1.40

The Son of Rome

“Tell me, Solus, what do Romans do for fun?” Selene asked, resting on her stomach in the late kyrios’ bed while I paced slowly around the room. Her legs kicked idly behind her. We had been speaking for hours while I waited for Sorea to return with news of Griffon’s survival.

The Scarlet Oracle was borderline ravenous for tales of life outside of the Half-Step City. She eagerly listened to my description of the city of Rome as a Roman knew it, chiming in to contrast it with what she had been told of the Republic as a Greek. She didn’t hesitate to point out similarities between her own city and mine when she noticed them, and was even quicker to ask about differences in our ways of life.

I’d had an idea from the start, when we first spoke to each other on that plateau – surrounded by initiates of the Raging Heaven Cult and yet entirely alone – that she was an isolated girl. I had assumed that had more to do with her father than anything else, but then I’d found out she was an Oracle. It was impossible not to see once I knew to look for it. Selene was a girl that no common mystiko could hope to approach, even for a casual conversation. Those that could afford to be in her company were, by the nature of their power and influence, far older and far less agreeable than a girl her age needed in a friend.

The more we spoke, the more I found myself sharing the truly painful memories. The ones that stung like fresh wounds, because they were small enough that I could afford to not remember them every day. The thousand-thousand little things that made me proud to call myself Roman. The countless shards of a shining, shimmering mosaic that together made up the Republic.

Selene accepted those small remembrances, all but meaningless to someone who hadn’t lived them, with genuine reverence. And that made it all too easy to keep divulging them to her.

What did Romans do for fun? I pondered the question.

“Games,” I said, because it was the first thing that came to mind. “The chariot races were the largest spectacle by far. My father would always reserve the best seats at the corners of the track, where the races were the deadliest. It was considered a dull affair if at least three chariots didn’t crash by the final lap.”

“I wouldn’t have guessed racing to be Rome’s favorite pastime,” Selene said, interested.

I glanced wryly back at her, bracing half my weight on the raven’s bronze spear. “Why do you say that?”

“Well…” She tucked a finger behind her golden veil and lifted it just enough for a single scarlet eye to peer back at me. Her Heroic fire burned mischievously. “I’ve only met one Roman so far, and you seem to fall in line with the common consensus.”

“I enjoy games as much as the next man,” I protested. “In fact, I enjoy them more.” She smiled obligingly and let the veil drop.

“I believe you, Solus. I’m just surprised. I would have expected a more violent game, if nothing else.”

“It was permitted for chariot riders to whip their opponents,” I admitted.

Her smile deepened. “I see.”

“Regardless,” I said, waving the point off. “The simple things are always enjoyable. A hot bath and a cold bath, an afternoon at the races or a game of dice with friends, and whatever sport happened to be at hand.”

“What was your favorite game when you lived there?” She asked, tilting her head. Then, rising up slightly, she added, “is it a game we could play here?”

I still had my knuckles, and I suspected that the late kyrios would have all manner of board games and curiosities here in his estate, if what Griffon had told me of the man was true. But the question had been what my favorite game was.

“My favorite game was Lusus Troiae,” I said, and shook my head. “It’s not something two people can play.”

“The Game of Troy,” she murmured, disappointed and curious in equal measure. “How was it played?”

“Officially? The Lusus Troiae is a maneuvering game, a communal test of skill rather than a competitive one.” I paused in my pacing, allowed the distant cadence I had been keeping in the back of my mind to fade, and sighed heavily as the throbbing ache in my left leg came roaring back to the surface of my thoughts. “In honor of victory, in respect for a statesman’s passing, or in commemoration of new holy ground, the games were invoked as a remembrance of the present as well as the most distant past – the origin war that birthed the Republic.”

“A communal test of skill,” Selene mused. “What’s it look like?”

I inhaled deeply, tasted the clatter of equestrian steps and the drumbeat of their flawless formations.

The column split apart

As files in the three squadrons all in line

Turned away, cantering left and right; recalled

They wheeled and dipped their lances for a charge.

