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Part I: A Rude Awakening
The sun was bright that morning. Jackson Vandal reminded himself that he needed curtains for the bedroom, or maybe nail some sheets up. He rolled over, grunting in annoyance. He found his bed very hard, uncomfortable, and smelling a lot worse than usual. He reached down for the bed sheet, feeling something furry and wet. It had better not be a damn rat, he thought, or I'll give that landlord what for. Opening his eyes, Vandal blearily focused on a horse.
The horse studied him, snorted, exhaling into his face and raised its head. Vandal gaped at the apparition for a moment, still not quite aware of his surroundings. It had been a rough night, heavy on the drinking with the boys from the factory. He had delighted them with stories from his minor league days, a few even remembered him and were willing to pay for some drinks.
He wondered how he had managed to drag a horse into his tiny apartment. Then he wondered why he had brought home a horse. Glancing around, he saw he was outside. Did he even remember getting home? Vandal noticed he was surrounded by several men, all staring at him in a semi-circle dressed like something out of Sparticus. He had seen it on the late show awhile back and quite enjoyed it.
'Hey,' he said, grinning, 'Where's Chuck Heston?' Vandal laughed at that. He was always witty when waking up from a bender.
On of the men poked him with the butt end of a spear he carried. Vandal pushed it aside and stared at the men in irritation.
'State your name and land from whence you came,' said the man, all glittery in his fancy armor.
Vandal tried to stand up and found his legs were still a little wobbly from the whiskey, 'Look, buddy, sorry to break up your little re-enactment or whatever you have going on but can the fancy-ass talking, ok? I'll just be on my way.'
He would have left had not the men barred his way. Vandal felt his anger rise, the hangover was not helping matters in the least. He reached out to shove his way through when someone kicked his legs out from under him. He fell in a heap. Cursing, he hauled himself out of the mud when another cracked him in the legs with the length of a spear.
'Jesus Christ, what the hell? You want me to call the cops? I will, you know. That's assault.' Vandal reached for his cell phone, found it missing along with his wallet and everything else in his pockets. He began to wonder just what had happened to him the night before. His brain, still a little drunk, piped up that it must of been fun. Vandal giggled a little at that.
'Who do you suppose he is?' one of the younger men asked.
'No doubt a spy. We've seen no one for the longest time. This fool must have been following us for Aediphus and fallen asleep. Little too much drink, from the smell of him.'
'What strange clothes he has,' said another.
'Typical barbarian. Cannot even wash themselves. Look at this slob.'
Vandal realized they were talking about him, insulting his personal hygiene. "Hey fellas, I ain't the one dressed like a bunch of tin-plated fruits, all right? You're the ones playing at war here. Now you bastards lemme up.'
'Oh gods. Here comes the Legatus himself. This one is done for sure.'
Vandal watched as a large man approached the group. His armor shone in the sun, vastly different from the common soldiers around Vandal. So encrusted with decorations it almost to the point of the ludicrous. His cloak was made of finely woven material, thrown around his shoulders. Behind him strode six more men, all astride armored horses. Vandal noticed that the horse that rudely woke up was a packhorse. The little voice in his head began to pipe a warning but the rest of his body largely ignored it. The man identified as the Legatus (whatever that is, thought Vandal) jumped off his large mount.
'Why the delay? This Contubernium should be setting up the tent.'
'Sorry, Legatus, but we have encountered a spy.'
The Legatus stern eyes moved the Vandal. Despite the absurd outfit, Vandal was a little afraid of the iron-faced man.
'Spy? This piece of garbage? I should hardly think so.'
'But, sir, he was on the edge of our encampment.'
The Legatus reached down and hauled Vandal to his feet. Vandal yelped in pain but could not break free from the man's strong grip. The older man grabbed Vandal by the wrist and twisted so the palm faced the other men. Vandal was forced to his knees else his arm would snap in two.
'Look at this hand. No calluses. His belly hangs from his shirt,' the Legatus kicked angrily into Vandal's torso, 'he reeks of booze and vomit. Bah. He even wears bracae!'
The other men laughed at that. Vandal looked around fearfully, the enormity of the situation beginning to dawn on him. He noticed they were pointing at his pants when the older man had said bracae.
