Edited by Shane Lacy Hensley

Cover by Cheyenne Wright and Thomas Denmark.

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Weird Wars Rome: With Utmost Dispatch

By Aaron Rosenberg

“Senecus, don’t!” Titus Aetius whispered. “For the love of Jove, think about what you’re doing!”

Barely an arm span away, his oldest friend Senecus Drusus paused only a second before resuming. “I have thought about it,” he whispered back, his fingers continuing to work at the ties, his broad, ruddy face pale in the dim moonlight filtering down through the clouds. “Have you, Titus? Have you really stopped to consider where we are, what we are doing, and what it will likely do to us?”

“I know my duty,” Titus replied sharply, his voice raising enough that, behind him, Martus and Flavius both stirred slightly. The glare he got from Senecus was half scolding and half pleading. For a second Titus considered increasing his volume still further, until the others had no choice but to wake and intrude upon this little scene. Then at least it would be out of his hands. But he could not. He and Titus had known each other too long.

“Duty!” his friend scoffed, even as he undid the leather strap across his breast and pulled the halves of his lorica segmentata apart. “Where has duty ever gotten us, my friend? Here?” With a sweeping hand he encompassed their tent, with its shared millstone and cook pot, the others still asleep on their bedrolls, the castrum beyond, and the dark woods and hills past that. “Is this what we signed on for, years ago?” Senecus demanded, tugging off the armor shirt and laying it gently, quietly upon the ground at his feet. “Was this what we expected when we left home to become legionaries?”

“It is what it is,” Titus answered, knowing full well such a reply would not dissuade his friend but unable to give any other. Had they known then, when they’d fled their families to take oath to the Emperor, that much of their lives would be spent marching and drilling and digging? Had they known they would wind up so very far from home, sleeping on strange soil, eating strange food, laying awake at night to strange sounds? Had they known they’d watch their friends get killed in bloody, senseless battles, and try to keep their heads and not get killed themselves? No, not really—they had dreamed it would all be dashing sword fights and ravishing beauties and gold and fame and honors.

But did that mean it hadn’t been worth it? On that score Titus was unsure. True, he was still only a legionary, a miles gregarious. But he had seen lands he’d never heard of before, seen beasts and people and trees he couldn’t have imagined. He’d fought and survived, he’d learned that quiet confidence of a man who knows he can take care of himself. He’d grown from a boy into a soldier.

Was it all beautiful? No. Was it easy? Definitely not. But Titus wasn’t sure he’d made the wrong choice.

Unfortunately Senecus clearly did not agree.

He’d been grousing for months, of course, ever since they’d arrived here in Cilicia. It was a ghastly place, Titus had to agree, with its stunted little trees and bony stalks of grass and strange tube-like plants amid the bogs, and the stories they’d heard of the fearsome beasts that roamed those wilds. He’d done his own fair share of complaining, and had thought Senecus was just doing the same.

This was considerably more than just complaining.

“You can’t do this,” he told Senecus, trying to keep the panic from his voice. “They’ll find you! And when they do—” He didn’t have to remind his friend what came next. If they caught Senecus it wouldn’t be pretty. Deserting was a major offense, one that carried an equally weighty punishment: fustuarium. Titus had no desire to watch his friend get beaten to death by cudgels held by their fellow soldiers.

But still Senecus continued. He was unfastening the studded leather skirt now, being careful not to let any of the strips bang against the pieces he’d already discarded. “Then I’ll just have to make sure they don’t find me.” He winked at Titus, just for a second back to being the country boy who shoved him into the water when they were fishing, the boy Titus had always trusted to come up with whatever excuse they were pedaling that day. The Senecus he had followed to the legion.

The irony did not escape him.

“Where will you go?” Titus asked, admitting finally that, short of physically tackling his friend—and probably sealing his death warrant in the process—there was no way he could stop him if he’d made up his mind. And one thing Senecus had never needed help with was making up his own mind.

He’d expected Senecus to shrug, but instead he laughed, keeping that soft as well. “Little place I call Three-Post Road,” his friend answered. “We passed it a few days back, on patrol. Remember?” And Titus did, seeing once again in his mind’s eye the collection of rough buildings clustered protectively around one another in their little valley, three ancient, crumbling Roman columns standing side by side near the valley’s mouth as if the only remains of a noble guardhouse from the days of the early Republic, when Rome’s power had first extended to these distant lands. They hadn’t approached it—Titus was fairly certain the community was on the far side of the border, so it had been safest to ignore the buildings and the people they represented. Senecus obviously didn’t feel the same way.

“Even if they agree to take you in,” Titus argued, “what’s to stop them from handing you over the second we come looking for you? Because you know we will.”

Senecus nodded. “Probably,” he admitted. “But it is on the far side of the border, like you said. And just far enough away to make going after me a real chore.” He removed his helmet and set it beside the rest of the armor, his scutum and pila atop the small pile, which he covered over with a spare blanket in a rough approximation of a sleeping form. All he had left now was his tunic, his gladius, his sandals, and his pack, the last of which he slung over his shoulder. “Don’t raise the alarm, Titus,” he pleaded. “Let me at least have tonight to get ahead of them. For old times’ sake.”

Titus sighed. It was his turn at guard duty, as Senecus had known full well. “No, I won’t rat you out,” he said quietly. “Just . . . be careful, Senecus.”

“Of course.” His friend stepped closer and clasped Titus’s hand and arm. “Take care, my friend. Don’t let this army nonsense be the death of you. There’s a lot more to life than being a common soldier.”

Titus returned the clasp warmly but couldn’t think of anything to say, so he just nodded as Senecus let go and strode from the tent, not bothering to look back.

Titus hoped his friend made it. Unfortunately, he didn’t consider that very likely.

***

Sure enough, the next morning—after finally falling into a fitful sleep several hours after Senecus had departed, after being relieved—Titus was awakened by a rough shake. “On your feet, soldier!” a gravely voice demanded. Rubbing at his eyes in an attempt to pry them open, he complied. Their decanus, Asellio, was not someone who liked to be kept waiting.

