Titus Servianus awoke to the faint clatter of the first vigiles patrol moving through the narrow streets of Subura. The familiar rhythm of the city stirred around him—the shuffling of neighbors rising early, the occasional creak of footsteps on the wooden floors above. Yet something felt wrong.
The usual low hum of the district—the calls of vendors setting up their wares, the occasional bark of a dog—was missing. Instead, there was a faint, steady commotion: voices raised but muffled, the sharp bark of commands echoing down the alleyways. Titus frowned as he sat up on the straw pallet he shared with Claudia and their youngest child. Beside him, Claudia stirred.
“What is it?” she murmured sleepily, brushing her tangled hair from her face.
“I don’t know.” Titus rubbed his eyes, glancing at the pale light filtering through the cracks in the shutters. His instincts, honed by years of navigating Subura’s chaos, told him it was best to stay put. Still, curiosity gnawed at him.
But as he started to rise, the sound of voices came closer—marching boots. Then the sharp clang of a bell cut through the morning quiet, followed by a shouted proclamation:
“All able-bodied men are called to assemble! A levy for the defense of Rome! Step forward for your chance to serve the empire and earn pay!”
Titus froze, his hand lingering on his tunic. A levy. His heart pounded in his chest.
“Don’t go,” Claudia said quickly, her voice trembling. “Stay here.”
“I won’t,” Titus assured her. Levies were a grim fact of life, and he had seen firsthand what happened to those who were conscripted. Those who refused or fled often faced fines they could never repay. But Titus knew another truth—he wasn’t the only one who would rather disappear than face the life of a soldier. Subura was vast, its warren of twisting alleys and crumbling insulae perfect for evading the authorities. Plenty of men had escaped a levy by vanishing into the shadows, taking up sketchy work or lying low until the patrols moved on.
Yet the promise of pay was a clever carrot. Many in Subura were desperate, scraping by on nothing more than dreams of a full belly. A soldier’s stipend, meager as it was, could feed a family for weeks. To men with no other options, it could seem like salvation.
Titus’s jaw tightened. The Senate might call it a noble duty, but for men like him, it was just another way the powerful wrung the last drops of life from the poor. He moved to the shuttered window, cracking it open slightly to peer out.
Below, a small crowd had begun to gather, drawn by the promises shouted by the officers. In the middle of the street stood a detachment of soldiers—perhaps a dozen in total, their spears catching the weak morning light. An officer in a leather cuirass stood atop a wooden crate, unfurling a scroll and shouting names. Men shuffled forward reluctantly, each handed a crude spear and sent to a growing group nearby.
Titus’s stomach churned as he watched. He recognized some of the faces in the crowd—neighbors, laborers he’d worked with at the docks. These were not men eager for glory or battle; they were men beaten down by life, caught between fear of the authorities and desperation for coin.
The officer’s voice rang out again, barking another name: “Gaius Decimus! Step forward and serve Rome!”
Titus saw Gaius hesitate, glancing back toward the insulae before stepping forward, his shoulders hunched. He took the spear offered to him and moved to join the others. The soldiers shouted encouragements, promising fair pay and rations, but the men’s faces betrayed no enthusiasm.
Claudia came to his side, her face pale. “What are you going to do?”
“I won’t go,” Titus said firmly, closing the shutter. “Let them fine me. What’s one more debt?”
“They’ll come looking,” she said, her voice low but urgent. “You know they will.”
“Then I won’t be here when they do.”
Claudia looked at him, her eyes filled with worry but also understanding. Titus had no intention of joining the levy, nor of waiting to see if the officers decided to drag him out of their flat by force. He would slip away, like so many others, and wait for the levy to pass. He could find work in another part of Subura—hauling contraband or taking odd jobs for the city’s shadier figures. It wasn’t safe, but it was better than the alternative.
“I’ll go now,” Titus said. “Before they ….”
Titus froze mid-sentence as the sound of heavy boots echoed through the stairwell of the insula. The voices of soldiers carried upward.
“Apartment to apartment. Check every flat,” one barked.
Claudia’s eyes widened in alarm, her hands clutching at his arm. “They’re coming,” she whispered, her voice trembling.
The realization hit him like a blow. There was no back way out. The stairs were the only path down, and the soldiers were methodically working their way up. Escape was impossible. His chest tightened as the weight of the moment bore down on him. If they found him, what would become of Claudia and the children?
He imagined their lives without him. Claudia, desperate to feed the children, might have no choice but to sell herself, her dignity traded for scraps of food. His children would grow thin, their laughter replaced by hollow stares. The thought was unbearable.
Claudia tugged on his sleeve. “Hide,” she urged.
