Marcus the Last Living Roman

By Robert W. Barker

In 88 B.C. King Mithradates Eupator VI of Pontus ordered the murders of every man, woman, and child of Latin heritage in all of Asia Minor {Today’s Turkey} and the Aegean Cyclades. A state organized genocide or murder of Romans covering half a continent and over one hundred thousand victims.
Herein resides the account of one exceptionally unfortunate and resilient youth. He awakes to a dissimilar world and discovers his life torn to shreds. Yet he makes the most of his situation with brains, bravado, and spiritual strength. This is further the narrative of those brave Ionian souls who we re willing to risk their lives to assist this Roman lad.
Witnessing his families’ demise, the young man survives and is the last Latin speaking citizen remaining alive in this vast area.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jul 16, 2009
• ISBN: 9781462828692

Robert W. Barker

Robert W. Barker worked as an international explorer for gold in some of the most remote corners of five continents. He has worked with people of many different cultures and ethnic backgrounds, in locations that tourists rarely attempt to visit. His exposure to many different countries and different world environments brings solid authenticity to his descriptions of the locations and characters in his writing. He is the author of The Devil’s Chosen, an examination of the decision processes of the Holocaust and the winner of the Eric Hoffer Award. He has also authored Nuclear Rogue, the first in the series of Peter Binder and Maria Davidoff thrillers. He currently lives in western Massachusetts.

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Marcus the Last Living Roman

Robert W. Barker

Copyright © 2009 by Robert W. Barker.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Rev. date: 09/28/2020

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Contents

Introduction and background

Channeling Marcus

Marcus The Last Living Roman

Chapter 1 Late Spring

Chapter 2 Social War Through Sulla

Chapter 3 Manius Aquilius In Asia Minor

Chapter 4 Maxime Gentium

Chapter 5 Dark Secret And Reluctant Hero

Chapter 6 Ephesus

Chapter 7 The Journey

Chapter 8 Mithradates Eupator And The Prisoner

Chapter 9 Ariola, Blood Sanctuary

Chapter 10 Rhodes

Chapter 11 Late August 88

Chapter 12 Hera

Chapter 13 The March To Destiny

Chapter 14 Quintus Vous

Chapter 15 Siege Of Rhodes

Chapter 16 Fortes Fortuna Adivvat

Chapter 17 Marcus The Shepherd

Chapter 18 An Old Friend

Chapter 19 The Cell And The Wall

Chapter 20 Marcus And Milo

Chapter 21 Temple Of Delphi And Sulla

Chapter 22 The Fall Market

Chapter 23 Muse Of Music

Chapter 24 Strength In Numbers

Chapter 25 Rome And The Wild Man

Chapter 26 Posidonius

Chapter 27 Gather A Fleet

Chapter 28 Rhodes

Chapter 29 Windstorm

Chapter 30 The Cell

Chapter 31 Athens Falls And The Games

Chapter 32 Beginning Of The End

Chapter 33 Venuvia

Chapter 34 Trouble In Rhodes

Chapter 35 Eloham And Prusias

Chapter 36 Charonea

Chapter 37 Marcus, Rome In Transition

Chapter 38 Quintus Post Charonea Stories

Chapter 39 Orchomenus

Chapter 40 Rhodecius The Mission

Chapter 41 Final Straw

Chapter 42 Rhodecius, Varrus Search For Bloodlines

Chapter 43 Veronica Warrior Women

Chapter 44 Retrieving Marcus

Chapter 45 Garden Discovery 84

Short Bibliography [And Reference]

Introduction and background

WRITERS ANGST

Sprit of the story

An author may claim to create narrative yet every time he or she takes credit, there is a twinge of guilt deep in their literary psyche. Ego declares the deed, yet an unseen force often guides the tale. It is evident since on each occasion that we try to impose our will on the story or force action that does not agree with this invisible source, it comes to a complete halt.

The saga takes turns and directions the writer never anticipated; he or she could not explain it, yet most have ceased to fight it long ago, and see it as the influence of what the ancient Greeks called; the Muse.

Accuracy in historical context and information

Research accuracy in a story like Marcus is imperative and we must strive for chronological, cultural and social precision. The genre here chosen called historical fiction must encompass a proper factual setting; we owe it to the reader to get it right or choose some other genre or subject. Personally I always found the authors that set the historical context correctly were my favorites. These authors lend a hand in training the mind in historical cultural matters along with literary pleasures combine to produce a more intriguing and enlightening tale.

All historical personalities are revealed here in compliance with the facts of their lives, contemporary opinion on their nature if available, and their known influence on those facts. Sources both contemporary and near contemporary must be considered with an eye as to the ancient writers agenda and many covet concealed or not so covered agendas.

Just as one need gaze with critical eyes on the historians of today and gage the bias, even though there are many fine chronicles, the ancients also wrote within ethnocentric barriers; it is unavoidable.

One strives to form sound conclusions based on their printed logos yet subjectivity always enters and the final character is a reflection of the writers mind and the interpretation of sources that he investigates. Not to mention the interpretations of transferors of the narrative of history from one idiom to another, and all its inherent problems of word definition between languages.

The pure joy of research was tremendous, not as a required class project or graduate thesis but knowledge sought to properly tell this story. Reading everything attainable on the period at hand, through, libraries, book stores, manuscript’s and trips abroad to ruins, museums and lectures, the research became a lifestyle.

The search for proper perspective in time and space developed into a five-year project and in itself a labor of love that your entire life leads up to.

All that Ancient History read for academic grades or pure enjoyment became part of something more then self-garnishment or superfluous knowledge; it was the building block of this story.

Inscriptions and extant writings, archeological, historical and art museums, ancient sites uncovered by modern archeology have always held my interest. And the past experience and research bring Marcus and his time into a clearer focus. Travels to far off lands to acquire a closer familiarity to the cradle of civilization, a burning desire to be acquainted with this march of humanity both then and now, it all leads to this literary moment.

When viewed with open mind, cultural prejudices die or diminish and we grow in intellect and spirit with each exposure to various cultures.

Telling a story that takes place in a particular space and time requires more then implementation of research and intuition. We must feel their plight, glory, struggle, and lives, deep in our own breast; or they will not breathe.

