The first light of dawn stretched gently across the fields, painting the barley stalks in hues of gold and green. Marcus Petronius stood at the edge of his plot, his gaze sweeping over the orderly rows of sprouting crops. His 5 iugera had become a symbol of rebirth, not just for him but for the entire village. Where once dry and neglected soil yielded little, the iron plow he’d acquired through the imperial reforms had cut deep, churning the earth into fertile loam.
The faint murmur of the irrigation channels filled the crisp morning air, their water sourced from a newly expanded canal system funded by Romulus's initiative. Marcus crouched by a canal, cupping his hand to feel the steady flow. His calloused fingers brushed against the cool water, and he allowed himself a moment of satisfaction. This simple stream was life, a promise that his family would eat well this year.
In the village square, life was already stirring. Women carried woven baskets to the communal granary, their voices mingling with the clatter of chickens and the braying of a tethered donkey. Children darted between them, their laughter light and carefree as they raced toward the vegetable gardens near the chapel. The gardens, bordered by tidy rows of herbs and greens, thrived under the guidance of new techniques taught by imperial instructors. Marcus thought of his son, Flavius, who often shared these lessons at home, his eyes alight with knowledge gleaned from the veterans' school in Ravenna.
Behind the granary, the blacksmith's hammer rang out a rhythm. Gaius, the village's resident smith, worked on mending an iron plow for a neighbor. Sparks flew from his anvil, the light reflecting in the eager eyes of an apprentice at his side. Nearby, Marcus spotted Publius, a fellow veteran, inspecting a freshly forged scythe. The two exchanged nods of camaraderie—a silent acknowledgment of shared struggles and triumphs.
By midmorning, the fields were alive with labor. Marcus hitched his oxen to the plow, their strength a vital force in the turning of the soil. As he guided the plow through the earth, his wife, Tullia, worked nearby, gathering wildflowers with their youngest daughter, Secunda. Little Darius toddled in the grass, his chubby hands reaching for a butterfly that flitted just out of reach. The scene was idyllic, almost surreal in its calm, yet Marcus knew it was hard-won.
The midday bell from the chapel called the village to pause. The community gathered in the square, where a simple meal of barley bread, cheese, and pottage awaited them. Conversation turned to practical matters: the timing of the next planting, the quality of the irrigation ditches, and the latest news from Ravenna. Yet there was an undercurrent of optimism, a sense that their efforts were bearing fruit.
That is when the curialis arrived.
The villagers fell silent as the unmistakable sound of hooves and the jingle of bridles approached. Heads turned toward the village square as a small procession emerged, led by a rotund man on horseback. He wore the rich purple-bordered toga of his office, the fabric straining against his ample form. Behind him came two guards, armed with spears and wearing leather cuirasses, their faces set in the stony expressions of men accustomed to enforcing their master’s demands. A pack mule followed, laden with scrolls and a sturdy wooden chest bound with iron bands.
Older villagers standing at the edge of the crowd recognized the man instantly—Flavius Sabinus, the curialis of the nearest provincial center. He had presided over the tax collections for years, a figure both feared and despised. His reputation preceded him: a grasping, pitiless official who bled the village dry to fund his indulgent lifestyle in the distant town. Many here bore scars of debt they’d incurred to meet his insatiable demands.
Sabinus dismounted with a theatrical grunt, his face slick with sweat despite the mild spring day. His guards moved to either side of him, their spears resting at an angle that, though seemingly casual, served as a pointed reminder of their readiness. He gestured imperiously to a young scribe who scrambled to set up a portable desk and a heavy ledger. The wooden stand creaked as the ledger was opened, its pages filled with meticulous records of taxes owed.
"Citizens!" Sabinus called, his voice loud and oily as he spread his arms as if bestowing a blessing. “Today, we fulfill the emperor’s divine mandate to support the greatness of Rome. It is through your humble contributions that our empire stands strong, our soldiers are armed, and our roads remain open.”
The villagers remained still, their earlier conversations and laughter extinguished. A few older men exchanged knowing glances, their mouths set in grim lines. Mothers clutched their children tighter, whispering reassurances. Marcus’s jaw clenched as he watched Sabinus settle onto a stool, pulling a handkerchief to dab at his forehead.
"Let us begin," Sabinus declared, signaling the first name in the ledger.
