Collegium, Shadow of the Eagle

By Philip Remus

It’s 16 BCE, Sabinus is promoted to Legionary Legate by Caesar and sent to Gallia Belgica to reinforce the frontier with Germania, as a well as a secret mission, which becomes personal when his adopted son Garthago is kidnapped. Nepos Maximo, the Bastard of the Aventine is hiding a devastating secret from his son.
A Germanic army is preparing to attack the Roman legions. Sabinus teams up with Tiberius to crush the barbarians...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Philip Remus
• Release date: Oct 8, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005434694

Philip Remus

I have two great passions in my life, history and writing, which is an irony, considering that I’m also dyslexic.I was educated at an Inner London state high school and graduated with above average grades in English, English Lit and History.I grew in South East London, the son of a truck driver and a bookkeeper.I lived for four years in France and travelled extensively throughout Europe.During my career as a photographer, I worked in police forensics, the entertainment and fashion industry and general commercial and industrial projects. (I'll add more later).

Book preview

PART I

KIDNAPPED

PROLOGUE

Land of the Usipetes, Germania

November, 19 BCE

It was a cold night, the sky was clear, the moon was full casting its crepuscule light over the eternal forest. And in the infinite blackness, the constellations glimmered across the heavens. The nocturnal silence unsettled by the rhythmic pounding of a horse’s hooves at the gallop like a fast-beating heart sounding out of the cold wet earth like the living heartbeat of the earth goddess herself. The old war sage Marabodas’s unblinking ice-blue eyes followed his young wolf charging across the plain on his father’s warhorse, galloping hither and thither with enviable mastery, swiping the enormous blade of his father’s longsword, decapitating and cleaving an imaginary enemy. He was like the winds, his beast responding to his will, turning, chicaning and leaping obstacles, his blade flashing in the cold glow of the winter moon, the bitter east wind biting his exposed face and hands, the grasslands silvered with hoarfrost, but nothing deterred his beautiful prince of war.

On the ground upon two legs, Taranucas could run almost as fast and for just as long as his steed; he could leap up onto it’s back like a pouncing cat and be off into the funk of battle like the Idis, the magical spirits of war, who beguile and fetter the enemy. If the great goddess herself could not tame the boy’s will, then what hope had he? One cannot tame a lone wolf to the will of the pack. It is by its very nature, a creature of solitude. Put a leash about his neck, and he will lie down and die.

He could not fault the boy, his darts never missed their targets, neither did his spear or arrows, and his swordsmanship was second to none, and he needed no encouragement in their practice and use, he was born for war. Taranucas was always first to the call, and was the most determined of them all to the tasks expected of the boy warriors.* He bettered all the others, and where he led, they followed. There was a fearlessness in him, at least, that’s what the other boys saw and thought, but the old war sage Marabodas knew better, not that he would ever let on, it was good for the other boys to have somebody they could aspire to…

Taranucas wheeled and charged, possessed by the spirits of war, his hot blood surging through his veins like fire, his heart pounding fast in his chest. The immutable joy and freedom he felt as he charged, slicing the air with his longsword.

If only he wasn’t so disobedient, so impetuous and so mischievous, thought the old war sage. He was always speaking out of turn and contradicting his elders and betters. He drank too much too, he and his friends Betalus, Tanax and Cingorax, such troublesome boys when they were together. But of the four of them, Taranucas was the most troublesome by half, but, by the sacred gods, who the old war sage held dear, there was no finer lad than his restless wolf, to whom the gods had been most generous in all of their gifts, from physical beauty to fearsome warrior. In all his days, the war sage had never seen his like.

Taranucas wheeled his horse again, just as the old war sage stepped out from the trees a thousand strides ahead.

He brushed his long silver hair back over his shoulders with his hand, revealing a long scar down his face from the swipe of a Sugambri’s longsword sword nearly forty years ago, not long after the great slaughter, when Julius Caesar tried to conquer them. But the Romans had met their equals when they came into conflict with the Usipetes. The Romans slaughtered countless thousands of men and boys. Marabodas had been supreme warlord back then, during the grand alliance with the Sugambri, Usipetes, Tencteri and other tribes of the Rhenus.

