Romuli FF: The frontiers of Thera

[Offensive Bias]

This story takes place between two different characters. One character is overseas, fighting against the Islamic peoples. Another is closer to home, waging a two fronted war against the Privateers and the Uruk's, who have found common cause in their hatred of the Empire.

Warning to the reader

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This story will contain harsher language as it develops, and will have references to both Christianity and Islam that may be insulting to some people. Will contain fighting sections, with blood and gore.

List of characters

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Lucius - Soldier in the first Legion
Cassius - Soldier in the first Legion
Julian - Soldier in the first Legion
Crito - Centurion in the 12th Legion
Herkuleas - Commander of the war effort in Syrianna
Attritious - Tribune of the 9th Legion (Deceased)
Commander Lucius - Commander of the last war effort against the Uruk's (Deceased)
Xersoz - Owner of a Ly Kan arena in Demos
Cakius Graftus - Optio in Syrianna
Gallus Caesar - Emperor of the Romuli (Deceased)
Brutus Caesar - Emperor of the Romuli
Kalliades - Slave to Herkuleas
Dignus - Soldier in the 11th Legion
Deukalos - Optio to Centurion Crito
Titus - Soldier in the first Legion
Sadiq - Syrianna whore
Sensus - Master of the Arena in Butrania
Consul Gallus "Secundus" Gallus - Commander of the war effort against the Uruk's
Hermes - Soldier in the first Legion
Simeon - Soldier in the first Legion
Varus - Soldier in the first Legion
Crixus - Soldier in the first Legion
Lassandus - Soldier in the first Legion (Deceased)
Brannicus - Soldier in the first Legion
Fraxis - Centurion in the first Legion (Deceased)
Cicero - Constantium citizen
Severus - Father of Cicero, pub owner (Deceased)
Cornelius - Uncle of Cicero, gambler (Deceased)
Sextus - Gang member under Spartacus (Deceased)
Spartacus - Gang leader in the Western area of Constantium

Prologue

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Prologue
Attritious stared out across the icy landscape. Trees surrounded the Legion’s camp, covered in snow. In the distance, purple mountains, tipped with white rose up. Who knew what evil they contained? The Legionary exhaled an icy breath, and turned back to the cohort behind him. He was the Tribune of the Cohort, and was in command of the scouting action. Aggressions had been opened against the Uruk Dominion, and this soldiers camp was the latest in a series of small forts defending the border into Romuli homeland. “Cohort! Forward!” The men broke into co-ordinated steps immediately, the clatter of their armour and the thud of their boots seeming to echo continuously, the only sound for miles.

Attritious knew that somewhere North, General Lucius was marching with two legions, straight into the Uruk lands, this scouting mission served two purposes. The first was to ensure that the Uruk’s weren’t in close proximity to the border, the second was to ensure that no Uruk’s could flank the two Legions in the North. Attritious saw something. He held up a hand, and barked at the men. “Cohort! Halt!” He turned and beckoned to the Senior Centurion. He approached at a trot. “Tribune Attritious, Sir?”
“I saw movement ahead. At the edges of the trees. I don’t want to enter the forest, we’ll be easy pickings for any of those filthy mongrels hiding in there. However, if I leave without any accurate confirmation, the Emperor will eat me alive…” The Centurion nodded.

“Bit of a situation we’re in Sir, if you don’t mind me saying. If my advice is of any use to you Sir, I say we split the Cohort. Send in a few Centuries in one section, a few in another. And we remain behind with the remaining 2 Centuries.” Attritious could see how that would be a bad idea, but also how it was the best choice at the moment, short of burning down an entire forest.

“Very well Centurion. Get to readying the men.” The Centurion saluted and turned to the Cohort.

“1st, 2nd, 3rd Centuries! Forward march!” The Centuries broke from the Cohort, and marched forwards towards the sinister look of the trees. The cold sunlight glinted of their metal armour as they moved. Within minutes, they were out of sight in the labyrinth of trees. Before the Centurion could call out more Centuries, their came an ear splitting clatter from the forest. Attritious turned towards the sound, straining to see through the thick darkness of the forest. The sound of javelins hitting shields. The sound of hand to hand combat, and then the first screams rent the air.

Minutes passed painfully slow, and Attritious grew anxious. The sounds of battle were beginning to die, bestial war cries began, as the last of the combatants fell. The last shouts faded into an echo, the silence was deafening… The Senior Centurion looked just as frightened as his Tribune. Then, there was a rustle from the trees, and hundreds of severed heads dropped into the shocked ranks of Legionaries. Attritious screamed in panic, and turned back to what was left of the Cohort. He saw a ripple in their ranks, as the improvised missiles wreaked havoc with their morale. Several men bolted, preferring to take their chances in the wilds. Then, a great war horn blasted, and thousands upon thousands of Uruk’s streamed from the trees. A wave of terror swept over the Cohort, and the hasty shield wall was pathetic, there were gaps everywhere, and confusion as men tried to flee through the ranks.

Attritious sprinted to the safety of his men, and turned to see the monstrous hordes seconds away from impact. He steadied his trembling hand as best he could, and raised his shield defiantly. There were no orders given, it was too late for organisation, as the first Uruk’s smashed their wicked blades into the front ranks of Legionaries Attritious felt a weight slam into his shield, he pushed back, grunting with the effort, and with one burst of strength, pushed the assailant back. He wasted no time in thrusting his sword forwards. It met resistance, and he felt a
warm liquid spray his hand. He quickly withdrew his weapon, ready for another thrust.

The sheer weight of numbers bearing down on the remains of the Cohort broke it in seconds. The front ranks were slaughtered, and the same to those behind them. The rearmost ranks fled, leaving their wounded behind. Only isolated pockets of men were still left to fight, and they were quickly overwhelmed. Attritious fell back with his Senior Centurion, fighting defensively, parry, thrust, parry, thrust. One of the hooked blades of the animalistic monsters latched onto the side of his shield, with a mighty sweep, the Uruk swept the shield away. Attritious, carried by the momentum of his shield, twisted and fell to the ground.
He lifted his head up quickly, spitting out snow that had forced its way into his mouth. He barely had time to get to his knees, before one of the Uruk’s plunged its weapon into the back of his head.

Chapter One

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Chapter One
The desert swirled around the Centurion, dust crept into any gaps in his armour, and he regularly stopped to spit out the tiny grains of sand that invaded his mouth. He could swear the fortress was just a little further ahead. He stumbled and fell, landing heavily in the sand. The sand storm had picked up, and it was almost impossible to see 5 feet ahead. He heard something through the wind. Hooves, snorting. Several horsemen passed where the Centurion lay. He dared not move, but chanced a look at the nearest one. The rider was wrapped in cloth, his eyes visible through a narrow slit. In one hand he carried a banner, bearing the symbol of the Empire’s enemies in this unforgiving land… The Barka Sultanate.

The Centurion dared not to move for some minutes after the thirty or so horsemen had passed. He eventually began to stand, columns of sand falling off his as he did so. Those cursed horse archers had wiped out a smaller fort a few miles back, one which the Centurion had only narrowly escaped. He had burned with desire to fight to the death with his Century and his Optio… His Optio, Deukalos was from the province of Hesperos. A wave of sadness enveloped the Centurion as he marched more cautiously through the dry storm. But the Tribune had ordered him to report to the main fortress and alert the General to Barka attack.

A task made more difficult with the absence of a horse… The Centurion mused. The sound of hooves came again. He saw a hazy silhouette of a horseman, approaching him directly. There was no escaping discovery this time. If he flattened himself to the ground, he’d be trampled, and if he tried to run out of the way, they would sight him and shoot him down. The Centurion felt a sense of purpose, as he realised he would die fighting. He tore his gladius from his scabbard, and steadied his shield in front of him. The rider gave a yell of surprise at the dusty figure, and pulled sharply on the reins. The horse reared, and the Centurion coolly thrust the gladius into the chest of the horse.

He withdrew the sword without trouble, and when the horse fell sideways, trapping the leg of the rider underneath it, the Centurion stepped over its thrashing body, and smashed the edge of his Scutum down on the neck of the rider, snapping it instantly. Around him, he could make out the figures of the other riders turning towards him, there barbarous tongues carrying out around him. An arrow thudded into the sand next to him, and he noticed the horsemen beginning to circle him. He dragged a pilum out of his shield, and tossed it straight at one of the horsemen. It hit true, spearing the rider through the gut. He fell, clutching the shaft of the weapon. The Centurion sprinted over to the horse, that had stopped running, and was stamping its feet irritably.

