Soldier of Rome: Heir to Rebellion (The Artorian Chronicles)

by James Mace

  “Ah, your young heirs,” Heracles said, his voice kind and pleasant in front of the boys. “Heirs to a hovel, but still…” Broehain cut him short with a hard rap across the chest with his hoe.

  “What do you want, Heracles?” he asked, his voice betraying the anger that simmered inside of him. The Greek glared at him, a wicked smile crossing his face.

  “I want you to make things right you traitor fuck,” he hissed into Broehain’s ear. “You sold out your kinsmen to save your own hide!”

  “You are not even of this land!” Broehain retorted, his own voice low to match Heracles’. “You are a bloody Greek and of no kin to these people who you led to their deaths!” Heracles stepped away, mocking his feelings being hurt.

  “Led them to their deaths, did I? Oh no, my dear Broehain. I offered your people the knowledge with which to win their freedom. Were there any real warriors left in Gaul, you might have survived with more than just a shack for your whore and little fuck trophies.” His anger boiling over, Broehain rushed towards him, his hoe raised to strike. In flash Heracles drew Sacrovir’s long sword and pointed it at the Gaul’s chest.

  “Ah ah ah, I don’t think so,” he said as Broehain stopped in his tracks. He returned the sword to its scabbard and folded his hands in front. “Sad really, that you would rather rot out your existence here than redeem what’s left of your sorry excuse for a life. Good day.” He abruptly turned on his heel and walked back to the cart.

  “A shame really,” he said as he sat down. Radek gave a sickening grin as he turned the cart around and sent them back down the road.

  “A shame?” Kiana asked, her face hidden beneath her hooded cloak as she sat behind the two men.

  “No need to worry, my dear,” Heracles soothed. “Our friend Broehain will see the error of his ways yet.” Seated where she was, Kiana was unable to see the glint of evil in Heracles’ eye. Radek saw it and it made him grin even broader. “It was the betrayal of those like him that led to your beloved’s death.” Kiana closed her eyes as the words pierced her heart. It was all starting to make sense to her. Had the rebel army not turned tail and ran like they had at Augustodunum, Farquhar may have lived. She reasoned that perhaps nothing could have saved her fiancé, though she now understood that men such as Broehain had ensured his death.

  “See to it he understands his folly,” she said in a dark voice that was music to Heracles’ ears.

  “All in due time my dear.”

  “Go check on your brother,” Broehain’s wife said to their eldest son. They were seated around the small table for their evening meal; a soft glow of a lamp providing a humble amount of light within.

  “He’s old enough to know how to take a piss on his own!” the boy complained, causing his father to rebuke him with a hard cuff behind the ear.

  “Don’t talk to your mother like that and do what you’re told!” he said sharply. The lad stood quickly and left the room lest he receive an additional physical scolding. His wife stared at him for a second before returning to her supper. “I’ll not have my sons disrespect their mother.”

  “Of course,” she replied, eyes fixed on the table. Broehain then stood and kissed his wife on the forehead.

  “I must go check on the goats,” he said as he opened the door. “I’ve had to fix that bloody gate on their corral three times now and I don’t want them getting out again.”

  As Broehain walked down the path that led to the goat pens he heard a rustling in the bushes. He started to panic; his confrontation with Heracles earlier fresh in his mind.

  “Who’s there?” he asked the darkness. He stepped towards the sound, only to be felled by a club from behind, rending him unconscious before he hit the ground.

  “Leave him,” a voice said in the darkness. “The boss said to leave this one alive.”

  The elder lad walked slowly down a path that led away from the house, calling out his brother’s name. It was completely black outside, and his eyes had not yet adjusted to the darkness.

  “I’ll beat you as soon as I find you,” he swore in a low voice. He walked over to the chicken coops, where a mysterious shape seemed to protrude from its side. “What are you doing over by the damn chicken coops?” He stopped short, his eyes adjusting in time to see a sight of abject horror.

