Vulcan's Fury: The Dark Lands

by Michael R. Hicks

  Placus nodded. “As you command, Caesar.”

  “And,” Tiberius added, “since you managed to time your arrival for the Ides of March, which I take as a good omen, I would like to invite you and your men to celebrate with us the Feast of Jupiter. I’m sure all of you could do with some fresh food and drink after the long march from Rome.”

  “Indeed we could, Caesar,” Placus agreed.

  “Nothing could be more perfect,” Decius added.

  Flavius only smiled.

  ***

  As the commanders departed, Karan followed them from the praetorium and watched as the three generals discussed something briefly, then mounted their horses and went their separate ways.

  “Would you mind explaining what in the name of the gods you were thinking in there?” Septimus asked in a quiet voice. He had come up beside Karan, with Marcus and Paulus in company.

  “What do you mean?” Marcus asked.

  Septimus gave him a withering look. “Didn’t you see Karan put his hand on his sword?”

  “No, I didn’t. I was focused on what Caesar and the others were saying.” To Karan, he said, “What of it?”

  “I do not know, centurion,” Karan said. “Does Caesar trust these generals?”

  Marcus frowned. “No more or less than any, I suppose. He and Placus fought side by side for a number of years, and I with them. He’s as good as they come.”

  Septimus nodded. “If Placus can’t be trusted, we’re in a bit of a spot.”

  “As for the other two,” Marcus went on, “I know them only by reputation. Good commanders, good records, but beyond that, and where their loyalty lies, only the gods know.”

  “At least they’re here,” Septimus said, then spat. “That’s more than we can say for the rest of the legion commanders, may their little peckers rot off.”

  “Well,” Marcus growled, “we’ll just have to keep our eyes and ears open, and our swords at the ready. It’s not like we don’t do that every day. Now, go get yourselves something to eat before the locusts from the other legions take all the food and wine Caesar’s laid out for us.”

  ***

  The day turned into evening as the men of four legions feasted in honor of Jupiter, the greatest of Rome’s gods, and the evening turned into a night lively with wine, song, and celebration. For the men of Legio Hercules, it was the first time they had been given a true respite since the battle with the Dark Wolves. For those of the three other legions that now stood in their company, it was the perfect opportunity for the men to mingle, swap tall tales, enjoy the company of the prostitutes of the followers camp, and express a unique aspect of soldierly fellowship through occasional drunken brawls.

  Invited to dine with Caesar and his generals, Karan did so for only as long as necessary to satisfy courtesy (or at least so he hoped). He had picked at some food and eschewed wine altogether. Sitting in the company of the three men, Placus, Decius, and Flavius, made him nervous. He was angry with himself for not being able to define what was wrong, but he had learned long before to trust his instincts. And so he had used the cover of an uproarious joke told by Placus’s tribune to quietly flee.

  Standing outside the praetorium where Caesar and the others were enjoying their feast, he breathed in the cool night air, which was redolent with the aroma of meat roasting over open fires, wine, and sweat. The castrum, which was normally the scene of industrious, organized activity, looked more like how Septimus had once described the part of Rome known as the Aventine. Soldiers stood in clusters, food in hand, shouting and drinking, while others staggered along the streets or chased one another about. Others, stripped to their tunics or even entirely naked, fought with their fists or wrestled, surrounded by their comrades who were making wagers on who would win, howling encouragement and derision. Near the gates, women from the followers camp were in abundance, most of them only partly dressed, and all of them with plenty of attention from the soldiers. Come morning, the women’s purses would be heavy with hard earned coin, and the soldiers would be poorer but (at least in some cases) happier.

  One of the women shrieked as a soldier snatched her from the ground, then laughed as the man carried her off toward the jungle where countless candles were burning from sconces nailed to the trees. Such pleasures, he knew, were forbidden within the walls of the castrum, but the jungle was conveniently close and provided some degree of privacy for those who were inclined to care.

  The men of Legio Hercules called their greetings to Karan and the great god Hercules himself, who lay beside Karan on the ground, his great eyes taking in the goings-on with interest, his tail periodically twitching to and fro. His muzzle was still red from the beef haunch he had been given earlier as his share of the feast, and now and then he was compelled to withdraw from observing the bedlam around them to groom. Karan returned the salutations with a nod, while Hercules ignored the human rabble.

  “Karan?”

  He turned to find Valeria standing at the entrance to the praetorium. She came to stand beside him, putting a hand on his shoulder.

  “Is something wrong?” she asked.

  He had not told her of his vague worry, for there was nothing she could do. There was nothing he could do, for that matter. “No,” he lied, looking away. His gaze fell on a young woman not much older than Valeria who stood, naked, embracing one of the soldiers. Feeling an odd rush of heat to his face, he turned to Hercules and began scratching him behind an ear. “I am just not accustomed to such things. My kind…we never had feasts or celebrations. Each day that we had enough food to survive, each day that our lives continued on, was celebration — or curse — enough.” He shrugged. “The Masters enjoyed such things, of course, but theirs is a different world.”

  “As is ours,” Valeria said in a quiet voice.

  Karan nodded. “Yours is a very strange people.”

