Soldier of Rome: Heir to Rebellion (The Artorian Chronicles) (20 page)

“How far is the passage from here?” Macro asked the Tribune.

“About three miles,” Cursor replied. “Rock cliffs jut up on either side at a fairly narrow opening. Past that it is another fifteen miles to the slaver camp.” Macro nodded and bit the inside of his cheek in contemplation.

“Statorius,” he said, eyes still on Cursor, “tell the men to cease making camp and be ready to march. We will blockade the pass and prevent any escape.”

“Right away,” the Tesserarius acknowledged before turning about and issuing orders to the Decanii. The legionaries were puzzled and somewhat dismayed by the sudden change, however few complained. All knew that if they were told to break camp and be ready to march, there was a reason for it.

“It could all be for nothing,” Cursor said, trying to sound reassuring. “We may arrive at the camp and find all the slaves still kept safe in their pens.” He gave a smile that neither convinced Macro or himself.

“All the same, I’m not taking any chances,” the Centurion replied grimly. “I’d rather have my men walk a few more miles and camp for the night at a roadside rather than finding out later that we let a thousand runaway slaves escape and wreak havoc.” Cursor looked away and breathed deeply.

“Rodolfo and I will intercept our patrols and divert them to the camp via the high path,” he then explained.
“And we will pray to the gods that our fears are in fact unwarranted.”

The Caesarian coast at last came into view.
This was where Justus and his family would depart and link up with Legio VI, Ferrata; the Iron Legion. He had been away from his post for over three years, and though he had thoroughly enjoyed his time spent in Rome he was secretly glad to be back in the ranks where he belonged. As he stood on the railing watching ships in the distant come and go from the harbor he was joined by his old friend, Pontius Pilate. The two men had barely spoken during the two-week voyage across the sea.

“Here is where we say farewell once more,” Pilate noted.
He would be taking the road by land to Raphana, home of Legio XII, Fulminata.

“Indeed,” Justus replied, still gazing at the harbor as it inched closer.

“Justus,” Pilate said, placing a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “I don’t want us to part this way. We may have disagreements regarding my patronage with Sejanus, but that should not interfere in our friendship.” The Optio turned and met the Tribune’s gaze.

“Many friendships throughout our history were ended due to politics,” he said, his face without emotion. “Look at Caesar and Pompey
. Hell, the dissolution of their friendship ended others with their bloody civil war. I mean, think about Vorenus and Pullo! Those two men were rivals, yes; but they were also brothers of the Centurionate. And yet when war came Pullo sided with Pompey and the Senate, while Vorenus remained loyal to Caesar.”

“I know,” Pilate replied quietly. He took a deep breath and then spoke with conviction. “But Justus, I will
not
allow that to happen with us! Whatever our political differences, we are both loyal to the Emperor and to Rome. Our goals are the same; it is how we get there that we differ. I still need my trusted friend and confidant while I am here in the east.” Justus replied with a smile and leaned back against the ship’s railing, his arms folded across his chest.

“What does a Tribune, one endorsed by the Emperor’s right hand no less, need with a lowly Legionary Optio?”

“I need someone I can trust,” Pilate responded, matching the Optio’s grin. “I feel that a time will come when I will need you like I never have before.” His smile was gone and he stared into the sea, almost ashamed of admitting that he was having premonitions. “I sensed the same when I last saw our old friend Artorius. I cannot place it, but for whatever reason my instincts tell me that the three of us are joined in the same destiny. Crazy, isn’t it?” He looked back at his friend, whose arms were still folded but he was no longer smiling.

“Perhaps,” Justus replied. “I admit it does seem strange, what with me being stationed in the east for what will probably be the remainder of my career; you doing your time for Sejanus here for a year and then back to Rome and the Praetorians; all the while Artorius is on the opposite end of the Empire bouncing between Germania and Gaul. Have you consulted with an augur about this?”

“I have,” Pilate answered. “Bastard charged me a fortune and then spouted off a load of rubbish that could have meant absolutely anything I wanted it to. I think that’s what they try and do; give an answer that no matter what happens they can claim they foretold it. They are no more messengers of the gods than I am!”

“I’ve never had a use for augurs,” Justus said. “I nearly choked the fuck out of one who tried to say that my son will die in battle before
he reaches a score in age! Needless to say it was most upsetting to Flavia, especially since Gaius wasn’t even a year old at the time.”

“Well, keep him out of the legions and you won’t have to worry,” Pilate observed. Justus snorted.

