A slave.

Touched by another slave.

Aurelian awoke in a rapid motion as he darted upwards, his hand jolting to his dagger as he panted and gasped from the horrific nightmare, the Praetorian before him audibly gulping as he frightfully stared wide-eyed at his emperor who could well execute him for insubordination or imperial insult according to his whims.

Meanwhile Aurelian lowered his weapon, contemplating whether he should have accepted the mayor’s gift and slept in the town’s palace rather than with his men in the muddy hills under the feisty wind and animated night sky.

Behind the guard’s white cloak, Aurelian recognised another familiar face.

Scrofa, grumpy as usual, stood, arms crossed, in the middle of the tent, a cumbly scroll firmly tugged under his arm as he scrutinised the emperor’s spacious tent and exquisite furnishing.

As he dressed himself, Aurelian indifferently asked his Legate: “Why did you approach me this early? Something urgent hopefully.”

Flinching at the realisation that the last comment was both false as well as unnecessary, Aurelian signalled to his guard to exit the tent and leave the higher officers alone.

“My loyalty was both questioned and tested by a proposal from your highness’ rival in Gaul. But my Imperator, I swear that I will be eternally loyal to you and never betray nor give you any reasons to doubt me,” rumbled the elder’s deep voice as the emperor spun round and blankly stared at the man who had been the target of a scheme to undermine his authority.

Menacingly pointing at Scrofa, the young ruler calmly said: “Leave now. Give me the scroll and do not tell anyone about this plot, understood?” After an eager nod from the frightened Legate, Aurelian continued: “Furthermore, reply to whoever delivered the message to you that you are indeed interested. I need information and clarity. Clarity can only be achieved through chaos and confusion. Let’s spread exactly those.”

“But the scroll was placed on my desk without my knowledge nor anyone seeing the perpetrator,” replied the equestrian in a flat voice.

Sighing, Aurelian gritted his teeth and said: “I already have an idea who could’ve issued this proposal.”

Thus the 5th’s Legate exited the imperial tent leaving behind a contemplating, paranoid man who grasped at the slightest of clues which were hidden in his memory and rationality.

As the emperor opened the letter’s seal he read the first few sentences until he burst out in painful laughter after reaching a special line.

“”Under my name Rome will be united,” HA! As if. The only thing your name will do is taint my reputation and be a mere bumper in my life on the reconquest of my Empire,” confidently mocked Aurelian Victorinus, the usurper in Gaul and Britannia.

For the rest of the time until the departure of the Legions westward, Aurelian worried about how far the conspiracy had penetrated his own ranks who he had foolishly thought to be loyal.

Paranoia and fear entered the nervous emperor’s mind who should be busy planning the war efforts instead of protecting against such annoying internal threats.

Why have I not appointed or hired someone trustworthy to fend off against this side of politics and war?

Plagued by worries and doubts Aurelian swayed on Maximus’ back, blankly staring ahead, not once marvelling at the beauty of the orange glowing wheat fields of the northern Peninsula.

Suddenly a harsh yell from behind jolted him up as he turned around to look at the perpetrator who had cleverly hidden within the ranks of Praetorians, Legionaries or clerks.

Yet his gaze soon returned to the front as he watched a man with a simple brown cloak block the road, the endless strain on his mind vanished.

Calmly raising his arm, the general signalled his soldiers to be wary of a potential ambush and keep their senses sharp.

“MOVE OFF THE ROAD, CITIZEN!” Bellowed a vociferous Centurion by the name of Trifer at the unflinching, resolute man who defiantly stretched out his arms, expanding into a cross before the joint might of a pagan Rome.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

Aurelian’s glance analysed the area behind the protester and he ruefully realised that last week’s storm hadn’t remained as peaceful as it had around Aquileia.

Scores of struck down trees, their roots untangled from their earthen confinement, obstructed the army’s path as they heavily lay on the street towards Ravenna, the temporary target.

“Numerus, get my architects and engineers to solve the problem while the army is allowed to momentarily relax,” ordered Aurelian his main clerk who hurried off in an instant.

Slowly trotting over to the simple-clothed man, followed by his guards, the interested emperor’s gaze darted towards a fragile wooden cross loosely hanging around the man’s neck, bobbing up and down on the heaves of his lungs.

“Septimus,” he called for the Praetorian centurion, “send a rider to the back of the column and order Probus to stay where he is. Under no circumstances shall he personally appear in the front. After doing so, disarm the poor villager. I want to talk.”

And the man clad in white uniforms, an untarnished chestplate and a fresh, luscious crista, complied, executing his ruler’s wishes to his best capacities as the distancing, smoke-swirling hooves resounded in Aurelian’s ears and quivering legs.

Afterwards the bulky veteran dismounted and cautiously approached the man who neither resisted nor spoke but only closed his eyes in defiance as if to show his intrepidity in the face of the Mortal God whose mere existence contradicted his very faith.

