Welcome to Books, Books, and More
Books. I am pleased to share this book
with you. Thank you for visiting and
please come again.
Blurb
:
Empire Betrayed
The Fall of Sejanus
In 29 A.D., Emperor Tiberius Caesar, living in
self-imposed exile on the Isle of Capri, entrusts his Praetorian Prefect,
Lucius Aelius Sejanus, with the administration of the vast Roman Empire. Under
Sejanus’ iron fist, and unbeknownst to Tiberius, the ranks of the Senate and
equites are subsequently purged of the Praetorian’s enemies. Treason trials,
once prohibited in Rome, have become commonplace as Sejanus relentlessly
punishes any who would defy him in his quest for power.After many years of commanding the cavalry of the Army of the Rhine, Tribune Aulus Nautius Cursor at last returns to Rome, amidst the turmoil. Two years later is elected as a Tribune of the Plebs; the representatives of the people who hold the power of veto over the Senate. It is Cursor who discovers Sejanus’ sinister plans; that he seeks to overthrow Tiberius and name himself Emperor.
Duty bound to save the Empire from falling further under a tyrannical usurper, Cursor resolves to unravel the conspiracy and bring the perpetrators to justice. Aiding him is an old friend; a retired Master Centurion named Gaius Calvinus. Regrettably, they know that if successful, Tiberius’ retribution will be swift and brutal, sparing neither the innocent nor the guilty. This leaves only two dark paths for Cursor and Calvinus; either allow the pending reign of terror under a ruthless usurper, or unleash the unholy vengeance of an Emperor betrayed.
About the Author:Born in Edmonds, Washington, author James Mace is currently a resident of Meridian, Idaho. He enlisted in the United States Air Force out of high school; three years later transferring over to the U.S. Army. After a career as a Soldier that included deploying to Iraq, in 2011 he left his full-time position with the Army National Guard to devote himself to writing.
His well-received series, "Soldier of Rome - The Artorian Chronicles," is a perennial best-seller in ancient history on Amazon. In his latest endeavors, he also branched into writing about the Napoleonic Wars. After he finishes the last of The Artorian Chronicles in 2013, he looks to expand into a series about the Anglo-Zulu War of 1879.
Contacts:
Excerpt:
Chapter I: All Roads
to Rome
Rome
August, 29 A.D.
***
The sun had just started to break over the hills to the east
as the Eternal City came into view. The well-worn road the small group
travelled on was known as the Via Aurelia,
or Aurelian Way. It was nearly three
hundred years old and served as the main thoroughfare from Rome to the west
coast of Italia. At the head of the entourage rode a man dressed in a Tribune’s
armor, complete with muscled breastplate, with white leather trappings, a dark
red cloak, and an ornate helmet, decorated with a lion’s head on the crown and
with a magnificent red crest running front-to-back. Far from being just
ceremonial, his armor had seen battle on many occasions, and even constant
polishing and buffing could not eliminate the scouring from the blows of
countless enemy weapons.
His name was Aulus Nautius Cursor. Taller than most men, he
had a pronounced nose that was common among many of the nobility, though it was
devoid of the aquiline hook. His frame was lean and more designed for speed and
agility, rather than brute power. Having gone completely bald at a young age,
the padded skull cap beneath his helmet was doubly important. Now in his late
thirties, he’d spent nearly twenty years as a military Tribune with the Army of
the Rhine; substantially longer than many of his peers. All members of the
lesser-nobles of the Roman Empire, known as the Equites, were required to perform a minimum of six months with the
legions. Though many stayed on longer than the compulsory time required, especially
if other political or magisterial postings proved scarce, few ever made the
army their primary career path. Being neither legionaries from the ranks, nor
with ever having any opportunity to command legions as legates, Tribunes were
confined to mostly staff duties. If one were lucky, he’d get command of a
cohort of auxiliaries; the non-citizens who augmented the Roman Army with the
promise of being awarded citizenship after twenty-five years of service.
