Fallen Legion

by David Thompson

  With that, Marcus turned and left the meeting.

  ***

  After leaving Domitian’s meeting, Marcus found himself wandering the streets of Cologne for hours. Although he had once been intimately familiar with the twisting narrow streets of the city, his sense of direction had been marred by month after month of heavy drinking combined with the darkness of the night and the thoughts which were weighing so heavily on his mind. Before he realized what had happened, he was hopelessly lost in the poorly lit streets of the slum district. He had nearly lost hope of finding his way to a familiar location when he stumbled into a dead end street.

  A bonfire was burning in a cul-de-sac at the end of the street. The light from the flickering flames illuminated four figures facing the fire, their backs to Marcus. Even from nearly fifty feet away, Marcus could see well enough to recognize the unmistakeable uniforms that they wore. The side-to-side red plumes jutting from their helmets, the banded iron armour, and the engraved vinewood staves the men held were the insignia of Centurions - a relatively minor command position in the Roman Legions, but one definitely not found amongst the ill-trained Sicambrii hordes. By the Gods,Marcus thought, what are Centurions doing in Cologne? Surely they know that wearing the uniforms of the Roman legions is a virtual death sentence in this city. He ducked into the arched entrance of the nearest building, hoping that the night’s shadows would shield him from sight until he could discern exactly what was going on.

  “He thinks the darkness will hide him from our sight,” one of the Centurions said in a grinding, raspy voice. In the silence of the alley, the words echoed and carried themselves clearly to Marcus' ears.

  “Surely he does not believe us to be so ineffectual,” said the second Centurion almost before the first had even finished speaking. "We would never allow an enemy to escape our notice so easily."

  “His cowardice does not bode well for the future,” said the third, continuing the pauseless flow of conversation.

  “Perhaps,” said the first Centurion without missing a beat, “but it is less than I had hoped from such a noble one.”

  “Where is the mighty warrior who lead us to so many glorious victories?” asked the second.

  “Lost to the sands of time, and the depths of drink,” said the third.

  “It is as she foretold,” said the fourth.

  The Centurions all fell silent simultaneously, leaving Marcus more confused than ever before. Who are these men,he thought, that they speak of me so familiarly? I know the voices, but fear that I cannot place them with faces. Surely they have served with me, though none who have ever served under my command would dare to speak to a commanding officer in such a manner. Resolving that further hiding would be futile, Marcus stepped out of the doorway and back into the fire’s glow.

  “It does not behoove men - particularly military men - to speak of their superiors in such a manner,” Marcus said firmly. The Centurions did not reply. They did not even move. Stepping closer to the men, Marcus stopped only a few feet from them. The Centurions still did not move, but Marcus recoiled from the stench which surrounded them. It was a smell he was all too familiar with, one he had encountered far too many times in his life, both on and off the battlefield - the stench of death. Choking back the bile rising in his throat, he addressed the group again. “I would know your names, and why it is that your discipline has broken to the point that you speak as you do. Turn and face me!”

  Silently, the Centurions did as Marcus ordered, turning to face him. Immediately, Marcus recoiled in horror, wishing that he had never approached them. Although their armour and clothing were largely intact, the men were not. Their pallid faces were torn and rotting; chunks of flesh hung where their jowls should have been, and maggots tumbled out of gaping wounds in their necks. Instead of eyeballs, the Centurions’ sunken eye sockets burned with dull red embers.

  “He is demanding,” the first Centurion said with a horrifyingly twisted grin.

  “He has earned that right,” said the second, the motion of his lips and teeth sending maggots and small worms spilling out of his mouth and a gaping wound on his neck. “Though you should know us well, Marcus Eranthan Ulpius, we shall introduce ourselves formally. We are those who you left behind. We are the True Ones, sworn loyal to the Empire…and to you. I am Mandrictrios, fallen Centurion of the Legion I Minervia. I fell under your command at the battle of Agrippinensis.”

  “And I,” said the first with a bow and flourish, “am Ernatrus, who fell side by side with Mandrictrios, fighting the heathen hordes which now ravage this land.”

