Vulcan's Fury: The Dark Lands

by Michael R. Hicks

  Bastard.

  ***

  “The whole affair is simply unbelievable.”

  That single word, unbelievable, summarized the thoughts of the handful of Rome’s most powerful men who now reclined in the peristyle of the city home of Senator Julius Livius. Three of his visitors were fellow senators, while the other two were wealthy beyond the comprehension of any common man. Between the five of them, along with Livius himself, they represented the majority of the Senate in favors bought and owed, along with a full third of the generals currently commanding the Empire’s legions, who owed their positions to one of these six men. Night had fallen since Caesar’s announcement to the Senate, word of which had spread like wildfire throughout Rome, and was being borne by official and unofficial couriers to every corner of the Empire. The orders given from the Imperial Palace atop the Palatine were even now setting great wheels into motion, summoning forth tens of thousands of Roman citizens and freedmen to do their duty for the Empire. But other great levers and wheels, no less powerful in determining the course of the Empire’s history, were controlled by this small gathering of illuminati.

  Livius grunted agreement as he popped a date in his mouth, his eyes fixed on the erotic gyrations of a group of his slaves he had provided for the amusement of his guests. He himself was not partial to engaging directly in such pleasures, but was certainly not above enjoying their antics. “I agree, Gaius,” he said in reply to Gaius Ulpius Nigrinus, who had become the wealthiest man in the entire Empire, built on the foundations of the slave trade, at the ridiculously young age of thirty-six, “but I also — unwillingly, I confess — find that I cannot readily dismiss the account provided by Pelonius, no matter how fanciful it might seem.”

  Gaius shook his head and snorted. “You would take these rantings at face value? From a mere former slave?”

  “In this particular case, yes. Pelonius could be described in many ways, but mere is not a qualifier I would apply to the man, former slave or otherwise. He was a great gift from the gods to Tiberius, and Tiberius was wise enough to realize it.”

  Senator Quintus Etruscus, who was far older than Gaius Ulpius but boasted a physique that would have been the envy of men far younger, looked at Livius with a calculating gaze. “I have to wonder,” he said, “if your loyalties remain, shall we say, unambiguous? You have long been friends with Caesar, at least until recently, and every time you speak his name or mention any among those closest to him, your voice rings with a disturbing tone of respect that even now gives me pause.”

  Livius shot the man a baleful glare. “Of course I respect him,” he snapped before spitting out the date pit on the floor, ignoring the slave who instantly crawled forth to retrieve it. “Anyone who doesn’t is a fool. I have long held the man in my heart as a brother, and still do.” His mouth twisted down in a grim frown. “But he is bent on destroying the foundation on which the Republic and the Empire were built, robbing the ancient and noble patrician families of their wealth and status, leaving them no better than the mob, and he has refused to listen to reason.” Livius could feel his blood rising as he spoke, and it took an effort of will not to fall victim to one of his notorious fits of rage. He always held his fury in check while in public, but in private his temper put him on a par with the Furies, much to the misfortune of his household slaves, who served as the outlet for his rage. Taking a deep breath, he went on. “If I am anything, I am a true Roman, and the needs of the Empire come first, even before bonds of brotherhood.” In another time in the distant past, he knew, someone in his position would have said Republic rather than Empire, but few remained in Roman political circles who believed the original Republic would ever be restored. Nor, in the case of the most powerful men in the Senate, would they want it to be, for most such men dreamed of someday receiving the title of Caesar and ruling as Emperor. Livius certainly did.

  Quintas shrugged, apparently mollified. “Very well. In that case, what do you suggest we do, seeing as how the attempts to remove Caesar from the game in the,” he smiled, “traditional manner have failed.”

  “The logical thing,” Livius said, “is to let events take their course for now and turn them to our advantage. When Caesar departs Rome to take charge of the Army, his person will be more or less beyond our grasp.”

  “What about Canus Sergius?” Gaius asked. “Might not he be able to take care of our little problem?”

