by James Mace
Kiana kneeled beside him, placed one arm around the grieving father, and clutched the son’s cold hand. She laid her head on Lennox’s shoulder as he reached down and closed his son’s eyes. Kiana’s grief was mind-numbing. She struggled to cry and felt guilty when the tears did not flow as freely as they should have. She wondered if she was in denial, or if her beloved’s death had broken her ability to emit feelings of any kind. They stayed like that for some time, the Romans respectfully keeping their distance.
Kiana marveled at how none of the legionaries came to gloat over their fallen enemies. She had heard stories of the atrocities committed by victorious legions after battle. Instead, there was a certain air of sadness about them. These were not foreign barbarians they had slain. Gaul or no, the majority of the dead were Roman citizens, many from the nobler classes; most of the slaves, beggars, and thieves having fled once the battle was fully engaged. Kiana surmised that with Gaul having been a Roman province for so many years, many of these legionaries were probably of Gallic ancestry themselves. How many of them had slain a cousin, a friend, a brother?
As Lennox and Kiana sat mourning the brutal death of Farquhar, they were approached by a pair of legionaries. Each had removed his helmet and grounded his shield. It was the first time Kiana had been able to look upon the faces of the Romans who had killed so many of her friends, and the boy she had known in her heart she would spend her life with. Of course, she had seen Roman soldiers before but had never paid them any mind. Oddly enough, she did not feel anger towards these men, nor was she intimidated. In a way she pitied them, though she could not fully understand why.
Both men were of average height, though noticeably bigger and more muscular than their companions. The larger of the two looked to be of Latin origin, the other had blonde hair and fair skin. Kiana guessed by his facial features that he was a Norseman; of a people yet to be eclipsed by the Roman Empire.
Lennox noticed the legionaries approach as well. His voice was full of emotion as he tried to speak. “He fought for what he believed in,” he stammered, his hand clutching his son’s shoulder.
At length, the bigger of the two legionaries spoke.
“He fought because Sacrovir filled his head with vain dreams of martial glory. It is a shadow that does not exist. What a pity the price of that lesson was his life.”
Artorius gazed at the body of the young man. The wounds to his side and head were deep, rendered by someone of considerable power. Artorius swallowed hard as he recognized the face of the young man.
Lennox’s eyes fell on the sword strapped to Artorius’ hip; the sword of his ancestors, that his father and grandfather had carried in battle before him. Artorius folded his arms and followed Lennox’s gaze.
“You know this weapon,” he stated, eyes now on the Gaul.
Lennox nodded his head slightly.
“I do,” he answered, his voice weak and cracking. “It was my father’s sword and his father’s before him. I gave it to my son just yesterday, in hopes it would protect him.”
“Arming rebels, I see,” Magnus muttered.
“Consider the loss of such a sentimental heirloom to be the price paid for your arming of a rebel against Rome; be content that we do not demand full retribution.”
Lennox lowered his head, eyes closed tightly. Kiana simply stared in wonder. Artorius’ face broke into a scowl, his eyes darkening. Did this Gaul really think he would return the very weapon that his son had used against him? He should have considered himself lucky that Artorius did not run him through with his sword, or better yet crucify him for his crimes! Lennox continued to clutch at his son’s shoulder. He was a broken man; even crucifixion would be better than the torment of seeing his dead son.
“Death would come as a relief,” he said softly.
Artorius then understood. Lennox cared little for the sword now that his son was gone. And yet he found he was unmoved by pity. He did feel for the sons who had perished in a war they did not understand, but he blamed and despised their fathers for allowing it to happen.
“And that is why you will live,” he said slowly. “For the loss of your son is the price you have paid for your failure as a father.”
Such a waste, he thought to himself as he and Magnus turned and walked away.
