Phi
oh baby baby it’s a wild world
Growing up, Quintus Aemilius Livianus was a cheerful boy, the fifth living son in his parent’s small farmstead and warm family home, just a day’s walk from the center of Rome. He had never really been a hard worker, receiving not infrequent punishments from his paterfamilias as well as his older brothers for goofing around and being lost in a fantasy world, picking flowers on the edges of the field instead of contributing to the workload. His spirit was never broken, though, and after long days of work, he would run off in the setting sun to play imaginary games or throw stones with the children of nearby farmsteads, as well as his own siblings. His favorite game of all was when they pretended to be soldiers in formation, with two thin sticks strapped to their backs as pila, walking in perfect synchrony.
The youngest children in the family, Quintus, his older brother Proculus, and their baby sister, Aemilia Tercera, were inseparable in those days, sharing a room and caring for each other when their parents had other things to deal with. Until he was fourteen years old, Quintus didn’t know loneliness at all. His whole world was a warm, chaotic family, long days on the fields in the sun, and evenings playing with his brother and sister and the kids from the next farms over. That all changed in his fourteenth year, when his mother died in childbirth to what would have been her fourth daughter. His father retreated into his own emotion, the house lost its warmth, and Aemilia took over the household duties, as her other two sisters were already married and the materfamilias of their own homesteads.
Quintus tried to stay strong through the circumstances, stroking his sister’s hair while she cried herself to sleep most nights, just a ten-year-old girl with the responsibility of caring for the family, watching her friends get engaged but stuck behind. And soon after, the house got a bit more empty when Proculus conscripted, and Quintus felt his honor tugging at him, too. At seventeen, he was finally old enough to conscript as well. That day had been a glorious one, his sister waving in happy tears as he walked away from the homestead, having pressed the three gold coins he had received into his father’s hand, thanking him for the years. Twenty-five years of service stood in front of him, then he, too, would be given land, and could marry and start a family of his own.
But it didn’t take twenty-five years. No, after three years of service, three years of watching his friends and new-found family die of exposure or in ambush, he had been released from service. Not for any wanting of his own, no, Quintus found great honor and personal purpose in the army. His centurion became like an extended family and that sense of loneliness was finally pushed away again, almost like he was returning to the days of his childhood. The work was hard, but the evenings laughing around a campfire were warm, and he knew he was doing his part for the empire.
Then, the day came that he injured himself so thoughtlessly, so instantaneously, and it was all over. Carrying his pack and his gear, he had tripped on uneven terrain while on a long march back home from Germania, the sixth one in as many days, and the sound his ankle made as he fell was heard above the rhythmic stomping of his peers. He had tripped. Tripped. And now he could no longer serve. Quintus almost wished it had happened further away, so his comrades would have been forced to leave him to die, but as they were just a day outside of Rome, they carried him back, set the ankle, and dismissed him from ever serving again. But Quintus couldn’t return to his family, couldn’t bear the thought of telling them what had happened and owning his shame. He hadn’t seen them since the day he left, his father standing tall and waving, his sister in a mix of happy and mournful tears.
So he took the little money he had saved and rented a room in a tenement on the top floor, a tiny space fit for one human only, and his solitude had begun anew. As it grew, so did his resentment, and now, after a year, you could almost see it on his face. His hair, which used to fall in perfect dark ringlets all around his face, lay stringy and flat. His skin, once sun-kissed and deeply tanned, was now sallow from dinners of only bread, when he could get it. His tunic was stained and due for its annual washing. But Quintus didn’t care. He didn’t have anyone to impress, anywhere to go. The only thing that interested now was perfecting his craft…
That’s what brought him to the bustling marketplace that morning as the sun was rising. The stench of so many people mixed with the call of voices and the gestures of colorful fruits and aromatic spices, creating the perfect cacophony to lose himself in, and he felt the anonymity slip over him like a well-fitting glove. Here, lost in the chaos, he could relax, could turn off his self-deprecating thoughts, could focus on his target like an animal. Standing non-chalantly against a column off to the side, semi-hidden in the shadow, he scanned the crowd, the slightest smile coming to the edge of one lip. Who would it be today?
American queen
The youngest children in the family, Quintus, his older brother Proculus, and their baby sister, Aemilia Tercera, were inseparable in those days, sharing a room and caring for each other when their parents had other things to deal with. Until he was fourteen years old, Quintus didn’t know loneliness at all. His whole world was a warm, chaotic family, long days on the fields in the sun, and evenings playing with his brother and sister and the kids from the next farms over. That all changed in his fourteenth year, when his mother died in childbirth to what would have been her fourth daughter. His father retreated into his own emotion, the house lost its warmth, and Aemilia took over the household duties, as her other two sisters were already married and the materfamilias of their own homesteads.
Quintus tried to stay strong through the circumstances, stroking his sister’s hair while she cried herself to sleep most nights, just a ten-year-old girl with the responsibility of caring for the family, watching her friends get engaged but stuck behind. And soon after, the house got a bit more empty when Proculus conscripted, and Quintus felt his honor tugging at him, too. At seventeen, he was finally old enough to conscript as well. That day had been a glorious one, his sister waving in happy tears as he walked away from the homestead, having pressed the three gold coins he had received into his father’s hand, thanking him for the years. Twenty-five years of service stood in front of him, then he, too, would be given land, and could marry and start a family of his own.
But it didn’t take twenty-five years. No, after three years of service, three years of watching his friends and new-found family die of exposure or in ambush, he had been released from service. Not for any wanting of his own, no, Quintus found great honor and personal purpose in the army. His centurion became like an extended family and that sense of loneliness was finally pushed away again, almost like he was returning to the days of his childhood. The work was hard, but the evenings laughing around a campfire were warm, and he knew he was doing his part for the empire.
Then, the day came that he injured himself so thoughtlessly, so instantaneously, and it was all over. Carrying his pack and his gear, he had tripped on uneven terrain while on a long march back home from Germania, the sixth one in as many days, and the sound his ankle made as he fell was heard above the rhythmic stomping of his peers. He had tripped. Tripped. And now he could no longer serve. Quintus almost wished it had happened further away, so his comrades would have been forced to leave him to die, but as they were just a day outside of Rome, they carried him back, set the ankle, and dismissed him from ever serving again. But Quintus couldn’t return to his family, couldn’t bear the thought of telling them what had happened and owning his shame. He hadn’t seen them since the day he left, his father standing tall and waving, his sister in a mix of happy and mournful tears.
So he took the little money he had saved and rented a room in a tenement on the top floor, a tiny space fit for one human only, and his solitude had begun anew. As it grew, so did his resentment, and now, after a year, you could almost see it on his face. His hair, which used to fall in perfect dark ringlets all around his face, lay stringy and flat. His skin, once sun-kissed and deeply tanned, was now sallow from dinners of only bread, when he could get it. His tunic was stained and due for its annual washing. But Quintus didn’t care. He didn’t have anyone to impress, anywhere to go. The only thing that interested now was perfecting his craft…
That’s what brought him to the bustling marketplace that morning as the sun was rising. The stench of so many people mixed with the call of voices and the gestures of colorful fruits and aromatic spices, creating the perfect cacophony to lose himself in, and he felt the anonymity slip over him like a well-fitting glove. Here, lost in the chaos, he could relax, could turn off his self-deprecating thoughts, could focus on his target like an animal. Standing non-chalantly against a column off to the side, semi-hidden in the shadow, he scanned the crowd, the slightest smile coming to the edge of one lip. Who would it be today?
American queen