by James Mace
He had been right about the Primus Ordo positions. Legate Apronius, Master Centurion Macro, and the Legion’s tribunes selected three senior-ranking Centurions to fill the positions. The only one whose name Artorius recognized was his son’s Cohort Commander, Centurion Agricola, who he always regarded with a high level of respect.
“All that and you can’t even get a Cohort Commander position out of it?” Magnus mused as he and Artorius discussed the volatile situation amongst the Centurionate, as they walked along the riverbank. Diana had taken it upon herself to send Nathaniel with a bottle of their best wine, which the two men shared as they sat down against a tree by the river. Artorius had decided he needed to get away from the Century’s offices and the mild fall breeze felt good coming off the water. The slave had returned to the manor house to procure more wine for the men.
“Anxious to replace me, are you?” he retorted as he skipped a small stone across the river.
Magnus gave a snort. “Not even a little bit,” he replied. “I’m quite comfortable watching you squirm under the burdens of responsibility.” Both men shared a laugh at his sarcasm. It felt good to Artorius to be able to laugh again, even briefly.
“Centurion Artorius!” The shout broke their banter up, and the Centurion sighed as he leaned back and raised his head to the sky.
“Here,” he replied.
The call had come from Dominus, who stumbled through the thicket next to the tree. “There you are! Ah, I see you’ve got Magnus with you. Good.”
“You alright, sir?” Artorius asked, looking over his shoulder.
The Cohort Commander’s face was slightly flushed.
“I hope so. The Master Centurion told me to come find both of you. He needs to see all three of us in his office, now.”
“Shit,” Artorius swore under his breath.
“Don’t worry,” Magnus replied cheerfully. “Nathaniel knows if he cannot find us to take our refreshments to the Century’s office. We’ll knock back a few and toast either our good fate or bad fortune when we find out what Macro wants.”
It never ceased to amaze Artorius how his Nordic friend was always so calm no matter what the situation. He had no idea as to why Macro would need to see both of them and their Cohort Commander. It did not bode well for him, especially given Dominus’ dishevelment.
“Enter!” Macro’s voice boomed as soon as Artorius knocked.
The last time he had been in this office he had barged in on Master Centurion Calvinus. He promised himself that he would behave with a little more decorum this time. This was his first dealing with Macro since he had become the Master Centurion, and it was hard to believe that Artorius had been his Optio in the Second Century a mere three years before.
The three men entered and stood with their hands clasped behind their backs as Macro stood behind his desk reviewing some scrolls. As the light of the late afternoon sun shone through the parchment, Artorius was able to recognize that it was a roster of his Century.
“Stand easy, men,” Macro said as he turned and faced them. He then addressed Artorius. “Your Century suffered the highest percentage of casualties at Braduhenna.” There was an air of sadness on his face.
Artorius looked down for a second and tried to shake off the sudden bout of depression that struck him.
“So they tell me, sir,” he replied stiffly.
“I see that you have fewer men fit for duty on your roster than any other century within the legion,” Macro continued. “It is because of this that I have left your legionaries alone as we attempt to rebuild the Fourth Cohort.”
Artorius shuddered at the mentioning of the cursed cohort, and by the look on Macro’s face it seemed that Magnus and Dominus had the same reaction.
“Look, whether you think the Fourth was cursed or not,” the Master Centurion remarked, correctly judging their feelings, “we cannot leave this legion minus an entire cohort. Now the recruit depots will be working overtime to send us replacements. However, I cannot have an entire cohort made up of rookies who don’t know their ass from their elbow. We’ve pulled experienced legionaries from most of the other cohorts, as well as promoted some of the Decanii. What we lack are candidates for Centurions. Rome is sending us two, one of whom is still an Optio, and therefore, will be brand new to the position. The First Legion is also sending us one of their experienced Options that is ready for promotion.
“The reason I brought the three of you here is because my next decision affects the Second Century, and as the Cohort Commander, Dominus needs to be kept informed. I said I was going to leave your legionaries alone, and this is still true. However, as much as I hate to leave you further shorthanded, especially amongst your best leaders, we need all the experience we can get in the Fourth.” Macro’s eyes then fell on Magnus. “Therefore, I am promoting Tesserarius Magnus to the rank of Centurion.”
“Holy shit, I thought for a moment he was going to offer you the Pilus Prior of the Fourth!” Magnus said with a cheerful laugh as they left the Principia.
Dominus had left them, stating he had other business to attend to.
“Never happen,” Artorius replied with a shake of his head, his grin just as broad as his friend’s. “I’m proud of you, my friend. The way you handled yourself at Braduhenna, they would have been mad not to have offered you the Centurionate.”
“I did what I had to do,” Magnus replied, his composure suddenly dark and sober. Braduhenna will always be a blackened scar on the souls of those who survived it.
“Well, I’m glad to finally have you as my peer rather than my subordinate,” Artorius said, attempting to lighten the mood.
“That means a lot, Artorius,” Magnus replied with a friendly smile, “though for what it’s worth, it has been an honor to serve under you. I hope I will be able to again someday.”
“Fat chance,” Artorius said. “Two Pilus Prior positions opened in the Fourth and the Sixth, and I wasn’t exactly on the short list for either one of them.”
