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

  “She came to us soon after,” Juliana said. “We still had my little cottage and I told her she could stay there; poor thing. She asked us not to tell you of her troubles and that she did not want you to concern yourself, seeing as how you had more important things to worry about.”

  “Like hell I did!” Artorius retorted. “The war was over; she could have come to me!”

  “I think she wanted to,” Juliana replied, “but she feared that like everyone else in her life, you would have turned your back on her.” Artorius turned away and shook his head, feelings of guilt and regret overwhelming him.

  “How did she die?” he asked, turning back to face his father and stepmother. Primus turned his gaze towards the ground. Juliana took a deep breath in through her nose before answering.

  “She was never well after being so monstrously abandoned,” she said. “She had but one servant living with her, and we tried to see to it that she was taken care of. Her pride would not allow her to accept most things from us, though. She said letting her stay at my cottage was more than enough. She always swore that she would find a way to pay us back, and it hurt her badly to know that she had no means of support that would allow her to do this.

  “You know she always asked how you were doing, but remained steadfast in her resolve that you not know of her plight.” Juliana paused, unable to continue.

  Whatever differences he and Camilla may have had, he could never forget the girl who had been his best friend in childhood and his first love. At last Juliana broke the silence.

  “Your father may scoff at this Artorius, but honestly I think Camilla died of a broken heart.”

  “I don’t scoff at the idea at all,” Primus said, looking up at his son once more. “Camilla was a broken woman and nothing would have brought solace to her tortured soul.”

  “Except the one thing she denied herself,” Artorius said. He dropped his pack and turned back towards Juliana’s cottage. As he started walking towards it Juliana made a motion to stop him, but Primus grabbed her by the arm.

  “Let him go,” he said in a low voice. “He needs to see her for himself the loss of his childhood love that he feels he abandoned, knowing what abject cruelty and despicable acts she was subjected to.”

  Indeed Artorius’ emotions were torn asunder when he at last laid eyes on Camilla. The cottage was dark, a candle on a table providing little additional light as the setting sun shone through the open door. A middle-aged maidservant sat on a stool beside the bed, her eyes filled with tears.

  Camilla’s body lay on the bed. Her eyes were closed, and Artorius noticed her hair was considerably shorter than she used to keep it. Her face looked peaceful but worn; the torment of her loneliness and sorrow evident. Her hands were folded across her chest and Artorius took hold of one and squeezed it gently. It was cool to the touch, but yet there was still a trace of warmth. Artorius lowered his head, his eyes closed, as he fought back his tears. So much regret did he bear.

  “It did not have to end this way,” he said quietly to himself. He looked over at the servant, who immediately lowered her head, her own tears flowing freely. This slave, more a piece of property than a human being, was all that Camilla had left. Artorius removed his hand from Camilla’s, caressed her cheek with the back of his hand and then ran his fingers through her hair.

  “Will Master help me see my lady on to her final journey?” the servant asked, her voice cracking. She looked up at Artorius, her eyes swollen and red. “She never forgot you, sir.” Artorius nodded in reply.

  “I abandoned her once in life,” he said. “I’ll not abandon her now.”

  It was dark, the street in front of the mansion lit by a few torches. Artorius slammed the door knocker repeatedly until at last the door opened; a bleary-eyed slave squinting into the torchlight.

  “What business brings you here at this hour, Soldier?” he asked, irritated but knowing his place and maintaining his manners.

  “Fetch your master immediately,” Artorius ordered. The slave swallowed hard, his eyes taking in the sight of the fearsome legionary. Artorius’ face was hard, yet his voice was calm. Unconsciously he clenched his fists, his huge forearm muscles pulsing.