Kavan was desperately searching the prisoner stockades for any sign of his son. He refused to believe that his son was dead. As he walked the perimeter, he searched the faces of the young men who stood forlorn on the other side. Many he recognized, friends of Alasdair. All were visibly shaken, some were openly weeping at their plight and for their friends that they had watched die. It saddened Kavan deeply, for these were not men at all, but overgrown boys. They should have been continuing in their studies, playing sport, flirting with the young girls, and above all, being boys.
Instead, they had been brainwashed into fighting for an ignoble cause. It was a cause that had destroyed an entire generation of Gaul’s nobility. As he continued to walk the perimeter of the stockade he saw a sight that gave him joy. Alasdair stood with his head resting against the bars, his eyes closed, and his face vacant.
“My son!” Kavan cried out as he rushed to him. Alasdair hardly noticed as his father grabbed him through the bars of his makeshift prison. “My son lives!”
“Father?” Alasdair replied weakly. His mind was in shock from the torment and devastation he had witnessed. Farquhar’s brutal slaying sat fresh in his mind. The bitter shame of his having been knocked out of the fight without so much as scratching a single Roman soldier. That his friend had perished while he still lingered shattered his very soul. Suddenly his mind raced back to reality. He saw Kavan’s face beaming at him, his hands clutching his tunic.
“Alasdair, my boy,” Kavan swallowed hard before continuing. “You have suffered much.”
“Farquhar’s dead,” the boy said flatly.
Kavan bit his lip and nodded. “I am sorry, my son. He was a good lad. Come, let us leave this place of death and suffering.” “I am afraid that’s not possible,” a voice behind him answered.
Kavan turned to see a Roman centurion standing with his arms crossed; a concerned yet foreboding expression on his face. “Your son is a prisoner of war. Legate Silius will decide his fate.”
“My son is but a boy . . .” Kavan began.
“A boy who fought in open rebellion against Rome!” the centurion interrupted. While Vitruvius felt nothing but loathing and spite towards Sacrovir and his band of beggars and thieves, he could not help but pity the young nobles who had had their impressionable minds warped and corrupted by Sacrovir. He felt a sense of injustice that they had collectively paid the gravest price of any in the rebellion. And that price would only continue to grow, for Silius would demand a heavy ransom to atone for the treachery of those who survived.
The Senate rose to its collective feet as the Emperor entered the hallowed halls. Deliberately, Tiberius took his seat at the head of the Senate. In his lap sat a series of scrolls, whose contents he would unveil soon enough in detail. But the time for that would have to wait. He had a few words of his own to speak to the Senate.
“Senators of Rome,” his voiced boomed in the hall, “I come before you with word of both the beginning, as well as the ending of the revolts in Gaul. It is with great disdain that I consider how you dared to question my judgment on not sending either myself or my son to the front to take command personally. Your accusations are like those of frightened women, not men fit to lead the most powerful Empire the world has ever witnessed.”
A few grumblings could be heard from within.
“This is an outrage, Caesar . . .” Gallus started to speak, only to be cut off by Tiberius slamming his hand down on the arm of his chair, his anger rising.
“Do not interrupt me again, Senator Gallus,” he said with ice in his voice. “If an Emperor’s presence is required at the front of every potential trouble, then he would never remain in his capital. But then, perhaps that is what this body wants.”
He glared at the Senators coldly; many of them fidgeting in their seats.
“I will decide when it is fitting for me to take command in the field. You forget, noble fathers of Rome, that aside from our good friend Caecina Severus, I have fought in more wars and endured greater battles than most of you put together. Now, here are the official reports from Gaul. Sacrovir and Florus are dead, the rebellion crushed.”
With that he unfurled the first scroll that covered the campaigns against the Belgae. One by one he read through each official report, listing in detail the exploits of individual units who distinguished themselves. Finally, he handed the scrolls to the scribe at his side.
“The honor for this victory belongs with the men who led and fought in this campaign. I recommend that they be formally recognized for their actions. I am leaving the details of such recognition in your care. Deal strictly with the facts when handing out honors and awards; do not allow such honors to become cheap and meaningless. That is all.” He rose and walked past the assembled host of senators and out of the main hall.
