for military orders. This parchment is too soft, it threatens to break under the pressure of my stylus. It makes me feel like a Greek, and you know how I feel about Greeks. Regardless, what I want to share with you is too long to detail on a wax tablet.

  I write for two reasons. The first is this: the losses at Arausio grieve me. The reports are being altered every day. When word reached our camp, the stated number of Roman casualties was near 50,000 men. 50,000 good men? It seemed impossible. A tragedy to match the Gallic sack of Rome. Now the reports state that the losses are closer to 90,000. It’s incomprehensible. The one reprieve is that both you and my Son-in-Law Maximus have lived, and that gives me hope. I write this to encourage you before your return to the Army. I can, and in fact already have, issued orders for you to serve in the legions under my command. However, I want you at your best. And if a little encouragement can help you get there, I will now provide it. I have much that I will require of you, Centurion. Be assured of that.

  The other reason I write is this: I’m in winter quarters and quite bored. The war against the Numidians is long over, and it isn’t time yet to meet the Cimbri and Teutones again. But I want to fight. My skin crawls with the desire for battle. I’m kept up at night with pleasant dreams of cutting the Cimbri down for what they did. But I cannot have battle, not yet, so instead I will write about it.

  First, I must start with my life, and how I made it into the Colors to begin with.

  I was born in a village not too dissimilar to your own. My role was that of a farmhand to my father. We had several iugera of land, nearly 30 to the best of my recollection, and that made us one of the wealthier families in Arpinum. Wealthier, at least in theory. In the village as it is in Rome, the man who owns the most land is the more well-to-do citizen, but we were anything but well-to-do.

  My father was a tormented man.

  He had an attraction to wine that makes my own look like that of a Vestal Virgin if you can believe it. He also liked to gamble. When he mixed the two, wine and gambling, he’d lose about everything he had.

  He’d return home, absent every denarii he earned off the crops grown by the sweat of my brow, stinking of putrid wine, sweat, and urine. We never knew where he went, or how long he would remain gone. Only one thing was certain: when he got home, we’d receive a beating.

  My father was angry that he had lost his money, as if Fortuna had cursed him for having inadequate children. He’d line me up beside my brother Marcus and my sister Maria and beat us until we cried. Then he would continue the beating until our tears ceased.

  He beat our mother in private.

  But he didn’t need a dice games to excuse his beating. Anything could prompt them. He’d beat us when he was displeased with the crops, in quality or quantity. He’d beat us when the wrong gladiator won in a friend’s funeral games. He'd beat us if we looked at him wrong, or if the weather was poor, or if one of the respected men in the village insulted him.

  We accepted the blows as a normal part of life. My father had a habit of coming in from gods know where and reclining on a couch for a moment to collect his breath. He would look at each of us with beady eyes, trying to decide who would receive the brunt of his aggression.

  I always hoped it wouldn’t be me. But in the strangest sort or way, I actually did want it to be me. It meant that my little brother and my mother were safe, at least for a time. But more importantly, it felt as if I had been selected. He made it seem as though the whip was for our edification, our growth. It was, distorted though it may be, the only affection our father ever showed us. To be selected for a beating was to be at the forefront of a wayward man’s mind, and every young man wants to be the center of his father’s attention.

  The beating our father dealt us was nothing compared to what he did to his slaves. I once saw him dunk a slave’s head into boiling water because he stepped in horse shit on his way home.

  My mother wasn’t much better equipped to rear a future Consul of Rome. You trained horses, didn’t you, Sertorius? I’m sure you came across the type of mare that had been beaten into submission, so she would never rebel against you or ignore an order, but had no spirit left within her. This was my mother: a tired old mare. Whatever life had dwelled in her before my brith was absent by my birth, perhaps it was my father’s whip that accomplished the extraction. She would sit and watch him hit us with emotionless eyes, only waiting her turn, which she would never refuse.

  She was cold and distant, my mother. Even from my earliest memories, I couldn’t remember a time when she nurtured me. That responsibility was left to our slaves, who could hardly speak our language.

  I never held this against my mother. She did as a Roman matron should, educated us and prepared us for how cruel the world can be.

  I supported her financially until her death, but I had not seen her in many years.

  My brother Marcus was not much of a recompense either. He was hopelessly devoted to Father and was cursed to become just like him. Perhaps this is why a man of his intellect and ability has never left that shitty village we were raised in.

  We shared in the suffering of our youth, and that makes brothers close, but our relationship did not extend beyond that. In more recent years, we have grown closer. Perhaps it is because mother and father are now dead. Perhaps it is simply that no one else remains that shared our youth. Perhaps it is because of the love an uncle dotes on his nieces and nephews as I hold his children dear to my old soldier’s heart.

