Legion of the Lost
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Synopsis
Servius had always been a faithful servant of the goddess Diana. As a gladiator he had given her thanks for his victories, as a Centurion he had prayed to her on the eve of every battle. When at last the tide of war turned against him he fled to her sanctuary on the shore of Lake Nemi. Here he killed the Priest in order to become the Priest and ever after he lived in fear of being killed himself by the next aspirant for the office. When the fatal battle was fought the dying Servius had a vision of Diana, who made him a strange promise. He would die, yet he would not die. He would live, yet he would not live. When he found himself he would be lost, and when he was lost he would be found.
Servius closed his eyes by the shorts of Lake Nemi and opened them in a strange, frightening world where chariots ran without horses and where men flew inside iron birds. His first problem was to survive. His second was to find his way home!
Release date: July 31, 2014
Publisher: Orion Publishing Group
Print pages: 320
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Legion of the Lost
Pel Torro
“But what, Servius, what?”
The long, muscular legs of Servius Tullus took a pace across the smooth, even paving of the courtyard of Marcus’ house.
“I don’t know,” he said at last, “but something—Rome can support this monster no longer!”
Trachius raised both eyebrows.
“Scarcely a wise speech; certainly not a prudent one,” he said.
“Nevertheless, it is one with which you must—in your heart of hearts—agree, Marcus.” Servius’ remarks were part question, part statement.
“I have reached my fiftieth year,” said Marcus Trachius, “because I have learned that a wise man in modern Rome does not take part in political disputes. The wise man eats, and drinks and makes merry, because he knows that tomorrow the gods may sever the cord of his life.”
“Marcus, I know well that you are no coward,” said Servius Tullus.
“For that I thank you,” returned Trachius.
“I also know that you are no fool.”
“To what is all this leading?” asked Marcus.
“To a plea for help,” said Servius. “Something must be done, Marcus!”
The older man shrugged his shoulders.
“Something should have been done fourteen years ago,” he answered grimly. “Something should have been done when Agrippina poisoned Claudius.” There was a thoughtful silence between the two men for a few moments, then Servius said:
“He is not a propitious emperor!”
“No emperor is a propitious emperor,” said Trachius rather cynically.
“I thought you said you took no part in politics?” asked Tullus sharply.
“I only make cynical, destructive criticism, which is a kind of fence against boredom,” said Marcus. “I dislike the present arrangements, but I like living, so why should I be the fool who tries to alter the unalterable?”
Tullus changed the subject.
“How many more generations will have to suffer this infamy?” he asked darkly.
“Why do you dislike Nero—because of his infamy or because he is unpropitious?” smiled Marcus with cynicism.
“Seven years ago there was a great rebellion in Britain,” said Servius, “there was also an earthquake in Italy….”
“And do you think these things signify the disfavour of the gods?” asked Marcus.
“They must signify something,” said Servius, and his cold, hard eyes flashed fire. “I tell you for the last time, something must be done! And I am prepared to do it!”
“What are you prepared to do?” asked Trachius, curious in spite of himself.
“If I could get within striking distance of the monster, the monster would die, and Rome would be well rid of him.”
“Dangerous words, very dangerous words! A man needs money, friends; and the wisest killer never handles his own knife….”
“It has been done before,” argued Servius Tullus.
“Aye, but with what results?” said Trachius.
“Caligula was disposed of!” retorted Servius.
“Caligula was disposed of over thirty years ago, I was little more than a boy,” said Trachius. “I remember it well.”
“Did you approve?” asked Tullus. “That is the question, did you approve?”
“In my youth,” answered Marcus Trachius, “I was full of political ideals …” his eyes grew strangely misty, “and as they died of starvation, one by one, and as I cast their dry, withered corpses into the ocean of oblivion, and watched them carried away by the tide of forgetfulness, I felt a strange sadness.” He paused; a long thoughtful pause. “A strange sadness,” he repeated and his gaze rested on the keen, eager young face of Servius Tullus. “A man without ideals has no value either in his own eyes, or in the eyes of the state; but ideals without a man to embody them are even more valueless.”
“You speak strange words, Marcus Trachius,” said the younger man.
“Aye,” agreed Trachius, “and often I think strange thoughts! You’re too young to remember, Servius, but when Caligula was dealt with, killed in his palace by his own servants, there was an attempt to restore the Senatorial government. I believed in that very, very strongly. Do you know what happened to that attempt?”
“I know my history,” said Servius Tullus, and his voice was a little lower, a little quieter than it had been before.
“Yes, you have read, you have heard…. I was still a very young man, I was about your age when it happened. You have read and you have heard, but the things that we read and hear do not strike us with the same force as the things which we see, which we experience ourselves.”
“You were concerned in that revolt?” asked Servius Tullus.
“I was concerned indeed! I escaped with my life only by the veriest fraction. I watched friends dying for what they believed in! Struck down by the Household Legions—the same Legions who must have detested Caligula as much as those who slew Caligula. Those same Household Legions chose Claudius—the monster’s uncle!”