  “Who shall I say is calling?” the slave asked after a short pause. Artorius lowered his head slightly, his darkened eyes boring into the man. The slave swallowed hard and quickly backed into the house, hurrying down the hall. With the way his arms were flailing with limp wrists, Artorius surmised that he must also be one of Marcellus’ playthings. Slowly he paced back and forth in the entryway, clenching his hands, eyes closed and his head lowered. His pain of regret was now consumed by an overriding need to make things right, by any means necessary. Finally he heard the sound of voices coming down the hall, the slave carrying a small lantern as Marcellus in a loose robe walked impatiently towards where Artorius stood waiting.

  “I didn’t order any special entertainments tonight, and besides you know I have no time for those beastly soldiers!” he said in a loud voice. He suddenly stopped short when he laid eyes on the legionary. “Well what have we here? It’s the legendary ‘hero of the Rhine’ himself! That trollop of an ex-wife of mine never could stop talking about you.”

  “It is about your wife that I wish to speak with you,” Artorius replied, his voice still relaxed, though his face emanated pure hatred. Marcellus pretended to not notice and instead walked over to where a servant stood with a goblet of wine, which he immediately consumed.

  “If it’s about the funeral, it’s already taken care of,” he said, not wishing to look at the legionary. “A proper pyre, professional mourners…far more than she ever deserved. I myself will not be attending; pressing business elsewhere. Your father finally made me relent on paying for the ordeal; beastly expensive though it is. He said to do it for Marcia, as if she’ll have any recollection of that woman!” Artorius nodded and appeared to be satisfied. He made as if to leave before turning back to Marcellus, as if he had forgotten something.

  “Just one more thing,” he said, walking over to him. Marcellus turned his nose up at him, as if he were offended by the smell of a common soldier.

  “And that is?” he started to ask as Artorius smashed his fist into Marcellus’ face, every ounce of pure hatred exploding along with the man’s nose with a sickening crunch. Marcellus fell to the ground, screaming at a high pitch. The slave with the lamp panicked and swung the lamp at Artorius, who knocked it away with his left forearm, the hot metal searing his flesh. He grabbed the wretch by the neck and slammed his forehead into his face, knocking the man senseless.

  “You monstrous beast!” Marcellus screamed as Artorius walked quietly to the door and out into the night. In spite of the loathing he felt for his ex-wife and her legionary former lover, he knew he would still have to follow through on funding Camilla’s funeral, for if he did not he feared it would not just be she who made her final journey into the afterlife.

  Artorius managed a short laugh at the sound of Marcellus’ scream as he stepped out into the night. He took a deep breath and started back up the street when he saw Magnus leaning against the side of a building, his arms folded and a sad expression on his face. Artorius grimaced and nodded.

  “I am sorry, old friend,” the Norseman said. “Your father told me everything. I grieve with you.”

  “You know, through all the horrors I have seen in life I have always had you, Brother,” Artorius replied. “Camilla had no one. I cannot think of a worse way to die than abandoned and alone.” The two friends walked in silence along the street before Artorius spoke again.

  “They say that crucifixion is among the most painful forms of death; death that takes a matter of days sometimes. Camilla’s very soul was crucified, and her death took years.”

  “Do you know why I saved you from those cursed mines?” Heracles asked. Radek was on his knees, head bowed, his good eye gazing at a crack in the floor. Heracles slowly walked in circles around the wretch of a man, the floorboards in the dimly lit
tavern room creaking under his steps.

  “No master,” the slave replied. It was the truth. Radek had never been of use to anyone his entire life. He had been handsome once, though a hot poker took one of his eyes and left a hideous scar on his face. It was his punishment for raping a young girl when he had been a farm slave. He was then sold to a wealthy nobleman, who he worked for as a gardener. He had once been bound for the mines of Mauretania, only to escape and join Sacrovir’s rebellion. He had been grievously wounded during the battle of Augustodunum; his one friend, Ellard, had been disemboweled by the lance of a Roman cavalryman. It was back to the mines once more, where the sulfur burned his skin and eye; his teeth completely rotted and turned black due to lack of proper food and no means of proper hygiene. He had hoped to die during his first few months, but yet somehow he was still alive.

