Soldier of Rome: Heir to Rebellion (The Artorian Chronicles) (15 page)

Mob justice,
he thought to himself.
So quick are they to feign their loyalty.

“What the hell was that all about?” Magnus asked, looking over to where the girl had disappeared into the crowded market.

“I don’t know,” Artorius replied, “something about her looked familiar, but from where?”

“Not one of your bite victims then?” Artorius chuckled and shook his head.

“No, prefer them a little older and not quite so delicate.”

Valens stood with his hands on his hips, admiring their work, when he heard a gasp behind him. He turned to see Svetlana standing with one hand over her mouth, her eyes wide.

“Svetlana, what are you doing here?” he asked abruptly, grabbing her by both arms and attempting to guide her away from the scene of death and torture. Magnus heard the commotion and immediately moved to help Valens.

“Sister, you should not see such things,” he said quickly, trying to block the young woman’s view. She could only shake her head in reply. “Valens, get her out of here!” The legionary nodded in reply and forcibly guided Svetlana away. Her hand over her mouth, she finally averted her gaze as she stumbled away in Valens’ grip.

“Come on,” he said quietly as the young woman stifled a sob. As soon as they were cleared of the scene, he placed both hands on her shoulders. Svetlana quickly composed herself.

“Forgive me,” she said quietly. “It’s just that I have not had to deal with such brutality before. What had that man done?”

“Led us all into a bloody trap,” Valens replied. “Bastard deliberately tried to get the whole lot of us killed. I think a little crucifixion will do some good.” Svetlana nodded, her brow furrowed in contemplation.

“I agree,” she said at last
, reason overriding the sense of shock at the horror of the spectacle. “Again, please forgive my weak constitution. I’m fine now.”

“You sure?” Valens asked. “Only your brother does not want you witnessing such things.”

“Then you damn well shouldn’t have crucified the man in the middle of the fucking forum!” Svetlana retorted, causing Valens to wince at her rare profanity. “Besides, my brother, who I dearly love mind you, does not approve of us being together either. I think he can deal with his baby sister being exposed to some of the horrors of the world. I am of stronger stock than any of these women!”

While Valens and Svetlana spoke in the alley, Artorius looked over at his friend and realized he was very tired.

“You know we’ve been up well past our shift,” he observed with a loud yawn.

“I know,” Magnus replied, yawning in turn. “I think I’m going to go have a wash and turn in for a while.”

“Sounds good to me.” Artorius located Sergeant Ostorius, who was supervising the day patrols, exchanged a few details with him, and then headed to the bathhouse. All the while he kept trying to think of where he had seen the young Gallic woman before. She certainly wasn’t a prostitute for she was far too well dressed. Besides, Artorius figured he knew just about all of them in the city by this time. Something continued to nag at him as he stumbled into the steaming bath; something from his past. He tried to dismiss it; he was too tired to think straight and he would figure it out later.

While the sight of the crucified man had horrified Kiana; seeing the man who had slain her lover not even a year ago filled her with abject terror and renewed feelings of pain and sorrow. She knew it was him; the image of his face staring down at her and Farquhar’s grieving father was burned into her mind.

Kiana found a small alleyway and sat down, her head in her hands. Strangely enough, no one seemed to pay her any mind.

“Why?” she asked through her tears. “Why has that beast come to torment me?”

“Even the gravest of beasts can still be subdued,” a voice spoke. Kiana looked up to see a man kneeling next to her. The shape of his face, along with his dark hair and well-groomed beard, led her to realize he was either a Greek or Macedonian. His demeanor was not unpleasant; in fact something about him soothed Kiana’s sorrow. He extended a hand to her.

“Come child,” he said softly. “Tell me what ails you.”

It was but a short walk to the flat that Heracles had procured. Kiana sat down and a slave handed her a cup
of wine. The young girl’s hands trembled as the Greek sat across from her. She was not afraid of him; in fact she was relieved that he had come to her in her delirium.

“Animals,” she said under her breath, “those men are nothing but savage animals.”
Heracles’ face remained stoic, though he was grinning inside as his mind raced with a flush of ideas.

“You speak of the Roman masters,” he replied casually. Kiana eyed him coldly, each trying to gage the other’s intentions.

“Masters of the world they may be, but they are still animals,” she retorted. Something had snapped inside of her and it was consuming her conscience. Before she had not blamed the Romans for Farquhar’s death; rather she had placed the blame on Sacrovir and his minions. Now that she had seen the abject cruelty which the Romans were capable of she was starting to have doubts. Heracles could read these doubts in her face and he would exploit them.

That night a
group of men, their heads hidden beneath their hoods, walked quietly down the street. The tortured slave raised his head weakly, his eyes daring to hope. The men were removing torches from the walls of the alley and extinguishing them. The group passed on, leaving a single torch lit; only two remained. The slave tried to smile when he saw Heracles remove his hood. His hope proved short-lived.

