Whom Gods Destroy: A Novel of Ancient Rome (The Sertorius Scrolls Book 4)

by Vincent B Davis II

  “On the road? Or in the home of Timoxenos?” Legate Paullus asked. He ran his meaty fingers through the plume of his helm.

  “In the home of Timoxenos,” I said. “They returned for Phaidra.”

  “In what condition did you find the home? Did you learn anything?” Didius said. I could tell he’d become wine drunk as he’d been forced to listen to Phaidra’s mourning.

  “Abandoned,” I said, peaking to see how Phaidra reacted. She didn’t. “There was twine strong enough for binding a man, but nothing else. We could not search for long. Four assailants arrived shortly after we did.”

  Didius slumped back to the bench and snapped for another cup of wine. “Phaidra, did your husband have any enemies? Anyone that would want to see you both disappear?”

  “Of course he did.” She lifted her pink-rimmed eyes. “Anyone who owns a private army has enemies. But none of them would have the courage or ability to take him, let alone come back for his love,” she said.

  “Was there perhaps something your husband kept from you? A gambling problem perhaps?”

  “Sir, if I may…” I said.

  “Timoxenos didn’t gamble,” she said through gritted teeth. “Even if he had enough money to do so carelessly.”

  Didius rolled his eyes. “What is it, Legate Sertorius?”

  “I believe this is more than personal animosity. Anyone in Greece knows that Timoxenos works with the Roman authorities here,” I said. “This is a direct attack on the dignitas of the Republic.”

  “Gerrae! How could you come to that conclusion?” Legate Paullus bellowed. “Proconsul, he’s clearly injured and not thinking clearly.” I could see the doubt in his eyes. He didn’t want to believe me, but he did.

  “Let him speak, Paullus. I’ve doubted Legate Sertorius in the past, and perhaps I was wrong to do so,” he said. “Speak.”

  “Timoxenos confided in me when I escorted him home. He told me of a… well, I don’t know what to call them—”

  “Spit it out, man!” Paullus shouted.

  “A cult. They call themselves Cerberus and are devoted to destroying Rome. They’ve been enslaving our citizens, and gods only know what they’ve done with them and what other schemes they have planned.”

  Paullus laughed, but Didius remained as still and cold as a statue. Phaidra did nothing. Kallias leaned over and rubbed his eyes, shocked but equal parts broken.

  “Why would they do this?” the priest said emphatically, trying to convince himself. “Rome has been good to us. They cannot be sons of Greece.”

  “I do not know, sir. All I know is that they’re here. Operating in the heart of Greece.”

  Didius leaned back and tapped a finger rapidly against his cup. For a moment I spotted hunger in his eyes, the look which comes when a man is presented with an opportunity for glory. “One thing is for certain,” the Proconsul said, “this province is not as safe as we thought. We can no longer quarter with civilians in the city. It’s too dangerous.”

  “I vow that no harm will befall you in my home,” the old priest said.

  Didius said, “I’m afraid prayers would be unable to stop them.” He realized he’d come off ruder than he’d meant. “You’ll remain my advisor and confidant while I’m in Greece, but I can no longer stay here, my friend.”

  His voice fragile and gravelly, Kallias said, “I understand.”

  “What time is formation in the morning?” Didius asked, although I was certain he knew.

  “Second hour,” Paullus said.

  “Good. You’ll put out the news then.”

  “You won’t be present?” Paullus asked.

  “No.” Didius shook his head. “I have business with the Oracle of Delphi. I won’t be waiting. I’ll be departing with my guard before the end of fourth watch.” He scanned our faces to ensure we understood. “Have the men construct a proper fortress two miles from the western gate. Give them time enough to gather their belongings in the evening. Tomorrow we become a real legion again.”

  “Yes, Proconsul,” Legate Paullus said, despite sulking.

  “In the evening I want the officers to meet and discuss how and where to devote resources to searching for these rebels…” He looked at me and I nodded to Phaidra. “And Timoxenos. I’ll ratify whatever orders you prepare upon my return if they suit me.”

