It seems that I managed to forget to define many things in last chapter's glossary. I apologise; so this one will be bulked out to make up.
And thanks for all the nice reviews and "Favourite Stories"!
Anyway, seeing as we're about to enter Alagaesia, into the uncomfortable realm of a world created by someone else, I must admit something: I have made a few assumptions about it, where Paolini's own worldbuilding was lacking. (All too many areas, for my liking!) These may be incorrect, especially as I once told someone off in a review for doing the same. (As I recall, it was about arranged marriage, with me claiming that there was no such thing described by Paolini, and a justly angered author begging to differ.) Examples of this will start to turn up in this chapter.
Note: If I do not include a term in the glossary, it is for two reasons. One: that I have forgotten to. The other is that it is too rude for fictionpress to accept.
"There was a town in Spain that was utterly destroyed when it was undermined by rabbits." Pliny the Elder, Natural History 8.54
Darkness.
Darkness…
Is this death?
Eyes open, wander.
Darkness.
Pluto?
"Pluto?"
An echo. A shade can speak, then. Or was he among the heroes, divine? Unlikely, surely. Unless…
No. What great books had he written? What great deeds had he done? To end in shadow. He was surprised he could remember his own name now. Flaccus. Publius Cassius Flaccus. How pathetic. How damned pathetic.
And, out of the darkness, there came a great moan. An echoing moan.
Worse, a moan he recognized. Recognised from endless mornings after drunken carousing.
"Gnaeus Aurelius?"
"Publius Cassius?"
There was a moment of silence. Of all the people Flaccus wanted to spend the afterlife near, Gnaeus Aurelius Felix Pulcher was extremely low on his list. Just his luck.
But fortune favours the bold, so he asked: "Is that you?"
"It is, I think."
Scuffling noises. An curse, shouted loudly.
"Get off my fucking face, Pulcher! Get off-"
"Marcus Thorius?"
Another familiar voice. "Suprius Julius Rufus," Flaccus said. It was quite a coincidence that he was dead, and that all these people were in the Underworld alongside him, and that all had retained their memories, and that there was not a River Styx in sight. Which, as the Stoics said, could only mean one thing.
"We, gentlemen," he said, "Are alive."
"Bravo," someone muttered.
Flaccus, now that this was securely in his mind, attempted to get to his feet; and, several grunts and yelps from unseen bodies later, he succeeded. "Does anyone have a torch?" he called. "Anyone? And Praefectus Castrorum! To your feet! You will assist me in getting these men to their feet. There are more around here, I am quite sure. Gnaeus Aurelius: you will give us light, on pain of your own personal decimation."
There was an almost audible gulp, and another desperate scrabbling around.
All this was soon drowned out by Marcus Thorius Mactator demonstrating his parade ground credentials. He took a breath-this alone drowned out the small noises around him-and unleashed his voice.
None afterwards could quite say what Mactator had said; but it was a general wave of noise, accompanied by judicious kicks and whacks with his cane, that certainly did the job.
"Reporting for duty, Legate," said a very small sounding voice.
"Centurion… Agelastus. That is your name. Gaius Petronius Agelastus."
"Just so."
The commander of the cook's century. "Call your Century to order, Gaius Petronius, once Mactator's bellows are done."
"Of course, Legate." The roar eventually died down, to be replaced by another. "Alright then, you scum, you villains, you soldiers of Rome! Head count! One!"
"Two!" another voice cried.
"Three!" a third.
And so on, and so forth, until, happily, all eighty men had been called in.
"Excellent! Now, are there any other milites, any other fellatores, who dare present themselves? Speak!"
Liking the man's style, Flaccus smiled to himself in the darkness. But voices answered, apart from the echoing speak…speak…spe…
"Very well. Gnaeus Aurelius, we have no light. Explain."
Almost as if on queue, a fire flared up. "Until now!" Pulcher had, somehow, managed to cobble a torch together. Now, light filled their surroundings. Blinking, Flaccus peered out: stone tunnels. Four of them, disappearing into the darkness. Underground-that was no surprise in itself, of course. They had after all just fallen through the earth, and presumably some stone had plugged the top. But there was something about these tunnels. Something…
Carved, perhaps? No. Just an underground river, long dried up. Aqueduct men spoke of such things.
