Soldier of Rome: The Sacrovir Revolt (The Artorian Chronicles)

by James Mace

  Kavan closed his eyes and lowered his head as he heard the sentence. One hundred talents was a considerable sum, one that would cost him the vast majority of his lands, and require him to decimate his household staff, as well as his other servants.

  “Such a ransom will cripple my family . . .” he began. Macro slammed his hand down on the desk.

  “This is not a negotiation!” he barked. “Your son has committed treason and, as such, should be executed like a common criminal! Be glad we have allowed him to live! Either pay the ransom or your son can join the slaves and thieves that are bound for the sulfur mines in Mauretania. Those are your only options.”

  “Alright then,” Kavan replied, nodding slightly. “I will pay the ransom.”

  As they were escorted away by a pair of legionaries, a horrifying scream came from two tables down, where Centurion Dominus sat. He held a particular loathing for the rebels and Artorius knew the ransom he demanded would be even more brutal. Silius had given little specifics as to how the sentencing should be conducted. All he had said was that he would rather they err on the side of severity rather than leniency, though he had stated that the ransoms demanded had to be within the ability of the prisoners and their families to pay. Artorius correctly deduced that the screams came from a young nobleman whose family had refused to pay his ransom.

  “No! No! No!” the lad screamed in terror. “Father . . . please, do not abandon me!”

  The lad’s father exited the hall as the boy struggled against the legionaries who held him. As he was thrown to the floor, one of the soldiers drew his gladius and smashed him in the mouth with the pommel. The other legionary grabbed the boy roughly by the hair and proceeded to punch him repeatedly in the face.

  “Hey!” Proculus shouted as he strode across the hall to where the boy now lay limp. “Don’t break him! He needs to be able to make the journey to Mauretania.”

  Other young prisoners started to tremble in terror, realizing their fate if their fathers refused their ransoms. One urinated in his tunic, which brought a sharp cuff across the ear from one of his legionary handlers. Another passed out completely.

  “Hey, Macro, tell me we don’t have to escort those bastards to Mauretania,” Camillus remarked.

  Macro allowed himself a half grin and shook his head. “No, there are auxiliary troops coming up from Massilia. They will escort the slave traders to the sulfur mines in Africa.” “Pretty harsh sentence,” Artorius observed.

  “Tell me about it,” Flaccus added. “I had to do an escort mission like that one time. If you lads ever plan on traveling to North Africa, don’t bother. It is inhospitable, and the climate insufferable. I got to take a tour of one of the mines when we got there. The foreman seemed to get some macabre sense of satisfaction from his job. It is brutal down there. You live, work, eat, and sleep underground. Most slaves don’t realize when they arrive that they have taken their last glimpse of the sun. Day and night become as one, and you lose all sense of time. I would imagine that many don’t survive even a year.”

  “Tiberius wants to be able to balance mercy with justice and retribution,” Macro added. “He gives these people a chance at reparation, and if refused, we impose the harshest sentence we can on them.”

  “This is much worse than being sent off to be a gladiator,” Camillus noted. “At least there you get to see the sun. Not to mention death probably comes quickly.”

  “That and you are able to live with the hope of winning your freedom,” Artorius remarked. “These men are dead the moment they walk out of here.”

  For two more days they continued in their hateful task of ransoming prisoners. Artorius could not even count how many they had processed. Two prisoners had been denied their ransoms and suffered the same fate as the lad they had watched being taken away screaming on the first day.

  One man, they discovered, was a criminal, wanted for a variety of offenses that ranged from horse thievery to arson. This one had tried to attack Macro with his bare hands, bound as they were. Artorius and Flaccus had been quick enough to intercept the man, Artorius throwing him over the desk, knocking papers everywhere. The man then tried to bite into Artorius’ forearm as Flaccus repeatedly smashed him across the head with the pommel of his gladius. He then turned his weapon and went to stab the man when Artorius stayed his hand.

  “Don’t grant this bastard a quick release by death,” he remarked.

  Flaccus nodded and sheathed his weapon. After that incident, Macro made certain all prisoners were bound at the feet, as well as the hands.