  “We’re going to war with a faceless shadow,” Paullus said to himself.

  “Sertorius.” Didius approached, suddenly sober and threatening. I met his gaze and realized he wasn’t blinking, “If you are wrong and I’m made to look like a fool…”

  “Understood, sir,” I said, not keen on hearing the rest of his threat.

  He gestured to my side. “Get your wound dressed,” he said. “I’m going to need you at full strength. This is your war now, Legate Sertorius. You’ll be leading from the frontlines, whatever that may mean.”

  “I thought you Roman men were supposed to be tough,” Niarchos said with a furtive grin while I winced.

  “I think he’s plenty tough. He has a cracked rib,” Anthea said as she dabbed at the wound with a willow-soaked rag. “This should help numb the pain, but you’ll feel it tomorrow.”

  “I’m feeling it now.” I bit my knuckle and laid my head back on the courtyard couch.

  “Will he be all right?” Kirrha asked.

  Her little lisp warmed me. “I’ll be fine, my child. Just a scratch.”

  Apollonius brought me a cup of wine and slowly tipped it back for me to drink.

  Kirrha said, “I don’t understand why anyone would want to be a soldier.” She frowned and shook her head. “They know they’ll die eventually.”

  I chuckled and reached to take her hand. “Have you ever seen a sad pig?” Anthea leaned me up and lifted my arms to wrap a bandage around me.

  “No,” Kirrha said.

  “That’s because there are none,” I said. “They live a life destined for the slaughter, and yet each trots along as happy as a man in love. Because they’ve never been slaughtered before.”

  She smiled. “That’s silly. Why not be a poet or something safe?” She sat on the couch beside me and cautiously eyed the bandages.

  “I should like that very much.” I chuckled. “But I’m not afraid to die. I polished Charon’s denarii long ago. When it is my time, I’ll be ready.” Although I wasn’t certain I meant it. “Soldiers like me fight to ensure little girls like you get to grow old and have children of your own.”

  She played with the hem of her tunic and then leaned over to peck a kiss at my cheek. “Thank you then.”

  I smiled and pinched her cheek. “I would fight in a thousand battles and die a thousand deaths to protect you.”

  “What about Apollonius? And Anthea? And Niarchos?” she said. Everyone laughed except Kirrha who studied me.

  “I’ve already fought in several battles to protect Apollonius. Why do you think he follows me everywhere I go? He owes a life debt to me.” I smirked at my old friend who rolled his eyes.

  “That’s not quite how I remember it, Quintus,” he said.

  “There. All patched up,” Anthea said as she cut the cloth and tied it off. “I believe the broken rib is causing the wheeze.”

  “What is your prognosis then, doctor Anthea?” I said to which Kirrha giggled.

  “I had an uncle in Rhodes who had a similar injury. Fell off his horse,” she said, “Asclepius will make you whole in time. But you must restrict your training. If you move too much you’re liable to come apart like an old sack of wine.”

  “Thank you, Anthea.”

  As silence descended on us I had the chance to let everyone know I’d no longer be quartering with them. But I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I’d come to take great comfort in their company. They had become a second family to me as I was away from my own. And I would miss Kirrha dearly. I could still visit on occasion, certainly, but it would not be the same. So instead I said, “Well, if it’s rest I need I shall begin my recovery with a good night’s sle
ep.”

  “I’m inclined to do the same,” Niarchos said. “Although I should be rested enough from sleeping during heliast duty today. Who knew a murder trial could be so dreadfully boring?”

  “I’m sure you’ll be back to forming clay soon enough,” Apollonius said, rubbing the weariness from his eyes.

  “We’re doing just fine without him, aren’t we Anthea?” Kirrha said to our humor.

  I kissed them each and made for my assigned room, unable to remove my hand from the wound. I untied my caligae, noticing the muck covering my feet for the first time. I didn’t care. I ignored them and laid back, not bothering to change from my soldier’s tunic to something more appropriate for sleep. I was exhausted and didn’t feel like standing or kneeling, so I said a prayer to my ancestral gods there from my hay-packed mattress.

