The Silent Legion

by P W Hillard

  The other vampire was not so successful. He had chosen Pontius as his prey and ran directly at him. Pontius smirked and raised his torch switching it on. Chet screamed as the blue light poured over his skin. It smoked and cracked, and he began to claw at his own eyes from the pain. Pontius ended it quickly, striking his dagger up through the underside of the vampire's chin. Chet gasped, his mouth drooping open to reveal the blade within, slick with blood. Pontius twisted the blade free and Chet collapsed to the ground. Pontius struck twice more, into the vampire’s heart for good measure.

  There was a roar. Not from the other tracksuited vampire, who stood there, dumbstruck at the death of his brother, but from the old man. He was sprinting, clearing the tables in bounds, shark-like teeth bared. The human thralls, moved aside, momentarily stopping their attack to allow their master through. The legionnaires closed ranks, but Vlad barrelled through, ignoring the slashing of their daggers. He grasped Pontius by the back of his neck and threw him backwards. He bounced off a table, glass chemical equipment shattering as he did. His torch bounced free from his hand, wheeling across the floor. Vlad followed, another great leap clearing the legionnaires. Thick red blood, half congealed, dripped from his wounds as he jumped, several dagger strikes having found flesh.

  “You killed one of my boys,” Vlad growled through bared teeth. He ran at Pontius, who had staggered to his feet. Pontius could feel pain shooting through is side, a rib was broken, and his ankle screamed where it had struck the concrete. He saw the vampire approaching, the adrenaline slowing the moment, stretching it to eternity. He glanced around quickly for a weapon but found none. Then he noticed the door next to him, blue light shimmering from below and a familiar earthy smell. He had often cursed his nephew’s marijuana habit; the smell had been overpowering on occasions. Now he was grateful. The vampire dived forward, jaw distended to bite. Pontius reached into his pocket and threw its contents. It was a simple child’s stink bomb, bought in bulk online, the last remnants of a closed practical joke store. It was enough, the stench causing the vampire to lose his focus. Pontius lent into the bite, slamming the vampire with his body. He could feel its teeth slicing through his flesh as he and his attacker crashed through the doorway. He felt the flesh of his neck tear away as the vampire let go, felt his blood pouring from the wound. He felt pride as he died, the vampires screaming and the smell of burning flesh filling his senses.

  It was a rout. They had lost three of their number and were still badly outmatched. The legionnaires ran, fleeing into the night, scattering into different directions as they escaped through the open doorway. Carl didn’t follow, he stood there, motionless, staring at the corpse of his brother.

  “Fuckers think they can get away with this,” croaked the voice. It was Vlad, he was sitting on the table in the room they used for preparing blood. His skin was cracked and blackened, burnt almost to cinders. Flakes dropped from him as he spoke. “They will fucking pay for this, for what they did to Chet, for what they did to me.” Carl nodded, he had said nothing since the thralls had dragged the burnt Vlad from under the lights. “We are lucky,” Vlad lifted a hand, his charred skin creaked. He looked horrific, a burnt corpse moving under its own power. He was gesturing to a chair. A woman was tied to it with thick packing tape. She couldn’t have moved if she had wanted to. She was covered in bruises, her lip split, blood leaking onto her clothing from underneath. It was a miracle Marcia was alive. “This one will tell us everything.” He stared at her, his eyes brilliant circles of white amongst the ashen skin.

  Chapter Nine

  The gladius flashed in the moonlight as it lunged forward. The blade met flesh, cutting through the meat and colliding off bone. The warrior spluttered, blood pumping from his wound, staining the thin leather and furs he wore. His face was twisted, bestial, his nose more snout than anything else. His hair was long, matted and shaggy. His teeth bared tusks. The roman soldier pulled his gladius free, air rushing into the now empty wound with a wet slurp. He shook the blade, rich moist blood showering his now fallen foe. He stepped to the side, a quick dodge, the swish of an axe blade passing much too quickly past his ear.

