The Scribe of the Xth

My name is Scribe.

We have fought the bastards to a standstill. We have taken up residence in the royal palace and barred the doors and the approaching gates.

They rallied the countryside, and everybody and his second cousin have taken to throwing stones and excrement at our standards. It got worse as the days rolled on and especially when that boy king Ptolemy ran screaming into the streets like a little baby crying that his sister had usurped him. Now it’s all out war – on us.

Valens is as cool as a melon, and he seems to enjoy the battle that rages around us. When the Alexandrians poisoned our water, all he did was hand Digger a shovel. “Find us more,” he said.

Digger went to it and found a hidden well.

Good job Digger!

Alexandrians have bad tempers, and now there have been three attacks on the moon gate. My shield looked like a porcupine.

I thought this place was supposed to be barrels of wine and willing women. The women have gotten all patriotic on us, and I am wondering if the Alexandrians have poisoned the wine as well. Lips and Tickle looked depressed.

Medicus had his hands full. He sews us up like rag dolls, and removed at least three arrow punctures in our squad.

Boss has distinguished himself on the wall. He had fought off an Egypto-attack, and managed to throw six men off the wall as they scaled up a ladder. He is amazing. Caesar has noticed him, and all that does is egg him on to more heroics.

Falcon-Priest spends most of his time with a worried look on his face. He fights, but he fights like it’s his last day on earth. Men come to him for solace from other squads and other maniples. So far he has repeated prayers from at least 20 religions, 40 sects from the temples of 21 gods. He seems to know them all, including the hidden chants of the adherents of Mithras. He did not start out a squad-priest. He began when a friend of his died in his arms and was trying to recall a prayer for the dead. He finished his friend’s prayer, and after that he was the one that everyone came to for assistance. He told me that he did not believe in the gods until he found out how many – and how similar – they all are. He has even postulated the following: “Scribe, would it not be interesting if all the Gods were actually just one?”

Cook was in a bad mood because he can’t find a source of salt. He puts it into everything, and on everything. He has no time to cook. During clashes with the enemy he dreams of roasted chicken, and stuffed mushrooms soaked in wine.

So do I.

All we eat are moldy biscuits and one of my crackers actually moved! It tasted like a gooey chicken.

Lyre-Singer sings in war than he does in peace. We can’t shut the bastard up. Centurion

Valens told us to put him on the wall. He said, “His singing will keep the Egyptians up.”

OUR GODS ARE STRONG!
YOUNG AND TALL.
YOUR GODS DO BEG…
TO LIVE WITH US!
COME, GREAT RA, TO ROME!
WE BUILT A TEMPLE FOR YOU TO SIT.
INSIDE THE WALLS OF ROME,
INSIDE THE WALLS…OF ROME

From the battlements below the wall a voice rises up in Egyptian: “By the grace of Ra, shut up. If Ra comes to your infernal city he WILL need some sleep for the journey!”

Laughter comes from below the wall and from on top. Centurion Valens is pleased. The enemy for the moment is not sleeping. “Continue to sing,” he orders Lyre-Singer.

Before I slept I opened my journal. I take out my stylus and octopi ink. The stylus seems to quiver; it seems to jump while left on attended on the page. It rolls back and forth, the nib seems to inch its way towards the octopi ink. “Pick me up,” it whispers to me. “Pick me up.”

IT DEMANDS TO WRITE.

It is one of those nights. A battle in the moon-light and you can swear that you can see the spirits of men leave their body and fly to the moon-lit clouds. The air, to our surprise, is cool. It is the type of night one can hear words whisper out from the dark.

“You can grab your prick, can you? Just grab my shaft so that I can write!”

These are the words.

“You will listen to me!” The boy King shouts.

Arsinoe and Ganymede stand side by side. Arsinoe looked at her little brother with contempt. “I say we attack this wall!”

Arsinoe begins to talk, but she is stopped by Ganymede. The fat eunuch sniffs and points at the map. “Your royal highness” he said to the boy. “This wall is reinforced by 1000 Romans and two hundred ‘Cleopatran’ guards. The wall will stand.”