  His brother’s small body hung from the side of the chicken coop, his limbs stretched in each direction. The boy had been disemboweled, and the stench made his brother wretch. He turned to run back to the house to find his father when he saw the form of a man in front of him. He opened his mouth to cry out but he never had the chance to utter a sound as the cleaver severed his head from his spine.

  “Where are those boys at?” Broehain’s wife said, her patience waning. The family had fallen on hard times since the Sacrovir Revolt had ended so disastrously for their people. So many had not returned at all; slaughtered as they were in the mountains outside of Augusta Raurica and the plains of Augustodunum. Her husband had been a chief amongst the Turani, and now they were left destitute. The Romans had only granted them a small farmhouse and few acres of land to farm; a far cry from the massive estates they had once overseen. With a deep sigh of resignation, she opened the door to go find her sons, only to find the way blocked by several men. One of whom she recognized as the man who she had witnessed her husband arguing with earlier. Her eyes grew wide in terror.

  “What do you want?” she asked in a commanding voice. “My husband told you that you are not welcome here!”

  “Your husband is indisposed at the moment,” the Greek said matter-of-factly as the men forced their way into the house. “We are simply here to make him see the error of his ways.” He then snapped his fingers. Two of the men grabbed her by each arm; one who was missing an eye stuffed a gag into her mouth, an evil grin on his face.

  “Tie her up, have your way with her, and then kill her,” Heracles ordered; his voice calm and nonchalant. Radek gave a broad grin, the other two men laughing as the woman fought against their grip. For the former slave, he had not had any sort of physical pleasure since his young plaything had perished in the mines months before. He could not even remember when he had last felt the touch of a woman.

  “Hush, my dear,” he said in a mock soothing voice as he held his clever up to her neck. “You can play nicely and we’ll make your passing swift; or you can be the defiant bitch and I can have my fun while cutting you slowly.” The woman closed her eyes and sobbed in horror as her fate came unveiled. Heracles paid no heed to her sobs that sounded through the gag as he walked out into the night.

  The day was perfect for a morning patrol outside the city. The sky was only slightly overcast, and a gentle breeze touched the faces of the legionaries. The northern road they traveled was one of the main arteries that nearly ran the length of the entire province. To their right was the River Arar, which merged with the runoff from the Lacus Lemannus, also known as the Lake of Geneva. From there it continued south out of the city as the River Rhodanus.

  Artorius and Praxus usually worked together when the sections were tasked out in pairs. Macro knew how well the two Decanii clicked and so he never forced them apart. Artorius still had two vacancies in his section, which had been there ever since he took over. With seven legionaries, Praxus was only short one man. Such was the lot in any military unit; very rarely were Centuries ever at full strength. Indeed, Sergeant Rufio’s section was at half strength with four legionaries.

  “Beautiful morning,” Artorius observed as they strolled leisurely down the cobblestone road, a gentle breeze catching him in the face. He closed his eyes and breathed in deeply. His respite was cut short by an unholy cry that seemed to echo for miles.

  “What the hell…” Praxus started to say when the cry renewed itself with even more vigor.

  “Let’s go!” Artorius shouted to the men behind him as he started at a quick jog up the hill. Once at the top they instinctively fell into a line formation, shields to their front, javelins protruding forward.

/>   “I think it came from that house,” Gavius observed. The same unintelligible howl sounded once more. At once they started at a dead run towards the house. The door was open and the sounds of a man sobbing were heard inside.

  “Secure the area and check for any other disturbances,” Praxus ordered his men as he and Artorius grounded their shields, javelins, and helmets. As they stepped quietly inside they came upon a man kneeling in a pool of blood next to the bed. He was crying without stopping, his hand clutching that of his wife. Her body lay sprawled out on the bed, signs of violation evident. What repelled the legionaries most was the fact that she had been completely disemboweled, her severed head mounted on one of the bed posts. Artorius gently placed a hand on the man’s shoulder, keeping the other on his gladius in case he should turn violent.

