Soldier of Rome: The Sacrovir Revolt (The Artorian Chronicles) (33 page)

Alasdair’s eyes fille
d with tears. The side of Farquhar’s head had been rendered by a pickaxe, brain matter and bits of bone were splattered on his face. His eyes were open and lifeless, a trickle of congealed blood running from his mouth down his cheek. Alasdair placed his head in his hands, his emotions overtaking him.

“No, it cannot be
. . . oh Farquhar, I am so sorry I led you to this.
I have become your death!”
His speech became inaudible as he sobbed.

“Get him out of here,” Artorius said in a low voice as Magnus and Valens helped the lad to his feet.

The
legionaries then bound his hands behind his back and guided him away from the scene of carnage and death. To their rear, Statorius was marshaling prisoners into a holding area that other soldiers were hastily building barricades around.

“Noble lads, sacrificed like sheep at the slaughter,” Decimus said in a low voice.

“Sheep at the slaughter die with more dignity,” Gavius scoffed. “At least their heads are not filled with foolish notions of glory and victory.”

Artorius scowled at the thought and was about to turn away when something caught his eye.
He noticed the sword that lay in Farquhar’s outstretched fingers. It was longer than the blades carried by the other young men they had fought. He leaned down and examined the weapon. It was old; not something hastily crafted in mass numbers. Someone had put a lot of work into this weapon. The blade was well-worn from countless blows; the leather straps of the handle faded. He then saw the scabbard on the slain lad’s hip. It was leather and wood, adorned with embossed metal engravings. Small images of men hunting a stag and of wild horses abounded. Artorius unbuckled the scabbard and sheathed the sword. The weapon was a fine prize born of the Gallic nobility during a different age. Gaul had, at one time, been a land of valiant warriors, but those days were long since gone; Julius Caesar having broken their fighting spirit. Now the only warriors that Gaul produced wore the uniform of either the Roman legions or auxilia. The young boys they had massacred were no warriors. Artorius considered them victims of Sacrovir’s brain-washing. He let out a sigh of resignation as he strapped the sword to his belt.

The rebels had been routed before the Romans executed their first passage-of-lines. Sacrovir’s gladiators had made a brief surge forward, but they were outclassed by the discipline and cohesion of the legions. As he wrenched his gladius from underneath the ribcage of a slain enemy, Proculus watched as the remaining rebels turned and fled en mass.

“Cohort stand fast!”
he ordered as he men ceased any attempts at a pursuit. “Gather up any prisoners, as well as our dead and wounded.” He then stopped and rested, leaning on his shield with his free hand on his knee.

“I’
m getting too old for this,” he said in a low voice.

“Oh
, come now, you are only too old if you allow yourself to be.”

H
e heard a reply in front of him. He looked up to see Calvinus standing over him. The master centurion’s face and armor were saturated with blood and gore. His own breathing was heavy, though he still stood erect and strong.

“Calvinus,” Proculus replied with a slight nod.

The
master centurion gave him a friendly smack on the shoulder.

“Your lads did well,” he remarked, “particularly those who routed the van.
Silius has ordered us to start laying out the rebel dead. He wants the families of the slain to be able to identify them.”

“What of the live ones?”
Proculus asked.

Calvinus gave a wicked smirk at that.
“We have plans for them.  Suffice it to say, the dead have paid the price for their warmongering.  On the other hand, the living still has a debt to settle with Rome.”

Chapter X
VI: A Generation Lost

***

Kiana clutched Lennox’s hand as they walked
past the rows of Gallic dead. A search of the prisoner stockades had left them with no sign of Farquhar. The Roman General Silius had posted a decree directing all citizens of Augustodunum to come and claim their dead. Many were paralyzed with fear; fear of being implicated in the rebellion, and the even greater fear of finding out the worst had happened to their loved ones. Still, many came in hope of finding the lost husband or son that might be alive and able to return home.

“Perhaps he has escaped,” the young lass said in a near whisper.

Lennox could only shake his head.
He feared the worst for his son, and his heart was near breaking with the sense and dread of the unknown. They gazed in horror and sadness at the sight of thousands of slain Gauls, all laid out in long rows. Roman soldiers were pacing back and forth around the outside of the mass, driving off dogs and other wild animals as grieving families carried away the bodies. The air was filled with the sounds of weeping and mourning. Kiana watched a mother overcome with grief, wailing loudly as she clutched the body of her son. The woman violently resisted any efforts by her husband to pry her away. The father soon broke down and joined his wife in heart-wrenching sorrow.

