Soldier of Rome: The Centurion (The Artorian Chronicles)

by James Mace

  “The lads are finding their fighting spirit again,” he said approvingly.

  Artorius took another bite of bread and downed some more water before answering.

  “It never left them,” he replied. “Just went dormant for a while. How could it not after what we’ve been through? They need to build their confidence back slowly while allowing their bodies to heal properly. Take that soldier who violated his light duty restrictions in order to be with us. There is no quit in him. He will recover faster than some of us who may or may not have been injured as badly as he was. While I do not condone men violating their restrictions set forth by the medics, it makes me glad to see this kind of resolve once more. I also placed him at the head of the column going back so he can set a more measurable pace for himself, rather than trying to keep up with the rest of us.”

  “I just wonder if we’ll ever be at full strength again,” Praxus mused as he sat back against the same tree. “I know a century almost never has all of its billets filled, I just would like to see us where we were before Braduhenna.”

  “Never happen,” Artorius replied. “Oh, we’ll get most of our numbers back, but the century will never be the same again. The copper wreath that adorns our standard came at a terrible price, as do the laurels all units receive from battle. The men who replace our absent friends will have to earn the right to march under the Signum of the Second Century! So no, old friend, the century will never be what it was before. Through hell fire, death, and pain we have forged her into something better. The men may not realize it just yet, but they will.”

  The former tax collector for Frisia was nodding on his couch after a late night of drinking and some amazing nubile wenches, when a ferocious banging was heard loudly from the front of his villa. Several servants rushed to open the vibrating oak door. Olennius was shocked to see legionaries waiting at the door. Senator Gallus had set him up in comfortable quarters and had assured him that he would find a suitable assignment for him soon enough. So when he heard the loud banging on the door at an hour past midnight it took him completely by surprise. Upon further examination, he saw that it wasn’t legionaries that stood outside; it was the Emperor’s own Praetorian Guard.

  “Olennius?” the Decanus at the head of about a dozen men asked.

  “Who wants to know?” the magistrate sneered defiantly as he ambled toward the Decanus. “And what business have you banging on people’s doors at this hour?”

  Before he could say another word, the Decanus slammed his fist into Olennius’ gut, crumpling him to the floor where he vomited some expensive wine. The Praetorian was a big man, one who was not used to having people talk back to him.

  “My business is the Emperor’s!” he snarled as Olennius fought for breath. “And so is yours.”

  “But Senator Gallus promised…” Olennius’ words were cut short as he was dragged to his feet and met by a hard cuff across the side of the head, the soldier’s brass cuffs opening a nice slice on his forehead.

  The Decanus then grabbed him by the hair, pulling his head back, and leaned down so that his face was inches from the magistrate’s.

  “Senator Gallus does not give orders to the Emperor, or to us!” he snapped. “Now we can do this the easy way and my lads here will escort you to the Imperial Palace. Or we can do it the hard way, which I’m sure you don’t want to hear; your choice.”

  Olennius swallowed hard and nodded as the Decanus tightened his grip on his greasy hair and slammed him to the wall.

  “Now was that so hard, sir? Be a good man and step between the two ranks of Praetorians. Don’t want anything happening to you at night in the middle of Rome. It can be dangerous out there,” he sneered.

  The Praetorians marched on either side of him as they headed to the docks. Olennius meant to ask about the Imperial Palace but then he remembered, the Emperor was no longer in Rome. It was to Capri, Olennius would be taken. He hoped that Tiberius was feeling merciful by the time he arrived.

  “What is this?” Artorius asked. Seventeen young men stood rigid in front of the Century’s barracks.

  “You tell me,” Dominus replied with irritation. “I figured it was another one of your recruiting drives. These all arrived from the depot this morning, asking…no, begging to be assigned to you.”

  “Dominus, I haven’t done any personal recruiting drives this year,” Artorius replied with genuine surprise.

  “Well, Macro said that if they want to follow the legendary Centurion Artorius, who was he to deny them?” The Cohort Commander grinned as he finished.

  “Dominus, I’m hardly a legend,” Artorius retorted.

  “Then your powers of observation aren’t what I thought they were,” Dominus replied, walking away.

  Artorius exhaled audibly as his mind raced. He had not expected to receive any new recruits. Fortunately, a legionary from the Century happened to walk past him. He grabbed the man quickly.

  “Fetch Optio Praxus!” he ordered. “Tell him we need to arrange billeting and training schedules for seventeen new recruits.”

  “Sir!” the legionary acknowledged, noticing the new men for the first time.

  Artorius then stood tall and breathed in deeply. All he wore was his tunic and belt. He did not have his gleaming armor and polished helmet like he normally did when addressing new recruits. He didn’t even have his vine stick, the very symbol of his office! In spite of that, these young men were in awe of him. He always joked that it was his large, muscular frame that intimidated people; however, for perhaps the first time he realized that there was more to it than that.

