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

by James Mace

  “There are only two ways to get to this place,” he observed. “And since we did not run into a large mob on the way in…” He paused and took a deep breath before continuing. “The road to the south leads through a narrow valley that opens at a large plain strewn with forests. If they get through the valley there will be no recapturing them.”

  “Understood,” the Centurion acknowledged. “We’ll make ready to ride at once.”

  “Send your fastest rider back by the path we took and have him alert Centurion Macro,” Cursor ordered.

  “Yes sir.” Rodolfo saw the look of consternation in the Tribune’s face and understood it all too well. Such a large number of slaves could not be allowed to escape. Word would spread like wildfire and the unrest that it may cause amongst the large slave populations of the region was a disaster they could ill afford. He also knew that they would be foolish to try to smash the mob with just their force of one hundred cavalrymen; they needed Macro, Vitruvius, and their legionaries.

  Cursor dismounted and wearily surveyed the carnage of the wrecked slaver camp. The stench of burned corpses assailed his senses as he walked over to where the pavilion tents had stood. Unable to avert his gaze, he walked across the ash-strewn ground where bodies that had once been men lay charred and mutilated. He then heard a loud crash in a thicket off to his right. Immediately his spatha was drawn, senses alert. A badly injured man fell out of the bushes and onto his face, his body covered in soot with numerous gashes and burns evident. Cursor sheathed his weapon and went to the man, who was lying on his side, breathing rapidly.

  “They came at us,” the wounded man spoke quietly, “in the night, like black wings of death they fell upon us.” The Tribune placed a hand on the man’s shoulder and shook his head.

  “Trooper!” he shouted over his shoulder to the nearest of his men, who raced over to them. The auxilia muttered something in German that Cursor could not understand.

  “I need water and bandages at once!” the Tribune ordered before turning back to the wounded man. Several of his men were soon kneeling next to him, bearing rolls of bandage cloth and extra water bladders.

  “Fire…and death,” the injured man said as the Tribune took a damp rag and started to tend to him. The man did not seem to notice Cursor or his troopers at all; nor did he wince or acknowledge his fearful wounds. “Our tent…burned. Only I escaped…a man with a cleaver…severing heads…” he shuddered fearfully and closed his eyes as the memories overwhelmed him. Suddenly his body started convulsing violently as if he were struck by a seizure.

  “He’s going into shock,” Cursor said as he frantically sought to stabilize the man. A few spasms and it was over. The Tribune threw down the blood-soaked bandage in his hand, stood up and walked away. Two of his men stood staring at the charred corpse at their feet. A shout by Centurion Rodolfo startled them back to their senses. He shouted orders at them in their native tongue and they ran quickly back to their mounts.

  Within the dense woods Radek smiled evilly as they watched the auxilia cavalry ride out of camp.

  “So few,” he observed quietly as Heracles gave an affirmative nod.

  “Yes,” he replied, “but you can rest assured they brought friends with them. Our old friend Indus has returned. Time for tragedy to strike down his sacred regiment.”

  Over a thousand slaves fled through the valley. The way behind was shut, for the mountains to the north were too steep and the weather treacherous this time of year. The only way for them to go was straight. Many of the slaves were armed, fearful as they were that Roman soldiers were in the region. The rock walls on either side proved too sheer for any but the ablest of climbers to scale; however, they knew that once they were through the valley freedom would be theirs.

  A young woman clung to her baby, her free hand clutching that of her husband. Like many of their company, both had been slaves their entire lives, and now for the first time they had a chance to make something more for themselves and for their child.

  It puzzled them the way that hideous man had freed them. First he had murdered the slavers and their servants, however he left the slaves themselves penned up in their wheeled cages inside the stockade. It was only when they had reached the north end of the valley had he released them. He promised weapons with which to earn their freedom, but only if they proceeded south. The slave woman was confused yet hopeful, for not a mile down the road was a large pile of axes, crude swords, spears, and other weapons. The men had fallen on them like rabid dogs. That night they sat in a shivering mass as they had elected not to build bonfires that would disclose their presence. It was but a few miles to the open plain, though most of the slaves had little sense of time or distance and had decided to camp in the valley for the night. A number had decided to keep moving, seeking their own freedom and not caring for the fate of their companions.

