The year was 232 AD, during the reign of Imperator Caesar Marcus Aurelius Severus Alexander Augustus. Rome's streets were alive with the usual hustle and bustle, where ignorance reigned supreme and dissent brewed beneath the surface. Among the throng, three figures emerged from the crowd: a Roman officer and two mutineers. The officer, nibbling absentmindedly on a piece of cheese, was insignificant. My focus lay with the mutineers.
I've been a blacksmith my whole life. It was always my source of income and my contribution to society. I was okay at my job if I do say so myself. Others would even joke that I was a child of Vulcan. As a blacksmith, I've always worked based on what others need and have always had an eye for detail. Such is necessary when forging precise items, like sharp knives, sewing needles, and Antikythera devices, a tool for calculating eclipses. So when I watched the mutineers approaching me, I noticed their guarded expressions and eyes on mine.
I had encountered them once before in a local tavern two months before, where they openly discussed their treasonous plans to overthrow the emperor. Seeing them again was no coincidence. As they approached me with purpose, their eyes locked onto mine, I maintained my composure and waited for their approach. I refused to stir a panic over it, as it wasn't worth it. The shorter of the two, with a demeanor heavy with disdain and calm, said, "We'd like to buy you a drink, Gaius Aurelius."
Now, I must say, the question caught me off guard. I'm not poor, but I'm also not one to refuse the allure of free alcohol. I can't resist anything free, for that matter. It doesn't matter who is offering; it is free. It doesn't matter if it's the god Orcus himself, free stuff is free. I responded plainly, "Sure," and we ventured toward the tavern where our paths had first crossed.
Wine and celery; alone are great, but together, they are nasty. The celery was soft and pale, and the wine wasn't the best. But it's not like I'm paying for it, so all is well. I sat in the corner of the room with Lucius Attilius and Decimus Javolenus, their names, as I came to learn. They shared their grievances and plans over this small snack. Javolenus, the more vocal of the pair, spoke of their opposition to the emperor's rule with a sense of urgency.
"We've had our eyes on you, Aurelius," Javolenus declared, his tone tinged with a hint of urgency.
I couldn't help but raise an eyebrow. "Not exactly subtle, are you?"
Javolenus' scowl deepened. "As you may have gathered, we stand opposed to the rule of the emperor in this empire..."
"Well, join the club," I quipped, earning a sharp glare.
"But we find ourselves in need of allies," Javolenus continued, his tone growing darker. "And unfortunately, this city lacks individuals of discerning intellect."
I took another sip of the wine, accepting the compliment and mulling over my options. "And if I decline your offer?"
A cold smile curved Javolenus' lips. "We can't afford any loose ends, Aurelius. However, we are not without mercy. You have until noon tomorrow to make your decision. Return to this tavern, or face the consequences."
Ah, the joys of being threatened. Life in Rome is never dull.
The next morning dawned slowly, but off I scurried to the tavern, armed with my bag of quadrans and an obvious sense of impending doom. As I swung open the tavern door, the mutineers' presence loomed like a storm cloud in an otherwise bright sky. I took my seat among them, making sure not to display any sort of respect because I have always been petty. I also ensured to stock up on my favorite companions—cheese and, of course, more celery. A man must indulge himself, even with poorly made food.
Attilius greeted me with a smile that could thaw even the coldest heart, but Javolenus, oh dear Javolenus. He wore his disappointment as if it were a part of him. It seemed my arrival had ruined his chances to murder me. How unfortunate.
"We meet again, Gaius Aurelius. I am surprised you made an intelligent choice," Javolenus grumbled, his scowl etching lines of frustration into his features.
I couldn't resist a quip. "You should really try it sometime."
Of course, Javolenus wasn't actually a problem for me. Aside from the minor inconvenience of his death threat looming over my head like the sword of Damocles, I held no personal grudge against him. No, it was his entire demeanor, his grandiose air of superiority that grated on my nerves.
Javolenus, barely able to contain his simmering rage, deemed it fitting to rid himself of my presence. "We should accustom you to the rules of the game. Follow Attilius; he will lead you where you need to be."
The noble art of rebellion—where threats of violence and plays of power are as common as chariot races in the Circus Maximus. Truly, I couldn't imagine a more enriching education than being tutored by such esteemed mentors.
I trailed after Attilius as we navigated the labyrinthine streets of Rome. Despite the silence between us, his demeanor exuded a certain carefree attitude, a stark contrast to Javolenus' perpetual cloud of irritation. Supposedly, he was taking me to meet the man behind the mission. The leader of the anti-Severans. We eventually reached a nondescript house, where Attilius ushered me inside. Javolenus didn't follow us, probably because he was annoyed with my existence.