History provides our framework, and our setting; the strength of the story lies in the writers ability to render a sense of breathing existence into ancient human beings.

We may find they are no different from modern humans in their individual collective motivations and desires. People trying to live as fully as they can in the circumstances they encounter. Technology is all that separate us from the ancients, and the Romano Hellenic culture is among the great initiators of our western civilization.

Hecataeus opened the door for Herodotus who took his historical reporting to the next level leaving a legacy improved further by Thucydides and so on, until the history of today. Historical research is still far from perfect; yet a fair balanced report is important to all serious writers of past events.

Herein lies the historical fiction writer’s duty to tell us a story with realistic settings and an undeniable base in reality.

As an old history professor, of this writer’s Alma Mater Dr. Joseph Louis used to say:

His-story is our-story. Live learn and progress.

Channeling Marcus

A SOUL MOVES THROUGH TIME

In Turkey

Nov. 1997

Dark events and strange occurrences buried deep in our past brought to life again through modern language have a cathartic effect on the reader. To witness through the minds eye the lives and struggles of long expired times, and reanimate those ancient souls, connect with them and we discover ourselves.

Further, it draws on deeply held empathy that causes us to embrace kinship with our ancestors both genealogical and cultural. Everyday lives reflect a psychological cohesiveness that we readily recognize, a piece of them in us. Dormant stories linger in the etheric, waiting to be revealed, akin to vanished spirits wandering the earth hoping to see the light, subtle signals that reach across the millennium, whisper in our ears, Impart my story.

Istanbul dreams

Laying in a hotel room in Istanbul Turkey, pondering ancient evenings, arriving late and resting from an extensive flight; strange imaginings caroused around in our minds. Visions of places unseen, imagination conceptualizing future events, we dreamed the remainder of the night away.

Awakening to the Islamic call to prayer issuing from a minaret attached to a Mosque outside our window, it was an early morning affirmation of our current whereabouts, a solemn melodic welcome to Istanbul.

Those long somber notes echo through the streets, stirring the soul; reminding us of this upcoming adventure. Here we are in Turkey land of many layered history. Not here to work nor visit, we are here to discover, explore and absorb as much of the history culture and feel of the place as three weeks will allow.

Sights, scents, sensations new to our experience, exotic, yet somehow warm and recognizable, a taste of the human story we all share. Aromas in the Istanbul spice market that greets our olfactory sense, spices from all over the globe, many new to us, yet comfortable and deeply familiar on a cellular level.

Numerous varieties of these same spices are sold in western markets but not in this abundance nor bulk and here they are not prepackaged. Open containers exposed to the air and the aromatic combination is enthralling to the mundane snout of the West.

Like the spices, mixed and abundant, so are the people, a variety and spectrum of cultures, creeds, gene pools, and histories are hereby represented. Thousands of years of various cultures clashed and gathered on this ground; fresh perspectives emerge from the mix, and our sense of self is challenged.

Istanbul

Turkish City straddling the Bosporus, the East side in Asia the West in Europe; it literally bridges two continents. A massive city, once the Eastern capital of the Roman Empire, seat of Constantine the Great the emperor that legitimized Christian creed, now as then the crossroads from Asia to Europe. During Constantine’s time and for over a thousand years after, this city was called Constantinople after the Roman Emperor.

Later the city became the capital of a great Ottoman empire under the Turkish Sultans [1453 AD]. Ottoman Empire stretched across the entire mid East and into Europe these new occupants disdained the Roman name, they referred to it as Istanbul, which means, To the city.

Refusing to speak the Christian Roman kings name "Constantine," the new Islamic Turks disdained the very word, and so it was left to this simple appellation.

The Fall of Constantinople in 1453 is often referred to as the initiator of the Renaissance in Europe, as the accumulation of centuries of Greco Roman knowledge was smuggled out of the falling Constantinople and fed to the deprived and hungry intellects of Europe.

We paid a visit to the Hagia Sophia the Topal palace, Istanbul archeology museum and the Blue Mosque, entirely fascinating, what a deeply dynamic conurbation.

In this ancient metropolis we initially gleamed his visage, an expression of forgotten sorrow blended with youthful joy, the haunting eyes of childish wisdom. He appeared in the faces of the Turkish children selling trinkets on the street, or in the gaze of a young man in a vendors stall. His essence passed before our eyes in every face we gaze upon, ancient melody emanates from an etheric plane, its cry looms in our minds.

Visions of a young presence penetrate our waking hours, and we commence to dream of him at night, his spirit seemed to saturate the air. We discussed the possibility of a survivor of the Mithradates genocide much earlier and now this survivor came to life in our dreams.

Mary and I confer this mutual vision and it became an apparent shared apparition; and that was difficult to explain. Here in this place of his birth, he began appearing in imaginings and night visions pleading or hinting at something that at first was not clear.

We tried to ignore him, put it off to indigestion, a change in diet perhaps, or scenery, likely a bit of cultural shock, yet his face returned every night and day of this journey through Turkey and its myriad of history.

Conversed at day’s end about this vision, analyzed its presence and decided it was interesting and worth consideration, as we departed Istanbul to see the other sites of the Turkish landscape.

The lovely Turkish guide was charming and well informed as she lectured from the front of the bus. Experts and informed guides greet us at each site; PhDs and MAs in the areas they confer. Educated people living where the history they focus on occurred, each deeply saturated in the subject they present. Most were filled with the pathos and admiration for the time and place they delved into.

We are not much for tours my wife and I, we usually travel on our own, but this was a bargain, and covered so much of the history we were interested in. Mary and I shared a lifetime of travel but this was our first guided tour ever.

Snobbish it may be but we traveled to learn, and enjoy the cultures, and most tours I read about quickly skip around so many details fade into a menagerie of constant change. But on this tour that was the point, there was so much to see in Turkey for history buffs one could take a year to see it all; except on a tour.

So we swallowed our silly pride and climbed aboard the tour bus.

We partook of this historic tour, and never regretted it, and then returned later to delve into certain sites on a deeper level.

