The Traitor of Taurida
Part 2 of 2
“We need to escape before they come back, or we will not have a chance,” said Paulus to his remaining marine, Titus.
The two worked in tandem to untie the ropes that bound them. The bonds were tight, but not even the Gordian knot could restrain a Roman sailor for long. Once free, they untied the children.
The children of Lavinius—Publius, boy about ten years of age, and Lavinia, a girl of seven—looked to be in rough shape. They were filthy from their captivity and their lips were cracked from dehydration.
Paulus had a plan for their escape from the cave, but it was going to depend on the boy.
“Can you do what I have described?” asked Paulus of Publius after sharing his idea.
The boy nodded grimly, fear evident on his young face. He was shaken by the tragedy that had befallen his family, but he did his best to bear it stoically.
“What can I do?” asked little Lavinia.
Paulus smiled.
“Do you know how to pray to Fortune?”
“Yes, mother taught me.”
“That is good. Then pray to her without ceasing. Without Fortune’s favor we stand no chance of success.”
Paulus and Titus went about making their preparations. All the while the savage drums beat and celebrants cried out. When all was prepared, the men took their places and the boy approached the gate.
“Water, please,” he said in Latin thrusting his hands through the gaps in the wood and moving them wildly.
“Water, please,” he said again in Greek.
One of the guards shouted back in his unintelligible tongue, striking out at the gate with the butt of his spear. The brave boy fell back to the ground and the two guards began arguing with each other. The plan relied on their noticing that the boy was now unbound and on opening the door to do something about it. The guards were clearly arguing about this exact point.
Eventually, the guard who was insistent on opening the door and securing the prisoners won out and he lifted the beam that kept it closed.
The door was flung open and the two men entered with hesitation, spears at the ready. The older of the two looked at Paulus and Titus where they lay on the ground in apparent submission before addressing the boy where he lay in front of him. He kicked the boy and pointed at the back of the cavern, barking an order to move.
Quick as a flash, the boy jumped up, slipped past the guards, and ran out the door. The guards shouted, turning. At that moment, Paulus and Titus rushed the guards; each swinging a length of rope tied to a jagged rock. Titus hit one of the guards squarely on the side of the head. A wet crunch resounded off the cavern walls, and the man crumpled to the ground. Paulus’ man was not caught completely unaware and he blocked the captain’s blow with the spear; the rope wrapping around it and holding firm. The men struggled for control until Paulus pulled the sword from his enemy’s sheath and ran the man through.
They were free. Titus took a sword off the other dead guard. They grabbed the girl and met the boy outside the cave entrance. He was panting from his brave diversion, but he wore a grin.
“Did I do a good job?” he asked.
“You were as swift as Mercury himself,” said Paulus, ruffling the boy’s hair. “Now come along. We have no time to lose.”
The Romans crept down the path. They followed its twists until they drew near the village. Paulus retained hope that the gods would grant the opportunity to rescue Marcus. The girl’s prayers to Fortune had worked thus far.
At the top of the path was a small rise that let Paulus take stock of their surroundings and most importantly, of the pirates and their barbaric celebrations.
The village stood atop a bluff on the edge of cliffs leading down to the sea. It was comprised of several dozen huts of varying sizes, as well as a large lodge that Paulus figured for the house of the headman. The huts were all arrayed around a central square that had a wooden temple for a centerpiece. The square was full of the village’s inhabitants: bandits along with women and children. Even their slaves were in attendance. The drums beat steadily. At the steps of the temple was a wooden post, and tied to the post by his wrists—stripped to his waist and his bloody head resting limp on his chest—hung Marcus.
Paulus hung his own head. There were at least fifty fighting men between them and Marcus. The drums sped up and a chorus of voices joined in, rising to a crescendo. Paulus watched as four painted priests exited the temple and approached the captive marine. Firelight glinted off their shorn heads and off the polished clubs each bore in hand.
