Soldier of Rome: Heir to Rebellion (The Artorian Chronicles) (19 page)

“I’ve placed the entire regiment on alert,” Indus replied, “however with the missions already assigned to us, I can only comfortably bring about two hundred and fifty.”

“That should be more than sufficient,” Proculus said after a moment’s contemplation. “To be honest we have no idea how large of a group we are dealing with. It could be just a handful of renegades seeking to terrorize the populace, or it could be the start of a fresh rebellion.” As he listened to the Centurion’s explanation of the situation, Indus traced his finger over Proculus’ map, stopping just south of a group of mountains to the north.

“There are a large number of estates and settlements in this region, about three days march from here,” he observed. “A prime target for the rebels, yet too far for your men to react effectively; and this terrain will work against my cavalry. What chance is there that you can dispatch some men to cover this area?” Proculus exhaled loudly.

“I can send perhaps two centuries, but no more. Thankfully the regions to the south are relatively free of settlements. If you can augment my force with one hundred of your men, the rest can be used to conduct searches of the region.”

“There’s a farmhouse
that’s just south of the mountain pass,” Cursor spoke up. “It would make the perfect staging area.”

“Then that’s where you will make for tomorrow at dawn,” Indus directed. The Tribune gave him a perplexed look; not certain if he had heard correctly.

“Come again?” he asked. Indus gave a half-smile.

“This will be the perfect opportunity for you to exercise some independent command,” Indus explained. “Reconnoiter
the area and start fortifying the farmhouse while waiting for the legionaries to arrive. Take a few denarii with you as well; we must make certain the owners are properly recompensed for their troubles.”

“A few sheckles will buy just about anything,” Cursor replied with a snort.

“I’ll send Macro and Vitruvius with their Centuries,” Proculus added. “Once they arrive your men can start scouring the area for any sign of the rebels. My legionaries will be your reaction force, so be certain to keep them close.”

Kiana had taken to staying around the flats that housed the legionaries. Every so often she would catch a glimpse of the man she had come to know as
The Beast.
In truth the young Decanus was a very attractive man, though in Kiana’s mind he was nothing more than an instrument of horror. She leaned back against the wall of an alley, her face only partially concealed by her hooded cloak. Her eyes closed, she wondered how it was she had come to this feeling of utter hatred. Inside she was torn over her feelings and could only rationalize that perhaps she had been in such a state of shock following Farquhar’s death that she did not have the will to hate.

As she opened her eyes she was startled to see a group of legionaries walking along the road towards her, the beast amongst them. Quickly she covered her face and turned her back on them. She started to slip away, eyes on the ground, when she stumbled into a man, who had not seen her either.

“Hey what the bloody hell…” the man said with a start as collided. Kiana sat upright quickly, her eyes wide as she recognized Legionary Felix.

“Kiana, what are you doing her
e, child?” he asked.

“U
m…I, uh…I came looking for you,” she said, beads of nervous sweat running down her forehead.

“Really?” Felix was perplexed as to why Kiana would need to come see him of all people.

“Yes,” she emphasized, and then glancing over to where the other group of legionaries was walking away, parallel to the building they stood next to. “Tell me first; who is that man, the one with all the muscles?”

“That’s Sergeant Artorius, one of the Decanii
from my Century,” Felix answered, still baffled by the girl’s presence.

Sergeant Artorius,
Kiana thought to herself.
The beast has a name.
She then spoke aloud, “come, we need to talk.” With that she took Felix by the arm and led him down the alley, away from the barracks flats. So curious was the legionary as to what she wanted to talk about that he did not protest. Once they had reached a quiet corner, away from the bustle of the busy streets, Kiana turned to face him.

“So tell me,” she said, a coy grin on her face, “what exactly is your relationship with my sister?” It was the only topic she could think of offhand, and one that she found she was in fact curious to know about.
Felix’s face turned a slight shade of red.

“You probably figured out that Tierney
and I are more than just
friends,”
he admitted.

