Cor Tenebrarum

A Quintus Paulus Adventure

Captain Quintus Paulus entered the garrison commander’s tent. The floor was muddy, despite the constant efforts of the two slaves tasked with keeping it clean.

All of Gaul is muddy. Paulus thought.

He would rather be on his ship, and as soon as he got his orders, he would make haste back to it.

“The praetor will see you now,” said an orderly, opening the flap leading into the next room.

Paulus walked through and saluted.

The praetor sat at a desk where he pored over a sheaf of documents. He was old for a praetor, his dark hair thinning and the skin framing his weak jaw beginning to droop. An aristocrat, the man was likely at the apex of his career: commanding a cohort at a remote border outpost. Paulus was at the peak of his career as well—a lowly captain—but that was to be expected of a man of humble birth. The praetor, on the other hand, had failed to live up to his potential, and Paulus thought that reflected poorly on the man.

The praetor looked up.

“Captain Paulus, good good.”

He shuffled through the papers until he found the one he was looking for.

“You are just the man for this job, I’m told.”

He leaned back in his chair.

“You may have heard; we are pulling out. All preparations to strike camp have been made, but we are delayed by the absence of my colleague, Curtius, and his detachment. He had orders to return and join the withdrawal. That was to have been a week ago. I’ve sent two messengers since then: neither has returned. I need you to get him, or at least find out what in Tartarus happened to him.”

“Of course. If I may ask, sir, when was commander Curtius last heard from?”

The praetor shifted in his seat.

“Five months ago, before winter made the roads impassable.”

Paulus frowned.

“I know what you’re thinking, Captain. How do we know they’re even alive? Well, there’s this.”

The praetor handed Paulus a roll of birch bark. Pulling it open, Paulus found a message scrawled in brown ink.

GO HOME, FOR YOU WILL NOT TAKE ILIUS.

“Homer?”

The praetor raised an eyebrow.

“Quite right, Captain. We have recovered several such messages from the river, sealed inside jars. No two messages the same, but all from the Iliad.”

“So, what do you think is going on with Curtius, sir?”

“I think he’s gone mad. He fancies himself a hero of old.”

Paulus nodded.

“Where can I find him?”

“As of autumn, he was encamped some thirty miles upriver, at the confluence of...”

“Scamander and Simoeis?” interrupted Paulus.

The praetor grinned.

“Quite right. Now you have a sense of what you’re up against. The rest of the details are here in your orders.”

He handed Paulus a scroll sealed with wax bearing his imprimatur.

“Is there anything you need for your journey? I can outfit you as best I can, but we haven’t a great deal to spare.”

“I shall need to leave some rowers here, to lighten my ship’s draft. They will require provisions.”

“Of course. Anything else?”

“A guide would be helpful.”

The praetor scratched his stubble-covered chin.

“Hmmm... Yes, we have such a fellow, but I must warn you, Captain, the locals—even those in our employ—are untrustworthy at the best of time. With our impending withdrawal, it’s best to avoid them. Outside the stockade, if it walks on two legs, it wants you dead.”

“Send your man to me anyway. Treachery onboard a ship is difficult to conceal. We shall manage.”

“Very well, Captain. Best of luck to you. We break camp in three days. I hope to see you again.”

Paulus saluted and left.

...

The Osprey, also known as Bone Crusher to its crew, lay ready, lashed to the riverside dock. The portion of the crew that was to remain shoreside had disembarked, and the necessary fresh provisions had been brought on board. They were just waiting on their guide.

The Gaul arrived just before midday. He was a large man, taller than any of the crew, and with a muscular build rivaling that of Titus Roscius, the commander of the marines onboard the Osprey and a close comrade of Captain Paulus for many years. Dressed in the customary tunic and breeches of his countrymen, the Gaul wore his long coppery hair tied back revealing a scarred and battered face, and the corners of his mustache drooped past the bottom of his chin. A sword hung from his belt and he carried a sack slung over his shoulder.

Paulus drummed his fingers on the railing as he watched the man walk the length of the dock and come to stand before the Osprey. The guard on duty challenged the Gaul.

“I am Dubnorix,” replied the man in a deep, accented voice. “I am the guide.”

Paulus nodded his assent, and the guard let him pass.

The captain met the Gaul.

“We were expecting you hours ago. Explain yourself.”

Dubnorix bowed in deference, but Paulus could not be sure of the sincerity of the gesture.