  Livius frowned. “Possible, but unlikely. Sergius is as ambitious as any man and would certainly bow to our command, but he’s also a self-serving coward.” The others nodded knowingly. Sergius was an animal they had collectively created, but the seeds of doubt had sprouted as to the wisdom of that decision. “If the opportunity presents itself, he would no doubt take it. But such an opportunity, where he would have to risk little to take Caesar’s life, is unlikely to materialize.” Livius made a dismissive gesture. “But it is no matter. With Caesar out of the city, we can easily consolidate our political position and fortify Rome and other strategic cities with legions loyal to our cause, dispensing with Supreme Consul Pleminius at a time of convenience. I also suspect,” he cast a glance at Gaius, “that a liberal distribution of gold to the right hands may help yet more legion commanders see reason.”

  “I’m sure something can be arranged,” Gaius said with a nonchalant shrug. The purse carried by his head house slave for casual expenses was worth more than a year’s pay for an entire legion.

  “And then?” Quintas asked.

  “And then,” Livius said, “we simply wait. Time is on our side, my friends. The Empire’s main food supply and the majority of raw materials are in the south, and we will have control of all the key cities along the roads and serving the ports leading to the northern provinces, including, of course, Aquitania. Any legions that follow Caesar north will quickly find themselves short of food, unless they want to march east to dine on crocodiles from the Mediterranean.” The others laughed. The Mediterranean Sea, which of course was not the same body of water plied by the ships of Old Rome, was filled with a rich abundance of sea life, including countless seagoing crocodiles that grew to a length of twenty feet or more and weighed half again as much as a full grown horse. Luxury items made from their hides were affordable only to very wealthy families, for hunting the terrible beasts was more dangerous than being a gladiator, and the few hunters who managed to survive encounters with their prey demanded, and received, outrageous sums for their efforts. “And should Caesar return from Aquitania leading the legions that remain loyal to him, as I am sure there will be at least a few, we will meet him in open battle with a superior force and defeat him.”

  One of the other men, Senator Thascius Caecilius, asked, “And what if the rantings of this Pelonius turn out to be true and these so-called giants from the Dark Lands launch an invasion?”

  Livius picked up his cup, looking into the blood red wine. “Then we will leave Caesar to do his duty. If these giants are so formidable that his legions are crushed, we will move the necessary troops north to contain the situation. In the process we will make sure that Caesar sacrifices himself for the glory of Rome, for which he will receive a posthumous triumph and accolades from the Senate.” He lowered his voice as he pushed aside pleasant memories of his friend Tiberius from days now gone. “Rome owes him at least that much.”

  ***

  After his visitors had departed, Julius Livius donned roughspun clothing that only the poorest of citizens or slaves might wear. Accompanied by three of his most able bodyguards, dressed in similar garb, he slipped out the slave entrance to his home in the deep of night. Making his way to the Aventine, he threaded his way through the narrow, twisting, filthy streets like a blind man navigating a well-accustomed house. He ignored the pleas of the poor and the desperate and shouldered past the drunken patrons of the most notorious taverns and brothels in the city. The men of the gangs that claimed the various neighborhoods as their territory faded back into the shadows, for they understood from an unpleasant encou
nter years before that this particular stranger and those who protected him were not to be trifled with. The air here was thick with a noxious miasma that was unique to this part of Rome, but ubiquitous to similar dens of debauchery found in every major city of the Empire: a mixture of wood smoke, wine, vomit, cheap perfume, semen, piss, and shit. At one time, many years before, he had been among those taking comfort in such places as this, but his visit tonight, as had every visit he had made over the last twenty-six years, was for a far different purpose.

  At last he reached his destination. He paused for a moment before the arched entry of the ramshackle temple that was in no better condition than the squalid tenements that surrounded it. Motioning for his guardians to remain on the street to keep watch, he pushed through the rotting wooden door and stepped inside.

