Authors: Mark Henrikson
**********
Hastelloy fought back a massive smile while watching Gallono bask in the greatness of his accomplishment. Two exhausting hours of combat, capped off by defeating eight worthy opponents at once was epic even by Gallono’s lofty standards. The crowd didn’t know their champion’s name so they chanted the only fitting substitute.
“Dei Filius” the crowd rhythmically chanted over and over, implyin
g Gallono must be a son of the gods.
Hastelloy glanced over at Tomal and reveled in the scowl sprawled across his lips.
Tomal’s moment of glory by sponsoring the games for the masses was stolen. The people were supposed to be chanting his name, not raising the man in the arena to the status of a living god.
“Forget Caesar, I think the most popular man in the Republic stands in the middle of
that arena. Just think of all the fame, money and women that await him after this day,” Hastelloy prompted.
“A slave does what he is told
and will enjoy only what his master allows,” Tomal barked with jealousy dripping from every word.
“Nonsense,” Hastelloy said sternly.
“This is the greatest victory the people have ever witnessed in the arena. You’ll have to give him his freedom with the gift of a Rudius. The precedent has been set by far lesser victories.”
“I rule Rome,” Tomal said as he rose to his feet and headed out of the luxury box. “I must do nothing.”
Hastelloy instantly got to his feet and caught up to Tomal on his way down to the arena floor. He spun him around with a yank of the shoulder. “Tomal, don’t be a fool. The crowd will demand his freedom or they will riot. I’m ordering you to grant Gallono his freedom.”
Tomal slapped Hastelloy’s hand aside and stepped forward to get right in his co
mmanding officer’s face. “You’re a leader with no followers. Remember?”
Witho
ut another word, Tomal turned and strutted onto the arena floor. Hastelloy watched from the dark shadows of the tunnel as Tomal shook Gallono’s hand, and then gestured for the guards to return him to his cell. As expected, the arena nearly imploded with protests.
Hastelloy turned and headed as fast as he could for the arena exit. Boos and jeers the likes of which he had never heard from a mob polluted the air around the arena
that reverberated like a tidal wave throughout the city as Hastelloy quickly made his way back to the villa. As he jogged along the rapidly crowding streets, a knowing grin flashed across his lips. The pieces were finally in place.
Tonwen approached King
Herod’s fortress of Machaerus to save the wilderness preacher from his own rashness, but he was too late. The moment the preacher entered the city and spoke ill of its ruler, he was arrested and cast down into the dungeon - never to be heard from again.
If the eye witness accounts were to be trusted, the preacher walked right up to the palace gates and berated King Herod in no uncertain terms at the top of his lungs. Apparently the scene drew quite a crowd until the gates opened and four burly fellows came forth. Two grabbed the preacher by his arms while a third used him as a punching bag. The fourth guard had the task of urinating on the preacher as he lay unconscious and bleeding on the ground. The lesson was well learned by the crowd and they dispersed immediately without a word spoken about the preacher, his words, or the beating.
Had the preacher approached the palace with his loyal followers, the guards would have been repelled so the man could have made his point and lived to teach again. Instead, the movement was over. Just like that, the integrity of his inner circle was fractured. Half the men left fearing King Herod’s retribution. The other half blamed Tonwen for the troubled circumstance and refused to remain in his presence.
The one thought running through Tonwen’s mind was that Hastelloy would have seen this coming and been able to activate any number of backup plans. Alas, Tonwen was not the captain. All he could do was ask himself ‘what would Hastelloy do?’
Of the thousands of baptized followers and couple dozen close disciples, the only one loyal enough to approach the fortress of Machaerus along with Tonwen was his best friend Isa. Their anemic numbers were deemed so insignificant that they were actually allowed to visit the wilderness preacher in his prison cell.
The two visitors followed four guards down a narrow spiral staircase made of stone. Just when Tonwen thought they could descend no further without popping out the planet’s other side, the steps ended and the guards
ushered them into a circular chamber dimly lit by a single torch with a hole measuring just three feet in diameter cut in the center of the floor.
“Well what are you waiting for?” the lead guard probed. “The lunatic is down there in the dungeon waiting to be rescued by your words.”
All four soldiers roared with laughter as another threw in his barb. “Mind your tongue though, words landed him in that hole and might keep you in there as well.”
Tonwen stepped up to the hole and peered into the darkness with trepidation. The impenetrable darkness below was not even phased by the torch light; it was all consuming.
