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

by James Mace

  Chapter XII: Black Wings of Death

  Atop a high ridge sat the stockade a half-dozen caravan style tents. The site was perfect for the slavers, for if any of their property did manage to escape there was but one way they could go, and that was along a narrow road that led into the valley. Sheer cliffs on the remaining sides of the camp prevented them from taking any other avenue of escape. The slave camp was large and cramped, most of the slaves slept on the ground. Conditions were harsh, and indeed some would die before they even reached the market. This greatly vexed the procurers, because every slave that perished or could not be sold due to ill health meant a loss of revenue. The slave riot in Lugdunum proved to be a spot of fortune for the men, because now they had a new venue with which to sell their wares. And with the competition ‘eliminated’ the city was rife with a need for fresh slaves and no one to supply them. The chief slave driver mused over these things as he took an evening stroll around the outside of the pens where his quarry slept.

  One particular young woman had just given birth the week before and the slave owner was rather relieved. The selling of a pregnant slave was always tricky. It enticed buyers with the potential of getting two for the price of one, as it were. At the same time there was also the risk involved given the mortality rates amongst newborn slaves and their mothers. Someone making such a purchase risked losing all. On the other hand, a slave who had just given birth to a healthy baby would fetch a far higher price if sold with her child, for she had demonstrated the health and fortitude to survive the trauma of childbirth under the most austere of conditions.

  “Sleep well my pretties,” he said with a sneer, “for soon you will all make me very rich.” He then noticed a commotion in the bushes at the outside corner of the stockade. He had recently forbidden his guards and workers from defiling his stock; however he also knew that primal lust sometimes overcame the fear of the lash and loss of employment. The slave owner was tired and not in the mood to have to discipline one of his men. He saw in the shadows what looked like a pair of legs twitching and thought perhaps the fellow was masturbating to relieve some of that urge. He was about to turn away lest he embarrass the man when he saw what looked like a flash of metal as one of the bushes trembled. As he walked over his eyes grew wide as he saw a bloodied arm flop into the moonlight. A torrent of blood was running past the post that hid the rest of the body and down the slight incline towards his feet.

  Instinctively he reached for his sword, then remembering with horrific fear that he had left it next to his bed. The sound of fingers snapping behind him brought him about quickly. He could not make out the face underneath the hooded cloak before the cleaver blade severed his head from his shoulders, impacting against the post behind him with a loud thud.

  Radek had grown quite fond of his cleaver. He kept it razor sharp; its added weight allowed him to decapitate his prey with relative ease. It was far easier than the mess one of the men had made murdering the guard who had in fact been pleasuring himself when his life was cut short. The thug had not realized that stabbing one in the throat did not mean an instantaneous death and the guard had struggled briefly while the man fought to slice the rest of his throat open.

  Amateurs, Radek thought to himself as he walked over to the compound gate. Three of their men had assaulted the lone guard and were stabbing him repeatedly. His screams awoke the slaves from their slumber. Radek closed his eyes, tilted his head back and took a deep breath through his nose. The nearby caravan tents erupted into flames as they were set alight. Heracles had arranged for them to be doused in oil while the slave drivers slept and then lit. The tent openings had also been tacked shut to trap the occupants inside. Shrieks of terror poured forth from the tents as the slavers sought to escape. Those who managed to were quickly cut down by Heracles’ waiting minions, though a few did manage to escape into the night.

  “Let them go,” Heracles said quietly as some of his thugs sought to pursue the fleeing men. “They will serve our cause better alive rather than dead.” A loud din came from the stockade, where hundreds of frightened slaves sought to escape. The Greek calmly walked over to a raised dais that overlooked the compound, where six of his men already stood bearing torches. He knew how to quell their anguish and use their desperation for his own ends. Within the next few days there would not be a slave procurer within the province who would not fear for his head.

