by James Mace
Though his speech did not elicit any outright applause, there were positive acknowledgments heard as the senators talked quietly amongst themselves, with a few nodding in approval. Claudius was quietly congratulating himself. He had gone the entire time without stammering once. He addressed Marcus directly once more.
“As for what will happen to you, Marcus, you heard me tell Cassius. I will not condemn anyone for the death of Gaius Caligula. Those who murdered Caesonia and Julia have been sentenced and, therefore, the matter is now closed.”
The senators all bowed deeply as they made their exit, Marcus most of all. One man remained. Though not a senator, Claudius knew who he was, his reputation in the legions exemplary, and his service as tribune of the plebs commendable.
“Gaius Calvinus,” Claudius said, acknowledging the man. “I know that C…Cassius is a dear friend of yours, but do n…not ask me to spare his life.” The emperor silently cursed himself that his stutter had returned.
“That is not my intent, Caesar,” Calvinus replied, at last breaking his silence. “It is true, Cassius is a close friend and brother-in-arms. The battles we fought in together forged a bond between us that can never be broken, even by death. He also understands the gravity of his crimes and asked me to make a final request on his behalf. He asks that he be executed with the sword that he used to slay Caligula.”
“Granted,” Claudius nodded. When Calvinus did not make to leave he continued, “Anything else?”
“Yes, Caesar,” Calvinus replied. “For myself, I ask that I be his executioner.”
The cell was surprisingly well-lit despite the scarcity of windows and only a single door. As it sat atop the Capitoline Hill, the narrow slits high on the wall let in a surprising amount of light. The former praetorian had been returned to his cell, which would now serve as his place of execution that very afternoon. Rather than making it a public spectacle at the top of the Gemonian Stairs, the emperor had granted him a private death. Claudius wished to give him at least some dignity, despite Cassius’ terrible crimes. Cassius paced back and forth; his sentence read, he had made peace with whatever gods there may be and impatiently awaited his fate. The rattling of a key in the lock of his cell door echoed, and the metal door swung open with a loud creak. Cassius smiled sadly as Calvinus entered, carrying his scabbarded gladius clutched in his hands.
“Calvinus,” Cassius noted with surprise as his friend approached him and drew the weapon. His eyes were damp, face pale, and knuckles white as he clutched the gladius.
“The emperor agreed to allow you to die by the same blade as Caligula,” Calvinus replied. “And as your friend, I asked that I be permitted to grant you a quick passage into the next life.”
“That was very kind of both of you,” Cassius noted.
Calvinus shook his head and dropped the weapon, which clattered on the stone floor, before slumping down on a nearby bench. Cassius was kneeling and readying himself for death.
“I don’t want to do this,” Calvinus said with much despair in his voice. “When we cut our way out of Teutoburger Wald all those years ago, I never thought it would end like this. Only two others from my century survived that horrid ordeal, and it is because of you we survived. More than a hundred men owed their lives to you after that.” The memory was so long ago, that it seemed almost surreal to both men. “What happened, Cassius? Caligula, yes, but why Caesonia? And by the gods, why her daughter?”
“If you bear any love for me, old friend,” Cassius retorted impatiently, “then question me no more. Many days I think I should have died in Teutoburger Wald. Perhaps the gods would have looked upon me with favor for having fallen in battle. But no matter. Come, strike true and send me on my way. There is a coin in my pouch; place it in my mouth after I am dead, so I can pay Charon for passage across the River Styx and not be left on the shores in limbo for a hundred years.”
“Of course,” Calvinus replied, standing and picking up Cassius’ sword.
“At least you’re not some quibbling fool who doesn’t know how to handle a weapon properly,” Cassius noted. He then leaned forward and bravely stuck his neck out for Calvinus, who nodded in reply.
“Gods be with you, Cassius Chaerea.”
The emperor had ordered that those executed for Caesonia’s murder should be decapitated rather than simply have their arteries cut. Cassius kept his blade sharp, and with his eyes wet with tears, Calvinus swung the weapon down in a hard blow that severed his friend’s spinal column, killing him instantly. It only took one subsequent slash to sever his head completely from his body. Calvinus dropped the gladius next to Cassius’ thrashing body. He then found his friend’s coin pouch and retrieved the single gold aureus. It bore the image of Augustus, and Calvinus wondered if Cassius had carried it with him since Teutoburger Wald. He took Cassius’ head and laid it on his chest, placed the coin in his mouth before leaving. He quickly left the cell, battling against his despair as guards entered the room to retrieve the corpse for disposal. Thus did the life of Cassius Chaerea, one time hero of the Roman Empire, end in contradiction of the slaying of a tyrant, tarnished by the murder of innocents.
Chapter IV: Vow of Honor
Ostia, Italia
April, 41 A.D.