“Apologies, Captain. The roads are bad in this time of year. Very muddy. My horse struggled.”

Before acknowledging the guide’s excuse, Paulus gave the order to get underway. The command started a chain reaction of activity as the sailors and rowers launched the ship.

“No matter now. Tell me, how long have you fought for Rome,” asked Paulus.

“Ever since I stopped fighting against her.”

“Why did you stop?”

“My chief made an alliance with your Senate. Rome fights our other enemies.”

“And your people have many enemies?”

“To be a Gaul is to be beset by enemies. Someone is always coming from the East; like the Germani. When we win, a new enemy appears in their place, and we fight again. When we lose, we move and fight with other Gauls for their territory.”

“What do you know of Curtius and his garrison up river?”

Dubnorix stroked his mustache.

“That is beyond the territory of my people. But it is said he is treacherous, even to Rome’s allies.”

“Well, it is tight quarters on the ship, even without our full complement. Go where you like on deck. Just stay out of the way. I shall call you when you are needed. Mettius will show you where to stow your things.”

Paulus’ steward headed off with Dubnorix following behind. They passed a group of marines gathered around the tower to the rear of the mast. One of the men stepped into the Gaul with his shoulder and muttered an insult. Dubnorix shoved the marine away and grasped the hilt of his sword.

“Stations!” shouted Paulus.

The crew scrambled to their posts, leaving Dubnorix and his opponent squared off alone.

“Aulus Aufidius, form up! Or get the lash!” called Roscius.

The man broke off and lined up with his squad.

Dubnorix was led below.

Paulus wondered whether he should have listened to the praetor as the Osprey lurched forward against the current.

…

The Osprey sailed on until the trees on the bank cast long shadows across the river. They would need to make camp soon. Paulus sent word to fetch the Gaul, who arrived promptly.

The captain gazed into the dark woods beyond the bank and spoke to Dubnorix.

“We need to make camp for the night.”

“I would not do so here.”

“And why is that? Which of Rome’s enemies makes these woods their home?”

“None, captain.”

“None? Then why do you say we should not make camp here?”

“They say that this forest is haunted; that no man sets foot within them and lives.”

“And you believe this?”

“Maybe I do. Maybe there are angry spirits. Maybe the outcasts of our tribes make their home here and slit the throats of any who trespass. It is the same to me.”

Paulus considered the information.

“Very well. Thank you, you may go.”

The guide left the deck and Paulus gave his order to the navigator:

“Find a place to set anchor.”

Then to Roscius:

“Set a double guard on all watches tonight.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And Titus, no need to mention any ghosts.”

…

The early hours of the night passed peacefully, but Paulus was restless in his cot. It was something that rarely happened to him, but missions such as this were a rare occurrence.

At the beginning of the third watch, a cry arose on deck. Paulus leapt from his cot and ran to see what was happening. Trebonius, the ship’s navigator and officer of the watch, met him forward of the tower.

“Report,” the captain growled.

“Legionary Aulus Aufidius, sir. He failed to report for duty at the start of the watch. His rack is empty and his whereabouts unknown.”

“Maybe he deserted,” said Crassus, the rowing master, who had joined them on deck. “He hasn’t been right since he got word of his brother’s death.”

“Not Aufidius, sir,” said Roscius. “He’d rather die than bear the dishonor of desertion.”

“Suicide?”

“Same as desertion. Besides, he’d done nothing shameful that would compel a man to take his own life.”

Roscius leaned in and spoke quietly.

“Sir, what about the Gaul? He and Aufidius nearly came to blows yesterday when he came aboard.”

Paulus well remembered the earlier incident.

“First things first. Call the men to their stations and conduct a proper search. Look for any signs of foul play.”

The order was passed, and the trumpet sounded.

The men rose from where they slept and manned their stations.

Every inch of the ship was scoured in a matter of minutes. There was still no sign of the missing marine.

“None of his belongings have been found,” reported Roscius, “not that the men have many that they don’t keep on their person. His armor is also missing.”

“So, he was dressed for watch before he disappeared.”

“Or he needed something to make sure his body sank,” said Crassus, continuing with his theory of suicide. The remark earned him a murderous look from Roscius.

“Not Aufidius, sir. We need to question the Gaul.”

Paulus scratched his stubbled chin and nodded.

