Aurelia || SERIES ROMANA I

Extract of Britannicus ~ Filius Romae

After a mocking bow, he turned on his heel and left the place of assembly without waiting for his dismissal by the tribal lords. Relieved, he registered at the edge of his consciousness that his friends were following him unmolested. Marcus had to run to catch up with him, but Britannicus did not care. Driven by his blazing anger, he marched towards his tent. Only when the tarp closed behind him did he pause for a moment and his mind, clouded by his emotions, slowly cleared.
With trembling hands, Britannicus removed his sword and placed it carefully on his chest. The faint sounds of movement told him that his friends were with him. Without haste, Britannicus ran to his washbowl. What had he done?
"This is madness!" muttered Marcus dryly, running his hand through his still unfamiliar long hair in frustration. Britannicus ignored his friend and bent over the bowl to wash his face. In mid-motion he paused. Grotesquely distorted by the water, a perfect stranger stared back at him. The long hair shimmered golden in the light of the oil lamps - or did the colour only come from the gold of the water bowl? The unkempt beard gave the man something uncouth and although Britannicus did not want to think that word, it automatically formed in his mind. Barbarian. He looked like a barbarian. In the past months he had spoken and lived like a barbarian.
Even his eyes, which looked at him calmly and confidently from the barbarian's face, had changed in those few months. Where was the young man with the uncertain expression in his eyes? What had become of him? Where had he gone? Would Britannicus ever find himself again or would he die with a lie? What would his parents think of him if they had to see what he had become? This idea pained him more than anything else. The young man had to still be inside him.
Because he could no longer bear the sight of himself, Britannicus turned his eyes away in shame. Slowly he straightened up and propped his hands beside the golden water bowl. Still ignoring his best friend's murmurings and the nervous glances his other best friend was steadily giving him.
Calmly, Britannicus raised his head and his gaze wandered to the sword that lay lonely and demanding on his chest. The sword had belonged to his father and before him to his father, who had inherited it from his father. This sword had seen great battles. It had shed blood and seen good men fall. But above all, this sword was the sword of great men who had wielded it in service to their country. By what right did he wield this sword? Not even its name had he earned for himself. How could he possibly pay homage to that sword the next morning when he felt himself so unworthy of it?
Marcus was right. It was madness that he had taken up the Teuton's offer. Blank, pure madness. But if he wanted to serve his country here in Germania, he had to adapt to them and learn to understand this stubborn people. Unlike the great men before him, he didn't just want to pacify their land, he wanted to win their respect. But what if he lost himself through his own ambition? Had he not already lost himself?
Another scrutinising look in the mirror confirmed to him that he had never been further from his true self than at that moment.
"That's absolutely un-Roman!", Marcus quietly reproached him and Britannicus couldn't help but secretly agree with his friend. But instead of standing by his dark thoughts, he fixed Marcus perfectly calmly.
"You should have listened better to my mother, my friend," he replied patiently. "Three hundred years ago, it was common for us to ward off or end wars in this way. Just because we usually do things differently today doesn't make this method any less Roman. It is different, yes. But it is part of our history and therefore part of our identity."
Marcus snorted dryly and Titus shook his head in disbelief. Britannicus understood only too well the doubts of his friends. He was playing a risky game. A game that probably meant his death.
But Britannicus had made his decision. His ancestor had not deviated from his decisions either, even if it had divided his people and led them into a bloody civil war.
With a jerk, Britannicus straightened to his full height and ran to his chest. Gingerly, he took his family sword in his hands and gently stroked the hilt. Now was not yet the time to draw it. Carefully he placed his most precious possession on his bed, hurried back to his chest and flipped open the lid. Illuminated by the warm light of the oil lamps, his uniform gleamed at him.
Beside the entrance to his tent lay the simple battle dress of the Suevi. Although it was a gift from Tyra, he would never be able to wear it. The lies would end tomorrow.
Almost tenderly, Britannicus lifted his uniform from its chest and laid it beside his sword. If the goddesses of fate did not want him to live to see the next night, then he wanted to die as himself. A deep, absolute calm flooded his body and cleared his mind for good.
Silently Britannicus called for his slaves, who entered the room in the next moment. With glittering eyes, he turned to them and issued the command he had been longing for so many months: "Cut my hair and finally take off this unspeakable beard!"
With open mouths, Marcus and Titus stared at him. Quickly they exchanged a look of disbelief, then nodded silently to the questioning looking slaves near them.
Relaxed, Britannicus leaned back in his chair and watched his transformation in the mirror. With each hair that fell to the floor, he became more of the man he was destined to be. When the skin on his face was smooth and beardless again, he was shocked at how young he looked. There he was again, the young man in the mirror. Somehow Britannicus had expected to look older when the beard was off. Surely the time in Germania could not have passed him by without leaving such a trace that a missing beard would irrevocably erase it from his face. Confused, he looked for change and when he found none, he returned the gaze of his golden eyes. There he found it. The great change. At home his eyes had had an uncertain, almost lost expression. But here and now he discovered in them a determination and strength of will that he had only seen in his father before. Tomorrow he would honour his family. Even if he had to give his life in the process.

"It is time," Marcus' firm voice reminded him, and Britannicus rose. With a fluid movement, he placed his helmet with its white plume on his head. Apart from the wider stripes on his tunic, his uniform was visually little different from those of his friends. But unlike Marcus and Titus, Britannicus was not the scion of a family of knighthood. Despite his age, he was entitled to this position from the day of his birth.
Confident and composed, Britannicus left his tent. Behind him followed Marcus and Titus with the men of the four Turmae who accompanied them on their journey through Germania. If things got out of hand, his friends would only have 128 men at their disposal. Immediately Britannicus pushed this gloomy thought aside. If he approached the matter in this way, he could only fail and he could not lose. There was too much at stake for that.
As soon as they left their small camp and came into sight of the first Teutons already gathered at the scene of the battle, a murmur rose through the crowd. Undeterred, Britannicus continued on his way, ignoring the looks, insults and gestures that his uniform evoked in the people who had welcomed him as a friend only yesterday. He could not blame them.
But most of the Germanic people seemed confused, as if they could not understand why Romans were in this area. Maybe they didn't know what his uniform meant either. Most of them had grown up too young or too far from the borders to have seen a Roman with their own eyes before. But even here, there were people who would vomit at the sight of him and recoil from him. He had had to travel to Germania to understand the true power of Rome. No one could escape it.
As Britannicus stepped out of the circle of waiting Teutons, his friends signalled and the small Roman unit stopped. Raised to his full height, Britannicus marched into the centre of the open space and stopped abruptly, motionless with Roman military discipline.
Silence descended over the open space. Gently, the wind played with the leaves of the surrounding trees, making them rustle. Britannicus absorbed the sound deeply and enjoyed this tiny moment of peace.
Then the Saxon stepped hesitantly out of the protection of his own and eyed his opponent with irritation. Britannicus did not make a face.
"Who are you?" the Saxon wanted to know hesitantly and Britannicus pulled his cavalry helmet off his head. Questioningly, the elder studied his face and before he could ask his question again, Britannicus announced in a clear, firm voice for everyone to hear, "I am Gaius Caesar Britannicus. Son of Gaius Caesar Augustus Germanicus and Aurelia Vespasia. I am a true son of Rome."

Britannicus ~ Filius Romae will be released on Wattpad on June 5, 2022 and will be available to read for free on my profile lenasworldofstories.