The Gabinian Affair Read online

  THE GABINIAN AFFAIR

  Also by Ray Gleason:

  A Grunt Speaks: A Devil’s Dictionary of Vietnam

  Infantry Terms (2009)

  The Violent Season (2013)

  Available from Amazon and Unlimited Publishing

  THE GAIUS MARIUS CHRONICLE

  THE

  GABINIAN

  AFFAIR

  De Re Gabiniana

  RAY GLEASON

  THE GAIUS MARIUS CHRONICLE

  THE GABINIAN AFFAIR

  De Re Gabiniana

  © 2016 RAY GLEASON.

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, scanning, or other—except for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  Published in New York, New York, by Morgan James Publishing. Morgan James and The Entrepreneurial

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  www.MorganJamesPublishing.com

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  ISBN 978-1-63047-479-9 paperback

  ISBN 978-1-63047-556-7 eBook

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2015901025

  Cover Design by:

  Rachel Lopez

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  Interior Design by:

  Bonnie Bushman

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  To my babies . . .

  Jaqueline,

  Michael,

  Diana,

  KC,

  and

  Mallory

  Special thanks to my text editor Cathy Tulungen,

  who now knows why she didn’t take Latin in school.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Dramatis Personae

  De Qua Causa Scribo Praefatio

  A Preface on Why I Write

  I. Quomodo Civitem Romanam Familia Mea Acquisit

  How My Family Became Romans

  II. De Avo Meo ac Terra Iuventis

  Gran’pa and the Land of Youth

  III. De Mama Mea, Qua Muliere Romana Feroce

  My Mama, a Formidable Woman of Rome

  IV. De Doctrina Romana

  My Education as a Roman—and a Few Other Things

  V. De Amice Novo

  A New Friend

  VI. De Natale Sexto Decimo

  I Turn Sixteen and Learn a Trade

  VII. Inter Iliadem et Lupinarium

  Between the Iliad and the Brothel: My Final Lessons in Being Roman

  VIII. De Fine Pueritiae

  My Childhood Ends

  IX. De Itinere Frigido

  A Cold Journey

  Post Scriptum

  A Glossary of Latin Terms Used in the Story

  DRAMATIS PERSONAE

  Gaius Marius Insubrecus Tertius, our hero, known variously as follows:

  Arth Bek: “Little Bear,” by his grandpa

  Pagane: “The Hick,” by his Roman army mates

  Gai: by his family, close friends, and his few girlfriends

  Insubrecus: by his army colleagues and casual associates

  Prime: “Top,” but that’s much later in his military career

  Familia Sua, Gai’s Family:

  Gaius Marius Insubrecus Primus, our hero’s gran’pa, also known by these titles:

  Cunorud mab Cunomaro: “Red Hound,” his Gallic name

  Cura: “Trouble,” his army name

  Helvetia Minor, “Valeria,” our hero’s mama; mulier Romana ferox, a formidable woman of Rome and a redhead

  Secundus Marius Insubrecus, his father, a henpecked farmer (kind of a pun)

  Lucius Marius Insubrecus, his older brother, who wants to be a farmer like their dad

  Ceri, his grandmother, whom he calls “Nanna”

  Lucius Helvetius Naso Iunior, or Avus Lucius, his maternal grandfather, also known around the taverns of town as Naso, “The Nose”

  Gaius Marius Insubrecus Iunior, his patruus, a paternal uncle, who doesn’t live long enough to make it into the plot

  Maria and Maria Minor, his amitae, paternal aunts

  Marcia, his avia, maternal grandmother, another redhead

  Lucius Helvetius Naso Tertius, his avunculus, maternal uncle

  Helvetia Maior, his matertera, maternal aunt

  Amici Sui, Gai’s Friends:

  Quintus Macro, his mentor; the vilicus of Aulus Gabinius’ villa in the Padus Valley; a minor army officer invalided out of the legions; only Rufia gets to call him Quintus

  Rufia, the madame of the best little brothel in Mediolanum; more to this lady than what she lets on; also a redhead