  Slowly he walked the line of recruits, silent and with his hands clasped behind his back. They were a typical lot and still in civilian garb. Some had come from the cities, others were farmers, some the sons of merchants, and there were those whose slovenly appearance told of abject poverty. For these men, their names alone allowed them the honor of serving in the legions. Like all new candidates, they varied in age, though most were very young. The youngest were seventeen, the minimum age by law for a citizen to enlist. The oldest looked to be around twenty-five. The recruits did not know whether to be excited or terrified at the prospect of serving under the legendary Centurion Artorius. It mattered not. Soon they would be subjected to the harsh rigors of recruit training, where only sheer intestinal fortitude and dedication would see them through. Many, perhaps all, would sooner or later feel the wrath of his discipline via the vine stick. But then Artorius had taken his share of beatings as a recruit, and even later as a legionary. Finished with his assessment, he walked slowly back to the center.

  “Recruits,” he spoke. He was not yelling, yet his voice boomed deeply and carried far. “I am Centurion Titus Artorius Justus, Commander of the Third Cohort’s Second Century!”

  Chapter XXX: Imperial Justice

  The Imperial Palace, Isle of Capri

  October, 28 A.D.

  ***

  Olennius’ hopes of clemency faded as the Isle of Capri came into view. The Praetorians who escorted him to the Emperor’s villa had maintained their silence throughout the voyage. The merchant ship they had chartered was docked on the shore just south of the Villa Jovis, the most private of the Emperor’s houses on the island. An Imperial Navy warship patrolled the waters outside the villa; about half a century of Praetorian Guardsmen were lining the path leading up to the house.

  The magistrate found he was unable to appreciate the splendor of the Emperor’s estate as he was led to the gardens that overlooked the sea. Lost to his senses were the ornate statues, the smells of the botanical gardens, and the sounds of fountains whose water cascaded into pools below. A Praetorian pointed through the archway where Tiberius waited on a stone bench. The soldiers stood outside the garden, leaving Olennius alone with the Emperor.

  Tiberius was not wearing his imperial toga, as expected. Instead, he had donned the armor of a Legionary Legate. The armor was old and worn, the blows of countless adversaries having scored its surface. Olennius had forg
otten that the Emperor had once been among Rome’s greatest generals. He further did not realize that having commanded the Twentieth, Tiberius took their savaging personally.

  “I’ve been expecting you,” the Emperor said, as he arose and turned his back to Olennius, hands clasped behind him. “Do you know why I summoned you?”

  “A misunderstanding, Caesar, I assure you,” the magistrate stammered. He took a quick step backwards when Tiberius whirled around and faced him.

  The Emperor’s gaze burned into his soul, his face as hard as stone.

  “A misunderstanding, of course,” Tiberius replied. “Under most circumstances I would never bother with issues surrounding such a minor province as Frisia. I allow the Senate to appoint magistrates as they see fit, and leave such magistrates to execute their duties.”

  “I implore you, Caesar, to know that I executed my duties only in what I felt was best for the Empire.”

  In response, the Emperor tossed a scroll onto a nearby stone table.

  “The tribute for Frisia was set by my brother decades ago,” he responded coldly. “And yet you took it upon yourself to alter the established sum. Strange that you sent only the required amount to Rome, and yet you extracted much more. You lined your coffers while impoverishing the people of Frisia.”

  “They are nothing but mindless barbarians!” Olennius snapped. He knew he was damned unless he defended himself. “It was better for all if they had starved to death!” Tiberius snorted in reply, keeping himself surprisingly calm. Only a few who knew the Emperor best understood that the calmer Tiberius appeared, the deeper his rage. He produced another scroll, which he unfurled as he tossed it at Olennius’ feet.

  “Read,” the Emperor ordered, pointing to the scroll. The magistrate picked one end and started to read.

  “It is just a list of names,” he scoffed.

  “Yes,” the Emperor concurred. “Roman names, or rather, Roman soldier names. That is the list of every legionary and auxilia soldier who died at Flevum and Braduhenna. They died because of your greed! Their deaths are on your head, and their souls cry out for vengeance. It has been a long time since I donned my armor. I do so now out of respect for them. And now it is time that justice was served.” With that he picked up a gladius that was in its scabbard on a nearby table. He then threw it at Olennius’ feet.

  “Take your own life, and you will spare your family the ignominy of a trial and execution,” Tiberius explained dispassionately. “Everything you plundered from Frisia will be used as compensation to those who died there. You still know how to wield a gladius, don’t you?”

  Olennius stared at the weapon at his feet as Tiberius again turned his back to him. He picked it up and drew the gladius from its scabbard. The blade and point were extremely sharp. The Emperor at least wanted him to be able to grant himself a quick death! No thoughts did the magistrate spare his family. Instead hatred consumed him, thoughts of betrayal. The Frisians had betrayed him, the legions who should have put the rebellion down expediently, and now the Emperor himself had betrayed him!

  “Oh yes, I still know how to use a gladius,” he growled. Eyes filled with rage, he rushed towards the Emperor. His last act in this world would be to slay the tyrant who had abandoned him and had the gall to demand he take his own life.

  As he grew closer time seemed to crawl. When he was but a meter from his prey, the Emperor spun around to the right in a flash, drawing his own weapon, smashing the pommel into the side of Olennius’ face. The magistrate stumbled, dropping the gladius as he fell right into the point of the Emperor’s blade which plunged into his guts.