For Cursor, his path had been much different. Though his
name literally meant ‘runner’, and he was indeed quite nimble and fast on his
feet, his true skill lay in horsemanship. His riding skills, plus natural
ability for coordinating large bodies of fighting men, led to his assignment as
a cavalry officer, under the tutelage of the now-legendary Commander Julius
Indus. He’d also done his mandatory time as a staff officer, and was fortunate
enough to have served directly under the late great, Germanicus Caesar. During
the wars against the Germanic Alliance, following the disastrous ambush in
Teutoburger Wald, Germanicus had demanded that all of his officers would first
and foremost lead their men by their own example. In one of the few times he
ever fought on foot, Cursor had accompanied his commanding general during the
assault on a barbarian stronghold at Angrivarii; a terrible battle which
thankfully brought the wars to an end.
Despite the accolades given to him for his bravery at
Angrivarii, it was with the cavalry that the Tribune excelled, and it was
following a rebellion in Gaul that he was given command of all mounted forces
within the Rhine army. This was expanded even further during the Frisian
Rebellion, when Cursor was handed operational control over all auxiliary forces
during the campaign. With a force of ten thousand men, he had more soldiers
under his charge than even the senatorial Legates who commanded the legions. It
was at the Battle of Braduhenna that Cursor achieved his greatest glory, though
he personally viewed it as his utmost tragedy.
“We’ve been away for far too long,” his wife, Adela
Theodora, said as the city came into view over the horizon. The River Tiber
stretched before them, running north to south. Just beyond was the Campus
Martius, also known as the Field of Mars.
A plethora of foreign temples and cults were housed here, as it also served as
a place to greet dignitaries who could not for cultural reasons pass into the
city proper. The most dominating feature of this district was the massive Baths of Agrippa. Beyond the field was
the Capitoline; one of the famous Seven Hills that dominated Rome. The
magnificent Temple of Jupiter rose from atop this hill and accented the
skyline.
“To be honest, my
love,” Cursor replied, “It was on the Rhine, leading my regiments, that I felt most
alive.”
“And if you were still there, we should remain unmarried,”
his wife replied.
“Ours was indeed an unusual courtship,” Cursor chuckled.
Though arranged in the traditional sense by contract between Cursor and Adela’s
father, Theodorus, Adela herself had adamantly refused to follow through with
the marriage as long as Cursor was still leading men into battle.
“Father relented once he saw that I would not budge, and
that you were willing to wait for me.” She had three sisters, two of whom had
been widowed within their first couple years of marriage, when their husbands
were killed in battle. The eldest had been wed to the Chief Tribune of the
Twentieth Legion; in what their father felt was a great step forward, joining
their family to the Senatorial class. Sadly, the young man was killed at
Braduhenna, just four months into the marriage. He had never known that his
wife was with child, though her grief would be compounded when their son was
stillborn.
During what became a lengthy betrothal, Adela and her
husband-to-be grew surprisingly close to each other. She had lived with family
friends who owned an estate outside of Cologne, on the Rhine frontier. She
therefore was able to remain close to Cursor, and was exceedingly proud of his
valiant service to the Empire. However, she would not allow herself to become
widowed like her sisters.
“Your father once told me that you were too intimidating for
him to try and marry off to anyone else,” Cursor remembered with a laugh. “He
told me I’d better not die in battle; otherwise he wouldn’t know what to do
with you!” Adela simply smiled and shrugged. Being very statuesque, she was
tall enough to easily look her husband in the eye, something that most
normal-sized men found rather unnerving. Because Cursor treated her as an
equal, their presence together made them a very strong couple.
As they reached the edge of the city, the streets were
crowded with pedestrians, and they were compelled to dismount and lead their
horses through the hectic thoroughfare, their travelling companions going their
own ways. They skirted through a residential district, just north of the busy
heart of the city. To the south was the Forum of Augustus; a small complex that
housed the Temple of Mars Ultor. Further south, the great Capitoline Hill stood
against the sky, with the Temple of Jupiter casting its shadow over the Roman
Forum. As the road they were traveling along was crammed with street performers
and observers, Cursor and Adela decided to chance going down a side street that
would take them by Capitoline Hill and the Forum. Just before the Temple of
Jupiter was the smaller Temple of Concord that overlooked the Forum itself.
“The Gemonian Stairs,” Cursor observed, nodding towards the
long steps that led up to the temple.
