Soldier of Rome: Heir to Rebellion (The Artorian Chronicles)

by James Mace

  “Nice,” Artorius said with a brief grin before shouting his next order. “Javelins…throw!” A dozen javelins sailed the short distance down the alleyway, slamming into the newly liberated slaves. Cries of anguish were heard from both men and women who had been thrust into the fray. Most of the slaves were near panic, though the thugs that blocked their escape drove them forward.

  “Gladius…draw!” Praxus shouted. With a shout, gladii were unsheathed and both sections advanced in two ranks behind a wall of shields and protruding swords.

  Tynan had just enough time to duck, pulling Erin down with him as the Roman javelins slammed home. Screams echoed around them as each found its mark. He looked back to see a young woman, even younger than they; sprout a javelin from her shoulder. She fell to the ground screaming as the soft metal shaft at the end bent, the weight tearing bone, sinew, and flesh. They heard an audible shout from the Romans as they drew their swords. Most of the slaves responded with a loud cry of their own and charged headlong to their fate.

  “Feel the wrath of Odin, bitch!” Magnus swore as the legionaries advanced. Though their opponents numbered at least three dozen, the narrowness of the alleyway worked to their advantage, only allowing roughly six to eight adversaries to engage them at a time. All Artorius saw was shadows in the glow of the flames. He brought his shield up to deflect the strike of one maddened slave. Quickly he stabbed with his gladius, catching the man in the belly. The blade embedded itself deep, rupturing bowels and organs in its wake. The slave gave a shriek of pain as Artorius knocked him back with his shield. To his left, Magnus thrust his gladius over the top of his shield, impaling another assailant in the throat; the man only able to make a gurgling sound as blood flooded his severed windpipe.

  Erin hugged the wall as the slaves to her front clashed with the armored soldiers. Tynan was close by, but had released his grip on her for the moment. He was caught up in the rush of those who wished to fight for what they felt was their one chance at freedom. The flames behind them glinted off the polished steel of Roman helms and armor. Quickly she tried to back up, her hands trembling, as the slaves in front of her were quickly slain. The cries of the dying terrified her even more than the flash of legionary blades. She saw a large man in front of her wince and stoop over as the point of a gladius burst out his back. Rapidly the man fell and Erin stood face-to-face with the soldier who had killed him.

  “No!” Tynan shouted, seeing the danger his wife was in. He forcibly shoved the other slaves aside as he rushed to protect the woman he loved. “They’ll not take you!”

  On the extreme left, Valens slammed his gladius home into the belly of a rather large slave. The man was huge, but slow and ungainly. The crude hand axe he carried bounced harmlessly off the legionary’s shield as Valens stepped in and slew him. He then saw what looked to be a young woman armed with a crude knife. An equally young man stepped protectively in front of her, his arms outstretched, quickly speaking in Gallic. Without a second thought Valens stabbed him beneath the ribcage, eliciting a scream from the woman. The man convulsed, his eyes clouding over as life left him, and he fell face first to the pavement with a sickening crunch. The woman’s eyes were filled with tears as her hand that held the knife trembled. In what can only be construed as a spontaneous act of mercy, Valens elected not to kill her; instead striking her across the temple with the boss of his shield. Her eyes rolled back into her head as she fell back and slid down the wall. He immediately brought his shield about, striking a more aggressive foe with the bottom edge of his shield.

  The thugs hired by Heracles to goad the slaves into fighting realized the situation was turning against them. The slaves were being slaughtered, and still the legionaries came. One slave with a club managed to catch Decimus on the side of the helm, knocking him senseless. The man paid for this with his life as a legionary from Praxus’ section quickly stepped in and stabbed him through the heart. Shouts outside the alley were heard as swarms of men from the urban cohort raced towards the scene, shields and spears in hand. The thieves shouted to each other and quickly fled. Before any of the slaves could escape the urban troops blocked their path, spears leveled.