Isa noticed Tonwen’s hesitation and stepped up to place a reassuring hand on his shoulder. Without looking to the guards for permission, he took the torch off the far wall and dropped it down the pitch black hole to reveal a stone floor just ten feet below. A haunting cone of light shone up from the dungeon portal to illuminate the chamber above in a deep crimson hue.
“Have faith,” Isa assured his friend with a pat on the back. “All will be as God intended.”
Isa then grabbed hold of the hole’s edge and lowered himself into the dungeon below. Tonwen moved to follow the example but paused when his eyes met those of the guards. An evil red glow danced across their faces making them appear as the gate keepers of hell, which Tonwen now voluntarily lowered himself into.
“You will of course be here when we are ready to leave, will you not?” Tonwen said more as a statement of fact tha
n a question. The devils henchmen simply stared back with the smirk of a jackal about to eat its prey.
Their answer would have to do. Tonwen swung his legs over the ledge and let gravity do the rest until he hung from his fully extended arms and then let go to drop the remaining couple feet into the dungeon.
Tonwen half expected to be swarmed by demonic creatures the moment his feet touched the stone floor. Instead he saw a circular ring of barred rooms all around him. Each holding cell only measured four foot square; not even large enough for a grown man to lie down in anything other than the fetal position. The cells were made all the smaller by the absence of a chamber pot, thus requiring one corner be dedicated to an ever growing pile of feces.
Isa had already found the preacher’s cell by the time Tonwen regained his bearings and beckoned him over. Through the iron bars Tonwen saw a man badly beaten on the outside, but not phased in the least on the inside. His eyes, if anything, burned with an even more determined fire.
“Why,” Tonwen demanded. “Why did you go alone? You knew this would happen without the protection of your followers.”
“Like I told you when we last spoke,” the preacher answered with conviction, “I am the voice crying in the wilderness, to make straight the way of the Lord.”
“You refer to the prophecy set forth by Isaiah?” Isa asked
The preacher leaned into the bars, bringing his battered face into full view in the torch light that Isa held while standing behind Tonwen. The preacher looked straight through Tonwen. “I am not a leader of men. I must become less so that you may become more. The way is now prepared for you to shepherd them into the light. My mission is complete, but yours has just begun.”
All at once, the weight of the world came crashing down on Tonwen and rendered him speechless. It was all entrusted to him: by Hastelloy and now the preacher. Fostering a new religion to combat the Neo scale disruptions caused by the Alpha was on him. Did he have what it took?”
Isa clearly thought so as he accepted the challenge on Tonwen’s behalf by pledging, “We will carry the message to all who will listen.”
By the dim
light of a single candle Albus pulled back a piece of tile that was loose beneath his bed and worked feverishly to dig a hole in the dirt floor below. He carefully placed every scoop of soil into a basket so he could quickly remove any evidence of the hiding place he was creating. When he reached a depth of two feet he stopped and looked over at the six tiny bags of gold coins and a hand full of jewelry sitting on the floor beside him. He was having second thoughts about his endeavor.
His master left him in charge
of protecting the house from rioters while the family took refuge at their country estate to let the violence in Rome pass. There had been unrest from the slaves and free men before, but never to this extent. They used the disrespect shown toward their arena champion as a rallying cry, but the movement was much deeper. The hatred between the social classes had grown to a fevered pitch and that single act of indignation was the straw that broke the camel’s back. Rampant rioting and destruction was almost a certainty.
Albus
successfully convinced his master to leave behind some valuables since it was a virtual certainty the house would be ransacked. If the thieves found something of worth, they would leave the house quickly with their hands full. Alternatively, if they walked away empty handed the looters would most likely take their anger out on the structure.
In the end it was a simple cost benefit analysis for
his Domine. Rebuilding the opulent house would cost a fortune while letting the rioters take a few pieces of jewelry and some bags of coin would be a relative bargain.
Now that the moment of choice
was upon him, Albus wondered if he had the nerve to follow through with his plan. His instinct was to obey the master’s command since he took Albus’ wife and child with him to the country estate. The master said it was an act of generosity to save them from the violence, but both men knew the truth. It was a thinly veiled kidnapping and the ransom to be paid was Albus’ loyalty. If the house was relatively undamaged he would see his family again, if he ran off or failed to protect the structure he might never see his loved ones again.
Albus made his choice as he whispered to himself, “I have nothing to lose but my chains.”