“The Stairs of Mourning,” Adela added somberly. “Many a life
has ended on those bloody steps.”
One would never guess from the flocks of people climbing the
steps that it served as the primary place of execution for notorious criminals.
Almost inconspicuously off to the right of the Temple of Concord stood the
Tullianum, a prison that was used to temporarily house those awaiting trial or
execution. Interestingly enough, long-term prison sentences were rare in Roman
society. Punishments such as public scourging or financial penalties sufficed
for minor offenses, with banishment, enslavement, or death awaiting those found
guilty of capital crimes. If one looked closely, they could almost see the
blackened stains on the lower steps, where the bodies of the condemned were torn
to pieces by the mob. As public executions were the norm in most parts of the
world, both within and outside of the Empire, and that those who met their
ignominious ends on the Gemonian Stairs hardly warranted pity, Cursor and Adela
paid it no more mind and continued on their way.
On the outskirts of the Forum, Cursor saw the first face he
had recognized all day. The man was in his early fifties, with close-cropped
hair that was a mix of black and gray. He wore a formal toga, accented with the
narrow purple stripe that identified him as a member of the Equites, though he
carried himself with a force of authority, like an old soldier.
“By the gods,” Cursor said with a grin, then hailing the
man, “Calvinus!”
The man was startled for a moment at the call of his name,
but broke into a broad grin as he walked over to Cursor and Adela. He
instinctively almost saluted, but after a moment’s pause extended his hand
instead.
“Tribune, sir,” he said.
“Please,” Cursor replied, clasping the old soldier’s hand,
“I see by the purple stripe on your toga that you are now my peer. There is no
need to call me ‘sir’.”
“Old habits,” Calvinus replied with a nonchalant shrug. He
then gave a respectful nod towards the Tribune’s wife. “Lady Adela.”
“A pleasure,” she replied. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”
“Gaius Calvinus, ma’am; I served with the Twentieth Legion
when your husband commanded the cavalry of the Rhine Army.”
“And as a retired Master Centurion, he was elevated into the
Equites,” Cursor added.
“Rome does afford at least some opportunities to better
one’s social standing,” Calvinus observed, “If one has the ambition to use
them.”
“I did not know you returned to Rome,” Cursor said.
“My daughter and her family live in Neapolis,” Calvinus
explained, walking with them and helping guide their way through the Forum.
“This brought me close enough that I can at least pay them the occasional
visit. It was bad enough that Calvina grew up hardly knowing her father, and
with my grandson fast approaching manhood, I felt compelled to make up for lost
time. And besides, how many retired soldiers have the opportunity to influence
the governing of our beloved Empire after they remove their armor for the last
time?”
“Very few,” Cursor conceded. For every hundred men who
served out their term in the legions, perhaps three or four would be in a
position to have a second career in continuing service to Rome. And only
approximately three in every thousand ever achieved sufficient rank to elevate
themselves up the social ladder.
“I felt a responsibility that once I was officially named an
Equite, I needed to act as a voice for our brethren still in the ranks. I have
no desire to try for a governorship or anything of that nature. However, it
would be unethical if I took the privileges of being raised up within the
social orders and not any of the responsibilities. If I can still be of service
to Rome, I will.”
Roman society was extremely rigid in its class structure,
with every citizen and non-citizen expected to know their place without
question. Those within the Senatorial class were the noble patricians who
lorded over the Empire, answerable only to the Emperor. All were from the
oldest and wealthiest families within Rome, and while at any time as many as
three hundred were sitting members of the Senate, their total number was
perhaps six hundred to a thousand total households.
The Equites were the lesser nobles who provided the Empire
with many of its magistrates, public officials, minor provincial governors, as
well as military Tribunes and the coveted Tribunes of the Plebs. Those not born
into this class could be elevated into it by serving in the army; though this
often required one attaining the rank of Centurion Primus Pilus, also known as
a Master Centurion. Centurions who
had served as cohort commanders were also sometimes eligible. As soldiers who
retired at these exalted ranks were so few in number, they made up a very small
fraction of this class. All told, there were perhaps a few thousand members of
the Equites, and between them and the Senate they made up the noble classes of
an Empire that numbered around seventy million persons.