  She laughed. “There can be no doubt of that.” With a final squeeze of her hand, she let him go, her fingers trailing down the skin of his arm, leaving gooseflesh in their wake. “Take all the time you need, but I hope you’ll decide to come back and join us. Please.”

  He briefly met her gaze and tried to smile. Then, with obvious reluctance, she turned and went back inside.

  ***

  “This was wonderful, Caesar, truly,” Placus said graciously. “It is always such a delight to partake of such hospitality, but I fear I must excuse myself. I am still somewhat weary from our travels and have much to do to get Ferrata settled in,” he grinned, “once my men recover from the wine.”

  “I, too, must excuse myself, Caesar,” Decius said with a grateful bow of his head. “You have my deepest thanks.”

  “And mine,” Flavius added, stifling a belch. “I may need my men to carry me back to my quarters.”

  “With as much as all of them have had to drink, only the gods know where you might wind up,” Caesar replied with a warm smile. Getting to his feet, followed by the others in the room, he added, “I thank you all, my friends, for coming tonight, and for your loyalty in making the march north.” Discussion of politics that evening had been studiously avoided, which was a rarity indeed at any Roman dinner table.

  “We live to serve, Caesar,” Decius said graciously. “I wish you a good evening.”

  “As do we all.” Placus and Flavius bowed, then followed Decius out of the praetorium, trailed by their attending officers, all of whom gave their thanks to Caesar as they departed.

  Turning to Octavia, who as always had played the perfect hostess, he said, “Well, I think that went surprisingly well.”

  She cocked her head, an expression on her face that he well knew, and that never failed to make his heart quicken. “Is that all you have to say?”

  “Well, I was about to add that you are the most beautiful, radiant woman in all the Empire.” Walking with a slight list, he made his way across the room and plopped down on the couch beside her.

  Valeria, who had just returned from a brief foray outside, snickered, and Paulus
put his hand to his mouth, but his eyes were crinkled in mirth. Pelonius, Marcus, and Septimus, the only others now in the room, looked at one another. Septimus rolled his eyes.

  “Oh, banish these ne’er-do-wells,” Octavia said with a dismissive wave of one hand while the other curled around her husband’s neck.

  “Your wish is my command, my love,” Tiberius said in a tone of mock severity. To the others, he said, smiling, “You are banished! Out with you!”

  “As you command, Caesar,” Pelonius said with a formal bow, returning the smile. “Come along, soldiers of Rome.” He looked at Valeria and narrowed his eyes. “And you, too, princess. We’ll escort you through the rabble outside to your chambers.”

  With a sigh of disappointment, Valeria rose from her couch, kissed her father and mother, then swept out of the room, followed by the others.

  As the door closed behind them, she heard her mother giggle.

  Shaking her head, Valeria glanced at Karan, who hadn’t moved. Looking about the central square of the castrum, she could only admire the revelry and wish she could experience more of it. The feast had been fun, especially with the influx of new men from the other legions, but it had still been little more than a dinner party like any of the other countless such parties she had endured in Rome. While all the guests had been polite to her in the extreme, she had felt as if an invisible wall had separated her from them, and she suddenly wished for more female company beyond her mother. Unfortunately, wives and family were typically not allowed to come with legion officers when they deployed; her own case being an exception, of course. With a frown, she pushed the thought aside. Other girls would just be boring, she told herself.

  She broke off as one of the palm trees beyond the castrum’s walls suddenly erupted in flame, the fire shooting up its trunk in the blink of an eye. Someone had obviously coated it with oil or pitch. Drunken soldiers, most of them with women on their arms, stood around it, hooting and shouting.

  “I hope they don’t burn down the whole bloody jungle,” Septimus muttered in disgust.

  Marcus eyed him. “It’s not like you never did anything like that.”

  Septimus snorted. “That was different.”

  With a resigned sigh, Valeria held her hand out toward Hercules. “Come on, boy,” she said, “it’s time for bed.”

  ***

  “There’s the signal, sir.”

  Sergius only nodded at the remark upon the obvious made by his senior tribune as a palm tree went up in flames. In addition to being the signal to attack, it also marked and illuminated the main gate. Securing it was the initial objective of Legio Invictus.

  “Have the legion advance,” Sergius ordered.

  Unlike in a typical battle, when cornicens sounded signals for most basic battlefield maneuvers, this fight would begin without fanfare. Without a word, the lead elements of the legion’s first cohort stepped off and moved forward through the trees. Two additional cohorts on each flank followed suit, as did the remaining five following behind.

  The soldiers moved quietly, but so many men pushing their way through the trees still made plenty of noise, and Sergius feared that they might be discovered too soon.

  He need not have worried. The soldiers enjoying the feast, drunk and loud as they were, would have been ignorant of anything short of thunderbolts thrown from heaven.

  So many cries of passion echoed from the edge of the jungle that none of the revelers seemed to notice their transition to shouts of surprise and squeals of pain as Sergius’s men began their bloody work. Like a steel tide, his soldiers swept through the jungle, stabbing and slashing to death every soul they encountered, showing mercy toward none.

