Soldier of Rome: Journey to Judea (The Artorian Chronicles)

by James Mace

  “I would like to see Cursor again,” Artorius said. “We fought in many of the same battles, and yet we never even met until after I became a centurion. Where can I find him?”

  “Well, he was recently appointed as an Aedile, so probably inspecting one of the bathhouses or brothels. Of course, there are hundreds of each within the city.”

  This brought a brief chuckle from both men. The Aediles were official magistrates of the Roman government. They were primarily tasked with the licensing of brothels and bathhouses while overseeing the hygienic inspections of both. It was hardly what one would expect a man who’d once saved a legion to be appointed to do.

  Cassius was serious once more. “I sent word to Centurion Cornelius. He knows where to meet you. I believe he has also made some of the arrangements for your transportation to Caesarea.”

  “Thank you, sir. I am much obliged to you.”

  “Good day, centurion,” Cassius said as the two exchanged salutes.

  As Cassius left, Artorius saw in his face the same eternal anguish that haunted all survivors of Teutoburger Wald. Master Centurion Macro was also a survivor. One of the few to escape from captivity and pending execution following the battle. Though Cassius was a national hero for having organized a successful stand and extraction that saved the lives of over a hundred soldiers, nothing could ever relieve the sense of loss he had suffered. Several of the tribunes in his legion had been lifelong friends; they had grown up together, were on similar career paths, and had been doing their compulsory service in the legions. All were killed. Cassius was the only officer of the equite class to survive the disaster, and none of the senatorial legates or laticlavian tribunes lived. Artorius had felt similar loss at Braduhenna. The difference being, despite their terrible losses that battle had been won.

  The campaigns of retribution that came six years after Teutoburger Wald had been Artorius’ first, and for him it had been a personal vendetta. He sometimes wondered how differently his life would have been had his brother not been killed in that terrible place.

  As he sat by himself, the centurion contemplated something that had lingered inside him for some time. Just how many people had he killed in his career? He honestly did not know for certain. It was not unusual for a legionary to go his entire term of service without bloodying his gladius. Patrolling the frontiers, building roads, and conducting the mundane tasks of garrison life made up the vast majority of a Roman soldier’s career. Contrary to what many thought, the life of a legionary was far less glorious than the depictions on columns and friezes that adorned popular artwork and monuments. When a legionary stood on a watchtower at the edge of the frontier, weighted down by his heavy armor, wrapped in his cloak while the rain poured down on him, his feelings were those of misery and boredom rather than glory.

  When battles did occur, the total amount of time a legionary spent on the fighting line often amounted to no more than a few minutes. With multiple ranks constantly rotating, for every five minutes a soldier spent fighting he spent roughly twenty-five resting. And if the battle was over quickly, he may not get a chance to engage at all. Yet whether it was fate or just dumb luck, Artorius had most often found himself in either the first or second rank during major battles. At Braduhenna, his first battle as a centurion, Artorius’ century had fought by itself, rather than as part of a larger cohort formation. Therefore, Artorius had been out front the entire duration.

  He had been personally trained by the late legendary Marcus Vitruvius, the most perfect killing machine the Roman Army had ever unleashed. And though there were many occasions where he would score only superficial injuries to his enemies or be unable to close the distance effectively, when Artorius was on the fighting line, enemies of Rome often died. After his final skirmish on the Rhine, he’d heard some of his younger soldiers complaining they had not been able to kill anyone. He thought they should consider themselves lucky.

  As he sat brooding for a moment, the door opened once more and a younger praetorian officer stepped in.

  “Centurion Pilus Prior Artorius?” the man asked. Artorius replied with a nod, to which the praetorian extended his hand. “Centurion Lucius Cornelius.”

  “I trust you’ve made arrangements for legionaries arriving from North Africa and the other western provinces?”

  “Yes, sir.” Cornelius then produced a series of scrolls. “Here is the roster of every volunteer and which legion they arrived from. I have made marks next to all who’ve arrived. The only ones unaccounted for are from the First, Fifth, and Twentieth Legions. Am I correct to guess they all came with you?”

