Gods And Heroes: Gods & Heroes: Rome Rising - Chapter 1: Atticus

Atticus opened his eyes and looked up from the ground, surveying his cell. All subtle sounds were buried under the sonic avalanche that is the crowd outside. He scraped his feet across the dirt floor he stood on. False hope for the desperate, Atticus mused as he walked towards the iron bars. He knew the architects had buried stone to prevent tunneling and he found himself wondering if it wasn't part of some greater cruel jape the gods were playing on the imprisoned. The cell was barely big enough to house one, and yet it held two prisoners. On the floor in the corner his cellmate, a rogue named Deodatus, slept in the only bed, if you can call a stone and a flat straw mattress a bed. By the gods, thought Atticus, how can he sleep through this thunderous assault?

He turned from his slumbering cellmate and slid his arms between the cold bars and rested them on the crossbar. Leaning forward, his forehead pressed against the restricting metal as his shoulders slumped from a heavy sigh. His light brown hair curled around his ears and he was in desperate need of a shave. The stubble had turned into a full beard, masking his strong jaw and softening his powerful features. They hadn't even given him a razor and the former Legatus now looked the part of a beggar.

He flexed his hands carefully, the muscles tightening under his sun-darkened skin. He focused on the last two fingers of his left hand, both of which had recently been shortened by a knuckle's length. Each time he flexed his hand, the skin pulled tight over the month-old wounds. He could feel the missing tips, as if they were still there, itching continuously. He opened and closed his hand several more times and then clenched his fist tightly as sharp stabs of pain raced up his corded arm. Atticus grimaced, more in the memory of the loss than the pain itself.

"At least you still have the other three, eh? Of course you don't have to worry about them claiming the rest of them if we don't win today."

Atticus opened his fist and turned around.

"I thought you to be asleep," he said roughly, his throat unused to speaking for the past few hours.

"Ah, you should know by now old man, I always sleep with one eye open. Not that it matters with this racket," Deodatus spoke, grinning.

Deo--as he was oft known by--stood up and stretched, his shaggy black hair spilling into his eyes. He had been here as long as Atticus, and yet he still only had the evening's shadow sprouting from his slender face. It gives him a mischievous and mysterious look, Atticus finally thought one night as they had finished dinner in the cell. Deo was younger by a good ten years, a bit cocky, and definitely rasher than Atticus would have like, but he was good natured, quick on his feet, and deft with a blade. On top of that he had been as good a friend in as anyone in a cell could ask for. He never asked questions, and never pried, although he did have a tendency to tell fanciful tales and make the occasional barbed jape. None the less, he had surmised early on that Deo's entire life revolved around upsetting those who took things far too seriously. They had both gotten along unusually well in spite of the fact that, as Deo had put it, Atticus was Rome's trained gorilla.

In truth, Atticus had been extremely wary of Deodatus at the start; he was, after all, one of the rogues of Rome. Or so he had assumed. In the end, Deo had proved more than capable. He had even proven trustworthy and saved his life in the early fights. There is an honorable man in him, even if he isn't always honest, Atticus thought. Besides, it's not like Deodatus wouldn't have his fair share of suspicions about him.

"I would have arrested you," he had told Deodatus the night after Deo had saved his life. "I would have thrown you in the cells and never thought twice."

"And they call me a criminal," Deo had smirked.

Regardless, it was all in the past and they were now depending on each other for survival. Besides, Atticus had come to realize, if there's anyone who could get us out of here, it would no doubt be Deodatus. He had to get out, he had to survive, and most of all, he had to protect his family.

"Are you ready?" The former Legatus questioned.

"Hey, I'm still five-and-twenty. You should worry about yourself, old man," Deo crowed.

Atticus looked at his hands and smiled, "Five-and-twenty, and completely without discipline. Looks like I'll have to carry us through this battle again."

This was fast becoming a ritual between the two of them. A way to keep the tensions down, something Atticus learned with his men on the battlefield. It was something that just naturally found its way in this hot and dry cell.

"I'm plenty disciplined," Deo stretched carefully, "I just don't remember signing up for the military, three fingers."

Atticus smiled and began stretching as well. The roar of the coliseum was reaching its crescendo now and pretty soon it would be their turn again, just like it had been the day before, and the day before that, and the day before that. His missing fingers itched and suddenly so did his heart. A subtle melancholy settled over Atticus as he massaged his legs.

Cassia.

