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orcasoul · 2 months ago

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The Lesser of Two Evils

Chapter summery: Condemned to a life of forced servitude by your own people, every monotonous day is a never ending cycle of despair and humiliation. But one day a mysterious Roman is brought to your village...

Warnings: Swearing, smut (eventual), threats of rape, sexual harassment, violence, gore, detailed injuries, angst, enemies(ish) to lovers, protective Marcus Acacius, age gap, OFC/reader

A/N: While daydreaming of this tale I envisioned it happening in Germania (thanks to the first Gladiator movie) so Alia/reader is Germanic. She's mid 30's, has long hair and is smaller than Marcus Acacius. I have done a bit of research of the ancient Germans as well as Ancient Romans but there will, no doubt be a lot of historical inaccuracies but hey, it's fan fiction baby, so anything goes! I hope you all enjoy...

Word count: 5,173

Chapter 1 The General

The chaos is unrelenting, spreading like the roots of a weed, destroying everything it touches. The deafening clanging of steel against steel, the anguished screams of men in their last moments, the earth turning red; it's brutal and harrowing and raw, but it's necessary. It's for the glory of Rome. That truth alone is enough to drive Marcus Acacius in his rage fuelled onslaught. Body after body falls as his sword meets enemy flesh, every man put down means one less adversary for Rome.

With adrenaline and purpose flowing through him, he advances beside his men, slowly but surely, the goal seemingly just within reach. Impossible to tell if the sludgy ground beneath his feet is saturated with rain or blood. Impossible to tell the difference between the roars and wails of his brothers in arms and that of his foes. The carnage intensifies with every heaving breath, the sickening stench of iron assaulting his senses as he mercilessly ends yet another life, the heat from his victims blood steaming against the frigid air as it drips from his Gladius (sword).

A quick glance at his surroundings reveals a much more devastating encounter than Marcus had anticipated. The Gutones are a savage and ignorant people but they are cleary also very formidable. It will make the conquest all the more glorious for Rome. So, Marcus thunders on, meeting combatant after combatant in a gruelling test of strength and endurance. After dispatching his latest victim - some foolish man-child who believed he could take on a seasoned general, of all people - he turns to check over his shoulder just as a very large brute swings at his head with an axe. Marcus ducks at the last second, grinning at the now enraged man as he prepares for another swing.

Marcus counters the blow, holding his sword horizontally above his head. He throws the axe to the side, the momentum taking his attacker with it, causing him to stumble. Marcus, seizing the opportunity granted to him, spins to face the man, sword poised to deliver the final blow. In a split second Marcus is on his knees, a hot stabbing pain shooting across the back of his right thigh. Despite the throbbing and spasming in his leg, Marcus tries to stand but it's futile; all strength in his leg is gone. Looking up he's met with a sadistic and victorious smile from his assailant as he raises the axe above his head, ready to strike.

This is it! This is how it ends. In these last precious seconds of his life, Marcus becomes overwhelmed with a myriad of emotions and thoughts; what will become of his men? Will whomever succeeds him as general be worthy and commited to Rome? Will he be remembered and honoured for his steadfast dedication to expanding the empire? Marcus refuses to close his eyes for this moment; he will look his death defiantly in his cold blue eyes, refusing to show even an ounce of the crippling fear he feels right now.

Just as the object of his death swings towards him, a deep voice booms from behind him. "Alive! We need him alive!" The man before him stops mid swing, looking furiously in the voices' direction. However, before Marcus can look back the big brute flips his axe. The last thing Marcus sees is the thick, blunt handle, thrust towards his face before the world turns black.

Cold, dark, wet. That's what Marcus Acacius opens his eyes to. This is not Elysium. There's no warm sunshine, no cooling west wind, no lush green meadows with brooks of water and wine. In place of tranquillity and bliss there is only pain and suffering. Did he not lead a virtuous life? Why does Elysium not embrace him? He fights against the pull of his eyelids, rolling onto his back as his foggy mind struggles to make sense of his surroundings. It's the sudden and intense surge of pain in his leg that startles him back into reality. He's very much alive.

Wide eyed and groaning, Marcus reaches down to feel the afflicted area, fingers finding a damp and crudely applied strip of cloth. His instincts abruptly return, willing him to rise, to fight and survive. But instinct and will alone cannot overcome physicality. His vision darkens in the subdued torchlight as he tries - and fails - to push himself up, limbs aching and head throbbing furiously. He falls, landing face down on the muddy ground. Rolling over, he wipes the cold mud from his eyes and mouth, anger and frustration quickly building. His blurry vision clears only to reveal what looks like thick and rough wooden bars.

A cage! He's locked up like some worthless dog. The shame of it! Death would have been the favourable option, not this. Never this! "Well, look who's finally awake," a mocking voice jeered as the cage door swung open. Marcus gathered what remained of his strength and pushed himself up sit up, back resting against the cage bars and chest heaving from exertion. A man about his build and height wearing animal hyde and simple trousers strode over to Marcus, looking down on him like he was nothing more than horse shit. Marcus returned the sentiment by fixing him with a glare of pure revulsion.