“Three squadrons of mounted Cavalry, each fifteen strong,” I recounted, closing my eyes and seeing it unfold. “Twelve riders, two armor-bearers, and a leader to guide them. Forty-five men and their warhorses in total. We call it the Game of Troy because what they were doing was more than just a drill.” I smiled, because the wonder was still there. Even the memory was dazzling.

They entered then on parades and counter-parades,

The two detachments, matched in the arena,

Winding in and out of one another,

And whipped into sham cavalry skirmishes

By baring backs in flight, then whirling round

With leveled points, then patching up a truce

And riding side by side.

“They went to war amongst themselves, those forty-five men. They brought the Battle of Troy to life without spilling a drop of blood,” I recounted. “During my time as a young patrician in Rome, and later as a young officer in Gaius’ legions, I had seen the Lusus Troiae in motion more than once. Each occurrence was as profound as the one that came before. It never got old. It’s difficult enough to coordinate forty-five men in such a complex formation. On horseback, in front of the most demanding audiences in the Republic? Incredible doesn’t do it justice.”

“It sounds impressive,” Selene agreed. “But not the sort of thing you can play at a moment’s notice. How often did you get to do it?”

I chuckled ruefully. “Never. I was always an observer.”

I wasn’t old enough, back when I skulked the streets of Rome. And after, I had never had the time.

“Your favorite game is one you never played?” Selene asked, frowning severely. “That isn’t fair at all. It’s also very sad!”’

“I said that was the official Lusus Troiae,” I corrected her. “And it is one of my favorites to this day, observer or not. But as a boy my favorite was the unofficial Game of Troy. The one that young patricians and street rats alike would play while the adults were away.”

“Oh?” She leaned forward, eager.

“Sometime after I met Aristotle,” I explained, “the pickpocket that led to our meeting introduced me to the child’s Lusus Troiae.”

For a moment, the aches and pains were a fond thing, a memory of long afternoons in the alleys and streets of Rome. I shook my head.

“We formed teams of children, one always larger than the other, and where the adults chose to recreate the war in its finest form, capturing the essence of martial ingenuity without any of the bloodshed, the boys of Rome chose to do the opposite. We would draw a line in the dirt and the larger team would do everything in its power to drag the smaller team across that line. Tactics were minimal, if they were there at all. Bloodshed and broken bones were common occurrences.”

Selene hummed, tilting her head. “I think I can guess which of the two teams you preferred to be on.”

“To prevail in the face of overwhelming numbers,” I mused. “That is the essence of Rome.”

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“How do you win as the smaller team? Drag the larger team across the line?”

“No, the official game of Troy is an ode to coordination, but the boys’ game is the opposite. The only way to win was to be the last man standing on your side of the line.”

“And how often did you win, Solus?” The Scarlet Oracle asked me. I glanced back at her, smiling faintly.

“Every time.”

We continued on like that, trading stories long into the night while I awaited the return of Socrates or my eagle, whichever came first.

It ended up being the latter, to Selene‘s delight and my quiet relief. The messenger eagle alighted on the raised butt of my spear, vomiting a message as well as a pile of ink black crow bones into my open hand. Idly, while I unfurled the papyrus and began to read, I cracked a bone open with my teeth and sucked the marrow out. The starlight strength rushed through the new channels in my body, cascading down towards my left leg and burning horrifically as it began its bloody work. It wasn’t an immediate fix, but any help was welcome.

“Solus,” Selene said, and I glanced up to find her rising from the bed, veiled face tilted down towards the remaining bones in my hand. “What are those?”

I tossed one to her, and she juggled it between both hands as if it burned.

“Griffon and I believe them to be a fraction of a Tyrant’s influence,” I explained, spitting the fragments of bone out onto the kyrios’ priceless ivory and gold floor when I was done with them, moving out into the temple courtyard. “They taste vile and burn going down, but they’re better than hard tack.”

The Scarlet Oracle considered the midnight bone in her hand for a moment before slipping it into a fold in her Oracle attire. She sighed softly and shook her head. “You’re not going to live a very long life if you keep on like this, Solus.”

That was divine wisdom if I had ever heard it.