The old war sage rested on his gnarled staff; the wind fingered through his hair and beard as he stood like a phantom of the forest. He stared fixedly at Taranucas as the boy cantered towards him.

‘We’re in for it now, my friend,’ said Taranucas to the horse as he slowed the beast to a trot and sheathed his father’s sword, which was much too long for the fifteen-year-old. He halted the horse in front of the old war sage and dismounted.

Marabodas looked at his protégé, his breath fogged in the cold, diffused with moonlight. ‘Why do you try me so, Taranucas?’

‘I don’t mean to, teacher.’

Marabodas drew in a deep breath and let out a slow susurrus sigh. ‘You do battle with the wind and the phantoms of your mind for the lack of opponents. You disobey even your sage and steal away in the night like a thief with your father’s horse and his sword and make like they’re your own…’ The old man lowered his heavy eyes and shook his head. ‘And for this, you invoke my displeasure.’

‘I was practicing, teacher.’

Marabodas gave him a wily look. ‘Practicing? In the middle of night, when most people are in their cosy warm beds?’ Which was exactly where he ought to be.

‘War is not a cosy business, teacher. You yourself have said it on many occasions. One must be ready to fight day or night, summer or winter. The poorly practiced are soon undone in battle.’

Marabodas took another deep breath. How could he argue with the boy’s reasoning?

‘While others sleep in their cosy warm beds, I endure so that I’ll be the best I can be when the time comes, teacher.’

‘Always quick to an answer too,’ said the old war sage as he combed his hair back when it whipped in an icy gust of wind. ‘What possesses you, Taranucas? What great and unseen force draws you to such worthy disobedience?’ he said.

‘Destiny, teacher,’ Taranucas responded succinctly. ‘I feel her in my heart, teacher. And I cannot deny her commands.’

The old war sage held an intense stare on the boy. ‘What’s to be done with you, Taranucas?’ he said after the pause. ‘What’s to be done? Neither the whip nor the displeasure of those you respect will cowl your restless heart, or your eagerness to feast at Glory’s table. So, what’s to be done? You are the finest of the elites, but you disobey and you steal your father’s sword and his horses–’

‘Borrow, teacher. I borrow my father’s horse and his sword. And he would be none the wiser for it. So, where’s the harm in it?’

‘Your impertinence astounds me.’

‘I do not mean to be impertinent, teacher. But, is it not a warrior’s first duty to practice those skills he must possess for the wars yet to come? Should I practice upon a nag with a stick? Better to ride Tyr’s* horse and wield his blade to truly feel his power and better understand what experience has so far denied me … an enemy worthy of me.’

The old war sage gave Taranucas another long and careful look. ‘And who is this enemy who is to have the honour of being slain by Taranucas?’

‘Rome…’

*Attested to by various ancient sources including Julius Caesar. They were elites, specially chosen and trained to the highest standards to serve their chief or king as a bodyguards in war and in peacetime.

*Ancient Germanic war god.

ONE

Sabine Hills, Italy

March, 18 BCE

It was another milestone in Carthago’s life, and over a hundred guests had come to his father’s estate to celebrate, from the noblest houses of Rome to plebeians such as the Rogues and his Uncle Tiberius and cousin Tiberina, with whom he had a close relationship, being more sister than cousin, he confided in her and she in him.

They were all there, Grandpapa Nepos, the Rogues, Silvanus, even the servants Augias and Priam were given the day off to join the celebrations on this, the most momentous day of Carthago’s life so far. Today, Carthago was coming to his toga virilis, the toga of manhood and his first shave.

This morning, he had woken up a boy but he would go to his bed as a man.

With the toga virilis came many responsibilities and duties to the family and to the state. He could now accompany his father to the Forum Romanum and to the baths. He could assist in conducting the salutatio of the clientela, give his opinions in debate and attend symposia.

Everyone had gathered around the lararium, the shrine of the lares familiares – who are the protective spirits of the house and family.

Everybody looked proud but solemn, as befitting such an occasion, which is inseparably entwined with religion and ancient custom, when a boy is freed from the shackles of childhood.

