Centurion's Rise

by Henrikson, Mark

  When Caesar reached the nearest guard at the door he reached out and slowly drew the soldier's sword from its scabbard resting on the man’s hip. Caesar executed a military pivot to face Tomal with the blade held with both hands at a menacing level. In silence Caesar returned to standing over Tomal, who did not move from his kneeling position on the floor.

  Just when Tomal expected a swift cut to separate his head from its home, Caesar lowered the blade till the point rest on the ground.

  “It’s my own fault I suppose,” Caesar pondered while looking up at the ceiling and his god Jupiter beyond its boundaries. “You can engineer siege works better than anyone I’ve ever known. You know how to command soldiers who must obey your orders to win great battles. But you have no clue how to rule people who are only obedient to their own selfish desires.”

  Caesar extended a hand to help Tomal rise to his feet. Still holding on to Tomal’s hand Caesar said, “I used your talents in the wrong capacity and that error requires correction.”

  Tomal bowed his head, “As always, I am at your service.”

  “I understand the gladiator champion who leads this rebellion barricaded himself, along with a couple hundred other gladiators, in the arena training grounds.” Caesar thrust the handle of the sword he held into Tomal’s hand. “You will lead the assault on his stronghold and kill every last one of them.”

  Tomal was confused. “Isn’t that just repeating the mistake I made? If wronging the champion incensed the people to riot, I shudder to think how they will react to his execution.”

  “He was a champion,” Caesar corrected. “Now he is a lawless brigand. The people follow him because they think he can do no wrong; they think he is unbeatable.”

  “You and your military prowess will show every rioter in the city they are wrong. You will crush this man’s stronghold so decisively the people will have no doubt that their belief in this champion’s infallibility could not have been more wrong had they all been born with their asses on backwards.”

  Tomal’s spirit soared the instant he felt the grip of a sword in his hands. He was not finished; he would not be executed. Instead, he was given the chance to win yet another victory for Caesar and add to his base of power.

  “It will be done, General,” Tomal said with a voice brimming with confidence.

  “Good,” Caesar said as he held Tomal’s gaze for entirely too long. Tomal could tell he was searching for any hint of false bravado behind his eyes.

  Finally satisfied, Caesar turned to leave the room, but Tomal interrupted his exit with a question. “What will you do in the mean time?”

  Caesar looked annoyed at having to point out the obvious. “I leave to rule the Republic. I’ll put the Senate back under my heel and then dazzle the people with the promise of everything they desire.”

  “You think orating some empty promises to the people will win them over again?” Tomal questioned.

  Caesar just chuckled as he turned and walked through the door. From the corridor beyond he shouted back. “There’s not a doubt in my mind.”

  **********

  In the late morning sun, Tomal looked across the courtyard atop an unremarkable horse he commandeered from one of his cavalry commanders; next to the arena his men marched into their positions. His objective, the gladiator training grounds, stood on the opposite end of the open expanse. Tomal had never toured the facility himself, but he could plainly see the intelligence he garnered from the facility’s architect was correct.

  The target sported a large three hundred foot square open air courtyard where the gladiators practiced and honed their craft. Along the entire left side of the training ground stood a long flat roofed structure that in Tomal’s opinion resembled an open air gazebo more than a barracks. There were no doors, only support columns keeping a roof over the place where the gladiators ate and slept. The building provided absolutely no strategic value to the defenders.

  The back and left side of the training ground were lined with a fifteen foot high stone wall that stood three feet thick with nasty iron spikes bent inward to further impede any attempt by a gladiator to escape.

  The front of the training facility was blocked from the public by a long wall of iron bars that stood as high as the stone walls around them. A stone archway stood in the middle of the wall of iron bars to serve as a gatehouse. On a normal day the public would be able to walk past the training ground and watch their favorite combatant practice, or assess who they would wager on in the next gladiatorial games.

