Legionary: A warrior's journey begins in Ancient Rome (Quintus Roman Thrillers Book 1)

LEGIONARY Quintus Roman Thrillers Book One Neil Denby To Eileen, of course Table of Contents I: DECIMATIO II: EXTRA MUROS III: VERBERATIO IV: MAL FORTUNA V: OPTIO VI: GNAEUS CRASSUS MALLEOLUS VII: INSIDIAE VIII: DEDUCERE VELATOS FORTUNA IX: PILUS PRIOR X: QUO VADIS XI: NEMESIS XII: PILUS ET MANUS XIII: CONTENDITE VESTRA SPONTE XIV: MONS AURI XV: DRACO XVI: TITUS FLAVIUS PUSO XVII: LIBERATIO XVIII: CRUCIFIXIO XIX: VIA AD AURUM XX: CASTRA XXI: DECURION CASCA XXII: CLEPSYDRA XXIII: ZAMA XXIV: IO SATURNALIA XXV: MORPHEUS XXVI: PUPILLUS SEXTILIUS ESQUILINA XXVII: SIT TIBI TERRA LEVIS XXVIII: FUSTUARIUM XXIX: LEGIO IX HISPANA XXX: LUCUS AUGUSTUS XXXI: SIGNIFER XXXII: AQUILA XXXIII: JULIUS QUINTUS QUIRINIUS XXXIV: BRIGANTIA XXXV: CALDARIUM XXXVI: HYDRA XXXVII: BRITANNIA NOTE TO THE READER ALSO BY NEIL DENBY HISTORICAL NOTES ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS I: DECIMATIO The man stared at the white stone in the palm of his hand with more than a degree of incomprehension. It had been hidden in his fist until this moment. The men around him had all, on a count, opened their fingers at the same time. He looked around, dazed; of course it was just him, no one else. The others were at once overjoyed with the fate revealed to them. Two had embraced each other; most wore smiles. All had opened their own hands to find a shiny black stone — a symbol of safety, of reprieve. The condemned man looked at the other groups on either side of him, drawn up in a rough line away from the camp. They were mostly contubernia — groups of eight men who had marched together, camped together and cooked together, and who slept in the same tent. They were now augmented with legionaries from groups whose own men had fallen in the action that morning, so each was now a group of ten. Ten soldiers. Ten comrades. Ten stones. Where they could, the men of a tent party had stayed together, seeking comfort in companionship, like children hiding from a storm. They had embraced each other and wished each other well, though surely in their hearts they only wished no ill for themselves. The groups had squatted on the ground in a rough circle to draw their lots, their fates. Ursus the bear, an affectionate nickname for the hairy man who stared at the white stone, had organised his own group just so. Men were rising now, their noise reaching him. Congratulations were in the air, but also wails of anguish and in some cases arguments. There were cries that the draw had somehow been manipulated, that fate was compromised, that the gods had not intended for the stones to fall so. Each group found just a single white stone, for they had been carefully divided before being distributed amongst the cohort and counted out for each section of ten. Ursus’ would be the only one in his group. He continued to focus on the shiny marble pebble, its veins strangely beautiful, while everything on the edge of his vision became a blur. The noisy celebration from his comrades grew dull and distant. He remained silent, stunned by the enormity of what he held. It was not possible. He was an optio, second-in-command in his century, promoted from the ranks. A twenty-year veteran, he was ready to claim his bounty and his land and see out his days as a citizen and a farmer, respected, comfortable and at peace. He had a wife, a child, a home. He should live to become a retiree, a taleteller, a greybeard at the fireside — not just a father, but a grandfather too. Had he not fought with honour at the general’s side and received an armband of copper for his bravery, when he’d been part of the detachment that had chased the Egyptian queen to Alexandria? Had he not done his duty? His comrades jerked him upwards, but he could not rise from his knees. As the order to carry out the sentence was repeated down the line, he felt strong hands take his wrists and tug his arms backwards. Other hands grabbed his head, his ears and his wild black hair, pulling his gaze downward so that all he could see was the beaten earth beneath him. He was about to protest when he felt the cold edge of a blade against the nape of his neck. He shivered involuntarily, felt a searing pain, then all was darkness. Ursus was lucky — not with the lot that he had drawn, but with the men of his tent party. He had been valiant in the action, had urged the legionaries to keep on fighting and had protected some of the spear-carriers, the boys he’d been charged with training. A man who dwelled on what the white stone meant might try to run or might even soil himself in panic. Ursus could not escape his fate, but his comrades could offer him a swift death. This was a mercy reserved for those few comrades who were popular, well thought-of and brave. Ursus had a gladius plunged into his neck as he knelt. The blade had been concealed under faggots in the centre of the circle, as it should not have been there. Not all the condemned men had been as fortunate as the optio. Some had been less than courageous in the action, had tried to run, had abandoned comrades, had turned their backs on the enemy and, even worse, had encouraged others to run. These were suffering slow and violent deaths, being beaten with stones, clubbed with sticks, pounded and pummelled with knees, and smashed with tight fists wrapped in leather bindings. And when they were allowed to fall to the ground, feet came into play — heavy, nail-studded leather sandals, caligae, kicking ribs, stomachs, backs and livers, increasing the agony until they chose to deal the death blow. Men vomited, whimpering through bloodied teeth, instinctively trying to protect themselves with their arms and crawl away. They finally felt the life drain