He could hardly contain his joy as he stood before the lararium shrine, facing the frescoed alcove, in which a solitary lamp burned and wisps of fragrant frankincense danced and swirled up from a small bronze burner set on the shelf. There were two bronze statuettes, one of Apollo, the other a lar, holding a cornucopia outstretched in its left hand, all set before a vivid fresco depicting two lares flanking King Nestor of Pylos, (draped in priestly robes with his head covered) from whom, it is said, the Cerialii are descended; a writhing snake, the symbol of virility and fertility was painted at their feet.

Carthago placed his bulla locket into the shrine and whispered a secret prayer to Apollo, the favoured god of the Cerialii.

After giving up his bulla to the lares, he sat in a chair and Sabinus conducted the deposition barbae, the shaving of the beard ceremony, by drawing the razor of manhood carefully down Carthago’s smooth face, and his top lip where a dark shadow of soft downy hair grew. Sabinus shaved it off and the guests applauded.

After his first shave, Carthago went into his bedchamber with Sabinus, Augias and Carthago’s friend Trogus Draco Quintilianus, the son of his father’s friend and procuro Quintilianus. He was acting as Sabinus’s honourable friend. Draco was ten months older than Carthago.

Carthago removed his boyhood tunic, folding it neatly and handed it to his honourable friend, who gave it to Augias. Now standing naked before them, Carthago waited as Augias picked up the tunic and handed it to Draco, who handed it to Sabinus, who finally dressed him in it.

Next, Sabinus handed him his platted leather belt and Carthago put it on and fastened it. It was the same belt Sabinus had given him when he was a child, with the silver fox head finials. It held the greatest sentimental value to Carthago. He considered the belt to be lucky, for his life truly changed forever on that day, when his father gave it to him. Carthago had been plucked from the clutches of slavery, destitution and almost certain death. But now he was a noble of Rome, and no blood-son could love his father more than Carthago loved Sabinus who adopted him, nurtured him, protected and educated him. He had earned a powerful friend too, in the great Augustus, who had sent him his personal letter of congratulations on this day, and what a regret it was to him, that he could not attend the ceremony and celebrations in person.

Once his tunic was on, Sabinus took the neatly folded toga virilis from Augias and dressed his son in accordance with ancient tradition and after making the final adjustments to his toga, Sabinus stepped back and looked proudly at Carthago and said: ‘Ecce Homo, (behold the man), Carthago Maximo Cerialis,’ he said, speaking for the first time since the ceremony began, with the sacrifice of a ram at dawn.

‘Ecce Homo,’ said Draco.

‘I will honour thee and obey thee in all things, father,’ Carthago rasped huskily.

They embraced and Sabinus whispered in his ear: ‘Never has a father been prouder of his son, Carthago.’ He kissed him on each cheek.

As they appeared in the gardens, Nepos proudly declared: ‘Ecce Homo!’

‘ECCE HOMO!’ they all responded in unison, applauding and cheering.

It was Otho’s praise that touched Carthago most deeply. He had had a special bond with Otho ever since Syria, when they rescued him from the desert pirates.

‘Proud of you, kid,’ he whispered, wiping something from the corner of his eye that looked like a tear.

Carthago enjoyed every second of it. The Rogues were his truest friends – his family. ‘Will I do, Otho?’ he asked.

‘You’ll do, kid. You’ll do very well.’ Otho smiled. ‘You have your papa’s heart and you have his courage and his cunning. Yeah. You’ll do very well.’

Carthago beamed. ‘You’re my truest friend, Otho.’

Otho was moved by his words. ‘Both ways, kid…’

Was that another tear Carthago saw in Otho’s eye?

By sunset, the feasting was well under way and the wine flowed liberally and the air was filled with music, laughter and the chatter of guests.

There were speeches from those who knew Carthago, listing his qualities, and telling amusing anecdotes of some of Carthago’s boyhood mishaps, and there had been a few.

It had been a long night and Carthago felt as if he was walking on air when he went to bed after all the guests had left.

Nepos whispered something to Otho, and Otho chuckled lowly.

Only one lamp was lit in Carthago’s room, flickering and gloaming.

Instantly, he sensed he was not alone, and his eyes settled on a figure standing by the bed, a pretty young woman. Carthago picked up the lamp and approached her. ‘Who are you?’

