Men of The Empire.

[If this is your first visit, then click on the right and start at the beginning. This is the latest episode, not the first. Start at the first blog entry and read serially.]

Marcus ran his hand along the cave’s cold rock walls, feeling carefully for any moisture which may have condensed during the freezing cold of the previous night. Already the first light of dawn was shining in through the cave’s entrance, and soon any condensation would evaporate, so he knew he didn’t have long to find the precious drops.

He licked his cracked lips and sucked on a small pebble to try and soothe his parched throat, but his body had little moisture left to give. Then, just as his hope was about to fade, his fingers found a little dampness in a crack along the stone. With a desperation borne of great thirst, he pressed his mouth against the rock and tried to suck out the tiny drops of water. There was precious little, but it was enough to moisten his mouth.

Marcus looked around at his fellow captives. There were only twenty of them left now. When the formicans had deposited them unceremoniously in the cave, four days before, there had been thirty of them. Two of the men had died within the first few hours. Their wounds, sustained in their panicked struggles while in the Formicans’ grasp, had been too serious for their comrades to help them. Seven others had died slowly over the next few days, some succumbing to hunger or thirst in their weakened state, others lost to fever as their wounds festered.

The tenth and last man to die had not been wounded. Driven mad by hunger and thirst, he had disobeyed Marcus’ orders, and had tried to flee from the cave. He had made it only a few feet out into daylight before he was run down by a formican and swept up in its enormous claw.

Marcus had shouted at him to cease his struggling, as he had learned that this only made the creatures grip harder, causing more serious harm than otherwise. But the man, berserk with fear, had flailed and kicked with the violence of the condemned, and so the formican had calmly tightened its grip. Finally there was a loud crack, and with a scream of pain, the legionary had gone limp.

The formican had then carried the man back to the cave and tossed him at the entrance. Marcus, shouting for help, had run forward and grasping the man by his limp arms, had dragged him back into the cave. But the damage had already been done. The unconscious soldier’s back had been broken, and he never awoke. Marcus had his men drag the man to the back of the cave where they had laid out their dead.

In such circumstances it was hard not to lose hope. With his head spinning from hunger, and his throat burning from thirst, it took all of Marcus’ discipline not to succumb to the lure of the open cave entrance. Even with the formicans so close, it was tempting to fantasize that perhaps if they rushed out together, at least some of them could get clear.

But Marcus knew that if they ran, none of them would survive. There were more than enough formicans arrayed outside the cave to catch and kill every one of his men—especially in the weakened state they were in. The mystery was why the creatures had not killed them yet. And if they wished to keep them alive, why had they not provided them with food and water? Was this the formican’s idea of revenge, to corral them in a cave like animals, and to watch them die painfully of thirst and hunger?

Somehow this did not seem to be in the creatures’ nature. So long as his men stayed in the cave, the creatures stood placidly outside, still as statues. As far as the Romans could tell, the creatures had not moved since depositing them in the cave. Even the formican that had cut down the unfortunate legionary who had tried to run, had returned to its former position, and afterwards looked like it had not moved at all.

Marcus looked at his captors now and wondered what sort of beasts they could be. Like things carved from stone, they stood unmoving, unmindful of the rising and setting of the sun. It was tempting to imagine they would not move if he fled, but he quickly reminded himself of the speed with which the creatures had come to life when the unfortunate legionary had tried to flee.

He looked at his men then. Lying on the cold rock floor, or seated with their backs against the damp walls of the cave, his soldiers had the look of men who had accepted their fate. They expected to die, and they had only one option left, to go with dignity.

He had seen such looks before, only it had been in the eyes of men he was about to slaughter.

That time in Germania, his cohort had surrounded a group of a couple hundred Vandal raiders. The men, decked out in beads and war-paint, had clearly been preparing to descend on some undefended Roman settlement. They had left their homes with the expectation of plunder and rape, but had instead found themselves trapped by the wily tribune Scipio.

