Argeus the Paladin
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Prologue
Pax Romana
“Most Noble Augustus, Flavius Julius Caesar Teutoburgius seeks an audience.”
Sitting atop his magnificently crafted chair decorated with gold, silver and ivory aplenty, the person addressed turned to the humble soldier kneeling at the gateway.
The nobleman was no longer in his heyday, but his choice of garment made his old age appear venerable and wise rather than helpless. He was dressed in a red long robe covering his body in its entirety, adorned with gold, silver and various ornate trinkets, signifying his wealth. On his head he wore a laurel wreath, its leaves intermingling with his grey hair, making his appearance even more majestic. Old age might have wrinkled his forehead and bleached his hair, but the bright eyes of a great politician and general in his days still refused to dim their shine. Now without the fierceness of what he used to be in his youth, the nobleman’s visage instead beamed with benevolence and wisdom.
Looking at the guard with such compassionate gaze, he then began to speak, his voice loud and clear.
“Have him enter,” he said.
A smile of contentment briefly marked his visage as he spoke. He might as well have no reason not to, knowing his position, his powers and his control over the vast majority of the world as they knew it. But it was not those petty reasons that incited such a smile in the old man. The way he lifted his lips showed the natural pride of a contented parent having lived to see his children mature and bloom with success.
And in came the cause for such a smile. Following a series of loud, clattering greaves over marble ground, a figure had entered the spacious chamber, standing between the magnificently carved stone columns, presenting himself before the nobleman. The figure was a young man in his very prime, wearing a suit of banded armor of the best quality. On top of his head lay not a helmet to go with it, but rather a grass crown, still fresh and green, a sign of martial victory of the highest order. To complete the martial picture, on his belt was a short sword strapped to his belt, ctattering in the sheath each step he took.
The young man was quite striking in look, if not for the ruggedness of a military man having gone through flame in countless occasions. His cheeks were stubbornly high, his curly hair in a perfect golden blond color, and his lips think enough to speak volume about his defiance. Amazingly enough, all those were neither marred nor ruined by any battle scar, his face still as intact as the day he was born without any consequences the war should have had upon his countenance.
Upon seeing the seated nobleman, the warrior knelt down, removed his helmet and spoke with all the respect he could muster.
“Most Noble Gaius Julius Caesar Augustus,” he said, “I, Flavius Julius Caesar Teutoburgius, have arrived.”
The nobleman responded by hastily standing up from his comfortable seat, walked to the kneeling warrior and lifted him up with his own hands.
“Stand up, my son,” he said. “I am no Emperor to my children.”
“If you say so, Most Noble Augustus,” replied the armoured warrior as he stood up. “I mean, Father.”
“Flavius, no poet and no epic can speak of how proud I am of you,” the Emperor said. “Even now, weeks after your triumph, the commoners in the streets of Rome are still speaking of your victory against the barbaric Germanic tribes.”
“Serving the Senate and People of Rome and Father is both my duty and my pleasure,” Flavius answered humbly, bowing a little. “It is the path any noble Roman should walk. If anything, what I did was just what any true Roman would do given the opportunity and the fortune.”
The emperor then returned to his seat, looking at his son for several seconds before continuing.
“It is good to see you back in Rome in the end, my son,” the emperor said, his voice hung low. “Although I cannot say I completely approve of the attention you shower upon the Delphi Oracles. In the month you left Rome on your own accord, I could have given you some far more important tasks, both for the empire and your future.”
“Father, I reckon when Rome took over the Oracles and granted the priests and priestesses of Apollo safety and freedom, we could have as well have faith in their predictions,” Flavius disagreed. “On my part, I believe wholly that it was the Oracles’ prediction that had shaped the world as history unfolds, by the grace of the great gods.”
“Perhaps the gods have always shaped the world as they see fit,” replied the emperor. “But it is the effort of the mortal man that sees divine intentions into fruition. Having lived much of my life through wars and turmoils, I know that.”
“Perhaps, Father,” said Flavius. “But I believe in the divine guidance of the gods.”
