Rome: Fury of the Legion (Sword of the Legion Series)

by R. Cameron Cooke

  "Some have said as such, sir," Lucius answered cautiously.

  "Good. Then I have a commission for you. Do you see that hut over there?" Piso pointed to a rather large dwelling with a smoking chimney that was one of the few houses still untouched by the raid.

  "Yes, sir."

  "I am told that it belongs to the chieftain of this pathetic little hamlet. The coward has gone into hiding, but his wife and family are trapped inside. Go in there, and slit their throats." He said it as casually as if he had just ordered Lucius to carry his luggage. "Do not come out until you have slain them all."

  Lucius stared at the darkened doorway of the hut. There was no visible movement inside, and it seemed oddly silent. Forewarnings rang out inside his head. There were two dozen legionaries within earshot who could have performed the same task. Something was not right. Piso’s summons, the tribune’s bizarre behavior, and the even more bizarre orders all told Lucius that he had stepped onto a carefully orchestrated stage. Whatever lay in wait for him inside that hut, he was sure it was not the chieftain’s wife and children. Was this some kind of elaborate ambush to steal the money he had just unearthed?

  "Did you not hear me, soldier?" Piso said, irritated when Lucius did not move instantly to carry out the order.

  Lucius had to think quickly. He had to delay as long as he could while he tried to figure out what he was up against.

  "I wish for you to go in there and kill them!” Piso said, now turning red-faced with impatience. “Is that clear, Legionary Domitius?”

  Lucius nodded and drew his sword. He could see no way out of it. He began walking toward the doorway, fully resolved to go inside and face whatever trap lurked for him in there. But, at that moment, a terrifying shriek sounded behind him. Lucius wheeled around to see that a handful of sword-wielding Belgae had burst from a nearby haystack in which they had been hiding. The shriek had come from Piso, who they obviously intended to be their first victim. The panicked tribune struggled to bring his kicking mount under control as the Belgae quickly surrounded him. They were not warriors – that much was evident – but they were desperate men, each with a suicidal hatred in his eyes. They were led by a large, gray-bearded man who looked to have been a warrior at one time in his life, but his paunch gut indicated that those days were far in the past. Lucius presumed this to be the chieftain. The chieftain and the men with him had succeeded in surrounding the panicking tribune, but they hesitated to rush him, not so much from the inept swipes of Piso’s sword as from the kicking hoofs that threatened to brain any man that stepped nearer. The trained legionary within Lucius rushed to the tribune’s aid without thinking. In a flash of steel he drove his gladius into the back of the closest man, severing the man’s spine, and sending him to the ground in a bloody mess of twitching limbs. Next, the chieftain, wielding an ancient, four-foot sword, turned to face Lucius. With a nimbleness that surprised the veteran legionary, the big man brought the long sword around in the blink of an eye, coming close to striking off Lucius’s jaw had Lucius not pulled back at the last moment. The chieftain, now over-extended, realized his fate an instant before Lucius’s blade came down with a violent slash that divided the big man’s neck from his right shoulder, slicing through flesh, bones and arteries. The blade came out with a rush of pulsating blood, and the gallant chieftain died within moments. Lucius then turned to face the others, but a cluster of nearby legionaries had already come to his aid. The rapid thrusts of a dozen stabbing pila quickly turned the remaining Belgae into a heap of red-painted corpses.

  As Lucius wiped the blood from his gladius, he looked around for Piso, but the tribune was nowhere to be found. Whether he had fled out of cowardice, or had simply been unable to control his skittish horse, was anyone’s guess.

  At that moment, Amelius, the blonde-haired adjutant, ducked out of the doorway of the chieftain’s hut, followed by two more men. All three carried blood-stained swords. Lucius thought it odd because he had not seen any of the men enter the place. Further, the men with Amelius were not legionaries. Lucius recognized them as two of the Gallic mule drivers he had often seen handling the impedimenta of the Seventh. Why, in Jupiter’s name, would they have been hiding with Amelius inside the hut?

