by R. W. Peake
His back was aching, and he was tired, but with a sigh, Diocles told the other man, “We might as well get this over with.”
The slave, a Gaul named Imbetos, was a member of the Boii tribe who had become a slave early in Caesar’s campaign, liked the Greek well enough, but still complained, “Why can’t we take a rest? Besides,” he grumbled, “it’s not like we’re going to find anything on those bastards. They already picked them clean.”
Diocles didn’t have to ask who “they” were, and he also knew that Imbetos was simply speaking the truth. The men of the higher numbered Cohorts of the 10th wouldn’t have done justice to the name of Legionaries if they hadn’t taken advantage of the time they had been held in reserve up on the rampart and thoroughly searched every dead Bargosan. Rather than argue, Diocles simply began walking down the rampart, knowing that Imbetos would eventually follow him. Reaching the pile first, Diocles stopped for a moment to examine the bodies, trying to decide which corpse would be the first to be removed. Down below on the ground, the other slaves and medici were involved in dragging the bodies scattered about, which included the charred remnants of the men who had succumbed to the raging flames of the naphtha, and while he hadn’t said as much, it was why he was up on the rampart, because as grisly a task as it was, it was still far better than having to deal with lumps of charred, scorched meat. There was still a fire going in the middle of the camp, the remnants of the line created by the jars launched from the ships in the canal, and while the light it provided made the process less difficult, it also meant that the wounds that had killed the men in this pile were easier for Diocles to see. The man on top had been disemboweled, which was why Diocles was standing there, silently examining the situation as he waited for Imbetos. While it couldn’t be called quiet, compared to the roaring sounds of battle, the random shouts and calls of the Roman slaves, and the buzzing of conversations being held between them meant that, at first, Diocles thought what he had heard had somehow echoed against the wooden parapet and it only sounded as if there was a voice nearby. When he heard it again, he whirled about, but saw that Imbetos was still more than fifty paces away, and when he walked the short distance to the edge of the rampart and looked down, nobody was there. With understandable reluctance, Diocles walked slowly over to the pile of bodies, then squatted down, following the source of the noise with his ears. When, after a heartbeat, Diocles determined that, not only was he not hearing things, but whoever it was performing what he at least recognized as some sort of chant, before he could stop himself, he let out a quite undignified squawk of alarm, and in one motion, he stood and literally took a hopping step backwards, trying to distance himself from…whatever was in that pile.
“What is it?” Imbetos was too far away to hear but had seen Diocles’ sudden reaction, and he stopped in his tracks, muttering under his breath the incantation against evil spirits his mother had taught him as a child long before.
The sound of Imbetos’ voice actually made Diocles feel a little better, but his eyes never left the heap of bodies, answering, “I’m not sure. Some…thing, is in that pile, singing, I think.”
“Singing?” Now Imbetos began moving again, except this time, it was to back away, shaking his head and muttering, “I don’t want any part of that.”
Diocles didn’t intend to argue, because he actually felt the same way, but neither was he inclined to the superstitious. Besides that, he was curious by nature, Pullus would have said inordinately so, and it was this that compelled him to crouch back down to continue listening for a moment. Taking a deep breath, he stood up and, with a grimace of distaste, tugged at the corpse on top of the pile, grabbing it by the arms and, gagging from the sight and smell as the body slid off the pile trailing loops of intestines, Diocles began moving the bodies.
“What are you doing?” Imbetos had at least stopped moving away, but he still refused to move back in that direction.
“My job,” Diocles called over his shoulder, deciding which body should be the next to be removed.
This didn’t persuade Imbetos in the slightest, but Diocles made no issue of it, and in fact, he understood; indeed, he agreed with the other slave that this was not an intelligent thing to do. As he worked, he had a chance to listen, and Diocles realized that, while it had a singsong, lilting quality to it, whoever or whatever was at the bottom of this pile was actually chanting the same words over and over. One by one, while Imbetos stood a few paces away, craning his neck for a better look but still not moving, Diocles dragged bodies out of the way, getting closer to the source of the noise. And, when the last body was removed, despite himself, Diocles muttered his own prayer of thanks, seeing not some sort of demon or other creature from the underworld who was trying to lure an unsuspecting victim, but what by all appearances was a soldier. A very young soldier, Diocles saw, lying on his left side, curled up in an almost fetal position, with eyes tightly closed as he continued his chant.
“Well? What is it?” Imbetos called out, standing on his tiptoes to try and see over the bodies that Diocles had dragged away, cursing when he realized he couldn’t see without getting closer.
“It’s a boy,” Diocles called out. “That’s all. Just a boy.”
