The Pax Romana: Broken Eagle

Prologue: January 10th, 49 BC

Defeated by the intensity of the organised marching of give or take three-and-a-half-thousand men, perhaps more, the Rubicon, no more than a low-lying, wide river, became victim to the boots of disciplined, undeterred men. These men were soldiers of Legio XIII (13) Gemina, and these men knew what they were doing, what they had done. As they waded through the river, one by one, they followed after their general, who, on horseback, led the way.

At the helm of the disciplined column the legion marched in, was a man whose face resembled cracked stone, for he kept firm, eyes cold, his gaze as intense as the knowing atmosphere surrounding his soldiers.

Undecided, this general, one Julius Gaius Caesar, had done something never before seen. He had crossed the Rubicon. Well, of course, Sulla a generation ago had made his own advancements of tyranny against the senate and the people of Rome, but Caesar refused to be compared, for he was different, greater, more deserving, and just.

Righteous, he made a mental note, then, to try and ensure the event was recorded and known, and hopefully there would be no confusion, such as if it were the 10th or 11th.

He pressed his weight on one side of the saddle and gently steered himself and his cavalry bodyguard aside on the dirt road route so that he could see the legionaries, their faces, and so that they could see him. So that they would know he was only a man, like them, and that he would continue to do as he did best, the reason they followed him the way they did, and that was to fight not just for them, but with them. Caesar was a man of integrity and intended the same for the legionaries who followed him.

Then, his gaze caught sight of one particular legionary who had proved to be somewhat of the conversationalist of late regarding the Roman state's laws, and he had made it very clear in whispered chatter that what they did here, today, was a capital offence. They would all be killed for this.

It was a law, yes. But for the Romans, a simple rule. One that had existed since the time of Sulla when he crossed into Rome with his army to seize power, was that no army be present in Italy, and especially not in Rome. No legionaries. No soldiers of any kind. No weapons. Now, granted, there were significantly more complexities to that law, intricate details and the like, but it did not change the fundamental aspect that, whether they all knew it or not, this, today, meant civil war.

Civil war was not just a possibility, but a certainty. A matter of if, not when.

Caesar noted to himself to not dismiss this one legionary just yet, regardless of the hushed rumbles of anxiety he caused among the more nervous veterans in the legion, because he had quite the good word put in for him.

This man caught Caesar's eyes, and they shared a look, one where the other could not quite tell what the other was thinking. And yet, it was but a passing, fleeting moment.

This man was Faustus, who only was known and even respected by Caesar himself for having fought side-by-side with Mark Anthony during a skirmish with some rogue bandits on their way into Italy from Gaul. Hence the good word and recommendation.

But to Caesar, this one man was inconsequential. Even if he'd had him flogged already for insubordination, a disobedience of which would have likely garnered far worse a punishment if not for the fact Caesar knew Faustus's father. From his youth. Before he perished at sea.

To Faustus, he feared what his mentor and guardian had told him in his youth, taught him, too, of the Roman Republic and not its flaws, but its cracks, the chips and dents in its integrity since the time of the Gracchus brothers nearly a century ago.

It wouldn't last. No, not for as long as men like Caesar disturbed the peace and destroyed the natural order of things.

And yet, Faustus kept on, for in some ways, he loved Caesar.

Faustus was a military man, and he'd served under Caesar for no more than a year. Though, overall, he'd only served for a total of two years for the Roman Republic thus far. He was no more than twenty, but unbreakable in his gritty resolve.

In truth, with all he knew, how could he not admire the man and look up to him? Follow him, even? He was right now, his feet wet from the Rubicon river that they had crossed because Caesar said so. And yet, Faustus could only think of his adoptive father's ramblings, his fears passed on to the young man.

The fear that, one day, the Roman Republic would fall, if it had not already.