by James Mace
“Sir, may I ask what the shrine is at the end of the hall?” he asked.
Halmar sighed. “That is a memorial, erected in honor of my brother, Chariovalda, the late Chief of the Batavi. He was killed during the wars against Arminius.”
“We know,” Macro nodded. “We are very much aware of his bravery and his sacrifice. His actions allowed our legions to cross the Weser River and smash Arminius into dust.”
Unable to control his curiosity, Artorius stood from the table and knelt down in front of the monument, his eyes fixed on the plaque.
“What does it say?” Praxus asked.
“It says, ‘In honored memory of Chariovalda, Chief of the Batavi. Never was an ally nobler or more valiant. Erected by order of the Emperor Tiberius, by Germanicus Caesar, Commanding General and grieving friend.’”
“What of my brother’s old friend, the great Germanicus?” Halmar asked eagerly.
It was Macro’s turn to sigh. The mention of their former commander stung his heart.
“He is with your brother,” Statorius answered for his centurion. “They live forever in Elysium, where all heroes spend eternity; their deeds and their valor echoing throughout all time.”
Halmar’s lips pinched together, and he smiled sadly.
Darkness was approaching by the time the century’s leadership left the great hall. Outside there were many torches lit, and it looked as if a massive celebration was being held around a large bonfire. The entire century was gathered there, mixed with a host of Batavi natives. Upon seeing their centurion and section leaders return, all immediately fell in, awaiting orders.
“Sir, we’ve abstained from any drink until we know your orders,” Magnus stated with a crisp salute.
Macro looked around at the darkening sky. He knew it would be pointless, not to mention dangerous, for them to leave that night.
“Please, my friends, allow us to act as your hosts this evening,” Halmar said earnestly. “You are most welcome here, and I wish for you to make the most of your stay.”
Macro’s brow furrowed in thought for a moment, and then he nodded his consent. “Alright, but hangovers or no, be ready to march at dawn!” “Um, our celebrations often last until dawn,” Halmar replied with a grin. “Surely a meeting like this between allies deserves as much.”
Macro lowered his head in resignation then chuckled at the anticipation on his men’s faces.
“Very well, we will remain your guests through the morrow.”
A series of loud cheers erupted from the men. Valens, in particular, was pleased. He already caught the eye of a rather statuesque Batavi maiden and soon disappeared from the celebration.
Artorius walked over to where a large boar was being slowly rotated on a spit. A gruff, shirtless Batavi was cutting off strips of cooked meat. Artorius found that he was hungry and so decided to sample some of the local cuisine. The meat was hot and juicy, and nearly burned his hand. Still, once he was able to take a bite he was quite impressed with the flavor; so much so that he found himself going back for more. He found Magnus ravenously tearing into a large hunk of roast boar.
Artorius laughed and sat down beside him. “Hungry, old friend?” Magnus took a minute to chew the huge mouthful he had taken, and then washed it down with some warm ale.
“Are you kidding? I love this stuff! I grew up on it,” he replied.
Artorius raised an eyebrow at him.
Magnus rolled his eyes and ran his hand through his blonde hair. “Come on, Artorius,” he remarked, “you know my roots are not Latin. My family came from a place even further north than here. It was my grandfather who won us the franchise of Roman citizenship. If you think about it, I’m closer related to these people than I am my own countrymen. I thought you knew.” “I knew you had less than Latin roots, but then again who doesn’t, anymore?” Artorius replied. He then thought for a few seconds. “No, in the five years we’ve been friends, I don’t think you have ever told me about your lineage. Though Decimus did mention your grandfather, Mad Olaf.”
