***
Pain was the first sensation Marcus felt as he struggled to regain consciousness. The dawning realization that the battlefield had been only a dream was soon replaced by the bitter disillusionment of his return to reality. His entire body ached, and the fact that he felt a boot nudging him in the ribs only made things worse. To top it all off, he was fairly certain that the rib on the receiving edge of the nudging was broken.
Don’t move, was the thought that bubbled to the surface of his half-conscious mind, and he’ll go away. Bloody guards need to mind their own business.
Unfortunately for Marcus, the insistent nudging did not go away, but instead intensified. Gradually he forced himself to open his eyes and sit up. The return to consciousness was not pleasant. Bright sunlight dazzled his eyes, and the stench of the garbage and urine which filled the alley assaulted his nostrils. As his eyes adjusted to the harsh daylight, he perceived a blurry form standing over him. After nearly a full minute squinting up at the figure, he began to make out some details: the man responsible for his rude awakening was, in fact, little more than a boy. Small and frail, the fair-haired youth was dressed far too well to be native to this part of the city. As the boy glanced around the alley disdainfully, Marcus caught a glimpse of the winged sandals which were embroidered upon his cap.
A messenger boy, Marcus thought, finally gathering enough of his mind to being making sense of the world around him. Better than a guard, at least. Well groomed, too. Probably thinks he’s too good to be standing in a piss-soaked alley. Come to think of it, he’s probably right.
“I presume that you are Marcus Ulpius, former General of the provincial Legions? I was told that you often…rest in this area.” The boy’s Latin was crisp and precise, without a trace of an accent - a sure sign that the boy had been raised in Rome.
Somebody has gone to considerable effort, Marcus reflected. Bringing a messenger from Rome to the outmost reaches of the Empire is an expensive undertaking, warranted only for tasks of the utmost importance and secrecy where local messengers cannot be trusted. I didn’t think I still warranted that kind of treatment. By the gods, I know I don’t.
“I…” as Marcus tried to speak, phlegm rose in his throat. Coughing and hacking, he spat out a small ball of spit, phlegm, and blood. “I am that man. Ulpius the great, the glorious, the warrior…” his voice trailed off bitterly.
The messenger rolled his eyes and spoke in a patronizing tone. “Quite so, I’m sure. I have been sent with a message for you.”
“I would have never guessed that,” Marcus sneered. “I’m a drunk, not an idiot.”
Ignoring Marcus’ sarcasm, the messenger reached into a small pouch on his belt and pulled out a rolled up scroll. Breaking the seal that held it closed, the messenger unfurled the scroll and read it in a clear, ringing voice: “Marcus Eranthan Ulpius, Dux Legatus Legionis of the Legions of Germania Inferior, loyal servant of Rome and the Emperor - your attendance is urgently required in the provincial capital city of Cologne. Please use the enclosed funds to arrange the most expedient transportation possible. Upon your arrival in Cologne, report to The Countryside Innand ask for Vito. Show him this message and an audience will be arranged with me at the earliest possible convenience. Yours, Domitian C.”
Domitian? It can’t be. How could he have found me? More to the point, why is he looking for me? Marcus’ mind raced with these questions and a thousand more.
His duty nearly completed, the messenger dropped the scroll and a small purse full of coins on the ground beside Marcus. He stared at the two objects as if he doubted their very existence. When he spoke, it was in a quiet, carefully measured voice.
“If this is a joke, it is in very poor form.”
“I assure you,” the messenger said, “it is no joke. I was personally hired by Mr. C., and have carefully ensured that neither the message nor those coins have left my possession before this very moment. The veracity of the message cannot be disputed. If I may be so bold, the only decision that you need to make is whether or not you will do as Mr. C. asks.”
With that, the messenger turned on his heel and walked away, leaving Marcus bewildered in the alley.
Shaking his head, Marcus thought, I’m too old for this.
