Destitutio Quod Remissio

By Brett Armstrong

For decades, Roman Senator Marcus Servius labored to become a wealthy and admired patrician man. But now, his world is shattered. After he is exposed as a Christian during a time of intense persecution, his home, wealth, and prestige are stripped from him. The most painful loss of all is that of his beloved wife, Cassandra. Destitute and wary, Marcus prays he will be delivered from his enemies hands as he struggles to realize a new path.

In desperate need of help, Marcus disguises himself and embarks on a dangerous journey to find Benjamin Truvias, the leader of a hidden church and the man responsible for Marcuss conversion. After Benjamin offers aid, Marcuss life finally finds needed direction. Yet, the more he helps the church through persecutions, the closer he comes to finding who betrayed him. Caught in a maelstrom of intrigue and deception, should Marcus discover the awful truth of who caused his fall, he must choose between vengeance and forgivenessa decision that will affect the fate of all the believers in Rome.

Destitutio Quod Remissio is the timeless epic tale of a mans struggle to rebuild his life amid ancient Rome after he loses everything he loves and his faith is tested in ways he never imagined.

• Language: English
• Publisher: WestBow Press
• Release date: Aug 21, 2015
• ISBN: 9781490889856

Brett Armstrong

Brett Armstrong is a lifelong student of history and writing who is currently pursuing a Master of Arts in Creative Writing. He and his new bride enjoy gardening at their home in Saint Albans, West Virginia, where they both let God lead where He wills.

Book preview

Destitutio Quod Remissio

BRETT ARMSTRONG

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Copyright © 2015 Brett Armstrong.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Scripture taken from the Holman Christian Standard Bible ® Copyright © 2003, 2002, 2000, 1999 by Holman Bible Publishers. All rights reserved.

WestBow Press

A Division of Thomas Nelson & Zondervan

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Bloomington, IN 47403

www.westbowpress.com

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

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

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

ISBN: 978-1-4908-8984-9 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4908-8986-3 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4908-8985-6 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2015912867

WestBow Press rev. date: 07/30/2015

Contents

Aknowledgement

I Fire and Rain

II Entering the Gates

III Testing an Alliance

IV Bread and Butter

V Competition

VI Flicker of Dread

VII Carrying the Light

VIII Learning Curve

IX New Interest

X Physician

XI Foreshock

XII Tremulous

XIII Cassandra’s Touch

XIV Silencing Doubts

XV Shattering the Future

XVI Sacrifice

XVII Bright Morning, Fair

XVIII Dark Afternoon

XIX Hereafter

XX Asunder

XXI Lights Amongst the Graves

XXII The Crux

XXIII Conflict Spreads

XXIV Interaction

XXV Loosing Chaos

XXVI Ubiquitous Grace

XXVII Night’s Obsidian Breakers

XXVIII Before the Wolves, Warrior Bold

XXIX Dawn’s Golden Shores

This book is dedicated to the glory of God, Whose forgiveness brings light into the darkness of man’s destitution, and without Whom there would be no words worth writing.

Aknowledgement

Without the continual help of my incredible wife, Shelly, and caring parents, Pat and Rodger, I may never have seen this, my dream, realized.

¹² Therefore, God’s chosen ones, holy and loved, put on heartfelt compassion, kindness, humility, gentleness, and patience, ¹³ accepting one another and forgiving one another if anyone has a complaint against another. Just as the Lord has forgiven you, so you must also forgive.

Colossians 3:12-13, HCSB

I Fire and Rain

The grisly, grey swirls churned up before Marcus, a thin mask to the merciless heat. Dimly he could perceive the fiery furor’s warmth caressing his cheeks in an increasingly unpleasant way. His thoughts were not of himself at that moment, nor even of the fire consuming all his possessions in this world. Instead, his eyes, stung by the acrid mixture his tears made when suffused with the smoke’s tendrils, looked beyond the ravaged home he had returned to. To a point, beyond the scope of simple sight, to where his love was lost. He could not know how many hours late he had arrived. Be it many or few, for the fire seemed so hot, so vicious, it could have lapped up the palatial estate in its searing maw with mere minutes.

