The summer of Marcus Aelius Varro's seventeenth year began with a murder of ravens.
They circled above the Aelian estate just beyond the Servian walls, black wings cutting circles into the blazing sky. The slaves muttered darkly as they cut wheat, spitting into their hands for luck. Omens, they were not to be ignored, not when the world itself was turning on it's head.
Rumors of Hannibal Barca were no longer barkeep's whispers, they were not being shouted in taverns, murmured over the aqueducts, and passed along by riders who claimed to have seen the man himself - dark skinned, scarred, with eyes that could strip any legion's courage. An army of Iberians and Gauls, Numidian horsemen, and beasts larger than Roman houses, formed his retinue.
Marcus titled his head back, squinting. The birds above him looked less like messengers of Saturn and more like sails, Carthaginian Sails, sweeping down on an Italia unready to resist.
"Your Mind," came his father's voice, "flies off with carrion birds, whilst work lies undone."
Gaius Aelius Varro reined his horse at the field's edge, his tunic trimmed in equestrian purple, his jaw firm as stone. Once, long ago, he had fought in Spain (Iberia) side by side with Publius Scipio's men before retiring with full military honours to the steadier power of land and contracts. He had seen war, and he did not miss it.
"Bread feeds Rome, Marcus. Not dreams."
"Yes, father," Marcus said, and forced himself back to the scythe.
But his hands obeyed only half his mind. The other half strained toward the city, to the noise and marble and shadows of the Forum. Toward the Senate that debated how to fight Hannibal. Toward the balconies of noble homes where he knew, with a sick certainty of obsession, that Livia Cornelia sometimes stood.
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That night, Marcus slipped away.
The Aelian gates closed behind him, and Rome opened before him: alleys thick with torch smoke, vendors shouting at all hours, and drunken soldiers singing half-prayers to Mars. Rome in peace had been busy. Rome at war was frantic.
At the Forum, he found the crowd pressed against the steps of Saturn's temple, listening to the herald shout the latest news.
"…defeat at the River Trebia! Consul Sempronius broken! Thousands drowned or cut down!"
Gasps and curses rose like surf against a cliff. Marcus felt his stomach lurch. Hannibal was no longer a story. He was a shadow falling across their fields, their homes, their lives.
Movement above caught his eye.
On the temple's marble balcony, a cluster of patrician ladies leaned over the balustrade, pearls and silk glinting in the torchlight. Among them, framed like a vision in emerald, stood Livia Cornelia. She was not laughing now. She listened intently, brows drawn, her poise sharper than the boys who hovered at her side.
And then—her gaze dropped. For the barest moment, her eyes found him in the mass of citizens below. His chest tightened as though Jupiter himself had reached down and crushed his heart in his hand.
The stylus of the scribe paused mid-scratch. The recruiter straightened.
"Aelius Varro?" His tone changed. "Your father is Gaius? Served under Scipio in Spain?"
Marcus stiffened. "Yes."
The recruiter let out a long breath, studying him anew. "The Republic bleeds. We need men of every order. But don't think the son of Gaius Varro will be lost in the ranks." He marked something different on the tablet, sharper, deliberate.
Marcus's stomach turned. He had not been swept into anonymity. He had been noticed.
"Report at dawn."
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Three dawns later, Marcus stood in the dust of the training grounds outside Rome, his arms aching from the shield strapped to them, his shoulders raw from endless drills.
Beside him, a broad-shouldered youth swung his sword like he was threshing wheat. When the instructor moved on, the boy leaned close, grinning through his sweat.
"Titus. From Tusculum. You fight like a patrician's cook."
"And you," Marcus shot back, "like the ox they butchered."
They laughed until their blades were demanded again.
Then the laughter died.
A hush rippled across the recruits.
A white horse entered, bearing a rider in crimson. He was young, sharp-eyed, his gaze cutting like a drawn sword. The name swept through the camp like a current: Scipio.
Marcus's chest clenched. His father had told him stories of the Scipiones—how he himself had marched under Publius, how these men were destined for command. He knew Scipio would remember the name Varro. He knew, and he wanted to vanish into the ranks.
He lifted his shield slightly, lowered his head, as if the dust might hide him.
It did not.
Scipio's eyes passed over the line once, then returned—directly to Marcus. He slowed his horse, reined it until the hooves stopped a few paces away.
"You," Scipio said. His voice carried in the silence. "Your name."
Marcus's throat tightened. He wished he could choke the words back, but the truth came out.
"Marcus Aelius Varro."
A flicker of recognition crossed Scipio's face. He leaned down slightly, eyes narrowing—not in suspicion, but in memory.
"Gaius's son. I knew you at once."
A murmur ran through the recruits. Marcus's heart hammered so hard he feared it would burst from his chest. He had tried to vanish into obscurity, but Rome, it seemed, had no intention of letting him.
Scipio's gaze lingered, sharp as steel. "Your father had courage. We'll see if you carry it in your blood."
With that, he spurred his horse forward, leaving Marcus standing frozen, every eye in the field upon him.
The omen of ravens returned.Livia's gaze returned.The recruiter's knowing look returned.
Fate had found him, and fate would not let go. Not so easily.