“The Sixth?” Magnus asked. “What happened to Agricola?”
“He was promoted to the First Cohort, which I am glad to see. Agricola is one of the better Cohort Commanders within the Legion.”
“Still, I cannot imagine why you aren’t even being considered for one of those positions,” Magnus persisted.
Artorius was grinning, though there was a trace of bitterness behind the smile.
“You forget how I came to the Centurionate,” he responded. “My deceased predecessor still has powerful friends, to include several magistrates and even a couple of senators. One senator alone can stall my career indefinitely, no matter how much our Primus Pilus would like to mentor me for something higher.”
“Well, that stinks of buzzard shit!” Magnus surmised.
Artorius shrugged. “I was twenty-seven when I made Centurion, three years shy of the minimum age requirement. Whatever amount of political luck I may have had, it all got expended in one fell swoop. I dare say that if I retire at thirty-seven, or even forty-seven for that matter, I will still mostly likely remain the Centurion of the Third Cohort’s Second Century.”
“You sell yourself short,” the Nordic Centurion-select chided. “I think you have more friends in the right places than you realize. You’re just too damned daft to recognize it or use them to your advantage! Besides, I intend to keep progressing through the ranks myself, but not ahead of you. I prefer to sit back and watch you stumble for a while, that way you can learn all the difficult lessons for me.”
As he returned to the Century’s billet, a somber, though much awaited sight greeted him. A large ox cart sat outside, and Artorius recognized the man who sat on the bench. He knew what was beneath the canvas tarp on the back of the cart.
“Centurion Artorius!” the man said boisterously. His demeanor changed when he saw the mournful look on the Centurion’s face.
“It is done, then?” Artorius asked.
The man nodded. “Exactly as you specified. I worked many long hours to g
et this to you in time. Luckily, I happened to have a sufficient slab of marble readily available and did not have to place an order with the quarries. Would have taken a month to get something like that delivered!”
“Wait here,” Artorius replied, his expression unchanged. He went inside and found a locked box that he kept in his quarters. Inside was a large sum of gold and silver coins, many of which had been donated by friends, though the majority was his own. He walked outside and placed the box on the ox cart.
“As we agreed,” he explained, “half upfront and the other half upon delivery. Follow me and I will show you where it goes.”
He led the cart to just beyond the main gate, where a pair of legionaries stood, ever on guard duty. There was a small stream that ran alongside the fortress, and it was on a small hill near this, that Artorius had already selected. A rectangular hole had been dug to the measurements he had specified. As the cart came to a stop, he walked around behind it and lifted the tarp. Underneath were several slabs of ornate marble. They were slotted so that they would fit together into an altar that was almost the height of a grown man. Such a work of art had been extremely expensive, though Artorius did not care. He would have given his last denarius to see his fallen mentor properly honored. The altar would have a semi-enclosed box on top, where a bust of Centurion Vitruvius would be displayed. It was coming from a separate sculptor and had not yet arrived.
Artorius was explaining to the stone carver and his slaves how the monument was to be arranged. Just below where the bust would be placed a small niche had been carved into the front slab. This is where he would place Vitruvius’ ashes. The bronze tablet that would enclose the front of the space holding his ashes was already in his quarters. On the tablet was inscribed:
Marcus Vitruvius
Centurion Pilus Prior
Killed in Action, Age 41
XX Legion, III Cohort
Soldier of Rome
“He would have liked that,” a woman’s voice said behind him.
Artorius turned to see a statuesque woman a few years his senior. He immediately recognized her as his fallen friend’s sister, Vitruvia. The man who accompanied her, he also recognized.
“Optio Valgus!” he said.
“Centurion Artorius,” Valgus replied.
The man who had savaged him through recruit training and helped mold him into a legionary was much changed since last they had seen each other twelve years before. His hair was mostly gray, despite his less than advanced years. He walked with a slight stoop and had to use a walking stick, as well as being supported by his wife. His legs had lost much of their muscularity, and he had developed a noticeable belly. Still, his face was unmistakable; it was the face of a man Artorius had looked up to and hoped to make proud as he had struggled through recruit training, and then later while on campaign during the Germanic Wars. Artorius walked over and clasped Valgus’ forearm.
“It’s good to see you, sir,” he said with much emphasis.
Valgus gave a sad smile and shook his head. “It is not appropriate for a Centurion to address a former Optio as sir,” he corrected. Artorius simply shook his head.
“I may be a Centurion,” he observed, “but it was you who taught me what I know. You and…”
Both men turned towards the slabs of marble that would be the monument for Vitruvius.
“He was the greatest soldier Rome ever had,” Valgus remarked. “He saved my life, you know.”
“I remember,” Artorius replied. “It was during that gods’ awful assault we came under at the Ahenobarbi Bridges.”
“I took a spear through the hip,” the former Optio remembered, “and before the barbarians could finish me, here came Vitruvius and Statorius. That magnificent bastard even snapped the neck of one of those fuckers with his bare hands!”
“I think he was more afraid of what I would do to him if anything happened to you than he was of the barbarians,” Vitruvia thought aloud.
