by James Mace
“I know, and I like it here…well Flavia does anyway. Besides, you’ll be coming back after a year or so; me, I’ll be spending the rest of my career in the east I think.”
“True,” Pilate conceded. “Still, the east is not so bad from what I hear. It’s quite exotic.” Justus snorted at his friend’s assessment.
“It’s fucking hot, dry, with inhospitable people,” he retorted. “If not for the fact that Rome gorges itself on Egyptian grain I scarcely think we would bother with the place.” He then looked back at one of Pilate’s cart and started walking towards it. “Here, looks like one of your tie-down ropes came undone.” As Justus starting to adjust the tarp, his expression showed one of surprised amusement.
“Pilate,” he said. “Why do you have a statue of Sejanus in your baggage? I know you work for him, but come on man, no need to worship!”
“It’s not for me,” Pilate replied, fidgeting in his stance. “It’s for the Legate of the Twelfth.”
“What, does he worship Sejanus too?”
“Cool your tongue, old friend,” Pilate scolded. “It is symbolic; so that the eastern legions may remember who it is that shares the Emperor’s labors.” Justus’ expression fell.
“I see,” he replied. “Forgive me, but I find it a little peculiar. One would almost think that Sejanus was Tiberius’ heir given the way he lauds on him!”
“Will you stop already?” Pilate retorted. Justus only shook his head.
“Look, a statue of the Emperor’s son I can understand, but the fucking Praetorian Prefect? That is as pompous of a gesture as I have ever seen! It is arrogance personified and the Legates will not handle it well.”
“I think they will,” Pilate replied coldly. “I must warn you old friend, any perceived disloyalties towards Sejanus will be interpreted as disloyalties towards the Emperor himself.”
“Well forgive my impertinence then,” Justus said with a trace of venom in his voice.
Justus’ wife, Flavia noted the vexation in her husband as soon as he arrived at the Ostia docks with his friend Pontius Pilate. The two men had not spoken to each other since their spat over the statue of Sejanus. She went to say something to her husband, but he raised his hand, silencing her. She elected to go see how their children were adjusting to their quarters and left Justus to his thoughts.
Chapter IX: Slaves and Nobles
“So tell me again why you feel you have to have this one?” Magnus asked as he and Valens walked over to the hastily repaired stockade. The surviving slaves were huddled inside, fearful that they might meet the same fate as the man who had goaded them into fighting the Romans.
“Macro did say if any of us wished to have one of the slaves we could buy them before he sends them to the market,” Valens replied. Indeed the Centurion had hoped his men would be willing to spend a few denarii on the slaves, seeing as how once they went to market all proceeds would go to the local magistrate; whereas the profits from any slaves sold while they remained in his custody went directly to him.
“Sure, but this woman doesn’t even speak Latin,” Magnus conjectured. “Plus after what she said to you after the scrap at the alley I can’t imagine why you would want her.” The Norseman had never told his friend what the woman had said, only that it wasn’t very nice. In truth, the woman had used the names of the gods of damnation to curse Valens. Not knowing how superstitious his friend was, Magnus thought better than to let Valens think he was about to be set upon by barbarian gods.
“I have my reasons,” Valens replied as they walked along the outside of the pen. The slaves had been ordered to stand by the bars, though all hung their heads low. The young woman saw the legionaries before they reached her. She closed her eyes as fear and loathing overcame her. She heard one of the men speak while pointing at her. She started to sob and collapsed to the ground as she was forcibly removed from the pen by two men from the urban cohort. They gruffly threw her to the ground in front of the legionaries.
“Take it easy!” Magnus barked. The men ignored him and walked back inside the pen. The Norseman then knelt down and spoke to the woman in Gallic. She was on her knees, her hands resting on her legs, her good eye fixed on the ground and the other swollen completely shut. Slowly she replied to the legionary, her instincts from having been a slave her entire life forcing her to comply with his questioning.
“Well?” Valens asked impatiently.
