Legion Of The Undead_Rise and Fall

by Michael Whitehead

“Yes, I’m sure. I could take you back but I’m not going to. No way am I going back there after I managed to escape.”

  “You will do as I say,” Sergius growled at him.

  “Now, wait a minute!” The village elder interjected but Sergius was having none of it.

  “No, you listen,” Sergius interrupted. "I have no intention of allowing this man to walk away when he has information that could save thousands of lives. If Otho releases those Risen, like he did in Rome, villages like this one could be wiped out. We just faced a couple of hundred and we only managed to kill a few of them. Imagine if it had been thousands that had come for you. You would be dead, or worse, one of them.” He paused to let the words sink in. “Now, I intend to leave a few of my men here, send a couple back to inform Emperor Titus that I have gone on to Ostia and I will be taking the rest of my men and this man here, with me.” He pointed at the bearded man who slumped where he was standing.

  “What exactly do you hope to do when you get there?” asked the elder.

  “I don’t know, is my honest answer but I will decide that when I’ve seen the situation. There may be nothing I can do but at least I can report back to Emperor Titus with all the information.”

  “Very well,” said the bearded man. He held out a hand to shake with Sergius. “I’m not a brave man but it seems I must go with you. My name is Priscus.”

  “Priscus. I will not ask you to do anything I will not do myself. That is all I can promise you. I can also say that if you help me to save Rome from another Risen attack, I will make sure Emperor Titus makes you a rich and famous man.”

  Priscus gave Sergius a wan smile. “Money isn’t much good if you are too dead to spend it, though, is it?”

  “Priscus, every legionary that ever pulled on his armour to go to battle knows exactly what you are saying, but we do it anyway. Now, at least you will have a story to tell your grandchildren.”

  Priscus laughed and shook his head and turned away to prepare himself for the journey. Sergius watched him go, aware he had probably signed the man’s death warrant.

  Chapter Twelve

  Vitus watched as slaves used rakes to even out the sand and cover the worst of the blood, as the body was dragged from the arena. It had been an epic fight between the now dead Egyptian and a huge fighter from Gaul.

  The fight had lasted almost ten minutes, with each man giving everything they had. In the end the Egyptian had lain dead on the arena sand but the Gaul had faired little better. He had limped from the arena, leaving bloody footprints behind him. A gash on his thigh would take someone with skill to repair. He looked to Vitus like one of the walking dead.

  The time between the fights had begun to grow tedious by the middle of the afternoon. Vitus was grateful for the shade he was afforded, standing under the canopy at the back of the senators' box. Most of the huge crowd had spent some part of the day exposed to the baking summer sun. Each time a fight ended the crowd grew restless. Vendors must be doing a roaring trade in snacks and especially drinks.

  There was a break to the normal routine after the Egyptian’s dark body was dragged from the sand, however. Almost immediately after the man’s trailing arms had disappeared through the large doors in the arena wall, there was a fanfare and the doors reopened. Out of the darkness and into the bright sunlight came a cart pulled by a dozen slaves.

  The cart was a prison, made of iron bars. Its occupant held up an arm to shield their face from the glare of the sun. Vitus guessed who it was before the figure lowered their arm to reveal their face. Fascallus looked beaten and bruised, Vitus could see that even from this distance. His hair was unkempt and he seemed to cringe away from the crowd and the noise.

  As the cart was pulled toward the center of the sand, Otho stood up to address the crowd. He waited until every eye was watching him, dignified and patient. Vitus couldn’t see his face but imagined a fatherly smile on his face. As the last of the crowd’s eyes fell on him he raised his hands in thanks.

  “People of Rome, I have brought you a day to remember. You have seen men from around the world fight and die for your entertainment. You have witnessed wild animals from every corner of the empire. You have been treated to a day's entertainment fit for an emperor.” Otho waited while the crowd cheered him but cut the noise short by raising his hands once more.

