by James Mace
“Please…mercy. Our wounded…” one barbarian said in broken Latin.
The prisoners were on their knees, their feet and hands bound.
One of the guards walked over to the man and kicked him viciously in the back of the head. “How about that for mercy?” he spat.
“Enough!” Macro barked. He then turned to his signifier. “Camillus, take a couple of men and show some mercy.”
“You’ve got it, Macro,” he replied grimly, drawing his gladius.
The cries of the wounded were cut short with efficient slashes and stabs. Camillus and a pair of legionaries could be seen walking amongst the fallen barbarians, finishing off any who were still alive. This elicited further cries of anguish from their fellows. One was cursing violently in his native tongue. The words struck a chord with Macro, who abruptly turned and faced the man. He strode quickly to the prisoner and kicked him in the face, speaking to the man in his tongue. None of the legionaries understood the words their centurion spat, though they knew they must have been brutal, given the barbarian’s fearful reaction to them.
“Hey, how many of these prisoners do we need to fix up?” Artorius asked, walking up.
“Optio Flaccus?” Macro asked over his shoulder.
“Eighteen, sir. We counted another thirty-five among their dead. The rest ran off into the night.”
Macro nodded and turned to Artorius, who nodded in turn and went back to his task. The decanus returned to his section to find them standing over the body of a slain barbarian.
“What is it?” he asked, confused by the somber faces of his men.
“Seems we found a friend of yours,” Valens replied in a low voice.
Artorius looked down and felt his stomach turn at the sight of the young boy who had attacked him in the village, a javelin burrowed into his chest, pinning him to the ground. The soft metal shaft was bent, the weight ripping open the boy’s ribcage. The lad was covered in blood; a copious amount of which he had vomited over himself as he had struggled in the throes of death. Artorius closed his eyes and shook his head. Magnus smacked him on the shoulder with the back of his hand and pointed towards one of the prisoners.
“That one looks familiar too, doesn’t he?” he asked, an evil glint in his eye.
“That he does,” Artorius replied, his anger rising. “I’ve got something special in mind for him.”
As the sun dawned, the barbarian prisoners were horrified by what they saw. Eighteen crudely made crosses lay in a long line. A post hole was dug in front of each. A detail of soldiers stood ready to execute their grizzly task. Macro walked in front of the prisoners who lay prostrate on their stomachs and spoke to them in their own tongue.
“You vile scum deliberately violated the peace that has existed between our peoples for nearly four years. You have made open war on Rome, thereby imperiling your villages and your entire tribe. I do not believe that your actions had the authorization of your chiefs. If they had, surely they would have sent more than such a pathetic lot as you!” He spat on the ground in front of them to emphasize his point.
“Be cheerful that your families and loved ones will be spared from Rome’s wrath. You, however, shall not.” With that, he turned and nodded to Statorius, whose job it was to oversee the executions.
The tesserarius signaled to Artorius, Praxus, and Sergeant Rufio. All three brought their sections forward, each surrounding a prisoner.
“Hello, Thrax,” Artorius said icily.
The barbarian looked up at him in disgust.
“Remember me? Of course you do. I am the one who has haunted your dreams, the source of all of your hate. You should have died all those years ago like a man and a warrior. Instead, the death of a coward awaits you.”
“I piss on you, Roman dog,” Thrax replied in broken Latin.
Artorius replied with a sinister smile. They cut the cords binding Thrax to his fellow warriors and dragged him to his fate. Other prisoners continued to wail and beg for mercy. One thrashed about so much it provoked a guard into bringing the bottom of his shield down hard on the man’s neck.
“Just relax, you’re turn will come soon enough,” he said casually, as the German cried in sorrow.
Crucifixion was among the most languishing and agonizing means of execution. It involved hanging the condemned from an upright pole planted in the ground; his arms stretched out on a crossbeam. The ankles and wrists were then tied in place. Nails could be used, though this was extremely rare. The condemned would slowly suffocate as their overstretched lungs struggled to take in breath. Fatigue would set in, combined with severe dehydration. Death came slowly over a period of many hours, sometimes days.