***
From his vantage point atop a small hill on the northernmost fringe of the plain of Agrippinensis, Marcus surveyed the battlefield. The rain had ceased and the clouds had parted to give way to the rapidly sinking sun. The fading light revealed a horrifying scene: thousands of bodies carpeted the plain, some still wailing and writhing in their death-throes. Scattered pockets of soldiers still skirmished amongst the corpses, but the victorious Sicambrii horde had largely departed southward, in the direction of Cologne.
There’s nobody to stop them,Marcus reflected sadly. The city guard are nothing more than glorified babysitters, and with the Emperor and his legions conquering Dacia, reinforcements will not be forthcoming.
“It could be worse, my beloved. At least you survived.” A sweetly melodious voice sounded from behind Marcus. Whirling to face the speaker, he felt his knees buckle and nearly give way. Seated on a bench in front of him was a stunningly beautiful woman. The day’s final beams of sunlight glinted off her chestnut-brown hair, and a bright intelligence shone through her blue eyes. The sight of her caused Marcus’ breath to catch in his throat.
“Lucia…Lucia, my love. What are you doing here? You should be in…” his voice trailed off as he realized the implications of what he had nearly said.
Lucia smiled. “In Cologne? Yes, I suppose that I should be. I just couldn’t bear to be there…away from you.”
She rose from her seat, gliding gracefully to Marcus. He slipped his arms around her as if by instinct, and she wrapped her arms around his waist. The two were almost comically mismatched; in his full battle gear Marcus towered over her. She could hardly even reach all the way around his armour as she embraced him, and her cheek was nestled firmly against the cold iron that covered his breast.
“You don’t belong on a battlefield, my love,” Marcus whispered into her hair as he held her.
Lucia glanced up at him, a sad smile decorating her face. Without a trace of conscious action, their heads sank towards each other. In a moment all the horror of the battlefield vanished as they joined together in a kiss.
***
Marcus bolted upright in his bed. Cold sweat ran down his entire body in rivulets. His pulse pounded in his ears as the last vestiges of the haunting dream faded away. Moonlight filtered through the window of his undersized boarding room, illuminating little more than a drab bed which held both Marcus and a half empty bottle of whiskey. Although his memory of the afternoon and early night was nothing more than a blackish blur in his mind, there was no question that he had been the one who drank the whiskey. The sudden motion of bolting upright had caused his stomach to roll in his chest, and before he could assert conscious control over his body, Marcus shook violently, spewing vomit over the side of his bed.
The Gods be damned,Marcus thought as he picked up and examined the bottle, for placing this - all of this, the lost battles, the drinking, the soul-crushing defeat that I've suffered - in my path. No…no, they cannot be blamed. Bacchus did not force this bile down my throat. I have done this to myself. Enough of this damnable self pity - no amount of alcohol will alleviate the weight of the sorrows I must bear, and I shall not die the death of a coward alone in my room with this bottle.
With an angry grunt, Marcus heaved the bottle across the room. He felt no small measure of satisfaction as it burst into a thousand shards, splashing its numbing poison across the wall and floor.
Domitian survived, he pondered, and now seeks me out. He even used my old title to address me. And the Roman boy-messenger…that kind of effort is only expended on an issue whose importance requires the utmost discretion and expediency. It seems that the fates are beckoning me to Cologne. Very well. If that is the will of the gods, then that is what I shall do. An
y action is better than the dog’s life that I have been subjecting myself to here.
Chapter III
A small wagon rumbled down the poorly maintained road to Cologne, bouncing from one rut to another with enough force to knock the unfortunate passengers inside into one another every few minutes. Picking himself up after a particularly violent jostle, Marcus dusted himself off and cursed the fates which had drawn him to seek this particular conveyance. The only other passenger, a cantankerous old drunk who was in severe need of a bath, cursed loudly at the driver.
“Hades take you, boy, if you don’t watch where you direct those damned horses!”
Marcus rolled his eyes. The driver and passenger were grandson and grandfather respectively, and had been exchanging affable insults for most of the nearly two week journey. Sure enough, the young man’s mid-pubescent breaking voice shot right back at his grandfather.