“You are right, Titus. And were he not still useful to us, I would flay the skin from his back until the breath from his mouth were either the truth or his last. But now is not the time. Put your best men on him. Constant supervision, no need to be discreet. When we get back to camp you can put him on the cross yourself, but not yet.”

“But, Quintus.”

Now Paulus was the one with murder in his eyes.

“See to it, centurion.”

“Yes, sir.” Roscius saluted and turned. The other officers slipped away behind him.

…

Dawn broke, filtering thickly through the fog that clung immovable to the river basin, well into the morning.

The men were on edge after the disappearance of Aufidius and they watched the shadowy shore with caution. They watched Dubnorix too.

The day wore on, and the rowers pulled at their oars. The ship passed through a shallow stretch: the wooden bottom scraping loudly over the round river rocks. Paulus did not want to risk running aground, so he ordered most of the men off the Osprey to lighten the load. Crassus commanded the rowers as they toiled at the tow ropes, and Roscius—along with Dubnorix—took the marines into the woods as an advance party.

“Heave!” called out Crassus every few steps, keeping the rowers in time. The ropes strained with their efforts, and it seemed like they might snap at any moment. The rowers’ footing was often precarious, as the dense forest prevented them from walking on the banks of the river and forced them down onto the rocky beaches.

Paulus watched the proceedings from his place on the quarter deck. Late morning sun had cleared the fog, but now clouds had rolled in. They were dark, threatening rain.

A man came bursting out of the forest and landed in the shallow river with a splash. He got up and struggled through the water toward the ship. Paulus recognized the man as one of Roscius’ marines, but he was surprised that the experienced soldier would make such a commotion.

Something must truly be amiss, thought the captain.

“Captain Paulus, sir!” said the man. “We’ve found something. Half a mile upstream”

Paulus looked over the side of the ship. They were through the worst of the shallows now, and the river again pushed freely against the Osprey. The captain ordered the rowers back aboard the ship and gave command to Trebonius. He shouted an order to the handful of marines still on board.

“With me.”

Then to the messenger: “Take me there.”

…

Paulus found Roscius and the rest of the men crouched at the edge of the forest. Before them was a large clearing bordering on the river. It was thick with green grass, and if any of the locals grazed it, they had not yet this season. Then Paulus saw why that was.

Close to shore, half a dozen crosses had been erected. They were spaced evenly and each was occupied by a rotting corpse.

“By Hercules!” exclaimed one of the marines who had accompanied Paulus.

“Savages,” whispered another.

Paulus was no stranger to crucifixion. He had seen it done en masse before—the aftermath of a slave rebellion—and had employed it himself as a method of execution. But in his decades of service to the Republic, in the four corners of its reach, he had only ever known it to be done by Romans.

And here hung six men, wearing Roman tunics, their hair cropped short like legionaries.

“Have you ever seen something like this, Captain?” asked Roscius.

“No.”

“I don’t suppose one of those poor bastards is our Curtius? That would save us a headache.”

“No, I do not suppose so. That one on the end looks fresher than the rest. I think he may be one of the praetor’s messengers.”

Paulus looked side to side.

“Where is Dubnorix?”

“Scouting, sir.”

“Alone?”

“Not at first, sir. But my men couldn’t keep up with him. Not without making a racket. They’re no trackers.”

“Have them beaten by the cohort. But not until we make it back to camp. We are Rome, here. Surrounded by wolves.”

“Yes, sir. And these wolves aren’t giving us the teat like the one that nursed old Romulus and Remus.”

Paulus whipped around at a sudden noise behind him. His sword cleared the scabbard, and its point came to rest at the throat of Dubnorix.

The Gaul was panting. He grinned.

“Rome’s enemies approach from the rear. Your ship flees.”

“Back to the ship,” Paulus said to Roscius. “On the double.”

Shouts echoed through the forest, this time from the direction of the ship, now devoid of its marines.

“Row, you dogs!” came Crassus’ voice above the din.

“To the beach!” commanded Paulus.

The Roman soldiers ran out from their concealment and toward the river, passing between the crosses as they did.

As they reached the shore, the Osprey rounded the bend, moving quickly. It was peppered with arrows and javelins, and from the woods the crash of a pursuing force was audible.

“Form up!” Paulus shouted coolly.

The marines obeyed the order with practiced efficiency. They formed two ranks with shields packed close together, javelins raised ready to throw.

