The camp was an abattoir. Everywhere lay soldiers in various stages of dismemberment. Some were burnt all over and folded into the fetal position peculiar to those who die engulfed by fire. Others were eviscerated or quartered as if by some unimaginably powerful beast. The sand was soaked with violet pools of blood, covered over with clouds of black flies and crawling insects. The smell of cooking flesh rising from the inferno of the command tent was vomit-inducing. Pulcher covered his mouth with the corner of his cloak and swallowed back bile.
All here were dead. That was something outside the experience of the centurion. Every battle resulted in approximately the same ratio of the dead to the wounded. But here there were no injured. Whoever created this slaughter saw to it that none survived. Gaius, his first optio, reported a rough count of over one hundred bodies.
“That is less than half of the company posted here,” the centurion said.
“The rest were either taken prisoner or fled,” Gaius said.
“Any enemy dead?”
“Not one, sir.”
“Isn’t that unusual, Gaius?” Pulcher said. “A battle this furious and the only corpses that remain are of Romans?”
Gaius offered no opinion.
“Sound the call. If any of our own have fled, they will hear it,” the centurion said, turning. “And bring to me any who return.”
The cornicen of the third was ordered forward. The man removed the circular horn from its protective leather cover and climbed to a spot atop the earthworks to sound four flat blasts. Any legionnaire within hearing would answer the gathering call and return to the fort. And, indeed, the survivors of the Twenty-third straggled in from the surrounding desert all around. They entered with heads hung low and without meeting the eyes of their brother legionnaires. The highest-ranking, an optio of the second of the sixth, was brought to Pulcher who waited in the shade of his command tent which had been constructed upwind a distance from the ruined camp.
The optio, a Lucani named Critus, told a tale that beggared belief. He related how the Assyrian archers came to the camp with a Celt prisoner who was revealed to be some manner of demon who called down upon their heads the fires of hell. Within moments this demon consigned their centurion and his staff to a storm of fire. He brought down the men of the Twenty-third with but a gesture from his empty hand. It was if this Celt had the power of death.
Pulcher might have counted the man mad if it were not for his own experiences on the road only two days prior. That and the condition of the dead visible everywhere he looked. What sort of weapon ripped a man to bloody shreds?
“And you broke, man? The Horses turned from stallions to geldings before this one man?” Pulcher sneered.
“Yes,” Critus said and lowered his head in shame. He was an athletically-built young man, too young to have made his position without the influence of a wealthy family.
“I should have you decimated,” Pulcher said, his lip curled in disgust.
“Yes, centurion,” Critus said, looking up now with a cold fire in his eye. “It is what we deserve, and I—”
“But this Celt has already accomplished that and more!” Pulcher roared, rising from his chair.
“Honored centurion, I request that I be made an example of!” Critus said with defiance.
“I will have no useless displays of sacrifice,” Pulcher said in a softer voice now. “You will bear this dishonor on your back as you pursue this Celt.”
“Sir?”
“My men have force-marched for two days to reach here. They are exhausted. Your centuries, on the other hand, have only suffered from the exercise of running out of sight of your attacker.” Pulcher shot a dark glance around the tent to make certain that none of his officers responded to this unintended jest. He was not seeking to lighten the mood.
“I will—” Critus began.
“You will do only as I say. You will gather two score of your stoutest men. Tough bastards, you hear me? You will need runners, marathon runners if possible, do you understand me? Take only what you need. Weapons and water, but no armor. Track down this mystery Celt and all who are with him.”
Critus nodded.
“You find and follow the trail left by these rebels you will leave signs. Once my men have fed and rested, we will seek you out in force and engage this enemy. I don’t care if they are devils or if they are men, I will have their heads. Do you understand and obey?”
“To the last of my blood,” Critus said between clenched teeth.
“Then go. Leave strips of cloth as you run. We will follow with the combined force of four centuries.”
Critus thumped his chest with his right fist and departed the tent.
“Further orders, sir?” Gaius asked. Pulcher turned to regard them with a baleful eye. The second optio and the aquilifer snapped to attention.
“Have the men of the Twenty-third set to bury their dead. Our men are to stand down until the sun reaches the third quarter. We will then set out to pursue the Lucani optio and his heroes in search of these creatures who plague us.” The centurion sat down in his chair, overcome by a deeper weariness than he had ever known.
“We will seek ribbons of cloth, sir? Like a children’s game?” Gaius grinned.
“From our recent experience, we know we will more likely follow a trail of the dead to our quarry,” Pulcher said and held out a cup for his second optio to freshen with wine.
39
Under the Gaze of God
The Prussian guns started again before dawn. The shells flew from the mouths of the cannons to drop across the rooftops of the city like the tread of an angry giant. Mostly they spent themselves punching hollows in the cobbles of empty streets or shattering trees in the bands of fallow gardens that ran down the centers of the more fashionable boulevards. A few plummeted through rooftops
