by James Mace
“Are you sure that is all you know?” Macro asked, waving the dagger at the slave.
“Yes, yes! I swear! He is a very private man; he only bought me two weeks ago. Please, no more pain!” Macro nodded to a pair of legionaries, who cut the bonds holding the slave up. He fell with a thud to the floor, his face contorted in agony.
“I said it would be over, and it shall.” With that he snapped his fingers and walked out of the room. The slave’s eyes grew wide as an enraged Artorius grabbed him by the hair with both hands and violently dragged him away, his rage overtaking him.
Out in the hall, Macro came upon Proculus and Vitruvius who both gave a start as they heard the slave screaming for mercy.
“Aren’t you done with him yet?” Proculus asked. Macro nodded.
“We are,” he answered. “Now my boys are executing a little retribution.” Vitruvius gave a snort and shook his head.
“You’re a wicked one, Macro,” he said, a mildly amused grin on his face. “So what did you find out?”
“Not a whole lot,” Macro conceded. “Seems he belongs to a Greek that calls himself Heracles.”
“Well that’s original!” Proculus retorted as all three men walked down the hall and out the door that led to the courtyard. “A Greek that decides to take on the name of a god; bloody brilliant! What will they think of next?”
“He also said that this Greek was one of the leaders of Sacrovir’s rebellion.” Proculus stopped in midstride and turned to face Macro.
“What?” he asked. “I thought all the leaders perished.”
“We only assumed they did,” Vitruvius conjectured, his broad arms folded across his chest. “Truth is we never did excavate the site of Sacrovir’s destroyed manor house. It is possible that some may have escaped the mutual slaughter.” Proculus took a deep breath and exhaled audibly.
“The last thing we need is another damn uprising,” he said. “We must make an example of all who would disrupt the peace of Rome!”
“Already being taken care of,” Macro replied.
Kiana saw the smoke rising from the slave market and it puzzled her. She had come into the city to purchase some fruit and bread; a task normally done by slaves, but one she had insisted on doing herself that day. She had been confined to the manor house for the last few days and she needed an excuse to go out for a while. So great was her desire to be left alone that she had not allowed any of the servants to accompany her.
She was a striking girl, and at fifteen fast approaching womanhood. Of slightly less than average height, her auburn hair reached halfway down her back and contrasted with her fair skin and deep green eyes. Her body was on the slender side, though it hinted at the curves that would come with womanhood.
Her father had sent her and her sister, Tierney, to Lugdunum as a means of escaping the aftermath of the Sacrovir Revolt. What had been a joyous time in her life had become a nightmare. She had at the time been living in Augustodunum where her beloved Farquhar had been studying at the university. Her father had approved greatly of the young man and had sought their betrothal at the earliest opportunity. Sadly Farquhar had been swept away by the poison rhetoric of Sacrovir, like so many of the young nobles. The Noble Youth of Gaul, as Sacrovir had called them, stood no chance against the Roman juggernaut and most were slaughtered during the Battle of Augustodunum. Farquhar had been in the vanguard, encased in plate armor meant to stop the javelin and gladius. Instead, a Roman soldier had smashed through his armor with a pickaxe. Kiana never forgot the sight of her love, his ribs punctured and smashed; his head rendered open with the skull splintered around the gaping hole.
She shuddered at the memory. Part of the reason for her father sending her away was so that perhaps not being around reminders of those devastating times her nightmares might cease. Not a night went by that she did not wake up in a cold sweat, images of death permeating her conscience. For it was not just Farquhar who she had seen maimed; so many of their friends had perished, their bodies ripped asunder by the sheer wrath of the legions.
Crucifixion was tedious work. However, Artorius was in a rage after having been played the fool by a lowly slave and he was determined to make an example of the pathetic excuse for a man. The slave cried out in pain as the Decanus drove the spikes into his wrists; securing the crossbeam to the side of the remains of the slave trader’s home. Carbo and Valens had secured the arms in place with rope before Artorius drove the spikes through each wrist. Extra care was taken securing the legs, with Magnus tying an extra length of rope around the upper thighs. Often they would break the legs of their victims so that they could no longer hold the body weight and death would be expedited via suffocation. However, with the slave’s one leg already shattered, they did not want him to succumb too soon.
“That’ll do him,” Artorius said as he climbed down the ladder. The section looked up at the slave, who was still screaming for mercy at the top of his lungs.
“Should we oblige him?” Decimus asked; his eyes on Artorius. The Decanus shook his head.
“No…not for a while anyway. This rat bastard helped to slay the owner of this house and his family. I want him to set a firm example to any who would seek to undermine the law and stability of this region.”
“Nice work,” Centurion Macro stated, walking up behind the men. All turned and faced their Centurion, Artorius rendering a salute. Macro returned the courtesy before gazing up once again at the still-screaming slave.
“I like how you secured his legs so he can’t suffocate too quickly,” the Centurion noted with a bemused grin.
“Magnus’ idea,” Artorius replied, letting out a deep sigh. The screams of horror and pain were starting to take their toll on him and he had a headache. His anger had subsided and he felt a tinge of pity for the man. After all, he was little more than a slave who could not have easily disobeyed his master.
