by James Mace
“And in that you are correct,” Silius asserted. He then addressed the Gaul directly. “Play us for fools and you will be nailed to the walls of this very building.”
“I assure you, I know where to find Sacrovir,” the rebel replied through slurred speech, a line of slobber falling off his swollen lip.
“What is your name?” Silius asked.
“My name is Broehain,” the man replied. “I am of the Turani. I have fought your armies thrice now in the last few weeks.”
“Indeed,” Silius replied coolly. “So tell me, why is it that you are now looking to hand Sacrovir over to us?”
“My people have suffered inexplicably because of that man,” Broehain replied. “Nearly half our fighting men were slaughtered in what was to be no more than a ruse. Sacrovir then compelled us to fight for him again. So we did. Only to be outflanked again by a single cohort of your men. Romans truly are the masters of warfare.”
“You can spare us the flattery,” Calvinus admonished.
“It is no flattery, I assure you,” Broehain asserted. “I have witnessed too much suffering and death to be concerned with such petty things.” There was a bitter note to his voice. Broehain knew that of all those from his village who had joined Sacrovir’s cause, less than a third would ever return home.
“I do not care about my own welfare,” he continued. “I know that as a leader of this rebellion, my life is forfeit. I only ask that you spare the lives of my men, and that you make that bastard Sacrovir pay for what he has done to our peoples.”
“You are of the Turani?” Calvinus asked.
Broehain nodded in reply.
“Then you were not a part of Sacrovir’s inner circle.”
“That is correct. He used us as sheep to be slaughtered; a ruse to fool you into thinking him loyal to Rome.”
“The leaders of this rebellion have indeed forfeited their lives,” Silius replied. “You, however, were not part of that circle. You may yet have a small chance at redemption. Lead us to Sacrovir, and your life will be spared.
Your lands, however, will still be confiscated. You will be left with a small farmhouse and a plot of land.”
Broehain closed his eyes as they welled up with tears of disbelief. He was only going to request that the Romans kill him quickly, and yet he was being offered his life. A life devoid of his lands, prestige, and wealth, however, a life where he would be able to see his sons grow up to become men, where he would be able to hold his wife in his arms again. He was a broken man, but he would still be able to live for his family.
“Sacrovir has an estate, well hidden in the hills,” he said in a low voice. “That is where they have fled. I will take you to them.”
“Of course you will,” Silius replied. He then directed the soldiers, “Clean him up and see to his wounds.”
“Yes, sir.”
Lennox sat at the table and placed his head in his hands. He had taken up residence in a small apartment in Augustodunum, awaiting the end of the rebellion. His body shook as he silently wept for his son. Kiana sat across from him. His wife stood sullenly off in the corner.
“You could have done more to help him,” she said, her voice hoarse from crying.
Lennox looked up at her, his eyes red and swollen. “What else could I have done? His heart was set on seeing this through. I could not stop him.” “You should have fought beside him.” Her voice was quiet.
Kiana’s eyes grew wide, not believing what she had heard. She hated Sacrovir and the rebels, and she blamed them for Farquhar’s death rather than the Romans. The lad’s mother felt differently.
“You heard me,” she continued, in a louder, accusing voice. “You and all the other nobles should have fought beside your sons! Better to have died honorably as our ancestors did!” She was almost shouting.
“Will you be quiet, woman?!” Lennox snapped. “These walls have ears, and we are not in a friendly house.”
“So what if the Romans do hear more seditious talk!” his wife continued to rant. “I have lost my son, and my husband is nothing but a coward! I would rather be taken by the Romans . . .”
Lennox lunged to his feet and struck her hard across the face before she could continue. “I will not be named a coward by my own wife!” he spat. “I did not choose to throw my life away foolishly. I gave Farquhar our ancestral sword, the most sacred artifact this family possesses, and now it is lost as well. It was all I could do . . . it was all I could do.” At that, Lennox started to break again, and he put his hands over his face while his wife started to wail and sob as she curled up in the corner of the room. Kiana stood and backed towards the door. “I should go,” she said quietly.
Lennox took her in his arms and held her close. “I am sorry you have seen us like this,” he said through his tears. “Please forgive me.” “There is nothing to forgive,” Kiana whispered as she returned his embrace.
He released her, and she stepped out into the night. She tilted her head back and closed her eyes once she was outside.
“An abominable predicament to be in,” a voice spoke.
Kiana leapt up, startled. It took her a second to recognize the voice. She quickly looked to her left and saw her father walk into the torchlight. He was dressed in a Roman-style toga, his face worn and tired. With him were two of his body slaves, as well as a group of four Roman soldiers. Kiana rushed into her father’s arms, finally letting her own tears go.
“It’s alright, daughter,” he said soothingly. “Everything is going to be alright now.”
“You have found your daughter, sir. Now it is time for you to leave,” the legionary decanus spoke.
“Come,” the elder Gaul remarked with a motion of his head, “let us leave this place, Kiana. There is a carriage waiting for us outside the main gates. These men escorted me here to ascertain that it is my daughter I seek, rather than a wayward son.”
