“Gods above and below!”
It felt like the thunderer’s lightning bathed him inside and out, lifting him to the bright place, to Albios. He wasn’t sure if he’d ever felt this way in his life. After a few deep breaths to calm himself before rejoining his men, he felt a slight discordant note of satisfaction that seemed to come from some place beyond, someone powerful, a hard presence he’d only felt in Mithras’s temple. It was done. The covenant between Lucius and Mithras was sealed. When he’d used the full power of the rudis Mithras had given him, he’d bound his life in its entirety to the god’s mission.
He couldn’t say why the smug satisfaction of the god felt ominous, but it sobered the earlier jubilation. His father had said it was dangerous mixing up in the games of the powerful, and now he was bound to gods. A flash of silver settled gently on the ground in front of him, resolving into the goddess Selene.
Lucius dropped to one knee immediately and bowed his head. “My Mistress.”
“Remove your helmet and rise, my brave soldier.” Her words were a soft caress.
He wiped the rudis on the hem of his tunic and stowed it before rising and removing his helmet. When Selene reached out to caress his cheek, compassion and sorrow filled her eyes. Leaning forward, she kissed his forehead.
“Know that I’m proud of you, Lucius Silvanius Ferrata. You are now fully bound to Mithras’s purpose and mine. I shall watch over you, my brave soldier. Keep me in your heart and I shall always hear you. In you goes my hope for humanity and those who can’t fight against the dark creatures unleashed upon the world. Go with my love.” She ran her fingers over his jaw and off his chin, then faded away.
The goddess’s words and touch recentered him, easing the overabundance of energy that threatened to pull him apart. It also softened the edge of the vague unease Mithras’s intrusion into his mind had caused. Back in control of himself, he returned to his men.
His centurion greeted him, admiration in his eyes. “I’ve never seen anyone move like that before, Princeps Primus Centurio.” He banged his fist over his heart and dropped to his knee. The rest of Lucius’s men followed suit, saluting and dropping to their knees.
“Princeps Primus Centurio!” they called, eyes trained on their leader.
The die was cast. He was a servant of Roma, but also a soldier in the gods’ war against the infernal forces of the di inferi. He’d serve those gods and stand in the darkness to protect the light of humanity until he completed his mission. He was ready. Suffused with the power of the gods and the di inferi and surrounded by men he’d trained to hunt the monsters, the time to break the invasion of the blood drinkers had come.
Although time and weariness might lay him low, he’d be a centurion for all his mortal life.
Lucius returns in Fall of the Centurio Immortalis
Keep reading for a brief excerpt.
LUCIUS SILVANIUS FERRATA RETURNS IN FALL OF THE CENTURIO IMMORTALIS
Fall of the Centurio Immortalis
Chapter One
The Centurio Immortalis half dozed in his saddle as they approached the bridge over the Danuvius River. He’d decided to push on and hit their fort instead of camping outside the empire’s borders for another night. Although the day’s march had been stiff, his men were in fine spirits as they approached the river that meant they were only a few more miles from their beds.
“Princeps Primus Centurio?” a young soldier asked.
“Boy, you don't need to use the full title,” barked the grizzled officer riding next to Lucius.
“Sorry, sir. Centurio Ferrata. Legatus Pisakar is waiting for us just past the bridge.”
“Hmm? What?” Lucius shook his head to clear the haze of his nap. “Pisakar? What’s he doing here?”
“I don’t know, Centurio. They just sent me back to inform you,” the young man said.
“Just thinking out loud, Decanus…” Lucius searched for the name of the young man he’d recently approved for promotion to leader of his tent group.
“Martininius, Sir,” Martininius said, aiding his Centurio.
“Decanus Martininius, thanks. Return to your station. Actually, hold. I’ll join you and find out what Pisakar is up to myself.” Turning to the Primus Pilus riding next to him, he said, “Tinkomaros, keep the men marching. You’re in charge.”
“Aye, Centurio,” the gruff Gaul replied.
Between his nod of assent and the breeze, his long mustache tails fluttered in the wind. Although Lucius typically stuck to the shaved face and short hair in fashion when he joined the legions under the reign of Imperator Traianus, he’d let his hair and beard grow out longer than he had in ages, bordering on unkempt. He allowed his men a certain sense of freedom when it came to their grooming—as long as they were clean, they could wear their hair and facial hair anyway they liked as befit the Empire’s elite legion. His men were allowed to have their quirks and eccentricities; they’d earned them.
Lucius rubbed his hand through his shaggy, dark brown hair and pulled his horse out of line and behind the decanus, the old gelding replying to his commands smoothly. They rode at a sedate pace along the line of Lucius’s marching men, who nodded to their respected leader as he rode past.
“Remind me, son, where are you from?” Lucius asked his newly minted platoon leader.
“Massilia, sir,” the handsome young soldier replied, his face still containing the softness of youth despite the intense training of the legions.
“What did your father do in Massilia?”
“He was a clerk, sir.”
“Not a legionnaire?”
“No, sir,” Martininius replied.
“How’d you end up in the legions?”
“I didn’t fancy quills and parchment for a lifetime.”