One by one, the villagers were called forward. Each approached with a mix of resignation and dread, laying their offerings of grain, oil, or coin on the wooden table. Sabinus inspected each payment with exaggerated care, his pudgy fingers sifting through sacks and counting coins with agonizing slowness.
“No, no, this will not do,” he sneered as a stooped man placed a bag of barley on the table. “This is short of the required measure, Antonius. I’ve warned you before. You owe the balance, plus the penalty.”
Antonius bowed his head, his voice trembling. “But, Curialis, the spring rains delayed our planting. The harvest was—”
“Excuses!” Sabinus snapped, slamming the ledger shut. “You have until the next market day to make up the difference. If not, your oxen will be seized.”
The old man shuffled away, his shoulders sagging. Behind him, others muttered under their breath, their expressions a mix of anger and despair.
Just as Flavius Sabinus was about to call the next name, the rhythmic pounding of hooves echoed through the square, a sound far more commanding than the plodding steps of his own guards. The villagers froze, their eyes turning toward the road. A column of mounted soldiers emerged, their formation precise and intimidating. Fifty Palatini cavalry, their armor catching the midday sun, advanced in disciplined unison. Each rider bore the imperial aquila on their shields, and their spears stood tall, cutting stark silhouettes against the sky.
At their head rode a man who exuded authority. His crimson and gold tunic, embroidered with intricate designs, marked him as a high-ranking imperial official. His steely gaze swept over the square, his expression unreadable but heavy with purpose. The column halted at the square’s edge with a precision that silenced even the murmurs of astonishment among the villagers.
Marcus Petronius instinctively reached beneath his tunic, his fingers curling around the hilt of his hidden dagger. Nearby, Publius and other veterans did the same, their gazes sharp and watchful. The disciplined arrival of so many heavily armed cavalrymen set their instincts on edge. They exchanged brief nods, a silent agreement to be ready for anything.
Sabinus, however, was not so composed. His usual bravado crumbled instantly. The rotund curialis stumbled back from his stool, his face pale and glistening with fresh sweat. “W-what is this?” he stammered, clutching his ledger as though it might shield him. He glanced nervously at the riders and then at the crowd, his eyes darting like a cornered rat’s.
The officer dismounted with a fluid motion, his boots landing firmly on the ground. Handing his reins to a subordinate, he stepped forward, his presence commanding attention without the need for theatrics. “I am Decimus Valerian,” he announced, his voice carrying effortlessly over the silent square. “Imperial tax collector and overseer of this district, appointed by decree of Caesar Romulus Augustus. I am here to enforce the emperor’s reforms and ensure justice in the collection of taxes.”
Valerian’s eyes settled on Sabinus, who now looked as though he might faint. “Curialis Sabinus,” Valerian continued, his tone cold. “You stand accused of extortion, fraudulent taxation, and misappropriation of imperial revenue. By the emperor’s orders, I am to investigate these claims.”
“Accused?” Sabinus sputtered, his voice rising in panic. “Lies! Baseless lies! I have served Rome with the utmost diligence—”
“Silence.” The single word cut through Sabinus’s protests like a blade. Valerian raised a hand, and two Palatini riders dismounted, their movements deliberate and calm. They approached Sabinus, their hands resting on the hilts of their swords, their armored presence a stark contrast to the curialis’s trembling form.
Marcus’s grip on his dagger tightened as he watched the scene unfold. Beside him, Publius whispered, “This is no ordinary visit. These men carry the emperor’s authority.”
Valerian turned to the crowd, his sharp gaze sweeping over them. “Citizens,” he said, his tone firm but measured, “the emperor has decreed that corruption and greed shall no longer burden the people of Rome. If any among you have evidence of wrongdoing—if you have been overcharged, extorted, or otherwise wronged—step forward. Your voices will be heard, and justice will be served.”
The villagers exchanged hesitant glances. For years, they had suffered in silence, their complaints ignored or punished. But now, in the presence of the Palatini cavalry and under the gaze of this imperial official, the tide began to shift. Antonius, still trembling from his earlier humiliation, was the first to step forward. His frail voice carried surprising strength as he recounted years of overcharges and false penalties. Others followed: Gaius the blacksmith, Publius, and even younger farmers who had inherited their fathers’ debts to Sabinus.