“Let’s go,” the decanus spoke again, pointing down the road. He waited for Kiana and her father to start walking before following close behind with his men. Not another word was spoken between father and daughter until they were in their carriage and away from the city.
“It was a noble thing you did,” the father spoke at length. “I feel for Lennox, I really do. He is an old friend, and Farquhar was a fine young man.”
“I feel sick,” Kiana said. “I saw the bodies of many of my friends today . . . mutilated . . . ripped apart by such savagery.”
“Yes, and a young girl should not have to see such things. I saw the carnage the Romans wrought. War demonstrates humankind at its absolute worst, and the Romans have become masters of it. And yet, in the end we got off pretty lucky.”
“How so?” Kiana asked.
“I have no sons,” her father replied. “I have land, slaves, a wealth of coin, and two beautiful daughters, but no sons. The Romans know this. Therefore, there is no chance of us falling victim to their purge.”
“What purge?” Kiana felt a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. She realized her people’s suffering had only begun with the defeat of Sacrovir’s army.
“Reparation and retribution, my dear. The noble youths who were not killed in the battle were captured to a man. Legate Silius will ransom them and demand a fearful toll for their safe return.”
Kiana folded her arms across her chest, the sound of the carriage moving through the night playing an ominous tone as her father continued.
“The ransoms demanded will destroy the families who choose to pay them. Lands will be confiscated, slaves taken, and the nobles will be stripped practically down to their last denarii. Already I have heard that Silius is planning a massive auction for the lands they take.”
“And what if a family is unable to pay the ransom?” Her question caused her stomach to seize up, for she feared the worst in her father’s reply. Instead, he was evasive in his answer.
“That is something we need not worry about,” he answered with finality. “I mourn for my friends, as well as my daughter, i
n their loss. But I still count my own family’s blessings. At least I know that I can still provide you with sufficient dowry to attract a suitable husband. I will have to search the province now in order to find a suitable man, but it will be done.”
Kiana smiled weakly and averted her eyes downward. Her father leaned forward and placed his hand in hers.
“Farquhar was a good lad,” he remarked, “and he would have made you a fine husband. The union between our families would have been great indeed. But he is gone now, and there is no bringing him back. There will be few young men left in this region with any kind of status or position worthy of my daughter. But let us not think of these things now. You are safe, and we will be home soon.” He kept a watchful eye on his daughter as she lay back in the carriage and drifted off to sleep, exhaustion having overcome her at last. The drone of the carriage rumbling caused him to nod off eventually as well.
“Lost! All is lost!” Belenus wailed.
Sacrovir fought to maintain his composure, even as the rest of his entourage seemed to be falling apart.
“What happened to this mighty army you supposedly trained to fight like Spartans?” one commander fumed at Heracles.
Sacrovir stepped between the men as Heracles looked to be going for his sword.
“Enough,” he said in a calm voice. “We have suffered a setback, nothing more. Our army fled, yes. But the majority survived to fight another day.”
“You forget something,” Belenus retorted. “The Noble Youth, the sons of our noblemen. They fought to the last, because they had nowhere to run to. With so many of their sons slain, their fathers will hardly forgive us for leading them to annihilation.”
Sacrovir spat on the ground. “I do not need the bloody nobles,” he cursed. “They are little more than lapdogs to Rome! I used their sons to keep them in line, that’s all. What I need is for my army to pull itself together and regroup! We still have the Romans badly outnumbered. They think we are beaten, but I tell you we can still overwhelm them if we can reform our minions!”
Indus rode alongside Broehain. The former rebel leader took them deep into the hills. They were only sparsely populated with trees, mostly shrubs and tall grass. There were also no trails to speak of. Centurions Calvinus and Aemilius accompanied them, along with elements of the legion’s cavalry. As they came around the right-hand side of a hill, they saw the land open up to a flat plain, surrounded by the hills. There was a grove of trees to the left, and a large manor house on the right, surrounded by a short wall. Behind the manor was what looked to be at least a score of blacksmith shops.
“Well, there’s something you don’t see every day,” Aemilius observed.
“Looks like he’s had every available blacksmith in the entire region working for him.” Calvinus said, pointing to the structures behind the manor.
Broehain nodded in agreement. “That is where Sacrovir manufactured all of his arms and armor,” he replied. “It is also where those of us closest to him would meet.” “Let’s go say hello then, shall we?” Aemilius remarked.
“The Romans are coming!” a servant shouted, as he burst into the hall where Sacrovir and his men were meeting.
“What?” he asked alarmed. “That's impossible!” As Sacrovir ran out of the hall, Heracles slinked slowly towards the back. The door had been left half open, and he silently disappeared.
Sacrovir stood on top of the wall surrounding his estate as a contingent of Roman horsemen started to encircle the complex. He bit his lip as he recognized both Indus and Broehain riding with a pair of centurions. He lowered his eyes to the ground in contemplation before raising them to the sky. He took a deep breath as he made up his mind.
His rebellion was over, thwarted by betrayal and the lack of true support from the masses. Very well, if it was truly over, then it would end on his terms, not the Romans'!
“Summon all the household staff,” he ordered the servant as he returned to the great hall.