“There’s nowhere,” Titus said, shaking his head. The flat was barely large enough for the four of them, let alone space to conceal a grown man. “If I don’t answer, they’ll tear this place apart. They’ll punish all of us.”
The knocks started a few doors down, sharp and unrelenting. Titus swallowed hard, his hands trembling. The sounds grew louder, closer, until they were right outside.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
“Titus Servianus!” a gruff voice called. “Open the door!”
Claudia’s eyes pleaded with him, but Titus knew there was no other choice. He stood, his legs like lead, and crossed the room. The wooden door creaked as he opened it, revealing two soldiers in worn armor. Their expressions were stony, their hands resting on the hilts of their swords.
“You’re coming with us,” the taller one said, his tone leaving no room for argument.
Titus’s throat felt dry. “I can’t,” he said hoarsely. “I have a family. If I go, they’ll starve. Please, I beg you…”
The soldier’s face remained unmoved. “Everyone has a family, man. You’re not special.”
Titus dropped to his knees, his voice breaking. “I can’t leave them. Who will look after my children? My wife? They won’t survive without me.”
The other soldier, a younger man with a softer face, shifted uncomfortably. “The levy is the law,” he muttered, glancing away.
The taller one snorted, clearly unmoved by Titus’s pleas. But then, his gaze shifted to the room behind him, where Claudia stood protectively in front of their children. “Bring them, too,” he said.
“What?” Titus and Claudia spoke in unison, their voices laced with disbelief.
“In the camps, there’s always work,” the soldier explained, his tone brisk. “Women wash clothes, cook, mend gear. The children can gather firewood or help with other small tasks. They’ll earn their keep.”
“No,” Titus said firmly, rising to his feet. “I won’t let you drag my family into this.”
“You don’t have a choice,” the taller soldier replied, stepping forward. “Take them, or they fend for themselves in this hellhole. Is that what you want?”
Titus clenched his fists, his body trembling with anger and despair. He looked at Claudia, who had gone pale but stood tall, her jaw set in defiance. Slowly, she nodded.
“We’ll go,” she said quietly. “Together.”
Titus’s heart sank. He knew she was right; it was better to face this nightmare as a family than to leave them behind. He reached out and took her hand, his grip firm but shaking.
“Get your things,” the younger soldier said, his voice almost apologetic. “You have ten minutes.”
As the soldiers stepped back, Titus and Claudia hurried to gather what little they could carry. The children watched in confusion, their wide eyes darting between their parents. Titus knelt down and tried to smile, but it felt hollow.
This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.
“We’re going on a journey,” he said softly. “Stay close to us. We’ll be together.”
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The rhythmic clop of hooves on hardened dirt echoed through the open plains as Lepidus rode alongside Pollio, the outskirts of Rome sprawling out before them. The land, once green and vibrant, now bore the scars of hasty activity—trenches dug for drainage, hastily constructed barricades, and the sharp scent of trampled grass mixing with the pungent odor of men and beasts. Smoke from cooking fires curled upward, marking the location of the sprawling military encampment that stretched as far as the eye could see.
Lepidus guided his horse closer to Pollio’s, his gaze fixed on the camp below. From their vantage point on a small rise, they could see streams of new arrivals filtering into the makeshift assembly area. Men shuffled forward in uneven lines, some clutching mismatched weapons while others bore nothing but farming tools converted into crude instruments of war.
“This is what Crassus assembles with our gold?” Pollio’s voice broke the silence, sharp with frustration. “By the gods, Lepidus, look at them! They’re farmers and drunkards, not soldiers.”
Lepidus said nothing for a moment, his jaw tightening as his eyes swept over the scene. Below, an officer barked orders to a line of recruits, his frustration evident as he gestured wildly for them to align properly. The men stumbled and shuffled, their mismatched armor clinking awkwardly as they struggled to march in step. The sight was painful to watch, a parody of discipline that only deepened his simmering anger.
“I know,” Lepidus replied finally, his tone clipped. “But we still have two weeks before the march. The instructors will whip them into some semblance of order by then.”
Pollio snorted. “Some semblance? They can’t even hold their spears properly, let alone march. And the gear—look at it! Rusted helmets, shields patched with scraps of leather. It’s an embarrassment.”
Lepidus’s gaze shifted to a group of recruits clumsily practicing with their weapons. The sound of wood striking wood filled the air as they sparred under the watchful eye of a veteran instructor. Some wore helmets far too large for their heads; others had breastplates so small they barely covered their chests. Many wore nothing but tunics and sandals, their bare legs pale and vulnerable.
“It’s all we have left in the armories,” Lepidus said quietly. “The best gear is being reserved for the hired mercenaries.”