***
Artorius returned to Ostia following the arrest of Cassius Chaerea. He had only been called to remain in Rome in case the city police, known as the vigiles, proved unable to maintain order and he would have to call in his own men. It had proven unnecessary, and with the senate quickly, though in some cases reluctantly, confirming Claudius as the new Emperor of the Roman Empire, order was quickly restored. The execution of Cassius Chaerea and the praetorians who had also murdered Caesonia and her daughter quickly quelled any public outcry for justice. Thankfully, the people also had a genuine affection for Claudius; a man who many felt had been neglected and never given his due by the rest of the imperial family throughout his long life.
Within his first three months in power, Claudius made good on his promise to work in cooperation with the senate, among which he still had a number of longtime friends. By necessity, he paid a bounty to the members of the Praetorian Guard, as well as an equal sum to every soldier within the legions. A substantial portion of this had come from his personal funds. Though some viewed it as the emperor attempting to buy the loyalty of the army, it was an understandable donative that ensured the legions would, in the very least, give ‘the brother of Germanicus’, as he was sometimes known, the respect his position warranted.
“As long as nothing untoward happens to him, I think Rome is at last in good hands,” Cursor noted as he and Artorius rode their horses along the road that split off from the Via Apia and led towards the docks in Ostia. The plebian tribune was taking a much-deserved holiday though, of all places, he chose the Isle of Capri, where the Emperor Tiberius had lived in self-imposed seclusion for years. His wife, Adela, was already there, awaiting his arrival.
“For me, it matters little who is emperor anymore,” Artorius noted. “I have my little assignment here that they created for me, where there is little to no actual work to do. To be honest, my greatest enemy is boredom.”
“Not quite the life of the legions,” Cursor observed.
“It’s no life, really,” Artorius grumbled. “Though I am but a commander of vigiles, I technically still hold a billet of centurion primus ordo. This means that since I have never been officially discharged from the legions, I cannot submit my petition to be elevated into the equites. And unless I’m an equite, I can never run for any sort of public office.”
“A series of technicalities meant to stifle you completely,” Cursor grumbled as he dismounted his horse and clasped his friend’s hand before boarding the waiting ship. “I am sorry, old friend. I do wish it had ended differently for you.”
“As do I,” Artorius replied. “My political enemies were very patient, and after what happened in Judea, they were able to exact at least some retribution.” He then watched his friend m
ake his way up the boarding ramp and was soon on his way to Capri. He reckoned, perhaps, it was time he took his wife on a holiday as well; a very long one.
For Artorius, it had been four years since his return from the east. The Battle of Mount Gerizim, which had seen over a thousand Samaritan rioters slaughtered by both auxiliaries as well as Artorius’ own legionaries, had cost him his command of the First Italic Cohort. Though never criminally charged, he was removed from his position, with the cohort disbanded and its members sent back to the legions. Artorius was the only one not to return to the ranks, instead being named Prefect of Vigiles for Ostia which was, essentially, command of an urban cohort, meant to keep the peace on the busy docks of the port city. Though his men were more agreeable to work with than the undisciplined auxiliaries that had plagued him in Judea, they were nowhere near the caliber of legionaries.
Although he and his wife, Diana, were grateful to be home after many years away, their lives had been beset by personal tragedy. Within six months of his return, Artorius’ father had finally succumbed after many years of poor health. That winter, his stepmother, Juliana, had fallen violently ill and died before the spring.
“They were such wonderful people,” Diana said one evening as they lounged on the couches in their small dining hall. “A pity I did not get to spend more time getting to know them.”
“Father’s health had been declining for many years,” Artorius noted. “When he was younger, he was able to work through the pain of the leg injury he suffered in the legions many years before I was even born. But as time went on, it slowed him considerably, and the stress of owning the vineyards took its toll on him. I wish he had accepted Cursor’s offer to buy the place or, in the very least, let me purchase the vineyards from him and install an overseer. I had spoken once to Juliana about it, and she seemed to embrace the idea. Sadly, father’s pride would have none of it.”
“Cursor and Adela do seem to enjoy having a place just outside the city,” Diana observed. After Juliana passed on, Artorius had asked his friend if he was still interested in purchasing the villa and vineyards, which the tribune was. “Do you ever regret selling him your childhood home?”
“No,” Artorius replied, shaking his head. “It’s been twenty-six years since I left. It ceased to be ‘home’ for me a long time ago. After Father and Juliana died, I no longer felt any connection to the place.”
It bewildered Diana to hear her husband mention just how many years had passed. He was now forty-three, she was forty-five, and yet neither of them looked or felt remotely close to their age. Though both Artorius and Diana were physically in the prime of health and looked far younger than they were, the memories of all that had transpired over the years was sometimes overwhelming. A decade had passed since they left the Rhine frontier for Judea. The battle they had fought on their sea voyage with a renegade pirate ship sometimes felt like it had happened within the last month, rather than ten years ago.
Their reminiscing about the past was interrupted by their freedman, Proximo, who entered with a short bow.
“Forgive me, sir, but you have an honored guest.”
“Guest?” Artorius asked. “But we are not expecting anyone. Who is it?”
“Centurion Metellus Artorius Posthumous,” the freedman answered, as in walked Artorius’ adopted son.
He was in full armor, wearing the harness with his phalerae campaign medals and decorations. His helmet, which he carried tucked under his arm, bore the transverse horsehair crest that denoted his rank.
