The Demons of Rome

XX - The 11th Legion

Iatus woke on the fourth day of marching with a crick in his neck from sleeping on the hard ground. His hands and feet were numb as well to the point he could barely move them.

Apparently I've got used to sleeping on a comfortable bed.

He reached up to try and massage his neck and found that he couldn't move his hands at all. Looking down he found them tied tightly together with thick rope.

He stared at them for a moment, his sleepy brain unable to process why his hands were bound. It turned out that both his hands and feet were tied to a post sunk into the earth with weird scribbling runes on it.

He groaned and tried to pull the ropes but the post was stuck fast. He wasn't going anywhere.

As the sleep faded his head started to throb and he moaned in pain. He looked around, trying to make out shapes in the dim light. He was in a fairly large tent, but it was almost completely empty except for another shape tied to a post on the opposite side.

"Max?" he said, surprised.

When the shape didn't stir he said it louder.

Max groaned and opened his eyes, "It's not time to march yet, is it?"

"Max, we're tied up!"

"Huh," Max said, looking about at the ropes binding him in confusion.

On further inspection it turned out that their tent was in fact a collection of leaves and sticks fashioned into a shelter. It was basically a dome with a hole for a door that looked out into woodland. It was tall enough for a man to stand up in and wide enough for him to lie down in comfortably.

"What are we going to do, Iatus?"

"I don't know..."

Where has Aelith gone? He was supposed to be on guard.

They had crossed into Gaul yesterday and it had been Aelith's practice to perch on top of their tent while they slept.

"Ah, I see you are up," said a head that had poked round the side of the shelter. The Latin was heavily accented but understandable.

Iatus and Max both subconsciously pressed themselves against their posts in an effort to get away.

"Who are you? Where are we?" Iatus demanded.

The rest of the man followed the head into the shelter. In one hand he held a large, serrated hunting knife, on the other perched a raven that looked at them intently.

"You're a Gaul!" exclaimed Iatus as he realised the implications.

"I am called Jalec. You are in our camp. Now that you are awake I would like to ask you some questions... let's start with an easy one. Who are you and what is your rank?" the man said, spinning the knife in his hand dexterously.

Iatus bit his lip, if this man thought they would talk just because he waved a big knife around, he was dead wrong.

"I'm Max and he's Iatus. We're magi," answered Max, his eyes never leaving the knife.

Iatus hung his head. Oh Max.

"Very good, I like you, talkative. Very good indeed. Now, where are you marching to?"

"Placentia," Max said so quickly the syllables blurred together, "then Massilia, then Lugdunum."

"Good, good, I believe you. Is that where you think the rebels are?"

"Yes," Max replied.

"Good. How many Magi are there in your group?"

"About a hundred."