The Centurion leapt onto its back. Startled, it ran forwards, straight towards a startled enemy. The Centurion, on pure instinct, slammed the shield forwards into the riders face. The shield boss broke his nose, and the rider fell off the horse sideways, dazed. The Centurion grabbed hold of the reins, and goaded his horse in the direction he was heading before. Arrows streamed past him, several coming close to hitting him. He threw his large shield aside, and spurred his horse on. The sound of the Barka riders pursuing him was what drove him on. Centurion Crito would reach the fort…

Chapter Two

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Chapter Two
　
It had been over seven years since the disaster with the Uruk Dominion that cost the Romuli Empire three legions. Seven years since Attritious had died in combat against the most hated enemies of the Empire, and yet, for Legionary Lucius, he couldn’t help but feel the disaster would be repeated. He was marching with the 1st Legion themselves. The famed Legio I Caesaris. 5,000 men of pure legend. They were so famous, their supporting Auxiliaries were celebrated just as much as the Legion themselves were. It was a sense of pride and achievement to be accepted into the 1st, and Lucius didn’t take it lightly.

He marched with seven other Legions. The biggest army ever to spew forth from Constantium. The total was over 70,000 men not including the extensive baggage train and the followers of the army. The followers included homeless trying to earn some scraps by doing soldiers duties, whores who would be constantly trying to steal into the camps at night and make a quick coin and of course the merchants, with the wine and the good food. But they were expensive, and on a soldiers wage, you wouldn’t be buying much from them. The massive army had left the borders of the Empire just four days ago, and Lucius found the lack of cheering Plebeians uncomfortable. Outside it was just quiet, and isolated. It was sinister… Evil…

The need for such a big army was to place a speedy defeat to the Uruk’s. The army would march straight to Demos. Depriving the Uruk’s of their homeland, and enslaving most of the Demos men, who lend a large fighting force to the Uruk forces. And killing their Alpha. A ferocious Uruk, Alpha Cerberus. Such a thing was glorious to imagine, and even though he had been marching almost constantly, and
the pain in his legs burnt and burnt, he forgot all senses in the imagining of the triumph at Demos.

After hours of marching through the cruel, silent land, the horns blared for the signal to make camp. Each Legion would make a line of camps, all connected so that they could stay organised in the event of attack. The baggage trains would be dispersed amongst the camps equally by the Aedile accompanying the army, and the unofficial entourage would attempt to steal ways into the camps. Lucius helped erect the tent that he would share with 7 other men, and crept onto the small bunk that was his bed. He turned to his “Campaign buddy”, Cassius. “How long until Demos?” He shrugged, and then turned to place his scabbard against the wooden rack that held the shields and armour of the 8 men.

“I couldn’t tell you if I was that , Callisto herself. I haven’t ever left Constantium. Jumped at the chance to get out of there and kill some of these wretched beasts. I doubt we’re far though, days of solid marching, and from what I’ve heard of the Demos refugees and survivors of the last campaign, Demos ain’t too far a march from the borders of Arretium.” Lucius nodded and spoke again.

“First Legion will be going in first, show the others how it’s done. Wonder if we’ll make it back alive. Bound to be tough taking that huge place.” Crassus tore off his helmet, ran his hand through his sweat
drenched hair and tossed the helmet onto a wooden shelf.

“I tend not to think about that old son, I survived the massacre seven years ago and left the Legions. I’m only joining up to take revenge. I don’t think about what happens to me, just what happens to them.” Before Lucius could continue talking, one of the other men in the tent threw his helmet at them.

“Shut up you sons of whores, I’m trying to sleep!” Julian turned, cursing under his breath. There were no more words exchanged that night, as the Legionaries settled down for the night.

Chapter Three

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Chapter Three
The Ly Kan were placed in arena’s up and down the lands of Hadeas. They were to fight to the death, to weed out the weak and reveal the strong. The man in charge of the arena in Demos was a man named Xersoz. He was essentially a Commander, but he preferred to lead from the front. He would stand in the front rows and fight the enemy until he was either wounded, dead, or he won. Such a tactic was dangerous, and he bore the scars to prove it. He was sitting up high, above the blood soaked sand, watching the two combatants. They were both pack Alpha’s, and the winner would have him and his pack sent East to fight in the coming wars. One of the Ly Kan stumbled, and the other moved in for the kill.

The Ly Kan raised its tiny shield and blocked the strike from the dagger just in time. It immediately followed through with a jab to the throat. The other Ly Kan leaned right, and snatched the extended wrist of the Alpha. Before the Ly Kan could react, his arm had been broken. It fell back on release, and held its pitifully small shield up to try and stop the next blow. The Alpha, sensing a kill, smashed its foot down onto the shield. The Ly Kan used all its strength to try and throw off the Alpha’s balance. But to no avail. The Alpha crouched low, and sank the dagger deep into his foes throat. It stood, leaving the blade in the body of its convulsing enemy. The Alpha died quickly, and the winner roared a terrifying roar that echoed across the city. Xersoz had found his champion…

Lucius tied tight the straps on his shield cover, and placed the robe over his armour. He hefted his covered pila and left the tent. An instant later, it was collapsed by other Legionaries in the terrific storm. They ran through the heavy raindrops to their century. A Legate, marching up and down the centuries was yelling over the howling wind. He assorted the centuries into their Cohorts, and the march continued. Lucius was stood next to Julian in the row of men at the back of the Cohort. He marched with determination, eyes forward, back straight. He seemed not to notice the crashing thunder, or the rain pelting away at his robe and helmet.

Julian was a mysterious man. Every night when the men had made camp, he had seemed in a hurry to sleep. The only times he spoke were when he was shutting Lucius and Crassus up at night. No one knew where he had came from, only his name and his age. He was 37, and he refused to say if he had served during the disaster seven years ago. Suddenly, Julian turned his head. “Take your eyes off me and look ahead. Do you find me to your liking as you would a woman?” Lucius quickly turned his head, embarrassed. One thing was sure about him, he upheld discipline strictly.

The rest of the day continued the same. No one knew where in the hell they were. The storm finally abated after much annoyance, but that just left thick mud to tramp through, the dripping trees on either side of the men a reminder of that awful rainfall. Eventually, the sun began to go down, and the call was made to make camp. 70,000 men struck their tents, and laid to rest for the night. Unaware of what was about to happen to them, once they had settled in.

Chapter Four

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Chapter Four
　
Crito goaded his mount on further. “Come on you useless beast!” He slapped its flanks, and had to close his eyes against the whirling sand. How could anyone ride through this? He heard a call close behind him. Turning his head against the rush of sand, he saw a rider getting ahead of the others chasing him. A curved scimitar was held at the ready in one hand, while the other kept a tight grip on the reigns of the horse. He pulled level with the heavier Roman, and made to slash at the Centurion’s ribs. Crito instead kicked out, slamming his studded sandals into the ankle of his pursuer. There was a grunt of pain, and the rider lost concentration on his thrust, which went stupidly wild. Crito wasted no time, he ripped his dagger free of his belt, and tossed it at the head of the Barka rider.

The blade missed, but the hilt hit heavily against the riders neck. He raised a hand instinctively to the pain, and in doing so let go of the reigns. The horse was bouncing due to its speed, and the rider was quickly thrown backwards off the horse. Crito let out a breath. Thank god his opponent didn’t know how to fight. He was suddenly aware of a looming shape ahead. The fortress? He yelled in triumph. Turning slightly back to his pursuers, he delivered a one finger salute, grinning manically, before the fortress came into view proper.

Atop the walls, men pointed towards the lone rider emerging from the dancing torrents of sand. Conversation was confused, and a runner went to alert the commander. Crito was waving a hand towards the men on the walls. He yelled to them. “Open the ing gates! For the love of Mithras! Open the gates! Don’t just bloody stand there!” He stopped his mount inches from the gate, and rolled as much as climbed off. He quickly stood from the sand, and turned to his pursuers. They were tenacious…

He stood with his back to the gate, sword held out in front of him, but without his shield, we was meat for their arrows. Suddenly, there was a cry above him. “BARKA!” There was an immediate response. Arrows sailed down towards the riders. Many went wide, but four dropped. One dead, three screaming. The remainder took the hint, and galloped away, fury burning in their hearts and minds. Crito dropped to his knees, exhausted. He fell on all fours, clutching the sand with his fingers, laughing. Mithras and Apollo had seen him through this day. They had taken mercy on him, when this land would not. There was a thudding creak, and the gate opened for him.

Chapter Five

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Chapter Five
Crito stumbled through the gate, his gladius dragging through the sand. An Optio approached him and bellowed. “What the hell do you think you are doing, soldier?” He stiffened and choked on a gasp, as he saw the Centurions crest on Crito’s helmet. Crito smiled. “Good.” He thought. “Someone to chew…”. He paused for a moment, before yelling at the Optio.

“How dare you speak down to me, Optio! Are you not aware of my position in this grand army, or are you so full of food and wine that you forget yourself? I think double sprints are in order for you, Optio. What’s your name?” The Optio stared back, a look of embarrassment and anger in his eyes.

“Optio of the 4th Century, Cakius Graftus, Sir.”

“Good, return to your duties. Do not let me catch you disrespecting an Officer again.” The Optio gave a stiff salute, and walked briskly back towards the walls. Crito smiled wide, he felt a great annoyance relieved. He turned towards the largest building, which signified the Commanders headquarters. He went towards it, ignoring the stares from the men as they saw his bloodstained and dirty form.

