(Disclaimer: I own nothing copyright or legal related.)

Every story that deals with Rome at some point must include something about naming, so this will be no exception.

Lets say that we have a Roman called, I don't know, Gaius Julius Caesar. (I wonder where these ideas come from?)

His first name, the Praenomen-"Gaius"-is only used by intimate friends and family. (So people do not go up to him in the street and call him "Gaius".)

His middle name, the Nomen-"Julius"-is his clan name, and also his family name. However, there are also going to be many other Julii out there who are as closely related to him as a Macdonald is going to be to another Macdonald in Scotland.

Finally, we have the Cognomen, the nicknames. These are used to distinguish between people with similar names. In this case it is "Caesar" (translated as "good head of hair".)

More nicknames (agnomen) may be added later, due to achievements (so there is a Roman general reveling in the name of Publius Cornelius Scipio Africanus, due to his bravery in Africa against Hannibal.) Confusingly, these may be taken up as family names later on, so there was (for example) a considerable political clan known as the Metelli, all of whom shared the Cognomen "Metellus" ("reformed mercenary"), but had to earn later agnomen so as to distinguish themselves. Not all of them did, the result being that the famous Gaius Julius Caesar had a respectable but undistinguished father and grandfather, both called Gaius Julius Caesar.

As for women; if you're expecting a similarly spectacular series of names, you're going to be disappointed. Female names were taken from the Nomen of their fathers (so a Gaius Julius Caesar is going to have daughters called Julia.) To distinguish them, they were often called Big Julia or Little Julia, or something similar. This emphasizes how girls, more or less, were expected to be the property of their fathers.

Speaking of human property, we finally come to slaves. These were given their owner's Praenomen with "por" (boy) added on. (So, if Gaius Julius Caesar was to pop down to market and buy a Scythian runabout to pick up the kids from school, or whatever, he would call the slave Gaipor.) Later on, slaves were often given Greek names, followed by the master's own name in a certain form. ((However, I am uncertain on this; I have looked at two websites for slave names, each coming up with different ideas.))

Now that that's over and done with, just a few things to say. Firstly, I hope you enjoy this little offering. (A few months ago, I saw a story featuring the US Navy from the Second World War showing up. This idea presumably stuck with me for quite a while, and slowly grew.) Secondly, all historical inaccuracies are my fault entirely. (Apart from the slave name business.) Thirdly, whilst there were indeed Dacian Wars fought in 101-102 AD, and 105-106 AD, and the Romans were led by the Emperor Trajan (who did indeed commission the construction of a massive stone bridge over the River Danube to assist the troops-parts of it still stand), the XXIII Adiutrix Legion, and all the characters involved, are fictional.

And so: on with the show!

"If you, Verres, had been made a prisoner in Persia or the remotest part of India, and were being dragged off to execution, what cry would you be uttering (in defence), except that you were a Roman citizen?" Cicero, Against Verres

The Third year of the reign of the Emperor Trajan, 854 years since the Founding of Rome (101 AD)

The XXIII Adiutrix, third of its name, was marching to a war.

And a bridge.

"It's colossal, they say," said Gnaeus Aurelius Felix Pulcher, the Tribunus Laticlavus. He removed his massively plumed Attic helmet yet again, to run a hand through his hair. Ye gods, but Dacia was hot, even in the evening, when he thought it would have had the decency to cool down a bit. "Quite colossal," he added, reaching into his saddlebags for a canteen.

Legate Publius Cassius Flaccus bestowed a withering look upon his head military tribune. "Who, Gnaeus Aurelius," he asked, "is they?" His black stallion, Bucephalus, stepped elegantly over a pothole. Flaccus cursed as a branch brushed across his greying brown hair, and he immediately started to brush his quiff-he knew that Alexander himself had worn one-back into shape. "Who is this they?" he asked again. "Do tell."

"Well," Pulcher began, as the entire staff of the XXIII braced themselves for one of his magnificently longwinded explanations, "it all began one night in Rome…"

Pulcher was a young looking man, of good family, and senatorial class, whose proudest boast was to have learned Pliny's Natural History and Homer's Illiad off by heart. These were not as such perfect for a military life, which was fine by him; Pulcher (who lived up to his nicknames as both "fortunate" and "pretty"-despite his thirty one years, his face was entirely free of wrinkles, and his red hair free of grey) was not believed to have seen the army as his true calling. In the long months of marching, riding, and making camp, he had spent long hours detailing just how he wanted to spend his career.