“Senecus,” their contubernium’s leader snapped, glaring at Titus from beneath the brim of his plumed helmet. “Where is he?” The other legionaries were rising as well, though clearly Titus had merited special attention because they were not getting the same interrogation he was.

“I don’t know,” he answered truthfully. “He was here last night, he had the guard shift just before mine. I relieved him, and he laid down to sleep. Flavius relieved me, I went to sleep, and then you were shouting in my face.” He shrugged, trying to look unconcerned. “Maybe he’s walking the camp, or dicing, or foraging?” All three were common occurrences around the castrum.

But Asellio was no fool. “Without his armor?” he demanded, one sandal-clad foot nudging the pile Senecus had left behind, the blanket now tossed aside to expose the truth. “Or his shield, or his javelins? Not likely!” He stepped up and put his face right in Titus’s—despite being half a head shorter and at least half a decade older, the battle-scarred decanus was a fearsome little man, and Titus backed up a pace. “He’s gone, and you know it! The only question is, where?”

Titus was glad the mention of that little town had only been speculation, because now he hoped he was convincing when he said again, “I really don’t know, sir. Sorry.”

He got another glare in return, before Asellio growled and spun on his heel. “Don’t go anywhere!” he shouted over his shoulder as he shoved his way through the tent flaps. No doubt he was going to report Senecus’s defection to their tesserarius, and ask what should be done about it. Titus hoped his friend would prove to be right and they’d decide it was too much effort to send anyone else out after him.

Unfortunately, the Roman legions weren’t known for their sensible approach to things. They were known for a powerful pride, however, and a simmering bloodlust.

Neither boded well for Senecus.

***

“Pack it up!” Asellio declared as he stormed back into the tent an hour or so later. “We’re moving out!”

“Where to, sir?” Flavius asked even as he stuffed his blankets, plate, and other personal items into his pack. Everyone else was doing likewise. Legionaries always traveled light, so none of them had all that much to grab. Bassus was on tent duty today, which normally just meant checking that the pegs and poles were still intact but now he had the chore of pulling them all and rolling the tent up, then affixing it to his pack to carry. Titus didn’t envy him—a tent big enough to fit all of them was heavy enough to add an unpleasant weight, especially on a long hike.

“We’ve been ordered to clean up our own mess,” Asellio replied, giving each of them a hard stare as if all this were their fault. His gaze lingered longest on Titus, or so it seemed. “We’re to find the traitor Senecus Drusus and bring him back to face the consequences of his actions.” A few of the others paled—they’d all seen fustuariums before, and none of them wanted that for Senecus, who they’d all lived with and fought beside for months or more.

But orders were orders, and without disobeying and facing some kind of punishment themselves, there wasn’t much any of them could do.

With a shake of his head Titus grabbed up his pack and his weapons. “I hope you’ve run far and fast, Senecus,” he thought, casting the warning out on the wind. “Because we’re coming for you.”

***

“Battle fever,” Flavius declared as they walked along, picking their way through the scrub brush and tall grass as best they could. They’d left the castrum behind, Asellio giving the day’s password to the guards stationed at the wooden wall and then leading them safely through its single gate and across the shallow ditch beyond, into the wilderness that was still untamed Cilicia. “Has to be. Why else would he run off like that, in the middle of the night, and without his gear?”

“That’s not battle fever, you idiot,” Lurco scoffed, ducking the other legionary’s offhanded cuff in reply. “Battle fever’s when your sight goes all blood-red and you charge into battle screaming, no sense of tactics or form, not caring if you live or die. You’re thinking battle fright, when the faces of your dead haunt your sleep and you can’t bear the thought of drawing your blade on another living soul.” He nodded sagely, or as sagely as a gawky, straw-topped scarecrow of a man could manage. “That’s what did it to him, no doubt. Battle fright.”

“Yeah?” Varro asked, taking a swig from his waterskin before capping it again and shoving it back into his belt. “Then why’d he take his gladius, smart guy? Seems to me it wasn’t fever or fright, just plain old cowardice. Big baby didn’t want to take orders and march in formation no more, so he cut and ran.” He glanced up ahead to where Asellio was leading the way, and lowered his voice. “Not that I can blame him, mind. Just don’t know what he hoped would happen. That Holy Mother Rome would just forget him, let him walk off with all that training and that nice shiny sword? Not likely!”

Titus did his best to tune out the conversation, trying to settle the roiling in his belly by studying the countryside instead. It was flatter than what they had back home, or at least flatter than how he remembered it, with a gentle roll to the land like the ocean between long swells, quiet and peaceful. Those strange reeds grew in thick patches and even small groves, towering over their heads, and the grass was short and prickly against his feet, jabbing at him around the stout laces and thick straps of his sandals. He wondered if Senecus had come this way the night before, and imagined his friend charging through here in the near-dark, only the dim moonlight keeping him from hurtling headlong over this stump or that root or falling into that stream. How far had he gotten? Was he cowering somewhere nearby, shaking as the sound of their march reached his ears and praying they didn’t spot whatever hiding place he’d found, or was he long gone, leagues ahead where that town was, or perhaps somewhere else entirely? Had he even gone in this direction? Asellio hadn’t asked or even scouted as near as Titus could tell, he’d simply started marching and hollered at the rest of them to keep up. Had someone seen Senecus leave last night? Were there signs he was missing, marking the path his friend had taken? Or did their decanus simply remember spotting that little village and assume any deserter would make for the nearest settlement? Either way, as the hours passed and conversation settled into fits and starts breaking the dull monotony of the march, Titus tried not to think about what would happen if they reached the village and did indeed find Senecus there.

Tried—and failed.