  As the lead ranks emerged from the trees onto the sand that led to the castrum, the legion’s primus pilus, the centurion in command of the first cohort, bellowed, “Double time!”

  With a roar, his men sprinted across the intervening ground between the tree line and the main gate, cutting down the surprised soldiers and prostitutes like a scythe through wheat.

  ***

  “Double time!”

  Marcus stood rooted to the ground, his brain refusing to believe what his eyes were seeing: a line of legionaries, the fire from the burning tree and bonfires beyond the wall glittering on their armor and swords as they charged toward him.

  Even as he grappled with the impossible vision, his lungs sucked in a deep breath and blew out his orders as loud as any cornicen, following reflexes that had been ingrained over decades of living as a soldier. “Close the gates! Close the gates!”

  The sentries, who were completely dumbstruck, leaped to their duty at the sound of his voice. The four men at the main gate leaned against the heavy doors, desperately trying to slam them shut before the attacking legionaries could reach them.

  “Jupiter’s balls!” Septimus cursed as swords and daggers appeared in the hands of a group of ten or so revelers who had been having a good time just inside the gate. They fell upon the sentries in a frenzied attack, their blades rising and falling with professional fury.

  As if that were a signal (which it probably was, Marcus thought grimly), other men — all of them “guests” from the other legions who had been attending the feast — throughout the castrum attacked their hosts. It was impossible to tell friend from foe in the fire-lit darkness, except for one thing: the men of Legio Hercules were doing most of the dying.

  The door behind them flew open to reveal Tiberius, Octavia at his side.

  “You’ve been betrayed, Caesar,” Pelonius told him.

  Tiberius’s face reflected no fear, only grim determination.

  “Septimus and Karan, get my daughter and wife to The Wall and do what you can to keep them safe.”

  Karan, sword already in hand, nodded. Septimus’s face twisted into an unhappy grimace, but he forced a nod, as well.

  “Paulus, go with them.” The young man opened his mouth to protest, but Tiberius gave him a withering glare. “Now. Go!”

  Allowing himself no more than an agonized look at the two souls who were more precious to him than life itself, Tiberius bid his wife and daughter farewell. “I will see you soon.”

  The two women hugged him fiercely, then turned and without a word followed Karan onto the Via Praetoria, the street that ran the length of the castrum between the Porta Praetoria’s gate now under attack, and the Porta Decumana, which opened onto the short stretch of beach that led to The Wall. With a deep growl, Hercules followed behind.

  Paulus breathed, “Your will, Caesar.” Then he set off after the others.

  Septimus made to follow, but Tiberius grabbed his arm. “You will not allow my wife or daughter to fall into the hands of our enemies,” he said in a voice cast with grim sorrow. “Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir,” Septimus whispered.

  “Then may the gods be with you.”

  Then Septimus was gone into the night.

  To Pelonius and Marcus, Tiberius said, “Rally the men. We have a battle to win.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  “Well, this is going rather better than I had expected,” Placus said, although it was clear to Sergius from the tone of his voice that he was saddened by the fact.

  “Just remember my orders,” Sergius told him. “I want the girl.”

  The two men sat astride their horses opposite the main gate, alone, while their men fought what had become a pitched battle at close quarters. Decius and Flavius were at the eastern and western gates, commanding the men of the two other legions who were mounting simultaneous attacks there.

  Placus turned to look at him, a withering sneer on his face. “You’re in no position to make demands, Sergius.”

  “Livius put me in command—”

  “He did no such thing,” Placus snapped, cutting him off. “That was your interpretation, which I was content to let you believe to avoid unnecessary enmity. But I have no intention of being subordinate to the likes of you, and made that clear to Livius before I set off on this regr
ettable but necessary journey.” He turned back to the battle. “You’ll get the girl if she survives; I have no qualms with that. But I suspect you’ll be rather disappointed. Tiberius is no fool. He would never let her or Octavia be taken.”

  “And once this is over?” Sergius grated, his anger flaring into rage every bit as bright as the palm tree that still burned beside them. “What then is to become of me?”

  “That’s entirely up to Livius to decide once he rids us of that ridiculous Pleminius and is proclaimed Caesar. Don’t worry, I’m sure he’ll see fit to bestow a fitting reward upon you,” Placus added in a scornful voice, “but I wouldn’t go out and have a senatorial toga made up just yet.”

  He laughed right up until the moment when the tip of Sergius’s sword, which he’d quietly drawn while Placus had been laughing, skewered the older man’s neck.

  Placus gripped his throat with both hands as blood fountained from the severed veins and arteries, creating sprays of shimmering crimson. His mouth hung open and he made a gurgling sound, his wide eyes spearing Sergius with a look of disbelief.

  “Give my regards to Pluto,” Sergius hissed as he kicked Placus from his horse and sent him sprawling to the ground. With a deft movement of his own horse’s reins and a swift kick with his heels, Sergius’s mount trampled Placus into the sandy ground.

  ***

  “The women! Get the women!”

  Karan’s head whipped around at the shout, which came from one amongst a group of soldiers elbow deep in blood as they drove their swords through the bellies of several men from Hercules. As one, the enemy soldiers put their few remaining victims to the sword before charging right at Karan.