Valerian listened intently, his expression unreadable but focused. When the testimonies ended, he raised his hand again, silencing the crowd. “Your accounts will be recorded and weighed against the curialis’s records. By the emperor’s will, justice shall prevail.”
He turned back to the guards holding Sabinus. “Confiscate his ledgers and chest. Ensure they are secured for examination.”
Sabinus struggled, his face twisted in desperation. “This is madness! I am innocent! These peasants lie to save their own hides!”
Valerian ignored the outburst. “Take him into custody,” he ordered. The guards moved swiftly, dragging the sputtering curialis toward the mounted column. His protests grew weaker as the reality of his situation sank in.
As the Palatini prepared to depart, Valerian addressed the villagers once more. “The emperor has not forgotten you. His reforms are for all Romans, from the greatest city to the smallest village. Fair taxation and justice are your rights, and any man who denies you those rights will answer to Rome.”
The crowd was silent at first, their disbelief palpable. Then, slowly, a cheer rose from the back of the square. It spread, gaining strength, until the square resounded with the voices of a people. Rome did not forget them.
----------------------------------------
The streets of Ravenna were a maze of narrow alleys and bustling squares, their cobblestones worn smooth by centuries of footsteps. The air smelled of salt from the nearby Adriatic, mingling with the acrid tang of soot and forge smoke. For Nicias, a blacksmith from southern Italy, this city was supposed to be his salvation. Instead, it had become a labyrinth of frustration and rejection.
Nicias had arrived weeks ago, his only belongings stuffed into a battered leather satchel slung across his back. His clothes, though clean, were patched and faded, betraying his years of hardship. His hands—thick, scarred, and blackened from years of work—held the skill to shape iron into tools, weapons, and wonders. Yet that skill was of little use without a forge to practice it.
Every workshop he approached seemed to recoil at his name. His master, Leontius, had once been one of the finest smiths in the south—renowned for his skill but equally infamous for his debts. Nicias, as his apprentice, had learned everything he knew under Leontius’s harsh tutelage, but the man’s reputation cast a long shadow.
“You trained under him?” a forge owner had scoffed when Nicias mentioned Leontius. “I’ll not have his ilk bringing trouble here. His debts sank a dozen clients, and I won’t risk his apprentice doing the same.”
“But I’ve no debts!” Nicias had pleaded. “I left him years ago—”
The forge owner had waved him off, already turning back to his work. “No business for you here.”
The story was the same everywhere he went. Other smiths and tradesmen saw him as a risk, a shadow of his master’s failures. Nicias tried other avenues—small commissions, assisting lesser artisans—but even those avenues seemed closed. Word traveled fast, and his association with Leontius was enough to poison every opportunity.
Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.
By the third week, Nicias’s small stock of coins was nearly gone. He rented a cramped cot in a noisy boarding house on the edge of the merchants’ district. The room was dark, the smell of damp wood and unwashed bodies clinging to the air. At night, he lay awake listening to the snores and muttered dreams of the other tenants, his mind churning with hopeless thoughts. Each morning, he forced himself to rise, though his resolve felt as thin as the worn soles of his shoes.
His days were spent wandering Ravenna. The city hummed with activity, its wealth and decay mingling in stark contrast. In one quarter, the grand basilicas with their shimmering mosaics and towering arches drew pilgrims and priests. In another, the clatter of workshops and the cries of vendors filled the air, their goods ranging from fine silks to crude iron tools. He passed the docks, where laborers hauled sacks of grain and amphorae of wine, and the grand administrative buildings where bureaucrats scribbled at their ledgers.
He even tried his luck among the merchants, offering to mend tools or craft new wares. “The quality’s good,” one said grudgingly, inspecting a small knife Nicias had forged. “But I’ve my own smith.” The man handed the knife back, his expression apologetic but firm. “Sorry, lad. Times are hard.”
The days bled into each other, each rejection weighing heavier on his spirit. His meals grew smaller—barley bread from a street vendor, a handful of olives scavenged from a communal table. He sold his spare tunic to pay for another night at the boarding house. By the end of the fourth week, he had only a single coin left.
That night, sitting on the edge of his cot, Nicias stared at the coin in his hand. It felt heavier than it should, as though it carried the weight of his failure. His dreams of building a new life in Ravenna seemed impossibly distant now, swallowed by the reality of his circumstances.
