Spoiled brat

"Magnitudo fit, non Datur."

"Greatness is created, not given."

---

Marius Aelius Messalla was a man of many talents.

Drinking, for one. He could drain a goblet of Falernian faster than most men could draw breath.

Dice, for another. Not that he was particularly lucky, but luck hardly mattered when you knew how to read a man's face. Or when you don't care because Father is full of money anyway.

And of course, he was the master of avoiding anything remotely resembling responsibility.

Which was why it was so damn irritating for him to be standing in his Father's study, arms crossed, scowl firmly in place, listening to yet another lecture about Rome's decline. As if I care, they'll been babbling about that for centuries now.

His father, Gaius Aelius Messalla, sat behind his wooden desk, fingers drumming against the polished surface.

"Rome is falling apart." His father said, his voice as flat as a millstone.

Oh no, not this again...

Marius sighed, shifting his weight. "I heard. The Empire is divided, Gallienus is useless, the barbarians are at the gates... what else?"

"The barbarians are INSIDE the gates!" His father snapped. "Do you think your name alone will carry you forever?"

Marius scoffed and his mouth slipped. "I think it's done a damn good job so far."

That was definitely the wrong answer.

His father exhaled sharply, as if the very air in the room had soured. "Fine." He said. "Since you refuse to act like a Roman, I will make you one."

Marius sighed and leaned back.

"I see where this is going. You're going to send me off to some dull countryside for a year." Which, to be said, usually produce some great wine.

"Or perhaps arrange a marriage to some old senator's ugly daughter in the hopes that I'll become responsible." He smirked.

Gaius's lips curled.

"Not this time." He turned to the door.

"Bring him in!"

Two lictors entered, clad in dark tunics, each holding a fasces. Between them stood an older man, arms crossed over his chest, his face lined with years of hardship.

Marius' eyes flicked to him, then back to his father. Then back to him, and then back to his father.

"No." He said flatly.

His father smiled, the kind of smile a man wears when he's already won.

"Yes."

Marius gestured vaguely at the Centurion in front of him.

"I am not marching, I am not fighting. I am not sweating like some common plebeian in the ranks. I am a Messalla!"

"You are nothing." His father interrupted. "Not yet. But you will learn. You will train under Centurion Severus. You will wake when he commands and he will teach you how to fight, to march and to command men. If you refuse, I will see you disinherited. You will be cast into the streets with nothing but the tunic on your back."

Marius felt his stomach tightening. "You can't be serious."

Severus stepped forward, walking towards him.

Marius swallowed. Hard.

Centurion Severus looked him up and down like inspecting a horse at market.

"Soft." He muttered. "Weak."

Marius bristled. "Excuse me??"

"SOFT!" Severus repeated, his tone severe. "Spoiled, lazy, good for nothing."

He shrugged. "But I've worked with worse.

Marius turned back to his father, laughing nervously. "You're joking. You have to be joking."

His father said nothing, maintaining a rigid face.

Marius' stomach sank.

Severus then clamped a hand on his shoulder. Gods above, is his damn grip made of iron?

"Training begins at dawn." The Centurion said, already dragging him towards the door.

"Pray to whatever Gods you still believe in, boy. You'll need it."

Marius swallowed, his protests echoing down the halls as he was getting hauled into a future he had never wanted.