  “I am Omnar,” said the third, “whose archers rained down death upon the fields of Agrippinensis. I fell last, forced to watch my comrades in arms cut down.”

  “Our deaths were futile,” said the fourth. “My name is Petrix, and I fell in a charge against the numberless enemy. It was your order that sent me to my death.”

  “It was his orders,” Mantrictrios said, “which sent us all to our deaths.”

  “There is no blame which can be laid for that,” Omnar said. “We were and are soldiers. Death is our birthright.”

  “But what of him? He should not still draw breath. He is undeserving,” said Petrix.

  “Through no fault of his own does he still live. He fought side by side with us. His valour cannot be questioned. He is beyond reproach,” Ernatrus said.

  “Yet his valour today can be questioned. Gone is his strength, his resolution, and his honour. The world moves on while he stands still. He has forsaken the Empire. He has forsaken his duty. He has forsaken us,” Mandrictrios said.

  “I have forsaken nothing! Unhallowed beasts,” Marcus said, finally overcoming his shock enough to speak, “I am sorry if I have caused your souls unrest, but I fulfilled my role as best I could. Had Governor Ceresius not invoked his power of command, I would have lead us to victory!”

  “He apologizes with one breath,” Petrix said.

  “And absolves himself of blame with the next,” said Omnar.

  “Please,” Marcus said impatiently, “do not speak as if I am not right here in front of you! If you truly were soldiers under my command, you should have sufficient grasp of courtesy to do that!”

  “Begging does not become him,” Ernatrus observed.

  “And he speaks of courtesy in our manner of address as if he were a woman,” Mandrictrios said.

  “Perhaps we should oblige him,” said Omnar.

  “I do not agree,” said Petrix, “but shall comply.”

  The decomposing quartet all stared silently at Marcus, the embers in their eye sockets seeming to bore deep into his very soul. Slightly disconcerted by this latest turn in conversation, Marcus fidgeted nervously as he replied. “Thank you. Now…what is the meaning of all this?”

  Mandrictrios laughed, sending dozens of tiny maggots tumbling out of the wound in his neck. “Has your mind dulled so much, Dux Legatus Legionis Ulpius? You have abandoned your sacred duty. It is your responsibility to slaughter the godless barbarians who defile our province, and yet you do not. It is your duty to avenge the fallen soldiers who fought by your side, and yet you do not. It is your duty to avenge your slain wife, and yet you do not.”

  “Would you have me choose between two evils? I would happily lay waste to every damnable Sicambrii on the face of the world, but if doing so requires me to support Antonius Ceresius again then I cannot!”

  “You lie to us,” said Petrix, “and would not avenge us even if Governor Ceresius was not an issue.”

  “Yes,” Omnar said. “You have made a mockery of soldierhood by vowing to no longer use the weapons of war - you have made a mockery of all you once stood for.”

  “A thinly veiled excuse,” Mandrictrios said, “for cowardice. It serves no purpose but to prevent you from fulfilling your duty.”

  “It is a solemnly sworn vow,” Marcus hissed through his teeth, “made out of the pain of seeing the destruction that weaponry has brought down upon myself, my family, and my province.
It is not some device devised to provide shelter in cowardice!”

  “Say what you will,” said Ernatrus, “but you will not change the fact that this ‘vow’ is a sham. What of your vows to the Empire, the Legions, and the Governor? Do they count for nothing? How can you justify abandoning them, no matter what the moral issues at stake are?”

  “And what would you have me do?” Marcus demanded.

  The Centurions turned to face each other once again. Petrix remarked, “he asks our guidance.”

  “He demands it,” Mandrictrios said.

  “He needs it,” Omnar said.

  “Perhaps we have misjudged him. He is no longer mighty or brave,” Ernatrus said.

  “He is unworthy of the quest that most holy Mars has placed before him,” Petrix said.

  “Agreed,” the other three Centurions said simultaneously. Without a further word the quartet advanced menacingly on Marcus, fanning out to surround him. Marcus’ legs felt as if lead weights were attached to them, preventing him from either running or fighting. As the Centurions closed in around him, Petrix hoisted his staff above his head. With a lightning fast blow he brought the staff down on Marcus’ head, knocking him into the darkness of oblivion.