  That evening Artorius walked down to where Magnus and some of the others were dismantling the stockade. They were just going to tear it down, but then some of the legionaries had decided to use the timber to start a series of bonfires. Soldiers could be seen lounging in the glow of the flames, glad to be done with prisoners and rebellion. Artorius found Magnus roasting some type of meat on a long stick that he had stuck into the fire.

  “What are you cooking?” he asked as Magnus smiled at him.

  “Goat; I got it real cheap from a local herdsman on his way to the market. You want some?” He pointed to a mess tin that was piled high with cooked meat.

  Artorius realized he had not eaten most of the day, and he was very hungry. He also shared many of the same tastes as Magnus.

  “Thanks, it smells good.” He sat down on a fallen tree made into a bench and proceeded to eat some cooked goat, something he had never had before.

  It was actually quite good. His Nordic friend had a knack for cooking fresh meat.

  “Bloody hateful task,” he remarked as Magnus pulled his stick from the fire.

  “I don’t know about that,” Magnus remarked. “I rather enjoy this type of cooking.”

  “I meant the task I had to do, sitting on the sentencing boards!” Artorius replied, exasperated.

  “Oh, that,” Magnus said with a dismissive wave. “I’m just glad this bloody rebellion is at an end. I heard Sacrovir killed himself and burned his estate over his head. Quite dramatic, don’t you think?”

  “Quite,” Artorius replied. “I found it rather disturbing the number of nobles who refused to ransom their sons. Their lands and treasure meant more to them than their own flesh and blood.”

  “Such men are driven blind by greed,” Magnus remarked as he turned his makeshift spit over and stepped away from the fire. “In their minds, sons can be replaced. By the way, I saw the sword you got off that dead kid. A fine weapon, that!”

  “Indeed,” Artorius acknowledged. “I didn’t want some jackal in the rear taking it for his own collection, or that of the legion for that matter. It is too fine a weapon to remain so discarded, collecting dust.”

  “So you took it for your own collection?” Magnus interjected. He raised his hands in resignation as Artorius stared at him. “Hey, I’m not judging you. Just making a small jest is all. I mean, you killed the lad; the spoils of war are yours. I just wish I had found something nice and shiny to take back with me. You got that sword, and Decimus got Florus’ helmet.” He gave a short laugh. “Now that was a prize!”

  “Would your father have ransomed you?” Artorius asked abruptly, bringing them back to the original subject.

  “Sure,” Magnus replied with a casual shrug. “Of course, he would have beaten me to death as soon as he got me home! I think I would rather deal with the sulfur mines in Mauretania than face my father like that!”

  Artorius had to laugh at his friend’s dark humor. He then thought about what Flaccus said about the mines. Such a place would break any man, no matter how strong he was in mind and body. One could only go on for so long, once all hope was lost.

  The forum of Augustodunum was a swarm of activity. Proculus knew the auctions would bring every Roman citizen with a talent to his name within a hundred miles. He recognized a few centurions and tribunes who were looking to increase their wealth and lands on the cheap. Silius himself was overseeing the auctioning of Gallic estates, having already procured a pri
me piece of real estate for himself. The Legate stood behind a podium, a gavel in his hand. There were other auctions going on as well. Proculus noticed Vitruvius standing with his arms folded, deep in thought.

  “Vitruvius, old boy!” he stated with a friendly smack on the shoulder.

  His lesser centurion nodded in reply.

  “Here to take part in the raping of the Gallic nobility?” Proculus asked. He could not help but contain his excitement. His wife Vorena would love nothing more than to have a country estate to escape from the confines of the cities. “So what are you in the market for?”

  “Slaves,” Vitruvius replied. “I figured I can buy some decent stock really cheap and turn them over for a profit when we get home. I may even pick out one or two to keep for myself. It seems the fashion for a centurion to have his own personal attendants.”

  “So will you be looking for something practical, or maybe a little more seductive?” Proculus asked with a wry grin.

  Vitruvius smirked at the question.

  “A manservant will be practical, of course. And if I were to find something that could bring some relief to my loins--not very likely, judging from this lot-she’d still better be a damn good cook!”