  This day was different than the rest, however. The gladiators erected a barricade just inside the row of iron bars. It was made up of anything the gladiators could find: carts, barrels, stones and other rubble. Tomal even saw some training dummies thrown into the jumbled pile of junk that spanned the entire width of the training grounds.

  To an untrained eye the makeshift wall looked rather intimidating, but Tomal was quite unimpressed. At his core he was an engineer trained to detect flaws and either fix or exploit them as the situation required.

  Tomal looked over at his closest lieutenant and gestured towards the pile of rubble between him and the gladiator army. “They actually chose this spot to put up a final fight? Why not take the fight into the narrow streets to nullify our superior numbers a bit?”

  “I guess they prefer fighting on familiar ground,” the man responded. “Even here, attacking a fortified position like that is going to be costly. I’m not sure we have enough force to do the job to be honest.”

  “Well then, the trick is to make their position no longer fortified,” Tomal said with a confident smile. He prompted his mount forward and carefully passed through his front line of soldiers into the open air between his battle lines and the barricade.

  Tomal shouted at the top of his lungs for his men, the gladiators inside the barricade, and any citizens standing around watching the battle from afar to hear. “Open these gates and surrender, or I will open them for you and take no prisoners.”

  For several long seconds silence was the only response. Then Tomal spotted a dead chicken tumbling his direction, thrown from behind the barricade. He casually leaned to the side allowing the dead poultry to sail harmlessly past his head.

  “I hoped you’d say that,” Tomal said softly and then led his horse back through his battle lines.

  “Ready the ballistas,” Tomal ordered.

  Immediately, all one thousand of Tomal’s soldiers took fifteen steps backwards to reveal twenty gigantic crossbow-like contraptions mounted on tripod stands. The intimidating weapons hurled six foot long, six inch wide projectiles, and they were cocked and ready to do their damage.

  Most commanders probably would have tried to use catapults to demolish the barricade, but Tomal knew all too well those contraptions were just as likely to damage the surrounding structures as they did the barricade. Ballistas on the other hand, were pin point accurate, especially from this limited range. The brutal power of a catapult was needed to break apart a well constructed wall, toppling a hastily erected pile of trash was a simple matter of hitting the right spot.

  “Fire,” Tomal ordered. His words were rewarded with the crisp thump of twenty destructive spears flung at the barricade, immediately followed by the sound of shattering wood and parts of the makeshift wall collapsing.

  “These gladiators may know how to fight,” Tomal said to his lieutenant, “but they don’t know the first thing about engineering a barricade. One more round should do it.”

  True to his prediction, Tomal watched with satisfaction as the second wave of ballista bolts annihilated what was left of the barricade. Behind the rubble stood no fewer than two hundred well-trained gladiators standing shoulder to shoulder armed with their favorite weapons of destruction.

  No doubt his adversaries were brave men. After all, they entered armed one-on-one battles to the death on a regular basis. Even with that going for them, Tomal watched their eyes as they frantically looked for somewhere, anywhere to hide. Alas, they
were trapped with nowhere to go except through the wall of soldiers who were suddenly visible in all their glory now that the once proud barricade was reduced to splinters and rubble.

  “One more round and add the archers this time. Then send in the surprise our loyal farmers brought for them,” Tomal ordered.

  The ballistas and archers took careful aim at the hoard of gladiators and let fly their missiles. The devastating force the ballistas put behind their projectiles was on full display as the oversized spears slammed into the hapless defenders. The bolts blasted through wood and iron shields like they were made of paper and impaled half a dozen men at a time. Gaping holes in the gladiator ranks instantly appeared as the direct trajectory of the ballistas hit home. More defenders fell when the archer’s arrows descended from on high raining down razor sharp tips.

  As the defenders dealt with death overwhelming them from above, the air around Tomal came alive with the sound of three hundred squealing pigs on the move toward the rapidly deteriorating gladiator lines. Usually the animals had a pink complexion to their skin but on this occasion they were all black - pitch black.