Several times Titus thought he heard noises off to one side, a faint rustling as if someone were stepping there. Once or twice a shadow flickered at the edge of his vision in that same direction, something moving within the brush. He knew it was probably an animal of some sort—they had boars here, he knew from other soldiers’ tales, and small black bears, and some form of big cat, though he’d never seen anything larger than weasels and rats and moles—but whatever it was, he had the eerie feeling it was keeping pace with them. Could it be Senecus, who they’d overtaken and who now felt it was safer to stay in their shadow then to try loping on ahead or splitting off in another direction? That seemed unlikely. Titus tried to put all that from his mind, to ignore the noises and the shadows, but found it hard not to keep glancing that way from time to time.

At last the little settlement came into view, its three columns still standing like a signpost right where the valley dipped down, the grass mashed down into a serviceable path by obvious daily use. “This way,” Asellio growled, and started along it, one hand loosening his gladius in his scabbard, the other tightening on the pilum he held and jabbed into the ground as if it were a lethal form of walking staff. The others followed, of course. Titus didn’t even dislike Asellio—the tent leader was a prickly little man, to be sure, and delighted in maintaining his gruff demeanor, but though hard he was also fair, and though he certainly held them to high standards he also accepted that the men in his tent needed time to relax and blow off steam. Titus had always gotten along with him, at least as well as any soldier did with his superior. So had Senecus. If anything, Asellio had seemed to appreciate Senecus’s sharp, dry wit, the way he cut down daily chores with a single well-placed statement—as long as he did the tasks Asellio never called him on his comments, and the barbs amused the others and made the chores seem lighter. Perhaps that was why Asellio seemed so angry at Senecus’s desertion, Titus realized. Perhaps he took it as a personal affront, that a soldier he had liked had done this to him.

Which meant even if Asellio had been the type to bend the rules—which he wasn’t—it was highly unlikely he’d waive them now, if they caught up to Senecus. Far more likely was that the decanus would take great delight in delivering his traitorous charge back to camp and seeing him punished. Even though that punishment would cost Senecus his life.

“Be ready,” Asellio warned, his harsh voice snapping Titus from his gloomy daydreams. “We don’t know what the people here are like. They could be loyal Roman citizens, cowed by Senecus into cooperating but happy to turn him over. Or they could have him tied up and waiting for us already. But they could be native sons as well, and they might not take too kindly to a contubernium walking into their midst.”

Taking his advice, Titus paused a second to check over his gear. His armor was all laced up tight, the layered metal strips overlapping neatly and providing no opening for blades to pierce chest and back and shoulders. Likewise his skirt strips blocked his groin from attack, or at least would help mute any blow. His helmet was on straight, its sidepieces framing his face and allowing him a clear line of sight while protecting his scalp and cheeks and neck. His gladius was ready in its scabbard, well-oiled and able to slide free in an instant, his pilum was in his hand, and his scutum was firmly gripped in his left hand, ready to be raised for defense or lowered to shove back any foes. All around him his tentmates went through the same checklists, tightening this or that and shifting things about a bit, making sure they were ready for anything.

Anything—but the dead silence that greeted them as they reached the foot of the valley, and the first of the wood-framed buildings littering the small, flat plain here.

***

“Where is everyone?” Martus whispered, pilum and scutum out before him—despite being the biggest man in their unit he was the most cowardly, and was already crouching behind his shield as if a wave of angry villagers were preparing to rain fire and death down upon them at any second. Which perhaps they were, Titus admitted, though it didn’t feel that way. He’d been a legionary for four long years, and in that time he’d learned that there were many silences, and that with practice you could learn to feel the differences. There was the silence of the camp at night, not truly silent but its energy reduced to a low buzz like a nest of bees, comforting but capable of sparking to violence in an instant. There was the quiet of off-duty time, relaxed and soft like a warm blanket, offering a brief but welcome shield from the sharp commands and hard labor of the day. There was the quiet that came right before a battle, the air taut with anticipation, thick with sweat and fear, every stone underfoot and weapon in hand bristling with barely restrained bloodlust.

This was none of those. The closest Titus could explain it was that this silence was dry and dusty, not taut but not relaxed either, more the quiet after the storm, when the air still rings faintly from the sound of thunder and the crash of lightning, when you are less sure the noise has really stopped and wonder if it is simply that you can no longer hear it.

Though he had yet to experience it, and hoped not to for some time yet, Titus suspected this was the quiet of the grave.

“You want we should sneak around some,” Bassus was asking Asellio, “or you want to make an entrance?”

Their decanus paused to consider that a second, then shrugged, nodded, and barked a quick laugh. “We’re a bloody contubernium,” he declared proudly. “Why the hell should we cower from some puny village? Let ’em know we’re here and we mean business.”

Bassus nodded. “Loud it is, then.” Clearing his throat, the slight, dark-haired legionary called out in his surprisingly deep voice, “Attention, the village! We are the seventh contubernium of the fourth century of the eighth cohort of the third legion of Holy Mother Rome! In the name of the almighty emperor Otho—”

“Vitellius,” Appius interrupted quietly, and Titus bit back a chuckle along with several of the others. Otho had been the second man crowned emperor since Nero’s death in the Great Fire of Rome, and they had just received word three days ago that now Otho was gone as well, replaced by another general, Vitellius. No wonder Bassus had trouble keeping track!

“—the almighty emperor Vitellius,” Bassus corrected with barely a pause, and only half a glare for Appius, “blessed by the all-father Jove. We mean you no harm—we only seek one of our own, a soldier who has deserted his post and his duty. If you do not hinder us in our search, we will leave you and yours in peace. Obstruct us or raise arms against us and you will know the bite of our steel and the taste of your own heart’s blood!”

Asellio nodded, as did some of the others. Bassus was their spokesman not only because he had the voice for it, deep and powerful, but because he knew how to word everything just right. He had studied to be a poet and a dramatist before his family’s dip in fortunes had forced him to enlist instead.

They waited a minute, but no one came forward from the houses. Nor was there any sound, beyond a faint rustle off in the distance, and even that Titus wasn’t sure he’d really heard. After another minute had passed, Asellio scowled and pointed ahead of them, toward the other buildings.