Kiana put her hand over her mouth at the sight of the corpses.
In all her life she had never witnessed such carnage. She felt herself getting sick, but quickly composed herself. She could not let Lennox face the possibility of Farquhar’s death alone. She shuddered as she gazed upon each of the bodies in turn. All bore fearful wounds, begotten by the pickaxe, javelin, or gladius. Others were completely mangled from where they had been trampled by Roman chargers. Every last body was saturated in blood. Flies were already gathering around the corpses, adding to the pestilent nature of the spectacle. Kiana winced as she passed a young woman, scarcely older than she, arguing vehemently with the mother of her slain lover; the girl insisting that the body could not belong to the boy she loved. Kiana gagged as she caught sight of the corpse they argued over; the face completely crushed like a gourd smashed with a sledge.

She stopped
. A startling realization came over her as she felt Lennox release her hand. At a slow and almost limping gait, with tears flowing freely, he staggered over to the body of his son. Farquhar’s eyes were still open; the Romans had done nothing more than move the bodies to a central location once they had been stripped of their weapons and armor. Lennox fell to his knees, placed his hands over his face, and quietly wept.

Kiana kneeled beside him, placed one arm around the grieving father, and clutched the son’s
cold hand. She laid her head on Lennox’s shoulder as he reached down and closed his son’s eyes. Kiana’s grief was mind-numbing. She struggled to cry and felt guilty when the tears did not flow as freely as they should have. She wondered if she was in denial, or if her beloved’s death had broken her ability to emit feelings of any kind. They stayed like that for some time, the Romans respectfully keeping their distance.

Kiana marveled at how none of the
legionaries came to gloat over their fallen enemies.   She had heard stories of the atrocities committed by victorious legions after battle. Instead, there was a certain air of sadness about them. These were not foreign barbarians they had slain. Gaul or no, the majority of the dead were Roman citizens, many from the nobler classes; most of the slaves, beggars, and thieves having fled once the battle was fully engaged. Kiana surmised that with Gaul having been a Roman province for so many years, many of these legionaries were probably of Gallic ancestry themselves. How many of them had slain a cousin, a friend, a brother?

As Lennox and Kiana sat mourning the brutal death of Farquhar, they were approached by a pair of
legionaries. Each had removed his helmet and grounded his shield. It was the first time Kiana had been able to look upon the faces of the Romans who had killed so many of her friends, and the boy she had known in her heart she would spend her life with. Of course, she had seen Roman soldiers before but had never paid them any mind. Oddly enough, she did not feel anger towards these men, nor was she intimidated.  In a way she pitied them, though she could not fully understand why.

Both men were of average height, though noticeably bigger and more muscular than their companions.
The larger of the two looked to be of Latin origin, the other had blonde hair and fair skin. Kiana guessed by his facial features that he was a Norseman; of a people yet to be eclipsed by the Roman Empire.

Lennox noticed the
legionaries approach as well. His voice was full of emotion as he tried to speak. “He fought for what he believed in,” he stammered, his hand clutching his son’s shoulder.

At length, the bigger of the two legionaries spoke.

“He fought because Sacrovir filled his head with vain dreams of martial glory.
It is a shadow that does not exist. What a pity the price of that lesson was his life.”

Artorius gazed at the body of the young man.
The wounds to his side and head were deep, rendered by someone of considerable power. Artorius swallowed hard as he recognized the face of the young man.

Lennox’
s eyes fell on the sword strapped to Artorius’ hip; the sword of his ancestors, that his father and grandfather had carried in battle before him. Artorius folded his arms and followed Lennox’s gaze.

“You know this weapon,” he stated, eyes now on the Gaul.

Lennox nodded his head slightly.

“I do,” he answered, his voice weak and cracking. “It was my father’s sword and his father’s before him. I gave it to my son just yesterday, in hopes it would protect him.”

“Arming rebels, I see,” Magnus muttered.

“Consider the loss of such a sentimental heirloom to be the price
paid for your arming of a rebel against Rome; be content that we do not demand
full
retribution.”

Lennox lowered his head, eyes closed tightly.
Kiana simply stared in wonder. Artorius’ face broke into a scowl, his eyes darkening. Did this Gaul really think he would return the very weapon that his son had used against him? He should have considered himself lucky that Artorius did not run him through with his sword, or better yet crucify him for his crimes! Lennox continued to clutch at his son’s shoulder. He was a broken man; even crucifixion would be better than the torment of seeing his dead son.

“D
eath would come as a relief,” he said softly.

Artorius then understood
. Lennox cared little for the sword now that his son was gone. And yet he found he was unmoved by pity. He did feel for the sons who had perished in a war they did not understand, but he blamed and despised their fathers for allowing it to happen.