  The Roman jabbed again with his blade, but this fighter was quicker, his face a mangled mix of man and wolf. His mouth foamed at the edges, his eyes blazed with rage, but he was wiser than his fallen comrade. The first wolf-man had flung himself at the Roman, unafraid of the blade only to find the specially made copper gladius making short work of him. The two circled each other, eyes transfixed, weapons passing from hand to hand. Around them Roman soldiers and wolf-men fought, exacting a terrible bloody toll on each other.

  “You fought well Titus,” said Phillipus, taking a seat beside his friend. Titus was sat on an ornately carved stone. Careful delicate interweaving stonework was covered in a layer of growing plant life, its roots following the curves and troughs of the stone, as though it were the carver’s intention all along. “Saw you circling around with that big bastard, that axe looked pretty nasty. Nearly helped you shave that stubble he did. Never seen a move like you did before, will have to remember that.” Phillipus placed his hands on the stone, leaning back. He watched the moon list slowly overhead.

  Titus chuckled to himself. He was sat head down, his blade in hand. He was digging the tip into the soil, slowly twisting it and watching the dirt rise around its edge. “I got lucky was all. Didn’t plan that move, was pretty much instinct.” The wolf-man had swung his axe horizontally with an incredible amount of force. Rather than tried to block it, and likely have lost his arm in the process, Titus had dropped onto his back and lashed out with his blade slicing the back of his attacker’s ankle. The wolf-man had stumbled forward and tripped over, giving Titus time to right himself and strike his blade into the creatures back. “I guess that’s how you survive against something as animal as that, instinct.”

  “You might be right,” agreed Phillipus. “Though your plans worked. Copper weapons seemed to do the trick and ditching most of our armour made us quicker." The praetorians had removed almost all their armour, keeping only their helmets. They wore only simple tunics and sandals. The creatures had been incredibly strong, making even the best armour useless. It was an extra unneeded weight.

  “Research my friend.” Titus looked up, staring off at the treeline this time. “Simply needed to ask around. A little…friendly persuasion of captured barbarians and I quickly came across claims that these wolf warriors were immune to steel and fire. We had some spare copper pots, and really, even if they were just men a copper blade would kill them just as well as any other.”

  “They weren’t just men were they though? You saw them out there, those horrific faces, all snarling fangs. And the howling! You hear stories you know; your mother would warn you about monsters when you were little. But by the gods, I never thought it would be real."

  Titus chuckled again, it was a nervous laugh, the laugh of a man who agreed, but didn’t quite know how to say it. He kept looking at the treeline, where but a few hours ago he and his men had fought back the barbarian’s nightmare warriors. He wondered what else lurked outside the empire, hiding in the untamed wilds, clawing incessantly at the walls of civilisation. Titus drew lines in the dirt with his blade, a slow scrape across the ground. His eyes were transfixed ahead, a primal instinct, a gnawing terror demanding he remain vigilant. There, in the shadows, movement. "Gather the men Phillipus. They have returned."

  The palace seemed grander than when Titus had left. It had taken months to march to Germania and back. Now his small group of Praetorian Guard, smaller than when he had left, were lined up in the senate chamber. They were wearing full armour, metal bands attached to leather straps that encircled the stomach and chest. Shoulders were protected by more curved steel, perpendicular to the torso bands. At their hips, they each carried a Gladius. This time it was solid roman steel, the copper weapons had been discarded by most, though Titus had kept his, placing it above the hearth in his villa. Just in case. Before them the First Citizen
strolled up and down the line, he was smiling, his chest puffed out proudly.

  "My Praetorian Guard! You have done extremely well. The mission I sent you on was…unorthodox, but you proved more than capable." First Citizen Augustus rubbed his hands gleefully. His men smiled back. The First Citizen was well-liked. Since taking power he had restored much of Rome and had spent a significant amount of time improving daily life. Police and Firemen walked the streets of Rome, couriers delivered mail and professional soldiers stood guard. Every day millions of footsteps echoed across the system of roads he had built. All put into place by the First Citizen, a man now approaching his seventieth birthday. "You shall all be rewarded beyond your normal compensation. You are dismissed men, all except you Centurion Titus, I would speak with you."

