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

by Vincent B Davis II

  Someone was coming to our aid. Someone. And they’d find me in a heap of bodies when they got there.

  All seemed to fall silent then. The only thing I could hear was the javelin whistling toward me.

  I turned. My eye fixed on the iron tip streaking to side. This is it.’ And I wasn’t afraid. I closed my eye and lowered my head. But I felt no pain. I opened my eye and discovered nothing had impaled my flesh.

  By my feet lay Castor, the javelin wedged in his chest.

  “No,” I cried.

  “For war hog!” the legionaries shouted.

  I fell to my knees by my shield bearer. “Hold on, my friend. We’ve won. You just have to hold on.”

  He said nothing, but those eyes stared up at me, searching.

  I looked down and knew his wound was mortal. I wanted to keep fighting, but I realized he probably wanted me to stay as I would want others to stay. I stopped and put both of my hands—on top of one another—over the free flow of blood. I met his eyes. He was still very much present, even if he couldn’t speak. “You’ve been the greatest friend I’ve known, Castor,” I said. “This world doesn’t deserve you. Never has.”

  His eyes continued to watch me, wide but not frantic.

  “You’ve seen far too much turmoil and tragedy for a man so young. But now you can have peace. If there is something after this, you’ll get the best of it.”

  He continued to struggle, trying to say something. But the words were unavailable to him.

  I did my best to calm him, as if his words meant something to us, as if we knew. Part of that was true, but I would have loved to hear it if he were able.

  When his head fell back and the blood flowed freely from the corners of his lips, I knew it was time.

  I stood and brandished the kopis again. But when I turned, I saw the seventeenth legion charged through the Acropolis gateway with Aulus at their helm.

  “Charge!” he bellowed.

  And I hurried back into the fray.

  Scroll XXIX

  When the last sword was sheathed, I turned to look behind me. Thirty-seven of my men in total lay there. None of the wounded survived.

  I stepped over some of them, whispering a silent prayer as I did, to find Castor. He was still now, his flesh pale and his lips a blueish hue. Yet his eyes were still wide, and they stared out in amazement at whatever he saw last. I sat beside him and took his hand within mine. I had no tears to shed now; they’re often stifled in the aftermath of a battle. But my soul wept. I closed his eyes with the back of my bloody thumb, fixing in place whatever it was that brought him joy in his final breath. Perhaps it was Pollux waiting for him on the River Styx, barking and leading him to the green fields and honey river of Elysium.

  “Orders, legate?” one of my men asked, still clutching tight to the legendary shield and sarissa with which he’d fought.

  “Gather carts for the men,” I said. “And shrouds to cover them properly.”

  “Yes, legate.”

  “You wait for me there, Castor,” I said. “We’ll share a drink then. Perhaps you can meet my family.” As I whispered the tears finally welled up in his eye. “And I can meet Pollux. We’ll ride horses and tell stories about our time in Greece… but only the pleasant ones.” I dried my nose. “Tell the gods this brutish one-eyed legate is coming. And I’ll see you there.” I blinked until I could see again and stared up at the Greek sky.

  Above us stood the towering statue of Athena Promachos, one golden hand on her spear and the other on her massive shield.

  The oracles words returned to me: “Nothing but the willful shedding of innocent blood beneath the mighty shield of Athena can stay the gods wrath.” She’d been right. If only I’d have known… put the pieces of the mosaic together… I would have shed my own blood. But if the gods base the worth of a sacrifice on the heart of their offering, the Republic should be safe for a long time.

  I struggled to my feet as my knees cried out in resistance. Turning I found the one man who had the capacity to make me smile even amidst such tragedy.

  Aulus shook his head and wagged a finger at me. “Don’t you say it, Quintus Sertorius.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He huffed and threw up his arms. “You know exactly what I mean. I know how this is going to go. You’re wondering why we found ourselves back in Athens.”

  My cracked lips managed a grin as I approached him. “I was wondering that, yes. Weren’t you supposed to be heading straight for Megaris?”

