Greenfield
Adventurer
The trumpets flared as Denius Aurelius Caesar's party entered Athens. Two guards lead the way, cudgels in hand to warn off trouble. Behind them came the heralds, who would step aside at every gate and arch and proclaim the presence of Caesar, as the trumpets would flare again. Behind them came two slaves who scattered silver pennies to the crowd, that they would remember and adore their new Emperor.
Next came the Emperor, riding an ornate sedan chair born by dark skinned slaves, their oiled muscles flexing in the afternoon, well, lack of sunlight. Guards flanked right left, front and rear. Behind them came the house slaves and the baggage train. And someplace within this group of tag-alongs walked Marcus, barely more than an acolyte of Jupiter, yet selected for this most important mission.
Ahead he saw Claudius, the Centurian and captain of the guard, who drew back his arm to deliver a cuff to some street urchin who had gotten too close. The urchin was game, however, and backpedaled to stay just out of reach, smiling and talking as fast as his lips could form the words.
"Good Master, do you need a guide?", the boy asked. "I know every street in the city, every alley, every market and merchant. Do you need quarters? There are none to be had, unless you know who to ask, and I know everyone. Does your master wish for entertainment? Women to ease his strains and pains. Perhaps you seek a wife, master? A soldier needs someone to keep his bed warm and waiting for him...", the lad continued, until the Centurion took a long step forward, bringing him nose to nose with the babbling boy. A snarl, a swift blow, and the boy tumbled to the side, curling into near fetal position as the air was driven from his lungs. Probably couldn't even get enough breath to scream.
Marcus sighed. The great Games brought a flood of people to the great city, and with that came a flood of opportunity for the local street trade.
A few moments later though, to his surprise, he saw the same boy approach the Centurian again, fear on his face as he held out an object. An object that bore a well embroidered seal.
"Master, did you drop this?", he asked in a hesitant voice.
One hand grasped the boy's wrist as the other flew to an empty spot on his belt. "My purse! You little thief, I'll take your hand myself for this!" Then the hardened expression softened as he felt the weight of the purse. "What the...", he asked, as he opened the pouch and peered inside. "It's all here?"
"I told you, Master, that you dropped it. I took nothing!", the boy cried.
"An honest man?", the Centurion asked again, voice incredulous. "I don't believe it!", he finally declared, rough-handing the boy to the ground with practiced ease. "Begone, while those fingers are still yours."
And again, the boy curled up in the road, this time to protect himself from the procession that nearly trampled him as it passed.
After the procession was passed, a keen eye might have seen the smile on the lad's face, as he tucked several items away within his robes. The Centurion's purse had been poor pickings, but returning it had allowed him to be close to many others as they passed
******
The rigging groaned in time with the sway of the ship as they drew close to port. Sylus was spending his time at the rail, as far from the Imperial company as possible. He had boarded along a shore that, in another world might have been called the Riviera, and hoped for a quiet passage. Such was not to be his fate, however, as the ship had been all but taken over by another passenger. Markus Octavius Caesar, he called himself, though the last appellation was a recent addition. Sylus knew the man by reputation, and that was as close as he cared to be. He had been appointed General and Chancellor of the Western Marches, a fancy way of saying that Gaul was his. He had once been known as a good governor, hard but fair, and adept at keeping the roads and cities safe. Over the last years, however, bandits had begun to plague the roads again, and the Chancellor ne Emperor had become more hard than fair. His troops were seldom seen, and when you did see them you ran.
The huntsman wasn't looking forward to his time in packed streets of Athens, but at least it would get him away from the Roman.
***
General Calvinus grimaced as they approached the city. The Pax Olympicus had forced him to leave most of his escort behind, at Marathon. A full Legion he had brought, a third part of his forces, to assure him the respect he deserved. After all, he was to be the new Emperor of Rome.
Accompanying him was a minor son of a minor house in the northern ends of his command. The lad claimed the title of "Prince", though his lofty station wasn't nearly as lofty as he seemed to think it was. Any true Citizen of Rome was better than an outlander of any rank, and this one's title was as less solid than a reed in the wind. Still, the boy's father had proven useful in guarding the passes, and keeping at least some of the barbarian hordes at bay. And he was educated enough to give interesting conversation.