  “They did,” Artorius answered. “What about transportation? By my estimate, we will need at least three Quinquereme class ships to transport all of our men, their equipment and baggage, plus all the household goods and slaves brought by the officers.”

  “I’ve got you two,” Cornelius replied. “Apologies, sir, but there simply are not enough merchant ships with sufficient empty space. They tend to leave as full as when they arrived, only with other types of cargo. Any wasted empty space costs them money. Getting a detachment of military vessels has proven extremely difficult, though I did manage to get the two Quinqueremes. They were confiscated ships taken by imperial customs from a band that was caught smuggling cargo from the Far East and attempting to avoid paying tax on goods brought from beyond the empire. They are slated to be refitted as warships. However, I was able to acquire their use for this mission.”

  “Fair enough,” Artorius acknowledged. “The household baggage and slaves of the officers can travel by land, though their arrival in Judea will take months rather than weeks.”

  “I’m afraid it’s unavoidable, sir,” Cornelius apologized. He then handed Artorius another parchment. “Every officer, optio and above, will have personal quarters aboard ship and be able to take one personal servant, as will any spouses.”

  “You’re quite the logistician,” Artorius noted with approval as he read through the scrolls, which detailed the storage of rations, drinking water, as well as any equipment they would need as soon as they landed in Judea.

  “It was one of my duties with the praetorians, sir. In addition to being an optio, I was responsible for the handling of all supply transactions within my cohort. Any time we needed new blankets for the barracks, bunks constructed, exotic foods for the officers’ mess, or any other assortment of things a praetorian cohort needs, I was the one who was told to make it happen.”

  “Good to know,” Artorius stated. “I’m certain we’ll have a further use for your skills once we arrive in Caesarea.”

  Cornelius nodded in reply and then continued going through his notes about the travel by sea. “Legionaries will have to sleep on deck, of course. It will be cramped, and I hope not too many get seasick.” Artorius took a deep breath through his nose, which made Cornelius grin for a moment. “Not a fan of the sea are you, sir?”

  “Let’s just say I may be spending more time leaning over the side of the ship than in my quarters,” Artorius replied dryly. “Two days from Massilia to Ostia was bad enough. I admit that I loathe the thought of two weeks at sea.”

  “Of course, it depends on the weather,” Cornelius added. “Commander Stoppello tells me he once made it to Alexandria in nine days, though that was under ideal conditions. Plus he and a fellow captain had placed a rather sizeable wager to see who could get there first.”

  “Stoppello?”

  “Commander Tiberius Stoppello,” Cornelius read from other scroll that had the names of the ships’ officers and crew. “Twenty years with the Imperial Navy, eight as a ship’s captain. He knows his way around the Mediterranean better than any man alive.”

  Artorius looked at the parchment and grinned when he recognized one of the names, which he pointed to. “I think I know this man.”

  “Hansi Flavianus,” Cornelius observed. “That’s unusual, he has a Roman family name, yet his given name is either Germanic or Nordic. It says here he’s Stoppello’s sailing
master.”

  “And if he is who I’m thinking of, he’s the brother of one of my centurions.”

  Their time in the Imperial City had passed far too quickly. It was their last evening in Rome, and while his men enjoyed a final night in the port city of Ostia, Artorius took a walk in the vineyards with his stepmother. He was growing concerned about his father’s health, given the drastic change in his appearance since the last time he was home. He expressed this to Juliana.

  “Your father has aged quite a bit over the past few years,” she confessed. Though now in her sixties, Juliana had aged rather gracefully, far more so than her husband who was three years younger than she. “He spends less time in the fields now, and recently had to hire an overseer to do all the tasks in the vineyards he used to enjoy.”

  “How can he afford an overseer?” Artorius asked, concerned. “The upkeep of his slaves is costly enough. I cannot imagine that some wealthy patrician hasn’t tried to buy the vineyard out from under him.”

  “Oh they have,” Juliana said. “One of the city tribunes named Cursor made him quite a reasonable offer just two weeks ago. I wish your father had taken him up on it.”

