Their army that they spent nearly a year raising consisted mostly of thieves, debtors, and former slaves, though Sacrovir had captured the trust of a large contingent of noble youths who also flocked to his banner. Still they proved little match for the legions of Rome. Heracles had taught the rebels how to fight in a phalanx, and yet they broke at first contact with the legions and their auxiliary cavalry. Most fled into the hills, while the noble youths, who served as the vanguard of Sacrovir’s force, were either captured or killed. The surviving leaders had fled to Sacrovir’s estate, only to be hunted down after a captured rebel betrayed them.
And yet, he could not let it end this way. When Sacrovir and the others fell on their swords while the estate burned over their heads, Heracles slunk away. It was only well after the Romans had left that he returned to find Sacrovir’s sword.
The result was a great tragedy for Gaul, for the rebellion of Sacrovir and Florus had seen a generation of their noble youths destroyed; young, impressionable lads who had been brainwashed by Sacrovir’s poisoned tongue, only to be utterly savaged by Rome’s invincible legions. Those who survived were either ransomed at a heavy toll to their families, or sent to the sulfur mines in Mauretania. Heracles cared little of the Gauls suffering, and the small numbers of legionaries who died during the campaign did nothing to ease his hatred.
A knock at the door brought him out of his reminiscing. He picked up his sword and stood behind the door.
“Enter!” he beckoned as the door creaked open. A hunched old man entered, bearing a tray of food and a bottle of port.
“Your dinner, sir,” he said as he peered into the darkness. The old man gave a jolt as Heracles briskly closed the door behind him.
“Thank you,” the Spartan said, his sword hidden behind his back.
“I’ve got some bread cooking, sir, if you would like some,” the innkeeper said nervously. The strange man who occupied this room unnerved him, and under most circumstances he would have cast him out onto the street; however the man appeared to be quite wealthy and had paid him far more than the room was worth. Money could make even the meekest of men brave.
“Yes, that would be fine,” Heracles replied, opening the door once again. The old man smiled and shuffled out. Heracles let out a sigh. He was becoming paranoid. He had been in Massila for four months now and his coin had kept the senile innkeeper quiet. The hustle and bustle of the busy port town had lent him an incredible amount of autonomy. No one bothered him here, and no one was looking for him either. For all the Romans knew, every rebel leader had died with Sacrovir.
A year had passed since the disastrous rebellion and it would soon be safe to move about freely again. What he would do then he was not sure. He knew that a province revolution was impossible. If Sacrovir and Florus had failed to gain the support of the masses, he knew he would have no chance. It mattered not; for his quest was one of retribution against Rome, nothing more. His was a personal war against Rome and it was now his life’s work. He then decided that he would sow the seeds of discord by annihilating an entire Roman garrison. Surely that would give him some satisfaction; more so than a few dead legionaries amongst the piles of Gallic dead. But where would he strike? Lugdunum was to the north, along the Rhodanus River. It was a large city, and its urban police were reinforced by a cohort of legionaries. These men were from Legio XX, the Valeria Legion; one of the two that had put down the Sacrovir Revolt. The other had been Legio I, Germanica, which shared a fortress on the Rhine with the Twentieth. These men would bear the brunt of Heracles’ wrath.
Wiping out this garrison would not come easy; a single legionary cohort was a fearsome enemy consisting of six eighty-man centuries of the fiercest and most disciplined soldiers not seen since the height of Sparta. As much as it wounded his pride, Heracles begrudgingly recognized Rome as superior to Sparta; for Sparta and all of Greece had been defeated by Rome centuries before. Rome had achieved what Xerxes and the entire Persian Empire had failed to do; subjugate Sparta. It had been nearly two hundred years since the combined forces of Macedonia, which now included Sparta, had faced Rome in battle. The Battle of Pydna had been a crushing defeat for King Perseus and was generally accepted as the classic example of how the Greek phalanx had been proven inferior to the Roman legion.
So how did one go about annihilating a cohort of Roman soldiers? Direct assault was impossible; it would take thousands of men and even then victory could not be certain. No, this would require cunning and deceit rather than brute force. Heracles remembered all-too-well what had happened the last time Gauls had tried to overpower Rome. At Augustodunum the army of Sacrovir had the Roman force outnumbered at least three to one, perhaps even more? Heracles had worked diligently to try and teach that rabble of beggars and thieves how to fight in a proper phalanx. Though the phalanx was an inferior formation as opposed to the legion, it was still preferred when one’s army was undisciplined amateurs.
Sacrovir had encased his vanguard of noble youths in plate armor, in an attempt to break up the Roman formations. The result was catastrophic. In their ingenuity, the legions had attacked this force with pickaxes, chopping down their foe like small trees. Only the vanguard and Sacrovir’s gladiators attempted to withstand the Roman onslaught; the bulk of his army of thieves fled in terror at first contact. A regiment of Roman cavalry, led by a Treveri noble named Julius Indus, had attacked both wings of Sacrovir’s force with devastating effect. What spurned Heracles even more was that Indus had at first been one of Sacrovir’s confidants, only to betray him and align his regiment with Rome. Indeed, it had been Indus’ regiment that along with a single cohort of legionaries had destroyed a far superior force led by Florus; the rebel leader falling on his sword when he saw that all was lost. The Emperor Tiberius had been most generous to Indus, awarding him Rome’s highest honor, the Civic Crown. He had also ordered the Treveri regiment to be permanently named Indus’ Horse.
“Enjoy the spoils of Rome while you can,” Heracles said in a low voice. “For the time will come that you will pay for your treachery.” A grim smile crossed his face. There was a ship bound for Mauretania leaving in the morning. It was time to visit some old friends.
Chapter II: Calm after the Storm
Vexilation Garrison of Legio XX, Cohort III, Lugdunum, Gaul
The sun shown over the hills; the city of Lugdunum was slowly waking up to the start of the new day. Artorius stood on the small balcony, stretched his arms overhead and breathed deeply. The cool breeze felt pleasant and invigorating and he enjoyed the view from up there. The glow of the sun as it cast its light on the forum in the distance was a far better sight than the view from his barracks back in Cologne, where all you saw was another barracks block across from you.
The Third Cohort had been garrisoned at Lugdunum ever since the end of the Sacrovir Revolt. Though such postings were not unusual, it was the first for Artorius in his six years with the legions.
Six years, he thought to himself. Has it really been that long? Of course six years paled in comparison to the lengths that some of his fellow soldiers had been serving. Master Centurion Calvinus, the Legion’s Primus Pilus, had been in the army for twenty-seven years; four years longer than Artorius had been alive. The thought was a little overwhelming, especially with everything that had happened to him thus far in his young career. He was a veteran of many savage battles and brutal campaigns and had been decorated three times for valor or meritorious service. Everyday citizens could never comprehend the magnitude of experience possessed by even the youngest of legionaries. Contrary to popular belief, most Roman men did not join the legions upon reaching the age of maturity. Rome’s total combined military force, to include legionaries, auxilia, and urban cohorts, numbered roughly three hundred thousand men under arms. Of these less than half, maybe one hundred and twenty-five thousand, were legionaries; a miniscule percentage of an empire’s population that numbered upwards of seventy million souls.