***
The banners of Rome fluttered in the breeze as the great Kergen entered the city. They were his by conquest, and if their presence didn't prove his right to be a conqueror, none dared say such words in his presence. He glared down at the puny Humans that skittered away from him, like bugs beneath a tent fur that is suddenly folded back. He jerked on the chain that collared his latest slave, making the lad choke and stagger for a moment.
This drew the attention of the city guard, who were already looking for an excuse to refuse the Orc contingent admittance to the city.
"You can't abuse a slave like that!", one of them cautioned. "He's still a person."
"Ha!", bellowed the great Mountain Orc. He stood nearly eight feet tall, and could easily have swept these soft pink things aside. Who were they to tell him who was a person and who wasn't. They were hardly "persons" themselves, as far as he was concerned.
But they were armed, and there were more gathering, and he had had to leave his followers outside the city. He lifted the struggling slave by the collar, glared at him with his good eye and growled, "If you run, little goat, I will run faster, and then you will never run again!" Then he opened his hand, letting the boy fall to the ground.
The slave staggered, trying to keep his feet as he fell, knowing that his captors would laughingly kick him where he lay. He loosed the chain carefully from his bruised throat, and packed it away. If he'd dropped it in the road it would have given the Orcs reason to beat him. Such was the life of a slave.
The city guards weren't through though. "While in Athens you will treat this, this, person as the law of the city requires." He'd used the term "person" because he was unsure what else to call the boy. His upper body was naked, and showed every bruise and scrape the Orcs had chosen to administer. His lower body was, well, he wasn't exactly naked, even though he wore nothing more than a belt. He was covered in dark fur starting somewhere around his naval, flowing downward and covering some oddly crooked legs that ended in cloven hooves. His face was narrow and bony, with a thin beard depending from his narrow chin, and two long curling horns sweeping from his forehead back across the top of his head. His ears were long and pointed, and his eyes, though haunted by fear, were quick and intelligent.
Still, they had to warn the lad. "Slaves who flee their masters are to be hunted by the guard, and they'll return you to your master. Don't mistake our words for anything more than what they are."
"Once we leave the city, little goat, you live by tribal law.", the Kergen growled. "So you write songs of my victory here over the pinks, songs of my glory and triumph that the tribe will sing for ages. Do that, and you might live a little longer."
Next came the Emperor, riding an ornate sedan chair born by dark skinned slaves, their oiled muscles flexing in the afternoon, well, lack of sunlight. Guards flanked right left, front and rear. Behind them came the house slaves and the baggage train. And someplace within this group of tag-alongs walked Marcus, barely more than an acolyte of Jupiter, yet selected for this most important mission.
Ahead he saw Claudius, the Centurian and captain of the guard, who drew back his arm to deliver a cuff to some street urchin who had gotten too close. The urchin was game, however, and backpedaled to stay just out of reach, smiling and talking as fast as his lips could form the words.
"Good Master, do you need a guide?", the boy asked. "I know every street in the city, every alley, every market and merchant. Do you need quarters? There are none to be had, unless you know who to ask, and I know everyone. Does your master wish for entertainment? Women to ease his strains and pains. Perhaps you seek a wife, master? A soldier needs someone to keep his bed warm and waiting for him...", the lad continued, until the Centurion took a long step forward, bringing him nose to nose with the babbling boy. A snarl, a swift blow, and the boy tumbled to the side, curling into near fetal position as the air was driven from his lungs. Probably couldn't even get enough breath to scream.
Marcus sighed. The great Games brought a flood of people to the great city, and with that came a flood of opportunity for the local street trade.
A few moments later though, to his surprise, he saw the same boy approach the Centurian again, fear on his face as he held out an object. An object that bore a well embroidered seal.
"Master, did you drop this?", he asked in a hesitant voice.
One hand grasped the boy's wrist as the other flew to an empty spot on his belt. "My purse! You little thief, I'll take your hand myself for this!" Then the hardened expression softened as he felt the weight of the purse. "What the...", he asked, as he opened the pouch and peered inside. "It's all here?"
"I told you, Master, that you dropped it. I took nothing!", the boy cried.
"An honest man?", the Centurion asked again, voice incredulous. "I don't believe it!", he finally declared, rough-handing the boy to the ground with practiced ease. "Begone, while those fingers are still yours."