"Who do you think you are staring at, slave!" The man literally spat at Marcus' feet. "Get in here!" he yelled impatiently while keeping eye contact with Marcus, no doubt to try and intimidate him. Marcus sat in confusion for a moment until movement behind the man caught his attention. You were quite small in stature compared to the lout barking orders at you, but that could also be due to the fact you had your head lowered and shoulders tucked into yourself, an unmistakable defensive posture. "Clean him up," his big meaty hand shoved you forward, nearly causing you to spill the fresh water from the jug you're carrying.

You managed to find your footing just before you almost fell into the prisoner. You dare not look at his face; the face of a monster. Never have you had to face a Roman before. You've heard countless stories about the "Red Demons" who consume the world, leaving death and destruction in their wake, and now you stand before one. You're not sure what to expect. Despite your best effort to remain collected, your hands begin to shake in fear. "Make sure he lives if you know what's good for you. He's no use to us dead."

Dread licks up your spine at the threat. With a lingering sneer thrown at the general, the man began to walk away, but stopped by the gate. "Careful around around that savage." You could hear the smirk in his mock warning. "Men like that always take what they like from women. It would be a shame if he defiled you, being the animal that he is." The sudden slam of the gate made you jump, the sound of the lock clicking into place causing your stomach to churn. You're trapped! Fear has you rooted to the spot.

Unsure of your next move you force yourself to at least look upon his face. His scowl send a cold shiver to every part of your being, his eyes slowly raking over your whole body and his lip curling as if the mere sight of you disgusts him. No change there then; it's how you've been viewed your whole life. His eyes, burning with hatred, settle on yours and you gulp. He says nothing; but he doesn't need to. The intensity of his glare says it all. Taking a steadying breath, you will yourself to sound more confident than you feel. "I, uh... need to clean your wound."

He remains motionless, staring you down. One uncertain step towards him is all it takes for his anger to burst forth. "Dont. Touch. Me!" he seeths as he awkwardly shuffles away from you, fighting against the ropes that bind his hands and feet. It's evident he's trying to mask the pain caused by moving. "Please...I won't hurt you." You suddenly feel ridiculous for stating the bleeding obvious. Of course you won't hurt him; couldn't if you tried. You can tell just by looking at him this man could snap you like a twig if he so desired, restraints or not. "No, leave me. I'd rather die than be a captive.'' "You don't understand," you begin to plead, stepping a bit closer. "If you die they'll blame me. They'll do terrible thi-" "I don't fucking care!" he spat, silencing you.

You know there's no point arguing; a cornered animal will always lash out. Anxiety pools in your gut. You just know you'll get hell for this. "Wigmar?" you call while you wait by the door. "Wigmar!" you shout this time. A minute later the man - Wigmar - returns looking annoyed. "What?!" he barks. "Uh... I can't... I mean... he won't let me come near," you say with a little shrug. "Please, it's not my fault." Wigmar looks at the prisoner then at you. "Useless cunt," he sneers and storms off. "Wait! You can't leave me here!" You slam your fist against the bars. You're thundering heartbeat fills your ears. Is he really going to leave me in here with him?! The thought makes you feel sick.

You open your mouth to call for Wigmar again but stop when you hear multiple footsteps approaching. He's returned with two more men. He unlocks the door and shoulders you out of the way, making straight for the general with the other two men. Grunts and snarls fill the air as the general is thrown face down and restrained. "Get on with it!" Wigmar shouts at you. For a moment you just stare, shocked at the brutal struggle taking place. "Now!" Wigmar's booming voice snaps you from your shock. Dropping to your knees beside the men, you quickly get to work, cleaning the stab wound, applying a mixture of honey, grease and herbs and wrapping a clean, dry dressing over the area. All the while the prisoner fought and thrashed on the ground.

As soon as you'd finished you packed all your supplies away, emptying the red tinted water from the jug and leapt to your feet, eager to distance yourself, even in this tiny space. The men, however, laughed the whole time, jeering and taunting the furious Roman. "Fucking animal," one of the men spat at the general as he now lay on his back, catching his breath. Visibly trembling with rage, Marcus forced himself to sit up, his eyes boring into every one of these bastards who had dared to put their hands on him. The disgraceful indignity these barbarians had just bestowed upon him only intensified the fury he was trying to contain. He has to keep a level head right now.

His focus shifted to you and he was taken aback when Wigmar viciously grabbed a fist full of your hair, yanking your head back so forcefully you couldn't do anything but yelp. Gods above. Is this how they treat their own people? "Next time handle this yourself," a red haired man stood in front of you and growled in your face. Marcus watched as you attempted to beg for release, only to have your words literally slapped from your mouth, the sound of a palm striking flesh louder than should have been possible. You continue to cry out in terror as you are bent over and dragged roughly by your hair from the cage. The gate slammed shut, locked once again, the encroaching night making it difficult for Marcus to see your retreating forms; all that remained were your desperate cries, piercing the otherwise still evening.

You couldn't get home quick enough. Not that you'd really considered this your "home" - just some dug out structure with a poorly maintained roof, once used for storage. Now said storage has a better residence than you. All that furnishes this place is a bed with a few fur blankets, a small table with a rickety stool and a few shelves that holds your clothes and very few personal items you have. The last of your tears had dried, leaving a stickyness to your cheeks, but your scalp is still burning.

