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

by R. Cameron Cooke

  Caesar chuckled mildly at the remark.

  “Something is not right, Caesar,” Divitiacus continued gravely. “I can sense it, like an itch in my balls. I can’t put my finger on it, but it is there, nonetheless. Call it the intuition of an old warrior, but I feel that you are being carefully led into a trap. These senators from Rome, they have the smiles of vultures and the eyes of snakes.”

  “Valens and Porcius? Of course they do. They would love nothing more than for this whole campaign to meet with disaster. But that is the nature of a civilized republic, my friend. Everyone has something to gain from the failure of another. I assure you, they are quite harmless. They are merely spies, sent by the optimates to seek out some fault in my management of the province. I’ve never known either one to cause any serious trouble.”

  Divitiacus then produced the rolled paper from his belt and gave it to Caesar. “Then perhaps this is nothing serious either.”

  “And what is this?”

  “Read it, Caesar, if you can.”

  “The characters are Greek,” Caesar said, after briefly glancing over the document. “But they are gibberish. There are no words here – none that I can make out.”

  “They were not intended for you to make out. I took that letter off a dead Nervii officer. He was with the group that waylaid your men.”

  “It is a code then?”

  “Precisely, Caesar. Now, why would a Nervii have in his possession a message written in Greek code? The Belgic tribes don’t use Greek to communicate with each other, and that group was too small to be a war band.”

  “Truly, it is a mystery,” Caesar said dismissively, tossing the letter onto the table.

  “I suspect they were meeting someone, Caesar, or had already met someone, and came upon your men merely by chance.”

  “And by someone, you mean a Roman?”

  Divitiacus shrugged. “It is a theory. Are you certain these senators came here straight from Geneva? Is there a chance they might have taken a circuitous route, perhaps to meet up with this band of Nervii?”

  Caesar laughed. “Valens and Porcius could hardly find their way from Rome to Brundisium, let alone navigate their way through the forests of Gaul. Fortune smiled on them to make it even this far. I hardly think they could be involved in such a plot. It really is beyond either of their faculties. Besides, do you realize what that would imply? That the senate is conspiring with Rome’s enemies purely for my demise. I simply cannot believe it. You’ve been listening to too many stories of our wilder days, Divitiacus. The conspiracies and civil wars of Sulla’s time are over, my friend.”

  Divitiacus smiled and nodded knowing full well that was not true. News flowed freely between the Aeduan and Roman lands, as it had for generations. Divitiacus knew of the corruption and infighting that had consumed Rome during Gaius Julius Caesar’s consulship. He had also heard of the pact Caesar had struck with the great men Pompey and Crassus in order to keep the Roman senate in check. Now, rumors abounded that Pompey was being wooed by the senate in an effort to create a schism in the alliance. Caesar was surely staying abreast of such developments, in spite of his outward flippancy.

  The senator, the one called Valens, was up to something, even if Caesar wanted to deny it. Divitiacus had seen the shifty eyes of a conspirator in Senator Valens. He was astute at smelling out such men. As with all chieftains, he had encountered many traitors in his life, including some from his own family. Once, his own brother even conspired with another tribe to usurp him and sever the Aeduan ties with Rome. He remembered all too well the disbelief on his brother’s face when the conspiracy came to light, as if he, too, were surprised by the revelation. Valens had that same look, the well-trained façade of a traitor. But a traitor to who – to Rome or to Caesar? How deep did the plot go? And what, if anything, did Piso’s attempt to do away with the common legionary Lucius Domitius have to do with it?

  VII

  An hour later, Senator Valens was in his tent, gazing upon the broken body of his nephew, dying on the litter. Piso resembled nothing human. He was covered in dried blood and bandages. In some places the skin had torn such that the bandages could not hold it together. A piece of his scalp hung loosely back. No one had yet dared to replace that bandage, as the young man shivered and moaned from the unending pain.

  “Did the Nervii do this?” The senator asked evenly, not taking his eyes from his nephew.

  “No – no, sir,” Amelius stuttered, in a weak voice. He stood a few paces behind Valens. “It was the dogs.”