“Her name’s Erin,” Magnus replied. “She was born a slave and has worked as a cook, seamstress, and gardener. The man you killed was her husband.”
“I see,” Valens remarked. “What else does she say?”
“I asked how she would feel about coming to work for you. She said her feelings do not matter.” Valens eyed the woman, trying to gauge her disposition. If she had been a slave her entire life, then she would indeed be of the mindset that she was to obey her master, regardless of personal feelings. That was enough for the legionary.
“How much?” Valens asked. One of the urban soldiers grabbed a tag on Erin’s neck and then checked his list.
“Sixty-five denarii,” he replied. Magnus whistled while Valens dug into his coin pouch.
“Are you sure about this?” the Norseman asked again. “I mean that’s almost an entire pay stipend.”
“True,” Valens replied, “but in all honesty I don’t care.”
“I don’t need a bloody slave!” Svetlana protested as Erin stood in the corner, her hands folded and gaze on the floor.
“Well I can’t keep her at the barracks,” Valens observed. “Besides, I thought perhaps you could use someone to help out around here.”
“That’s not the only reason,” Svetlana said, her eyes narrowing. Valens held up his hands.
“Hey, I’m not interested in using her for sport, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“Why not? She is rather attractive.” A coy smile crossed Svetlana’s face as Valens’ turned a slight shade of red.
“If you knew the circumstances surrounding how I acquired her, you’d understand,” he replied. He then kissed Svetlana on the cheek and quickly left the room. The Norsewoman apprised the girl that stood before her.
Svetlana had never owned a slave before. Her father had of course; though these had often been more for personal recreation rather than any kind of actual work. She had never really paid them any mind and was rarely even aware of their presence.
“My name is Svetlana,” she said in Gallic, a language she knew well enough but had not used in many years.
“Yes Domina,” Erin replied, her eyes still on the ground.
“Look at me,” Svetlana directed. The face of the Gallic woman spoke of a deep sorrow that she fought in vain to conceal. Though her womanly instincts urged her to comfort the girl, Svetlana knew that she establishing the proper rapport with this slave was paramount. “I’m told you can cook.”
“Yes Domina,” Erin replied, her expression reverting to one devoid of emotion. This was good in Svetlana’s mind. She wanted to get her into a routine immediately, distract the slave with work and she would be unable to focus on her sorrows. She then decided to see what else Erin knew.
“Can you sew and mend garments?” she asked.
“Yes Domina,” Erin replied.
“What about cleaning?”
“Yes Domina.” The short, almost curt answers left Svetlana a little put out, but she could honestly not expect much more from the slave.
“Can you speak Latin?”
“Very little Domina,” Erin replied in Latin. This disappointed Svetlana, but it did not matter. Her Gallic was good enough for what Erin would need to know.
“Can you read or write?”
“No Domina.”
“Well that is something we may have to change,” Svetlana replied with a half-smile. Erin did not return it. She had no idea what the point would be of teaching the woman to read and write. Since she could not speak Latin, any literacy she achieved would be in Gallic and most likely useless for Sve
tlana’s needs.
“How’s the new slave working out?” Carbo asked as Valens walked into the barracks flat. The rest of the men were inspecting and performing maintenance on their gear. Carbo was working a deep nick out of the blade of his gladius while Decimus was tapping out the indentation in the side of his helmet; a bandage wrapped around his head and covering his ear.
“No idea,” Valens replied as he laid out his armor and equipment on his bunk. “I dumped her off with Svetlana and told her to put her to work.” The rest of the men looked over at Magnus, hoping to get more details from their friend.
“I think she’ll be alright,” he said in response to the unasked questions, running his fingers through his blonde hair. “Svetlana is multilingual, though she has not had to speak Gallic in a long time.”
“So…what kind of mental state do you think she’s in?” Carbo asked. He was the only one blunt enough to ask what everyone wanted to know. Everyone ceased working on their equipment and eyed the legionary. “I mean, after all, Valens killed her husband and smashed her up pretty good…” The room grew silent and Carbo went back to running the sharpening stone over his weapon.