  Despite the fatigue of my body, my mind raced from one thought to another. Here I dwelled on the fight at Timoxenos’ home; there I brooded over Didius’ words and what the future might entail.

  There’s no telling how many hours I laid there, still as a statue, with my mind running faster than a charioteer in the Circus Maximus. At one point I all but gave up on acquiring any meaningful sleep, but then the familiar sound of battle filled my ears. The same dream recurred to me most nights; only rarely would Hypnos allow me to have no dreams at all.

  It was Vercellae I believe. Perhaps Arausio. The wind whistled inside my helm as I led the cavalry charge at the barbarian flank. The clash of iron echoed then, and the cries of battle rose to greet it. Torches roared through the air as they crashed into buildings, lighting everything ablaze.

  My eyes shot open. The noise still continued. I pounced to my feet and struggled to retie my sandals.

  Apollonius rushed into my room.

  “I hear it, I hear it,” I said.

  “What is happening?”

  “We’re under attack,” I said. “Get my shield.”

  “By who?” he cried.

  “I’ll soon find out.” I threw the chainmail over my head and struggled to get my arms through.

  “Wait, you cannot fight. You surely don’t mean to fight?” He stepped away with my shield.

  “Who will then? You? Niarchos?” I met his gaze. He was trembling, I was not. He knew I wouldn’t be swayed. “This is who I am, Apollonius. I am a Legate of the Roman Republic. Injured or not I must rally the men.”

  “I won’t let you, Quintus.” He hid the shield behind his back.

  “We are losing time!” I roared. He tried to summon enough courage to defy me, but I quickly added, “I am going out there, my friend. I can either go with my shield or without. Your choice.”

  He complied and hurried to the courtyard to find the others stirring there as well.

  “Quintus! What is happening?” Niarchos asked, as if I knew.

  “We’re under attack. I must rally my men.” I buckled my helm. “Niarchos, Apollonius, arm yourselves and guard this home with your life. Anthea, take Kirrha and hide under a bed or crawl into the cellar.”

  They all sounded off with questions but I ignored them and burst from the home.

  Flames illuminated the streets. I could make out unarmed Romans running through the streets, but they each fell as soon as I could spot them.

  Was this a nightmare? Perhaps I was living out the Battle of Burdigala from the perspective of the besieged. Such a dream was not foreign to me.

  An arrow whizzed by me and struck the stone so close to my face that a chip of stone hit my cheek.

  I lifted my shield, no longer feeling the pain in my side. “Romans! Legionaries! Rally to me!” I bellowed, unsure if I could be heard over the tumult. I laid my sword against the top of my shield and squared up toward a gang of assailants in the distance. They heard my cry and turned to me, bloodlust in their eyes.

  “Romans!” Someone else bellowed, and the cry was repeated by others in the darkness. While keeping the enemy in my sight, I tried to peer around to spot any of my allies. Nothing.

  The rebels approached. Some wore Corinthian helms, others conical. Some held the long spears of a Macedonian phalanx and others axes and clubs. I spotted some with the plumed helmets of a Roman, but they didn’t move like legionaries. They had taken them from the dead.

  Two assailants sprinted toward me.

  I whispered and rushed in. “Father, protect me.”

  An axe flashed through the air. I caught it with my shield and kicked its wielder in the knee. The other tried to circle me, but I spun in his direction and brought my gladius down on his spear, splintering it before it could reach me.

  My face jolted back as an elbow crashed into my nose. I stepped back and centered myself as the two men crumbled before me, crying out and struggling to reach the pila wedged in their backs.

  “Romans, on me!” I shouted, the iron taste of blood settling on my lips. Two or three men gathered at my side, still struggling to don their armor.

  “Legate, who are these men?” one cried.

  “It doesn’t matter,” I said while we formed our shields into a wall. A few more legionaries fell into formation behind us.

  “What are we going to do?” a legionary from the third cohort asked.

  I remained vigilant as I considered the answer. What were we to do in an assault like this? We were spread out across the city with no centralized point to protect. Should we make it to the walls and seal the gate, or were all of the attackers already within? Should we fight toward Didius in the northern part of the city? Rally at our training grounds? Protect the district of the city in which we were quartered?

