The Last Roman: Book One: Exile

by B. K. Greenwood

  Copyright

  The Last Roman - Book One: Exile

  Copyright © 2021 B.K. Greenwood

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Any similarity between the characters and situations within its pages and places or persons, living or dead, is unintentional and coincidental.

  ISBN: 978-1-7367949-0-6

  Published by:

  Bat City Press 2021 Austin, Texas, USA

  www.batcitypress.com

  Cover Design by Dusan Arsenic

  Edited by Dan Szczesny, Gareth Clegg

  This book would not be possible without the incredible support and encouragement from my wife, Sonya, and children, Chris and McKenna.

  And a special thanks to those that helped me cross the finish line with this completed novel; Joe, Keri, and Jessica. Also, a heartfelt thank you to all the beta readers throughout the years. Your inputs and constructive feedback have been essential to my journey.

  Dedicated to:

  My grandfather, Roy "Bud" Hutchins.

  You taught me to never stop learning

  and always to reach for the stars.

  Contents

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  EPILOGUE

  Dear Readers

  How to Leave a Review

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Let’s Stay in Touch!

  BOOK TWO: ABYSS - PREVIEW

  PROLOGUE

  For if the trumpet give an uncertain sound,

  who shall prepare himself to the battle?

  —1 Corinthians 14:8

  Thump. Thump.

  Each strike of the mallet further aggravated the hangover that had plagued Marcus all morning. Worse than the sound of the mallet were the cries of anguish, but he knew from experience that those cries would become whimpers. The sooner that happened, the better, Marcus thought. Honestly, the sooner he finished this assignment and left this godforsaken city, the better.

  By his count, this was the ninth crucifixion Marcus had administered since arriving in Jerusalem. He was a combat veteran and had witnessed firsthand the unadulterated violence of war. But he had never understood the brutality of the crucifixion. To kill a man in battle was one thing but nailing him to a cross was cruel by any measure. Several days of suffocating punishment before dying of exposure might be appropriate for those guilty of the most heinous of crimes. But, when applied to thieves and would-be kings, the practice seemed gratuitous—even for Romans. Marcus pushed the thought from his mind and watched as they lifted the prisoner and attached the crossbeam to the post.

  Thump. Thump.

  Marcus winced, closing his eyes and rubbing his temples. When the soldier finished hammering, he opened them and looked up at the figure nailed to the cross. He was naked, except for a cloth wrapped around his legs and waist. His head, ordained with a crown of thorns, slumped forward, blood dripping from his hair and down his shoulders and chest. The prisoner lifted his head and looked at Marcus. He would never forget those eyes. Where was the pain or hatred? Why were they perfect displays of compassion and pity? Those eyes burned directly into Marcus's soul.

  Fall 37 A.D.

  Gaul

  Eyes fluttering open, Marcus stared at the canvas ceiling. He closed them again, but all he could see was the image of the Galilean. After a few minutes, Marcus decided his restless night of sleep was over. It had been four years, yet he was still having the dreams. He wondered if they would ever stop. He sat up and stretched his arms, his aching joints reminding him it was time to give up this army life. The blanket fell away as his feet swung to the dirt floor.

  Marcus stood and groped for his nearby tunic, dressing in the darkness. He was tall for a Roman, with broad shoulders and a narrow waist, both of which he inherited from his father. From his mother, he had received his aquiline nose, a set of piercing, dark-brown eyes, and a sturdy, sharp jawline. From the pair, he had gained his fanatical sense of determination. Perhaps that was why he still campaigned. He sat on the cot to put on his sandals, then stood and stepped into the next room. A candle was burning next to a platter of fruits, cheese, and dried meats on a small wooden table.

  "Good morning, sir."

  Marcus had not seen Nicodemus sitting on a stool in the darkened corner of the room. The older man stood as Marcus moved to the table.

  "Good morning," Marcus replied.

  "Did you sleep well?"

  "Not really." He pulled out the chair and sat down. "But that's not unusual."

  "You didn't eat at all last night—" Nicodemus pushed the platter toward Marcus. "You'll need your strength. It sounds like there will be a fight today."

  "Most likely." Marcus picked a dried date from the platter and popped it into his mouth.

  "We're not waiting for Caligula?" Nicodemus poured Marcus a cup of spiced wine.

  "No. Quintus thinks this is our best chance to 'fix' the barbarian problem." He took a long swig from the cup. "I'm not sure he shares my sense of caution when dealing with the emperor. But then again, it's been several years since Quintus was in Rome."

  "Ignoring the emperor…" Nicodemus frowned. "That hasn't worked out so well for others."

  "No, it hasn't." Marcus grabbed a piece of cheese and changed the subject. "I need to write a letter."

  "Of course." Nicodemus moved to a nearby trunk and pulled out parchment, reed, and vial. He placed them next to Marcus. "Let me know if you need anything else, sir."

