It is said by the old ones that the way in which a man enters his life will also be the way in which he leaves it; with a wail and heat of battle or with wide eyes of wonder and a whimper. At that moment, all elements affect the preordained path of that infant, but those elements envisage nothing; for an exceptional man will carve his life with the tools and stone the gods generously offer as he walks along the hard road to Elysium.

The gods were at play that dawn, casting spears of lightening that slammed into the earth mere inches from the stone house; flashing fire and glory and heartache nearly too heavy to bear. The young wife, scarcely past her maidenhood struggled and screamed, cried and begged for mercy as her wrinkled grey husband paced at the foot of the bed. Wringing his gnarled hands, he eyed the old midwife. His frugal fist dictated that no physician would come to assist his child bride…only the old woman with eyes the color of polished gold. She was a witch, all the village knew of it; few would even dare speak her name, but Trudius had no options available. He will have lost one fine horse in the transaction, but the hope of a strong, healthy son to help with his life was well worth the cost.

Glia rolled and wailed, her hands gripped at anything to hold her to her all consuming task. A ripple worthy of an earthquake trembled her body, shaking the bed and bringing the midwife suddenly to her feet. She focused gilded eyes on the girl.

"Strength, domina. Nothing will save you, but strength will prove you worthy of the son you're to bear."

At those words, Trudius lunged to swipe the horrible old woman from his wife, but he was stopped mid stride, watching with awe as a tiny, bloody form slid from Glia's womb. The infant did not move and the midwife ignored it, laying a broad hand on the young laboring girl's belly and pressing her full weight.

Glia was silent; the light had gone from her eyes, but still the midwife pressed, leaping her sandaled feet from the floor to push even harder. "Assist me, you buffoon!" she shouted, but Trudius, appalled and pale stepped back, his eyes unable to leave the deformed infant between Glia's motionless thighs.

The midwife yelled and pushed again, the bed rocked then with a gush of blood and fluids, another child emerged, splitting the flesh of his lifeless mother's path. This boy child slid to a stop against his dead brother, his tiny fingers grasped the slimy hair as if to raise it to life…he howled the sound of a wild animal. Tears beaded at his new blind eyes and Trudius fell to his knees.

The child was motherless, alone in ways most could not comprehend. The golden eyed midwife wrapped him tight, swaddled warm and safe then turned. "Trudius. Go. Go into village and get the wet nurse."

"What wet nurse?"

"She waits at the gate. Go! Go quickly and tell her I need her now."

"You?" The very speaking of the old witch's name made him shake.

"Yes, say I call for her! Go!"

"But what of the dead?" Trudius was a man fearful of the old ways, a disbeliever never fully prepared to laugh in the face of the gods, but walking the thin margin between certainty and dread. His eyes slid from the dead infant to the living one, to his dead young wife and the wicked woman with fire in her eyes.

"The dead are dead! We must provide for this child. Bring me the wet nurse."

He straightened his shoulders. "I can afford no wet nurse and you know it, you old crone. I shall milk the goat."

"Are you mad?"

"Perhaps I am, but I will not lose what is left for that wisp of a boy."

In three swift steps, the infant tight in her protective arms, the witch pressed her nose against his and sneered. "The wet nurse is provided by me! Go now and get her…or do you prefer I break this boy child's neck and be done with it all?"

Sickened to the point of retching, Trudius left his house. He ran through the pounding storm and to the gate. There he found the wet nurse and his stomach again turned onto itself.

"The old witch Donum calls for you," he gasped, wishing he had the courage to kill the infant himself.

"So, the mother has perished? I suspected it would be. Lead me."

Trudius could not move, he swallowed back bile and glared. "You are a whore."

"They call me Calias. And what matters that I whore for my money when I have this?" Tugging her tunic she boldly displayed a heavy breast, pale blue milk dripping from a visibly throbbing nipple. She straightened her clothing and tilted a grin. "It is nourishing for infants and grown men alike, Trudius. Your choice, your decision."

He blinked, his raw tongue peeked out to swipe his lip and he grinned. "Come."

