Soldier of Rome: The Centurion (The Artorian Chronicles)

by James Mace

“Magistrate Olennius, I am Prince Klaes. Please let me present my father, Dibbald Segon, King of Frisia.”

  “Skip the formalities,” Olennius replied raising his hand. “I have more important things to do than exchange pleasantries. Show me to my villa!”

  “Of course,” Klaes replied after a quick glance over to his father. “May I also introduce you to Tabbo of Maloriks? He is war chief and commander of the Frisian army.”

  “What army?” Olennius scoffed as he made sure to walk slightly ahead of the Frisians. Behind him was a freedman, who walked with his hands folded in front of him and an apologetic expression upon his face. “Blue faced barbarians in loincloths? That’s no army, that’s a pathetic rabble.”

  “Obviously the magistrate does not know our customs,” Tabbo replied with a chill to his voice. “Our people have never painted themselves blue.”

  “Kindly tell your war chief not to speak out of turn again, or I shall have him whipped!” Olennius snapped without missing a step. Tabbo instinctively grabbed the handle of his axe, but was quickly stayed by the King, who looked at him and shook his head.

  Olennius scowled even harder as he gazed upon the insides of his house. The stone walls were lit with torches, and the floor consisted of blackened slate. He stormed into the back room and threw open the shutters.

  “This won’t do at all!” he barked. “A Roman magistrate, living like vile barbarians? I think not!”

  “This is still better than most of our people live in,” King Dibbald replied calmly.

  “Not my concern if your people choose to live like animals,” the magistrate retorted. “A Roman of my importance requires the best when it comes to quality of life...ye gods, there isn’t even a bath in this vile abode!” He turned and snapped his fingers to his freedman, who quickly got out a wax tablet and stylus.

  “I will make a list of the upgrades required during my stay,” he continued. “Of course, these things cost money, and it is only right that the province provide for its governor.”

  “Magistrate, you are not a governor,” Dibbald corrected, to which Olennius slammed his fist onto the table in reply.

  “How dare you tell me what my position is!” he snarled. “My appointment carries the authority of the Emperor himself and does not require the approval of a barbarian king!”

  “Apologies, magistrate. I meant no offense.” Dibbald seethed inside, but he gritted his teeth and bore the indignities as best he could. There was nothing unlawful about a magistrate being rude to his provincials, though it did make for a bad start to their relationship.

  “Now,” Olennius said, pulling out a scroll. “I also need to go over the taxation of the province. It is quite unsatisfactory to say the least. Cattle hides? Is that all your people are required to pay Rome for the protection we offer?”

  “Those were the terms set out by the great Drusus Nero,” Dibbald replied. “He viewed them fair and just, as did the divine Augustus Caesar.”

  “Yes, well I find the terms to be very much out of date,” Olennius countered. “I think cow hides are insufficient for our purposes. From now on only ox hides will suffice.” Dibbald furrowed his brow at this demand.

  “Magistrate, oxes are much fewer in the region than cattle,” he protested. “We cannot supply the needed amounts. There simply are not enough oxen in the entire kingdom!”

  “Again, not my problem,” Olennius said with a bored sigh. “You Frisians do make a habit of talking out of turn in the presence of your betters. Here is another list. These are what suitable tributes will be rendered for each ox hide you come up short come spring...oh, and here is another list of a down payment that will be made effective immediately.”

  Dibbald glared at him as he took the scrolls from the smirking magistrate.

  “Expect to hear from me again when I estimate the expenses for my housing improvements. That is all, you can go now.” He waved his hand, like a parent shooing away a nosy child.

  “What an insufferable prick!” Tabbo growled as he hurled his hand axe into a nearby stump. His friends, Sjored and Olbert, accompanied him.

  “That’s not the worst of it,” Olbert replied as he readied to throw his own axe. “I heard that Olennius is demanding we supply ox hides instead of cattle.”

  The other warrior stood in shock as he threw his axe with a satisfying thud into the stump. “That’s insane!” Sjoerd protested. “We don’t have enough oxen in the entire kingdom for that!”

