“I believe something created us,” he continued. “Whether it was one god or many, I have no idea. What I do know is we did not just appear out of nowhere. I think man makes the gods look like us so we can relate to them, so that in our arrogance we can say we are made in their image. What I don’t believe is that we can determine the will of any such deities based on slashing the throat of a bull or gutting a bird.”
“That’s why I’ve always liked you, Artorius,” Justus said, looking his way and forcing a smile. “You never hold back and are not one to mince words.”
“Hence, why I would be a lousy politician,” Artorius replied, getting a short laugh out of his friend.
Justus took a deep breath and let out a sigh of relief.
“You’ve grown up since I last saw you,” the red-haired Centurion said. “You’ve grown stronger in both mind and body.”
Artorius’ face gave an involuntary twitch as Justus had unknowingly repeated the last words of advice his brother had given him while he was alive. Justus did not notice, and instead gave Artorius a friendly smack on the shoulder.
“Come!” he said. “Let us return to the celebrations!”
As they made their way back towards the raucous sounds coming from within the house, they saw a man leaning over the large fountain by the main entrance, dry heaving like he was about to throw up. Upon closer examination they recognized him as one of the Praetorian Tribunes.
“Hmm, seems the Emperor’s bodyguards can’t hold their drink,” Artorius laughed as the man heaved again.
“Hey, not in the fountain, you Praetorian twat!” Justus shouted as he walked over and gave the Tribune a hard kick to the backside.
It wasn’t every day one had the opportunity to commit assault on a superior officer, especially one of the “elite” Praetorians, and get away with it. Artorius walked over and grabbed the Tribune by the neck of his tunic and guided him towards some bushes. The dry heaving was soon followed by the splash of half digested wine, ale, and stomach acid all mixed together in a noxious combination.
“Good gods, what did that man eat?” Justus snorted, his senses assailed by the stench.
“Well, at least there’s no chunks,” Artorius observed.
“What’s he been drinking then, ram’s piss?” Justus was disgusted, yet at the same time starting to chuckle. “Seriously, it smells like…”
“…like a bitter, sour ass!” Artorius finished for him, leading both men to laughing uproariously.
They left the Tribune to his misery as a pair of slaves stood off to the side, waiting to offer assistance, though unable to hide the disgust on their own faces at the stench. The two Centurions then walked towards the house with an arm around each other’s shoulders, debating over how either knew what ram’s piss and a sour ass smelled or tasted like.
“You should have just let him spew in the fountain,” Artorius said as they walked into the foyer.
“Well, this place does belong to your father-in-law…” Justus began to say.
“Who’s a royal asshole,” Artorius finished. He then briefly told Justus about the dispute they had with Claudia and Diana’s father over the presence of legionaries within his banquet hall.
Justus was feeling the effects of drink as he stared unrelentingly at Sejanus. The Praetorian Prefect pretended not to notice. It would be reasonable to think that he did not, given the large numbers of people and the amount of commotion within the hall. It was only when Sejanus got up from his couch and left that Justus looked down and started eating once more. Flavia sat nervously by her husband, clutching his forearm the entire time.
“No love lost between you two then,” Artorius stated, trying to break the ice. Between all the lamp flames and the plethora of human bodies the room was stifling, yet he felt a cold chill running down his back.
“That man is a menace to Rome,” Justus growled, taking another pull off his wine.
“Be easy, love,” Flavia said quietly, “the wrong ears may hear your words.”
“Oh, yes, I quite forgot that defaming the commander of the fucking bodyguards now constitutes treason!” Justus said in a louder voice, although no one else seemed to hear him besides Flavia, Artorius, and Diana.
“What are you talking about?” Artorius asked, suddenly interested.
Diana elbowed him hard, not wanting him to encourage Justus any more. It was already too late.
“Just that free speech is not what it once was,” Justus continued. “Make no mistake, I am no republican; however, one has to admit that during the Republic one could be far more relaxed with one’s tongue than you can today. Take for example poor Senator Cremutius Cordus…”
“A man whose words incited sedition and treason!” Sejanus’ voice sounded behind them.
Thankfully, no one else was paying them any mind, though Flavia’s face darkened, and she lowered her head while closing her eyes. Justus only grinned thinly, his eyes shining with hatred for Sejanus. In spite of Artorius shaking his head, he turned and stood face-to-face with the Praetorian Prefect. Sejanus stood about half a head taller than the Centurion, though both men were of equal muscular size. The Prefect appeared to be impressed that Justus was not intimidated by him.
“Cordus wrote a bloody history book,” Justus retorted. “Where was the harm in that?”
“The harm,” Sejanus said; his tone like one would use on an ignorant schoolboy, “was that he dared to eulogize the murderers of the Divine Julius Caesar as the last of the Romans.”
“A stupid one-line eulogy in the entire text,” Justus retorted. “And you accused him of treason for that! The poor bastard starved himself to death, and you burned his writings as if he were inciting a rebellion against our beloved Emperor!”
Across the banquet hall Pontius Pilate saw the dispute going on. His eyes grew wide with anxiety, and he attempted to work his way through the celebrating throngs of people lest Justus get himself into greater trouble.
“The treason laws of Augustus have been re-enacted to protect the Emperor…”
“Who in his own words stated, in a free state there should be freedom of speech and thought,”
Justus interrupted with a sneer. “Those were the words of Emperor Tiberius Claudius Nero himself. Do you deny it?”
Before Sejanus could answer, Pilate forced his way between the men.
“I think we’ve all had a little too much to drink and are letting our tongues get the best of us,” he said quickly. The Praetorian Prefect turned his nose up slightly at Justus.
“Yes, this upstart of a Centurion would certainly not be so loose with his words in the presence of his betters were he sober,” he said icily. “You’re drunk, so I will let your…indiscretions go.”
“Fuck you, Sejanus,” Justus retorted, causing his wife to gasp and Artorius to grab him from behind by both shoulders.
“Easy there, old friend,” he said quietly into his ear.
Sejanus shoved Pilate aside and stood nose-to-nose with the Centurion. Again he could not help but ruefully admire that Justus still wasn’t backing down.
“Think yourself lucky that you’re a friend of Pontius Pilate’s,” he said quietly. He then stepped back and in a louder voice stated, “Though I do now question what kind of people my deputy calls his friends.” He then walked slowly away, as Pilate guided him by the shoulder.
Flavia’s hand was over her mouth in shock, and Artorius let out a relieved sigh as Justus grinned in triumph. Diana laid her head on her husband’s shoulder, wine and a sense of relief making her suddenly tired.
“You have to admit, that took some Herculanian-sized balls,” Magnus observed as he casually walked over to the group, a wine cup in hand. He appeared to be more sober than anyone else in the room.
“Magnus, what are you doing here?” Artorius asked, suddenly remembering Proculeius’ directive that anyone below the rank of Centurion was prohibited from dining in the banquet hall.