Just a river…
"Why, Master," Publidor Tertius wanted to know, revealing himself at last, "is the ceiling so flat?"
And no one present, not even Immunis Balbus (who had once been an aqueduct engineer's apprentice, apparently) could tell them.
"River," he had muttered between bruised lips (Mactator's cane had shown its mark), "but the rock above shouldn't be that flat. I mean… and we would be shattered if we fell all the way. Dashed bloody!" He reached for his gladius, which he found at its side. "Shattered!"
"SILENCE IN THE RANKS!" barked Agelastus.
"QUIET!" roared Mactator.
"Enough," Flaccus said. "Gentlemen, gentlemen, if you please."
The silence was instant, oppressive.
"Very well. Logically, no hole should have opened in the ground. Unfortunately, the Gods have willed that it has done so; and they have also willed that some of our number, at least, have life in them. Now, these tunnels doubtless lead somewhere; and, logically, more of our comrades lie down there. Some, perhaps, injured or dead. Nevertheless, we are the XXIII Adiutrix, and that is what we shall do: we shall be supportive. We shall not abandon each other, even our corpses. Gaius Petreius: you select eight men, and instruct them to scour these tunnels for any stragglers. Two down each tunnel. You will give these parties a torch apiece, and, like Theseus, a ball of string to follow this labyrinth." Every Legionary, if he wished to repair his tunic on campaign, had to have a ball of thread or two. "Fasten them here somehow; and if they run into trouble, they will tug on the string. We shall send some support over. Is that understood?"
"Yes, Legate."
"Very well. Gnaeus Aurelius; how did you make those torches?"
Pulcher suddenly looked somewhat sheepish. "I used my cane for the… the stick bit," he said. "Not befitting for an officer, I know, but…"
"Quite alright, young man. We can make an allowance for you. But just this once." Flaccus' voice softened, as he remembered his own time as a Military Tribune. Far more hard working than Pulcher, of course; but just as confusing.
"Of course. Thank you, Publius Cassius. Thank you."
Torches were hastily fashioned out of javelin shafts, with cloth torn from innocent garments, and pitch taken from a bottle in Mactator's pack. ("Always be prepared" was his only comment; he probably had a small arsenal in there too.) Thread was found, and knotted together into longer strings (another of Mactator's works.) They were tied together around a javelin, attached to the heaviest object that could be found: Mactator's pack. Practical man as he was, he didn't protest in the least.
So, presently, the pairs set off, strings in hand, torches raised, swords at the ready. "Good luck!" someone called. "Fortuna be with you!" But the cry of "silence in the ranks!" replied once more.
"Which only leaves the question," Flaccus heard Pulcher muttering, "of where our horses went."
"They're safe, galloping around some foreign Dacian field, breathing good, fresh air, and gorging themselves fat on corn." Spurius Julius Rufus shrugged. "More that could be said for us, at least. How much food do we have?"
A good question. The baggage had contained enough to last a good march, of course; and every man had done the old campaigner's trick of eating heartily before leaving, and bundling plenty of food into their packs whenever it could be found. But, even so, if there was no way out of this… well, best not to think of that. If none could be found, fall on your sword, like a true Roman. Until then, there was hope!
"I really could not say. Marcus Thorius! Inspect the men's packs. Centurion, you will place centuries. And then," Flaccus added with his broadest, most benevolent smile, "we shall eat."
And they did just that. Food was counted, men posted to the tunnel entrances, and a meal was made ready. Not much: a few gulps of wine, a few bites of bread and cheese, with meat from Gods alone knew what animal someone had hunted (rabbit, Flaccus suspected, although he was not certain.) But it would do well enough.
"So, Marcus Thorius," Flaccus said, reclining as if in his old triclinium. "The only thing left to ask is how much food do we actually have left?" He bit into the scrap of rabbit. Not exactly fine dining, but it would do.
"If we have the wagons? A month, possibly two, and then we starve. If not?" The Butcher spread his hands wide. "It depends. Possibly each other!" He laughed his strange, harsh laugh. "A new way of decimation. Twajan would be proud."