  Titus stepped forward from the line, as they turned as one and marched out of the chamber. The senate was out, for the time being, the marble steps on which they usually sat eerily empty, looming over the chamber. Augustus took his seat, a humble wooden thing, plain rough-cut timber draped in a simple red cloth. The message behind the throne was straight forward. There was no need for grandstanding, no declarations of rulership set in gold and jewels. Augustus was first citizen, his power so absolute that any peacock-like display of opulence was simply unnecessary. "I am at service First Citizen," said Titus, taking a knee on the ground. His armour rustled, the sound echoing through the empty chamber, chasing his words around the room.

  "I have read your reports Centurion; these wolf-men seem to have been dangerous foes. Their strength and ferocity seem almost… fanciful, a story told to frighten children. I fear that you shall have to rewrite your report with something much more believable," Augustus chuckled to himself as he spoke. Despite his years, he was still healthy, his face still chiselled and handsome.

  “I’m afraid I don’t understand First Citizen.”

  “These, creatures, Titus, I would prefer that they remain a secret. I have worked hard over my many years to ensure the survival of Rome and its people. Part of that is installing pride in the populace, a desire to see Rome prosper. They cheer out victories in the streets, they talk of us being all-conquering, unstoppable. The people of newly conquered regions hear these words, and you know what they do?" Augustus leant forward in this throne, hands pressed together.

  “They become afraid to rebel?” Titus suddenly felt like he was back in his army training, being questioned about the right way to hold a blade.

  “Afraid? No, not afraid I would say. Whilst some do rebel, you’ll never truly get rid of that, many of them hear about the glory of Rome and decide that, they too, would like some glory. They seek to become citizens Titus. This is how we grow, not with threats or subjugation, but with the promise things will be better.” Augustus smiled to himself, pleased with his assertion.

  Titus thought for a moment and realised what the First Citizen was trying to say. “If people thought that our enemies had monsters on their side, it would undermine Rome as all-powerful."

  “Exactly,” replied Augustus excitedly, “we are civilisation, Titus. These beasts are wild unnatural things, they have no place in an ordered world and should be destroyed wherever they are found. Not just to strengthen Rome, although that is an obvious benefit. Titus, in my years as first citizen I have heard many things, seen reports from across the known world. These wolf-men are not the first creatures, nor the last. You dealt with them excellently, I read about the copper blades. I am impressed. Stand, come with me, I wish to show you something."

  Augustus led Titus through the palace, through hallways he had never seen before. He had spent years as part of the Praetorian Guard, their day to day role to guard the palace. These passageways he could swear were new, but the stone was old, roughly worn, paint faded with age.

  "I had the new senate building built atop an older ruined building. These passages are part of that." Augustus let out a hearty laugh. "I can see you are confused, Titus. I have… methods of hiding these passages. You would never have spotted them no matter how long you spent here. Only I know their locations. And now you of course. Come, grab that torch.” Titus did as instructed, taking a lit torch from its sconce on the wall. Augustus did the same, before beckoning for Titus to follow him down a spiralling staircase, its steps vanishing downwards into blackness. “Watch your step,” warned Augustus, “These steps can be treacherous, I have nearly fallen once or twice. They aren't well-maintained truth be told. The problem with secrecy." Titus imagined Augustus, creeping down these steps on his own. Though he was reasonably spry for his age, a fall down these steps, where no-one would find him, would have been the end of the First Citizen. Titus shook his head, trying to dislodge the thought from his mind.

  “How far down do these steps go?” Titus asked as the pair descended. The torches flickered, but the spiralling stairs meant that the next steps were always just around the corner enough to be cast in darkness.

  “You know,” said Augustus, “I’m not entirely sure. Beneath street level at least. Probably deeper. These tunnels eventually lead to the sea. They go on for quite some way. Come, let us not tarry, lest your fellow guardsmen start to worry.”

  The thing pulsed, a rhythmic beating like a still pumping heart torn from a chest. It was slick black, covered in a fine film of grease. Its body was a mass of unblinking eyes, attached in clusters like hanging grapes. From this mass stretched tentacles, though instead of suckers it had hundreds of tiny fanged mouths. Its whole body was wrapped thick with iron chains, the tentacles staked to the ground with iron spikes. The eyes had all turned to face the two men as they had entered the room. They stared, a terrible baleful stare, piercing Titus, digging through his skin to what felt like his soul.