  “Sir,” he said quietly, but the man just sobbed louder. He looked over at Praxus, not sure what else to do. The elder Decanus grabbed the man by the fronts of his shoulders and turned him towards him.

  “Sir, you have to tell us what happened!” he ordered. The soldiers picked the man up and carried him over to a chair next to an upturned table. He did not try to resist them.

  “I thought they were dead,” he said between sobs. “I swore those bastards all killed themselves when Sacrovir was found.” Artorius and Praxus shared a glance at the mention of the dead rebel leader’s name.

  “You’re telling us these were Sacrovir’s men?” Artorius asked. The man just started to cry once more.

  “My wife…my beautiful wife. She was innocent!” Praxus slapped the man across the face, causing Artorius to wince.

  “Damn it man, you have to tell us; who did this?”

  “That bastard, Heracles,” he said at last. “He blames me for Sacrovir’s downfall. Said that if I did not return to him in loyalty he would see to it I paid for it.”

  “That’s the same man the slave we tortured told us about,” Artorius observed.

  “Seems he’s getting around,” Praxus replied. They were interrupted by a pair of legionaries from Praxus’ section who burst into the room.

  “You’re going to want to see this,” one of the men stated, his face pale.

  “You found my sons,” the man said, his eyes on the floor. “My sons and my wife…they have paid for my sins.”

  “Listen, we will help you bury your family,” Praxus offered. “But then you will come with us to Lugdunum and tell us everything you know. These men must be brought to justice!”

  “Justice?” the man replied, looking at the Decanus for the first time. “No, it is I who has been brought to justice. My name is Broehain; I was a lieutenant of Sacrovir’s, until I betrayed him. I should have died with him, but instead I have brought death to my family.”

  “Have the men gather up all the bodies and lay them out for burial,” Artorius ordered the legionaries. “We’ll be out in a minute.”

  “Right away.”

  Broehain sat by idly as the Romans dug a series of graves for his wife and children with tools they had found next to the house. He had ceased crying, but now would show no emotions at all. He continued to stare at the ground and rock slowly back and forth on a stump.

  “I think we’re done,” Decimus remarked as both sections gathered around their Decanii. Artorius and Praxus had tried to lay out the dead with as much reverence as was possible, given the severe mutilation of the bodies. Both men were covered in gore and shaken by the task.

  “Doesn’t he have anything to say?” Felix asked. Broehain only continued to rock back and forth while staring at the ground.

  “Just get it over with,” Artorius answered. As carefully as they were able they lowered Broehain’s slain family into their graves. Immediately they started filling in the holes, anxious as they were to not have to observe the macabre sight any more. It was then that the Gaul rose to his feet and purposefully walked towards his house. Artorius was quick to put a hand on his shoulder.

  “Where are you going?” he asked. Broehain forcibly shoved his hand away.

  “Some things for my journey,” he stated as he continued into the house. Artorius did not follow him, but instead continued to help his men finish their hateful task. Several minutes passed and still Broehain had not appeared.

  “Hey, see what he’s doing in there,” Artorius directed Decimus and Carbo. “I want to get out of this place as soon as possible…before any more citizens turn up mutilated!” Gavius and Magnus he had sent back to Lugdunum to report the situation to Centurion Macro. He hoped Macro would arrive soon. In order to expedite their message, he had ordered his men to ground their armor and equipment so that they could run back to Lugdunum. At a steady jog it should not have taken his men more than an hour and he knew that Macro would arrive on horseback.

  “He’s not in there, and the back door was left open,” Decimus said as they rushed out of the house.

  “Oh shit!” one of Praxus’ legionaries shouted, pointing towards a copse of trees down the slope of the hill. He immediately started to run towards them, shouting, “Hey! Stop!”

  “Oh no,” Artorius said under his breath as the rest of them ran after the legionary. As they came around the side of the house they saw what had caught the man’s attention. Broehain sat on the branch of a tree, tying a rope to it. The other end was already looped around his neck. He looked up to see the legionaries fast approaching and hurried making sure the end was secure to the branch.

