Sons of Mars

[Zaknafien]

http://home.online.no/~gubjoerk/eagles4.mp3

This story is going to an AAR, of sorts, but not really. With the work I've been doing on the Romani faction for future builds of EB, I don't have much time to actually play campaigns. This is really then, going to be an excuse for me to write a little of a story I've been wanting to do for awhile, and will contain elements of an AAR as well. It will attempt to follow history to a certain extent, with exceptions made for exciting turns of events that come and a nod to dramatic flair. Critique is welcome, and who knows, maybe if you keep reading you'll see a taste of things to come for the Romani faction in the future.


Venusia, Apulia

May

481 Ab Urbe Conditia
Year of Consuls Spurius Maximus and Lucius Cursor
(272 BCE)

“His honor will see you now,” The slave said, his tone bored with the tedium of daily life on this frontier, complacent with the state of mediocrity. Turning without another word, the slight man disappeared into the adjoining chamber, his sandles clicking on the tiled floor. Cale stood, and, adjusting his tunic to straighten any creases and level his wide leathern belt, shaply turned and followed, snapping to attention as soon as he crossed the threshold of the wide, columned hall wherein his new master sat.

“Cale Valens, sir.” Iacto announced with more force this time, standing to the side of the room, his hands on a tablet marked with names. At the calling of his name, Cale issued a sharp salute, hitting his chest and raising his arm outward in respect, then returned to the most disciplined rigidity he could muster.

The man seated at the desk was poised with perfect posture, his shoulders broad and limbs slender but well muscled. He wore a simple, loose tunic of black and grey, a crimson mantle brooched in gold the only emblem of his rank. Nearby, the shaped lorica musculata of a Roman officer, laced with crimson and studded with iron and silver, hung brightly polished and oiled on a rack. His manner was calm and cool, his eyes steely, but lit with a sort of sagacity. His age was indeterminable, his thick hair dark, but grim face creased with lines of experience and seasoning.

“Be at ease, soldier,” The Tribune Marcus Valencius said calmly, not bothering to look up from the parchments on his cedar desk. Iacto crossed to the desk, and leaned in to hear the Tribune's whispers as he handed him rolled papers for dispatch. After the slave had left the room, he looked up at Cale, and stood. Cale noted the short bladed dagger on the Prefect’s belt, and the easy gait of his steps as he neared to look him over with an appraising eye, a commander’s eye.

“Cale Valens,” he said curiously. “You fought with Publius Decius at Asculum, did you not?”

“I had the honor of being under the Consul’s command, sir, yes.” Cale did not move his eyes, but looked straight ahead, his limbs locked in position.

“As did I.” He stopped walking, and looked out the open windows that overlooked the courtyard of the Roman offices below, where the sounds of men working could be heard. The sunlight was crisp and bright that day, and the Praefectus took in a sharp breath of the cool air. “I was a conturbunalis then,” he reminisced with a hint of longing.

“Personal student of the Consul sir, I know.”

“I see you’ve done your studies, then, soldier. Very good.” He smiled, the kind of smile which made you want to earn his praise. “Now you are here. I said be at ease, Valens.”

Cale went to parade rest, only slightly loosening his muscles, releasing a breath of air.

“Tell me, is it true you slew fourteen Samniti in one battle?”

“I don’t count sir,” Cale replied, meekly. “But that is what they say, yes.”

“You are Etruscan.”

“I am, sir.”

"Family from Veii,"

"Yes, sir."

“Hmm,” was the response.

Cale suddenly felt a movement behind him, the slight brush of air against the hairs on his neck, and ducked to the side just as a short knife swept around where his neck had been. He came up with fury, slamming his palm into the chest of the Samnite who wielded the blade, and brought his right fist in a fast cross into the man’s face, crunching his nose against his calloused knuckles and releasing a spout of blood that sprayed across his white tunic. The Saminte staggered to the smooth tile floor and Cale was within one second of leaping atop the man to crush his throat when the Tribune said, “Hold.”

The Etruscan stopped with a surprising alacrity, and simply glared at the bloody slave who was pulling himself up and holding his broken nose.

“Well done, Cale. You’re hired.”

*****

Minutes later Cale came down the steps of the building and came into the sandy courtyard, a heavy leather satchel and cotton bedroll slung across one shoulder, bulging with packed clothing and sundries of equipment and personal items. Strapped to the side of his pack was the finely engraved scabbard of a gladius, the hilt studded with a silver boss and crafted from polished bone. He flexed the fingers of his right hand, which despite their hard nature still hurt from the brutal punch he had delivered to the Samniti slave moments before. The day was bright, the sky sapphire and scattered with wisps of high clouds. Birds called from lofty heights and he tilted his head to watch them soar for a moment.