“It was a no-win situation, really,” Decimus noted. “Had he disobeyed his owner, he would likely have been killed. Then again, he had the chance to seek protection when he came to us.”
“Yes,” Artorius said, rubbing his temples with both hands. He had taken off his helmet while they had crucified the slave. He looked over to see a young girl hunched over across the street, her hand bracing her against the stone sides of the building. Curious, Artorius walked over to her. She looked to be about fifteen or sixteen; at the age where she was blossoming from girl to woman. The sights and sounds of the crucifixion of the slave had taken their toll on her and she was dry-heaving and sobbing.
“Are you alright, child?” Artorius asked as he placed a hand on her shoulder. As the girl turned to face him, her eyes grew wide in horror, for she recognized his face while he still did not know hers. She fell to her knees, her eyes filled with fresh tears.
“No…” she said in a low voice, shaking her head. “No!” With a scream she scrambled to her feet and fled down the street, seeking refuge in the crowded market that stood but a block away. The eyes of many curious onlookers fell on her as she ran, sobbing uncontrollably. Those same eyes returned to the Centurion as he beat his vine stick against the side of the building.
“Let all bear witness,” he began, “to the fate of any who will seek to upset the good order of this city through sedition and murder! Behold the fate of his fellow conspirators!” He waved his vine stick at the corpses of the slain slaves, which were laid out in a line in front of the crucified man. A butcher’s shop was nearby, and the owner stepped forward, a meat hook in his hand. He was breathing rapidly through his nose, his mustache rippling slightly. He walked to within a few feet of the Centurion, lowered his eyes onto one of the corpses and then returned his gaze front. Macro folded his arms across his chest and nodded. The butcher then gave a growl of anger and slammed his hook under the chin of one of the slain. As he dragged the body away, the rest of the mob gave a shout and fell upon the rest. The Centurion shook his head and walked away.
Mob justice, he thought to himself. So quick are they to fei
gn their loyalty.
“What the hell was that all about?” Magnus asked, looking over to where the girl had disappeared into the crowded market.
“I don’t know,” Artorius replied, “something about her looked familiar, but from where?”
“Not one of your bite victims then?” Artorius chuckled and shook his head.
“No, prefer them a little older and not quite so delicate.”
Valens stood with his hands on his hips, admiring their work, when he heard a gasp behind him. He turned to see Svetlana standing with one hand over her mouth, her eyes wide.
“Svetlana, what are you doing here?” he asked abruptly, grabbing her by both arms and attempting to guide her away from the scene of death and torture. Magnus heard the commotion and immediately moved to help Valens.
“Sister, you should not see such things,” he said quickly, trying to block the young woman’s view. She could only shake her head in reply. “Valens, get her out of here!” The legionary nodded in reply and forcibly guided Svetlana away. Her hand over her mouth, she finally averted her gaze as she stumbled away in Valens’ grip.
“Come on,” he said quietly as the young woman stifled a sob. As soon as they were cleared of the scene, he placed both hands on her shoulders. Svetlana quickly composed herself.
“Forgive me,” she said quietly. “It’s just that I have not had to deal with such brutality before. What had that man done?”
“Led us all into a bloody trap,” Valens replied. “Bastard deliberately tried to get the whole lot of us killed. I think a little crucifixion will do some good.” Svetlana nodded, her brow furrowed in contemplation.
“I agree,” she said at last, reason overriding the sense of shock at the horror of the spectacle. “Again, please forgive my weak constitution. I’m fine now.”
“You sure?” Valens asked. “Only your brother does not want you witnessing such things.”
“Then you damn well shouldn’t have crucified the man in the middle of the fucking forum!” Svetlana retorted, causing Valens to wince at her rare profanity. “Besides, my brother, who I dearly love mind you, does not approve of us being together either. I think he can deal with his baby sister being exposed to some of the horrors of the world. I am of stronger stock than any of these women!”
While Valens and Svetlana spoke in the alley, Artorius looked over at his friend and realized he was very tired.
“You know we’ve been up well past our shift,” he observed with a loud yawn.
“I know,” Magnus replied, yawning in turn. “I think I’m going to go have a wash and turn in for a while.”
“Sounds good to me.” Artorius located Sergeant Ostorius, who was supervising the day patrols, exchanged a few details with him, and then headed to the bathhouse. All the while he kept trying to think of where he had seen the young Gallic woman before. She certainly wasn’t a prostitute for she was far too well dressed. Besides, Artorius figured he knew just about all of them in the city by this time. Something continued to nag at him as he stumbled into the steaming bath; something from his past. He tried to dismiss it; he was too tired to think straight and he would figure it out later.
While the sight of the crucified man had horrified Kiana; seeing the man who had slain her lover not even a year ago filled her with abject terror and renewed feelings of pain and sorrow. She knew it was him; the image of his face staring down at her and Farquhar’s grieving father was burned into her mind.
Kiana found a small alleyway and sat down, her head in her hands. Strangely enough, no one seemed to pay her any mind.
“Why?” she asked through her tears. “Why has that beast come to torment me?”