  “You are a worthless man with no purpose in life, no reason for existence.” Heracles’ words cut deeply, but they were true. “I will give you a reason to exist. But first you must embrace my cause with your very soul.” Radek looked up him and spoke slowly.

  “I live only to serve you,” he said as he lowered his head once more.

  “Good,” Heracles replied. “You will be the instrument of our vengeance against Rome.”

  “Surely Master does not seek to raise another rebellion,” Radek stated. “There can be no victory against the legions.”

  “And who says we need to face the legions to achieve victory?” Heracles asked, a wicked sneer forming. “No my friend, I have other methods for dealing with Rome. However, there are some old friends we have to deal with first. We shall purge Gaul of the traitors who fled from battle and begged forgiveness from Rome like a bunch of whipped animals.”

  “It will be a pleasure.”

  A tear came to Artorius’ eye as he listened to the wailing of the mourners around Camilla’s pyre. It was not a tear for himself; rather he was moved by pity. Camilla had few friends and had died very much alone. At least that jackal of an ex-husband had had the decency to hire professional mourners, even if he himself did not bother to show up. He had even allowed little Marcia to attend. Artorius surmised that perhaps Marcellus felt a tinge of remorse for the way he had treated Camilla. Marcia had been taken from her mother at a very young age and would have no memory of her, except the image of her body laid out on a pyre, ready to be sent to the afterlife. Still there was an air of sadness around the child. Artorius was not one for children; he had little patience when dealing with them. Still, he could not help but be taken by this little girl. He felt almost a sense of paternal affection towards her, perhaps out of pity for her having no mother and a father who was less than a man.

  The dirges nearly complete, Artorius walked up to the pyre, which was doused in oil. The stench made him gag. He steeled himself as he walked up to Camilla’s body. He ran the back of his hand across her cheek and kissed her gently on the lips. His memories of her would be of the girl he had spent his childhood with, who had also been his first love; if children can comprehend such meanings. He had long since let go of whatever attachments he had had, though there was always that trace of regret. No, it was best that he remembered her for the love of his youth rather than the love who abandoned him once they were grown. He wondered if in fact they were meant to be together, and the Fates had punished her for abandoning their plan. He shuddered at the thought, knowing that they could be utterly cruel. For Camilla’s sake he hoped they were satisfied, for surely she had suffered enough.

  He turned to see Camilla’s maidservant escorting Marcia away; not wishing for the child to have to watch the pyre burn. Not caring to see this himself, Artorius walked after them. He never looked back.

  “Wait!” he said once they were clear of the scene and alone in a small side street. The two turned to face him, the servant keeping her hands protectively on the girl’s shoulders. Without thinking, Artorius fumbled through his hip pouch and pulled out the silver medallion that Camilla had given him all those years ago. He knelt before the child and held it up to her.

  “Your mother gave this to me a long time ago,” he said in a consoling voice. “I want you to have it.” Marcia palmed the medallion while the cord was still clutched in Artorius’ hands. She gave a sad smile and looked him in the eye. Though she may have only been three, there was a deep sense of understanding in those eyes; she was fully aware of what had happened and was not so naïve as one would expect of a babe. Artorius smiled back, his heart breaking for her. In that moment he felt something totally alien to him; he wished that Marcia had been his daughter. He took a deep breath and composed himself. The little girl bowed her head as he hung the medallion around her neck.

  “Wear this always, in remembrance of her,” he said, placing a hand on her shoulder. “And know that she always loved you.” He then stood and nodded to the servant, who responded with a sad smile of her own and escorted Marcia away; the child’s eyes fixed on the medallion and its image of the goddess Diana.

  A firm hand on his shoulder startled Artorius. He turned to see Magnus standing next to him, his eyes wet and reddened.

  “Why do you cry?” Artorius asked his friend. Magnus cocked his head to the side before answering.

