“Who are they?” he asked. The man shook him off, indignant at being grabbed by a complete stranger.
“Who are they, he asks,” the man retorted. “That’s elements of Legio IX, Hispania; here to help put down the rebellion.”
Rebellion? Heracles thought to himself. Of course! He had forgotten that over the last three years numerous Mauritanian and Numidian tribes had become mutinous. Rarely was an empire so large ever fully at peace.
“Seems the Third Legion severely botched things a couple years ago,” the man continued. “Cowardice ran rampant and they got punished by decimation for it. Hispania’s been sending troops to clean up their mess.” With that the man went on his way.
Heracles gave short, mirthless laugh at the mention of decimation. This was the most severe punishment utilized by the Roman army, where one man in ten, regardless of guilt or innocence, was summarily executed. Because of the extreme nature of this punishment, it was almost never used, so the offenses and cowardice committed by Legio III must have been severe indeed!
“If only the legions we faced in Gaul had been so,” he said to himself in a low voice.
It was overcast, which was a blessing for Heracles. Spring rains kept the dust down as the cart made its way along the dirt road that led to the sulfur mines. A wheeled cage was towed behind them; his quarry would need to still give the appearance of being slaves once they were bought. The Greek kept his cloak around him tightly, Sacrovir’s spatha concealed in its folds. His pouch of gold was heavy, though he knew better than to trust his riches to any man while he travelled. The old man at the tavern had promised to keep his room for him, though Heracles knew it would be picked clean before his return.
“Here we are then,” the cart driver said as they gazed upon the depressing sight that was the sulfur mines. There was nothing but barren rock, with few outcroppings of vegetation. Heracles dismounted without a word and walked briskly towards the small group of buildings which housed the slave drivers and the offices of the mine owners. He paid little heed to the row of newly-arrived slaves who were being accounted for by the shift foreman. A pity for them that it was overcast that day; they would not even get a final glimpse of the sun. Heracles found the main office and pushed open the door. A bored clerk was busy writing sales receipts for customers.
“Here to pick up merchandise or dropping off slaves?” he asked without looking up.
“Neither,” Heracles replied. “I’m here to purchase a couple slaves.” The clerk raised his eyes to assess the Greek and gave a short laugh.
“I’m not sure I understand you,” he stated, his eyebrows furrowed. “This is not a place one comes to buy slaves. This is where slaves get dumped off because they are of no use to anyone else.”
“Yes, well there are a couple in particular that I am interested in,” Heracles replied.
“Ah, family members, or lost friends perhaps?”
“You could say that,” Heracles answered, his expression never changing. “Mind if I look at your prisoner rolls for those brought in, oh say around September and October of last year?”
“Sure,” the clerk replied with a shrug. He pointed his thumb over his shoulder to a shelf lined with scrolls. “Have a look over there, if you wish. Just don’t go messing up the order of the books!” Heracles gave a nod and the clerk went back to his work. He grabbed a couple of scrolls and started to read through them. Most of the names were lined through, with the words “deceased” written over them. He gave a mirthless snort at that. Not many survived more than a few months in the hell of those mines. Accidents were common, the sulfur burned the eyes until one went blind, and the very air was a poisonous fume. Indeed even the slave drivers who returned to the surface after their shifts put their lives and their health in great peril by working in such conditions.
Heracles saw one group from the first part of October that gave him pause. There was an asterisk next to many of the names. At the bottom of the page was a note that said “* — Prisoners of war, do not release under any circumstances!” Most of these had long since perished as well, though one name stood out. Radek was not a name that Heracles recognized; however he figured the man must have been one of the debtors and thieves that Sacrovir and Florus had taken into their army. Many of the slaves had only one name listed; family names probably unknown to many.
“I want this one,” Heracles stated, pointing to Radek’s name; the rest of the prisoners of war having perished, quite possibly with some help from their new masters. The clerk laughed and shook his head.
“You can’t have that one,” he said with finality. “If we released a prisoner of war, the Roman governor would cast us down into those mines!”
“Oh I think I can have this one,” Heracles said with an equal air of determination. “Send for the foreman and I will discuss this with him.”
“Fair enough,” the man replied with a shrug. A few minutes later he returned with a rather burly and hairy man who looked as if he had not bathed in weeks. A short whip hung from his left hand.
“Hey, who in the bloody fuck are you, thinking I’m going to hand over a prisoner of war!” he spat with a vile sneer that exposed his blackened teeth.
“Someone willing to make it worth your while,” Heracles replied. He reached into his bag and pulled out a gold piece that he tossed nonchalantly towards the foreman. The coin was worth about seventy-five denarii and the grisly man gave a frown of comprehension while he turned it over in his hand.
“Well I’ll be buggered,” he said. “I wouldn’t give a bottle of piss for any one of those scabs, but if he means that much to you…”
“He means nothing to me,” Heracles corrected in his calm but firm voice. “I’ll give you three gold pieces for the man; plus one more to each of you for keeping your mouths shut. You have never seen me; I have never been here. The prisoner Radek died of a fever on the twenty-second of April. Am I making myself clear?”
“Quite,” the foreman replied. Behind him the clerk licked his lips in anticipation.
“How are your men adjusting to their new accommodations?” Tiberius asked. Sejanus walked beside him through the shaded gardens, keeping a respectful half-step behind the Emperor.
“Very well, Caesar,” he replied. “Our reaction times to crises have improved ten-fold. Morale is high and the men feel more unified in a sense of common purpose.”
“That is good,” the Emperor said, feeling reassured. “And what is this I hear about you sending your Deputy to the east?”
“A mere courtesy visit to the eastern legions,” Sejanus stated. “There have been some grumblings in the east and I felt a direct representative from us would help to quell any misgivings the eastern legates may have.” Tiberius frowned in contemplation.
“I have not heard of any such misgivings,” he said after a few moments of thought.
“Forgive me, Caesar; I did not wish to disturb you with what I am certain is a minor matter,” Sejanus responded quickly.
“Yes, well I’m certain you’ll take care of it,” Tiberius replied, waving his hand dismissively. “You have yet to lead me wrong, my friend, and I trust you more than any.”
“Surely you don’t trust me more than your son,” the Prefect said with mock surprise. The Emperor paused for a moment, took a deep breath, and continued his walk.
“Drusus does his best to serve me,” he said. “However, his judgment is constantly clouded by emotion, particularly his anger towards you. Did you know he came to me just the other day expressing his concerns about the new Praetorian barracks?”
“But surely Caesar, the reorganization of the Guard has been a resounding success!”