This time you had lost a small clump of hair. Still, it could have been worse. With fatigue beginning to creep up on you, you take a seat on the low stool, pour some water from your waterskin into a bowl and begin cleaning the rags you had used on the prisoner when the door to your hut opened and a chill swept over you - but not from the night air. "Alia..." came a sickly sweet voice that instantly made your muscles size all over. Wincing internally you stand and turn to face your unwelcome guest. The tall intimidating figure filling your doorway slowly saunters over to where you stand. Just before he reaches you, you turn your back to him defiantly and sit down to continue with your task.

"What do you want, Bardulf?" you sigh, irritably. Bardulf grips your shouders, pulling you to your feet and spinning you to face him. "I want you to look at me when I'm talking to you!" he snarled, his stale breath invading your nostrils. You release a long breath and look up to meet his eyes. "That's better," Bardulf smirks. "Heard you were causing trouble tonight." "No," you shake your head. "The Roman... he wouldn't allow me to approach. I had to get help. What else was I supposed to do?"

Bardulf, still holding you in his iron grip looked you over and snickered, "Why didn't you just use your... influence on him and finally be of some use to us." Rolling your eyes, you shake yourself free of his hands and step backwards almost tripping over your stool. "You and I both know that's a load of horse shit. If I were a seeress, don't you think I would have saved myself from this hellhole before now?" "Careful..." Bardulf stood in your personal space now looking down at you with hate twisting his features. "One would think you're ungrateful of our hospitality." Adrenaline pumps through your body, making your hands shake. You clench your fists, trying to hide your fear. You want to scream at him, tell him exactly what you think of this so called "hospitality."

If being enslaved, beaten, humiliated and hated by your own people is "hospitality" then you have it in abundance. "Maybe..." Bardulf slowly ran his hands down your arms, his slimy touch like poison on your skin, "you'd prefer a different kind of hospitality." Disgusted, you open your mouth to protest but Bardluf's hands slip behind you, one on your back and one grabbing your arse. He slams you roughly against his body. You freeze in horror when you feel something hard press into your lower stomach. "Y... you wouldn't dare," you stammer, while trying to push him away. "Your father would have your balls!"

Bardulf grips your face with one hand so tightly, you hear your jaw click. His thin, pockmarked face is now an inch from yours and for a moment you fear he might actually make good on his threat. "My father won't be around much longer," he warned. "And I don't fear you like he does. Enjoy your protection for now, you little whore. When he's gone..." he turns your face and licks your cheek, repulsion and shock making you cringe as you swallow the bile rising up your throat, "you're all mine." Pain bursts in your knees as he throws you to the floor and walks away, chuckling proudly to himself. You sit in disbelief, staring at the door he'd just walked through, his ominous threat still ringing in your ears, You're all mine.

Surely when his elder brother succeeds their ailing father as chief he would still enforce his fathers rule. The only good thing to come from everyones fear of you was a command that no man shall ever wed, bed and breed you, lest you produce more of your "kind". But Bardulf had seemed so sure of his words, his intentions, and it fills your veins with icy cold dread. At a loss in this hopeless moment, all you can do is pull your scuffed knees to your chest, wrapping your arms protectively around yourself while silent tears of despair begin to fall.

The sound of dogs barking jolted Marcus from a fitful sleep. A sharp jab shoots through his skull as he sits bolt upright - momentarily confused by his surroundings. The hot sting in his thigh returns and he hisses through his teeth. Then it all comes back to him; the battle, the voice demanding his live capture, waking in this cage and... the fearful looking woman who'd treated his wound and was then dragged away, screaming. Marcus propped himself against the bars of his new abode, let his head fall back and sighed. How could he have let this happen?

It would have been better to die honourably in battle. This is his greatest shame. The barking is suddenly joined by the voices of several children nearby. Marcus watches the children playing with the dogs by some huts. It's looks so... normal; people going about their daily tasks. For the most part he is ignored, save for a few curious kids who decided to push their luck with him, only to run away in fear when he greeted them with a glower. Alone once again, Marcus' thoughts retrace the events that lead to his capture.

Could he have done anything different? Did he become to complacent on the battlefield? But the most pressing issue now is how will he get out of here. He's valuable to these people; that much is obvious otherwise his head would not still be attached to his body. But what do they want from him? If it's information, they can fuck themselves. No amount of torture would ever bring him to betray his soldiers. He'll die before that happens! But maybe neither has to happen.

If he can just find a weakness in this crude looking prison. Upon further inspection it appears to have been constructed in haste. Marcus rises to his knees, swallowing down the groan as his injured leg protests his movements with waves of pain and cramping. He tests every beam, every bar, hoping to discover a weakness somewhere. To his dismay, he finds none. Even the gate is secure. Marcus slumps down, dropping his head into his hands in frustration. A noise at the gate catches his attention. He recognises you as the same woman from last night, accompanied by the same man unlocking the gate.

