Rome: Tempest of the Legion (Sword of the Legion Series)

by R. Cameron Cooke

  “Anchor the squadron,” Libo said. “Once moorings are secured, have the crews stand down. Let them rest. I get the feeling we will not tarry here long.”

  Libo studied the distant shore as he rode in the stern of his launch through the anchored fleet. The Caesarian camp on the hillside was alive with activity. Even from this distance, he could clearly see a mass of helmets poking over the palisade, gazing out at the gathered ships.

  Were they mere curious onlookers, or had something grabbed their attention?

  The Caesarian soldiers watched in silence, without the usual obscene gestures or shouted insults that accompanied close brushes between two opposing forces. They were far off, but Libo could swear that he felt an air of gloom hanging over them, as if the entire enemy camp was in expectation of something dreadful that was about to happen.

  The launch rounded the high stern of a quinquereme, allowing the flagship to come into full view. Libo gazed upon her in awe, as he always did whenever he saw her. The Argonaut was a deceres, a capital warship, a master of the sea. With several decks of rowers and multiple engines mounted on her main deck, she was far superior to the Remus, or any other ship in the Optimates fleet. Four hundred slaves and freedmen manned her oars, two hundred marines defended her and worked her assorted engines, one hundred sailors worked her decks and rigging, while specialists and staff officers of every kind attended to her administration and that of the fleet. She towered over the lesser warships, like a lioness with her cubs, and though she was not nearly as maneuverable as the Remus, she flew like the wind once the momentum was on her. Her giant ram, three times larger than that of the Remus, did not simply penetrate hulls – it shattered them, grinding them to bits under the inexorable weight of the magnificent beast.

  The admiral’s pennant fluttered at the masthead, and just the sight of it made Libo cringe. Admiral Bibulus was known for his oddities. He was an unusual sort of man, and Libo could not remember a face-to-face meeting with the admiral in which he had not been squirming within his armor to get away.

  Faces peered over the Argonaut's high railing and watched as the launch touched near the great ship's ladder. Libo climbed up swiftly, and was received at the gangway by an anxious looking officer who smiled to greet him and then immediately motioned for him to keep silent as a ceremony of sorts transpired on the flagship's deck.

  A cluster of officers stood by the far rail, their full attention directed at the stern deck. Bronze-helmeted marines and bearded sailors gawked, too, their stares more of a bewildered nature than a fascinated one. Libo knew that look well, and was not surprised to discover one of the admiral’s rituals, in full progress.

  In the middle of the stern deck sat an iron cage, half the height of a man. Beside it, atop a neatly laid out white cloth, sat a small mound of olives. The olives looked fresh, as if they had just been placed there. A dark figure slunk in the far corner of the cage, appearing, to any casual observer, as nothing more than a ball of frayed hair. But upon closer inspection, one could see glimpses of tanned skin showing through the few bare patches, revealing that the creature was something more than an animal. This thing was what had the attention of every man on deck, and what had the ship gripped in complete silence, save for the lapping of the sea against the hull and the periodic whip of the pennant on the high masthead.

  Libo sighed, knowing full well what was happening. He silently made his way over to a balding, middle-aged man who wore only a white tunic and who crouched somewhat near the cage with eyes fixated on the beast inside.

  “Reporting as ordered, Admiral,” Libo said in a whisper.

  The man ignored Libo, his attention seemingly consumed by the creature.

  “We captured a single ship, Admiral, and destroyed two more. We sighted no more of the enemy. I believe – “

  “Shh!” came the sharp reply from Admiral Bibulus, who appeared irritated at the interruption and did not even turn to acknowledge Libo. “Be so kind as to not interfere with the augury, Libo,” he said in a harsh whisper. “Complete silence on deck. That is the given order!”

  Libo bowed in apology, and stood to the side, complying with the admiral’s wishes. Bibulus was an eccentric man, and very hard to judge. His face was gaunt and expressionless, except for the eyes that always seemed strained with worry. Libo never knew where he stood with him. Within moments of the reprimand, Bibulus seemed to have completely forgotten about Libo, because he suddenly opened his mouth in expectation.

