by James Mace
In time a sense of calm returned to Lugdunum. It troubled Centurion Proculus, as well as Magistrate Julius, that they had never apprehended those responsible for the reign of terror and their sense of justice felt violated. Still, they were glad that the troubles seemed to have passed and they reasoned that perhaps the perpetrators had been eliminated by their own kind. Such would prove to be a vain hope, and only Kiana knew the truth as to what had happened to Heracles and his renegades. The Greek, who was growing more eccentric with rage and was becoming unbalanced mentally, decided that once he had raised a large enough force from the gutters of society he would try a more direct approach to bringing the populace against the Roman masters. It had been two years since last he had struck.
Chapter XIV: Heir to Rebellion
The City of Lugdunum, Province of Gaul Inferior
March, A.D. 23
Tierney stood just inside the far archway, her arms folded and face stern as her sister came inside. Kiana’s face was red and drenched with sweat. She did not even notice Tierney as she summoned a servant to bring her water. She downed a cupful and then stood breathing deeply, wiping her stola across her brow.
“Where the bloody hell have you been?” Tierney demanded. Kiana jumped with a start and then gave her sister a displeasing glare.
“Out,” she said. Tierney followed her as she walked briskly through the hall that lead away from her and out into the gardens.
“It is several hours past dark,” Tierney persisted. “Not a suitable hour for my little sister to be out.” Kiana rolled her eyes and started to walk faster. She was nearing eighteen and still Tierney treated her like a child. “You spend many nights out; leaving by yourself without even so much as taking one of the slaves with you for protection. I tell you Kiana, if you ever plan on finding a husband, know that no man will stand for such behavior.” Kiana turned abruptly and sneered at her.
“Oh, and is it my unmarried sister who thinks she can lecture me on finding a husband?” she spat. Tierney stood in shock.
“That was a wicked thing to say,” she spoke in low voice, her eyes narrowing. “I have yet to find a husband because father had to send me away to look after you after your last lover sought to be some kind of damned hero…” Her words were cut short by a sharp slap from Kiana.
“Don’t you dare mention Farquhar!” she hissed.
Tierney was at a loss. Since coming to Lugdunum something had happened to her sister. Before, Kiana would never have even considered raising her voice to her, let alone striking her. Though only two years older, Tierney was taller and far more developed than her sister, who still retained much of her girlish appearance. Tierney growled in rage and struck Kiana hard across the cheek with a closed fist, sending her sprawling to the floor.
“I will not be so accosted by my brat of a sister!” she screamed, her eyes filled with tears of frustration and sorrow. Though the blow had nearly knocked her senseless and would leave a nasty bruise, Kiana refused to return any of her sister’s tears. Slowly she pushed herself back to her feet. Both sisters stood breathing heavily, though Kiana refused to show any emotion. Instead she spat at the feet of Tierney.
“I am not your charge anymore,” she said darkly. “I am my own woman, Tierney, and I will choose my own path in life. Go back to your fuck-toy of a Roman and see what good his pity does you!” Tierney shook her head slowly, fresh tears streaming down her face.
“What happened to you?” she asked, her sorrow deepening. “What happened to my sister that I grew up with and loved? Who is this vile creature that’s replaced her?”
“This vile creature was spawned in the pit of hell that your lover wrought!”
“You’ve gone mad, do you know that?” Tierney stated, her composure returning.
“Perhaps,” Kiana replied with a sneer. She then snapped her fingers and a servant appeared. She never took her eyes off her sister as she gave orders to the slave. “Ready my things; I wish to leave within the hour.” The slave bowed and left the room.
“And where will you go?” Tierney asked quietly.
“I have friends,” her sister replied, her face softening, her own anger dissipating. “Please understand, Tierney. I have to go. There is nothing left here for me. I sent a letter to Father, telling him that I left under cover of night and that he should not blame you for my disappearance. And please don’t think about following me, or sending your legionary to track me down.”
“You know I cannot allow you to leave,” Tierney said as the door was suddenly flung open, a pair of burley men with their heads wrapped in rags underneath their cloaked hoods bursting in, each grabbing her by the arm. A trace of a tear formed in Kiana’s eye. Tierney screamed a mixture of outrage and terror.
“Don’t fight, sister. These men promised not to hurt you; please don’t give them a reason to break that promise.” Another hooded figure walked in and placed a hand on Kiana’s shoulder.
“It is time to go,” he said in a raspy voice that gave Tierney chills.
“But what of my things?” the young girl asked, to which the figure replied with a shake of the head.
“You’ll not need them,” he replied. Kiana bit her lip and nodded in reply. Without another word to her sister she turned and left with the hooded man. Tierney struggled in the grip of the two men, one of who produced a short club.
“Good night, love,” he said sarcastically as he smashed her across the back of the head. Tierney was unconscious before she hit the floor.
It was a crisp, cool morning. Two sections of legionaries marched leisurely along the roads that their forbearers had built years before. The sections marched two abreast, their Decanii at the head. Artorius and Praxus had been sent out to check an old, abandoned farm house that someone had reported suspicious activity in. It turned out to be only some beggars seeking shelter from the freezing night. The winds had picked up, and Artorius had elected for their sections to remain at the abandoned house for the night.