“He is quite mad,” Magnus replied matter-of-factly. “You see, Olaf came south from the northlands, seeking a better life for his family. Though the way he tells it he wanted to fight while getting paid for it! My father had not been born yet. He enlisted as a Roman auxiliary, served out his twenty-five years, and won us citizenship. Campaigned all over the place; this was unusual for an auxiliary. Oddly enough, once he became a Roman, he returned north with my grandmother and two of my uncles, who were still children. My dad was a man by this time, and he elected to remain within the Empire. He moved to Ostia, where my siblings and I were born. He gave us all Nordic names, keeping our link to the old country. Though, in my case, he spelled my name in the Roman fashion, rather than the Norseman version, Mahgnus. As for Olaf, he became a minor overlord of a sizeable chunk of land. Seems Roman coin is a valuable commodity even outside the Empire. Most people who meet him think he is completely insane; however, if one gets to know him they will find that his mind is sharper than a gladius.”
As Magnus rattled on his dissertation on his family history, Artorius felt a soft hand touching the back of his neck. “Uh, hello!” he blurted. The soft hand belonged to a tall, shapely Batavi woman bearing a large tankard of ale. “Would you like some ale, sir?” she asked huskily in a thickly accented voice.
“Sure,” Artorius replied. “And a few other things,” he said under his breath.
He did not mean for her to hear, but she winked at him as she handed him the tankard. She then ran her fingers up the back of his hair and walked away.
“She’s a foot taller than you,” Magnus leered at him. “Aren’t you afraid?”
“Maybe a little bit.” Artorius almost choked on his ale as his friend roared with laughter and pounded his back.
Valens then came running over to the group. He appeared disheveled and out of breath.
“Magnus, you were right!” he said as he kneeled down and placed a hand on his shoulder.
“Right about what?” Magnus asked.
Valens grinned from ear to ear. “These women aren’t hairy at all. In fact, that rather tall and curvaceous blonde doesn’t have hair anywhere except her head!” Artorius looked into the fire, vainly trying to suppress his laughter.
Magnus raised an eyebrow at his friend’s assessment. “So you left her all by herself just to come and tell us this?” Valens stared off into space for a second and then nodded enthusiastically. “Uh huh,” he replied. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen such physical beauty.” “Well, you’d better get back to it before someone else discovers it!” Artorius blurted out through his constant chuckling.
Valens’ eyes grew wide, he sprung to his feet and sprinted away, bumping into the Batavian goat cook. “Sorry,” Valens stammered as he held his hands up in resignation.
The Batavian just shook his head and went back to checking the boar spit.
On the outskirts of the celebration, Macro and Halmar walked slowly along the edge of the darkness. The centurion noted trepidation in the Batavi chief’s demeanor. Halmar was pacing, his hands clasped behind his back.
“I am, indeed, glad for the presence of Roman soldiers in our lands,” he said at last. “I have a message that I wish to send to the governor in Germania Inferior.”
“What message?” Macro asked.
“A warning,” Halmar said as he stopped and faced the centurion. “My people are very much attuned to events outside of our lands. Events are stirring south in Gaul.”
Macro waved his hand dismissively. “There always are. There are many who still pine for the days before Caesar’s conquests. Such minor subversions are nothing new.” “That may be,” Halmar persisted, “however, this is something different. Two of my agents have already been killed trying to glean information from certain dark corners of the province, and a third barely escaped with his life. He couldn’t locate the leaders of this new threat, but he suspects they are within the Gallic hierarchy. A rebellion in Gaul would
greatly hamper my people’s trade, so any potential insurrections must be put down.”
“If there is dangerous subversion in Gaul, we will find and crush it,” Macro asserted.
Halmar gave a half smile and nodded. “Of that I have no doubt, but be careful with who you ally yourself. My instincts tell me Rome is about to be betrayed.”
Chapter VI: Traitors and Thieves
***
Heracles quickly proved his worth. He had made it a lifelong study learning how the Roman Army operated and acted tactically. He knew their formations and how they would employ their troops against the rebels. With this knowledge he started to train a cadre of the more intelligent gladiators in how to combat the Roman war machine. They would fight well, though most of the scum of Sacrovir’s army would be little more than sheep to be led to the slaughter. That was fine with Heracles. He used his powers of persuasion and motivation to tell them stories of Sparta, and how they would follow in their glorious footsteps. Inside, he knew these men were anything but Spartans. They were cowards, mostly. Yet they were also desperate, which made them useful. They would fight the Romans, if only so they did not have to run in fear anymore.