“Son!” Artorius shouted, jumping to his feet.
“This is a most welcome surprise,” Diana added as she rose more slowly from her couch.
“And a centurion, no less!” Artorius said with emphasis after he embraced his son. Though biologically his nephew, and only eleven years younger than he, Artorius still loved and regarded Metellus as if he were his son by birth rather than adoption.
“It happened two months ago,” Metellus explained as he handed his helmet to a servant who also took his belt and gladius from him. Proximo helped him out of his armor as he explained, “I meant to write and tell you, but since I was being given leave, I figured I would see you in person long before the post ever arrived. Granted, I underestimated the speed of the imperial post and overestimated my own abilities to acquire transport clear to Ostia from Cologne, but still I am glad to have told you in person.”
“Well, this does call for celebration,” Diana stated as a number of the household staff helped Metellus out of his armor and took his equipment for him. “You must join us for supper.”
“Gladly,” the young centurion replied. “But first I have official business I need to take care of that involves you, Father. Can we speak privately in your study?”
“Of course,” Artorius replied.
Metellus then turned to Diana. “Apologies, Mother. I will gladly join you as soon as I finish with the formalities of my coming here.”
“We’ll talk outside,” Artorius stated. “My office is too small and feels rather stuffy in the evenings.
“Of course.” It seemed strange to Diana how the two men could immediately change from the joy of seeing each other after being apart for four years, to that of formality as they exited the room.
“Well, do tell,” Artorius said as they walked onto the small patio that was enclosed by large shrubs. “What official business could the Rhine army possibly have with me?”
“It’s been ten years since you left the Twentieth Legion,” Metellus observed, bringing with him a leather satchel which he set on a nearby bench. “That being said, your reputation has continued unabated.”
“I’d hate to think what my reputation there is now,” Artorius snorted before taking a long pull of wine. “I was but one centurion out of many when I left. And after six years as a cohort commander, I was relieved in disgrace after Mount Gerizim.” There was a lingering trace of bitterness in his voice. Though he’d come to accept that he no longer commanded soldiers of Rome, despite on paper holding the rank of centurion primus ordo, it aggrieved him that he had not left the legions on his own terms. He never said it openly, but Diana knew that he felt he had left things unfinished with the Roman Army. Metellus was aware of this as well. “No one in the ranks faults you for what happened with those Samaritan bastards,” he explained. “In fact, most credit you for achieving such a decisive victory against a numerically superior enemy. Our brethren in the legions could care less about who we slaughtered that day. A victory is a victory to them. Our actions may have caused a political debacle, but from a tactical standpoint the legions view your actions as brilliant.”
“That, at least, is good to hear,” Artorius replied. “Still, it doesn’t matter. My time as a soldier of Rome is long over.”
“I wouldn’t say that,” Metellus replied, reaching into his bag and producing a pair of scrolls. “Some of the younger soldiers, who were but legionaries or decanii when you left, are now centurions and options. They remember you winning the Legion Champion Tournament several times, and none have forgotten how you held the flank during the Battle of Braduhenna. And don’t forget, two of your closest friends now serve with the First Cohort.”
“Yes, I was glad for Magnus and Praxus,” Artorius remarked with a smile. “Their promotions were long overdue. I suspect one of them will become primus pilus before too long.”
The First Cohort housed the elite troops of the legion. It consisted of five centuries instead of the usual six, though each century was at double-strength of one hundred and sixty men. Four of the commanders held the rank of centurion primus ordo and were, in fact, senior in rank to the cohort commanders, serving as tactical advisors to the commanding legate in addition to leading their own troops. The remaining century in the unit, along with the entire cohort, was led by the centurion primus pilus, who also served as the master centurion of the legion and was third in command behind the senatorial legate and chief tribune. It was also the pinnacle of an enlisted soldier’s
career, and the only rank within the Roman Army where the holder was elected by his peers. Artorius was proud to hear that the year before his closest friends had been promoted to centurion primus ordo.
“Our master centurion met with a terrible accident three months ago,” Metellus continued. “Gangrene set in and he died a few weeks later.”
“Who was it?” Artorius asked, concerned that it might have been an old comrade.
“No one you knew,” Metellus reassured him. “He’d come to us as a centurion primus ordo from the First Legion. Well, during the Centurions Council to name his replacement, both Magnus and Praxus refused to stand for the position.”
“Why the hell would they do that?” It exasperated Artorius that his friends, who had come so far in their respective careers, would decline a chance at the highest rank any of them could ever achieve.
“Publicly, both said that they lack the necessary experience,” his son explained.
“That’s a load of shit,” Artorius scoffed. “If I ever see those two again, I’ll beat the piss out of them!”
“Most of the cohort commanders are new to their positions as well,” Metellus continued. “It was the oddest thing that we had such a high turnover amongst senior leaders around the same time. Only two of them put their names forward for consideration. Both were Civic Crown recipients. While this holds a lot of sway, Magnus managed to get a third candidate onto the ballot, albeit in absentia.”