The Commander of the army invading Syrianna was a man named Herkuleas Achemnon. He was a man of Greek heritage, and under the rule of Emperor Gallus Caesar, the Greeks had been granted full citizenship during the turbulent troubles of the Third Civil War. This was to increase the troops in the armies. The Greeks had proved themselves as soldiers time and time again during the war, and this had led to them migrating heavily into the Romuli homelands. The Greek religion and culture had spread hugely amongst the Romuli settlements, producing huge tolerance towards them. And it was this that helped some of them into the Patrician families of Constantium. Herkuleas Achemnon was one such Greek. He had won favour with Brutus Caesar, and requested to be put in charge of the army heading to Demos. Instead, he was stuck here… In this Godless pit of sand and death.

Crito knocked heavily on the door. Sand trailing out of his sleeve as he did so. He would need a scented bath tonight. Maybe a woman for company. He grinned greedily at the thought, but they were interrupted with the opening of the door by a slave. “Good evening master, may I imply who it is you wish to speak to?” Crito cleared his dry throat.

“The General. Herkuleas.”

“May I ask why, master?”

“No, such intelligence isn’t meant for the ears of mere slaves. Besides, I doubt it would concern you in the least bit. Now shut your pompous mouth and let me through.” Crito shoved the small man aside, much to his gibbering and stuttering protests. He moved through the hall, and made for a large double wooden door at the end of the hall.

Herkuleas looked up sharply as the door barged open. His two bodyguards on either side of the door had their swords at the intruders neck quick as lightning. Herkuleas stood deliberately. “Why didn’t Kalliades alert me you were coming?” As if on cue, the slave ran through the door, stopping behind the tall Centurion, he struggled to see over his shoulder.

“He barged past me master, please forgive me!” Herkuleas casually waved his hand.

“Very well, let him through.” One of the guards lowered his sword, but the other kept it there, his green eyes boring into Crito’s. “Dignus! Lower your sword!” Dignus stared a moment longer, then sheathed his sword and turned away, facing straight ahead, like his comrade.

Herkuleas realised the Centurion was waiting for his order. “At ease, Centurion. Please, take a seat.” Herkuleas gestured to a chair in front of his desk. “Would you like some wine? I have some Constantium Pure if that interests you?” He gestured now to a small corked bottle, containing honey coloured wine of the highest quality. Crito sat heavily, his armour creaking and rattling.

“Thank you Sir, I would be grateful for a drink. I have something most urgent for you, Sir.” Herkuleas poured his guest a drink, and handed him the plain goblet.

“What could be so urgent, that you ride through this sandy hell and barge through here without so much of a warning?” Herkuleas noticed the dried blood on the Centurion. Just a splatter of it, across his chest armour.

“Sir, the fort just South that kept us connected with the port is gone. The Barka assaulted her, and overwhelmed us. I was ordered to leave by the Legate. He ordered me to report directly to you, Sir. He also wanted me to say, the Barka force is larger than just a raiding party. Thousands of them, with some very good quality troops and a large cavalry force. He suspects they are marching against us.” Herkuleas had gone white.

“How have the Barka managed to gather such a force? Not two weeks ago, my spies reported them weak and struggling to recruit more forces. Are you telling me that my spies were wrong?”

“I’m afraid so, Sir.” Herkuleas downed his wine, and groaned as he weighed up his options.

“You saw the Barka force yourself, did you not, Centurion?”

“I did, Sir.”

“Did it outnumber our forces here?”

“Well Sir, losing the 2,000 men at the fort didn’t help. I’d say the Barka were around a decent 20,000. Most of them looked like farmers with armour. But there were Immortals and Mamluks with them too.”

“Kalliades? I want you to ride with Dignus to the port. Once there, you are to go alone to Constantium. Request from Brutus Caesar a legion. Dignus, head straight back to the fortress when you have delivered Kalliades. Wait for nothing, stop for nothing. Make ready to leave within the hour. I will give you both suitable coin, food and drink for your journey. The fate of this campaign rests on you both.”
Dignus saluted proudly, and marched out of the room, dragging Kalliades with him. Crito sipped at his wine awkwardly. “Centurion… What is your name?”

“Centurion Crito. Centurion of the seventh… Former Centurion of the seventh century, Sir.”

“You’re reassigned to the fifth century of the 12th Legion. Find a place to rest tonight, get yourself a decent wash, and perhaps a girl to loosen your tension. Dismissed Centurion Crito.” Herkuleas gave a hasty salute, and began writing a letter. Crito saluted back, although Herkuleas never heeded it, and left. He couldn’t wait for the pleasures that awaited him this night.

Chapter Six

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Chapter Six
Lucius startled awake. One eye was half closed, the other alert, and turning wildly. He had sworn he heard something. A snort and the dragging of a blade. He turned to Julian, who was nearest. He shook him gently. He awoke without a sound, his eyes jerking open. He barely moved. He shot an irritated look at Lucius. Before he could make a sound, Lucius pointed outside the tent. Shadows danced across it.

Strange figures. Not Roman. Not even human. Julian understood immediately. He gave a nod of respect to Lucius, and he silently crawled over to the weapons rack. He took his sword, and donned his helmet. He picked up his shield, and crept to the curtain. He swept it aside with his sword. He jumped back in time to avoid a swinging axe sword. He fell heavily, and his yelp awoke the others.

Lucius jumped up, while the others were still clearing their heads. Julian saw the large figure of an Uruk stride into the tent. It snorted and swung the sword up, and down towards Julian. Julian raised his shield, deflecting the blow, and he kicked out with his foot. His foot hooked onto the Uruk, and he dragged it down with a single, mighty movement. While it was down, it rolled in shock, struggling to comprehend what had happened. Before it could rise, Julian shoved his sword through its neck, and slashed it sideways, severing the head. Lucius had only just retrieved his sword. The fight was over quicker than a Privateer whore would steal your wallets. Julian took on a look of cold ruthlessness.

Lucius shivered as he thought about this mans wrath. Never had he seen anyone take down an Uruk that easily. Outside, a Bucina blared repeatedly. The signal for attack. The legionaries equipped their armour, helpless for the moment, as they heard the screams and the clashing of blades happening
outside.

They emerged from the tent, shields at the ready. They saw many tents on fire. The Uruk’s had burnt the tents they had cleared. So many of them were burning… The 1st Legion had lost at least 900 men already. Lucius saw an Uruk coming towards him, its blade was swinging as it walked. He readied his shield, but recoiled when a javelin came from nowhere and pierced through the Uruk’s guts. It dropped like a sack of denari, blood flowing freely from its wound. Julian retrieved his javelin, which had not bent at the impact, and he signalled to the others to follow.

They travelled the burning street of tents, seeing the grim signs of the dead everywhere. There was the sound of a Bucina close by, and the 8 men rounded the corner to see a hastily organised cohort fighting in brutal hand to hand combat with a huge party of Uruk’s. The cohort were outnumbered, but they were disciplined, and the Uruk’s collapsed before short stabbing swords and large shields. Crassus signalled forwards, and the others followed. In a small, thin line. Lucius and his men marched forwards, the tips of their swords poking out from beside their shields. And they cut into the backs of the great swath of Uruk flesh.

Lucius pushed with his shield, as soon as he felt resistance he would stab out quickly, and withdraw. He saw the same around him. The narrow path between the tents suited the eight men favourably, and they slaughtered lines of the panicking Uruk horde. The Cohort in front pushed them back. The Uruk’s began to squash together and get in each others way. Eventually, bloodied, tired and frightened, they broke. Hundreds of them fought in isolated groups, attempting to push back. Many of them fell to the blades of the eight men. Feeling sure that they could break through such a meagre force. Lucius had never felt so tired in his life, as his blade slipped into the kidneys of yet another casualty.

Lucius collapsed heavily amongst the piles of dead, breathing heavily. His breaths came in rasps, black blood clung to him, a grim reminder of the massacre that had occurred. Lucius stared at the others. Crassus tore his gladius from the throat of an Uruk he had just felled, releasing a jet of blood into the air. He came towards Lucius. Julian was nowhere to be seen. Crassus reached Lucius. “Where’s Julian? I can’t see him. And he isn’t among the dead…” Lucius opened his mouth to answer, before there was a roar to his right.

An Uruk leapt towards Lucius, its axe sword swinging up to cleave Lucius’ head. He barely had time to flinch, before a sword tip burst through the chest of the Uruk. It dropped to its knees, a look of shockingly frightening rage etched onto its face forever more. It fell amongst the dead, just another corpse. One of the men from Lucius’ tent ripped the sword from the body. “You were almost for it, Lucius.” Lucius struggled to remember the name of the man. Titus was his name… Titus Torvinus. He was quite tall compared to others in the Legions. Lucius had seen him drunk once. He’d knocked over a whore and beat his Centurion to a bloody pulp. Got him lashed, beaten and demoted back to the ranks. He used to be an Optio.