  “I am so glad we started road marching again a couple months ago,” Valens stated as the section grounded their packs outside the farmhouse. “I would hate to think about having to cover a three-day stretch when we’re all fat and out of shape!”

  “That’s the real bastard about these cushy assignments,” Decimus added as he removed his helmet and set it next to his pack. “Think about it, during a campaign we cover twenty-five miles a day and set up fortifications when it’s all done. Plus we have to have to the strength and conditioning to survive in battle during these times.”

  Artorius stretched his back and rolled his shoulders as he silently agreed with his men’s assessment. Since the beginning of his workouts with Magnus and Vitruvius he knew he had incorporated road marches as well as pankration into his regime to keep himself limber and well-conditioned. Granted, pankration left him with sore joints and the ever-present bruising on his face and body. In fact, his left eye had only opened up again two days previously after a rather nasty blow from Master Delios had swollen it shut.

  At the head of the column Macro and Vitruvius were met by Tribune Cursor and his deputy, an auxilia Centurion named Rodolfo Antonius. The Centurions dismounted their horses and saluted.

  “Tribune, Sir,” Macro said, extending his hand which Cursor readily took.

  “Good thing you men have arrived,” Cursor replied. “It’s the strangest thing, but the house appears to be recently abandoned. I’ve got most of my men patrolling the region and checking on the other estates in the vicinity, so we haven’t had much time to search the grounds here.”

  “We’ll get on it,” Vitruvius replied. He then looked over his shoulder and nodded to his Optio who turned and signaled for the Century to ground its gear and start a sweep of the grounds. Optio Flaccus did the same with the Second Century.

  “While your men search the area, you should come take a look at this,” Cursor said as he led the men over to the stables. Outside was a pair of wagons, the horses walking along the fence line of the corral.

  “Alright, I don’t notice anything unusual,” Macro said.

  “That’s the point,” Cursor replied. “There is nothing unusual here. If the residents fled, don’t you think they would have taken their belongings or at least rode away on horseback?”

  “Perhaps,” Macro conceded, “but of course we don’t know how many horses they had to begin with.”

  “If it were me,” Centurion Rodolfo began, “I would release all the horses to hinder any possible pursuit.” Macro frowned in contemplation and folded his arms across his chest.

  “Point taken,” he conceded. Vitruvius nodded and smacked his fellow Centurion on the shoulder.

  “I’m going to see how the lads are faring,” he said as Macro nodded in reply.

  “We’ll catch up with you in a little while,” the senior Centurion remarked before addressing Cursor and Rodolfo once more. “What about inside the house? Anything unusual or out of place?” Cursor shook his head in reply.

  “Not really, but again we haven’t had much time to make a thorough search. It took us a day and a half to get here and since then we’ve been searching the countryside for any sign of these people.”

  “And no one seems to know anything,” Rodolfo added, a trace of irritation in his thickly accented voice. “Every person we have spoken to states the people here kept to themselves. In fact, most said they would not know the house owners even if they had seen them.”

  “What in the name of Apollo is that unholy stench?” Optio Macer asked as he and Vitruvius approached a pile of broken statues, furniture, and ot
her rubbish.

  “Smells like something died,” the Centurion responded as he pulled a large chunk of broken pillar aside, revealing a trap door that led to a cellar. “Well what have we here then?”

  “Looks like it was hidden deliberately,” Macer replied as he and a pair of legionaries cleared the door off. The stench of rotting flesh assailed them as the lifted the trap door; the Optio gagging and letting it drop with a loud slam. “What the fuck?”

  “Found something?” Macro asked as he and Tribune Cursor walked around the corner of the house, Rodolfo and a handful of legionaries in tow. Vitruvius nodded; his face grim.

  “I don’t think this house was abandoned after all.”

