by T. A. Uner
The persistent attacks of the Germanic tribes did little to ease nerves. The last few weeks resembled a nightmare as their opponents had stepped up their offensives. Fortunately the fort was well stocked with supplies and men. Plus their opponents had not had the time to build siege works to batter their walls. Eolus sent out cohorts immediately after German attacks to counterbalance momentum. It would be suicide to let the men sit inside the fort and wait out attack after attack. Eolus may have been diminutive in stature. but his tactics were as massive as his leadership abilities.
Fortunately the Germans weren’t as organized as the 21st Legion. Decimus’ experience in the 3rd Legion proved invaluable and he soon garnered the respect of all the other Cohort Centurions. But most importantly, Decimus had finally won the respect of his Optio, Nilox. This newfound loyalty had begun shortly after their fight in the mess hall. Now their cohort’s unity was complete.
Decimus took a sip of water from his waterskin. The patrol he commanded was only sixty men, less than a century of eighty. But his hit-and-run tactics called for smaller units and an entire Cohort would bring too much attention to his forces. The black sky was sewn with ashen clouds flanking a hazy, yellow moon partially obscured by a film of translucent mist. Nighttime was the best time to launch attacks. The darkness blanketed their movements.
“The scouts are returning, Centurion,” Nilox said respectfully. They had made their temporary base inside a grove. Two scouts lead by the Stalwart Dormo bounded back with news.
They saluted Decimus.
“What have you found?” Decimus asked.
“At least three hundred Germans,” Dormo said, “less than a thousand steps ahead of us just beyond that defile.” He pointed into the darkness. Decimus adjusted his eyes and nodded.
“What are they doing, Dormo?”
Dormo smiled. “Drinking, dancing, they’re ripe for picking, Sir.”
“Any Sentries?”
“Nothing we cannot handle; less than twenty, a half-circle of men spread out within a bottomland.”
Decimus smiled. The Gods were favoring them tonight.
“What are your orders, Sir?” Nilox said.
Decimus turned to face his Optio. “Prepare the men. When we’re less than fifty paces from the ring of Germans, we can take them down with arrows.”
“Why not bring some fire pigs from the fort,” Nilox asked. “That is sure to confuse them.”
“I do not wish to confuse,” Decimus replied firmly. “Only kill and press on toward their main encampment.”
“As you wish, Sir.”
Decimus was grateful, in the past Nilox would often show dissent at his orders. Not anymore.
“Gather your best archers and follow Dormo,” Decimus told Nilox. The Optio nodded obediently and went off to gather the men.
“I like your plan, Sir,” Dormo said. “They won’t know what hit them.”
When Nilox returned he had twenty archers with him. Their faces were taut and Decimus knew they were anxious for a fight.
It was his job to give them one.
They came upon the German Sentries who stood lackadaisically, unknowing they’d be dead in a matter of moments.
The archers nocked their arrows and fired. The arrows sliced through the air and easily found their targets, dropping the majority of Sentries.
Only two survived, and those were quickly cut down by the second volley. He drew his short sword and Nilox and the others followed him. They followed a beaten-path until they found the clearing where their quarry was.
Grouped around campfires the Germans were singing and drinking, hopelessly drunk. Some were dancing like madmen. They were ripe for the taking.
This was too easy, Decimus thought. But when presented with any type of advantage, easy was preferred.
They were surprised by four drunken Germans who had wandered from the camp to piss in the woods. Decimus’ men ran them through with swords and they died quick, peaceful deaths.
After casting one last look at their targets Decimus ordered his men forward. With the element of surprise as their ally, they slipped through the trees and penetrated the perimeter of Germans clumped together. By the time they saw the Romans coming, it was too late. Heads were tumbling while arms and limbs were soaked in blood.