  “Don’t do it! Let us help you!” Artorius shouted. Broehain shook his head and leapt from the tree, the soldiers all halting in their tracks as they heard his neck snap.

  “Son of a bitch!” Artorius swore. “I should never have let him go off by himself! Damn it I should have known better.”

  “I’ll cut him down,” Decimus said to no one in particular as he walked over to the tree.

  “I guess we’ll go dig another hole,” one of the legionaries said with dark humor.

  “Fuck!” Artorius swore again as he walked back up the slope, Praxus by his side. “Our one chance at getting some viable information about these bastards and I blow it!” His words came as they reached the top of the hill and were overheard by Centurions Proculus, Macro, and Vitruvius, who had just arrived on horseback. A contingent of a dozen horsemen accompanied them. He hung his head, ashamed, as the Centurions dismounted.

  “You didn’t blow anything,” Macro said. “I doubt that sod could have told us anything we didn’t already know.”

  “All the same, looks like we’ll never know,” Artorius replied.

  “It was bound to happen,” Vitruvius continued. “A man loses all he’s ever cared about in this world in such a savage manner; what does one expect?”

  “Still it troubles me what these bastards have done,” Proculus added. “We’re ten miles from the city. How many more will they go? And is this just a local band of thugs, or is there something larger and darker at work here?”

  “There is definitely something dark at work here,” Artorius answered as the rest of the legionaries came around the corner, Broehain’s corpse in tow.

  “Explain,” Proculus persisted.

  “The owner of this home was a ransomed leader in Sacrovir’s rebellion,” Praxus said. “We also know that it was the same man who was responsible for the ambush by the slave pens.”

  “Sir,” Artorius remarked. “This is not just a band of thugs we are dealing with. I daresay we are facing the heart of evil.”

  Chapter XI: Indus’ Return

  Life had been good to Julius Indus since the Sacrovir Revolt. He had accumulated much in wealth during the raping of the rebellious nobles, to say nothing of the fact that he had his own cavalry regiment named in his honor by the Emperor himself. The Treveri cavalry regiment, now known as Indus Horse, had distinguished itself by its loyalty and valor during the rebellion. They had suffered many casualties helping a legionary cohort destroy the rebellious Turani tribe and had fought valiantly at the Battle of Augustodunum; routing the flanks of Sac
rovir’s army. Indus was indeed proud of his regiment and was humbled to have such brave men under the banner that bore his name. As he stood against the side of his headquarters building, one of his troopers rode up on his horse and briskly dismounted.

  “Sir, message from Centurion Proculus,” the man said, handing him a small scroll. Indus frowned in contemplation. While still reading he walked over to the quarters of his deputy.

  “Have the regiment ready to move in two days,” he directed. “I am heading for Lugdunum immediately; meet me there.” He then turned to the Tribune who accompanied him. “You’re coming with me.”

  “I’m ready to ride now,” the man, whose name was Cursor, replied. Aulus Nautius Cursor was a thirty-year old Tribune who had grown bored with politics and had elected to devote his life to military study. His face bore a very pronounced nose and rather than fight his receding hairline he had elected to shave his head bald. While most men prided themselves on full, healthy heads of hair, Cursor had grown to relish his baldness as so many women found it irresistible. He had been given the cognomen Cursor for his ability to run great distances, and it was his obsession with speed and maneuver that led him to request a transfer to the cavalry. He had effectively led an auxiliary infantry regiment during the rebellion of Sacrovir and Florus, though his superiors quickly assessed his talents more suited for mounted warfare.

  Legate Silius therefore sent him to Gaul under the tutelage of the legendary cavalry commander, Julius Indus. It was Silius’ intent to place Cursor in charge of all cavalry assets for the Rhine Army upon his return, much in the same manner as the Tribune Pontius Pilate had been given authority of the army’s artillery because of his talents in that arena. Cursor was an eager student, having seen first-hand the devastating effectiveness of Indus’ regiment, which had been renamed Indus Horse in his honor by the Emperor himself.