Tourists of North American derivation, sit in rapt attention to the guides every word, gaining a feeling for this many-layered culture. Salespersons, teachers, doctors, lawyer’s retired morticians and business people, two University History professors, all beings with a deep interest in antiquity, participated in this educational odyssey.

They hail from New York California, England, Australia, Canada, and many other places. As an English speaking tour it was a mixed English speaking group from all over the world.

They were gracious people, to share this learning journey with, open-minded travelers gathered in Turkey to garner understanding and experience this various layered ancient world. Each traveler seemed to enjoy life’s mystery revealed in culture, archeological discoveries, cuisine and history.

The ancient Greek, Roman, Byzantine and Ottoman ruins cover the Turkish landscape; nonetheless they loomed out of place in a progressive Muslim world. Just as the Flavian Coliseum and Forum Romanum feels misplaced in the modern hustle and bustle of 21st Century Christian Rome.

Here in this place we call Turkey, lay the birthplace and foundation of philosophy, reason, and Greek literature. Great Hellenistic cities with names we recognized, Ephesus, Pergamum, Smyrna, Miletus, Perge, Aspendos as well as older cities such as Troy or Christian associated sites like the apostle Paul’s birth place Tarsus. Paul’s seven early Christian churches were located here, and Christianity took hold in this area almost immediately following Christ crucifixion, some say before.

As we crossed the Bospherus at Dardanelle’s once known as Hellspontum, leading from Europe to the Troad in Asia, I felt a tingle move up my spine. History beckons my imagination, tales of numerous historical events that came about in this very spot race through my mind. This point on the map links the Sea of Marmara with the Aegean and the southern entrance to the Black Sea, one of history’s most mentioned crossroads.

The stories of this geographic spot filled my mind

We were going to the land’s where Homer’s tales unfolded, where Achilles found immortality, and Gods played with men. Xerxes I, the Persian King, sent his slaves to thrash these waters to make them behave before crossing to invade Greece. Xerxes built a bridge across this straight, consisting of boats connected and tied together an unbelievable ancient engineering feat.

Alexander the Great came to mind most of all, we were crossing at the exact spot the Great Macedonian king transverses to conquer Asia and spread Hellenism from Europe to India.

What arrogance, what bravado and gall that took, born of instilled confidence in himself and his military men. Olympia his mother, Aristotle his teacher, and Philip his father, combined to make this man-god so brash and sure of himself that he knew he would control the Great Persian empire and beyond.

As the wind swept across my face, I closed my eyes; I could picture his countenance in determined set features as he transverse this very spot.

Here stood a province the Romans called Asia Minor where some of the greatest moments of our collective history played out.

Homers possible birth place and his epic Trojan war occurred here. Thales, Anaximander. Heraclitus the earliest philosopher’s and the inspiration of logic and Philosophy were born here and later transferred to Athens.

Birthplace of generations of Ionian Greeks and later Ottomans’ called this coast home, historical significance on every corner in this ancient place entitled Turkey.

We spent a cloudy day wandering through the stones and ruins of Pergamum. Here sprits of historical moods swept us up in a dream of yesterday, when this proud city stood tall and alive high on a cliff, overlooking their domain. The breeze Pergamum was famous for blew calmly and the cool air refreshed and invigorated as did the columns and ruins that lay scattered at our feet

Two of the seven wonders of the ancient world were found right here in Asia Minor one was the Temple of Artemis at Ephesus, and the other the Mausoleum in Halicarnassus {Modern Bodrum}.

Just off the coast on the island of Patmos John the Diviner wrote the last books of the New Testament, including Revelations.

Paul of Tarsus and John the Devine of New Testament fame ministered to these people and that is to name only two of the influential early Christians that walked these streets and grounds. Outside Ephesus is the house of Mary, mother of Jesus; some claim it is the house of Magdalene either way it is revered as the house of a Hebrew Mary related to Jesus.

Cities and states in Asia Minor fill the books of history with their influence and contributions to Western thought, a meeting place, or crossroads of east and west, this is the land of Asia Minor.

Man’s struggle to thrive in a civilized state played out here as much or more then any place on Earth.

We visited Ephesus and felt the tensions of the vibrant powerful metropolis once the center of the Roman world in Asia Minor even though Pergamum was the political capital Ephesus was the spiritual and business capital of the region.

Dreams of this ongoing struggle haunted our slumber for the entire three plus weeks in Turkey, one recurring shared dream was impossible to shake, or explain. A vision remained on our minds throughout the waking hours and dominated slumber.

We returned three years later and spent some time in the Aegean Islands and Ephesus again, yet Marcus was a story that begged to be told so I started the quest for Marcus you now hold in your hands. Six years of research and writing became the focus of my life and Marcus came to be.

This is the story of Marcus Tutlias a lone survivor in a dangerous world.

Nature

The sum of things is ever being replenished and mortals live one and all by give and take. Some races wax and others wane, and in a short space the tribes of the living are changed, and like runners they hand on the torch of life."

Lucretius, On the nature of things! [65 B. C.]

Marcus

Reflections

On an ancient tale

Herein awaits the account of one very unfortunate yet resilient young man, who finds his life torn to shreds and makes the most of his situation with brains, bravado, and spiritual strength.

This is further the narrative of those few brave souls who were willing to risk their own lives to assist this young Roman lad.

In 88 BC Mithradates Eupator VI of Pontus ordered the murders of every man, woman, and child of Latin heritage in all of Asia Minor {Today’s Turkey} and the Aegean Cyclades. A state organized Latin genocide, or a mass murder of Romans covering half a continent and over one hundred thousand victims.

Witnessing his own families’ demise, the young man survives and is the last Latin speaking citizen left alive in this vast area.

LOGOS

This story takes place in a world not yet changed by the next Euro Asia religious movement; Christianity. The Christian impact shifted this paradigm once more and the logos became the word of God. Twenty one hundred odd trips around the sun ago stood a city on the brink of world domination, a burgeoning empire flexing its muscle for all to see.

Marcus The Last Living Roman

TWO HEADS OF ALEXANDER

Opening links to the story

Babylon June 10, 323 B.C.

Moon passes across the Earth’s sphere leaving altering shadows, a clear cloudless night, an intriguing atmosphere and rare solitude. A fleeting hush lingers over the city, a quiet that is only around in such places for the span of an hour or two, then the din of civilization recommences.