“Titus,” Paulus called between clenched teeth, “go back and get the torches.”
What happened next sickened Paulus, but he refused to dishonor Marcus by averting his eyes. To the cheers of the crowd, the priests surrounded Marcus and took turns striking him with their clubs. Bones shattered and blood flowed. Even after Marcus reached the point that he was surely dead, the men kept beating his mangled body. In the end, they took his head. Their goddess was cruel and bloodthirsty.
Titus returned with the torches and handed one to Paulus.
“We are going to burn this village to the ground.”
Leaving the children concealed behind some stones at the top of the hill, Paulus and Titus sprang into action. With all the inhabitants congregated at the temple, Paulus and Titus moved freely, organizing supplies and making a plan of action. Reaching a group of huts located on a small hill behind the temple, they found a cart laden with bundled brushwood. Paulus found an amphora of oil and dowsed the wood. The men pushed the cart into position on the narrow track leading down to the temple and murderous crowd below. Paulus lit the load and the burly Titus shoved the cart down the hill. The wagon rattled and burned, casting off glowing embers into the night sky. With a terrible crash, the cart slammed into the back of the temple. Flames shot up, quickly engulfing the timbered walls and climbing to the thatched roof.
Paulus and Titus ran back the way they had come, setting torch to every reed roof as they went. By the time they got back to the children, half the village was aflame. People ran about in a panic. They mounted no organized effort to fight the flames; instead, each man rushed in vain to save his own dwelling.
The four Romans ran, taking the closest trail that led away from the village. Paulus stopped at the edge of the village and looked back.
From across the distance, he spied the enemy chieftain. Limned by the firelight of the burning temple the man stood atop an overturned wain from where he had been issuing unheeded orders to his people. The leader of the savage tribe had a noble bearing and an unmistakable profile.
“I know this man. He is a Roman.”
As if he could hear Paulus’ whisper over the chaos, the chieftain turned his head and locked eyes with him. There was no mistaking it, Paulus’ captor and would-be executioner was none other than Sulpicius, the disgraced senator convicted of treason against the Republic. Rather than face his fate with honor, he had fled the City and was presumed to have sought refuge in Africa. Yet here he was on the other side of the world, slaughtering Romans as sacrifices to a bloodthirsty foreign god. Rage welled up in Paulus’ heart.
Paulus wanted to charge across the square and personally deliver justice, but a cough from one of the children reminded him of his primary duty.
“Legionary Titus, no time to waste. We go.”
Paulus and Titus each picked up a child and ran down the footpath that led away from the acropolis. Paulus spared a look back at Sulpicius, who watched them go. The traitorous Roman shouted, raising the alarm. A handful of pirates heard the call and came sprinting. Paulus beat a hasty retreat.
They ran as fast as their legs would bear them. The stony path would surely have torn up the men’s bare feet were they not already tough from life at sea. The boy in Paulus arms trembled, his bravery wearing thin. They would not be able to outrun their pursuers, nor beat them in a fight; their only chance was to hide.
The path away from the village followed the bluff. Trees were sparse on the heights; the rocky ground yielding mostly shrubs and a mat of coarse grass. The white moon illuminated the countryside and the dark sea was visible downslope to the right. Somewhere, many miles ahead, was the safety of Chersonesus.
However, immediately ahead rose a cluster of tall stones. At first taking them for an outpost sure to be hostile to the fleeing Romans, Paulus skidded to a halt. But further inspection revealed the place to be a burial site, either for the pursuing pirates or for another people swept from this place long ago. Regardless of whose bones rested here, Paulus had an idea.
…
With a groan of effort, Paulus set the stone slab in place above him. On one side Publius lay huddled; his rapid shallow breathing betraying his fear. On the other side were the skeletal remains of several people; their blackened rib bones painfully poking into Paulus’ own. The grave was shallow, part having been hewn into the living stone of the bluff, and the rest being closely fitted rocks supporting the slab cover. Titus and Livinia were similarly concealed in a nearby tomb. Their survival depended on their remaining undetected for a few crucial moments.