"First," he had said, wine in cup, leaning against a tent pole, "we shall win a battle-you know, beat up some barbarians or something. Then I will leave, festooned with glory, and will rise through the senate as a great Military Man. Then I will become Consul, and will get supremely rich." He smiled lazily, knowing that a Consul had to do little now save for signaling the start of chariot races. "But for now, of course, I will serve," he usually added. "And serve most dilligentl…" (at this point, he usually fell asleep.)

Flaccus had always known that wine provoked honesty. He also knew that, at least, Pulcher meant well, and generally listened to whatever advice he was given.

The usual dispenser of such advice was Praefectus Castrorum Marcus Thorius Mactator, the "butcher", who was currently about a mile ahead watching the Legion pitching camp. The forest blocked out most of the light, but the Legate and his officers could just about make their Legion out in the clearing at the bottom of the hill. Their troops, 5120 strong, were marching down the road-a goat track more than anything else-and immediately producing Rome's greatest weapon: the entrenching tool.

Two feet of wood. Two blades on the end, one like a pick axe, the other a spade. Any village blacksmith could hammer it together, toss it idly onto a pile, and return to some beautiful piece of armour, or ugly scythe. It would only cost a few sesterces, and hardly seemed like a weapon to topple kingdoms. And yet it was with the dolabra, not the gladius or pila, the sword or javelin, that many of Rome's greatest victories had been won. Flaccus had read every scrap of papyrus about Caesar and Alexander, Marius and Pompey and Xenophon, that he could get his hands on. He had pored over Frontius' Stratagems by candlelight as the Legion had made its slow way up to the Danubius, and knew the power of engineering. Rivers had been turned to drown whole armies; millions of Gauls had been trapped, and butchered; and mighty siege works had been broken free of. All with that queer little axe-spade, and the two wooden stakes every legionary carried on the march. It was unglamorous, and unlikely to win any Crowns, but it won wars all the same.

But now, however, it was being put to good, simple use: pitching camp. Every Legionary, and every officer, could find his way around one blind, for it was built the same way each night. A large, 2100 foot wide rectangle, with ditches and a great palisade, and a little gate in each side, filled with tents lined up in their own neat rectangles, with its own hospital, workshop and granary. Flaccus knew that his slaves, his handful of slaves, were already setting up his own tent. With its little camp chair-such comfort after a long ride-, its little amphora of wine (something decent, he hoped-perhaps an Athenian), the little desk, the little camp bed. Ah…

A wind rustled through the trees, knocking him out of his reverie. He stared up at the green forest canopy above him, hoping for a glimpse of sky. Anything? It had been an exceptionally still day, which had left the sweat dripping off man and officer alike. Flaccus had ridden in an unfortunate limbo; too proud do don a sunhat, too damned hot to go on. Pride, as ever, was prevailing. He saw himself as an Alexander, or a Julius Caesar. He wore his hair in that quiff, even though his body stubbornly refused to mould into heroic form, with those damnable big ears that had earned his Cognomen. He was tall, true, but alarmingly so, and although strong, he remained alarmingly thin. But that wasn't going to stop him, of course. He knew his worth.

"A still day," someone said. Flaccus recognized it as his Primus Pilus, his senior Centurion, Spurius Julius Rufus. "Very hot indeed. That wind had no place here."

"And how would you know that?" Flaccus replied contemptuously. "Did it step up a blow in Rome, when you were sunning yourself on Nerva's lap? Did the Venti and Tempestas club together and unleash mighty gales whilst you lay, belly white and gleaming, loafing around some Bath or other?" Every legionary, from the lowliest Munifex to the highest General (Emperors included, more often than not) learned an immediate and virulent hatred of the Praetorian Guard. Those men guarded the Emperor, and were known as an elite force. Whenever, that is to say, they were reluctantly goaded into battle alongside the Emperor, and occasionally waved their gladii at the foe. Most of the time, they were a bunch of clowns, lounging around in Rome admiring the scenery, eating up their immense pay, and after sixteen years of service (as opposed to the twenty five of the normal legionary) retiring, or grabbing every commission they could suck up in the mere fighting Legions. So it was that, two years ago, Flaccus found himself given-"gifted" was the word on Trajan's letter of introduction-with Spurius Julius Rufus. A bald, old man of fourty years. Why, O Gods, why?

