ArcticAvenue
Randomly Pawing At Keys
- Joined
- Jul 16, 2013
- Posts
- 1,650
When the hot summer air blew the wind from the coast, Titus still could smell the sea air that brought him to the lands far beyond Rome. Standing on the high hill, the morning sun drying the dew kissed grasses of the grand vista, Titus could feel like he back where the satisfaction ruled alongside of bravery and camaraderie. Closing his eyes, he could almost hear the sounds of the legions of brave warriors of Rome reading for the fight. He could feel like the days when dirt released it’s smells wetted by the blood of the enemy. The tree limbs breaking free of their greenery as they rode their horses through thick brush. The smells of campfires and cooked meat feeding an army ready for battle. The anticipation of the fight, the excitement of the battle, and the exhilaration of the victory.
Standing up on this high was the farthest from the battlefield, the farthest from himself; yet it was where he found himself now.
“Master Titus?” A voice came from behind him.
He did not turn to look at the servant, whose voice was too familiar to him these days. “What is it?”
“Your father wishes to see you,” he replied.
Titus stood firm at the marble railing. The villa sat on the top of Mont Janiculum, outside of Rome’s city walls to the west but no less as beautiful vista over the great city than any other place. This villa, with all it’s grand gardens, fountains, and baths remained outside of the city because it is the people his father represented in the senate. At this railing Titus could look down upon all of the greatest city in all of civilization and those whom make it their home. Even as a boy, standing at this rail gave him simple joy; knowing that all of the good people of Rome were down below him where he could watch and someday protect. For most of his young life, he had fought for those people, stopped invaders from reaching them, expanding the reign of the emperor, bringing more of the savage world to this great republic. This city filled with people who know not the sacrifices made on their behalf.
“Please, Master Titus,” the servant spoke again, “he insists an audience with you.”
Titus still did not move, and shook his head slowly. “Does he mention why he wishes such an audience?”
“He asks for an audience,” the servant returned, his voice sounding fearful of retribution if he could not return with the senator’s son.
In some ways, Titus feels his father treats him like a child. He was no child; though his career was too brief, no soldier ever comes home a child. Tall, strong, broad shouldered, and the white tunics with red trim showing his distinction were cut special in order to cover his frame. His dark hair kept and face clean made him feel like he was still of the military. All, gentle reminders he was more man than child. “It is hard for me to leave such a view in a hurry for my father,” Titus spoke, still without turning. “Not without fair reason.”
A long breath escaped the servant. “He has a gift.”
“It would not be a horse, would it?”
There was a silence from the servant. Titus knew why. There would be no horse, not with his condition. Leader of a cavalry legion, yet cannot ride.
Titus looked over his shoulder at the servant, the young man appearing nervous. “I will be along shortly. You will at least permit me the dignity to walk alone, will you not?”
The servant shuffled along in short order.
Titus stood by the rail once more, and closed his eyes. The sea air reached him once more, as well as the swelling of flowers, grass, and earth that circled around the grand garden. No, this was not the battle field, but there was something deeper to this place that allowed him to escape what it had become. If only he was allowed to let it enter; if only he was allowed to forget his past.
The former soldier carefully turned from the railing, and took the first step towards the house. The first step remained the worst. A ripping pain blazed through his thigh that felt as bad as when that spear first thrust through it. Each step allowed the pain to become duller, more bearable. Slowly, he could let the pain become manageable so the limp he carried could be hidden; then only the scar needed to be hidden under his tunic, hidden as well as the reminder that each step now meant he would no longer fight in battle again.
Standing up on this high was the farthest from the battlefield, the farthest from himself; yet it was where he found himself now.
“Master Titus?” A voice came from behind him.
He did not turn to look at the servant, whose voice was too familiar to him these days. “What is it?”
“Your father wishes to see you,” he replied.
Titus stood firm at the marble railing. The villa sat on the top of Mont Janiculum, outside of Rome’s city walls to the west but no less as beautiful vista over the great city than any other place. This villa, with all it’s grand gardens, fountains, and baths remained outside of the city because it is the people his father represented in the senate. At this railing Titus could look down upon all of the greatest city in all of civilization and those whom make it their home. Even as a boy, standing at this rail gave him simple joy; knowing that all of the good people of Rome were down below him where he could watch and someday protect. For most of his young life, he had fought for those people, stopped invaders from reaching them, expanding the reign of the emperor, bringing more of the savage world to this great republic. This city filled with people who know not the sacrifices made on their behalf.
“Please, Master Titus,” the servant spoke again, “he insists an audience with you.”
Titus still did not move, and shook his head slowly. “Does he mention why he wishes such an audience?”
“He asks for an audience,” the servant returned, his voice sounding fearful of retribution if he could not return with the senator’s son.
In some ways, Titus feels his father treats him like a child. He was no child; though his career was too brief, no soldier ever comes home a child. Tall, strong, broad shouldered, and the white tunics with red trim showing his distinction were cut special in order to cover his frame. His dark hair kept and face clean made him feel like he was still of the military. All, gentle reminders he was more man than child. “It is hard for me to leave such a view in a hurry for my father,” Titus spoke, still without turning. “Not without fair reason.”
A long breath escaped the servant. “He has a gift.”
“It would not be a horse, would it?”
There was a silence from the servant. Titus knew why. There would be no horse, not with his condition. Leader of a cavalry legion, yet cannot ride.
Titus looked over his shoulder at the servant, the young man appearing nervous. “I will be along shortly. You will at least permit me the dignity to walk alone, will you not?”
The servant shuffled along in short order.
Titus stood by the rail once more, and closed his eyes. The sea air reached him once more, as well as the swelling of flowers, grass, and earth that circled around the grand garden. No, this was not the battle field, but there was something deeper to this place that allowed him to escape what it had become. If only he was allowed to let it enter; if only he was allowed to forget his past.
The former soldier carefully turned from the railing, and took the first step towards the house. The first step remained the worst. A ripping pain blazed through his thigh that felt as bad as when that spear first thrust through it. Each step allowed the pain to become duller, more bearable. Slowly, he could let the pain become manageable so the limp he carried could be hidden; then only the scar needed to be hidden under his tunic, hidden as well as the reminder that each step now meant he would no longer fight in battle again.