by James Mace
She stood calmly with her arms folded across her chest, not even reaching for her bow. The pirates stalked slowly towards her, uncertain if they were walking into a trap. As they advanced, they fanned out into a semicircle. Achillia gave her telltale smile as her eyes gleamed with anticipation. When they were within twenty meters, in one fluid motion she un-shouldered her bow with her left hand while retrieving an arrow with the right.
Her next movements were so rapid that it seemed unreal; she quickly drew back and loosed her arrow into one of the men in the center, then with alarming speed drew back and shot down his two companions on either side of him. The men shouted in rage and charged towards her, snarling and swinging their crude weapons wildly. Achillia nocked another arrow and felled one of the pirates off to her left through the stomach, then quickly bounding from the short dais and leaping over the bent over figure and in between his friends.
The pirates, stumbling forward due to their clumsy momentum, were slow to turn about. Achillia hunkered down and shot one through the small of the back, and as he fell forward, thrashing in agony and trying to grab hold of the shaft, she drew back and loosed another arrow through the heart of the man nearest her. Less than a minute had transpired, and already six of her assailants lay dead or mortally wounded.
“Filthy bitch!” one of the men screamed, causing her to smile sinisterly as she quickly nocked another arrow. Two of them stepped towards her, while the rest seemed uncertain what to do next. They had to know that she could not shoot them all before they got to her, though none seemed too anxious to sacrifice himself in order to save the others. The two who were brave enough halted abruptly as Achillia snapped her bow up once more. They were but a few feet away and she was slowly arcing the drawn arrow back and forth between them.
“You can’t get both of us,” one of the men snarled. Achillia blinked and nodded in acknowledgment. She then loosed the arrow into the man’s companion with such close range velocity that it burst through his throat, leaving a spray of blood and torn flesh. In less than a second, she lunged forward, slamming her forehead into the first pirate’s nose, crushing it into his face with an audible smash. As he yelped in surprise, eyes closed momentarily from the pain, she wrenched the spent arrow from the throat of his companion within the brief moment before he collapsed to the arena floor and slammed the bolt into the first man’s eye socket. He fell to his knees, eliciting a high-pitched scream of unimaginable pain.
The remaining pirates gave a renewed shout of fury and rushed her once more. Achillia sprinted back towards the dais, spinning about and loosing three more arrows in rapid succession. All were deliberately aimed low, striking the men in the legs. She then leapt onto the platform and dropped to her knee, eyeing the men sinisterly. The four who still remained un-stricken noticed that her quiver was empty.
“Well, well,” one of them said with a triumphant sneer. “The little whore forgot to bring enough arrows. What say we defile her before skinning her alive in front of this adoring crowd?” His companions gave toothless grins of wicked glee as they started towards Achillia once more.
“Let me rape that bitch in the ass with a rusted cleaver!” shouted one of the wounded men, who was writhing on the ground, clutching his grotesquely maimed thigh, his bone splintered by one of her arrows.
What they did not notice was that Achillia’s right hand, which hung just below the edge of the dais, clutched a long chain. She gave a broad smile to the men and then stepped back to her feet, leaping backwards and pulling hard on the chain, the length of which led to a cage that was buried in the sand. The trap door was barely covered with a thin layer of sand and dirt; just enough that no one, least of all the condemned pirates, even noticed it. In a spray of sand, the door flew back and a deep, terrifying roar erupted from within as Sargon sprang forth.
“Mordovat!” Achillia screamed, waving her hand towards the now terrified pirates.
In his initial leap, Sargon smashed into one of the men. His companions scattering in horror as gigantic claws slashed the hapless victim before the raging tiger plunged his fangs into his throat, bursting the artery and leaving him a twitching mass of bloodied death.
The three condemned men who could still stand were petrified with fear. Even if Cerberus had sprang forth from the bowels of Hades, it could not have filled them with more abject fear than the great cat, with its six hundred pounds of rippling muscle and fangs each the size of a dagger. One of the men unknowingly defecated as Sargon opened his great mouth and snarled at them.
In the covered box, Sukhbataar was grinning broadly and chuckling to himself. “We save a fortune on fodder for Achillia’s pet this way,” he said with dark humor.
Pontius Pilate, who had rarely so much as cracked a smile during the last five years of extreme strain from trying to govern the Judean province, suddenly burst into a fit of laughter. It was no doubt aided by the potent wine Sukhbataar had served his guests. The procurator leaned forward and grabbed the entertainer by the shoulder.
“My dear friend,” he said enthusiastically. “I have not seen such a fitting display of skill, to say nothing of the creative means of disposing of this criminal scum.”
On the arena floor, Sargon had torn the guts open on the last of his victims and was now casually stalking towards the wounded pirate who had made the vile threat towards his mistress. Achillia walked beside him, scratching him behind his large ears as he sniffed at the terrified man, whose eyes were wide with horror.
“Please!” he pleaded. “Show mercy! Surely I have suffered enough!” He tried to crawl away, and was stricken by great pain in his shattered leg once more.