He had stood there for close to an hour now. Incapable of moving. Incapable of speaking. Incapable of perceiving the destruction wrought upon him, in full. Within the interior of the blaze, increasingly obscured by the serpentine coils of smoke, he could make out the form of the structure itself, those portions still standing. Without fully realizing he was doing so, he traced the lines up, into where they were lost in the smoke, and the smoke into the obsidian sky above.

Steady rumbling sounds echoed across the landscape, like the heavy footfalls of band of soldiers. How brutish had they been in handling the things he had cherished? As they clomped across the ivory and ebony swirls of his home’s marble floors, did they slow? Did they admire their surroundings when they lit torches with wicked flames and condemned him with a flippant toss? Were they merciful in the execution of his beloved wife?

The darkness of a storm neared; it had been slow in coming. Menacing now, it loomed overhead, ready to unleash its watery weight upon the countryside. The tall grasses around Marcus swayed in a rain dance; as the fruit trees of his grove, too near the house’s scorched perimeter, found themselves frantically holding to every gust in hopes that it might bring with it drops of rain to spare them a similar fate. Little bits of fire-tinged ash hovered in the air, falling to smolder around Marcus as if volleys from the sinister blaze.

Marcus coughed gruffly, the choking plumes of smoke finally forcing him from his dazed despair to consider his own well-being. For a long moment, wild and incautious, he considered not retreating from the smothering fumes. To remain, as his wife had, and be swallowed in a final fiery funeral.

Yet, even as his eyes squinted and were forced shut to guard the sage-hued orbs from the punishment meted out by the fire, he heard a soft voice within tell him he could not do so. He had to flee, not for himself alone, but for another greater than he. He was a Christian now; such things were not to be permitted him.

Ordered away, he obeyed the voice and charged out of the vehement veil. Wheezing and gasping, he stumbled toward the well-defined stones of a road, which cut across the landscape, binding the rolling hills to the will of its terminus. At the edge of the wide path, he collapsed to his knees, unable to remain stalwart in the face of his suffering. Above him the clouds joined him in sorrowful weeping, letting loose great droplets like a man pours out a jar of wine.

The rain’s waters did little to wash away the grime accrued by his swift journey to this place. He had travelled a tremendous distance in order to reach his home, and now he found it desolate. A strong wind kicked up and with the cool rain sent chills up his fire warmed skin. His dark hairs stood on end involuntarily, as the remainder of his body, in the throes of grief, refused to even acknowledge the storm.

Cassandra… he wheezed. His throat burning with just the mention of her name.

The tempest continued to wear at him, the way the sea wears at the shore, and after a time, Marcus rose to his feet. Already his once white tunic was stained a dismal grey by smoke and muddied earth. He looked far from the man of regal bearing that his family had raised him to become. For decades he had labored to become the wealthy patrician man admired by so many. What did he have left to him besides the smoldering ashes of his ruined estate?

I have traveled more than a thousand miles to return. What did I labor for all these decades? My wisdom and counsel for the Empire, were they whispers carried away on the winds? I committed no crime against any man since my admission to the Senate, yet even my servants had to perish…

Somewhere within the seething remnants of his villa, a large column finally gave out and much of the second floor came to rest in violence on the seared marble that had been the home’s urbane entryway. Marcus winced at the cacophony. He was not willing to admit that there had been one slight he had performed in his time as a Roman Senator: dishonesty.

From the days of his youth, Marcus had been possessed of a keen, philosophical mind. It had distinguished him in his studies and allowed him to excel in matters of the Empire’s laws. What it offered in acumen, however, it stole away in comfort with much of his people’s lingering adherence to the Pantheon. Kneeling before the colossal altars of Jupiter or Mercury never stirred his heart; the ceremony with which the priests cared after the graven images puzzled him. Polished sculptures in halls of marble could no more have built the earth and its splendor or cast the stars of heaven into place than they built their own temples or shaped themselves in gold.

