James Mace - Soldier of Rome - Heir to Rebellion

“Except the one thing she denied herself,” Artorius said. He dropped his pack and turned back towards Juliana’s cottage. As he started walking towards it Juliana made a motion to stop him, but Primus grabbed her by the arm.

“Let him go,” he said in a low voice. “He needs to see her for himself the loss of his childhood love that he feels he abandoned, knowing what abject cruelty and despicable acts she was subjected to.”

Indeed Artorius’ emotions were torn asunder when he at last laid eyes on Camilla. The cottage was dark, a candle on a table providing little additional light as the setting sun shone through the open door. A middle-aged maidservant sat on a stool beside the bed, her eyes filled with tears.

Camilla’s body lay on the bed. Her eyes were closed, and Artorius noticed her hair was considerably shorter than she used to keep it. Her face looked peaceful but worn; the torment of her loneliness and sorrow evident. Her hands were folded across her chest and Artorius took hold of one and squeezed it gently. It was cool to the touch, but yet there was still a trace of warmth. Artorius lowered his head, his eyes closed, as he fought back his tears. So much regret did he bear.

“It did not have to end this way,” he said quietly to himself. He looked over at the servant, who immediately lowered her head, her own tears flowing freely. This slave, more a piece of property than a human being, was all that Camilla had left. Artorius removed his hand from Camilla’s, caressed her cheek with the back of his hand and then ran his fingers through her hair.

“Will Master help me see my lady on to her final journey?” the servant asked, her voice cracking. She looked up at Artorius, her eyes swollen and red. “She never forgot you, sir.” Artorius nodded in reply.

“I abandoned her once in life,” he said. “I’ll not abandon her now.”

It was dark, the street in front of the mansion lit by a few torches. Artorius slammed the door knocker repeatedly until at last the door opened; a bleary-eyed slave squinting into the torchlight.

“What business brings you here at this hour, Soldier?” he asked, irritated but knowing his place and maintaining his manners.

“Fetch your master immediately,” Artorius ordered. The slave swallowed hard, his eyes taking in the sight of the fearsome legionary. Artorius’ face was hard, yet his voice was calm. Unconsciously he clenched his fists, his huge forearm muscles pulsing.

“Who shall I say is calling?” the slave asked after a short pause. Artorius lowered his head slightly, his darkened eyes boring into the man. The slave swallowed hard and quickly backed into the house, hurrying down the hall. With the way his arms were flailing with limp wrists, Artorius surmised that he must also be one of Marcellus’ playthings. Slowly he paced back and forth in the entryway, clenching his hands, eyes closed and his head lowered. His pain of regret was now consumed by an overriding need to make things right, by any means necessary. Finally he heard the sound of voices coming down the hall, the slave carrying a small lantern as Marcellus in a loose robe walked impatiently towards where Artorius stood waiting.

“I didn’t order any special entertainments tonight, and besides you know I have no time for those beastly soldiers!” he said in a loud voice. He suddenly stopped short when he laid eyes on the legionary. “Well what have we here? It’s the legendary ‘hero of the Rhine’ himself! That trollop of an ex-wife of mine never could stop talking about you.”

“It is about your wife that I wish to speak with you,” Artorius replied, his voice still relaxed, though his face emanated pure hatred. Marcellus pretended to not notice and instead walked over to where a servant stood with a goblet of wine, which he immediately consumed.

“If it’s about the funeral, it’s already taken care of,” he said, not wishing to look at the legionary. “A proper pyre, professional mourners…far more than she ever deserved. I myself will not be attending; pressing business elsewhere. Your father finally made me relent on paying for the ordeal; beastly expensive though it is. He said to do it for Marcia, as if she’ll have any recollection of that woman!” Artorius nodded and appeared to be satisfied. He made as if to leave before turning back to Marcellus, as if he had forgotten something.

“Just one more thing,” he said, walking over to him. Marcellus turned his nose up at him, as if he were offended by the smell of a common soldier.

“And that is?” he started to ask as Artorius smashed his fist into Marcellus’ face, every ounce of pure hatred exploding along with the man’s nose with a sickening crunch. Marcellus fell to the ground, screaming at a high pitch. The slave with the lamp panicked and swung the lamp at Artorius, who knocked it away with his left forearm, the hot metal searing his flesh. He grabbed the wretch by the neck and slammed his forehead into his face, knocking the man senseless.

“You monstrous beast!” Marcellus screamed as Artorius walked quietly to the door and out into the night. In spite of the loathing he felt for his ex-wife and her legionary former lover, he knew he would still have to follow through on funding Camilla’s funeral, for if he did not he feared it would not just be she who made her final journey into the afterlife.

Artorius managed a short laugh at the sound of Marcellus’ scream as he stepped out into the night. He took a deep breath and started back up the street when he saw Magnus leaning against the side of a building, his arms folded and a sad expression on his face. Artorius grimaced and nodded.

“I am sorry, old friend,” the Norseman said. “Your father told me everything. I grieve with you.”

“You know, through all the horrors I have seen in life I have always had you, Brother,” Artorius replied. “Camilla had no one. I cannot think of a worse way to die than abandoned and alone.” The two friends walked in silence along the street before Artorius spoke again.

“They say that crucifixion is among the most painful forms of death; death that takes a matter of days sometimes. Camilla’s very soul was crucified, and her death took years.”

“Do you know why I saved you from those cursed mines?” Heracles asked. Radek was on his knees, head bowed, his good eye gazing at a crack in the floor. Heracles slowly walked in circles around the wretch of a man, the floorboards in the dimly lit tavern room creaking under his steps.

“No master,” the slave replied. It was the truth. Radek had never been of use to anyone his entire life. He had been handsome once, though a hot poker took one of his eyes and left a hideous scar on his face. It was his punishment for raping a young girl when he had been a farm slave. He was then sold to a wealthy nobleman, who he worked for as a gardener. He had once been bound for the mines of Mauretania, only to escape and join Sacrovir’s rebellion. He had been grievously wounded during the battle of Augustodunum; his one friend, Ellard, had been disemboweled by the lance of a Roman cavalryman. It was back to the mines once more, where the sulfur burned his skin and eye; his teeth completely rotted and turned black due to lack of proper food and no means of proper hygiene. He had hoped to die during his first few months, but yet somehow he was still alive.

“You are a worthless man with no purpose in life, no reason for existence.” Heracles’ words cut deeply, but they were true. “I will give you a reason to exist. But first you must embrace my cause with your very soul.” Radek looked up him and spoke slowly.

“I live only to serve you,” he said as he lowered his head once more.

“Good,” Heracles replied. “You will be the instrument of our vengeance against Rome.”