His thoughts were interrupted by the murmur of voices from a group of dockworkers in the corner of the room. They spoke in low tones, but one phrase caught his ear: “state-owned workshops.”
Nicias leaned closer, straining to hear. “They’re taking on more men,” one of the dockworkers was saying. “Since the emperor ordered those new reforms. They need smiths, carpenters, anyone who can work metal or wood.”
The other man snorted. “Aye, but it’s not easy to get in. They’ve standards—inspect your work, they do.”
“That may be,” the first replied, “but they pay fair, and it’s steady. Better than starving.”
The words settled in Nicias’s mind like a lit coal. He had heard whispers of these state-owned workshops, part of Romulus Augustus’s reforms to rebuild the empire’s industries. If they truly needed smiths, perhaps his skills would outweigh his reputation.
The next morning, Nicias spent his last coin on a simple breakfast—barley porridge and a small cup of watered wine. It wasn’t much, but it steadied him for the task ahead. He asked directions from a merchant, who pointed him toward the edge of the city, near the military quarter.
The streets of Ravenna stretched endlessly before Nicias as he made his way to the state-owned workshop, a place he had only heard of in passing whispers. Situated near the bustling port and adjacent to a winding river, the workshop complex loomed like a fortress over the surrounding district. The high stone walls were a clear deterrent to theft or sabotage, and four watchtowers at each corner stood as silent sentinels, their guards keeping constant vigilance.
Nicias approached the heavily guarded single entrance, where a pair of well-armed sentries stood under a wrought iron gate. The clink of their armor and the sharpness of their eyes made him hesitate, but desperation propelled him forward. He clutched his satchel tightly, the weight of his few tools a meager testament to his trade.
"State your business," one of the guards barked, his voice curt but not unfriendly.
"I am Nicias, a blacksmith," he stammered. "I’ve come to offer my skills to the workshop."
The guard eyed him, then gestured to another man in a leather apron who appeared from a side room near the gate. "See if he’s worth the trouble," the guard said.
The man in the apron, who introduced himself as Marcus, scrutinized Nicias with a mixture of curiosity and wariness. "We don’t take just anyone," he said, gesturing for Nicias to follow. They passed through the gate, entering a courtyard bustling with activity. Workers moved between foundries, carrying raw materials and finished goods. The clang of hammers and the hiss of quenched metal filled the air, and the tang of iron mingled with the faint salt of the nearby sea.
Inside the walls, the workshop complex was vast and meticulously organized. Foundries churned out molten metal, their furnaces glowing like small suns, while specialized workshops catered to specific tasks. Men labored over pikes, assembling their long wooden shafts with forged iron heads. Another area was devoted to crossbows and bolts, where craftsmen shaped the intricate mechanisms with precision. Nearby, rows of spatha and shields gleamed under the inspection of smiths finishing their details. In one corner, workers molded and assembled stirrups, the foundations of the empire's cavalry.
Nicias followed Marcus to a smaller forge tucked into the side of the complex. "Show me what you’ve got," Marcus said, tossing a lump of raw iron onto the anvil and gesturing toward a set of tools. "Forge a blade. Nothing fancy, just functional."
Nicias nodded, his hands trembling as he picked up the hammer. He worked swiftly but deliberately, shaping the iron with rhythmic strikes. The sound of his hammer rang out amid the cacophony of the workshop, and for a moment, he forgot his nerves. His hands moved with practiced precision, muscle memory guiding him as he shaped the blade, heated it, and plunged it into the water trough. The hiss of steam rose as he set it aside for Marcus’s inspection.
Marcus picked up the blade, weighing it in his hands. His expression was unreadable as he ran his thumb along the edge and examined the shape. Finally, he nodded. "It’s good," he admitted. "Better than I expected. But good work isn’t enough here. The emperor demands efficiency and reliability. Come back tomorrow for a full trial. If you pass, there might be a place for you."
Nicias nodded, his throat tight with emotion. As Marcus walked away, he lingered in the courtyard, watching the workers and marveling at the sheer scale of the operation. The storage facilities were stacked with raw materials—iron ingots, planks of wood, and bolts of leather—while finished goods were meticulously cataloged and stored.