Artorius’ hatred for the barbarians had lain dormant for the last several years. The attack the night before, and the sight of the slain child, brought it back to the surface. Thrax remained silent, though is breath was coming in rapid gasps. Once they reached the line of crucifixes, Artorius drew his gladius and smashed the prisoner across the face with the pommel.
Magnus held Thrax down as Artorius cut the bonds. Valens and Carbo each grabbed an arm, Gavius and Decimus taking the legs. The barbarian was a big man. However, he was helpless in the grip of six legionaries. He cried and moaned as he was tied to the cross and hauled to the hole that would hold it up. The hole had been dug right in the middle of a massive ant hill. Large black ants swarmed the ground in frenzy from having their lair disturbed so violently.
“We thought you could use some new friends,” Artorius sneered as soon as the cross was placed in the ground. With his gladius he made several vicious slashes across the warrior’s body.
The man moaned in pain, his eyes rolling into the back of his head as blood seeped from the wounds. He came alive as he was swarmed by the ants, who sought the exposed wounds with hunger and fury. Unholy screams came from the crucified prisoner as his flesh was bitten in a thousand different places.
Artorius glanced over to see Rufio and Praxus had gotten their prisoners up as well. All three sections went back to fetch their next lot, all the while ignoring the screams of despair and agony coming from the crucified and the soon to be crucified.
Camillus stood to the side, looking at the sign he had completed. Though it seemed like a good idea at the time, writing a sign in blood was no easy task. It had been rather messy and the signifier was constantly wiping his hands on a cloth that he had stuffed into his belt.
“Think any of those uneducated bastards can even read?” he asked Macro and Flaccus, both of whom were watching the crucifixions.
“I’m sure there’s somebody amongst the village elders who can read,” Macro replied.
“Well, I hope so. You know I hate getting all messy for nothing,” Camillus fussed as he carried the sign over to the crucifixion line. In front of the line of wailing and groaning men, he hammered the sign into the ground.
In large letters, it gave a stern warning to add to the grotesque scene that would greet those who came in search of their missing warriors.
Next time, it will be your women and children
Artorius stood back and gazed at the spectacle as another section took over for his. In all, they crucified five of the prisoners. Each had been an ordeal. All had fought and struggled, even more so after they saw their companion being tortured by the swarm of ants that devoured him. By the time they finished with their last prisoner, all were breathing hard and drenched in sweat.
“Well, there is a sight one doesn’t forget anytime soon,” Decimus observed.
“You got that right,” Magnus concurred. “Artorius, you are one cruel bastard. Whatever inspired you to plant that bastard right on top of an ant hill?”
“When I stumbled across them in the dark, and they bit the crap out of me,” the sergeant replied, eyes still gazing forward, arms folded.
“Always the practical one,” Carbo said, his face even more flushed than usual.
In relatively short order, the crucifixions were completed. The loud cries of anguish
had given away to a constant drone of groans, curses, and barbaric prayers.
Macro then turned to Statorius and gave one final order. “Break their legs. Let us be certain that no one is able to rescue these pathetic excuses for men.” Statorius nodded and waved several men forward. With pickaxes and stones, they proceeded to break the legs of the prisoners. This, in turn, elicited fresh cries of agony and pain, which soon died down as the soldiers finished their grim task.
“Alright, let’s get the hell out of here,” Macro directed. “Second Century…fall in!”
As they marched away from the dying prisoners, Artorius felt a sense of righteous vengeance, as well as feeling sickened by what he had done and witnessed. He would not shirk his duty to Rome, but privately hoped he wouldn’t have to partake in another crucifixion soon.