  “Stand fast!” Artorius shouted as Magnus ripped out the throat of another hapless victim with his gladius. The Norseman shoved the dying man to the side, his own face and chest soaked in blood. Cries of pain and sorrow echoed in the alley from the dying and their stricken companions. Carbo walked over to where Decimus lay stirring in a daze.

  “You dumbass,” he said as he knelt down to help his friend sit upright. He loosened up the chinstrap on Decimus’ helmet and pulled it off. The legionary’s eyes were glazed, a trickle of blood running out of his ear. “Damn, that guy clocked you good!”

  “I guess I’m out of practice,” Decimus replied, taking a deep breath and trying to focus his gaze on Carbo.

  “Can you see okay?” Carbo asked. Decimus replied with a grin.

  “I can see that you’re still one ugly bastard,” he said, prompting Carbo to raise his hand as if to cuff him on his non-injured ear. He then thought better of it and helped his friend to his feet.

  As the legionaries started to round up prisoners, Valens walked over to where the woman he knocked unconscious still lay. He sheathed his gladius, leaned his shield against the wall, and knelt down beside her. She was fairly young, with a pretty face accentuated by a small nose and rather short blonde hair. He lifted her up underneath the arms, causing her to stir. She instinctively reached up to where the side of her head was started to swell and turn purple from the blow of Valens’ shield. She looked around confused, her eyes then filling with horror as she caught sight of the legionary’s face. The girl let out a scream of terror as she scrambled to get away from him. In her daze she stumbled and fell onto the corpse of the man who had given his life to save her. This elicited further shrieks and an unending wailing as she clutched his body and sobbed uncontrollably.

  “Valens, shut that harlot up already!” Artorius shouted as he looked over his shoulder at the commotion. Valens let out a sigh and tried to coax the girl off the body.

  “Come on,” he said in a low voice. She refused to move and only sobbed louder.

  “Valens!” Artorius shouted at him again, “quit fucking around back there! Get that bitch up here with the rest of them!” Valens grimaced hard, took a deep breath, and grabbed the young woman by the hair.

  “I said come on!” he shouted as he dragged her away. She continued to scream and tried to reach for the slain man as the legionary pulled on her hair even harder. Valens cringed as he felt some of her hairs rip from her scalp as she stumbled along in his grip. The rest of the slaves were placed in a line on their knees, their hands bound behind their backs. Valens dropped the girl at the end of the line, took a length of rope from one of Praxus’ legionaries, and bound her hands.

  “It’s going to be okay,” he said quietly. The girl looked at him, her eyes swollen and stained with tears, and started to curse at him in a tongue unknown to him. Valens took a step back and turned to see Magnus watching.

  “What did she say?” Valens asked, rightly suspecting that his Nordic friend understood.

  “I’ll tell you later,” Magnus replied, smacking him on the shoulder and signaling for them to leave. The urban troopers had taken charge of the prisoners until it was decided what to do with them. Their commander came out of the house that stood next to the now smoldering stockade.

  “Sergeant Artorius!” he shouted, recognizing the young Decanus, who in turn walked over to where the man stood in the doorway to the house. “You’re going to want to have a look at this; bloody nasty mess in there.”

  “The slave owner?” Artorius asked as he stepped into the dimly lit hallway. The urban commander just shook his head.

  “Down here, third door on the left.” They stepped in to find the body of a man sprawled out on a bed, his head severed from his body, blood saturating the bed and pooled on the floor.

  “Shit!” Artoriu
s swore.

  “It gets better,” his companion replied. “We found his wife and infant child butchered in similar fashion, along with a pair of slaves.” His morbid curiosity getting the best of him, Artorius walked quickly down the hall and almost tripped over one of the decapitated slaves. He then saw one of the urban troopers leaning against the next doorway, his head bowed. The Decanus then decided that he had seen enough and he turned about and walked as quickly as he could without running away from the horrific sight.