  Proculus laughed and shook his head.

  “Yes, and I see that some of the men from the ranks have pooled their resources together to try and acquire themselves a slave or two. Well, if they want someone to clean out the section bays and cook their meals for them, so be it.”

  “Quite,” Vitruvius said. “So what about you, you’re not in the market for more slaves are you?”

  “I’m good on slaves,” Proculus replied with a shake of his head. “I’m after land. I still have quite a bit of my winnings left from your little gladiatorial exhibition.”

  Vitruvius snorted. He found it odd that everyone but him had made a fortune of his killing Sacrovir’s prize gladiator. At the time he thought it would be tempting the fates too much if he were to have bet on himself.

  Proculus left his friend to his business and walked over to where Silius was getting ready to start to the land auction. He was determined to get Vorena that country estate. He thought perhaps he would pick up a pair of horses as an extra. He also knew they would need someone to run the estate while Vorena was in Rome. He then remembered Diana.

  Diana Procula was a distant relative of his; his father and her grandfather being second cousins. Whereas her grandfather was a very influential Roman magistrate, Proculus’ father had been a simple stone mason; and he himself was a mere soldier who had risen from the ranks. Still, he and Diana had shared a close bond over the years. He was nearly old enough to be her father, and as such had become a type of paternal figure to both her and her sister.

  Diana’s sister, Claudia, was in a long-term engagement with the Tribune Pontius Pilate; a good match for both families. Not that Proculus had faired too poorly in the marriage game. After all, his wife was the granddaughter of the famous Centurion Lucius Vorenus, who had distinguished himself during Julius Caesar’s Gallic campaigns. As a boy, Proculus had lived to hear stories about the man that Caesar himself had made famous in his Commentaries. Even after more than seventy years since the end of the Gallic conquest, the exploits of Lucius Vorenus and Titus Pullo still set the standard for valor expected of a Roman soldier, particularly those of the Centurionate. Centurion Pullo had had the misfortune of siding with Pompey Magnus during the civil war; and though he was later pardoned, he slipped into obscurity. On the other hand, his friend and rival Vorenus had retired as Centurion Primus Pilus of Legio XI. Vorenus’ son, Lucius the Younger, had been able to channel his father’s fame into boosting his own career which helped him to later become Tribune of the Plebs.

  “The auction will now begin!” Silius’ bellow and the bang of the gavel brought Proculus back to the present. He took a deep breath and listened to the details of the first estate being auctioned. He was determined to find a country home befitting the granddaughter of Vorenus!

  Artorius was surprised that he had been singled out to be decorated. He had rallied enough troops to repel a horde of Turani rebels; however, he did not feel as if he had done anything extraordinary. Lives may have been saved, but they were not by his actions alone.

  “Sergeant Artorius,” Macro’s shouting interrupted his thoughts, “Legionaries Magnus, Praxus, Decimus, Valens, and Carbo . . . post!” The century was in parade formation in the otherwise empty square at the Augustodunum University. The section stepped out of formation and marched up to their centurion. Next to Macro, Optio Flaccus stood bearing several ornate embossed discs bearing the profile image of a man wearing a Greek helmet. They were about palm size, the same as a campaign medal.

  “The elimination of an enemy of Rome brings distinct honor to the men responsible,” Macro said. “Julius Florus was a traitor to the Gauls, and to the Senate and people of Rome. His death saved countless lives and stifled further rebellion. Therefore, by order of Gaius Silius, Legate and Governor General of Germania Inferior, you men are awarded the Florian Crest. The Florian Crest is a special award given to those responsible for Julius Florus’ demise. Let all bear witness to your initiative, determination, and valor.” Macro then nodded to Optio Flaccus who handed him the medals. Macro handed one to Artorius with his left hand, clasping his right with the other.

  “You and your men are a tribute to the Valeria Legion,” he said to Artorius in a low voice. As soon as the last medal was awarded, Macro stepped back and rendered a salute to the legionaries, who returned the courtesy to their centurion.

