“Ignorant bitch,” the woman swore at her. “Think yourself lucky that you still live!” Erin wanted to curse the woman and scream aloud that with her husband slain all that mattered inside of her died with him. Instead all she could do was cry as despair consumed her. Her right eye was swollen almost completely shut and the stream of blood on her scalp had clotted and matted in her hair. She was living a nightmare and she silently prayed to any gods who would listen that she would wake up from it.
Heracles sat quietly in his quarters drinking warm ale while Radek stood patiently behind him. He knew by the sounds of commotion coming from the market and the slight smell of smoke that his plan had had its intended effect. Provided there were some dead legionaries, the slaves would have done their part. There came three sharp raps at the door, followed by two longer ones. He nodded to Radek, who turned and limped to the door.
“It’s them,” he said in a low voice as he peeked through a pin hole in the door. Heracles raised a hand, signaling him to let the men in. Three men rushed in, their faces flushed and near panic.
“Damn it man, how long did you plan on leaving us out there!” one said, exacerbated. Heracles continued to drink his ale, ignoring the man’s remarks. Radek stepped over and backhanded the thug across the mouth.
“You will not speak to the master in such a tone,” he hissed, his hand on the hilt of his cleaver. The three men immediately stepped back from the half-mad creature.
“I hear commotion in the streets,” Heracles observed, snapping his fingers as a servant brought him a plate of figs. “I take it then that your mission was a success.”
“Not as such,” the first thug replied. “We burned the slave pens, just as you asked, and we got some legionaries trapped in an alley. Thing is…”
“Those bastards aren’t human!” one of his companions interrupted. “They tore through that lot of slaves like a hot iron through pig fat!”
“No matter,” Heracles replied casually. “We can replace slaughtered slaves easily enough. I take it there is more to report?” The three men all lowered their heads.
“Your slave that you sent to lure the Romans into the trap,” the first man said.
“Yes?” Heracles prompted when the thug did not immediately continue.
“Thing is…the Romans got him. He didn’t run off like you told him and one of those damn legionaries skewered him through the thigh with a javelin. Well the urban cohort shows up before we could carry him off or finish him. The Romans took him alive, sir.”
“I see,” Heracles replied as he let out a bored sigh. “They will torture him, no doubt. Lucky for us he knows so little. What a pity that I cannot seem to find slaves who do exactly as they are told.” The servant behind him shifted nervously. The Greek waved the men off and they quickly started for the back door. He sat and contemplated for a while, his fingers folder in front of his face and his eyes closed.
“Radek, my good man, I think we shall need to demonstrate to all what happens to those who cannot follow my orders.” Radek’s face grew into a smile of broken and rotting teeth.
The slave was bound hanging by his outstretched limbs, his mangled leg causing him immeasurable pain. His breath was coming rapidly and he reeked of urine and sweat. Macro toyed with the dagger in his hand as he paced back and forth. The slave let out a slight whimper as the Centurion strode over and knelt beside him.
“Does this hurt?” Macro asked as he touched the exposed and splintered bone with the edge of his dagger. The slave let out a weak cry, his voice cracking from his parched throat. “I know it does. Just tell us who you belong to and I promise it will all be over.” When the slave did not reply, Macro’s face twisted in anger. He brought the dagger down in a hard stab into the bone. This elicited a series of fresh cries of anguish from the stricken man.
“I’ll talk! I’ll talk!” he shouted pitifully. Macro quickly withdrew the dagger as the slave passed out.
“Wake him,” the Centurion ordered. A legionary took his water bladder and poured it onto the man’s face. He woke up sputtering and sobbing.
“My master is a Greek who calls himself Heracles,” he whimpered. “He was a leader of Sacrovir’s rebellion. Please, that is all I know.”
“Are you sure that is all you know?” Macro asked, waving the dagger at the slave.
“Yes, yes! I swear! He is a very private man; he only bought me two weeks ago. Please, no more pain!” Macro nodded to a pair of legionaries, who cut the bonds holding the slave up. He fell with a thud to the floor, his face contorted in agony.
“I said it would be over, and it shall.” With that he snapped his fingers and walked out of the room. The slave’s eyes grew wide as an enraged Artorius grabbed him by the hair with both hands and violently dragged him away, his rage overtaking him.
Out in the hall, Macro came upon Proculus and Vitruvius who both gave a start as they heard the slave screaming for mercy.
“Aren’t you done with him yet?” Proculus asked. Macro nodded.
“We are,” he answered. “Now my boys are executing a little retribution.” Vitruvius gave a snort and shook his head.
“You’re a wicked one, Macro,” he said, a mildly amused grin on his face. “So what did you find out?”
“Not a whole lot,” Macro conceded. “Seems he belongs to a Greek that calls himself Heracles.”
“Well that’s original!” Proculus retorted as all three men walked down the hall and out the door that led to the courtyard. “A Greek that decides to take on the name of a god; bloody brilliant! What will they think of next?”
“He also said that this Greek was one of the leaders of Sacrovir’s rebellion.” Proculus stopped in midstride and turned to face Macro.
“What?” he asked. “I thought all the leaders perished.”
“We only assumed they did,” Vitruvius conjectured, his broad arms folded across his chest. “Truth is we never did excavate the site of Sacrovir’s destroyed manor house. It is possible that some may have escaped the mutual slaughter.” Proculus took a deep breath and exhaled audibly.
“The last thing we need is another damn uprising,” he said. “We must make an example of all who would disrupt the peace of Rome!”
“Already being taken care of,” Macro replied.
Kiana saw the smoke rising from the slave market and it puzzled her. She had come into the city to purchase some fruit and bread; a task normally done by slaves, but one she had insisted on doing herself that day. She had been confined to the manor house for the last few days and she needed an excuse to go out for a while. So great was her desire to be left alone that she had not allowed any of the servants to accompany her.
She was a striking girl, and at fifteen fast approaching womanhood. Of slightly less than average height, her auburn hair reached halfway down her back and contrasted with her fair skin and deep green eyes. Her body was on the slender side, though it hinted at the curves that would come with womanhood.
Her father had sent her and her sister, Tierney, to Lugdunum as a means of escaping the aftermath of the Sacrovir Revolt. What had been a joyous time in her life had become a nightmare. She had at the time been living in Augustodunum where her beloved Farquhar had been studying at the university. Her father had approved greatly of the young man and had sought their betrothal at the earliest opportunity. Sadly Farquhar had been swept away by the poison rhetoric of Sacrovir, like so many of the young nobles. The Noble Youth of Gaul, as Sacrovir had called them, stood no chance against the Roman juggernaut and most were slaughtered during the Battle of Augustodunum. Farquhar had been in the vanguard, encased in plate armor meant to stop the javelin and gladius. Instead, a Roman soldier had smashed through his armor with a pickaxe. Kiana never forgot the sight of her love, his ribs punctured and smashed; his head rendered open with the skull splintered around the gaping hole.