  Closing the door behind him was like shutting away the stench and hopelessness of this section of the city. Inside, the temple air smelled as clean as a pine forest, overlaid with the gentle spice of incense that came only from the mountains of western Cappadocia, and only at great cost. The interior was dim, lit only by six candles on elaborate brass wall sconces along the stairs that led to the altar.

  “Again, you have come.”

  He pulled back the hood of his robe at the sound of the priestess’s voice. She had been old and withered when he had first found her all those years ago, and yet still she lived. Despite her age, her voice was that of a young woman, full and vibrant. Had her appearance matched the sultriness of her voice, he very well might have found himself yearning for satisfaction, but that was not what had brought him here.

  Slowly mounting the steps, he found her as he always did, sitting before the altar upon a black velvet pillow embroidered with gold, her legs crossed, back toward him. She did not turn to face him, for her eyes had been gouged out long before he had first come to her, probably before he had even been born. She had willingly sacrificed her eyes, she had once told him, that she might be able to see more clearly with her inner sight, to better discern the visions the gods chose to reveal.

  As with every time in the past, aside from the priestess and himself, the temple was empty and silent. He had never seen another patron visit, nor any other priestesses or priests, or even a temple slave. It was as if only the ancient priestess dwelt here, awaiting him alone, and that no time passed within these walls except during his visits.

  The thought made him shudder.

  “I come for your counsel and blessing, priestess.” Priestess was the only name she had ever given him. She had never even told him what god or gods she served, and after their first encounter, when a few words from her lips had lifted him from inglorious anonymity to the first rungs of power and prestige for which he had always thirsted, he had never again asked.

  As before, she gestured for him to kneel before her, with the altar behind him. He never questioned doing so, but even after so many visits over the years, every time he knelt, a queer jolt of uncertainty lanced down his spine, as if the gods themselves were perched on the ancient gray stone of the altar behind him, watching him with calculating eyes.

  Between them on the immaculate white marble floor sat a wide brimmed cup half filled with wine. To one side lay a small dagger, its blade gleaming in the candlelight.

  The priestess nodded, and he picked up the dagger. Drawing the blade gently across his thumb, he let a few drops of blood fall into the wine.

  With unerring precision, as if she had the eyes of an eagle instead of empty sockets in her skull, she took the knife from him and drew it across her own thumb to release more drops of crimson into the cup. Setting the blade aside, she took the cup in both hands, swirling it gently, mixing blood and wine. In his mind, Livius counted silently, for the priestess never varied her ritual. Precisely when he reached the count of thirty, she raised the cup to her lips and slowly drank every drop.

  Running her tongue along her lips as she returned the cup to the floor, she sighed and tilted her head back as if she were looking at the plain, unadorned ceiling above, for that was how she received her visions.

  She was silent for a long time, longer than he ever remembered from previous visits, and Livius struggled to contain his impatience. His worry.

  At last, just as he was about to risk her wrath and ask what visions the gods were granting her, she lowered her head and fixed him with an eyeless gaze of startling intensity.

  “The darkness gathers,” she said in a fearful whisper. Reaching out, she took his wrists, which elicited from him a gasp of surprise; she had never before touched him. “The Old Ones, those the gods made in the hour of their wrath at the sins of our forefathers, stir in their lair of fire and smoke. Rome sleeps beneath their hungry gaze like a besotted harlot, whose time of atonement has come at last.”

  Unable to help himself, Livius leaned toward her. “When? How long do we have?”

  “When the moon blots out the sun,” she hissed, “Neptune shall rise in anger, and Rome shall be bathed in blood and darkest despair.”

  Before he could ask her anything else, the priestess spasmed, her hands clutching his wrists so hard he thought the bones might break. She threw back her head, her mouth wide open. Something wet gurgled deep in her throat as she spasmed again. Then her body pitched forward, a torrent of blood pouring from her mouth, spattering Livius’s face and clothes with crimson before she collapsed upon the floor, dead.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  “Be careful or you might go blind.”