Pollio turned to him sharply. “Mercenaries? Crassus is bringing in mercenaries now?”
Lepidus nodded, his expression grim. “They’ll arrive within the week. Gothic auxiliaries, mostly.”
Pollio’s face twisted with disdain. “Mercenaries. Foreigners. And they’ll cost us a fortune.”
“They’ll fight,” Lepidus countered, his voice hardening. “Better than this rabble, at least.”
Pollio fell silent, though his displeasure was evident in the way he pulled at the reins of his horse. The two men rode on in uneasy silence, the sounds of the camp growing louder as they approached. Soldiers hammered stakes into the ground, tethering horses to makeshift pickets. Others carried sacks of grain into a central storage tent, their movements sluggish under the weight of their loads.
“You mentioned grain,” Pollio said suddenly, his tone sharp with suspicion. “You’re hoarding it, aren’t you?”
Lepidus allowed himself a faint, humorless smile. “We’re requisitioning grain from across Italy, yes. Enough to feed the army and maintain supply lines for the campaign.”
“And what of the plebs in the city?” Pollio asked, his voice rising. “What happens when they realize there’s no grain left for them? Do you think they’ll sit quietly while their children starve?”
Lepidus shrugged, his expression cold. “They always riot. A little culling will remind them of their place.”
Pollio stared at him, incredulous.
Lepidus met his gaze evenly. “The city can endure a few riots. What matters is the army. The plebs will starve regardless, whether under Crassus or Romulus.”
Pollio fell silent again, his expression grim. Below, the recruits continued their awkward drills, their instructor’s voice hoarse from shouting. Lepidus watched them for a moment longer before turning his horse toward the command tent at the heart of the camp.
At the center of the sprawling encampment, the command tent rose like a beacon of opulence amidst the chaos. Richly embroidered banners adorned its sides, and its peaks gleamed with polished bronze finials, a sharp contrast to the rough, mismatched patchwork of tents surrounding it. It was unmistakably Crassus’s domain, a display of wealth and authority that bordered on arrogance.
Lepidus and Pollio dismounted, handing their reins to a waiting attendant before striding toward the tent’s entrance. The flap was drawn back by a guard, revealing the interior, where Crassus lounged on an ornate chair, a goblet of wine in hand. The smell of spiced wine and roasted meat filled the air, a lavish spread laid out on a table nearby. Crassus’s cheeks were flushed, his movements slow as he raised his goblet in greeting.
“Ah, Lepidus, Pollio,” Crassus called, his voice carrying the faint slur of indulgence. “Welcome to my humble camp. Come, sit. Join me for a drink.”
Pollio cast a sidelong glance at Lepidus, who inclined his head slightly. They approached the table and accepted goblets from a servant. Crassus poured generously, his hand unsteady but his smile wide. “Wine from my own villa in Campania. It’s rare that I get to share it with such...esteemed company.”
Lepidus took a measured sip, his eyes scanning the room. Maps and correspondence littered the table, alongside a half-unrolled scroll bearing an unfamiliar seal. “I see you’ve been busy,” he said, his tone even.
Crassus chuckled, leaning back in his chair. “Indeed. But sometimes, the gods deliver small gifts to lighten the burden of command.” He gestured toward the scroll. “A message from Odoacer arrived this morning. Fascinating news.”
Pollio’s brow furrowed. “Odoacer? What does he want?”
Crassus set his goblet down, picking up the scroll with a flourish. “Not what he wants, my dear Pollio—what he’s telling us. Orestes has abandoned Mediolanum and is retreating to Pavia. Odoacer plans to pursue him soon. Meanwhile, we”—he paused for effect, his smile broadening—“march on Ravenna. Perhaps the gates will be open for us by the time we arrive.”
Pollio frowned, his goblet still untouched. “And what if the gates are open and Odoacer arrives there first?”
The words landed like a hammer blow. Crassus’s smile faltered, and a tense silence filled the tent. Lepidus exchanged a glance with Pollio, his face carefully neutral, but his eyes betraying the faintest flicker of unease.
Crassus laughed, though it was forced, his gaze darting to Lepidus for reassurance. “Nonsense,” he said, waving a hand dismissively. “Odoacer won’t take Ravenna. We’ve made arrangements. He has his prize—Mediolanum and the north. Ravenna is ours.”
Pollio raised an eyebrow. “And you’re certain he’ll honor this arrangement? Odoacer isn’t exactly known for restraint when an opportunity presents itself.”
Crassus’s expression darkened, his grip tightening on the scroll. “He will honor it,” he said firmly, though the uncertainty in his tone betrayed him. “We have an understanding.”