Then, he bent down and, with a gentleness that was at odds with all that had occurred over the previous watches, Diocles rolled the young soldier onto his back. His primary aim was to see whether or not the youth had suffered a wound, and if so, whether it was mortal but, for whatever reason, he had refused to succumb to the inevitable. That this was an enemy soldier Diocles knew, yet despite this, when he saw that, aside from what appeared to be a nasty cut and massive bruise along the left side of the boy’s head just underneath the rim of his helmet, the boy seemed unhurt, he sagged in relief.
“Well, boy,” he said, “it seems that those gods you’re praying to aren’t ready for you to join them just yet.” This prompted a response, in the form of fluttering eyelids, an opening of the eyes, and the kind of unfocused gaze that Diocles had seen quite often when he worked as a medici. Without rising, Diocles called out, “Imbetos.” When the Gaul responded, he said, in a quiet tone but one that the other slave recognized was an order, “Get a stretcher.”
The stream of civilians began from the eastern side of the city, as terrified people; men, women and children, fled in the direction of the palace, giving Abhiraka his first indication that something unexpected was happening. After repelling the first attempt by the citizens to force their way into the enclosure, Abhiraka had assumed that those people had spread the word that the king wasn’t allowing anyone in, but what he saw now was much more serious.
“Bolon!” he called, and when the bodyguard rushed to his side, he pointed and ordered, “Go find out what this is about!”
When Bolon departed, Abhiraka returned to stare to the north, still certain that this would be the direction from which to expect the first attack. It was a logical conclusion; he had ordered the withdrawal from the northern wall first, but he hadn’t stayed long enough to see that, despite the slaughter of his elephants by what he couldn’t help thinking was some sort of a demon’s potion, the Romans had been badly hurt as well. He was still looking in that direction when, from the western side of the enclosure to his right, there was a shout from one of his men, quickly echoed by others. When he turned, the sight that greeted his eyes was almost identical to that he had just witnessed on the opposite side; a flood of people, rushing from the streets that emptied out into the large open area that surrounded the enclosure. And, like the other people who even then were jammed around the southern, main gate, they were screaming in fear, carrying what few belongings they could gather, hoping for a refuge that Abhiraka understood he shouldn’t give. When the fleetest of the fleeing citizens reached the western wall, where there was no gate, they flowed like water, some heading for the southern gate, while others, some of whom had either glimpsed the jam of people around it or just made the choice randomly, turned and fled to the northern gate, the on
ly other entrance into the enclosure. This, more than anything else, formed Abhiraka’s decision, although he told himself in the moment that the only reason he was doing it was because he didn’t want his subjects in between the northern wall of the enclosure and the assault he was expecting.
“Open the gates! Both of them! Open the gates!”
He bellowed this, over and over, ignoring the looks of gratitude from the men lining the walls, although he was acutely aware of them, and it reminded him that these men undoubtedly had family members among the throngs outside the enclosure, but he told himself that what he was doing was strictly for military necessity. The gates were flung open, and the flood of people was so overpowering that one of the men who opened the gate was trampled underfoot by the rush, his screams drowned out by the shouts and cries from the hysterically thankful people. What was left of the man afterward resembled those Romans who had been trampled by his Harem, but Abhiraka barely noticed the remains, watching his subjects as they rushed out into the enclosure. This sudden addition of humans triggered the return of the panic that some of the elephants still being treated had experienced when they were first subjected to the sights, sounds, and smells when the members of their herd were burned alive, which in turn created even more chaos to the point that some of the civilians who had been intent on getting in the enclosure were now desperately trying to get out. And, as Abhiraka watched in dazed bemusement, some of them climbed the scaffold to hurl themselves over the wall, just a manner of heartbeats after they forced their way in. Under different conditions, it would have amused the king to see the manner in which his subjects behaved, but frankly, he was so intent on being ready for the sound of approaching men, he barely noticed. One of the horn players standing on the eastern wall raised the alarm again, except it wasn’t what Abhiraka was expecting; instead, when he rushed over to a spot where he could at least see in the direction his soldier was indicating, he didn’t see any sign of people, hostile or otherwise. It took him a heartbeat to recognize the faint glow, and more importantly, that it was contained within his walls.
Abhiraka stared, his mind struggling to understand what this might mean, but it was the returning Bolon who voiced what would turn out to be the correct answer, when he asked his king, “Are the Romans sacking the city already and leaving us here?”
Abhiraka felt the weight of what seemed to be an immense stone, right on his chest, crushing the breath out of him, so all he could manage was, “It seems that way, Bolon.”
“What should we do, Highness?” Bolon turned to face his king, averting his eyes when Abhiraka looked at him, and who seemed to be at a loss, which he confirmed when he said simply, “I don’t know, Bolon. I really don’t know.”
“They won’t do what?”