“What is happening?” Belenus asked as Sacrovir returned.
“It is over,” he replied. Sacrovir then faced all of his companions. “The Romans have found us. I am sorry to have led you to this end, gentlemen. But let the Romans know we died fighting for what we believe in; for the rights they have denied us from birth, for our heritage that they stripped from us; for the freedom from oppression and fiscal servitude.” He then turned to his servants who gathered behind him.
“All of you are now free,” he said. “Let the Romans bear witness to your freedom, and do not allow yourselves to be denied. My last order is for you to set fire to this mansion, that it may not be used by the Romans for profit!”
Calvinus was puzzled to see a plume of smoke rising from inside the estate. He was further perplexed when he saw a large group of men and women in servants’ clothing walking out the main gate and walking towards them. He then rode forward with Indus and Aemilius, stopping in front of the group of slaves.
“What has happened?” he asked.
An older man at the front of the group addressed him. “It is over, honorable centurion,” he replied. “Sacrovir lies dead, slain by his own hand. His closest companions died with him, and per his last request, the mansion now burns over their heads. Our freedom was granted, and we ask that you honor this.” “You are in no position to ask us anything!” Aemilius snapped. “Your master was a traitor to his people, and as such I piss on any final requests of his!”
“You will not be returned to slavery,” Calvinus replied, a cold look in his eyes.
The former slaves looked troubled and frightened by his demeanor. After Aemilius’ rebuke, they feared the centurions.
Calvinus saw their anxiety and explained. “Each of you will be interrogated to validate your story of Sacrovir’s demise. You will provide any and all details of his rebellion and any accomplices who might still be alive. Prove yourselves useful, and I will honor your freedom. Play us false, and I will not sell you back into slavery; rather I will break every last one of you myself and have what’s left fed to wild dogs!”
Chapter XVII: Reparation and Retribution
***
The prisoners were arranged by class and social status. Each was then brought before a group of Roman officers. With the sheer number of prisoners needing to be tallied and ransomed, Silius had granted all officers of the rank of centurion and above authority to pass sentence on his behalf. He and the tribunes would deal with the leaders of the rebellion. Most of these men would either be executed or at best enslaved. Silius knew he could not delegate the authority to pass capital sentencing.
Centurions sat behind rickety desks with their options, as well as any other officers that they saw fit to include in the interrogation. Macro had designated Flaccus and Camillus to sit on the sentencing board, with Camillus acting as his scribe.
He had wanted to include Statorius as well; however, the tesserarius had been tasked with supervising the stockade, as well as the marshaling of prisoners to their designated interrogators. In a surprise move, Macro tasked Artorius with filling in for Statorius.
Praxus was on hand as well, helping to root through the piles of paperwork that needed to be sorted. As each man came forward, he was required to state his full name and birthplace. Praxus and Artorius would then sift through the census rolls, which, in addition to tracking the population of the province, also logged each family’s wealth and social status.
The Roman bureaucracy was thorough in its tracking of subjects within the Empire. From this information Macro would determine the ransom of each prisoner. Most of the ‘common’ prisoners were accompanied by their spouses, siblings, or other relatives. The nobles, being as most had not yet reached the age of maturity, were accompanied by their fathers or patriarchs. If a man could not provide a viable family name that appeared on the census roles, he was presumed to be an escaped slave or criminal and was condemned to slavery.
At close to midday, Artorius saw a prisoner escorted to them that he immediately recognized. It w
as Alasdair, the young man whose friend Artorius had slain. His father, Kavan, was with him, his hand never leaving his son’s shoulder. Though he pitied the boy, it did not deter Artorius from his sense of justice. Alasdair was the first noble prisoner they had had to deal with, and he knew the price of his ransom would be severe.
“Name and place of birth,” Macro demanded.
“Alasdair, son of Kavan,” the lad replied quietly. “I am from the city of Avaricum.”
Artorius and Praxus systematically started through the census roles for Avaricum. Praxus whistled quietly when he saw the amount of lands and wealth Alasdair’s family possessed.
“Can you believe this?” Praxus asked in a low voice. “The price for this one will be extreme.”
“Quite,” Artorius replied as he handed the documents to Macro, who then quietly read through them. He scribbled some notes, which he then showed to Flaccus and Camillus.
The optio and signifier nodded in agreement with their centurion’s assessment. Macro bore into both father and son with his piercing gaze.
“Your son has been found guilty of supporting rebellion against the Emperor, Senate, and people of Rome,” he said to Kavan. “In his mercy; the Emperor Tiberius Caesar has decreed that all prisoners of war be eligible for ransom, based on their family’s status and ability to pay.” It was the same spiel he had been giving all day, and yet there was no sense of monotony in his voice. “Your family holds Roman citizenship and is of the noble class of Gaul. Your status gives you a responsibility to the people. By allowing your son to be taken in by Sacrovir’s serpent tongue, you have failed in this responsibility. You have failed your people, and have disgraced your family and social class. By authority of Gaius Silius, Commanding Legate, your son’s ransom is set at one hundred talents. He is further prohibited from ever leaving the state around Avaricum without permission of the Roman censor, who he must appear before annually.”