  Outside, Heracles’ slave who had led them to the alley was hyperventilating, his face soaked in sweat as the horror of his predicament overwhelmed him. His femur was splintered and he was pinned to the post by the Roman javelin. He knew not what to do, panic consuming him; he soiled himself as he saw a pair of enraged legionaries walking briskly over to where he stood.

  “Son of a bitch!” Gavius swore as he punched the man across the mouth. The slave fell to the ground, his leg now twisted as it was held in place by the javelin. Gavius drew his gladius and placed the point on the side of the whimpering slave’s neck. Carbo quickly grabbed him by the wrist.

  “Not this way,” he said as his friend struggled in his grasp. “Someone sent this bastard; we need to find out whom.” As he pulled Gavius to the side he whispered into his ear, “then we can exact a little payback.” Gavius nodded in reply and sheathed his weapon. He then bent down and wrenched the javelin from the post and the man’s leg. The slave gave a fresh cry of pain and then rolled to his side, clutching the mutilated limb.

  Legionary Felix stood panting as he caught his breath. His eyes then fell upon a brutally injured woman; a javelin had mangled her shoulder, splintered bones jutted from the gaping wound.

  “Please…” the woman whimpered, “make the pain stop.” Felix glanced over at Sergeant Praxus, who nodded affirmatively. The young soldier then took a deep breath and knelt beside her. She was very young; scarcely even a woman. She was hyperventilating, her face doused in sweat, eyes fixed on Felix.

  “Such a waste,” he said quietly as he placed the blade of his weapon and the side of her neck and pulled back hard, slicing the artery. He stood immediately and walked away. In the past, killing had given Felix a sense of raw power, as if he were playing the role of a god. This was different. Those he had killed during the rebellion of Sacrovir and Florus had all be enemy combatants; people who had made war on Rome and had therefore forfeited their lives. This woman had not made war on Rome. She was part of an armed mob yes, but something just did not set right with the legionary. He then thought that perhaps he pitied her because she was so young, and indeed had been very pretty, even while covered in blood and gore. Felix then realized he had never killed a woman before and thought perhaps that played with his emotions as well. After all, he did not believe that women should be combatants in war; it just was not right. He further suspected that this particular woman had been an unwilling combatant.

  “You alright?” Praxus asked, placing a hand on his shoulder and walking beside him. The legionary’s face was covered in sweat. Felix removed his helmet and ran his hand through his hair.

  “I’m confused, Sergeant,” he replied. “A beautiful young girl like that, part of an armed mob. Doesn’t make sense; somebody forced these slaves to attack us.”

  “I know,” Praxus acknowledged. “But fact of the matter is they did attack us.”

  “I never thought that women belonged in battle,” Felix said as they continued walking. Praxus gave a short, mirthless laugh.

  “There are many things you need to learn then, young legionary. In parts of the world women serve as warriors; not just the men. Know that a woman’s hand, properly trained, can kill you just as well as any man’s.”

  “Well look at what we’ve got here,” Magnus remarked as he walked up to the men. Gavius and Carbo both gave a wicked grin. “Bind his hands and drag his pathetic ass over to the Principia.”

  “You got it,” Carbo replied. Magnus then walked over to where Artorius was leaving the slave master’s house. His face was pale and the Norseman surmised what his Decanus had seen.

  “Pretty bad in there?” he asked. Artorius nodded in reply.

  “Fucking brutal,” he remarked. “Someone decapitates the man, his family, and servants, releases the slaves and forces them to attack us; doesn’t make any sense.”

  “Well I think we may have some answers soon enough,” Magnus replied, his piercing blue eyes taking on a dark and sinister gaze.

  Erin sat trembling, tears flowing freely down her bruised and swollen face, a trickle of blood running from the top of her head and passed her right eye, which was swollen nearly shut. Her hands were bound behind her back, her head hung low. The sight of her slain husband was burned into her mind. He was not even armed, having thrown down his club in his defiance of their ‘liberators.’ And yet the soldiers still killed him. All he had done was tried to protect her, and he had paid with his life. Erin sobbed and cursed her fate that he was dead while she still lived. She swore blasphemous oaths towards the legionary who had killed him; his supposed mercy towards her a fate worse than death. In her sorrow she wobbled sideways and bumped into another slave woman, who shoved her away hard with her shoulder.