“Unless you plan on laying off of the whiskey long enough to patch this road yourself, you’d best be shutting your mouth and minding your own business!”
The grandfather laughed, a deep throated cackling which carried the stench of whiskey and years of neglected oral hygiene to Marcus.
“Children these days,” the old man remarked in what would have been a sagely manner, save for his near inability to keep himself seated upright, “have no respect for their elders. In my day we would have been stoned to death in a public square if we dared talk back like that to our betters. Why, look even at yourself, good sir. I can see that you’re a man of good breeding. I’ll lay wager that before you could even speak you were taught proper respect for those who came before you…not like that young bastard up there!” The old man shouted that last part loudly enough to ensure that his grandson heard him clearly. A muttered reply involving the old man’s questionable lineage was all that could be heard coming from the driver’s seat. The irony of the fact that the insult questioned his own bloodline seemed to be lost on the young driver of the wagon.
The last two weeks had been kind to Marcus, or rather he had been kind to himself. Despite the oft-repeated urgings of his fellow passenger, Marcus had not drank a drop of alcohol since that last night in Xanten. He had purchased a set of new (though equally drab) clothes, began bathing on as regular a basis as the road allowed, and had allowed his rough stubble to form a full, close-trimmed beard. He could scarcely be recognized as the same bitter drunk who had polluted the streets of Xanten earlier that month. The change was only skin-deep, however. His dreams were still plagued by horrific nightmares, and in his waking hours grief for his lost Lucia washed over him like waves upon a beach.
In fact, it could be argued that this was the first time he had allowed himself to truly grieve. After his defeat at Agrippinensis, the Roman-led Sicambrii horde had swept onward to Cologne. In the days of looting and pillaging that followed before the Roman traitors could reign in the unruly barbarians, Lucia, Marcus’ wife, had been killed. Her head had been placed on a pike outside the city gates along with the heads of hundreds of other innocent Roman citizens. The rumours which had been carried to Marcus included insinuations that the invaders had beaten, raped, and tortured the citizens, but he could not allow himself to even consider the possibility that one of their victims had been Lucia. It was this inner turmoil which had driven Marcus to dive headfirst into the bottle. The rest, as the say, had been history.
Marcus was jolted from his reverie as the wagon once more struck a deep rut, knocking his head against the side of the vehicle. The old man beside him didn’t even notice this jolt, instead continuing to babble out a long string of complaints that Marcus had successfully managed to drown out for several minutes.
“…and so,” the old man continued, “that is why I believe that Emperor Trajan erred in giving these blasted tribals clemency for their crimes. Not that I would dain to tell the Emperor himself what to do, of course, but these filthy savages are unfit to live amongst us! Look at them…they can’t even manage something so simple as sentry duty. A sure sign that they are not the favoured sons of Jupiter as we are, yet still they subjugate us…” The old man gestured out one of the wagon’s tiny windows. Sure enough, as they approached Cologne’s main gates, roughly a half dozen Sicambrii sentries could be seen completely ignoring their duties, instead tossing a small white object back and forth with some considerable amount of glee. A closer glance revealed that the item they were throwing around was a sun-bleached skull torn from atop the pikes outside the gates.
Marcus’ blood boiled in his veins. Those godless sons of whores,he thought, are making a game out of the remains of Roman citizens! That skull could belong to my beloved Lucia…
The undisguised hated and fury on his face obviously caught the old man’s attention, but it was only when Marcus began to growl slightly while clenching and unclenching his fists that the old man put his hand on Marcus’ shoulder.
“Be careful, my boy. You need to pick and choose your battles. Discretion is, after all, the better part of valour…General Ulpius.” A gentle smile played across the suddenly sober old man’s face.
Marcus could only stammer his reply. “But…what…how…you never let on that you knew who I really am.”
It was true, too. When Marcus had purchased his transport on this wagon, he had given the name Julius Serratus, and both the old man and his grandson had merely nodded acceptingly. Now, though, the old man only laughed agreeably at Marcus’ bewilderment.