“If you intend to keep that way of thinking, it will be to your detriment later on,” the emperor replied with some displeasure. “But we will leave this to a later date to discuss, my son. Now, I reckon it is something you have learnt at the Oracles that you have come to see me about, isn’t it?”
Flavius drew a deep breath in respond to his father’s question, before finally summoning enough courage to speak in full sentence.
“Father,” he said. “As the Oracles proclaimed, my future lies not in Rome.”
The look on the Emperor’s face as his son proclaimed the Oracles’ words was one of dread. His forehead wrinkled even further as his eyes opened wide, his mouth twisting as if trying to say something, but couldn’t. Even though it was only early spring, visible drops of sweat gradually formed over the Emperor’s forehead, drenching some of his grey hair strands.
The Emperor was quick to conceal his shock and returned to his calmness. His voice, however, could not hide the awe as well as he would like.
“Your future... lies not in Rome?” he asked back, his voice muffled. “Then where would it lie? Would it be due east, establishing your name and career leading Gaul or Iberia to glory? Or up north, pacifying the remnants of the betrayer Gaius Julius Arminius? Or further east, claiming the land of the uncivilized Parthians as our own and make Romans out of nomads?”
“Neither of them, Father,” the warrior shook his head. “By the will of the gods, my future lies not in Gaul, Iberia, Greece, Britannia, not even in fighting the barbaric Germans, Dacians or Scythians.”
“Then the gods must be insane, I presume. Or should I say, their followers are?” the Emperor said angrily. “You are my only son, Flavius. My heir, no less – the next Emperor to carry on my legacy! From clay I have built Rome into a city of marble. If that is not for you to rule one day, who am I going to leave this empire to?”
“The priestesses of Apollo were quite adamant in their declaration for me to not believe, Father,” Flavius seemed to have ignored his father’s words.
“They are nothing but naysayer, my son!” exclaimed the Emperor. “I can set fire to the entire Delphi complex tomorrow if that is what it takes to disprove their nonsense. Certainly those good-for-nothing oracles could not have forseen their own demise, couldn’t they?”
“Please let me finish, Father,” Flavius spoke clearly. “By the words of the Oracles, in a land far, far away from the safety of Rome and its provinces, beyond the reach of the Parthians, Sarmatians and Germans, going east over forests and mountains and deserts uncountable lies a wasteland of nothing but snow and frost called Siberia. Beyond this land of Siberia lies a wide, treacherous ocean that can swallow ships and men and sea monsters alike. But if one can survive the journey through all of those challenges, just on the other side of the ocean there is a region, a virgin land called Nihonnia. It is in this Nihonnia that my destiny lies. By the grace of the great gods, not only would that be my destiny, but my children, grandchildren, great grandchildren and further on will live in that land, upholding Roman rule for all eternity.”
“And what make you believe you can make it?” the Emperor asked.
“The hare was gutted on the spot, and its liver so clear one could see his own reflection in it,” Flavius replied. “What else could that mean, if not that the gods have granted me divine grace and blessing for the long journey ahead, Father?”
“Do you seriously believe you can cross even the borders of the vile Marcomanni, let alone the Parthians and Sarmatians to make your way through this land of Nihonnia? If it exists, of course?” sniffed the Emperor.
“The gods be praised, they have showed me the way, Father,” replied Flavius. “Now that Arminius’ treacherous warbands have been crushed, the Marcomanni are shivering in their tents even as we are talking. The Gods have decreed that by going due north east, I can avoid the nomadic Eastern barbarians altogether. And then all what I need would be time.”
“Impossible,” uttered the Emperor.
“The Senate had also believed Hannibal Barca’s marching his elephants across the Alps to be impossible, Father,” Flavius countered on the spot. “And what happened after that was, as we all know, Trasimene and Cannae. No true Roman can forget such tragedies.”
His son’s sharp reprisal caught the emperor at a tight spot for a couple of seconds as he rearranged his logics.