As he lay in silence, Paulus heard the whimpering of a child. It was the girl in Titus’ charge. Paulus gritted his teeth as he felt rapid footsteps vibrating through the stone at his back. Livinia’s stifled cries continued. Paulus cursed silently.
The footsteps grew louder until they filled the graveyard and stopped suddenly. Publius pressed close to Paulus, his heart galloping. The seconds stretched on into eternity while Paulus clutched the handle of the battered sword he had taken from the guard. The grip was rough where its leather wrapping had come loose. He tried the weight in his hand and prepared to make his last stand.
Growing faint and ranging more widely, the footsteps faded into nothing. After a long time, when he thought it safe to emerge, Paulus pushed away the slab.
The air was cool and the moon bright. Paulus scanned his surroundings cautiously before climbing out of the grave. The coast was clear. He helped the boy out and then shifted the lid off of Titus’ hiding spot.
“I thought we were done for, sir; the way this one was crying. I had to clap my hand over her mouth to keep her from giving us away. Poor dear fainted from fright.”
Titus stood and cradled the girl in his arms. She remained unconscious, but she was alive.
“What now, sir?” asked Titus.
“They have been forced to split up. Several paths converge at this place. We press on for the coast and if we are lucky we will find a boat to commandeer. If we come upon any of the pirates, we will have the advantage of surprise.”
Staying on the path closest to the sea, they ran away from the burial grounds. The tracks in front of them indicated that four of the enemy had gone before: bad odds for a fair fight but acceptable given the opportunity for a stealth attack. For another mile they ran, down to a wide river that spilled into the sea. At last, they were traveling near the water. Paulus signaled a halt. Ahead he spied a cluster of huts near the shore, and, more importantly, a boat. The fugitives took shelter behind a rocky outcropping to the side of the path.
The footprints they were following had led straight into the village. Either the enemy had continued on or was lying in ambush. Paulus had no stomach to sit around and wait. It very well may be a trap, but he would rather put his trust in his own martial prowess, the marine at his side, and the gods of Rome, than delay their departure longer than necessary. Paulus devised their plan.
…
Paulus stepped back onto the path alone. Sword at the ready, the Roman captain crept toward the waiting boat. He looked for the slightest movement in the shadows; anything that could betray the presence of a concealed enemy. All was still and quiet. Smoke trailed heavenward from a dying fire at the center of the huts. Once Paulus was ten paces from the boat, the trap was sprung.
Out from the shadows emerged three armed men, one of whom was the leader of the murderous pirates: the disgraced senator Sulpicius.
“We were saving you for last, captain. You will be a great sacrifice to our goddess and your flesh will bring our warriors prowess.”
He glanced around.
“What have you done with the children? We are also looking forward to their sweet sacrifice.”
Paulus burned with pious wrath.
“Let us finish this here, Sulpicius! Your sword against mine. We shall see who is the better man and whose gods the mightiest: the gods of Rome or your depraved goddess.”
Sulpicius laughed.
“So, you know me after all. But no matter; the gods have already delivered you into my hands, and soon my goddess will taste your blood.”
The disgraced senator said something to his companions in their barbaric tongue. One of them, large, well-muscled and bearing the scars of dozens of battles approached Paulus; his sword and buckler held in practiced readiness. Paulus backed slowly toward the water. The other of Sulpicius’ men, older but wiry, scanned the perimeter. No doubt he had been ordered to be on the lookout for Titus. Sulpicius barked another order in Paulus’ direction, rather, toward the reeds at his back. His face darkened with concern as his command went unheeded. The brute approaching Paulus hesitated, looking to his leader for assurance.
Like one of Jupiter’s deadly bolts, a spear shot out from the reeds next to Paulus, barreling straight for the chest of the large warrior. The fighter’s reaction was just as quick, and he caught the projectile with his shield. The iron tip buried itself deep in the wood, and the man had no choice but to drop the defensive weapon.