“
And that is why you will live,” he said slowly. “For the loss of your son is the price you have paid for your failure as a father.”

Such a waste,
he thought to himself as he and Magnus turned and walked away.

Kavan was desperately searching the prisoner stockades for any sign of his son. He refused to believe that his son was dead. As he walked the perimeter, he searched the faces of the young men who stood forlorn on the other side. Many he recognized, friends of Alasdair. All were visibly shaken, some were openly weeping at their plight and for their friends that they had watched die. It saddened Kavan deeply, for these were not men at all, but overgrown boys. They should have been continuing in their studies, playing sport, flirting with the young girls, and above all, being
boys.

Instead, they had been brainwashed into fighting for an ignoble cause. It was a cause that had destroyed an entire generation of Gaul’s nobility. As he continued to walk the perimeter of the stockade he saw a sight that gave him joy. Alasdair stood with his head resting against the bars, his eyes closed, and his face vacant.

“My son!”
Kavan cried out as he rushed to him. Alasdair hardly noticed as his father grabbed him through the bars of his makeshift prison. “My son lives!”

“Father?”
Alasdair replied weakly. His mind was in shock from the torment and devastation he had witnessed. Farquhar’s brutal slaying sat fresh in his mind. The bitter shame of his having been knocked out of the fight without so much as scratching a single Roman soldier. That his friend had perished while he still lingered shattered his very soul. Suddenly his mind raced back to reality. He saw Kavan’s face beaming at him, his hands clutching his tunic.

“Alasdair, my boy,” Kavan swallowed hard before continuing.
“You have suffered much.”

“Farquhar’s dead,” the
boy said flatly.

Kavan bit his lip and nodded.
“I am sorry, my son. He was a good lad.  Come, let us leave this place of death and suffering.” “I am afraid that’s not possible,” a voice behind him answered.

Kavan turned to see a Roman
centurion standing with his arms crossed; a concerned yet foreboding expression on his face. “Your son is a prisoner of war. Legate Silius will decide his fate.”

“My son is but a boy
. . .” Kavan began.

“A boy who fought in open rebellion against Rome
!” the centurion interrupted. While Vitruvius felt nothing but loathing and spite towards Sacrovir and his band of beggars and thieves, he could not help but pity the young nobles who had had their impressionable minds warped and corrupted by Sacrovir. He felt a sense of injustice that they had collectively paid the gravest price of any in the rebellion. And that price would only continue to grow, for Silius would demand a heavy ransom to atone for the treachery of those who survived.

The Senate rose to its collective feet as the Emperor entered the hallowed halls.
Deliberately, Tiberius took his seat at the head of the Senate. In his lap sat a series of scrolls, whose contents he would unveil soon enough in detail. But the time for that would have to wait. He had a few words of his own to speak to the Senate.

“Senators of Rome,” his voiced boomed in the hall, “I come before you with word of both the beginning, as well as the ending of the revolts in Gaul.
It is with great disdain that I consider how you dared to question my judgment on not sending either myself or my son to the front to take command personally. Your accusations are like those of frightened women, not men fit to lead the most powerful Empire the world has ever witnessed.”

A few grumblings could be heard from within.

“This is an outrage, Caesar . . .” Gallus started to speak, only to be cut off by Tiberius slamming his hand down on the arm of his chair, his anger rising.

“Do not interrupt me again, Senator Gallus,” he said with ice in his voice.
“If an Emperor’s presence is required at the front of every potential trouble, then he would never remain in his capital.  But then, perhaps that is what this body wants.” He glared at the Senators coldly; many of them fidgeting in their seats.

“
I
will decide when it is fitting for me to take command in the field. You forget, noble fathers of Rome, that aside from our good friend Caecina Severus, I have fought in more wars and endured greater battles than most of you put together. Now, here are the official reports from Gaul. Sacrovir and Florus are dead, the rebellion crushed.”

With that he unfurled the first scroll that covered the campaigns against the Belgae.
One by one he read through each official report, listing in detail the exploits of individual units who distinguished themselves. Finally, he handed the scrolls to the scribe at his side.

“The honor for this victory belongs with the men who led and fought in this campaign.
I recommend that they be formally recognized for their actions. I am leaving the details of such recognition in your care. Deal strictly with the facts when handing out honors and awards; do not allow such honors to become cheap and meaningless. That is all.” He rose and walked past the assembled host of senators and out of the main hall.

“Do you think it wise leaving the awarding of honors to Senate?”
Drusus asked once they had left the Senate chamber.