  The woman with the newborn held the child close. She was famished and completely exhausted, for she was in no state to travel by foot as they had and the lack of food had left her feeling emaciated and worn.

  “It’s going to be okay,” she said to the whimpering babe.

  “Freedom,” one of the slaves said to his companions as he pointed to where the stars lit the open plain but a mile away. Though he was starving and exhausted, he was glad they had elected to press on instead of staying the night with those old women and fools. He was quickly shoved aside by one of the more eager slaves and the mob rushed towards the plain. They knew that once they were out of the narrow passage nothing could keep them from freedom. There was no moon out this night, and the starlight did not allow for them to see well the ground in front of them. Without warning, three of the men stumbled face-first into a ditch that cut across the path. One gave a loud shriek in pain; his thigh ran through by a large wooden stake.

  “What the hell is this?” the young man asked aloud as he tried to see exactly what was in front of them. Torches were suddenly struck alight in front of them and his question was answered with a horrifying revelation. They had stumbled upon a Roman legionary encampment. The slave at first had no idea as to why legionaries would place their camp in the middle of a road, but then it dawned on him. He turned to run as several javelins flew from the Roman rampart. Several of his companions were struck down with precision accuracy. The young slave then gave a shout of pain as a javelin struck him in the back. He stopped and could not fathom why his body refused to function properly. The shock of his being run through had caused his brain to not comprehend what was happening until he looked down and saw the head of the javelin protruding through the bottom of his chest. Reason and comprehension left him before his body hit the earth.

  “Shall we go after them?” a legionary asked his Decanus as the remainder of the escaped slaves fled back up the valley.

  “No,” the Sergeant replied with a shake of his head. “They’re not going anywhere; we’ll see them again soon enough.”

  “Here! We’ve got a live one!” another soldier shouted from over by the ditch where one unfortunate slave lay whimpering with a palisade stake embedded in his leg. The wound was ghastly with dark crimson blood.

  “He’s done,” the Decanus observed. “His femoral artery’s been severed.” As if on cue, the slave’s rapid breathing became shallow and then ceased altogether. “Make a proper display out of the body to serve as a warning to other escaped slaves.”

  “What’s all the commotion?” a voice called behind them. The Decanus turned to see Optio Macer walking briskly towards their position.

  “A few ambitious slaves trying to make a run for it, that’s all,” the Decanus replied. In the soft glow of the torches, three of his men were seen dragging the dead slave down the path towards a dead tree that jutted out at an angle from the lower edge of the left-hand cliff. The Optio took in a deep breath as realization dawned on him.

  “That slave camp is huge,” he said to the Sergeant. “If these stragglers have made it here, then the rest cannot be far behind; and their numbers far e
xceed ours. Stay alert and sound the alarm at the first sign of the bastards.”

  “Yes, Optio.”

  The sun was just starting to rise over the narrow valley that the centuries had formed a blockade of ditches and palisade stakes in front of as the rider from Cursor’s detachment rode up at a breakneck speed from the unseen path on the left side of the cliffs.

  “I need to see Centurion Macro at once!” the man shouted to the sentries at the gate to the compound. “Tell him it’s urgent!” The senior legionary nodded to his companion who set down his javelin and shield and raced towards the tent that Macro and Vitruvius had made into their temporary headquarters. The rider dismounted, took a long pull off his water bladder, and handed the reins to the other soldier.

  “Be a good man and get him some water; he’s had a hard night.” He then quickly raced towards the house to catch up while the remaining sentry signaled to one of his companions to take the horse over to a nearby stream.