  “So do I,” Artorius replied. “I know Tribune Cursor well. He is a good man, and one of the best cavalry officers I ever served with.”

  “Your father likes living away from the chaos of the city,” Juliana observed. “I cannot say I blame him. I sold my cottage about two years ago. We used part of the money to hire the overseer and purchase a couple more slaves to work the fields. No, I think that regardless of how hard things may become, he will spend the rest of his days here.”

  “What if I bought the house and the vineyards from him?” Artorius asked. “I would be accepting all financial obligations; you and father can continue to live here as my tenants.”

  “I do not think he would wish to place such a burden on you…” Juliana started to say.

  Artorius cut her short. “Mother, I have money. I am a centurion pilus prior, which pays a substantial sum. My annual wage is thirty times that of a legionary in the ranks. And remember, Diana comes from the Proculeius family. Her fortune and financial worth exceed mine considerably. A greater burden to me would be knowing that one bad harvest and you and Father could lose everything, to say nothing of his declining health.”

  “I will talk with him,” Juliana said, a sense of relief showing in her face and demeanor.

  Chapter X: Casting Off

  Port of Ostia, Italia

  May, 31 A.D.

  ***

  Though grateful for the time he and Diana were able to spend with his family, Artorius was now anxious to get his men on the ships and headed for Judea. As his father-in-law had shown little interest in seeing him or Metellus, Diana had offered to go alone to pay her respects. The visit was, unsurprisingly, brief. She had yet to tell her husband what transpired between them.

  Disciplinary problems had been minimal while his soldiers were in Rome. This came as a relief, seeing as many of the men under his command came from other units, and he was not familiar with their habits yet. Still, the lack of issues meant the screening process he and his fellow officers had done of the men’s service records had been effective.

  He made his way down to the docks, where a pair of Quinquereme ships were waiting for them. These were the heavier class of Roman warships, so named because of the five rows of oars that protruded from each side.

  “Centurion Artorius?” a voice said behind him.

  He turned to see an older sailor who was mostly bald. What hair he did have was mostly gray. He was also very tall; a good half head taller than Artorius.

  “Yes?” the centurion replied to the man, who immediately extended his hand.

  “Commander Tiberius Stoppello,” the sailor said, clasping his hand.

  “Of course you are,” Artorius replied with a grin.

  “Come aboard, and I’ll show you where you and your men will be staying,” Stoppello explained as they walked up the plank and onto the ship, which was a bustle of activity. Magnus accompanied them and appeared to be looking around anxiously. Quartermasters were uploading supplies of rations and fresh water, sailors tended to the sails and masts, while oarsmen were constantly moving between decks.

  “A miniature fortress on water,” Artorius observed. “How many men on your crew?”

  “We have about four hundred sailors and oarsmen,” Stoppello explained, “With another one hundred and twenty marines once we’re refitted as a proper warship. For now, your legionaries will be acting as marines.”

  “I have two nearly centuries of men riding on each ship, so it will be a tight fit.”

  “No matter,” Magnus replied. “We’ve slept in cramped spaces before.”

  “I’ll cramp your space with a fist in your arse!” The shouted voice startled the three men., Before they could react, a large figure swooped down from the top deck, tackling Magnus to the ground. The Nordic centurion was caught by surprise and fell to his back. The large man, with an equally blonde mop of hair, spewing obscenities as they grappled on the deck, throwing wild blows. Yet, for the violence of the spectacle, it appeared both men were laughing maniacally through it all.

  “What is the meaning of this?” Stoppello snapped.

  Artorius placed a hand on his chest as he made to move towards the men. The centurion was laughing to himself.

  “I think I know,” he replied. He shouted, “And a good day to you, Hansi!”

  The large man staggered to his feet, his eyes wild with traces of hair hanging in his face. “Oy! You must be Artorius…” Before he could finish, Magnus smashed his fist into his face, sending him sprawling. His insane laughter never ceased. “By Odin’s raven, you still hit like a girl, little brother!”

  Commander Stoppello let out a sigh and shook his head. “I should have guessed,” he said. “For a moment, I thought my sailing master had gone insane. Hansi!”

