Last of the Ninth by Stephen Lorne Bennett

Author:Stephen Lorne Bennett
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: espionage, supernatural, ghost, emperor, legion, ancient rome, spy adventure, centurion, roman army, imperial rome
Publisher: Stephen Lorne Bennett

* * * * *

The following day is worse. “You first slaver.” Three simple words and he is jammed between the end of the seam and the feet of the second man, confined, no exit. The knowledge of it boils in his consciousness

All must collect their ore and leave the seam. Logic tells him this. Apply it, apply the logic. Logic can defeat panic. This will end.

But he knows. Nine other men lie between him and a space where he can stand upright and stretch out his arms, breathe, and live. Trapped, buried alive. Alive.

He tries again to concentrate with all his energy on the end of his chisel. The light is dimmest here, he does not so much see it as feel it. Every strike exhausting, each blow feels like death. Morbidity of thought paired with the coursing of his blood overwhelms him. He loses consciousness. When he awakens he is still there, still in the tomb, unable to move his arms. In the dark, surrounded by stone. He begins to scream.

They pull him from the tunnel screaming. Balera grasps him by the throat and slaps him hard. "The way out is to finish your bags, and then you leave. We can all leave." Malorix has no strength. As Balera releases his grip he collapses to his knees.

"Different world, slaver?" says an unsympathetic voice.

"Shut it, asshole!" Balera snarls. "Finish your bags, slaver!"

Malorix looks upward to see the faint light at the top of the pit. He needs to get there.

"Do it," says a voice.

"We got to get our bags filled."

"The slaver is right. Fuck this!"

Malorix turns toward the shaft, but his legs won’t move. "They’ll have to kill me. I won’t go back in there. I can’t."

"Kill you?" says a voice. "They’ll beat the shit out of all of us."

"What if they do?" says another. "We’ll all be dead soon. I say sooner rather than later."

"I am going to die in this place," says Malorix.

"No. I am."

Silence. "What do you mean, Kaeso?" someone whispers. "What have you seen?"

"Last night." Men breathing, the only sound.

"The Reaper," Kaeso continues. "You know what that means."

"God damn the Reaper!" Balera curses. "I’ll be damned if I know what that means! Everyone get back to work. Look, I’ll go in first!" Balera stoops at the entrance to the seam. "We must stand together and get this done." The argument begins anew again until the voice of a guard can be heard overhead shouting presumed obscenities in Parthian.

"Are we not Romans?" Balera appeals to them. "Are we not men of the legions? Who is from the 1st Italians?"

"I," says a weary voice.

"And who of the Spanish IXth?"

"We are," say others, still more abject.

A scraping sound. Balera making his way back into the seam. They move to follow him, pushing none too gently past Malorix. He paralysed, his sweat a cold glaze on his skin, temples throbbing, struggling for breath. Never before has fear thwarted him, but this thing is beyond terror. If he could but have the choice, he would face twenty Germans in combat with a single dagger.

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