Donum sat and rocked the crying infant, cradling him close to her breast. She was unsure if Trudius would follow her orders, unsure of how she would protect the infant against the man's right to do what he wished with his property…and the boy child was in fact, Trudius' property. She was counting on his confusion and fear, betting that his selfishness and miserly ways would pave her path. A path only she saw clearly. She looked down at the red faced infant, clucked her tongue, then brushed a kiss on his sweating brow.

"Your father is an evil, unscrupulous man. But I see the mark upon you, boy. I swear to the gods that I will protect and guide you. Cry, go on and send your voice as far as it will carry…for there will come a day when many will follow the sound of your voice."

w

The boy child went unnamed, as was custom in the village when an infant was not expected to live. Months went by, full moon after full moon and still the man spoke of the child as though he were less than the horses he sought to breed and sell. Trudius' business was failing, and it had been doing so since the moment his child bride came to carry accursed twins; this according to the men he kept council with, the men he drank and whored with, the men who had even less than he.

When a bitter illness came, sweeping through the village and killing many babies and young children, it seemed to halt at the gate, captured just far enough from Trudius and his unwanted son to spare the boy. And too often to please Trudius, the old Donum would bravely stand at his courtyard, uninvited, unwanted, but what was there to be done? She provided the wet nurse for his son…and for him. There was a certain cruel justice that his whore was paid for by a witch.

In the second year of the child's life, the nameless boy stood upon sturdy legs on wide feet at the door of his house. There, he watched as his father feasted on the breasts that also fed him, as the monster rutted with the only human in his small universe to who was consistently kind to him, and he wondered as small boys will.

He wondered of his sense of self, of his incomplete nature and often felt the touch of his dead twin, a reminder that he was utterly alone.

By his third year, the child almost never spoke. What was there to say? Who would listen? Still without a name, he knew not what he was to live up to, what was expected of him. And his heart continued to ache for the part of him gone forever. The half he must somehow make up for if he was to continue.

"It is not right!" Calias shouted as she bundled her belongings, threatening to take her nurturing breasts from both child and man. "The boy must be given a name!"

"Why," the old man snorted. "Do I name the dung left in the courtyard by my horses? What matter if he has a name? Call him 'shit', call him 'filth' or call him 'disaster'. Call him what you want."

"It is wrong! Even a slave has a name. You will name him or I will leave this house. If you want me to act as wife in the daylight and your whore in darkness, you will name that child! People are talking, Trudius!"

"I care not if people talk!"

"They talk at the temples," she hissed and gloried in the tremble that rippled across his face. "The child must be named, by the gods, that boy must be named or I will never lie with you again. Never."

Trudius scowled at the child across the room. "Fine. I will take him to the temple tomorrow and he will be given a name. Now come, Calias. I hunger for you. Now."

But before she followed him to the bed, she ruffled the boy's thick unruly hair and fingered the small pouch at her waist. The old witch had paid her two gold pieces to assure that child be named. Whether Calias chose to remain with the gruff old beast after tomorrow was her own decision. But for the child, she would likely remain. She shrugged. For the pretty little boy with eyes the color of the sea, she could fuck the old bastard a while longer.

w

"What do you sacrifice that this child be named?" asked the gnarled, twisted priest, one of his eyes blind and filmed with a blue cloud, one of his arms, deformed and half the size it should be.

"Sacrifice? I have nothing to offer," Trudius grunted.

"I offer three goats and three gold pieces to this temple."

Trudius and the little boy turned to see Donum at the pillared entry. She walked to the priest and priestesses and bowed elegantly, then whispered into their ears, each in turn. As she did so, each holy person turned a vicious glare at Trudius, but he simply pulled a wicked grin. The gods be damned, this child be damned, I do this for my whore and nothing else, he thought with spite.

Blood was spilled from silent young goats, the child was painted from breastbone to throat and the highest priestess knelt at his feet. She whispered words no one could hear and the poor child could not understand…but he did sense them. They were words of principle, of truth and compassion, of strength and honor, of valor and courage. The boy felt them and stood sturdier than before, broader, with purpose.