  Nodding, Marcus unrolled a piece of parchment and, pulling the cork from the vial, dipped the reed into the ink. He paused, his mind drifting for a while. After a few moments, he wrote.

  To my wife and love Natalia,

  I hope you are in good health! And things are well for the children. Has Cato returned from the academy? Be sure he stays on top of his studies while away from school. And Julia? Tell her I still have the drawing she made for me and carry it at all times.

  I'm so happy you joined me here in Gaul. I know it was an arduous journey for you and the children but having you here will negate this land's dreariness.

  We have been chasing this raiding party for a month now. Our scouts say they have stopped running, and hopefully, this will mark the end of the campaign. If so, I will meet you in Lutetia, two weeks from now. Do not worry; Quintus is an excellent general, and the men are well-trained and ready for a fight.

  My love, I miss the comfort of your company and the tenderness of your touch. The longer we are apart, the more I realize how much I need you by my side. Though the words I am now writing will be cold by the time they reach you, please remember that they once burned with the passion of my heart.

  I have thought long and hard about my station in the army. Although I wish to serve my empire, each assignment I accept carries me farther from you. With this in mind, I have decided that this will be my last appointment. My father has confirmed that he can find me a position in the Senate. Once secured, I shal
l never again leave your side, for the thought of a life without you is unbearable and represents a future that I have no desire to face.

  All my love,

  Marcus

  Marcus set down the reed and took another sip from his cup as he waited for the ink to dry. He looked to the tent's entrance and the faint sunlight seeping in from beyond. He rolled up the parchment, tied it with a rawhide strip, then took the candle and poured hot liquid wax onto the knot.

  "Nicodemus?"

  The servant reentered the room as Marcus stood up from the table.

  "Sir?"

  "Make sure this letter goes out this morning."

  "Of course, sir."

  Marcus lifted his cup, and before taking a swig, looked down into its dark contents. His mind drifted back to his dream and the prisoner with the crown of thorns.

  "Is there something…wrong, sir?"

  Marcus looked up. "No. My wife and children are in Letetia."

  "That's outstanding, sir. I'm sure you're excited to see them."

  "Yes, I am." Marcus set down his cup and looked back at Nicodemus. "Do you believe in the gods?"

  "No, I'm Jewish. I believe in the one true God."

  "One god?" Marcus grinned. "He must be busy."

  "I believe he manages." Nicodemus smiled, but it faded. "Why do you ask?"

  "I sometimes wonder what they have in store for me." He shrugged. "My family has never been so close when I've gone into battle. I guess it puts things into perspective."

  "Hmmm." Nicodemus looked down at the table.

  "What?" Marcus studied the older man. "We've been together long enough. You can speak your mind with me."

  "Sir, it's a natural feeling. We all struggle with our mortality and what might happen when we die." His expression hardened. "But you need to forget about all of that. Those thoughts are dangerous. That's how men lose battles, and that's how men die. You need to be the soldier that has stayed alive all these years."

  "You're right." Marcus met his gaze. "I think it's time for my armor."

  The trumpet blast shattered the peaceful dawn and had the men scrambling from their tents. Marcus stood at his tent's opening and watched as the centurions assembled the men. Satisfied, he turned to a nearby horse, which anxiously sniffed at the gentle breeze. The mount's ears twitched, a natural reaction to the tension that had settled upon the army like the heavy morning fog.

  Marcus ran one hand down the horse's chin, then took the reins from a grubby-faced stable boy. He swung into the saddle and glanced down at the child, who smiled back at him with a toothy grin. The youngster was the product of the legion's brothel, a permanent reminder of a fleeting relationship. None of the legionnaires could claim him as their own, yet they would collectively see to his upbringing. Someday he would gain his citizenship by serving in this very legion, but for now, he performed whatever tasks were required.

  Another short blast from the trumpet sent the boy scurrying away. Silence settled upon the men—then a familiar voice echoed across the camp.

  "Legionnaires, are you ready for war?"

  A loud cheer erupted from the ranks as the soldiers thrust their swords high into the air. Marcus scanned the crowd, finding the man responsible for this question. It was General Quintus Ligarius Melus, mounted on a giant white stallion.

  Twice more, Quintus bellowed, "Legionnaires, are you ready for war?"

  The cheer grew louder each time the men responded.

  Quintus nudged his horse through the frenzied troops, stopping next to Marcus.

  The general was a close friend of Marcus's father, despite their differences in temperament. Quintus had lived in the shadow of the Imperial banner, meeting his enemies with the blunt force of a Roman legion. Marcus's father roamed the equally dangerous Senate floor and met his enemies with cunning and intuition. Marcus detested the latter's politics, so here he was in the middle of Gaul.

  "Impressive speech," Marcus said.

