Soldier of Rome: Heir to Rebellion (The Artorian Chronicles) Page 4

  “Sure,” the clerk replied with a shrug. He pointed his thumb over his shoulder to a shelf lined with scrolls. “Have a look over there, if you wish. Just don’t go messing up the order of the books!” Heracles gave a nod and the clerk went back to his work. He grabbed a couple of scrolls and started to read through them. Most of the names were lined through, with the words “deceased” written over them. He gave a mirthless snort at that. Not many survived more than a few months in the hell of those mines. Accidents were common, the sulfur burned the eyes until one went blind, and the very air was a poisonous fume. Indeed even the slave drivers who returned to the surface after their shifts put their lives and their health in great peril by working in such conditions.

  Heracles saw one group from the first part of October that gave him pause. There was an asterisk next to many of the names. At the bottom of the page was a note that said “* - Prisoners of war, do not release under any circumstances!” Most of these had long since perished as well, though one name stood out. Radek was not a name that Heracles recognized; however he figured the man must have been one of the debtors and thieves that Sacrovir and Florus had taken into their army. Many of the slaves had only one name listed; family names probably unknown to many.

  “I want this one,” Heracles stated, pointing to Radek’s name; the rest of the prisoners of war having perished, quite possibly with some help from their new masters. The clerk laughed and shook his head.

  “You can’t have that one,” he said with finality. “If we released a prisoner of war, the Roman governor would cast us down into those mines!”

  “Oh I think I can have this one,” Heracles said with an equal air of determination. “Send for the foreman and I will discuss this with him.”

  “Fair enough,” the man replied with a shrug. A few minutes later he returned with a rather burly and hairy man who looked as if he had not bathed in weeks. A short whip hung from his left hand.

  “Hey, who in the bloody fuck are you, thinking I’m going to hand over a prisoner of war!” he spat with a vile sneer that exposed his blackened teeth.

  “Someone willing to make it worth your while,” Heracles replied. He reached into his bag and pulled out a gold piece that he tossed nonchalantly towards the foreman. The coin was worth about seventy-five denarii and the grisly man gave a frown of comprehension while he turned it over in his hand.

  “Well I’ll be buggered,” he said. “I wouldn’t give a bottle of piss for any one of those scabs, but if he means that much to you…”

  “He means nothing to me,” Heracles corrected in his calm but firm voice. “I’ll give you three gold pieces for the man; plus one more to each of you for keeping your mouths shut. You have never seen me; I have never been here. The prisoner Radek died of a fever on the twenty-second of April. Am I making myself clear?”

  “Quite,” the foreman replied. Behind him the clerk licked his lips in anticipation.

  “How are your men adjusting to their new accommodations?” Tiberius asked. Sejanus walked beside him through the shaded gardens, keeping a respectful half-step behind the Emperor.

  “Very well, Caesar,” he replied. “Our reaction times to crises have improved ten-fold. Morale is high and the men feel more unified in a sense of common purpose.”

  “That is good,” the Emperor said, feeling reassured. “And what is this I hear about you sending your Deputy to the east?”

  “A mere courtesy visit to the eastern legions,” Sejanus stated. “There have been some grumblings in the east and I felt a direct representative from us would help to quell any misgivings the eastern legates may have.” Tiberius frowned in contemplation.

  “I have not heard of any such misgivings,” he said after a few moments of thought.

  “Forgive me, Caesar; I did not wish to disturb you with what I am certain is a minor matter,” Sejanus responded quickly.

  “Yes, well I’m certain you’ll take care of it,” Tiberius replied, waving his hand dismissively. “You have yet to lead me wrong, my friend, and I trust you more than any.”

  “Surely you don’t trust me more than your son,” the Prefect said with mock surprise. The Emperor paused for a moment, took a deep breath, and continued his walk.

  “Drusus does his best to serve me,” he said. “However, his judgment is constantly clouded by emotion, particularly his anger towards you. Did you know he came to me just the other day expressing his concerns about the new Praetorian barracks?”

