The Pax Romana: Broken Eagle

Chapter 1: The Battle of Actium, 2nd September, 31 BC

2nd September, 31 BC

The Roman Republic, as far as he was concerned, had fallen, and Faustus found himself thinking back eighteen long years to when he was a fresh faced, stubborn, naïve fool of a legionary. It was a wonder to behold just how much had changed for him since he served under Julius Caesar, albeit briefly.

Some time ago, he'd been aboard a quadrireme, the battle on the sea of Actium raging around him, and for a soldier who'd spent his entire career avoiding ever fighting at sea, this was one hell of a time to pick to do so, not that he had much choice in the matter.

The quadrireme that had forced Faustus into battling not just the enemy on the waves, but his own phobia of the open sea, could not be denied the achievement of Roman ingenuity, for it was crafted for both swiftness and might. Its decks were manned by four tiers of oarsmen, their muscles straining in harmony as they propelled the vessel through the waves with unyielding force. The hull, reinforced with thick layers of oak, shone in the sunlight, a gleaming symbol of Rome's dominion over the sea. At its prow, a formidable bronze ram lay in wait, eager to shatter the timber of any enemy that dared cross its path.

Upon the deck, warriors such as Faustus stood firm, shields raised and spears poised, amidst the mounting tension, for, second by second, the salty air around them overflowed with the weight of impending conflict, and they felt it not just in the rhythmic splash of oars, or of the battle, but in the hearts of each man who was undone by the sheer amount of adrenaline that pumped through their veins.

Faustus turned his gaze upward to the sail above, adorned with the Republic's emblem, a golden lion, one that, ironically, hadn't been in use for generations, that now billowed in the breeze as century's personal take on irony-a proud declaration of the power and glory they carried into combat with its roots in the Roman Republic, not what it had become.

This quadrireme that Faustus served upon as its centurion, a captain, was more than merely commanding a warship; he commanded a bastion of Roman virtue, sailing forth to defend the republic's honour against any adversary bold enough to challenge its sovereignty upon the open sea! Then, thrown off his feet, he struggled with an uneasy feeling of sea sickness. He took a breath, gasping for air as he steadied himself, straightening his dented helmet-a piece of finely wrought bronze that bore the marks of many a skirmish, its crest slightly askew, as he came to terms with the fact what had thrown him from his feet was an enemy ship ramming his own.

With a steady hand, he attempted to grip his shield tightly, then fumbled due to his loose grip, made all the more difficult by the sea's moisture that worked it's way onto and into everything on his person.

"Bloody scutum," he snarled below his breath, the large, rectangular shield's hand grip, made of metal, refused to cooperate during such a time as intense as this. Once he wrestled control of the shield and held it comfortably, he, in his other hand, prepared his gladius, a short but sharp sword.

Faustus peered into the distance, seeing much of Mark Anthony's fleet being battered by the wet weather and enemy alike, the froth of the bloodied waves, littered with friend and foe, making for a nasty sight because at its core-they were all Roman.

He had roared as a smaller enemy vessel made a swift maneuverer from the left and another from the right as from the front, then, a larger enemy ship, one of few, was host to forty or so men wielding javelins, approached. Within seconds, javelins were hurled at him and his men.

"Shields up!" he bellowed above the pandemonium of battle, and on one side of him, his optio, the second-in-command of his 80-man unit, a century, nudged him roughly.

"I mean no disrespect, sir, but no one can fucking hear you!" the Optio yelled, and Faustus cast a amused glance at the man. Sextus, Optio Sextus, who left Faustus in a state which he could not help but laugh in return as his shield was struck, weighed down in an instant as the javelin narrowly missed tearing through his forearm. The shield, now weighed down heavily on one side, caused his arm to drag downward, leaving him exposed.