‘Helen, dominus.’

‘Helen? Well, what are you doing here? How did you get in here?’

‘Dominus Nepos sent me, dominus.’

Carthago frowned confusedly. ‘My grandfather? Why would he do that?’ he asked naively.

‘For your pleasure, dominus.’

Carthago felt his face flush hot with embarrassment and a sudden shyness came upon him.

The young woman, who was far from, inexperienced, smiled and stepped up close to him. ‘I will give you pleasure, dominus. I will help you undress.’

Carthago was horrified, he stepped back from her, his mouth was suddenly as dry as sun-baked mud. ‘I don’t need help to undress.’

‘Don’t be scared, dominus…’ she reached out and pressed her hand to his flaccid genitals under his robes. ‘There’s nothing to be afraid off. Relax,’ she said soothingly as she rubbed him, feeling his verpa responding to her touch. ‘There, you see…’ She took hold of his wrist and pulled his hand up to her breasts, smiling at the nervous adolescent…

Nepos woke with a sharp pain in his abdomen. It wasn’t the first time this pain had struck unexpectedly, like an assassin’s dagger twisting in his guts… ‘Pan’s prick!’ He sat bolt upright, his face creased with pain, his teeth clenched. He leaned forwards, embracing his belly as the agony shot like white-hot lightning bolts through his body. ‘Oh, gods of Hades, let it pass – let it pass…’

When he went to the latrine, there was blood in his shit and his urine. But he was past sixty, it was to be expected, and the amount of wine he had drunk last night was enough to float a ship on. Celebrating Carthago’s manhood, Sabinus’s promotion and commiserating his own sudden and unwelcome promotion to tribune.

The next morning, everybody was suffering from the drinking the night before.

When Carthago came down to breakfast, Nepos gave him a big smile. ‘Did you enjoy yourself last night?’

Carthago knew what he was referring to. He sat at the breakfast table and a slave brought him bread, fruit, nuts and a dish of vinegared olive oil and a cup of watered-down wine. ‘Yes, Grandpapa. Thank you for your gift.’

Sabinus, seated at the other end of the table eating his breakfast, looked curiously at his father. ‘What gift.’

‘The sort of gift one doesn’t discuss at breakfast,’ said Nepos.

There was no further clarification needed.

‘Augias, is the wagon loaded?’

‘Yes, my Dominus.’

‘We’ll leave for Rome in one hour.’

‘Yes, my Dominus.’

Carthago was looking forwards to returning to Rome. He was looking forwards to the games that follow the renewal of the sacred fire of Rome, and the Salii, dancing with swords and shields in celebration of the Feriae Marti (holiday for Mars). But most of all, he was eager to get back to racing. He loved the thrill of speed and the danger, especially when racing chariots.

Sabinus and Carthago, on their horses, trotted out from the stables. Two horses were hitched to the wagon carrying their baggage, and behind it, the Bastard and his Rogues were mounted up, ready to leave.

It was Augustus’s summons that called them back to Rome. Sabinus was to be given a legion, as of yet, he had no idea what legion or where. Syria, Judaea, Libya? Moesia, Goal? It could be anywhere.

Carthago and Draco galloped off ahead of them, cutting across the open wheat fields, undulous in the breeze like a golden ocean.

Eventually, they slowed to a trot, riding side by side.

‘… She was like Venus,’ said Carthago, continuing a conversation they had been having about the surprise gift his grandfather had sent to his bedchamber last night.

‘What was it like?’ asked Draco. ‘Did you do it all the way?’

‘I did and it was wonderful. The best ever.’

‘Fortuna is your mother, I’m sure of it. What a gift. How many times did you do it?’

‘We did it all night. Four-five times,’ he said exaggerating.

Draco looked envious and he was clearly aroused. ‘You lucky swine, Carthago. Tell me no more, I can’t bear it...’

Carthago laughed.

TWO

Rome

It was a beautiful warm early spring day and the Domus Augusti was bathed in sunlight fell across the south-western slopes of the Palatine Hill, where Augustus’s palatial home nestles in the shadow of the new temple Augustus had built from his private funds and dedicated to Apollo of the Palatine. Bright sunlight spilled through the temple’s grand colonnaded pronaos and fanned out like fingers of light, and when the sun was right, the white marble had a mystical incandescence, as if Mighty Apollo himself was within.