  Athvoowin, daughter of Gwili, of the Glas Sect of the Insubreci; Cynthia is her professional name, an employee of Rufia and Gai’s “first wife”

  Cossus Lollius Strabo, “Squinty,” an Eighth Legion optio

  Lucius Bantus, a veteran rejoining the legions

  Tullius Norbanus, “Tulli,” another veteran legionary

  Dramatis Personae Aliae, Other Players:

  Gabinia, or Gabi, the daughter of Aulus Gabinius; has romantic fantasies about poets and handsome, Gallic brigands who ride by the light of the moon

  Aulus Gabinius, Senior, a senatorial mid-bencher, who does well and is elected consul

  Aulus Gabinius, Iunior, Gabinius’ oldest son and political heir, who takes his reputation and that of his family very seriously

  Marcus Gabinius, Gabinius’ younger son, not a scholar

  Stephanos, the magister, a faux-Greek from Neapolis, tutor of the little Gabinii, known to our hero as “The Stick”

  Dion, Stephanos’ slave and a real Greek

  Gaius Marius, Infamous Roman consul, imperator and dictator

  Quintus Antonius, Commander of Marius’ praetorian cohort

  Gaius Iulius Caesar Senior, senatorial associate of Gaius Marius

  Aiofe & Gwin, brother and sister who work on the “Insubrecus estate”; Valeria romanizes Aiofe as Amanda

  Wulfgar, Rufia’s maior domus and bouncer; a German who doesn’t think much of Romans, if he thinks about them much at all … only Rufia gets to call him “Wolfie”

  Galenus, a member of the urban cohort of Mediolanum and a mate of Macro’s from their campaigning days in Asia; he and his wife Dora, are expecting any day now

  Maariam, Macro’s lost love

  Dalmatius, the Roman army recruiter in Mediolanum; another chum of Macro’s

  Sevso, Dalmatius’ assistant… not to be trusted

  Metella, Mrs. Aulus Gabinius

  Math, “The Bear”; a tavern owner in Medhlán; no fan of Romanitas

  Rhun, Math’s foster son

  Melonius, or “Mollis” to his mates; a legionary recruit with flat feet

  Arth Mawr, or Arth Uthr, legendary Brennus, High King of the Gah’el

  Goualc’mei, nephew of Arth Mawr

  De Qua Causa Scribo Praefatio

  A PREFACE ON WHY I WRITE

  My formal Roman name is Gaius Marius Insubrecus Tertius, the third of that name after my grandfather and an uncle, whom I never met. My oldest son is Gaius Marius Insubrecus Quartus, the fourth of that name. We have been Quirites, Roman citizens, since my grandfather was granted the franchise by t
he Roman Imperator and Dictator, Gaius Marius, whom he served as a soldier and a Praetorian.

  Throughout my life, I have been known by other names.

  My mates in the Tenth Legion called me Pagane, “The Hick,” because I was such a farm boy when I joined up; they swore a dung cart dumped me at the camp gates with the rest of its load.

  I was the Senior Centurion, the Primus Pilus, First Spear, of the Tenth. When my legs couldn’t hold up to the thirty thousand passus, forced marches, impeditus, with full kit, I was promoted to Praefectus Castrorum, the Prefect of the Camps. Then, the other officers, even the legates and the broad-stripe tribunes, called me Prime, Top.

  Most importantly, Caesar himself, and now his son down in Rome, Princeps noster, our First Citizen, called me amice, friend.

  My dear wife has been badgering me to write my memoirs. I suspect that her interest has nothing to do with an appreciation for Roman history or fine literature. Retirement has not been easy for me, and she just wants to keep me occupied and out of her hair.

  I served over twenty-five years in the army, most of it with the Tenth Legion. I served from the time Divus Iulius, Julius the God, launched himself into the boondocks of Gallia Comata, long-haired Gaul. I remained with the legions during the civil wars. I was there when Octavianus, Filius Divi Iuli, Son of Julius the God, who now calls himself Augustus, the Exalted One, defeated Marcus Antonius and his Egyptian tart.