  “See? Here we go.” He crossed his arms.

  “Was it the gods?”

  “No, it wasn’t the gods.” He attempted to pout but I stared at him until he continued. “I came back for my ornamental vase.” He balled his hands into fists to prepare for the mocking.

  I couldn’t help but chuckle. He cursed me while I doubled over and grabbed at my splitting sides. “You marched three thousand men back to Athens for a vase?”

  He grunted. “I sure did.”

  “And Lucius and Spurius let you do this?” I asked, suspiciously.

  He looked up, a smirk on his face. “They were … asleep in the carriage. So no one was there to stop me.”

  “Asleep in the carriage?” I asked, perplexed.

  His face suddenly became serious. “You should come with me.”

  Aulus led me through the city we’d spent so long defending to the rest of his force by the postern gate, a cortege of our men following for protection. As we went, citizens appeared in windows and doorways.

  Crying out like only the liberated can, they showered us with grain and flowers they ripped up from their own gardens—our own impromptu triumph.

  We waved and smiled. Young girls ran up to kiss us, not deterred by the blood still covering us head to toe. If only Castor could’ve seen this. He’d think he was in Elysium still.

  The crowds followed us as we exited to the Achaean countryside. I spotted the remainder of the seventeenth legion in the distance and a carriage there. The moment I spotted the bull-like frame of my old friend Lucius I lost all sense of dignity and sprinted to him like a child.

  “Lucius!” I shouted, I clung to him.

  “We’re back, brother.” He managed to embrace me with the strength of a two-armed man, although now he had only one.

  “What has happened?” I said, turning and throwing an arm around Spurius’ shoulder.

  “It’s a long story,” Spurius said, shaking his head.

  “Perhaps one to distract us on the voyage home.” Lucius smiled as I clasped his one hand.

  I meant to let go, but he pulled me in and forced me to meet his gaze.

  “Wherever you fight, I fight. My sword is yours, Sertorius. I don’t want to be parted from you again.”

  I clapped his neck. “My glory is yours, Lucius. Always.”

  “This really is something,” Aulus said with crossed arms and a tapping foot. “A one-eyed legate and a one-armed tribune. Between the two of you, you almost make up a whole man.”

  “And still twice the lot of you,” Lucius said, charging him. He still managed to out wrestle Aulus even with his wounds.

  “We thought we’d never make it back,” Spurius said, more sober now. “We’re lucky to be here.”

  “That’s all that matters now,” I said. “We’re all still here.”

  He dropped his gaze and nodded, still making sense of it all as any man does after his first real taste of war.

  “We almost lost you again today. How is this possible?” he said. “How could they know the perfect time to strike?”

  We shook our heads at our friends as Aulus cried out for release from the chokehold Lucius had managed to pin him in.

  “That’s the only mystery still unraveled,” I said. “I can’t make sense of it.”

  “Could… Didius be the traitor?”

  My eyes widened as I considered it. “He always did want to ensure he received his triumph.”

  “And perhaps he wanted you gone before returnin
g so all the glory would belong to him.” Spurius grimaced.

  “No. No, that can’t be.” I shook my head. “Didius is many things, more so since the death of his son… but he’s no traitor. And he’s no coward either. If he wanted me dead, he’d create a charge against me and do it himself.”

  “Who else could it possibly be? Who else could have known all this, from the moment we arrived? Apollonius?” He laughed at his own suggestion. “Paullus seemed the most likely source at one point, but now he’s in Hades and the treachery continues.”

  “I think it’s Apollonius,” Aulus said. “Never did like the old bastard.” He winked.

  Lucius joined us, scratching at his chin. “The traitor knew the last night we’d be quartered. They knew you’d be defenseless on the Acropolis today.”

  “And they knew we were marching on Plataea,” I said. “Whoever it is must have sent a messenger. The enemy rode out to meet us before even their scouts could have spotted our advance.”

  My stomach churned. My vision tunneled. I bit my lip, knowing who it was.