As soon as you enter, he slams it shut, locks it and walks away. Yet again, you both stare at each other for what feels like an eternity before you clear your throat. "I brought you some food," you say, cautiously, setting down a bowl of stew in the centre of the cage. "I also need to change your bandage," you point to his leg after setting down a jug of water. He makes no attempt to move, to speak ... or to do anything, which you find peculiar. You decide on another approach, sitting on bent legs to seem less imposing.

You take off your bag and pull out your waterskin. "You must be thirsty," you coax gently, tossing the bottle to land at his feet. Marcus looks at the bottle, then at you before grabbing it and gulping it's contents. "You need to eat." You pick up the bowl, offering it in a gesture of goodwill. Again, silence. "You have to keep your strength up if you're going to heal." "What does it matter?" he finally speaks in a hoarse voice, narrowing his eyes at you. "If you die it will be my fault. The consequences would be... awful." You fear to think of what punishment would await you.

"You are not my responsibility, girl," the hostile man before you glowers. "But you're mine," you stressed, placing the bowl back down. "It's in your best interest to obey them. Trust me, resisting never ends well. You remember what happened last night." It wasn't a question, but a warning. Marcus can tell from your grave expression that you've suffered the ramifications of disobedience in the past. "Why?" You blink at him, confused. "Why... what?" "Why do they treat their own so abhorrently? You are one of them, are you not?"

You were not expecting him to ask questions of a personal nature. You've never considered yourself to be one of them, not since... that day. "I was born to this land and this tribe, yes..." is the best answer you can give. "So why would your own people-" "These are not my people!" you declared, indignation wrapped in your words. A flash of confusion crosses his face. "So you're a slave?" "Essentially," you respond, flatly. "What's your name, girl?" he asks after a few moments of silence. His frown softens somewhat as you search his deep brown eyes. "Why do you want to know my name?" you ask, unsure of where this conversation is heading.

"Just don't want to keep having to call you girl." After a moment of uncertainty you answer "Alia. What's yours?" "Marcus Acacius, General of the Armies of the north." You nod, pursing your lips. "Well Marcus Acacius, are you going to tear my throat out if I come any closer to tend to your leg?" Marcus rolls his eyes and huffs, "Do what you have to do." He clumsily slumps to his side, still bound at his hands and feet. You edge closer, bag in hand, still weary of the man in front of you. If the stories are true these monsters cannot be trusted. Marcus inhales sharply as you carefully unwrap the bandage and begin to cleanse the deep laceration at the back of his thigh.

The silence between you both is tense and charged. What only took a few minutes to clean and redress felt like aeons. The sooner you can get away from him, the better. Marcus shuffles onto his backside as you pack your bag. As you sand to leave Marcus breaks the awkward silence. "Why do they keep me alive?" "I don't know," you shrug. "Your life is clearly of value right now... but whatever the reason, it can't be good." Marcus' jaw visibly ticks as your words sink in. "Hmmm," he nods. You walk to the gate and call for Wigmar. Grunting, he comes over to let you out. Before exiting the cage you risk a glance over your shoulder and meet Marcus' eyes. It's Almost like he is studying you and it makes you shiver.

The day drags slowly for Marcus. Exhaustion still afflicts his body and mind, resulting in him drifting off every now and then, only to wake with a jolt each time. The damp ground on which he lays serves as a reminder of his newfound situation. He lays on his left side to keep his injury dry and clean. Half asleep he's suddenly startled by a yelp close by. His vision is blurry as he tries to focus, blinking heavily to clear his head. Then he sees you - about 20 feet away - caked in mud and struggling to get to your feet. A group of young women laugh and hurl insults at you, their laughter becoming hysterical as you slip and slide in your futile attempt to regain your footing and your dignity.

Marcus assumes you had just said something to them as you stood - he's too far away to make out your words - because a blond, who seems to be their leader, is now sneering in your face. He watches the whole interaction with puzzlement and also... pity? A part of him feels slighted on your behalf. You rush away, in obvious haste to put distance between you and your tormentors, eyes landing on Marcus' as he observes from between the bars. He can see, even from this distance, the redness around your eyes as you struggle to withhold the tears that threaten to spill. You quickly disappear down the bank and into a small, shabby hut as the women walk away giggling.

The fading warmth of the low sun spills across Marcus' face, the brightness intolerable even through closed eyelids. Shielding his eyes with his hand, he slowly pulls himself up to a sitting position, leaning against the bars. Footsteps once again catch his attention, his whole body instinctually on high alert. The cage door opens and three men file in, heading straight for him. He tries to fight them but it's hopeless. Two men force Marcus to his feet, both holding him up under each arm while the third holds the gate wide open. Determined to not go easily, Marcus thrashes and struggles as he's paraded through the village towards a long, rectangular building.

Marcus takes in the environment he now stands in; multiple beds with fur blankets line both walls, the wooden walls adorned with sconces, shields and various woven tapestries. Shelves in a corner at the far end hold pottery of different sizes and a large roaring firepit crackles in the centre of the room. Across from the firepit, sat in a large wooden chair draped in furs is an imposing but aged looking man wearing a dark green tunic, cinched at the waist by a thick leather belt. A fur pelt covers his shoulders and a gold band sits on his wrist. Marcus stares impassively at the man he can only assume is the chief.