  Artorius was leisurely wiping down his armor with an oil cloth when he heard the sound of the Cornicen’s horn. His eyes opened wide as he recognized the call-to-arms. Quickly he looked around for the rest of his men. Decimus and Valens were sitting on stools nearby.

  “We heard it,” Decimus asserted as he started to don his armor.

  “I’ll get the rest of the lads,” Valens said, though at that moment the rest of the section was seen rushing from various locations towards where they had stacked their weapons and armor.

  “What the hell is going on?” Carbo asked; his face flushed as if he were out of breath.

  “No idea,” Artorius replied as he laced up the ties to his armor. Carbo reached down and picked up his Decanus’ gladius and helped him finish suiting up. The men worked in pairs, helping each other don their equipment quickly and efficiently; a drill they had performed a thousand times before it seemed. His helmet in hand, Artorius gazed past the rampart to where the bloody corpse of a slave was left hanging upside down; its severed head clasped in the outstretched hands.

  “It’s almost like a contest, isn’t it?” Gavius said, pointing to the macabre sight.

  “What the hell are you talking about?” Carbo asked as he fought to make some last-minute adjustments to the straps on his armor.

  “It just seems like us and the rebels are trying to see who can terrorize people more,” his friend answered. “Every time they strike at the populace they leave a grotesque scene of death behind them. And when we strike the rebels we do the same thing.”

  The child started to cry as his mother sought to silence him. She then became fearful, as if the cries were a warning. It was then that they heard the sound of footsteps; and not those of travelers or merchants. What they heard was a cadence of foot-falls; many men marching in step. The mass of slaves slowed to a walk as a bend in the road came into view. The sounds grew louder, accompanied by the rattle of weapons and armor. The woman started to hyperventilate as fear overtook her. The sun shone brightly as a column of legionaries rounded the bend, their armor glinting in the light.

  “No,” she whispered as she shook her head. She clutched her husband’s hand tighter and held her baby to her chest. The husband released her hand and hefted the pitchfork he had taken.

  “Not again,” Decimus muttered under his breath as the mass of slaves came into view.

  “If they surrender they are to be spared,” Centurion Macro ordered at the head of the column. “If they choose to fight, any that we do not kill outright will be crucified.” Artorius closed his eyes at the order. He was becoming rather efficient at crucifixion, though he found the task to be repugnant. Killing in battle was one thing; in fact it was something he found exhilarating. Tying or nailing people to a crossbeam so that they could slowly suffocate to death was another. In retrospect he was disturbed that he had nailed the traitorous slave to the side of a building, even though the man deserved to die. He should have just cut his throat and been done with it, but that would not have set the example needed. And here was a mob of people, both men and women, who if they made the wrong choice would also be used as an example of Roman dominance. Artorius grimaced as the slaves made their decision with a loud cry and a rush towards them, their makeshift weapons at the bear.

  “Javelins ready!” Macro shouted as the Century hefted their weapons to throwing position. Artorius’ section was positioned next to the Centurion. He watched Macro wipe his forearm across his brow before issuing his next order.

  “Front rank…throw!”

  To Artorius the mass of humanity rushing at them was like a blur. With the rest of the men in the front rank he rushed forward and unleashed his javelin. The mob then took on distinctive shapes to him. He winced as he watched his weapon arc in the air and plunge through the bowels of an older woman. He could not hear her cries in the din of battle that was ensuing, but her face told of unspeakable agony. All around her people fell in the storm of missiles. The Decanus did not even hear the subsequent commands of Macro and Vitruvius as they ordered their men to continue to rain death down on the rebellious slaves.

  “Gladius…draw!” The order brought Artorius back to his senses in time to draw his weapon with a shout. It was then that plums of dust rose in a flurry behind the slaves as Cursor and his cavalry closed in from behind. The slaves far out-numbered them; however they were in such a haggard state that to fight would be paramount of suicide. The rebels started throwing down their weapons as the cavalry smashed into their companions in the back. Many would be slain by Cursor’s cavalry before the rest surrendered. The legionaries marched to within a few feet of the mob before coming to a halt. Artorius let out a sigh of relief as he saw that the fight was over. It was then that he remembered Macro’s final order.