Around him, the Roman military colony was a flurry of activity. Established after the Samnite Wars to secure the routes south into Magna Graecia, it was the largest such colony established by Roman veterans and its citizens numbered at some 20,000 former legionaries and their families, all citizens. Founded at the boundary of Samnium, Apulia, and Lucania, on the great road between Tarentum and Samnium, in an uncommonly strong position, was destined as a curb to keep in check the surrounding tribes, and above all to interrupt the communications between the two most powerful enemies of Rome in southern Italia. Layed out in a rough square, the city was defended by stout stockades with foundations of stone and squat towers at close intervals to overwatch the surrounding countryside. The legion camps had sprung up around the city like a field of flowers, with row after row of goat-skin tents being erected in tight order, along with smithies, vendors, mess areas, training grounds, and supply depots. The air was a cacophony of noise of hammers, saws, blacksmith shops, horses, cattle and sheep, men arguing and laughing and talking. A full Praetorian legion with alae was present in the vicinity of the city, some six thousands plus of fighting aged men plus all of the usual camp followers and hangers-on an army drew, not to mention the normal population of Venusia.

“You filthy son of a hairy whore,” came the gruff voice interrupting his thoughts.

Turning, he grimaced a he saw the squat man approaching and recognized him.

“Quintus Sabucius.”

“That’s Duplicarius Principalis Sabucius to you, slave,” Quintus growled. Sabucius was an old hand when it came to soldiering, veteran of a dozen battles as he liked to claim. He was certainly old enough for it to be true at any rate, and his face looked it. He was as hard a man as any though, and their past was one of constant dispute. Sabucius had been the trainer for the first cohort Cale had belonged to as an auxiliary swordsman, years ago, and he had hated the man even then. Now, apparently he had been promoted again, and as he said, wore the short cape and carried the slender bronze rod of a senior non-commissioned officer.

“I am a Citizen now,” Cale hissed back angrily.

“You can dress up a whore in a fine dress and call her a lady but she’s still gutter trash,” Sabucius said, smiling, hands on his wide hips as he got into Cale’s face.

“You insult me,” he replied, his hands curling into fists automatically.

“You’re not as dumb as I thought,” Sabucius joked. Some of his soldiers had stopped their work to approach the two, grinning and whispering to one another, and he thought he could see a few denarii changing hands. It seemed like all the noise of the courtyard had stopped and the entire garrison was focusing on the two men facing one another only. “I want you to understand something,” Sabucius said, getting closer at the urging from his men. “This isn’t Lake Vadimo, and you’re no hero here, slave.”

Cale looked down at the shorter man, his eyes intense.

“Call me a slave again,” he said calmly, “and I’ll kill you.”

Sabucius hesitated, obviously not wanting to test the threat on this day. Licking his dry lips, he stood back, and glared at the men around him.

“What are you dogs doing? Get back to work!” He yelled. “Antonius, if that stockade isn’t completed by nightfall, I’ll skin you myself!” The soldiers dispersed alone and in groups, muttering and joking amongst themselves. Sabucius turned to face Cale, his face set in stone. “I’ll remember this day, Citizen.” And with that he turned and stormed off into the courtyard, barking commands at nearby workers.

Cale watched him walk away for some time, and then stooped to pick up his satchel again, re-adjusting the straps that had come loose.

“You make friends as easily as you break noses, I see,” another voice interrupted while he squatted over his pack, and looking up, he had to raise his hand to keep the sun out of his eyes to see the Samnite slave from earlier looming over him, a crooked grin on his face, his broken nose showing three fresh stitches.

“That man and I have an evil history,” he explained. “Sorry about your nose.”

“It is no great matter, my nose has been broken eight times before. This is just the latest. You throw a good punch.”

“I’ve broken more than eight noses. Yours is just the latest,” he smiled.

The Samnite laughed good-naturedly. “I am called Folco.”

“Cale Valens.” The two shook hands at the forearm, a firm grip from each marking them both as warriors.

"Come on then, let me show you around this place."

[Tamur]

You do a very nice job of making the cultural background very intriguing. Just reading this little bit, I find myself thinking of Veii and the Samnites, slavery and freedom in the middle Republic. The research you've done definitely shows. Great work!