Sacrovir was equally pleased with the results from his arms makers. Knowledge of Roman tactics would not be enough. He had quite an unorthodox plan to deal with them, a plan that Heracles had helped him devise. His smiths were turning out breastplates and helmets, greaves, arm guards, and gauntlets. He intended to encase his strongest fighters in hardened metal armor; armor that would withstand a Roman javelin storm and render their short stabbing swords useless. Such troops would scatter the massed legionary formations. As he sat contemplating, a lookout called out from the gate.
“Rider approaching; it’s General Florus, sir!” Sacrovir snorted at how Florus had taken to calling himself ‘General.’ He shrugged it off.
Florus was becoming a pompous ass. However, he was one of the keys to the rebellion’s potential success. He had money, lots of money, and a profound influence over numerous tribal chiefs and elders within the province. He was of the Treveri, which supplied the Romans with a large number of their cavalry. Apparently, he got a hold of the ear of Julius Indus, the regimental commander. An entire regiment of cavalry would complement his forces nicely.
Sacrovir strode over to where Florus was dismounting his horse near the main gate. He shook his head as he looked at his fellow conspirator. Florus was dressed in Greek military garb from head to foot, complete with a massive plume on his helm and a breastplate that gleamed in the sun.
“Sacrovir, it is good to see you!” Florus spouted, extending his hand with exaggerated enthusiasm.
Sacrovir took it and nodded. “What news?” he asked suppressing a sigh at his friend’s sudden ostentatious behavior. Instead of answering, Florus gazed over at Heracles who was standing behind Sacrovir with his arms folded behind his back.
“Who’s the Greek?” Florus asked, pointing.
“This is Heracles,” Sacrovir answered. “He has been instrumental in training our cadre of gladiators.”
“Ah,” Florus responded. “Well, let’s go inside, shall we? My mouth is quite parched from that ride!”
Sacrovir sighed, and the three men went inside. The house was rather ornate, decorated in Etruscan fashion. They went into a parlor, where Florus immediately grabbed a goblet of wine from a waiting servant. Once he had downed it completely, he spoke again.
“I have good news. Several dozen tribal chiefs have committed themselves to our cause. I looked for those with the most to gain and the least to lose. All are indebted up to their asses to Rome. Independence means financial freedom. There is a delegation on the way that should be arriving in a few days. In the meantime, I have another little surprise for you.” With that he went outside.
Sacrovir and Heracles were befuddled by Florus’ enthusiasm and boundless energy. Once outside they saw a long line of chained men being escorted in. All one hundred looked bedraggled and haggard, yet with eyes full of hope.
“What in Hades are these?” Sacrovir asked, not bothering to disguise his disgust.
“These,” Florus began, “are mostly thieves and petty criminals bound for the slave galley when I bought them. I offered them a chance at freedom, and in exchange they take up arms in our cause.”
Heracles smiled. “So we are building an army of thieves, led by debtors.”
“How do we know they will not desert or, worse, tip off the Roman authorities?” Sacrovir asked.
Florus shrugged, unconcerned.
“All have everything to gain and little left to lose; desperate men.”
“Give me time with them, and their loyalty will be without question,” Heracles offered. “I have been working with a number of our men already, and I assure you these will fight.”
“I have several more of these coming as well,” Florus remarked. “Combine that with whatever the Gallic chiefs bring us, and we should have quite the army.”
Sacrovir patted his friend on the shoulder.
“You have done well,” he conceded. “Heracles, release their bonds and see to it they are properly fed and housed in the barracks. Work with them for a few days. Gain their trust and their loyalty. There is strength in numbers. Enough debtors and thieves can defeat the finest legions of Rome!”
“Would you look at that?” Ellard laughed, pointing towards the slaves that were being set free.