  “Get some torches and we’ll have look,” Macro ordered. With much trepidation a pair of legionaries pulled open the trap doors to the cellar once some torches had been lit to see what was inside. The stench of the bodies made even those with the strongest stomachs retch. There were twenty altogether in various states of decomposition. One soldier slipped on a putrid puddle as they scanned the macabre scene. Most of the corpses had been decapitated; the trademark of the rebels who were terrorizing the region. Anything that may have been of value had already been taken, nothing but the rotting corpses and some broken shelves remained.

  “What do you want us to do with the bodies?” a legionary asked Vitruvius, ashen-faced.

  “Burn it,” the Centurion replied, much to the soldier’s relief. The cellar was separate from the rest of the house and with nothing to salvage the legionaries were grateful that they would not have to retrieve what was left of the farm owner, his family and slaves.

  As the flames and smoke billowed from the cellar, Artorius and Praxus walked over to their Centurion, who was overlooking everything with Vitruvius and Cursor.

  “We found the offices of the owner; they have been ransacked,” Artorius said as he saluted Macro. The Centurion nodded, not in the least surprised.

  “Does anyone know who the owners were?” Praxus asked. Macro shook his head.

  “No; we’ll have to send someone back to Lugdunum to have a look at the archives. I’m guessing that the victims are yet more survivors of the rebellion.”

  “And since many of the rebels escaped capture we have no way of knowing how many more of them there might be,” Artorius observed.

  “These people must have been rather reclusive if no one reported them as missing,” Cursor added.

  “I would think that many of the rebels would have been that way,” Macro replied, “especially if they wanted to keep their pasts a secret. It’s no wonder no one in the surrounding region seemed to even know who they were.” At that moment Statorius walked over to the group.

  “Both Centuries have marked out positions for our tents,” he said to Macro. “We’re fortifying the perimeter with trenches and a stockade. Any renegades in the area won’t be surprising us.”

  “Good work,” the Centurion acknowledged.

  “My men will be returning this evening,” Cursor said. “I will make ready to ride again on the morrow.”

  “Sir, given the state of decomposition of those bodies, the rebels who did this will have long since fled the region,” Macro replied.

  “I know; however you should remember there is a large slave caravan encamped to the north of here. Given the trouble the rebels caused for you regarding the slaves in Lugdunum…” he let his voice trail off as the Centurion closed his eyes in realization of what the Tribune was alluding to.

  “That’s all we need; freed slaves rampaging the countryside! Gods know what they would do to any of the estates they come across.”

  “Too true,” Statorius added. “There is not one person in the whole of the Empire, slave or free, who has not heard the horror stories revolving around the slave revolt of Spartacus nearly a century ago.”

  “Whether or not the stories are horror of course depends on if you are slave or free,” Cursor replied with a grin of dark humor. “Thankfully there is only one real way to and from the camp and it leads through a narrow valley with sheer cliffs on either side. However, there is also a little-known path that we can take and thereby avoid running into the slaves, if in fact they have been freed. Remember, we must only deal with the facts as we know them.”

  “How far is the passage from here?” Macro asked the Tribune.

  “About three miles,” Cursor replied. “Rock cliffs jut up on either side at a fairly narrow opening. Past that it is another fifteen miles to the slaver camp.” Macro nodded and bit the inside of his cheek in contemplation.

  “Statorius,” he said, eyes still on Cursor, “tell the men to cease making camp and be ready to march. We will blockade the pass and prevent any escape.”

  “Right away,” the Tesserarius acknowledged before turning about and issuing orders to the Decanii. The legionaries were puzzled and somewhat dismayed by the sudden change, however few complained. All knew that if they were told to break camp and be ready to march, there was a reason for it.

  “It could all be for nothing,” Cursor said, trying to sound reassuring. “We may arrive at the camp and find all the slaves still kept safe in their pens.” He gave a smile that neither convinced Macro or himself.

  “All the same, I’m not taking any chances,” the Centurion replied grimly. “I’d rather have my men walk a few more miles and camp for the night at a roadside rather than finding out later that we let a thousand runaway slaves escape and wreak havoc.” Cursor looked away and breathed deeply.

