Soldier of Rome: Heir to Rebellion (The Artorian Chronicles) (22 page)

“Don’t kill him,” he chastised. “I appreciate you getting that bastard off me, but don’t grant him a quick death!” Carbo, Decimus, and Gavius grabbed the now unconscious slave and dragged him over to his waiting crucifix. Magnus and Valens then turned to see Artorius dragging the woman by the hair from the cage.
Her sobs and screams matched her baby’s.

“Please, not my baby!” she cried as the Decanus tore the child from her arms. Artorius then drew his gladius and started to walk away. The woman tried to follow him, but was felled by her leg bonds. Magnus wrapped an arm around her waist and carried her away as Valens rushed after his Decanus.

“Artorius wait!” he called as his Sergeant walked behind a nearby tree. Artorius turned and faced him, his eyes cold and black. Valens had seen him look this way many times. Over the years Artorius had developed the ability to temporarily shut his conscience down, enabling him to perform the most unspeakable acts of brutality. Valens caught a glint of pending remorse in his eyes as Artorius’ hand trembled, his gladius hanging loosely in his fingers.

“Stop,” Valens persisted. “Artorius, we don’t
have
to do this. The slaves are being crucified to serve as a warning to others who would rebel as they did; but what example do we set by stabbing a child?” Artorius lowered his head and swallowed.

“Do you think I like this?”
he asked, his voice shaking. Valens shook his head. Artorius took a deep breath, his face contorting as he fought to remain focused on the hateful deed he had to perform. “I do this so that you men don’t have to. I try to spare you the nightmares of my remorse.” Valens nodded in acknowledgement. Just then Centurion Macro crashed noisily through a thicket of dead branches.

“Artorius, what the hell are you doing back here?” he asked, then seeing the
child in his Decanus’ arms he understood. “Make it quick,” he ordered as he started to turn away.

“Sir
please
,” Valens pleaded. The Centurion turned, shocked at the tone of the legionary. “Don’t make him do this.”

“And what would you have me do,
Legionary?”
Macro growled, his anger rising at the perceived insubordination.

As night fell it was eerily quiet along the road; the cries of the damned long since having subsided as they hung in agony waiting for death to take them. Torches hung at intervals, casting a soft glow on the scene as soldiers patrolled the area in pairs. There was no moon or stars for them to see by. The woman whose child Artorius had taken moaned quietly as she turned her head to the side. Her husband’s face was a bloody, unrecognizable mess. Though he was still breathing he had yet to wake from the beating he had taken earlier. She then hung her head to the side, wondering how long it would take for death to overcome her. Her thoughts then returned to her baby as a pair of legionaries approached. Even in the faint light she recognized the brute that had torn her child from her. She started to tremble and sob at the sight of the man.

“Your child lives,” the other man spoke to her
soothingly. Her tears of pain became tears of relief for a moment. The soldier’s eye was blackened and a long welt scoured the side of his neck; disciplinary measures from Centurion Macro for his insubordination. Artorius had not escaped the Centurion’s anger either, a bruise gracing the side of his face for what Macro called his inability to keep his legionary in line. In the end though, Macro had told Artorius to deal with the child as he saw fit. The Centurion was a hard man but he was not unreasonable or inhuman. He had disciplined his men as a reassurance that they did not make their decision lightly.

“Thank you,” the woman said softly, her words coming with much effort. Starvation and thirst were taking their toll on her, as was the strain placed on her lungs as she slowly suffocated. Valens looked back at his Decanus.

“Permission to execute one more act of mercy?” he asked. Artorius nodded and walked away. He had been told that they would disembowel the prisoners in the morning and start their move back to Lugdunum. Valens drew his gladius and first walked over to the husband, who was still unconscious. He thrust his weapon beneath the man’s ribcage, causing him to convulse as blood flowed onto the blade. The woman’s face twisted, her eyes sealed shut, as the legionary stood before her. “If you wish, I can end this now. I promise it will hurt but for a few seconds.” She nodded in reply, trembling as she felt the cold point of the gladius touch her just beneath her ribs as Valens found his mark. She clenched her teeth hard as the weapon plunged into her, penetrating her heart. The soldier had been right; it did only hurt for a brief time.

Artorius hung his head as he walked away from the line of crosses. He did not notice the Tribune leaning against a tree at the edge of the torchlight.

“Everything alright, Sergeant?” Cursor asked, noting the vexation on the young Decanus’ face.

“Fine,” Artorius lied as he continued to walk away from the scene of death. He was anxious for dawn to come so that they could slay the prisoners and be done with it. He knew the more he hoped for morning the longer it would take, as if the gods were mocking him.

“Never a pleasant thing,” Cursor observed as he walked beside the Decanus. Artorius thought to increase his stride and try and get away from the Tribune, but he knew better than to show such blatant disrespect to the man.

“It was necessary to prevent further spread of disorder,” he replied unconvincingly. He then stopped and turned to the Tribune, assessing him. “Is there something I can help you with, Tribune?” Cursor allowed himself a partial smile, in spite of the grisly scene they had just walked away from.

“We share a common friend, you and I. I received a letter last week from Pontius Pilate, asking me to make contact with you.” Artorius let out a short laugh.

“The world is not so vast after all,” he replied. “I admit that I am grateful to hear word of our old friend. I have not written to him for some time and he probably thinks I’ve forgotten about him.”

“There’s a few issues he wanted me to discuss with you, to gauge your feelings. But those can wait for another time. Right now I am more curious to know your true feelings about what we did here.”

“Why does my opinion matter to you?” Artorius asked; a trace of suspicion in his voice. His face twitched as the piteous cry of one of the crucified prisoners echoed through the darkness.