“Where will you be staying?” Calvinus asked as they skirted
the Forum and passed the Temple of the Divine Romulus, at the start of the
street known as the Via Sacra, or Sacred Way.
“I arranged purchase of a house not too far from here,”
Cursor said, “Thankfully it keeps us away from the daily insanity of the Forum.
We’re about a mile south of the Castra Praetoria.” The place he referred to was
the central barracks of the Emperor’s Praetorian Guard.
“Ah, I’m not far from you at all,” Calvinus observed. “Well
I have to be off again; remember, I have not been away from the legions for
long and am still learning the ways of an Equite former soldier who still
wishes to serve the public. Give yourself a day or two to get settled, and then
please call upon us. Lady Adela, my wife, Petronia, would love to make your
acquaintance.”
“Likewise,” Adela replied. As they watched the old soldier
make this way through the crowds, she turned to her husband. “Did you know him
well?”
“Well enough,” Cursor replied. “He was one of the few
survivors of that disastrous ambush in Teutoburger Wald, twenty years ago. He
and a young Tribune named Cassius Chaerea saved the lives of over a hundred legionaries
when they cut their way out of that nightmare. It was also his legion that my
men trekked forty miles in a day to relieve after they were cut off and
surrounded at Braduhenna.”
As wheeled traffic was only permitted on the streets of Rome
at night, it was well after midnight by the time the wagons bearing Cursor and
Adela’s baggage arrived at their house. They’d had the good sense to send
servants a day or two ahead of them to purchase a suitable bed and a few other
immediate necessities. Adela decided to pass the time with a lengthy bath. One
amenity they had that most of the general populace did not was the privilege of
having one’s own private bath, rather than having to use those crowded public
facilities scattered throughout the city. Having her skin scraped and oiled by
a servant, she lounged in the heated waters of the hot bath and allowed herself
to drift off.
She was uncertain how much time had passed when she roused
herself from her plunge. Her maidservant was waiting with fresh robes, and
after dressing, Adela made her way up the dark flight of stairs to their suite.
The household staff was still unloading baggage, though she paid them little
mind. She expected her husband would have been in bed by this late hour;
however, she could see the faint glow of light coming from the room that would
be his private study.
Curious, Adela walked noiselessly down the short hallway to
where the door was barely cracked open. Inside, Cursor stood over a table, an oak
box lying open on top. In his hands he held a crude circlet of grass and weeds,
held together by hardened mud. Though it looked more like something a ragged
barbarian would wear, and contrasting sharply with any form of Roman décor, it
was in fact Rome’s most prestigious award for valor, and Aulus Cursor was the
only currently living recipient in the whole of the Empire. His eyes were shut,
his head bowed in deep thought…
“Make ready to storm
the gates of hell…charge of the ten thousand!” The Tribune’s voice was
breaking as he salvaged what was left of his strength for one final assault. He
could not remember the last time he’d slept; and since the previous afternoon,
he and his men had trekked twenty miles up the River Rhine, crossed, and then
back again. The forced march through the black of night, unable to see or hear
anything except the raging river for endless hours, without knowing if his men
were even still with him, had nearly driven him completely mad. He was beyond
exhausted; all of his senses were numb.
His cavalry regiments formed the center of a massive wedge,
with infantry cohorts on the flanks. The Tribune had instinctively placed
himself at the apex of the wedge, knowing that if he were first into the fray,
his men would follow. At this point, he reasoned that if he did fall, death
would be a reprieve from his utter exhaustion and pain.
The Frisian army was huge; they had managed to trap an
entire legion with its back to the Rhine. The legionaries had been in a
desperate fight for their lives since the previous afternoon, and the Tribune
did not know if any of them were even still alive. The Frisians were devoid of
armor, with most carrying small board or wicker shields, with hand axes, clubs,
or stabbing spears for weapons. A small number of the wealthier warriors
carried swords, either Roman-style gladii, or great broadswords. What they
lacked in protection and armament they made up for in overwhelming numbers,
discipline, and extreme courage.