Regardless, many nights Marcus poured over his knowledge of astronomical phenomenon in search of some sign that the stars truly did align to form the hero Orion or the Queen Cassiopeia. That the great lion slain by Heracles held his place. No such grand sign had ever been imparted to him.

Cassandra was indisputable aid in the darkness of years past. The daughter of a prominent senator with a lineage nearly as old as Rome itself, she made for a fine choice of bride. Astonishing as it was for Marcus, he also found in her his wife. Her deportment in public was befitting her birth, ever the regal and gracious hostess and mistress of the household. Yet in the privacy of their chambers, the words from her tongue were a collection of gems finer than any mine had ever relinquished. A single, sincere smile would form on those ruddy lips at his arrival and Marcus never needed doubt he was home. The supple texture of her skin and tenderness of her embraces assured him he had found a true love.

That is all gone now. I got her killed… I killed them all.

A few tears tried to find their way from the wells of his eyes, but never managed to make it far from their source. Grey-green irises roved with great irritation amidst a mesh of stark red chords, but only a pair of swift droplets managed to escape and bear memorial to those who perished that day. Restraining his heart’s violent throes, Marcus looked up with a sudden awareness. The sound of a steady rhythm again filled the air. This sound was far too regular and minute, however, to be the sound of an angered sky.

The Soldiers.

Frantic, he hunted down his cloak and pulled tight the worn, brown thing he had shrugged off sometime after arriving. Brow furrowed and suddenly at odds with the inclement weather, he hurried away from the road another thirty or so feet, drawing much too close to the seething remnants of his home for any form of comfort. Crouching down in the high grass, he hung his head, trying his best to minimize what could be readily seen of him. His hope that the soldiers, soon to pass, would not notice him was faint.

The rhythm of his pulse quickened as the footsteps and general noises of a small band became more distinct. Marcus’ top teeth found their way over his bottom lip as he flattened himself still further into his tawny hideout. He struggled not to breathe in the choking fumes, and tried to cover his face. At last, in desperation, his eyes fell shut and his lips moved with silent emphasis: Great Lord, please, deliver me from this hour! From my enemies’ hands…

A dozen yards away, the soldiers’ footsteps halted and for several terrible seconds Marcus was left to wonder how his prayer had been received. He found only the faintest of conviction that the Lord would look with benevolence on him after his misdeeds.

The voices failed to carry far enough to be discerned, and persisted for some time. Every moment that the soldiers lingered, Marcus became more and more anxious. His already aching heart now rushed to keep up with the swirl of dreadful imaginings his mind was enduring. The tall, tawny grasses around him were too thick for him to see beyond, and were the canvas on which his terrors painted themselves.

From nearby Marcus heard something that forced him to focus on the reality of the moment. One of the soldiers had crossed into the field and was perilously close. Marcus couldn’t see him yet, but if he came any nearer, he would see Marcus.

The possibility of taking flight, of racing for the orchard and losing them in it screamed for his contemplation. Such a thought was a worthless one though. As desperately as his muscles ached for him to follow this plan, his only chance of avoiding capture, he could not bring himself to move.

Another few seconds passed, and the opportunity faded with them. The soldier had stalked another three paces towards Marcus. If he peered carefully into the swirling stalks, through the steady rain, he would easily find the now shaking form of Marcus. This soldier was too close now for Marcus to even make it to the cover of the trees before being apprehended. Was there any hope of fighting off the soldier and then fleeing? He could feel himself becoming too lightheaded to run in a directed path. Shaking his head, Marcus gazed down at his contused and muddied hands. They had not held a sword in so long… not that his previous experiences in battle would serve him unarmed and without armor. His life was forfeit in another few steps.

Then, from within his home, another loud crash sounded and a flare of light and heat washed out over the grasses as an entire wall gave way and dispersed the destructive fires. Even from where Marcus was cowering he could see the luminance blossom and feel a rush of sinister warmth. The soldier standing near him cursed and charged away from Marcus and the spreading flames of the house. He shouted to his fellow soldiers, whose boisterous laughs welcomed the soldier to safety. Over the crackle of the encroaching cinders, Marcus could hear the sounds of the iron-studded sandals that spelled his end, marching away with a less than regimental pace.