“It is difficult,” the old man said, “to mistake you for any other man than Marcus Eranthan Ulpius, my boy. The fates have dealt you a cruel hand, but make no mistake…you are still beloved by those who truly matter.”
“Like whom?” Marcus scoffed. “The Emperor? He turned his back on me when he pardoned that traitorous bastard whore-monger Vestatian. The gods? They’ve shown nothing less than abject cruelty and dispassion; if not for the steadfast knowledge that I was - and still am - one of their most devout and observant followers, I would be tempted to believe that they were forcing this entire situation on me as a form of penance for some sort of misdeed on my part. Instead, I can only believe that they've chosen to ignore me. Who else does that leave that could love a fallen hero such as myself? The citizens of Rome? They’ve forgotten that I even exist.”
“You give the gods and your fellow men too little credit, my friend. The world has not forgotten you. It just doesn’t see you as you once were. The proud, mighty warrior that you used to be is still within you. You just need to loose him upon the world.”
“I am afraid that is much easier said than done,” Marcus said with his eyes downcast. “The warrior you spoke of died at Agrippinensis. This flesh, this shell…it is all that remains.”
The old man’s playful smile expanded until Marcus was sure that it would split his face in two. “No,” he said, “He isn't dead. Merely lost...and perhaps I can help you find him again. I have a gift for you.” He turned around, rummaging through a trunk beside him. After a moment, he turned back to face Marcus, holding out a package wrapped in layers of delicate red silk. “Take it,” he urged, “at my insistence. I will accept no refusal.”
Slightly puzzled, Marcus reached out and cautiously took the package in both hands. Balancing the small bundle of silk on his lap, he glanced up at the old man, who was watching Marcus intently and with some small degree of glee. Looking back down at the gift, he slowly peeled the layers of silk back to reveal a dagger of unsurpassed beauty before him. A ruby encrusted pommel rose upward into a golden hilt. Swirls of gold ran up and down the hilt and sheath, simulating rivulets of molten lava.
“Forgive me if I seem rude,” Marcus said, “but I cannot accept this. I do not know you well enough to accept something so fine from you. Even if I did - and I hope that you take no offense at this - I could not accept the weapon. After Agrippinensis, I swore that I would never use a weapon again, even to defend myself."
“Nonsense,” the old man replied, “as I said, I will accept no refusal. It is yours. Even if you
never reverse this decision to never use weapons, it will make a beautiful decoration for a dwelling. Take it, General Ulpius.”
“But I have done nothing to make myself worthy of a gift of this quality, good sir. It is simply too much. This is a gift worthy of an Emperor, not a dishonoured warrior.”
“That is the beauty of a gift, my boy. You don’t need to have done anything to deserve it. Just make an old man happy and accept it gratefully. You just might need it someday. Ah,” he continued with a wink before Marcus had a chance to reply, “I believe this is where you wanted to go. It has been a pleasure travelling with you.”
Marcus scarcely had time to tuck the dagger into his belt before the old man virtually shoved him out of the wagon and onto the streets of Cologne.
***
It took Marcus only an hour to find his destination within the city. The Countryside Innwas, ironically enough, a squat, unassuming building sandwiched between a pair of run-down homes in the middle of a heavily developed area of the city. From the outside, it appeared that the building’s only saving grace was a humorous mural above the door depicting a cartoonish farmhand depicted in a sexually compromising position with a wide-eyed sheep. The inn’s interior was a different matter entirely, however. Well decorated, tasteful, and quiet, the inn’s main floor seemed to be little more than a sitting room, a well-stocked bar, and a staircase leading to the upper floor. A short, wiry, greasy-haired man stood behind the bar. Marcus approached the bar, glanced around furtively, and spoke to the bartender under his breath.
“I am looking for Vito. Where might I find him?”
The bartender didn’t even look up at Marcus’ face. “Nobody by that name here.”
Fallen Legion Page 2
