“Hey, your issues with getting ‘hard’ are not my concern,” Vitruvius replied with an elbow to the ribs. “Well come on, I just got warmed up!”
A passion burned inside each of the men as they sweated their way through exercises meant to add size to their powerful frames. Artorius knew that it had always been there, being that he had built his size and strength in a very crude form of a home-made gym when he was a young lad. Magnus possessed that inborn Scandinavian power and tenacity; his very soul wished for nothing more than to become bigger and stronger. Vitruvius…if ever there was a god incarnate, it was him. Artorius could only match him in size and power because of his extreme work ethics. An unspoken bond was born between the three men; they would meet every day and build their bodies above and beyond what they had ever thought possible. Rank played no role in their relationship of stone and steel. Once they passed through those doors, the only thing that mattered was the formation of brutal strength.
Through each muscle-building exercise they would push each other. Great stones would they press overhead. Each man tried to outdo the others in numbers of repetitions completed. Another stone would he wrap his arms around and squat down until his thighs were parallel with the ground, all the while heeding the shouts of encouragement from his companions as he fought to do one more repetition. A simple bar on a wooden frame they would use for doing pull ups to widen their backs and increase bicep strength.
Several weeks into their routine, Artorius and Magnus were walking back to their billets, Vitruvius having gone ahead by himself. Once they left the gymnasium the boundaries of rank returned and fraternization was avoided. They soon came upon the slave market at Four Corners Road. The stockades reminded Artorius of the ones they had hastily erected following the Battle of Augustodunum to handle the large number of prisoners they had taken. He expressed this to his friend who simply shrugged.
“Slaves are slaves, nothing special,” Magnus stated. “To tell the truth, I’ve always had little use for them.”
“Do your people in the high country use slaves much?” Artorius asked as he gazed at the mournful faces that stared from behind the bars while patrons eyed them for possible purchase.
“Of course,” Magnus replied, “though not on the scale you see here. Mostly prisoners of conquered tribes are all you see. While my native people don’t exactly oppose slavery, they don’t market human beings on the scale like you see within the Empire.”
They then reminisced about the consequences suffered by the nobles who had been dragged into Sacrovir’s rebellion. Thousands of noble youths had been killed in battle; and of those who survived, dozens had been sold into slavery when their fathers refused to pay their ransoms. The ransoms had been severe, and had cost many a noble family their lands and treasure. The lands confiscated had been auctioned off, with many Roman nobles taking advantage of the deals. Centurion Proculus had even taken part, purchasing lands and an estate, which were now under the care of one of his cousins. He had already bought himself a grand villa on Esquiline Hill; however he was quick to jump on the opportunity to buy him and his wife a nice estate in the country. Artorius remembered seeing this cousin once, a rather fetching lady named Diana. He had not had the opportunity to see her up close, as he was on a patrol that morning; though even from a distance he could tell she was absolutely radiating. So enraptured had Artorius been that once off duty he had rushed to the nearest brothel and bought himself the most expensive courtesan he could find, just to get her out of his mind.
“A month’s pay blown in one night!” Magnus heckled as they arrived at the Principia.
“Well I didn’t require a wank for about a week after that, so I think it was well spent!” Artorius retorted as he went inside for his monthly meeting with the Tesserarius to go over the Century’s duty roster for the next month.
Drusus sighed as he walked down the corridor with some reports in hand for his father, the Emperor. He worked to stifle a cough, his health still weakened by a recent illness. It was this very illness that had brought about the death of a man named Caius Lutorius Priscus, who had in recent years rewarded by Tiberius for a stirring poetic tribute he had done to the memory of the Emperor’s nephew, the late Germanicus Caesar. Drusus coughed once more before knocking on the door to his father’s study.
“Enter!” the voice inside boomed. Taking another deep breath, Drusus walked in and saw Tiberius seated at his desk, hands folded in contemplation.
“Message from Lepidus,” Drusus said, handing a scroll to the Emperor. Tiberius scowled as he read the message. He set the scroll on his desk and walked over to the window, his hands clasped behind his back.
“The more the senate tries to please me, the more they earn my displeasure,” he said at length. “At least Lepidus had the good sense to try and save us from an unnecessary slaying.” The issue at hand was that Priscus had written another poem of remembrance as a precaution in case Drusus succumbed to his illness. He had then read said poem in the presence of a number of ladies of rank, who were then frightened into testifying against him when an informant appeared and accused Priscus of seeking the death of the Imperial heir in order to fatten his own purse. The Senate, hastily trying to show its solidarity with the Imperial family, invoked the death penalty on the accused. Haterius Agrippa, the consul-elect, had made the motion for the maximum penalty. Of all the senators present, only Marcus Lepidus showed any common sense and spoke against the sentence with the following speech:
“Senators, if we look to the single fact of the infamous utterance with which Lutorius has polluted his own mind and the ears of the public, neither dungeon nor halter nor tortures fit for a slave would be punishment enough for him. But though vice and wicked deeds have no limit, penalties and correctives are moderated by the clemency of the sovereign and by the precedents of your ancestors and yourselves.
“Folly differs from wickedness; evil words from evil deeds, and thus there is room for a sentence by which this offence may not go unpunished, while we shall have no cause to regret either leniency or severity. Often have I heard our emperor complain when any one has anticipated his mercy by a self-inflicted death. Lutorius’ life is still safe; if spared, he will be no danger to the State; if put to death, he will be no warning to others. His productions are as empty and ephemeral as they are replete with folly. Nothing serious or alarming is to be apprehended from the man who is the betrayer of his own shame and works on the imaginations not of men but of silly women. However, let him leave Rome, lose his property, and be outlawed. That is my proposal, just as though he were convicted under the law of treason.”1 Only a former consul named Rubellius supported Lepidus. The rest voted to have Priscus dragged off to prison and instantly put to death.
“Priscus was a fool,” Drusus observed, “but he was a harmless fool. He was a great poet and orator, and it saddens me that he was executed for simply trying to find the words to console his Emperor should the worst have happened to me.”
“His conduct was still inexcusable,” Tiberius replied, turning to face his son, “though I still concur with Lepidus’ assessment. Mere words should not have warranted a death sentence. I will have words with the Senate and see if we can correct this type of rash behavior.” There was a pause as Tiberius felt that the issue was done. He raised an eyebrow as Drusus still remained in the room waiting patiently.
“Father, there is another issue I wish to discuss.” Drusus dreaded the pending argument he knew he could no longer avoid. He had thought of ways he could bring Tiberius to see reason regarding his Praetorian Prefect without making it seem personal. Unfortunately, Drusus knew he had taken things with Sejanus too far and too publicly. Indeed, he had earned the nickname Castor, or “brute” after he physically assaulted Sejanus following a heated argument.