He had to win today; for Cassia, for the hope of becoming one step closer to his unborn child. Of course by now, Atticus tried to count the days, by now his child was probably born. By now she was nursing our new born and wondering when he would return from battle. Does she even know that I'm gone? Will they tell her I'm dead? Will they tell her I died in battle, or will I die with her believing me a traitor? Atticus clenched his jaw trying to push the unwelcome thoughts away. She is loyal, he thought. She will hold out hope and she would never believe the lies. If nothing else, his loyal men would see that she heard the truth.

Assuming they even knew. They only knew he never showed for battle. How many days had it been now since he was taken? One month? Three months? He had lost count when they locked him in the dark. He wouldn't break that easily though. He kept count of the days by the visits of the guards and by meals. He maintained what exercise he could in the dark; blinded but never relenting. He would not be broken by cowards, he had resolved. They would have to kill him before he ever gave up, Minerva give him strength.

Atticus' looked over at Deodatus and watched him prepare. His mind began to think back to the morning he had been taken. On the morning of battle during one of his regular runs. His thoughts were on the upcoming conflict with the Gauls; his mind turning over each outcome a thousand times, analyzing, dissecting, and planning. It was his gift and he found great enjoyment in it on these long, private runs. The morning was always the best time, especially right before the battle. He had forgotten how many times he had changed tactics at the last minute because of these morning runs. Each time, however, they had been effective, and had thus far prevented him from becoming predictable.

They had promoted him at a young age and he had never disappointed. He inspired loyalty, and it was often joked that his men would over throw the Senate at his command. When the Gauls began attacking, it had been Atticus' company that had held the line and pushed them back. They had been vicious and bloodthirsty, and it seemed that for every Gaul they cut down ten more rushed in to take their place. None the less, Atticus' troops were better trained and far more organized and as a result, their casualties had been acceptable and their victory swift.

He was undefeated up to now and it appeared the only way to win was through cowardly means. He had never seen his attackers coming, and they had covered his head before he could see them. He had always assumed that they had been Gauls. He had heard the rumors that they had aligned with terrifying creatures of legend, and that the Cyclops' were already marching for the front this very day. He wasn't one to believe in campfire stories and children's tales, but this was different. A good soldier knew in his bones when something was wrong, and he knew that if they survived the morrow that it would be at the will of Minerva. He mumbled a silent prayer, a soldier's prayer.

"Minerva, goddess of civilization, wisdom, war, and justice, of all of my patrons, you are the greatest. Grant me the ability to see truth and clarity, to strike with justice and righteousness, and above all, grant me the strength to serve you unwaveringly. Protect my family, my men, and my life, light my path and teach me your ways. Grant me these things and I shall give you the best of my harvest come the New Year."

He shivered when he remembered. How could he have been so foolish to go off alone without his sword at the very least? His men knew he took the morning to run. By the gods, every man in Rome knew of his morning runs to plan his day. He was clockwork, he knew it. The only thing he did every morning regardless the weather or the place. Every man in the camp knew he'd be out, so he only assumed it was the Gauls who had figured out his routine. He could have sworn he had kept his runs out of scouting range, but there he was, bound and hooded. His breath had caught in his throat when the hood came off and his eyes finally adjusted to reveal the blurry captors.

"Gods be good," he rasped wearily.

"Ho ho! The gods can't hear you now, Legatus" Laughed an unfamiliar Centurion.

They were from the Roman Army. They were Rome's men, his men, even if they didn't serve under him. He was being held by his own brothers. Brothers as close as Lucian, his trueborn brother and a First Centurion like this man.

"Wh-what?" he looked around attempting to get his bearings.

The fist had come out of his blind spot and he felt his jaw flex under the impact. The ground rose up to meet him but he passed out before the impact.

He had dreamed of Lucian and his family, he reminisced. To this day that dream was the clearest he had ever had. Of course, in reality it wasn't a dream, but rather a painful memory everyone would sooner bury. Lucian was his junior by four years and always following in his footsteps. Lucian had idolized him like only a little brother could. Their parents had always seen Atticus' leadership abilities and innate ability to learn and adapt, often times he would best his elder students physically and mentally. So when Atticus announced that spring morning that he was joining the army, his parents were thrilled, as if they knew his course in life had already been laid out by Minerva herself.

If they had that much faith in Atticus' choice and course, then it must have dried up by the time Lucian announced that he was going to follow his brother's lead. Lucian had waited until Atticus had come home from his first tour and then announced his intent. Their father immediately disapproved, and their mother had simply told him that he was being foolish. Lucian was not cut out for the army life as was Atticus, and besides, they needed him here to take over the family wealth and business. After all, their father had said, you have a head for numbers and craftiness, but no head for war or discipline.