“He said as much,” Valgus concurred. His face then became somber. “He saved my life, and yet I could not be there to save his.”
“Sir, you cannot blame yourself for what happened to Vitruvius,” Artorius responded. “Two centuries tried to save him and failed.”
“That does not matter,” Valgus retorted. “I owed him my life. Now the debt can never be repaid. It is a scar on my soul that I must bear, both in this life and the next. I only hope he can forgive me.”
“There is nothing to forgive, love,” Vitruvia replied gently, caressing her husband’s face. Her own eyes were damp with emotion as she addressed Artorius. “Celia and the children are coming to live with us. Raising the sons of my brother is a greater task than any woman can take on alone. Fate has taken their father from them, but they will not be without fatherly influence.”
Valgus gave a sad nod. “I hope that by raising my nephews into fine young men I will help atone for my failure to my brother-in-law and friend.”
It baffled Artorius that Valgus could somehow blame himself for Vitruvius’ death. The two men had been very close during their years as legionaries and had come up through the ranks together. They had been more brothers than friends long before Valgus fell for Vitruvius’ sister.
“At least the inscription is appropriate,” Valgus observed as all three of them gazed at the memorial plaque. “He would have liked that.”
The plaque was deeply etched, with the lettering blackened for emphasis. It read:
Soldier rest, thy warfare is over
Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking
Dream of battled fields no more
Days of danger, nights of waking
Rest Soldier, Rest
Chapter XXIX: A Legend Reborn
***
“Fall in!”
It was an hour before dawn, late in September, and Artorius had formed up his men, ready to lead them on a ten mile road march. Slowly, the men of the Century were returning to the level of physical fitness they had once possessed. The afternoons were still warm this time of year, and Artorius decided that it would be best to start building the men’s endurance up again on marches during the cooler hours of the day.
“The Century is formed up and ready to march, Centurion,” Praxus reported with a crisp salute.
Artorius returned the courtesy, and the Optio took his place behind the formation. Their numbers may have been few, and most were still somewhat weakened by their wounds, but Artorius was determined to build his unit back to what it was. No one wore armor or helmets; not yet. He did not even wear his Centurion’s helm, so from a distance he looked like just another legionary. This suited him just fine. His men knew who he was, and he was never one for pompous displays.
Artorius knew it would take time to build his men back to their former level of fighting strength. Each man wore his gladius on his hip and carried his pack with some rations for the day. It was a start. If all he had was forty-six men, then by the gods he would make them the best forty-six legionaries in the whole of the Empire!
“Century!” he shouted. “Right…face!” He then took his place at the head of the small column, Rufio at his side with the Signum.
He was proud when he viewed his Century’s standard, for the brass hand that adorned the top was now bordered by a wreath, similar to that of the Civic Crown. It was symbolic of the unit’s collective valor and had been awarded to them by Legate Apronius, in the name of the Emperor, for their sacrifice in holding the flank against overwhelming numbers. The rest of the Rhine Army regarded him and his men with the highest level of respect and awe. The soldiers who had fought on the line understood what the Third Cohort’s Second Century had suffered for them.
The warm wind blew gently on the Centurion’s face as they marched along the road that led through Cologne. The city forum was not yet alive with the crowds that would wake soon enough. At the outskirts of the city they marched past his house. Artorius could not resist breaking into a grin when he saw Diana leaning against the gate that l
ed into their villa. She smiled and winked at him, glad to see her husband leading his men once more.
“Ave, my lady!” the men shouted.
At midmorning they reached the top of a small hill that overlooked the woods that covered the area. Artorius stood with his hands on his knees and stretched his back out. The stone marker alongside the road told him that they had gone eight miles; far better than he thought they would do. He looked back at his men, and though they looked winded they still kept pace with him. Some who had been among the more gravely wounded and just returned to duty were sweating profusely, their faces pale. One in particular was breathing heavy and looked like he was about to fall over. Artorius recognized him as one of the young legionaries who joined just prior to Braduhenna. The soldier snapped to attention as the Centurion approached him.
“You’re still on light duty, aren’t you?” Artorius asked.
The legionary swallowed hard, keeping his eyes straight ahead.
“Yes, sir. I’m sorry, sir…it’s just that when I saw the Century forming up, I could not watch you all leave without me. First time the Century has been together since…” The legionary dropped his gaze downwards. He was fully expecting to be chastised by his Centurion for violating the conditions of his light duty.
Instead, Artorius placed a hand on his shoulder and the legionary looked up and caught his gaze.
“There’s no quit in the Second Century, is there?” Artorius asked.
The legionary stood tall, his gaze confident once more.
“No sir!”
“Then you will lead us back,” the Centurion replied with an approving nod. He then turned and addressed the rest of the Century. “We’ll rest here for an hour. Squad leaders, make sure your men eat and get plenty of water. Also check everyone’s feet for blisters.” He then found a shade tree and stretched out his lower back and his legs before sitting down beneath it. He pulled a hunk of bread and dried beef from his hip pouch and took a long pull off his water bladder. As he took in a deep breath and enjoyed the cooler breeze coming up from the valley, Praxus hunkered down in front of him.