  My sister was a good woman. She was 12 years my elder, so we were never close, but she often served the role of the mother in our household. When someone needed disciplining, and not the kind my father handed out, she was the judge and the executioner. She was also the one to listen to our stories, and would make sure our cook would save a few delicacies for Marcus and I before my father ate everything prepared.

  Her real service to me was in the man she wed. That man was Marcus Gratidius, a man who beloved by all in our village. His blood had drops of nobility, but his renown was of an individual nature rather than handed down by his ancestors. He was a brilliant lawyer and orator, speaking before Arpinum’s assemblies with eloquence and charisma. He cared a bit more for Greek literature than I liked in a man, but his affable nature made him everyone's friend. Gratidius was a good friend to
the Cicero family, as well as the Antonii, who were leading families in Arpinum. But regardless, he married my sister.

  His purpose in taking my sister as his bride, when he could have had any lady in the village, will always be a mystery to me. It certainly wasn’t her looks. He married the daughter of a debauched man, into a family with waning fortunes, and somehow that still could not tarnish him. He was so confident in his decision that no one ever questioned it. Gratidius was a hero my hero then, and even now. I can also say he was the only friend I cherish from my youth. He was 14 years my elder, but never lorded that over me. I believed he enjoyed time with me as much as I him. And if it wasn’t for his friendship and silent tutelage, I’m not sure if I would be here, as the First Man in Rome.

  620 years after the founding of the city, Gratidius decided to do his duty to Rome, and joined the legions. We all knew it was the just beginning for him, the first rung on a ladder to glory and power. He seemed to be the only one who was not mindful of this. He simply desired to fight for Rome.

  “Gaius, I am leaving soon. You know this?” he said one evening as he dined with our family.

  “I do. Where will you go?” I asked, upset at his departure but pleased that he wanted to confer with me about it beforehand.

  “To Rome first, and then I’ll depart with the legions from there. Scipio Aemilianus is raising an army to fight the Celtiberians in Spain, and I shall go with him.”

  “Scipio? The grandson of Scipio Africanus?” my father asked with raised eyebrows. He was never impressed by anything, save his Son-in-Law. Gratidius was the one man my father never looked down on.

  “That’s correct. Aemilianus is the one who finished his grandfather’s work and burned down Carthage. Some say he’s the greatest Roman general since his grandfather passed, and I’m inclined to agree.”

  I felt my breath quicken, and I fidgeted. I wanted to know a man like Scipio. I wanted to win glory for Rome. I wanted to impress my father the way Gratidius did.

  “Perhaps I could join the legion too, father?” I asked.

  He took a long pull of his unwatered-wine and laughed. “I don’t think so, boy.” He said nothing else. Perhaps I was unfit for the legion, I thought.

  With Gratidius leaving, I needed something else to occupy myself. I was uncomfortable as simply a farmhand. I wanted more from life, and the gods whispered in my ear that there was something special about me. Even then, I believe an ember burned that told me I would one day be a great man.

  If I couldn’t win glory in the legions, then I would run for office. Local office, mind you, because I couldn’t imagine running for office in Rome, due to my upbringing and family name.

  When I tried to run for the local magistracy of grain monitor, I was laughed at.

  As I spoke before the local elders about my candidacy, they shook their heads.

  “No one would vote for you. The son of a man who sleeps in the street, drenched in vomit and reeking of wine, could never win favor here.” One said.

  “Some say your father is cursed.” Spoke another.

  “You’ve better odds becoming the Dictator of Rome.” Another scoffed.

  They would all be proven wrong, but I didn’t know that then. I was crushed. Had I no prospects for a future? Would I simply inherit my portion of father’s land, work the field, and die? I couldn’t bear it.

  When I went home and told my father, his response was much the same, but for different reasons.

  At first my proposition was met with hilarity. He laughed until the hiccups stopped him.

  “How could you be grain monitor, boy? You can’t even count. You can barely read. There's nothing to gain from the embarrassment.”

  After we discussed it for a while, he worked himself into a rage.

  He blamed my stupidity for his anger, slapping my face and cursing my foolish heart. In truth, I believe he worried for the first time that I might rise above his station. This, he could not allow.

  He did everything he could to squash my aspirations, but it was too late. The hearth fire was kindled. I was no longer willing to work the field with my hands and do nothing more.

  So, as every young man is apt to do at least once in his youth, I disobeyed my father’s orders.

  I went the next day to the local registrar and joined the legion.