  “I must now ask for something in return. I ask you to bear witness to the unpleasant act that must now be performed. I bring before you a traitor.” The crowd erupted into a chorus of jeers and shouts, Otho allowed the noise to die out naturally. “This man was charged with the duty of working for and protecting you, the people of Rome, and he failed. Worse, he had contact with a known enemy of Rome.” More shouts forced the emperor to wait until he could be heard once more.

  Fascallus seemed to shrink in his cage with each barrage of noise. He sat in one corner of the cage in a futile attempt to protect his back. Vitus couldn’t see the look in his eyes but the jerking of his head gave him the impression of a man on the verge of panic.

  “It is my unpleasant duty to bring this man to justice. My question to you is this, Does Fascallus deserve a quick and merciful death?”

  Vitus felt the men in the senators' box tense and hold their breath as one. The men who had been friends and conspirators with Fascallus were, in that moment, no different than the supporters of Otho. Each saw in his own mind the chance that they would, one day, be in the same position as their fellow senator, at the mercy of the emperor and a plaything of the people of Rome.

  The audience bayed for blood and Otho allowed the cacophony to rise to the highest level it had been all day. Each man and woman in the eighty thousand strong crowd made their voice heard as they called for revenge against a man who had tried to do his best to protect them.

  He had tried to stand up to a tyrant and they would punish him for it. He had spoken against the danger Otho had placed them in and they exacted their revenge for trying to save them. Otho had released the undead on Rome but they loved him for ridding the city of the plague he had started. He had stopped food from getting to Rome and they could not see fault in him. He was allowing the empire to crumble to dust and they thought of nothing but their own, safe home in Rome. Fascallus had tried to fight against all of those things and now they called for him to die. More than that, they called for him to suffer.

  Eventually, Otho called a halt to the noise and the crowd obeyed. “I have heard your verdict and I will submit to the will of the people,” Otho said and signaled to an unseen person below him. There was another fanfare and the floor of the arena started to open. Up out of the opening in the sand rose a crucifix and the crowd began to gasp. The gasps turned to a cheer as slaves ran across the arena floor to drag Fascallus from his prison.

  The senator screamed and tried to hold onto the bars of his cage. It had suddenly become his haven and he fought to stay there. The slaves pulled and yanked at him but the terror in the man made him strong. Some people in the crowd even began to laugh as the solemn moment became a farce. Eventually, one of the slaves ran across the sand and back to the cage, carrying a hammer. He swung hard, from outside the cage, at the senator's hands as they gripped the bars. Fascallus screamed as his fingers were broken and the slaves dragged him from his prison, leaving bloody smears on the bars where his hands had been.

  Fascallus fell to his back, like a toddler having a tantrum and after a struggle, the slaves took hold of his feet and dragged him across the sand, in exactly the same way they had dragged the dead bodies from the arena moments before.

  The crowd brayed with laughter and Vitus was sickened to see Otho theatrically holding his stomach and laughing along with the people. Bile rose into his throat and he realized he was clenching his fists hard enough to make his fingers ache.

  After a fight, the slaves managed to get Fascallus under the crucifix. The cross only stood at the height of a man but after the other mechanical wonders they had witnessed today, Vitus was sure this was just to make the p
rocess easier. After fighting with Fascallus, the slaves managed to tie his hands to the cross piece. They then made a show of carrying out a small wooden box and placing it at Fascallus’ feet.

  Turning to Otho, they stood, waiting until the emperor gave his signal. They then bent to remove large iron nails and a mallet. Fascallus screamed as the first nail was driven into his left wrist but seemed to have broken something in his throat as the second nail penetrated his right wrist. Nothing but gasps escaped his mouth as the crucifix began to raise into the air. The weight of his own body, beginning the process of cutting off the air to his lungs. A final nail was hammered through one of Fascallus' feet and Vitus wondered why he had been left with a foot free.

  Fascallus was a broken man as the slaves backed away from the cross, leaving the senator high in the air in front of the, now silent, audience. A tension had passed over the people as they saw the revenge they had sought, extracted before them. The realness of the whole affair was settling on the ordinary people like a smothering blanket that robbed them of their voices.