“Search them all,” he declared. “Pair up, weapons ready. Drag anyone you find out here where we can keep an eye on them. Martus, you’re here with me—we’ll keep watch, and sing out if we see anyone.” It was a good choice—with Senecus gone they were a man down, so unless Asellio joined in the searching they’d have an uneven number. And Martus was better used as a watchman and to look imposing. Titus glanced over at Flavius, who nodded, and together they headed toward the first house on the left. Behind them Lurco and Bassus moved toward the first house on the right, and Appius and Varro went past them to the next house in line.

The buildings were an unfamiliar style, low like Roman houses but made of parchment stretched over a paper frame instead of proper brick and tile, with a low walkway or porch across the front and no windows, though Titus suspected the walls themselves allowed in enough light. The doors were the same design, and slid to one side instead of swinging open as he’d seen in other places. Inside was a single large room, its floor made of woven mats, its ceiling open beams below a tiled roof, its walls more wood and parchment panels. What little furniture he saw was low, wide, and simple, carved from wood with no ornament but clean, graceful lines. The beds were in the far corner, stuffed cushions the length of a man with pillows and blankets atop them. Everything looked tidy enough to suggest an orderly household but messy enough to show regular use. There was no one at home, and no real place to hide. Flavius confirmed that with a nod, and they exited the house and moved to the one beyond it.

“First house empty,” Titus called to Asellio, whose scowl deepened. The fierce glower threatened to permanently carve itself into his skin when Varro echoed the report a second later, and Lurco followed with a matching one.

Three houses searched, and all of them completely empty.

Titus had just reached for the next door when Appius suddenly called out, “sir, you need to see this!” Asellio was sprinting toward him before the words had faded, and Titus found himself following, as did most of the others. Appius was standing beyond the fourth house, where the rough dirt road widened into a brick-lined central square. A small stream gurgled below a low bridge there, clearly providing the town with fresh water, but that wasn’t what Appius and Varro were pointing to. Instead they were gesturing to one side of the little town square, where the bricks rose and fell unevenly as the deck of a boat—and in spots glistened like a puddle in the moonlight.

They all crept in silently, until Asellio went to one knee beside a particularly dark, wet patch. He took his hand from his gladius long enough to glide his palm and fingertips across the patch.

They came away a dark, dripping red.

“There’s more over here,” Lurco called out, now across the little bridge. He gestured all about it. “Actually, it looks to be pretty much everywhere in the square.” He was right, too—Titus could see the gleam of droplets all about, in every direction. But how was that even possible?

“The villagers must have gathered here in the square,” Appius offered, as if reading the question in Titus’s head. “Maybe to meet about something, maybe for mutual protection, maybe something else. But they were all here—and something killed them. All of them.”

A pit opened in Titus’s stomach as he glanced around. There was no denying it—blood had sprayed everywhere, droplets and smears, too many and too widespread to be just one man, or even just a few. Appius was right. A lot of people had died here. Maybe even the entire village. Though that led to the obvious question: Why?

There was another obvious question, and after a minute Varro asked it: “So if this whole village was killed, where’re the bodies?”

Which was definitely a question. Not just that, but—“Where’s all the blood?” Titus noticed a few of the others rolling their eye at him, and flushed. “There’s lots of blood,” he explained quickly, “but not enough if it’s one guy and he’s bleeding to death.” He studied the ground. “No drag marks, either. Whatever happened to them, someone killed these villagers right here in the town square, too fast and furious for anyone to put up a fight or try to escape, but then something happened to the bodies, too.” He couldn’t prevent a small shudder from making its way through him. Why kill everyone in town? Why hide the bodies? What was the point to all that?

“Damn, Senecus is one sick pup,” Flavius muttered, and quickly backed up a pace when Titus whirled about to confront him. “Face facts, Titus,” he pleaded. “Someone killed these villagers. Quietly, and quickly. Whoever it was, he’s a pro.” Flavius couldn’t meet Titus’s gaze. “And we only know of one trained warrior who could be anywhere around here, don’t we?”

“Senecus didn’t do this,” Titus insisted. “He’s not like that. He’s not a cold-blooded killer!” Killing in battle was one thing, but cutting down innocents was another. Titus couldn’t imagine anything that would induce Senecus to cross that line. Hell, he’d fled the legion so that he could be free of mindless killing! Not so he could commit such atrocities at his leisure.

‘Who did, then?” Varro demanded. “’Cause it sure wasn’t the trees.” They loomed in around the village edges, leaning down as if ready to step forward and claim the rest of the town as theirs now that its people had gone missing. But they didn’t actually make any threats, just waved some of their smaller branches in the faint breeze.

“But what kind of legionary, even a deserter, would do this?” Lurco chimed in. “We’ve got, what, twenty houses here? That’s at least thirty people, and maybe as many as fifty. Even if he caught them by surprise, I don’t think Senecus—or any of us—could take that many foes all at once. And if he came straight here last night he’d still have only ten hours on us at most—there’s no way he could kill all those villagers and then drag away their bodies and then come back and wipe away his tracks in that time.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Asellio cut in, shutting down the argument at once. “We don’t know where the villagers went—maybe a bunch got cut and the rest carried them off to safety somewhere, maybe they all spontaneously burst into flames. Not our problem. We’re here to find Senecus and drag that son a dog back to camp. Nothing more, nothing less. Got it?” He looked from face to face, waiting until each legionary had nodded before moving on. “Good. So we search again, just for anything that says Senecus was here. Don’t worry about anything else.”

That was easier said than done, but they tried their best, returning to the houses and going through each one in turn, trying to ignore the knowledge of those bloody sprays in the square just beyond. Until, after finishing with all the houses on this side of the stream, Titus and Flavius crossed the square toward the buildings on the far side—and stopped as a small, pale shape among the little trees growing beside the stream caught their eye.

“What is it?” Flavius said quietly, dropping into a crouch and raising his pilum in the shape’s direction.

“I don’t know,” Titus answered just as softly. “Let’s find out.” Javelin and shield at the ready, he crept toward the stream, watching the shape, but it didn’t move. The closer he got, the more its shape became disquieting, until at last Titus was near enough to see it properly, and almost lost the rest of the hard biscuits he’d had for lunch.