“So how long do you think they intend to keep us here before we head back to our fortress on the Rhine? Isn’t our three-year tour up yet?” Valens asked.
“Why? Are you afraid that somebody from the First Cohort has been working his way into your territory?” Magnus replied, referring to the less than savory group of women whom Valens associated with.
“I wouldn’t worry so much,” Gavius added, “the lads in the First have too high of standards for any of Valens’ hussies to feel threatened!”
“Very funny,” Valens retorted, “I like it here; and besides, Svetlana is about all I can handle anymore. Don’t get me wrong, taking her to my favorite brothels has been fun…sorry Magnus.” He cringed as the Norseman glared at him over his shoulder. He quickly changed topics once more. “So again, when is our tour done?”
“August,” Carbo replied. “At least that’s when we had replaced those blokes from the Eighth Legion.”
“I think this area is a lot more pleasant,” Decimus remarked. “It doesn’t get as cold, and the locals are a lot more hospitable. They are cleaner and more civilized as well.”
“Which is why we are here,” Magnus added. “To ensure that they stay that way, and that another Sacrovir doesn’t surface.”
“That guy was nothing more than a lost dreamer,” Carbo said.
“Kind of like Valens and his lost dream of ever meeting a nice girl…Magnus’ sister excluded,” Decimus chided. This drew a smack across the back of his helm from Valens, along with some profane remarks. Artorius and Praxus shook their heads and laughed at their men’s revelry. The soldiers in Praxus’ section were engaged in similar conversations.
“They never change, do they?” Praxus asked.
“No, they don’t,” Artorius replied. “And to be honest, I really don’t want them to. At least this way they are predictable.” Praxus chuckled at that. The sun started to shine brighter, casting its light on the frosty ground. A soft breeze made him shiver slightly. Soon the city of Lugdunum came into sight.
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“Think we’ll see anything interesting today?” Praxus asked at length. Artorius shook his head. It had been some time since the last sign of insurrection. The villains who had gone on a rampage of murder had escaped Roman justice and had lain dormant for several months. Like his Centurions, it bothered Artorius that they had never gotten those who had wrought the most harm. In reality, those ransomed after the Sacrovir Revolt and a large number of freed slaves were the only ones to truly suffer. For the most part theirs was an unwilling guilt by association.
At length they reached the gates to Lugdunum. Life seemed to go on as always in early spring. Farmers would be planting their crops soon, the last of their stores on display in shops, awaiting buyers. The Soldiers came upon a crowded square with a raised platform, usually used for conducting auctions. On top was a group of men, arguing with the gathering crowd. Most of these were burley, haggard looking men. However there was one, a Greek by the looks of him, who was better groomed and maintained. He seemed to be the leader of the band, and it was he who was arguing with the crowd. Artorius thought nothing of it and was going to pass by, when a name rang out from the Greek’s mouth that made him stop in his tracks.
“Sacrovir was more than just a dreamer, he was a visionary! He envisioned a free and united Gaul, all peoples together in one common cause!”
“Have you learned nothing?” one man argued back with him. “The majority of Gauls live in peace and prosperity under the rule of Rome! We would be fools to give that up!”
“You are fools to continue to pay Roman tribute for what is yours by right!” Heracles retorted. “I fought beside Sacrovir. I stood by him until he took his own life, not wanting to be a source of ridicule and spectacle for the Romans. He died so that you could breathe free.”
“Tribute is a scourge to be certain,” the first man continued, “but at least it is used for the betterment of our people.”
“These things you could have had on your own, you do not need the Romans to give you a better life!” Heracles retorted.
“And what of the Roman army?” a young woman asked. “If the province rises up against Rome, their armies will destroy everything we have worked for! The Romans are gracious in their gifts that led to a better life for us. Let us not incur their wrath by showing further ingratitude. I personally am ashamed that this city gave sanctuary to Sacrovir in the first place.”
“I agree,” the first man added. “The Romans were benevolent enough not to raze this city to the ground when they cornered Sacrovir here. They forgave us for the wrongdoings of our countrymen and let us be.”
“No…” Heracles shook his head in rebuttal when Artorius and his section mounted the platform, swords drawn. Praxus had taken his section around the other side. They were fighting their way through the crowd in hopes of cutting off any chance of escape. The rebels had their sections outnumbered; however they were only lightly armed.
“I think we’ve heard just about enough,” Artorius said, his gladius pointing straight at Heracles. “Now, Greek, you are under arrest for spreading sedition and attempted rebellion.” With a flash, Heracles drew his long sword and waved it in Artorius’ direction.
“You will not take us so easily, Roman,” he retorted. Artorius simply shrugged.
“If you wish to die here, that is fine by me. It will spare us the hassle of trial and execution. We have been searching for you for a long time. And now you must pay for what you have done to the people of this region.” Heracles gulped hard and then reached into his belt and grabbed a small dagger which he flung at Artorius.