He dropped five bags of gold into the hole and prayed it would be enough to buy his family their freedom some day. There was room to hold more, but he needed to give the rioters something. The jewelry was a no brainer. If he tried to sell the valuables they would instantly be recognized as that of his Domine. Looking at the lone bag of gold, Albus judged it as enough to satiate the looters ravenous appetite for valuables.
Albus pushed his doubts aside and finished his work. He slid the loose tile back into place and made sure to sprinkle and smear some dirt on top and around the edges to make it blend
back in with the rest for the flooring. Then he carried the basket of dirt out to the garden and spread the additional soil around. Satisfied his ill-gotten stash was well concealed; he returned the basket to the kitchen and placed the jewelry and gold in the entryway.
To pass the time
before nightfall, Albus took a tour through the vacant villa. A few wooden tables, chairs and clay pots remained, but any remotely valuable furniture or decorations were moved to the country estate. When Albus entered the deserted kitchen any doubts about the success of his plan melted away.
In the corner he discover
ed three vases of wine filled nearly to the rim. The containers were huge. They came up to his waist and were so large in circumference he could barely put his arms around them. Albus smiled knowing the intoxicating beverages would probably go farther than any gold or jewelry the looters might find.
Albus spent the next
hour grunting and cursing while moving the insanely heavy wine vases to the house’s front entrance. He sought to make the looter’s job all the easier. Take a few items, have a drink, and be on your way was the thinking.
Satisfied he’d done everythin
g humanly possible to safeguard the house, Albus pulled up a worthless wooden chair and sat next to the vases of wine. He plunged his clay cup into the closest container periodically while waiting for night to fall and the imminent rioting to begin. Right on cue, as Albus lit the oil lamps in the entry way, sounds of men hooting and hollering filled the evening air. As dusk turned to night, the fun and laughter outside morphed into a drunken horde bent on venting their frustrations on anything that crossed their paths.
Albus could feel the crowds
pressing in around the house. Rather than letting the front door get kicked in, he pulled it wide open instead. Hundreds of men carrying torches, hammers, pitchforks, and any other menacing instrument they could carry, filled the streets and alleyways.
A cluster of twenty men
in the process of fashioning a small battering ram to break down the door looked up in surprise. The door opening on its own was unexpected, and even a little disappointing given their obvious desire to cause destruction.
“Gentlemen,” Albus announced. “The master didn’t leave muc
h, but there is far more wine than I could possibly consume on my own. Join me for a few rounds before we move on to take what Rome owes us.”
The men dropped their battering ram and cheered heartily along with the crowd around them.
For the next two hours, Albus presided over a revolving door of angry men storming into the house and later stumbling back into the streets without a care in the world. Eventually though, the wine ran dry. When the last drop was consumed, Albus shattered the vases across the entry way floor and tossed any pieces of wooden furniture into the street now lit by a bonfire blazing in the middle.
The furniture was promptly added to the flames as Albus knocked the front door off its hinges. To anyone passing by, the busted door and shattered
clay shards in the entryway gave evidence that the home had already been ransacked.
Albus intended to stay by the fire until it died out to make sure it didn’t spread to his master’s house or any others. That plan changed the moment a cohort of soldiers arrived on the scene. Their sword
s and shields stood at the ready, which had an instant quieting effect on the mob. No one was in any hurry to fight well trained soldiers, especially considering the mob’s inebriated state.
Eventually
the tension of the standoff broke when a member of the crowd hurled his lit torch at the soldiers. It ricocheted harmlessly off a shield onto the ground, but the precedent was set. Soon after, a round vase with a flaming rag sticking out the top sailed towards the soldiers. The vase shattered against a shield and sent a tidal wave of fire rolling over the men as the lamp oil inside was set ablaze by the flaming rag. Dozens of the troops dropped to the ground and frantically rolled around to extinguish the flames on their clothing. The rest of the men dutifully held their ground awaiting orders.
Encouraged
by the results, another volley of flaming oil was thrown at the soldiers. This time the vase glanced off a shield and hit the roof of a nearby house. Like kindling in a fire pit, the flames immediately spread all around the roof top and engulfed the house in an all consuming inferno. Sparks and embers flew and caught the roofs of two nearby structures on fire as well.
The frustrated soldiers
, with flames licking at their heels, made ready to charge the mob when a single thunderous voice grabbed everyone’s attention.
“Stop this now!”
a man bellowed while stepping into the void between the soldiers and rioting slaves. He wore a pure white toga with the purple edges of a senator. It was a bold choice of attire considering the slaves were rising up against the citizens of Rome and nothing screamed I’m a citizen like a finely pressed toga. Yet the ornate piece of fabric, that revered symbol of Roman citizenship, commanded enough respect to allow the man’s words to be heard.