  Valeria turned at the sound of Pelonius’s voice, his words tinged with a bit of good-humored sarcasm. “Men have no monopoly on admiring beauty,” she replied primly before returning her gaze to the training area that had been established beyond the walls of the castrum. Pelonius and Marcus joined her and Paulus upon a shaded platform that allowed them and the other officers (and herself) to observe and direct the daily training of the men. While construction of the wall, which had come to be called the Wall of Hercules, or just The Wall, continued at a relentless pace, Pelonius had grudgingly allocated men to improve the living and working quarters after the makeshift barracks had collapsed under a recent deluge. Now the fort boasted sturdy wooden barracks where the men could sleep, the officers had equally sturdy (if rather more lavish) quarters of their own, and the castrum now had all the various administrative and support buildings necessary to keep a legion functioning.

  A fresh influx of recruits had provided an additional pool of labor, but had also led to the daily training typical of a legion in garrison being resumed. The veterans who had formed the core of Legio Hercules could get away with not training for a time, but the fresh blood streaming in from all over Aquitania, most without prior military training, could not. Word of “Valeria’s Legion” had spread like wildfire through the province and beyond, and Pelonius had found himself with the unusual luxury of selecting only the best potential recruits. Those not accepted for service in the legion, however, were not simply turned away. Any who so desired were hired as paid laborers to help build The Wall. Now a veritable army was at work from dawn to dusk shaping and hauling stone into place. All at Sergius’s expense, of course.

  Along with the volunteers had come blacksmiths, leather workers, and merchants who, for what Pelonius privately complained to Valeria was an outrageous sum, outfitted the new legionaries with armor, weapons, and equipment, and replaced the damaged or lost gear of the veterans. And right behind them had come the other camp followers that could be found anywhere a legion made its home, running the gamut from questionable soothsayers to whores. A small city sprang up, seemingly overnight, as close as Pelonius would allow between the fort and the ridge of rocky hills, ready to serve the every need of the legionaries for a small — or large — bit of coin.

  Perhaps the greatest change involved Septimus. Over his vehement protestations, he was promoted to centurion and put in charge of sword training, while Paulus, as senior tribune, oversaw the training program as a whole (with a great deal of “advice” from Pe
lonius, Marcus, and Septimus, of course). Other soldiers who were the best in the legion with the other weapons, such as the spear or bow and arrow, were chosen to lead the training in those particular arts. Pelonius felt that Valeria was sufficiently safe at the center of nearly six thousand men who adored her that Septimus could be spared from guarding her person. Septimus, of course, thought the entire affair was an affront to the gods.

  Her recollection of the look on Septimus’s face when Pelonius informed him of the promotion made her giggle. Septimus was the logical choice for the duty, of course, for no one was better with a sword. Well, she thought as she watched the sweating, grunting men before her, no one was better…except Karan.

  The training field was divided into areas devoted to the different martial skills, but training in the use of the sword, which was the heart and soul of the legion on the battlefield, took place directly before the observation platform on which she sat. Hercules reclined beside her, observing the goings-on with feline interest, his tail twitching now and again.

  Hundreds of men, each armed with a wooden sword and a shield, were arranged in sets of opposing lines on the training field. Some were drilling in close order fighting as a group, while those nearer her vantage point worked on individual swordsmanship. Every man in the legion, from Pelonius on down to the lowliest cook, trained each day. Her ears rang from the hammering of wood on wood, not to mention the cries and curses when wood slapped flesh.

  But her interest was focused on the pair of men who now circled one another like the wary predators they were. One of them was Septimus. The other was one of the newest recruits, a mountain of a man with azure blue eyes and an unruly lion’s mane of blond hair. Born into slavery from parents taken from one of the barbarian tribes, he had been trained as a gladiator since he could grip a sword, and had eventually won his freedom. He and Septimus had forsaken their shields and held only their swords, and like the other soldiers wore only loincloths in respect of the tropical heat.