For several minutes Marcus continued to sit where he was, at war with himself over the sanity of standing upright. Finally, as he realized the risk of being so close to the fire outweighed those of being seen, he, in one swift movement, stood and charged off towards the trees as planned. His sprint was skewed and halting as his chest seized and lamented the volume of cruel smoke his lungs had tasted.

Reaching the haven, he found himself falling to his hands and knees again and retching, as his body purged itself of the fire’s venom. When there was nothing left to relinquish, he felt his limbs grow weak and rolled onto his side. Coughing as he tasted the cleaner air, Marcus looked up into the canopy of dark green leaves. He felt the rain pelting his cheeks and knew he could not lay there long. As he looked back, however, he saw no pursuers. Any soldiers present had left. How long this mercy would persist he could not know. In silence, he bowed his head and thanked the Lord for sparing him.

Rising with some difficulty, he hurried towards the road, his head craned to peer down it in the direction the soldiers had seemingly travelled. He began to briskly hobble the opposite direction. There was no time to grieve over the home or loved ones. If he wished to show more reverence than his pitifully uttered thanks, he had to take the blessing of his stealth and flee this place. To where? Who in Rome or all its provinces would house a murderer and a fugitive?

There was only one answer for Marcus, and it was far from certain at that. Benjamin.

Benjamin was the man responsible for Marcus’ conversion, for the driving away of his icy grasp on spiritual aloofness. Ben had taught him about the Truth and that Truth had set Marcus free. Deep within he felt the tragedy that he had treated his faith in Christ Jesus as something that must be secreted from those around him, even those he cared about. Had he acted otherwise, he would not be faced with mourning not only his wife’s passing, but her eternal suffering.

Nearly slipping on the rain-slicked stones of the road, Marcus did his best to resist the drift of his thoughts toward miserable places and focused on the destination that offered a chance of survival. As he walked, he refused to spare a single glance back to the misty haze that had arisen as the water warred with fire for final claim on the opulent ruins of his former life.

***

I must go now, my beloved. The Emperor summons us to his capital in Nicomedia, and I have only few weeks to prepare for the stay. Why he feels the need to convene the Senate there I cannot surmise, it is simply my duty to Rome to attend, Marcus asserted as he looked out from the balcony of his villa. Already the sun’s rays had turned the orchard into a tapestry of jade, filigreed with fine gold. The rare, oriental apples would be ready for harvest soon and yield their bittersweet juices.

Then bring me with you, it has been so long since I stayed in a true estate, his wife pleaded from within their bed chambers. Marcus turned and saw her dismiss her maidservants who had been putting her makeup and jewelry on her. As though real beauty needed such baubles.

Walking with no urgency, Marcus examined his Cassandra’s choice of raiment. Today the silky fabrics, purchased from the East, flowed around her comely bodice and pooled slightly at its extremities. The appearance reminded him of an inverted blossom, pale with streaks of fuchsia. A small smile forced its way on his lips.

Well? Don’t you agree?

As much as I would savor your company, I must insist on travelling alone. There are matters to attend to here, and who would be more trustworthy a caretaker of our home than you?

The dark green color applied over his wife’s eyes seemed to add emphasis to her already vibrant eyes. They were always reminiscent of cinnamon to Marcus.

The room itself seemed to darken some as Cassandra’s shoulders slumped some. Her engaging eyes carried a weight that was foreign to Marcus. Marcus… she began again, but this time her voice waivered as if on the verge of tears.

He shook his head, as if to push away this odd sadness. Something seemed so familiar about this exchange, yet wrong. For a moment Marcus reconsidered his assertion that she should remain here, in the… dark, gloomy room?

Frowning at the change in the ambient character of his surroundings, Marcus felt obliged to hold to his initial convictions and asserted, Beloved, do not worry. You will be well here, and I will bring you back the finest tokens the East offers. Now, remember your smile, we are hosts to Senator Caius, and his retinue this evening. It will do none a service to appear sorrowful.