“Suffered enough?” Achillia asked sinisterly. “One who would have me impaled with a rusted weapon dares to ask for mercy…but yes, you shall have it.”
The man first looked relieved, anticipating that the Syrian killer would spare his life.
Sargon growled and sniffed at him some more, causing him to panic again. “I thought you were showing mercy!”
“Oh, but I am,” Achillia replied, laughing maniacally. “I shall speed your passage to hell.” She then glared at him before speaking into the tiger’s ear. “Sviatok, môj maznáčik; feast my pet.”
She turned away and strolled to the dais as the man screamed in agony and terror as Sargon snarled and buried his fangs into his neck. Achillia had been oblivious to the hundreds of spectators, who had been greeting her with shouts and accolades as she slew the condemned criminals. As she mounted the small platform, she un-shouldered her bow once more and held it high in both hands, as she closed her eyes and raised her face towards the sun. The spectators erupted into a frenzy of cheering at the macabre, and rather bizarre, sight in the arena sand; a single Syrian woman with a bow, standing amongst the corpses of fifteen pirates with an enormous tiger feeding on the bodies. Achillia then faced the imperial box and gave a sweeping bow before leaping from the dais and making her way out of the arena. Sukhbataar’s men quickly entered and began to drag away the corpses, while Sargon the tiger feasted contentedly.
The Roman entourage in the box seats had applauded loudest when Achillia had slain the last of her victims. Though Artorius loathed gladiators, viewing them as flamboyant amateurs, he was nevertheless awestruck by the Syrian woman’s prowess with a bow, to say nothing of the spectacle of animalistic power from Sargon the tiger.
“I think I’m in love,” Magnus said as he took another deep pull of wine.
“What of the other pirates?” Artorius asked.
“We could not dispose of them all at once, now could we?” Sukhbataar said with a chuckle. “We’ve kept the rest alive for the time being, occasionally giving one to Sargon as a treat. Perhaps there will be a chance for an even greater spectacle.” He glanced over at the Pilate out of the corner of his eye.
“Sukhbataar, my friend,” the procurator said. “You have indeed pleased me. We have larger venues in Caesarea, which attract a much greater variety of spectators from around the empire.
We have a massive carnival to celebrate Saturnalia in December. You will be my honored guests, as well as one of the highlights of the festival games. I take it you have other gladiators?”
“Mainly exotic beasts,” Sukhbataar confessed. “However, with seven months of preparation, I can prepare a spectacle that will dazzle all within the eastern empire.”
“I will pledge a thousand denarii to fund your endeavor,” Pilate stated, raising a few eyebrows amongst the gathering. “I want our Saturnalia celebrations to rival those of Rome herself!”
Chapter XIX: The Fall of Sejanus
October, 31 A.D.
***
It was, at last, the time for farewells between the sailors and legionaries who had endured the harrowing journey to Judea together. As they gathered at the docks, the ship that had borne them to the east floated majestically on the waters. The freshly constructed main mast contrasted with the well-worn rest of the ship. Ballistae and catapults were mounted to the upper deck, as well as the front of the ship. Armored barricades to protect archers lined each flank. The Quinquereme truly exuded Roman power over the seas.
It was the eve before the vessel would cast off, and aside from a few patrolling members of the city watch, only two men stood on the dock near the gangplank. One was a man who would not be returning with the ship’s crew.
“Are you sure about this?” Hansi asked Alaric.
The young man had approached him two days prior to let him know that he intended to remain in Judea for the time being. As he had only been with them for that particular voyage and had not contracted with the Roman Navy, he was not under any obligations to them.
“I am,” the young man said. He was wearing a new, dark blue cloak, had acquired a fresh tunic and sandals, while also getting his hair cut shorter. These were a few things he had done for himself with a small portion of his share from the prize ship.
“You are a fine sailor, and even with no formal training you acquitted yourself well in battle.”
“There is something I must find,” Alaric emphasized. “Six years on merchant vessels, a year in Rome, and now this last voyage, I still have not found it.”
Hansi looked at the ground for a brief moment and then looked up again, folding his arms across his chest. “You know, I’ve always said that a man’s business is his own,” he said, “but I am going to ask, what is it you are seeking?”
“The ability to forgive,” Alaric replied quickly. When he did not see any change in the Norseman’s demeanor, he decided to continue. “You’ve been as good a friend as I’ve been able to find in the whole of the world, and as we likely will not see each other again, then perhaps I should tell you. You probably guessed that I was not born in Britannia, although my people knew of them. I came from a land just east of the Rhine. Our tribe was called the Marsi.”
“I’ve heard of your people,” Hansi said with a nod. “Remember, though I was raised just outside of Rome, my ancestry comes from lands far to the north of your own. Am I right to guess that you came to Britannia as a refugee about fifteen or sixteen years ago?”
“I could use a drink,” Alaric said in reply, wiping a rag over his now sweating brow.
“There’s a tavern close by,” Hansi stated.
The two men walked in silence. A block away, the light came from within an inn possibly as old as the city itself. They stepped through the opening and down into the sunken portion of the tavern, which was mostly empty aside from a few merchants who had just come into port, as well as a few off-duty legionaries. Hansi wisely chose a table far away from these particular patrons. An Alexandrian Greek woman brought them a small jug of mead and a pair of clay goblets. Hansi filled their cups and waited for his friend to continue.