Attilius brought me inside to a man of remarkably diminutive stature, with whom I introduced myself in an incredibly respectful manner
"Hey, lofty," I addressed the short man sarcastically.
The man kicked my shin, "Don't you frickin' call me damn lofty again!"
I threw my hands up mockingly at the ill-tempered man, "Okay, little guy."
He punched me in a particularly painful area. Attilius pulled me away from the little man. After a few minutes, Attilius urged us to make up and start over.
"I'm sorry for calling you lofty. I shouldn't have said that to you. You aren't actually that tall at all," I remarked in the most sincere tone I could manage, all while further insulting him.
He kicked me again. "I ain't sorry for a damn thing."
"Okay, well, my name is Gaius Aurelius."
"Yeah, Javolenus already fuckin' told me about you," he scowled, "And if you don't start showing some damn respect, I'll gladly kill you!" He continued, "Then I'll retrieve you from hell and kill ya again!"
"Interesting. Well, I've got two questions for you."
"You planning on asking them anytime soon?"
I sighed. "Well, first, why me? And second, if you aren't lofty, who are you?"
Attilius held him back as the man tried charging at me. We mellowed ourselves again. Yay.
"My fuckin' name is Quintus Sertoria!" he shouted at me. Sertoria seems very partial to his colorful words.
"We chose to recruit you because we're frickin' desperate, and you seemed marginally competent," Sertoria declared bluntly, looking at me. "Well, I guess we were shit wrong about that! Anyhow, Rome's currently being 'governed' by an emperor who couldn't find his own bastard nose with a map and a compass. But we've got a plan."
With a dramatic flourish, Sertoria revealed a large parchment map adorned with an assortment of wooden figurines. "This plan involves seventeen people, including our illustrious selves," he explained, shuffling the pieces like a madman orchestrating a miniature army. "You are our sixteenth member as of today."
"The number seventeen will bring bad luck upon the fuckin' emperor and the stupid Romans!" Sertoria proclaimed, a mischievous glint in his eye. You see, the number seventeen is bad luck because its numeral is XVII, which is an anagram for VIXI. VIXI means "I lived," implying that I am dead now.
I couldn't help but voice my skepticism. "And have you considered that it might actually cause us bad luck?"
Sertoria's response was dismissive, to say the least. "Nonsense! The Romans will quake in their sandals at the wonderment of our numbers of seventeen!"
"I don't think that is how luck works, lof- I mean, Sertoria."
"You ain't some damn god to be telling us how luck works, Aurelius!" he glared at me, "We have the real gods on our side! Jupiter, Bellona, Mars, and Fortuna... They will all subaid us without your frickin' pitiful idiocy!"
I sighed inwardly. Clearly, logic was not Sertoria's strong suit.
After enduring Sertoria's palaverous explanation of the plan, peppered generously with colorful language and lavish gestures, I was finally allowed to depart his abode. Apparently, my role in this grand scheme was to clear a path through the palace as an assistant to Javolenus, a task illustrated in vivid detail with the aid of Sertoria's wooden dolls. We were to seize the palace a year from that day, yet the seventeenth member of our ragtag band remained unknown. I was also assigned to making metal weapons and armor, such as swords, spears, helmets, and this odd weapon Javolenus requested. The forging itself shouldn't take too long. Well, I suppose I have ample time for... training? Or whatever else passes for preparation in this motley crew.
The highlight of my week—a delightful rendezvous at Sertoria's humble abode to discuss the thrilling adventures of rebellion and sacrifice. Javolenus' perpetual scowls fit the atmosphere of our visits. Attilius, ever the silent sentinel, greets me with all the warmth of my old forge, while Sertoria, fashionably late as always, amuses us with his verbose announcements, each sentence dripping with more unnecessary colors than the last.
And let's not forget the gem of our gatherings—our sacrificial offerings to the gods. Because what's a rebellion without a little sacrifice, right? We need all the help we can get. Each week, we choose one of our own at random to present their offering to Jupiter, Mars, Fortuna, and Bellona, in the hopes of earning their favor. Steak, mutton, onion, barley, et cetera. The gods had a surplus of delicious food. And wouldn't you know it? Thanks to our efforts to please the gods with our plethora of food, we miraculously remain alive and kicking. Clearly, our sacrifices are hitting the divine spot.
But let's delve into the real reason behind our illustrious rebellion—the emperor. He's a piece of work, that one. Born in Rome, that's alright. Roman heritage, that's alright. But his cardinal flaw? Daring to entertain the notion of a higher god than Jupiter. Yes, you read that right. This emperor has the audacity to believe in some "one true God" and his supposed miracle-working offspring. Jesus, they call him—a demigod higher than the ranks of Hercules and Bacchus, if you can believe it.