  “Light them up,” Tomal ordered.

  On cue, the farmers lit their torches and set the swine closest to them on fire. The black tar coating the animal’s skin instantly lit to set the entire pig’s body ablaze. The searing pain sent the animals scampering forward and side to side, thus setting every tar drenched pig near them on fire as well. The flames raced across the pigs, like a red and yellow tide washing up to shore until all three hundred were ablaze and stampeding toward the unsuspecting gladiators.

  Hot on the heels of the flaming pigs, Tomal’s foot soldiers charged with orders to kill every single man whether he put up a fight or not.

  After five minutes of combat, Tomal spurred his horse forward. He easily navigated the wreckage that once was the barricade and proudly stepped into the training grounds. Most battle fields carried the revolting stench of dirt, sweat and blood. This conflict had the aroma of a fine dinner party. The sweet smell of sizzling bacon welcomed him into the fray, along with an ill-meaning swing of a sword by one of the gladiators.

  Tomal deflected the blow to the side and watched three of his soldiers impale his assailant in the back. All around the training ground gladiators bravely fought three, four, and even five men at a time, but eventually one too many came at them and the warrior fell.

  In the remarkably short duration of combat, all but a couple dozen gladiators lay dead on the ground, along with several hundred smoldering pigs. Each gladiator was hopelessly outnumbered, but one was fairing quite well despite the numbers arrayed against him.

  Gallono armed himself with a sword in each hand, or Tomal assumed they were swords as the man was moving them about with such blinding speed Tomal’s eyes couldn’t focus on them to verify the assumption. Twirling left to right, high and low, Gallono managed to keep twenty soldiers at bay.

  Tomal jabbed his heels into the sides of his mount to prompt a slow gallop toward the action. The circle of soldiers pressing in on Gallono took three steps back from their prey as Tomal drew near. Gallono brought his arms and body to a halt yet his chest continued to heave and gasp for much needed air. He looked up at Tomal, who sat upon his horse fifteen feet away, with a strangely amused look.

  Tomal addressed Gallono in their native Novan tongue to keep the content of the conversation private from those looking on.

  “With all the practice you put in to be this lethal in combat, one would think you’d pick up a book somewhere along the way to learn basic military tactics,” Tomal began. “For instance, selecting a position hemmed in on three sides to make your stand was not wise. Then again, look who I’m talking to.”

  “That depends on your objective,” Gallono responded coolly. “If I hid too well you wouldn’t have found me, and that would have messed up his plan.”

  “Who’s plan?,” Tomal demanded. “Hastelloy’s? You left. You don’t follow his orders anymore. None of us do.”

  “That’s what I thought too,” Gallono said with admiration in his voice. “Now I see I’ve been working towards his end game the whole time. We all are, even you.”

  “You’ve lost your mind,” Tomal said shifting back to the common Latin language.

  Gallono shook his head from side to side. “He knew I’d be a champion in the arena. That as a champion you would insult my honor and cause a riot. The riots would exploit your lack of governing acumen which would bring Caesar away from Egypt and back to Rome. Now you’re here defeating me, but where is Caesar?”

  Tomal mulled Gallono’s words in silence until comprehension finally struck. He had to forcibly choke back the urge to vomit when he finally saw the whole picture.

  “How does it feel to be a pawn in his game?” Gallono mocked when he saw Tomal’s face turning white. “Just when you think you’re a big boy operating on your own . . .”

  Gallono’s words were cut short as an arrow slammed into the middle of his throat and knocked him onto his back. Everyone looked up at Tomal with surprise at how quickly he was able to notch an arrow and launch it from his bow to bring down the gladiator who was unbeatable in combat.

  From his lying position, Gallono managed to say seven more words. “This was part of his plan too.”

  Tomal exploded with rage. He leapt down from his saddle, grabbed a sword from the nearest soldier and stabbed Gallono through the chest. He didn’t feel much better after administering the death blow, but at least his tormenter was finally silent. Tomal ran back to his horse, jumped back into the saddle and headed for the senate house with every ounce of speed he could beat out of his poor mount.