'No doubt, men, we have found the toy of some Senator or well-to-do merchant in our midst. Lost from a caravan, perhaps. He saw the lights of our camp and believed he'd find a nice bed and warm meal,' the Legatus punched Vandal hard in the stomach, causing him to double over in pain, 'Never known a hard days work, this one. But the poor fool is in Roman territory and privy to Roman laws! What say you all? Does not a state of war exist?'
'Aye, so it does,' one of the men yelled merrily.
The Legatus eyes scanned through the rest of the encampment, looking for a distinct color of shield carried by a soldier. He yelled at the young man when he found it, ordering him to approach. The man came at a run.
'You, let me see your scutum,' the young man displayed his shield, 'Dadeus Remulus Marcus,' he read, 'Under command of Centurion Glaceius of the 2nd Cohort?'
'Yes sir.'
'We have a new recruit, Marcus. Take this piece of filth to the Praefectus Castroum for equipment at once.'
The Legatus threw Vandal to the ground in front of Marcus, accompanied by the jeers of the men around him. Marcus saluted the Commander of the Legion then half-carried, half-dragged Vandal to the tent of the equipment officer.
'What's going on here? Vandal asked. He stopped a moment, Marcus allowing him to catch his breath from the beating he had taken. 'Where the hell am I?'
'You're in the 12th Roman Legion encampment. Don't you know that?
'No, there are no 'Roman Legions' in New Jersey.'
'New Jersey? I do not know that place. Is it very far from here?'
'No, unless those jerks at the bar put me on a train. If that's the case, I'll get 'em back. Right after I sue that a-hole what beat me up. Where's the phone?'
'Your words are very strange to me. I do not know what you're asking.'
'Taking this a little too far, ain't ya? Phone? Tele-phone?' he held his hand to his face, mimicking talking into a phone, 'Hello? Yadda-yadda-yadda? Get me a lawyer?'
'Lawyer I know. But there are none out here. We are on patrol.'
'Really. Well, what are we patrolling then?' Vandal turned in a circle, surveying the camp, 'Man there is a lot of people here.'
'We have around 600 soldiers on patrol with us. We had many more but our encounters with Adephus' Legion had dwindled our ranks. It has been many a day since word has come from our border fortress. No sign of re-enforcement. That must be why the commander decided to recruit you.'
'Recruit me? Listen pal, I'm an American citizen and we have rights.'
'I thought you came from New Jersey.'
'Don't play stupid with me, boy. I was the highest ranked minor league ball player in my day. I think I have my players card somewhere....anyway, stop acting stupid with me.'
'All I know is you were found in Roman territory and therefore our laws apply to you. You are of recruitment age and are now a member of our army if the Legatus wished it so. Now, come with me so we can get you some equipment.'
'And food? I'm starved. Do we get fed here?'
'Of course. The Legion is not a bunch of barbarians such as you are used to. The Legion is family. It is life.'
'Yeah, whatever. From the look of you guys, you're fed well. You're in better shape than most of the athletes I played with.'
'You are an athlete?' Marcus asked incredulously, 'I would never have guessed at that. You do not appear to be a gladiator.'
'A what? You mean like in that movie? Lord, you people really go all out in these games. Tell you what, you get some food in my gut and maybe I'll play along in your little game here. I don't have anything else to do.'
Part II: Legionnaire
Marcus took Vandal to see the Praefectus Castorum for his equipment. It took quite some time to find the proper armour to fit Vandal, despite the large number of discarded equipment from the dead soldiers. Most of the armour had sword holes and the Castorum would not have any of his men wearing shoddy equipment. Soon Vandal had everything they needed and the two men retired to their assigned tent. The rest of Marcus's Contubernium were in the field on patrol, Marcus having been ordered to oversee Vandal.
'Remove you clothing so we may outfit properly, Vandal. Especially the bracae. Among out people only women wear them.'
'Whatever. Hey, do we get paid for this thing, too?'
'Of course. 225 denarii a year.'
'What, you do this stuff year-round?'
'Yes. We are professional soldiers in the Legion.'
'Man, that is just nutty. Anyway, I think I'll just stick around for the day if it's all the same to you. Now, what goes on first here?'
'This tunic and linen undergarments first. They will protect you from chaffing.'
'Ok, fine.'
Marcus picked up Vandal's pants and studied them closely. 'What strange material this is.'
'It's denim for God's sake. I wish you'd drop the act, please. Hey, are you maybe European...you have a pretty weird accent.'
