“Well, there is a sight one doesn’t forget anytime soon,” Decimus observed.
“You got that right,” Magnus concurred. “Artorius, you are one cruel bastard. Whatever inspired you to plant that bastard right on top of an ant hill?”
“When I stumbled across them in the dark, and they bit the crap out of me,” the sergeant replied, eyes still gazing forward, arms folded.
“Always the practical one,” Carbo said, his face even more flushed than usual.
In relatively short order, the crucifixions were completed. The loud cries of anguish had given away to a constant drone of groans, curses, and barbaric prayers.
Macro then turned to Statorius and gave one final order. “Break their legs. Let us be certain that no one is able to rescue these pathetic excuses for men.” Statorius nodded and waved several men forward. With pickaxes and stones, they proceeded to break the legs of the prisoners. This, in turn, elicited fresh cries of agony and pain, which soon died down as the soldiers finished their grim task.
“Alright, let’s get the hell out of here,” Macro directed. “Second Century…fall in!”
As they marched away from the dying prisoners, Artorius felt a sense of righteous vengeance, as well as feeling sickened by what he had done and witnessed. He would not shirk his duty to Rome, but privately hoped he wouldn’t have to partake in another crucifixion soon.
The arms manufacturing was on schedule, though finding potential recruits was proving to be difficult. Sacrovir sent recruiting parties throughout the nearby region in order to find the most suitable candidates. Secrecy was a must, of course, and he was confining his efforts to the Gallic hierarchy. His intent was to subvert them, and they, in turn, would bring their people into the fold of rebellion. A number of desperate men, debtors and thieves mostly, had gotten wind of Sacrovir’s intents and mustered to his calling.
He walked through the ranks of the few hundred who had shown up. They were a sorry lot, most of them. However, Sacrovir figured with suitable arms and training, they would prove their worth. Besides, they were nothing more than a means to an end for him. For Sacrovir, it was only partially about liberating Gaul from Roman rule; for him it was personal. As he passed by some of the men who would later fight and die for him, he saw one that made him pause.
Sacrovir looked him up and down. The man was better groomed than the others, his face and clothes well-kept and clean, his beard cut short.
“You’re a Greek, aren’t you?” he asked the man.
“My name is Heracles of Sparta.”
“Sparta?” Sacrovir asked, raising an eyebrow. “You claim heritage to a nation that no longer exists.”
“It exists in the hearts of all true lovers of freedom, those who would gladly die to be rid of this yoke of Roman tyranny. You will find that I am a warrior worthy of Sparta.” Heracles’ face was hard, his eyes cold. He spoke very eloquently, his grammar and speech impeccable.
“Indebted to the Romans are you?”
“Not anymore,” came the reply. “The Romans took my land, my home, and everything I loved, when I failed to make good on a debt. Unfortunately, it was to the Roman governor who seized my home as payment. When I tried to resist, I was sold into slavery, as were my wife and children. I was first a gladiator, where I honed my fighting skills. When it was discovered that I could read and write, I was then sold to the house of a wealthy family, to educate their children. I escaped only recently.”
“And what special skills are you bringing to our enterprise?” Sacrovir asked.
“I know the Romans and how they fight,” Heracles replied confidently. “And as a former teacher, I can school your men in how to face the legions. I will teach them in a matter befitting a Spartan!”
“You will, indeed, serve us well,” Sacrovir said warmly. “Walk with me, and we will discuss how you will train these men to become warriors.”
While Sacrovir was welcoming his Greek friend into the fold, two rather haggard-looking men were approaching the compound along the narrow dirt road.
“Is that the place?” Radek asked, gazing at the confusing scene in the distance.
Wagons, horses, and men were milling about, jockeying to try and get through the gates first.
“I think so,” his companion, Ellard, replied.
To call Ellard a friend was a bit of a stretch. Both men escaped a prison caravan that was bound for the sulfur mines in Mauretania and were only together for the time being because they seemed to need each other.
Those pathetic slave drivers had been clumsy at best! It was a simple matter of Ellard distracting one of the guards long enough for Radek to strangle him with a bit of rope that bound their cage together. Only they had escaped; the others either being recaptured or killed.
As they walked down the path leading to Sacrovir’s compound, Ellard contemplated how he had come to this; actually considering fighting in a madman’s rebellion against the most fearsome army the world had ever known. He had been a simple gardener for a Roman magistrate most of his life. His master had treated him well, though Ellard had often stolen coin and food from the senile old man. He also had a knack for picking fights with the other servants, whom he used to intimidate into helping him steal. Ellard had expected to be freed upon his master’s death. Nothing of this was mentioned in the will. He was returned to the slave market. There his volatile temper would again prove to be his undoing. After a severe flogging for accosting the site overseer, Ellard was sold to a man from Mauretania looking for strong labor. It was on the caravan, in a cage, Ellard met Radek. His recent companion spoke little about himself, though from what Ellard was able to discern the man had a bitter disposition and unhappy past. The only thing he ever said regarding this was that he had not been born a slave, leading Ellard to assume he was a criminal of some sort who had been sold into slavery.
Ellard was not a bad man, at least not by his own estimation. All he desired was to live free. Though what he would do with his freedom, he had no idea. He knew that his temper and lack of judgment had caused many of the trials he had faced in life, and he wondered if his judgment would fail him again in this venture. His hair had grown long and unkempt following his sale back into slavery, and he no longer shaved his face. His constitution was sound, though lack of food had taken its toll on him over the past week. Since fleeing from the slave caravan, they had been on the run. The reward for an escaped slave was more than enough to convince the two men to lay low. It was in a small back alley in Lugdunum that Radek met one of his ‘associates’, who informed them of Sacrovir’s bloody plans.
“Hard to believe this man is building an army to fight Rome,” Ellard remarked.
“Believe it,” Radek replied curtly. “And where there’s fighting, there’s bound to be plenty of coin and plunder.”
Ellard could not fault Radek for being driven by want of money. He knew if he was going to have any chance at a new life, he, too, would need money, and lots of it. Certainly Sacrovir would pay a stipend upfront, with more to follow once the Roman garrisons were destroyed.
As the Second Century was making its camp for the night, Centurion Proculus rode up on his horse. The cohort commander gave a smirk when he found his subordinate centurion. Macro had removed his armor and was furiously swinging a pickaxe to break up the thick clay in the surrounding ditch. Several legionaries were working beside him with pickaxes and baskets to scoop away the debris.
“Macro, what are you doing?” he asked as soon as he dismounted his horse.
Macro looked up and smiled. He posted the pickaxe at the top of the ditch and used it to pull himself out. “My arms are as good as any,” he replied nonchalantly. “Besides, it does the men good to see their officers get dirty right along with them.” As a point of emphasis, he pointed past Proculus to where Camillus and Statorius were planting palisade stakes with a section of legionaries.