“Thank you Titus. You saved my life.”

“Think nothing of it Lucius. I look out for those who I have come to know. Besides, you’re young and have a future.” With that, he sat and drank a large gulp from his canteen. There was a yell, and Julian appeared around a corner of burning tents. The men of the Cohort had moved on to rally more men. He approached his comrades, a look of horror on his usually stony face.

“Gather round!” The seven soldiers grouped around Julian, confused and weary. And in no mood for bad news. “The Uruk’s launched raids like this all along the other camps. I can see the flames in the distance. The death toll for our lads could reach the thousands. May Apollo carry them speedily to paradise…” There was a brief moment as the men mourned those lost to today’s bloody battle. “I know for a fact, that one of the Auxiliary camps is gone. Burnt to the ground from the looks of it. I’ll send for the General. We need to come back from this…”

Chapter Seven

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Chapter Seven
　
Crito stirred sleepily as his wandering foot kicked over a half empty wine amphora. It spilled onto the richly decorated carpet, and the sound of the amphora thudding on the ground made Crito sit up quickly, his training making him alert for any danger. He laughed stupidly as he realised where he was, and rose naked from his bed. He approached his clothes, crumpled and tossed on the floor during last nights drunken frenzy of sex. He picked up his tunic, and put it on. He turned to the sleeping form of Sadiq, the woman he picked up from the brothel. He picked up his purse from the table, and tossed a denari onto the sheets. Without further ado, he got his sandals on, and hurriedly took all his valuable items. There was no way he was giving her free plunder of his items.

He navigated his way across the room, avoiding the mass grave of empty wine amphora’s, and silently left the building. Herkuleas had spared no expense in making sure the Centurion received the best of everything. The best tavern, the best inn, the best women. Herkuleas knew how to treat a guest. Crito was on two weeks leave to do what he wanted in this city in the making. He thought he would do something a little risky. Crito was a man with nothing to lose, and everything to gain.

Gladiatorial games were something the Romuli people enjoyed and enthused heavily. It was the local pastime to go to the local arena and watch men fight to the death. In areas like these, where games were only just being introduced, the pool of slaves and prisoners was hard to find. So, the arena owners would employ any means necessary to gather fighters. They would pay volunteers handsome sums of money… If they survived. Crito loved gambling, and this was about as deadly as gambling got. Fighting to the death with a trained opponent.

He walked down the broad streets, lined with horse dung and throngs of travellers, merchants, children, civilians and soldiers. Crito moved with purpose towards the largest building in the city fortress. The arena. There were games scheduled for today, and many people were moving inside the arena to get seats while they could. Guards stood at every entrance, making sure no kind of pushing ensued. Crito hated arena guards. They were professional soldiers, and wore soldiers armour and equipment. But they were cowards. They were practically slaves, giving their loyalty to the arena master in return for a cut of the shares. They were despicable, a mockery of real men.

Crito didn’t move with the crowd towards the entrances. He went a separate way, to a large attachment to the side of the arena. It was guarded by five “Soldiers” and a small Greco slave with a sheet of paper. He halted the Centurion, guards pointing their pila at him. The Greek stared up at the Centurion. “Name please.” His voice was high and squeaky. Crito took an instant dislike to him.

“Lentulus Crito.” The slave checked the paper.

“It appears you are not an appointment today. Would you like to make an appointment?” Crito growled angrily at the slave, who wisely took a step out of reach of the Centurion’s fists. “You need an appointment if you are to speak with master Sensus.”

“I don’t have time for appointments. I wish to volunteer to fight.” The Greek took on a look of surprise.

“Oh, in that case, go right through.” The Greek snapped his bony fingers, and the guards turned their attention back to the crowd, permitting Crito entrance. He opened the wooden door, feeling a blast of cool air hit him as he went. It was a blessing compared to the hot sun outside, and he sat in a small chair in front of a large desk. Sensus was a fat man, and sat writing something. He scratched his quill at one final sentence, and looked up at the Centurion.

“May I help you?” He popped a Syrianna berry into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully.

“I want to volunteer. I want to battle a gladiator in front of the crowd. Preferably a native.” Sensus beamed at Crito then.

“Excellent. Head down to the arming room, just down that door there.” Sensus pointed to a door down a small flight of steps. “The trainer will give you some weapons, and you will be given a match when an opportunity arises. May you live through today’s events.” Crito bowed his head slightly, and rose from the chair. He moved through the door, and followed a dark, dank, damp corridor down to a large chamber. There were hundreds of men, some with armour, many without, arming themselves with bucklers, knives, shields, swords, nets, tridents. Every weapon created by man.

The trainer gave Crito good quality armour, a decent helmet and good torso coverage. He was given a mock legionary shield, and a gladius. The weapons he would trust the lives of Apollo and Mithras on. Crito was told to sit on a stone bench with other gladiators while he was given a slot. He complied, not glancing at the sodden looks of the gladiators. Many of them well muscled, many Barka natives. One of them spat at his feet, and received a smack around the head by a nearby guard. Nothing else happened. Except the deafening roar of the crowd outside, as the fights raged.

An hour passed, dead gladiators were dragged through the room, gruesome wounds covered them, while a single triumphant fighter was led to a clean medical room, to have his wounds seen to. The more Crito saw, the more he ached for the combat. He lived for war. He lived for wine and women, and the money to buy wine and women. What better way to combine his passions of money and fighting than here? He heard a call for the next pair of gladiators to appear. The trainer signalled to Crito. “You’re up, get out there and make the crowd cheer.” His dark smile and mocking laugh made Crito all the more determined to kill a man today…

Chapter Eight

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

Chapter Eight
Lucius sat on an overturned log. He idly traced patterns in the mud with the point of his gladius. Around him were blood covered, dirty soldiers. Some talking, most were quiet. The men of the 1st Legion had gathered outside the large tent of the army general. Consul Gallus Gallus. The men called him Secundus. He had been inside talking to select men of the centuries. Lucius was sat with the others. Julian, Titus, Hermes, Simeon, Varus and Crixus. Cassius was selected to speak with Secundus.

More time passed in silence. Lucius summoned every ounce of his mental strength and forced himself to look up from the ground. The generals tent sat atop a large hill, and all around the camp, flames still rose high into the air. The smell of the dead was beginning to seep from all around. Lucius stifled tears. How could the mighty legions suffer like this from simple raids? In the distance, he could hear isolated calls from men. Some of them shouting in pain and agony, others searching for friends long dead. It blackened his heart, and any hopes of a speedy victory he still harboured. Hands gripped his shoulders rough, and he gasped in sudden fright.

“Have you seen him?!” The mans eyes were sunken, a large slash covered the left side of his face, blood and sweat matted his hair and he shook as he stood. Lucius stuttered, unsure of what was happening.

“Seen who?”

“My brother! Lassandus! He was with me… Just a moment ago. I swear it!” Lucius leaned backwards, away from the mans stinking breath.

“I’m sorry, I don’t know who that is…”

“Of course you do! You liar!” He moaned in rage, before he was pulled away slowly, by the hands of Titus.

“Brannicus, I saw him. He was at the edges of the camp when the attack started. Start over there.” Brannicus nodded thankfully, and ran off into the mass of tents, burning and not burning. Julian shook his head sadly, Lucius felt sorry for the deranged man, as Titus sat back down.

Eventually, the tent flap opened, and a small torrent of men walked out, mumbling to each other. Cassius made his way back to Lucius, but this time he wore the crested helmet of a Centurion.
He sat beside Lucius, and spoke silently, so silently Lucius almost missed the words. “They have official death tolls for the Legions. It wasn’t good, Lucius… So many killed. It’s one of the reasons I was promoted. I suppose you’ve guessed it already, but Fraxis is dead.” Fraxis had been the Centurion of Lucius’ century.

“Congratulations Cassius.”

“Don’t congratulate me Lucius, I didn’t earn this.”

“But you survived again.”

“And at another great cost…” The general himself strode out. He carried with him a wax tablet, which his eyes fixed upon unfaltering. As if he was afraid to look at the men before him.

“Gather round men of the 1st! We have the tallies. Our legion lost 1,200 men. 2nd Legion lost 600 men. 3rd Legion lost 2,000 men. 4th Legion lost 6,000 men. Many of them Auxiliaries. 5th Legion lost 1,000 men. 6th Legion lost 800 men. 7th Legion were right on the edge of the camps. They took the heaviest losses. 7,400.” The figures were devastating. Out of 70,000 men first marching through, 19,000 were gone. How many Uruk’s had there been?!

