Soldier of Rome: Heir to Rebellion (The Artorian Chronicles) (14 page)

Heracles sat quietly in his quarters drinking warm ale while Radek stood patiently behind him. He knew by the sounds of commotion coming from the market and the slight smell of smoke that his plan had had its intended effect. Provided there were some dead legionaries, the slaves would have done their part. There came three sharp raps at the door, followed by two longer ones. He nodded to Radek, who turned and limped to the door.

“It’s them,” he said in a low voice as he peeked through a pin hole in the door. Heracles raised a hand, signaling him to let the men in. Three men rushed in, their faces flushed and near panic.

“Damn it man, how long did you plan on leaving us out there!” one said, exacerbated. Heracles continued to drink his ale, ignoring the man’s remarks. Radek stepped over and backhanded the thug across the mouth.

“You will not speak to the master in such a tone,” he hissed, his hand on the hilt of his cleaver. The three men immediately stepped back from the half-mad creature.

“I hear commotion in the streets,” Heracles observed, snapping his fingers as a servant brought him a plate of figs. “I take it then that your mission was a success.”

“Not as such,” the first thug replied. “We burned the slave pens, just as you asked, and we got some legionaries trapped in an alley. Thing is…”

“Those bastards aren’t human!” one of his companions interrupted. “They tore through that lot of slaves like a hot iron through pig fat!”

“No matter,” Heracles replied casually. “We can replace slaughtered slaves easily enough. I take it there is more to report?” The three men all lowered their heads.

“Your slave that you sent to lure the Romans into the trap,” the first man said.

“Yes?” Heracles prompted when the thug did not immediately continue.

“Thing is…the Romans got him. He didn’t run off like you told him and one of those damn legionaries skewered him through the thigh with a javelin. Well the urban cohort shows up before we could carry him off or finish him. The Romans took him alive, sir.”

“I see,” Heracles replied as he let out a bored sigh. “They will torture him, no doubt. Lucky for us he knows so little. What a pity that I cannot seem to find slaves who do exactly as they are told.” The servant behind him shifted nervously. The Greek waved the men off and they quickly started for the back door. He sat and contemplated for a while, his fingers folder in front of his face and his eyes closed.

“Radek, my good man, I think we shall need to demonstrate to all what happens to those who cannot follow my orders.” Radek’s face grew into a smile of broken and rotting teeth.

The slave was bound hanging by his outstretched limbs, his mangled leg causing him immeasurable pain. His breath was coming rapidly and he reeked of urine and sweat. Macro toyed with the dagger in his hand as he paced back and forth. The slave let out a slight whimper as the Centurion strode over and knelt beside him.

“Does this hurt?” Macro asked as he touched the exposed and splintered bone with the edge of his dagger. The slave let out a weak cry, his voice cracking from his parched throat. “I know it does. Just tell us who you belong to and I promise it will all be over.” When the slave did not reply, Macro’s face twisted in anger. He brought the dagger down in a hard stab into the bone. This elicited a series of fresh cries of anguish from the stricken man.

“I’ll talk! I’ll talk!” he shouted pitifully. Macro quickly withdrew the dagger as the slave passed out.

“Wake him,” the Centurion ordered. A legionary took his water bladder and poured it onto the man’s face. He woke up sputtering and sobbing.

“My master is a Greek who calls himself Heracles,” he whimpered. “He was a leader of Sacrovir’s rebellion. Please, that is all I know.”

“Are you
sure
that is all you know?” Macro asked, waving the dagger at the slave.

“Yes, yes! I swear! He is a very private man; he only bought me two weeks ago. Please, no more pain!”
Macro nodded to a pair of legionaries, who cut the bonds holding the slave up. He fell with a thud to the floor, his face contorted in agony.

“I said it would be over, and it shall.” With that he snapped his fingers and walked out of the room. The slave’s eyes grew wide as an enraged Ar
torius grabbed him by the hair with both hands and violently dragged him away, his rage overtaking him.

Out in the hall, Macro came upon Proculus and Vitruvius who both gave a start as they heard the slave screaming for mercy.

“Aren’t you done with him yet?” Proculus asked. Macro nodded.

“We are,” he answered. “Now my boys are executing a little retribution.” Vitruvius gave a snort and shook his head.

“You’re a wicked one, Macro,” he said, a mildly amused grin on his face. “So what did you find out?”

“Not a whole lot,” Macro conceded. “Seems he belongs to a Greek that calls himself Heracles.”

“Well that’s original!” Proculus retorted as all three men walked down the hall and out the door that led to the courtyard. “A Greek that decides to take on the name of a god
; bloody brilliant! What will they think of next?”

“He also said that this Greek was one of the leaders of Sacrovir’s rebellion.” Proculus stopped in midstride and turned to face Macro.

“What?” he asked. “I thought all the leaders perished.”

“We only assumed they did,” Vitruvius conjectured, his broad arms folded across his chest. “Truth is we never did excavate the site of Sacrovir’s destroyed manor house. It is possible that some may have escaped the mutual slaughter.”
Proculus took a deep breath and exhaled audibly.

“The last thing we need is another damn uprising,” he said. “We must make an example of all who would disrupt the peace of Rome!”

“Already being taken care of,” Macro replied.