  I found him exactly where I expected. Seated in his courtyard and sipping a cup of vintage wine, surrounded by his servants.

  “Tell them to leave,” I said. “They won’t want to watch this.”

  He looked up and smiled, completely unperturbed by my bloody appearance or the sword in my hand.

  “Please, by all means. Join me for a moment,” he said.

  I struggled to swallow. “What should I call you now?” I said, my voice betraying my pain. “Priest? Kallias? … the Martyr?”

  He only continued to smile as he nodded for his servants to leave. Only the two of us remained in that silent, empty courtyard.

  “You may call me whatever you like.”

  “I am going to kill you, Kallias.”

  “Of course, of course,” he said. “But you can sit with me for a moment, can’t you? I’m a dying old man. I’m not going to outrun or outfight you. You’ve already won, my boy.”

  I weighed out my options. The scale refused to tip in either direction, but there was still part of me that didn’t want to kill the kindly old priest. I sat on a bench across from him, hand still on the hilt of my sword.

  “Do you know why I’ve done what I have?”

  “Because you’re a coward,” I said. “and a liar. And a traitor.”

  He lifted a glass cup and twirled it so the light ran along its edge. “You’re right, of course. In a manner of speaking. But there are many frames through which we can perceive the world.”

  “There is no god, no nation, no culture which would exonerate you now.” My breath became heavy. “You betrayed those who called you friend. Your actions resulted in the deaths of men who looked up to you.” Castor’s smile flashed before my eyes and it took all the power left within me not to tear him apart in that moment.

  “I was never your friend, Quintus Sertorius,” he said without malice. “Although I do think fondly of you. We simply believe different things fundamentally, you and I. We could never be reconciled.”

  “We agree on this one thing at least,” I said. “So tell me. What is it that I believe? That you find untenable?”

  He gestured to a vase of wine beside him. I shook my head. “Well, Rome of course,” he said.

  “What?”

  “You and the rest of your men. You fight for something I find deplorable. Wretched. Evil.”

  I ground my teeth. “And explain to me why.” I said. “Have we not been gentle masters? Are your people not free to come and go as they please? Are you not sharing in the wealth of the Republic? Not benefiting from the safety our men buy for you with their blood?”

  He nodded along as I spoke. He took a sip of wine and smacked his lips to savor the taste. “You’re a reader of history, aren’t you?”

  “I am.” I leaned forward on the bench.

  “Rome defeated Hannibal at Zama. Ninety-eight years passed between that victory and your general Marius’s defeat of Jugurtha. Over that span, sixty-eight triumphs were held for the governors of Africa alone. Sixty-eight triumphs in ninety-eight. A triumph requires five thousand dead enemies, correct?”

  I glared in his direction but could only nod.

  He balked. “Five thousand dead boys, sixty-eight years over that past century. And for what? For peace and prosperity? For civilization? For protection? And if so, protection for whom?” He spoke without malice or ill intent, calm and kind with his ancient voice as if he only wanted to show me the way. “Your glory is a myth. It exists only to fuel the ambitions of ambitious men.”

  “What of myself?” I said. “Am I here only for advancement, for ambition? Have I left my family for these long years for power and wealth?”

  He smiled and took another sip of wine. “I’ve already said I admire you. I’ve served as an advisor to the Roman governors for as long as I can remember, and I’ve found so few men who care for anything outside of themselves the way you do.” He became serious, but softened. “I did not want to see you die. But your death, if it served some role in diminishing Rome’s stranglehold of the world… it would have been worth it.”

  “What of our governor then? What of Didius? Was he not your friend? He has served honorably here and stamped out a rebellion that could have sown the seeds of death throughout all Greece. Was he here only for glory?”

  He smiled sadly. “My boy, I was there when he told you of his desire to kill five thousand men, his desire to parade about Rome like a god for stealing the lives of young men. He was going to butcher regardless, so all I did was give the Greek people something for which to die.”