Many of the enemy warriors had been caught by surprise as
the wall of men and horses crashed into them, with many being toppled and cut
down in the onslaught. The Tribune watched as his long spatha cavalry sword
smashed into the skull of one such man with a loud snap, cutting deep into the
brain and mercifully killing the warrior instantly. He lost all sense of
awareness to his surroundings; he was now in a battle for his life, as were the
rest of his men who crashed into the flank of the Frisian army. His horse
reared up as a spear was brandished in its face, almost throwing its rider off.
The Tribune gripped the reins tightly and spun the beast about, allowing him to
thrust his sword deep into his assailant’s throat. The man’s eyes bulged and
his tongue stuck grotesquely between his teeth as blood erupted from this
throat and mouth. Unable to hear anything over the roar of clashing arms and
the screams of wounded men and horses, the Tribune realized that their charge
was foundering. The Frisian numbers were too great, and the complete fatigue of
his men was quickly proving to be their undoing.
Then out of the corner of his eye he saw the flash of red
shields. Large formations of legionaries were assembling to the right of his
force, unleashing storms of javelins into their hapless foes. These were not
the cut off remnants of the Twentieth who had been cut off this entire time;
these men were from the Fifth Legion, who had spent the entire night rebuilding
the severed bridges across the Rhine. They were mostly fresh, and were smashing
into the Frisians with a vengeance.
His senses still numb, the Tribune signaled for his nearest
cavalry regiments to follow him. They quickly pulled back away from the
harrowing battle, as the Frisians were attempting to face this renewed
onslaught of legionaries. The Tribune knew that the shock of his charge, which
had driven their enemy away from the bridges and given the Fifth room to cross,
combined with a flanking assault by five thousand relatively fresh legionaries,
would break them soon enough. His intent now was to maneuver his cavalry around
the flank and behind the enemy. His auxiliary infantry and remaining cavalry
regiments continued to gallantly hold their ground as cohorts of legionaries
formed up to reinforce them with alarming speed and discipline; each century
unleashing its javelins before drawing their gladii and charging into the hell
storm of men and metal.
As his horsemen made their way around to the rear of the
barbarian force, the Tribune caught sight of the only enemy mounted troops on
the field. It was the Frisian king himself! Though his bodyguard could have
easily held the Roman cavalry long enough for the king to escape, his sword was
drawn and he was leading his men in their final charge. As the Tribune ordered
his men to reform and attack, he was struck with a sense of admiration for the
Frisian king’s selfless courage; that he was willing to die with his warriors.
The king’s household cavalry was badly outnumbered and
outmatched by the Roman horsemen, and the entire clash, spectacular as it was,
was over in a minute. The ranking Centurion who accompanied the Tribune, who
was ironically a Frisian by birth, was the one who cut down the enemy king. He
unhorsed him with a hard slash across the body and flaying his guts open as the
king fell hard to the earth, his stricken horse landing on top of him. His
vision clouded, the Tribune now had difficulty focusing on the ongoing battle,
where the enemy army’s flank had collapsed and a panic was running amok amongst
the warriors. Pursuit would prove impossible, for the Tribune had the only
Roman cavalry on this side of the Rhine, and both men and horse were completely
spent. The soldiers of the Fifth Legion would not be able to mount any sort of
effective chase, encumbered as they were by their heavy armor and weapons. But
for them, there was the euphoria and relief that came from knowing that where
once all was lost, the battle had now been won.
The Tribune caught his first glance of the wreckage of the
Twentieth Legion, and was surprised to see that any of them were still alive.
Though many were dead or seriously wounded, the majority of the legionaries
still stood, completely spent but defiant. Those who’d taken it the worst was a
lone century that had held the extreme flank. Few of these men could stand, and
the small patch of ground was littered with bodies, both Frisian and Roman. The
Tribune almost collapsed as he quickly dismounted upon seeing the unit’s
Centurion lying on the ground, his hand clasped over a deep gash in his side,
where his armor had been ruptured. His smashed helmet lay several feet away,
and he was bleeding from a nasty gash behind his ear from where his helm had
been ripped from his head. The man, whose name was Artorius, was someone the
Tribune had always considered a friend, despite his status as a plebian soldier
from the ranks. The two clasped hands, though neither would remember what words
had passed between them.