Tranquil eve, no breeze, rather temperate for this time of year especially in searing Babylon, the teeming city slumbers while the artisan works into the night.

Wee hours of the morn spent toiling on a dye bringing to perfection a numismatic gem. Esubius alone by the faint light of an oil lamp working diligently at the intaglio dye that would be used only ten times; as ordered by the Great King of Kings.

Double headed indeed, Thought the gaunt dye maker as he strained to progress in the limited light of the dim room. Carving inside the hard bronze dye to achieve the relief necessary to display the king’s profile, he polishes and grinds to perfection to achieve this limited edition tetradrachm.

Esubius stood the finest numismatic artist in the great mint at Babylon. A master of intaglio and the art of minting coin; Esubius produced masterful examples in silver, gold, and bronze.

Numismatic art of the highest quality was required, with the God king displayed in the manner of Hercules on the obverse and Zeus seated in glory on the reverse, a creation Esubius was proud of.

Coinage was the one art form that circulated among the peoples in this vast empire, and his creations represented the face of the greatest king on Earth, this task Esubius took seriously.

Pressure from the imperial throne pushed the slight artist to work into the night, to complete this new order.

Long thin fingers skillfully form the metal, turning organic ore into art from inside out. Strong hands turn the piece in complete control as every nuisance is inspected. Expert eyes measure the depts., creases and purity of form, and design of the the coin. He is a master serving the world’s greatest monarch, and his mantle is to give the king everlasting life in image.

Esubius sloping nose dips to a point; metal shavings cling to his dark beard, all flecked with gray, years of squinting to see in the dim light formed wrinkles around his large brown eyes. Thinning gray hair swept back out of his way and a chin that slopped to a clef, he labors intensely his sinewy frame bent to the task.

Thoughts of other responsibilities pilling up, such as converting the tons Persian Gold and silver into Greek currency; gave him anxiety.

I detests these special orders; someday they may think this is a mistake, it may well reflect on my reputation. Years of proving my skills and producing fine pieces famous for their quality originality and I am now called on to make a keepsake. Orders directly from the lips of the king cannot be ignored, and who is Esubius to ask anyway. Although I do not understand this need for an odd coin, I realize one cannot ignore the kings wishes but the point of this exercise is beyond my experience.

The king personally requested a two-headed coin to be struck in limited quantity and then destroy the mold. Motivations of the head of state on one side and his divine right to rule on the other, two heads cover both aspects of the Alexandrian legacy, the first dual king in Asia and Europe.

Yet he was not in Europe, his tattered Army meandered through the far away deserts and nearly perished; now he laid infirmed in this oriental Persian city far from Athens, Pella or Macedonia. Rumors of the condition of the king were grave yet the strong young monarch had risen like a phoenix previously, and most of the people expected a remarkable recovery. He was a God to most of his provinces, his rebirth would not surprise many in fact they expected it.

Stopping to pause and gaze out the window at the cloudless night sky, Esubius talks to the walls and his shadow. The intense little man loves to work alone and his only companion on these occasions are silhouettes cast by the firelight, so he often converses with his darker image.

I tried to explain the limitations of the dyes, yet they do not listen.

Moaning to himself he utters.

And you know I told them that this coin will increase in weight by twenty percent in order to accommodate the head on both sides and give it balance. That means creating a new planchet dye as well, do they care that it is twice the labor, oh no, just put the pressure on Esubius. That damned Perdiccas, gives orders like he is the king, what I say does not matter, he said this is the order of the worlds greatest monarch, and who am I to question that.

He throws his arms in the air in a demonstration of frustration as he speaks. His shadow mimics his motion.

I know his Highness is ailing, great Zeus that is why I must try for perfection in his image. The Gods will be insulted if I cannot give my most excellent effort for the man God who walks the Earth.

Esubius sighed longingly at the frustrations and late hours it takes, but shrugs his shoulders as he and his shadow return to work.

This order for ten gold coin issues, and then destroy the dyes; what does that mean?

Thoughts rummage through his mind as the numismatic master labored on this new edition, his doubts and concerns shared only with his silhouette.

Court tongues wag concerning this order, are they some kind of reward or symbol of who would rule in the great king’s demise? Court intrigue is beyond my acquaintance but since this coin as been commissioned I have been queried often on their significance.

Looking up momentarily as if to wait for the shadow to answer he continues to work, and converse with his reflected image.

"Sycophants and would be rulers, generals and other powerful men await the decisions of the king and he awaits the fate of the Gods. Everyone is on pins and needles concerning the destiny of the great king. All that surround him hover over his ill fated body; and like carrion they await the pickings.

The matter of who inherits Alexander’s throne was undecided, after all, his son is a child and the King is still a young man."

Esubius pauses scratches his chin, as flecks of shiny shaved metal fall like crystal snowflakes sparking in the lamp light as they drift towards the floor. He rotates the dye and gazes over it and continues the conversation with his shadowy companion.

Now with the Great Kings possible demise problems arise that are beyond my station. Doubts and questions occur, what if the emperor died who would be in charge?

His shadow ignores his questions and continues to work.

Such daunting questions occupied the minds of the many powerful men that surrounded the great king, and these coins added fuel to the vastly preoccupied court mystery.

By all the Gods I detest court intrigue and its inescapable drama.

Finishing the dye to his satisfaction only moments previous to daybreak; Esubius prepared a silver planchet. Heated it on the furnace until it arrived at just the right temperature he waited patiently.

Using long metal thongs in his right hand to seize the heated planchet from the fire, he used his left to pick up the newly formed hinged dyes.

Esubius placed the heated silver planchet between the grips of the hinged dyes. Expertly positioning both on the anvil he dropped the hot thongs and picked up another smaller one to steady the strike, he grips the planchet with these smaller thongs.

Following the steps of previous masters he picks up a blunt bottomed hammer with his right hand making sure the planchet is flat, he places his feet in a balanced position.

Now he is ready to strike.

Aiming with steady hands from someone that had years of experience at striking coins he raised his hammer and gave a strong confident blow, smiling as he spews to his shadow.