And so, we gather week after week, plotting our grand coup against the heathen emperor, fueled by either rebellion or sheer lunacy. Because in this backward world of ours, where gods demand sacrifices and emperors play at a fake religion, what else is there to do but embrace the madness with open arms?
Before long, we found our seventeenth member. Two months had passed since I became a part of this hopeless cause, and March brought with it a promising prospect for our assorted crew. Attilius and I had been traveling down the open streets of Rome, minding our own business and scanning the roads for perils to warn our crew of, when we saw the face of one who caught our attention. We decided to stalk him– because we are normal like that. He stopped at the entrance of the open market. Through the crowds, following his actions was difficult, but we caught up to him when he stopped at one of the stalls, which was selling a vivid assortment of vegetables and fruits. We didn't intend to speak to him, though. Now is the time to observe his actions.
The man, as he introduced himself to the stall owner, was named Ethan Benaberman. He was considerably strong: broad shoulders, well-defined muscle, and an incredible tan. He wasn't Roman, though. Rather, he was a Jewish man. It's always rare to find Jewish people who believe in the gods of Rome, but here he was. As a Roman soldier walked by, Attilius and I made certain he wouldn't suspect us of suspicious behavior. Our expressions were masked under a well-practiced fake smile while we watched an off-key musical performance taking place across the street. Out of the corner of my eye, I was still watching Ethan, whose jaw clenched as the passing soldier spoke of the emperor. That was when I knew that Ethan Benaberman would be the seventeenth member of our little mutineer group.
We met with Sertoria under the cloak of night to discuss the potential addition to our ranks, and he allowed us to continue our investigation. For the next month, Lucius Attilius and I kept track of Ethan. We stalked him in markets, taverns, and loads of other places, making sure he and only he could hear our conversations of rebellion. He once came to my smithy while I was on break and asked for a "double-edged kitchen knife." Well, blacksmiths aren't idiots. He obviously wanted the knife as a weapon, not as a kitchen utensil. Nevertheless, I played along.
I devoted my day to making that knife, so it would be ready the next day. I spent a good 10 hours on it, from start to finish: The blade, the handle, and every other part that goes into making a knife. I tried to make it look as un-weaponlike as I could, and the finished product was marvelous. Attilius, who had been at his house while I was forging, returned around noon. Between the weapon and Attilius returning so early, I only got about five hours of sleep. Attilius simply looked at the knife and nodded. I guess he thought it was okay.
After tracking Ethan down, I was able to give him the knife and accept his ample payment. Rather than a usual business transaction, though, Attilius and I locked eyes with him, and I spoke, "We'd like to buy you a drink, Ethan Benaberman."
We walked to the tavern with Ethan. Well, there are many taverns in Rome, but this is the one where I met Javolenus and Attilius. Anyway, we entered silently and walked to the table in the corner of the room. We sat down and Attilius bought us all refreshments. The celery was soft and pale, and the wine wasn't the best. But it's not like I'm paying for it, so all is well. I decided that I would be the first to speak.
I announced, "I am Gaius Aurelius, and my friend here is Lucius Attilius. We've had our eyes on you, Ethan Benaberman," my voice carrying authority, but also slight desperation.
He raised an eyebrow and sipped his wine, "Does that matter to me?"
"I'm sorry, Ethan Benaberman, you may not want to be involved, but I don't mean to cause a fuss. As you may have gathered, we stand opposed to the emperor in the empire of Rome, so maybe you can trust us."
"The opinion you are showing is common to me, really."
"So we want to kill him, and restore our home."
He began to respond, then paused for a second, "That's kind of stupid. Are you trying to die or something?"
"We're in a rebellion. If we could just have some of your time..."
"I'm afraid I must decline."
"It's to provide safety and security for every living man. For the people and the families in Rome," I began to explain, "We have a plan."
He was easily convinced, and easily complied, "Okay, I'll join you."
Attilius and I exchanged a glance. We might not die. That was a lot more simple than we had expected it to be. I must be super good with words or something. I looked back at Ethan, and Ethan looked at me, "If we really have your trust," I said, "Let's meet back here at three."
He suddenly looked confused. "Like, three in the morning? That's really early."
I was surprised by his lack of logical sense. "N- no. Three in the afternoon– this tavern isn't even open at three in the morning."