"Stop that defeatist, barbaric nonsense! We will find a way out of here. We're a Roman Legion, and it takes more than some trick of the Gods to stop us. Why, in Frontius' Strategems, we-"
"Hark!"
Heads jerked around. Sextus Annius Rufus, the cook, stood, listening, alert. "There it was again!"
"What?"
"That… that noise!"
Then they heard it. A roaring in the distance, a thunderous roar, as if of some great beast. Echoing along the tunnels, multiplying again and again.
"A waterfall," said Spurius Julius, reclining once again. "A waterfall."
"Why, then, could we not hear it earlier?" Flaccus asked contemptuously.
"Begging your pardon, Primus Pilus," said Immunis Balbus, "but that's no waterfall."
"Like… a lion," Pulcher said, looking white faced in the flickering torch. "A lion at the Games!"
"And we have more than enough Gladiators to stop it, if it comes our way," said Flaccus. With deliberate, insouciant calm, he rose to his feet, knowing that every eye present was on him. Staring out of pale, anxious faces. "Order the men up, Centurion."
"Yes, Legate. Right, lads. On your feet! Now!" Agelastus, although pale with fear himself-his first battle, probably, if there was to be one-gave the order without a quiver in his voice. "And get your swords sharpened. Like a razor, damn it!" Sharpening stones were produced from packs, and cloaks dropped into a heap.
And Flaccus drew his sword.
He had two swords. One, now sadly lost with his horse, was an ancient heirloom: taken from the hand of a British chieftain, by an ancestor who had fought with Julius Caesar. Beautiful, British work, with a jeweled hilt and engraving, but now so old that it was only ever used for parades.
The other, which he preferred, was his long, excessively battered, brutally scratched spatha. In absence of any slave bar his secretary (who was busily working with on own gladius), Flaccus had to sharpen it himself. But he knew how it was done. He knew his trade, as he knew his worth. Stone scraped on steel.
And the roaring continued, louder than ever.
Pulcher drew his gladius, and held it in a shaking hand; then, slowly, oh so slowly, he began to perform his exercises. First position, Guard, thrust, block, stab, Second position…
Spurius Julius drew his own spatha, and just held it before him, staring at the blade. His own first battle, too? Apart from against rioting mobs, almost certainly.
Mactator just grimaced, and took his sword in his left hand.
"Silence in the ranks," an officer would occasionally mutter. "Silence in the ranks. Silence."
And the roaring grew louder.
"You know," Rufus muttered suddenly, jerking Flaccus out of his reverie, "maybe we should… well, maybe…"
"Form battle order? Of course. Form hollow square!"
"No, no," Rufus said, but gave up as the men formed into their square. Packs and cloaks were placed into the middle, all save for Flaccus' red cloak; like Caesar, he wore it into battle. A huddle of fifty eight men, and five officers, with slaves gripping swords. More torches were been lit, and were now passed to the slaves. A small huddle of red shields, javelins readied, standing against the darkness.
And a scream. Quite sudden, shrill and harsh. But not a soldier even blinked. Even Pulcher, who instead raised his sword and gripped in all the more tightly.
Footsteps, running.
"Open files," Flaccus ordered quietly, for the runner had to be let in, and met by his Legate. He strode through the minute gap in the ranks, his sword held low.
Mactator was making the old litany, as he paced around the interior of the square, his sandals echoing loudly in the chamber. "Face front. Javelin raised. Silence in the ranks. Face front. Javelin raised. Silence in the ranks. Face front…"
And the runner burst out of the darkness, right in front of Flaccus. His helmet was gone, and his shield, his javelin thrown, but his sword was drawn and his eyes wide and feverish. "Giants!" he yelled, panting. "Giants! Giants! Killed Egnatius! Horned devils…" He stumbled past his commander, and into the square.
Flaccus was about to follow, but there was a sudden roar right by him, and the enemy emerged from the tunnel.
He-it-was a giant, grey skin, yellow eyes, horned, with a great dark axe in its hands, and rusty male on its chest. Another roar, more thunderous than ever, blasted out of its snarling mouth.
But what of it? Sword up, stamp your right foot forward, and lunge forward. Lunge at that bastard, that barbarian, with the blood of your men trickling off its bloody fangs. Never give quarter, never yield. Grip your three feet of cold steel in your right hand, forget its dragging weight, and stab.