Yes, good strikes, I forever love the sound of a perfect strike, don’t you? One can tell by the resonance if the strike was off center.

Using the thongs he removes the struck planchet, turning to the bucket of water near his feet he dunked the planchet into the water. A faint sizzle and he pulls it close for inspection, his first coin with the new mold.

Excellent

He grins as he spins the new creation in his hands.

It turned out exceptional considering the time allowed.

Later that morning Esubius struck ten Gold coins for the king, but kept the lone silver one he tested as a personal keepsake.

Great King Alexander conqueror of the known world and beyond expired the day after the coins were presented. The monarch was nearly delirious when they were offered but awoke and pronounced the coins masterpieces. Alexander withdrew from this world shortly thereafter, and his mighty kingdom divided between lesser men.

This honor gave the old numismatic artist a great sense of pride and the task no longer seemed flawed. Esubius destroyed the dyes as the king ordered and never made another two-headed coin in his life.

That solitary duel headed silver coin he completed to test his dyes stayed in his family for over one hundred and fifty years; until a destitute descendent sold it to a wine merchant named Nestopholis.

Chapter 1

LATE SPRING

88 BC

Death stalks the night

In the eyes of eternity, our lives are but a beat of the humming bird’s wing, we grapple with hours, weeks, years, and decades. Millenniums are a scarce minute in the instance of the universe. Death the great equalizer brings a sense of urgency to our lives that eternals do not deal with, therein resides the plight of the mortal.

SI OPPUSSIT

{IF THERE IS NEED}

Phantoms of doom, looming, and impending sometimes-obvious, often-obscure danger unheeded, and warnings ignored leading to pending disaster. Listen vigilantly, you can perceive the hum of peril, be still and the inner feelings will penetrate your consciousness, and open the doors of perception.

The air permeated with a sensation of dark foreboding, yet few seemed to notice, as if in a trance or perhaps a curtain of denial covered their eyes.

Scent of dark fate hung like a clammy wet blanket over the area, one could smell its heavy mildew odor, yet they remained unaware. Blinded by the light of superiority, oblivious to the dangers in the dark, arrogant to the point of irresponsibility, these people of the visor, carried on like nothing changed.

To a few astute souls however, it was crystal clear.

Hera Nestopholis was far from your quiet retiring type, yet on this occasion, somehow she kept her opinion to herself. Biting her lip to squelch the urge to speak frequently, even when she was not quite sure why. Perhaps caution borne of fear for the safety of her family, an innate intuition that rarely failed her; she learned to listen to it, and depend upon it.

Her world of security shaken by this new eastern monarch, in her heart she trusted nothing about the man, call it instinct, or intuition, it served her well.

Mithradates ruled and he was now master of Asia Minor, which included Smyrna and her loving home. The thought of that Pontic Barbarian running her country gave her fits of misgiving, yet she realized these were dangerous times for brave souls.

When that sinister clandestine order came down from Mithradates, it twas kept silent enough to allow most of the unwary Roman citizens to remain comfortable. Hera’s family was never privy to the political goings on in the city, they were minor merchants, yet the rumors were heard daily on the streets.

Hushed whispers that grew muted as Roman’s drew near, stories of hired killers or drunken citizens sent to butcher Latin’s in their beds, these ghastly rumors circulated on the wagging tongues of Smyrna.

At the break of spring the new power of Mithradates Eupator the Pontic king from the Black Sea won a great battle against the Roman Commissioner Manius Aquilius. Now Eupator was King of all Asia Minor, this was the immense news of the day, and citizens of all levels hung on pins and needles.

A rich Roman province now under the Pontic Monarch from the Black Sea, and hatred of Rome and his wrath against Latins was seething.

Hera could feel its heat in Smyrna.

Roman citizens arrogant attitude in general was the same as it had consistently remained; overconfident and cock sure, or blinded poise.

Nothing seemed to faze them; they give the impression that they feel invulnerable, almost invincible, and hardly realistic.

No barbaric Pontic king would dare lay hands on a Roman citizen, boasted the most outspoken of all, one Decius Tutlias a merchant Roman of local repute. Hera overheard this boast at market the previous week and it shook her to the quick. This Lydian woman twas far more attuned to the eastern monarch’s way of thinking and her dependable guts told her there loomed grave danger dreadfully close.

Hera’s amiable husband Victor ventured that these murder rumors were a regular feature of the Pontic court and were not to be taken seriously. Yet she held on to the faith in her inherent gut.

Hera, a big-boned woman with strapping wide hips that seemed made for carrying babies, or performing hard work. She was above average height with stalwart broad shoulders, hefty physically, powerful yet feminine hands, and ample body girth.

Her medium olive skin and round almond brown eyes were blended with substantial red lips and thick auburn hair. A wide yet rather attractive face, the only distracting facet was her slightly crooked nose. Hera carried the demeanor of a confident woman, strong sturdy and powerful.

Joy danced on her brow often, something wise existed in those big browns, intelligent and amiable, yet rarely gullible. Skin as smooth as a babies, she carried a glow of health and happiness, slight natural rouge in her cheeks brought out her eyes.

Hera’s muscularity apparent, even through her Ionic himation [Ionic style robe], as she strolled through the market carrying a basket full of various produce with that confident stride; she emerges both sturdy and lovely.

Her natural girth was not of the pudgy overweight type, oh no, she stood firm with little paunch, she was all women.

A tough exterior to strangers at times, a defensive posture evolved from not trusting men, masked a tender heart that became apparent around any child. Males were quite often put off by her cocky outspoken delivery, not her husband Victor; he found it sexy and exciting.

Hera’s father gave thanks to the God’s for the tolerant Victor because he felt no one else could handle his daughter. As a child, she often spoke her mind in the most inappropriate places causing immense consternation in her father. More then once, she stepped over the bounds of her gender, leaving her papa in eloquent apology to disconcerted men.

Her wide set eyes reflected warm and full of motherly understanding yet they could just as easily flash determined and forceful if provoked. Sweet disposition belies what lay just beneath the surface, a brash aspect in waiting, one rude comment away and Hera not afraid to turn it loose.