Lepidus finally spoke, his voice calm but pointed. “Even if he intends to keep his word, Odoacer may find it...tempting to secure Ravenna if he reaches it first. A fortified port city, the seat of the boy emperor—he may decide it’s worth the risk.”
Crassus’s fingers drummed against the edge of the table as his eyes darted between the two men. “Enough,” he snapped, though his voice lacked its usual authority. “This is speculation. Odoacer has no reason to betray our agreement. We march as planned. Ravenna will be ours.”
Lepidus and Pollio left Crassus’s tent in heavy silence, their goblets barely touched. The brisk evening air did little to soothe the tension coiling around them as they mounted their horses once more and began a slow tour of the camp. Shadows stretched long across the uneven ground, the dying light casting the haphazard rows of tents and smoldering campfires into sharp relief.
The sounds of the camp swirled around them: the dull clang of hammer on iron, the strained shouts of instructors, and the occasional laugh or groan from the recruits. But as the two men rode past the clusters of levied men, their unease deepened.
Lepidus’s eyes lingered on a group of recruits practicing formation drills. One man stumbled, knocking over the recruit beside him, prompting a string of curses and laughter from the rest. An instructor barked furiously, his face red with frustration, but the men struggled to take him seriously.
Pollio broke the silence, his voice cutting through the din. “It pains me to say this, Lepidus, but perhaps Crassus was not the right choice to replace the boy emperor.”
Lepidus’s grip on the reins tightened, but he did not reply immediately. He guided his horse past another cluster of recruits. These men were attempting to build a defensive palisade, their efforts clumsy and disorganized. One of the logs rolled free, nearly crushing a man’s foot, and the ensuing argument dissolved into laughter.
Pollio continued, his tone heavy with frustration. “Look at them! This rabble won’t strike fear into Odoacer’s heart, nor anyone else’s. If he sees these troops, he won’t see his betters or even his equals. He’ll see exactly what we have here: a patchwork of farmers and drunks playing at war.”
Lepidus exhaled sharply through his nose, his temper simmering. “Enough,” he snapped. “You think I don’t see it? You think I don’t know what this looks like?”
Pollio glanced at him, his expression hard. “Then say it. Say this is a disaster waiting to happen. Perhaps we should reconsider. Romulus—”
“Romulus is a boy,” Lepidus interrupted, his voice low but cutting. “A puppet propped up by Orestes, Severus and his dwindling allies. We’ve already burned our bridges there, Pollio. And as for Odoacer…” He shook his head, his jaw clenched. “Do you think he’d take us seriously if we came groveling to him now? No. We’ve made our bet, and it’s too late to change it.”
Pollio fell silent, his lips pressed into a thin line. They rode on, the sounds of the camp growing louder around them. A group of recruits passed by, their spears slung haphazardly over their shoulders. One of them, a young man barely old enough to grow a beard, offered a hesitant salute. Lepidus barely acknowledged it, his thoughts consumed by Pollio’s words.
“They’ll hold us responsible for this, you know,” Pollio said after a long pause. His voice was quieter now, almost resigned. “If this falls apart—if Crassus fails—they’ll say it was us who brought him to power.”
Lepidus’s expression darkened, but he kept his gaze fixed ahead. “I’m aware.”
“And yet,” Pollio pressed, his tone sharp again, “you’re willing to gamble everything on this? On him?”
Lepidus reined in his horse abruptly, turning to face Pollio. “What choice do we have?” he demanded. “We’ve spent the gold. We’ve rallied the supporters. Crassus is our man, and he’s all we have. Do you want to go back to Rome and tell those senators we’ve lost our nerve? Or worse, that we’ve thrown our lot in with Romulus or Odoacer? They’d string us up before the plebs even had the chance.”
Pollio stared at him for a moment, then looked away, his jaw working silently. Lepidus let out a slow breath, his voice softening slightly. “We have two weeks. The mercenaries will arrive. Supplies are coming in. Crassus is… what we have. We make this work.”
They continued their tour in silence, but the sight of the levied troops only deepened their unease. A group of men were sparring nearby, their movements awkward and hesitant. One overstepped his swing and fell, landing flat on his back. The others burst into laughter, their weapons clattering to the ground as they doubled over.
Pollio muttered something under his breath, shaking his head. Lepidus didn’t need to ask what he’d said. The sight of these men—their thin frames, their clumsy movements, their ill-fitting gear—was enough to silence even his carefully crafted resolve.
As they returned to the center of the camp, Lepidus cast one last glance at the recruits milling about in the dimming light. His stomach churned, but he forced himself to sit straighter in the saddle. They had made their choice, and now they had to live with it.