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

by R. Cameron Cooke

  As he stepped into the deeper blackness past the perimeter of trees, he heard something else – something far off, and definitely not of wolf origin. It sounded like the chant of a human, man or woman it was hard to tell. The distant revelry of the auxiliary camp made it even more difficult to discern, but it almost sounded like wailing. Whoever made the sound was far away. Then he noticed a dim light deep within the forest, more of a glow than anything. He moved to the right and left several times but could not find any spot that would line up a direct path through the abundant tree trunks to expose the light’s source. Whatever its source, the harrowing wail seemed to come from that direction. For a few hesitant moments, Lucius considered investigating, but then thought better of it. A few more steps into the black wood and he might have trouble finding his way back to the camp. He could continue his search for the hag’s body in the morning, and probably have better luck.

  Having made up his mind to return to camp, Lucius turned around, but then stopped dead in his tracks. A twig had snapped to his left, only a few paces away. He held his breath. There was no doubt something was there. The foul aroma of body odor hung in the air and told him the intruder was not a mere forest rodent. Gripping the hilt of his gladius, Lucius held the short sword as still as possible, that its polished blade might not catch a peek of moonlight. The weapon had been in his hand from the moment he had set foot outside the camp. He had left his bulky shield behind in the camp, but he had brought other things. The pugio dagger, sheathed at his belt, could be in his hand in less than a heartbeat, and he fully intended to reach for it, once the stranger made another move. The other certainly knew of his presence, or more likely had been watching him for quite some time. It was now a waiting game to see who would flinch first.

  “It is not wise to tread this far outside of the camp at night, Roman,” a man’s voice said from the blackness. The voice had a strong accent that could stem from any one of several different languages spoken in these parts. Regardless, the man obviously spoke Latin fluently.

  Suspecting it might be a trick to give away his position, Lucius remained silent.

  “There are a dozen spears on you right now, Roman.” The voice spoke again, firm this time, but not threatening. “I suggest you speak up, lest I decide you’re a Belgic spy and order my men to add your head to the lot.”

  “A dozen?” Lucius challenged. “I’ll wager only one, and that one being yours!”

  A sharp order was uttered in a language Lucius recognized as that of the Aedui. An instant later, several strikes of a flint ignited a torch to his right, bathing the surrounding area in an orange glow and revealing grim, painted faces behind mud-coated spears. By and large the men were all stark naked, their white skin painted black with the forest mud. Some wore leather caps, but none wore helmets. Lucius identified them as the mustached warriors of the Aedui. They and their countrymen made up the bulk of the auxiliary cohort. The night watch was exchanged from one night to the next between the Romans and their allies, and this night evidently belonged to the auxiliary cohort, something Lucius had forgotten to check before leaving the fort.

  “Convinced now, Roman?” said a bright-eyed, stocky warrior with long mud-caked mustachios hanging down to his neck. He was the only warrior who appeared amused. The others looked ready to kill Lucius at the snap of the stocky one’s fingers.

  “I think you need a lesson in counting,” Lucius said mockingly. “There are only ten of you.”

  “Oh, looky here, boys, we have a feisty one – another arrogant Roman arse. And a big son of a bitch, too. Big for a Roman, anyway.”

  “I am from Spain.”

  “What’s the matter, Mister Spanish Roman?” the stocky one said. “Do you think ten’s not enough?”

  “Not nearly enough.”

  “Arrogant Spanish Roman arse, just like I said. But why would a Spanish Roman be lurking about in the forest in the dead of night and not tucked into his sweet bed like the rest of his lily-livered comrades?”

  “I would mind your tongue, you Gallic whore’s whelp!” Lucius replied testily.

  “Whoa, easy now,” the stocky one said, glancing at the others. “You’re lucky these lads don’t speak your tongue. Otherwise, they’d have filleted you for that. You should learn better manners.”

  Lucius breathed a little easier but still held his sword poised for action. “Who are you?”

  “Where I come from, the one with the greater numbers asks the questions, but I will make an exception in this case. My name is Divitiacus. You may have heard of me.”