The boy king looks at his hero Achillas. He commands the Pharaoh’s cohorts and has fought more battles than anyone in the room. His eyes are on the map and the map alone. “The moon gate has to eventually give,” he says. “I have war engines, towers with flame throwers to engage them there. Tiny Pharaoh is right. We attack the moon gate.”

Arsinoe shakes her fists at the room. “You shall waste man power on them. You shall waste our luck. Luck is what makes us, and the lack of it drags us down. We cut off their water. They are running out of food. What do we care if they sit inside their walls!”

“The princess is right,’ says the fat Ganymede.

“Luck favors those that do not let time fall through their fingers. It is like sand,” says Achillas. “Luck favors us now, but it may not favor us in a few days, or even a few hours.”
Archillas turns to his aide. “Unleash the monsters on the moon gate.”

Arsinoe rages at the bearded man in Greek helmet and Apollo armor. “Waste! Waste! Waste! We will need those men for later in the fight! Nothing but waste!”

Her shrieks make young Ptolemy cover his ears.

“Shut up you cow!” He yells.

Ganymede takes the girl outside the war tent. He strokes her neck as her shoulders shake in rage.

“You highness, do not stress yourself. We shall have our way in the end. “

“How?”“

“Your brother’s power is in the arms of Achillas. He always says he talks to the gods, does he not? As he formulates his war plans Achillas says, ‘I shall talk to the gods.’ Why don’t we send him to the gods.”

She looks up at the fat man and smiles. “Yes, yes Ganymede. You are wise. Send him to the gods.”

They both smile.

Arsinoe hugs him and he strokes her neck.

“Oh Ganymede,” she says with passion, “If only you were a man.”

“Yes, your majesty.”

I stopped writing.

Valens is looking down at me. “What is that?” He asked.

“My book.”

“Oh, is that all it is. Let me read it.” He takes the book and reads the words.

I see his eyes move across the page. He ponders the words. He then returns the book and begins to walk away.

“Where are you going?” I call after him.

“To see Caesar,” he said before disappearing into the night.

(By Rob Cain at http://ancientromerefocused.org)

I am Cleopatra.

It was dark. I could not see. My prison restricted my movement. It was hot, and I sweated profusely, but I did not move. I am disciplined you see – I learned discipline at a very early age. I learned that sometime you must enter into danger unseen.

It was dark then too. Our ship was entering Alexandria harbor, with a black sail, and 600 hundred men in black cloaks. The moon was hidden behind low clouds in the sky. They are paid mercenaries, soldiers bought from the Roman Senate to restore my father’s throne.
Father and I stood at the bow as the ship knocked up against the harbor, and the soldiers jumped onto the wharf eliminating sleep-eyed sailors or slaves with a stroke of their short swords. Father held my hand as he walked the gangplank to the wharf. When we reached solid ground he took out his flute and played some notes:

“DOOOOOOOOOO REEEEEEEEEEE DOOOOOOOOOOOO ME”

The contingent moved out in a slow march – as not to be too conspicuous. Father and I followed. Next to us was a young officer, named Marc Antony.
He was the most handsome man that I had ever seen. He had a massive neck (a god), a chin with a cleft (a god), wavy locks and golden hair (twice a god) I could not take my eyes off him.

We marched through the streets at night. The thieves and beggars ran to get out of our way. Women of questionable nature ran when they saw us march down the street. Leading the way was a palace guard bribed to take us into the palace through the front gate.

“SOL, LA, SOL, LA, SOL LA,” he tweeted on his pan flute.

Father trilled the order to stop. It took a few minutes to get the front gate opened. There was a struggle, and the sound of a man being dragged off and screamed from underneath a calloused hand.

“FA, FA, FAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!”