The Sergeant deflected the weapon with his shield as Heracles turned and leapt from the platform. The other rebels turned to follow suit, only to have some of their number cut off by Praxus and his men.
“Going somewhere?” Praxus asked a rather large fellow, his gladius pointed at the man’s chest. Most of the others did manage to escape with Heracles. They raced through the crowds, desperate to salvage their lives.
“Let them go,” Artorius ordered his section. “We will deal with them later.” The soldiers quickly bound the hands of the prisoners and marched them out of the city. The people started booing and throwing objects at the rebels who had tried to subvert them. Artorius could not help but wonder if their disdain was genuine, or rather if it was a show to make their loyalty apparent in front of Roman soldiers. He figured it was probably a little of both. “Once again, so anxious to feign loyalty,” he muttered under his breath.
Proculus never took pleasure in torture and it seemed like they were doing a lot of it lately. Too often the person under interrogation would say what they felt their assailant wanted to hear, just to end the suffering. On the other hand, if one was not brutal enough they would get no information out of the prisoner. It was a balancing act, one which Proculus did not care to take part in. However he did see the need for it from time to time, especially when information was time sensitive; plus the slightest hint of rebellion enraged him.
The prisoner was an older man, long-haired, with a scraggly beard. He was nowhere near as well kempt as most of the citizens in the region, and he still reeked of “barbarian” in the Centurion’s mind. The man was hanging from the ceiling by his wrists, his feet just inches off the floor. His ribs were already battered and bruised from the beating he had withstood thus far. Two legionaries stood by with clubs in their hands, ready to exact more punishment. One was a rather young soldier, one who had never witnessed someone being beaten into a confession, much less taking part in one. His face was pale and he was constantly wiping sweat from his face and forehead. He was by no means effeminate or weak; he had seen his fair share of fighting on the battlefield. It was just that there was an extreme difference between killing men in battle where one reacts rather than thinks; and having to consciously and deliberately cause pain and suffering, where there is too much time to think. He only hoped that the Centurion would not ask him to start cutting off fingers or limbs. The other legionary looked nonchalant, and even a little bored.
“I will ask you once again, barbarian, where did your friends go?” Proculus asked, his face inches from the rebel’s.
“Just kill me and get it over with, Roman,” the rebel said, his breath coming in wheezing gasps. Proculus shook his head and nodded to the two Soldiers. They moved to either side of the man and in turn smashed his sides with their clubs. The rebel winced and bit his lip hard, though he made not a sound, even as his ribs broke with a sickening snap. One of the soldiers moved to the front and jabbed him hard in the groin with his club. Finally the man’s will broke and he cried out in pain as he coughed up bile and blood. Proculus waved the soldiers back.
“Are you ready to speak, or am I going to have to castrate you?” Proculus asked. The rebel’s eyes were shut hard, his breathing becoming even more labored.
“The old mill...on the west side of the river,” he said at last. “That is where we meet.”
“And how many of you are there?”
“Just a couple hundred…we came here last month…Heracles is hoping to recruit more freedom fighters…”
“Fucking traitors more like,” the young legionary spat while wiping the sweat from his forehead. He hated the barbarian for forcing him to do the horrible things that he had to do. Proculus raised his hand, silencing him. He then turned and started to walk out of the room.
“What do you want us to do with him?” the other legionary asked after stifling a yawn. Proculus looked at the prisoner, who only looked to be half alive.
“Cut him down for now. If his information proves correct, you can cut his throat. If he has played us false, beat him to death.” With that, the Centurion left. The old man’s eyes grew wide in horror and sorrow. Had had just betrayed his comrades, and even then he was still condemned to die. The young legionary flew into a rage and beat the man across the face and head with his club until he was unconscious, blood running from numerous cuts and gouges.
“Hey not yet!” the other soldier chi
ded as he cut the bonds holding the prisoner to the rafters. They let his body fall to the floor in a heap. The young man stood with his eyes closed, taking deep breaths. His companion bore a look of concern upon his face.
“Never had to torture anyone before?” he asked. The young legionary shook his head.
“Never,” he replied. “I thought we had special detachments for that sort of thing.”
“We do, we just didn’t bring any with us seeing as how they are a legion headquarters asset.”
“Well we should have.” The younger soldier tossed his club into a corner before helping to carry the unconscious rebel into his cell. “You know I am no stranger to violence. I just don’t like to witness suffering, that’s all.”
“Not many of us do,” his companion replied. “Those who do should either be locked away, or else sent over to Legion headquarters!” Both men laughed at the dark humor as they locked the condemned man away.
Macro and Vitruvius were both waiting outside. They could hear the wailings of the heartbroken rebel as Proculus walked out the door.
“Ready your men,” he ordered. “It would seem the rebels are using the abandoned mill as a meeting place.”
“Right under our bloody noses this whole time,” Vitruvius remarked.
“Quite,” Proculus replied. “We will all meet at the drill field to the south just after sunset. It is about the only place we can cluster without causing alarm.”
“There are a number of shops and houses in the vicinity of the mill,” Macro observed. “Should we not evacuate or at least warn them?” Proculus shook his head.