So it was that Legate Publicus Cassius Flaccus, Senator and Patrician, faced his first Urgal.
The great axe swung down, but he had already taken a little step to the left, so the great weapon clanged into the ground with a noise like a catapault. The beast swatted angrily at the sword with its left arm, knocking it upward with incredible strength. It was almost jerked out of Flaccus' hand, but he kept the blow going on, thrusting up into the brute's shoulder. He twisted the blade, dragged it out, and stabbed again, this time into the arm. And again, but his foe was canny, and abandoned its axe, jumping back with a horrible quickness. It scrabbled for its sword.
Its first swing against almost jarred Flaccus' sword clean away.
The second swing was done with great strength, cutting the air like a scythe by a creature with a bullock's power, but was crude. The very tip of the blade scratched Flaccus' armour, clanging harshly and he was nigh on thrown from his feet. He could almost imagine his ribs breaking, and the wind being knocked from him. Sparks flew.
But the opening was there for the sword to slide up into the creature's throat, so very high up, so very vulnerable, so the third swing never came.
"There now," Flaccus said, yanking his sword out of the thing's throat. He tried to think of something else to say. Something witty. But nothing came to mind, so he just jumped out of the way of the falling corpse, and spat on it. "Those ranks are open?" he panted. "Good." He staggered back into the square, and accepted every handshake that was offered, every pat on the back.
"You've had your fun now. Silence in the ranks, and eyes front! And I must say, Publius Cassius, that that was very well done." Agelastus gave the brief, thinnest smile, and turned back to face the tunnel. Like all Centurions, he stood in the front rank, disdaining the enemy to come closer.
"Was that a German?" Pulcher asked. "I've seen them in the arena, and they're always very tall. And very fierce."
"This one had horns, which I doubt are a standard feature of the modern gladiator. Although you'll never know what they come up with nowadays." And was the skin colour a trick of the torchlight? Every man had heard, shuddered inwardly, at the Furor Teutonica, the great rage German warriors were supposed to put up. Flaccus had read of Marius' German wars, and the enemy was always depicted as gigantic there.
But then came more roaring, so Flaccus' mind was removed from such matters.
A great rush of them now, pouring down the same tunnel as before; but, without such inconvenient obstacles as human beings in the way, Agelastus' Century could do their work properly. "Pila!" he barked, and a volley of javelins was hurled. They were smaller ones now, with little round shields in their hands; but the pila stuck into them, making them too heavy to even lift. The roar turned to yelps and howls of pain, and the clanging of shields dropping down. "Again! Pila!" More javelins whooshing. Agelastus would like to have ordered the charge now, to sweep the disorganized enemy away with cold steel and hot blood, but he had other tunnels to guard, and he knew just how vulnerable his flanks would be. "Prepare to receive the enemy!"
"Hold!"
Roars, and thundering feet.
"Hold! Optio Lentullus, your flankers will give a volley!" More javelins, hurled by the men on the sides, but not the foe were wickedly close, so close that you could almost smell their vile breath, and the blood dripping onto the floor.
Nothing for it then. "Charge!"
Only the men facing the enemy tunnel obeyed, for they were disciplined, and only they needed to obey. Each man ducked behind his shield, raised his sword, and ran at the foe.
Flaccus had seen it before, and knew how it would end. The front rank, crouching behind their great shields, didn't even need to use their swords at first; their sheer weight and momentum was enough to knock their foe sprawling. "Leave them for the second rank!" he muttered, but there was no need for that; they knew their duty, and it was to replace the dead, and stab the enemy fallen.
Only twelve or so men, in their rigid ranks, were needed in that tiny chamber. The enemy charge faltered, the ranks seemed to shudder back. A man fell, his reinforced helmet smashed open by a sword, his brains streaming out, but another legionary stepped forward, with a snarl no less bestial than the foe, and stabbed about himself with the gladius. "With me, executores!" Flaccus said, raising his sword again and running at the melee; but it was not necessary, for the enemy had had enough. The roars finally subsided, and the barbarians were running, panicked. Finally, finally, the Romans could cheer; but only for a moment. "Into line!" Agelastus ordered. "Well done, lads. Well done." He had a long scratch on his forehead, and his sword was bloodied.