  “No.”

  The mustached man appeared put out by that, the grin receding for the first time. “I command the Aedui. Do they not tell you these things in the legions? They obviously don’t tell you how to keep your head out of your arse.”

  “How’s that?”

  “You were about to get yourself killed, my friend. You’re lucky I and my boys stopped you.” Divitiacus scratched an itch on his hair-covered chest, starting a small rain of flaky mud. Seeing the puzzled look on Lucius’s face, he continued. “You were about to go over to that fire to see if that crying bitch was over there, weren’t you? It’s an old trick of the Belgae. A few more steps, my friend, and you would have been the guest of honor at the next sacrifice to Lugus. They like to stuff live Romans inside the bramble statue before setting it alight. Brings them good luck, they say.”

  Lucius looked back in the direction in which he had seen the glow, but it was now lost in the circle of torchlight.

  “I’ve told it to Caesar until I am blue in the face, that you Romans would do best to let us handle the night watches,” Divitiacus said grinning again. “We know these people and their ways far better than you.”

  Lucius looked at him in surprise, trying to picture this mud-covered, bare-assed creature keeping company with the likes of Julius Caesar.

  “Yes, I know your pro-consul, my young friend. I know him personally,” the Aedui chieftain said the last somewhat condescendingly. “Now, what is your name, Spanish Roman?”

  Faced with the spearpoints once again, Lucius thought it best to acquiesce. “I am Lucius Domitius of the 9th Century, 3rd Cohort, Seventh Legion.”

  “The Belgae are out tonight, young Lucius Domitius,” Divitiacus said. “They watch our every move. They have been watching us for some time. Your camp and ours, the order of our march, the sum of the baggage, the number of pack animals – you can be sure that the Belgae council have been told of it all. Do not venture outside the camp alone again. Not unless you want your skin to end up tanned and leathered and turned into a Nervii sword grip. Something is brewing in this land. An army is gathering from all of the Belgic lands, even those far away. The prisoners we tortured yesterday all say as much. Watch your step. They hate the Aedui with a passion, a hatred going back several generations. Now, they hate the Romans, too.”

  “That is not unexpected,” Lucius said, thinking of the village they had left in ruins.

  “No, I suppose not,” the Aedui chief eyed him, his smile losing its animation. “And how long have you been with the Seventh, Lucius Domitius?”

  “Six years.”

  “Uh-huh,” Divitiacus eyed him suspiciously. “So, you would have been with the Seventh when they attacked the Helvetii on the east bank of the Rhone last summer?”

  “I was there,” Lucius replied. That was not the answer the Aeduan chief was looking for, and Lucius well knew it. Lucius paused purposefully and waited until the grim look forming on Divitiacus’s face had reached its full intensity before smiling and adding, “But the Seventh was not on the east bank. They crossed the Rhone farther down river to attack the Helvetii on the west bank.”

  Divitiacus laughed out loud. “So, you’re a trickster, are you, Lucius, my Roman friend. Playing me at my own game? Alright, I believe you. And your business outside the wall?”

  “I am looking for the body of an old woman who was slain near here. I cannot find it.”

  Divitiacus loo
ked at him disgustedly. “I knew you Romans were a depraved lot. You’d have done better to have taken some of those Belgic whores from the village, as we did. We prefer our whores alive!”

  At that moment, an inhuman screech cried out somewhere in the forest. Instinctively ducking out of the torchlight, Lucius was surprised when the Aedui chieftain and his warriors did not do the same. They did not even bother to extinguish the torch, as if the screech was something they had expected.

  “Rise up, my Roman friend.”

  “Do you know what that was?” Lucius asked curiously.

  Divitiacus smiled, his face almost sinister in the torchlight. “The Belgae play a crafty game, Roman. But two can play as well as one.”

  While Lucius was wondering just what the hell that meant, two new mud-covered and naked Aeduan warriors appeared in the torchlight.

  “And two more makes a dozen, Roman,” Divitiacus said mischievously before turning to greet the newcomers. “Ah, Seisyll and Morcant, there you are. What have you brought us?”