[Zaknafien]

The Lemuria of Maius

481 Ab Urbe Conditia
Year of Consuls Spurius Maximus and Lucius Cursor
(272 BCE)



Venusia, Apulia
Italia

*****

The month Maius was sacred to the gods, and thus was full of their festivals. Around the Ides was the three-day long feriae of the Lemuria, in which Romans would appease the spirits of their household dead, for on the Ides of Maius was the time in which the nether world touched closest to our own plane of existence. The tradition was said to have been founded by Romulus himself, to appease the restless soul of his brother Remus. The head of each household would arise early at midnight and make the sign of mamo fico, walking bearfoot through the house, chanting the phrase, 'Ghosts of my fathers and ancestors, leave me and mine alone,' spiting as he did so and leaving behind beans which the restless spirits would take in exchange for leaving the living members of the home alone. Finally, on the 11th day of the month, sacrifices would be made to Mania, the Mother of the Lares and the goddess of death.

"Mense Maio malae nubent," Marcus Valencius said under his breath with a smirk, noting the common proverb of May weddings and their ill-luck because of the netherworld's influence. Was the wedding of an army and its commander any different? He wondered.

"Sir, did you say something?" The soldier riding alongside him asked.

"Thinking to myself, soldier," Valencius responded sourly. He sat upon a fine white courser as it cantered through the muddy courtyard towards the heavy oaken gates of the villa on the Via Principalis. Beside him rode Iacto upon a brown gelding and his newest personal guard, the Etruscan called Cale, on a black palfrey. With them rode ten men of the escort, soldiers of Rome, with a song on their lips. He did not mind the singing, not really.

The horse-hooves clottered on the cobble stones laid around the gate of the villa only, spattering mud from the courtyard on the men who rushed to heave the heavy doors open for them, and out they rode into the city.

Accepting the task of the mission in Venusia had been the price he had paid for promotion to tribunus laticlavius, or a wearer of the broad stripe, and was a price he had been perfectly willing to pay, a year ago. Now, the doldrums of the assignment and the increasing personal danger had caused him to be bitter, for it. Venusia was in truth a military fortification, not a colonia. Here in the wilds of Lucania he was truely on the fringes of civilization, as far as he considered it. This would be his second year of assignment at the military colony, and he had come to loathe both it and the Lucanians whom he had to deal with almost daily.

Marcus was a fine young Roman officer, though perhaps not as young as he once was. He still sat tall, and proud in his high saddle, the leather of both it and his armor well oiled and polished to a high sheen, the discipline instilled in his youth as a legionary still ingrained in his customs. He was not nobilitas, nor were the lands his family owned large or wealthy. That he, pleb by birth, could rise to broad-stripe Tribune, was an achievement by itself that merited praise, that he did it by the age of thirty-two was even more impressive. He had impressed both his peers and superiors to achieve this position, he knew, and had been appointed, through the Senate, by the request of the Imperator, Publius Cornelius Scipio, himself. And now, he would soon meet his old commander again, for the first time two years.

The Tribunus Marcus Valencius

The streets of the colony they rode through were narrow and muddy, lined on each side with squat clay and timber buildings. The air was full of foetor and decay. There were walls with peeling paint, dark hovels and muddy tenements, narrow ditches alongside the road that served as gutters oozing with slime. Venusia was not large, but was heavily populated. Its many buildings were compacted into a small, congested area built upon a rocky plateau in the foothills, overlooking the forested vales of Basilicata. On the hillsides surrounding the city shepards tended great flocks of sheep.

In the past year though, the situation had become tenuous, at best. The Greek landowners and the native Lucanian farmers and herdsmen were at loggerheads in the Venusia city council. The Greek citizens were in a furor over the conquests of the Pyrrhic armies in the south, and continuously sent envoys to plead to Rome for aid and protection from aggression, whilst the Lucanians preferred détente with the Epirotes, seeking to negotiate rights of trade and passage in return for safety, and had recently become outright hostile to the Roman mission. There had been no less than three attempts on his life in the past four months, and a riot by the Lucanian minority had turned quite ugly at market day last week, requiring the deployment of the city guards after two of his men that had been procuring food were attacked by the crowds. All these problems did not even take into account the Roman citizen colonists, veteran legionaries and their families, most of whom had fought against the Lucanians and Samnites for years.

Their path took them past the very market, and Marcus squinted through the sudden bright sunlight as they passed the open forum on a side avenue, noting the charred ruin of several peddlers’ stalls that had been burned when a fire broke out, still littering the place. He frowned in disgust. In Rome, such disobedience would not be allowed, and the remains would have been cleaned up the very same day. He did not care to look at the city-folk who glared up at them as they rode by, many of them with thinly veiled hatred in their eyes.

They came presently to the slight rise on which was built the columns of the Venusian Council Hall, walled off by slabs of white granite with a high gate of bronze and timber. It was not luxurious, but served its purpose as fortress and assembly hall in one. Outside the walls stood two Lucanian guardsmen, with long pikes and rounded copper helmets with bright red plumes, who issued a curt salute as the Tribune neared and dismounted.

