Artorius walked over to where a large boar was being slowly rotated on a spit. A gruff, shirtless Batavi was cutting off strips of cooked meat. Artorius found that he was hungry and so decided to sample some of the local cuisine. The meat was hot and juicy, and nearly burned his hand. Still, once he was able to take a bite he was quite impressed with the flavor; so much so that he found himself going back for more. He found Magnus ravenously tearing into a large hunk of roast boar.
Artorius laughed and sat down beside him. “Hungry, old friend?” Magnus took a minute to chew the huge mouthful he had taken, and then washed it down with some warm ale.
“Are you kidding? I love this stuff! I grew up on it,” he replied.
Artorius raised an eyebrow at him.
Magnus rolled his eyes and ran his hand through his blonde hair. “Come on, Artorius,” he remarked, “you know my roots are not Latin. My family came from a place even further north than here. It was my grandfather who won us the franchise of Roman citizenship. If you think about it, I’m closer related to these people than I am my own countrymen. I thought you knew.” “I knew you had less than Latin roots, but then again who doesn’t, anymore?” Artorius replied. He then thought for a few seconds. “No, in the five years we’ve been friends, I don’t think you have ever told me about your lineage. Though Decimus did mention your grandfather, Mad Olaf.”
“He is quite mad,” Magnus replied matter-of-factly. “You see, Olaf came south from the northlands, seeking a better life for his family. Though the way he tells it he wanted to fight while getting paid for it! My father had not been born yet. He enlisted as a Roman auxiliary, served out his twenty-five years, and won us citizenship. Campaigned all over the place; this was unusual for an auxiliary. Oddly enough, once he became a Roman, he returned north with my grandmother and two of my uncles, who were still children. My dad was a man by this time, and he elected to remain within the Empire. He moved to Ostia, where my siblings and I were born. He gave us all Nordic names, keeping our link to the old country. Though, in my case, he spelled my name in the Roman fashion, rather than the Norseman version, Mahgnus. As for Olaf, he became a minor overlord of a sizeable chunk of land. Seems Roman coin is a valuable commodity even outside the Empire. Most people who meet him think he is completely insane; however, if one gets to know him they will find that his mind is sharper than a gladius.”
As Magnus rattled on his dissertation on his family history, Artorius felt a soft hand touching the back of his neck. “Uh, hello!” he blurted. The soft hand belonged to a tall, shapely Batavi woman bearing a large tankard of ale. “Would you like some ale, sir?” she asked huskily in a thickly accented voice.
“Sure,” Artorius replied. “And a few other things,” he said under his breath.
He did not mean for her to hear, but she winked at him as she handed him the tankard. She then ran her fingers up the back of his hair and walked away.
“She’s a foot taller than you,” Magnus leered at him. “Aren’t you afraid?”
“Maybe a little bit.” Artorius almost choked on his ale as his friend roared with laughter and pounded his back.
Valens then came running over to the group. He appeared disheveled and out of breath.
“Magnus, you were right!” he said as he kneeled down and placed a hand on his shoulder.
“Right about what?” Magnus asked.
Valens grinned from ear to ear. “These women aren’t hairy at all. In fact, that rather tall and curvaceous blonde doesn’t have hair anywhere except her head!” Artorius looked into the fire, vainly trying to suppress his laughter.
Magnus raised an eyebrow at his friend’s assessment. “So you left her all by herself just to come and tell us this?” Valens stared off into space for a second and then nodded enthusiastically. “Uh huh,” he replied. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen such physical beauty.” “Well, you’d better get back to it before someone else discovers it!” Artorius blurted out through his constant chuckling.
Valens’ eyes grew wide, he sprung to his feet and sprinted away, bumping into the Batavian goat cook. “Sorry,” Valens stammered as he held his hands up in resignation.
The Batavian just shook his head and went back to checking the boar spit.
On the outskirts of the celebration, Macro and Halmar walked slowly along the edge of the darkness. The centurion noted trepidation in the Batavi chief’s demeanor. Halmar was pacing, his hands clasped behind his back.
“I am, indeed, glad for the presence of Roman soldiers in our lands,” he said at last. “I have a message that I wish to send to the governor in Germania Inferior.”
“What message?” Macro asked.
“A warning,” Halmar said as he stopped and faced the centurion. “My people are very much attuned to events outside of our lands. Events are stirring south in Gaul.”
Macro waved his hand dismissively. “There always are. There are many who still pine for the days before Caesar’s conquests. Such minor subversions are nothing new.” “That may be,” Halmar persisted, “however, this is something different. Two of my agents have already been killed trying to glean information from certain dark corners of the province, and a third barely escaped with his life. He couldn’t locate the leaders of this new threat, but he suspects they are within the Gallic hierarchy. A rebellion in Gaul would greatly hamper my people’s trade, so any potential insurrections must be put down.”
“If there is dangerous subversion in Gaul, we will find and crush it,” Macro asserted.
Halmar gave a half smile and nodded. “Of that I have no doubt, but be careful with who you ally yourself. My instincts tell me Rome is about to be betrayed.”
Chapter VI: Traitors and Thieves
Heracles quickly proved his worth. He had made it a lifelong study learning how the Roman Army operated and acted tactically. He knew their formations and how they would employ their troops against the rebels. With this knowledge he started to train a cadre of the more intelligent gladiators in how to combat the Roman war machine. They would fight well, though most of the scum of Sacrovir’s army would be little more than sheep to be led to the slaughter. That was fine with Heracles. He used his powers of persuasion and motivation to tell them stories of Sparta, and how they would follow in their glorious footsteps. Inside, he knew these men were anything but Spartans. They were cowards, mostly. Yet they were also desperate, which made them useful. They would fight the Romans, if only so they did not have to run in fear anymore.
Sacrovir was equally pleased with the results from his arms makers. Knowledge of Roman tactics would not be enough. He had quite an unorthodox plan to deal with them, a plan that Heracles had helped him devise. His smiths were turning out breastplates and helmets, greaves, arm guards, and gauntlets. He intended to encase his strongest fighters in hardened metal armor; armor that would withstand a Roman javelin storm and render their short stabbing swords useless. Such troops would scatter the massed legionary formations. As he sat contemplating, a lookout called out from the gate.
“Rider approaching; it’s General Florus, sir!” Sacrovir snorted at how Florus had taken to calling himself ‘General.’ He shrugged it off.
Florus was becoming a pompous ass. However, he was one of the keys to the rebellion’s potential success. He had money, lots of money, and a profound influence over numerous tribal chiefs and elders within the province. He was of the Treveri, which supplied the Romans with a large number of their cavalry. Apparently, he got a hold of the ear of Julius Indus, the regimental commander. An entire regiment of cavalry would complement his forces nicely.
Sacrovir strode over to where Florus was dismounting his horse near the main gate. He shook his head as he looked at his fellow conspirator. Florus was dressed in Greek military garb from head to foot, complete with a massive plume on his helm and a breastplate that gleamed in the sun.