by James Mace
It was in the north, outside of Augustodunum, that he met Sacrovir and Florus. The two men were Gallic nobles who sought to plant the seeds of rebellion. Heracles cared little for Gauls, viewing them as unkempt barbarians even after more than seventy years of Roman rule and influence. However, he saw an opportunity to further unleash his revenge. Unfortunately, Sacrovir and Florus were not military men. Florus was the typical pompous noble who only sought rebellion as a means of freeing himself from his debts. Sacrovir, while eager and cunning had made the most of his fortune financing gladiatorial games. He had lost a substantial portion of this when one of his best was killed by a common Roman soldier. Heracles found it ironic that his own gambling lust had long since perished.
Their army that they spent nearly a year raising consisted mostly of thieves, debtors, and former slaves, though Sacrovir had captured the trust of a large contingent of noble youths who also flocked to his banner. Still they proved little match for the legions of Rome. Heracles had taught the rebels how to fight in a phalanx, and yet they broke at first contact with the legions and their auxiliary cavalry. Most fled into the hills, while the noble youths, who served as the vanguard of Sacrovir’s force, were either captured or killed. The surviving leaders had fled to Sacrovir’s estate, only to be hunted down after a captured rebel betrayed them.
And yet, he could not let it end this way. When Sacrovir and the others fell on their swords while the estate burned over their heads, Heracles slunk away. It was only well after the Romans had left that he returned to find Sacrovir’s sword.
The result was a great tragedy for Gaul, for the rebellion of Sacrovir and Florus had seen a generation of their noble youths destroyed; young, impressionable lads who had been brainwashed by Sacrovir’s poisoned tongue, only to be utterly savaged by Rome’s invincible legions. Those who survived were either ransomed at a heavy toll to their families, or sent to the sulfur mines in Mauretania. Heracles cared little of the Gauls suffering, and the small numbers of legionaries who died during the campaign did nothing to ease his hatred.
A knock at the door brought him out of his reminiscing. He picked up his sword and stood behind the door.
“Enter!” he beckoned as the door creaked open. A hunched old man entered, bearing a tray of food and a bottle of port.
“Your dinner, sir,” he said as he peered into the darkness. The old man gave a jolt as Heracles briskly closed the door behind him.
“Thank you,” the Spartan said, his sword hidden behind his back.
“I’ve got some bread cooking, sir, if you would like some,” the innkeeper said nervously. The strange man who occupied this room unnerved him, and under most circumstances he would have cast him out onto the street; however the man appeared to be quite wealthy and had paid him far more than the room was worth. Money could make even the meekest of men brave.
“Yes, that would be fine,” Heracles replied, opening the door once again. The old man smiled and shuffled out. Heracles let out a sigh. He was becoming paranoid. He had been in Massila for four months now and his coin had kept the senile innkeeper quiet. The hustle and bustle of the busy port town had lent him an incredible amount of autonomy. No one bothered him here, and no one was looking for him either. For all the Romans knew, every rebel leader had died with Sacrovir.
A year had passed since the disastrous rebellion and it would soon be safe to move about freely again. What he would do then he was not sure. He knew that a province revolution was impossible. If Sacrovir and Florus had failed to gain the support of the masses, he knew he would have no chance. It mattered not; for his quest was one of retribution against Rome, nothing more. His was a personal war against Rome and it was now his life’s work. He then decided that he would sow the seeds of discord by annihilating an entire Roman garrison. Surely that would give him some satisfaction; more so than a few dead legionaries amongst the piles of Gallic dead. But where would he strike? Lugdunum was to the north, along the Rhodanus River. It was a large city, and its urban police were reinforced by a cohort of legionaries. These men were from Legio XX, the Valeria Legion; one of the two that had put down the Sacrovir Revolt. The other had been Legio I, Germanica, which shared a fortress on the Rhine with the Twentieth. These men would bear the brunt of Heracles’ wrath.
Wiping out this garrison would not come easy; a single legionary cohort was a fearsome enemy consisting of six eighty-man centuries of the fiercest and most disciplined soldiers not seen since the height of Sparta. As much as it wounded his pride, Heracles begrudgingly recognized Rome as superior to Sparta; for Sparta and all of Greece had been defeated by Rome centuries before. Rome had achieved what Xerxes and the entire Persian Empire had failed to do; subjugate Sparta. It had been nearly two hundred years since the combined forces of Macedonia, which now included Sparta, had faced Rome in battle. The Battle of Pydna had been a crushing defeat for King Perseus and was generally accepted as the classic example of how the Greek phalanx had been proven inferior to the Roman legion.
So how did one go about annihilating a cohort of Roman soldiers? Direct assault was impossible; it would take thousands of men and even then victory could not be certain. No, this would require cunning and deceit rather than brute force. Heracles remembered all-too-well what had happened the last time Gauls had tried to overpower Rome. At Augustodunum the army of Sacrovir had the Roman force outnumbered at least three to one, perhaps even more? Heracles had worked diligently to try and teach that rabble of beggars and thieves how to fight in a proper phalanx. Though the phalanx was an inferior formation as opposed to the legion, it was still preferred when one’s army was undisciplined amateurs.
