Claudius prided himself as a man bound to his honor. At every turn, he had ceaselessly executed the sacramentum he had given before the Senate so long ago, to faithfully serve the republic and its people unconditionally and without fail. Whether sun, rain, or sleet, he would carry out expeditions across the land, the days and nights often blurring together in lonely encampments. In every sense of the world, he was the model Roman soldier, a man who had given his entire life and being to Rome and desired nothing more than to die for its glory.
However, though a man may dedicate himself to a worthy, higher cause, there are certain lines that he will stand firm on, past which no power mortal or divine could dare cross. Primus was one such line.
He still remembered the day he had first laid eyes on his pride and joy, several years prior. The boy was born to him in the dead of night by candlelight. His wife, Cornelia, had gone through a long, grueling labor under the practiced hand of an experienced midwife. From the day he had been placed on the ground for him to claim, it was clear that Primus was no ordinary child, for in the scant few minutes that he had been laid to rest, he had grown to the point where it had taken Claudius' full strength to be able to lift the babe and claim it to rear. Time quickly proved this prodigious growth to be no anomaly, for before a year had passed, the newborn babe had quickly outgrown their abode in Palatine Hill. There had little choice but to quickly retract to a more isolated villa, before they were subject to the prying eyes of the greater populace bearing down on his every breath.
This quaint rustic villa, a gift from an old friend who lost his life in the Second Punic War, was a bountiful land indeed. A clear, lush field of staple crops perfectly framed the brick-hewn, marron weathered house out front. There were also other important amenities, such as a stable of donkeys and horses, a pasture for the livestock to graze on, and a teeming forest that stretched out back right at their borders. It had all the space needed for Primus to thrive without feeling confined, along with a bounty of wild boar and deer for to feast on as needed. Most important of all, there was a fresh lake a bit further up that could use to refresh himself, as well as all the means to perform his... other, equally necessary duties in relative privacy.
For most of his life, Primus knew nothing beyond the villa. There was far too much risk of misfortune, of him inadvertently making one wrong move and turning an unfortunate passerby into a mess of red pulp and viscera, like a boil that had been pressed down into oblivion. Already, from the scant few months he'd actually been in Rome, the murky haze of rumors and gossip had rendered Primus into a wretched monster chained by the Republic on a distant isle, whom political dissidents and criminal alike were fed to. The general could barely restrain his wife from flaying those chattering heads within an inch of their lives for every cruel barb that they carelessly flung - never would he even dare dream of subjecting his boy to such torment.
However, to live life in such a manner, isolated and unable to know of the pleasures that came with living in a civilized society, seemed almost crueler. Primus' growth had long outstripped the ability for the most trained of seamstresses to keep up, so he was still as nude as the day he was born, with not even a loincloth to maintain his dignity. For some time, only article to be found on his body was the childhood bulla that he had wrapped around his pinkie finger, until he inevitable could no longer wear even that much. Claudius could still remember the wails Primus had let out upon discovering this, and how it had taken him a whole day to calm the stampeding animals with the help of some members of the Praetorian Guard.
Any chance of Primus being able to live a normal, content life, or at least as much of one as could be afforded by anyone in Rome, was irrevocably lost. He would never know the joy of being able to explore the city, of getting lost in the nooks and crannies and discovering the magnificent feats and works of the great architectural masters of his day. He would never share in the fine foods and spices that were brought over from the distant lands of Arabia or partake in the festivities and amusements of the Colosseum. He would never get to fall in love, to know the touch of another woman, to find his place with her and her with him and partake in the beauty of life bounties fully and utterly.
Instead, he would spend the rest of his days consigned to living like a barbarian, forced to scavenge and hunt for every-dwindling food, towering above even the mountains as a hideous giant beast unable to form connections with any man and loathed by all.