The young master had ordered the killing of every last one of the raiders, and so the cohort had ignored the pleas of the Vandal leaders, and had drawn their swords and begun cutting down the men in cold blood.

As soon as the slaughter began the Vandals had fallen into disarray. Some had tried to fight back, but disorganized as they were, they were no match for the disciplined Roman lines that had surrounded them. Others had tried to throw their weapons down and surrender, but the legionnaires, heading Scipio’s orders, had given no quarter.

Marcus had been in the front lines for that butchery. In the end he had found himself killing men who were neither fighting back, nor attempting to flee or surrender. They had simply looked at him with resignation, and swung their weapons half-heartedly if at all.

Those same looks of despair, he now saw in the faces of his own men. This was often the way for those who had grown accustomed to death. They fought as hard as they could, but when their options ran out, they saw no sense in further struggle. The man, who had cracked and run out of the cave, had been a green recruit. In contrast the men who remained were veterans, all familiar with death, and now resigned to it.

It broke Marcus’ heart to see his men this way, but there was nothing he could do. They would have to wait and see what the Formicans intended for them. Or, if the Formicans intended to have them die of thirst, then that would be their fate.

***

On the sixth day Marcus woke again at dawn. He was too weak to stand. Even the effort of sitting up made him dizzy. He had the strong urge to just lie down and sleep.

Looking around at his men he saw that none of them were awake or moving. Some of them were likely dead already. He did not even have the strength to care any more.

He lay back down and fell asleep again. In his dreams Aula smiled at him and touched him with ice cold hands.

***

Marcus awoke coughing, and a trickle of water ran out of his nose. He opened his eyes weakly, and saw the face of the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. She was looking at him with concern in her eyes, and holding a wooden bowl of water to his lips. She said something which Marcus could not understand.

He shook his head to indicate his incomprehension. She repeated herself, and he found he could understand her after all. She spoke a broken dialect of the Vandal tongue.

“Rest,” she said, “You are weak now. We speak when you have strength.”

But he refused to lay his head down again. Looking about the cave he saw that many of his men were sitting up and drinking deeply from wooden bowls of their own. Others were, like the woman, trying to administer water to their unconscious comrades.

Marcus tried to sit up then. It would not do for the Centurion to lie on his back at such a time. But he found he could not raise himself.

One of his men, a veteran named Gracchus, saw him making the effort and said, “Lie back Centurion. We have this under control. The woman has brought us several skins of water, and even some dried meat. The Gods know why, but the formicans do not block her passage. Rest easy Domina, we may yet survive this.”

Marcus needed no more encouragement. He lay his head back again, and within a few moments he was asleep.

***

The public house of Notrius, in the river district, was not known for its lavishness or fine food. But it attracted its fair share of well-heeled customers, because Merchants often preferred proximity to their goods over more luxurious accommodation. The concentration of traders, usually rich with coin, attracted additional customers, some less savory than others.

Prostitutes and pickpockets rubbed shoulders with money-lenders and swords-for-hire. The chit-chat around the tables was invariably about business, of one sort or another, even when it didn’t seem to be about business at all.

And amongst it all, Notrius and his seven daughters carried food and drink to their customers, while shouting over their shoulders to the slaves working in the kitchen.

In one corner of the loud dining room, a group of traders, heads together over their food and drink, conferred in whispers. By their accents, an observer would know them to be Caietians, from northern Campania.

“What can we do? The entire city is looking for him. There is a 10,000 denari reward on his head by Jupiter! It’s only a matter of time before someone spots him. Then it’s our heads for aiding him.”

“But we haven’t aided him at all. We’ve merely brought him food and drink. It’s not like we’ve helped him in any way.”

“Don’t you know that is enough for these damn Romans! Their damned Senate has thrown good honest merchants to the lions for less.”

“So what would you have us do? Shall we turn him in to the Praetorians? Would you like that on your conscience?”