Before she replied, the shadowy pall of the room intensified and as Marcus watched in growing concern and incomprehension, a dark mist began to rise from the floor and thicken till it became a wall between his wife and himself. He thought he heard a whimper before the taste of the mist alerted him to its nature. A shout no louder than a whisper erupted from within as the smoke started to engulf him as well…

Cassandra! Marcus wailed as the world of dreams peeled back and revealed him to be far from the comfort of his palatial home. Heaving in deep breaths of cool air, he looked around, remembering the two miles he had trekked in the downpour before finally seeking shelter under a stand of wiry trees. It was still dark, though the sky gave the slightest impressions of dawn’s coming. Wincing, he rolled over, feeling the dull pain of the tree’s rough bark on his rain-chilled skin. His dream had been of the last time he’d seen his wife alive.

If I’d but known…

There was little point in considering what he would or would not have done had he possessed the wisdom to let the Lord guide him from his wayward course. Perhaps, if he had not kept secret his faith, Cassandra might still be alive. This thought grieved his heart thoroughly, to the point of physical pain.

A chilly wind began to whip through the trees shaking down on him all the droplets of rain the trees had managed to hold back. The sound was equally unpleasant, creaks of branches and shuffling of leaves against one another gave the impression that the tree was trying to uproot itself and leave Marcus behind. Even nature frowned on him now.

It was not long before he found rest to be impossible and brought himself to his feet. The road lay some distance away and Marcus was certain the soldiers he avoided at his home would still be searching for him. He could not linger here or anywhere out in the countryside.

What use is there in fleeing if all the world be a danger for me? None of my fellow Senate members would dare permit me quarter, nor can I trust any of those I transacted business with.

Marcus’ brows furrowed and he rubbed his weary eyes as if to help clear his mental fogginess. Benjamin and the Church would not turn me away, but by now, if they heeded my warning, there should be no sign of them.

No other options seemed viable, even though the risk could well outweigh any possible benefits. Rome was the most secure city on the planet, from outside incursions at least. For Marcus it would be more lethal than if he rode out against the tribes of Germania or northern Britannia alone. It seemed, in a perverse way, the only fitting course of action for a man whose life was completely changed from its original state.

II Entering the Gates

The noon sun’s rays pressed down upon the whole countryside with much needed benevolence. Marcus ignored the pleasing sensation of warmth offered; he did not feel he deserved the comfort of its touch. Instead, he concentrated on enduring the sharp pains and aches of his feet, long since bloodied by the trek in his ravaged sandals, without demur.

A light breeze buffeted the rotund hills that seemed to roll like the waves of the Mediterranean, beginning and ending where, Marcus could not be sure. The grey granite beneath his feet was hard, and made his wearied feet long for the softer soils, still rich with rain. Though he could not see it now, he knew the city of Rome would soon come into his view. He had ridden along this road many times, though whether he had ever walked it till now he could not say.

A shadow broke over him as he passed under an aqueduct’s great arch, one of many such structures that watered the city of Rome like a garden. This particular channel had stood for several centuries, and with the previous day’s rain had a steady trickle of water coming down off of it. Cupping his hands he let a little pool of the chilly water gather and then rubbed his hands together, removing the dirt caked onto them. Gathering a little more, he lapped it up and relished the feeling of the water’s trek down his throat. After several more gulped handfuls, Marcus stepped back out into the sun and frowned some as he did so. Never in his life had he behaved in such uncouth ways. Hadn’t he looked on the barbarians of the North and East with disdain as he witnessed their uncultured practices?

Yet the savage men of the North serve in the armies of Rome, while I am treated as a fiend…

Ahead, revealed by his latest trek up a hillock, sitting lifted on seven hills of the surrounding region was Rome. Marcus eyed it with satisfaction of a kind, till he truly began to note the details of what he saw. Familiar buildings rose with regal bearing from the midst of the sprawling urban focal point, but his grey-green eyes widened some when they fell on an anomaly in the landscape.