Market day in Syrosis the tiny deme a short distance from Smyrna brought all the outlying families for miles around. The cosmopolitan community of Smyrna converges here as well; this market has the finest produce of any local market. While a tiny burg at best, it had an ambiance that made traveling the few kilometers well worth the trip. The pleasant ride from Smyrna to this little village was a delightful way to rid one’s self of the urban chaos for a few hours a week, and the tiny agora bustled with patrons.

Produce from the local farmers and playtime in the square for the kids made market day here a local festivity.

Roman families gathered by the dozens they relished the activity; it reminds them of Rome.

Open spots near the market crowded with children many were Latin youths in joyous games and amusements, while adults shop or just converse.

Strolling through the market there is an ongoing promenade people of every nationality, not just Greeks and Romans. Hera made a point of buying most of her produce here on market day, while her gregarious son found plenty of distraction in the playtime.

As the middle of the month drew near, the rumor mill circulated an ugly whisper that all Roman citizens were to be put to the sword.

And yet few Latin’s took flight.

For many it seemed just another preposterous fear, idle gossip like so many rumors before it, an oft-heard cry of wolf that required no real action, an empty boast at best.

Or perhaps a scare tactic meant to drive fear into the Romans population but no basis in reality.

The unmitigated gall of these Romans, they should consider the children, thought Hera.

Nonetheless she remained silent.

Now her heart sank as she watched the offspring from the Roman quarter playing near the temple of Apollo in the little deme [neighborhood] of Syrosis. Cry’s of glee emanated from their collective throats, happy faces of children pass before her eyes. She pictured a more terrifying sound coming from these same innocent mouths in the near future and it caused Hera to recoil and prematurely grieve.

The visage of death seemed to loom all around them and she wondered why no one else noticed.

Why do they not dash and take the children, run from here, go south to Rhodes, Crete or some other secure place before the arrival of an army of Killers?

She wanted to shout to the top of the roofs.

Run, take your children and flee from this place your lives are in danger.

Yet that would mark her traitor; and she knew it. Now her heart sunk at the nonchalance of the Latin population.

The Romans are hard heads, she mumbled to herself, but they do not deserve slaughter at the hands of those barbarians from Pontus.

Hera confided in her husband Victor concerning this rumor and her feelings of impending death. He smiled that reassuring glance made to please his wife, yet often left her sour. She saw through everything he did and he knew it.

Victor told her not to worry about such things, these people circulated such rumors previously and nothing happened, somehow Hera knew this time it was different.

Hera’s sturdy sense of fair play, justice and her incessant desire for proof, was rooted in her Miletus heritage. She believed in explainable causes for all things, she could read, write, cipher and was familiar with many higher-level philosophical discourses.

She grew up in an open and egalitarian if not feminist home.

Her father taught her a great sense of reason, or more likely never discouraged this natural trait in his independent daughter.

As she strolled through the market her white himation dangling over wide brown shoulders a basket draped across her strong arms, she was the picture of womanhood in season. Yet gaze closely and one could see the concern carried on her brow, the worried appearance she could not help but display, passed amply through her warm eyes.

Hera loved the lively market it was the height of her week, yet lately the hideous rumors made the trip and the place less enjoyable.

Walking along lost in her thoughts was abruptly jolted, almost losing her balance, and spilling a few items of produce from her basket. Recovering, she nearly blurted an angry retort at the cause of her jolt, until her eyes met the source of her interruption.

Staring back at her stood the largest most sincere set of orbs she ever encountered.

She smiled warmly as the adolescent with wide eyes and a expressive visage greeted her. The lad started picking up the fallen items and apologizing sincerely in heavily Latin accented Ionian Greek.

Hera pondered his captivating features, eyes full of zest, and a handsome sincere smile; he was an excellent looking lad. Adolescent visage of great depth, his smile the kind that can warm you’re heart or haunt your dreams.

There was something strangely familiar about his features as if I have seen it a thousand times yet I cannot recall where. What a handsome young man.

Hera reflected as the lad turned and ran back into the fray.

She shuttered inside and gave an incantation to think of this child’s possible future in the hands of Mithradates Eupator of Pontus.

Her own son Donato looked up and smiled as she whistled a tuneful call unique to Hera, a strident but very melodious bird call that garnered the attention of her child and amazed all who heard it.

Responding to his mother’s whistle the chubby expressive five-year-old son Donato ran to her side.

In high-pitched pleading tones, Donato begged.

Momma I don’t want go home, I having much fun with the Roman children. We stay a little longer and play, please, please.

Sitting aside her basket, Hera bent down, cupped her son’s ample cheeks in her hands and kissed his sweaty little forehead, stroking his hair.

No, Donato we have work to do, and your father will be home tonight, it is a one hour ride by burro and we must leave soon, because I planned a special dinner for us all.

Donato looks bestowed a momentary expression of disappointment, but the reminder of his beloved father’s return and assurance of excellent food made leaving the playmates slightly more bearable.

Hera walked only a few paces from the first collision when Decius Tutlias stepped in front of her so abruptly she almost ran into him.

What is this, she groaned, bump into women day?"

She impatiently gazed up to see this tall attractive Roman with large brown eyes and an amiable pleasant smile; much like the boy she ran into.

Oh excuse me, I did not mean to startle you, I am sorry madam, but are you Victor Nestopholis wife, Hera?

Yes I am, responded Hera with blatant suspicion oozing from her tone.

My name is Decius Tutlias, and this must be Donato.

Donato smiled up at the big Roman with his wide face and exclaimed: Yes I am Donato.

Handsome lad you are too.

Turning to Hera Decius starts to speak.

I am . . .

I know who you are.

Hera broke in rather rudely."

Oh, so I will not bore you with further introductions then. But I am most curious about the whistle you gave a moment ago to summon you’re son.

Hera caught off guard with the question and his presence took a moment to respond.

That is a rare bird call, I learned as a child.

She uttered with a hint of lingering suspiciousness in her voice.

I know, I have only heard one other like it in my life, a bird of Thessaly in the mountains many years ago.

Hera’s visage beams for an instant, as this insight pleased her, yet just as quickly she retained her defensive guard.

Yes my father was in Thessaly and this is where he heard the bird call that he passed on to me.

Very beautiful. smiled Decius.