And again, the boy curled up in the road, this time to protect himself from the procession that nearly trampled him as it passed.
After the procession was passed, a keen eye might have seen the smile on the lad's face, as he tucked several items away within his robes. The Centurion's purse had been poor pickings, but returning it had allowed him to be close to many others as they passed
******
The rigging groaned in time with the sway of the ship as they drew close to port. Sylus was spending his time at the rail, as far from the Imperial company as possible. He had boarded along a shore that, in another world might have been called the Riviera, and hoped for a quiet passage. Such was not to be his fate, however, as the ship had been all but taken over by another passenger. Markus Octavius Caesar, he called himself, though the last appellation was a recent addition. Sylus knew the man by reputation, and that was as close as he cared to be. He had been appointed General and Chancellor of the Western Marches, a fancy way of saying that Gaul was his. He had once been known as a good governor, hard but fair, and adept at keeping the roads and cities safe. Over the last years, however, bandits had begun to plague the roads again, and the Chancellor ne Emperor had become more hard than fair. His troops were seldom seen, and when you did see them you ran.
The huntsman wasn't looking forward to his time in packed streets of Athens, but at least it would get him away from the Roman.
***
General Calvinus grimaced as they approached the city. The Pax Olympicus had forced him to leave most of his escort behind, at Marathon. A full Legion he had brought, a third part of his forces, to assure him the respect he deserved. After all, he was to be the new Emperor of Rome.
Accompanying him was a minor son of a minor house in the northern ends of his command. The lad claimed the title of "Prince", though his lofty station wasn't nearly as lofty as he seemed to think it was. Any true Citizen of Rome was better than an outlander of any rank, and this one's title was as less solid than a reed in the wind. Still, the boy's father had proven useful in guarding the passes, and keeping at least some of the barbarian hordes at bay. And he was educated enough to give interesting conversation.
***
The banners of Rome fluttered in the breeze as the great Kergen entered the city. They were his by conquest, and if their presence didn't prove his right to be a conqueror, none dared say such words in his presence. He glared down at the puny Humans that skittered away from him, like bugs beneath a tent fur that is suddenly folded back. He jerked on the chain that collared his latest slave, making the lad choke and stagger for a moment.
This drew the attention of the city guard, who were already looking for an excuse to refuse the Orc contingent admittance to the city.
"You can't abuse a slave like that!", one of them cautioned. "He's still a person."
"Ha!", bellowed the great Mountain Orc. He stood nearly eight feet tall, and could easily have swept these soft pink things aside. Who were they to tell him who was a person and who wasn't. They were hardly "persons" themselves, as far as he was concerned.
But they were armed, and there were more gathering, and he had had to leave his followers outside the city. He lifted the struggling slave by the collar, glared at him with his good eye and growled, "If you run, little goat, I will run faster, and then you will never run again!" Then he opened his hand, letting the boy fall to the ground.
The slave staggered, trying to keep his feet as he fell, knowing that his captors would laughingly kick him where he lay. He loosed the chain carefully from his bruised throat, and packed it away. If he'd dropped it in the road it would have given the Orcs reason to beat him. Such was the life of a slave.
The city guards weren't through though. "While in Athens you will treat this, this, person as the law of the city requires." He'd used the term "person" because he was unsure what else to call the boy. His upper body was naked, and showed every bruise and scrape the Orcs had chosen to administer. His lower body was, well, he wasn't exactly naked, even though he wore nothing more than a belt. He was covered in dark fur starting somewhere around his naval, flowing downward and covering some oddly crooked legs that ended in cloven hooves. His face was narrow and bony, with a thin beard depending from his narrow chin, and two long curling horns sweeping from his forehead back across the top of his head. His ears were long and pointed, and his eyes, though haunted by fear, were quick and intelligent.
Still, they had to warn the lad. "Slaves who flee their masters are to be hunted by the guard, and they'll return you to your master. Don't mistake our words for anything more than what they are."
"Once we leave the city, little goat, you live by tribal law.", the Kergen growled. "So you write songs of my victory here over the pinks, songs of my glory and triumph that the tribe will sing for ages. Do that, and you might live a little longer."