A knot twisted itself within Marcus’ midsection as he traced the lines of the towering walls around Rome. Encircling a good portion of the city, the tremendous wall was built by Emperor Aurelian after the turmoil and danger of a century past. Never before had Marcus paid it heed. It was an artifact of a bygone era. One when fear had gripped the polis and its people. Many times Marcus had worried that the turmoil of those days could return, but he never imagined it in his lifetime. Having no fear of outsiders and no reason to worry about safe entry himself, the walls had long blended into the landscape for Marcus.

Marcus felt himself growing more despondent. It will not be easy to get inside the city now. Perhaps even impossible.

Surveying the waning open countryside, he longed to find some means of rekindling his hopes. Several aqueducts from the mountains ran like spokes of a wheel into the city and supplied it with a rush of cool, refreshing water. It made Marcus’ mouth feel parched once more to think of the city’s cisterns and pools, rich with the liquid. Crisscrossing the landscape surrounding the outside of the city was a confluence of roads. All Imperial roads were said to lead here, as if that were by some virtue of the city, rather than its planners. From here the grand city seemed so remote, so far. Ragged, bereft of companionship, he walked unevenly and nearly collapsed again. What remained for him now?

Turning his eyes from the dirt strewn stones before him to the imposing form of the Imperial City, he saw the vaunted buildings within, not hidden by the protective curtain of the wall. Proud it seemed, as he had once been. The former senator ground his teeth together.

The only thing driving him at that moment was a quest for answers. That and the resilient pressure on his heart, amongst so many violent ones, steady in its guidance towards something he could not perceive.

Marcus’ feet began to shuffle forward, building speed. Sooner than he felt prepared for, there loomed the imposing gates of Rome. A million men, women, and children walked its streets and for a thousand years it had stood as a symbol of Rome’s civility and pride. For all the years seen by the city, it stood every bit as urbane as its people. Beauty and grandeur and honor had long been attributed to the polis on those seven hills. Now its high walls and impressive facades seemed pallid and subversive.

What beauty remains in you, mighty city?

Remembering his once vibrant view of the city, Marcus sighed. How he and Cassandra had loved walking its streets in the early morn. Visiting its great libraries filled with tomes from across the known world was such a pleasure. Indulging in the vigor of the city and its constant pulse of life even into the night’s late hours. There was the hippodrome with the thrill of sport that overlooked the precipice of disaster.

Cassandra had never much enjoyed visiting the hippodrome, but had done so as the dutiful wife. She preferred the dramas performed in the amphitheaters in the area. Comedy or tragedy, she watched the players with rapt attention. The beauty of her intrigued eyes had sufficed to keep Marcus content at such outings.

Marcus, dear, you must pay attention to the play. There will be time to keep watch on me in our home, Cassandra so often chided. At this Marcus would usually smile and avert his eyes for a moment until Cassandra was absorbed once more in the actors’ actions below. On the last occasion, however, he had questioned her.

You know I do not see the point of these dramas. Isn’t life enough of a performance?

At this, her thin eyebrows had woven together in concern. What do you mean?

Caught up in his annoyance over Diocletian’s sweeping changes he had explained with sour words, The Emperors give the commoners bread and circuses to keep them from seeing their abuses. But we senators need neither, yet cannot oppose them while they hold the people sway. We put on performances daily of approving madness. We attend the games, races, hold decadent parties, and smile as they shatter the Empire and murder its people when they can’t explain their own failures.

Her delicate nose had crinkled up in confusion at this and she responded, You mean the Christians in the army? What concern is that for you?

He had almost told her in that moment, he should have. Instead, he hesitated and the crowds around them let out a cheer as there was a turn of action in the play below and her attention was torn from him. She clapped her hands in glee. No plain opportunity presented itself thereafter.

Races and shows, none of that was of interest to Marcus any longer, if that had been within his ability to indulge in. The city had dropped its mask for him and he saw what really lay beneath. Inviting as the grand entrance’s embrace appeared, its comfort was dubious. Inside, they would be looking for him. Passively, of course, he was hardly a threat to anyone now.