  The Second Century erupted in a serious of voracious cheers and accolades. Besides Artorius and his section, Julius Indus and his two cavalrymen were also awarded the Florian Crest. It was, indeed, a distinct honor that only nine men would ever receive.

  Kiana agreed to ride with Alasdair on his journey home. His father had had to stay in Augustodunum in order to see to the formalities of paying the ransom. As they rode in silence down the road, they saw a slave caravan moving down the perpendicular road heading south.

  “Dear gods,” Alasdair said quietly.

  “What is it?” Kiana asked. She was not aware of the sentence passed on those who failed to pay their ransoms or were found to be former slaves or criminals.

  Alasdair spurred his horse and rode towards the caravan. Roman auxiliaries, mounted on horses, flanked the long train of prisoners; their menacing presence preventing Alasdair from getting any closer. Kiana rode up beside him, her eyes widening as she saw some of the faces that peered out from behind the bars of their wheeled cages. Though most were the ragged countenances of thieves and slaves, she recognized one or two who were friends of Farquhar’s.

  “Alasdair, what is happening to them?” she asked.

  The young man swallowed hard. “They are the ones whose families refused to ransom them. They are being sent to the mines in Mauretania.”

  “They are slaves?” Kiana was in shock. After the suffering and horror she had witnessed, this just added salt to the wounds. It was the final, and by far most brutal, retribution to come from the Romans.

  “Once nobles with a future full of hope, promise, and prosperity,” he replied. “Now they are but slaves, to be sold and disposed of at the will of their new masters. The sulfur mines will break them. It would have been better had they died in battle.”

  Kiana turned her gaze towards Alasdair. His face was set hard, and she could not help but notice that he somehow seemed much older; as though he had suddenly aged from a young boy into an old man.

  “Come,” she said, “let us leave this despair behind. You still have a future, Alasdair. You may not have the life of privilege and wealth you had before, but at least you are alive and free. Farquhar would have wanted you to live life once again.”

  Alasdair turned towards her and smiled weakly.

  “Farquhar was, indeed, a lucky man, to have had you in his life. He loved you so much.” He then took a deep breath and exhaled hard through his
nose. “Go home, Kiana. Know that I will always cherish our friendship; however, this journey I must finish alone.” With that he turned and slowly rode away.

  Kiana did not protest as she watched him. Once he was out of sight, she turned and rode back towards her home. She had stayed with and comforted Alasdair as much as possible. It had been done out of the love she still bore Farquhar. The two had been like brothers. She then made a vow to herself that she would visit his grave on the anniversary of his death, placing one flower on the small monument his father had erected. Though she was still but a young girl, Kiana could not help but feel as if she, too, had been aged considerably by the Sacrovir Revolt.

  Chapter XVIII: The New Assignment and Indus’ Horse

  ***

  Silius sat with his hands behind his head, eyes closed. The ransoming of the prisoners was finally complete, those that remained on their way to enslavement in the mines of Mauretania, and the execution of the captured leaders of the rebellion had also been accomplished. Broehain had been allowed to be ransomed along with the prisoners. However, the rest of the rebel leaders had been crucified in full view of Augustodunum. He was physically and mentally exhausted, the rush of the full effects of the rebellion and its aftermath coming down on him. Suddenly, there was a knock at his door, and Calvinus walked in. Silius did not bother to open his eyes.

  “Sorry to bother you, but I had to bring this to your attention,” the master centurion stated, a rolled parchment in his hand.

  “What is it?” Silius asked with his eyes still closed.

  “The cohort from Lugdunum is being recalled to their garrison station, their three-year tour in the region being complete. I took the liberty of looking at the rotation schedule for the Lugdunum garrison, and we happen to be next.”

  “Damn it, I had forgotten about that,” the legate replied as he leaned forward and rested his forehead on his hand. He figured a spell at the bathhouse and brothel would do him good, except he was too exhausted to even leave his quarters. “I remember looking at that before we were distracted by the rebellion. We are fairly close to Lugdunum as it is, so whichever cohort we dispatch may as well head straight there from here. No sense in them even going all the way back to Cologne.”