Titus jumped out from the rushes. In one hand was his sword, still red with the blood of the man who had been lying in wait for Paulus, in the other hand was a small fishing net.
“Bone crusher!” Paulus shouted the battle cry of his crew and charged the enemy. The experience of many years of close quarters fighting in boarding parties and coastal raids found both Paulus and Titus attacking the partially disarmed warrior in tandem. Paulus was in first with a powerful lunge at the man’s throat. The blow was swatted away and followed by an arcing swing in retaliation. Recovering, Paulus dodged. Titus lashed out with the net. On instinct the foe parried with his sword only to find it hopelessly tangled within the knotted strands. This mistake proved fatal, as both Paulus and Titus closed to finish him with well-placed sword thrusts.
Sulpicius, ever the coward, held back from the fray, and as his best man was dying, he ordered his last surviving henchman into the attack. The man hesitated, appearing to weigh his options, and having come to a solution to his calculus he ran away between the fishing shacks.
“Go,” said Paulus, and Titus took off after the fleeing savage like a shot from a ballista.
“Now, where were we?” continued Paulus.
Sulpicius stood in slack-jawed disbelief. Paulus could read the amazement on his face. Within a few short moments the man had gone from confident in his successful apprehension of the fugitive sacrifices to evenly matched with a determined warrior. He scoffed with resigned contempt.
“So be it! Your blood on my knife will satisfy the goddess here just as well as at the steps of her temple.”
Sulpicius shifted his finely crafted gladius to his left hand and drew his priestly dagger with his right. He approached Paulus, weapons at the ready. Paulus picked up a dagger from the belt of the large fallen warrior and faced off with his enemy.
The two men paced a slow circle, each studying the other. Although Sulpicius was in league with savages and had shown himself a coward, he was still dangerous. As a noble son of Rome, he had spent years in military service, and as a senator he had led legions. Paulus would be a fool to underestimate him in a contest of arms. He would also not let him make the first strike.
Paulus lashed out with a flurry of blows. Sulpicius parried expertly; intimately familiar with the martial training of a legionary. Then the exile went on the attack. He struck high and low, his fury manifest in every stab and slash. During his time at the edge of the world, Sulpicius had learned strange new maneuvers and he wheeled about like whirlwind. Paulus fought on his heels being driven back step by step to the water’s edge. He took a cut to his arm, then a shallow thrust to his thigh. A pommel struck him in the brow and blood flowed into his eye. But he was not vanquished. Not yet.
Paulus had fought Rome’s enemies beyond even the bounds of Mare Nostrum; from beyond the Pillars of Hercules to the cataracts of the Nile. He too had picked up some tricks.
Paulus deflected two rapid strikes aimed at his head and pivoted low. He slid his feet gracefully like gliding on ice, getting within his enemy’s guard and moving behind him. Paulus’ dagger found Sulpicius’ back just where he had targeted. The traitor to Rome wheezed as the blow drove the air from his lungs. Sinking to his knees he clutched his chest where the blade pierced his heart just below the surface . Then he collapsed to the rocky beach, dead.
A moment later, Titus ran back out of the darkness.
“You look the worse for wear, Captain.”
“I feel it.”
Paulus reached down and removed the signet ring from the dead man’s finger. He also picked up the disgraced Roman’s gladius: forged of the finest steel and ornamented with silver and gold. The captain’s superiors would believe him, but they would prefer proof.
“The runner?”
“He was a fast little bugger. Made it halfway back up the hill, but not far enough.”
Paulus nodded.
“Fetch the children. We need to be going.”
Titus waded into the reeds and re-emerged with the two children. They were chilled to the bone and shivering. Paulus wrapped them in tattered sailcloth and placed them in the boat. Titus manned the oars and they rowed for the sea and safety.
Fantastic read.