  “Rodolfo and I will intercept our patrols and divert them to the camp via the high path,” he then explained. “And we will pray to the gods that our fears are in fact unwarranted.”

  The Caesarian coast at last came into view. This was where Justus and his family would depart and link up with Legio VI, Ferrata; the Iron Legion. He had been away from his post for over three years, and though he had thoroughly enjoyed his time spent in Rome he was secretly glad to be back in the ranks where he belonged. As he stood on the railing watching ships in the distant come and go from the harbor he was joined by his old friend, Pontius Pilate. The two men had barely spoken during the two-week voyage across the sea.

  “Here is where we say farewell once more,” Pilate noted. He would be taking the road by land to Raphana, home of Legio XII, Fulminata.

  “Indeed,” Justus replied, still gazing at the harbor as it inched closer.

  “Justus,” Pilate said, placing a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “I don’t want us to part this way. We may have disagreements regarding my patronage with Sejanus, but that should not interfere in our friendship.” The Optio turned and met the Tribune’s gaze.

  “Many friendships throughout our history were ended due to politics,” he said, his face without emotion. “Look at Caesar and Pompey. Hell, the dissolution of their friendship ended others with their bloody civil war. I mean, think about Vorenus and Pullo! Those two men were rivals, yes; but they were also brothers of the Centurionate. And yet when war came Pullo sided with Pompey and the Senate, while Vorenus remained loyal to Caesar.”

  “I know,” Pilate replied quietly. He took a deep breath and then spoke with conviction. “But Justus, I will not allow that to happen with us! Whatever our political differences, we are both loyal to the Emperor and to Rome. Our goals are the same; it is how we get there that we differ. I still need my trusted friend and confidant while I am here in the east.” Justus replied with a smile and leaned back against the ship’s railing, his arms folded across his chest.

  “What does a Tribune, one endorsed by the Emperor’s right hand no less, need with a lowly Legionary Optio?”

  “I need someone I can trust,” Pilate responded, matching the Optio’s grin. “I feel that a time will come when I will need you like I never have before.” His smile was gone and he stared into the sea, almost ashamed of admitting that he was having premonitions. “I sensed the same when I last saw our old friend Artorius. I cannot place it, but for whatever reason my instincts tell
me that the three of us are joined in the same destiny. Crazy, isn’t it?” He looked back at his friend, whose arms were still folded but he was no longer smiling.

  “Perhaps,” Justus replied. “I admit it does seem strange, what with me being stationed in the east for what will probably be the remainder of my career; you doing your time for Sejanus here for a year and then back to Rome and the Praetorians; all the while Artorius is on the opposite end of the Empire bouncing between Germania and Gaul. Have you consulted with an augur about this?”

  “I have,” Pilate answered. “Bastard charged me a fortune and then spouted off a load of rubbish that could have meant absolutely anything I wanted it to. I think that’s what they try and do; give an answer that no matter what happens they can claim they foretold it. They are no more messengers of the gods than I am!”

  “I’ve never had a use for augurs,” Justus said. “I nearly choked the fuck out of one who tried to say that my son will die in battle before he reaches a score in age! Needless to say it was most upsetting to Flavia, especially since Gaius wasn’t even a year old at the time.”

  “Well, keep him out of the legions and you won’t have to worry,” Pilate observed. Justus snorted.

  “The lad seems determined to follow me into the ranks. He’s still got a few years to come to his senses, though. To tell you the truth Pilate, I have no faith or belief in the gods of any people. However, I cannot help but live with this sense of foreboding regarding my son. If Gaius does join the legions and in fact lives to see his twentieth birthday, then perhaps I will have found a god worth praying to.”

  “Tribune Cursor!” Centurion Rodolfo shouted to him. Cursor road up to the slave pens, which were now empty. The bodies of numerous guards and slave drivers lay strewn about. He lowered and shook his head.