“Do you think it wise leaving the awarding of honors to Senate?” Drusus asked once they had left the Senate chamber.
“They will do the right thing,” Tiberius replied, allowing a slight grin. “Otherwise they will gain my displeasure, something they now look to avoid at all cost. They will deal strictly with the dispensation of awards. When a senator has to dole out honors for anyone other than himself, he is apt to hold the honoree to a higher standard than he would for his own actions. I would rather they erred on the side of frugality, rather than see the awards and decorations of Rome’s legions cheapened like the favors of a common street whore.”
Drusus smiled and nodded. His father knew how to deal with the Senate; to put them in their place, yet allowing them to persist in their façade of authority by leaving the awarding of honors in their hands.
It was well after dusk by the time Kiana and Lennox made it back to Augustodunum. Kiana sat in the back of the wagon, her hand never releasing Farquhar’s. His eyes closed and head turned to one side; one might almost believe that he was merely sleeping. It was only when the cart hit a bump and his head rolled to the other side that the terrible wound where his skull had been ruptured glared hideously at her. As they passed through the gates, she noticed Lennox’s wife waiting for them. He stopped the cart and nodded to her. Her subsequent sobs echoed throughout the entire city, mingled with the sounds of other mothers and wives who had been given the sorrowful news of their loved ones’ demise. It angered Kiana that most of the rebel army had survived, yet the noble youths had been unable to run, the armor Sacrovir had encased them in had served as their coffins.
The city was flooded with Roman soldiers searching for Sacrovir and the rest of the rebel leaders. Ransom and pardon for the majority of the survivors could be negotiated; however, Sacrovir himself would pay with his life.
Kiana hoped the Romans would make him suffer unspeakable torments, so enraged was she at the suffering he had wrought. He had, at first, taken the noble youths as his hostages, and then brainwashed them into becoming his minions. As a result, an entire generation of Gallic nobility had been annihilated by the Roman onslaught.
The inn’s great hall was crammed with patrons, and Torin sought to be anonymous in its midst. He sat back in the far corner, seeking to hide himself from the world. His injured arm in a makeshift sling, he ate and drank in silence.
He had a fair amount of coin, but no idea of how he would spend it or, for that matter, what to do with his newfound freedom. He thought perhaps he could go and search for his wife and children. But he knew such a search was futile at best. He didn’t know if they were even in the province anymore. He prayed to his gods that fate had been merciful to them.
There were a great many people in the hall, more than one would normally expect to see. People were afraid to be out on the streets this evening, what with the town now occupied by Roman soldiers. Torin wondered how many in the inn were rebels like him, just looking to disappear. He took a sip of his mead as the door was forcibly opened. At least a dozen legionaries strode into the hall, flanking a centurion.
“Gaius Silius, Commanding Legate of the Twentieth Legion, has ordered all patrons to leave this establishment immediately!” the officer boomed. “This building is now the headquarters of the Rhine Legions while we search for Julius Sacrovir and his accomplices.”
The Gauls shifted in their seats, uncertain as to what they should do.
“Move!” the centurion barked.
Immediately patrons started filing out of the tavern. Torin found he was trembling in fear as he made his way towards the door. He was utterly terrified that one of the soldiers would recognize him. He started to cover his face, but realized that to do so would only arouse suspicion. He swallowed hard, beads of sweat forming on his brow as he walked between the files of Romans.
“What did you do to your arm?” a legionary asked him.
He stopped and quickly tried to suppress his fear. Was the Roman merely inquisitive or was he suspicious of something?
“Um . . . horse riding accident,” he stammered.
The legionary frowned slightly and raised his eyebrows. “Hmm, you might want to be more careful next time.” Torin forced a nonchalant smile and hurried out into the street. He broke into a cold sweat when he saw the street lined with Roman soldiers. He swallowed hard and walked away as quickly as he could without causing alarm. He clutched at his injured arm, the pain making him feel sick.