  Chapter IV

  A crackling roll of thunder roused Marcus from his sleep, the vision of four ghostly Centurions still burned firmly into his mind. Glancing around groggily, he heaved a sigh of relief. Rather than laying in some slum alley he was cosily ensconced in his room at The Countryside Inn. Lazily rolling into a sitting position, he inhaled and exhaled slowly, allowing the thumping of his heart to slow to a normal pace. Rain pattered softly on the roof above him, the rhythmic ambience further helping to calm his nerves.

  “Just a dream,” he muttered, “and nothing more. These dreams shall be the end of me, unless the fates conspire to be so first.”

  Any reassurance which Marcus may have felt at his seemingly logical conclusion vanished as he lifted his left hand to wipe the sweat from his brow. A throbbing purplish bruise lay across his forearm, and a faint impression of the letters “SPQR” could be seen in the center of the wound.

  “Hades take me,” his trembling voice whispered. “Senatus Populusque Romanus. The sign of the Legions. It cannot be! If this mark is from the vinewood staff of a Centurion, then they were not at all a vision but truly men torn from their graves by the power of the Gods to act as a conduit for their will…no, that cannot be. At most, this is the trick of some malign sorcerer seeking to rob me of my will by throwing me into mortal fear.”

  While Marcus mulled over possible explanations seeking to reassure himself that the whole situation was nothing more than a bad dream, a loud knock at his door startled him to his feet. He cautiously approached the door, opening it just wide enough to see who his visitor was. Marcus was entirely unsurprised to find Domitian standing at the threshold.

  “Domitian,” he said, opening his door fully. “Come in. I’m surprised you took this long to get here.”

  “Although you seem unaware of it,” Domitian said in a puzzled tone, “I have been here already this evening. After you left the meeting it did not take us long to conclude our remaining business. Shortly after that I came here looking for you, but you did not answer when I knocked.”

  Marcus nodded. “I was afraid you might say that. It seems I have had quite an adventure this evening.” Domitian gave Marcus a quizzical look, but Marcus simply shrugged and laughed weakly. “It doesn’t really matter, I suppose. You wouldn’t believe it anyway. On to business…I suppose that I should warn you your presence here is in vain. I will not aid any venture which seeks to save the life and restore to power Antonius Ceresius.”

  “And what of this vow of yours, the foolish one about weapons? Have you at least reconsidered that, or is there no ground for discussion here at all? Come, Marcus, surely you must realize how utterly ridiculous it is. If you had become a pacifist, at least I could understand that - by the Gods, we've both seen enough violence in our days for a hundred lifetimes. However, you obviously have not renounced the acts of violence, just the tools of violence. I cannot understand that, Marcus, no matter how hard I try.”

  “I have been reconsidering that vow," Marcus said, "and I think you are correct. It has come to my attention that it may have been made without giving due consideration to where my allegiances should properly lay...a fault made all the more severe by its sheer lack of consistency. Call it the byproduct of a shattered mind, if you will...I make no excuses for what I have said or dreamed up until recently. I was going through an odd period in my life..that period is over now.”

  “So what of the people of this province? If not for Ceresius, would you be willing to shed blood with a sword to aid them?”

  “I…I do not know. Perhaps.”

  Domitian nodded solemnly. “You know as well as I do that there is only one way to aid the citizens we both hold so dear. You may not like Ceresius -”

  “Not like him? Words cannot describe my contempt for the animal!”

  Sighing heavily, Domitian laid his hands on Marcus’ shoulders and looked him square in the eyes. “There was no choice in the matter, Marcus. As Governor, it was well within his rights to invoke the power of command over our legions. He thought us invincible and had supreme confidence in his own ability to command. He was wrong, but that was beyond our control. We did our duty to the best of our ability and we were defeated on the field of battle.”

  “We would not have suffered that defeat had he not assumed command. You know as well as I that our combined leadership would have led our men to crush the invading hordes.”