“You have failed me,” the Greek said in a nonchalant voice. His eyes betrayed his dark thoughts. The slave’s own eyes grew wide as he shook his head, fresh tears welling up in his eyes.

“Master please, I beg you,” he whimpered. “I did as you asked. Look at what the Romans have done to me!”

“Yes,” Heracles replied with a nod. “The Romans have certainly caused you much pain; pain that you brought on yourself with your carelessness. I can only imagine the things you told them under torture…” The slave shook his head once more but he knew he could not lie to his master.

“Please, have mercy on me,” he said quietly. “Certainly I have suffered enough.” Heracles rolled his eyes as if bored.

“I suppose you have,” he replied. He snapped his fingers and raised his hood over his head. The slave started to whimper once more when the other man removed his hood. It was that vile creature Radek, who only accompanied Heracles with a single purpose. The slave caught a glimpse of the cleaver before Heracles extinguished the final torch.

Legionary Felix leaned
against the side of the building. He rather liked night patrols, even if it did temporarily mess with his sleep plan. The nights were quiet without all the traffic on the streets. The nighttime breeze felt good to the young soldier. In the soft glow of the torches he could just make out some of his section mates. The horrors of the night before were still fresh in his mind; however, he was able to come to grips with what he had been forced to do. His Decanus had been right in his assessment of what had happened and though Felix still did not believe in fighting women, he knew he had done the right thing. Besides, his act of killing had been an act of mercy after all.

Sergeant Praxus had ordered them to
patrol around the destroyed slave market at Four Corners Road. The slaves themselves were being held in a different location while going through interrogation. All that was left was the smoldering remains of the pens. Though the bodies had been removed from the scene, there were still the swarms of flies and other insects around the sticky pools of blood that seemed to be everywhere. Inside the slave owner’s house it was far worse. Felix had decided to take a look inside just to see for himself. And though he was no amateur when it came to killing, the stench made him wretch. He let out a sigh as he gazed absently into the torchlight.

“Hey Felix,” one of his companions said, startling him. “It’s awfully quiet here, don’t you think?”

“It always is this time of night,” he answered leaning his shoulder against the building once more.

“Yeah, but it shouldn’t be over here,” the other legionary persisted. “The slave that Sergeant Artorius nailed to the side of the building is strung up right around the corner. Surely he isn’t dead yet!”

“Well let’s go and have a look then,” Felix said with a bored sigh. His fellow legionary grabbed a torch off the wall and walked around to the other side of the building, which was strangely dark.

“Shit!” Felix heard the soldier swear. “Felix, come take a look at this!” Suddenly alert, he grabbed his shield and javelin and quick stepped around the building.

“Shit!” he echoed when he saw the slave. The other legionary held his torch up at the macabre sight. The slave’s head was lying on the ground, his genitalia stuffed in his mouth.

“
When the hell could this have happened?” the legionary asked. Felix could only shake his head.

“I don’t know,” he replied. “I’m going to fetch Sergeant Praxus.” As he turned, the rest of his section came rushing around the side of the building, alerted by the commotion.

“Damn,” Praxus said in a low voice. “Son of a bitch was spared with a quick death after all. Fetch a ladder and cut him down. Have the corpse taken away and burned.”

“Right away,” Felix answered as they left to find a ladder. Praxus stood with his hands on his hips and gazed at the wretched sight. He swallowed hard and shook his head.

“Are you ready, old friend?” Pilate asked, walking his horse over to where Justus was inspecting one of his baggage carts. He had already sent his wife and children ahead to the docks in Ostia, where he would meet up with them. Having no family of his own, Pilate’s own carts were much fewer.

“I think so,” Justus replied with a sigh. “Can’t say I’m too anxious to be leaving so soon.”

“So soon?” Pilate chided. “You’ve been here for over three years, man!”

“I know, and I like it here…well Flavia does anyway. Besides,
you’ll
be coming back after a year or so; me, I’ll be spending the rest of my career in the east I think.”

“True,” Pilate conceded. “Still, the east is not so bad from what I hear. It’s quite exotic.” Justus snorted at his friend’s assessment.

“It’s fucking hot, dry, with inhospitable people,” he retorted. “If not for the fact that Rome gorges itself on Egyptian grain I scarcely think we would bother with the place.” He then looked back at one of Pilate’s cart and started walking towards it. “Here, looks like one of your tie-down ropes came undone.” As Justus starting to adjust the tarp, his expression showed one of surprised amusement.

“Pilate,” he said. “Why do you have a statue of Sejanus in your baggage? I know you work for him, but come on man, no need to worship!”

“It’s not for me,” Pilate replied, fidgeting in his stance. “It’s for the Legate of the Twelfth.”

“What, does he worship Sejanus too?”

“Cool your tongue, old friend,” Pilate scolded. “It is symbolic; so that the eastern legions may remember who it is that shares the Emperor’s labors.” Justus’ expression fell.

“I see,” he replied. “Forgive me, but I find it a little peculiar. One would almost think that Sejanus was Tiberius’ heir given the way he lauds on him!”