A scowl overcame his otherwise benign expression and he halted his languid march. Feelings of despair had to be pushed aside. Before resigning himself to his destitution, he had to know and look upon the one that betrayed him. Those gates to the city would welcome him, and within he would discover the source of his suffering.

I only need find means of disguising myself. Once in the city they will not find me till my work is finished.

Taking in a shallow breath, he looked down at the palms of his hands and the contusions they bore. They were soft hands, long since accustomed to the ardors of the political arena. His trip had been difficult and most of his body carried some form of wound. The simple cloak he’d purchased somewhere along the way- in Syracuse was it- had tattered at the edges. Soaked and caked with the soils of all the regions he’d traveled since acquiring the garment, he was certain that he looked the part of a commoner.

Touching his face, he felt the thick, coarse coils of his dark beard. His hand roved to pull back his hood, still soaked from the rain of the day before. Muscles in his neck tensed as a chilly trickle of water dripped down his back and extinguished some of his inner warmth. Running his fingers through his damp locks he found them longer than at any former time. The wild tangle of his mane brought a sneer to his lips at first. His disguise was sufficient. He would pass the sentries and magistrates of Rome without a second glance. No disguise can be more effective than that of reality’s merciless hand. He looked the part of the pauper, because he was now in fact just so. Homeless and worthless in the eyes of the Empire.

The small pouch of coins he had secreted within his robe was of little use for the moment. They were valuable, more valuable than seemly for one with his current appearance. It would draw too much attention to use these, save at the utmost of need.

Replacing his hood, he wiped away some of the excess moisture streaming down from it onto his bangs. Taking a deep breath, he drew in courage and optimism. He renewed and surpassed his former gait easily. Before he wandered, now he strode with purpose towards the city. Beneath his hurried feet, the water pooling in the road fled. With this new pace he would be at the gate in less than a minute’s breadth and have to converse with the guards.

How do the plebeians speak?

He snorted at the thought. I’m more a proletariat than even a plebian… All the same, it would not do to astound my hosts with words they will not comprehend.

Ahead of him a band of what looked to be simple merchants had approached the gate and been stopped by the cadre of guards. From the looks of their cart and garb, they appeared to be delivering flasks of olive oil pressed somewhere in Illyria. As Marcus approached the lead merchant, who was far from the most magnificent peddler to behold, he overheard him speaking in a thickly accented voice, Yes good sirs. We hail from the city of Thessalonica. We procured this shipment of olive oil from the finest presses of Macedonia herself. Would a noble warrior of your stature care to purchase some for your household? The price is very reasonable, fifteen drachma for a jar.

The response of the soldier was lost to Marcus. Immediately his mind was leaping like a hungered wolf on the idea that had presented itself. Greek is common enough in the Empire. Perhaps they would think me a plebian in the company of these merchants if I feign the language of the East.

As he mused over this he found himself forced to slow. A pair of soldiers stood now in the path, blocking Marcus’ entry. One of them addressed Marcus in a stern, crisp manner as he stopped before them, Stay where you are beggar.

Marcus tried to look startled and submissive in response to the admonition. In a low voice he whispered a reply in wobbling Koine Greek, Of course, sir. I just mean to keep with my party. Gesturing towards the Macedonians passing through the gates, Marcus grinned with all the false innocence he could muster.

The sentries’ eyes narrowed and he seemed taken aback by the use of the foreign reply. For a moment he said nothing and merely appraised the ragged looking Marcus like some kind of blighted produce. At length he questioned in the Empire’s language, Where are you from prole? Do you not speak Latin?

Frowning Marcus looked from guard to guard. He answered again in Greek, Please, sir. I have traveled a great distance, from Corinth, and have had little rest and food. I and my companions need only a little kindness. As soon as he had spoken, Marcus regretted it. Hadn’t the other men been from Thessalonica? Marcus felt his breath catch in his chest and hoped his slip hadn’t been caught.

Shaking his head, the lead sentry huffed and stepped aside, "There’s no point in bothering with this one. He sounds like a backwards Easterner. He’ll find more than he’s looking for if he tries to beg for charity