“It wasn’t difficult,” Kiana stated, fol
ding her arms across her chest with her grin spreading.

“She talks about you all the time,” Felix said, trying to break the silence. “I know of your loss and I am sorry.”

“I’ve seen the standards of your unit before, haven’t I?” Kiana tried to fight the urge of putting Felix on the spot like that, though she did enjoy watching his discomfort. Felix lowered and shook his head, letting out a sigh.

“Yes you have,” he replied quietly. To most civilians Roman soldiers look the same and they rarely diff
erentiated between the various legions. With a little research, though, one could easily find out exactly what unit had served in what campaign, even down to the exact actions fought. “I am sorry…not for what we did, but that you had to suffer as a consequence.”

“I understand,” she replied with a sad smile. “You were doing your duty
and my beloved was betrayed by those who should have protected him.” Felix took this as a statement perhaps against the boy’s family or mentors who should have stopped him from joining the rebellion, though Kiana’s meaning was more literal. She thought once more about the cowards who had run from battle, leaving Farquhar and his friends to their deaths.

“Come, I’ll walk you home,” Felix said, taking Kiana by the arm.
She gladly accepted his offer, having found out all she needed to know.

“Tell me Felix,” she said once they were out of the bustle of the main streets. “What prompted you to join the legions?” The young legionary laughed at the question.

“Your sister asked me the exact same thing. To be honest, I had little choice if I wanted to make something of my life.” He then explained his father’s noble birth and that he was a bastard who his father despised. He told her about his mother and how she did everything within her power to get his father to sign the letter of introduction that not only acknowledged Felix as his son, but also allowed him to enlist in the legions.

“Any siblings?” Kiana asked at length, to which Felix nodded.

“Two brothers. Granted they are practically old enough to be my father. No sisters, though. I told Tierney on a couple of occasions that I always wanted a little sister.” Kiana found herself unable to stop from smiling at the veiled meaning to his words. “I just wonder how long before your father betroths her to someone else.”

“I don’t think you’ll have to worry about that for a while,” Kiana replied. “Remember, most of the nobles around our age were either killed or impoverished. Tierney was rather anxious to accompany me when Father sent me here. Her fear was that he would marry her off to one of his friends, and the last thing she wants is to be wed to some fat, creepy old man who will probably leave her a widow by the time she’s twenty-five; let alone the idea of having intimate
relations with one that is old, wrinkled, and sloppy in appearance.”

“Such marriages are not uncommon in this day and age,” Felix replied with a shrug. Kiana stared at him with a look of revulsion on her face.

“That doesn’t make it right!” she retorted. “Yes, I understand that a woman’s primary role is to provide heirs for our husbands and that many men reach old age before they are able to sire sons. And unfortunately, the higher a woman’s social birth the more likely she will be used as a political pawn for her father and future husband. That is our lot in life and we cannot change it…but please understand that most of us would still rather at least be bound to someone closer to our age rather than our parents’.”

“Well perhaps someone will be able to save your sister from such an ignominious fate,” Felix ventured. Kiana smiled once more.

“Perhaps,” she replied. As unreal as it seemed, she was beginning to see why her sister loved this legionary. Felix was genuinely a good person; not so very different than her friends that she still mourned. Would it be possible for her to hate Artorius and allow herself to care for Felix, or were they too closely intertwined? She did not know.

“Well this will be the last time I see you for a while,” Felix said, startling Kiana out of her reverie. She hadn’t realized that they had arrived at the house she shared with her sister. As Kiana turned to face Felix he continued his explanation. “I’m going to be out of the city for a while; not too long I hope.” After he left, Kiana leaned against a column the supported the overhang outside the main entrance. She suspected she knew where Felix and his fellow legionaries were headed. As soon as darkness fell she left the house in her hooded cloak, for regardless of her initial fond feelings for Felix she had an obligation to pass on what he had told her.

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 other 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.”