  “Tell that to your new friend,” Olbert countered, readying his axe for a throw. “I’m sure they’ll find other ways to bleed us dry.”

  “Of what?” Sjoerd asked. “We are cattle farmers. There is not a whole lot one can bleed this region dry of. We grow just enough crops to feed our livestock and ourselves. It’s not as if this is a plentiful land to begin with.”

  “What I fear is what will happen if he does begin taxing our people beyond our means to produce,” Tabbo added. “I mean, King Dibbald knows Tiberius! Surely the Emperor would not allow a loyal province to be abused this way!”

  “I think you may be putting too much faith in the Romans,” Sjoerd replied. “I know you fought with them in the past, but you cannot allow sentimental feelings to blind you as to what may happen to our people.”

  Tabbo’s anger was still simmering when he went home to his wife that evening. Edeline poured him a cup of mead and set a steaming bowl of barley porriage before him. She placed a hand on his shoulder, and he reached up and held it in his own. He looked up at his wife and tried to smile.

  “It’s the new magistrate that vexes you,” Edeline stated, rather than asked. “What is he going to do to our people?”

  “I don’t know,” Tabbo replied. “What I do know is that it will not be what King Adel envisioned when he agreed to the treaty proposed by Drusus Nero all those years ago. This man, Olennius, is evil. He wants to hurt our people, I can see it in his face. He is filled with nothing but contempt. I would pity him if not for the suffering I know he will bring. And for what? To line his own pockets, no doubt!”

  His wife closed her eyes and held onto his shoulders. She was afraid, and Tabbo felt guilty for upsetting her.

  “I’m sorry, my love,” he said as he took her hand in his. “I should not let one pompous fool unnerve me so. After all, he is just a minor magistrate and we are an allied province to Rome. What is the worst he can do?”

  Chapter VIII: The House of Pontius Pilate

  The Praetorian Guard Headquarters, Rome

  May, 26 A.D.

  ***

  It had been more than five years since Pontius Pilate had left the Rhine legions. Aside from a year-long stint in the east with the Twelfth Legion, he had spent his entire time in Rome with the Praetorians. It had been a good assignment, though he felt many of the Emperor’s guard were rather stuffy and full of themselves. He had much to get done this day and most of it involved tedious paperwork. He sat back in his chair and sighed. Damn but he missed his life with the legions!

  His thoughts were interrupted by a loud knocking at the door.

  “Come!” he called, pretending to be working once more. It was one of his aides. In truth, Pilate liked the young man, even if he was an upper-class snob. But then, that is what the Praetorians had become. What had once been considered the elite of the Roman army and a place for well deserving legionaries, political appointments and personal favors by Senators had left but a fraction of the Praetorians as coming from the ranks. Still, the young man who worked for him was very effective. He seemed to know what Pilate was thinking most of the time and was able to organize tasks by priorities, which the Deputy Prefect would think well.

  “Sir, there are a few pieces of mail from the post for you,” the Praetorian said as he sifted through the bag he carried. “A few personal letters…oh and this order from the Emperor regarding his vacation to Capri.” The young man paused as he held the scroll, whose wax seal bore the mark of the Julio-Claudians.

  “What is it?” Pilate aske
d, reading the consternation on the Praetorian’s face.

  “I’ve just been wondering about this little trip we are taking the Emperor on…I mean, there are rumors and such…”

  “Such as?” Pilate folded his arms across his chest as his aide looked at the floor briefly. He hated it when rumors started floating about. They were usually wrong, and even the ones that were true caused unnecessary disruption amongst the troops. He had lambasted the Cohort Commanders already about this several times before.

  “Well, sir…is it true that this is not just a mere holiday for the Emperor? Is it true that he may not be coming back to Rome at all?”

  The slight twitch of Pilate’s face gave the young man his answer, though the Deputy Prefect’s official answer was more vague.

  “That is not for us to decide,” Pilate replied curtly. “The Emperor’s business is his own. We simply provide a safe and secure environment for him to rule the Empire from.” He then stood and took the letters from the Praetorian, whose face suddenly brightened up.