  "I thought so." Quintus crossed his hands over the horse's neck.

  "Up all night writing it?"

  Quintus chuckled.

  "How are you feeling?" Marcus asked.

  "I've been better." A troubled expression gripped the general's rugged features. "I just spoke with our scouts; this is not the raiding party we've been chasing. It's now an army."

  Marcus nodded. It looked like these barbarians wanted to be chased. "How many?"

  "Good question." Quintus turned his head toward the forest beyond the camp walls. "Forty, maybe fifty thousand."

  Marcus frowned and did a quick calculation; they were outnumbered three to one.

  "That's a lot of fucking barbarians."

  "Yeah, it is." Quintus shrugged. "But what else can we do? The nearest legion is ten days march."

  "Desperate soldiers are dangerous soldiers."

  "Yes, they are." Quintus agreed. "I'm glad they stopped running. I'm sick of these fucking woods. Too many trees."

  "And I miss the sun." Marcus looked up at the dull gray sky. "Even when it shines, it's still cold."

  "Then let's get it over with. Marcus, keep in close contact with the Fifteenth. The boys will be eager—too eager. Discipline is the only advantage we have."

  "I know."

  "I'm sure you do. But it may not matter; these barbarians may kill us all." Quintus smiled and guided his mount away, calling back over his shoulder. "Then again, who wants to live forever?"

  Marcus nodded to his lead centurion, Gaius, who motioned to the other centurions. The order swept down the line, and the column lumbered forward, the squeak of leather and the clang of iron filling the morning air. Marcus spurred his horse forward and overtook the soldier that bore the legion's eagle, then galloped past their sister legion, which had assembled on the far side of the palisade opening. Quintus watched the procession from a slight rise, surrounded by his advisors. Marcus passed through the wooden gate and onto the open field beyond. Turning to his left, he galloped along the freshly cut logs that served as their hasty battlements. Catapults loomed above the barricade, poised to wreak havoc on the enemy.

  Marcus halted his horse about a hundred yards short of a narrow stream, twisting back to watch the progress of his legion. The men were quiet as they plodded along the broken field. Many of them would not see nightfall; still, they marched on. Marcus had a deep respect for the common legionnaire. They would spend twenty-five years of their life fighting, bleeding, and dying for the empire. They built roads, walls, and bridges, endured extreme weather, long marches, and isolated assignments. The discipline was harsh but fair. If they survived their enlistment, they would receive a small parcel of land or its equivalent in gold. That reward would prove elusive for many of these men. As he watched the familiar faces pass by, he felt more than a little guilty with his decision to leave the army.

  He pushed the feeling aside and directed his horse to a nearby cluster of officers. One man, Lucius Sentius Tantalus, the eldest son of a powerful senator, stepped forward as Marcus dismounted. Appointed by the emperor, the tribunus laticlavius was technically the senior tribune. A new arrival to the legion, he was wise enough to yield to the veteran officers. Based on his plump, childish face, Marcus judged him to be in his early twenties. The other officers, tribunus angusticlavius, were veterans, having risen through the ranks over several years.

  "Good morning, gentlemen. Sleep well?"

  "Sir, how could we?" Lucius pointed toward the barbarian camp. "Those bastards were up all-night yelling and screaming. When do they sleep?"

  "They don't," Faustus, the older tribunes, replied. "They're like wolves, always on the hunt…craving human flesh."

  The color drained from Lucius' face as the others nodded in agreement.

  "Well," Marcus interjected, knowing the veterans would have the young man pissing in his sandals. "There'll be no human flesh consumed today."

  If they were disappointed that Marcus had interrupted their fun, they hid it well.

  "Have you walked the f
ield?" Marcus looked around the circle.

  They all nodded in unison.

  "Questions?"

  "No sir," Faustus spoke for them all.

  "Good. Lucius, you'll be part of the reserves. Take your cohort to the staging area near the general."

  "Yes, sir." He started to walk away but stopped. "I've heard there are a hundred thousand barbarians—"

  "Probably, but don't worry…they rarely cook the officers," Marcus said.

  "You're right," Septimus agreed. "They eat them raw!"

  The officers chuckled. The mouth of the young tribune moved, but no words came.

  "Get going." Marcus patted him on the shoulder. "Find Titus—he'll issue the orders."

  The young man turned away but stopped to execute a hasty salute. Nodding in return, Marcus looked back to the others and shook his head.

  "Let's pray to the gods that we don't need our reserves."

  The men grinned, but the smiles faded as they looked at one another. It was clear they faced a much larger force.

  "You've done this a hundred times. Keep the formations tight. I want crisp execution. And most of all, discipline. Understood?"

  They nodded in unison.

  "Good." He looked around the small group. "I do not know why the emperor wants this godforsaken land, but we're going to get it for him."

  They all snickered, but the rumble of distant war drums recalled their somber mood.