  “That is only idle speculation, Marcus. Neither of us can say with absolute certainty that Ceresius’ command is what turned the tide of the battle. Instead of speculation, we must deal with the hand fate has dealt us. Rest assured that Ceresius will be brought to justice once order has been restored to the province. I do not believe that anybody in the Emperor’s court would oppose any petition to have him removed from power, and I would certainly lend my support to it.”

  “I…I still don’t know, my friend. I am torn between my sense of duty and my sense of morality, and I do not know how the Gods would look upon me if I abandoned either.”

  “That,” Domitian said with a smile, “is a problem with an easy solution. Let us adjourn to the Temple of Mars - I am sure that Alexandra would be more than amenable to arranging a consultation with us, even at this time of the evening.”

  Marcus nodded thoughtfully. “I have no objection to that course of action. Perhaps the voice of one who acts as the messenger of Mars could aid me in resolving this moral quagmire.”

  “Excellent! Let us depart now, under cover of darkness. The less who observe us, the better. Why draw attention where it is unwanted?”

  Nodding his assent, Marcus slipped on his pair of boots and the two men departed.

  ***

  Even at night, the sight of Cologne’s Temple of Mars was impressive. Two large braziers flanked the staircase which led inside, illuminating gorgeous mosaics depicting the God of War himself. Trudging up the stairs, Marcus and Domitian were met in a small antechamber by a sombre young man dressed in acolyte’s robes. The acolyte stood motionlessly, blocking their entrance into the rest of the temple.

  “What business,” the young man asked, “brings you to the temple at this time of night? Our services are long over for the evening.”

  “We have come seeking the aid of the Oracle,” Domitian said. “You may inform her of our presence, and allow us entrance to her chamber.”

  “I am sorry, good sirs, but the Oracle is asleep. She will be available to see petitioners tomorrow morning. Please come back then, though I caution you that will should be prepared to wait. She is very busy these days.”

  “You don’t seem to understand,” Domitian said. “We are very close friends of hers, and she will be very pleased to see us. If you turn us away, you can rest assured that your service here will not continue muc
h longer.”

  The acolyte looked both Marcus and Domitian up and down, as if he thought the sight of their clothing could help verify the veracity of Domitian’s claims. Having apparently come to the most prudent decision possible, the acolyte gestured towards a small silver donation bowl sitting on a table beside the door. Domitian reached into his purse and dropped several coins into the bowl, then set a single gold piece upon the table.

  “For your discretion,” he said with a wink. The acolyte smiled and picked up the coin with a flamboyant bow.

  “Please follow me,” he said, opening the doors to the inside of the temple. He led them through the spacious ceremonial room and through a door on the far side of the room which lead them to the Oracle’s chamber. Her chamber seemed both small and spacious at the same time, a testament to the skill of the architect. Muralled walls rose up to a dome, and torches inlaid into the walls provided light. A pool of water sat in the center of the room, and several chairs were set up around it. The acolyte gestured for Marcus and Domitian to sit, then hurried out of the room.

  It took only a few minutes for him to return, escorting a very tired looking Alexandra. Her face immediately brightened upon seeing Marcus, and she waved the acolyte out of the room impatiently, closing the door behind him.

  “My heart is warmed to see you here, Marcus. After what happened at the meeting this evening, I was afraid you might flee the city, never to be seen again. I trust that Domitian has not hauled you here against your will?”

  “Not at all,” Marcus smiled. “Quite the opposite, in fact. We have come here to see if you can help me resolve an…ah, an ethical dilemma, I suppose.”

  Alexandra stared deeply into Marcus’ eyes as if she were trying to peer deep into his soul and judge his motivations. “You are facing inner turmoil,” she said, “and want to know where your loyalties lie.”

  “I suppose that much should be obvious,” Marcus said with a laugh.

  “The good news is that I believe I can help you,” she said. “The bad news, however, is that you might not like what I say. Divine guidance is rarely specific, and rarely heralds positive news. You came here seeking clarity, and you may very well receive it, but it is just as possible that you will leave this place feeling more confused than ever.”