We were in the gate, and off we went running down the halls, to the left, to the right, familiar corridors with wet grasslands, panthers and birds in flight etched and painted on the walls. I felt like we were in a ridiculous race, and it was when we got to the golden doors – my bedroom – we found Berenice. My sister bitch. She was reclining on a sofa, trimmed in coppers and silver. She stood up and screamed at the top of her lungs, “GUARDS!”

From father’s flute came the following notes: “DOOOOOOOOOOOO REEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE MEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE”

The six hundred soldiers spread out through the room, killing guards as they rushed into the room. The blood spilled out onto the magnificent black onyx and inlayed floors.

“You can’t do this!” she shouted. “This is my kingdom, my land!”

A battle took place in the outer corridor. The was the sound of metal. The sound of clashing shields and solders dispatching opposition. Father and I stood there staring at Berenice. This was the bitch that took his throne. This is the bitch that tried to have me killed. Her big glands exposed for all to see, her makeup smeared by the tears that ran down her face. Bitch, bitch, bitch.

Finally, the battle stopped. Antony, lovely Antony came and whispered in Aurletes ear. He smiled and removed his hood. So did i.

We smiled at Benese who once more screamed at the top of her lungs.

Father plays a few notes: ‘DOOOO REEEEE DOOO REEEEE.”

“Shut up with that infernal music,” Berenice grunted and fell on her knees.

Father played again. ‘DOOOO REEEE DOOO REEEEE.”

Father then began to dance around Berenice. He danced up to her ear and played: ‘FA LA FA LA FA LA!”

The soldiers in their black capes came back into the room. The palace was secure and many of the royal guards pledged loyalty back from Berenice to her father. That pledge was easy to gain with the point of a sword and a bag of gold.

The Romans stood on the periphery of the room and laughed of the site of Father dancing about my sister – the cow – while playing his pan flute.

She began to cry.

Father enjoyed his little dance and humiliated her by pouring a cup of wine over her head. It ran down her shoulders and stained her white dress that barely hid her large chest as it heaved between sobs.

He looked at two of the Romans, and they looked at Antony. Only when he nodded did they pull her onto the balcony.

‘NO!” She shouted.

Her head was dispatched and lobbed over the balcony to the courtyard below.

Father smiled and took off his cape. He went to a hidden chamber embedded in a wall. He removed a golden ivy, a laurel, once worn by Alexander himself. I danced up to him. “Let me, let me!” I shouted begging for the honor of placing it on his head.
I took the laurel, made with beaten gold and father fell on his knees in front of me. I placed it on his head. He rose and then immediately performed a long trill on his flute.

The soldiers in black applauded.

I looked up at Antony. He smiled and winked at me. I thought he was more beautiful than the laurel crown that now sat upon my father’s head. I was like a puppy looking up slavishly to his master. “Command me, command me,” I cooed under my breath.

That was many years ago.

As for now, it is still dark. It is still hot. Suddenly as I dream of the Antony that I once loved, I am freed from my prison. The carpet is unrolled and I find myself laid out upon the cool marble floor. I look around for the man I have come to see. He is not beautiful like Antony. He is old, with a balding pate, and has the nose of an eagle. There is a twinkle in his eye as he stares at me. There is longing in those eyes. It’s been a longtime since he has stared upon a youthful and willing girl. I know he will be easy to command.

“Who are you?” He asked.

“Who are you?” I barked back in the best commanding voice I can give.

“I am Caesar ,” he said. “now answer my question. ”

I paused for effect.

“I AM ISIS.”

(Story by Rob Cain of http://ancientromerefocused.org.)

My name is Sanguine.

My squad name is Scribe.

For the rest of this account I shall call me what I was dubbed by my fellow soldiers. Each soldier is given a name that best bears his personality. I was the one who could write, the only one who could write…and thus my squad name was Scribe. Sometimes they called me ‘Blood-scribe’ for sometimes my writings tell of misfortune. However, for you who reads this account…Scribe is what I prefer to be known. My mates call me Scribe. I am Scribe to all. I am Scribe to you. There are many names we are called in life. Now I am Scribe.

This is an account of our voyage.