“Because I think we are of a similar mind,” Cursor answered.

“It doesn’t matter what I think,” Artorius replied, casting his gaze downward.

“Maybe not,” the Tribune said, “all the same I see you as one who sees more than just what is to his immediate front during a battle.”

“You think we shouldn’t have crucified those slaves, do you?” Artorius asked; his eyes fixed on the Tribune once more. Cursor shook his head.

“Not necessarily. What I do wonder is if we as leaders in warfare and in governing think through fully the consequences of our actions.”

“What do you mean?” the Decanus asked, continuing on his walk and trying to put as much distance between himself and the nightmarish spectacle behind him.

“Think about it,” Cursor persisted. “We conquer a region and start to Romanize the place. Over time we make the newly acquired province, as well as its people, into a likeness of us as Romans. This takes time, though. And during that time there is often periods of instability and resentment. I mean, how would
you feel if you were a civilian living in Ostia and you had to witness Germanic warriors or Carthaginian soldiers patrolling the road outside your house or marketplace?”

“That’s a valid point,” Artorius conceded, “however; I don’t see how that plays into this scenario. And besides, it was Rome that conquered Germania and Carthage, not the other way around.”

“This is true. Still, one must try and understand the minds of those we fight, as well as those we conquer, if we are to ever have lasting peace and stability in this world. After all, that is the promise of Rome; a beacon to enlighten and bring the rest of the world out of the darkness of barbarism.”

“And what of these slaves?” Artorius asked.
“What do we see if we try to understand
their
minds?”

“That one is a little bit tricky,” Cursor relented. “For with slaves, unless they are prisoners of war or convicted criminals, they have mostly been born into their place in life. Most accept this out of hand and don’t question it; just as a plebian or patrician accepts their role in the greater scheme of things. Though just as a plebian dreams of ascending into the upper classes of society it only makes sense that one who is born a slave dreams of freedom. If this were not true, then you would never see plebs rise up to the equestrian class, nor would slaves ever go through the great measures necessary to earn their freedom.” Artorius thought long about the Tribune’s words and what they meant. It seemed so obvious, though it was also no surprise that most were blind to such revelations.

“So what we have then is a large number of slaves who were suddenly given the opportunity to be free,” he said at last. “From what you said, that was no slave uprising. Rather it was a band of renegades who killed the procurers and freed the slaves, promising them freedom if they would fight for it.” He paused before continuing.
“Somebody
knew we would be here. Whoever freed the slaves didn’t care about giving them liberty at all! They freed them
knowing
that they would run into us and that they would have to fight.”

“An unwilling mob confronts us, and we crucify the survivors,” Cursor added with a trace of disgust in his voice.

“I thought you said you didn’t disagree with us crucifying them?” Artorius asked, perplexed by the Tribune’s tone, even though he had similar misgivings.

“This is true,” Cursor replied. “A thousand slaves who’ve been given a taste of freedom could very well attain it through violence if they are sold to masters who don’t have Roman soldiers protecting them. Slaying them in such a brutal fashion also sen
ds a message to any who may attempt the same thing. After all, in the one hundred years since the slave rebellion of Spartacus was put down and the six thousand survivors crucified there has not been one significant attempt by large numbers of slaves to change their lot in life through force. That being said, I take no joy in what we had to do today.”

Cursor was still pondering the fate of the condemned slaves as he passed by his Centurion’s tent. As most of his men had since gone to sleep for the night he was surprised to see the soft glow of lamp light coming from inside of Rodolfo’s tent. He pulled back on the flap and saw the auxilia Centurion seated behind his desk working away on a large block of wood with a chisel and small hammer. A carving knife sat on the table as well, and there were wood shavings covering the ground.

“Not disturbing you, am I?” Cursor asked as Rodolfo continued to work on the block, which as the Tribune looked closer was starting to resemble the bust of a woman.

“Not at all,” Rodolfo replied in his ever-present Germanic accent.
“Just doing a bit of wood work to take my mind off things.” Cursor glanced around the tent and saw there were many carvings made of wood and small stones in the Centurion’s tent. He picked one up; a small piece of basalt cut into the shape of a galloping horse. He was amazed at the finite detail.

“These are absolutely brilliant!” Cursor said with genuine enthusiasm. Rodolfo just waved his hand, eyes still on his work.

“It’s a hobby,” he replied casually. “My hands weren’t always used for killing.” Cursor gave a short nod of understanding as Rodolfo continued. “Back home, in Frisia, I made a modest living designing things with my hands. Most of my people are farmers and cattlemen, but those things never interested me.”

“You could make more than a modest living in Rome, you know.” Cursor was turning the horse over in his hands as Rodolfo stood and stretched his arms. “I mean look at the detail on this! The eyes, mouth, hooves, even the tail is all defined and symmetrical.”

“Isn’t that how it’s supposed to be?” the Centurion asked with a shrug. He then reached under where one of his tunics lay and pulled out a wooden chariot. “I made this to go along with it. I figure my son would like it.”

“So whatever brought you here?” Cursor asked as he spun the wheels on the highly detailed chariot.

“Better life for my family. We migrated to Gaul many years ago, and while work was more plentiful it was not always there to be had. I needed a job that had a guaranteed wage, plus I’ve always had a passion for horses, so I enlisted into Indus’ Horse. A Centurion’s pay is far greater than I could ever earn making toys and small sculptures.”

“Think you’ll ever be able to make a living at it again?” the Tribune asked.

“I certainly hope so,” Rodolfo answered with a sigh. “I am a soldier of Rome, loyal to my Emperor and my people. But know that I long for the days when I can spend my evenings in my workshop building and fixing things, rather than destroying them.”