  “Do you not know?” he replied. “You have so much to learn, old friend. Artorius, you are as much a brother to me as any of my own blood. I know your sorrow for Camilla, and your regret that life was not more kind to her; but you will not show it. You think it would be a sign of weakness; so I grieve for you.” Artorius gave a weak smile and nodded in understanding.

  “I regret not making a more conscious effort to keep her,” Artorius spoke in a low voice. “She was closer to me than any when we were young. Camilla and I were closest in age, so it was natural that we would bond. Of course as we grew older, to the age where the opposite sex becomes of greater interest than just as friends, it only seemed natural that we would fall for each other. But then I let my lust for revenge consume me. The closer I came to the age of maturity, the more I longed to join the army and avenge my brother, and the less I focused on she who had always been there for me.

  “When I left for the legions, I knew she would not wait for me. Had I made the slightest effort to keep her with me, things may have turned out differently. She was the youngest of her sisters and of no value politically to her family. I could have taken her with me, Magnus.” He took a deep breath and swallowed hard before continuing. “You know, I have never once given a second thought to having children, as hard as that may be to believe. I have no patience with them. But when I saw Camilla’s daughter today it made me sad with regret. I know this sounds stupid, but I saw today what should have been; I was supposed to have a daughter. That child should have been mine, Magnus.” The Norseman placed a hand on his shoulder.

  “Sadly we cannot undo the past,” Magnus remarked. “And whether she was supposed to be or not, that child is not your daughter. If the Fates have any mercy, perhaps Camilla has finally found peace in the next life. Come, let us leave this place.” They turned to go back from whence they came, only to see the smoke of the burning pyre in the distance.

  “We’ll take another way,” Magnus said, echoing Artorius’ thoughts.

  Chapter V: Mad Olaf

  Artorius and Magnus walked in silence along the road. Their furlough would be over within a week and they would have to catch the boat back to Lugdunum. A fresh spring breeze blew gently, the branches of trees dancing in their wake. Artorius felt hollow inside, though he was glad for the sense of closure. A chapter of his life was now closed forever; a chapter that he did not even know had still been open. He had done all he could to make things right by Camilla at the end, he just wondered if his lingering sense of regret would ever leave him. He then kicked a small rock off the paving stones as they strolled on. As they approached a large shade tree, he caught sight of the large figure of a man astride a great horse.

  “Magnus you whore’s tit!” the man roared. Artorius was taken aback as his
friend burst out laughing.

  “Who the hell is that?” Artorius asked. Magnus shook his head, still chuckling.

  “Grandfather!” he shouted and ran towards the man who was now laughing as well. The man Artorius surmised could only be Mad Olaf jumped from his mount and embraced his grandson hard. He then gave Magnus a hard cuff across the head while still laughing.

  “You bloody twat!” Olaf bellowed; Artorius wondering if he was meaning to shout or if he always talked in such a loud voice. “You make your poor grandfather search all over the damn Empire trying to find you! I came down to Cologne to visit you and they tell me you are stationed in Lugdunum of all places for the next couple years. Well no sooner do I get there than I hear that you are all the way back in bloody Rome on leave! I had just come from there! I swear if I had gotten all the way here and found out you had left to go back to bloody Gaul I would have smashed your testicles in by the time I found you! As it is…” with that he cuffed Magnus hard across the head once more. His grandson laughed loudly as he punched Olaf as hard as he could, knocking the old madman to the ground.

  “Ah I knew you had at least some fight in you,” Olaf said as he struggled to his feet. “Too bad you hit like a bloody girl! Your sister hits harder than you. Oh well, come here and give your grandfather a hug!” With that he dove at Magnus, slamming his shoulder into his stomach and taking his legs out from under him. Magnus was tackled to the ground, his wind knocked out of him. Still he managed to cuff Olaf across the ear and bucked him off.

  “Um, not to interrupt such an emotional family reunion,” Artorius said as the two Norsemen grappled on their feet. Magnus stepped away, catching his breath. He then turned and pointed towards his friend.