Sacrovir had encased his vanguard of noble youths in plate armor, in an attempt to break up the Roman formations. The result was catastrophic. In their ingenuity, the legions had attacked this force with pickaxes, chopping down their foe like small trees. Only the vanguard and Sacrovir’s gladiators attempted to withstand the Roman onslaught; the bulk of his army of thieves fled in terror at first contact. A regiment of Roman cavalry, led by a Treveri noble named Julius Indus, had attacked both wings of Sacrovir’s force with devastating effect. What spurned Heracles even more was that Indus had at first been one of Sacrovir’s confidants, only to betray him and align his regiment with Rome. Indeed, it had been Indus’ regiment that along with a single cohort of legionaries had destroyed a far superior force led by Florus; the rebel leader falling on his sword when he saw that all was lost. The Emperor Tiberius had been most generous to Indus, awarding him Rome’s highest honor, the Civic Crown. He had also ordered the Treveri regiment to be permanently named Indus’ Horse.
“Enjoy the spoils of Rome while you can,” Heracles said in a low voice. “For the time will come that you will pay for your treachery.” A grim smile crossed his face. There was a ship bound for Mauretania leaving in the morning. It was time to visit some old friends.
Chapter II: Calm after the Storm
Vexilation Garrison of Legio XX, Cohort III, Lugdunum, Gaul
The sun shown over the hills; the city of Lugdunum was slowly waking up to the start of the new day. Artorius stood on the small balcony, stretched his arms overhead and breathed deeply. The cool breeze felt pleasant and invigorating and he enjoyed the view from up there. The glow of the sun as it cast its light on the forum in the distance was a far better sight than the view from his barracks back in Cologne, where all you saw was another barracks block across from you.
The Third Cohort had been garrisoned at Lugdunum ever since the end of the Sacrovir Revolt. Though such postings were not unusual, it was the first for Artorius in his six years with the legions.
Six years, he thought to himself. Has it really been that long? Of course six years paled in comparison to the lengths that some of his fellow soldiers had been serving. Master Centurion Calvinus, the Legion’s Primus Pilus, had been in the army for twenty-seven years; four years longer than Artorius had been alive. The thought was a little overwhelming, especially with everythin
g that had happened to him thus far in his young career. He was a veteran of many savage battles and brutal campaigns and had been decorated three times for valor or meritorious service. Everyday citizens could never comprehend the magnitude of experience possessed by even the youngest of legionaries. Contrary to popular belief, most Roman men did not join the legions upon reaching the age of maturity. Rome’s total combined military force, to include legionaries, auxilia, and urban cohorts, numbered roughly three hundred thousand men under arms. Of these less than half, maybe one hundred and twenty-five thousand, were legionaries; a miniscule percentage of an empire’s population that numbered upwards of seventy million souls.
Though he had already seen and done more than most would ever in a dozen lifetimes, his age still reared its head on occasion. Within the Second Century he was the youngest of the Decanii; the Sergeants of legionaries. He was also the youngest chief weapons instructor in the entire Third Cohort. This led to him sometimes being referred to as “the boy Decanus.” The fact that he had a young face which required a shave but once a week added to this image. In truth Artorius relished looking so young, for he figured that perhaps when he was forty he would still pass for a man in his late twenties to early thirties.
He was extremely muscular and strong, something he took great pride in. Though he could not say for certain, but he figured he outweighed even the tallest and best-built men in the Third Cohort; something he took pride in.
Be that as it may, his age had certainly not held him back from becoming Valeria’s Legion Champion, where his physical power complemented his skill in battle nicely. During the spring before the Sacrovir Revolt, sixty-four of the best close combat fighters in the legion had faced off in a tournament, with Artorius emerging victorious. And He also distinguished himself as a leader of men during the rebellion. During some fierce fighting with a vastly superior enemy force in the mountains outside of Augusta Raurica, he had organized a hasty defense with two other sections that repelled a rebel counterattack.
He let out a sigh. The strain of his position took its toll on him some days, and he was glad for the reprieve that being garrisoned in Lugdunum brought him. He had been so eager for promotion that he took advantage of the opportunity afforded him without thinking through the full consequences brought on by promotion. How the Centurions handled it he had no idea.
“Morning,” a voice behind him said through a loud yawn. Artorius turned to see his friend Magnus stretching his arms out to his sides while yawning still. “Aren’t you cold?” The Norseman had already donned his tunic, while Artorius was still naked to the waist.
“Ah, the cool spring breeze feels good first thing in the morning,” the Decanus replied.
“You keep standing out there like that and your nipples are going to get all perky like an aroused whore,” Magnus replied. Artorius ignored him.
“You realize that we haven’t done a single road march since we’ve been here?” he asked aloud. Magnus nodded. “Well, we’ll just have to fix that. Can’t let the boys get all soft on us now.”
“Too much wine and prostitutes do you think?” Magnus asked, scratching the back of his head.