His face held a kind inquisitive gaze and he was tall and well built but sensitive in demeanor, not the hard-core persona she had expected from this well-known outspoken Roman. She had watched him from afar previously, yet never up close, and determined the Roman cocky and self-confident beyond his station. Now as he stood in front of her she started to see a softer side; and insightful sincerity she had not expected.

His voice carried a melodious baritone resonance that stirred something at the base of Hera’s spine, it irritated her somehow and she tried not to show it.

How do you know my husband? asked Hera to fight off the blush.

As you well know Victor sells wine. And my friends and I drink and purchase a lot of vino, much of his vino we send to Rome.

Oh I see, so you are a client of my husband.

Fair enough, you could say that, but I also consider Victor a friend.

I am glad to hear that, and you live here in Smyrna or Syrosis?

Just a few miles north but we come to market here often.

Deciding this was sufficient Hera tried to break off the brief encounter.

It was wonderful to meet you, I rarely get a chance to meet my husband’s business associates because he does so much business away from Smyrna.

He abruptly yet gently takes her hand in his and a warm energy travels through her entire corpus, as he smiles in satirist gleam.

Or perhaps he realizes what a fine jewel he has at home, and does not care for competition.

His face lights up like a school boy as he delivered the flirting flattery with a Latin sense of humor, but it caught her off guard. This forward line and the physical touch trapped Hera by surprise and she turned flush from head to toe, a gushing emotion waiting to show. And for that moment she was speechless and blushed, something she hated to do, she found it so stereotypical girlish and silly. Few men ever treated her that way it was both a shock and flattering, it flustered her mind for a moment

Decius got quite a jolt out of this awkward moment and broke into laughter as red faced Hera pulled her hand away shook her head in disgust. She sauntered away in total embarrassment.

Decius called out to her as she walked away.

Tell Victor hello from Decius

And still laughing he turned back toward his fellow Roman’s gathered in the agora.

Romans, they think they own life; what arrogance, hubris and guile. However one must admit he was a charming man. His eyes were very much like the lads I ran into earlier, large and curious. Those Romans are generally handsome people; yet I would never tell them that, their egos are more than sufficient.

Pondering all these ominous future events Hera rode quietly home on the donkey with her vegetables as Donato dozed off clutching his mother’s waist behind her. Hera tried to relinquish the anxiety she felt looming in the air, even the moment of levity with the handsome Roman could not block out her deep apprehension.

She arrived at the house of Nestopholis, tied the animal up, called the slave to tend the creature and carrying the slumbering five year old, she place him in bed for a summer nap. Kissed his forehead and gazed on his innocent face, Hera sighed wearily and with a tinge of guilt, for she was selfishly glad her family was not of Latin heritage.

Odd that one moment the Romans were the race to be. We all looked up to them and their power and the next instant the Latin tag carries a possible death sentence, strange world we live in, pondered the worried mother.

Three hours before sunset Hera started preparing the evening meal. Tonight her husband’s favorite; fresh Lamb cooked in water, wine and covered with a mint sauce. The delicate mint paste Hera prepared the previous day, with honey spices and pulverized mint she grew in her garden.

Lamb aged just right, cleaned and prepared with olive oil and herbs, she carved it and dropped it into the hot pot of water and olive oil, adding a touch of sea salt to enhance the flavor a drop or two of red wine and let it slow boil.

She arranged fava beans, pomegranate juice and various spices in a slow cooking pot that simmered over the fire for over four hours, filling the house with a pleasant aroma.

At two hours previous to sunset she went to the underground wine storage, opened a small clay jar of wine, and smelled the contents to make sure of its purity. Hera laid out a fine display of figs and other dried fruit as well as goat cheese. She placed these items in a cool cabinet out of the kitchen heat, to be served before the meal.

Removing a large mug of brine-cured olives, she poured the brine water back into the vat, holding the olives in place. An hour later Hera had the olive oil and garlic soaked greens laid out on the table to await the arrival of her husband who usually arrives from Smyrna at about one hour before the sundial in the side yard grew useless. In mid-summer it could be extremely hot in the kitchen so Hera, opened the shutters and allowed the air to pass through; the sea air was such a delight.

Victor arrived home tired and weary until he caught a whiff of the delectable food emanating from the kitchen. Handing the beast of burden over to his thin slave in absent-minded habit as he followed his nose that connects to his stomach, into the house; a gastronomic trance entrapped him.

A most dependable little slave Arturo, quickly fed and watered the burro called Amos, the family’s most loved donkey. Arturo came running towards the house in anticipation of Hera’s fine cuisine; one was never late for the most excellent victuals in Asia Minor.

Victor fell into a stomach driven trance, salivating like a starving dog, his bald chubby visage fixated on chow. Victor never noticed the concern on the brow of his affectionate spouse.

Oh, it smells so delicious Hera, I know its lamb, my favorite, and I am such a very hungry man.

Heaving a great dramatic sigh Victor holds his hands out in a practiced gesture, as he spills.

Woman you spoil me, you know that, no one deserves such treatment not even kings,

Hera nods approval at Victor as he rubs his hands together with a satisfied look on his wide expressive face.

Without a word she steps forward kissed his round balding head and smiled at his antics.

His eyes always lit up when she smiled at him.

You are my love, my greatest treasure, he said in a singing voice, which caused Hera’s smile develop fully. Donato the chubby child was already helping himself grinning at his father with a mouth so full he could hardly contain it. Greeting his son with a kiss, Victor said incantations to Dionysus, Artemis, and Apollo for the bounty, safety, and health of his small family and two servants.

A hungry group anxious for this fine cuisine they all felt so fortunate to have an excellent chef like Hera. As they sat down to a delicious meal all felt right with the world, at least in the house of the Nestopholis.

Hera served the superb smelling victuals to a completely captive audience, not a word spoken just hushed ahs and pleasant groans.

Once the fine cuisine was consumed the table cleared and the servants and Donato out of the room; Hera gazed at Victor and released the pent up inquiry she held.

I met your friend Decius Tutlias the Roman today, he certainly is a forward fellow.

Victor nodded while wiping his chin, and containing a burp.