  After the slaves had moved away from the crucifix, four new traps opened in the arena floor. Vitus did not have to wait long to see the final indignity that Fascallus would have to endure before his death. Four Risen climbed from beneath the sand with chains around their necks. The crowd roared their appreciation and Vitus understood the reason for leaving one leg free of the cross. The emperor wanted to make a little sport of the spectacle, give Fascallus just a little hope.

  Fascallus began to scream with a renewed voice as he saw the undead below his feet.

  “Have mercy! Please Otho, have mercy!” he shouted toward the Emperor’s box.

  Sickeningly, Otho made a show of holding his hand to his ear, as if he was having trouble hearing the senator. Over and over Fascallus shouted to the man who had murdered his way to the Emperor’s throne.

  Vitus saw what was happening before most of the crowd, it seemed. The chains around the Risen’s necks were being slowly fed out so that the creatures could move about more easily. They had seen their prey high up and out of reach but they, too, seemed to realize that they were to be given the chance to reach their meal. At first, they just reached up to the feet that were far out of reach, but as the chains grew longer the Risen began to jump.

  At first it looked comical, despite the screaming man hanging from the cross. The undead, rotting creatures, reaching up to the cross like children trying to steal low hanging fruit from a tree. They fell back onto the sand without the wit to realize that all they had to do was wait.

  At home, on the farm, there had been a dog. Vitus’ father had kept the mutt chained up in the yard, it was a nasty thing and no good for work but loud enough to keep all but the bravest thieves away. This dog had spent most of its time stretching that chain so hard that its barks became strangled. It never seemed to have the sense to realize it was hurting itself. The Risen in the arena were as witless as that dog.

  Eventually the chains lengthened enough that the grey skinned hands could reach up to Fascallus' feet. He kicked away at them with his unbound foot. Every movement seemed to cause him agony, blood seeped around the nails in his hands and insanity showed in his eyes. Panic gripped him and all semblance of the man he had been had vanished. This was a cornered, hurt animal that hung from the cross for the world to see.

  One word kept ringing clear through the insane screaming of the senator, “Mercy.” Otho knew no mercy. Vitus watched because they all owed this man the honour of witnessing his end, even an end such as this. His stomach gave a lurch of acidic bile as Fascallus jerked so hard, trying to kick at one of the Risen, that he ripped his hand from the nail that held him. Even from as far away as he was, Vitus could see that at least two fingers were still stuck to the wooden cross. Blood poured from the ragged stump of Fascallus’ hand and began to cover the creatures below him. Fascallus dangled awkwardly from one hand and one foot, screaming in agony.

  From the far side of the arena a chant started and Vitus almost cried to hear it.

  “Mercy. Mercy.” The chant began. Quietly, at first but as more and more people joined the chorus, the words took on a force that was almost physical. Otho watched Fascallus impassively, as if he hadn’t heard the word. Even some of the senators in the box were saying the word under their breath. Vitus joined in the chant, as did the other body guards around him.

  Fascallus finally gave up the fight and the first Risen bit into the flesh behind his calf. His mind had finally snapped and he had no scream left in him. Still the crowd chanted, “MERCY! MERCY!”

  Otho jerked to a standing position, finally relenting to the pressure of the crowd. The eye patch he wore gave his face a hard, twisted look. He waited as the Risen ripped flesh from Fascallus’ legs and his blood soaked the arena floor.

  Arm outstretched, Otho waited one final agonizing moment before twisting his thumb down. The tension went out of the chains and the Risen clambered up and onto the body they were so desperate to reach. It was over in seconds. Blood and flesh were torn from Fascallus in a frenzy of snarling teeth. Otho signaled again and the chains holding the Risen were pulled tight and the undead creatures were dragged back into the pit from which they had come.