The general waited a moment before continuing. “This will not impede our efforts. Reinforcements will be called for, while we continue the march. The Uruk’s know we are coming, but after tonight there will be no more night raids on our men. We won’t fail in our noble task…” Lucius felt a stir of hope at his words, but until they were back up to full strength, Lucius couldn’t help but feel the legions had been humiliated this night. The battle had been won, but at such a ridiculous cost…

Chapter Nine

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

Chapter Nine
Crito dug his boots into the sand. He heard the cheering reach a deafening roar. Hundreds of people booing and thousands cheering. For such a newly established city, it had an impressive sized arena. Crito held up his arms, while on the other side of the arena, his opponent, a heavily muscled, armour encased brute, just lowered his face guard, and hunched behind his mock legionary shield. They were similarly armoured and that would bring the fight down to skill. It was under the roaring of the crowd, that the gladiator made the first move.

He shuffled forwards quickly, feinting left and feinting right. Crito didn’t fall for a single one of them. They circled one another, the olive skinned gladiator suddenly thrust his shield forwards, and slashed his sword outwards. There was no direction or intent meant with the attack. It was just a test. Crito roared, as loud as he could, and charged the gladiator. He held his sword back behind his shield, and bashed it forwards, heavily into the shield of the gladiator. The gladiator panicked, and tried to stab at Crito.

The hits were wasted, they just bounced off the edge of his shield. Crito suddenly twisted his shield to the side, the movement caused the gladiator to stumble forwards. Crito spun, swinging his gladius down as he did so. He felt the blade meet resistance, and immediately slashed it across his target. He heard a yelp of pain, and something warm splashed across his arm. He pulled back from the gladiator, the edge of his sword gleaming red.

The gladiator was kneeling on all fours, across his back was an ugly red gash, blood flowed freely into the sand. The gladiator stood up, shakily. He turned to face Crito, defiant and angry. He regained his fighting posture, and advanced on Crito with a slight hunch in his back. Crito closed with his opponent, relishing every second of this blood sport. He blocked a well aimed thrust from the gladiator, and retaliated by ramming the hilt of his sword into the side of the gladiators helmet. He half spun, half fell to the ground, struggling to rise. Crito knew the rules of the fights, and stepped back to see if his opponent still had life in him.

The gladiator stabbed his sword into the sand, and rose on it, shaking wildly. He turned back to Crito. His posture was weak and uneasy, and he moved with a newfound slowness. Crito sensed an end coming soon. The crowd had been cheering the whole way through, yelling support to those they had bet on. Crito smiled inside his helmet. It was time to disappoint some people. He ran at his opponent full sprint, the gladiator didn’t even attempt to avoid the wild charge. Crito ran his shield into the gladiators at full strength. He carried on pushing, until he had the gladiator on the ground. Crito quickly stamped his boot down on the gladiators wrist, stamping on it until he released his weapon, with his shield he slammed it down, its edge hammering on the gladiators shield. He only stopped hitting it until it was bent horrifically out of shape. The gladiator made the most feeble of attempts to break free, a small movement with his legs.

Crito heard the cheering in the crowd reach a fever pitch. He placed a boot on top of the gladiators shield, which was covering the length of his body, protecting him from death blows. Crito looked up to the private booth where Sensus sat. He held his arms folded, while he decided the fate of the gladiator. The crowd were saying both yes and no, and in the end, he protruded a fist. Everything went quiet then, as he made to make the critical movement with his thumb. It shot down, and Crito dug his boot underneath the gladiators shield, and flicked it aside with a casual movement, there was no resistance now.

The gladiator, helpless and tired, awaited death. He closed his eyes, and lay still. Crito ripped off his opponents helmet, and stared at the face beneath. He was definitely a native. A prisoner condemned to fight for Roman amusement. Crito felt the briefest flash of pity, before it was replaced by thoughts of his dead comrades. His dead Optio. He leaned in close, and whispered to the native. “I’ll take your life, as vengeance for those whom were taken by you.” He tossed his own shield sideways, and placed his now free hand behind the gladiators head. He pushed his head up, towards the waiting blade of his gladius. Hatred flashed through his eyes for his last moments, as his head was severed by the Roman.

The cheering was immediate. Thousands of them, yelling their satisfaction. A metal gate creaked open on one side of the arena. A handful of men came out. Two armed guards moved to Crito. They took the head from his bloody fingers, and marched him back into the cool interior of the building, while other slaves cleared the body, the head and swept over the bloodied sand in preparation for the next act.

Crito was back in his civilian tunic, and he was being escorted into the private booth by a guard. He opened the door, to see the fat man watching, with interest, two bestiarii pummelling away at each other. Sensus turned to Crito when he heard the door slam shut. “Hello my boy! Come to collect payment I expect? Well, you’ll find enough on the table there.” Sensus waved casually towards a small, wooden table. Upon which, were several small bundles of coins. Crito frowned as he picked one up. He opened the small sack and counted. Only 50 denari? The minimum for this kind of thing was at least 300!

“Sensus!”

“Yes my boy?”

“There are 50 ing coins in this thing.”

“Yes… Is that not enough for you?”

“No, it’s bloody not. I want at least 300.”

“300?” Sensus laughed heavily. “Dear boy, that would be a little much, don’t you think? Giving 300 away to everyone who volunteered. Why, the man you killed was a volunteer.”

“A volunteer? You said you’d put me against a local!”

“And he was a local. A local volunteer. I tire of this, take your denari and leave. Before I make you leave with nothing.” Crito lost control. He drew the knife he carried with him, hidden inside his boot. He grabbed Sensus by the hair, and dragged him off his chair to the ground. The servants who stood next to him started, and jumped back. One of them, a woman, began screaming. Her shrill cry of terror was lost in the roaring crowd.

The two guards at the door were slow to react, but they were soon advancing on Crito. They were idiots these corrupt soldiers. They didn’t know how to fight, they couldn’t stand up to anyone who’d been in the Legions a week. One of them approached slowly.

“Put the knife down mate, you don’t want to do this…” Sensus was red in the face, struggling to stay still as Crito held the knife point dangerously close to his throat. Crito heard the other guard more than see him. He quickly dived forwards, feeling the displaced air behind him as the guards thrust missed. He spun quickly, and saw the other guard attempt to rush him.

The battle was short. Crito easily dodged the thrust, and stabbed his blade hilt deep into the armpit of the guard. He screamed in agony, and slumped to the ground. Crito saw the other guard take a run at him. Crito side stepped and drove the knife into the exposed throat of the guard. Sensus had attempted to crawl towards the door in the fight, and Crito jogged over to him, and kicked him brutally in the side of the head, knocking him cold. Many people in the arena had noticed the fight, and many were shouting for the guards. Crito had to leave…

Chapter Ten

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

Chapter Ten

It was night in the desert. And it was deathly cold. Dignus lay shivering under his blanket, cursing whichever Heathen God had created such a nightmarish land. It screamed of war, death, sickness, hate and isolation. Kalliades lay a few feet away, near the dying embers of the fire, kitted out in full Legionary gear. Tethered to wooden posts were their horses, sleeping quietly. The gentle snoring of the slave seemed too loud in the empty night. He struggled to sleep himself, on constant alert for danger.

It came as Dignus found himself drifting off. The sound of galloping hooves, and then before he could rise and draw his sword, bandits circled the two men, whooping and ululating. One of them tossed a lit torch in the midst of their tiny camp, illuminating them for all to see. Kalliades ran over to Dignus, and stood back to back with him. “What do we do?” He yelled urgently.

“Grab a pila, slave.” Dignus crouched quickly, and hefted the shaft of one of the two pila he kept safe underneath a sheet. He stood again, with the mighty weapon pulled back over arm like a javelin. Kalliades did the same, with less grace. It wasn’t until Dignus loosed his first missile, that the bandits realised the danger. It soared into the side of a horse, knocking it into the sand. Kalliades threw his with more fright than calm, missing his target. One of them charged towards Dignus, a curved scimitar glinting in the torchlight. He swung it head height, Dignus saved himself by quickly raising his shield to deflect the blow.

A rider ran at them on foot, his turban unravelling to display a bearded face, his eyes gleaming with rage. Kalliades was faced with the rider. He ducked behind his shield, and flinched as the first blows from the bandits sword smashed into his shield. Dignus dropped to the ground, as another horse attempted to scalp him. He rolled towards the torch, and picked it up. He threw it as far as he could. He got lucky, when the torch struck a passing rider on the head, igniting his turban. The bandit screamed, and dropped from his horse, the flames spreading along his cloth clothes. Dignus spared the man little thought, as darkness claimed them once more. The riders became confused.

Kalliades pushed meekly forwards with his shield, but at the exact same time the bandit slashed with his scimitar. The resulting collision knocked the bandit back, his arm dead from the impact. Kalliades peeked over the rim of his shield, and noticing the man stunned on the ground, plunged his gladius through the riders stomach. He wrenched it free, a new sense of might and courage found from a kill.

Dignus jogged back to Kalliades, a rider stopping in front of him received a blade to the gut, and he saw yet more of them riding through the dark, appearing now and then to slash at the two men. He grabbed Kalliades by the back of his tunic, and dragged him towards where the horses were tethered. They huddled close to each other in fright, and they shied away as their riders approached. “Get on, slave!” Kalliades clambered onto his horse, while Dignus swapped blows with a confident rider. The bandit leaned forward to lunge, and exposed his wrist. Dignus swiped his sword down, and cut through muscle and bone, severing the bandits hand. He howled in agony, and slipped off his horse in shock. Dignus mounted his own horse, and with Kalliades, shot off into the night.