So we met back at three in the afternoon the next day, well, it wasn't exactly three, because Ethan was two minutes late. He entered the tavern and found us at the table. Ethan was drenched with his own sweat, obviously having just finished some form of exercise. Attilius greeted him with a smile that could thaw even the coldest heart, and he sat down.
"We meet again, Ethan Benaberman," I regarded him
"Yeah, okay," he replied, "Do you have to keep using both of my names?"
He was actually starting to get on my nerves, so I played as his superior, quoting Javolenus exactly when I remarked, "We should accustom you to the rules of the game. Follow Attilius; he will lead you where you need to be."
The noble art of rebellion—where threats of violence and power plays are as common as chariot races in the Circus Maximus. Truly, there is no better way to rid myself of annoyances than to give them to Attilius. And so Ethan followed Lucius Attilius to Quintus Sertoria's house.
I've only agreed with Javolenus on two things, like, ever. One: the emperor is an idiot and needs to die. Two: Ethan is an idiot, maybe we'll kill him after he kills the emperor. Mere days later, we welcomed Ethan Benaberman into our illustrious fold—a man whose appetite for bloodshed rivaled even the most hardened gladiators. He joined us as the seventeenth member of our quaint group of killers, and now we had three-quarters of a year remaining to train and practice for the emperor's grand finale. Unlike our perpetually dour Javolenus, Ethan brought with him a refreshing lack of seriousness, a trait that is equal parts endearing and annoying. With his strength and zeal for mayhem, Ethan would be our main emperor-killer, meaning Javolenus and I would have to guard him the whole way through.
As the weeks melted into months, I threw myself into training with a determination matched only by Sertoria's excessive speeches. The plan, meticulously crafted and polished to a deadly sheen, was primed and almost ready for execution. I was also in charge of providing armor and weapons, given my expertise in smithing. Each of the seventeen members received their own custom-made armor and swords. A fletcher/bowyer, who was part of our humble group, provided bows and arrows for the archers.
Yes, the stage was set, the players assembled, and the emperor—bless his ignorant soul—was blissfully unaware of the arrangements being made for his death. For soon, very soon, his reign would crumble like the ruins of Pompeii, and Rome could be led by a proper Roman once more. Speaking of proper Romans, it was about time to make offerings to the gods. I'm sure they appreciated the pork rib and the mutton we gave them, not to mention all of the barley and lentils we burned for them. This was so exciting, but scary at the same time. Well, we will just have to see what tomorrow has in store for us.
The next day, we assembled the whole group. Hiding in a small shop near the palace, I, along with the rest of the mutineers, went over the plan one last time. Sertoria had one more speech prepared for his audience of sixteen. It lasted about an hour, and the height was when he shouted, "And we're gonna go, and we're gonna tear the bastard emperor's damn head off and send him to fuckin' hell!"
He might have a bad mouth about him, but the speech was certainly inspiring. It was late September, the day brought about warm breezes that we welcomed as a good omen from the god Auster, and everyone was prepared to storm the Palace of Domitian, where the soon-to-be late emperor Marcus Aurelius Severus Alexander lived, and our scouts were sent ahead. As we waited for the scouts to come back, we ate a joyous meal and played Latrunculi and Tic-Tac-Toe. A few short hours later, the scouts returned. The road was clear, the sky was darkening, and the palace guards were lazy. The emperor's men were exactly where we needed them. This was actually happening. Somehow, I got dragged into an anti-Severan group of seventeen just-above-average men.
I sat in the corner of the room, fiddling with my sword, waiting for the call to move out. Near the back of the room was a set of spare weapons identical to the ones each of us had. You can never be too careful, I guess. I just sat there, admiring my own handiwork on the intricate design of each weapon. Specifically for our misfit group of mutineers, I had made thirty-two weapons. A weapon for everyone but the two archers, plus the daggers Gnaeus had requested. But what is the point of spare weapons now? We can't run out here and retrieve one– going anywhere but forward would be suicide once we get in the palace. This mission is hopeless. I had been so confident in the plan up till now. We probably won't even get past the first room of the palace. My initial worries started coming back. What if Sertoria actually is wrong? What if the mere fact that we have seventeen men causes our failure? What if the whole group is wrong, what if there actually is a greater god than Jupiter? One who gives orders to the gods themselves? What if we fail?
I can't ask these questions to anyone. They'll either think I'm crazy, or they'll believe me and lose hope. Because what if everything goes perfectly? We might be fine. I just need to stop worrying.