That night, Nicias returned to the boarding house, but his coin pouch was empty. The landlord, a surly man with a nose for desperation, shook his head when Nicias approached. “No coin, no cot,” he said, his voice as sharp as a whetstone. Nicias didn’t bother arguing. Instead, he turned away, stepping into the cold night with nothing but his satchel and the clothes on his back.
The city felt different in the dark. The bustling streets were empty save for the occasional guard patrol or a shadowy figure darting down an alley. Nicias wandered aimlessly at first, unsure where to go. Finally, he settled near the port, where the smell of brine mingled with the faint stink of fish. He found a sheltered spot between two stacked amphorae, their cracked surfaces offering some protection from the biting wind. It wasn’t much, but it was a place to rest. He sat with his back to the wall, pulling his satchel onto his lap for warmth, and closed his eyes. Sleep came fitfully, interrupted by the distant sound of waves and the occasional shout of a dockworker.
By morning, his stomach growled angrily, but there was nothing to eat. The meager meals he’d once taken for granted now felt like a distant memory. Yet, despite the gnawing hunger, Nicias forced himself to his feet. He dusted off his tunic, splashed his face with water from a public fountain, and made his way back to the workshop. His steps were slow and heavy, but his anticipation drove him forward. This was his chance, perhaps his last, and he would not let it slip away.
When he arrived at the workshop, the gates were already open. A guard stationed by the entrance recognized him and gestured for him to wait. Inside the courtyard, a dozen other craftsmen had gathered, each carrying tools or samples of their work. Nicias glanced around, noting the tense faces of his competitors. Some wore fine tunics and looked confident, while others seemed as weathered and worn as he felt. A guard stood near the group, his eyes fixed on them with an intensity that made it clear this was no casual gathering.
The wait was long, and the morning sun rose higher in the sky, its warmth doing little to ease the tension in the air. Finally, a senior craftsman appeared, his apron stained with soot and his hands roughened by years of work. He carried himself with authority, his sharp gaze sweeping over the assembled men. “You’re all here for the trial,” he began, his voice loud enough to carry over the quiet murmurs. “The emperor has decreed that these workshops uphold the highest standards. We do not accept mediocrity. If you can’t meet the standards, leave now.”
No one moved, though a few shifted uncomfortably.
The craftsman continued, “You’ll be divided by your trades. Carpenters to the woodshop, masons to the yard, smiths with me.” He began pointing at individuals, directing them to their respective stations. When he gestured at Nicias, along with four other men, he said simply, “This way.”
Nicias followed, his nerves fraying as they approached one of the forges. The air grew hotter, the sounds of hammers striking metal louder with every step. Inside, another senior smith awaited them, his face grim and his arms crossed over a broad chest. Behind him stood a large table filled with tools and measuring devices: calipers, straightedges, and balances. Nearby, a pile of discarded equipment lay in a heap—blades, spearheads, and even pieces of armor.
The senior smith stepped forward, his voice carrying the weight of authority. “The emperor demands quality,” he said, gesturing to the tools. “Every item produced here must meet exact standards. A poorly balanced blade breaks in a soldier’s hand. A weak spearhead shatters in battle. That costs lives. We do not fail here.”
He picked up a discarded blade from the pile, holding it up for the five men to see. “This was rejected yesterday. Look at it. Tell me what’s wrong.”
Nicias squinted at the blade. It was a spatha, its edge sharp and its balance seemingly perfect. To his untrained eye, it appeared fine—better than anything he’d seen in the small forges of the south. The other four men hesitated as well, exchanging uncertain glances.
“It’s flawed,” the senior smith said, his voice sharp. “The edge is uneven by a fraction, but that fraction could cause it to snap under strain. We measure everything here—weight, length, balance. This is the standard you must meet.”
He pointed to the pile. “These are failures. Every one of them was crafted by men who thought their work was ‘good enough.’” His gaze hardened. “You will not make the same mistake.”
Nicias’s stomach churned. The standards here were far higher than he had anticipated. In his village, a blade like the one discarded would have been considered a masterpiece. The thought of working under such scrutiny made his hands feel clumsy, his confidence slipping away.
The senior smith handed each of them a lump of iron and gestured to the forges. “You have until midday to forge a sword. Use the tools provided. When you’re done, it will be tested. If it fails, you’re out.”