  When I returned home, I first told my brother. He shrugged his shoulders.

  Next I told my mother. She nodded her head, but said nothing.

  Afterwards I told my sister. At first I thought she might weep, but collected herself.

  “Take care of my husband,” she said.

  I told my father last.

  He took a moment to reply as if calculating and trying to make sense of this treason. As it set in, he clenched his first and reared back to hit me. By this time, his body was decaying from his epicurean lifestyle, but he could still beat me to a pulp. I was twice his size, and strong from working the field, but something sucked all the strength from my limbs the moment my father raised his fist.

  But for once, he did not strike me. He paused.

  “How much did they offer you?” he asked at length.

  “What?”

  “The legion. How much did they promise to pay you?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “I’ll double it.” He met my eyes for the first time that day, maybe even the first time in my life.

  “You would pay me three hundred denarii?”

  “If I have to.” He had tears in his eyes. Now I saw him for what he was: a broken old man, always drunk and always scared, cursed by Dionysius, the god he loved so much. I felt pity for him.

  His resistance to my leaving has always been a mystery to me. I like to imagine it came from the still decent part of his heart that feared for his son.

  Regardless, I made a decision, and had already sworn my oath. The next day, I left for Rome.

  I never saw my father again.

  Believe it or not, I was planning to join as a hastati. You may not be familiar with that class, as you served after my reforms, but that was the lowest ranking foot soldier in the legion, save the arrow-fodder velites. When I arrived on the Field of Mars to begin my training, I learned that my noble brother-in-law Gratidius, who was serving in the capacity of Military Tribune, had helped secure me a position on his staff.

  I received a horse, a blessing I at first hated. I spent little time riding horses in Ariminum, and they chafed my legs till they scarred and bled. Regardless, I was honored to serve under Gratidius, and be among the few men who could sit atop that thousand libra beast.

  Our general, the famed Scipio Aemilianus, spared no effort in preparing us. He was a strict disciplinarian and gave us but a moment to eat between our marching drills. I have always told my soldiers that any hardship they suffer under me is a light sentence compared to serving under Scipio, but their malice towards me should be directed at him. I learned how to handle a legion from Scipio.

  We wasted no time before setting off for Spain. I was a simple provincial boy, much like yourself, and I was about to see the world outside of Rome’s borders. I hadn’t realized that such places existed beforehand.

  We took the coastal route through Gaul, straight to Spain. Over ten years had passed since Scipio had razed Carthage, and he was hungry for more glory. You could see it in his eyes, the desire to extend Rome’s reach farther than it had ever been. The untamed, savage, and wild tribes of Spain would soon be Roman subjects.

  When we arrived, the state of things stunned us. The war had been waging against the Celtibereans for ten years. Ten years? By Mars and his bloody sword! I’ve been in Africa for less than 5, and I think the Fates have stalled time. The armies awaiting us reflected what ten years of fighting beasts can do to a man.

  They had gone native. Our men had taken foreign “wives” that stayed in the baggage camps. They wore deer pelts to block out the cold when they weren’t in full kit. They ate strange foods and drank ale rather than wine. They took
part in strange bathing rituals, such as using the grease of bear fat as the cleanser rather than oil.

  In all things, they were the opposite of what I expected of a Roman army. All those tales of military glory now seemed strange.

  But our general Scipio would have none of it. Gratidius told me his head nearly burst into flames when he saw the condition of the men he would now lead. So, because of their poor discipline, he treated them as the Centurions treat civilians when they are raw recruits. We marched, always, constantly. We never went far, Numantia was our objective city. We would march fifteen miles in one direction, then turn round and return.

  He issued new orders that put our men through routine and boring training exercises: how to conduct battle, how to shave and groom our hair properly, how to clean each link in our lorica hamata. Even myself and other officer staff members were included in the training. He assumed everyone had forgotten how to conduct themselves like Roman soldiers, so decided to train us all on how to do so.

  He sent men throughout the camps, collecting any semblance of civilized dining, and did away with it. Couches and tables were removed. A roasting pit, a cooking pan, and a cup was all that remained. That is how a real Roman eats, and Scipio knew it.

  We marched often and hard. He made it clear that if we were not fighting, we would be working. Each day, at some designated location, we were to construct a new fortress. Each evening, we would tear it down. We dug massive trenches in the morning, and by nightfall they were refilled. And Scipio watched the whole thing: from dusk till dawn.

  The General wore a black cloak, saying he was “mourning the dreadful state of the Army”. His wit was sharp, and everyone found it humorous, but his message was not lost to us either.