  The creature was stirring in its cage. The dark, hairy shape had begun to move.

  Though Libo had seen the creature many times – he called it a creature, for he knew no other word for it – each time shocked his senses as intensely as the first. It defied the eye and had no registry in the brain. Even now, though repulsed by the creature’s sickening movements, he could not look away. None of them could. There was something captivating about its unnatural state.

  From the mass of matted hair, a long muscled arm emerged and stretched out to plant an immense, gnarled hand on the floor of the cage. A shorter arm, equally robust, followed suit, but the hand at the extremity of this arm was little more than a stump, showing dirty, blackened stubs where there should have been fingers. Then, with an insect-like movement, the bulging arms dragged the dark body behind it until the creature had gained the edge of the cage opposite the small mound of olives. Even now, with the creature clearly visible in the light, Libo’s eyes could scarcely process its strange shape, nor how anything that was a man – or had once been a man – could exist in such a form. It was naked, but for the mats of tangled hair that hid most of its leathered skin from view. It had stumps for legs that extended no more than a hand’s breadth below its hips. A huge bulge on its back kept its head pushed forward such that it had to periodically rare up its entire body in order to see where it was going, and it was during these moments that one might glimpse the jagged yellow teeth that seemed crammed into its perpetually open mouth. The arm with the giant hand was half again as long as that of any man Libo had ever encountered. Where the other limbs were severely degraded, this appendage seemed to have been endowed with brute strength. It effortlessly propelled the creature along with surprising agility, much like an ape, leading one to believe that the creature could move much faster if it ever needed or desired to.

  “He awakes, Libo,” Bibulus said, while observing every movement of the creature. Libo felt slightly uncomfortable that the admiral was speaking to him. “We must have a verdict, Libo. It won’t be long now. Odulph will tell us. Just wait, young man. Yes, Odulph will tell us.”

  Bibulus was coaxing Odulph – for that was the name Bibulus had given to the creature – as one might induce a dog to do tricks. A single long, hairy arm emerged from the iron bars. The glistening globules were just within the creature’s reach, but whenever his arm was fully extended, the massive hump on his back prevented him from seeing where his hand was groping. While all on deck held their breaths in anticipation, the twisted hand grasped at the open air, then slapped down upon the bare deck in an effort to feel its way to the pile. It came close several times, each attempt marked by an audible sigh from the onlookers.

  Libo tried to remain composed, for he thought the ritual absurd, but he bit his lip for fear of making a remark that Bibulus might interpret as impertinent. The admiral was convinced that Odulph was an augury. He believed it as sure as he believed the sun would rise on the morrow. Libo had witnessed similar such rituals on many occasions, whenever the hesitant admiral was faced with a decision.

  “A little closer,” Bibulus whispered slowly, as if afraid that the sound of his voice might break the creature’s concentration. “Just a little closer.”

  As the creature struggled, and the admiral watched with cautious expectation, Libo resisted the urge to ask just what decision hung in the balance while the fleet sat off the coast of Epirus with Caesar’s army looking on, and nearly three dozen captured vessels under the Argonaut’s lee. There really was no telling
. He had known Bibulus to ask the augury for guidance on strategic issues before, but the admiral had also consulted Odulph on which color boots he should wear, or on which side of his body he should wear his sword, or on which side of the ship he should relieve himself.

  One could never be too careful, Libo mused, for there was no telling when a sea serpent might leap from the water and devour one while pissing.