It was a human foot.

Using his pilum, he managed to knock it loose from the foliage and swept it closer to him, and to the others who had seen the commotion and gathered to find out what was going on. The foot was narrow, almost delicate, suggesting a woman’s. It was deeply tanned and heavily callused on bottom, showing the owner had gone barefoot most of the time and had worked outdoors.

And it looked to have been sawn off cleanly at the ankle, a sharp, clear blow that could have been caused by a decisive chop with something like a cleaver—or a gladius.

“That’s not battle fever or battle fear,” Appius said softly. “It’s plain old battle madness. He’s completely snapped.”

There were murmurs all around, and hands tightened on javelins. Titus shook his head. He thought back to last night, as he’d watched Senecus leave. Had the gleam in his friend’s eye been madness, not excitement? Had he already been unbalanced, and encountering the villagers—maybe being spurned when he asked for help—had driven him over the edge? Had Senecus really butchered an entire village singlehandedly, and then chopped the bodies into little pieces to dispose of them more easily?

Titus had no idea. Which worried him, because before seeing all this he would have said “absolutely not.” Now he wasn’t so sure.

“Where to now, sir?” Bassus asked, and they all kept quiet as Asellio considered. The march had taken the entire morning despite moving double-time, and the search had seen the sun advance across the sky in its own inexorable march, until now it was starting to edge its way down again, creeping toward its nightly repose. Titus didn’t think they wanted to be here in this blood-spattered village when it grew dark, but like the others he waited to hear what the decanus had to say.

“We’ve still got a few hours yet,” Asellio stated finally, his gravelly voice firm. “Everybody look around. Let’s see if our wayward butcher left us a trail to follow.”

They all started poking around nearby and scanning the village’s edge for any sign. Unsurprisingly it was Martus who noticed something. The big man had his head up over the top of his shield like a rabbit out of a hole, his dark eyes intent not on the village or even the valley but the trees that rimmed the ridges beyond. “Sir, I think I just saw something moving!” he declared, raising one beefy arm to point toward the valley’s far side. “Up there!”

Everyone turned to study that expanse, and then they all heard it—a sound like a grunt, or maybe a snort. It certainly wasn’t the wind, and if there were birds here that sounded like that Titus was ready to throw down his weapons and turn fisherman on the spot.

“Guess he didn’t get too far,” Asellio muttered, and rapped his javelin against his shield. “Let’s go, form up and move out!” They hurried to comply, as much because no one wanted to be left behind as out of any eagerness to explore that ridge, and in minutes they were hiking through the village and toward the trees.

As they walked, Titus thought he heard something like metal plinking on stone, but coming from behind him. He glanced back but dusk was starting to distort his vision and he couldn’t make anything out. For a second he wondered if Senecus might be circling around behind them, planning to cut them down from behind as they fought their way up the incline out of the valley, but he pushed that thought aside. He still couldn’t quite believe his old friend would be responsible for such wanton butchery. Nonetheless, he tightened his grip on his pilum and kept his eyes open as they started their climb.

They reached the top of the ridge without incident. Titus thought he’d heard a few more groans and snorts as they’d climbed, but mixed in among the grunts of his fellow soldiers it was hard to be sure. As soon as they were all up Asellio led them into the woods, using his javelin’s tip to shove branches aside. After a minute Titus glanced over at Varro, who was stalking along beside him, and they shared a nod. Yes, there were definitely noises coming from up ahead.

They were not alone.

After a few minutes Asellio pushed his way between two old trees, disappearing from view for a moment—and then came the clear, distinctive sound of metal on metal, in two sharp raps. It was the alarm, and the rest of them barreled forward at once, javelins at the ready. Titus was one of the last through the narrow gap.

As he emerged between the trees he saw that they were in a small clearing, no more than ten feet across. Trees leaned in on all sides, blotting out much of the remaining light, and shadows fell heavily every which way.

Including across the man standing there before them.

Even in the dim light Titus could recognize his friend. Senecus stared at them all, his former tentmates now arrayed against him. His gladius was in his hand but held loosely, point toward the ground as his eyes flicked from face to face, finally coming to rest on Titus.

“Titus . . .” he began, taking a step forward. That movement pulled him out of the shadows, and the fading sunlight caught him, his pale skin, his wide eyes, his dirt-smeared tunic—and the blood soaking his chest and spattered across his arms, legs, and face.

His sword gleamed wetly as well, and Titus saw droplets falling from along its edge.

“Drop the sword!” Asellio barked, his pilum up before him, its heavy iron tip aimed at Senecus’s chest. “Now!”

“What?” It was almost like Senecus hadn’t realized he was still holding the weapon as he glanced down at it and frowned. “Oh.” It tumbled from his fingers as he glanced up at Titus again, took another step, then swayed—

—and toppled at his feet.

“Senecus!” Titus was at his side in an instant. Kneeling down and dropping his pilum and shield to either side, he ran his hands quickly, lightly, over his friend’s torso. “Sir,” he reported at once, as Asellio and the others closed ranks all around them, “he’s been stabbed! Badly, too! It’s his own blood, sir!” There was a lot of it, too.

“Doesn’t explain the sword,” Appius pointed out, crouching down beside the discarded weapon. “Not too likely he stabbed himself.”

“One of those villagers must’ve gotten in a good blow,” Lurco suggested, though he didn’t sound too convinced himself. Meanwhile, Titus was still examining the wound as best he could. They’d all seen enough injuries to have some familiarity with them, but this one looked all wrong.

“It’s too rough,” he muttered, straining to see in the deepening twilight. “No sword would do this, or even a shovel or pick. This is more like torn than sliced.” There was something tugging at the back of his mind, vying for attention, and at last he relaxed his focus enough to let it rise to the front. It was a sound, he realized, a sound he’d been hearing since they’d reached the ridge. A grunting sound, the one they’d heard before.

A sound that was getting louder.