"Butcher's bill?" Mactator asked. Everyone smiled weakly at the pun, and then laughed, for they were alive.
"Gaius Flavinius Bellator is dead; and I have three wounded, who will readily identify themselves." They were already, with groans of pain. "But we've had worse. Slaves. Tend to them!" Linen was produced, and the three man dragged into the centre of the square.
"So light," Flaccus said, surprised.
"No spirit in them after the first charge. No bottom. Not like our brave Roman lads!" Agelastus deliberately raised his voice so as the men could hear. The chamber rang with cheers, and Flaccus knew he had a good centurion on Gaius Petreius Agelastus.
And then, for a moment, quiet. The stink of excrement; someone had shat himself. It always happened in a fight. It didn't even imply cowardice. It was a fact of war, but one that was quietly neglected in dispatches and reports to the Emperor. The men remained in their square, but were presently ordered to stand at ease, save for sentries. Tentatively, they began to dart out and scavenge through the barbarian corpses. Once they were ascertained to not be poisonous, more joined in. It seemed fairly poor looting. Leather wristbands, whilst not unattractive, were no substitute for true gold and silver. There were a few more roars, and the shield wall was formed a few more times; but no enemy came. A few men even slept, standing up, in the manner of soldiers. One of the wounded men perished, his enemy's blade poisoned. The other two were forced awake, but would live. Flaccus attempted to sheath his sword, but found that the blade was crusted with blood, so he called for a rag to clean it.
And then a string was tugged.
Swords rasped out of scabbards; Flaccus stared into the tunnel the string had been pulled from. He readied his sword again, and adjusted his pteruges. "Gaius Petreius. You will detach ten men, who will investigate this. I will lead."
"But, Legate…"
"I will lead," he said again. Order nothing that you wouldn't do yourself; and he felt in an energetic mood. His blood was up, that was it. "I am certain that nothing shall go wrong." He meant it.
The men were chosen. Flaccus took up a torch, and they set off down the tunnel, swords drawn.
As they went on, they could see that the tunnels remained disturbingly regular. Immunis Balbus, who had volunteered eagerly to join the party, gave up trying to explain it as a river. "Whoever made" he would say-not "Whatever", but "Whoever"-at junctions-"had a mind for confusing us. Bastards. Bleeding Theseus couldn't get through this."
"He did, with string. Now onward, boys, onward!" Tesserarius Felix snapped.
And onward they went, with the flickering, guttering, dimming torch leading guiding them, the string limp on the ground.
The end came quite suddenly. One last junction, one last left turn; and they came upon two legionaries, crouching in an alcove. "Get down!" one of them hushed, before recognizing Flaccus and making a hasty nod. "Sorry, Legate, but you really must hide here. Thank Jupiter you came!" His face perceptibly fell as he saw only ten men reinforcements, beside his commander.
"What is the matter with you?" Flaccus hissed, staring into the next chamber. The torch revealed nothing.
"Men! Two bald buggers, that's what. Nine of our lads in there, and… and…"
"Out with it, man. Out with it!" Flaccus took the man by the shoulder, and squeezed hard, not caring that he was armoured. The gesture was enough. He had fought, marched, fell a great height, and was now losing his patience. "Explain," he said, trying to be more reasonable. "You are a Roman soldier. A Roman soldier is not frightened of two bald men without good reason. Were these men armed?" Unlikely. He couldn't smell the blood; and what manner of two men could dispatch nine soldiers? "Were they… horned, and grey?"
"No! Just two men!" The man was obviously panicking, and his whisper threatened to crack any minute into sobbing. "Two men, and nine of our boys. Our best, with Aquilifier Crassus-
Flaccus leapt to his feet. If the Aquila was lost, then the Legion was lost. "If, soldier, I find that our banner has gone," he said, pouring venom into every syllable, "then it will be Fustarium for the pair of your. Do you understand? Now, stand up."
Both men sat their, blankly.
"In the name of His Imperial Majesty the Emperor Trajan, long may he reign, I demand that you stand!"
They did, fumbling for their swords.
