Soldier of Rome: Heir to Rebellion (The Artorian Chronicles) by James Mace Page A

forearm, the hot metal searing his flesh. He grabbed the wretch by the neck and slammed his forehead into his face, knocking the man senseless.
    “You monstrous beast!” Marcellus screamed as Artorius walked quietly to the door and out into the night. In spite of the loathing he felt for his ex-wife and her legionary former lover, he knew he would still have to follow through on funding Camilla’s funeral, for if he did not he feared it would not just be she who made her final journey into the afterlife.
    Artorius managed a short laugh at the sound of Marcellus’ scream as he stepped out into the night. He took a deep breath and started back up the street when he saw Magnus leaning against the side of a building, his arms folded and a sad expression on his face. Artorius grimaced and nodded.
    “I am sorry, old friend,” the Norseman said. “Your father told me everything. I grieve with you.”
    “You know, through all the horrors I have seen in life I have always had you, Brother,” Artorius replied. “Camilla had no one. I cannot think of a worse way to die than abandoned and alone.” The two friends walked in silence along the street before Artorius spoke again.
    “They say that crucifixion is among the most painful forms of death; death that takes a matter of days sometimes. Camilla’s very soul was crucified, and her death took years.”
     

     
    “Do you know why I saved you from those cursed mines?” Heracles asked. Radek was on his knees, head bowed, his good eye gazing at a crack in the floor. Heracles slowly walked in circles around the wretch of a man, the floorboards in the dimly lit tavern room creaking under his steps.
    “No master,” the slave replied. It was the truth. Radek had never been of use to anyone his entire life. He had been handsome once, though a hot poker took one of his eyes and left a hideous scar on his face. It was his punishment for raping a young girl when he had been a farm slave. He was then sold to a wealthy nobleman, who he worked for as a gardener. He had once been bound for the mines of Mauretania, only to escape and join Sacrovir’s rebellion. He had been grievously wounded during the battle of Augustodunum; his one friend, Ellard, had been disemboweled by the lance of a Roman cavalryman. It was back to the mines once more, where the sulfur burned his skin and eye; his teeth completely rotted and turned black due to lack of proper food and no means of proper hygiene. He had hoped to die during his first few months, but yet somehow he was still alive.
    “You are a worthless man with no purpose in life, no reason for existence.” Heracles’ words cut deeply, but they were true. “I will give you a reason to exist. But first you must embrace my cause with your very soul.” Radek looked up him and spoke slowly.
    “I live only to serve you,” he said as he lowered his head once more.
    “Good,” Heracles replied. “You will be the instrument of our vengeance against Rome.”
    “Surely Master does not seek to raise another rebellion,” Radek stated. “There can be no victory against the legions.”
    “And who says we need to face the legions to achieve victory?” Heracles asked, a wicked sneer forming. “No my friend, I have other methods for dealing with Rome. However, there are some old friends we have to deal with first. We shall purge Gaul of the traitors who fled from battle and begged forgiveness from Rome like a bunch of whipped animals.”
    “It will be a pleasure.”
     

     
    A tear came to Artorius’ eye as he listened to the wailing of the mourners around Camilla’s pyre. It was not a tear for himself; rather he was moved by pity. Camilla had few friends and had died very much alone. At least that jackal of an ex-husband had had the decency to hire professional mourners, even if he himself did not bother to show up. He had even allowed little Marcia to attend. Artorius surmised that perhaps Marcellus felt a tinge of remorse for the way he had