2. The Hounds of Rome
Rome was not at all as I had expected it to be. I had always pictured it as a barbaric place of brothels and slave courts, a rotting stinking city of scum. But rather, it was a wondrous palace of learning and advancement, much more beautiful than our Scythia, which I admit with some regret. However, there was some difference. Scythia's gates had always been thrown open in welcome to us. Rome's gates, those cold metal barriers, seemed the looming, staring specters of our fate. We had been told by one of the guards that we were to be sold into slavery, a fate worse than death for any proud Goth. Demetrius sobbed and whined as we were taken from our cart and marched up before the imperial palace of Rome. Two men were campaigning there, making speeches to multitudes of people gathered there. Though they spoke in Latin, I understood them well. It had been one of my best subjects. Demetrius' as well, which was surprising. He had never been much good at academics. I listened with interest as one stepped up to his microphone. This man was tall and dark, and he spoke with a certain anger and emotion. He said, "Noble patricians, patrons of my right, defend the justice of my cause with arms; and, countrymen, my loving followers, plead my successive title with your swords. I am his first born son that was the last that ware the imperial diadem of Rome; then let my father's honours live in me, nor wrong mine age with this indignity." He had a certain way with words, I suppose, that inspired something in me. His name, I learned from the fervent shouting of the crowd, was Saturninus, and he was the eldest son of the late Caesar. His brother stepped forward. Bassianus was his name, and his manner was gentler, more refined. Calmer. He said, "Romans, friends, followers, favourers of my right, if ever Bassianus, Caesar's son, were gracious in the eyes of royal Rome, keep then this passage to the Capitol; and suffer not dishonour to approach the imperial seat, to virtue consecrate, to justice, continence, and nobility; but let desert in pure election shine; and, Romans, fight for freedom in your choice." I must admit, had I right to vote, I would have chosen this man. He would make a better leader, keep his head in trouble. He would live longer, as well, being less excitable. But there was something I disliked about this man that quickly changed my tune. You see, Titus had but one daughter. Lavinia. And she was the most beautiful creature I had ever seen, dainty and refined, much like a lovely doe. Her eyes were dark and calm, her skin fair, her cascading tresses dark and thick. She was thin, shapely, tall. And I found myself falling in love with her then, madly so. I would have given anything for her to be mine. But she had been snatched by another. Bassianus, younger son to the Caesar. I chanced a look at Demetrius. It seemed that he was smitten with her as well, staring openly. I elbowed him and whispered in his ear, "Thou wouldst not have thy eyes burned out, fool brother. Avert thy gaze." He obeyed, face taking on a pinkish tinge. I returned my attentions to the debate. A third party had appeared, an older man wearing the robes of a Tribune and a face much like that of Titus. Marcus Andronicus, I was to learn. "Princes, that strive by factions and by friends ambitiously for rule and empery, know that the people of Rome, for whom we stand a special party, have by common voice in election for the Roman empery chosen Andronicus, surnamed Pius for many good and great deserts to Rome. A nobler man, a braver warrior, lives not this day within the city walls. He by the Senate is accited home, from weary wars against the barbarous Goths, that with his sons, a terror to our foes, hath yok'd a nation strong, train'd up in arms. Ten years are spent since first he undertook this cause of Rome, and chastised with arms our enemies' pride; five times he hath return'd bleeding to Rome, bearing his valiant sons in coffins from the field; and at this day to the monument of that Andronici done sacrifice of expiation, and slain the noblest prisoner of the Goths. And now at last, laden with honour's spoils, returns the good Andronicus to Rome, renowned Titus, flourishing in arms. Let us entreat, by honour of his name whom worthily you would have now succeed, and in the Capitol and Senate's right, whom you pretend to honour and adore, that you withdraw you and abate your strength, dismiss your followers, and, as suitors should, lead your deserts in peace and humbleness." I gazed confusedly about. Slain the noblest prisoner of the Goths? Whom? My question was soon to be answered. Marcus had gotten a bit ahead of the time, but only slightly. We were dragged off then, towards a tomb at the far end of the square. A sign in Roman letters above read 'Andronici'. A sense of foreboding seized me as we approached that tomb, and I smelled death on the air.