The centurions packed us into the ships. We were to set sail for Egypt

“They won’t be happy to see us,” I said.

“What country ever is?” the Sub-Centurion Valens said to the men. “You march into their country, eat their food and fut their women. We are not hospitable guests.”

The men laughed as the trireme moved away from the shore. Immediately, I vomited into the sea. The men of my squad laughed at my discomfort.

“Are the baby-soldiers sick already?” Valens said without pity. “Wait till Neptune causes the waves to rock, and up and down, up and down we fly over the waves like a dove riding the winds.”

“STOP!” I shouted from the assault of his descriptions

On the shore a group of women held up bastards for the soldiers to see. They held the children up to remind the soon to be gone father’s where to send their extra coins. Roman soldiers were not allowed to marry while in the legions, but there were no regulations on who you shared a hut or room. They looked at Valens sheepishly, and like little boys caught in a lie they waited for him to express his position on this subject for it would be Valens that would hold the whip.

“Oh, I know that some of you are looking on your honeys. Go to the railing for you might not be this way for quite a while. Before we get too far from shore go and wave goodbye and smile.”

The ‘married’ men ran to the railing and waved and shouted names of sweethearts and baby boys and girls. One fellow broke out into tears.

“Touching, isn’t it?” Valens said. “Men think with their pricks not knowing if the legion will send them to Egypt.”

When we made it out of harbor I began to feel better. I spent my free time – and there was much on board ship – writing in my journal. The men looked at me with almost mysticism. They wanted me to note them in a passage there or a passage there. “Note me, Scribe. I was first over the wall in the battle of the desert city. Note me, Scribe. I won the civic crown.” They took pride if their names made my parchment. I carried a folio of paper, stitched together into pages with leather front and back. It was a sturdy journal that could take cold and rain.

Three days and nights we sailed and rowed. A nastier smelling lot never stank up a ship then my small squad of mine. Let me tell you about them.

Falcon Priest (not his real name) was our squad priest. He can make sacrifices and is good with prayer to most any god you can name.

Lyre-Singer (not his real name) is a poet, a singer with a loud and awful voice caused by a twang from a three time broken nose and a throat punch in a shoving match to capture a rebel wall.

Cook (not his real name) can bake, grill, fry and any animal, into the most delicious fare. He spends his days – when he is not fighting – gathering herbs and carries a pouch of salt on his armor.

Digger (Not his real name) is the best in the unit with a spade. In fact, he enjoys it. He is good at it, and has actually used the spade in battle He has wailed into the enemy line swinging the spade back and forth to bang head and shield into tiny bits as he plows a course through the enemy line.

Lips and tickle (Not his real name) for his charms the women at every city taken in battle or not. They watch him in formation, and his reputation was well known throughout the civil war. It did not matter if the city was loyal to Caesar or not, when he entered the front gate the women had heard of him and the giant size of his prick. He is a god, a Pan, an Apollo with a flashing smile.

Medicus (Not his real name) – is our physician. Not sure how he learned ‘the arts.’ He can stitch you up, and cut your left off if needed (lucky for us he has not ever needed to perform such a task). Strangely enough he and Cook are best friends, and each has been seen wandering pastures and quiet forest searching for herbs. Cook wants what can affect the palette. Medicus wants what can affect the senses and the mind.

Boss (not his real name) is our scrapper. We named him after the metal knob on the front of our shield. He is quick tempered and good with his fists. He loves to fight, and has restricted his bouts to men from other squads and for civilians in town. We know we can always count on him to drag us out of a bar fight if it goes against us.

And finally, there is our centurion — Valens (his real name). We call him Philosopher Valens, the tutor, the teacher, the one who instructs. He keeps an eye on all of us. It is rumored that he and Julius Caesar were friends. It was a friendship forged on the Gallic plains in the deep forests. Caesar waded into battle and it was Valens that was on his right. Caesar almost lost his life to a deadly blow to the head, and it was Valens that stepped between him and the mace. Valens was a centurion of the first order, in the first line, but he was flat on his back in a hospital in Greece for too long to retain his rank. Upon his return, Valens was given the last rank, and thus demoted. Some would have considered it a shaming, but Valens loved the legion – so did we.