  “Of course it was the dogs, you imbecile! I want to know who loosed the dogs on him!”

  “Yes, Senator. It was that scoundrel Lucius Domitius. He did it. We were about to carry out your wishes, when –”

  “That is a lie! You were off whoring, you and my halfwit nephew, when you should have been seeing to your duties, to the one task I had entrusted you with. You were off humping a whore, and you let that common soldier get the better of you. Had you any sense at all, you would have left my nephew to die and raced back here to report to Caesar, personally. Instead you let that Aeduan get to him first. Now Lucius Domitius is to receive a golden crown.”

  “But he was arrested!” Amelius said, incredulously. “He will face charges!”

  “He will face nothing! Do you think the legate of the Seventh will seriously consider punishing a man whom Caesar has denoted for a golden crown?” Valens then sighed and looked on Piso’s shivering body. “Not only has my dear nephew chosen poorly in life, he has chosen a fool for a companion. I send the two of you to kill a single soldier, and this is the result.”

  “But we did what we could,” Amelius pleaded. “Surely he will pay for this. If those incompetent fools we paid off had killed him the first time, this never would have happened. Oh, Jupiter, look at him! Poor, poor Piso. Can he hear us? He must be able to hear us. Oh, uncle, what shall we do?”

  "Uncle?" The senator's lip curled. His voice remained calm but his tone was sinister. "You do not call me uncle, you perverted, incompetent, son of a horseshit farmer. You have been a poison to my nephew since the day he took you as his bitch lover!"

  "No-no," Amelius said, nervously shaking his head. "It's not true. That’s not true, unc – senator."

  "Had he never met you, he would have been tending to his duties instead of humping that Belgic whore."

  "No no…I didn't…Piso didn’t - "

  "Shut your man-defiling mouth! You will never again say my nephew's name from that vile mouth. To think that I had to sit there and listen to that Gaul bare all of Piso’s indiscretions while Caesar looked on smugly! It makes my stomach turn.” The senator then moved over to the cot and took Piso’s bloody hand in his. He looked into his nephew’s jittery eyes, and saw them register on him. "Once, I bounced you on my knee. You were such a delightful child, then. So full of promise. You could have inherited the empire your father and I built together. But you failed, nephew. You failed us, and you failed your family. I warned you, all those years ago, when you were at school in Athens and you came home on holiday. Did I not warn you to stay away from that parasite you picked up there? I told your father to separate the two of you, to send that man-whore of yours back to Athens. But your father only laughed at me. He said you were merely loosening the wineskin before you embarked on your political career. Such a shame." The senator shook his head and dropped the hand and let the arm flop loosely over the side of the cot. "It may take hours, or it may take days, but you will die all the same."

  "No, no," Amelius mumbled, his face covered with tears. "The surgeon is coming! Surely, the surgeon is coming, my lord!"

  The senator did not acknowledge him but kept looking into his nephew’s pained eyes. "The surgeon will not come. I have ordered him away."

  "No!" Amelius said desperately, clawing at the senator's cloak. "You couldn't! In Jupiter's name, why?"

  The back-handed blow came swiftly and seemingly effortlessly, striking the blubbering youth across the face and knock
ing him to the floor. After adjusting his cloak slightly, the senator continued in a subdued tone, again speaking only to the twitching Piso. "You will not see me again, nephew. I go to clean up what you have bungled. But I leave you with one dying wish. I will allow your man-whore to remain behind. I will let him show you how much he cares for you."

  Amelius’s face broke into a weak smile as he crawled over to the cot and took his lover's hand. Looking into Piso's eyes the youth said excitedly. "Do you hear that? Your uncle says I can stay. Bless him! I will mend you back to health with my own hands, and tell you each day how much you mean to me. You will get better. I know you will. It will be like old times again, you'll see. I shall never leave your side."

  "Your whore is right on one count, nephew," the senator said. He then drew an ornate dagger from his belt and held it loosely in one hand.

  Piso’s eyes began to flutter wildly, and Amelius's face turned white, fearful that the senator would slit his throat then and there. But the senator simply laid the knife on the cot.