‘Sooner or later,’ said Augustus as they strolled through the lush gardens, ‘we’re going to have to deal with Germania, Sabinus. They simply pose too great a threat to us and our European provinces. Especially Gaul. There are some in Rome who believe we should put a wall along the entire length of the Rhenus and leave the Germanics to themselves. But I disagree, Sabinus. We must gain complete control of the Rhenus and cowl the Germanics, because if we do not, then it will be to our greatest cost.’

‘The Germanics are a tenacious enemy, Caesar,’ said Sabinus.

‘It would be to our best advantage, if we could encourage those tribes of the Rhenus into alliance with us, rather than war. And to have our best legions in their best condition and in the best places for when the conflict comes…’ They stopped at a marble bench and Augustus invited him to sit. ‘They should be persuaded of the benefits of friendship with Rome. From trade to education. They can prosper. We have no interest in polluting their religion, or their language. Romanisation is as much about acceptance of differences as it is about bringing civilisation to the uncivilised. I’ve always considered it Rome’s duty and her destiny to civilise the barbarian, Sabinus, as did my father before me. To bring light to the darkness, and, with time, when they become civilised, to offer them full citizenship. And for any tribes that might prove hostile, we would be best advantaged to gather as much tactical information about them as we can…’

Sabinus listened to the Princeps without commenting. A harmonious world might be Augustus’s dreams, he thought, but to others, conquering Germania meant money and opportunities to be exploited.

‘Also, there’s another issue that has come to my notice, which makes you the perfect man for both purposes. Not so much treachery as outrageous banditry and corruption of the worse sort…’ (Sabinus wondered if corruption had a worse sort?) ‘Calvinus will explain everything to you at the games when you see him. But there are dark things going on in Belgica, Sabinus and I want you to get to the bottom of them and route out this vile corruption. Calvinus has all the details. The Fifth Alaudae have recently returned from Hispania and are encamped at Augusta Salassorum under the command of their broad stripe, Aurelius Albucius. The younger brother of your friend Drusus Albucius.’

Sabinus hadn’t seen Aurelius since Aurelius was a schoolboy.

The meeting went on for another hour, mostly discussing Caesar’s long-term strategy, and the great tactical and commercial advantages of having both the Danubius and the Rhenus under Roman control. The undisputed power it would bestow on Rome, the fast communications from one end of the empire to the next, the extended sailing season for trade and military ships by using the great rivers rather than the sea would bring prices down, and that was good for the economy. Journeys that before took months could be reduced to weeks or days, the tactical advantages were clear to see…

Sabinus’s rise had been meteoric. Not yet thirty-five and commanding one of the most respected legions in the Empire.

Caesar never forgot what happened in Hispania, nor did he forget the part Sabinus and his adoptive father Draco had played in Egypt and in Moesia.

*

The atmosphere in the arena was electrifying, as it always was during the games and it seemed as if the entire city of Rome were crammed into the arena, come to be entertained with a spectacle of violence and death in a fatal charade, according to the advertisements, and the announcements of the praecones, it was a reliving of the Cantabrian Wars.

The citizens took up every available space, rubbing shoulder to shoulder in an unbroken mass that stretched entirely around the arena, heaving sinuously all at once, the din of their frenzied shouts drowning out the clatter of swords and death knells in the arena below.

The crowds roared and cheered with a single deafening voice, intoxicated with their lust for blood and carnage, their faces aglow with wild excitement, contorted in all their bloodthirsty expressions, their wild animated eyes gorged on the slaughter like vultures. It was a monster with ten thousand heads controlled by one mind, thought Sabinus, and it revolted him, and had it not been for Calvinus’s insistence that they meet here, he would never have come.

Carthago had dissolved into the monster’s heart with Nepos and the Rogues, jumping up and down with excitement, screaming at the top of his voice and waving his arms about in the air with everyone else, intoxicated as the gladiators tore into one another, lunging, gouging and stabbing.

The fatal charade, was a charade of the Battle Lancia, and it bore no resemblance whatsoever to the real battle, not that that mattered to the