“Something’s coming!” he shouted, grabbing for his pilum. Just as his fingers closed around the shaft, a large, bristly shadow burst from between the trees and charged toward them, a fearsome, growl-like snort emerging from beneath its long snout.

It was a boar! And it had clearly decided they didn’t belong here!

“Shields up!” Asellio snapped. “Pila ready! Release at will!” A mass of pila rained down upon the poor beast, several bouncing off or missing but at least two slamming into it and raising squeals of pain. It kept coming, but Martus stepped forward, shield low enough to graze the ground, and braced himself to take the boar’s charge. There was a massive clash as beast and scutum collided, and Martus stumbled back a step—but the boar did as well, shaking its head from the impact.

“Now!” Asellio ordered, and those who’d retrieved or held onto pila loosed them. Two more struck home. But Martus hadn’t thrown his. Instead he reared up now above his shield, the long, heavy pilum in one hand, and brought it crashing down, its tip spearing the boar right between the eyes. The beast let out one last squeal that trailed off to a shudder, and then it tipped over and collapsed in a heap.

“Roast pig for supper tonight!” Martus roared proudly, and they all slapped him on the back or the arm or banged a fist against his shield. He was none too good at standing his ground against enemy soldiers, but clearly Martus was the man to have with you when you needed to fend off an angry boar.

“Glad . . . you killed that . . . bastard . . .” a weak voice offered from the ground, and Titus returned his attention to his wounded friend. “. . . tried but . . . seem to have . . . misplaced . . . my pila.”

“The boar attacked you, and you had only the gladius to defend yourself,” Titus translated, saying it loudly enough for the others to hear over the continued rustling of the trees. Asellio was still frowning, though, and Titus knew he had to ask. “Senecus, what about the village? What happened there?”

His friend shuddered. “It was . . . horrible,” he answered, his voice thin as an old man’s, and almost as quavering, hard to hear through the noises of the woods. “I thought they might . . . take me in . . . for a bit. Let me . . . figure out my . . . next move.” He coughed, a terrible wet sound, but his voice was stronger afterward. “But when I got there, Titus, they were under attack! It was terrible! I saw it slaughter the last of them, devouring one of them whole. There was nothing I could do, I knew that—my little gladius was never going to be a match for that! So I ran.” He paused for breath. “I got up here and climbed a tree. Spent the day shivering, afraid to come down.” He laughed, but that turned rapidly into another cough. “Heard you lot clomp into the valley and knew I had to make a run for it now or never. Just my luck, that beastie was rooting around nearby and must’ve heard me clambering down. It charged me—I got in a swipe but it got a better one.” He touched the front of his tunic, as badly gashed as the flesh below it, and so soaked in blood it might as well have been torn skin itself. “I’m a right mess, aren’t I?”

Titus wanted to laugh, to say something, but he couldn’t think of what. Instead he glanced up at his tent commander. What can we do? he tried to ask with his eyes. He doubted Senecus would survive the march back to the castrum. And even if he did, they’d just sentence him to death. But he was their friend, their tentmate. They couldn’t just leave him here to die!

Asellio started to say something, but Flavius cut him off, surprising them all—cautious, careful Flavius wasn’t the type to interrupt an officer. This time he did, however, to ask Senecus, “You said it devoured a villager whole, whatever attacked them. That it was horrible.” He paused, gulped, then continued. “What was it?”

Senecus shook his head.

“Senecus!” Titus wanted to slap him, but thought better of it. “You have to tell us! What was it? And is it still out there?”

His friend looked up at him, and all at once Titus understood. It wasn’t that he was trying to keep secrets from them. It was that he was trying to hide it from himself. He didn’t want to remember. But this was important, and Senecus knew it. “It was like nothing I’ve ever seen,” he said slowly, and had to raise his voice to be heard. Was the rustling growing more intense? It seemed that way, and Titus leaned in to better hear his friend. “It was huge, and hungry, and its mouth! Oh, Jove, its mouth!”

“But what was it?” Flavius demanded again. “What killed them?”

Behind them, the rustling grew into a torrent of noise, and Senecus turned even paler beneath his bloody sheen. “It was . . .” he started, propping himself up on one arm with a wince. His eyes went past Titus, past any of them, to the far side of the clearing, and grew so wide it looked as if they might pop free. “It was that!” he declared, raising his free hand to wave shakily toward the woods there—

—as the foliage parted and a nightmare emerged.

***

At first glance Titus thought it was a lion. A big one, to be sure, and oddly colored, its coat more russet than tawny, almost as if it were coated in fire—or fresh blood. But there was something strange about the way it swung its head about, and about how its tail lashed behind it as it approached, a low rumble emerging from its throat. Then a stray glint of light caught it, and Titus felt his own breath catch.

Where the lion’s face should have been—was that of a man.

Well, perhaps not quite a man. But manlike, certainly, with a small nose and a high brow and sharp cheeks instead of the normal feline configuration. The eyes that fixed upon them were still predatory but shaped like a man’s, even as their slit pupils seemed to glow in the normal catlike fashion.

And then it opened its mouth to let out a roar, and Titus felt his stomach clench. Its teeth were long and sharp—and there seemed to be hundreds of them! They were arranged row after row, he realized, like seats in an amphitheater, with the creature’s dark gullet as the main attraction.

An attraction he feared they were all about to visit in person.

“Oh, almighty Jove!” Lurco whispered. “It’s a manticora!” And for once Titus thought his tentmate might actually be right. He had heard tales of such creatures, though he had thought them little more than stories. This beast, however, was all too real.

And it was prowling toward them, forelegs bent, head low to the ground, mouth open, tail lashing behind, rear legs coiled. Titus had played with farm cats enough in his youth to know what that meant.

“It’s about to pounce!” he shouted.

“Shields up!” Asellio commanded, and seven scuta rose in almost perfect unity. Titus fumbled for his, which lay beside him. He was still bringing it up when the monstrous creature twitched again, yowled a blood-curdling screech—and sprang.