  Lucius could only surmise that the bloody swords held by the three men had been used to slay the chieftain’s family. But how long had they been in there? Had the bastards already killed the chieftain’s family when Piso ordered Lucius to do it? Had those bloody swords been waiting just inside the doorway for him?

  Amelius’s yellow curls caught the wind as he stood upright and scanned the square, presumably looking for Piso. He had noticed that Lucius was looking at him and had flashed a brief nervous smile before running off with the other two, doubtless to find the tribune.

  Now, a full day later, as Lucius cleaned his kit beside the pond, all of it seemed like some surreal dream. Word had obviously made it to Vitalis that Lucius had not obeyed the tribune’s order, but that was to be expected. There had been others about, and surely they would have witnessed it. Through the long day’s march Piso and Amelius had ridden past the 9th Century many times, but aside from a few glances in Lucius’s direction, they did not let on that the event had ever transpired.

  “Tribune Piso,” Jovinus muttered. “Now there’s a mule’s arse for you!”

  Lucius mumbled something like an agreement. He had not told Jovinus or anyone else about the incident, nor did he intend to.

  “I’ll never forget how that pompous bastard laughed while our Gaul friends over there killed those little babies in the village yesterday,” Jovinus continued. “Like they were chickens. A pity our centurion has to take orders from the likes of him. I’ll wager that boy of a tribune has never been on campaign in his life before now. I’ll bet his friend hasn’t either.” Jovinus then nudged Lucius, and said in a lower tone. “I hear they’re old school chums. They say that blonde rascal, what’s his name – Amelius – latched on to Piso in Greece. They say he and Piso are…inseparable…if you comprehend my meaning. Our boy of a tribune brought his playmate along for a little adventure in Gaul, no doubt.”

  A woman screamed in the distance. It came from the auxiliary camp. The screams were accompanied by the laughter of many men. The screams echoed against the wall of silent trees, beneath the darkening hues of the sky.

  “Do you suppose the Belgae have an army hidden in that wood?” a young legionary cleaning his kit near Lucius and Jovinus asked as he studied the black tree line. “Do you suppose that’s why it’s so infernally quiet?”

  “Perhaps,” Lucius replied. “Perhaps it’s Jovinus’s evil spirits, come to haunt us.”

  Lucius had said it half-jokingly, but a measure of belief registered on the young soldier’s face.

  “But the Belgae massacred that cohort from the Eighth Legion,” the soldier said, as if to bolster himself with his own words. “That’s what the tribune told us. They deserved it, didn’t they?”

  “And how many men of sword-bearing age did we find in that village, neophyte?”

  The young legionary did not answer. He was obviously not encouraged by that response, so he just shook his head and went back to cleaning his boots.

  “Less talking, more working,” Vitalis’s voice called from down the way.

  The men of the 9th Century went back to what they had been doing before, all but Jovinus, who oddly stood up straight. He was looking at the forest, and his face carried a look of bewilderment.

  “Who in Pluto’s name is she?” he said, pointing at the trees.

  The men of the century looked up to see that a woman had emerged from the dark tree line. She was dressed all in black, with the hood of her cloak drawn over her face such that her features were hidden in shadow. Her gait indicated that she was either very old or very frail. She was still far away from the camp, but the soldiers could see her plainly enough across the clearing. As they watched, two bone-like hands trembled out of her black cloak as if to point at the idling Romans. The
n she began to chant in a voice that sounded as though it originated in the bowels of a bottomless well. The voice was nearly swallowed by the wind, yet clear as if spoken from the orchestra of a theater. The haunting incantation was in the language of the Nervii, and obviously boded something sinister, for no good wishes could ever sound like that in any language.

  Several of the legionaries laughed and went about their business, dismissing the old woman as harmless. Others shouted at her and rendered obscene gestures, threatening her if she did not leave. But she went on, stopping her monosyllabic chant only to spit on the ground, before continuing where she left off.

  “That old hag’s put a curse on us by now for sure,” Jovinus said. “That’s the mother of all curses, if ever I heard one.”

  “Superstitions, Jovinus,” Lucius said. “Nothing more. She might as well be pissing in the wind, for all the good it will do.”