“Why couldn’t they just leave me alone?” he asked himself in a low voice. He knew he had to leave Augustodunum at once. Sooner or later a legionary would become suspicious, and Torin knew his fate if he were discovered. An entire section of legionaries guarded the main gate which was partially shut. Only small groups of people could get in or out at any one time, and the Romans were keeping a close eye on everyone who passed through. Sweat formed on Torin’s forehead once more, and he clutched his injured arm close to him. He averted his eyes down, not wishing to look at the soldiers. In a way, he hoped that if he did not look at them, perhaps they would not notice him. A hand against his injured shoulder stopped him. Torin bit the inside of his cheek, trying to suppress a cry of pain. He looked up to see the decanus in charge of the gate blocking his path.
“Where are you heading this late?” the Roman asked, his eyes fixed on Torin’s mournful gaze.
“Home,” the Gaul replied in almost a whisper. That, at least, was not a lie. He then stepped around the decanus and walked out the gate.
A puzzled legionary walked over to his leader.
“You want us to go after that one?” he asked.
The decanus shook his head.
“No. Even if he is a rebel, he’s too short and too old to be Sacrovir. Just let him go.”
Torin just made out the words of the Roman as he slipped out into the night. He closed his eyes and breathed a sigh of relief, a lone tear running down his cheek.
Once Silius had established his headquarters, the great hall was crammed with officers from his legionary forces. Several tables had been pushed together in order to make for a decent area to lay out maps and reports.
“This city is too large for us to conduct a thorough search,” asserted Caeso, Master Centurion of the First Germanica. In the absence of a legate, Caeso was acting as the legion commander. “Still, we’ve got every known exit manned by legionaries. It is the unknown exits I worry about.”
“I concur,” added Master Centurion Calvinus. “If we try and search this entire city house-to-house, Sacrovir is just going to slip out from under our noses.”
“If he hasn’t already,” Silius remarked. “I would be very surprised if he was still in the city. My perception is that the locals blame him rather than us for their suffering and loss. If he is still in Augustodunum, it will only be a matter of time before they turn him over to us…alive or dead.”
“In the meantime, we need to decide how we are going to fi
nd him if he has fled,” Caeso replied.
Centurion Aemilius then spoke up. “We’ve got men seeking out information from the populace, trying to see if anyone knows of Sacrovir’s whereabouts. Surely someone had to have seen him flee.” “Still going to be difficult to know who’s telling the truth and who isn’t,” Calvinus remarked. “This was not a popular uprising, so we must use care when it comes to torturing suspects for information.”
“I’ve got a detachment that I can have start torturing slaves,” Caeso added. “Most slaves will sell out their most loving masters after a few lashes; though I must admit it would be pretty haphazard at best.”
Silius shook his head. “Save your torture detachments for when we actually need them. If Sacrovir has slipped through our grasp, there is little to gain by torturing random slaves. However, you can start questioning the prisoners and see if any know where he might have fled.” “Already being done, sir,” Caeso said with a self-appreciating grin.
As if on cue, a pair of legionaries entered the hall, a bound prisoner in tow.
“This is a rebel who says he knows where we can find Sacrovir,” one of the soldiers said.
“Bring him here,” Silius waved the men over.
The Gaul was dirty and reeked of sweat, his hair was unkempt and matted with blood. Bruises could be seen on his body through his ripped tunic, and his left eye was closed shut with a deep gash running from his cheek to his eyebrow.
“What did you do to him?” Calvinus asked, scowling at the wretch of a man. “Caeso, your men need to work on their torture techniques; this is sloppy work at best!”
“We didn’t do this, sir,” one of the soldiers stated. “We found him like this. I think he got trampled by one of Indus’ horsemen. No sooner than we discover he’s alive, he’s swearing to us that he knows where to find Sacrovir. We told him he’d better; otherwise we’ll crucify his sorry ass.”