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

by James Mace

  “I agree,” Calvinus asserted. “Lugdunum is a rather posh assignment. I think it should fall upon whichever cohort distinguished itself the most on this campaign.”

  “You are not taking the First,” Silius remarked wryly.

  Calvinus only laughed at that.

  “No, I did not mean my own cohort. Rather, I was thinking we should send the Third. They are the ones who took out Florus and brought Indus’ cavalry back with them. They also distinguished themselves during the main battle at Augustodunum.”

  Silius nodded his consent.

  “Very well, inform Proculus to get his men ready to move to Lugdunum. That is, if you haven’t done so already!” Calvinus could only grin at that.

  Silius knew full-well that his master centurion had already given Proculus his orders, and he wouldn't have been surprised at all if the Third was already on the march. His trust in Calvinus’ judgment was absolute, and if he had said the Third Cohort needed to go to Lugdunum, then the Third Cohort needed to go to Lugdunum.

  Indeed, the Third had been on the march for several hours by the time Calvinus informed Silius of their new assignment. Lugdunum was approximately four or five days march away, and the soldiers of the Third Cohort were looking forward to new horizons.

  “Lugdunum, now that is the place for us!” Carbo asserted. “Warmer weather, prettier ladies . . . Valens eyes lit up at Carbo’s last statement.

  “Come again?” he asked.

  “What he means is you won’t have to dip your wick into the vaginal wart holes of trashy frontier whores anymore,” Decimus answered.

  “Decimus, you are eloquent as always,” Artorius rolled his eyes. “I have not heard what kind of billets they have for us, though.”

  “I already checked into that,” Decimus answered proudly. As the section’s resident gossip, he took pride in rooting out information and had an alarmingly vast circle of sources. “It would seem there are blocks of flats at one end of town that the state purchased for our use. It seemed more practical than having to build us an entire fort. The only things they had to build were the drill halls, as well as an extra bathhouse.”

  On the fourth day of the march, the Third Cohort chanced upon the same slave traders that Kiana and Alasdair had had the misfortune of coming across. Two young lads were being thrown to the ground by their merciless captors. One was sobbing incessantly while the other just lay limp. This fellow was being whipped by a burley slaver who wore nothing but a pair of breaches and a rag on his head.

  “Get up you worthless little shit!” the man spat. He thrashed the lad thrice more with his barbed whip before kicking him hard in the ribs, which gave a sickening crunch. He then stood looking dumbfounded.

  “Bugger it, I think this one’s dead,” he said to his companion, who was struggling with the other boy.

  The rest of their caravan kept creeping along, both slavers and their quarry paying no heed to what was going on behind them.

  “Just leave him to rot,” the other slaver retorted. “Meanwhile, I’m going to use this one for a bit of sport!” A deviant sneer crossed his face.

  The lad, his own eyes full of terror, bit the man hard on the forearm. As the slaver screamed in pain, the young prisoner used the last of his strength to attempt to run from the scene. He was delirious with fear and had no idea he was heading straight for the column of Roman soldiers.

  “Hey, you!” the slaver screamed, as his companion laughed at his plight. “Somebody stop him!”

  Proculus called the column to a halt as the newly liberated slave stumbled towards them. A nearby legionary dropped his pack and javelins, turned and belted the young man hard across the face with the bottom edge of his shield. The lad fell to the ground, stunned and unable to regain his bearing. Proculus rode over to where the lad lay as the slaver came running up to him. The centurion’s senses were assailed by the sight and stench of the man. He was overweight and scraggly in appearance; his body odor was strong, and Proculus wondered if the man had ever had a bath.

  “Nice one,” the slaver remarked as he stooped with his hands on his knees, his breath coming in heaving gasps. “Thought this one was going to get away before I could have my way with him.”

  Proculus dismounted his horse and walked over to the man. As the slaver started to rise up, Proculus punched him hard in the mouth, sending him sprawling.