  Vitalis’s whistle blew, signaling the end of the shift. The men of the century gathered up their kits and formed up in a loose file to march back into the fort. But before they did, Tribune Piso was suddenly there, pulling up on his skittish black mare.

  “Centurion Vitalis!” he snapped.

  Vitalis came to attention.

  “Why have you allowed that Belgic whore to carry on for so long?” The tribune spat the words. “I have been waiting for you to do something about it! Do I have to tell you how to do your job?”

  Vitalis visibly swallowed back the response he would have liked to give. “The centuries on watch should address such matters, sir. Not I. That is the business of the chief centurion.”

  “The chief centurion is within the camp, Centurion Vitalis. So, I now make it your job. Have one of your legionaries shut that woman up, before I have you flogged.” Piso glanced once at Lucius and then added. “Have Lucius Domitius do it! Let us see if he can follow orders this time.”

  From his position in the ranks, Lucius saw Vitalis look up at the mounted tribune. For the briefest of moments, Lucius thought he saw an exchange between the eyes of the two men that indicated some deeper meaning to the order. Something they had previously discussed perhaps? But Lucius quickly put the ridiculous thought out of his mind. He knew for a fact that Vitalis despised the tribune as much as or more than he did.

  Vitalis looked once at Lucius. Strangely, the centurion seemed to be grasped by some internal struggle.

  “I will go, sir,” Vitalis said finally, turning back to the tribune. “Legionary Domitius is not armed. The Belgae have lured us with such traps before.”

  Piso shot a scathing look at Vitalis, but the centurion avoided the young tribune’s stare and snatched a pilum from the hands of one of the armed sentries. Piso looked as though he might press the issue, but then hesitation crossed his face, as if he was uncertain about making a scene in front of the gawking troops.

  “When you are through with that bitch, Centurion,” Piso finally sneered, “you will report to my quarters without delay!”

  Without waiting for a salute, Piso kicked his horse into a gallop and man-handled the resisting mare back up the path and into the gate, nearly trampling a cluster of camp boys idling near a parked wagon.

  Shouldering the iron-barbed spear, Vitalis cast one more glance at Lucius before marching swiftly across the field to confront the old woman. The woman did not flinch as the armed centurion approached. The haunting chant continued to emanate from the shadowy hood, and she did not stop, even when Vitalis entreated her to simply go away. Vitalis spoke harshly to her, threatened her, swore at her, punched her, even knocked her down, but through it all she never once acknowledged him. She simply rose from the mud and began her curse anew. At one point in the incantation, she spit on the ground. Vitalis appeared frustrated, shaking the spearpoint before the hood out of warning. It had no effect. She spit again. Whether intentional or not, her spittle struck the centurion’s boots. Vitalis visibly sighed. There was only one option for him now, the only recourse to this affront to the Roman army. His station would allow nothing less. Grasping the spear in both hands, he instantly assumed the ready stance of a skilled soldier. Then, with a single lightning quick thrust, he ran the old woman through the midsection. She instantly crumpled to the ground. Vitalis withdrew the bloody weapon with a single jerk as he gazed down at his writhing victim.

  Lucius and the other soldiers watched as two frail white hands reached up from the tall grass, as if to beckon Vitalis to come closer. The centurion knelt, and leaned his head down near the dark hood, as if to hear the woman’s dying words. Whatever she said to him seemed to strike some sympathetic chord within him, because he reached down and gently pushed the hood back away from the woman’s face, releasing folds of gray hair that streamed in the gentle wind. Lucius and the others were too far away to see her face, but whatever Vitalis saw made him pause. He knelt there for a long moment just staring into that face, even after she stopped moving.

  Lucius could count on one hand the number of times he had seen Vitalis display any kind of emotion in front of the century, and even after the centurion returned to the waiting troops his face carried a detached look that made Lucius wonder if he had not seen a ghost.

  “What’s wrong, sir?” Jovinus asked. “What did you see?”

  "Form them up, Jovinus,” Vitalis said, either ignoring the question or not hearing it. “Form up, and return to quarters. I must go and see the tribune."

