He barely remembered the trails, the twisting rivulets of dirt and cleared land that marked the approaches to the life he once knew. It was coming back slowly, the wandering bend around the small hill, the cluster of gnarled trees at its summit, and further on down, not even a league to the south, the tidy little structure he had once called home. It looked much as it always had, rustic, rural, unceasingly dull, and it marveled him how much he had been a part of this world. Solid fences and stone walls occasionally marked boundaries between this farmstead or that, neatly laid rows of ripening wheat or barley, with alternating pastures of oxen and other livestock. The smell, oh the ripe smell of fresh animal markings, took him back to that time of innocence. Did he miss it? Then there were the simple folk, simple in their manners and duties. They judged each man as they came, without bluster or maneuver, and worried precisely over those things in their control and left the rest to God.
Each person he passed seemed not to know him and he certainly could understand why. He had left with a bare tunic on his back, a mad adventurous boy chasing after a fugitive officer. Now that fugitive was ruler and he was at his side, a nobleman and general in his own right. Certainly anyone who had once known the precocious boy Selenus, son of Jafre, would not have recognized the armored horsemen who looked like he had seen a scrap or two. The mail shirt was finely crafted, newly minted from a fabrica at Mediolanum, lacking the usual indentations and wear. His cloth leggings were in the longer fashion of that period, showing no bare skin and useful more for protection than ease of travel in these troublesome times. His sagum, draped loosely over his mail, was adorned only by a vivid if reserved cape of deep blue. None of the farmers who watched his passage – or that of his small escort – would guess at the color’s meaning, nor think of dangerous days on an ancient island. He thought he even recognized something in the blank features, and wondered if he had grown up with any of them, if they were the lost friends of his youth. But that time was past now and he looked away, suddenly afraid of being recognized and marked out for what he was, a boy among men. As if to reinforce the lesson, the rain began, building to a downpour that easily matched that on the day he had first met Remus Macrinus, now ruler of the West.
Was it the courtly intrigue? It was exasperating perhaps, but certainly not enough to drive him from Rome. At court, the nascent factions were already aligning themselves. Senator Regulus, now Praefectus Urbanus and Selenus’ civil rival, was wielding immense influence at court, tying the majority of the Senate to his side and lashing out at old enemies and pushing forward the poisonous debate over the imperial marriage. There was no question that he wanted Remus married to his sister Hesta, an aggressive move and one of ambiguous popularity. For her part, she had been effective in advancing her own cause, rarely absent from the imperial palace and prominent at all social functions, putting her squarely in the imperial eye unlike her distant rival to the east.
It was the marriage issue that served to partially resurrect Senator Genucius’ career, who favored reviving the traditional plan to marry the Imperator to the Princess Titia in Constantinople. It had done much to divide the Senate, and although he loathed the carping in the Curia Julia, this wasn’t enough to push him away. Nor was his successful evasions and his inability to make a decision on the marriage question. Regulus was already annoyed with him for helping to expel Thelane’s mercenaries. Many had gone to ground as bandits, invoking imperial furor, and giving Selenus an excuse to come to Campania to run them to ground. That wasn’t the reason, however. The work in Rome would pile up, but not irretrievably. Alain, the solid Briton, and Selenus’ hand-picked second, would keep the Custodiae well in order, even in the Comes’ absence. And the bandits were easily swatted aside, the guardsmen already sent back to Rome with a little field experience to toughen them up.
When he first saw the remains of the house, he again felt the pulse in his heart that had brought him out from his comforts. From the moment he had heard of Thelane’s marauding in this rich region, he felt the sudden question pierce his mind. So long ago, he had run off in search of adventure but had he ever stopped to count the cost? His mother had long since passed in his youth, but what of his father? Jafre had been a hard man, harsh even, yet had he warranted such abandonment? Selenus rode up to the small gate and dismounted, taking a deep breath as he did so. The wood had been broken in many places and thrown to the side, a sign of violence that made him wince. It could’ve been from years ago, when criminii bands had roamed Campania without restraint, and Remus and his small force had been only one among them. Or it could’ve been punishing armies from Odoacer or even Romulus. Or recent bandits. The damage looked weathered, and he couldn’t tell. For a moment, he set his hand on a withered post and stared up into the rain, letting it wash over him. ”I need a moment,” he said to his escort, and stepped forward on to the property. ”Stay here,” he continued unnecessarily, leaving the men with the horses.
There had been fowl kept in that long house there, he thought, willing himself to remember. There was a large gash in the roof, perhaps from rot in the ceiling beams. The main pen, where he had spent long mornings grooming horses and milking the cows, was intact, missing only its main door. Within the gaping maw, only darkness was visible. And there, at the far end of the worn pathway, the farmhouse stood, its windows pulled aside and hanging mournfully, the structure open to the elements. . Pools of water were already forming on the uneven ground and his boots stepped into thickening mud. Debris littered the wild grass, and Selenus could see broken boxes, pieces of tables, and even a worn piece of cloth he thought had once belonged to his mother.
The pelting rain hit the cloth with staccato rhythm, muffled thuds that vaguely reminded him of arrows hitting a wooden wall. Stooping slowly, he ran his hands over the damp fabric, squinting to catch the color underneath the grime. Had she fashioned this herself? He could hardly remember her, only glimpses of a smile and the smell of spices. It had been so long. He ventured to the doorway but decided not to step inside. Had he even the right to anymore? He chose instead to walk around the building, glimpsing inside the many breached openings, and could see hardly any sign of possessions or worse. His father was gone then, dead most likely. Why did he care so little? Heaving himself upright, he made the long walk back to his men in sober silence, cursing himself for such a fruitless gesture. His old life was gone, and he couldn’t afford to shirk his duties over nostalgia. There was too much at stake.
Rushing back into his mind, the immense weight of duties came flooding in. There were letters to write, so many of them. He recited them to himself one by one, bringing his thoughts back to the relevant. To Medone in Gaul, now Prefect of that province, who had been far too quiet since Remus’ army left for Italia two years ago. To King Gundobad of the Burgundians, reminding him of his obligations to pay his tribute, men or coin. Selenus could sense there would be conflict there someday, once the tribe saw its opportunity to fling off the Roman yoke. The Franks, too, perhaps, though Clovis was showing more sense of late. He mounted quietly, kicking his horse into a steady trot without a word, turning back up the road, the way they had come. He didn’t look back, his mind now full of the expectations of the present, forgetting the past. There was a letter to the Vaticanus, congratulating Gelasius on his accession and politely parrying his questions on of the festival of Lupercalia, reminding him that that ancient tradition fell within the civil purview. This was just the beginning, he knew. To Annaeus in Ostia, confirming the arrangements for the next session. There was certainly a treaty in the offing and Selenus could already grasp the terms, though much public posturing remained. If Remus succumbed to Regulus’ prodding and agreed to a marriage with Hesta, then the princess could be set aside. It would, however, bring the Ostrogoth question back to the table.
They turned west after two leagues, Selenus deciding that while he was in Campania, he could put himself to use. Capua’s fortifications needed to be worked on and there were two latinae – lateen-rigged liburnians – under construction at Neapolis that needed to be inspected. He could do this himself. If he was ever going to cease being a boy among men, he needed to put aside his boyhood.
