June 5, Temple of Jupiter Capitolinus.
Standing in the grand sanctuary of the provincial capital, miles away from the roaring blast furnaces of his family’s estate, Marcus stared blankly at the statue of the Thunderer.
An elderly High Priest, adorned in the sacred white vestments of his office, approached the boy.
"You bring a letter from the magistrate, Marcus of the House of Cassius," the High Priest said. "You ask to take the vows of the novitiate. You understand that to serve Jupiter in this capacity, you must renounce your earthly inheritance? You will own no land, hold no titles, and claim no family. Your past will cease to exist."
Marcus reached up and unclasped the bronze fibula at his shoulder. He accepted the rough novice’s tunic and slipped it over his head.
"I have no family, Holy One," Marcus whispered, his voice trembling only slightly before hardening into a resolute monotone. "I wish to train in the temple. I wish to forget the world, and I wish for the world to forget me."
The priest nodded solemnly. "Then it is done. Come, novice. The altars require cleaning."
Marcus turned his back on the doors that led out into the Roman world.
He walked into the shadows of the temple’s inner sanctums, severing himself from the treason, the steel, and his bloodline forever. Marcus was gone.
Far on the ragged outskirts of Civitas Aurelia, the midday sun beat down on the banks of a shallow creek.
Caelus, an eighteen-year-old plebeian, stood knee-deep in gray sludge, stomping on wet clay to work out the air bubbles.
He was lean, his ribs pressing against his sweat-drenched skin, a testament to a life entirely devoid of patrician luxuries.
When the Antonine plague had swept through the slums years ago, it had taken his parents, leaving Caelus to inherit nothing but their crippling debts to a local pottery merchant.
He had spent every day since toiling in the mud, trying to buy back his own freedom one copper coin at a time.
Despite his miserable, filthy condition, Caelus possessed a sharp gleam in his eyes.
He survived because he paid attention to the world around him.
"Caelus! Caelus, by the gods, stop stomping!"
The splashing of water broke the boy’s rhythm. Caelus looked up, wiping a streak of gray mud from his brow, and sighed.
A young man was sprinting down the riverbank, nearly tripping over his own woven sandals.
It was Geta, a local stable boy. Geta possessed a heart of gold but the intellect of a sun-baked brick.
Most of the youths in the slums ignored him or mocked his stutter, but Caelus had always shared his meager bread rations with the boy.
"What is it, Geta?" Caelus asked, stepping out of the clay pit. "Did the master catch you sleeping in the hay again?"
"No! The big men... the criers in the forum!" Geta gasped, bending over to catch his breath. His eyes were wide with disbelief. "They said the House of Cassius is hiring men for a new guard! The Custodes! They are paying fifty silver denarii a month!"
Geta excitedly threw up both of his hands, trying to flash ten fingers five times, but he lost count on the third wave and just shook his hands wildly.
Caelus froze. "Fifty denarii? For a provincial guard? You misheard them, Geta. Even the Emperor’s legionaries don’t make that kind of silver starting out."
"I swear it on my mother’s grave!" Geta insisted, grabbing Caelus’s arm. "And they don’t care who you are! They said no patrician blood is needed. Slaves, freedmen, mud-stompers... the crier said they only care if you are strong and smart! Every able-bodied man in the slums is running to the eastern hills!"
Fifty denarii? It was an impossible fortune.
With that kind of coin, Caelus could pay off his family’s debt in a single month and never touch wet clay again.
Without a second thought, Caelus stripped off his apron, tossed it into the dirt, and began running toward the eastern ridges.
When Caelus arrived at the designated clearing near the western edge of the Fundus Ferratus estate, his jaw dropped.
A massive, hastily constructed timber palisade had already been erected in the woods, cordoning off a vast training ground.
Hundreds of men were lined up outside the gates. There were scarred gladiators, laborers with thick arms, and desperate urban poor, all eyeing each other with fierce competition.
Caelus took his place at the back of the line, his lean frame looking entirely unimpressive compared to the hulking brutes around him.
He waited for hours as the sun began to dip. The line moved agonizingly slowly, as men were grouped into batches of ten and escorted through the gates.
Finally, it was Caelus’s turn.
He and nine other hopefuls were led into the compound. Standing behind a sturdy table was a scarred veteran in shining scale armor.
Valerius, the Security Chief, looked at the ten men with open contempt.
"Listen closely, you miserable lot," Valerius barked, pacing in front of the table. "I don’t care how many men you’ve brawled in a tavern. We are not hiring thugs. Does anyone here know how to read?"
The question threw the men off guard. They were expecting to lift heavy stones or wrestle.