  What we did was mostly irrelevant. More important was that I spoke definitively and with confidence, that they trusted I was prepared for this moment. “We must reach the high grounds. From the Temple of Hephaestus, legionaries from around the city can spot us.” The idea seemed to be given to me from somewhere else. I thanked my father, in case he’d been the source.

  The temple was close by, and we moved toward the foothills beneath it as quickly as formation would allow. Sprinting feet were heard from the right—enemy archers running through the alley. They dropped to a knee.

  “Shields right!” I roared just in time for our shields to meet the brunt of the shafts. One man was struck in the shin. “Do any of you have pila?” I asked as a few assented. “Let them fly now.”

  The front ranks ducked as the spears whistled through the air. A few of the archers crumbled and the others ducked into the shadows of the surrounding buildings.

  “Forward!” I shouted as we reached the long path to the temple. We stepped over slaughtered livestock, sheep still bleating as they squirmed under the weight of arrows.

  A woman holding a swaddled babe to her breast sprinted past us.

  “Get indoors!” I shouted. Her home was likely one of the many ablaze. But to remain on the streets was a death warrant.

  Along the path I spotted three enemies standing around a single Roman. He remained in position with his shield fixed at the ready, but they swarmed him. He moaned when pierced from all sides. As he fell I noticed he held the standard of the first cohort, the flag falling with him.

  I pointed at them with my gladius and we shifted our march. “Step away from the standard,” I said. “Now.”

  The rebels shot me toothless grins and one stomped it into the mud.

  I broke from formation toward them, and my men followed. I leapt in the air and stabbed down into the chest of a poorly armored giant. Another slashed at my face. I jumped back but the tip sliced through my cheek just beneath my good eye. My men pounced and before I could see straight, his arm was missing and a blade was wedged in his belly. “Protect the standard!” I shouted, ignoring the sting of my flesh.

  “Protect the standard!” they echoed as one of them picked it up and hoisted it into the air.

  We reached the temple, and from that great height we could see fires burning around the city. The cries of thousands rang out from all directions.

  �
��Gods below,” the legionary at my right said.

  The defense towers rang out when someone sounded the alarm. It wasn’t the guards, that’s for certain. They would’ve done so immediately if they weren’t already dead or in league with the enemy to begin with.

  “Stay in line. Stay in formation,” I shouted. I pulled them back and we planted ourselves under the temple’s columns. The new standard bearer continued to wave the muddy flag as high as he could. In the darkness, figures could be spotted running toward us.

  “Here they come!” one of the men said.

  “No, they’re Roman!” I held up my arm to halt their assault.

  “Legate! Legate!” a voice cried out, and even in the darkness I knew it was my shield bearer.

  “I’m here, Castor,” I shouted.

  He hurried to us, the fire reflecting in the wetness of his eyes. “I was afraid they’d got you.”

  “Fall into line.”

  A legionary in a wolf pelt, the mark of a horn-blower, stumbled up the steps toward us as he blew into his cornu with all his might. We cheered, hoping enough soldiers would now be able to find us.

  He pitched forward and crashed on top of his instrument. We swore, noticing the three arrows jutting out from his shoulder blades.

  At the base of the hill shadowy figures began to form up. They did not rush to join us. The enemy. And They could smell our blood.

  Even in the shroud of darkness I could see they outnumbered us three to one. “Jupiter!” I lifted my gladius.

  “Optimus,” the men answered, half-heartedly.

  “Jupiter!” I raised my voice.

  “Maximus!” Now they joined me.

  “Jupiter!”

  “Optimus!”

  If this was to be our final stand, we would take the bastards down with us. As I continued the war cry with increasing tempo, I looked for anything we could use to block their path. Large stones, wooden pallets, statues… nothing was in sight but pottery. Hephaestus was the god of the forge, after all.

  We would have to meet them. But another thought struck me like an arrow. These vases were filled with offerings: oil, pitch, unwatered wine… all flammable.