“His Honor, Marcus Valencius, Tribunus Laticlavius!” Iacto shouted, the first words the slave had spoken on their short trip from the Roman villa. Dismounting as well, the Greek took the reins of both his and the Tribune’s horses in one hand. Shortly, the doors of the compound swung slowly inward, and a short, swarthy looking man n a long grey toga and a necklace of gold came out, flanked by guardsmen.

“Marcus, my friend,” He greeted, in Greek.

“Phillipus,” Marcus replied respectably, though he made no move nor removed his own horse-haired helmet.

“I am glad you could come,” the city councilor said, motioning with his hands as he spoke. “The others fought you might be…reluctant…after the unpleasantness last week.”

Marcus frowned. “It takes more than a rabble to intimidate the power of Rome, Phillip, and your opponents on the council would do well to remember that,” He said sternly.

“Yes, of course—that’s why we so value your friendship!” The Greek replied, smiling largely. “Come inside, we have much to discuss. A courier has come this past evening.”

Marcus looked about for a moment, then removed his helmet without undoing the chinstrap, simply sliding it over his head, as a veteran does. Wiping the hair from his brow with one hand, he then breathed sharply in. “Very well,” he said, and with a click of his hobnailed sandles took off after the Greek councilman, into the Venusian compound, followed by Iacto and their horses.

*****

“What do you think they’re talking about?” Folco asked, for the third time, or maybe fourth, Cale didn’t know. They leaned against the white stone that formed the wall around the Venusian city hall, their horses nearby tended by one of the other bodyguards, another Samniti named Fuca with long muscled arms and a shaved pate. The last was keeping a watch on the gate for the return of the Tribune.

“Who cares?” He asked, holding a small block of wood in one hand, and using his short knife to carve into it adroitly.

“Well I do, for one. You should, for another.” Folco seemed to find the workings of politics a fascinating thing, while the Etruscan cared little for the workings of important men that didn’t concern him.

“Life is simple, Folco,” Cale mused, almost to himself, whittling with his knife. “For men like us, that is. We’re told whom to kill and whom to leave alive, and get paid at the end of the month. It’s too easy.”

The Samnitii was not satisfied. “There’s rumors of war again, in the south,” he said, hoping to ignite intrest.

“There are always wars.”

“Not like this one. The Epriotes are said to be ransacking the countryside and pressing thousands of Graeci into their army. They’ll come north, soon, I guarantee it.”

“Let them come, then.” He held up the tiny carving, a small figurine of a soldier with a long spear. Smiling in grim satisfaction, he showed it to Folco.

”And that is?”

“Mars Ultor. The Avenger.”

The look in Cale’s eyes made Folco uncomfortable. He was a fearsome looking man, broad shouldered, chisled muscles looking like more of a greek sculpture than a living man, dark furrowed brows and a smooth shaven head, pricked with several tiny scars. His face was clean shaven, as were those of all Romans he knew, but covered with a perpetual stubble of beard growth despite the hour. The way he carried himself was devoid of any weakness that warriors were trained to look for when appraising an opponent, and his equipment and weapons were superbly cared for. Whomever this man’s enemies were that he prayed for vengeance to be executed on, Folco was certain they would meet that vengeance eventually, and he did not ever want to be counted as one.

Changing the subject, he ventured, “I think the old man likes you—the Tribune, that is. He spoke to you in the courtyard, before we left?”

“He did,” Cale answered, suddenly canting his head as if hearing something the others did not.

“Well, what did he say?”

“Never mind.” He replied, and rested his hand on the pommel of the ivory hilted gladius at his side. “Look sharp, there’s trouble coming.”

*****[/CENTER]

“Twenty thousand men?” Marcus asked again, unsure he heard correctly the first time. He threw back the small cup of wine, and set it back on the table.

“At the least,” The messenger, a tall, lanky Greek fellow said easily, nervous from all the eyes upon him at once.

There was a general murmur of discontent and disbelief that ran through the assembled group of city councilors, some leaning their heads upon the table or others rubbing their brow with worrisome hands. The news was troublesome, to say the least, and potentially disastrous. The messenger had delievered word that the son of Pyrrhus had led several campaigns the past summer against the more troublesome Italic tribes in southern Italia, smashing most, and enslisting the lucky few that submitted in what was tantamount to outright slavery. The Lucanian malcontents in Venusia had approached him, claiming mistreatment at the hands of the Greek and Roman land-owners and asking for assistance in pressing their legal claims—just the sort of excuse a bellicose general needed for war.

“What was his name again?” The Tribune asked.

”Helenos, he is the son of the King,” the messenger said. “He is a fearsome strategist, your honor, they all say.”

“He would be a fool to attack us,” Phillipus said reassuringly.

More murmuring from the group of men, some laughing, others shouting their agreement.