"This boy's name is Maximus Decimus Meridius," she chanted and name was repeated by all. All except for the lowly Trudius Meridius.

"It is a man's name, not a child's," he protested.

"And this is good…as there is no man in this boy's life," insulted the old witch as she left the temple. Her work was done for now…except for one small communication she was long prepared to make.

w

In his chair, rolling his neck and wishing for silence, Marcus Aurelius tended to his visitors from the senate. He wished as they did, to see the glory of the Empire grow and grow. He dreamed as they did, that Rome would be a true and strong republic. But he did not care to hear the speeches again…and again…and again. They were seated in his palatial offices far from his dear Faustina and two active young children. The air was heavy and hot and the wine rolled down his throat like a tasteless boulder. Ah for a distraction, a momentary frivolity, a crash of lightening…even an eclipse of the sun or small earthquake would suffice to break the monotony of the afternoon. And indeed, that diversion did arrive even as he wished for it. But this was a surprise.

He accepted the scroll and unrolled the parchment, recognizing the wax seal and curious as to the reason for old Donum's urgent message. Raising a hand he quieted his guests to read, re-read and once again slowly digest the brief letter. Only once before had the old witch guided his hand and that at great risk to herself but remarkable gain for the Empire. He would repay her for her previous assistance by accommodating her request.

It was a request that brought relief to his heart as well. A grave illness had made another child from his wife impossible, rendering her weak and infertile. Faustina wished more heirs for his throne, but he knew that she actually wished for more distraction to occupy her while he was away in battle. What Donum was offering would serve Caesar on several levels. He quickly penned a proposal and had it dispatched.

"Now, where were we, my dear Senators? Ah yes, at the borders of the Roman Empire as usual."

w

Caesar's messenger arrived when Trudius was alone in his stables. He glanced back then returned his attention to the animal he was grooming. At the door behind the man, his silent son stood and observed.

"You need a fresh horse, I assume. Do not think that just because you represent Caesar, you'll have one for free. A man must make a living."

"I have a message regarding the boy, Maximus Decimus Meridius," spouted the messenger with distain.

Trudius swung and pointed to the small child. "That is Maximus Decimus Meridius. By all the gods, what would Carsar want with a child? Now leave here, your jokes are not welcome."

The young man unrolled the scroll and cleared his throat. "Caesar offers Trudius Meridius a yearly stipend of thirteen gold pieces in exchange for the presence of his son Maximus. At the age of seven, the boy is to be brought to the Caesar's summer palace where he will live and study with the royal children. The boy will not be treated as a slave, will be respected and given all opportunities for educational and military advancement as well as lands for his own use when he marries and begins his own family. He will - "

"Wait! Wait a minute! What in Hades does Caesar think he's doing? Buying my boy? Get out of here, you fool."

"When the boy arrives, your stipend will be doubled until Maximus Decimus Meridius reached manhood, at which time it will cease."

"What kind of offer is that? Does Caesar think he can buy my son for a mere thirteen gold pieces a year?"

"With respect, Caesar can simply take your son and offer no gold. Think before you speak further, man."

Trudius did the math is his head; the figures would make him a rich man. He licked his lips, paced, glared at the boy then turned to the messenger. "What does he really want with a Spaniard child? This child? He hardly speaks!"

"Then I would make sure that he does before he is seven years of age," grunted the man.

"So why wait? Give me twenty six pieces of gold a year now and take the little…child…this very day."

"This is not open for negotiation, Trudius Meridius."

Four years, four years of building wealth then another fifteen of double that wealth. He could cope with the boy for four years, could he not? "When will I get my stipend?"

The pouch was tossed, dropping near Trudius' feet with a clang. He snapped it up. "You're still not entitled to one of my horses."

The man said no more, he left as quietly as a morning mist while Trudius sat on the stable floor and counted his money.

Young Maximus watched the Roman messenger swing his leg over a strong steed and ride away.