True, the man can be abrupt my dear, yet he is a fine gentleman, as honest a Roman as I have ever encountered.

He has children does he not, asked Hera as she clears the table?

Yes, two son’s one adolescent, the other a young child, and a teenaged daughter, a lovely wife, both females named Cornelia. The boy’s names escape me now, oh yes the elder one is Marcus.

Victor moans the last syllable as he stretches, satisfied after the grand banquet. Hera moves closer to Victor catches his eyes and whispers in desperate tones.

Why do these Romans not flee my husband, have they not heard the undertone of their impending doom?

Come now woman, not that again, you cannot believe such things, I told you there is probably no truth to this rumor at all, whispers Victor in the same tone.

Hera picks up the remaining mugs and plates on the table and mumbles lowly.

My stomach tells me different, but I hope and pray I am wrong, yet gut feelings have rarely misguided me.

True my love, but killing an entire population is genocide, and I do not think even Mithradates is that mad, or that barbaric.

Victor speaks firmly yet cautiously with a hint of apprehension in his eyes and a noticeable hesitant tinge to his voice, trying to convince himself as well as Hera. Victor realized it could be true, but preferred not to acknowledge such frightening unbridled thoughts. His natural nature was to ignore evil and never confront the wrongs of the world, as they were out of his realm. So he denied his own fears. When it came up in his circles he walked away or never bothered to listen. Victor knew there was strength to the rumor yet cared not for the implications.

Wiping her hands Hera places her head on her husbands shoulder, kisses his ear.

Your love I never doubt or underestimate my husband but something tells me this new king is dangerous. We all underestimate this Eastern Monarch’s desires; someday he may prove a true terror, a poison snake waiting to uncoil.

Great gods of Olympia Hera sometimes you sound like the grand doomsday omen itself, issued Victor, with a sarcastic smile.

Hera again whispers.

I plead to Artemis this time I am wrong Victor, but something tells me the inner sense is ringing true and death stalks the night.

Bene Vertat Deus

{God help us}

Late July 88 B. C.

Marcus plight

DEATH ON THE WIND, BOY TO MAN IN ONE NIGHT

Terror born of sinister wind, breathing life into ogres of the night, drifting through canyons searching for his habitat, demons invading his dreams captivated his soul in slumber.

Malevolence waft blows where no air is moved, tragedy borne of dark dreams hovers near the edge, anticipation of the unknown lingers close. Sudden suffering erupts in static folds leaving emptiness in its wake, while the world nods in apathy.

Where are the heroes, the gods, the grand saviors of women and children, father told stories of, Hercules, Hector, Achilles, Jupiter and Mars? Pleading, crying, begging, nothing worked; they abandoned him in his greatest hour of need. Faith in heroes and Gods is for children, and after this night, he will no longer be a child.

Midnight the first hour of July 31, 88 BC

His affinity for stargazing, a need to connect with the heavens often drove the lad out onto the overhanging cliffs that surrounded his home. His love of the stars prompted this behavior, attraction to thrills played a part as well.

They were his stars, shared solely with his sister.

No parents, no rules, a secret rendezvous with celestial bodies, mysterious beams of light issue from faraway places, a chance to make wishes come true on streaking stellar illumination.

Marcus lay on his back staring out at the vast sky, waiting for these ongoing celestial events with innocent awe. Young brown eyes open, reflecting the night sky in wide-eyed wonderment, often resulting in unexpected slumber. Vast expansive space of the celestial cosmos greeted him as he gazed skyward. Star watching broadens the imagination and humbles our mortal trivial pursuits.

Darkness oft spent under the heavens waking up just in time to return to bed to circumvent mother’s wrath. Slipping through the back window as the sun inches into view, praying his mother did not check on her son too early. Feigning sleep while still sporting dew soaked sandals, she was not always fooled and he realized it.

A night outside romancing the stars was a regular feature of his youthful life; clear skies drew him like a magnet to steel and there were many such magic nights in Lydia.

Cool breezes emanating from the nearby Aegean carried relief from summer heat in evenings, an ideal environment for sleeping and watching the stars. Carrying his soft wool blanket, using an old chemise as a pillow he climbed to his favorite spot on the ledge above his home. Dreaming the imaginings of youth, watching lights twinkle over his head, he fell out hard.

Drifting off to the world of dreams with only the lonesome hoot of an obstinate owl to punctuate the silent placid evening, Marcus felt satisfied.

The owl warned of impending doom but mortals rarely hear or heed the warning. Oh but if only the mountains and rocks could speak they would surly know, yet would we listen?

A light breeze, the familiar hooting owl, clear sky, busy day, an adolescent formula for heavy slumber, sending the young sky gazer into deep repose.

Such was the fate and circumstance of Marcus Valonius Tutlias, a young Roman boy asleep under the clear Lydian sky.

Marcus lay alone, isolated for the first time in his young life, yet he was unaware of his status, dreaming on a cliff, drifting through realms of the soul. Death awaited him and called out in a pitiful tenor and he ran towards the doom as he distinguished his loved ones desperate voices ring out in nightmarish tones. The fear in his stomach pushing hard to show on his face, his need to cry out grew overwhelming, yet his strong Roman gut would not let that happen.

Marcus was living a dark vision, running down a long dimly lit corridor trying to get to his family who were screaming and pleading for his help. Rushing and ignoring the horror he hurried to their aid in a murky hall that had no end.

This vision produced a sinking feeling and it began to permeate his frightened soul, yet his families pleading beckoned from beyond.

Voices calling in pitiful tones as he tried to draw closer to his families beckon. Something dark and menacing in each room he passed in this sinister hellish hall, he dared not glance sideways; nonetheless he sensed the evil nearby.

Gazing straight ahead to the spot where he could hear their earsplitting pleas yet the end moved away and the hall goes on.

His tired body and the cool night air conspired to trap the lad in deep slumber.

Marcus was captive of an inescapable nightmare; his family’s pleas caused immense distress in his breast, so he searched the halls of Hell to relieve their pain.

Something suddenly jerked him from his dream world, the warning owl perhaps or an echo of struggle that broke through his subconscious and forced him from his vivid imaginings.

As he gained consciousness the stars were in the sky, yet something was irreversibly altered even the