Re: Sons of Mars
The Hour Before Dawn,
ante diem qautrum Kalendas Ivnivs
481 Ab Urbe Conditia
Year of Consuls Spurius Maximus and Lucius Cursor
(272 BCE)
Venusia, Apulia
Italia
*****
The moon had long ago set over the mountains in the north-west and darkness shrouded the slumbering Samnitii town and Roman coloniae. All was silent, and in the east across the grey pallor of the mist-shrouded mountains could be seen the ghostly luminescence that heralded the coming of the sun. Mists had crept up the valleys and hugged the rock-strewn cliffs on which Venusia was built, making it impossible to tell where the earth ceased and a fall began.
Ambraxis stood leaning on the bannister of his vaulted balcony, overlooking the gardens of his manor home outside Venusia. His eyes were fixed to the south, where somewhere beyond those flint hills, leagues distant yet but nearer every sunrise, the army of Helenos of Eprius was marching. He pulled the fur lining of the robe he wore closer about his shoulders; the pre-dawn air was wet and not a little chilly.
The men gathered in the courtyard below him were loading wagons; three wooden carts small enough to be drawn by a pony. Iron-studded strong-boxes fitted with locks were lifted and moved into them, a dozen to each cart if there was one. Once one was full, a dull grey tarp was drawn over the back to conceal its contents. One large man with arms like tree-trunks wiped his sweaty brow once he was finished, then clapped a bald African fellow on the shoulder with a grin.
"Make sure they're covered completely, now, Ibrax," Ambraxis said from the balcony.
"Aye," the large man said, and pulled the lip of the tarp tight on each side. "We should be leaving," he added.
"Valto and his lot haven't come back from the bar yet," The African said.
"Likely as not they won't be, if they haven't by now," Ambraxis offered. "Most likely got in a fight knowing the character of that hovel you all frequent."
Ibrax nodded, and whistled at the other men, motioning for them to get their animals.
Ambraxis took up the cup that sat on the balcony and drank deeply. He looked older than he was; years of hard living in the foothills had carved lines on his tanned face,his smoothly shaven head dry and marked with scars. He was a used to discomfort though, and had made himself wealthy on the suffering of others by carving out a network of mining colonies in the mountains that sold tin and iron ore both to the Romans, and smuggled it to the Graeci, Lucanii, Samnitii, and others. There was as well as the local trade with the tribal chieftans, who were always ready to pay more than their rivals for good metal. But the Republic had proven too forceful on trade regulations and taxation for his liking, and therein was born the resentment he held for the Roman representatives in Venusia and their gang of soldiers.
Ambraxis did not look on greed as a flaw in his personality; truely, what else drove a man besides greed and ambition? His heritage was Greek at any rate,and his family had been in this land for generations before the Romans knew it existed, so why should he feel any remorse for handing them over to destruction? If he could make a tidy profit while doing so, all the better.
He watched as Ibrax and the others donned their round cloaks and now opened the bronze-hinged gate of his compound. The wagons began trundling along the path, they would reach the city gate within a half-hour.
Now all he had to do, was wait for Helenos' agents to arrive.
*****
Thunk, the iron cried as it pierced the beam and a warm river of blood ushered out to greet it.
The man's screams as they hammered the nails into his palms were awful, but nothing Cale had not heard before. He had learned at an early age to block out such unpleasantness as simple distractions---or so he had thought, until after the slaughter at Asculum that plagued his dreams to this day. He watched as Sabucius oversaw the men guiding the hammer, and soon the screams stopped and sturned to a quiet blathering of tears and jumbled phrases half-whispered. There was a nod from the duplicarius and then the heavy center-beam of the cross was pushed to the lip the four-foot hole and five men with strong backs heaved upon the ropes to pull it upright. It made a loud thudding noise as the beam dropped into the hole, and the victim started to scream again from the jarring impact, but found immediately that his breath was short and it hurt to inhale as he hung on the cross.
"He shoudn't take long," Sabucius grunted as he folded his arms. "He was half dead when he got here."
The crucifixion team wiped their foreheads and began to disperse save for the two whose job it was to guard the condemned and ensure he died at length. Poor duty, it was, especially on a market day when the women of the city would be out in full force looking for handsome young Roman soldiers to entice. Cale watched the poor wretch gagging on the cross and pulling himself up every few moments for that painful gasp of air that was the only succor he could find. He had given them information, sure enough, but not enough for the duplicarius' liking. To be honest Cale thought he would have had the man executed regardless of what he told them after their brief fight in the alleyway that morning.
The day was dreary outside, and it was already storming off the coast where bulbous grey clouds were swarming together and making what morning sunlight there was shine down in crimson shafts that made the sea a ruddy colour that boded ill for sailors. After leaving the courtyard, they stood before the Tribune in his library, to give their report of that morning's inquiry with the man who now hung on the cross.
"Ambraxis, you say." The Roman officer stated, as he bent over an unrolled parchment on the broad polished table, a map of Samnium from the mountains to the coast.
"That's right sir," Sabucius replied, uncomfortable around the Tribune despite their long months of being posted together.
"Doesn't suprise me one bit, of course. But now I suppose we have cause to act."
Iacto, the Tribune's slave aide and scribe, stood nearby as awlays, silently listening to the conversation, and scribbling notes on a tablet now and again, perhaps to remind the officer of what had been said if he were to forget later. Cale did not think that Marcus Valencius was a man who forgot anything, from his reputation and demeanor, however. As for himself, he stood quietly nearby as well, waiting to answer if he was called on, but otherwise an observer only.
"Take a patrol of Samnitii infantry to the man's residence. Search the estate, and question his servants. Apprehend any who oppose you."
"Your Honor," Cale interjected, and almost regretted doing so immediately.