Despite being in terrible pain, Marcus forces himself to stand tall, shoulders pulled back in a show of confidence and pride. The chief makes a show of giving Marcus a full once over, then with a mocking tone, says, "The General of Rome." Snide laughter arises from several men also present. "And you are...?" Marcus responds with a curl of his lip. "I am Adhelm, chief of the Gutones," the old man replied with an air of superiority. Marcus scoffed at the display of this mans self importance and for that he received a backhander from one of the men who brought him here. "Show some respect to your superiors!" he ordered in a low tone. Marcus turn his head forward, spitting blood onto the floor. "What do you want with me?"

Adhelm rose from his seat and stood face to face with Marcus, his eyes blazing with hate. "I will look into the eyes of my greatest enemy before he dies." Marcus returned the look of contempt but remained silent. "You and your scourge have bled the world dry! You have murdered, enslaved, defiled and brutalized us for so long. Now I shall have my vengeance." Adhelm returned to his chair with satisfaction written all over his weathered face. "So you spared my life just to take it?" Marcus huffed. "Exactly," Adhelm smirked. "Alia!" he barked while picking up the goblet from the arm of his chair. Marcus hadn't even noticed you tucked into the shadows by the wall.

His eyes followed as you hurried over and began filling the chiefs cup with wine, then slunk off with your head down. Adhelm continued, "Your death will send a message to your army and to Rome. At the next battle you will be presented to your men and then I will take great pleasure of relieving you of your head and limbs." Marcus felt the blood drain from his face, his stomach churning with both dread and anger. To be slain like a beast in front of his own men is unthinkable! His mere presence amongst his troops gives both inspiration and hope, so for them to have to witness the demise of their commander will significantly impact them.

But of course, that's the whole point; to crush moral and instil fear in your enemy. This piece of horse shit knows what he's doing. Marcus spat at he feet of the chief, screwing his face up in revulsion. "You're all nothing more than a bunch of barbaric heathens! You are mistaken if you believe my death will bring you victory. All you will do is bring the wrath of Rome upon you and your people to the likes of which have never been seen!" Adhelm raised his nose in the air, a pleased smile tugging at his lips. "We shall see, general. Take him back." With a wave of the chiefs hand Marcus is escorted out of the building and back to his prison.

All through the heated exchange you kept your head down, feigning disinterest while listening intently to every venomous word thrown back and forth by the two men. The silver lining to being practically invisible to these people meant you'd often overheard sensitive conversations regarding war stratagies, problems within the community, and even issues of a more intimate nature. You were never considered to be of any significance or even a threat, which is why you are now present while Adhelm dismissed all of his men to talk privately to his sons. "Kuno, Bardulf..." the chief began as he slouched back in his chair, trying to, but failing to stifle a deep, rattling cough, which resulted in him bringing up a bit of blood.

After a moment he continued, " You must both be made aware that this next battle will likely be my last." At that your head tipped up involuntarily, cautiously observing the conversation. "Father, you can't-" Adhelm raised a hand to silence Kuno. "I have accepted that I shall die soon. Either from battle or from what ails me. The future of our people, our way of life will depend on you, Kuno. You are strong and capable." Adhelm then looked to his second born. "Bardulf, I expect you to aid and council your chief accordingly. He will need all the support he can garner." "Of course, father," Bardulf bowed his head, reverently, "We will not fail you." Adhelm stood, walked over to his sons and clasped them both on their shoulders. "I am proud of you both."

You couldn't help but scoff quietly, rolling your eyes. Proud? Of what? Raising two arseholes. The second one being the cause of most of your misery for years. Maybe your reaction hadn't been as quiet as you'd thought because Bardulf is now glaring at you with pure detestation. You freeze, gulping down the lump in your throat while trying to remain calm. While Adhelm and Kuno continue to talk Bardulfs wrathful expression slowly dissolves into a sickening grin, his icy blue eyes dragging along your body, making your skin crawl. Unable to stand his gaze any longer, you drop your head down, willing the knot in your stomach to unclench. You're sure this isn't the end of it, judging by that maniacal grin; a promise that you won't get off that easily.

Series Masterlist Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Ch 4

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alabasterandpitch · 1 year ago

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YOOOOOOOOOooooooOOOOooo

Well-preserved Roman swords are actually like, way rarer than you might think, mostly cause Roman military gear was often recycled, rather than buried with its owner as funerary goods like Celtic, Germanic and Scythian cultures were fond of doing.

Four 1,900-Year-Old Roman Swords Found in a Judean Desert Cave

Apparently stolen by Jewish rebels, the incredibly well-preserved weapons are ‘an extremely rare find, the likes of which have never been found in Israel’

Archaeologists have discovered four 1,900-year-old Roman swords in a cave in the Judean Desert, which experts believe were captured by the Judean rebels during the Bar Kochba revolt and placed in a narrow crevice in the rock.

“We’re talking about an extremely rare find, the likes of which have never been found in Israel,” Dr. Eitan Klein, one of the directors of the Israel Antiquities Authority’s Judean Desert Survey, said in a video accompanying the announcement of the discovery. “Four swords amazingly preserved, including the fine condition of the metal, the handles, and the scabbards.”