  He yelled incoherently as he charged down the narrow streets of Rome, partially to warn those ahead to get out of the way, but mostly to vent his anger. How could he not see it coming?

  Tomal chastised himself for letting his emotions get the best of him yet again. His hatred of Gallono led to the riots, which resulted in Caesar returning to Rome. Tomal’s pride and need to best Gallono led him to only focus on defeating the gladiator army, not keeping an eye on the big picture.

  Tomal grew impatient with his nag’s pace and kicked at its ribs with all his might. He prayed he was not too late.

  Chapter 33: Beware the Ides

  “My army drenched the soil of Africa with their sweat and blood fighting to propel their beloved Republic into greatness,” Caesar yelled while standing in the middle of the senate floor. His booming voice carried up the stadium seating as his angry words rattled around the half-moon shaped chamber. “Meanwhile, the supposed leaders of this Republic sit on their collective asses allowing everything my armies fight and die for to descend into chaos.”

  A low rumble floated about the chamber as every man in the room took offense to the rebuke. Hastelloy made the bold move to stand and deliver a challenge to Caesar’s charge. “The fault lies with you, Caesar.”

  All private conversation came to an abrupt halt with the daring statement. Every eye turned and focused on Hastelloy and his challenge to the undisputed ruler of Rome.

  Hastelloy wasted no time pressing his point. “It was the Prefect you hand selected to run this city who failed every citizen of Rome with his incompetence.”

  Nearly everyone in the room nodded their head in agreement and a few lent their verbal support by shouting, “He speaks the truth.”

  “That fool’s actions incited the people to riot,” Hastelloy continued. “Then the coward locked himself away with a house full of booze and whores to let the city tear itself apart. The senate’s hands were tied by the Prefect’s decrees so we could do nothing to set things right. You might know this if you had been here at any point during the last few years.”

  Caesar put up his hands to silence the chamber. Slowly he looked around the room to emphasize his position of dominance. “As I look about this chamber I see many new faces. The fact that I know so few of you now leads me to believe there is truth in your statement, Senator Br
utus. I have been away too long. The people needed the presence of strong leadership, and they rebelled in its absence.

  “This does not excuse the fact that this rebellion occurred under your watch.” Caesar paused to let the weight of his words land on the collection of strangers in front of him. The omnipresent threat of two dozen armed soldiers around the senate chamber gave him the confidence to press his agenda. “The inaction of this governing body leads me to only one conclusion. The Senate is no longer capable of leading the Roman Republic. A single ruler is required to restore order.”

  “Who might that single ruler be I wonder?” Hastelloy asked as he descended a set of steps and walked out onto the speaking floor that Caesar occupied. “Certainly not the Prefect you chose. Are we to anoint you as the King of Rome perhaps? You, the man who appointed the most incompetent leader of our generation to rule this city. You’ll excuse us if we don’t leap at the chance to hand all power over considering your less than stellar track record in decision making.”

  “Enough,” Caesar shouted and then stepped in front of Hastelloy, blocking his path to the center of the speaking floor. “Senator Brutus, I have the floor, therefore you are out of order. Please return to your seat.”

  When Hastelloy did not immediately comply, Caesar made a gesture to his guards, and every soldier around the room drew his blade. “Do I need to force the issue?”

  Hastelloy took one last step forward to bring his nose six inches away from Caesar’s and said softly, “Oh yes, force is definitely required today.”

  “Guards,” Caesar shouted. “Show Senator Brutus to the accommodations we have for men of his ilk.”

  Hastelloy turned around to see every guard around the senate chamber stepping in among the men who occupied the senate seats – exactly as he planned. Hastelloy gave a curt nod to his men in the back row. They all stood and drew daggers from the folds of their togas with the practiced hand of veteran assassins.