He’d never seen such tenacious bandits. Normally they would travel in far larger groups, normally they would leave small groups alone, and normally… They never attacked at night. And they almost always retreated at the first few casualties. These were men motivated by cash, not plunder… But who would want Dignus and Kalliades dead?

Chapter Eleven

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

Chapter Eleven

Crito weighed his options. He dragged the fat man to the door, and blocked it with his body. Just in time to, the door edged open slightly, as a guard attempted to shift the weight of Sensus. Crito took a sword and a shield from the corpses of the guards. What now? He barely had time to think, with a thud and a shout, the door burst open, Sensus was flung forwards. A huge brute stood before Crito. He charged the Centurion, while down below, the crowd were beginning to leave the arena. Some remained, to watch the events about to unfold…

Crito easily side stepped the rush from the huge guard, and ran to the edge of the balcony. He leapt over the edge, and landed with a roll. He quickly turned back to see several guards jumping down after him. One landed heavily, and his ankle broke instantly. The snap rang sharply in the ears of all who heard it, and his screams of agony wracked the nerves of many. “Whoever brings me that bastards head is a free man!” Sensus had awoke, and stood at the balcony edge, face red with rage and a small trickle of blood leaked from a cut in his head. As he trembled with rage, his slaves were arming themselves, and coming to kill Crito. With the promise of freedom, slaves and gladiators alike were baying for the blood of the Centurion.

The first to charge him was a slave. Wearing dirty and tattered robes, he ran at the Centurion with a tiny knife, suitable only for opening letters. Crito slammed the shield forward into his outstretched hand, crushing the bones in his hand almost instantly. The slave dropped the knife, and dropped to his knees. Crito slashed his gladius across the slaves throat, and began shuffling backwards, to stop them encircling him. He stabbed out at a gladiator that got too close. The gladiator jumped back and saved himself serious harm, as the gladius only opened a small cut on his chest. Crito saw the huge guard bellowing orders in Islamic, and the gladiators heeded him instantly. Crito felt a burning hatred towards him. The pig would dare work with Romans? This man who believes in his single God?

He stopped moving backwards when he touched the far wall. The arena inhabitants had amassed in strength, but were wary of attacking. They’d seen him fight, seen what he’d done to the slave. Fear saved him, fear stopped them from rushing him en masse. He saw movement in the corner of his eye. He leaned back quickly, as a trident stabbed into the space his head had occupied moments before. He wasted no time, and quickly stabbed right sightlessly. He felt a connection, heard a groan, felt the wetness as blood sprayed across his hand and arm. He pulled back, and resumed his soldiers stance. Hunched behind his shield, his eyes seeing just above the rim, his feet displaced to allow easy movement, his gladius hip level behind the shield, ready to thrust…

The men spread in front of him began to fan out. “This is it? Killed in the arena at the hands of a fat man and his slaves?” Thoughts raced through his head. He saw a gap in their lines, open for just a moment. He took the initiative. He bellowed a terrifying war cry, and charged straight at the gap. Those at the front leapt aside of his charge, but a gladiator further back took Crito’s gladius to the chest. His momentum faltered, and he pushed his shield into a large formation of his would be murderers. They gave way, and collapsed on the floor, falling over each other as Crito raced for the open gateway at the other end of the arena.

As if on cue, Sensus yelled once more. “Close that gate! If he escapes I’ll have your heads!” But all his slaves had come out to kill for freedom. There was no one to man the gate. Crito raced through, far ahead of the others. He dropped his shield and sword, and he slammed the gate shut, and dropped the locks down on the top of the gate. Crito stepped back out of reach of the tridents and spears and smiled widely at them.

“Good luck getting out of the arena. I won’t let you out…” Crito gave a mock salute to them, and slowly walked down the dark corridor, straight back to the balcony. This time he had all the time in the world with Sensus. He’d make the disgusting animal pay.

“Please, you’ve had your revenge, cost me a lot of money. Leave now, and we call it even, yes?” Crito laughed, as he downed a cup of wine left on a table. He threw the cup over the balcony edge, and he could see the remaining people who stayed to watch leaving to call for the garrison to help. Crito felt a wave of annoyance as he realised he would have to do this quickly.

“Tell me Sensus, do you have any family?”

“I do, I do! A wife! She finds the games too bloody, stays at home… She is a lovely woman though, we’re trying for chi-” Crito punched him.

“I didn’t ask for your life story. Where does she live?”

“Why? You stay away from Julia!” Crito laughed again.

“I don’t want her you gluttonous fool! I need to know what address to send your head.” Sensus spluttered, he backed away.

“Don’t do anything stupid boy! You’ve already murdered innocents today. I’ve already given you my word I won’t pursue the matter if you go. Just leave.” There was a shout, the clanging sound of the gates being opened. A Roman soldier asking what was happening…

“Sensus! Get to Sensus! He’s in danger!” Crito shrugged. He would have to cut his time with the Arena master short. He advanced on Sensus, smashing the hilt of his sword into the fat mans head. He dropped to the floor with an explosive gasp of pain and fright. Crito rammed the blade of his sword through the back of Sensus’ head. He left the sword in there, dropped the shield and ran to the edge of the balcony. The door behind him smashed open, and a large group of guards and soldiers burst in. Crito saw one of the guards running at him, and he jumped towards the spectator stands, raised high above the sandy death-trap below. He landed a few centimetres from the edge, and sprinted for the viewer exits.

It had been a long day, and the bodies of those he had killed were spread along the sand below, and men chased him. They would lose him in the crowd, and he would never try anything like this again… It’d been too close.

Chapter Twelve

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

Chapter Twelve
It was night in Constantium, and the noise and bustle that came in the day had almost subsided. The city was home to 700,000 citizens and almost triple that number of slaves. And of course, the homeless added another uncountable number to that figure. The city had no official quarters or sections, but it was clear where the poor, the rich and the merchants lived. Most of the South side of the city was dominated by the slums. Here, the trade came into the city from the docks. The slums reeked heavily of fish, and contained hundreds of Insulae. The city centre, was where the merchants dominated. Where you could find the finest Greek perfumes, the most beautiful Trojan jewellery and the spoils taken from Syrianna. Tapestries woven in Islamic style, exotic fruits and translated books. The East was where the rich lived. The biggest houses, clean streets… It was also where a number of criminals, whores and homeless called their turf. Living rich had its advantages, but the scum tended to dwell there more often than most areas.

The North was known as “Jock Town”. It was where the arena’s and the race tracks were. The biggest arena, the Caesar Arena, dominated the Northern area of the city. There were daily games, held in honour of Gods, holidays, birthdays, deaths, military conquests, death of an Emperor, crowning of an Emperor. Anyone would look for any excuse to hold a game at the magnificent Caesar Arena. The West, was where the well off people lived. Retired army veterans, merchants, priests… It was also where the shrines and temples were. It was also the living place of Cicero Luverius. He was 16 and lived with his uncle and father. They owned and lived in a small pub. They were right on the edge of the North/West border of the city. In fact, the Caesar Arena was just down the road. It made their pub quite a popular place for a drink and a bet before the games. Unfortunately for this small family, it was also a popular place for gangs and criminals…

“I got a letter from your mother today, Cicero.” His father sat at the small wooden table, dipping his bread into the soup. “She wants to know if you’re well, if you got over that flu you had.” Cicero made several attempts to swallow the food crammed in his throat, he finally succeeded.

“You can tell her I’m better now.” The short lived conversation made the air awkward. Cicero had never had much love for his mother. It was his father who chose to stick with him, his father who hadn’t walked out on him when he was young. In his eyes, she was no better than a common thief. Stealing his fathers possessions, and then leaving with whatever her arms could carry, grown fat on his fathers love and generosity. Their quiet dinner was interrupted when there came a great cheer from the crowd in the Caesar Arena. There was a game on tonight, in honour of the Emperor’s birthday. Cornelius, Cicero’s uncle, chuckled.

“That’ll be the fight between the Greek and the Uruk. I have money on the Uruk, it better have won.” Cornelius was a big gambler… His gambling had gotten him in deep with a local gang, and he was having trouble repaying his debt, his brother could only lend him so much money.

“Honestly Cornelius! Wasn’t running into Spartacus twice more than enough? You should save your money, not squander it. He will kill you, Cornelius! And while you’re my brother, and I love you… I can’t keep paying him off every time. I need to feed myself and a son, and I need the money to buy more stocks of wine and meat.”

“I know the sacrifices you make for me Severus. And I love you for it. I have a lot going on that fight, I’ll admit, but if I come through, I’ll be able to settle my debt, and have enough left for twelve Insulae!”