  I am hard-pressed to remember two years in a row that we weren’t up to our asses in barbarians, Greek hirelings, Egyptians, a Parthian or two, and Romans who were fighting for some other way of running things down in Rome.

  Now, I can’t get through a single day without the memories of some dead mate, his throat torn out, staring up at me from the bloodstained grass; or the terror of being locked shield-to-shield with some son-of-a-bitch trying to gut me with a sword or split my skull open with an axe; or the smell of burning huts and human flesh; or the screams of women begging for mercy, when there’s none to be had.

  Now my flesh is cured the color of a leather hide, except for the jagged white lines of old scars, bearing witness to when I didn’t get my shield up in time or some bastard snuck one in through my open side.

  But, the dream is the worst.

  I see myself in a shadowy squad bay with my contubernales—my squaddies, my tent-mates—guys I know are long dead. They’re saddling up their kit for an inspection, telling me to hurry or I’ll be missed.

  But I know they’re all dead—long dead.

  “Move it, Pagane!” they shout. “The centurion will have your balls if you’re late for roll call!”

  I’m not supposed to be here, I think. I’m done with this!

  “Get your ass in gear! Move it!” they shout.

  Then, in a cold sweat, I wake up screaming, “No! I’m alive! I’m alive!”

  I wake the wife up, who nearly pisses herself thinking that mad barbarians from across the Rhenus or some rebel army’s breached the walls and are slaughtering us in our beds. All the next day, she complains about my waking her up and how she couldn’t get back to sleep.

  It’s the soldier’s lot, I guess; no one survives unwounded in some way.

  I have the scars and aches of old wounds, but for reasons I can’t even begin to imagine, the dream is the worst.

  So, I don’t really blame my dear wife. I need a hobby to occupy my time other than wine, beer, dice, and remembering.

  Perhaps if I write this, tell the stories of my mates, lost and long dead—so someone will remember their names, make offerings to their memories—then their lemures, their restless spirits, will stop haunting the darkness of my dreams.

  I.

  Quomodo Civitem Romanam Familia Mea Acquisit

  HOW MY FAMILY BECAME ROMANS

  My life can be divided into three stages: youth, maturity, and old age. Youth is the time before I joined the legions; maturity, while I served in the legions; and now that I have retired from the legions, old age.

  When I was a kid, my grandfather called me Arth Bek, which means “Little Bear” in the language of our people, the Gah’el, whom the Romans call Galli and the Greeks, hoi Keltoi. Grandfather said when I was an infant and wanted attention, I screamed like a little warrior, so he named me after a mythical hero-king of our people, Arth Mawr, the “Great Bear.” I suspect the name had more to do with my being somewhat swarthy—thick-built, short-legged, and barrel-chested, like a little bear—than any noises I made as a squeaker.

  My grandfather was the first Roman citizen in our family. When he was a youth, the Krauts came storming down from the North and rampaged by the thousands through the Roman Provincia up in Gallia Transalpina, Gaul-Over-The-Alps. They slaughtered more Romans than Hannibal, plus a couple of consuls for good measure—not that our people cared much about dead Romans.

  A new Roman consul, Gaius Marius, was raising troops in our lands in the Padus Valley to fight those piss-headed cunni. My grandfather, who fancied himself a warrior-hero of the fianna, the ancient Gallic war bands, joined the Roman army. Since he wasn’t a Roman citizen, he enlisted in one of the local auxiliary units, the Cohors Prima Gallica, the First Gallic Cohort. Like most auxiliary units, the First Gallic was a mix of infantry and cavalry.

  My grandfather’s Gallic name was Cunorud, which he explained meant either “Red Dog” or “The King’s Hound,” depending on how much beer he had in him. His Latin-speaking mates, who couldn’t pronounce that “tongue-twisting Gallic shit,” called him Cura, Trouble. My grandfather hated the name, but tended to prove it accurate.