Lucian had not taken well to their rebuke--as kind as it was meant--and left to join anyway. Atticus never saw much of Lucian after that, and he would often hear through the command structure that Lucian was full of potential, if only he would head instruction and command. Regardless, Lucian had risen to Third Centurion, although if Atticus believed the words of his soldiers, it was through less than honorable means.

"How can I judge my brother?" Atticus had told his father the night of his mother's funeral.

"Minerva be good, you are both my sons. I wish only that your mother could have seen him once more. If for nothing else than to put this past us," his father had wept.

A few short months later, Lucian never showed at his father's funeral either.

Atticus had prayed to Minerva for guidance and wept in silence while his new bride slept that night. At least his father had been alive for his wedding. A fortnight later they were moved in to his family's home and he was off to the front. A new war had broken out and he had been promoted to First Centurion. He was fast becoming Rome's finest, and yet all he could think about was his wife, Cassia, and his almost mythical brother. All he ever heard or knew of him was what traveled through command. He was a merciless fighter and a headstrong leader. His defeats were horrific and his victories even more so. Some even claimed that Mars had given him dark powers, and that his men were bound to him by their very souls.

In his heart, on the field, during his runs, and at the end of every day, Atticus continued to pray; and at the end of each prayer he would always add, "And bring my only brother home."

"Hey, three-fingers! Don't look so down, the theatre calls and we are Plato's finest!" Deodatus bowed mockingly.

Indeed, Atticus had let his thoughts drown in the oceanic roar of the crowd. He flexed his left hand and let the pain of the fingers bring him back into the now. He turned and cocked his head from side-to-side, cracking his neck and then his knuckles. The melancholy that had previously settled over him was being driven away by his soldier's instinct. He listened to the crowd surge and calm, surge and calm. In between the surges he heard the exacting snaps of footsteps as they approached their cell.

Atticus whispered his prayer.

"Still hoping Minerva's going to save us, eh?" Laughed Deo.

"Still wishing you had a pair to fight with honor instead of fighting like a thief?" Atticus replied.

"Ouch, hey that's so cruel! You know they say that words cut deeper than any sword, right?"

"Then why am I even going out there? You should have slain the entire Roman army by now with that treacherous tongue of yours."

"I will have you know that I only use my powers for good."

"I hardly think thieving, creating bastards, and drinking yourself into a stupor falls in the 'good' category." Atticus grinned stoically.

"If it's good enough for the gods, it's good enough for me!" Deo crowed. "Besides, if we can make it through the day, tonight we make for Ostia."

Atticus looked up sharply, "You mean--"

His words cut off by the shout of the approaching jailer.

"Oy! You two shut yer mouf, else I'ma liable te cut yer tongues out wif me blade!" barked the gruff stocky man. "Always goin' on at one'nother. What in Pluto's realm is wrong wif ye both?"

The jailer was a short man with a shorter temper. His unkempt beard was rivaled only by his wild silver hair. He was dirtier than a blacksmith after a long day except his body showed none of the benefits. Instead he was fat and his bulbous red nose spoke more of an alcoholic than a man with a hammer and anvil. If he washed then he did so very rarely and as such, he smelled like he'd been in beggar's row for months. Even the guards walked as far apart from him as they could. The old man was bent over, worn, particularly nasty, and he hobbled back and forth while the guards marched. He grumbled incessantly as he approached and the two soldiers shot Atticus contemptuous glares.

"Aww, I think they've taken to you quite nicely, General," cooed Deodatus. "And Gaius, have you bathed? I believe I'm not feeling so faint at your arrival today."

"You will shut your mouth, rogue, lest the next time you open it, I will do more than cut that tongue out of you, I swear it by Jupiter's wrath." The rightmost soldier growled.

"I think he likes me too," murmured Deodatus to Atticus when the crowd's yelling rose again.

Atticus only smiled to himself. Always pushing the line, he thought bemused.

"Arms out, ye know the drill, Legatus." The jailer spat sarcastically.

"A disgraced Legatus and a rogue, you think the gods would have reached down from Olympus itself to strike this mockery," chortled the second guard.

"Jupiter is sparing them for the entertainment and far worse fate, my brother," the first replied as he glared at a smiling Deodatus.

"Will the two of ye just be shuttin' the hell up?" snapped the old man as he chained Atticus' left arm to Deo's right. "Ye ain't paid te talk, only te get them te the arena unscathed n' unescaped."

