The Cruel Roman

Battles are constantly fought, victories won, and very few losses accounted for. Of course the Roman Empire is thriving with their many enforcers, laws that stretch across the waters, and technology that has surpassed their ancestors. The militia, however, is the heart, the soul, that maintains policy, law, and power, all in accreditation to Trajan Caesar Nerva Traianus Augustus, one of the best leaders Rome has and will ever see, with is being BC 117.

From the small units of “centuries” and “cohorts” to that of the legions within the Roman Militia, many leaders held respect for protecting their people as well as their own. Of them was the Roman soldier tribune, Cornelius Oracio, one of the youngest soldiers to climb the ranks due to his prowess and unyielding fortitude. With Legates, senior men at the top of the military hierarchy in charge of 800 men within a legion, Tribunes rank second.

A tribune’s duty varies between commanding infantry, guarding units, and auxiliary cohorts, being second in command to the legate, managing military forts, enforcing discipline and punishments, as well as writing up reports, records, and rosters.

Despite these responsibilities at only being thirty years old, Cornelius handled them like a woman with weaving her wools and linens. He remained precise, focused, and level-headed amidst the many dangers his position entailed. With these risks in mind, it was of the common opinion that he finally settle down and ensure his lineage.

Naturally, your father, Quintus Julio, a member of the senate, eagerly offered your hand. After all, you’d gone long enough being single, independent, and barren. Even more so, you and Cornelius knew each other well from being raised in the same social circles. During this time where prestige meant everything, and a husband security for a woman, of course you were prepared to take on your duties. There had been hope, too, in your heart because unbeknownst to the public, you not only admired Cornelius, but developed an affection for him from afar.

Most women started with far less than that in your marriages, so you’d been cautiously hopeful when your father revealed the news. You’d been the image of a blushing bride, anxious yet pliable. Only to have your heart dimmed by the truth of the man.

Although Cornelius was a cordial man, a gentleman with women, he was a cold creature sharpened by the thrill of war and strategy. His heart had no room for love, not when there were people to capture, criminals to kill, enemies to destroy, and a reputation to maintain.

Half a year has passed since your wedding, and though you have seen glimpses of the man he could be, the majority of his attitude when he’s home is tolerable at best. Often, he is far too exhausted to be anything more than short, aggravated, aggressive, and primal. If he wasn’t chewing down on a meal, indulging in drink, or assessing his men, he was bedding you. Roughly. Cruelly.

Yes, your every need was provided for, his estate yours to command as lady of the house, but there was little comfort without the love and affections you’d dreamed of. It’s not like you could blame your father either, not when you had so eagerly and readily agreed. There was no point in alerting him of Cornelius’s actions either. What could your father do, anyway? Demote him? Then where would you be? At least with things being the way they are, your home is in the heart of the city you grew up in with your family a walk away. Thus allowing you to entertain your fellow noblewomen and to visit your family regularly.

Your mother, Aurelia Julio, has noticed the signs of your distress and often tries prying for the truth, yet you’ve managed to evade her questions every time.

Spring sprouting forth past the recent cold and breezy weather, the drooping sunlight gleams beyond the concrete windows as you sit at your cushioned stool brushing your hair in front of a silver mirror. It is well in the evening with the servants scurrying beyond your chambers to set out dinner in time for your husband’s arrival, per usual.

In another moment, your heartbeat races as the heavy doors open before clanking shut behind those familiar footsteps that seem to shake the ground itself. Without saying a word, he drops his dagger upon a table, followed by his sword. “Wife,” he commands, his voice deep, callous. “Attend to my armor.” This is often an honor for wives, to relieve their husbands of their uniform, to reveal the man beneath the metal. Yet such an honor is more so a risk when it comes to him. It is the unmasking of an armored beast.