Decimus heard the screams of frightened men around him. But it was not his men who screamed. The Germans were caught totally unprepared as Decimus’ forces cut through them like a knife through soft cheese. Decimus drew his dagger and launched it at a German who was attempting to skewer Dormo. His forehead exploded as blood and skin gave way to gristle and bits of skull. Dormo nodded his thanks to Decimus but soon had his hands full as three Germans surrounded him. Dormo’s large Legionary shield parried their blows before Decimus, using his short sword, detached one German’s arm at the elbow. The man screamed in pain as black blood drenched his striped breeches. Around him, madness prevailed. Groups of Germans were clumped together in panic, attempting to retreat into the night. Their drunken conditions betrayed them, and the Romans’ superior training made the difference in the battle as Decimus’ men continued pounding them into submission.
Decimus slammed the boss of his shield into an oncoming German who was laid out at his feet. Sticky blood coated the ground where patches of snow quickly became drenched in blood. He looked up at the sky and the hazy moon winked back at him from behind a cloud as if congratulating Decimus on his swift victory.
But he hadn’t won yet. Decimus would not let overconfidence impair his judgment.
Right as the battle began to turn into a rout, they were confronted by another group of Germans.
Shit!
He blew his whistle and ordered the retreat. His men complied and began withdrawing.
So much for the victory. But at least they had taken down many of their enemies.
Decimus tripped over the corpse of a fallen German. Dropping his shield he cursed his clumsiness. A spear thudded into the ground a few steps from his head and he was lucky it hadn’t impaled him like a fish. The ground was slippery with the blood of fallen Germans and he felt a powerful set of hands wrap around his throat. The German he thought dead was alive. He felt air escape in his lungs as he fought to break from the hold of his enemy.
This bastard is as strong as a bear, Decimus thought. He unsheathed his dagger and slammed its hilt into the German’s head. Nothing. He only had a few more moments before he would lose consciousness. Around him the cacophony of men yelling and dying filled his ears. He slashed the German’s throat and thick, blood splashed Decimus’ face. The blood blinded him for a few moments, but he was free of the German’s grip. He watched his enemy choke on his own blood.
Not an ideal way to die. Decimus pulled the spear from the ground and impaled the German in the chest with it. The body twitched a few times then was still.
Decimus spit out some phlegm lodged in his throat, picked up his shield and ran. His men all around him, he prayed to Mercury to give him the speed to outrun the German counterattack.
Fifteen/Quindecim
The Minotaur searched for The Leopard King.
Since the night when the strange creature named Maelstrom had found him, he had awakened to the thought that the world was changing. This Serpentus represented a fundamental shift in power. He had never seen such Vigor in one man. Not since the time of the Serpent Wars had one man commanded such power. If Serpentus was to be his new benefactor, then The Minotaur would help him. Besides, he needed challenges to keep his work exciting.
His assignments as of late had grown trite. If this Leopard King was half as Serpentus made him out to be then The Minotaur would be happy to confront him. Bulwark snorted as they followed the trail which ran parallel to the Via Cassia. He rubbed Bulwark’s neck. Up ahead, his tracker, Mudfoot continued to search for clues as to the direction of their quarry.
“Any luck?”
Mudfoot looked up at The Minotaur who towered over him like a mountain. “Nay, I think w
e need to retrace our steps, but we’ll find them. Above them sun was peeking through a misty cloud. “I thought I had picked up the scent of a Leopard but it turns out it was only a fox.”
“I am paying you handsomely for your services,” The Minotaur said irritably. “If you cannot help me track my quarry I will find someone else.”
He had been told that Mudfoot was one of the best trackers in the Empire. But so far the man’s skills hadn’t impressed him.
“We’ll find your man,” Mudfoot assured him. “In all my years of tracking I’ve never allowed quarry to escape me.”
Bulwark snorted. They doubled back to restart their search.
Later, when they were on the Via Flaminia, Mudfoot’s two dogs, Slicer and Scavenger began yelping. The Minotaur hoped this was a good sign. “Anything?” he inquired.
Mudfoot dismounted from his horse and followed his dogs into the underbrush. They started yelping so loud the sound reverberated within The Minotaur’s helm.
“Your gods damned dogs make a lot of noise,” he complained.