“She’s a fucking slave!” Valens finally barked, breaking the silence. “What does it matter what she thinks?” He was starting to question why he had even gone through the trouble of acquiring the young Gallic woman in the first place. Magnus was quick to assist him.
“Valens is right,” the Norseman stated as he leaned against the wall. “She is a slave and is now his property. Now he must make certain she is properly maintained, like our weapons and equipment. And like our weapons, as long as she is taken care of she will serve him well.”
“Is it so good to be comparing a slave to a weapon?” Decimus asked, sitting upright in his bunk. His head was bandaged and he was still feeling the effects of the fever he had had for the past couple weeks. Gavius was helping him by reshaping his helmet where it had gotten smashed during the scuffle the other night.
Artorius remained quiet the entire time. He continued to inspect the straps and rivets on his armor while taking in everything that was being said. He had contemplated purchasing a slave for the section; someone to keep the flat clean and do menial chores. He then thought better of it, not wanting to have to house a slave, plus doing details around the flat kept the men occupied and in a routine.
“The girl is of noble birth,” Radek observed as he and Heracles sat in the virtual dark, a lone candle lighting the table they occupied. “Quite the statement could be made with her disposal.” His Greek master shook his head in reply.
“No, I have better plans for that one,” Heracles asserted. “I find it more satisfying using her to do our bidding. I have planted the seeds of doubt already in her mind, now they simply need time to grow.”
“I admit Master; I was surprised that you let her go.”
“What else could I do?” Heracles responded. “She will not do us any good if she is a prisoner. Trust me, my friend; she will come back to us, and when she does I will own her very soul.”
Doubts had indeed assailed Kiana since witnessing the spectacle of the crucified slave and seeing the legionary who haunted her. When she had first laid eyes on the soldier who had killed her beloved Farquhar on that dark day over a year before, she had not felt any sort of ill feelings at all; just sorrow, confusion, and even pity towards the young soldier. However, over time as the nightmares grew worse, his ever-present image became distorted, even monstrous.
Kiana bolted upright in her bed, sweating and breathing rapidly. She tried to catch her breath and sat with her face in her hands for a moment. It would be yet another sleepless night. Exasperated, she threw the blankets off and stormed out of the room in her dressing gown. The villa she and her sister Tierney lived in was much smaller than the grand house of their father, but it did have a pleasant garden out back that Kiana decided to visit.
As she walked past a balcony that overlooked the garden she was surprised to see the faint glow of lamp light coming from below. Quietly she walked over and looked over the edge. Seated on a bench were Tierney and a man Kiana did not recognize. What she did notice however was that he wore a red tunic, like that of a legionary. She closed her eyes for a minute and shook her head. It was not possible that her sister was exchanging pleasantries, or worse, with a Roman. She backed away and walked down the stairs that led to the back entrance. Without a sound she crept into the alcove that led into the garden. A glint of metal on a raised pedestal caught her attention. Her fears were confirmed when she saw a legionary gladius lying in its scabbard on the pedestal. A slave stood nearby, keeping an eye on the soldier’s weapon. Kiana slowly walked up to it and went to pick it up. When her fingers were but inches away she quickly retracted her hand, as if the gladius would burn it. She clenched and unclenched her fist and then without another thought walked through the archway into the garden. Tierney’s face was clearly visible, though the soldier’s back was to Kiana. Her own face twitched as she heard her sister laughing out loud at something the man had said. The laughter faded when Tierney noticed they were not alone.
“Sister,” she said, rising abruptly. The man turned quickly and then also rose to his feet. While Tierney looked like someone caught in a criminal act, the legionary seemed pleased to see Kiana. He was very young, probably close to the same age as Tierney, who had turned eighteen just four months prior.
“You kept telling me about your sister, and now I see we finally get to meet,” he said, glancing over his shoulder at Tierney, whose face had turned pale.