Kiana saw the smoke rising from the slave market
and it puzzled her. She had come into the city to purchase some fruit and bread; a task normally done by slaves, but one she had insisted on doing herself that day. She had been confined to the manor house for the last few days and she needed an excuse to go out for a while. So great was her desire to be left alone that she had not allowed any of the servants to accompany her.

She was a striking girl, and at fifteen fast approaching womanhood. Of slightly less than average height, her auburn hair reached halfway down her back and contrasted with her fair skin and deep green eyes. Her body was on the slender side, though
it hinted at the curves that would come with womanhood.

Her father had sent her and her sister, Tierney, to Lugdunum as a means of escaping the aftermath of the Sacrovir Revolt.
What had been a joyous time in her life had become a nightmare. She had at the time been living in Augustodunum where her beloved Farquhar had been studying at the university. Her father had approved greatly of the young man and had sought their betrothal at the earliest opportunity. Sadly Farquhar had been swept away by the poison rhetoric of Sacrovir, like so many of the young nobles.
The Noble Youth of Gaul
, as Sacrovir had called them, stood no chance against the Roman juggernaut and most were slaughtered during the Battle of Augustodunum. Farquhar had been in the vanguard, encased in plate armor meant to stop the javelin and gladius. Instead, a Roman soldier had smashed through his armor with a pickaxe. Kiana never forgot the sight of her love, his ribs punctured and smashed; his head rendered open with the skull splintered around the gaping hole.

She shuddered at the memory. Part of the reason for her father sending her away was so that perhaps not being around reminders of those devastating times her nightmares might cease. Not a night went by that she did not wake up in a cold sweat, images of death permeating her conscience.
For it was not just Farquhar who she had seen maimed; so many of their friends had perished, their bodies ripped asunder by the sheer wrath of the legions.

Crucifixion was tedious work. However, Artorius was in a rage after having been played the fool by a lowly slave and he was determined to make an example of the pathetic excuse for a man. The slave cried out in pain as the Decanus drove the spikes into his wrists; securing the crossbeam to the side of the remains of the slave trader’s home. Carbo and Valens had secured the arms in place with rope before Artorius drove the spikes through each wrist. Extra care was taken securing the legs, with Magnus tying an extra length of rope around the upper thighs. Often they would break the legs of their victims so that they could no longer hold the body weight and death would be expedited via suffocation. However, with the slave’s one leg already shattered, they did not want him to succumb too soon.

“That’ll do him,” Artorius said as he climbed down the ladder. The section looked up at the slave, who was still screaming for mercy at the top of his lungs.

“Should we oblige him?” Decimus asked; his eyes on Artorius. The Decanus shook his head.

“No…not for a while anyway. This rat bastard helped to slay the owner of this house and his family. I want him to set a firm example to any who would seek to undermine the law and stability of this region.”

“Nice work,” Centurion Macro stated, walking up behind the men. All turned and faced their Centurion, Artorius rendering a salute. Macro returned the courtesy before gazing up once again at the still-screaming slave.

“I like how you secured his legs so he can’t suffocate too quickly,” the Centurion noted with a bemused grin.

“Magnus’ idea,” Artorius replied, letting out a deep sigh. The screams of horror and pain were starting to take their toll on him and he had a headache. His anger had subsided and he felt a tinge of pity for the man. After all, he was little more than a slave who could not have easily disobeyed his master.

“It was a no-win situation, really,” Decimus noted. “Had he disobeyed his owner, he would likely have been killed. Then again, he had the chance to seek protection when he came to us.”

“Yes,” Artorius said, rubbing his temples with both hands. He had taken off his helmet while they had crucified the slave. He looked over to see a young girl hunched over across the street, her hand bracing her against the stone sides of the building. Curious, Artorius walked over to her. She looked to be about fifteen or sixteen; at the age where she was blossoming from girl to woman. The sights and sounds of the crucifixion of the slave had taken their toll on her and she was dry-heaving and sobbing.

“Are you alright, child?” Artorius asked as he placed a hand on her shoulder. As the girl turned to face him, her eyes grew wide in horror, for she recognized his face while he still did not know hers. She fell to her knees, her eyes filled with fresh tears.

“No…” she said in a low voice, shaking her head.
“No!”
With a scream she scrambled to her feet and fled down the street, seeking refuge in the crowded market that stood but a block away. The eyes of many curious onlookers fell on her as she ran, sobbing uncontrollably. Those same eyes returned to the Centurion as he beat his vine stick against the side of the building.

“Let all bear witness,”
he began,
“to the fate of any who will seek to upset the good order of this city through sedition and murder! Behold the fate of his fellow conspirators!”
He waved his vine stick at the corpses of the slain slaves, which were laid out in a line in front of the crucified man. A butcher’s shop was nearby, and the owner stepped forward, a meat hook in his hand. He was breathing rapidly through his nose, his mustache rippling slightly. He walked to within a few feet of the Centurion, lowered his eyes onto one of the corpses and then returned his gaze front. Macro folded his arms across his chest and nodded. The butcher then gave a growl of anger and slammed his hook under the chin of one of the slain. As he dragged the body away, the rest of the mob gave a shout and fell upon the rest. The Centurion shook his head and walked away.