The preliminary article on the swords is published in the volume “New Studies in the Archaeology of the Judean Desert: Collected Papers,” which explores new archaeological finds discovered in the Judean Desert Survey Project. A conference launching the book is taking place Wednesday in Jerusalem.

The four swords were discovered shoved into a small fissure in a cave near Ein Gedi National Park, near the Dead Sea. The cave is already well-known to archaeologists, as it contains a stalactite with a fragmentary ink inscription written in ancient Hebrew script characteristic of the First Temple period.

Recently, Dr. Asaf Gayer of Ariel University, geologist Boaz Langford of Hebrew University, and Israel Antiquities Authority photographer Shai Halevi returned to the cave to photograph the stalactite with multispectral photography, which can decipher additional parts of the inscription not visible to the naked eye. While inside the cave, Gayer spotted an extremely well-preserved Roman pilum — a shafted weapon — in a deep, narrow crack in the rock. He also found pieces of carved wood in an adjacent niche that turned out to be parts of the swords’ scabbards.

The researchers reported the find to the Israel Antiquities Authority and returned to the site with the Judean Desert Archaeological Survey Team, which is conducting a multi-year comprehensive survey of more than 800 caves in the Judean Desert to find and preserve archaeological remains before they are looted.

It was then that they discovered the four swords, three of which were found with the blades still inside their scabbards. Researchers also found ornate handles made of wood and metal with leather strips nearby. The arid climate in the Judean Desert helps preserve fragile artifacts that might otherwise be lost to the ravages of time, including materials such as leather and wood, which are rarely found in wetter parts of the country.

Three of the swords are Roman spatha swords, with blades 60 to 65 centimeters (23.5 to 25.5 inches) long. The fourth weapon, a ring-pommel sword, is shorter, with a 45-centimeter (18-inch) blade. The swords likely belonged to Roman soldiers and were stolen by Judean rebels who hid them in a cave either for later use or to avoid being caught with them.

“The blades have been preserved so well, they look like they could be picked up and used right now, even 2,000 years after they were forged,” said Langford. “You just realize that you are touching history, because here you are touching a find whose story you know.”

The Bar Kochba revolt, from 132 to 135 CE, also called the Second Jewish Revolt, was a Jewish rebellion against Roman rule in Judea led by rebel leader Simon Bar Kochba. Archaeologists believe the swords were likely hidden in the crevices inside the cave sometime during the revolt, as it was dangerous for Jews to be found with Roman weapons.

“This is a very rare and unique find on an international level that will shed light on the last moments of the war between the Jewish rebels and the Roman army at the time of the Bar Kochba revolt,” said Klein.

‘A unique time capsule’

The cave survey is being undertaken by the IAA in cooperation with the Archaeology Department of the Civil Administration in Judea and Samaria, and has been funded in part by the Ministry of Jerusalem Affairs and Heritage. Each body allocated about a third of the project budget.

Earlier this year, archaeologists carrying out the Judean Desert cave surveys discovered a rare half-shekel coin minted by the Bar Kochba underground economy.

The cave survey started in 2017 and helped archaeologists discover at least 20 new caves they had not previously known. In 2021, archaeologists announced that one of the caves contained previously undiscovered fragments of the Dead Sea Scrolls, some 60 years after the last pieces of the Dead Sea Scrolls were discovered.

Following the discovery of the swords, archaeologists carried out an extensive excavation of the cave, discovering artifacts from the Chalcolithic period (around 6,000 years ago) and the Roman period (around 2,000 years ago). At the entrance to the cave, researchers found a Bar Kochba bronze coin from the time of the revolt that could help pinpoint the dates when the weapons were hidden.

“This is a dramatic and exciting discovery, touching on a specific moment in time,” said Eli Escusido, director of the Israel Antiquities Authority.

Noting that not all are aware that the dry climatic conditions in the Judean Desert enable the preservation of artifacts that do not survive in other parts of the country, Escusido called the area a “unique time capsule” where it is possible to find “fragments of scrolls, coins from the Jewish Revolt, leather sandals — and now even swords in their scabbards, sharp as if they had only just been hidden away today.”

By Melanie Lidman.

#archaeology #classical archaeology #roman archaeology #gladius #roman swords #archaeometallurgy

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myownwholewildworld · 2 months ago

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veni, vidi, victus sum (a "per aspera ad astra" drabble)

main masterlist | series masterlist | read on ao3 pairing: marcus acacius x emperor's daughter!reader. summary: marcus returns from war with the worst news possible. a/n: considering that i started this story here by posting the end first... may i interest you in how it all started? c: i appreciate comments and reblogs, they make me happy knowing that people enjoy my writing <3 take care x warnings: 18+, mdni. pure angst because i don't know any better. death of a secondary character. w/c: 2.3k

July, 106 AD

Marcus’ right hand shook uncontrollably. So much so, he had to wrap his left around the opposite wrist and squeeze as hard as he could, hoping to stop the tremor that suddenly took hold of his muscles and soul.

He hadn't even had time to wash off the mud and sweat. Nor to process everything that had happened in the last few days. Once his mission was done and dusted, only then and in the privacy of his own company, would he give himself permission to break down. He would be a terrible General if he let himself be dominated by emotion at such important moment for the Empire.

