FACES OF STONE by T.C. Bucher

Faces Of Stone

by T.C. Bucher

    "Pull you sons a' bitches! Pull harder!" the optio yells as he walks down the line of slaves, the crest on his bronze helmet and the gladius on his hip bobbing in time with his steps. Plumes of dust rise into the air above his boots and the harsh sun reflects brightly from the plates of his segmented armor. In his right hand he carries the nine-tails and the ends drag, leaving lines in the dirt beside his footprints. There used to be small iron weights at the end of the straps, but they caused too much damage and he'd been forced to cut them off. Etched in block letters on the back of his helmet is the name he earned from his men long ago, SILEX VULTUS, "Stone Face."

    "Harder, you!" Silex encourages one, and there is the sound of the whip against flesh. It's not the cracking sound of a bullwhip, but softer, like the swish of a horse's tail followed by a quick rush of slapping noises. The slave doesn't cry out or shrink away. Nor does he flinch. His lone acknowledgement to the blow is the slow, almost mechanical, turning of his head toward the Roman. Unblinking, sky-blue eyes glare defiantly at Silex, but the slave doesn't make the mistake of stopping in his work and he continues to pull on the rope. Most legionnaires would beat the slave for his insolence, but Silex only puts his hands on his hips and stares in return.

    The life seems to drain away from the Roman's face as it hardens and gains intensity. His features, already callous, become absent of emotion, leaving only a harsh, uncompromising solidity that denies the soft nature of flesh. As if a man's fist would crumble against the square, chiseled jaw or the angular, sculptured cheekbones. Like hitting stone.

    It is a face Silex has worn for many years. In war, a centurio ordinarius leads from the front, marching a hundred legionnaires into battle without ever looking back, trusting his men to follow and hold the line behind him no matter the odds. As an optio, and his second, Silex stands in the rear, ensuring by force that all one-hundred choose to live up to that trust. In twelve years worth of campaigns Silex had only needed to cut down a few legionnaires who chose to run. The other desperate men had taken one look at his face and decided they would rather die in line. The slave is no different, and, after staring a moment longer, turns his eyes back to the rope. Silex continues to eye the slave. There's something about him that always peaks Silex's interest, though he's never been able to determine exactly what it is.

    Unlike the rest of the slaves in Silex's line, this one is a Gaul, thick bodied with an excessive amount of blond curly hair on his chest and back, and strong, like all the Gauls Silex fought back when he was in the Sixth. The Gaul stirs up trouble any time he's allowed among his own kind, raising their spirits and leading them to rebel, so they keep him isolated in a line of Carthaginians.

    Small wooden beams have been hammered with spikes into the clay for traction, but the Gaul is between two and his bare feet scratch and slide as he pulls. His knuckles are white on the coarse rope and sweat runs down his face to where it drips from the short, rough hair on his chin. Dust and sweat have caked his back with a thin layer of grime, except for where the nine-tails has wiped it away, exposing a latticework of pink scars. This one, Silex thinks, this one would never have considered turning and running.

    "They are tough on you, Gaul, but they are stupid. A man doesn't whip a stallion for being a stallion, he whips him for disobedience or as a reminder. It's the same for a slave, except that a slave forgets the feel of the whip faster than a horse." This is the first time that Silex has spoken to the slave other than issuing commands. If the slave understands, he gives no sign and Silex, puzzled at himself, returns to walking the line and checking the rope.

    The rope is thick as a man's wrist and it's taut enough that it vibrates and hums in the open distance between the slaves and the pulley. From there the rope runs upward, along the completed portion of the monument, until it's sixty feet off the ground before winding through another pulley and plunging back down to wrap around a massive stone block that rotates slowly as it rises.

    "You motherless bastards drop this one and I'll send the lot of you to the mines!" Silex yells and there is the slap of the whip again.

    The monument will be another tribute to Julius Caesar. Once the blocks are set, each side will be carved with a depiction of Caesar sitting on his horse as he leads the Sixth Legion across the river Rubicon into Italia after defeating the Gauls. Generals are forbidden from bringing their legions into Italia, but Caesar's victories had made him too popular, and the Senate, in fear, had ordered Caesar's resignation. The river crossing broke the law and started a civil war, but it was his only option. To a man, the Sixth would have followed him no matter the reason.

    Silex still remembers Caesar's words that the men passed down the line while marching. The same words that would soon be chiseled across the base of the monument, ALEA JACTA EST! "The die is cast."

    "Optio carceris," a voice behind Silex calls, using his full title. He turns around at the words.

    Hurrying toward him is a pale thin man in the white robes of a citizen. He's young enough to be Silex's son, but wears the red sash of an engineer.

    "Sir!" The iron hobnails of Silex's boots clang as his right fist snaps over his heart.

    The engineer stops in front of him and looks around nervously before raising his fist clumsily to his chest in return.

    "They're having trouble seating the last block and aren't ready for the next one." The engineer points to the top of the monument. "You're going to have to hold this one until they're ready."

    Silex nods and waits for the engineer to continue, but the young man just stands there, his eyes roaming along the line of slaves.