  “Idiot!” the centurion shouted. “You almost let a prisoner of war escape just so you could satisfy your sick carnal lust!”

  The slaver started to push himself up to his feet when Proculus stomped him on the side of the face with his hobnailed sandals. The young prisoner was now lying on his stomach, his face filled with joy and hope. The scowl on the centurion’s face diminished any hopes he may have had.

  Just then a pair of auxiliary cavalrymen galloped up to them, one of whom saluted Proculus.

  “And where in the hell were you when this piss-ant lost his prisoners?” the centurion barked, the scowl never leaving his face.

  “Beg your pardon, sir,” one of the troopers replied. “We’ve been chasing down the others that this jackal let out. He and his partner up there decide they want to play with a couple of the young nobles. So they go and open the cage, and sure enough three more manage to escape into the woods! We’ve spent the last hour hunting them down.”

  “Any get away from you?” Vitruvius asked as he rode up on his horse.

  “No, sir,” the cavalryman replied with a shake of his head. “Unfortunately, we had to slay the lot of them. A mercy, really; these are all headed for the sulfur mines.”

  “Yes, we know,” Proculus replied with a dismissive wave. He then glared at the slaver, who was now cowering with his hands over his face. The centurion smashed his foot into the man’s face once again, eliciting a chuckle from Vitruvius, as well as the auxiliary troopers.

  “I want this scum and his companion lashed for their gross incompetence,” Proculus continued. “Take the prisoner back with you and see to it that he makes it to the mines alive and unspoiled.”

  “Right away, sir,” the trooper acknowledged as the prisoner let out a series of despairing cries.

  “No! Please do not make me go back! I am a nobleman; I can pay whatever you want! Please, I beg you!” He came at Proculus, his arms outstretched piteously.

  Proculus swallowed hard and remembered why the young man had been sentenced to the mines of Mauretania. The centurion punched him in the mouth, sending him tumbling over the slaver. The lad lay their weeping in sorrow.

  “Lost, I am lost,” he sobbed, his face buried in the grass.

  “Yes, you are,” Proculus replied as he stood over him. “Perhaps you will make sounder decisions in the next life.” With that he gruffly pulled the young man up by the hair and threw him towards the cavalrymen, one of whom prodded the lad with his lance back towards the caravan. Proculus then kicked the slaver in the small of his back, forcing him to scamper to his feet.

  The other auxiliary trooper saluted once again before following his quarry back to the slave caravan.

  “Well, that was something I could have done without seeing,” Magnus muttered under his breath, as the column continued its march.

  “Those sick fucks must be desperate for some really good sport,” Valens observed.

  “And to think we thought you had low standards!” Carbo snorted.

  “At least my standards never involved young boys,” Valens retorted.

  “A few days in the mines and he will wish he was back to being that slaver’s little play thing,” Artorius observed, watching as the prisoner limped along, the lance of the cavalryman never far from his back.

  “Are the mines really that bad?” Gavius asked.

  Most of the section grunted in reply.

  “From what Flaccus said, they are far worse,” Artorius said. “The sulfur burns your eyes until you go blind from it. Not that it matters because once you’re down there you’ve seen the last of the sun. The very air you breathe is
a poisonous fume. You are given just enough food and water to be kept alive. Three months is about the longest most survive, although I’m sure there are exceptions.”

  “Such as?” Gavius persisted.

  The other legionaries were gazing intently on their decanus, curious as to what else he may have heard.

  “There are a few cases where a slave will show the intestinal fortitude to survive for years down there. Sometimes their masters will take pity upon them and retire them to lesser duties on a farm; though more often than not they are blind and completely mad by then.”