So what can I say about a soldier’s life? You are never alone. Falcon Priest made us feel like we were closer to the gods, Lyre-singer gave our hopes and sorrow words in tune – bad lyrics and all – Cook fed us, Medicus cured us, or at least made us feel like mother was nursing us back to health. Digger made sure that we could dig a tunnel better than any other squad, Lips and Tickle regaled us with tales of lust and Boss consistently saved us from a beating.

Occasionally we washed with water from the sea, and the salt would sting our private parts. The ship was so small we spent most of the time getting in each other’s way, and sleeping on each other’s laps. Our pastime was watching the coast for clues for our destination. We hugged the coast for the entire way, and the land went from rocks and inlet coasts with green vineyards, to dry, sandy, and featureless plains.

Black clouds at our stern marred our trip, and warned of an impending storm. We called to Falcon-Priest for a sacrifice.

“Neptune’s fury is in the distance, Falcon…sacrifice something…anything,” said Medicus. He pointed to the back of the ship where clouds, black and filthy rains sat in the distance.

There was a mad scramble to find something to kill. A goat, a dog that may have been hidden on board.

“Anybody got a rat?” I called to the squad.

The oars began to move to a double beat, and we good hear the slaves below groan in response.

Falcon began to mumble his incantations while we looked for something. The ship was searched, in odd out of the way places until Digger found a cockroach. He brought it forward to the bow of the ship where Falcon-priest was ready to appeal his prayers to Neptune. He took the ugly thing and held it between thumb and finger and let its juices run down his fingers as he squeezed it to a pulp.

The water turned black, and the temperature dropped. The ship was bouncing over the waves, and luckily we had the wind in the right direction. I gazed on to our left and right, and the other ships were keeping up. There were eight ships in all, with their decks packed with men and equipment.

“Accept our offering, Great Neptune,” said Falcon Priest to the storm that followed us. “Keep our path clear and let us use your winds to send us to our destination.”

“BLESSED NEPTUNE!” We shouted into the wind. The men clapped three times. “Blessed Neptune, blessed art, blessed Neptune lord of sea and wind.”

In a day we had outrun the storm. Fat fingers and a cockroach did the trick. “What works, works,” said Falcon-Priest.

Two days passed without incident until we heard a splash. Two slaves were thrown overboard.

They had died at their oars. The soldiers remained quiet as the bodies floated behind us in our wake. Two sharks appeared and we simply watched as they were dragged below. They were dead anyway, so we did not make comment. We were afraid that two of us might have to break our backs at the oars, but no one asked for volunteers. Soldiers fight, slaves pull the oar, and that is that.

More days of sail, Lips and Tickle was sure we were near Greece. On the coast was a temple, and a sun beam made it gleam like a diamond.

“Temple of Venus,” Lips and Tickle said. He then offered up a prayer and closed his eyes. A smile went over his face as he remembered some woman that spread her charms before him. I resisted pulling my journal from its pack to write. I could have reached into his mind, and from my pen I could have written of his sexual exploit in porn-like detail. It would have been something nice to think about other than the stink of the ship.

Without thinking I said a single word out loud: “Women.” I said the word with a sigh.

Two or three heads along the railing turned my way.

“Where?” said Digger.

“On the ship?” Lyre-Singer said hopefully.

“No,” I said. “In Alexandria.”

A smile spread throughout the ship, as the thought of women spread as well. Lips and Tickle started telling stories of his exploits making my journal entry unnecessary. It was great time to pass the time, but unfulfilling like eating a capon while being unable to chew.

I left my seat and went to the bow of the ship and looked up at the stars that had begun to pop out in the sky. With the coming of night, the temperature began to drop, but the wind of the distant storm kept our sails full. I stared up at the fire points, flaming lamps, and haze of sparkle across a blue-black sky. My tutor taught me to pick out the North Star, and deduct our heading east.