  I couldn’t stop blinking, couldn’t stop shifting. I almost accepted that cup of wine—I wanted to—but to share a cup with a man saying such things was tantamount to treason. “You’ve not hurt rich old politicians. You’ve not harmed Didius’ political career, or stolen sleep from the senate,” I said, my voice beginning to shake. “You’ve done nothing but take the lives of men who only wanted to serve, to give themselves a better life than the poverty into which they were born.”

  He nodded and his eyes glossed over. “And yet how many more would they have killed if they’d grown to be grizzled old veterans? How many more young maidens would they have left widowed, or children they would have orphaned?”

  I stood and slowly drew my sword. He watched the blade, but with nothing but mere curiosity. “You have failed, Kallias.”

  “You cannot begin to comprehend what we’ve accomplished, my boy,” he said.

  “Your ‘polemarch’ and ‘archon’ are dead.”

  He nodded. “Yes. As we intended.”

  “So I guess that leaves you. The ‘martyr.’” I stepped across the courtyard, my legs heavy. “And you’ll die here. You have failed, Kallias.”

  He finished his cup of wine and poured another, continuing to inspect the light on the glass. “We called ourselves Cerberus. But what could three old Greeks do to bring down an empire?” He chuckled. Perhaps he was beginning to understand, I thought. “But the real Cerberus is still out there, and its three heads are howling. From the East, from Italy … from within Rome itself. All we ever sought was to delay you until they could strike. And we’ve done that. In a manner of speaking, we have won.”

  “You speak nonsense, old man. There are no wars to be fought. No one is ‘striking,’” I said.

  His eyebrows raised. “Oh, have you not heard?”

  “Heard what?” I said through gritted teeth.

  “Kill me now, my boy, and go find out.”

  I struggled to say, “I should take you back to Rome for trial, for execution.”

  He lifted his cup. “I couldn’t risk that. There’s hemlock in the wine.”

  I straightened my sword before me. So death it was then. I stood before him and brought back the sword. But Castor’s voice whispered in my ear. He was unarmed, he was defenseless, I didn’t have to kill him. I sheathed my blade. “No. I’ll not make a martyr of you,” I said. “Yo
u’re not a hero. You’re nothing, and you’ll die like it.” I turned to leave.

  “What?” he said. “No. You must kill me. They’ll want my head.”

  “They’ll hear of your treachery and your death.” I continued walking. “But they’ll not be tales told of your defiance. Only of your fitful, wretched death.”

  “No. Come back here and finish this,” he said.

  “You’ll grow cold and rigid. You’ll lose the feeling in your feet and it will creep up till it reaches your heart.”

  “No!”

  “You’ll vomit and shake. You’ll void yourself.”

  “Roman!” He shouted after me.

  I turned and looked at him for the last time. “You haven’t made a martyr of yourself. You’ve made a martyr of your people, Kallias.”

  “Please.” He stretched out to me.

  “You’re no hero.”

  “Roman… please…”

  His voice trailed into silence as I left his home and left Athens.

  Scroll XXX

  “The third head of Cerberus is dead,” I told Didius when I caught up to the legion on their march to Megaris. I was still unwashed, covered in dried, cracking blood.

  “And you’re certain?” he asked, calling for a halt.

  “Yes,” I said. “It was Kallias.”

  His eyes flickered as the realization flooded over him. Shock, rage, shame, disappointment, pain… he felt them all. He cracked his neck and cleared his throat. “It appears I’ve been wrong about many things,” he said. “And that’s difficult for a man like me to admit.”

  He pounced from his horse and squared up to me.

  “I’ve gravely misjudged two men. The one I held as an ally and companion. I embraced him even as he stabbed my back. The other,” he said, meeting my eye. “I’ve treated with contempt and suspicion. I’ve held him responsible for everything from the death of my son to every headache I’ve had on campaign… and I was wrong.” He cleared his throat again and straightened to preserve his dignity. “Quintus Sertorius is a good man. Good Roman. And I’d be honored if you’d serve with me in the war in Italy.”