  Olennius fell and rolled onto his back, clutching his stomach in horrible pain as he spewed bile and blood from his lips. Tiberius casually knelt down and wiped his blade off on the magistrate’s tunic.

  “No,” Tiberius replied, “I don’t think you ever knew how to use a gladius properly. Lucky for you I never forgot. You will take some time to die from your wound, though it is nothing compared to what the Praetorians outside that entranceway would have done to you.” Bending over, the Emperor whispered, “Remember the Twentieth.”

  Alaric was startled by the sight of a body falling from the cliff and splashing into the sea. The young man stood on the prow of the ship, trying to catch a glimpse of the Emperor’s villa high up on the rocks.

  “What in Hades was that?” he asked some of his mates who were also above deck.

  “Imperial justice, no doubt,” one of the other oarsmen replied. “I suspect that our guest fell ill of the Emperor’s graces. Does me good to see how far the mighty can fall…at least a hundred meters!” he chuckled.

  “Alright, make ready to cast off!” the sailing master shouted.

  Alaric immediately headed down below and found his seat on one of the oar benches.

  It had been three years since he had left Britain, seeking for what he did not know. His mother, Milla, had been devastated by his departure. By contrast, King Breogan of the Brigantes, who had cared for Alaric and his mother since their village in Germania had been destroyed by the Romans, was supportive of his decision.

  The one person that he missed the most was Breogan’s daughter, Princess Cartimandua. She had been like an older sister, although he had viewed their friendship as something more than just that of siblings. It was a foolish boy’s fantasy, of course. Cartimandua was not only several years older than he, she would be Queen of the Brigantes someday. A lost boy from a destroyed Germanic race had nothing to offer her. Still, he allowed himself to feel at least some amount of affection for her. She and her father had been very kind to Milla and Alaric after their great tragedy.

  As he started to row back from the docks on Capri, Alaric began to recall the embedded memories of his early past. He tried desperately to remember his father, Chief Barholden of the Marsi. Though he could vaguely remember the day he and his mother fled from their village, he could not put a face to the man who had died protecting them. And here he was, in the middle of the Mediterranean, doing a mission for the very Emperor that had ordered his people’s extermination. The idea was surreal to him. Of course, he knew that Tiberius had given the order to the legions that had smashed his people into near oblivion, yet he could not place that context with the same man whose prey they had just delivered to him.

  His ship was slated to return to Rome to pick up cargo bound for North Africa, more slaves no doubt. The last time they docked it had been dark, and they were there to transport the single prisoner and some Praetorian Guardsmen. These men had elected to stay at Capri for a while, looking for some leisure and entertainment. Life on the ship was dull for the most part. They remained just far enough out to sea that all he could see was the water and skyline through the small portal next to his oar. Still, it did pay a decent wage; one hundred denarii per annum, plus bonuses on specialty cargo. Each man had been given an extra three denarii just for transporting this prisoner that the Emperor was anxious to have brought to him.

  The ship’s captain promised them some time off in Rome, and Alaric hoped to take advantage of this. The last leave they had gotten was in Mauretania, at a bleak and desolate port that he would just as soon forget. Their cargo for that voyage was prisoners and condemned criminals bound for the sulfur mines. There hadn’t even been any decent brothels to steal away his virtue. He then wondered if he was betraying his slain kinsmen by wishing to seek out physical comforts with Roman women. After all, Rome had to have the best houses of lust in the whole of the Empire, and what better place for him to finally become a man? Still, it troubled him. He knew that he should hate the Romans, but he just could not envision the few that he had seen with the people that had murdered his tribe. He was a confused lad and not sure what he was hoping to find by venturing into the Eternal City. Part of him was fascinated by the heart of the Empire; a place which ruled the civilized world from the far reaches of Hispania to Arabia. The seemingly chaotic city lorded over all.

  The other part of his soul cried out for r
evenge. This tore at him, for he knew he must be honor bound to avenge his murdered father and fellow tribesmen. It was difficult for him to harness this desire, since he had little to no memories of any of them or of their deaths. He vaguely remembered running to his father, who picked him up and held him close. Barholden must have known that his death approached, for he had shown his son much affection, and Alaric swore he could remember a trace of sadness, though he still struggled to envision his father’s face. That was the last time he could remember seeing him. Barholden, chief of the Marsi, was killed the following day, along with most of the warriors who fought in vain to protect their families from the wrath of the legions. Alaric had never even seen a legionary before that fateful day.

  Milla had been one of the best swimmers in their village, and with him across her back she had managed to cross the raging river before the Romans arrived. She had practically smothered him while she watched the legions burn the village and kill everyone within. Alaric wasn’t certain if he could remember the sounds of people screaming. Milla had shielded his eyes and ears, plus the noise of the river would have drowned out most other sounds. She later told him how she watched his grandfather, aunt, and newborn cousin all murderously butchered by the soldiers. He had no memory of any of them, and therefore struggled to put any emotional weight behind her words.

  “You alright?” the words of the man who shared the same oar bench startled him. The two had become friends over the last three years, though Alaric had never told him about his past or where he was originally from.