It landed atop Martus, driving the big man to the ground with a bone-cracking crunch—he screamed as the manticora’s weight fell full across him, thrashing about in an attempt to shake it loose. The impact had jarred his shield, and it lay across him at an angle, the upper corner just below his chin, which allowed the manticora to lean down, open its mouth wide—

—and bite Martus’ head clean off with a single loud chomp.

“Mars’s balls!” Varro swore, leaping back as blood fountained from Martus’s neck. “Die, you beast from hell!” He hurled his pilum at the creature, his aim good—and its iron tip rebounded from the beast’s neck as if its mane were carved of stone.

The creature turned its baleful glowing eyes upon Varro then. It gulped, swallowing poor Martus’s head, and waved its tail menacingly. Which was when Titus registered why that appendage had looked so strange. Instead of the usual tuft of hair, the monster’s tail ended in a mass of barbs like a spiked mace. A weapon it now aimed at Varro.

Titus had a sudden presentiment of doom, and shouted, “Varro! Look out!” but his comrade only drew his sword and charged forward—then fell back as several barbs loosed themselves and slammed into him hard enough to pierce his armor. Varro’s eyes were already vacant, muscles going slack, as he dropped, the spikes protruding from chest and neck and cheek like bizarre, lethal ornaments.

Barely seconds had passed, and already they had lost two of their number. And the beast was completely unharmed.

“Close ranks!” Asellio demanded. “Shield formation! Don’t give it room to strike!” He held his shield before him, pilum extended beyond it like a lance, and Flavius and Bassus and Lurco rushed to his side. Appius hurried to join them, but the manticora fired another volley from its tail and he fell screaming, two barbs jutting from his back and a third from his right leg. The creature was upon him in an instant, and with a resounding crunch it bit off his head, neck, and part of one shoulder. These it chewed up and swallowed, armor and all, making Titus finally see why they had found only the one foot of all the missing villagers.

It ate them whole, he thought. And now we’re its new meal.

“Titus! Let’s go!” Asellio barked, and Titus started toward the others, then paused. The decanus had three with him already, but if he joined them Senecus would be left alone, helpless before the creature. Even though he was a deserter, he was still Titus’s friend. He shook his head and gripped his shield more firmly.

“I’m good!” he called back. “We’ll hit him from both sides at once!”

If Asellio disliked that plan, he chose not to dwell on it. Instead he nodded and advanced on the manticora, his shield and Flavius’ and Bassus’ and Lurco’s all overlapping to form a solid shield wall, with four javelins jutting forth. The manticora growled and its tail hurled barbs, but though they pierced the shields none hit forearms, and the barbs didn’t penetrate far enough to reach the soldiers themselves. The beast growled, deep and rumbling, and crouched, watching as the men advanced.

It’s working! Titus thought, creeping toward it from its other flank. We have it confused!

But he spoke too soon. As they moved into stabbing range the manticora swept out one massive paw, lightning-fast, and its claws hooked the edge of Lurco’s shield. One sharp yank and the shield flew toward the creature—with Lurco still tangled up in it! The tail swept down just like the mace it resembled, there was a meaty thud, and Lurco’s shouts stopped forever. The manticora bit off his head as well before tossing his spasming body aside and returning its attention to the other men before it.

Men who now rushed to fill in the gap in their defense.

To Asellio’s credit, if he was afraid he didn’t show it. “Let’s see how you like a face full of barbs, ugly!” he shouted, jabbing hard with his javelin. Flavius and Bassus did the same, and three sturdy points stabbed at the manticora. It moved to swat them away, but one pierced its paw, eliciting a howl of pain. Another slid past completely and poked it in the cheek, causing another howl and a snarl right behind it.

Now it seemed the creature was truly angry.

It turned away, and for a second Titus thought they had forced it to retreat. But then it gathered itself and leaped—over Asellio and the others, landing clear behind them. Before they could spin around and bring their shields about, it swung its tail in a great arc, the spikes piercing armor and flesh alike. All three men screamed in pain. Bassus dropped immediately—he had been turning and apparently the spikes had torn open his throat, blood gurgling forth and silencing that golden tongue forever. Flavius tripped and fell to his knees, and the beast swatted him down to the ground from there, those great claws ripping through head and neck in a bloody spray. Asellio managed to get his arm free and evade the swipe, drawing his gladius, but he was just one man against a manticora. He refused to surrender, however, and charged the beast instead, sword high, battle cry on his lips. The beast lunged to meet him, twisting sideways as it came, its wide mouth closing around his torso. A crunch, one last scream, and Asellio fell to the ground on either side of the slavering monster.

Which now turned and set its sights on the last man standing. Titus himself.

Titus knew he was about to die. But he decided to at least go with dignity. He stared back at the manticora, shield in one hand, javelin in the other. Throwing it would be useless, he knew, so he kept it up and ready to stab when the beast drew closer. It padded forward, clearly not in any rush now that there was only one man left to dispatch—and Titus quick-stepped forward and thrust, catching the beast in one shoulder. It yowled at him and swatted, but he’d already pulled back. A trickle of blood ran down the creature’s hide, blending in with its ruddy coat, but Titus felt a thrill nonetheless. He’d wounded it!

Unfortunately, he’d also annoyed it enough for it to stop toying with him. Tail twitching, the manticora coiled its legs again, ready to leap on top of Titus and crush him to the ground as it had Martus—

—but just as its heavy paws left the ground, someone shoved Titus aside. Someone clad in only a torn tunic already bloody from his wounds.

Senecus.

“I’m sorry, Titus,” he said quickly as Titus rose to his feet, meeting his friend’s eyes. “I shouldn’t have left. Please—”

Then the manticora came slamming down on top of him. Without even a shield, Senecus crumpled beneath its weight, bones snapping audibly as it squished him like a grape.

“No!’ Titus screamed. Watching his friend die like that, after saving his life, was more than he could take. He charged forward, shield up like a battering ram, javelin jabbing ahead like an angry snake, cursing and screaming loud enough to give even the manticora a second’s pause—

—and that’s when something came whirling out from the trees and wrapped itself around the monster’s maned head and broad shoulders.