  Each warrior smiled and presented a still dripping severed head, held by the hair. The faces were frozen in expressions of sheer terror. Presumably it had been these men that had made the screeching noise, just before Seisyll and Morcant beheaded them.

  “Here’s two more to add to your line, Haerviu,” the chieftain said, gesturing to a warrior who dragged along a rope with no less than five heads strung on it. All appeared fresh and must have been severed within the last hour. “We have been busy tonight, Roman. These two new ones were waiting to waylay you. But we think ahead of them, you see. While we played the part of the bait, with our torch burning bright, Seisyll and Morcant were watching and listening. The hunters become the prey.” Divitiacus suddenly frowned and examined one of the heads more closely. “What’s this now? This is no Nervii. Neither is this one.”

  Lucius saw the short clipped dark hair of the head now in the chieftain’s big hand. A green wolf’s paw tattoo stood out on the left cheek of the dead man’s face. Lucius instantly recognized it as one of the men who had been waiting in ambush with Amelius inside the village hut.

  “These men are mule drivers,” Lucius said. “Cisalpine Gauls.”

  “Why in the name of Lugus would they be waiting around for you?” Divitiacus voiced Lucius’s exact thoughts.

  “I do not know.”

  “So, what happened between you? Did you cheat them at dice? Did they lose some wager to you?”

  “They’ve been with the legions for over a year – at least since the Seventh came to Gaul. Aside from that, I do not know them.”

  “They knew you. That means someone put them up to it. You must have enemies, young Lucius.” The chieftain smiled. “I like a man with enemies. Honest men have enemies. You never can trust a man that has too many friends.” He shrugged and then tossed the head into a bush as if it were a bare chicken bone. “Any ideas who might want to usher you into the afterlife?”

  Lucius shrugged, though he had somewhat of an idea who might be responsible.

  “If I were you,” Divitiacus eyed him. “I’d start with whoever sent you out here this night. These bastards expected you. They have been waiting out here for some time. My men would have seen them leave the fort otherwise. Judging by your size, and the way you hold that weapon, I’d say they might have been better to bring a few more compatriots along. In any event, someone put them up to this.”

  “You speak as though you know this to be true.”

  The chieftain smiled and slapped him on the back. “Among my people, Lucius, nobles do not live very long unless they are clever. You have to think like a usurper to avoid one. You have to think like a snake. These two were snakes. But there's a larger snake that put them up to it. Mark you me, my young friend.”

  Wondering just how many more armed mule drivers might be lurking in the woods, Lucius silently questioned the wisdom of continuing to stand under a burning torch for all to see. But Divitiacus did not seem concerned. Perhaps he had other warriors watching and listening.

  “I should be getting back,” Lucius said.

  “I will not stop you. But I do offer you this one word of advice, Lucius Domitius of Spain. No matter what your purpose out here tonight, these men meant your death. For some reason, they wanted you, and you alone, dead. Be wary. Whoever sent you out here tonight cannot be trusted.”

  IV

  The next day’s march started early, well before the sun peeked over the tree line. There were two fewer mule drivers to handle the wagons, but no one seemed to pay it much mind.

  As the camp was disassembled, Lucius stole a moment away in the dull gray light of dawn to search the spot one last time. But again, he found nothing except for a stain of blood on the grass where the old woman had lain.

  He reported as much to Vitalis, carefully watching the centurion’s reaction, but Vitalis merely shrugged, as if too consumed with the preparations of the column to bother with it – as if he had not been desperate about the whole thing the night before. He was acting oddly, speaking authoritatively, all professional and almost avoiding Lucius entirely. That was alarming in itself, but even more alarming was the short exchange of glances Lucius had seen between Vitalis and Piso whenever the tribune trotted by on his black mare.