  The Gallic countryside continued to roll past them as the column made its way towards Lugdunum. The scenes of activity from the villages they marched through would have made one forget that the province had recently been in the grips of rebellion. The peoples encountered were mostly indifferent to the legionaries; neither fearful like the barbarians across the Rhine, nor openly friendly like the Batavians. Few of the Gauls were old enough to remember the conquest of Caesar; indeed, most regarded being a Roman province as beneficial. Roman architecture influenced even the smallest of Gallic villages. Artorius found it odd to see a bathhouse or rudimentary aqueduct amongst the thatched huts. There were even shrines dedicated to the Roman gods dispersed throughout the region.

  As the cohort marched into Lugdunum, they noticed a number of tents erected just on the outskirts. The outgoing cohort had already vacated their billets and were living in tents for the few days it would take for them to relinquish control. They found a sign posted outside of a renovated tavern that read:

  Cohort VIII, Legio VIII Augusta

  Acilius Aviola, Centurion Pilus Prior

  “Here we are then,” Proculus announced, as he dismounted his horse. He and the centurions entered the tavern to find it had been modified into a type of Principia. Stairs led to rooms upstairs, and the entire bottom floor had been partitioned off into a series of offices and other rooms. There was a flurry of activity going on, seeing as the cohort was getting ready to leave and return to their fortress at Poetovio in Pannonia.

  “Ah, good you have arrived!” a boisterous voice said behind them.

  They turned to see an older centurion walk in the main door. He had just removed his helmet, revealing a head that was sparse in hair, and that which he had was completely gray.

  “I am Centurion Aviola, Commander of the Eighth Cohort, Eighth Augusta,” he said as he stuck out his hand.

  “Valerius Proculus, Third Cohort, Twentieth Valeria,” Proculus replied, accepting the man’s hand. “This is quite the setup you fellas have here.”

  Aviola shrugged at the observation.

  “We’ve had a pretty good run here,” he replied. “Things got a little anxious when we had to rush north to help you guys put down Sacrovir’s rebellion, though. That was the first action any of us had seen in years.”

  “We were damn glad to have your boys with us,” Vitruvius observed. “Helped to even the odds a bit.”

  Aviola shook his hand dismissively. “It helped us bang off some of the battle rust. Come, I’ll show you around. All principal officers stay over here in the rooms upstairs, legionaries stay over at the flats. It’s a pretty good setup all around.”

  After much confusion, Artorius and the section found their flat. It was actually a pair of flats, with an interior door added. Similar to the setup in a legionary barracks, one room had four pairs of bunks, a table, cooking stove, and other personal effects; the other room was for storing armor, weapons, and equipment.

  “Well, this doesn’t look bad,” Magnus remarked as he gazed at the interior.

  “No, not bad at all,” Valens replied, setting down his carrying pack next to one of the bunks.

  Artorius set his gear down next to a bunk at the back of the room, where there was a desk and chair for his use. “I think we will make do just fine,” he said with a smile as he lay down on his bunk. Lugdunum was a rather luxurious spa town, and Artorius knew he would enjoy this assignment immensely. Indeed, the men of the Eighth Legion seemed heartbroken to be leaving.

  Indus and Silius both stood before the Emperor, members of the First and Twentieth Legions on hand, along with Indus’ entire regiment. Vast numbers of civilians had arrived as well, many of whom had never even seen their Emperor, aside from his image on coins and statues. Tiberius took a deep breath as he gazed at the sight. Being around such men invigorated him; such manliness had defined his life for so many years. In truth, there had been no need for him to even come. The rebellion had been crushed almost as soon as Rome had been made aware of it. Yet Tiberius had used the opportunity to visit the legions. The First and Twentieth had both been under his command at one time, and he felt a certain bond with these men. While he was in Rome he had to live with Senators and Nobles who amounted to little more than old women; but these, these were men.

  “Commander Julius Indus, come forward,” the Emperor commanded, his voice carrying across the parade field outside Augustodunum.

  Indus stepped onto the raised dais where the Emperor and Drusus stood. Drusus then handed Tiberius a simple crown made of oak leaves, which the Emperor placed upon Indus’ head.