“Um…yes,” she stammered. “Kiana, this is Felix, a…friend of mine.” The legionary smiled at the emphasis Tierney had placed on the word.
“A pleasure,” he said, bowing slightly. Kiana returned the gesture, though her face remained blank.
“I apologize for disturbing you; I will leave you two alone,” she said. Felix raised a hand and shook his head, a gentle smile never leaving his face.
“No, I really must get going,” he replied. “I’ve gotten used to being up at night that my sleep habits are all messed up. I am sorry if we woke you.” Kiana shook her head.
“Not at all; I just needed a bit of fresh air is all.” Her eyes remained focused on Felix as he kissed Tierney, who remained motionless, on the cheek and then walked past Kiana and through the archway. Kiana watched him strap his gladius to his hip and follow the servant towards the front door. She then turned and faced her sister, whose face was now completely white, her eyes shut and teeth clenched.
“Kiana…” she started to say as she opened her eyes. “…Kiana I am so sorry. I wasn’t sure how you would feel, knowing that my friend is a legionary.”
“Your friend is quite handsome,” Kiana replied. They remained silent for a few moments longer before she continued. “Forgive my intrusion, sister. But I have had another sleepless night.” She purposely avoided making mention of Felix’s status as a Roman soldier. Tierney took a deep breath and color returned to her face once more. Without another word, Kiana walked back the way she had come, suddenly tired and longing for her bed.
After the horrifying experience her sister had gone through the year before, Tierney was afraid that associating with the legionary would be too much for Kiana to bear. What she could never tell her was that Felix had fought at Augustodunum, where Farquhar was killed. Indeed she had never let Felix know about Kiana’s fiancé either.
Chapter X: Heart of Evil
Hoeing weeds had its own quiet appeal to Broehain. When he had been a noble with great estates at his disposal all such menial tasks were performed by slaves. But now these menial tasks were really all that he had left. As a leader of the Turani who had taken part in Sacrovir’s rebellion, his lands had been stripped and his titles forfeit. The only reason the Romans had allowed him to live was because in a desperate attempt to save his family further grief and in part because Sacrovir had used his people as disposable fodder in battle, Broehain had led the Romans to Sacrovir�
��s hiding place. For this he was allowed to live in a small farmhouse with his wife and two young sons. The boys were off playing in the woods nearby while his wife was at the market. As he wiped the sweat from his sun-baked brow, his eyes grew wide as he saw two men and a young girl in a cart riding up the dirt road towards his home. One was very haggard and at a distance appeared to be missing an eye. The other he knew immediately.
“It cannot be,” he said in a quiet voice. Fear gripped him as they stopped not ten feet from him and he clutched his hoe defensively.
“Is this the way you great an old friend?” Heracles asked as he dismounted the cart.
“I thought for certain you had perished,” Broehain replied, wiping fresh perspiration from his brow.
“I thought the same of you,” Heracles said, a friendly smile on his face. Broehain read the look in the Greek’s eyes and they were anything but friendly. “I noticed you were absent when the rest of the leaders rallied to Sacrovir’s estate.”
“The Romans captured me,” the Gaul replied, his eyes averted. “My men were trampled and slaughtered by the Roman cavalry. I barely managed to escape with my life.”
“But escape you did,” Heracles asserted. “But tell me, what happened to your lands? You were a nobleman of the Turani; surely you have more than just a small farmhouse and a patch of barren ground!”
“The Romans took most of my lands,” Broehain answered, not wishing to discuss the situation further.
“But they let you live. Interesting,” Heracles mused. “Or was it perhaps a little trade you did? The Romans take your land but spare your life; and in exchange for what?” He stepped in close to Broehain, their faces but inches apart. “What was it you gave the Romans in exchange for your life? All rebel leaders they captured were executed, but here you are. What was it you offered them, Broehain?” The Gaul’s face was rigid, his expression unchanged. Just then the sounds of boys laughing were heard as his young sons came scampering up the hill. Their laughter immediately ceased when they caught sight of the Greek talking to their father.