  Something had happened last night when Piso and Vitalis had met. That much was certain. As much as Lucius did not want to consider it, he began to recall the words of the Aeduan chieftain. That Piso was responsible for the assassination attempt, Lucius had never had any doubt, but now the overwhelming feeling began to creep over him that Vitalis was involved, too, and that the centurion, his old comrade, had knowingly sent him into that trap. Lucius quickly dismissed the thought as foolish and paranoid as he finished packing his kit.

  The field was churned to mud again as drivers and legionaries loaded mules and carts with camp equipage. Reusable posts from the palisade walls were toted across the legionaries’ backs, along with shields, trenching tools and pila, while those posts deemed unsalvageable were burned. The auxiliary cavalry took off and disappeared down the path ahead, long before the first file of infantry began to march. As they had on the day before, the twelve centuries of the two Roman cohorts, led the march, stretching out into a long snaking column before they were followed by two hundred odd pack animals, a dozen carts, the naked captives, and finally the five hundred Aeduan spearmen of the auxiliary cohort.

  The legion marched through forested country that was as dreary as it had been the day before. It was a long march for the soldiers. The heat and humidity rose with the sun, awaking millions of biting insects that penetrated the gaps in their armor and devoured their exposed legs. At noon, a rider on a lathered horse arrived streaming a long red banner behind him. He briefly went into consultation with the tribune and then clattered away again on a fresh mount. Word soon made it through the ranks that the expedition was being recalled to rejoin the main body, and the long column soon made a sharp turn to the south.

  “Keep those men in step!” Piso could be heard to say to various centurions down the column. “I expect my troops should look sharper than this. They should march straight and stiff like the glorious eagle that goes before their legion. Remember, my centurions, men that march well, fight well.”

  The seasoned centurions acknowledged, showing the respect due the tribune’s rank, as they were expected to do. But in the ranks, the men grumbled.

  “Damn that mule’s arse!” Jovinus muttered marching next to Lucius, his face streaming with perspiration. “Up from Rome not more than a month and now he think he’s Alexander of bloody Macedon! What I wouldn’t give for that black beast of his to step in a nice deep hole and throw his pompous arse into a tree.”

  Lucius had thought of sharing last night’s events with Jovinus, but with the prospect of Vitalis involved in some kind of conspiracy against him, he was not sure who he could trust. Several times when the terrain afforded it, Lucius looked over his shoulder at the column of auxiliary to catch a
glimpse of the riders at their head. There were no mud-covered warriors in sight. In fact, the cluster of mustached Aeduan nobles riding together were barely distinguishable in their green cloaks and conical bronze helmets. If Divitiacus was among them, Lucius could not tell.

  Mid-afternoon found the cohorts making camp again. Trenches were dug, stakes planted, and palisade walls erected as they had been the day before.

  While taking a moment’s pause from the back-breaking labor, Lucius considered the options he had been mulling in his head all day long. As much as his emotions stirred over Vitalis’s possible betrayal, what had him most perplexed was the reason behind it all. Why should Piso or Vitalis wish to do away with him, and why would they go to such elaborate means to do it? He was just a ranker. He could not go around demanding answers from a tribune, or even from a centurion, for that matter. Either through circumstance, or intent, Vitalis had never allowed him close enough during the day for a confrontation, and he got the feeling he could look forward to similar behavior in the future.

  At that moment, Lucius noticed the mule drivers pulling the teams into the camp corral. The thought suddenly occurred to him that perhaps one of them knew something. They were, by and large, a silent lot, seldom mixing with the legionaries. As Lucius knew the name of every man in his century, the drivers knew one another. They would surely know the names of the two men that had been waiting to kill him, and with any luck, one or two of them might have been intimates of the deceased. With no other viable source of information available, Lucius decided he would start there.

  After the work detail, he ate the evening meal with the rest of his century, making sure that Vitalis saw him there, and then he retired with the others to the tents to get out of the mosquito filled air. But while the other soldiers bedded down for the night, or started card or dice games, Lucius slipped out of the tent and made his way over to the corral where also sat the tents of the mule drivers, smiths, cutlers and other impedimenta of the cohort. There was little to do within the confines of a marching camp, and the few hours of idleness were spent much in the same manner by soldier and artisan alike.