  "Here is my gift to you, nephew. If you are both dead when I return, I will not tell your father how ignobly you met your death. Though the sum is likely to be large, I'm sure I can pay your legate enough to entice him to write a favorable report on you. It is your choice. Farewell, nephew."

  And with that he turned to leave, his cloak brushing past the hollow-faced Amelius who stared blankly at the dagger that he must use to kill his companion, and then himself.

  The senator stopped before ducking out of the tent and called over his shoulder, "It's an expensive knife. So, try not to get too much of your horseshit farmer blood on it, will you?"

  Valens left the tent in a foul mood, and was even further annoyed by the unmanly wail exuded by the young idiot as the tent flap closed behind him. He was more frustrated in himself than anything else, at having succumbed to his brother’s wishes that he arrange a tribuneship for his son, a man-child not fit to lead a band of drunken actors to their next debauch. Valens had entrusted his nephew with the task of eliminating Lucius Domitius more as a test of the young fool’s usefulness than as a necessity. But Piso had failed. Now, Valens would have to come up with some explanation that would preserve the family honor and elude any probing questions from rival families. As much as it touched a nerve in Valens, the only solution was to honor Piso as if he had fallen in battle, to uphold the fictional account that would appear in Caesar’s commendation. The fool’s death mask would preside in the family hall for centuries, and his exploits spoken of by future generations. The true manner in which he had met his end would be covered up.

  The night breeze met Valens’s face as he walked between the officers’ tents, situated on the high ground, allowing him to gaze out at the darkened countryside beyond the battlements, where a long line of torches snaked along an invisible path. The two cohorts of the Seventh were arriving, and surely Lucius Domitius was among them.

  Valens sighed at the thought that the legionary would be decorated, too. But, no matter. It was an annoyance at worst – a trifling matter in a much grander plan. Where Piso had failed, his own men would not. Legionary Lucius Domitius, the son of Sextus Domitius of Gades, would die, and Valens would never be troubled by that family again.

  As Valens looked upon the camps of the different legions, he once again marveled at the unbelievable might assembled. Surely, Caesar was aware of the power one might obtain with such a force – more power than if half the senate rallied to his side.

  Valens stomped his foot into the ground in frustration. Would that such power were his to wield.

  He quickly bit his lip. Patience was in order. Soon, such power would be his. It was only a matter of time now. Let Gaius Julius bloody Caesar mockingly honor his nephew while inwardly the bastard smirked at his discomfort. Let the Julii bastard have his day, for his day was coming to an end. Valens knew he would enjoy watching Caesar’s world collapse around him, and Valens would be there to pick up the pieces. All that was now Caesar’s would soon be his.

  A muffled cry of pain came from the tent behind him, followed by a few sobs, and then silence. The problem of his nephew had been resolved, as would soon the problem of Lucius Domitius.

  VIII

  The weary soldiers of the two cohorts of the Seventh Legion filed in through the torchlit gate of the camp. They had marched nearly twenty-five miles with few rests, and most did little more than put one foot in front of the other, oblivious to anything but the welcome sight of the camp gates ahead. The procession was greeted on both sides by camp followers waiting for them just outside the gate. In spite of the late hour, or the physical condition of the troops, a throng of merchants acted as though it were market day, displaying everything from baubles to tunics, freshly cooked meats to cups of wine – anything that might relieve the road-weary soldiers of their plunder before they carried it inside the camp to be registered with the quartermaster. Some walked alongside the column, carrying out transactions on the move, and there were other enticements aside from goods. Scantily clad whores were there, too, their dresses unlaced and allowing their breasts to hang freely while they blew kisses to the marching soldiers. Some were free Gallic women, selling their own wares, but the prettier ones bore the collars of slaves. A half dozen of these were bronze-skinned women of the Far East who were being marketed by a large-eyed, swarthy man wearing bright orange loose-fitting garments made of silk that draped his plump form like a sail hung out to dry. On his head sat an ornate turban with a single green jewel in the center.

  As Lucius and the rest of the 9th century marched by, Jovinus pointed the man out.

  “Do you see that man, Lucius?”