  “But surely Caesar, the reorganization of the Guard has been a resounding success!”

  “I know that,” Tiberius replied. “Drusus sees it as a means of you consolidating your power and he somehow feels threatened by it.”

  “I assure you,” Sejanus persisted, “that if the time comes while I am still in my post I will serve Drusus just as fervently as I serve you.” He was impressed by his own skills of persuasion. Tiberius believed him. All the same, Drusus was becoming more than a mere nuisance. Sejanus knew that should anything befall Tiberius, his own life would probably be forfeit; so deep was Drusus’ hatred towards him. It was now more than just a mere matter of consolidating his rise in power, his family’s very survival would depend upon the removal of Drusus Caesar.

  Heracles hated being back at sea once again, though at least now he had some company. He had purchased a handful of other slaves from the mines along with that beast Radek. These particular men had not been prisoners of war; all the same such was their gratitude towards the man who had liberated them that they would follow Heracles into the gates of Hell itself. He contemplated how best they could serve him. Men of such loyalty were not to be expended wastefully; however he knew that his ambitions would involve massive numbers of ‘expendable labor’ as it were.

  Slaves, he thought to himself, I need large numbers of slaves. Slave markets were ample in the region so acquisition would be simple enough. It was then that an evil thought struck him; one which would supply him with endless hordes and bring about disruption of the province. Slaves made up a large portion of the population; even the poorest plebeians possessed human property. Most slaves were fairly docile, having been born into their lot in life and they accepted it. Heracles also knew that within the deepest souls of each burned a desire for freedom. He would offer it to them…at a price of course!

  Chapter IV: A Sad Journey Home

  As the days and weeks rolled by Artorius found that he was growing beyond what he had ever thought possible. His tunics hardly fit anymore; his strength and stamina, which was already savage, were now that of a warhorse. And yet he found himself mentally more relaxed and focused. The gymnasium provided an outlet for his aggression. In his encounters with women he had become more consciously aware of his brutal strength and veracity, and thereby less inclined to try and break them in half, as had been his habit previously. He still had a tendency to bite, though that was more out of habit than anything. He was pondering such conquests when he strolled into the inn where the Principal officers and Centurions were housed. He was there for his monthly meeting with Statorius, the Century’s Tesserarius in charge of the duty rosters and guard details. He was surprised to find Decimus sitting in his chair at the table.

  “Decimus, what are you doing here?” he asked, an eyebrow raised.

  “I was going to ask you the same question,” Optio Flaccus interrupted, walking down the hall with a folded note in his hand which he handed to the Decanus.

  “What is this?”

  “Proculus put out that we need to start rotating the men through on furlough,” Flaccus explained. “And since you and Magnus are both from the Ostia area, you two are going together. There’s a river barge leaving at dawn tomorrow; take it to Massila, where you will catch a transport ship heading to Ostia.”

  “Home,” Magnus mused. His pack was laid out on his bed as he stuffed it with everything he wanted to take with him. “How long’s it been?”

  “Four years next month,” Artorius replied as he opened his trunk to see
what he would need to take with him. There were extra tunics, socks, his razor, hygiene kit, and something he had not expected to find. At the bottom, covered in dust, was a silver medallion on a leather cord. At first he did not know what it was. He grabbed the cord and held the medallion into the light. An image of the goddess Diana was engraved on one side. Artorius let out a sigh and closed his eyes as he remembered where it had come from.

  “What’s that then?” Magnus asked, glancing over his shoulder.

  “Camilla gave this to me…a long time ago.” Indeed it had been six years since Camilla had given him the medallion. She had made him promise that he would wear it everywhere, to protect him from harm. It was a promise he had not kept. No sooner had he left Ostia that the medallion had ended up in his pack, forgotten. He was amazed that it had not been lost over the years.

  “Camilla,” Magnus said, his brow furrowed in contemplation, “isn’t she that sultry twat you so thoroughly violated the last time we were in Rome?” Artorius gave a short laugh.