  “Ignorant bitch,” the woman swore at her. “Think yourself lucky that you still live!” Erin wanted to curse the woman and scream aloud that with her husband slain all that mattered inside of her died with him. Instead all she could do was cry as despair consumed her. Her right eye was swollen almost completely shut and the stream of blood on her scalp had clotted and matted in her hair. She was living a nightmare and she silently prayed to any gods who would listen that she would wake up from it.

  Heracles sat quietly in his quarters drinking warm ale while Radek stood patiently behind him. He knew by the sounds of commotion coming from the market and the slight smell of smoke that his plan had had its intended effect. Provided there were some dead legionaries, the slaves would have done their part. There came three sharp raps at the door, followed by two longer ones. He nodded to Radek, who turned and limped to the door.

  “It’s them,” he said in a low voice as he peeked through a pin hole in the door. Heracles raised a hand, signaling him to let the men in. Three men rushed in, their faces flushed and near panic.

  “Damn it man, how long did you plan on leaving us out there!” one said, exacerbated. Heracles continued to drink his ale, ignoring the man’s remarks. Radek stepped over and backhanded the thug across the mouth.

  “You will not speak to the master in such a tone,” he hissed, his hand on the hilt of his cleaver. The three men immediately stepped back from the half-mad creature.

  “I hear commotion in the streets,” Heracles observed, snapping his fingers as a servant brought him a plate of figs. “I take it then that your mission was a success.”

  “Not as such,” the first thug replied. “We burned the slave pens, just as you asked, and we got some legionaries trapped in an alley. Thing is…”

  “Those bastards aren’t human!” one of his companions interrupted. “They tore through that lot of slaves like a hot iron through pig fat!”

  “No matter,” Heracles replied casually. “We can replace slaughtered slaves easily enough. I take it there is more to report?” The three men all lowered their heads.

  “Your slave that you sent to lure the Romans into the trap,” the first man said.

  “Yes?” Heracles prompted when the thug did not immediately continue.

  “Thing is…the Romans got him. He didn’t run off like you told him and one of those damn legionaries skewered him through the thigh with a javelin. Well the urban cohort shows up before we could carry him off or finish him. The Romans took him alive, sir.”

  “I see,” Heracles replied as he let out a bored sigh. “They will torture him, no doubt. Lucky for us he knows so little. What a pity that I cannot seem to find slaves who do exactly as they are told.” The servant behind him shifted nervously. The Greek waved the men
off and they quickly started for the back door. He sat and contemplated for a while, his fingers folder in front of his face and his eyes closed.

  “Radek, my good man, I think we shall need to demonstrate to all what happens to those who cannot follow my orders.” Radek’s face grew into a smile of broken and rotting teeth.

  The slave was bound hanging by his outstretched limbs, his mangled leg causing him immeasurable pain. His breath was coming rapidly and he reeked of urine and sweat. Macro toyed with the dagger in his hand as he paced back and forth. The slave let out a slight whimper as the Centurion strode over and knelt beside him.

  “Does this hurt?” Macro asked as he touched the exposed and splintered bone with the edge of his dagger. The slave let out a weak cry, his voice cracking from his parched throat. “I know it does. Just tell us who you belong to and I promise it will all be over.” When the slave did not reply, Macro’s face twisted in anger. He brought the dagger down in a hard stab into the bone. This elicited a series of fresh cries of anguish from the stricken man.

  “I’ll talk! I’ll talk!” he shouted pitifully. Macro quickly withdrew the dagger as the slave passed out.

  “Wake him,” the Centurion ordered. A legionary took his water bladder and poured it onto the man’s face. He woke up sputtering and sobbing.

  “My master is a Greek who calls himself Heracles,” he whimpered. “He was a leader of Sacrovir’s rebellion. Please, that is all I know.”