A band of Gauls, bare chested and decorated in war paint of blue, black, and red, burst forth from the forest. They stopped just out of range of the Roman missiles and hooted and shouted challenges. At the same time, a much larger force emerged from the woods opposite the riverbank.

The Osprey was drawing near.

“Titus Roscius, on my command, take the rear rank aboard and prepare to cover our retreat.”

Paulus watched the large force approach. As disorganized as they were, they numbered more than two hundred. Some of his men would not be leaving the beach alive.

The captain drew his sword. The rush of battle washed over him, sharpening his senses and lending him a measure of clarity that only came to him when bloodshed was imminent.

Some of the more brazen Gallic warriors drew close enough to engage with the Roman force using light javelins. The shields of the soldiers—large and providing overlapping coverage—absorbed the attack, and the legionaries remained unharmed. More hostiles came forward, and hoping to make them think twice, Paulus ordered a counterattack.

“Rear rank! Javelins ready!”

He waited for the right opportunity, when the bulk of the attackers had spent their own darts, but were still within range.

“Throw!” he shouted.

The experienced marines threw with deadly accuracy, felling half a dozen of the foe and causing the rest to flee back to their own ranks.

A cheer rose up among the Romans.

But Paulus knew what would come next, and he remained silently focused.

A distant voice cried out in a barbarian tongue, followed by a bloodcurdling chorus of the entire army massed against the outnumbered Romans. Then they charged.

“Front rank, swords! Rear rank, javelins! Prepare to embark!”

The Osprey was nearly there.

The whole earth shook with the racing footfalls of hundreds of warriors. Paulus’ men shifted their feet nervously. None were inexperienced in combat, but neither had they ever faced such odds. The rumble grew louder, but there was a quality to it that was out of place to Paulus.

Just then, from around a bend in the wood line flanking the Gauls, charged ten teams of horses, each towing a chariot bearing a driver and a warrior.

Man and beast alike shone like Apollo: all armored in polished bronze. Paulus could not believe his eyes, but his heart leapt as he watched the galloping horses slam into the enemy.

Men screamed as they were knocked down and trampled or crushed by the wheels of the chariots driven in tight formation. Some in the path of the unexpected allies were lucky enough to avoid a fate of being run down, but they found themselves targets for the warriors in the chariots who harried them with an ample supply of javelins.

The Gauls broke and wheeled to the left and the safety of the woods. The chariots continued on their flank, until they drew up between the savages and the Romans. At that point they did the most peculiar thing.

While still surrounded by the enemy and within range of thrusting spears and swinging swords, the mounted warriors in flashing bronze leapt from their chariots and attacked the enemy on foot with sword and shield. They fought ferociously, wheeling about to strike at foes on all sides and seeking out the best of the Gallic warriors to engage in single combat. Their frenzy continued to drive the barbarians into the woods, most of whom had turned their backs to flee.

A route is a terrible thing to waste, thought Paulus.

“Alright, lads. At my command, open ranks and forward at a run. Give them a taste of Roman steel. Bone crusher!”

The marines charged, joining the fray.

The Romans hacked at the fleeing enemy, felling many before the trumpet sounded calling them back. They dispatched the wounded and looted their bodies for the few coins and trinkets they carried.

The chariots returned along with Paulus’ marines. The one that had led the charge, now splattered with mud and blood, rode up to Paulus where he waited closer to the river. The driver pulled back on the reins, and his passenger hopped down.

The man removed his crested helmet to reveal light brown curly hair—nearly bleached blond by the sun—that framed an angular face with a strong jaw. A prominent scar ran vertically across his mouth, but it complemented him rather than disfigured.

Paulus removed his own helmet and saluted the man who exuded nobility.

“Captain Paulus, of the northern fleet. You have my gratitude. We would have been hard pressed to hold off that lot for very long. Whom do I have the honor of addressing?”

“Call me Alexander. And I shall call you Aeneas, for you come in the armor of my kinsmen.”

Paulus stood speechless at what was either delusion or eccentricity.

So, we have found Curtius, he thought.

“Gather your retainers and let us retire to the citadel. We have dealt the Argives a heavy blow, but they remain a committed enemy.”

“A kind offer, but what of my ship and crew?”

“Tell them to continue up river. They will not miss my shining citadel. They will be well taken care of. Come now, I insist.”

READ PART 2 HERE!

Click here to read the original Quintus Paulus adventure: The Traitor of Taurida!