  “That would be her,” he replied. “One of them anyway. She and I grew up together; she promised to wait for me…” his voice trailed off. Without another word, he absentmindedly shoved the medallion into his pack, wrapped up in a pair of his socks.

  At length he and Magnus were finished packing. They each strapped on their gladius and belt; armor and helmets would not be needed. Valens and Gavius opened the door to the flat, having just returned from a road repair detail.

  “I know you weren’t going to leave without saying goodbye to us,” Gavius chided with a grin.

  “Shit Gavius, we’re only going to be gone a couple months,” Magnus replied, hefting his pack over his shoulder. “It will probably take a couple weeks to get home, a month of leave, and then probably another couple weeks to get back.”

  “At which time I’ll be going on leave myself,” the young legionary replied. “I’ll be going with Legionary Felix.”

  “I thought Felix was from Ravenna?” Magnus asked.

  “He is,” Artorius replied before Gavius could answer. “But there is nothing there for him; not as long as he has a father who continues to hate him.”

  Radek could not believe his ill fortune to still be alive. The socket where his left eye had once been was a putrid mass, the wounds to his back and leg from a Roman lance in a constant state of infection. He did not understand why he was not allowed to die like all the others who had come to the mines with him. Many had been in finer health than he, having not suffered such grievous wounds as his. These had mostly been young men, boys really, whose fathers had refused to pay their ransoms and had left them to die in the mines. And die they did, for not one of them could have fathomed the sheer torments they would be subjected to. His little plaything had not even lasted a few days. Radek had grabbed the boy so he could have his way with him in the dim cavern where they slept, only to find the boy was dead. Such had ruined his day. It was while he mused on his hard bunk that he saw the torches coming down the passage.

  “It can’t be time to go back already,” one slave whimpered in the dark. Radek rolled onto his side, away from the torchlight. He was beyond exhausted, his persistent cough continuing to grow worse. The butt of a spear jabbed him in the back, where his wounds from the battle at Augustodunum refused to heal.

  “You!” the guard bark, “you’re coming with us.” Radek rolled off the boards and landed roughly on his feet.

  “Come to put me out of my misery?” His remark led the guard to rapping him across the face with his spear.

  “Move!” As they wandered down the narrow, dark corridor, they came to a place where the passages branched off. Radek instinctively started towards the right-hand passage when the guard jabbed in the back with the spear point.

  “Other way,” he snapped, which confused the slave. Radek had only been down that passage once, and that was when he was brought to this accursed place. Slowly he made his way up the passage, his bad leg continuously cramping on him. A short flight of stone steps led to a door where a pair of guards stood posted. One forced open the heavy wooden door where Radek was suddenly blinded by the sunlight. He placed his hand over his face protectively. It had been months since he had last seen the sun and the brightness hurt his eye.

  “Aren’t we a frightful sight,” a voice said. Heracles felt nauseated looking at Radek. The man was covered in sulfur burns, his beard and hair matted in knots, puss seeping from his multiple wounds and festering eye socket.

  “Who the bloody piss are you?” Radek asked, still trying to shield his eye from the sun. He could not make out Heracles’ face, but his voice sounded familiar.

  “A friend,” the Greek replied. “And now I’m your new master.” His face darkened at this last remark. This wretched shell of a man would serve him, even unto death. Radek let out a sigh.

  “Well any master is better than the mines,” he remarked, his sight slowly returning. He gave an evil grin as he at last recognized Heracles.

  “I know you,” he said. The Greek nodded.

  “That you do. Come, let us leave this place.” There were about a dozen other men that had been purchased by Heracles. He had paid less for the rest combined than he had for Radek alone. This was not lost on the clerk as he and the foreman watched the rag-tag contingent walk down the slope towards their waiting wagon.

  “What make you of that?” the clerk asked. “This man buys a dozen of our least shoddy slaves for market prices, and yet he pays as much for that one wretched creature as for the rest together.” The foreman folded his arms across the chest as a couple of slaves helped Radek into the wagon.