'As do you. Where is this 'denim' made?'
'I only wear stuff made in the good ol' U.S of A. None of that foreign crap for me.'
Marcus gave a quick tug and tore Vandal's pants cleanly in half. 'What shoddy craftsmanship,' he muttered, dropping them and picking up Vandal's shoes. Vandal just stood, gap-mouthed.
'What interesting footwear. Are these made in your U.S. of A country as well?'
'Well, no. But when I played in the minors they paid me to wear Reebok. So I still do. Careful with those, now. They are very expensive.' Vandal went back to trying to put on the boots Marcus instructed him to wear. They were a strange kind of sandal with a very thick sole. An elaborate series of leather straps wound themselves up his shins. Vandal was having trouble tying them off when we heard another tearing. Marcus had pried the rubber sole from the running shoes. Once again he threw them to the ground in disgust and looked at the amazed Vandal.
'Such poor quality. These shoes of yours would not last a single march. You should be glad we are giving goods that have obvious quality and care given to their craftsmanship.'
'You, my friend, owe me BIG when this day is over. You got that. Tell you what, you let me keep these fancy duds and we'll call it even.'
'They are yours already, Jackson. I told you that.'
Vandal smiled, looking at the equipment given and said, 'Good. I'll get a pretty penny for this stuff. It's damn near authentic.'
'I don't know what that means, but here...I will help you.'
Marcus assisted Vandal in putting on what he called the lorica segmentata, the main part of amour that protected the torso. It consisted of a series of overlapping strips attached on the inside by leather straps. It took little time to put on as it was a complete unit and laced up the front. Marcus then gave Vandal a scarf to wear, to protect his neck from chaffing.
'Hey, what about my goodies?' Vandal asked, looking down at his groin.
'Beg your pardon?'
'Do I get a cup at least? You know, to protect my boys down below.'
'Umm...don't worry...about your...boys.'
Marcus handed Vandal a wide belt and wrapped it around him. The front had a number of leather thongs with riveted metal plates attached and weighted bronze terminals. It swung easily, allowing Vandal freedom of movement and protection of his nether regions. Next came the helmet, made of bronze with a iron skullcap. The back had a descending portion for protection, and two large hinged pieces that hung down the cheeks of the face and fastened at the bottom.
'Your scutum is outside.'
'My scrotum?'
'Scutum. You know, shield. It bears the color of our legion and will later be decorated with your name and that of your Centurion. It has a strap for you to wear over you shoulder when we march. I will show you later.' Marcus then pointed to a seven-foot javelin leaning against a post, calling it the pilum. This was to be Vandal's chief weapon.
'The tip,' Marcus said gesturing to the top three feet of the weapon, 'is made of a weaker iron. It will penetrate your enemy's body and will bend, making it very hard to remove.'
'Yeah, but ours are rubber, right?'
'Rubber?' Marcus said, confused.
'Never mind, what's next? I'm starting to enjoy this.'
Marcus picked up the gladius, a double-bladed two foot long, two inch wide sword with a corrugated bone handle. Vandal whistled as he saw it. Marcus informed him it was to be used in short-range combat, waving it in a thrusting fashion. Sheathing it, he placed it high on Vandal's side, clear of his shield arm and legs. On the opposite side he fitted the pugio, a dagger. Vandal moved around, enjoying the feeling of real armour. He felt like a kid again. Moving quickly, he drew his gladius and waved it around, striking himself in the back of the head with the flat of the blade.
'Christ, this thing is real!'
'Be careful, Jackson. You very nearly took your head off. I will show you how to wield a blade properly later. Now you must stow the rest of your things.'
'What? I can barely move as it is.'
Marcus dumped out a large sack they had picked up at the equipment officer's tent. Vandal stared at the equipment on the floor. Arrayed there was a saw, a wicker basket for shifting earth, rope, a sickel and a pickaxe with its edges covered in a bronze sheath. These would be carried on a pila muralia, a forked pole, which would rest across his shoulders during a march.
'Hey, now Marcus. I was in the Reserves for a few weeks before I was tossed out. I know we're only supposed to carry 66 pounds. This is a little much.'
'We have no such rules. Every man in the Legion must carry this. Along with your water and rations. We'll get those later. Hurray and gear up.'
'Why now?,' Vandal muttered angrily.
