“And it is Ssrhythssaa’s to command,” Morgain needled.
Claudius Nero flashed her a dark look. “Ssrhythssaa is one of the Old Ones. The People of the Dark are the master race, and Ssrhythssaa is their master. We are but slaves of the masters by reason of the human taint of our blood.”
It sounded as if Claudius Nero had recited a catechism that had been drilled into his half-human people since birth, Morgain decided. The anger in his eyes gave the lie to his sincerety. There was something more in his eyes, as he watched her.
“You told the wizard I was dead, but you suspected I still lived,” Morgain asked sharply. “Why?”
“You are my Proserpina,” Nero smiled. “Iron bars do not cage you; the crawlers cannot snare you; the river cannot drown you. Ssrhythssaa shall not have you.”
Morgain thought it unwise to pursue the implication.
They rounded a curve. Before her the passage opened into an immense cavern.
“Welcome to the camp of Legio IX Infernalis,” bade Quintus Claudius Nero with a proud gesture.
The scene within the cavern was as bizarre as anything Morgain had yet seen.
The cavern was huge-evidently a considerable natural grotto that had been extensively hollowed out to accommodate the half-human army. Beyond its confines Morgain saw that a broad passage opened onto a similar cavern on a lower level. At long intervals cressets flamed fitfully, to some extent dissolving the stygian darkness within the caverns.
Such illumination was a dismal sort of thing, to Morgain’s thinking, but light even this tenuous was a noonday sun after the stifling blackness of the burrows of the serpent-folk. She wondered in what measure the descendants of the Ninth Legion actually required such light, and to what extent these lost torches were a point of pride in their master-slave relationship with the true serpent-folk.
By the wan torchlight Morgain could discern the neat rows of barracks that rose along either wall of the cavern. Barracks-enclosed within these artificially expanded grottoes thousands of feet within the side of a mountain. Precisely ordered structures of mortared stone, arranged in facing pairs of ten units in each rectangular block. The buildings were unroofed, and from their slight elevation, as she looked down Morgain thought suddenly of the toy forts of sticks and pebbles and mud she had played with as a child.
Not even a child’s nightmare could have peopled a toy fortress with such demons as toiled among these hidden streets and roofless buildings.
“I have structured Legio IX Infernalis after the exact organization of the Roman legion,” Nero announced in a lordly tone. “Each barracks unit houses one century, or one maniple for each paired unit.”
“I count five maniples here, legate,” Morgain remarked disdainfully. “Does your legion number only eight hundred?”
“This cavern houses only the First Cohort,” Nero answered easily. “The other cohorts are stationed in smaller caverns that lead off from this central one. You shall see them all eventually, if you like.”
He pointed to a massive structure along the wall where only two pairs of barracks were arranged. The sombre edifice was vaulted with a stone roof; a broad columnade made an imposing fa9ade. “The principia is over there. My headquarters, although we won’t be going there just now. Later I shall show you the sacellum perhaps. Have you ever visited a legionary fortress… before?”
Morgain shook her head. Bran had spent considerable time in Eboracum, before his face became too well known to risk any further such spy missions. He had told her a good deal concerning the military organization of the Romans.
“A pity,” Nero said, a note of wistfulness in his voice. “I should have been interested to learn how our camp compares. But no matter. In days to come I’ll study such plundered Roman forts at my leisure.” By now their party had crossed the first cavern and descended through the broad passage that opened onto a second artificially enhanced grotto. This proved much similar to the one they had just quitted, although perhaps not so large. More neat rows of stone barracks-Morgain counted three paired units, remembered that only the first cohort of a legion contained ten centuries, the remaining nine cohorts being comprised of six centuries each. Claudius Nero had paid meticulous care to details.
“The Second Cohort, I assume,” she said drily. She could see at least two more such passages as they now traversed leading away from this grotto. “And are there eight more such caverns?”
“Not quite,” Nero admitted grudgingly. “We are not yet at full legionary strength. We could be easily, if I had more material to recruit from. The People of the Dark are worthless as soldiers, and as it is, I am compelled to force military training on some of our number who are not far above the crawlers…” Nero bit off his words, as if angry over speaking too much of his thoughts.
“Another principia, legate?” asked Morgain, pointing to the squat stone structure at the far wall-not as impressive as the principia, but imposing nonetheless. Surely a vaulted roof within these caverns was only sheer ostentation.
“The praetoriumNero corrected her. “My palace, for now. I envision certain improvements once I have the plunder of Roman cities to draw upon.”
He gestured grandly toward the passages that led off from this cavern. “There is much more beyond. The barracks of the other cohorts. The valetudinarium. The horrea-although no Roman grains are stored there. The fabricae. Along the river we have really excellent baths.”
“I’m sorry to have missed them on my swim,” Morgain said bitterly. “It would have saved this long walk around.”
“Not the same river,” Nero corrected her. “You were fortunate to blunder into one that flowed outward. There are many rivers beneath the earth. Most-such as the one which runs through our camp and furnishes us with water and fish-flow inward to sunken abysses unknown even to Ssrhythssaa. I don’t think you would have fared well on whatever shores those rivers might have cast you forth.”
Morgain had little taste for the shores fate’s cruel jest had cast her upon, as it was-but held her tongue. There were worse horrors within these sunless mazes, as she well knew-although she felt a chill at certain of the legionaries who crouched in deeper shadow, seemingly abhorring the dismal torchlight, Claudius Nero strutted through the external columnade that fronted the praetorium. A pair of legionaries stood guard beside the open doorway. Their salute was worthy of the emperor’s guard, although Severus probably did not include men of mottled skin and taloned fists in his personal guard.
“Your home, Proserpina,” announced Nero with a sardonic sweep of his arm.
“I see no iron cage,” Morgain returned.
“Such accommodations little become you. I think these may suit you better.”
The legate led Morgain across the columnaded central court and into the wing beyond, where a curtained doorway opened upon a suite of rooms. Furnishings were elaborate-plunder from the baggage train of the Ninth and the recent sack of the Roman camp, Morgain decided. Mosaics and carpets, a sunken bath, hangings and trophies she cared little to inspect, chests and tables, a few small lamps, a wide couch for sleeping.
Under other circumstances Morgain might have found this palatial house, this luxurious apartment, a thing of wonder and delight. These were not such circumstances.