"Soldiers! Forward!" Flaccus turned, and, sword raised, hurled himself into the room with a cry. The shouts of his men echoed, making it sound as if an entire century was in there. "Forward!"
And Flaccus could see why those two soldiers had hesitated.
All nine men, including Aquilifier Crassus in his leopard skin headdress, were standing. Lifeless. If Medusa herself had risen out of the icy darkness of myth and stared them down-if today's barbarian giants had rent them asunder, spilling their blood and gore across the impassive stone floor-then it couldn't have been worse. For then, at least, there was something to kill. Something to see, something to explain it.
But these men stood, eyes staring wide, not moving an inch. Not a hair twitched. When a legionary poked one with his javelin's butt, he didn't react.
Worst of all, though, the Eagle was gone.
"Soldiers." Flaccus' voice was deathly quiet. "Were we in Rome, and such a thing was to occur, every one of you knows what will be the punishment." He didn't need to spell it out, but he did so anyway. "We would, at best, be forced out of every encampment of our allies. On campaign, we would march, and ride, and find a spot outside our own walls to pitch our tents. In howling gale, and with the foe all around us, whilst our comrades sit and make merry, safe in their own walls. Our own walls. No one would speak to us. We would be a lost Legion, forgotten, until I order you into some breach, in some foreign fortress; or some horde or barbarians breaks our ranks apart, until we are but a knot of men, huddled around the absence of our flag. Then, perhaps, we would be forgiven. At worst, we would be ordered out of the army. A spilling of worthless men, with no trade save that of killing. We would be cut throats. Beggars. Thieves, parricides, slaves, men of the worst and basest kind. We would be driven to every depravity, with our dignitas laid waste, and even the memory of our victories ground into the dust.
But we are not in Rome.
And, as such, I give you only one punishment. I give myself only one punishment. We shall retake our Aquila. That, gentlemen, is our task."
Wyrda
"That, and to bury these men."
Wyrda
A voice. A female voice. "Who said that?"
A woman, stepping out of the flickering shadows of torch light, it seemed. Dressed in the tight, clinging garb of some whore, some tomb walker, of the kind that even Pulcher would probably avoid: black, leathery, degenerate. With black hair, and what may have been once the scent of pine, now crushed beneath the baser ones of blood, and filth. And strange, pointed ears.
"Ma'm. Get away from here. This place is not safe; I must ask you to leave." Clearly she was lost from some sort of bizarre party. Why else could a woman be wondering around here, in such a state of undress?
She drew her sword; and, such was her confidence, her fluidity, the deadly grace in that movement, that Flaccus took a step backwards, and his men formed a shield wall. "I must warn you-" he began again, and then stopped, exasperated. He was tired, thirsty, and here he was, threatening women with trained soldiers. And he had lost an Aquila. His Aquila!
He felt something, quite suddenly, in his mind: sorrow. But not his. It was quite indefinable, but when he felt regretful about something-as he had every right to now-he did not feel… well, not quite like that. Something different. And he usually couldn't think this rationally about it.
She said something-some gibberish. And offered him a canteen.
It seemed that she wasn't about to strike, so he kept his sword raised, and cautiously took it. He unscrewed it, and took a cautious sniff. Nothing, it seemed, except water. He poured few drops into the cap, and, never taking his eyes off the woman, drank.
"Delicious," he said, and it was. "Quite delicious. Clear, cold. Magnificent!" He knew he was putting this on, but he didn't want to bother her or anything. "Do you speak Latin?"
No answer, save for some questioning sounding gibberish.
"Do you speak Greek?" More gibberish. Damn!
In the end, he gave up, and pointed at himself. "Me. Flaccus. Publius Cassius Flaccus."
A strange nod. The same gesture. "Arya Drottingu."
"Now…" this was getting surreal. He pondered how to mime out what he was going to say next. "Did you see any bald men?" he muttered. "With an eagle?"
The woman-Arya-pointed down the tunnel.
"Oh, you do speak Latin. Good. Tesserarius Felix, we're moving out. We have an Aquila to catch."
The woman then seemed to go into a frenzy, arms flailing into a series of blocking gestures. Feelings of negativity flashed across his mind. And an image: of two small, bald men, vapourising someone-who looked uncannily like himself-with lightning. She then pointed at the statues of his soldiers.