'Because we must meet your Centurion! We have the honor of serving under Glaceius, the finest officer in the Legion. He would have been promoted long ago if his father had not fallen out of the Senate...but make no mention of that! Then, after we have presented him to you, I'll start your training.'
'Oh good,' Vandal cursed, groaning under the weight.
Part III: Dark Tidings
Jackson Vandal was dying.
Of that fact there could be no dispute. His limbs were aflame, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He lay on his cot, near death. The men around him that formed his battle group ignored his pain and pleas for help. Only his friend Marcus gave him any heed, but even the gentle Marcus had trouble hiding his disdain for the man.
They hate me, Vandal thought, and they mean to see me dead! Vandal reached out and grabbed Marcus' arm. Gritting his teeth, he barely managed to speak.
'Marcus,' he pleaded, 'for pity's sake help me. I need a drink.'
'Of course, Jackson. Here, I will help you. Drink this.'
Vandal slapped the jug away from him, 'No, dammit! I said I need a drink! Not water but beer, man! Beer!'
'We have no alcohol, Jackson. I told you that.'
'I'm dying, Marcus. Surely you 'Romans' have some sort of honor-bound pledge to help a dying man?'
'You are not dying, Jackson.'
'The hell you say! I'm in pain, man!'
Marcus sighed deeply, 'One would think that you have never exercised before. I thought you said you were an athlete.'
'I was. I mean, I am. But you guys go a little too far. Christ, I can barely move in this damn outfit. Then you go and give me all that damn equipment and weapons. It's a wonder my spine didn't telescope.'
'Every man in the Legion must carry the same,' Marcus said tiredly, 'and be expected to know how to use it. It is not our fault you do not have such obligations in this 'America' country you speak of.'
'Listen, pal of mine, we're a hell of a lot more advanced than you smucks are. Why the hell you insist on dressing up like you do and pretending you're centuries behind the times is beyond me. I wish to God you guys would drop this charade and talk like civilized people.'
Marcus turned towards Vandal, 'We are not civilized? You cannot even start a fire! Or hunt for food! Or even use a weapon! You claim this place you come from is so much better and advanced than ours but you would die here if left to your own devices!'
'Humph, you're lucky I can't lift my arms buddy, or there'd be hell to pay for that.'
'Judging from the way you used your gladius today, a crippled cow would have little to fear from you.'
Vandal was about to respond to that when a hush fell over the group. One of the men had been posted in the front of the tent, and whispered in to his comrades.
'Aediphus aides have arrived. They are moving to the centre of the camp. Glaceius and the Legatus are about to meet with them.'
With a titanic effort, Vandal managed to haul himself into a sitting position. 'What's going on Marcus?'
'The remaining officers of Aediphus are meeting with our Legatus. Perhaps they mean to end this little war he has started.'
'Didn't you say your armies are pretty much equal and that you've been chasing him for weeks?'
'Yes.'
'Well, what does the script say?'
'Script?'
'Yes, the damn script! Christ, you people are just re-enactors aren't you? What is supposed to come next in your game?'
Marcus turned to Vandal, anger showing in his eyes for the first time, 'Jackson Vandal, listen very closely to me. This is not a game. We are soldiers in the Roman Legion. As are you now. Today I instructed you in the use of the weapons that you will be carrying into battle. And there will be a battle, mark my words. Aediphus is after something and his Legion of the Damned will not stop until they find it. It is our job to stop him. You are going to help us to do that. Or you will die on the field of battle, branded a coward.'
Vandal stared into the hard eyes of Marcus, then erupted into laughter.
'Man, you had me going there, Marcus. Damn, here's you Academy Award! So, is there going to be cameras and stuff for this 'battle'? Hey, are they here now?'
Marcus stood and left, snorting in disgust.
The men in Marcus' group gathered outside. Vandal remained on his cot, stretched out and snoring loudly. No one paid him any attention except for the occasional dirty look or sneer. Several commented on the patience Marcus showed with the obviously deranged and ill-breed man, but Marcus shrugged them off. He was only doing his duty for the Legion.
One man was hunched, turning a metal pole in the fire, checking to see if it had reached the proper temperature. Several of the newer soldiers rubbed their arms absently when they glanced at the metal rod, the older soldiers smiled knowingly. Most of this group were younger soldiers but the veteran Centurion Glaceius would train these into the steel that was the Legion. They began to tell tales they knew of the legendary Roman soldier when he appeared from the gloom of the setting sun. They hushed and dropped their eyes.