“We needn’t turn him in. We’ve finished our business here, we can simply leave. He hasn’t asked to accompany us back to Campania.”

“So you would sign his death warrant then.”

“Death warrant!?! I don’t wish for anyone to die. I only want to return to my wife and children. I didn’t come to Rome to throw my life away for the sake of an Albino, that much I know!”

“But there, you’ve said it yourself. He’s an Albino! How long do you think he will last, if he has to roam the streets himself for food and drink? I tell you, this is nothing serious. If we can provide for him for a few weeks, the fuss will all die down. And then we can get him out of the city.”

“Why is it our responsibility to look after this man? So he traveled with us, but he is no brother of mine. Do I have to explain to you what will happen to us if the Senate realizes we’ve been hiding a man they are looking for! Who knows what crimes he has committed. I for one find it very strange that Senator Secundinus has put a reward up for his capture. Why would he do such a thing if the Albino was innocent?”

“Perhaps you are right, but this doesn’t rest easy with me. Whatever we do we should speak to him first.”

“Are you crazy! Do you remember what he did to those Gauls? What if he turns on us? I heard about his fight in Popus Popillius’ arena. They say he struck down the champion so fast that the man didn’t even have a chance to swing his own weapon. If he suspects us of treachery, I wouldn’t give us a piglet’s chance in a butcher’s pen.”

“Why would he suspect us of treachery? Are you thinking of turning him in for the reward? If you are then you are worse than I thought.”

The man who was being accused bowed his head to avoid the fierce eyes of his companions, but still spoke up, “I’m not saying anything one way or another. But 10,000 denari is nothing to laugh at.”

“Are you sure you are not a whorish Roman? Because I’ve never hear of a Caetian selling his companions out for a bit of coin. If you mention it again, you won’t have to worry about the Albino, because we’ll gut you ourselves to save him the trouble.”

As the Caetians argued they failed to notice a small, almost childlike man, who while not close to them, was able, by virtue of his excellent ears, to hear almost everything they said.

***

Velox Mus, The Swift Mouse, the man was called. He had lived his whole life on the streets of Rome. He could not remember who his parents were, or where he had come from. For as long as he could remember, he had survived by begging and stealing. He had never known the luxury of a week without hunger, and now barely into manhood, he still looked like a young boy.

Once, long before, he had been offered an apprenticeship by a kindly tanner and his wife who had no children of their own, and who on seeing the hungry orphan, had taken pity on him. But the life of a tradesman was not for him, so he had murdered the couple in their sleep and had stolen their savings, which he had found hidden under a tile in their workshop. He in turn had been robbed by some of the larger boys who lived on the streets, so he had never had the chance to benefit from his ill-gotten loot, but the experience had taught him the value of keeping one’s treasures hidden.

He had earned the name Velox Mus, because of his skill and brazen courage as a pickpocket. But he was not averse to the less dexterous methods of robbery—he had long ago lost count of the number of men whose throats he had cut in dark secluded alleys of Rome.

But The Mus was no fool. He knew there was no future as a criminal in Rome. Sooner or later every thief was caught, and the best punishment that could be hoped for was quick death. So the Mouse had made his exit plans.

In his dealings with the criminal element of Rome he had come into contact with the Moneylenders’ Guild. This organization of merchants was ostensibly a simple association of businessmen who had a common interest in lending capital to tradesmen and nobles. But in reality they also provided many other services, some public, and some known only to their less savory clients. Velox fell into the latter category, and the service they had provided for him—for which they took a handsome commission—was the fencing of stolen goods.

The Mus had learned a great deal about the way the Moneylenders’ Guild operated. For example, he saw that those who put money on the street, in the form of loans, were given free reign by the authorities to take punitive action against their debtors, in the case of non-payment. He had seen many a case where a fairly modest loan to a tradesman, resulted in escalating interest payments, culminating finally in the seizure of the man’s property. From the point of view of the lender, it was like buying up a man’s business for a fraction of its true value.