"Ah. That could be difficult." Then a thought struck him. He concerntrated, as hard as he could, on an image of Arya raising her right arm.
She did so. An image flashed into his own mind, of him raising his middle finger and thumb; he did so. The soldiers looked on, quite mystified. "It seems," Flaccus explained, "that we cannot understand what she is saying, but we can understand images of thought. That's just as well. Now…" Another thought struck him. This art seemed quite out of the ordinary. Magical, even. So, too, did paralyzing a large group of fit, healthy men.
"Could you… help these men?" he asked. He put a memory into the front of his mind, and held it there: of them on the march, slogging up a mountain track, the sweat pouring off them; chatting away like magpies, laughing, grinning. Not standing here, frozen solid, along, in the dark of the underworld.
Tentatively, it seemed to him, she nodded. She took a step towards them, and seemed to concentrate. Swords were raised once more, but Flaccus ordered them down.
And then, with the force and power of Cicero himself, she spoke.
A few words, just a few, but they seemed to work. The men sprang out of their bonds, rubbing at limbs, and speaking long and loud at the tops of the voices.
All, that is, save for one.
Aquilifier Marcus Uulius Crassus tore at his armour, snarling, and hurled his breastplate across the room. Then he drew his sword from its sheath and stabbed himself below the breast. His thrust, however, was somewhat feeble, owing to Arya suddenly grabbing his arm, and holding it there with incredible strength, and so he did not at once dispatch himself, but in his death struggle managed to push at her, so as he fell to the ground and made a great cry. His fellows saw him and, at this, their shouting stopped. They knew what had to be done. Flaccus saw that he was smeared with blood, and that most of his bowels were protruding, but that still he had his eyes open and was alive; and he was terribly shocked, not from the blood, but that anyone could endure that. But Arya went to him and said a word her hands outstretched, and tried to replace his bowels, sparks flashing from her fingertips, and the flesh knitting together. Accordingly, when Crassus became aware of this, he pushed the healer away, with every fibre of strength left in his body, every last stretch of energy left to him-and tore his bowels open with his hands, rending the wound once more. Thus, he died.
Arya looked up at the onlookers, up to her elbows in blood, with red flecking her face. An image flashed into Flaccus' mind.
A waste.
And then she walked away.
Well, I hoped you enjoyed that. Welcome to Alagaesia. My assumptions there were that the dwarves actually did properly out those tunnels beneath Tronjheim, but did not light them. (I hope that when I chose to set this book is beginning to become clear.) Also, if there are any mysterious lines across the page, then I'm sorry; Microsoft Word's punctuation works in mysterious ways. Bonus brownie points will be given to anyone who finds out where I got Crassus' death from, because I must confess that it was largely not my own work, but the hideously misquoted words of a classical biographer.
Anyway, there is a frankly gargantuan glossary below, if you're interested. Next chapter will be up ASAP!
Glossary
(Chapter 1's extras)
Praetorian Guard: The Emperor's Bodyguard. (Term originally used for the guards of Roman Generals.) They were resented, and mocked mercilessly by more or less everyone, not least because they only ever fought when the Emperor rode to war (and were better paid than the common soldier), and were described as a "get rich quick brigade" by Juvenal. They also had an unfortunate habit of making people Emperor (such as with Claudius in AD 41), and not always living up to their status as a supposed elite unit when in battle. This will hopefully surprise other players of Rome: Total War just as much as it surprised me.
Crowns: When Flaccus mentions "crowns", he means Roman military medals. These ranged from the "Laurel Crown" (the Laurel Wreath worn by triumphing generals), to the Mural Crown (for being the first man into an enemy city.)
Centurion: Legionary officer, who commanded a century of eighty men (sixty soldiers, twenty non combatants). By now, they could either buy their way in, or fight their way up through the ranks. The Legion's head Centurion was the Primus Pilus.
Praefectus Castrorum (sorry for any previous misspellings): The Camp Prefect. The Legion's longest serving Centurion, and thus extremely experienced. He was responsible for looking after equipment and the camp, as well as building siege works; and was the third in command, after the Legate and Tribunus Laticlavus. He had also previously been a Primus Pilus. The Primus Pilus would command the first century of the first cohort, which guarded the Legion's Eagle Standard (Aquila); and was also a senior advisor to the Legate.