Nicias nodded numbly, moving to the forge assigned to him. His hunger gnawed at him, and his hands trembled slightly as he began to work. The heat of the forge enveloped him, and the clang of hammers filled the air as the trial began.
Nicias worked feverishly, his hammer strikes echoing in rhythm with the other trialists. The heat from the forge pressed against his skin, and his hunger clawed at his insides, but he forced himself to focus. Every strike mattered, every adjustment had to be perfect. The measuring tools were a challenge—he wasn’t accustomed to using calipers and balances with such precision. He fumbled at times, the sweat on his brow stinging his eyes as he squinted to align his work with the exacting standards.
The other four blacksmiths at the forge struggled as well, their muttered curses barely audible over the din of the workshop. One of them, a wiry man with deft hands, seemed confident, while the other—a stocky figure whose face was etched with determination—worked methodically but with visible frustration. Nicias pressed on, the lump of iron slowly taking shape as he worked it into a spatha. He inspected it again and again, trying to detect flaws before they could grow into irredeemable errors.
By the time midday came, Nicias’s body ached. His arms were heavy, and his hands trembled from exhaustion as he set the finished blade on the table for inspection. The senior smith strode in, his eyes scanning the room with a critical air. He approached each trialist in turn, picking up their work, weighing it in his hands, running his fingers along the edges, and measuring it meticulously with the tools at his side.
The wiry smith stepped forward first when the senior craftsperson gestured for him. “What do you think of your work?” he asked, his tone neutral.
The man straightened his back. “It’s good,” he said with quiet confidence. “I followed the measurements precisely.”
The senior smith examined the blade in silence before setting it down. “Good. Step back,” he ordered.
Next came the stocky trialist. He looked nervous but spoke with conviction. “It’s not perfect, but it will hold in a fight.”
The senior smith gave a faint nod, inspecting the blade closely. He set it aside and moved on without comment.
When it was Nicias’s turn, his heart pounded in his chest. The senior smith picked up his spatha, testing its weight, running his fingers along the edge, and even tapping it lightly against another blade. “What do you think?” he asked, fixing Nicias with a piercing stare. “Does this meet the standards of this workshop?”
Nicias’s breath caught in his throat. He wanted to lie. He wanted to nod, to claim it was his best work, to fight for the chance to stay. His desperation screamed at him to say it was enough, but as his eyes fell on the blade, he saw the flaws he had tried to ignore: a slight imbalance, a minute unevenness in the edge. Tears pricked the corners of his eyes, and his voice broke as he answered, “No, sir. It doesn’t. It’s not good enough.”
The senior smith’s expression remained unreadable as he placed the spatha on the table. “Step back,” he said curtly.
When all the blades had been inspected, the senior smith turned to the group, his face stern. “Those of you who said your work was ‘good’ or ‘good enough,’ step forward.”
Nearly half the trialists obeyed, their faces a mix of pride and hope.
“Leave,” the senior smith said coldly. The words struck like a hammer blow. Confused murmurs broke out as the men hesitated, but the senior smith’s sharp glare silenced them. “This workshop does not need men who think they are already perfect or who are willing to lie to protect their pride. Go.”
As the dismissed trialists shuffled out, the room fell silent. The remaining men stood frozen, their emotions ranging from relief to disbelief. The senior smith’s stern expression softened as he addressed them. “Your work is not bad,” he began, his voice steady but no longer harsh. “But it needs refinement. Training. That is what this workshop is for. We don’t want perfection on the first try—we want honesty, humility, and a desire to learn.”
He gestured to the measuring tools on the table. “The emperor demands the highest standards, not just in the work we produce but in the men who produce it. If you cannot see your own mistakes, you cannot improve. Those who lie to themselves will fail the soldiers who depend on this equipment.”
For the first time, the senior smith smiled faintly. “You’ve shown that you’re willing to admit your flaws and learn from them. That is why you are hired. You will start tomorrow. Contracts will be drawn up, and you will receive your first pay then. Congratulations.”
Nicias felt his knees nearly buckle as the words washed over him. Relief, joy, and exhaustion coursed through him all at once. His vision blurred as tears welled up, but this time, they weren’t tears of despair. He had done it. He had survived the trials, admitted his shortcomings, and earned a place in the workshop.
The senior smith nodded at him, almost as if he understood the weight of Nicias’s journey. “Rest tonight,” he said. “You have earned it.”