The Man With Two Names Read online

  THE MAN WITH TWO NAMES

  A Novel of Ancient Rome

  VINCENT B. DAVIS II

  Thirteenth Press, LLC

  Copyright © 2017 by Vincent B. Davis II

  First Edition

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, written, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed

  “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the address below.

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  Printed in the United States of America

  CONTENTS

  Reading Order

  Introduction

  Join the Legion

  I. Tirocinium Fori

  Scroll I

  Scroll II

  Scroll III

  Scroll IV

  Scroll V

  Scroll VI

  Scroll VII

  Scroll VIII

  Scroll VIV

  Scroll X

  Scroll XI

  II. The Road to Arausio

  Scroll XII

  Scroll XIII

  Scroll XIV

  Scroll XV

  Scroll XVI

  Scroll XVII

  Scroll XVIII

  Scroll XIX

  Scroll XX

  Scroll XXI

  Scroll XXII

  Scroll XXIII

  Scroll XXIV

  Scroll XXV

  Scroll XXVI

  Afterword

  The Noise of War

  Word from the author

  For Buddy Rowlette, Donald Davis, and Jimmie Hutchison

  READING ORDER

  The Man with Two Names: The Sertorius Scrolls I

  Son of Mars: The Marius Scrolls I (FREE at this link)

  The Noise of War: The Sertorius Scrolls II

  Blood in the Forum: The Marius Scrolls II (FREE at this link)

  Bodies in the Tiber: The Sertorius Scrolls III (Preorder on Amazon for .99c - limited time)”

  INTRODUCTION

  This story is based on a real man and real events

  I AM NOT sure I will live long enough to finish this account. My enemy surrounds me, and the time has almost come for another battle. But the gods have protected me thus far, and so with haste I will write my story to the best ability of a man whose fingers have clutched the hilt of a gladius far more than the wood of a stylus.

  My name is Quintus Sertorius, and this is my account of the life and death of the Roman Republic.

  I have devoted my life to serving Rome. I’ve spent years on the battlefield under the silver eagle, and I’ve given speeches and worn the spotless white toga in the Senate House. But for these last twelve years, I have been forced to fight against the only country I’ve ever loved.

  I am now considered a rebel, an enemy of the state. Citizens are duty-bound to kill me on sight if able, and the heads of those who once called me friend are rotting on pikes in the Forum. The corrupt oligarchy that now calls itself “Rome” has destroyed every bust of me in Italy. They have burned my writings and slandered my name and those of the people I love.

  I write this so you may understand how the Republic died, and I along with it. I am not so naïve as to believe that this account will undo any of the damage done to my reputation, but I feel obliged to tell this story as it truly occurred. History belongs to the victors, and I am not guaranteed victory.

  Yet I want you to know, Reader, that I do not simply write this to tell you the heroism of dusty old men—least of all myself—but to inspire heroism in you. Because Rome needs heroes; the world needs heroes. I hope that upon reading this, at least one brave patriot will work to restore the Republic to what she once was.

  I don’t want anyone to believe this is simply the “memoir of Quintus Sertorius” or a vain attempt at restoring my legacy. For what is one man in the end? I am simply a fading shadow along the Forum of the great nation that was Rome. Instead, consider my work a eulogy for Rome and all that she could have been.

  I swear to be honest with you about my own shortcomings and failures, if you in return allow me the opportunity to gain your respect despite them. I have entered the fray both with and against patriots, warriors, sycophants, murderers, and dictators. I will share their accounts where they are honest.

  I must go. The horn is sounding in the distance. It’s time for battle. Another battle. Whether on the front line or on the marble floors of the Senate House, I can hardly remember a life without bloodshed.

  But it was all worth it—every ounce of sweat and blood willingly poured from this body and every grudging tear wrenched from this soul. I would do it all again, because there is no sacrifice too costly for the people and the country that I love.

  Quintus Sertorius

  678 ab urbe condita

  Before continuing JOIN THE LEGION to receive companion material that will improve your reading experience. Here's a list of what you'll receive:

  A downloadable HD map of the Republic

  Family trees of the Roman noble families

  A glossary of common Roman terms

  Vincent's spinoff series The Marius Scrolls for FREE!

  Direct access to the author

  Much more to come!

  I

  TIROCINIUM FORI

  647–648 ab urbe condita

  “If history is deprived of the Truth, we are left with nothing but an idle, unprofitable tale.” —Polybius

  SCROLL I

  628–648 AB URBE CONDITA

  By my count, I was born 628 years after Rome’s founding—384 years after the establishment of the Republic. The gods blessed me with a strong father and a loving mother. My brother, Titus, was six years my elder, and though we were hardly the best of friends, we each made the other stronger and our problems always worked themselves out.