“And how do you know the Uruk won? It went against a Spartan. Those men are fearsome.” Severus let that thought linger a while, and Cornelius visibly darkened, he bowed his head, and seemed to forget about the room around him. Then, as quick as the change had appeared, he was back to his old, cheery self. He laughed the comment off.

“Uruk’s are reliable fighters… We’ll come through.” Cicero tried his best not to listen. He hated being reminded of his uncles financial woes. They frightened him. He was well aware of Spartacus and his gang of murderers and thugs he had turned into professional criminals. If they didn’t receive payment in coins, they’d receive it in blood.

After the plates had been moved to the back, and the tables washed down and dried, Cicero took his place behind the bar with his dad, Severus. In the back, Cornelius was hovering around the small kitchen, monitoring the dozens of boiling pots of stew. He had bowls ready on the side table to hand out the food. Severus eyed the front of the pub. He checked the wine amphora’s were stocked, and he clapped Cicero on the shoulder. “You know what to do lad, Arena’s closed for the night, thousands of them will want a drink and some food. Remember that. When you take over the business, I want you to remember everything. Game days are the best days for business. We can only accommodate so many though. Anyway, open up, we’re ready for business.” Severus ruffled Cicero’s hair as he walked over to the door. He undid the latch, and retreated back behind the bar.

It wasn’t long before the pub was overflowing with customers. Sometimes, Cornelius had to be called in from the back to help serve at the bar. There was a large rouse of cheery conversation, and rowdy laughter from the quick drunken men. Cicero was delivering a bowl of stew to a small table, when he overheard something that made his heart sink. “The fight with the Uruk and the Spartan was spectacular, eh boys?” There were grunts and laughs of acknowledgment. “Uruk put up a brilliant fight, refused to stop swinging. Went down with wounds everywhere, best fight I’ve ever seen in my 30 years.” Cicero placed the stew down on the table, and collected the three denari from the customer before going over to the bar and whispering the news to Severus.

It was nearing the dead of night, and the pub was evacuated by its patrons, empty goblets and wine splashed tables and floor dominated the scene. Cicero was cleaning up while Severus quickly ran to the door, bolting it shut. This was around the time Spartacus sent his thugs. Cornelius was fretting madly, preparing to hide should Spartacus make an appearance tonight. There was a trapdoor at the back room, where they stored the meat in salt barrels. Cicero returned from the kitchen, wiping his wine stained hands on his shirt, when there came a knock at the door that chilled Cicero to the bone.

“Open up! Spartacus wants his money!” Severus turned to Cicero.

“Quickly, get to your uncle. Make sure he’s well hidden. Hide with him, don’t come out! No matter what you hear.”

“Same as always, dad.” Severus made a pained smile at his son, and turned to the door as there was another knock, louder than the last.

“Open the door you bastard!”

“I’m coming you fool!” As Cicero left the room, he heard the latch draw back, and the door being shoved open. He came into the back room, and Cornelius was waiting by the trapdoor, beckoning inside.

“Move it Cicero! Quickly!” Cicero ran through, and quickly descended the stairs. Cornelius followed fast behind, shutting the door silently. “Get behind those barrels lad, quickly now…” Cicero climbed clumsily behind the largest cluster, while Cornelius moved to the darkest corner, and lay down behind some barrels that hid him completely from view. From upstairs, they could hear soft footsteps, accompanying loud and violent footsteps.

“He isn’t here, I swear it. He went to the games and didn’t return, now get the hell out of my pub!” There was a muffled crash, and a sickeningly loud thud.

“Shut your face old man, we know he’s here. We had others stationed at the games. They didn’t see him.” There was a scrape, and a sharp rasp.

“You’ll not have him you! I refuse it!” There was a scuffle, and a yell of pain. Cicero dared not to even breath, as an eerie silence polluted the air. Then he heard a small thud, and one of the men laughed.

“That dumb er hit me!” Another voice rang out louder.

“Shut it! You bladed him anyway. What does it matter.”

“He hit me with a bloody table leg!” Cicero stifled sobs. They’d stabbed his father. Now was not the time, they had found the trapdoor. From across the room, he heard Cornelius whisper to him.

“Stay quiet young’un. We’ll get ‘em back.” There was a frighteningly loud creak as the door was opened by rough and uncaring hands.

“I’ll check down here Sextus, you cover the kitchen.” A large man came heavily down the stairs, his sharp eyes sweeping across the dark, meat stinking room. “ing hell, what do they keep down here?” The man moved an arm over his broad face, covering his nose. He began to walk right over to the gathering of barrels that Cicero was hiding behind. He closed his eyes and waited to be discovered, and stabbed just like his father. But those calloused, large hands never grabbed Cicero. Instead, Cornelius rose from his hiding place with a knife, and rushed the thief.

The man turned as he heard the noise made from the barrels crashing over, and the scuffling of feet. “What the fu-” He never finished the sentence, before a knife flashed in the darkness, cutting into the thugs side. He groaned and lashed out with his huge fists, striking Cicero’s uncle in the face and chest. He collapsed backwards, coughing. Cicero rose from behind the barrels and watched as the thug picked up Cornelius. “I’ll kill you for that, you little !” The thug backhanded Cornelius across his face, and then produced a short sword from the inside of his robe. “I take it this means you ain’t got our money?” Cicero was frozen in fear, as the man raised the sword over Cornelius’ prone form. There was a brief moment where time slowed down. Cicero seemed to see every moment that the sword came down into the throat of his uncle, and his blood soaked the cellar floor.

Cicero crouched silently back down behind the barrels, huddled tight, shaking violently. The thug left the cellar, cursing all the way about the cut in his side. Cicero heard them talking in the room above. He crawled over to his uncle, holding back his cries. He ran a hand over his smooth face, his lifeless eyes seemed to stare right through Cicero. It broke his heart to know that his uncle was looking at him and not noticing he was there. He took his now wet hand away, smeared with the life blood of his uncle. He picked up the knife, lying in a pool of its owners still warm blood. He stared up at the ceiling, as if he could see through it, and see the men stood there. He let the tears flow freely down his face.

Severus stared at the two men with hatred. The knife wound in his chest was evident by the spreading red stain along his shirt. He coughed out blood that ran down his lips hot and wet. The two men looked at him, as though just remembering he was there. “What do we do about him?” One suggested.

“I don’t know… It doesn’t seem right to let him suffer like this. You listening to me old man? I’m going to ease your passing for you!” They laughed and Severus felt nothing but despair and sadness. What would become of his boy?

Cicero silently walked up the stairs and through the door that had been left open. He appeared behind the murderers. He could make out the figure of his father through the gap between them. He let rage take him over. And the next few seconds were a blur to him, and he has trouble recalling the first lives he ever took. He stabbed the knife into the back of one thugs neck, and pulled the blade out. He then drove into the back of the kneeling man, and hacked viciously away at his flesh. A line of blood spraying out with every movement of his knife. He then turned to the stunned other, Sextus, and shoved the knife right into his crotch. He yelled in pain, and head butted Cicero violently in reflex. Cicero stumbled backwards to the wall, placing his hand on a shelf to steady himself.

Almost immediately, he charged again, the thug screaming wildly as he felt the searing pain in his pants. The knife stabbed into the mans eye, and came out again just as quick. He fell to the ground, his body twitching. Cicero dropped the knife with a clatter on the bloodstained floor, and he re entered the calm, normal world. His eyes went immediately to his father, who was groaning with the effort of trying to sit up. “Cicero…” He managed to wheeze out.

“I’m here, they’re dead… Father, come on! We need to get you to a doctor!” His father gave up attempting to sit up, and instead placed a hand on his sons face.

“It’s too late for me, Cicero… I can feel it now. I’m dying.”

“I can still save you! Don’t give in… I won’t let Apollo have you just yet.”

“No… Please… Cicero… Moving me will just cause me more pain. Let me die in peace, with you at my side.” Cicero sobbed openly now, and he crouched down, he placed his head on his fathers chest, and his pain hardened when his father placed hands in his sons hair. “Shush, my son. You won’t forget me… Will you?” It was hard for Cicero to speak, all he could manage was a dry choke of a no. “Good… Remember the times we used to spend at the river? We’d catch so many… fish. And you couldn’t wait to get back home and… eat them?” Cicero managed a tiny nod, as he gripped his fathers shirt tighter.
“And… I always used to read you a Greek myth before… your bed time. You loved the one about… Zeus… And the Lion…” His father tried more words, but they caught in his throat and he went silent then, instead stroking his sons hair to show him he was still there, still with him. That he wouldn’t leave.

It took two more minutes, that passed too quickly for Cicero’s liking. He felt his fathers hand movements slow, and then cease altogether. He knew his father was still alive, he could hear his heart beating. But it slowed, and he heard the last beat of his heart, and his hands dropped to the floor. He moaned in despair. A desperate, frightened, angry, keening wail. That would put anyone who heard it into a sad mood. Except for Spartacus. The man who did this.