Claudius would not lie if that thought of what the future had in store for Primus did not keep him up at night. Certainly, similar sentiments dogged his wife's every move, as Cornelia could often be found wailing in the antechamber over the sheer expense that it was taking to do so much as keep Primus fed, of how filthy and disheveled he had gotten from spend long hours in the grime and muck of the rural hinterlands. There was nothing either of them could do about it, so rather than ruminate over whatever horrors the Fates had in store, they tried their best to make every day spend with Primus. For every hour that he spent in isolation, away from mutuals and peers his age, Claudius and Cornelia made sure that they more than made up for it in the time they spend as a family. Claudius in particular was an ever-constant presence out by the field where Primus liked to spend his days watching the clouds. He would spend long hours teaching Primus everything he knew about the moral and civil responsibilities that would be expected from him as a citizen while he rested over a series of crushed pine trees. Frequently, Claudius would ride on top of Primus' shoulder as he taught him various means of hunting down prey and how to swim across the grand lake several paces away, while he and Cornelia handled teaching Primus the finer points of agriculture as he used his fingers to plow the fields.
Considering everything, the fact that they had managed to make a fine young lad out of Primus was a miracle that could only have been granted by the grace of the gods themselves. Cornelia insisted it was the work of Mater Matuta, who her sisters prayed to during the Matralia at her temple the Forum Boarium, but Claudius knew that only Father Catius could have granted Primus with such a sharp mind and an eager disposition for learning. The sharp contrast between his monstrous size and his calculating yet gentle demeanor was almost neck-breaking. Of course, like all boys, he was still given to rowdiness and braggartry, though it was considerably toned down in his case due to the higher level of care he had to exert to not cause irrevocable harm to his loved ones. In the night, during the scorching summer months, he would always swear up and down that one day, he'd be able to reach up high enough to rip Sirius straight from the heavens and scold him for fanning the flames of Sol's heat as much as he did. Other times, he would promise in full earnest and with a tremor in his heart that he would tear all the stars from the heavens and bring them down to decorate the facade of their manor, so that they could always view them even during the day. Though he would always gently remind Primus that Jove would not be so merciful to Primus for committing such an act, Claudius had to half-wonder sometimes whether a time would come that he would be able to make good on that desire.
Whatever the case may be, Claudius knew that Primus had claimed him. Far away from home, in the dubious comfort of his wooden quarters, where the salt of the sea commingled with the pungent odors of hundreds of men before him, all he could think about was Primus. The boy was still young; far too young, not even close to earning his toga virilis, yet he had grown to such a massive scale. The days where he would be able to hold a grown calf with both hands seemed almost quaint. He had been fighting for so long to keep Primus out of the gluttonous eyes of the Senate, to keep them from using him way as their weapon, but he knew it was only a matter of time before his hand would be forced. It "would be a waste" to not make use of someone whose power rivaled the earthquakes themselves, after all.
That was why, when the waves suddenly lashed against the hull of his ship, Claudius felt his stomach sink. It had only been a ripple, barely rocking most of the ships, but it was still noticeable enough to get the soldiers murmuring. Likely, most of them were already dismissing it as a temporary swell. Claudius, however, couldn't get rid of the feeling, crawling avariciously up his throat like kudzu vines, that not all was as it seemed. There was a chill in the air that wasn't there before, an unnatural silence that betrayed nothing, but screamed anticipation. Perhaps he could have dismissed it then as mere superstition, a flight of fancy on his end born of nothing but pure fancy.
Then, the boat shook again, and dread creeped into his heart. Claudius rushed out into the galley along with the rest of the men. There, in the distance, they could all see a silhouette creeping out over the mist gathering in the distance, impossibly looming over most of the fleet.
"By Jove..." Panic had settled among all the men as they made their way to the oars, ready to row away from the monster, but the shill sound of a tuba halted everyone in their tracks, ordering everyone to stand down. That damn pischello... he couldn't have-!
Out of the haze, Claudius' son slowly lumbered across the ocean floor and past the naval procession, stunning everyone as:
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