“I was very young then,” Alaric finally said, after finishing his first cup and refilling it. “I don’t know how the war came about, and I don’t care. The tribes of Germania have been in a constant state of conflict with Rome ever since anyone can remember. What I do know is that my mother saved my life the day the legions destroyed our village. As far as I know, my father was killed that day, as was my grandfather, my mother’s sister, and my newborn cousin. The Romans were not out for conquest, but murder. Knowing they would kill any they found, my mother fled with me to Britannia. The rest you know. And now it is time for me to ask you a question. Was your brother one of the legionaries who destroyed my people?”
Hansi did not answer right away; not because he did not wish to answer the young man’s question, but because he had to think back to the tales Magnus had told him of his early years in the legions.
“Yes,” he said at last. “At least, I am assuming so. My brother was assigned to the Rhine legions around the time of the Germanic Wars. There is a very strong probability that he fought against the Marsi.”
“I don’t seek vengeance,” Alaric emphasized quickly. “Please don’t think that I am remaining in Judea to try and exact retribution. But understand that what happened all those years ago has been gnawing at my very soul ever since the day the legions came.”
“It must have been hard, then, having to fight alongside those very soldiers who killed your people,” Hansi observed.
Alaric took another long drink of mead and then hung his head, nodded slightly.
The Norseman placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “It is a credit to your character that you did the right thing and stood by us when we faced those awful pirates. Please know that I wish you well, and I do hope you find what it is you seek.”
The next morning proved particularly difficult for Hansi. As sailors, along with a procured compliment of marines and archers, boarded the ship, he made his way over to his brother and sister. Commander Stoppello was exchanging goodbyes with Artorius and Diana, while thanking Pontius Pilate for his hospitality. Hansi first placed both hands on Svetlana’s shoulders.
“You’ve grown so much, little sister,” he said, his voice full of emotion.
“And you’ve grown uglier,” Svetlana said with a laugh as she embraced her brother. “Safe travels, dear brother.”
Hansi then looked over to his brother-in-law, Valens.
“Look after her,” he said. “I may not have seen her since she was a little girl, but she is still my blood and means everything to me.” The Norseman then stepped over to Magnus and said, “Sixteen years and only now, when we get to know each other once more, we must be parted.” He placed a hand on Magnus’ shoulder.
“Caesarea is one of the largest ports in the whole of the eastern empire,” Magnus noted. “I am certain our parting will not last.”
“Well, just in case, here is something to remember me by.” Without warning, Hansi swung his fist, catching his brother on the side of the head, sending him sprawling to the deck.
“Damn it all, you still hit like a little girl!” Magnus staggered to his feet and lunged at his brother, tackling him onto the rocking pier.
“Strange way their people shows affection,” Commander Stoppello observed as he and Artorius watched the two brothers brawl, while spewing profane curses at each other.
“I don’t think it’s their people, so much as their family,” Artorius told him with a grin. While the lighthearted display of violent brotherly love caused many bystanders to stare in disbelief, none could comprehend the events unfolding in Rome that would shake the very fabric of the empire.
Pilate was in a near state of panic when Artorius and Diana arrived the next day. It was a pleasant late morning, and they were hoping to join the procurator and his wife for a stroll down to the seaside and a much-deserved relaxing lunch. Instead, when they arrived, Pilate was sweating profusely, despite it being relatively cool on the open air balcony leading from his office.
“Messages from Rome,” Claudia said quickly in explanation. Though she was not fretting as much as her husband, her face still bore an expression of extreme concern.
“Sejanus has fallen,” Pilate said, handing a pair of scrolls to Artorius. The centurion took a f
ew minutes to read the contents while Diana held his hand. Pilate’s brow was soaked in sweat, which a servant quickly wiped away with a dry cloth.
The first scroll came from Regulus, the current consul, and one of Pilate’s friends within the senate. It was a detailed account of Sejanus’ fall and the purging that had since followed. Though details were sketchy, Regulus stated that irrefutable proof had been given to the emperor, proving that Sejanus intended to depose him and take the imperial mantle for himself. Given that correspondence from Rome could take months to reach Judea and this had arrived just two weeks after the events transpired told of the gravity of Sejanus’ fall.
“His eldest son, Strabo, was arrested and killed just days later,” Pilate said as Artorius continued to read. “I fear greatly for his younger son and daughter. They are just children, yet I fear that Tiberius will not spare them from his vengeance.”
“Their mother, Apicata, killed herself after Strabo was executed,” Claudia added. “And if Tiberius does unleash the ultimate retribution upon Sejanus’ children, what will happen to those who called him friend?”
One could only speculate on just how many senators and noble friends of the praetorian prefect had already perished in the wake of Tiberius’ wrath. And yet, the second scroll was simply an official order, stating that Pilate had been relieved of his posting as deputy prefect of the praetorian guard, and that he had the emperor’s thanks for his years of service.