“The lad seems determined to follow me into the ranks. He’s still got a few years to come to his senses, though. To tell you the truth Pilate, I have no faith or belief in the gods of any people. However, I cannot help but live with this sense of foreboding regarding my son. If Gaius does join the legions and in fact lives to see his twentieth birthday, then perhaps I will have found a god worth praying to.”

“
Tribune Cursor!” Centurion Rodolfo shouted to him. Cursor road up to the slave pens, which were now empty. The bodies of numerous guards and slave drivers lay strewn about. He lowered and shook his head.

“
There are only two ways to get to this place,” he observed. “And since we did not run into a large mob on the way in…” He paused and took a deep breath before continuing. “The road to the south leads through a narrow valley that opens at a large plain strewn with forests. If they get through the valley there will be no recapturing them.”

“Understood,” the Centurion acknowledged. “We’ll make ready to ride at once.”

“Send your fastest rider back by the path we took and have him alert Centurion Macro,” Cursor ordered.

“Yes sir.”
Rodolfo saw the look of consternation in the Tribune’s face and understood it all too well. Such a large number of slaves could not be allowed to escape. Word would spread like wildfire and the unrest that it may cause amongst the large slave populations of the region was a disaster they could ill afford. He also knew that they would be foolish to try to smash the mob with just their force of one hundred cavalrymen; they
needed
Macro, Vitruvius, and their legionaries.

Cursor dismounted and
wearily surveyed the carnage of the wrecked slaver camp. The stench of burned corpses assailed his senses as he walked over to where the pavilion tents had stood. Unable to avert his gaze, he walked across the ash-strewn ground where bodies that had once been men lay charred and mutilated. He then heard a loud crash in a thicket off to his right. Immediately his spatha was drawn, senses alert. A badly injured man fell out of the bushes and onto his face, his body covered in soot with numerous gashes and burns evident. Cursor sheathed his weapon and went to the man, who was lying on his side, breathing rapidly.

“They came at us,”
the wounded man spoke quietly, “in the night, like black wings of death they fell upon us.” The Tribune placed a hand on the man’s shoulder and shook his head.

“Trooper!”
he shouted over his shoulder to the nearest of his men, who raced over to them. The auxilia muttered something in German that Cursor could not understand.

“I need water and bandages at once!” the Tribune ordered before turning back to the wounded man. Several of his men were soon kneeling next to him, bearing rolls of bandage cloth and extra water bladders.

“Fire…and death,” the injured man said as the Tribune took a damp rag and started to tend to him. The man did not seem to notice Cursor or his troopers at all; nor did he wince or acknowledge his fearful wounds. “Our tent…burned. Only I escaped…a man with a cleaver…severing heads…” he shuddered fearfully and closed his eyes as the memories overwhelmed him. Suddenly his body started convulsing violently as if he were struck by a seizure.

“He’s going into shock,” Cursor said as he frantically sought to stabilize the man. A few spasms and it was over. The Tribune threw down the blood-soaked bandage in his hand, stood up and walked away. Two of his men stood staring at the charred corpse at their feet. A shout by Centurion Rodolfo startled them back to their senses. He shouted orders at them in their native tongue and they ran quickly back to their mounts.

Within the dense woods Radek smiled evilly as they watched the auxilia cavalry ride out of camp.

“So few,” he observed quietly as Heracles gave an affirmative nod.

“Yes,” he replied, “but you can rest assured they brought friends with them. Our old friend Indus has returned. Time for tragedy to strike down his sacred regiment.”

Over a thousand slaves fled through the valley. The way behind was shut, for the mountains to the north were too steep and the weather treacherous this time of year. The only way for them to go was straight. Many of the slaves were armed, fearful as they were that Roman soldiers were in the region. The rock walls on either side proved too sheer for any but the ablest of climbers to scale; however, they knew that once they were through the valley freedom would be theirs.

A young woman clung to her baby, her free hand clut
ching that of her husband. Like many of their company, both had been slaves their entire lives, and now for the first time they had a chance to make something more for themselves and for their child.

It puzzled them the way that hideous man had freed them. First he had murdered the slavers and their servants, however he left the slaves themselves penned up in their wheeled cages
inside the stockade. It was only when they had reached the north end of the valley had he released them. He promised weapons with which to earn their freedom, but only if they proceeded south. The slave woman was confused yet hopeful, for not a mile down the road was a large pile of axes, crude swords, spears, and other weapons. The men had fallen on them like rabid dogs. That night they sat in a shivering mass as they had elected not to build bonfires that would disclose their presence. It was but a few miles to the open plain, though most of the slaves had little sense of time or distance and had decided to camp in the valley for the night. A number had decided to keep moving, seeking their own freedom and not caring for the fate of their companions.