  “I’ll send men back to fetch the slave carts,” Cursor told Macro as the legionaries started to segregate and bind the prisoners.

  “Yes sir,” the Centurion replied. Vitruvius walked over and sheathed his gladius.

  “Pity they elected to fight,” he observed as he rubbed his shoulder and worked the muscles out which had been sore for a few days.

  “Pity,” Macro agreed. Cursor nodded in reply.

  A horrifying realization came over the slaves as dawn approached. In the early morning glow they saw their fate laid out before them in long rows on either side of the road. Legionaries and auxiliaries had been up all night building crucifixes; a cold example to suppress any hope slaves in the region may have about rising up against their Roman masters. As soon as they had surrendered they had been herded into caged wagons that the auxilia had retrieved from the slaver camp. Now any chance of escape was lost.

  “No!” the woman screamed as she clutched her baby close. Her cries were echoed throughout each of the wagons as the cages were shaken by those within, desperate to avoid such a terrifying fate. The piteous shouts became deafening as Macro walked over to where his Decanii were gathered, awaiting his orders.

  “Now the fun begins,” Sergeant Ostorius said; his words devoid of humor.

  “You know what to do,” Macro said. The section leaders nodded in reply and set about their brutal task.

  As the wagon was cleared out, the woman with the baby huddled in the corner at the front of the cage, her husband holding her and their child protectively in spite of his bound hands. Magnus and Valens approached them, each reaching for the man.

  “You’ll not take my family!” he screamed as he attacked the Norseman. Magnus anticipated this, but was still knocked to ground as they fell out the back of the cage. The slave had landed on top of him, his head splitting open as it struck Magnus’ armor. Valens kicked the man off his friend and fell on top of him, gladius drawn. He proceeded to beat the slave mercilessly with the pommel of his weapon.

  “Why…can’t…you…just…fucking…die!” Valens was enraged at the audacity of this slave and proceeded to beat him harder. The slave’s nose splattered and his cheekbone crushed under the force of the legionary’s blows. Magnus grabbed his friend by the
wrist and restrained him.

  “Don’t kill him,” he chastised. “I appreciate you getting that bastard off me, but don’t grant him a quick death!” Carbo, Decimus, and Gavius grabbed the now unconscious slave and dragged him over to his waiting crucifix. Magnus and Valens then turned to see Artorius dragging the woman by the hair from the cage. Her sobs and screams matched her baby’s.

  “Please, not my baby!” she cried as the Decanus tore the child from her arms. Artorius then drew his gladius and started to walk away. The woman tried to follow him, but was felled by her leg bonds. Magnus wrapped an arm around her waist and carried her away as Valens rushed after his Decanus.

  “Artorius wait!” he called as his Sergeant walked behind a nearby tree. Artorius turned and faced him, his eyes cold and black. Valens had seen him look this way many times. Over the years Artorius had developed the ability to temporarily shut his conscience down, enabling him to perform the most unspeakable acts of brutality. Valens caught a glint of pending remorse in his eyes as Artorius’ hand trembled, his gladius hanging loosely in his fingers.

  “Stop,” Valens persisted. “Artorius, we don’t have to do this. The slaves are being crucified to serve as a warning to others who would rebel as they did; but what example do we set by stabbing a child?” Artorius lowered his head and swallowed.

  “Do you think I like this?” he asked, his voice shaking. Valens shook his head. Artorius took a deep breath, his face contorting as he fought to remain focused on the hateful deed he had to perform. “I do this so that you men don’t have to. I try to spare you the nightmares of my remorse.” Valens nodded in acknowledgement. Just then Centurion Macro crashed noisily through a thicket of dead branches.

  “Artorius, what the hell are you doing back here?” he asked, then seeing the child in his Decanus’ arms he understood. “Make it quick,” he ordered as he started to turn away.