Impressed by the man’s courage in the face of his hopefully intimidating, menacing army, Aurelian also dismounted and walked towards the christian, leaving his purple cloak and heavy chestplate on Maximus’ back as a sign of respect. After all he wasn’t just a general but also a ruler, an idol for the people. And to accomplish this high expectation he’d first need to understand his subjects.

“What’s your name, traveller?” Asked Aurelian the miserable man before him, the latter opening his eyes, staring blankly at the finely-dressed man from his dead eyes.

“My name is Sebastian,” no honorifics nor praises to his emperor who demanded such even from his monotheistic citizens.

No further words were exchanged between the two men as Sebastian began stripping in front of the whole army and his excellency himself. Yet Aurelian simply stared at the display before him, wondering where it would go and how the scene could play out, not once fearing for his life, fully trusting Septimus’ capabilities to discern between cock and dagger.

“Don’t,” the emperor indifferently addressed his nervous, twitching guards, his piercing gaze remaining on the man’s bare torso, eyes wide from amazement and awe.

In a network of crisscrossing scars, two images adorned the pale, frail chest and abdomen.

On Sebastian’s right chest was a depiction of an eagle, the sign of Rome and Juno, the God of Gods, a clear memorial of the Empire’s might and power. Sadly, apart from those virtues, the scars told the story of intolerance and discrimination against the christians by Aurelian’s predecessors and contemptoraries.

On the left part of the devout man’s torso, engraved into the flesh by blazing blades, one could not discern the indescribable network of lines.

But upon scrutinising his ruler’s expression, the christian explained: “My torturers told me that this horrid creature of wounds represents your two-headed deity Janus. I view it as a death sentence for myself but the birth of my unwavering faith. Yet this isn’t the worst that my pagan captors inflicted upon me.”

As Sebastian turned around and revealed his back to the emperor, Aurelian recoiled a few steps and clutched his chest, praying his last prayers to his adored gods, terrified by the cruelty of humans.

Standing before him, shameless and worriless, the christian martyr unveiled the biggest and deepest scars: Letters which formed the name ‘JUDAS,’ fresh and throbbing, the veins beneath bulging ever so often out of the skin.

A wave of nausea swept over the dizzy Augustus who watched with great horror the man who had endured and survived such torment.

Neither the noises of chopping nor the scraping of boots on the roman road ripped the emperor out of his trance as the image was burned into his mind.

Only the fleeting image of Probus kneeling before himself as he plunged his blade into his friend and companion’s back like the traitor he was, ripped Aurelian out of his numbed perception, the estranged soldiers glancing at him irritating him more than they should, feeling an utter disgust for them, one which couldn’t be justified nor reasonably explained.

Without turning around nor shattering his firm, resolute voice, the battered martyr asked the stunned and equally disappointed man: “Does this look like justice to you?” No bitterness, no hatred, no desire for vengeance in his simple question.

The vacant reply revealed everything to the christian which he needed to know. It was deafening to hear nothing.

After a while, when Sebastian had lowered his plain cloak again and stared back into the emperor’s eyes, he asked: “How does the mortal God of Rome wish to bring justice, bring salvation, bring right to his people?”

Flabbergasted at first, Aurelian quickly resorted to the unjust tactic of forming a counter question: “Do you seek revenge?”

This simple question elicited a genuine chuckle from the physically tormented and broken man as he warmly replied: “No, I never sought the likes of such. I demand justice in the sense that no one in the future has to suffer the same way I did. Because we can’t revise our past. Yet the future is quite alterable, quite fluid in its interpretation and form. However it takes great men to accomplish such a revolution in humanity’s benefit. For now, I do not see any.”

Not in the slightest insulted by the pejorative remark towards his proper person, Aurelian shook his head remorsefully, not managing to look the persecuted christian in the eyes.

“Thank you Sebastian. This conversation was quite enlightening for my humble being. I won’t promise anything but once I have destroyed the temporary world and momentary chaos that reigns, I will improve the world … create a place for everyone to revere and worship their gods under Rome’s basking sun.”

A yell from the front redirected Aurelian’s attention from the traveller to the architects who had managed to heave away the trees using a method of splitting the timber into smaller, portable parts and carrying it out of the way.

But upon returning his gaze onto the christian poet, Aurelian frightfully noticed that he was gone, the only clue of his existence the dark spots on the dusty road.

Glancing behind at the rearguard of the still moving army, he saw the bobbing brown hood amongst the sitting, chatting and drinking Legionaries heading towards the south.

Absolutely irritated by the sudden appearance and disappearance of the man who really made him think, Aurelian mounted his horse, groaning as he saw the chirping clerk approach.

For the rest of the marching day towards Ravenna through the fertile hills of northern Italia, Aurelian solemnly rode ahead, his gaze wandering from his fierce soldiers to the farmers earning their money and food to sustain their families.

Yet a pungent thought never stopped bothering him despite the stunning landscape.

Am I … perhaps too weak and indecisive to change it? Am I but a mere follower of the Gods’ accursed game with us mortals?

…

I probably am.