Mudfoot smiled. “They’ve found something,” he said before inspecting a broken reed. He placed the reed under the dogs’ noses. They yelped again and pressed on.
“What is it?”
Mudfoot said, “They passed through here. It’s been a few months but the scent belongs to a big cat from Africa.”
“Are you certain? I don’t wish to waste any more time with foolery.”
Mudfoot scratched his arse. “Yes…we’re on the right path.”
They found themselves nearing Wolfsbane Pass. No Sentries were on hand to intercept them. Fortunately Jarkos Wolfsbane had committed the bulk of his Wolfguard toward finding the Leopard King.
Mudfoot’s dogs sniffed some more and the tracker smiled. They’d found dried blood. A battle had taken place here. Slicer returned with a piece of Leopard print fabric and placed it at his feet. Mudfoot inspected it and smiled. He handed it to The Minotaur who lifted the faceplate of his helm and examined it.
The Minotaur nodded. “Mudfoot, you may of just redeemed yourself.”
{II}
The road felt cold upon his feet yet he continued his trek. He was careful not to let the big man in the bull-headed helm spot him. After all, his salvation was at stake. He stopped for a moment and removed his worn shoes. His feet were swollen from the many days of walking and a blister had formed on his heel. He rubbed it and cursed. Turning his thoughts back to the present, he put his shoe back on and watched as the bull-helmed man moved off with his companion. The Bloody Ripper gathered his knapsack and resumed stalking them.
He felt a sense of purpose. This Serpentus offered him a chance to cleanse himself. The opportunity presented itself and he would not be denied. If he had to kill the others who sought his quarry, so be it. This large man was imposing, but asleep, he was just as vulnerable as any small forest creature. Yes. He would follow him until they made camp. And when they had outlived their usefulness, he would slip into their camp and slit their throats.
It reminded him of his first cleansing. He had cleansed two travelers at an inn. While they were sleeping he slipped into their rooms and did them both before he fondled their dead bodies. They were probably man and wife, traveling some place, a destination they would never reach. He fought back the memory, but it would not leave him. The elation of taking two lives mixed within the guilt and confusion afterward. But the elation…he had never felt anything like it. It had become a part of him and forced him to kill others. And every time he killed he found himself wanting more blood. It was like being a child in a confectionary, once you started eating sweets it was hard to stop.
No. I must be cleansed.
He sauntered behind his two guides as he fought back the past. He saw his fiancé’s face. Had he killed her? He could not remember. That was so long ago, when he was another person, with another identity. That man did not exist anymore. From his death arose The Bloody Ripper.
“I must not lose my sense of purpose,” he muttered. He cursed his heel which began rubbing against his shoe. He knew sacrifice was necessary if he was to reclaim his true identity. Perhaps Serpentus’ teacher, the Cultist named Afaa, could help him remember his past; help him reclaim it. And the only thing that stood in his way were these two. The others did not matter, they didn’t have his cunning and they used animals to help them. The Bloody Ripper used his own skills. He was an animal himself: killing, eating, shiting and fucking when he pleased.
He sighed and continued his mission.
{III}
Hyena was grateful; he was within reach of his goal. He wondered what hearing would feel like when Serpentus restored it. He did not feel overconfident in thinking he would find his prize, he only knew he wouldn’t stop until he found it.
Slow-Death and Quick-Kill raced next to him as he sprinted. Very few humans could keep up with him. Only his lovely, wild dogs could; they were his brothers. They would help him find this Leopard King and bring him to Serpentus. Slow-Death had gotten his name from the manner in which he tortured his captured prey, while Quick-Kill wasted no time in ending his prey’s misery. Not even one with a Leopard’s gait could escape them. Yes, his quarry would know what it meant to be hunted by him and his wild dogs.
Hyena slowed his sprint to catch his breath. Slow-Death and Quick-Kill followed his lead. He looked up at the dusk sky. The misty clouds spread across a salmon background. He looked around and noticed that both his brothers were eying him strangely.