The bald, old man shook his head. "I just know, Publius Cassius," he said. "I just know."

"… so, in the end, I got a chat with the architect- Appollodorus of Damascus, a Greek you know, but far more discreet than they say they are. 'Have to have sex in the dark' indeed! He was covering himself with a sponge when I dragged him out of that bathhouse, girl in tow. But a decent sort when he got into his cups, and told me a few things." Pulcher tapped his nose. "So there. Now, was anyone listening?"

"Very interesting," Flaccus muttered. "Very." And please don't call me Publius Cassius, he wanted to add to Rufus in a spiteful undertone. Friends? Us? But that, of course, was no way for a commanding officer to address his subordinates, especially when his Camp Prefect was stomping up the hill towards them.

No one knew the age of Marcus Thorius Mactator. He had been with the XXIII Adiutrix more or less for as long as anyone could remember. He had been promoted from the ranks, and could not himself remember his own age. This varied in taverns, from the willfully optimistic "twenty five" when addressing whores, to "about sixty" after being rejected. This was not unlikely. A scar cut his heavily bearded face in half, like a rocky valley; and his black hair had almost left him. Worse still for any prospective wives and girlfriends, he had only one hand of flesh and blood with which to caress. His right hand, in the manner of Marcus Sergius, was made of black iron, and resembled more a talon than anything else. He was, in short, as ugly as Tartarus, as charmless as anything, and one of the finest soldiers Flaccus had ever met.

"Something odd," he said, leaning heavily on his cane. "Vewy odd." That was the other thing about him. Whether through wrath of the gods or his own pretension, Mactator spoke with a bizarre lisp.

"What sort of odd, Marcus Thorius?" Flaccus was already reaching for his sword. Odd, when Mactator said it, usually meant dangerous.

"At the camp, Publius Cassius. In a ditch." Mactator was already limping off down the hill, knowing that when he called, the officers followed.

They did.

The 'something odd' had, until recently, been buried at the bottom of a defensive ditch. It was, as per regulations, exactly ten feet deep. Roman engineering, at its best. And a grinning soldier was gripping it in his gloved hands.

"A stone," Flaccus muttered, swinging off his horse. "Bright green." And doubtless worth a fortune, even after the profits were divided up between the legion. "And egg shaped. What is your name, soldier?"

The soldier took a nervous look at the ribbon on Flaccus' breastplate, and saluted. "Sextus Annius Strabo, Third Cohort, of Gaius Petreius Agelastus' century."

The name, now, was familiar. "The cook?" Flaccus asked.

The man grinned. "Indeed." An uproarious barking sounded nearby. "And the owner of the Century's mastiff. May I?"

Flaccus nodded stiffly as Strabo bent down to scratch at a massive British mastiff. "I feeds it, I does. Good lass, good lass. Called Maxima, she is."

"Yes. It stole my door mouse, I believe."

Strabo looked up, all innocence. "Did she? It must have been a while back…"

"Oh, never mind. No matter. Give me the stone, Strabo."

"Yes." Flaccus took his cane from his saddlebags, and poked at it. Nothing strange happened, so he took it in his hands. Nothing. This was not a country the gods had given many gemstones, so it was understandably strange that they should find such a great one. "And pray fetch my secretary. Publipor Tertius."

Strabo's face lit up, for he was excused from digging. He lept to his feet, and dashed off, armour clattering.

Flaccus smiled knowingly. "Spurius Julius; Gnaeus Aurelius. You both, I trust, have seen many jewels in your lives, having lived in Rome. May I ask if you could identify this one?"

The former Praetorian and the young Tribune dismounted, offering their reins to a nearby soldier with practiced assurance. "Singular," Pulcher muttered. "Very singular. If I didn't know better, I would call it a painted Ostrich egg, but…" he studied it all over. "Very good paint," Rufus concluded after a few moments. "There are no ostriches in Dacia, but nothing else springs to mind just now. My apologies."

"Accepted. You will, of course, study it. Marcus Thorius, if you have time, you will find someone else in this legion that is wise about jewels. But think little of it; Jupiter knows more of these things than we do." And some Roman merchant could find out in a flash.