    "Will that be all, sir?" Silex prompts.

    "Um...yes. I'll yell down when they're ready for the next one."

    Silex salutes again and the engineer turns and moves to a ladder tied to one of the many scaffolds that line the monument. His red sash stands out against the dull stone, and Silex stares at it, his eyes a thousand miles away as he remembers staring at the red cape of a young centurio climbing to the top of a wooden palisade in Transalpine Gaul. The day Silex was promoted to optio .

    It's morning, and his centurio has just finished speaking to him, asking about the men. Silex is the signifer, the standard bearer and third in command. The young officer asked how the men were doing? Were they getting enough to eat and enough sleep? Staying warm? Silex answered, "Yes, sir," to all the questions and the young centurio nodded and said, "Good," to each one before moving to one of the ladders.

    The young officer reaches the top, his breath billowing out white clouds in the morning air, and Silex watches as he takes three steps before placing a hand on the shoulder of one the legionnaires who man the wall. It's snowing and the wind is blowing from the north. The legionnaire is huddled down behind the sharp wooden poles of the wall, his cloak wrapped about him tightly. There's a smile on the young centurio's face as he leans down towards the soldier. The young officer opens his mouth to say something to the legionnaire and that's when the arrow hits him, just as he leans down. It probably would have hit him in the chest and been deflected if he hadn't leaned down to comfort the man, but instead it buries itself deeply into his neck.

    Moments later, the red cape is spread out beneath the officer as they hold him down to keep the choking spasms from shifting the arrow while they wait for the legion's surgeon. There's so much blood that it's difficult to see the outline of the cape against the bloodstained snow. Silex has his hands on the officer's shoulders while the optio holds his head. Both their hands are covered in the officer's blood. Steam rises into the air and the thought of how warm his hands are flashes through Silex's mind, warmer than they'd been in weeks. The thought is immediately followed by guilt as the young officer's eyes bulge and stare up at Silex between spasms and gasps, begging him to do something, anything.

    "Can't we just pull the arrow?" Silex asks. "I know he'll probably bleed to death, but it's better than suffocating."

    "Don't even think about it," his optio responds. "We're in garrison. The surgeon would have your ass for interfering before he arrived."

    The young officer's eyes continue to plead with Silex. There is nothing he can do though, so he stares off at a clean patch of snow and tries to ignore the gurgling noises coming from beneath him.

    Finally, after what seems an eternity, the noises and the struggling cease. Silex looks down to see the dead eyes of the young officer still staring at him.

    For a long time those eyes haunted Silex. When he leaned down to comfort a legionnaire they were there, and he would stop himself and stare out into the distance, looking for the arrow that would kill him. When a man stumbled and fell, the eyes were there telling Silex to disregard his compassion, that it was deadly. So he cut it away, locked it deep within himself, and replaced it with the cold, emotionless efficiency that earned him his namesake.

    And as the war dragged on into years, he saw compassion kill others over and over again, strengthening his choice. A man, forgetting his place in line to save a comrade, was stabbed to death because he left a hole in the shield wall. Three scouts were killed because they wouldn't leave a wounded man behind as the Gauls pursued them. A recently promoted optio who couldn't bring himself to stab his own men to keep them from retreating caused the flank of the legion to fold. The legion lost an entire cohort, almost six-hundred men.

    Eventually the eyes left Silex alone, but he still continued to push his compassion deeper and deeper until he hardly remembered what it was that he had locked away, and it kept him alive through the campaign in Gaul and through the civil war that followed.

    Silex shakes his head as the engineer reaches the top of the monument and disappears from sight. It's strange that the engineer's sash stood out and triggered that memory, colors usually stand out when it's cold not hot. With a strange uneasiness Silex turns back to the line of slaves. The stone block is almost to the top.

    "Hold!" he yells and raises his palm into the air. "Hold!"

*    *    *

    "Stupid, dumb, asinine, son-of-a-whore engineer," Silex mumbles as he walks up the line. "What in hell's name is taking so damn long?" The water wagon comes every half hour and already it's come twice.

    The slaves are sitting now with their feet braced on the wooden beams as they continue to hold the rope, and they all seem to be echoing the Roman's sentiments as they murmur and groan. All of them except the Gaul, who sits silently near the front of the line.

    Silex stops near the Gaul and, shading his eyes from the sun with his hand, squints up towards the top of the monument.

    "Engineer!" he yells. Then again after waiting a moment. "Engineer!"

    A few seconds later the young engineer is leaning over the edge, peering down at Silex.

    "Yes?"

    "What's the delay? These slaves are going to be useless for the rest of the day after this."

    "A block was faced the wrong way and the grain didn't match. Had to set up a new frame and pulley to lift it and flip it over on its side."

    "Well, why didn't you yell down? My line's been holding the next stone in the air for an hour."

    "Sorry. Should have let you know, but I didn't see the problem until I got up here. Then I was busy and forgot. Shouldn't be much longer now. They've got the rope tied and run, so they should be able to flip it soon." As if in answer Silex can see the block shift and the engineer disappears from sight.