“Phillipus is right.” Marcus announced, standing. He took the cup of wine from the returning servant, and looked into the eyes of the men assembled around the table. “Why should he attack Venusia?”

This drew nods and reflective looks from the men, who seemed bolstered by Marcus’ wise words.

“Because he knows the Senate has voted to attack him,” Came an unexpected voice.

All turned to see the figure who had unbeknownst to them entered the chamber and been watching the exchanges. His name was Ambraxis, and he was as guilesome a man as any that had yet walked the earth. A wealthy land-owner and merchant, Ambraxis owned at least two silver mines and possibly three, though his tax records were suitably shadowy for his purposes. Tall and lithe and of unrecognizable ethnicity, he posed a striking contrast to the resigned councilors in the sparse chamber.

“Ambraxis,” Phillipus said sourly. “What idiocy do you speak?”

“Idiocy or not, I’ve heard that the son of Pyrrhus despises the Romans—I can’t say I blame him.”

Marcus Valencius sighed. “We have no time for your goadings, Ambraxis. Speak your mind if you have something useful to share. If not, show yourself the doorway.”

“Of course, your honor,” Ambraxis replied. “I have sources in Taras that say Helenos will march north soon. Is that useful enough for you?”

Marcus’ reply was cut short, as Iacto entered the room and leaned to whisper into his master’s ear. The Tribune stood abruptly, and straightened his tunic, reaching out as the greek slave handed him his crimson cloak and secured the brooch about his shoulders.

“We will continue this debate tomorrow,” he said, as others in the room were rising and beginning to talk. He walked with a purpose out of the room, Iacto following quickly behind him.

*****

The crowd had appeared and surrounded them before they could do anything about it, with only Cale having heard their approach despite there being over a dozen men in the group, armed with clubs and rocks, perhaps a knife or two glinting in the sunlight. They were shouting, though he could not understand what they said for he did not speak their language.

One large man, the apparent leader of the unruly crowd, was enegetically shaking his fist and shouting back to his companions. Rearing back, he suddenly threw a rock into the guardsmen, sending them moving away as it hit the wall of the Venusian compound.

"They want Roman blood," Folco shouted, backing away from the crowd, though they were literally up against a wall. "They blame you for the wars in the south," he said.

"Me? Don't you mean, us?" Cale shot an angry look.

"Yes, us," he grimaced.

Another rock sailed through the air, this one hitting a Lucanian guardsman on the shoulder causing a grunt of pain.

"I'm putting a stop to this," Cale said, and calmly drew his gladius.

"No," Folco argued, and then there was the clatter of horse hooves from within the gated compound and the great doors were swung open with a brassy screech.

Marcus Valencius was astride his white horse, his plumed helmet bobbing as he rode, followed by six Roman soldiers with spears and shields. His own short sword was out, polished and glinting in the afternoon sunlight, and he was shouting orders to the men in their own tongue. The Roman soldiers formed a wall of shields in front of the gate and began advancing, pressing the crowd back slowly as more rocks sailed over their heads, a few thumping hollowly against their round shields.

"Rally on me!" The Tribune shouted to his own men, motioning for them with his sword. "Calmly now, boys, calmly," he spoke, as if speaking to a skittish horse.

The crowd surged forward as a wave upon a stormy coast, and was broken as surely as water upon the rocks on the wall of shield-bearers before the gates. One man flung himself fully over the shield-wall and crashed into the cobbles of the street behind them, where he was quickly apprehended by two soldiers and drug away by his short tunic. The Roman guardsmen were pressing forward with their shields and using their spears as staves, here slamming a shield-boss into one rioter's face, and there grapping with another and using the shield as a device to push them back.

The bodyguard contingent were ahorse now, all of them, and the Tribune gave the command to ride home. A short horn-blast was issued by one of the lead bodyguards, and the column of riders set off into the streets, the crowd melting away before them, fearful of the horse-hooves.

Cale looked back and saw an empty Roman helmet rolling down the street, a large dent in the side...

[Zaknafien]

ante diem quartum Kalendas Ivnivs

481 Ab Urbe Conditia
Year of Consuls Spurius Maximus and Lucius Cursor
(272 BCE)

Venusia, Apulia
Italia

*****

“Attack!” Sabucius shouted, rapping his bronze rod against the stool sitting before him loudly as Cale watched from a recess nearby, leaning against a stone column and studying the soldiers’ moves with intrest.