  Some said the creature had been born that way. But there were also those who claimed that Odulph had once been a man – that he had once been a horse archer in the barbarian hordes that ranged the great plains of the Far East. There were many such stories of the creature’s origins. According to most, Odulph had been captured while on a raid in the Parthian lands. The Parthians, who harbored nothing but hatred for the barbarian hordes, might have flayed him alive on the spot, as they were wont to do with such captives, but, for some reason, Odulph had been spared. But dying would have been a much better fate than what was in store for him. The Parthian satrap singled him out to suffer special torments for the amusement of visiting dignitaries – and the devilish minds of the Far East had extensive imaginations. Over an untold number of years, in deep Parthian dungeons, Odulph underwent daily tortures of every conceivable kind, his tormentors allowing his open wounds and shattered bones to fully heal between each grueling session. In the few times that he was not being dragged to and from the chambers of pain, he was forced to perform the back-breaking labor of a full-bodied slave. The stories said that, over time, his mind began to devolve from that of a man to that of a beast – but he would not die. No living creature should have been able to withstand the gruesome punishments exacted on him, but somehow Odulph endured. Eventually, the satrap realized that his captive was something of a supernatural phenomenon, and began to consider him in some way protected by the gods. Not wishing to provoke the gods by any further torture, he put his small miracle on display in a cage for all the world to see. The creature spent years as a spectacle in the commercial hub of Carrhae, where travelers from all lands marveled and cringed at the mere sight of him. This lasted for many years, until one tragic day, when it was said that a Parthian boy who had gotten too close to the cage was caught up by a lightning fast sweep of the powerful arm. The boy’s throat was crushed in a matter of moments, and his lifeless body tossed away like a toy doll. It was said that upon slaying the lad, Odulph erupted in a hateful vitriol, shaking his giant, gnarled fist at the horrified onlookers and speaking in his native barbarian tongue after not having uttered a single word in years. Thinking it inauspicious to have the creature executed, the Parthian satrap ordered Odulph’s tongue cut out, and then quietly sold him to a Syrian merchant to be done with him.

  And that was how Bibulus came to acquire him.

  Bibulus spent years in Syria as proconsul of the province and had somehow learned of Odulph’s existence. It was said that Bibulus had been fascinated by the creature who would not die, and had paid an exorbitant price for him. Bibulus was a superstitious man, perhaps brought on by his own political failures. It was well known that his obsession with the auguries manifested itself during his earlier political life, long before the civil war, when he had shared the consulship with Caesar. He had looked to them to justify his own inaction as Caesar forced through legislation with complete disregard for his colleague. It was said that the consulship of that year was filled by two men, Julius and Caesar, because Bibulus had spent nearly the entire period confined to his villa, reading the auguries. Bibulus never truly recovered politically from that disaster, and, like a man addicted to wine, had pursued more and more means to communicate with the deities to discover their true will, and his true purpose in this life. He believed he had finally found it in the wretched Odulph.

  Now, as Libo and the others watched, Odulph’s arm groped outside the cage like a probing rake, the long nails grinding along the planks, tickling the ears of every man. Libo saw Bibulus stare with mouth agape, practically willing the creature to find the olives. But, at that moment, a man amongst the file of marines suddenly coughed, loud enough to break the silence. The knotted hand instantly withdrew back inside the cage, accompanied by a loud, guttural grunt that seemed filled with hate and indignation.

  Bibulus’s face instantly lost all of its fatigue and turned red with anger. He searched the deck for the source of the interruption, and it took very little effort to find it, as the other marines were subtly inching away from the offending man. The marine turned white with fear as the admiral of the fleet marched swiftly across the deck to face him, but he made no move to run. There was no sense in running, for he knew the fate that awaited him. Every man in the fleet understood the admiral’s mystical fancies were to be taken with the utmost seriousness, just as they all knew the punishment for defiance, either intended or otherwise.

  The unarmed admiral said no words to the soldier. He reached for the marine’s gladius, drew it out of its scabbard, and without a pause, drove the blade into its owner’s abdomen. Bibulus was no longer endowed with the strength of his youth, and thus it required several thrusts to push the razor sharp point through the links in the man’s armor. After a small exertion, the sword pierced the marine’s abdomen, starting a rush of blood from beneath the mail shirt that ran down his legs. Seeing this, Bibulus simply released the hilt of the weapon and briskly walked back to the spot where he had been observing the cage, returning all of his attention to Odulph. Whether the admiral heard the cries of agony of the stumbling marine or saw the terrified expressions of the surrounding onlookers, he gave no indication of it. Eventually, the stricken marine dropped to the deck, his face contorted in pain as he vainly clutched the few inches of steel that was not buried in his belly, and then quickly expired in an expanding pool of blood. Without a word, the body was lifted hand and foot by two other marines and callously tossed over the side.