“Which direction are we going?” shouted Cook.

“East,” I said.

The word was sent up and down the crowded ranks, like biscuits were handed out for each man to take.

Lyre-singer began to sing:

“Over the sea,
Over the flow,
Over Neptune’s Scalp,
We do go!
Dream of Home,
It will not do,
The only home,
Is East of you.”

It was this song that lulled us to sleep.

In the morning the soldiers were shouting. The sun was about to rise, and the air had turned blue in expectation, and the men gathered at the bow once more. I could see that others on board our little fleet were doing the same.

They were hooting, and shouting to something off in in distance. I pushed by all the shoulders, and saw something it too. It was a single light.

“A STAR!” Digger shouted

“No…no,” I said. It was too low on horizon.

As we approached it was a giant light tower signaling the entrance to a harbor. It was taller than any building I had ever seen. It rose into the sky, after that a smaller building rose on the wider base, and then another building on that base, and so on and so on. At the top was a flaming beacon, and in the morning light and by the intensity of the flame it seemed unsupported by the building below it. By its light it guides us right into the port. It is like a star brought to earth.

“What is this place?” Boss asked.

“It is…Alexandria,” I said.

(Story by Rob Cain of http://ancientromerefocused.org.)

My name is Caesar.

I am of a noble house.

I am a direct descendent of Venus.

Pompey has fled to Alexandria. May the gods shit on all relatives!

I come back to Rome and he defied me. You would think that my brother- in- law, who married my sweetest daughter Julia, would be waiting for me with an army to support me rather than challenge my rights. What’s more I would expect some support in the Senate. May he be strapped to a rock and have his entrails eaten. Julia the sweetest, Julia of the sunlit smile, was everything to me, and she dies in childbirth. Her legs were stained with blood, and that old man can’t even keep his loyalty to me.

“Marius,” I told my clerk. “Find Julia’s dowry and have it returned.”

I blamed the shits in the Senate. They think me too powerful, and they build walls between two men that should have had an unbreakable bond.

The civil war is not my fault. I crossed the Rubicon to establish my rights, and now I sit in an empty Rome. The senators fled and took the gold. They can’t even fight me in Italy.

“Marius,” I said. “The port Pompey fled from, have the city fathers whipped.”

My spies tell me Pompey has fled to Alexandria. Of course, it would be there. He flees to the one place where he can get support. The one place that is rich enough to have an army for him to command.

“Marius,” I said to my clerk who looked up barely finished from his last letter. “Gather ships for us to sail in two months time.”

Pompey I’m sure still stinks of Pharsalus. I know he did not even wash before getting on the ship and nothing is worse than an old man that did not wash.

I stood in his tent at Phasalus. He fled before he and his officers had touched their victory dinner. My men wanted to sit down and eat the victory dinner of the enemy, but I warned them back. “We do not eat meals flavored with defeat.”

I must think, time is of the essence, especially for me. I am running out of time. I am old, past 50, past my prime. I keep thinking of Alexander the Great. Before 30 he had conquered the world. I accomplished nothing at 30. In a small village there was a statue of Alexander by a spring. People of this village came for the water and came to worship in his presence. In the afternoon, I found myself crying uncontrollably. So I made a pact with myself. I shall use every moment and burn it up so that the air is hot with my presence.

That pact was all I needed to conquer Gaul.

Enough of tears.

Everything I do will be for a purpose. Pompey blossomed when he was young. He now feels his power pissing away with age. I shall blossom in my older years. My piss shall become stronger; it shall stink heartier; it shall fill oceans.

“Marius,” I said to my clerk who is still scribbling away. “Raise troops. We need new ones. We need young ones that are itching for spoils and adventure. Make sure there are enough veterans to show them what to do. We shall go to Alexandria with about 4000 foot. That way we can travel light.”

“Sir, we will be as easy to kill as an arena clown, “ the old soldier said. “Only 4000? The Ptolemy will see it as an invitation to attack us.”