About the tall chamber, the soldiers responded. Wicker shields were pressed forward, wooden gladii lunged from above them, stabbing downward toward their sparring partners who caught the blades on their own heavy scutum, twice the weight of a regular one, and stepped backward, responding with counter-thrusts of their own, the maple gladii also heavier than their real life counterparts. It was a dance, complete with the complicated movements that came with such an engagement. Each soldier had to master both foot-work and reflexes, and be conscious both of his sword arm and his shield, and that of the men beside him. The Roman way of warfare was precise and ordered, not the chaotic cacophony of combat idealized by the tribes of Gaul or Hispania, or even Carthage, to a lesser extent. The consular armies made killing a job, nothing more, their weapons simply a tool to accomplish the work like a laborer's mallet or saw-blade. Each soldier knew his position in the battle-line, which in the consular armies was made up of three primary ranks of troops, augmented by auxiliaries and misslers who filled the gaps and guarded the wings.

The gladius was short, wide, and sharpened to a precise edge, around two feet in length from pommel to tip. It had been lifted from the swords used by the Celtiberians, and widely adopted by the Republican military for its easy production from the soft, carbonated iron that was plentiful, its ease of use, and the deadly wounds it produced with minimal effort. Their scuta were heavy and ovalar, made of strips of overlapping bentwood and leather, and reinforced with iron strips with a bronze or copper boss in the center, most covered in a simple coat of dun-colored paint with no decoration or ornament.

“Good! Faster now. Attack!” the duplicarius repeated, and so they did, running through the movements again, for the tenth time so far. It was tedious work, but far easier to bare than the lashes if you were to fall out of training before Sabucius said you were finished—he remembered that from his own training with the man. Men drenched with sweat despite the relative coolness of the early spring morning began to respond sluggishly after hours of hard thrusts and parries, but none would quit, for they were Roman soldiers, and the Republic was sacred.

The auxiliaries were trained on their own, with their own leaders, in the courtyard of the estate every morning. The Samnitii and Lucanii were spearmen primarily, and made second-rate swordsmen if the need arose. But these, the men in the center chamber of the Roman compound with heavy arms and sweaty brows, were the core of the Republic’s mission here, veteran soldiers, the heavy infantry of the republican legions, some of whom had fought the myriad tribes of Italia, others against Gauls, and more recently against the armies of the Graeci.

Cale was one such who had fought in more than one campaign. There were only two others he knew of, and Sabucius was one. It had been three years since Cale had returned from the wars in southern Italia and the last campaign of Beneventum, and nearly seven since the hard fighting that culminated in the battle at Asculum, yet the scars still remained. When he closed his eyes at night, he could still see the faces of the men who had died with him that day, trampled by the elephants or pierced by a lance. He was following orders, he had always believed, or at least until a few months ago...

"Valens!"

Waking abruptly from his remorseful reverie, he saw the scoundrel Sabucius approaching, thumbs hooked into his bronze plated balteus, the soldiers who had been training behind him now stretching their arms and watching the coming confrontation with poorly disguised curiosity.

"Your men look strong, duplicarius, but they look slow as well, I think." Cale said.

"Quick enough to kill a scoundrel like yourself, if they were ordered to," he responded, the threat openly spoken.

“I doubt it,” Cale replied, a confident smile on his lips.

“What brings you to my training hall?”

“I want to speak with you. About Asculum.”

“I have no desire to speak of it. Especially to you.” The look on the aging man’s face was grim, the color seeming drained from his face as he recalled those events.

“There are matters to be settled, and—“

“I will have nothing to do with it anymore, nor you. Now be gone, or I swear by Jupiter’s balls I’ll have you flogged for disrespect!” He bristled.

Another flogging was the last thing he wanted, so, Cale sighed in defeat and started to turn away.

“Wait,” Sabucius said. “Meet me at the tavern in the Greek quarter tonight. I’ll speak to you.”

“Very well then,” Cale said, and walked away, his mind racing with questions that had to be answered for peace of mind, and perhaps his very soul.

A map of modern Basilicata, giving an indication of the rough terrain the Samnites inhabited



*****

Cale and Folco walked down the muddy street oblivious to the cacophony of noise about them. It was a dreary evening which hinted at rain, and the brothels and taverns were bustling with noise and light. The sea was in the air, and the tides crashed against the rocks of the cliffs that dropped below the plateau upon which Venusia was built. Having just completed a shift of guard duty for the Tribune, Cale had enlisted the companionship of the Samnitii to accompany him to the meeting with Sabucius. He did not trust the duplicarius, not a bit. He had seen before what depths of vileness that one would sink to. The tavern their meeting was to be at had a seedy reputation anyway, not a place to be visited alone at night in the first place. Deep within the crowded slums of the Greek quarter of the city, the place had a character of drag-out brawls and gambling matches turned to knife-fights amongst the sell-swords and cutthroats who frequented it.

