Having surpassed a couple milestones on this site last week, reaching both 500 visits and 1,000 page views since opening in June, I wanted to celebrate by offering you a sneak peek at my next novel.
Set in 216 BC in Republican Rome, the following excerpt is taken from chapter three. At this point in the narrative, a mere eight days after the catastrophic Roman defeat at Cannae, a condemned criminal, Fulvius' death sentence has been commuted and he's sent instead to the legions, a true sign of Rome's desperation. Chapter III covers his movement to and "welcome" by the newly formed unit as well as the adjustment to his new, if entirely unwanted, military life.
I've not yet settled on a name for this novel though I am open to suggestions...
Mile Marker IX along the Via Latina, 10 August, 216 BC
Wrapped in gauze around the midsection beneath his tunic, Fulvius swayed rhythmically back and forth as the ox-drawn cart proceeded down the road. He was in the company of two others in the open-air, flat cargo bed. One was a similarly bandaged and recovering Roman with an angry visage. He seemed mute. The other a severely injured Celtic slave who'd died of his wounds about two miles back. The three bodies, living and dead, lay side-by-side on their backs and jounced in unison as wooden wheels traversed the stone-paved highway, the corpse sandwiched between the two surviving patients.
A pair of Roman soldiers, decked out in white tunics but wearing no armor, sat on the wooden driver's bench. The two carried on a never-ending prattle about which whorehouse was best and how to treat various social diseases. Eavesdropping on the inane babble passed the time, but none of it interested the condemned criminal, who kept trying to make hushed conversation with the other Roman in the back of the cart.
The other man appeared strong, clearly further along the path to recovery than Fulvius, and it was that strength, coupled with a seemingly shared fate, which interested him. He turned his head and for the fourth time whispered over the body of the dead Celt, "Hey, where are you from?"
Maybe it was the length of the journey, perhaps the stupidity of the talk from up front, but the other man grudgingly responded. "Brundisium."
Sensing opportunity, hope put a gleam in Fulvius' eyes, "I'm from Rome, the Aventine." He waited for a response, but was disappointed. Wheels squeaked and morons chatted, but nothing from the other man. "I think this guy's dead." He offered after he felt he'd waited long enough.
"He is." Is all he heard from the other side of the cadaver. The voice was gruff, a farmer or drover, Fulvius guessed. Still, this was the most he'd pried out of the man since their journey began. The ride couldn't last forever, he reasoned, and he didn't particularly look forward to the destination.
"Are you well enough to run?" Fulvius tentatively ventured.
"What?" the other responded as if surprised by the question.
"Are you well enough to make a break for it? If we don't do something soon it'll be too late." Fulvius spoke in a hushed tone, glancing up at the two grunts to make sure they hadn't overheard him.
"Why would I want to do that?" The other replied after a moment's hesitation.
"Why?" Fulvius whispered, incredulous, "Are you joking? We need to get out of this cart and into the trees. They'll never find us."
The other's voice took on a different edge, "If you're caught you'll be treated as a deserter."
Fulvius was more emphatic, "We won't be caught! You help me out of here and I can get us to freedom."
Silence was the only response for a long time. When finally the other man did speak, it was only to say "Stop talking to me, coward."
Fulvius had been called many things in his life and so brushed off the insult, "Why? Don't you want to get away? You want to die in one of those damned white tunics?" He waited anxiously for a sign he was having any effect at all on the other man before continuing, "Hannibal's gonna kill them all, you really wanna be part of that?"
More silence in response, frustrating the aspiring absconder to no end. "Are you scared? Afraid to run? Afraid to take your chances out in the woods?"
"I said stop speaking to me, you spineless fool!" Louder than before, this drew the attention of one of the soldiers who swatted at Fulvius with his droving stick, leaving an angry red welt across his cheek.
"Shut up, dog! We're almost there." the grunt barked.
Fulvius' heart sank with the news and, sure enough, a few moments later, following an exchange of vulgar, soldierly greetings, he watched a timber gatehouse pass by overhead. From his vantage point in the back of the low-sided wagon Fulvius could make out the tops of several guard towers as they entered a compound of some type. The sounds of other Romans came and went as they passed by, until the contraption rocked to a halt and the two soldiers dismounted their perch.
Walking around to the rear of the vehicle they chuckled at the sight." Told you the barbarian wouldn't make it, pay up." the shorter of the pair said to his comrade. His mate begrudgingly dipped into a small leather purse and handed over several didrachms. The pair then unchained and swung downward the wagon's rear gate. Smiles fading, the taller soldier yanked Fulvius by the feet, catching him as he slid off the back of the flat bed, and stooping, inserted his head under the injured man's arm in support. Upright for the first time all day, Fulvius realized they were part of a long train of ox-drawn vehicles. Several were piled high with bronze accoutrements, helmets and the like, some bore foodstuffs, and still others ferried human cargo.
Behind them a harsh baritone voice ordered, "Take that wreck to the medicus! Can't believe we're reduced to this."
"Yes, sir." the soldier supporting Fulvius responded automatically.
"Suetonius, is that you, you bald-headed bastard? Thought you were dead!" the deep voice called out.
Fulvius' riding companion—the live one—sat up, wincing as he did so, fixing Fulvius with a glare straight out of Hades itself. The shorter driver helped him up and out of the vehicle. "Not yet." Seutonius winced. Fulvius hadn't noticed when he'd been loaded onto the conveyance, but seeing the other man standing there with the others it struck him. Suetonius wore the tunic of a Roman soldier. The white linen fabric was dirt-begrimed, torn, and blood-stained, but a soldier's uniform nonetheless. Fulvius gulped with the dawning of realization as Suetonius' gaze lifted from the criminal and turned to his apparent comrade beyond, visage softening noticeably as he did. "You have drink?"
The disembodied voice from behind chuckled, "For you, always, brother. Follow me, if you can walk, that is. We'll drink away the dust of the road before you report in." Then after a short pause, "I told you to get that worthless pig-spawn to the infirmary!"