“But what about Rome?” the Emperor asked back in frustration. “Don’t you think about this empire? About the people? About your father?”
“It is because of Rome that I am asking to take leave, Father,” Flavius bowed a little. “Magnificent as our empire is, it would be even greater an empire if I am to start anew in this virgin land of Nihonnia. Free from the scums of the earth like the Germans and the Scythians, this new branch of Rome will grow... flourish into something Rome can depend on in times of need.”
Taking a short pause, Flavius continued.
“As for the throne of the Empire, I would suggest Tiberius Julius Caesar, Father,” he said sincerely. “He is, in all account, a far better administrator and benevolent ruler than I am or ever hope to be.”
“But of all people, why must it be you, Flavius?” cried the Emperor.
“Father, I would be a liar if I say I am doing this only because of the gods’ guidance,” answered Flavius. “I am doing this because I want to. My victory in Teutoburg Forest means nothing. The historians will be quick to forget a general whose only mark in life was a single victory that benefit neither the people of Rome nor the Empire in the long run. If I can start my own career somewhere else, however, it’s a different thing altogether.”
“You are my only son, Flavius!” the Emperor shouted. “Of course history will have to remember you as the next ruler of this empire!”
“It was you who told me that history is built by the hands of strong leaders. If I only stay within the confinement of the luxuries you will leave me with, Father, I will neither grow nor become strong. That’s not what I want. I want to go out there and create something of my own!”
For several seconds the Emperor sat still in his seat, his palm clutching his head, seemingly crushing the laurel wreath in his angry grip. Taking this as a refusal, Flavius quickly took another step towards his father and continued.
“Please, Noble Augustus,” he said, his voice returning to formality. “Great generals throughout histories who had won battles would usually reap rewards accordingly. I am not asking for any reward, save for the permission to set out to this new land of Nihonnia!”
Once again the Emperor was taken aback. Not only because of his son’s audacity and daringness, but because he had seen within his son what he used to be in his youth. Bravery to the point of blindness, obsession with greatness and immortality in name and the willingness to do something different. It had ended well for him so far, as his throne could testify. But Flavius was not Octavius. Not that it would stop him anyway, as Flavius’ eyes now suggested, burning with the same passion he himself once had as he first marched against Marcus Antonius nearly half a century ago. He knew more than anyone else there was no stopping his son now short of death.
Finally the emperor signified his surrender with a sigh.
“Is there truly no other choice, Flavius?” he asked in a voice readily translatable into pleading.
“I am afraid not, Father,” was Flavius’ answer.
“If that is your choice, is there anything else I can help you with?”
“That is exactly what I am here today for, Father,” said Flavius. “The 16th Legion that I have led during the battle of Teutoburg Forest... I want them to follow me to Nihonnia. ”
“There won’t be any problem with that,” the Emperor said. “I can at least do that much for my son. Not only will I grant you the 16th Legion, I will also have the best craftsmen of Rome to follow you on this expedition. Together with the Golden Aquilia of the Praetorians, so that any enemy crossing your path shall know it is Flavius Julius Caesar Teutoburgius who fights them, so that they shall flee before your swords.”
“That would be all I can ask for, Father,” hastily answered Flavius. “When shall it be done, Father?”
“Give me a day,” the emperor answered, before his voice turned sour.
“If you follow this choice of yours till the end, you won’t ever see Rome again, am I correct?” he then said. “That means not only the throne of the Empire and me, but also anyone you would call a friend since your eyes first dawn on this world. Is there anything you regret about this choice?”
“Only those who follow me can call themselves my friend,” firmly replied Flavius. “The only thing else I would like to tell you, Father, is to take care. May the gods bless you will longevity and happiness as they have blessed me with a future.”
“What irony, my son, what irony,” cried Octavius Julius Caesar Augustus, “that a son has to wish longevity and health for his father in such a way!”
“Such is fate, Father,” bowed Flavius. “We both work for the sake of the Senate and People of Rome, but in two different ways.”
******
< Message edited by Argeus the Paladin -- 1/11/2010 1:55:28 >
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