Candles burning luridly from within clay bowls lit open archway whose dusty steps led down into the taproom, and a large Coriscan peddler pushed past them as they came down the stairwell, his breath reeking of sour wine. The bar was an old wine cellar, its cool cobblestone walls slick with moisture and not a little mold, with rough-hewn tables scattered about the common room and several shelves of alcohol on the far. The owner kept rooms for rent upstairs, though few of them had doors and none bore locks, it was a dangerous place to stay and only the most desperate did so. It was not crowded that night, many people had left the city over the brewing troubles with Epirus again.

He found Sabucius drinking alone at a knife-scarred table near one corner of the sordid tavern, the duplicarius still wearing his coat of hamata over his grey tunica, with a brown paenula traveler’s cloak draped about his shoulders. That he had been drinking was obvious, and he began chuckling to himself as they approached, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and then taking another long draw of wine.

“Cale Valens,” Sabucius laughed. “I didn’t think you would come. You’ve got more balls than I gave you credit for.”

“I have many faults but cowardice is not one.” Cale replied, pulling out a stool and squatting over it across from the grizzled veteran. Folco drifted away to buy drinks, leaving the two alone to their issues.

“You said you wanted to talk about the battle,” Sabucius said grimly. The battle. As if it were the only battle fought by the two men who had in truth partaken in a dozen.

“Asculum, yes.”

Taking a long drink, the older man reflected, then said, “A day I’d rather forget about. And thought that I had, until you came here.”

“I’ve tried forgetting, I can’t.” The brooding in the Etruscan’s eyes was like a thunderstorm on the horizon. “I must know what happened.”

“War happened boy. War!” He was angry now, and sat the cup down forcefully, sloshing some of its contents out upon the table.

“That wasn’t war, and you know--” Cale stopped in mid-sentence, feeling a presence behind him. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw a tall Numidian standing behind him, wrapped in cured leathers and a thick hide, his skin leathery and tanned, his beard braided. “Go away,” he said, calmly.

The Numidian grunted out something in his native tongue, which Cale didn’t understand.

“He says he wants to fight,” Sabucius groaned.

“What for?” Cale asked, unintimidated but annoyed by the interruption.

“Who knows. He probably heard you’re a war hero.”

“Tell him no.”

Sabucius did so, and the Numidian only grunted and pulled out a long knife from his belt.

“He still wants to fight,” the old legionary said, almost amused by now.

Cale groaned, then ran his hand over his face. “First blood?” He asked, Sabucius, not the Numidian.

After a moment’s translation, the Roman responded “Aye.”

Cale reached back, his wrist moving like a rattle-snake striking fast as you please, and before the Numidian knew it, he no longer possessed the knife that had been in his hand a moment before. Cale gripped the blade and ran it across the palm of his left hand quickly, drawing a bright sheen of blood along the cut.

“He wins,” he said.

The few men who had crowded near to watch the coming fight laughed, and the Numidian growled in indignation. He snatched at the knife, and Cale let him take it back easily.

“He says you mock him,” Sabucius grinned drunkenly, though he could hardly contain his own amusement.

With a look of frustration the tribesman turned and skulked off to the other side of the tavern, where his companions were looking at him with disapproval. Cale watched him sit back down at their table, and then turned back to the old legionary as the crowd too went back to their respective tables and drinks, the excitement over for the time being.

“Telamon,” the Etruscan said, getting back to the subject at hand.

“Yes,” Sabucius mulled. “A dreary place. It was years ago, son.”

“I was the only survivor of two conterburnia, except for you,” Cale said levelly, referring to the ten-man squads of soldiers, legionaries or auxilaries, that formed the smallest tactical units of the Roman centuriae. “All because of what we did.”

“We did what we were told…” Sabucius began, his thoughts heavy and his brow furrowed in dark remembrance…

*****

The moon had long since set beyond the western mountains when they made to leave the musty cellar of a tavern. Outside, stray dogs were scavenging the alleyways of the city and a light rain had fallen earlier that night, making the few cobbles in the road slick and the rest a soupy mess of mud that clung to their sandles like gum. There was no light, and the only noise that of night birds and the dogs occasionally barking from somewhere several streets over. Folco had left long before, as his duty began early that morning, and it was the Etruscan and the veteran legionary who made an odd pair leaving the place that night. They had spent the past three hours drinking, reflecting on their dark memories of the battle that had left them scarred as much on the inside as it did out. Quintus Sabucius found himself developing a grudging respect for the Etruscan mercenary-made-citizen, and Cale likewise, dispite his dislike of the man.

They had turned onto a side-street as they were making their way back to the Roman villa in the center of town, when several dark silhouettes emerged from one end of the alleyway, and then behind them as well, blocking both exits. One man in each group carried a flaming torch, its light casting dancing shadows upon the buildings that hemmed them in and making their own shapes dark and sinister in the night.