  Otho stood looking at the now silent crowd. The body on the cross was no more than bones, held together with strings of flesh in places. His face was almost completely missing on one side but recognizable as the man they had known on the other. Otho held the crowd transfixed for a moment longer, waiting. Vitus wanted to scream at the man to stop. The senator was dead, was that not enough?

  Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the body on the cross began to twitch. The remaining eye turned black and the skin began to grow grey before their eyes. The blood that still dripped from his wounds turned thick and darkened. The undead monster that awoke from the corpse of Fascallus grinned out of the side of his face that was no longer there.

  People in the audience began to scream and Vitus even heard crying. Otho remained standing and bellowed at the top of his voice, "So much sympathy for a traitor? Did you not ask me to punish him?” Vitus was pleased that the words were all but lost in the noise of the crowd.

  Senators began to stand up and leave and Vitus made his way down the steps to where Domitius was getting to his feet. He leaned in to the older man, “Can I suggest we make haste, praetor? I have a feeling things could turn nasty.” He turned back to the arena and the undead hanging from the cross in its center. No-one was moving to take him down and the anger from the crowd was becoming more palpable.

  Domitius and Flavia followed Vitus down the steps and out toward the street. Thankfully, they were met by Gallus and Tatius, who had realized their employer might need them. Both men looked shaken from what they had witnessed and Vitus had no doubt his own face reflected the same emotion.

  Out on the street, angry groups were gathering and chanting slogans against Otho. How quickly the people of Rome had turned on their hero, Vitus reflected. The soldiers forced their way through the growing crowd and made a passage for the praetor and his wife, Vitus brought up the rear. It wasn’t long before they were on open streets and the noise from the arena was beginning to diminish.

  “Thank you, my friends,” Domitius said as they reached the door of his house. "I fear Rome may be in for a rough night after what we’ve seen."

  Vitus nodded and turned to the two legionaries. “Make the house safe, please. Bar the windows and have the male slaves stand guard. I don’t think we will have much trouble but I don’t want to leave things to chance." The two men left to follow their orders and Vitus turned back to Domitius.

  “Let’s get you both inside, praetor,” he said.

  Domitius nodded and headed in through the door but not before turning back toward the Colosseum and the noise of riots that were starting to rise from that part of the city.

  PART TWO

  Chapter Thirteen

  “You must always remember your feet.” That had bee
n the advice the new recruits had received on the first day of their training. It had seemed comical at the time but on stepping onto the wall for the first time, Garic had called it to mind over and over again. The edge of the wall had loomed behind him like a doom he couldn’t escape.

  The part of the wall they had been charged with defending was as wide as a man is tall. In the normal run of things, it would seem like a wide path to tread. When undead creatures were attacking you and trying to force you backward, it felt like walking on a tightrope. The natural urge was to step back, away from the danger but that would only result in a short fall into eternity. Quickly, they had all learned to step into their enemies. To take the fight to the Risen and finish them, before they made it onto the wall.

  The legionaries had introduced the recruits to the fight slowly. One at a time they had called them forward to join the men in the defensive line. Hakor had been the first to be called forward. Being the biggest of the new men, he was the natural choice to begin.

  The recruits wore little armour. The centurion had decided that men unaccustomed to wearing the large metal breastplates would only tire easily and move too slowly. They had been given grieves to protect their forearms and had been given the choice of wearing a helmet. Both Hakor and Garic had decided against the headgear, it was heavy and cumbersome to men who did not wear it everyday.

  Hakor had gone as far as stripping off his shirt as he stepped into the line. His dark brown skin looked almost stretched by the huge chest muscles he revealed. One of the centurions whistled softly under his breath and made a comment to the man next to him, “I bet his mother needed a second pair of tits to feed him as a baby.”

  While this was going on the other men on the wall were fighting a slow but steady stream of Risen that made their way over the wall. Some seemed to leap into the air as they reached the top. Garic guessed these were the strongest of the undead. Others seemed to have to clamber over the lip, as if the effort of making it so far had been all they could manage.