Glaceius approached the fire and warmed his hands. He looked questioningly at the metal pole.
'It is for the new soldier,' said one, 'we were about to brand him with the Mark of the Legion.'
Glaceius inhaled deeply, his handsome blue eyes looking to the mountains, 'No time for that. Gather yourselves. Aediphus takes to the field.'
The men gaped in excitement, several running off to gather their gear for battle. Marcus stood stock still, his brow furrowed in confusion.
'Question, soldier?' Glaceius asked, a smile on his face.
'Yes, Centurion. Why would Aediphus take to the field at this hour? It will be full dark soon. It's foolish.'
'The moon rises. It will be full. Enough light to wage a battle. Enough, but just barely. He is a strange on, this Aediphus. He dresses his soldiers all in black. Their symbol atop their Standard is a simple skull. No adornments or decorations.'
Glaceius was quiet a moment longer then rested his hand on the younger man's shoulder, 'The night will be a long one, Marcus. I entrust you to watch over that new soldier. He may be trouble. You are the only one I believe can do this. The others are very young.'
'Of course, Centurion.'
Glaceius removed the rod from the fire and studied the mark, glowing a fierce red. Marcus looked at his shoulder, to the matching mark imprinted on his skin.
'Time enough for this tomorrow, Marcus. If we live to see the dawn.'
The armies of the 12th Legion gathered in the field, the setting sun glinting off their armour in hues of gold and purple. Its dying light painted the tips of their javelins red; a prelude of what was to come.
Divided into blocks down they line, they marched as one towards Aediphus' Legion of the Damned, as they became known. Vandal's group was stationed to the rear of the line. It was their job to move about the rear after the battle started and seal any breaks, to reinforce where needed. This was a typical position given to newer Legion soldiers.
Glaceius sat on his mount, his eyes cold in the dawning night. His staff rested against his leg, both a weapon and tool to instill discipline in his men. Here, however, his reputation as a soldier guaranteed that. At least, with all but one of the men.
'Hey, Marcus,' Vandal said loudly, 'what do I do again?'
'Just follow my lead, Jackson.'
'Yeah, ok. I don't see any cameras though. That's kinda weird. I thought that someone would wanna catch this on film. Must be a twelve hundred men here! Crazy.' He looked up, sighting a few stars beginning to bloom in the sky, 'You know, I haven't seen any jet trails for the longest time too'
'Quiet in the ranks,' Glaceius said.
Vandal leaned in close to Marcus, 'Betcha glad you're not that idiot who has to carry around that big pole, huh?'
'That 'big pole' is our standard, Jackson! The man who carries it is second to the Centurion and holder of the money we will be paid. It is a honor each of us wish for to carry it to battle. We would all give our lives to never see it fall or an enemy so much as touch it.'
'O-K, fine. It's still a crap job if you ask me.'
The black-clothed army across from them began to move. Ahead of Vandal, the forward line began to march. The staccato beat of booted feet and armour jingling sounded almost musical. On opposite sides of the army, the small cavalry spread out to prevent any flanking maneuvers. Glaceius knew, from years of experience, Aediphus would give no quarter. Whatever he was after he wanted this Legion removed from his plans. He ordered his group to advance.
Vandal began to move forward, a happy smile on his face. His armour itched and stretched around his belly, pinching him in places. His shield was way to heavy and the sword strapped around his middle really began to weigh him down. Still, it was kinda fun, he thought. Halfway through he lowered his javelin and bounced it off the ground. It gave a hollow ringing sound. He stopped marching, a frown deepening into his features. Men cursed around him.
'Marcus, I still have that real weapon. Shouldn't I have a rubber tipped one? Someone might get hurt out here.' He looked around and began to realize, to his horror, everyone else had real weapons too. Shocked, he looked across the field to the advancing army and saw they were lethally armed.
'Jesus Christ! You mean to really fight out here!'
'Jackson, return to your position in the line!' Marcus said desperately.
'Holy God, you're going to try to kill each other out here! What the hell is wrong with you people?'
'Return to the line before Glaceius kills you for disobedience and cowardice, Jackson. You're in the Legion now.'
'What? I don't understand'
'Fight or die, Jackson. Fight or die.'