Rome was not at all as I had expected it to be. I had always pictured it as a barbaric place of brothels and slave courts, a rotting stinking city of scum. But rather, it was a wondrous palace of learning and advancement, much more beautiful than our Scythia, which I admit with some regret. However, there was some difference. Scythia's gates had always been thrown open in welcome to us. Rome's gates, those cold metal barriers, seemed the looming, staring specters of our fate. We had been told by one of the guards that we were to be sold into slavery, a fate worse than death for any proud Goth. Demetrius sobbed and whined as we were taken from our cart and marched up before the imperial palace of Rome. Two men were campaigning there, making speeches to multitudes of people gathered there. Though they spoke in Latin, I understood them well. It had been one of my best subjects. Demetrius' as well, which was surprising. He had never been much good at academics. I listened with interest as one stepped up to his microphone. This man was tall and dark, and he spoke with a certain anger and emotion. He said, "Noble patricians, patrons of my right, defend the justice of my cause with arms; and, countrymen, my loving followers, plead my successive title with your swords. I am his first born son that was the last that ware the imperial diadem of Rome; then let my father's honours live in me, nor wrong mine age with this indignity." He had a certain way with words, I suppose, that inspired something in me. His name, I learned from the fervent shouting of the crowd, was Saturninus, and he was the eldest son of the late Caesar. His brother stepped forward. Bassianus was his name, and his manner was gentler, more refined. Calmer. He said, "Romans, friends, followers, favourers of my right, if ever Bassianus, Caesar's son, were gracious in the eyes of royal Rome, keep then this passage to the Capitol; and suffer not dishonour to approach the imperial seat, to virtue consecrate, to justice, continence, and nobility; but let desert in pure election shine; and, Romans, fight for freedom in your choice." I must admit, had I right to vote, I would have chosen this man. He would make a better leader, keep his head in trouble. He would live longer, as well, being less excitable. But there was something I disliked about this man that quickly changed my tune. You see, Titus had but one daughter. Lavinia. And she was the most beautiful creature I had ever seen, dainty and refined, much like a lovely doe. Her eyes were dark and calm, her skin fair, her cascading tresses dark and thick. She was thin, shapely, tall. And I found myself falling in love with her then, madly so. I would have given anything for her to be mine. But she had been snatched by another. Bassianus, younger son to the Caesar. I chanced a look at Demetrius. It seemed that he was smitten with her as well, staring openly. I elbowed him and whispered in his ear, "Thou wouldst not have thy eyes burned out, fool brother. Avert thy gaze." He obeyed, face taking on a pinkish tinge. I returned my attentions to the debate. A third party had appeared, an older man wearing the robes of a Tribune and a face much like that of Titus. Marcus Andronicus, I was to learn. "Princes, that strive by factions and by friends ambitiously for rule and empery, know that the people of Rome, for whom we stand a special party, have by common voice in election for the Roman empery chosen Andronicus, surnamed Pius for many good and great deserts to Rome. A nobler man, a braver warrior, lives not this day within the city walls. He by the Senate is accited home, from weary wars against the barbarous Goths, that with his sons, a terror to our foes, hath yok'd a nation strong, train'd up in arms. Ten years are spent since first he undertook this cause of Rome, and chastised with arms our enemies' pride; five times he hath return'd bleeding to Rome, bearing his valiant sons in coffins from the field; and at this day to the monument of that Andronici done sacrifice of expiation, and slain the noblest prisoner of the Goths. And now at last, laden with honour's spoils, returns the good Andronicus to Rome, renowned Titus, flourishing in arms. Let us entreat, by honour of his name whom worthily you would have now succeed, and in the Capitol and Senate's right, whom you pretend to honour and adore, that you withdraw you and abate your strength, dismiss your followers, and, as suitors should, lead your deserts in peace and humbleness." I gazed confusedly about. Slain the noblest prisoner of the Goths? Whom? My question was soon to be answered. Marcus had gotten a bit ahead of the time, but only slightly. We were dragged off then, towards a tomb at the far end of the square. A sign in Roman letters above read 'Andronici'. A sense of foreboding seized me as we approached that tomb, and I smelled death on the air.