Radek set down his spear and shield and walked over to see what his companion found so amusing. A smirk crossed his face. Many of the men that Florus purchased were the same men that Radek and Ellard had been imprisoned with.
“I’ll be buggered,” Radek replied. “Let’s go say hello.”
Both men were full of laughter as they walked down the short slope to where the slaves were gathered. An attendant was walking down the line, unlocking their manacles.
“About time you sorry cocks caught up to us!” Ellard mused.
A couple of men looked at them aghast.
“What sight is this,” a man named Torin replied as he rubbed his sore wrists. “Sacrovir offered you your freedom as well?”
“He doesn’t know we’re runaways,” Ellard replied proudly. “A hot meal and silver coinage were our compensation.”
Torin stared at him coldly.
“It is a just compensation for the trials we have been through over the past week,” Radek added, his arms folded across his chest.
Torin spat at him. “Fuck your compensation,” he growled. “You left the rest of us to rot in those accursed mines!” “You had ample opportunity to join us,” Radek said coolly. He glanced at the rest of the men who were now glaring at him. “All of you had the chance to run. Ellard was the only one man enough to take a chance.”
“Three others tried to escape just after you did. Their crucified corpses were left alongside the road,” Torin replied bitterly.
“A better fate than the mines,” Ellard sneered.
“Quite,” Radek continued. “And now you will have a chance to earn your freedom, not to mention plunder to be had for those who survive this venture.”
“Ha!” a man snorted. “You make it sound so bloody easy, Radek. You forget that we were bought to fight the Romans! What chance will we have?”
“None,” Radek replied quickly. “Most of you sorry bastards will piss yourselves or faint like women at the first sign of trouble. I, on the other hand, have a plan.” He then turned and walked back up the slope to where his newly furnished weapons lay.
“What is he talking about?” Torin asked.
“We were once slaves,” Ellard clarified. “Now, we are mercenaries. But Sacrovir’s coin and freedom does no good if we are dead men. We will do whatever treachery is necessary to survive this campaign.”
Tiberius paced in the atrium as he tried to find the right words to say. Even in death it was hard for him to speak with his predecessor. Finally, he entered the small shrine. It was more of an oversized booth than anything. Ins
ide was a raised altar bearing a bust of the late Emperor Augustus. Tiberius had had the monument made specifically for his own use. Though he’d never had much use for praying to the Roman gods, he did see something tangible in trying to reach out to the deity that was his step-father. If there was any real divinity to Augustus, then perhaps he could reach out from beyond Elysium and bring guidance and inspiration to the troubled Emperor. Tiberius raised the hood of his cloak over his head and knelt before the stone image. Candles on either side cast a soft glow on the bust, creating an almost lifelike appearance.
“Oh, Divine Augustus,” he began, his head bowed, “I, your unworthy successor, do ask for your guidance and strength in this hour of my need. I seek justice for my lost son, while his widow seeks petty vengeance. Many within my own family blame me for Germanicus’ death. I swear, on all that I honor, I did not wish that. I ask that you grant me the means to bring justice to the guilty; even if that justice comes at a heavy personal price.
“Have mercy on my soul, to help me to quell the fire of rage that burns within me. Give me peace that I may continue to serve in the capacity you saw fit to leave me.”
As the Emperor left the shrine, he was greeted with a sight he did not wish to see. Agrippina stood sullen and petulant, still in mourning dress.
“Does my step-father continue to spout off hypocrisies to the dead to cover for his guilty conscience?” There was spite and venom in her voice. Agrippina was chief in implicating Tiberius’ guilt in the death of her husband.
The Emperor’s face grew hard. Unleashing on her would be considered a sign of his guilt. Not to mention it would only temporarily satisfy him. He had no intention of allowing himself to be a woman’s whipping boy.
“Take heed in your tone,” Tiberius warned. “You give yourself airs that are not yours, only because you are the daughter of Agrippa and the granddaughter of Augustus.”