"Speak," Marcus ordered, standing fully upright and watching the Etruscan intently. "If you wish to speak, speak. But make it something worthwhile."
Cale swallowed, moving to the table. "Your Honor, I don't think over-running the man's manor is the best course of action."
"Because?"
"If he's behind a group of traitors, it would only serve to make the others more cautious. Make them go to ground before we know who they are."
"Hmm," Marcus said, and put his hand to his chin in thought. "And you would do what?"
"Try to infiltrate their group, gain their trust. Learn who is involved, and then kill them one by one. Besdies, if you act against Ambraxis, you risk further alienating the Greeks of the city."
"You are guilesome, Valens. A regular politician." Marcus Valencius smiled. "But whom do I send? Not you, you are on my presonal guard."
"I'll go," Sabucius offered.
"No, it can't be him," Cale responded. "He is too well known in the city. It must be me, sir. No one knows who I am , yet. I know of another who can go with me."
"Your words make sense, I'll agree. It would also give me time to begin coordinating the city's defenses." Turning to his slave, he began, "Iacto, take note. The Duplicarius Sabucius will be in charge of fortifying the city perimeter. I want all of the gates sealed except for the harbor entrance, and palisades put up guarding the quays. Have the native infantry begin collecting tallies of all civilians within the walls, and bringing in stores from the countryside. Comission javelins and stones, arrows and oil from the workshops in town, and send a message to the Senate requesting aid immediately. Lucius Cornelius and a Praetorian legion should arrive before the season is out, but we cannot take chances."
"I'll begin immediately, sir," Sabucius said, offering a salute and turning to leave.
"You too, Valens," The Tribune ordered.
Once they were gone, Marcus went back to the table and took up the parchment that he had concealed underneath the map. He scanned its contents again, and almost cursed himself for writing it. It had been drafted as an appeal to Helenos, a letter offering the surrender of the city and his men as hostages if he would be allowed to travel back to Rome. His plan was to send it out that night by courier, and he hoped it would reach the Epirote camp by two days at the latest.
He ripped the parchment into small pieces, and threw them on the floor.
*****
"Apollo's struck you mad," Folco announced.
They were walking along a narrow alleyway of mud and filth that passed for a thoroughfare in the compact, crowded city, their hob-nailed caligae sandles thick with mud from the rain that had lashed the mountains throughout the day since late morning. Now that the sun was setting, the skies had cleared, and a number of stars had begun to appear form behind streaks of raincloud that lingered in the darkened heavens. They wore only their long, sleeveless tunics and belts with little gear and a thick round paenula cloak with a deep cowl. Cale had his gladius hanging at his side and a puggio slid into his belt at the small of his back, while Folco carried a sheath of short javelins over his shoulder and had a falcata in a baldric on his hip. Their appearance marked them as fighting men, to be certain, but not soldiers, and certainly not Roman auxilliaries.
"And me with you, for allowing you to get me involved in this," the Samnitii mused, more to himself than his companion.
Cale drew up his hood as they crossed a narrow side-way where water was gushing from a gutter above them, and droplets were falling from shingles all around. Folco cursed as he stepped into a deep puddle and the cold water reached to his shin, and then rushed to catch up with the Etruscan who had dissappeared around another corner, his walk determined and brisk.
"Did you hear me? I said you're insane," he repeated as he followed.
"Apollo struck me mad years ago," Cale said, glancing back at him. "But regardless, I don't see why you're complaining. Do you realize what sort of reward you'll get when we return? Hell, you might even make Citizen yourself."
"I'm more concerned with the reward Ambraxis' goons will want to give us when they discover our ruse," he grumbled.
"You're such an old woman," Cale laughed. "There's two of us, isn't there? I'm sure you can handle at least one or two of them, old woman," he chided.
"You really think it will be easy, don't you."
"Nothing worthwhile is ever easy."
"And you're a philosopher now, to boot," the Iberian groaned in response.
The man Sabucius had crucified had told them everything he knew concerning the plot to put Venusia into the hands of the Greeks. The land-owner Ambraxis had made common cause with Helenos, he told them, and had been recruiting native Greeks and discontented Italics to form a core of conspirators to open the city gates for the prince's army once it laid siege. One such conspirator was a man called Argus, who had been a mercenary for six years in Sicily, and only recently settled down in Venusia to become a slave trader. He was a leader amongst the plotters, so they were told, and could be found at his market in the harbor ward of the town, a neighborhood rife with filth and the stench of fish, tar, and disease.
"What makes you think they'll even speak with us?" Folco continued, still disgruntled over his sandal and in a sour mood beforehand anyway.
"By now they know well that several of their men are dead. They are short-handed, and have little time before their plot must come to fruition. They'll take us in, mark my words."
Argus's slave market was a collection of flimsy stalls and pens wedged between long warehouses run by two merchants from Corisca. The stench of the pens was so foul that even the denizens of the wharves avoided it, and his slaves were so pitiful that he had not turned a profit in nearly three years. The marketplace was bustling with the noise of economy, and the cacophony of sound from the busy saws and hammers of the men constructing the defensive palisades was everywhere, coupled with the normal clatter of the shouts and haranguing in at least four languages that they could clearly discern. A bulky blonde-haired Gaul was standing at the entrance to the pens, a heavy cudgel hooked on his belt, studded with shards of bone. He cast them a wary look as he saw them come near and blew snot out of his nose with one finger.
"Where is your master?" Cale asked.
The Gaul jerked his head to the side, indicating the shack that that was built propped against the Coriscan warehouse.
"Stay here," Cale told Folco. "If something goes wrong..."
"You don't need to say it, I'll keep watch."
He clapped the Samnitii on the shoulder before walking into the filthy marketplace, and he could feel the Gaul’s eyes riding his back all the way.
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Re: Sons of Mars
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