  “Oh, there was one more thing, sir,” he said quickly, reaching into his belt pouch. “Got this from your soon to be father-in-law. I didn’t stick it in with the rest of the post, lest it get lost. He told me he wants to hear from you by this evening.”

  Pilate took the short note, paused, and nodded. The Praetorian gave a quick salute and abruptly left.

  Though the order from the Emperor was of much greater importance, Pilate set it unopened on the table with the rest of the post, sighed, and broke the seal on the note from Proculeius. No doubt he wanted to discuss Claudia’s dowry. Pilate had been avoiding the topic for some time. The Proculeius family were indeed very wealthy, though not well connected politically, hence the value of the match for Claudia’s father. He owned two enormous mansions on Palatine Hill and no doubt wanted to use one of them as the dowry. This was fine by Pilate, except for the fact that his father-in-law would be his next door neighbor and a constant burden on him. He sat down and started to read when the door swung open and Sejanus strolled in.

  “Pilate, old man!” the Praetorian Prefect said in his usually loud voice. “I stopped by to see if certain dispatches had arrived yet…ah, here we go!” He recognized the imperial seal on the one scroll and reached for it. “What’s this? It’s still sealed! You haven’t even read the order from the Emperor yet?”

  “I’m sorry, Sejanus,” Pilate replied. He had been taken so completely aback at the interruption by his superior and patron, that he found his mind racing. “The post just arrived a few minutes ago, and I got a bit distracted.”

  “Nonsense!” Sejanus retorted. “Nothing takes priority over a message from the divine Tiberius Caesar. What’s this then?” He snatched the note from Pilate, his face breaking into a broad grin. “Oh yes! I forgot that my deputy is getting married in the near future. Well, no harm then. Hmm, it is late in the day, and I think you should probably run along and see Proculeius.”

  “What of our dispatches and other work?” Pilate asked, but Sejanus waved it away.

  “I’ll take care of these. Besides, you’ve been buried in paperwork for days now. You’re working too much. One would think you didn’t care to see the sun anymore! Anyway, get the hell out of here. Report back by first watch tomorrow. We will have much to do regarding the Emperor’s relocation then.”

  As soon as Pilate left, Sejanus’ face turned dark, his cheerful demeanor disappearing. He already knew what the Emperor’s order stated, so he tossed it aside as he went through the rest of the post. The nice thing about the Imperial Post was that the Praetorians got to sift through every piece of mail that came through it. Whatever did not need to go before the Emperor’s eyes, or anyone else’s for that matter, was properly disposed of. The people were fooled into thinking they had freedom of speech and thought. Only Sejanus and a few others knew that it was all a charade. Censorship was alive and well within the Roman Empire, and the beauty was that no one even realized it.

  It was late when Pilate finished with Proculeius. He had convinced the old man to sell his vacant house, and instead, purchase a villa on the outskirts of the city. This would be a more than sufficient dowry for Claudia. In return, Pilate offered to make certain his connections in the imperial court were persuaded to show a bit of favoritism to his in-laws and their endeavors. Claudia had two brothers who their father wanted to get into politics, and what better a patron could they get than the man who was deputy to the Emperor’s right hand? It was too simple, really. Pilate had a friend who was a Quaestor that supervised the imperial treasury. All he had to do was send the man a letter with the names of Claudia’s brothers, and his friend would find them an appropriate place within the political conglomerate.

  Servants opened the door to his house, bearing lanterns to guide their master. Pilate was completely exhausted and had not even taken off his ceremonial Praetorian armor since before dawn that morning. He needed a bath and directed a slave to draw one for him. Claudia was waiting for him, too. As was a common custom, she already lived with her betrothed in the small Tribune’s house the Praetorians had provided him. It was a decent enough house, and more than enough for just the two of them. Still, he knew that wealth equated to power in Rome, and moving into a larger villa would give an impression of such wealth.