  “Our silence has been bought,” he replied. “The slave Radek died of his injuries and lies in the burn pit with the rest of the damned.”

  At long last the port of Ostia came into view. It had been more than six years since Artorius had last been home. There had not been time to get a letter to his father through the Imperial Post, so there would be no one to greet them at the docks.

  “She hasn’t changed, has she?” Magnus asked, joining his friend on the bow of the ship. Artorius shook his head.

  “Looks the same as when we left her,” he replied. Indeed the bustling port looked exactly like he remembered. Though he had been away for years, he knew he could still find his way home blindfolded.

  The boat lurched into the slip with a jolt. There were only a handful of other passengers besides the two legionaries; the boat was mostly loaded with goods from Gaul to be sold in the Roman Forum. Artorius and Magnus hefted their packs and strolled down the ramp, their legs wobbly on land as they worked to get used to being on solid ground once more.

  “Well I’m off to the textile mill to see if Dad’s in,” Magnus said. “Hopefully Oleg’s around; I haven’t seen him since we first joined the legions!”

  “I’ll catch up with you in a day or so,” Artorius replied. “Father and Juliana will be quite surprised to see me, I think. If you get a chance, come up and see us.”

  “Will do,” Magnus asserted with a nod. The two men clasped hands and each went on his way.

  It was late afternoon and the market traffic was starting to wane slightly. The crowds generally parted for the legionary, his red tunic, gladius, and pack giving away his identity. He was glad that his father lived outside of Ostia rather than in Rome, for legally he would not be allowed to enter the city armed as he was. He continued his way out of town along the paved road for a few miles until he came to an intersection. The road that ran perpendicular to his front was the Via Valeria. To the east it led to Rome; to the west it led to the coast, veering north and eventually taking travelers to Pisae, more than one hundred miles away. It was this way that Artorius went. A few miles later and he came upon a dirt road that curved up the hill that paralleled the main highway. He was now but a couple miles from home.

  The sun cast its light over the eastern hills, bathing the area in a red glow. To his right Artorius saw Juliana’s old cottage. He did not know if anyo
ne even lived there now, but he saw a pair of figures-a man and woman from the looks of them-leaving the grounds and heading towards the road. The man carried a walking stick, and Artorius recognized him to be his father, Primus. He gave a laugh and walked towards the couple, his face beaming. He stopped a ways from them, his smile fading as he saw his father and Juliana’s demeanor. Both stared at the ground as they walked; an air of sadness about them.

  “Father?” Artorius asked, causing Primus to start. He and Juliana both felt a mixture of emotions; whatever it was that saddened them still overwhelming, and yet the joy of seeing their son standing before them.

  “Artorius!” Primus cried, dropping his walking stick and embracing his son hard. “You did not even let us know you were coming home!”

  “There was no time,” Artorius replied. “I had just enough time to pack my things before I had to catch the boat.” He then embraced Juliana, his step-mother. “But why the sad faces? Are you not pleased to see me?” Juliana looked down, the trace of a tear visible out of the corner of her eye. Primus was quick to explain.

  “I am afraid I have some sad news, my son,” he said, placing a hand on Artorius’ shoulder. “It’s about Camilla.”

  “What about her?” Artorius asked. “She married that rich boy-lover Marcellus all those years ago. I figured she’d still be living in high society.” Primus smiled sadly and patted his son on the shoulder before they continued their walk back towards their home. Juliana remained silent, holding her husband’s hand as they walked.

  “Camilla’s dead,” Primus said at last. Artorius stopped in his tracks and faced his father, his face filled with shock.

  “She died this morning,” Primus continued. “Hers was a sad life at the end. About a year after you returned to the Rhine she had a daughter named Marcia. Marcellus was enraged that she had not born him a son; he immediately divorced her and left her destitute. Since there had been little political gain from their union, her family was powerless to do anything. In fact, they too abandoned her.”