The arms manufacturing was on schedule, though finding potential recruits was proving to be difficult. Sacrovir sent recruiting parties throughout the nearby region in order to find the most suitable candidates. Secrecy was a must, of course, and he was confining his efforts to the Gallic hierarchy. His intent was to subvert them, and they, in turn, would bring their people into the fold of rebellion. A number of desperate men, debtors and thieves mostly, had gotten wind of Sacrovir’s intents and mustered to his calling.
He walked through the ranks of the few hundred who had shown up. They were a sorry lot, most of them. However, Sacrovir figured with suitable arms and training, they would prove their worth. Besides, they were nothing more than a means to an end for him. For Sacrovir, it was only partially about liberating Gaul from Roman rule; for him it was personal. As he passed by some of the men who would later fight and die for him, he saw one that made him pause.
Sacrovir looked him up and down. The man was better groomed than the others, his face and clothes well-kept and clean, his beard cut short.
“You’re a Greek, aren’t you?” he asked the man.
“My name is Heracles of Sparta.”
“Sparta?” Sacrovir asked, raising an eyebrow. “You claim heritage to a nation that no longer exists.”
“It exists in the hearts of all true lovers of freedom, those who would gladly die to be rid of this yoke of Roman tyranny. You will find that I am a warrior worthy of Sparta.” Heracles’ face was hard, his eyes cold. He spoke very eloquently, his grammar and speech impeccable.
“Indebted to the Romans are you?”
“Not anymore,” came the reply. “The Romans took my land, my home, and everything I loved, when I failed to make good on a debt. Unfortunately, it was to the Roman governor who seized my home as payment. When I tried to resist, I was sold into slavery, as were my wife and children. I was first a gladiator, where I honed my fighting skills. When it was discovered that I could read and write, I was then sold to the house of a wealthy family, to educate their children. I escaped only recently.”
“And what special skills are you bringing to our enterprise?” Sacrovir asked.
“I know the Romans and how they fight,” Heracles replied confidently. “And as a former teacher, I can school your men in how to face the legions. I will teach them in a matter befitting a Spartan!”
“You will, indeed, serve us well,” Sacrovir said warmly. “Walk with me, and we will discuss how you will train these men to become warriors.”
While Sacrovir was welcoming his Greek friend into the fold, two rather haggard-looking men were approaching the compound along the narrow dirt road.
“Is that the place?” Radek asked, gazing at the confusing scene in the distance.
Wagons, horses, and men were milling about, jockeying to try and get through the gates first.
“I think so,” his companion, Ellard, replied.
To call Ellard a friend was a bit of a stretch. Both men escaped a prison caravan that was bound for the sulfur mines in Mauretania and were only together for the time being because they seemed to need each other.
Those pathetic slave drivers had been clumsy at best! It was a simple matter of Ellard distracting one of the guards long enough for Radek to strangle him with a bit of rope that bound their cage together. Only they had escaped; the others either being recaptured or killed.
As they walked down the path leading to Sacrovir’s compound, Ellard contemplated how he had come to this; actually considering fighting in a madman’s rebellion against the most fearsome army the world had ever known. He had been a simple gardener for a Roman magistrate most of his life. His master had treated him well, though Ellard had often stolen coin and food from the senile old man. He also had a knack for picking fights with the other servants, whom he used to intimidate into helping him steal. Ellard had expected to be freed upon his master’s death. Nothing of this was mentioned in the will. He was returned to the slave market. There his volatile temper would again prove to be his undoing. After a severe flogging for accosting the site overseer, Ellard was sold to a man from Mauretania looking for strong labor. It was on the caravan, in a cage, Ellard met Radek. His recent companion spoke little about himself, though from what Ellard was able to discern the man had a bitter disposition and unhappy past. The only thing he ever said regarding this was that he had not been born a slave, leading Ellard to assume he was a criminal of some sort who had been sold into slavery.
