“I would wager that he is the owner of this estate,” Maurus reported as he had pieced together what information her could figure. “And I think they would be his children and wife, more than likely.”
“Looks like he was forced to watch them slaughtered before they set him on fire,” Gaius concluded.
“Why do you say that?” Maurus asked.
Gaius just glanced back at him, “Why else take the time to set this up if they were simply to kill him first.”
“Then who could have done this?” Maurus pondered.
Gaius pulled his dagger out from his belt and knelt down behind the burnt man. He carefully cut his bond; thankfully, the man’s body remained knelling. Gaius then proceeded to cut a ring that was attached to one of his fingers.
When the bone snapped, Gaius wiggled the ring free. It was solid gold and engraved.
“Strange, you would think the ring would have melted when this poor fool was set ablaze,” Maurus commented.
“That is because it was placed on his hand after he was killed, and the fires died away,” Gaius had realized.
“Why would they do that? The things got to be worth some money, and everything else of value is gone, as far as we can tell.”
“Because, they wanted us to know who he was,” Gaius pointed out as he stood back to his feet, examine the ring more carefully — seeing that it was inscribed.
“Decima Felix Titus,” Gaius read.
“Titus,” Maurus’ eyes widen. “He was a gladiator promoter. He ran one of the finest schools in all of Rome. I’ve seen a few of his games. Last years’ Games of Jupiter, wow! What a show,” Maurus commented as the name was quite familiar to him.
Gaius pocked the ring as he turned to face Maurus.
“I want all the bodies to be burnt and giving proper burial rights, slaves included.”
“Do we really have the time for that?” Maurus asked, as he clearly wasn’t looking forward to the grim work.
“Do as I have ordered,” Gaius replied as he turned, looking around the compound a moment longer before he decided on his course.
“Alright lads, you heard the Centurion, on with it,” Maurus spoke to men, once he realized that Gaius was continuing his own investigation.
Gaius pulled a wooden beam out from the doorway that led down into what he assumed was the holding pen for the men who had committed the murder of Titus and his family. He was in the rear of the compound, near an area that was surrounded by a large iron fence and several smaller buildings, each of which was still standing, undamaged by the fires. A few more bodies lied before Gaius’ path, each of them guards he assumed, their weapons and armor stripped from their corpse.
Gaius walked down a set of stairs, heading into what looked to be a kitchen and holding pins for animals and men. The stench below was horrible, nearly causing him to wish he hadn’t decided to venture further. Blood was splattered on the ground; more men must have died during the escape, but their bodies not left behind for whatever reason.
Food that had been cooking had boiled over in a large copper pot, some kind of terrible porridge, brown with unidentifiable cuts of beef and other mixings.
Soon he found what he was expecting, several dozen cells, each with their heavy wooden doors pulled open. Again, there were more signs of blood as some of the men: slaves of another sort died trying to escape. Inside were stray and dirty stained beds, with a bucket for shit and piss in the corner. The walls were layered with scratching, piled on top of one another for decades, written by the various men kept imprisoned within the walls.
Later, Gaius left the cells and the kitchen area and ventured through the training yard. There were a few dozen timber post and human-sized mannequins placed within the muddied sand covered courtyard. Each wood figure was horribly scared with repeated sword strikes, training designed to hone a man’s skill with the sword, something Gaius was all too familiar with.
Another building stood across the yard — its doors had been ripped clear off the hinges. A couple more bodies lay outside and within. These men looked as if they had been beaten to death with bare hands, as their faces and skulls had been caved in, reducing their flesh to a bloody pulp; and once again, these men like those Gaius already found, lie naked, the clothes on their backs and weapons in hand taken from their lifeless bodies.
Inside the small, structures were several tables and racks, each of which would have been filled with armor and weapons. Now, however, the room was bare of even the smallest of scraps, save for one object, which had been left behind, resting on the center table, facing the door, as if it meant to greet anyone who walked inside.
Gaius moved closer to the helmet, half expecting there to be a head still inside it, or at least, for someone to leap out from the shadows and attack. Even so, like everywhere else, there were no signs of life.
Gaius knelt down and stared long and hard at the helmet. He knew it was an old fashioned Greek style, Spartan to be exact. It was cast of bronze, which had been polished to a perfect shine — its deep dark holes where eyes would have been, staring unblinking. A bright red featured crest rose from the top of the helmet, ending in a long tail that was carefully spread across the length of the table.
For a moment, Gaius did not act indifferent to the helmet. But then, it hit him in a flash of memory. The uncommon headpiece of the fearsome Spartan warriors was worn by one man in the arena — a man he had only seen once in his life. And with that memory, the fear, the bloodlust and rage of him flooding through Gaius’ mind, resurfacing haunting feelings he wished would have remained buried within the depths of his conscience.
“Calfax…” Gaius uttered to himself, as if saying the man’s name would suddenly make him appear.
It was then that Gaius realized the helmet was left behind on purpose, and placed on this spot for a reason. It was a sign — a warning to all Romans whom Calfax was liberated — having broken his bonds that had held him for gods knew how long. And now, he was out there, unrestrained to spread his hatred to any that was unfortunate to cross him. And with the old Spartan champion, he had with him a band of gladiators.
In that moment, the war took on a whole new meaning for Gaius. Hannibal had not just invaded Roman providence and jeopardized the Republic; he inadvertently released a monster upon the Roman people.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Lake Trasimene
Valerius thrust his sword, plunging it deep into the stomach of a Carthaginian soldier who charged him, screaming in his native language like a mad man, consumed with rages. He growled as he clawed at Valerius’ face even as the sword tore into his guts, spilling them out onto the blood-soaked grass. He struggled for a moment as the man’s nails dug under Valerius’ eyes, almost blinding him. The warrior was cursing him that much the veteran could understand, but it did not matter as he pulled upward on his gladius until the blade tore under the man’s rib cage, piercing his heart.
The grip of the dead man loosened as Valerius pushed him to the ground. Quickly, yet again he was forced to defend himself as another man rushed forward.
Even as Valerius drove the tip of his sword through the man’s face, the cries of battle filled his ears, which were logged with sprayed blood that drizzled from head, soaking him in the vial gore. Dozens of his men were dying by the minute, faster than they could kill the enemy. Once again, the Romans were the prey, fallen headlong into another ambush set by Hannibal — the very thought sent chills coursing through the legate’s body.
How could this have happened again?
It was hard to see beyond a few paces, as a thick fog hovered over the shores of Lake Trasimene. It was cold too as the long winter seemed not to want to give way to the warmth of spring. This only served to make the battle harder as the bitter nip of the morning air seeped into Valerius’ old bones, stiffening his reactions and ability to think.