A weighted net! Titus realized. The thick webbing was most often used by retiarii, but he doubted there were any gladiatorial pits here. Still, he couldn’t argue about the unconventional weapon’s effectiveness—the manticora was trying to twist around enough to bite its way free, but at the moment it was too snarled to manage that.

Which was exactly when a band of men rose from the woods on all sides and converged on it.

Most of them had pila as well, Titus saw, except for two who carried composite bows. The strings twanged and two arrows bloomed from the manticora’s chest. It staggered, snarling, and swiped at the arrows, but though the shafts broke away the heads were buried too deep to remove that way. The men with pila began stabbing at the creature from all sides, and without a word Titus stepped up and joined them. Meanwhile the two archers drew fresh arrows, sighted, and fired, planting two more beside the first.

Then one of the men strode up behind the manticora. In both hands he clutched not a pilum or a gladius but a heavy, cruelly barbed trident. And he brought it down hard and fast upon the creature’s neck, right where the mane tapered off and the shoulder began. The trident’s tines impaled the beast and it screamed in clear agony, thrashing about, trying to strike the man down with its claws. But they were too tangled in the net. It tried with its tail but the man ducked out of its way.

He can’t do that for very long, Titus thought. So he switched his pilum to his shield hand, drew his gladius, circled around, reared back—and swung, the sharp blade slicing cleanly through the manticora’s tail just below the spiked ball. Again it screamed, though perhaps weaker than before, as black blood sprayed from its tail and coated Titus and the trident-wielder.

Not that the other man seemed to care. He grinned at Titus, yanked the trident free, raised it, and slammed it home again, carving even deeper into the beast’s neck. It was definitely weakening now, as two more arrows appeared in its chest and it faltered, paws scrabbling to maintain balance on the bare dirt of the clearing. Titus stabbed it with his pilum, right where the trident had struck before, and this time the tip sank deep.

With one last, whimpering roar, the manticora’s front legs collapsed.

Its tail gone, its claws bound, and its head practically in the dirt, the creature was defenseless as the men moved in. They stabbed it repeatedly, until it finally shuddered and collapsed. Only then did Titus look up.

He had become so focused on the battle he’d lost track of the world around him. Of the small clearing that smelled heavily of blood and offal. Of the men of his tent, his friends, his comrades, all dead and strewn about like wind-tossed refuse. Of the strange men who had come to his aid and thereby saved his life.

Glancing about, he studied them. They wore standard legionary gear, though their armor was black as pitch and looked heavily scarred. Titus didn’t recognize any of them, but he knew the type well enough. These men were legionaries, and seasoned ones at that. They had to be, to have taken down such a creature!

One of them stepped over beside Titus then. The plume on his helmet marked him as the leader of this little band, and he smiled and clapped Titus on the shoulder even as he wiped his gladius clean on the manticora’s side. “Quick thinking with the tail,” he said. “We’ll have to remember that next time.” He thumped one fist against his breastplate. “Lucius Caelius Galba. You?”

Titus pounded his own armor in reply. “Titus Suplicus Aetius,” he replied. “Thank you for saving my life.”

Lucius waved him off. “We’d have gotten to you sooner but your unit moved fast! Plus we were trying to stay out of sight.” He grinned again. “Not that it worked with you, did it? Half a dozen times I thought you saw me!”

Titus remembered all the rustling along the way, and the shadows. “You’ve been following us this whole time?”

Lucius nodded. “We’d heard stories of something stalking people out here, so we were heading out anyway. Then we saw your group marching along and decided we’d better see what you had planned.” He glanced over at the dead manticora. “Good job, that.” His light green eyes swung back to Titus, burning into him. What’re you going to do now?”

Titus frowned. He hadn’t really thought about it.

“You could desert,” Lucius suggested. “We won’t say anything—we owe you that much. The rest of your contubernium’s dead, everyone will assume you are, too. You could go back home, or settle down here, or go somewhere else entirely.”

Titus considered that for a second—but only a second. “I gave Rome my allegiance,” he explained, “and I’m not about to break my oath.” He sighed, and his eyes flicked over to the dead monster, near enough to touch. “There are probably other . . . things like that out there. Aren’t there?”

Lucius nodded. “Many and more.”

“I want them dead,” Titus told him. “All of them. Well, all the ones that threaten Rome.”

Lucius nodded. “The rest of your tent group is gone,” he pointed out. “But we can find a place for you—anyone who can stand up to a manticora like that, much less kill it, is well worth keeping.” He drew the scabbarded gladius from his belt and offered it hilt first to Titus. “Will you join us?”

Titus only paused a second before reaching out and taking the weapon. “I will.”

The other man clapped him on the back then, even as Titus drew his new weapon, admiring the way it caught the light of the first stars overhead. It was silvered, he realized, and had a second to wonder what he’d gotten himself into as Lucius told him, “Welcome to the IX Legio Hispania.” He leaned in and lowered his voice. “Welcome to the Cult of Mithras.”

Titus had a feeling he’d just become a lot more than a common soldier. He wondered, briefly, if Senecus would have approved.

The End

About the Author

Aaron Rosenberg is the author of the best-selling DuckBob series, including the novels No Small Bills and Too Small for Tall. He also writes the Dread Remora space-opera series and, with David Niall Wilson, the O.C.L.T. occult thriller series. He has written children’s books, including the award-winning Bandslam: The Junior Novel and the #1 best-selling 42: The Jackie Robinson Story. Aaron has also written educational books on a variety of topics and over seventy roleplaying games, including the Origins Award-winning Gamemastering Secrets and the Gold ENnie-winning Lure of the Lich Lord. He is the co-creator of the ReDeus anthology series, and one of the founders of Crazy 8 Press. Aaron lives in New York with his family. You can follow him online at gryphonrose.com, on Facebook at facebook.com/gryphonrose, and on Twitter @gryphonrose.