What is it?
They moved off. He followed them through the rocky terrain until they disappeared through a narrow cleft. He squeezed through and found himself on a talus, a sloped hill stretched out before him. He saw his two brothers circle back. But he saw what they had seen. In the distance was a campfire.
Both wild dogs approached him and placed they front paws on his chest excitedly. He calmed them down.
Be calm, my friends, he thought.
They settled down and he gave each one scraps of dried horsemeat. They tucked into the food while he inched ahead to see who had made the campfire.
Above him the pink dusk sky had given way to a stygian hue while faded stars blinked at him accusingly. Behind the campfire he saw a small tent and a horse hobbled next to it. His night vision made up for his lack of hearing.
It was one of his rivals.
He wore his horned helm and that strange armor. He hadn’t spotted Hyena yet, few could. Hyena nocked an arrow onto his bowstring and aimed for the Ram man’s head. This would be easy. He felt something brush against his legs. He looked down and saw Slow-Death and Quick-Kill. He smiled at his brothers before lifting his head back up, his eyes quickly scanned for his target. But the target was gone.
How is this possible?
He searched the perimeter of the campsite, Slow-Death and Quick-Kill right on his heels.
He was gone.
He lowered his bow and nodded to his hyena brethren to search the tent. If the Ram man was in there, they would smoke him out. As soon as they disappeared through the tent’s flap he felt a thick arm wrap around his throat. It squeezed hard. Hyena dropped his bow and tried to break free. The arm was locked tight and he felt the weight of a grown man press up against him. A blade flashed before his eyes, the light of the campfire glinting off its point. He saw his reflection in it, plus the Ram helm of his opponent. The arm released him and shoved him to the ground before Hyena somersaulted and drew his own sword.
The Ram man lifted up his helm plate; his mouth moved. Hyena adjusted his sight and tried to read the ram man’s lips.
The man said, “Why did you attack me?”
Hyena was silent.
“Answer me!”
Hyena replied, “You were in my way.”
“I see.”
Quick-Kill and Slow-Death emerged from the tent. Their dark eyes peered at his opponent.
They barred their teeth and growled.
They were locked in a stalemate.
Using the light from the campfire, Hyena studied the man’s face, where crisscrossed white scars stretched across his left cheek, this was obviously the veteran of many conflicts.
“I have a proposition.”
Hyena listened with his eyes.
“Let us work together. I need money, you need money. We can split the reward.”
Hyena didn’t trust this man, besides he already had two partners, Slow-Death and
Quick-Kill.
“What is your answer?”
Hyena glared at the man. Slow-Death and Quick-Kill waited for instructions. They both took a step toward his assailant.
“If they come any closer, I’ll kill your dogs.”
Hyena held up his hand. Both creatures backed off.
“Fine. Let us work together. We both desire the same thing.” Hyena lowered his sword.
His opponent followed.
“No tricks?”
“No tricks.”
Ram man nodded. Hyena pointed off into the distance.
“You go ahead. I’ll follow.”
Hyena nodded and turned while Slow-Death and Quick-Kill followed him. He walked thirty steps before turning around. Even though Hyena couldn’t see his new “ally” behind him, he knew he was somewhere, following him like a hungry cur.
{IV}
Croctus Reptilius despised anything with fur. Many years ago he had been bitten by a fox, and the result had been unpleasant. The fact that he had a new benefactor who would pay handsomely to deliver a man who dressed like a Leopard and kept one as a pet was an added bonus. His cart trudged along the Via Aemilian. The sky was clear but it was cold. In addition to things with fur, Croctus Reptilius hated the cold. So did Sawtooth. Coming from humid marshlands, they were not accustomed to it. When the crocodile grunted his discomfort, Reptilius extended his hand to rub his scaly friend’s head. He had spent years training Sawtooth not to bite him. It had almost cost him his hand and arm once, but luckily Sawtooth had given it back. Croctus Reptilius still carried the scars to remind him of Sawtooth’s generosity.