Military Tribune: Six men, appointed to the Legion, of Senatorial Rank. They had a vaguely high rank, and were given whatever tasks the Legate chose them to carry out. The most senior of these was the Tribunus Laticlavius (again, I may have been previously misspelling this one), who was the Legate's second in command, and was supposed to learn from his actions. (Also, he was supposed to take command if the Legate was killed, or somehow unavailable.) Traditionally, he was to become a Quaestor (fairly junior senator, who worked in the treasury to supervise its corruption-and, hopefully, the lack thereof) after leaving his position.
Legate: Commander of the legion, only subordinate to the General, and of Senatorial Rank. He was appointed by the Emperor, and had to have had previous command experience as a Military Tribune.
Chapter 2 Glossary
Shades: The Romans believed that most dead people would end up in the underworld, as shades. This was not, like the Christian hell, necessarily a place of punishment; but simply a shadowy form. Nothing great could be achieved here, but just an eternity of… well, more or less nothingness. Only a few great heroes could rise to the divine sphere and live amongst the Gods; it was for this reason, as much as any desire for a personality cult, that Roman Emperors were deified after death. Curiously, these spirits were believed to be female.
And, as for Pluto (Hades is the Greek name; it is a strange point of Roman religion that they considered equivalent Gods to be the same God, but with a different aspects-so, for example, all Love deities are more or less Venus as another aspect), he simply ruled the Underworld. He was not especially evil (at least, not by the standards of Greek and Roman deities.)
Decimation: The punishment for particularly poor units was to have one in ten men of their ranks killed by their comrades. By AD 100, it was extremely rare. But, of course, tales get around about army punishments, always have, and probably always will.
Milites: Common soldiers.
Optio: Lieutenant to a Centurion, who could read and write.
Tesserarius: Sergeant.
Adiutrix: Literally, supportive. Originally meant that the Legion was raised in a crisis for a desperate situation (by, say, "borrowing" sailors from the Imperial fleet to help out against a rival in a civil war.) The nickname inevitably sticks over time, and can get confusing. (This is not unusual, where Rome is concerned.) There are two other Legions called Adiutrix at this time.
Pack: Not, for the Roman legionary, a rucksack type thing, but a four foot pole with a leather bag attached to the top. Easy to carry, easy to drop in an emergency.
Triclinium: Roman dining room.
Red cloak: The red cloak of the Roman general. Flaccus is obviously being somewhat pretentious, as his hero Caesar mentions himself (in third person) galloping into battle with his red cloak on, so as the men could recognize him. Before anyone questions the practicality of this, it must be remembered that Julius Caesar was not above occasionally exaggerating his own exploits.
Spatha: A longer sword, used by the Roman cavalry, and also by officers who fought on horseback.
Reinforced helmet: Due to the threat posed by the Dacian falx-a polearm with a long blade on the end-to Roman armour, helmets had been reinforced to withstand enemy blows. Romans had a long history of adapting to, and even adopting, enemy weapons; the gladius itself was originally a Spanish blade.
Executores: Legion officers.
Pteruges: The skirt of leather straps worn by Roman officers.
Fustarium: A harsh punishment: being beaten to death by your own soldiers. Usually reserved for men who fell asleep on guard.
Tomb walker: Roman slang for prostitute. They often congregated around tombs to ply their trade.
Cicero: Marcus Tullius Cicero (106 BC-43 BC), a prominent Roman orator, philosopher and politician. Considered as one of Roman's greatest Orators even long after his death in Roman times; even hundreds of years after his death, the Roman writer Macrobius would attribute the witticisms of his characters to those originally said by Cicero.
Dignitas: More than just "dignity", but instead a Roman's whole standing in the Roman world. His integrity, family and ancestors, word, intelligence, knowledge, character, and general worth were all summed up by Dignitas. Similarly, Auctoritas (which may turn up later in this story) encompassed a Roman's clout, pre eminence, public influence, and the ability to influence events by reputation alone. All senior politicians had Auctoritas, but so could less significant people if they were of enough influence.