Returning from Dacia after an intense campaign, Marcus had been at the head of the Roman column that would carry out the offensive towards the east of the Dacian capital, Sarmizegetusa, while General Atticus, his inseparable friend to whom he would have blindly entrusted his life, and son-in-law to Emperor Traianus, led the battle towards the center of the town.

That week the Empire had annexed a new region that would bring great wealth. But Marcus, personally, had lost much more than what he truly had gained. Lady Justice had spoken, letting the balance tip completely in favour of collective Roman rule and not his personal one.

Marcus walked between the marble columns of a secluded hallway in the Domus Flavia, the public area of the Imperial Palace on Palatine Hill, as if he was an umbra. He put one foot in front of the other automatically, his mind on a land more than six hundred Roman miles away.

The siege of the Dacian capital to the east had been especially bloody. The enemy had presented a good strategy; the thread of many souls being skewed by the Parcae on both fronts. Among them, that of his own son, Augustus. At eighteen years old, he had been a great military promise, the best candidate to one day replace his father.

If Marcus closed his eyes, he could still remember Augustus’ warm, battered body in his arms. His empty orbs, observing the infinite, reflected the horror of his last seconds in this world. A thick and rudimentary pilum protruding from his chest was a macabre picture Marcus would have trouble forgetting. Its tip so sharp, it had pierced through the segmented lorica with ease, embedding itself in his heart, blood still gushing out.

By the time Marcus’ knees hit the ground by Augustus’ side, Pluto had already claimed his son to join His ranks. The bloodshed had continued to unfold around him, a maddening dance of swords, as if the world had not just stopped —as if Marcus had not just lost the only reason that kept him standing.

His reality had just sunk into the blackest misery and the rest of humanity was there, present yet impassive, blind to his pain.

But there had been no time to grieve — not there, during the darkest hour.

An enemy sword hovered over him, and he had to react.

When the battle died down and his soldiers celebrated the victory, Marcus dragged the corpse of his only son to the edge of some oleanders, where he managed to dig a hole with the help of his gladius and his own fingers.

Time was of the essence, which prevented him from laying Augustus to rest following the rituals of the Roman religion. He could only place a bronze coin over Augustus' mouth as payment to Charon, the ferryman of the Underworld, before throwing dirt on him. He then had composed himself as best he could, letting the General's façade fall on his face, and headed east, unaware that his friend Atticus had suffered a similar end.

On one day alone, he had lost two of the most important people in his life.

His mind returned to the present. From his right hand hung the decapitated head of Decebalus, already so decomposed that there was no blood left inside. The coward had tried to escape to Ranisstorum and, in his last desperate moments, committed suicide when Marcus and another officer, Tiberius Maximus, were hunting him down.

Finding his enemy defeated by his own demons was an anticlimactic moment, given the events of the previous days. Tiberius circumambulated towards Sarmizegetusa again, while Marcus and his legion, along with Atticus’, returned to Rome.

He was defeated, physically and mentally. Marcus just wanted to finish that damned mission and return to his villa. An empty one, devoid of a family he once revered.

In the blink of an eye, he found himself in the throne room, with Emperor Traianus staring at him, a sardonic smile painting his lips. After placing the head of Decebalus at the feet of the Emperor, he gave his last report of war. When the time came to deliver the news that his son-in-law, General Atticus, had perished in battle, the smile faded from Traianus’ face. That would be a hard blow to recover from.

Marcus explained the details that had been entrusted to him, omitting the death of his firstborn and ending with the fact that Atticus’ legion was carrying his corpse through the streets of Rome at that very moment, heading to the basilica of the Domus Flavia to begin with the funeral rites.

At least one of the two would have proper burial.

He said goodbye with deferential courtesy and shuffled out of there. He still had one last assignment: to inform the wife of General Atticus and daughter of the Emperor, you.

With heavy feet, Marcus ambled towards the most private wing of the Palace, the Domus Augustana. One of the maids guided him through the unfamiliar corridors, leaving him in front of a basin raised on a half column. Marcus took the hint, realising that there was still dirt—and specks of dried blood—embedded in his face. He did as he was asked, drying his skin with a linen cloth, before resuming his pace.

Finally, they stopped in front of double doors, and the maid knocked.

A minute later, they swung open.

Steeling himself for what was to come, Marcus bowed his aching back, keeping his eyes on the expensive stone that lined the floor.

“Domina mea (my lady),” he greeted you with deference.

Keeping busy while worry stalked the back of your mind was a colossal task. One you should have been used to by now, but it was nonetheless nerve-wracking.

Having to wait around until you heard news from your husband was not how you wanted to spend your days, but for love you had to. For Rome, you had to. Your husband, Resius Atticus, was your father’s most trusted ally, which meant he was kept away from you for long nights.

You flicked through the pages of the shabby parchment, its ink slowly fading with the passage of time. Finding yourself reading the same paragraph again, you decided to put it aside. You curled up on the chaise lounge, hugging your knees as the sun filtered through the slit window — a ray of sunshine kissing your skin, leaving a warm trail.