  “For your loyalty, courage, and impeccable savvy in battle,” Tiberius began, “you are awarded the Civic Crown. Your actions have saved the lives of countless Roman citizens.” He then turned to Drusus, who handed him an ornate scroll which Tiberius started to read from. “In recognition of your superior leadership, fidelity, and service to the Empire, the Treveri cavalry regiment shall, from this day forth, be forever known as Indus’ Horse. As this name brings with it no small amount of honor, Indus’ Horse will always be a regiment made up of only the finest cavalrymen.” He then handed the scroll to Indus, who took it and bowed low before the Emperor.

  Silius then came forward with a magnificent standard. It bore a red cloth banner, emblazed with the image of a black horse with the words Indus Equus, Fidelis Victrix or Indus’ Horse, Fidelity and Victory.

  “I am deeply honored, Caesar,” he said.

  Tiberius shook his head. “No,” he replied, “the honor is mine to be able to bestow this upon you.” With that, he stepped back and saluted Indus. His face beaming, Indus returned the salute before turning to face the crowds. His men immediately broke into a frenzy of howls and cheers for their commander, chanting his name over and over. Even the legionaries gave a loud series of ovations for their friend and ally, as did the crowd of civilians. No title, award for valor, or accolade from the Senate could ever compare with the honor the Emperor had just bestowed upon him. In a sense, he had been given immortality; for in the years to come, even long after he had crossed over to the afterlife, there would always be Indus’ Horse.

  Life had been hectic for Pontius Pilate now that he was back in Rome. His future father-in-law had wanted to see him before he even had a chance to get settled. Apparently he had been planning a special “welcome home” banquet for the Tribune for some time. Though his betrothed Claudia was in Gaul with her sister, this did not stop the elder Proculus from following through on a massive celebration to welcome Pilate home. This was immediately followed by another banquet held by the Praetorians as a means of acknowledging him into their ranks. The Emperor himself had attended, and it was the first time Pilate had ever met Tiberius in person.

  Their meeting had been cordial enough, though Pilate found he was rather intimidated in the presence of the Emperor. Even when Tiberius took the time to congratulate Pilate on his posting and express his utmost confidence in him, he could not help but feel as if he was being tested; that Tiberius was scrutinizing him, trying to find fault in him. Perhaps that was just his way.

  Pilate found the Praetorians to be a different lot. Most viewed themselves as being of a better class than those serving in the legions. This was true in some ways; the Praetorians were the Emperor’s personal bodyguards and as such were paid significantly better than their brother legionaries. The premise was that the Praetorians were the elite of the
Roman Army, selected for their ability as fighting men. While Pilate did not doubt that the men in the Praetorians were talented, he wondered just how many were hardened veterans and not merely from influential families.

  The mines came into view as the caravan made its way into the dusty outcropping of rock formations. Radek gave a wicked sneer over towards a young boy who was whimpering in the corner of their cage. The lad was sick with a fever and trembling badly. Radek cursed his luck that his injuries had prevented him from escaping during their slave drivers’ botched attempts to relieve their carnal lust on some of the young nobles. His wounds had healed, though he would never walk correctly again. Not that it mattered, with a little luck he would be dead within a month. He leaned over and grabbed the sickly youth by the thigh.

  “Welcome to your new home,” he said mockingly.

  The lad just looked up at him, eyes distant. “Don’t worry my poppet, you and I will have enough time to grow close before these places consume us…really close.”

  The boy’s eyes grew wide in terror, though he was too weak to even protest. Radek let out a loud guffaw, only to succumb to a harsh coughing fit. The butt of a spear rapped him on the back of the head through the cage.

  “Quiet in there!” an auxiliary shouted at him.

  Radek then leaned back and stared at the bright sun that shone through the bars. “Take a good look at the sun, lads,” he said in a hoarse voice, “for it is the last time any of us will ever see her.”