“Even the gravest of beasts can still be subdued,” a voice spoke. Kiana looked up to see a man kneeling next to her. The shape of his face, along with his dark hair and well-groomed beard, led her to realize he was either a Greek or Macedonian. His demeanor was not unpleasant; in fact something about him soothed Kiana’s sorrow. He extended a hand to her.
“Come child,” he said softly. “Tell me what ails you.”
It was but a short walk to the flat that Heracles had procured. Kiana sat down and a slave handed her a cup of wine. The young girl’s hands trembled as the Greek sat across from her. She was not afraid of him; in fact she was relieved that he had come to her in her delirium.
“Animals,” she said under her breath, “those men are nothing but savage animals.” Heracles’ face remained stoic, though he was grinning inside as his mind raced with a flush of ideas.
“You speak of the Roman masters,” he replied casually. Kiana eyed him coldly, each trying to gage the other’s intentions.
“Masters of the world they may be, but they are still animals,” she retorted. Something had snapped inside of her and it was consuming her conscience. Before she had not blamed the Romans for Farquhar’s death; rather she had placed the blame on Sacrovir and his minions. Now that she had seen the abject cruelty which the Romans were capable of she was starting to have doubts. Heracles could read these doubts in her face and he would exploit them.
That night a group of men, their heads hidden beneath their hoods, walked quietly down the street. The tortured slave raised his head weakly, his eyes daring to hope. The men were removing torches from the walls of the alley and extinguishing them. The group passed on, leaving a single torch lit; only two remained. The slave tried to smile when he saw Heracles remove his hood. His hope proved short-lived.
“You have failed me,” the Greek said in a nonchalant voice. His eyes betrayed his dark thoughts. The slave’s own eyes grew wide as he shook his head, fresh tears welling up in his eyes.
“Master please, I beg you,” he whimpered. “I did as you asked. Look at what the Romans have done to me!”
“Yes,” Heracles replied with a nod. “The Romans have certainly caused you much pain; pain that you brought on yourself with your carelessness. I can only imagine the things you told them under torture…” The slave shook his head once more but he knew he could not lie to his master.
“Please, have mercy on me,” he said quietly. “Certainly I have suffered enough.” Heracles rolled his eyes as if bored.
“I suppose you have,” he replied. He snapped his fingers and raised his hood over his head. The slave started to whimper once more when the other man removed his hood. It was that vile creature Radek, who only accompanied Heracles with a single purpose. The slave caught a glimpse of the cleaver before Heracles extinguished the final torch.
Legionary Felix leaned against the side of the building. He rather liked night patrols, even if it did temporarily mess with his sleep plan. The nights were quiet without all the traffic on the streets. The nighttime breeze felt good to the young soldier. In the soft glow of the torches he could just make out some of his section mates. The horrors of the night before were still fresh in his mind; however, he was able to come to grips with what he had been forced to do. His Decanus had been right in his assessment of what had happened and though Felix still did not believe in fighting women, he knew he had done the right thing. Besides, his act of killing had been an act of mercy after all.
Sergeant Praxus had ordered them to patrol around the destroyed slave market at Four Corners Road. The slaves themselves were being held in a different location while going through interrogation. All that was left was the smoldering remains of the pens. Though the bodies had been removed from the scene, there were still the swarms of flies and other insects around the sticky pools of blood that seemed to be everywhere. Inside the slave owner’s house it was far worse. Felix had decided to take a look inside just to see for himself. And though he was no amateur when it came to killing, the stench made him wretch. He let out a sigh as he gazed absently into the torchlight.
“Hey Felix,” one of his companions said, startling him. “It’s awfully quiet here, don’t you think?”
“It always is this time of night,” he answered leaning his shoulder against the building once more.
“Well let’s go and have a look then,” Felix said with a bored sigh. His fellow legionary grabbed a torch off the wall and walked around to the other side of the building, which was strangely dark.
“Shit!” Felix heard the soldier swear. “Felix, come take a look at this!” Suddenly alert, he grabbed his shield and javelin and quick stepped around the building.
“Shit!” he echoed when he saw the slave. The other legionary held his torch up at the macabre sight. The slave’s head was lying on the ground, his genitalia stuffed in his mouth.
“When the hell could this have happened?” the legionary asked. Felix could only shake his head.
“I don’t know,” he replied. “I’m going to fetch Sergeant Praxus.” As he turned, the rest of his section came rushing around the side of the building, alerted by the commotion.
“Damn,” Praxus said in a low voice. “Son of a bitch was spared with a quick death after all. Fetch a ladder and cut him down. Have the corpse taken away and burned.”
“Right away,” Felix answered as they left to find a ladder. Praxus stood with his hands on his hips and gazed at the wretched sight. He swallowed hard and shook his head.
“Are you ready, old friend?” Pilate asked, walking his horse over to where Justus was inspecting one of his baggage carts. He had already sent his wife and children ahead to the docks in Ostia, where he would meet up with them. Having no family of his own, Pilate’s own carts were much fewer.
“I think so,” Justus replied with a sigh. “Can’t say I’m too anxious to be leaving so soon.”
“So soon?” Pilate chided. “You’ve been here for over three years, man!”