  The gods were no less gracious in birthing me into a good homeland.

  Have you ever heard of Nursia, Reader? Most haven’t. Little of note has come from it. If you have ever heard anything of Nursia, you would likely know of its harsh winters, the snowfall that comes down in blankets from the Apennine Mountains, or the quality of our turnips (the only crops our hard, frozen soil can grow). Nursia, dull as it was, was my birthplace and my home, and I’ve always cherished it.

  MY FIRST MEMORY is of drowning, five years after my birth.

  When I close my eyes, I can feel the freezing water enveloping me, the undertow pulling me further from the light. Sometimes the breath catches in my lungs as I remember how my body went numb and how I lost all control of my senses.

  It was a small river that lay just outside Nursia. I went to it often for bathing, but I was forbidden to go there without my mother or my father’s supervision. Yet, careless sort that I was, I decided I would go to cool off after playing with my friend Lucius. It took only moments for my feet to sink into the mud and for me to slip below the rapid current.

  My thoughts were clear at the time. I remember them well. I didn’t think of life or death, only that my father would be disappointed. He will kill me if I make it out alive, I thought. But, as it turned out, he nearly killed himself trying to res
cue me. Lucius had run back to warn my father, and he bolted faster than the god of wind Zephyr to my rescue. The rapids nearly took him too, but he fought like a warrior until I was on dry land once more and the water pumped from my lungs.

  The event had a lasting effect on me. I developed a stutter, which keeps the memory always at the forefront of my mind. Though I have remained afraid of water, the near-death experience forged in me a deep gratitude for life and the ability to draw breath that had been so difficult at the time. My father never mentioned it again. He could have punished me, but he knew that the shame I felt was greater punishment than the whip could ever be.

  My father often taught through lessons rather than punishments. He was a man of strong character, often quiet and contemplative and direct in his dealings with others. Nursia had no real local government to speak of, but people often looked to my father as the governor of our little village. In all my years with him, I never saw him turn away a man in need. He devoted endless hours to supporting other villagers—usually in the way of offering a warm bed or a plate of food.

  His devotion to Nursia and its poor never detracted from his dedication in raising Titus and me. He was deeply invested in our education and procured for us a Greek tutor for formal instruction. Whenever he could, he would insert lessons into our daily lives, teaching us history, languages, and most importantly how to be a man of character in a world where such men were sorely lacking.

  It often amazes me that he taught us so much without saying a word. We learned more from him while out hunting than we ever did from that tutor.

  All Nursians hunted, both for sustenance and trade. The mountain passes that surrounded us were swarmed with roe deer, red deer, and wild boar. Every chance he could, Father took us to those passes, where he taught us how to use a bow and how to defend ourselves in case we ran into a pack of wolves or the infamous Marsican brown bear. But most importantly, he taught us virtue.

  I remember one such lesson in particular. On this particular occasion, the sun was beginning to set and the clouds were beginning to conquer the sky. All was made gray. In the distance I saw a deer, huddled and sleeping on the precipice of a mountain. I scaled the side of the cliff as swiftly as I could manage, leaving Father and Titus in the dust and hoping to impress them with my feat of daring. When I was within range, I notched an arrow and pulled the string taut. As I focused in, I noticed that the deer was a mother, feeding her fawn. I hesitated for a moment, but when I considered the admiration I would receive, I pulled the string tighter.

  Before I could let loose the arrow, my father’s hand dropped on my shoulder. I turned in consternation, but he only shook his head.

  “I thought you would think I was brave!” I cried after him, following as he descended the cliff.

  “You were brave to climb that mountain. But you were not courageous, son.”

  “Are they not the same?” I was frustrated, to say the least.

  “No. It does not take courage to be cruel in a cruel world, Quintus. That doe will rear bucks that will feed your children, and your children’s children. Sometimes you must sacrifice gain now for what is right and what is beneficial for others.” Suddenly, I realized this was about more than deer hunting, and I said no more, even as we returned home with nothing at all to show for our adventure.

  I know I have many contradictory qualities. My father introduced me to Zeno and the other Stoic philosophers, and ever since, I have tried to live by their creed. That being said, I have many shortcomings. I value sobriety but have been known to drink more than my fair share of wine—especially in my younger years. I value restraint but have always had a weakness for women. I value self-control but haven’t always succeeded in restraining my anger. What good qualities I do have, I attribute to my parents.

  BY TRADE, my family bred horses and had done so for as far back as we could trace our lineage. Growing up, it was the greatest honor in the world to work on the farm with our horses. My father, mother, brother, and I all worked with the sun, without any off-season. When we weren’t training a new stallion, we would scour the hills for packs of wild horses. I remember the joy that welled in me whenever father would take the rope from his satchel and, trying to contain his excitement, give us instructions for securing the animal. Afterward, we would often return home with a snorting, rearing stallion that would soon become another member of our family.