I smiled. “Then by the wisdom of Venus, we will know our enemies.”

(Story by Rob Cain of http://ancientromerefocused.org)

My name is Sanquine.

I am a shield carrier for the 10th Legion. I am the unofficial scribe.

Where did a bastard of the surbura learn his letters? My mother paid for them by giving herself to the tutor Paladoris, allowing her to ‘pay’ for her lessons by a wood splinter in her ass as the Greek ploughed her up against any door available. How do I know? I peeked one day.

She told me to “never mind it.” She said it was her way of “giving it to the Greeks” and she said she would give it again and again for my benefit and mine alone.

My mother was a practical person.

How did I get the name of ‘blood?’ Sanquine is an odd name, you say?

It is.

She said it was that color that marked me. I was covered in it after birth. She said it made me holy, and she was determined from the day I popped out that I should be able to write. A priest of Isis said I was special. Even a Jupiter priest called me special. Both saw me use my fat thumb to scrawl something upon the bed linen.

Thoth.

I wrote the word with my fat thumb in the blood that was provided as ink. It was the Egyptian god of writing and knowledge. As soon as I was old enough she sent me for lessons. Any child that can write a name of a god upon entering the world deserved lessons as quickly as possible.

“Why is it important to be able to write?” I asked.

She shook her head. “To interpret the Gods, and to do that…you must write. To write…is god-like. It sets things down forever. Words can sing. Words can excite. Words can open the universe.”

Her eyes shined. There was something behind those eyes that made me feel that I was something more than a dirty kid from the subura. But even if I could interpret dreams, and write of things that I had never experienced, and ‘take’ people’s thoughts…I had to eat. The Army would provide me with food, and the gods would do the rest.

When old enough I joined a legion. It was the most exciting day of my life. At the field of Mars there was a recruiter sitting behind an old wood table and a marble chair. He looked me up and down, and asked about my upbringing to my mother. He told me to pull down my pants and examined my manhood. I wanted to kick him in his, but mother shook her head at me.

“He is healthy, has two balls, and…” the doctor said before my mother jumped in.

“He can write.”

He blinked once or twice. He then pulled out some paper, stylus and some octopi ink.

Mother nodded at me.

I wrote on the paper. It took me ten minutes, and the physician looked over my shoulder as I demonstrated my skill.

His face went white as he read what I wrote. Blood drained from his face and he sat down as if his knees gave out.

He stared at the piece of paper.

Last night my friend I witnessed an examination of a strange and odd type.
It was done by a Greek used to examine the entrails of a dead man found on the docks of Ostia. It started in the following manner: the first cut is done in the manner of a wooden cross oddly shaped. The arms of the ‘cross’ extend from the front of each shoulder to the bottom end of the breastbone. The tail of the ’cross’ extends from the sternum to the pubic bone and typically deviates to avoid the navel. The incision must be deep, to the rib cage on the chest, and completely through the abdominal wall. Peel the skin back like the skin of an apple, and pull over the face. Make a slave saw the ribs off exposing the organs inside.”

He looked at me in shock. “How can you know this?” He asked.

I shook my head, trying to act dumb like a monkey that can do a trick. I could have gone on and described the rest of their butchery and even the wine they consumed.

He grabbed my shoulder. “How could you know this? Were you there? How can you see into my mind?”

Mother stepped forward and pulled me from him. “He is marked by the gods. He is talented. He has many talents, a boy like…like…” she searched for a word.

“A boy like GALEN you mean,” he said.

The legion physician sat there reading what I have written. He then looked up and ran his fingers through his hair. “The Xth Legion has use for a boy like you. I shall keep an eye on you.”

“Am I in?” I asked.

The physician nodded. “You are in. However, let me give you some advice.”

“What’s that?”

“For the sake of your mother and the gods,” he said in a whisper. “Don’t tell any one.”

I signed the paper and was now a shield carrier for Caesar.

(Story by Rob Cain of http://ancientromerefocused.org)