“But Claudius was not a bad emperor,” said Servius Tullus.
“Claudius was an uncouth boor, but he was a good emperor,” agreed Marcus. “I did not fight against Claudius as a man. I fought against the principle which raised Claudius to power. Claudius worked hard and administered capably. Under him our westward boundary advanced. He annexed the southern half of Britain….”
“And what was his reward?” asked Servius Tullus rhetorically. “I will tell you! He was poisoned! Poisoned by the mother of his adopted son, poisoned by Agrippina, poisoned by the mother of Nero, fourteen years ago.”
“Fourteen years ago!” echoed Marcus Trachius, “and it was then something should have been done….”
“It was then,” agreed Servius Tullus, “that something should have been done indeed.”
The younger man put a hand on the other’s shoulder. “Marcus, recapture your lost youth! Come with me now, let us move against the monster. Let us move against this unpropitious enemy of the gods!”
“Thirty years ago,” said Marcus Trachius, “my young friend, I would have said those words myself! I’d have saddled a horse and sheathed a sword and ridden to the palace with you as though the Empire stood upon my back. I’d have stood proud and heroic, like Brutus, and like Brutus I would have died—as you will die! You will die if you insist in this foolhardy mission. My light has gone out, the fire has died. I feel a kind of nostalgic envy, regret, when I see another man walking down the path that I myself ran down.”
“I do not walk,” said Servius Tullus, “I also run!”
“Then you are running to your death as I nearly ran to mine. I will tell you what happened to me, Servius, what happened to my mind. When our attempt to restore the Senatorial government failed, and Claudius, Caligula’s uncle, was put into power by the Household Legion, I saw the crucifixions and the beheadings of some of my fellow revolutionaries. Some were not so lucky….”
“Lucky?” echoed Servius Tullus incredulously.
“Some were just thrown into dungeons to rot for the remainder of their lives, and when I say ‘rot’, I mean ‘rot’. I use the word literally, young Servius, not metaphorically. I speak not in figurative language, I speak not in pictures; a life-time of semi-starvation in damp darkness, covered in putrefying sores, and clothed in rags. A thousand times worse than the cruellest death … a thousand times. A man loses track of time, a man loses track of his own identity. A man loses track of his wits, of his reason.”
“You sound,” said Servius Tullus, “as though you speak from experience!”
“Perhaps I do,” murmured Marcus Trachius. “Perhaps I do. Perhaps it is possible for a miracle to happen if enough yellow gold changes hands. Perhaps it is possible for a man to escape even from the jaws of lowest hell. Perhaps it is possible for a creature with only half a mind, covered in rags and putrefying sores to escape … to change his name … to be nursed back to life and health and sanity … to have his hair prematurely whitened by the experience!” He smiled. “Fifteen years ago I was as grey as you see me now! But no more I will say. It taught me a lesson, young Servius, and I will tell neither the story nor the lesson to any man whom I cannot trust implicitly. You are one of a very select company, a very small company, who know the truth about Marcus Trachius! When I had recovered my health and sanity I spent long hours in thought, long hours in deep contemplation, and I decided that I would live for pleasure. I decided to become a Hedonist and an Epicurean, I decided that I would live to gratify my body and my mind, that I would live each passing moment as it came, that I would not interfere with things I did not understand, that I would enjoy the warmth of the sunshine and the scent of flowers, that I would enjoy music and wine, good food and good dancing, and all the other delights of a wealthy Roman’s life. For just as a golden key could unlock the door of the dungeon where I rotted, so a golden key unlocked the door of a pleasure-life.”
“But you said yourself that you were dissatisfied,” said Servius Tullus.
“Just sometimes,” agreed Marcus Trachius, “and then I drink so that I can forget, or else I go and buy myself a new and even more beautiful slave-girl…. You see, life has its compensations; it has many compensations, and provided there are enough compensations for a man to forget the superficiality of it all, then he does not mind.”
“You will not join me? You will not throw away the superficiality and be a real man again, Marcus Trachius?” asked Servius eagerly.
“You almost persuade me,” said Marcus. “My fingers begin to stray towards the hilt of my sword—but not quite!” He shook his head sadly. “Not quite, young Servius, almost, but your throw fell short! I am too fond of life to chance my arm on your venture, but I give you my blessing, and I wish you well, and you may take the word of Marcus Trachius that your secret shall be safe with me.”
“But not with me,” came a voice from the other side of the court yard.
“Who the devil is that?” cried Servius Tullus. A tall, broad shouldered figure stepped suddenly from behind a pillar, another stepped from the shadow of a wall, while yet another came through a gateway. It was a centurion of the Household Legions and two of his men.
“I have been following you for days, Servius Tullus,” said the centurion, “and I arrest you in the name of Caesar!”
“You’ll never take me alive,” cried Servius.
“It will be better for you if they don’t,” said Marcus quietly.
“I know that you are a gladiator,” said the centurion, “I know that yo. . .
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