Pullus was now standing at the spot Mardonius had left Cyclops, he and Fibulanus finding Pullus and the Sixth Cohort just as they were entering the third block from the wall. This seemed inordinately slow to Mardonius, but he saw a possible reason why when the Optio he recognized as belonging to the First of the Sixth emerged from a building, dragging a Legionary by one arm, even as the ranker tried his best keep hold of the struggling woman he was clasping around the waist. As for Pullus, he was in the process of using his vitus on another man, but while the reason wasn’t immediately apparent, when Mardonius got close enough, he first saw the broken jug, the contents shimmering in the low light, then smelled the strong aroma, recognizing that it was the same concoction that, even now, was still burning a hole in his stomach. Although, he realized with some surprise, I’m not nearly as nervous as I was a while ago. And, he thought, I’m actually looking forward to a good fight!
This was so unlike him that it caused him to pause, but Fibulanus gave him a shove, and they closed the distance to Pullus, just in time to hear him growling, “I don’t give a fart in a testudo whether you want to find some more of this swill, you cunnus! I told you to get back where you belong!”
To emphasize his point, Pullus gave the man a kick, a hard kick, right in the man’s ass, propelling him forward a couple extra paces, and for a moment, Mardonius thought that the ranker would fall flat on his face as his arms waved wildly; somehow, he managed to remain on his feet and he went staggering off, presumably to wherever he belonged.
Pullus, sensing the movement behind him, whirled on the balls of his feet, his sword suddenly up and held in what was close to a first position, his eyes narrowed at the sight of the pair, which was replaced by a frown of recognition, and he pointed the sword. “You’re…Mardonius, yes? From the Eighth Cohort?”
Mardonius could count on one hand and have fingers left over the number of times he’d exchanged words with Titus Pullus, his one distinction being he was the first Parthian to accept his conquerors’ call to enlist, which marked his first meeting and only conversation with the Primus Pilus, and he snapped to a rigid position of intente as he answered with as steady a voice as he could manage, “Yes, Primus Pilus. Pilus Prior Ausonius sent us,” he turned to indicate Fibulanus who, despite privately snickering at how Mardonius reacted, suddenly decided it would be wise to emulate the Parthian as he continued, “me and Fibulanus.”
For an instant, Pullus looked confused, and Mardonius heard him mutter, “Ausonius?” Then, he gave an abrupt shake of his head. “I always forget his last name. Well?” he demanded, and Mardonius didn’t require more time with his Primus Pilus to know that the huge Roman was irritated already. “What’s your report?”
This only flustered Mardonius more; his Centurion had only said to bring the Primus Pilus back with him, not how he was supposed to accomplish that, but when he looked over at Fibulanus for help, the veteran was staring straight ahead.
“Well? Did your Pilus Prior send me a mute?” Pullus snapped, although even as he did, he understood that it wasn’t this youngster’s fault; besides, he had already heard good things about Mardonius from Cyclops, who had begun broaching the idea of promoting the Parthian to Sergeant of his section. This prompted Pullus to ask, more gently, “Why did Cyclops send you two to see me?”
“He asks,” Mardonius managed to get out, “that you come with us, Primus Pilus. There’s something you need to see.”
“I need to see?” Pullus frowned, then he shook his head, saying firmly, “I’m going to need more than that.”
So, after a deep breath, Mardonius explained about their encounter with the 28th, and how there was some sort of incident taking place that included drunken rankers, bonfires, and wanton rape.
“Pluto’s cock,” Pullus muttered, then he shouted for the Sextus Pilus Prior Gellius, while Mardonius, released from his intente, turned to see that the Optio was still struggling with the ranker, who was now kneeling on the street, leaning over at the waist as he desperately clung to the ankle of the woman, who was struggling with equal fervor to get free.
With a curse, Pullus strode over and, just as the Legionary sensed someone approaching, punched the man on the point of the chin as his head turned, dropping him, unconscious and releasing his grip on the woman, who scrambled free and ran without looking back. Without a glance at the fallen ranker, Pullus said something to the just arrived Gellius that Mardonius assumed was some command, then spun and stalked back to the Parthian and his comrade. As Pullus approached, Mardonius looked over the Primus Pilus’ shoulder to see Gellius standing with the Optio, both of them staring down at the unconscious ranker with what seemed to be some bemusement, as if trying to decide what to do with him, but then Pullus reached the pair.
“Let’s go,” he growled, and the trio moved quickly.
Now Pullus was standing with Cyclops, listening with growing disbelief at what his Pilus Prior was telling him. It wasn’t until Cyclops, with a fair amount of heat, insisted that Pullus follow him, and they walked to the end of the street, except this time turned the corner without attempting to avoid detection before Pullus was convinced.
“See?” Cyclops’ tone was understandably smug, but Pullus barely noticed.
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