Closing your eyes, you revelled in the rare moment of quiet, of peace, a smile lingering on the corners of your mouth.

A knock on the door swept the instant away, and then your heart fluttered uncontrollably.

Today was the day when Resius was meant to return. To his duties in the court, but also to you. You looked forward to settling back into a routine with him, lazy afternoons spent by the private gardens, talking sweet nothings to each other. Despite the years spent by his side, you didn’t tire of him, of your unbreakable relationship.

So, when you swung the double doors open with a pearly smile tugging at your lips, you did not expect to see your husband’s best friend instead.

Your heart suddenly stopped in your chest, swelling to an uncomfortable point. It stretched, a crawling feeling tearing your skin apart from the inside out.

Widened eyes, they locked on his, searching for answers and finding none. Marcus wore an impassible expression, but the way he averted his glassy eyes told you everything you needed to know.

This could only mean one thing. Your worst nightmare taking form, escaping from your dreams and filtering into reality.

Still shocked, you saw the server scurrying away, leaving you alone with the General — but not your General.

“May I come in, Augusta (Imperial Princess)?” his soft voice broke through your blocked eardrums.

Jarred, you nodded, stepping aside to let Acacius in.

You stood there, numb and confounded, your brain trying to find another reason for General Acacius’ visit.

“Please, let us sit down,” Acacius spoke gently, a firm hand on the small of your back guiding you towards the chaise lounge.

This truly felt like a dream, ethereal and foggy, something your vivid imagination had come up with during an unrequited afternoon nap. That had to be it, because this could not be it. You still had a thousand lives to live besides Resius — you had prayed to the Gods for his safe return and they never failed you.

Under Acacius’ direction, you sat down, the pillow underneath giving way to the weight of both of you.

“Domina mea, I regret to be the bearer of bad news. General Atticus perished at the mercy of a Dacian sword, defending two of his fallen soldiers from certain death,” his words shook your system, the numbness taking hold of all your being.

Silence lingered, and you both sat there with eyes fixed on nothing.

This just wasn’t real, couldn’t be. You refused to register such cruel information, shaking your head to unhear what had been spoken aloud.

“No, you have to be wrong, Acacius. I am sure you are,” you finally replied, eyes looking for his tired orbs. A hand flew to one of his resting on his knee, squeezing it tight. “You are wrong. This must be some twisted joke.”

Acacius’ sight did not lie though. You could see the pain emanating from his eyes, the utter bareness they exuded. With pursed lips, he just stared at you, his free hand hovering over yours on his knee until he stroked it warmly.

“I am truly sorry, Domina mea. I… I wish I was lying,” his voice faltered momentarily. “I lament not having been by his side. Had I been, I would have gladly traded my life for his. I would have…”

Acacius did not finish the sentence, because the wail that tore through your throat interrupted him. A fresh wound split your chest in half, all emotions pouring out in a sudden burst. Tears welled up, blurring your vision, and you clutched at your chest, your lungs shrinking with your heart. A burning sensation filled you and then deserted you, leaving you empty, cold — broken.

Losing Resius was a death sentence to your heart, to your soul. To all you were and would be. Life would not—could not—be the same if he was no longer brightening it for you. Hope was no longer your companion, the easy happiness that usually shimmered within you all gone with the blow of a few simple words.

Something crawled inside you, twisting and twitching and breaking and consuming. Something dark, something sad, something shattered. Grief suffocated your heart. This was not pain, this was torment. Living hell.

The raw intensity of it all clouded your mind. Your fractured soul looking for a chink of solace, wanting to cling onto a sliver of hope. Before thinking, you let go of the dam of your emotions, sobs flooding your mouth, as you turned around and hugged Acacius.

Little did it matter the blood and dirt on his worn armour, you needed the comfort of a friendly shoulder. Acacius would understand your pain, the suffering that crushed your soul, because he had also lost his best friend. The two of them had been inseparable for decades — you both had lost someone important that day. He would understand. You knew he did.

Threading your arms around his shoulders, you cried your sorrow in the crook of his neck, kind palms rubbing your back, commending your pain to leave your body. So, you wept until your eyes were bloodshot, until they itched and dried like a river during the worst drought of the century. Trickles of tears stained your cheeks, lashes clumping together under the heaviness of tearful dew.

Time was lost to the dragging pain, and only when Acacius’ hands stroked your shoulders, did you venture a look in his direction, leaning back. The naked expression on his face told you how much agony he carried. The soreness his eyes distilled was on par with yours.

“I am sorry for your loss too,” you offered your condolences. After all, he had lost his best friend. “I trust that your son Augustus found his way back home safe.”

Before their departure, Acacius and his son had paid you both a visit, a meal shared at night between old friends’ jests and company. You remembered Augustus’ enthusiasm to make his father proud on their first campaign together. How Acacius had looked at his heir with adulation and pride — the apple of his eyes. Acacius’ wife had died during childbirth, which had only reinforced the close relationship between father and son.

A feeble smile loitered on his mouth, a brief nod putting your mind at ease. Neither of you needed more suffering tonight.

“He is resting now,” was his succinct reply.

But Acacius always was, so his reassurance soothed your soul a little.

At least Acacius and his son had made it out alive.