  He got himself assigned to one of the cavalry wings, alae the Romans call them. Gran’pa claimed he cut quite a dashing figure with his mustachios reaching down past his chin; his spatha, a long Gallic cavalry sword, hanging at his side; and a jaunty brass helmet, polished like a mirror and sporting a crimson plume, on his head. He rode a huge, snorting black stallion. As he put it, riding was always better than slogging in the mud with the muli, the infantry grunts. Besides, if things got really bad, he could make a quick exit, and once he did, he always knew exactly where his next meal was.

  The First Gallic marched over the Alps with Marius and wrecked the Germans at a place the Romans call Aquae Sextiae. But, a bunch of Krauts got around the flank of the Roman army, through the Alps and down into our lands, which the Romans call Gallia Cisalpina, Gaul-This-Side-Of-The-Alps. Marius caught up with them near a town called Vercellae and didn’t leave enough of those mentulae, those pricks, alive—man, woman or child—to stage a gladiator show in an outhouse.

  What happened near Vercellae is family legend.

  As best I remember the story—only having heard it a few dozen times before I assumed my toga virilis—my gran’pa, after a few bowls of beer with his cronies, told it like this:

  Before the Battle of Vercellae, me and me mates are sent out to reconnoiter the Kraut positions. Marius, the chief, likes to see things for himself, so he goes along for the ride. We’re strung out in a file below a wooded ridgeline. We’re trying to keep high ground between us and where we think them piss-headed mentulae are at. We’re moving through a narrow place, between the edge of the woods and some marshes, when them hairy-faced cunni bust out of the trees right on top of us.

  We’re thinkin’ we’re perfututi as the Roman boys say, absolutely screwed. We have them marshes at our backs and them Krauts chargin’ down the ridge at us from them woods. We freeze, but one of me mates yells out, “What you waitin’ for, boys? We got those sheep-shaggin’, piss-headed podices, those arses, right where we wants ’em! Let’s go chop them bastards!”

  So we pull out our swords and charge up the ridge right into ’em.

  The chief’s pretty ballsy for a toga-boy, and he goes right in with us. We hit them Krauts like a battering ram and pretty much knock ’em back into the woods. I’m feelin’ now’s the time to make our break. Then I sees the chief all tangled up with a bunch of them bastards, but he’s waving around one of them little Roman
infantry swords, gladius they calls ’em. The only way he’s goin’ to kill a Kraut from a horse with one of them little Roman pig-stickers is if the Kraut laughs himself to death. He can’t even reach ’em with the thing.

  I thinks, Just like a Roman to bring a knife to a sword fight. But, he’s our chief, even if he scrapes his face so’s it looks like a girl’s ass. So I turns me horse and charges into the bastards and gets between them and the chief.

  “Get your ass outta here, Chief!” I yells over to him. “Leave the Krautchoppin’ to us guys with grown-up swords.”

  Next thing I know, one of them German verpae, pricks, grabs me belt and pulls me down off me horse. Now there’s nothin’ that’ll piss a cavalryman off more than to have some ground-poundin’, sheep-shaggin’ podex pull him off his horse, and them shits never dealt with a pissed-off Gah’el before. I hits the ground and rolls to me feet and starts choppin’ and stabbin’ in every direction. Pretty soon I gets three or four of the bastards on the ground, and the rest of them piss-haired cunni don’t want to get anywhere near me. I looks up, and there’s the chief with me horse.

  “Mount up, Trooper!” says he. “Time to get our arses outta here.”

  Well, I jumps up on me horse, and me and the chief tear ass down that ridge before them Krauts can figure out what hit ’em. When we catch up with the rest of the boys, the chief says to me, “A Roman doesn’t forget his obligations, Trooper Cura, and I will not forget mine to you.”

  While I’m still reelin’ at his calling me “Cura,” he grabs me right arm in one of them Roman handshakes. Then he rides up our column to the head of our troop.

  Well, I don’t think too much of it, what with the battle and all, but a couple days later, after we have pretty much cleaned up all the shit, one of the chief’s fancy-boy tribunes, a broad-striper no less, comes down to where we’re set up. I watches him dance through the mud and horse shit around our horse lines so’s he won’t ruin the shine on his fancy boots. He grabs hold of one of our Decurions, who points me out.