  “Sir!” the Nordic sailor barked, suddenly on his feet.

  “You can express your sibling affections later. Right now I need you to ensure that all rations and water casks are secured, and then have the oarsmen make ready.”

  “Right away!”

  “I’ll be buggered,” Valens said as he stepped onto the deck from the gangplank. “That’s your brother?”

  “And your brother-in-law,” Magnus added, his hands on his knees with his face sweaty and flushed. “Why don’t you go introduce yourself? I’m sure he’d just love to hear about your torrid adventures with our baby sister.”

  “Thanks, but if his affections are anything like your grandfather’s, I think I’ll wait until he’s finished making you feel welcome.” He then turned to Artorius. “We’re ready when you are.”

  The centurion nodded. “Have the lads come aboard and start stowing their gear. Commander Stoppello, when will we be ready to depart?”

  “Within the hour.”

  “Alaric, are you ready?” The question startled the young man. He looked up from where he was stowing his few personal belongings into a canvas sack and saw the sailing master, Hansi, standing over him. He had been dozing next to an empty crate on the pier while dock workers loaded cargo onto the waiting ship, before rousing himself to pack up his few possessions.

  “Just packing up my things,” he said quietly.

  “Ever sailed on a military vessel?” Hansi asked.

  “No,” the young man replied, eyes cast downward as he tied the sack close.

  “After you get your personal effects stowed, report to the master of arms to draw your gladius and buckler.”

  The order felt strange to Alaric but he simply nodded and walked ahead of the sailing master up the ramp and onto the crowded deck of the ship. He ran his fingers through his blonde hair and swallowed hard as he saw dozens of Roman soldiers in full armor crowded onto the deck.

  “Who are they?” he asked nervously.

  “First Italic Cohort,” Hansi answered, “headed to Judea. Nothing to wor
ry yourself over. My brother is one of their centurions.” He then hailed a Roman officer that Alaric could only guess was the sailing master’s brother. Once the man turned to face them, Alaric could see the striking resemblance. The two men were blonde haired and fair skinned like he was, but they were not of his people.

  Alaric was originally of the Marsi tribe in Germania. He and his mother had been two of the only survivors from his village when it was destroyed by the Romans nearly sixteen years before. Alaric’s father, whose face he sadly could not remember, had been chief of their people and, as far as he knew, had died in battle. After fleeing the onslaught of the legions, his mother gained them passage to Britannia, where Alaric grew up in the court of Brigante King Breogan and his daughter, Cartimandua. Though she was a few years older than he, Alaric was infatuated with the Brigante princess. She viewed him like a younger sibling, and he knew that any feelings he had for her were in vain. After all, as her father’s only child, she was heir to the kingdom, and he was but a refugee from a defeated race. When he was thirteen, Alaric decided to leave the safe confines of Breogan’s house and make his way out into the world.

  The ship’s captain, Commander Tiberius Stoppello, was arguing with the dockhands, who were insisting they take on additional cargo that needed to get to Alexandria. Stoppello was explaining that with one hundred and sixty legionaries on board, there simply was not room for any extraneous cargo. He also emphasized that the imperial Quaestor was paying him far more for transporting legionaries to Judea than he would receive if he took the cargo instead. Alaric watched the two men argue and did not see the legionary until he bumped into him.

  “Here, watch where the hell you’re going!” the man barked.

  Alaric was startled and took a step back. Packs, shields, and javelins were stacked all about, and the soldier was struggling to keep his footing as he attempted to take off his armor.

  Not wishing to see any more of the armored men, Alaric quickly made his way below deck and found his place behind an oar. A sad irony that after his people were massacred by the Romans, he was now serving aboard one of their warships. He had spent the past several years working aboard merchant ships, mostly smaller triremes, as he grew from boy to man. It was after a spell in Rome he took this position aboard the large Quinquereme. He had met the man named Hansi, who was on leave while their new ship was going through its initial refitting. Given his fair skin and blonde hair, he looked to be of similar ancestry as Alaric.