This, Velox saw, was the road to easy wealth. The only obstacle was admittance into the guild of lenders. They were an insular group, fiercely protective of their own, and unwilling to let outsiders into their circle. One could buy one’s way into the guild. However the price of admittance was the astronomical sum of 3,000 denari, enough to pay a soldier’s salary for ten years.

But now it appeared Velox had found a way to surmount this seemingly impossible impediment. It seemed 10,000 denari were merely a Praetorian barracks away.

***

The Caetians woke early to prepare for their departure. Already Notrius’ slaves had prepared their horses and wagons, and with their purses full of coin, they were happy to finally be putting Rome behind them.

Only one thing put a damper on their upbeat mood. Leaving the Albino behind was not easy. The man had traveled with them, had eaten with them, and had sat around their campfires. For all intents and purposes, he was one of them. And yet he refused to be smuggled out of Rome.

“My path is to the north, brothers. I thank each of you for the loyalty you have shown me and I wish you well on your journey home. But we will not see each other again.” He said.

The Caetian who had suggested they take the reward and turn the Albino in, had averted his eyes then, but the others had embraced the chalk-white man and had bid him farewell. They left him with a weeks worth of food and drink, so he would not have to leave the alley-shack where he had hidden himself. They hoped that in that time, the search for the Albino would peter out, and that then their companion could leave the city.

Now they readied their wagons and animals in Notrius’ courtyard, as one of them settled their account with the man himself.

“We’ll see you next year then, Notrius.”

“If I can last another year you will. But I fear my seven daughters, and my shrew of a wife, will be the end of me.”

“Ha! You old dog, you say that every year, and yet every year we find you are as healthy as ever, and grown even fatter.”

“If you flatter me with the hopes of getting a discount, you needn’t bother.”

“A discount! You’d not give a discount to Pluto himself if he threatened you with death, you old miser.”

“Haha, … eh?”

Plump Notrius’ laugh was cut short by the entry of a band of armed men in Praetorian armor.

“Where is the Albino?” one of the soldiers, who wore a plumed officer’s helmet, said.

“What Albino?” said Notrius.

“He’s not the one that knows,” said Velox Mus, pointing instead at the Caetians, “they are the ones that know.”

“Seize them.”

The Caetian who had wanted to turn the Albino in, tried to run, but a swiftly thrown pilum brought him to the ground. He lay there bleeding and begging for mercy, until one of the soldiers cut his throat to silence him.

“Now, if you don’t want the same fate, you’ll tell us where the Albino is.”

“We don’t know what Albino you are talking about.”

The officer smashed the Caetian who had spoken, directly in the mouth with the butt of his pilum. The merchants doubled over and gurgled as a stream of teeth and blood leaked out of his mouth.

“You will fucking tell me NOW, where that Albino is, or I’ll cut every last one of your throats right here.”

***

The Praetorians formed up outside the alley’s entrance. They had interrogated some locals and learned that there was no other way out. Tribune Apuleius, their officer, wanted to take no chances, and so he had brought two dozen of his best men to apprehend the fugitive.

The Caetians had not been difficult to break. Initially they had been reluctant to speak, even after two of their number had been gutted before their eyes. But finally the tribune had gotten to them.

He had grabbed one of the stubborn traders and ripping his tunic off, had held his sword against the man’s testicles, exclaiming “I’ll not kill you like your fellows over there. I’ll cut your fucking balls off and leave you to the Eunuchs. So what will it be, your balls or the Albino?”

The man had broken then, and weeping had led them to the alley.

Apuleius anticipated an easy capture now. The orders for the Albino’s arrest had come from Senator Secundinus himself. Executing such commands efficiently was exactly how a young officer could make a name for himself, and Apuleius looked forward to personally bringing the captive before the Senator.