  “What…what…” he stuttered, “what is this?”

  “Have you ever heard of the Oracles?” asked Augustus.

  Titus stood there for a moment. He knew the answer, but the words stuck in his throat, as though some force was reaching down his gullet and shoving his reply into his stomach. “Yes,” he whispered eventually.

  "Good," said Augustus. "The mouthpieces of the gods, seers, prophets of the future. The Greek people who came before us had temples, where priestesses would grant petitioners glimpses of the future. This creature was found by some treasure hunters, beneath a ruined temple in Greece. I had it shipped back here. Do not worry, it appears iron is anathema to it. Chained like this it is harmless."

  “This thing, this monster, is an oracle?”

  "Not quite, though it does allow it. This temple was ancient, it predates any of the currently active ones. They seem to be copies of the concept, but rather lacking in the execution." Augustus stepped forward, torch in one hand, the other outstretched. He gripped one of the eyeballs with a soft squelch and pulled. To Titus' surprise, it came free, a thin strand of slime stretching out as it did. "Hold out your hand," ordered Augustus. Titus did as instructed, and the First Citizen plopped the freshly plucked eye into the outstretched palm, as though he were handing over a grape. “Now eat it.”

  Titus stood there for a moment, ooze covered eyeball in hand. “Eat it?”

  “Yes, eat it.”

  Titus shook, his body reacting in revulsion to the instruction. He took a deep breath and placed the eyeball into his mouth. He bit down, the eye popping open in his mouth, liquid pouring out. It tasted like ash and death. It radiated a gentle heat that Titus could feel sliding down his gullet as he swallowed. He took in a deep breath once the rancid thing was gone, and everything went black.

  Titus was floating. He could feel water flowing around his naked body. He panicked for a moment, then realised he was breathing normally. Taking a moment to compose himself he looked around. All around him were points of bright light, thousands of stars surrounding him. He turned in the water, his body moving slowly. There was no current, yet he felt resistance, as though the water was thicker than it should be. He was enveloped by the stars, nothing else in sight, above or below. With nothing else to do, T
itus chose a direction and began to swim. As he swam the stars began to shift and change, swirling around him, as though he were in the centre of a sphere being twisted. He stopped swimming and the stars stopped moving. Then he noticed it, one of the stars was brighter than the others. He began to swim again, and again the stars swirled. All apart for the brighter one. He swam, kicking his legs against the invisible fluid, the bright star drifting towards him. As he came closer he could see that it wasn’t a star at all, but a tiny mote of light, drifting like a dandelion in the breeze. It was close enough to touch now, he reached out, and there was a flash of light.

  Titus watched, floating above the scene. No one seemed to be able to see him. He was in a busy tavern. He knew this one, had been there a few times off duty. They made decent beer and the food was reasonably priced. They also provided other pleasures, and he could see one of his favourite girls, leading a man upstairs. There was another flash.

  This time he was in one of the inns upper rooms. The woman sat on the bed, smiling at the man she had brought inside. He wore a heavy woollen cloak, its hood pulled over his head. The man smiled back, revealing rows of serrated teeth. Horrid jagged things. The man dashed forward towards the woman. Titus tried to scream, tried to move, tried to do anything, but he was just a witness here, a silent watcher. The creature before him bit deeply into the woman’s throat before she could scream. He wrenched his head backwards tearing flesh free. Blood poured from the gaping wound on her throat gushing onto the tiled floor. The creature bit again, and then again. Over and over, eagerly tearing chunks from the woman and lapping up the blood. The scene ended with a flash, but the image was seared into his mind.

  Titus opened his eyes to find himself back in the chamber with Augustus. The foul nightmare thing thrummed in the middle of the room. Its pulsing rhythm was much faster, though it was beginning to slow now. He staggered a bit, the sensations of swimming and floating still echoing in his mind, confusing his legs. Augustus placed one hand on Titus’ shoulder, steadying him.