“Arming rebels, I see,” Magnus muttered.
“Consider the loss of such a sentimental heirloom to be the price paid for your arming of a rebel against Rome; be content that we do not demand full retribution.”
Lennox lowered his head, eyes closed tightly. Kiana simply stared in wonder. Artorius’ face broke into a scowl, his eyes darkening. Did this Gaul really think he would return the very weapon that his son had used against him? He should have considered himself lucky that Artorius did not run him through with his sword, or better yet crucify him for his crimes! Lennox continued to clutch at his son’s shoulder. He was a broken man; even crucifixion would be better than the torment of seeing his dead son.
“Death would come as a relief,” he said softly.
Artorius then understood. Lennox cared little for the sword now that his son was gone. And yet he found he was unmoved by pity. He did feel for the sons who had perished in a war they did not understand, but he blamed and despised their fathers for allowing it to happen.
“And that is why you will live,” he said slowly. “For the loss of your son is the price you have paid for your failure as a father.”
Such a waste, he thought to himself as he and Magnus turned and walked away.
Kavan was desperately searching the prisoner stockades for any sign of his son. He refused to believe that his son was dead. As he walked the perimeter, he searched the faces of the young men who stood forlorn on the other side. Many he recognized, friends of Alasdair. All were visibly shaken, some were openly weeping at their plight and for their friends that they had watched die. It saddened Kavan deeply, for these were not men at all, but overgrown boys. They should have been continuing in their studies, playing sport, flirting with the young girls, and above all, being boys.
Instead, they had been brainwashed into fighting for an ignoble cause. It was a cause that had destroyed an entire generation of Gaul’s nobility. As he continued to walk the perimeter of the stockade he saw a sight that gave him joy. Alasdair stood with his head resting against the bars, his eyes closed, and his face vacant.
“My son!” Kavan cried out as he rushed to him. Alasdair hardly noticed as his father grabbed him through the bars of his makeshift prison. “My son lives!”
“Father?” Alasdair replied weakly. His mind was in shock from the torment and devastation he had witnessed. Farquhar’s brutal slaying sat fresh in his mind. The bitter shame of his having been knocked out of the fight without so much as scratching a single Roman soldier. That his friend had perished while he still lingered shattered his very soul. Suddenly his mind raced back to reality. He saw Kavan’s face beaming at him, his hands clutching his tunic.
“Alasdair, my boy,” Kavan swallowed hard before continuing. “You have suffered much.”
“Farquhar’s dead,” the boy said flatly.
Kavan bit his lip and nodded. “I am sorry, my son. He was a good lad. Come, let us leave this place of death and suffering.” “I am afraid that’s not possible,” a voice behind him answered.
Kavan turned to see a Roman centurion standing with his arms crossed; a concerned yet foreboding expression on his face. “Your son is a prisoner of war. Legate Silius will decide his fate.”
“My son is but a boy. .” Kavan began.
“A boy who fought in open rebellion against Rome!” the centurion interrupted. While Vitruvius felt nothing but loathing and spite towards Sacrovir and his band of beggars and thieves, he could not help but pity the young nobles who had had their impressionable minds warped and corrupted by Sacrovir. He felt a sense of injustice that they had collectively paid the gravest price of any in the rebellion. And that price would only continue to grow, for Silius would demand a heavy ransom to atone for the treachery of those who survived.
The Senate rose to its collective feet as the Emperor entered the hallowed halls. Deliberately, Tiberius took his seat at the head of the Senate. In his lap sat a series of scrolls, whose contents he would unveil soon enough in detail. But the time for that would have to wait. He had a few words of his own to speak to the Senate.
“Senators of Rome,” his voiced boomed in the hall, “I come before you with word of both the beginning, as well as the ending of the revolts in Gaul. It is with great disdain that I consider how you dared to question my judgment on not sending either myself or my son to the front to take command personally. Your accusations are like those of frightened women, not men fit to lead the most powerful Empire the world has ever witnessed.”
A few grumblings could be heard from within.
“This is an outrage, Caesar. .” Gallus started to speak, only to be cut off by Tiberius slamming his hand down on the arm of his chair, his anger rising.
“Do not interrupt me again, Senator Gallus,” he said with ice in his voice. “If an Emperor’s presence is required at the front of every potential trouble, then he would never remain in his capital. But then, perhaps that is what this body wants.” He glared at the Senators coldly; many of them fidgeting in their seats.
“I will decide when it is fitting for me to take command in the field. You forget, noble fathers of Rome, that aside from our good friend Caecina Severus, I have fought in more wars and endured greater battles than most of you put together. Now, here are the official reports from Gaul. Sacrovir and Florus are dead, the rebellion crushed.”
With that he unfurled the first scroll that covered the campaigns against the Belgae. One by one he read through each official report, listing in detail the exploits of individual units who distinguished themselves. Finally, he handed the scrolls to the scribe at his side.
“The honor for this victory belongs with the men who led and fought in this campaign. I recommend that they be formally recognized for their actions. I am leaving the details of such recognition in your care. Deal strictly with the facts when handing out honors and awards; do not allow such honors to become cheap and meaningless. That is all.” He rose and walked past the assembled host of senators and out of the main hall.
“Do you think it wise leaving the awarding of honors to Senate?” Drusus asked once they had left the Senate chamber.
“They will do the right thing,” Tiberius replied, allowing a slight grin. “Otherwise they will gain my displeasure, something they now look to avoid at all cost. They will deal strictly with the dispensation of awards. When a senator has to dole out honors for anyone other than himself, he is apt to hold the honoree to a higher standard than he would for his own actions. I would rather they erred on the side of frugality, rather than see the awards and decorations of Rome’s legions cheapened like the favors of a common street whore.”
Drusus smiled and nodded. His father knew how to deal with the Senate; to put them in their place, yet allowing them to persist in their façade of authority by leaving the awarding of honors in their hands.
It was well after dusk by the time Kiana and Lennox made it back to Augustodunum. Kiana sat in the back of the wagon, her hand never releasing Farquhar’s. His eyes closed and head turned to one side; one might almost believe that he was merely sleeping. It was only when the cart hit a bump and his head rolled to the other side that the terrible wound where his skull had been ruptured glared hideously at her. As they passed through the gates, she noticed Lennox’s wife waiting for them. He stopped the cart and nodded to her. Her subsequent sobs echoed throughout the entire city, mingled with the sounds of other mothers and wives who had been given the sorrowful news of their loved ones’ demise. It angered Kiana that most of the rebel army had survived, yet the noble youths had been unable to run, the armor Sacrovir had encased them in had served as their coffins.