  Perhaps these aren’t the beginnings you would expect from the infamous traitor Quintus Sertorius. But I cannot imagine any other childhood. We hunted for our food, made our clothing from the pelts of deer and river otters, and traded with the other villagers. Life was simple.

  Only my father’s political connections made my upbringing unique. The Sertorii are an ancient family, and hundreds of years before my birth, when our people were assimilated into Rome, my ancestors developed relationships with the leading Roman families. Those relationships passed down to my father—a responsibility he took very seriously. His patrons in Rome single-handedly supplied Nursia with our grain, our olives, our grapes. By my time, most of the grain actually came from Egypt or Spain, but everything was circulated through Rome before it reached provincial villages like Nursia. Without someone important lending an ear, Nursia would go hungry.

  In return for their patronage, my father served as these families’ spokesman to the Sabine tribes. He was considered an elder in the Stellatina Tribe and therefore held a great deal of sway in how we voted. My first experience of Rome—all its power and glory—was of accompanying him and Titus to vote in the elections.

  It was more than I could have imagined.

  The temples and state buildings of the Forum were as tall as ancient beeches and seemed to my seven-year-old self to extend all the way to the heavens.

  There were all sorts of new sounds and sights: lute players and dancers, important men in togas whiter than Nursian snow, and ancient columns even whiter than that. Rome was brimming with people. There were more people there than in a thousand villages like Nursia.

  On every corner, merchants offered fresh, succulent vegetables and fruit. The streets were wide enough for chariot-like wagons to pass through. The rich were carried about in litters, and I craned my head until my neck hurt to see if I could recognize in any of them the famous generals or senatorial heroes I knew from stories.

  There was also a foreign element that I’d never before encountered. People of all different nationalities lined the streets, some praying rhythmically in strange languages, others shouting at their companions. Scarlet rose petals lined the stone roads to celebrate the coming of another year.

  Rome was simply alive. It was all moving; it was fluid. It operated faster and more vibrantly than Nursia ever had or ever would.

  However, one thing impressed me more than anything else: the aqueducts.

  “Look, Papa!” I pointed to the aqueducts, pulling him away from his conversation with an old friend.

  “What of it?” Titus laughed at me. “So they have clean water. We have wells.” But the convenience of having water close to hand, rather than having to carry it from far away, wasn’t what amazed me.

  “Yes, Quintus. They bring in that water directly from the Tiber. It gives these people all the water they need.” My father returned to his conversation, but only after giving me a smile that suggested to me he understood. The Romans had conquered the one thing I was most afraid of: water. They had tamed it, controlled it, bent it to their will. I had been astounded at Rome’s sheer size and might, but this impressed upon me the belief that Rome was all-powerful. Rome could do things Nursia could never accomplish. Part of me believes this is why my father brought me with him, so that I could gain this knowledge.

  SO THIS WAS MY YOUTH. It was all I had ever experienced, known, loved. It was hard but peaceful, rough but nurturing, frigid outside but warm indoors. And it remained this way until my father fell ill.

  Just before my seventeenth birthday, my father took ill. He was robust, tough, full of st
rength and endurance. But something violent took hold of him, and in a matter of days he lost control of most of his major faculties. He was confined to his bed, his hands so weak he could barely pull up his blankets to warm himself.

  It shocked us more than anything. To me, my father seemed stronger than a thousand bulls, tougher than any gladiator. But the sight of him lying there did not worry me as it ought to have; the idea that he could die was preposterous. I knew he would recover.

  My mother and Titus both felt the same way. Perhaps they had discerned the situation better than I, but nevertheless they too were shocked.

  The only one who didn’t seem surprised was my father. It was as if the gods had whispered in his ear beforehand to prepare himself. He seemed resigned to whatever fate demanded.

  I realized how serious the situation was when my mother pulled me aside and said,

  “Quintus, Father wants to talk with you—alone.” Tears welled in her eyes. Love for my father alone caused me to walk into his sickroom; everything else within me begged me to run away.

  “Come close, son.” My father’s voice was strained and weak. He’d grown thin and his cheeks were gaunt.

  “Papa,” I said, reaching for his hand.

  “I have a question for you, my boy.”

  “Anything.”

  “Where is a ship safest?” he asked.

  I thought about it for a moment. “The Mediterranean? No, the Tyrrhenian.” My answer caught him off guard, and he struggled to laugh.

  “No, no. The ship is always safest at shore.” Well, that seemed rather obvious, I thought. “The ship is always safest at shore. But never forget, my son, that the ship is made for the sea. To explore, to discover, to protect, to provide. Every ship must sometimes leave the safety of its dock to serve its purpose in the world, to do as its nature bids.”