“What’s all this?” Sabucius shouted angrily, his voice only a little tinged with drunkenness. “Be gone!”

“I don’t like this,” Cale said quietly, his hand drifting to the hilt of his sword.

The groups began creeping closer from each side, and they saw it was the big Numidian from earlier who wanted to fight Cale, along with at least a dozen companions, all surly looking sorts with scarred faces and broad shoulders, bearing an assortment of implements ranging from knobby clubs to short falcata swords that had been greased black to conceal the light off their blades. The big Numidian stepped forward with a gap-toothed grin, wielding the same knife from earlier.

Sabucius was wroth. “You wish to fight, then? You really think you can fight the two of us, you flea-infested dock scum! I spit on you!” And so he did, then drew his own sword.

The Numidian growled as he wiped the spit from his face, and lunged forward with the knife. The old duplicarius, drunk though he was, stepped aside and brought his own sword in a backwards arc that slashed across the brute’s back, opening it from shoulder to hip in a bloody slit, then turned as he stumbled past and thrust his gladius twice into the man’s back, each sound like that of a knife punching into a melon.

Cale’s sword was out in a start, and he had deflected a lunge from another of the thugs and then brought the sword in a high thrusting arc over the man’s head, plunging the sword into his face with a sickening crunch as nose and skull were pierced and blood gouted out in a red flash. He turned to receive the charge of a third, and let the Numidian impale himself on the sword he had just extracted from his dead companion’s face. The thug made a weak whistling sound as the air escaped his lungs and Cale used his foot to push his body off the blade.

Sabucius was engaged with two opponents, blocking and thrusting with a red-stained sword, sweat on his forehead. Cale moved to assist him, and with a hand motion to alert the legionary, he swept in to take up a position behind Sabucius, so they fought now back-to-back. Cale kicked a man in the torso and then stabbed into his chest three times in quick succession, and Sabucius slashed out across another fiercely, missing his chest but opening the muscle on the man’s arms who crumpled in pain against the wall of the nearest building.

The others were running away in both directions now, terrified by the sheer ferocity of their intended prey’s response. Sabucius shouted something behind them that Cale couldn’t quite make out with his heightened adrenaline, and when he finally lowered his wet sword he saw one of the attackers cowering up against the wall, his face covered in sweat and his teeth clenched, a pool of blood beneath him where he was holding the opened flesh of his arm.

“Please, don’t kill me, I beg you,” he said, in garbled Latin, heavily accented.

Sabucius stepped to him and grabbed a fistful of the man’s ratty hair, and put the tip of his gladius to his face angrily.

“Please no!” he begged.

“He’ll likely bleed to death anyway,” Cale said calmly, wiping his sword off with a dead man’s dirty tunic, then placing it carefully back in its scabbard.

“Please,” he gasped, his teeth chattering. “If you save me, I’ll give you information…” He groaned in pain.

Sabucius harrumphed, snorting in disbelief, and chuckled quietly as he pulled on the man’s hair, putting the tip of the sword on his lips and forcing his mouth open. “What sort of information would a dog like you have, that a gentleman like myself would be interested in?”

“The city is in danger!” he gasped, the cold iron on his teeth. He could taste the coppery blood of his slain companions on the blade.

“What sort of danger?” Cale asked, interested now.

“I can’t say much…” He was weeping, his pain intense.

Cale lunged forward, moving Sabucius and his sword aside. He put a hand on the man’s head to hold him still, and then issued a sharp kick fiercely to the man’s wounded arm, sending racks of pain throughout the Iberian’s body. His scream was terrible, and he sobbed, moaning on the edge of coherentness. “What sort of danger?” Cale repeated.

“A plot…a plot, to open the gates for the Greeks.”

“Let’s take him back. He’s telling the truth,” the Etruscan said to Sabucius.

“Perhaps. Maybe he just wants to save his life.” Looking down at the man, Sabucius grabbed him by his jaw and looked into his eyes. “I swear, son, if you are lying I will personally see you on a cross before noon-time.”

*****

[Zaknafien]

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.

[Tamur]

Excellent story Zaknafien, it's flowing along very nicely.

Just out of curiosity, are you writing this with the end in mind and everything planned out, or are you just going with each section as it comes?

[Zaknafien]

Thanks, Tamur. its more of a spur of the moment, go with the flow kinda thing. Im just using it for practice, really.

[Ludens]

I can only repeat what I said earlier. Very well written, excellent atmosphere!

[Warmaster Horus]

I'll post my comments here. There isn't much to say though...
It's really, really good. When I write, I go with the flow too. But it's nothing as good as your work.
Keep it going!