“That fire will consume the entire city if we don’t put a stop to it. Whatever our differences, we all love the city of Rome and don’t want to see it
reduced to ashes. Everyone drop your weapons and grab a bucket to extinguish these flames.”
As a gesture of good will, the senator’s men were the first to lower their guard. With military efficiency they formed a line of bod
ies linking together to reach the river’s edge two blocks away. Hundreds of slaves dropped their arms as well. Some ran for their lives, but most dashed into nearby houses and returned with vases, bowls, or anything else that could carry water.
For his part, Albus grabbed a wooden bucket with rope hand holds on either side and ran for the river. One by one the buckets and vases were filled and handed up the line until a continuous stream of water carrying vessels reached the fires. As quickly as the inferno started, it was
put out thanks to soldier and slave working together. In total three houses were lost, but the damage could very well have spread to the entire city without the senator stepping in and demanding the greater good of the city be served.
The soldiers slowly re
-formed, as did the mob, but the mood was far less combative. Once again the senator took center stage to address the disenchanted rioters.
“Do you see?” the senator began. “You are not enemies. Both soldier and slave nobly serve the Republic. From where I stand, the only ones who do not are the wealthy aristocrats.”
The senator pointed toward the mob. “The wealthy stand on your shoulders and hard labors to live the good life.” He then pointed with his other hand to the soldiers. “They enjoy that good life while you face death and disease protecting the Republic from her enemies.”
The senator brought his hands together and interlocked his fingers. “You are of one cause. Rebel against those
who feel it is their right to own you and do whatever they desire. Take what is rightfully yours, but do not destroy what you come across. If it is of no value to you, leave it be for someone else may value it dearly.”
The soldiers looked positively shocked at the senator’s word
s while the crowd cheered them.
In a s
tartling display, the senator tore off his toga and threw it on the bonfire still lighting the street. In his common tunic the man declared. “Behold, I am but one of you now. Your cause is for equality. If you truly want to send a message to those in power, you will follow me to the Consul’s palace. Let’s take our message to the man who disrespects the greatest among us, our champion in the arena.”
Both soldier and rioter alike shouted their agreement.
“Mark Antony throws lavish orgies on a nightly rhythm and taxes the common man into oblivion to pay for it.”
“Yah!
” the growing mob shouted again.
“Join me now,” the senator concluded. “And we will change this city and the entire Republic forever.”
The senator then ran into a sea of his soldiers and prompted them to move toward the palace. Albus found himself so swept up in the moment that he abandoned his master’s house and marched with the mob to bring his frustrations down upon the Prefect, the focal point of his anger.
**********
Tomal paced anxiously along the railing of his balcony. He stopped to look out over the city. It was past midnight, and yet the metropolis was as noisy as ever. Large fires dotted the cityscape. To his great consternation, the shouts and general rumble of the mobs grew louder and closer.
Tomal turned to his attendant. “Where in the name of the gods is Senator Brutus? I sent for him over an hour ago.”
“I’m not sure,” the slave responded as he took two subtle steps back from his master. “I know the messenger arrived at his villa and the senator was made aware of your request.”
“My order,” Tomal corrected as he hurled an apple at the defenseless man. “I run this city, he comes when I give the order.”
From the bowels of the palace a loud clank of wood on metal reverberated through the building. Heavy footfalls soon followed and approached the balcony. From the shadowy doorway, Hastelloy stepped onto the balcony as he finished putting a sparkling white Senator’s toga over his shoulder.
“Well look who deci
ded to bless me with his presence,” Tomal mocked.
“Your servant made known your request, but he failed to designate any time constraints,” Hastelloy responded with a dismissive tone.
“The mobs roaming the city didn’t foster any sense of urgency?” Tomal demanded. “Instead, you take the time to have a new toga bleached, starched and pressed before showing up to help me resolve this crisis.”
“No,
I lost my old one on the way to this palace and had to find a replacement which caused the delay. You made it perfectly clear no one was to appear in your presence who did not don a toga.”
“Oh for the love of the g
ods,” Tomal exclaimed while hurling another apple at his aid. Hastelloy was quick enough on his feet to catch the projectile mid flight and took a bite as he closed in on Tomal.
“Wh
y do you have to be so literal? I obviously meant non citizens, not the actual garment itself.”