    "Useless little prick," Silex states as he turns to walk down the line and get the slaves on their feet again. The Gaul nearby chuckles at the words and Silex stops. The slave sits watching him with those sky-blue eyes. The defiance he saw earlier isn't there, but something still bothers Silex. Maybe it's because he's a Gaul and because of Uxellodunum.

    Uxellodunum. After eight years of war, it was the last fortification the Gauls held before their final defeat. More than a fortification, it was a small city defended by thousands. After its fall, Caesar ordered the hands cut off of every surviving Gaul. There would be no one left to rebel for decades. Silex never hesitated in his orders, but he had been forced to cut something else away that day as he looked into the eyes of the prisoners, shame.

    Suddenly, there is a loud crack and the clap of stone hitting stone followed by men yelling. Silex's head whips back around to the top of the monument. The rope on the block they are flipping has snapped and the block now sits teetering on the edge, tilting farther and farther out as slaves try to hold it back. They can't hold it though, and the block tumbles over the edge in slow motion.

    Training outweighs instinct for Silex and he stands fast, watching the stone as it begins to fall. From battle he has developed a sense for gauging what will hit him and what will not. The stone should fall well short of the line.

    Panicked, many of the slaves let go of the rope and scatter, causing those not fast enough to be jerked forward by the weight of the block.

    "Hold, damn you!"

    More slaves panic and let go and he can see the rope sliding through the Gaul's hands.

    "Hold!"

    For an instant it seems that the remaining slaves will be enough, but it's no use. Too many have let go and the block begins falling with the other towards the ground, the rope burning through the Gaul's hands as it gains speed. Silex can see the skin of the Gaul's hands being shredded by the rope, yet the Gaul only grits his teeth and strains harder.

    The two blocks hit, sending up a shower of dust and earth, and Silex can feel the impact in the ground. The block the engineer was attempting to turn lands flat and doesn't move. The one that his slaves held hits on a corner and bounces out away from the monument towards the line. Silex turns away quickly and ducks down, dropping the nine-tails as he throws his arms up to cover his face.

    There is a heartbeat of silence and then dirt sprays over him. He hears the block whoosh past and a thump as it stops nearby.

    Coughing from a cloud of dust, Silex curses and waves his arms back and forth in front of his face trying to clear the air. As he stands he can see the path gouged by the stone only a few feet away leading to the block. The massive stone sits no more than ten feet from him, and pinned face down underneath is the Gaul.

    "Damn it all!" He moves to the Gaul and kneels down.

    Somehow the enormous block has only managed to crush one leg and covers it up to the kneecap. With the weight of the block there will be nothing left underneath, but at least the pressure will keep him alive until they can get a surgeon. The slave will never be as useful as he was, Silex thinks.

    The slave pushes his torso up until his chest is out of the dirt and twists his head around to look at Silex.

    "Don't..." the Gaul begins, but his jaw clenches and his eyes shut before he can finish.

    "Don't what?" Silex asks.

    The muscles in the Gaul's neck and jaw bulge and turn red, and the veins along his temples and forehead stand out like ropes. The Gaul sucks in a deep breath and opens his eyes.

    "Don't let them save my life," the Gaul answers between gasps.

    Silex stares at the Gaul. Beads of sweat roll down the slave's face and his arms tremble as he holds himself up, but his eyes are lucid and focused. They seem insistent and demanding, but also pleading, as if they are begging the Roman to help him. Staring into those sky-blue eyes, Silex suddenly realizes what it is about the slave that always bothers him. The eyes of the young officer he held down so many years ago were the same shade of blue. He continues to stare into the slave's eyes, remembering the helplessness he felt so many years ago. Remembering the chokes and the spasms. Remembering the pain. Silex's face seems to soften and lose the hard edges it's held for so many years as the two men continue to stare at one another.

    The sound of someone approaching finally disturbs them. Silex nods almost imperceptibly. The man nods in return and lowers himself slowly to the ground.

    "Are you okay, optio?" A legionnaire leans over Silex, a look of panic on his face.

    "Yes. Gather some slaves and get bars to lift the stone."

    "Shouldn't we wait for a surgeon? There could be--"

    "Shut up!" Instantly Silex's face regains its former callousness as he stands and grabs the legionnaire by the front of his armor. He speaks slowly, overenunciating each word, "I said gather some slaves and get the bars."

    "Yes, sir." The legionnaire half salutes and starts to move off, but Silex continues to hold him.

    "And when you're done with that, round up every slave that panicked and ran," he states menacingly and shoves the legionnaire away.

    The legionnaire hurries off shouting orders and Silex begins dusting himself off as he moves to retrieve the nine-tails he dropped during the turmoil. For what he is about to do, it's a good thing the weights have been removed.

The End

Faces of Stone © 2002 by T.C. Bucher

T.C. Bucher is an officer in the U.S. Army. Originally enlisted and a thirteen year veteran, he has traveled the globe in search of what his recruiter called "fun and adventure." Not finding them in any place the Army is located, he decided to invent them through writing. He is currently working diligently on his first Fantasy Novel, Wrath of the Righteous.

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