  It was at that moment, that Libo caught sight of that single, terrible eye staring back at him from the cage. The creature had only one eye, the other one likely having been gouged out during his time in Parthia. Like those of so many barbarians Libo had encountered from the Far East, the creature’s eye was nearly all black, tainted with yellowish hues where it should be white. The eye was wild and maniacal, filled with pain and hatred. But there were moments – mere glimpses – when Libo swore it carried an intelligence, a wherewithal that spoke of a comprehension well beyond the simple pursuit of the next meal. It struck Libo, perhaps because the look seemed so out of place in such an anomaly of nature. But there was more than just intelligence there. There was satisfaction, and perhaps a hint of mischief, as a spoiled child might look after successfully duping his overly eager father.

  “Come, Odulph,” Bibulus now spoke in a paradoxically delicate manner. “Come, now. It is alright. We must not keep the illustrious Caesar waiting. Surely, he watches us at this very moment.”

  Libo glanced at the fortified camp upon the shore and concluded that the admiral was probably right. The scarlet tents and standards of Julius Caesar were there. It was very likely that the dictator himself was one of the many men on the battlements, observing the Optimates fleet.

  “What shall Caesar see?” continued Bibulus to Odulph. “Come now, you can tell me. What shall we show Caesar? Yes, what shall the posturing bastard see? Will it be fire, or mercy?”

  Bibulus waited patiently for an answer, but the creature did not move. Libo understood the admiral’s insistence on such rituals, but, after witnessing the outright murder of the unfortunate marine, he was tiring quickly of this foolishness.

  “Perhaps, Admiral, one of the usual auguries might serve just as well in this instance,” Libo offered.

  Bibulus turned to face him, looking as though Libo had just told him his ears were green. “Chickens are for the peasantry, Libo! You cannot seriously expect me to use a chicken. Only a true seer can foretell the destinies of great men. Odulph has been blessed by the gods. Jupiter and Mars speak through him, man. I’ve told you this before. The rites must
be performed properly.”

  “Might I ask what we are deciding on, sir?”

  “Wait!” Bibulus snapped, though not at Libo. One of the admiral’s aides was approaching the cage. “Stop! What are you doing, Sextus?”

  The officer paused, looking slightly puzzled. “I was only going to add this.” He held out a single olive. “It is only proper, sir, now that the navarch Libo’s prize has been added to the lot.”

  Bibulus grinned nervously. “Yes, yes! Quite right! That must be it! Yes, please add it at once! Put it down and move away. Quickly, now!”

  The officer did as he was instructed and backed away from the cage. The addition of one more olive seemed to have sparked the interest of the creature. It began to stir once again, the gnarled hand venturing outside the bars ever so slowly.

  It did not take Libo long to deduce that the one additional olive represented the Caesarian transport that he had captured, and therefore it followed that the other olives must represent the rest of the prizes sitting off Argonaut’s beam.

  Then, in an animalistic frenzy, the creature suddenly scooped up the olives and crammed them into its mouth. It took only two swipes of the giant hand before every last olive had been consumed, the ravenous ingestion quickly followed by a loud belch.

  This seemed to be just what Bibulus had been waiting for. A mad countenance overcame him as he again faced the shore.

  "You see, Caesar? You see?” His voice reached a new shrill height. “The gods cast their favor upon me this time!”

  Snatching a burning torch from a marine attending the nearest catapult, the crazed admiral dashed the fiery brand into the pitch pot and quickly moved down the deck, igniting the pitch supplies for the other engines until all were sending black smoke into the air. He then looked scathingly at the cluster of captured vessels.