Sertoria gave us the call, so I grabbed some things and we all assembled with him, then he led us to the palace under the cover of night. If we ever caught sight of a soldier or patrol guard, our archers would kill them in the most silent way they could. Followed by an arrow piercing their throats, we stuffed some of the Romans' mouths with fabric or cotton, sometimes strung on the arrow itself. Our reasoning: if they can't scream for help, then we have a clear path. We can't risk the Romans knowing about us so soon. We were also able to sneak up behind them and drag them away, their mouths covered. Then we would give them a kind, quick end to their stories with a sharp ax.
When I said near the palace, I meant we were starting from about a mile, one-thousand paces, away and slowly working our way forward. But If we rush, we die. As Sertoria led us down the path we had mapped out, we killed any potential witness who could warn the emperor of our arrival. Some of it was a bit brutal, yes, but it was necessary for our mission. People are too talkative. Every step brought us closer to the palace, closer to the danger, closer to the excitement.
We walked inconspicuously and stood just in front of the palace, the guards' remains scattering the ground. Our archers, Quintus Sertoria and one other guy, had shot down everyone blocking the path to the door quietly, so as not to attract unwanted attention. We entered the front door of the palace, with Decimus Javolenus and I in the front. Javolenus was using a unique weapon, a dagger with blades on both sides of the handle, used like a baton. When I forged it for him, I tried messing around with it and almost cut my own arm off. I brought with me a spatha, which is basically a long sword. The moment we entered the Palace of Domitian, we knew all rules would be thrown out. Three Romans caught our eyes the moment we walked in. I slashed here, jabbed there. Now that we were spotted, it didn't matter how I killed them. Silence was no longer necessary or possible. With all the reinforcements rushing in, it was hard to discern between guards and visiting citizens, so we just slaughtered.
Javolenus and I were leading the mutineers, so we got the most injuries. All of us were still alive, but our luck was running out. The Roman soldiers cut my face and shoulders multiple times, and when I looked back at Javolenus I noticed that he was missing an arm that he used to have. How lovely. My sword was simple but effective. I impaled many Romans and sliced off some appendages. Stab, stab, slash, stab. What fun I had! The activity was absolutely exhilarating. Well, I can't say the same for everyone else. Some of the mutineers were crying, some were dying, but I made Roman heads go flying! I didn't always use my sword, though. I have plenty of strength in my own body. I punched some ribs, kicked some shins, slammed some heads together. Ethan looked at me, seemingly terrified. What do I care what he thinks?
My sword was long enough to pierce through two Romans in one strike. We had just gotten into the second room when I realized that I had misplaced my left middle finger a few strides to my left. This filled me with an odd sense of rage. That was my favorite finger! I'm sure Javolenus would have been glad to hear it, that is if a soldier had not just killed him. Not only was his arm bleeding out, but his gut had been stabbed by one of the guards, who was now charging directly at me. I must have killed at least fifty Romans before we entered the third chamber. Attilius had been helping me, his attacks even more savage than mine. His armor was coated in Roman blood.
As the Romans continued to die, they still targeted me. I dodged, slashed, evaded, and cut, and I finally got stabbed in the thigh. The pain almost made me fall to the ground, but instead, I threw my sword at the one who cut me. My aim was perfect. But with my thigh having been pierced, I was no longer the largest threat. The Romans' attention was no longer on me, but on Attilius, who was using a spear (custom-made by yours truly) to take down his attackers. I continued to wave my sword at anyone who noticed that I wasn't dead. Two others were missing from our group, I assume they either died or tried retreating and then died. Fewer and fewer Romans were attacking me, and the atmosphere started to get quieter as Roman bodies fell to the ground. My mind started to calm down before I watched another of our own, Gnaeus Umbrius fall at Roman hands. We were still severely outnumbered.
Maybe Sertoria's luck concept wasn't working after all. It doesn't matter how skilled any of us are, we were against numbers eight times ours. When my back was hit by a flying head, putting me in insane pain, I collapsed to the ground. I couldn't move my legs, but the Romans were no longer near me, the battle had moved on to the next room. Through the doorway, I saw many mutineers sustain deadly injuries. This was the end, I just knew it. We were never meant to win. I knew I would never survive this. I took out my journal, which I had tucked under my breastplate this whole time. I wanted someone to hear, but I couldn't manage to speak, so I began to finish writing my story for someone to read. A man from our group came over to retrieve me. I couldn't recognize him, all I could tell was that he was short. He started swearing a lot, nothing I could understand. I continued writing.
I have been writing in this journal day after day, every important thing that has ever happened to me since I joined these mutineers. I always knew it would end like this. But now, I am dying. I won't live, I know that. I'm going to give this journal to him, the one carrying me. I remember him, but I don't. Who is he? Quinn or something like that. I'm giving this journal to him. He will continue my story.