  Life was good to Pontius Pilate, and he knew that he should be grateful for this lot the Fates had given him, though even at this late hour, before marrying the woman he had grown to love, he still missed the rugged and harsh life of the legions. As servants scrubbed his relaxing body in the hot bathwater, he reminisced about directing the hell storm of scorpion bolts and flaming missiles from the onager catapults during the assault on the Angrivari stronghold ten years before. His body wasn’t as firm as it used to be, and the years of soft living had added a little to his girth. But never had he felt more alive, before or since!

  Artorius hated the administrative side of being a Centurion, but it was something he knew was necessary. Rufio and Praxus were both in his office when he opened the door, which puzzled him. The Signifier held a bundle of scrolls which he brought to Artorius’ attention.

  “What are these?” the Centurion asked, taking a seat at his desk.

  “Discharge orders,” Rufio answered.

  “Eleven of them,” Praxus added quickly.

  Artorius leaned over his forearms and sighed. “What the hell, did every last one of our veterans enlist at the same time?” he asked with a trace of irritation in his voice.

  “We’re losing four more to the First Cohort, as well,” Praxus continued. “And, unfortunately, recruiting has been slim lately.”

  “Damn it,” Artorius swore, resting his chin in his hand. “Well, there’s nothing for it. The Century’s never been at full strength anyway, and with no war on the horizon, what’s the loss of two entire squads?” His voice was thick with sarcasm. After all, the four legionaries selected to join the elite First Cohort had made it on their own merits, and he was happy for them. The eleven who were set to retire had more than done their share of service to the Empire.

  “It gets better,” Praxus said after a short pause. Artorius looked up at him and raised an eyebrow. The Optio then nodded towards Rufio. “We’ve been going through the roster of the Century like you said…well, you kind of hit the proverbial nail on the head when asking if all our veterans enlisted at the same time. It seems a lot of them did.”

  “Within the next eighteen months another dozen of our men will be at the end of their required service,” Rufio observed. “We’ve spoken to them and asked if any were interested in re-enlisting. Three agreed, and we have their new contracts already drawn up. The rest wish to go home.”

  “Hmm, I thought the legion was home to these men,” Artorius muttered. He then realized that his two senior officers were still standing. “Oh for gods’ sake, sit down! You both hovering over me like that makes me as nervous a Vestal Virgin in a brothel!”

  Rufio and Praxus grinned as they sat across
from their commander.

  “A lot of these men came from Hispania,” Rufio explained. “There was a massive recruiting drive back when Tiberius was campaigning in Pannonia.”

  “Then it looks like we will have to start our own soon, or we’ll be the only ones left!” The Centurion’s remark got a laugh out of the three men. Artorius then let out a sigh and sat back. “Eh fuck it, I need a drink. How about you two?” He snapped his fingers and his servant Nathaniel entered the room.

  “You need a drink, master?” the slave asked, his hands folded in front of him.

  “Yes. Return home and tell my lady I need a jug of our finest vintage. Oh, and tell her I may not be home tonight until late. Pressing business.” The slave bowed as Praxus snorted.

  “Pressing business requiring your best vintage,” he retorted. “That will go over well with Lady Diana!”

  “Actually she is more than willing to indulge me on occasion,” Artorius remarked with a grin. “I rarely drink anymore, but when I do I think she’d prefer I did it around you rather than her.”

  Praxus did his best to contain his laughter. “After the little incident at your prenuptial feast, I don’t blame her!”

  “Nathaniel!” Diana snapped, causing the slave to almost drop the jug. She stood on the stairs leading into the wine cellar, leaning on the hand rail. “What are you doing down here at this hour?”

  “M…my apologies, my lady,” the slave stammered, lowering his head respectfully. Though Diana was always very kind to him, her strong demeanor unnerved him. He then held up the jug. “It’s just…the master…” Diana’s laughter caught him off guard, and he hung his head once more.

  “Pressing business again, is it?” she laughed.

  Nathaniel nodded his head sheepishly.

  “Well, off with you then…and do be careful!”

  The poor slave tripped on the stairs and nearly sent the jug crashing. Diana shook her head and walked into the cellar. In her hand she held a letter from her sister. She had hoped to see her husband come home at a reasonable hour this evening, for the news from her sister was of much importance to both of them.