The Tribune’s next memory came from later that afternoon.
The survivors of the Twentieth Legion, still looking battered and filthy, were
standing in formation. In a reversal of protocol, all officers stood at the
back. Posted in front of the mass of legionaries was a young soldier, who
appeared to be all of seventeen. In his hands was a crown made of grass and
weeds, taken from the trampled field of battle. Though most awards presented to
Roman soldiers were made of gold or silver, the two most prestigious came from
the humble earth. The Civic Crown,
awarded for saving the life of a fellow soldier or citizen, was made of oak
leaves instead of gold, as it was reasoned that a gold crown would be putting a
price on human life. The crown held by the young legionary was of an even
greater honor, and was for saving not just one life, but an entire legion. It
was also the only award that was presented by the men in the ranks, by
universal acclamation. It was so prestigious and rare that it had not been
awarded to any soldier for at least a couple of generations.
“Tribune Aulus Nautius Cursor,” the legionary spoke, “It is
by your actions in leading your ten thousand forty miles in a single day,
flanking the Frisian army, and killing the enemy King that you have saved the
Valeria Legion from being wiped out of existence. It is by universal
acclamation of the men of the Twentieth that we present you Rome’s most sacred
honor, the Grass Crown.”
The Tribune removed his helmet, tucking it under his left
arm, and bowed his head slightly as the legionary placed the crown on his bald
head. The soldier then drew his gladius and turned to face the legion.
“Twentieth Legion!”
he shouted. “Gladius…draw!”
“Rah!” responded
the host of legionaries, who had been deathly silent to this point, as their
weapons flew from their scabbards.
“Salute!”
“Ave Cursor, savior of
Valeria!”
Adela’s eyes grew wet as she watched her husband go through
his somber ritual. Though the Battle of Braduhenna, which had taken place just
east of the River Rhine, was a Roman victory, it was regarded as an unmitigated
disaster. It was well known throughout the Empire that Cursor was awarded the
Grass Crown, yet many of Rome’s nobles resented him for it. It was viewed by
some as dishonorable that the legionaries of the Twentieth Valeria had taken
the initiative to honor him for saving their lives. Cursor had certainly never
asked to be awarded for his actions, and in fact avoided any mentioning of what
happened that dark day.
Soon after the ceremony, he had spoken with Centurion
Artorius, who had watched from a distance, being unable to stand and wearing
only a loin cloth and a large bandage over his badly injured side. Cursor had
told the Centurion that it felt more like a crown of lead than of grass.
“It is a heavy burden you now bear,” Artorius had replied.
“But know that your place in history is well earned.”
Whatever his thoughts were about the heavy burden the Grass
Crown brought to him, he kept it with him as a sacred possession, in honor of
those who died at Braduhenna. Adela watched as her husband took a small pitcher
of water and lightly sprinkled a few drops over the crown to keep it moist and
from becoming brittle. He then closed his eyes, placed the crown to his lips,
and set it reverently back into its box. Adela watched for a moment longer as
he closed the lid and bowed his head, eyes still closed. She had never seen him
go through this ritual before, and wondered how often he performed it, or if
this was the first time. What she did know, and it broke her heart to come to
this understanding, was that the man she loved had had his very soul broken on
that horrible battlefield, fighting in a terrible war that would later be
regarded as unjustified; the magistrate who brought it about being personally
executed by the Emperor himself. The hardest thing for Adela Theodora to accept
was that the pain Cursor bore would always be there, and there was nothing she
could do to ever ease it.
Review:
This is an excellent
book to get a personal view of the history of Rome around the time of
Christ. It focuses on one man who fought
for Rome and earned his place in the upper class by virtue of his honor. It is, however, very much like reading a
history tome with personal vignettes inserted to help the history lesson. I
enjoy reading historical fiction, but this is not generally a time period that
I focus on. I enjoyed the story, but I
don’t know that it is one that I would naturally pick up to read simply because
I prefer to read European and English historical novels. Roman literature has never been my forte.
I give this book 3
out of 5 clouds.
This product or book
may have been distributed for review; this in no way affects my opinions or
reviews.
No comments:
Post a Comment