Presently, digging resumed, and Strabo returned ("About time, you Cunnus!" his Centurion barked, tossing him his dolabra), with secretary in tow. Publidor Tertius was one of Flaccus' "Inherited quintuplets", the five slaves he had inherited from his father. He had his wax tablet and stylus already to hand.

"It is a beauty, Master," he muttered, tugging at a lock of black hair caught under his sun hat. He was an Athenian, and proud of it. If ever Flaccus needed a quote of Socrates or Plato (which was rare), he would march purposefully towards his secretary. When Mactator needed some more tools, he would turn to Publicor Tertius for the documents suggesting just where more dolbarae, or stakes, or cement could be found. Most of all, when minutes had to be taken, Publicor Tertius would reveal his main talent: writing in shorthand. He was very much more valuable than he looked, sunburned and scrawny, with his effeminately long hair and warty face. "Shall I sketch it, Master?"

"You shall." The stylus jerked upwards.

"Master…"

"What is it, man? We have a war to run."

"Should we not position it where it was found, Master?"

"Why so?"

"For authenticity, Master."

"Ah, yes. I suppose so. Thank you, my man."

Reverently, Flaccus bent down (thanking the Gods for his flexible Lorica Segmentata), and dropped the stone into the ditch.

"There now," he said, rising to his feet and scrubbing his hands clean. "To work, slave."

Crack.

Pulcher jumped.

Crack.

"That was no ostriches egg," Mactator muttered, stomping over to the ditch to look down.

Crack.

No egg could crack that loudly, and indeed no egg was. The egg remained completely intact, sitting calmly at the bottom of the ditch.

Crack.

No. It was the earth that was cracking.

"Legion!" Flaccus roared, wondering what to do. "Legion! Legion will…"

Crack.

Tarturus was unleashed. The camp, with the palisade, and ditches, all those elements of fine Roman engineering and craftsmanship, was coming apart. With a mighty splintering crash, stakes were torn apart. "Get back!" someone cried, and the single cry turned into a chorus of shouts, and orders, and screams, as a great black rent in the ground opened. Another CRACK, and men ran, panicking; no barbarians could stop them, but no one could stop mother nature.

"HOLD!" someone was shouting, with a high, cracked voice. "HOLD!"

But Mactator, stumbling away from the crack, had been on more parade grounds. "WETIRE! GET THE HELL AWAY FROM THAT!"

The rent grew, and grew, and…

Flaccus' stomach did a strange backflip, as he turned for his horse. Bucephalus was galloping away, off to the woods, squealing foully. "Damn you!" he cried, starting to run after it. "Alexander would never-"

One moment he was running, the next he fell. Flat on his face. He turned dimly, and saw a rabbit hole, with his sandal caught in it, and tried to rise.

More screams. More shouts. An eagle being borne away; an image of Trajan, gripped by its Imaginifier's white knuckled hands, as he himself fell. For the ground was beginning to buckle.

Pulcher, falling, screaming. Rufus, standing with hands behind his back, the true Roman, disdainful sneer across his face, even as men tumbled past him. His fingers, tearing at grass, at roots, at-

Falling-

Darkness.

Next chapter up tomorrow! Please give any comments you please.

Glossary (if you don't understand anything else, don't hesitate to ask in your review.)

Lorica Segmentata: what people think of as Legionary armour, although it was in fact fairly rare, with mail being more common. (It did, however, look very shiny on parade.) A series of iron plates, held together by leather straps, worn on the torso and shoulders.

Dolbara: Legionary's mattock. (By the way, those battles Flaccus mentions are quite real, although he slightly exaggerates. If you want to know more, ask away!)

Danubius: The River Danube.

Gladius: Legionary's short sword.

Pilum: Legionary's javelin.

Imaginifier: A standard bearer, who bore the image of the Emperor to remind the troops of their loyalty to him. (As opposed to the Aquilifier, who bore the Legion's Aquila-Eagle.)

Immunes: Although not yet a formal rank, there were definite distinctions (such as often being let off duties such as ditch digging and patrol) between the Immunes (singular: Immunis), and the common soldiers (Milites). They were specialists in generally useful things (due to prior experience or training courses) such as engineering, musicians, hunting, or (in the case of Strabo) cookery. (Why is he a specialist? Well, he says he is a very special cook.)