You think they would have figured out that this boy's as dangerous with his left as he is with his right by now, Atticus mused to himself.

Atticus flexed his hand as the cold iron cuff pinched his skin. It was time for them to prove their worth again. Every day, like clockwork, Atticus and Deodatus, marched out in hopes that the gods will judge us and strike us dead. Why didn't the Senate just grant him a trial and judge him?

Atticus watched the jailer go through the motions as he drifted back into his memories. Everything had been so confusing when he woke up, jaw aching and head throbbing like the entire Legion had just marched through. He had asked for their First Centurion or their Primus Pilus, but they had only laughed and stuck him again. That day had been so confusing, but he was rapidly beginning to understand.

There were five of them, each of them watching him with careful and knowing eyes. Each of them had removed their weapons before approaching him, and each one guarded him as intently as if he were the fiercest Gaul leader in all the North. If they feared him, they showed no signs of it, but he could see in their faces that they respected his battle prowess and would take no chances lest they all end up dead. Like a caged animal, they only took their shots when he was bound for the night and they were certain he was unable to respond in kind. During the days they rode horses and he walked, hands bound in front of him, and tied between the four that surrounded him.

They had arranged it so that should things go horribly awry, Atticus would be ripped apart from the horses before he could react. The fifth soldier rode ahead as a scout and the journey was so far uneventful. Well, until a small, but foolish, band of outlaws decided to make life more interesting. The result proved to be a nuisance more than anything, and the last of the outlaws died with an arrow in his back as he attempted to flee the failed raid. Laughing and gloating, the five soldiers cast lots for the loot and began to divvy up their prizes.

Sixteen years in the service of Rome had taught Atticus many things, and if nothing else, it taught him when to utilize the enemy's distractions. When the outlaws first attacked, an arrow had stuck into the saddle flap of the soldier to his left. When the soldiers began chasing them down, they had dismounted for the final strike and Atticus used the arrow to cut his way free.

He had been grateful for the hooting and crowing of the soldiers, it masked the ring of the steel when he drew one of the soldier's extra swords. It also covered the crunch of dirt under his feet as he rapidly descended on the craven troupe. The leader looked up just in time to see the flash of steel before it cut through his skull. Atticus wrenched the blade free and turned on the closest soldier to his right. The soldier's blade was barely halfway out of its scabbard when Atticus slashed his neck. The soldier stumbled backwards into death with a look of sheer horror forever frozen on his face.

By now the last three soldiers had their swords drawn but Atticus still had the advantage on the next soldier, the youngest of the lot who was barely able to get his sword up in time to block Atticus' savage down stroke. The force of the blow caused the young man to go reeling backwards and into the fourth soldier's blade. Atticus barely noticed as the young man began to cry at the blade now protruding from his belly. The fourth soldier pushed the young boy off his blade and he tumbled forward crying for his mother.

It's amazing how many die with their mother on their lips, thought Atticus as he parried the fifth soldier's strike. The remaining two were experienced soldiers and Atticus had hoped to be able to get the drop on them sooner. He knew just from watching them that they were experienced. The two remaining soldiers circled around him, striking in and darting back. Atticus was experienced enough to know what they were doing and began moving back into a strategic position, parrying and striking. The song of swords rang in his ears as Atticus quickly settled into the rhythm of blades.

The ringing steel was rejuvenating him and he felt the affects of the road fall to the wayside. His blood was pumping in his ears and he could feel his muscles soaring with the welcomed exercise. His mind was churning as fast as the blades and he watched as the soldier on his left attempted to slip in behind him. Atticus watched the rhythm and without warning ducked beneath the first soldier's sideswipe. Atticus twisted under, rotated, and his blade flicked out like a serpent, biting into the second soldier's leg.

He yelped and turned to meet Atticus' surprise assault but found himself off balance. The first soldier leapt at the opening and brought his sword back for a devastating cut. Unable to dodge, Atticus lunged forward and barreled into the second soldier, plunging his sword up into his neck. The two of them crashed to the ground as the soldier's sword clattered off out of reach. Atticus' head cracked against the ground and he could feel the fingers of unconsciousness wrapping around the edges of his perception. Struggling to fight back the blackness he attempted to untangle himself from the lifeless soldier. Shaking violently, his body gave out and he crumpled back into the dirt. He sucked in a mouthful of dirt and leaves. Coughing violently he pushed himself up again. He could feel his arms quaking under him, his head pulsing, and something nagging at his peripheral unconsciousness. He was forgetting something. Then he remembered the fourth soldier as the blow came from above. It was the second time he watched the ground rise to meet him, and like the last, he never remembered kissing it.

