Soldier of Rome: Heir to Rebellion (The Artorian Chronicles) (17 page)

“Kiana…” she started to say as she opened her eyes. “…Kiana I am so sorry. I wasn’t sure how you would feel, knowing that my friend is a legionary.”

“Your
friend
is quite handsome,” Kiana replied. They remained silent for a few moments longer before she continued. “Forgive my intrusion, sister. But I have had another sleepless night.” She purposely avoided making mention of Felix’s status as a Roman soldier. Tierney took a deep breath and color returned to her face once more. Without another word, Kiana walked back the way she had come, suddenly tired and longing for her bed.

After the horrifying experience her sister had gone through the year before, Tierney was afraid that associating with
the legionary would be too much for Kiana to bear. What she could never tell her was that Felix had fought at Augustodunum, where Farquhar was killed. Indeed she had never let Felix know about Kiana’s fiancé either.

Chapter
X: Heart of Evil

Hoeing weeds had its own quiet appeal to Broehain.
When he had been a noble with great estates at his disposal all such menial tasks were performed by slaves. But now these menial tasks were really all that he had left. As a leader of the Turani who had taken part in Sacrovir’s rebellion, his lands had been stripped and his titles forfeit. The only reason the Romans had allowed him to live was because in a desperate attempt to save his family further grief and in part because Sacrovir had used his people as disposable fodder in battle, Broehain had led the Romans to Sacrovir’s hiding place. For this he was allowed to live in a small farmhouse with his wife and two young sons. The boys were off playing in the woods nearby while his wife was at the market. As he wiped the sweat from his sun-baked brow, his eyes grew wide as he saw two men and a young girl in a cart riding up the dirt road towards his home. One was very haggard and at a distance appeared to be missing an eye. The other he knew immediately.

“It cannot be,” he said in a quiet voice. Fear gripped him as they stopped not ten feet from him and he clutched his hoe defensively.

“Is this the way you great an old friend?” Heracles asked as he dismounted the cart.

“I thought for certain you had perished,” Broehain replied, wiping fresh perspiration from his brow.

“I thought the same of you,” Heracles said, a friendly smile on his face. Broehain read the look in the Greek’s eyes and they were anything but friendly. “I noticed you were absent when the rest of the leaders rallied to Sacrovir’s estate.”

“The Romans captured me,” the Gaul replied, his eyes averted. “My men were trampled and slaughtered by the Roman cavalry. I barely managed to escape with my life.”

“But escape you did,” Heracles asserted. “But tell me, what happened to your lands? You were a nobleman of the Turani; surely you have more than just a small farmhouse and a patch of barren ground!”

“The Romans took most of my lands,” Broehain answered, not wishing to discuss the situation further.

“But they let you live. Interesting,” Heracles mused. “Or was it perhaps a little trade you did? The Romans take your land but spare your life; and in exchange for what?” He stepped in close to Broehain, their faces but inches apart. “What was it you gave the Romans in exchange for your life? All rebel leaders they captured were executed, but here you are. What was it you offered them, Broehain?” The Gaul’s face was rigid, his expression unchanged. Just then the sounds of boys laughing were heard as his young sons came scampering up the hill. Their laughter immediately ceased when they caught sight of the Greek talking to their father.

“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 w
ere 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 leis
urely 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.