  “What about him?”

  “That’s the one they call the Scythian. He comes from the Far East. They say, for the right price, he can procure anything a man might desire, or imagine. He is rumored to possess riches beyond belief, and is said to be satrap of his own principality.”

  “Who? That flighty bastard?” Lucius skeptically studied the unimpressive man who looked quite out of place in the royal attire. He looked more like a fishmonger than anything else, and Lucius couldn’t imagine him ruling anything beyond a cartload of whores.

  “An exotic beauty for your bed this evening, my good men?” The dark eyes beneath the turban shifted from right to left as the Scythian spoke. “We have all kinds to choose from. Do you prefer her breasts large, or her hips wide? Or do you like her skin smooth and silky, like the petals of a rose? We can please any desire that you might have.”

  The women wore smiles that were painfully artificial, and their eyes were painted to exude an alluring stare, from any angle. Each one wore a silky robe which the turbaned man demanded they drop to their waists on choice occasions when he thought he saw interest in a passing legionary’s eyes. Should one of the women fail to expose herself on cue, the man would not hesitate to violently twist her arm behind her until she was at the point of tears, and in compliance with his demands.

  “That one’s got the face of a horse!” one soldier called, which drew laughter from the others.

  The turbaned man appeared unfazed by this. “Her? Why, she is not one of mine! Mine are all choice courtesans, brought all the way from the Far East, the lands of legend and myth, where gold flows in rivers, where kings bathe in scented waters and have harems large enough to bed a different damsel every night of the year and never sleep with the same woman twice. My beauties come from this royal stock, given to me as a gift by a prince of Bithynia when I was his royal ward. What common man would not wish to lie where a prince has lain?”

  Lucius twisted his mouth in disgust. More likely, the girls were poor and had been stolen from their homes by that jackal when they were too young to speak.

  “Why let that gold and silver rust in your purse?” The Scythian continued his pitch. “Purses can be lost, young soldiers, and then what will you have? Or perhaps you would prefer if some barbarian plundered it from your cold, dead, corpse? Have you toiled for so l
ong that a barbarian might enjoy the fruits of your labor? No, of course, you haven’t! Why not spend it now on a night of pleasure that you will never forget?”

  Lucius smirked. “He can’t be too rich if he needs to personally peddle his whores off on some poor soldiers.”

  “Don’t let his appearance fool you, Lucius. I’ve heard he has his own palace and a thousand slaves. You may want to do business with him before this campaign is over.”

  “I’m not sure I trust those girls,” Lucius said, glancing at the sultry eastern women who gazed on the passing soldiers with something that bordered on restrained contempt. “Any one of them looks like she would slit your throat in your sleep just as soon as look at you.”

  “Aye, but I can think of worse ways to die,” Jovinus replied laughing. “But I wasn’t talking about the whores.”

  “What then?”

  “The Scythian is a slave trader of the first order, and is known to pay handsomely. He brings exotic dark-skinned slaves, like those beauties there, and sells them here in Gaul. Then, he buys up pale-skinned slaves here, and sells them in the East. He makes a fortune on them. They say the nobles of Parthia will pay double or triple for a fair-skinned slave. I figure we should each come out of this campaign with a Belgic slave or two when all is said and done. That’s what the centurions say, anyway. I’m going to sell mine to The Scythian. You should, too. He’ll give you a better price than any of those Roman or Spanish traders.”

  Perhaps Jovinus was right. If this campaign ended as previous campaigns had, each legionary could expect at least one slave as booty. With more slaves on the market, the selling price had dropped substantially, much to the soldiers’ dismay. Perhaps the Scythian was the answer, should he find himself in possession of a Belgic slave, but at the moment Lucius was more concerned about his own chances for survival. He had still been officially charged with disobeying a direct order, although, since the skirmish, no one had said anything about it, including Vitalis, and no one had attempted to take his weapons away. But now that they were arriving in the Seventh Legion’s camp, and knowing that Amelius had ridden ahead with the wounded Piso and would have arrived hours before, he fully expected to be pulled from the ranks and placed in irons at any moment.