He woke again in darkness, unsure of how many hours had passed.

"He killed the other four, sir." The fourth soldier's voice hinted tension.

"He killed four of you? What in Pluto's hell were you doing? Sleeping?" The angry voice snapped.

Atticus struggled to keep consciousness and opened his eyes. Blackness. I've either gone blind or there's a hood over my head, he thought to himself.

"N-no sir, we were defending ourselves from an outlaw ambush."

"So you turned your backs on him. You all had to go, no doubt. I warned you about him. I warned you and you got what you deserved."

The voice sounded oddly familiar, but Atticus figured it for the soldier's Tribunus Laticlavius. He sounds angry, so angry. Gods, his head just would not stop thrumming. What he wouldn't give for a skin of wine.

Atticus groaned as he strained against his restraints.

"He's awake. Drag him to the black cells." The voice commanded in a way that brooked no argument.

"Yes sir!" Snapped the soldier.

Two soldiers grabbed him and forced him to his feet.

"P-please," rasped Atticus, "Wine. Please."

"Shut up." Barked the familiar soldier.

"What, what are my c-crimes? Wh, why am I h-here?" coughed Atticus, "I w-want to see the Truh, Tribunus. It's my r-right as an officer."

"Ye ain't got no rights except the right te shut yer hole." Growled the unfamiliar one.

"I appeal to the Legatus." Atticus half-yelled.

The punch to the gut nearly caused Atticus to vomit. If it weren't for the two soldiers holding him up, he'd have collapsed and more than likely retched what little he had left inside him. Even then it would have been more blood than substance.

"There's yer appeal, eh. The Legatus says to shut yer damn mouth and do as yer told!"

The familiar soldier snorted as he laughed.

They removed the hood and the chains before they tossed him in the windowless cell.

Deodatus' voice snapped him back to the present.

"You know," Deo said as they were walking the long walk to the arena, "These people need to shut up. A man can't think with this kind of noise. He's liable to get a headache from all this racket."

"I told you to SHUT. UP." The soldier yelled as he punched Deodatus in the solar plexus.

Deo vomited before his knees hit the floor.

He was hunched over, one hand gripping his stomach, the other bracing himself up. Struggling to stand up, Deodatus coughed and spat on the dirt.

"You could have said please." He started to wipe his mouth.

The guard moved over him and drew his sword. He grabbed his shaggy black hair, pressed the razor's edge against Deo's throat, and leaned in, their faces only inches apart. The soldier growled low and menacingly,

"I swear by the lightning of Jupiter, if you utter one more word from that whore chasing, lying, drunken mouth of yours, I will cut you from ear-to-ear and laugh as you die."

"I guess I better shut-up then," he whispered hoarsely.

Anger flared through the soldier's eyes and it seemed that even in-spite of the roar of the crowd, the entire area had sucked in a long breath and held it. The entire length of the second seemed an eternity. Finally the soldier spat in Deo's eyes as he planted a foot into his chest and sent him reeling backwards. The chain between Atticus and Deodatus went tight and jerked Deo to one side, coughing.

The collective breath of relief brought back the arena's vocal definition, and as the guards spun around to march out, Atticus watched Deo smirk and stagger back to his feet.

"What in Pluto hells are you doing?" he whispered to Deodatus during a massive shout from the crowd.

Deo just smiled, shrugged, and pulled his hand from his pocket.

The remainder of the walk to the entrance passed in silence and as the gates swung open, they were handed their usual swords and shoved out. Both Atticus and Deodatus covered their eyes in an attempt to let them adjust to the midday sun. As their eyes adjusted, Atticus began to look around. The enormity of the coliseum consumed him every time. The top of the gigantic structure was lost in the brilliance of the summer sun and the stands were packed with people screaming, yelling, and chanting.

The sound was deafening and Atticus barely heard what Deodatus was yelling. He turned to look at him and saw fear in his eyes. He was pointing and shouting something he couldn't quite make out. So he turned and looked to where Deo was pointing at the door across the arena.

He had heard they were on the battlefields of Gaul now, devastating the troops. In all his nights at the front, he had never once believed that the gods could allow such a creature to walk this earth. As the grotesque thing lumbered from the shadows of the open door, a frightened hush dropped eerily over the once rabid crowd. In that split second Deo's words filled his ears where the crowd's frenzy had once been.

"...CYCLOPS!"

Atticus could feel the bile rising up in the back of his throat.