“Too much wine perhaps,” Artorius consented, “but I wouldn’t say too much fornication. Every physician I have ever met says that it is healthy for men to constantly relieve themselves of excess testicular man-load!” His friend laughed out loud at his assessment.
“Yes, and I’m sure they put it as succinctly as you!”
“But of course,” Artorius replied with a wink. He then let out a sigh and assessed his physique. “I’ll lay off the alcohol but don’t think for a second I’m going to stop trying to bury my cock in as many delicate young women as I can!”
“Hmm, well you know it’s not just the young ones who have to worry,” the Norseman said with a grin. Artorius gave a shrug.
“Well yes, I do in fact like the ones who are a bit older and are more in tune with their bodies. How’d you know?” Magnus gave a shrug of his own and grinned.
“Oh, it’s just that some of the lads and I saw a couple of women bearing the mark of Artorius.” Magnus was referring to his Decanus’ tendency to leave visible bite marks on the necks of women he associated with.
“Vitruvius made mention of a Greek gymnasium in the city the other day,” Magnus added, changing the subject. Artorius frowned in contemplation.
“That’s not one of those places where Greeks get sweaty and naked together is it?” he asked.
“Probably,” his friend replied with a laugh. “But hey, if they’ve got the equipment that will allow us to build enough muscle that we put the statues of the gods to shame, I’m all for it.” Artorius grinned. Though he may have been getting a little soft, he still possessed more muscle mass and power than any in the Third Cohort; probably the entire Legion. The thought of tightening up the areas that were growing soft and adding even more muscle to his frame greatly appealed to him.
“Well let’s go and find it then, shall we?”
They decided to take a walk through the city first. Lugdunum was a mixture of Gallic, Roman, and Greek architecture; a melting pot of cultures that Artorius found to be both fascinating as well as slightly perverse. He pointed this out to Magnus, who looked at him with a raised eyebrow.
“Artorius, you seem to forget that I am a type of cultural melting pot,” he said as they walked past an old timber mead hall; a place where Gallic warriors and nobles would come to feast and celebrate martial victories in ages past. “I am a Norseman whose family, outside of my father and brothers, still lives in the Scandinavian regions outside of the Empire. And yet I am also a Roman.”
“So how exactly do you go about fitting into both cultures?” Artorius asked. Magnus gave a slight chuckle at that.
“To be honest, it isn’t easy some days,” he replied. “My grandfather, who won us our citizenship in the first place, still wears his hair in a long ponytail, his great beard braided on both sides of his chin. He laughs and jokes with my father and I about how effeminate we look with our short hair and clean-shaven faces.” Artorius started laughing aloud.
“Magnus, you are anything but effeminate!”
“I know that,” his friend replied, “and so does my grandfather, even if he did say I looked like the quintessential boy lover! The thing is he spent twenty-five years as an auxiliary to earn Roman citizenship, not for himself, but for his sons. Once his tenure was over he returned home to the old country. His sons at least had the opportunity to put their citizenship to use. Strangely enough, only my father chose to do so…ah, here we are.”
They came upon a large marble building, one with massive pillars and stairs leading to the main doors. A large brass plaque was posted on the right-hand side of the doors. It read:
Lugdunum Gymnasium
Only the Strong May Enter
“Think we qualify?” Magnus asked, looking at Artorius inquisitively. Artorius raised and flexed his right bicep. Though softer than was usual for him, the bulging muscles still looked impressive.
“Yeah, I think we’ll be alright,” he joked as they walked inside. Artorius was in awe as he gazed upon the interior of the gymnasium. Never before had he seen such masculine beauty. There were stones of various sizes, along with bars and other equipment for building strength; ropes hung from the ceiling that men could be seen climbing up and down; there was a roped off area in a sand pit where men were boxing and wrestling; steam was coming from the communal sauna; and through the back archway one could see a lengthy pool with men swimming in it.
“About time you two showed up!” a voice yelled at them from over at the strength training floor. They looked over to see Vitruvius, shirtless and covered in sweat. His muscles were pumped up and swollen, ready to burst through the skin. Artorius grinned broadly and hurried down the steps to join his friend and mentor. “By Apollo, but you two have gone soft!”
“Eh, I was never that hard to begin with,” Magnus lied. Artorius raised an eyebrow at
the remark.
“Hey, your issues with getting ‘hard’ are not my concern,” Vitruvius replied with an elbow to the ribs. “Well come on, I just got warmed up!”
A passion burned inside each of the men as they sweated their way through exercises meant to add size to their powerful frames. Artorius knew that it had always been there, being that he had built his size and strength in a very crude form of a home-made gym when he was a young lad. Magnus possessed that inborn Scandinavian power and tenacity; his very soul wished for nothing more than to become bigger and stronger. Vitruvius…if ever there was a god incarnate, it was him. Artorius could only match him in size and power because of his extreme work ethics. An unspoken bond was born between the three men; they would meet every day and build their bodies above and beyond what they had ever thought possible. Rank played no role in their relationship of stone and steel. Once they passed through those doors, the only thing that mattered was the formation of brutal strength.