Ellard was not a bad man, at least not by his own estimation. All he desired was to live free. Though what he would do with his freedom, he had no idea. He knew that his temper and lack of judgment had caused many of the trials he had faced in life, and he wondered if his judgment would fail him again in this venture. His hair had grown long and unkempt following his sale back into slavery, and he no longer shaved his face. His constitution was sound, though lack of food had taken its toll on him over the past week. Since fleeing from the slave caravan, they had been on the run. The reward for an escaped slave was more than enough to convince the two men to lay low. It was in a small back alley in Lugdunum that Radek met one of his ‘associates’, who informed them of Sacrovir’s bloody plans.
“Hard to believe this man is building an army to fight Rome,” Ellard remarked.
“Believe it,” Radek replied curtly. “And where there’s fighting, there’s bound to be plenty of coin and plunder.”
Ellard could not fault Radek for being driven by want of money. He knew if he was going to have any chance at a new life, he, too, would need money, and lots of it. Certainly Sacrovir would pay a stipend upfront, with more to follow once the Roman garrisons were destroyed.
As the Second Century was making its camp for the night, Centurion Proculus rode up on his horse. The cohort commander gave a smirk when he found his subordinate centurion. Macro had removed his armor and was furiously swinging a pickaxe to break up the thick clay in the surrounding ditch. Several legionaries were working beside him with pickaxes and baskets to scoop away the debris.
“Macro, what are you doing?” he asked as soon as he dismounted his horse.
Macro looked up and smiled. He posted the pickaxe at the top of the ditch and used it to pull himself out. “My arms are as good as any,” he replied nonchalantly. “Besides, it does the men good to see their officers get dirty right along with them.” As a point of emphasis, he pointed past Proculus to where Camillus and Statorius were planting palisade stakes with a section of legionaries.
Proculus shook his head but could not conceal his grin.
“Any news?” Macro asked.
The senior centurion nodded. “We’re to change course and head north,” he replied. Macro raised his eyebrows. “North, eh? So where, exactly, are we going?” “Batavia,” Proculus replied.
Macro blew out a deep breath in a whistle. Marching to Batavia and back would add at least another month to their expedition.
Proculus continued, “The Batavi played a crucial role in the campaigns against Arminius. This was quite a gamble for them, given their proximity to Germania and the Cherusci. The tribes of Germania may have been shattered by the war, but that does not stop them from conduct
ing raids of Roman allied lands as a means of retribution. We need to reassure the Batavi that Rome still stands by them and will come to their aid if need be.”
Macro nodded. “I understand.”
“So what are the women like?” Valens asked.
Artorius chuckled. Aside from Magnus, none of them had been to Batavia and yet somehow he knew what Valens’ initial response would be.
“They’re big amazons that kind of look like our friend Magnus,” he replied.
An incredulous grin spread over Valens’ face as he turned towards the Nordic legionary who was hefting his pack over his shoulder as the century readied itself to march.
“Is that true?” he asked.
Magnus shrugged. “Let’s just say it takes a special kind of man to handle one of them,” he remarked with a faux reminiscence. “They don’t all have beards.” Valens hooted with laughter and slapped Magnus on the shoulder. “Actually the Batavi are mostly cattle farmers. They love their land and are very particular towards it; hence, they did not attempt to claim any of the Cherusci lands after the war.”
“Second Century!” Macro shouted from atop his horse. “Forward…march!”
At a slow and methodical pace the century made its way through the forests. At times, they were able to utilize trails cut by the barbarians. At others, they had to make their way through the dense masses of trees and undergrowth.
“At least the march home will be easier,” Decimus observed as he pushed some low-hanging branches out of the way with his shield. These, in turn, snapped back and caught Carbo on the side of his helmet.
“That’s true,” Gavius said over the smattering of profanity from Carbo. “I forgot the main highway parallels the west side of the Rhine and leads straight to Cologne.”
“Just how far north does that road go?” Carbo asked picking pine needles out of his helmet.