It took some minutes, but Cicero recovered. He walked over to the bodies of the murderers, and took one of their swords. He would have revenge. He wouldn’t let the death of his father and uncle go without punishment.

Chapter Thirteen

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

Chapter Thirteen
And so it was, the legions had to continue, except now they wouldn’t be so relaxed in the camp defences. Palisades would surround each camp, each camp would be interconnected, sentries on patrol around the palisade, horns ready to blare in alarm. Lucius marched again in the day, although there was no atmosphere of hope, or cheer. It was grim, the air was cold, the wind taunted them with every wail. 19,000 men were buried in 19,000 mounds of earth behind them. A monument to the massacre. They would be cremated later, so that 19,000 men would not be left out of the halls of Mithras and Apollo for their comrades negligence. Lucius was a thinker, and spent most of his time pondering.

This army was made up mainly of veterans of the last campaign. After the disgrace seven years previously, all survivors were kicked from the army, and sent to Constantium without their pay, to receive the displeasure of the Emperor. So many of them had jumped at the chance to come back and save themselves from the “Black List” that the Emperor kept near at hand. If they died, they would be forgiven, if they returned victorious, handsome sums of money awaited them, along with forgiveness and restoration to citizen class. Lucius was only 24, and he felt out of place amongst these experienced men. Julian, Cassius (Who was now his centuries Centurion) and even Titus. Lucius was so concentrated on his thoughts, that he continued walking even when everyone else around him stopped.

He walked right into the segmented armour of the man in front. He swore loudly, to which Cassius bellowed at him “Silence in the ranks, you little upstart!” Despite the silence, Lucius could feel the excitement. The gloomy atmosphere had been pierced by a light. Lucius whispered to Julian, who was next to him as always.
“What is it?” Julian simply nudged Lucius hard in the ribs. He hissed between his teeth.

“Shut up!” Lucius took the point and bobbed impatiently, suddenly he heard it. A cascade of yells and war cries. They had stumbled on an enemy host. He heard the shrill cry of the Bucina’s and the Centurions echoed the orders down the lines.

“Draw swords!” There was a great rattle and clatter, and Lucius drew his own sword. Lucius couldn’t see the enemy, he was too far back in the ranks. Although he was in the first legion, and was ahead of the rest, he still had a good 2,000 heads in front of him. But he knew that he would be up front soon enough. “Hands on!” Lucius placed his left hand on the back of the man in front of him, placing his inside the mans armour. He felt his body jerk backwards a little bit as someone did the same to him. Every time the Bucina’s blared, the men at the front would be dragged back by the man behind, and they would take their place. It let men rest, and allowed for the wounded to be brought back to the rear. Lucius heard the din as whoever it was who was facing them, began bashing their swords on shields, and calling and jeering. Suddenly, he heard the sound of javelins splintering shields. The cacophony driven up by the enemy ceased. As soon as the last javelins from the front ranks had fallen, Lucius could hear screams drifting from the wounded. Then, the first sounds of metal striking metal rang out, and the air was full of battle.

Lucius heard a Bucina, and the man in front of him took a step forward, as did Lucius and every other man behind him. He saw a man walking through the small gap, heading to the back. His armour was stained with black and red blood, and he swore as he poked at a bloody cut on his sword arm. Lucius began to feel the first signs of fear, and his stomach clenched itself tight. His blood began to chill, and he fought the temptation to turn and run. To leave this world of blood and discipline behind. But he didn’t, and then he heard the Bucina call again. And he took the place of the man in front, as the sounds of combat drifted closer.

Eventually, Lucius was in the third rank from the front, and he could see everything clearly now. He saw bodies, of men and Uruk. An Uruk charged through the gap, and stopped near Lucius. He didn’t even think, he stabbed into it, and when he ripped free, guts tumbled from the wound. It staggered back, and was set upon by a Centurion. He stabbed his blade into the back of its neck, and twisted the blade. “Back in formation!” He yelled, before running to where he was previously.

The Bucina brought Lucius into the second rank. And prepared to drag the man in front of him back. He could smell the blood, and it drove him into a frenzy, beside him, Julian was calm as ever, comfortable and confident in battle. He felt the man he was holding jerk suddenly. He released his grip, as the man fell forwards. Lucius turned his shield just in time, the Uruk who had felled the man in front slashed with its sword. Lucius blocked and stepped forward, dashing the blade from its hand. He followed up with a stab to its chest. The Uruk was swept back as another charged Lucius. He slammed his shield down on its foot, as it got too close. It roared and Lucius dispatched it with a stab in the throat. He heard the Bucina, and he felt the hand on his back drag him. But he wasn’t ready to go back, he resisted the tugging, and saw a Demos hoplite approach him, the hoplite jabbed its spear at Lucius’ front, and he relented to the hand behind him. The man took his place, and he saw him take the spear in the stomach, as Lucius could only go to the back, and wait…

He didn’t get past the 4th rank. He heard a noise like hundreds of thunder storms erupting at once, and then there was a silence. He turned, and saw so many dead Romans. He saw the Uruk’s exploit this huge and sudden gap, and they streamed in, breaking the formation. Lucius turned and ran, there was no way he was facing them alone. He saw men being picked off one by one as they struggled to regain the formation and contain the panic. Lucius tripped and fell, where he lay. Too scared to move, too cowardly to fight. He closed his eyes, and tried to drown out the awful sound of screams and blades cutting through flesh.

[Borissomeone]

Hi, I just finished reading your story so far and I like what you do. The style of your writing is easy to read and I can effectively picture the scenes as they unfold in your tale. But I was a little surprised that the Romuli were so jumpy

Attritious screamed in panic

I can understand that having a severed head thrown at you can ruin your day, but these men should be battle trained warriors able to handle a head or two. Anyways I did like it and look forward to reading more + rep

PS - Now that I read your tale can you read mine

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

(joking by the way)

[Offensive Bias]

I took a little inspiration from yours. The Uruk ambush from the trees. I have only read the first chapter of yours though. I will read the rest.

Thanks for the good feedback!

First chapter is ready, detailing a mysterious Centurion's attempt to reach the Fortress holding the 10th and 11th Legions in the harsh desert continent.
Edited into the first post.

[Borissomeone]

Hey, just read the next chapter and gotta say I like it, very nicely written and the action is just great. Hurry up and do the next one...oh am I your first fan of this fan fiction.

[Offensive Bias]

It seems that way It's nice to know a writer as good as you was the first. I can't wait for your next installment, by the way.

[Borissomeone]

It seems that way It's nice to know a writer as good as you was the first. I can't wait for your next installment, by the way.

Yeah finally came first in something. And now get to work writting your next update.

[Offensive Bias]

Been doing that for a while. Trying to increase length. This chapter is less of an actual chapter, and more a detail on the main character who is fighting the Uruk's, the situation currently and what has happened since the prologue.

New chapter up. In the first post. Please read and comment.

[Ruckulf]

Bravo!

[Offensive Bias]

Thank you Ruckulf

[toluas]

Well crafted, good story. Hope to see more soon.

[Borissomeone]

Well crafted, good story. Hope to see more soon.

I agree. Getting better with each update.

[Offensive Bias]

Thanks everyone!

[Offensive Bias]

New chapter, more marching and a "Revealing" look at the character of Julian.

[Offensive Bias]

Also, a quick note. I will be doing character requests from anyone who would like to see themselves in the story. You can choose your race and faction. Or you can be a wandering mercenary from anywhere. And of course, all comments are appreciated, and I would love to know what parts people dislike and what parts people like. I will accept criticism and do my best to go along with what the readers want. Thank you!

[Offensive Bias]

New chapter. We finally find out the fate of Centurion Crito.

[Borissomeone]

Also, a quick note. I will be doing character requests from anyone who would like to see themselves in the story. You can choose your race and faction. Or you can be a wandering mercenary from anywhere. And of course, all comments are appreciated, and I would love to know what parts people dislike and what parts people like. I will accept criticism and do my best to go along with what the readers want. Thank you!

Hi I would like a character, Romuli, prone to dark moods someone who struggles with life sometimes, but with a quick smile and a dry sense of humour. Dark hair and ugly, with green eyes that can betray him at the worst possible moment and is called Dignus.

[Torvus]

I want to be a Romuli (preferably a member of a general's bodyguard) named Titus "Canis" Torvinus. He'd be loyal and ethical to a fault, but prone to violent anger. He'd be somewhat tall for a Romuli, with dark green eyes and dark hair. He has a very severe look to him, but softens for his friends.

keep up the good work.

[The Holy Pilgrim]

If you make me a blood thirsty, two foot tall, Uruk named Paco, you will recieve your weight in rep.

[Offensive Bias]

Don't expect to see them in the very next chapter. But I will try and fit them in. Boris's character seems to be the most likely to appear next as to where I want the story to go. Thanks for your comments.

[Offensive Bias]

New chapter up. Crito meets with the General and conveys the grim message of impending battle to the General. Dignus appears in this chapter also.