  Again, he glanced at Lucius. Then, without another word, the centurion walked past them and soon disappeared inside the gates of the fort.

  II

  “You called for me, Centurion?” Lucius said as he ducked his head inside the tent.

  He found Vitalis there, settled on a stool and staring blankly at the lantern hanging from the center post. The centurion seemed in another world. One hand loosely held a cup which he blindly filled from a half-drained wineskin. It was several moments before Vitalis's face registered any awareness that Lucius stood in his doorway.

  “Oh, it’s you, Lucius. Come in."

  "I received your summons, sir," Lucius replied evenly.

  Vitalis sighed. “Come in, I said, Lucius. Don’t stand there at the door like a recruit. Come in out of the night, my friend. Come in and sit down.”

  Lucius nodded and did as Vitalis requested, sitting on a stool opposite him. As Vitalis poured a cup for Lucius, Lucius noticed a ring on the centurion's index finger. It was made of dull gold, and had the worn images of a man and woman engraved on its flat face.

  “Your father’s?” Lucius said, motioning to the ornament.

  “You remember, Lucius?" Vitalis smiled. He removed the ring from his finger and then turned it over in his palm as if he were studying it for the first time. “It is indeed my father's ring. It is the only thing I have of his. I wear it whenever I need to think, and I have been thinking this night.”

  Several moments of silence passed between them before Vitalis spoke again.

  “How long have we known each other, Lucius?”

  “Five, six years perhaps. Since Nova Carthago, when I was recruited into the Seventh, and you reenlisted.”

  “It seems so long ago, “Vitalis said distantly. “We have marched many thousands of miles together, you and I.”

  “Too many.”

  “And while I have risen in station, you have remained in the ranks,” Vitalis said it in more of a chiding manner than a condescending one. “Not that it was never offered to you.”

  “I desire to be a soldier, nothing more. You know that.”

  Vitalis smiled. “Ah, yes, you’ve told me many times. A villa by the sea, a warm woman with soft hips, and a comfortable retirement. What more could a man wish for? But, come now, my friend. Though you have never told me of such, I know that you are a man of some education. You speak like a tribune, and you are wiser than most. Perhaps you are even wiser than me. Come now, Lucius, such simple pursuits cannot have been your sole reason for joining the legions.”

  They were not, but Lucius had n
o intention of telling Vitalis, or anyone else, his true reasons for joining all those years ago.

  "There was no other reason, sir," Lucius replied simply.

  “Please, Lucius,” Vitalis said with some measure of endearment. “We were mere comrades once. I am Vitalis. Let us be mere comrades again, or at least for a few moments.”

  The centurion extended the cup to him. Lucius smiled and took it. He took a long steady sip of the wine. It was rancid, but it was the first strong drink he had had in weeks and his body welcomed it.

  A mule stirred angrily somewhere outside, and there were shouts in the night as men struggled to bring the unruly animal under control.

  “Tribune Piso has it out for you," Vitalis said after the noise had subsided. "You know this, do you not?"

  Lucius nodded, a bit surprised by the question.

  “Something about your refusal to kill those Belgae in the village yesterday.”

  “You were not there,” Lucius said, looking into his cup. “I don’t know what you heard, but I saved the tribune’s life.”

  “Yes, I did hear that, and also that you refused to kill the chieftain’s family.”

  Lucius took a long drink and said nothing.

  “It will not do, Lucius. Come, now, you must help me." Vitalis took another sip of the wine, as if he required it to maintain his callousness. “It is a habit I could never break you of, Lucius. You have managed to retain it over the years. In battle, you are like a rabid wolf, but when it comes time to do the dirty work of soldiery, you always go soft.”

  “I will kill every sword-wielding barbarian you put before me,” Lucius said succinctly. “I will kill those of sword bearing age. But I will not kill children of any race.”

  “And women? What of them?”

  Lucius shook his head.

  “You see. Soft, just as I said.” Vitalis grinned at the jest, but then became serious. “You know I have been putting my neck out to protect that fancy of yours. You put me at risk, you know. Our hot-headed tribune thinks I should have you flogged.”