The alleyway was narrow and dark, and there were several ramshackle lean-tos built along its walls. It was not a place where the tribune wanted to tangle with a fighter like the Albino—the man had gained a reputation after his performance in Popus Popillius’ arena—so when his men were in position the tribune shouted out, “Come out of your hovel, Albino. You have nowhere to run.”

There was movement in the alley, and several beggars crawled out of their hovels, and limped towards the soldiers, saying, “What have we done? Please, spare us.”

Apuleius irritated by this distraction, whacked them with the end of his pilum, and shouted, “Get the out of here you scum.”

The beggars didn’t need to be told twice, and in a moment they were gone.

The tribune turned to the Caetians then. “Well, if you’ve led me on a goose-chase, I can still arrange to have your balls fed to my dogs.”
One of the traders still had his courage. “Fuck you, you Roman whoreson. Even with no balls, we’ll be twice the men you Romans will ever been.”

The tribune looked at the man in shock. The audacity of these provincials! In irritation he grabbed a handful of the man’s hair, and using the pommel of his sword struck him again and again in his face, until the trader collapsed.

Wiping his sword on the man’s tunic, the tribune turned to the other Caetians. “Shall I begin the castrations, or will you lead me to this Albino?”

“I am here.”

Apuleius turned towards the source of these words. There at the alley entrance was the man he was looking for. There could be no mistake.

The Albino stood there unarmed and bare-chested. Across his torso were the most fearsome scars that the tribune had ever seen. The man was without fear, but he made no hostile moves, nor did he attempt to flee. He was completely calm.

“Ah, you do well to not resist,” said the tribune. And then turning to his men he commanded, “Bind him.”

The Praetorians could see that the fugitive was placid, so they sheathed their swords and approached him with the rope they intended to bind him with.

“Turn around,” one of them commanded the Albino.

Those were the last words he ever spoke. Moving with a snake’s speed, the Albino shot forward and with one finger outstretched struck out at the man’s face. The Praetorian’s eye burst like a grape, and he doubled over in agony. Before he could recover he was sent flying backwards with his own sword in his gut.

The other soldier was still only half-way done with drawing his own sword. He never made it.

The Albino grabbed the man’s sword arm with one hand, and with the other grabbed his throat, and then with a twist of his hip, flipped the man off his feet and onto the cobblestones. The Praetorian’s head hit the stone with a sickening crunch.

The pale man then picked up the soldiers sword, and looked up at the tribune. Where before there had been calm on his face, now there was a ferocious look, half smile and half snarl, it was terrifying to behold.

The tribune took an involuntary step backward, even though the Albino was still a good ten yards away from him.

“Get that bastard!” he screamed.

The Praetorians charged the Albino all at once, but the man took a couple steps backward, so that he was again within the alleyway. This prevented the soldiers from attacking him simultaneously, and they were forced to face him in pairs.

The first two appeared to go down even before they could thrust out at the man. The Albino took them both out with a single swipe which cut both their throats.

Spasming on the ground, with their lifeblood leaking out of them, the two dying soldiers gave their comrades pause. They did not want to tangle with the pale man in the alley way.

The Albino gave them no chance to think of better options. He leaped over his previous two victims, and was out of the alley in a flash. Rushing to one side he feinted at a soldier’s throat, and when the man raised his sword, he dipped low and gutted him instead.

Without losing any momentum, he picked up the man’s fallen sword, and now with a blade in each hand, he stood in the open, no more than ten feet away from Apuleius.

“I’ll kill you, Praetorian.” said the man.

The officer did not wait to see if the pale man would make good on his claim. He turned and ran, dropping his sword, and discarding his helm in his panic.

The other soldiers, seeing their leader run, backed off slowly, and then followed him, although at a somewhat more dignified pace.

The Caetians were left behind.

“Albino, what are you?”

“I don’t know.”

“I think we’d all better get out of this city.”

“You go. I have some unfinished business.”

“Even after all this?”

“Yes.”