Soldier of Rome: The Centurion (The Artorian Chronicles)

by James Mace

  “Here we are,” he said, as he sat beneath a large shade tree, bushes to his front masking his presence to the valley bellow.

  “What am I looking for?” Amke asked as she knelt down next to him.

  Tabbo grinned and pointed down into the valley.

  “Out there,” he replied, “where that road comes out of the tree line. You will see them soon enough. They always come around this time of day, especially on pleasant days like this.” Amke wanted to ask him who he was referring to, but decided to sit and wait.

  As the sun reached its apex in the sky, they heard the sound of footfalls marching in step, along with the rhythmic banging of metal on metal. The sun caught the standard carried at the front of the column as they exited the trees across the way. It was a brilliant standard, one that Amke had never seen before; a long pole with a series of several silver discs running up it. A small rectangular plaque was above these, and at the very top was a copper hand, palm facing towards them. The man who carried the standard wore bronze scale armor and a helmet with some type of animal skin covering it. The men who marched behind the standard, and were now fanning out on either side into a large rectangular formation, were equally impressive.

  “So these are the Romans,” Amke observed.

  “Not just Romans,” Tabbo added. “These are legionaries, the best fighting men in the entire Empire.” Their iron armor consisted of banded plates around the torso, as well as vertical plates covering the shoulders. Their helmets had a protruding neck plate off the back with guards covering the cheeks. Each carried a large, rectangular shield that was painted a bright red with gold colored wings coming off the bronze metal boss in the center. Brass strips ran the along the edges as well.

  “I did not know there was so much iron in the entire world!” Amke said, marveling at the gleaming armor.

  This caused Tabbo to chuckle softly.

  “This is but a single Century,” the war chief explained, “a paltry fraction of a legion. They paint their shields bright so that not only can a commander identify his men, but so that the enemy can see them coming and be afraid. If you count their heads, there are not even eighty men on the field. Imagine what their enemies must feel when facing a legion of five thousand of these men!”

  “You admire the Romans,” Amke noted, still watching the scene below as a soldier in the distance who looked to be wearing chainmail instead of plate armor raised his short staff in the air. His helmet was adorned with a red horsehair crest that ran transverse across the top. The legionaries immediately halted.

  “Squads one through five, make ready for javelin practice!” The man’s voice carried a great distance. “Squads six through ten, to the training stakes!”

  “That man is a Centurion,” Tabbo explained to the unasked question. “And yes, I do admire the Romans greatly. I have fought beside them before, in fact, our people have adopted some of their practices in close combat to our own weapons and tactics. As you can see by looking at the men attacking those tall poles with their short swords, they like to get in close to their enemy. The Romans believe that those who fight with longer weapons, such as spears and pole arms, do so because they are afraid of their enemy. A Roman gets right into his opponent’s face, making him look him in the eye and feel his breath before being killed. That is why our people fight in close with short hand axes, swords, and stabbing spears, rather than the great spears and clubs that many of the neighboring tribal kingdoms use.”

  “I admit they are impressive to watch,” Amke conceded, “though I can’t help but wonder if perhaps your admiration runs a little too deep. You sound almost as if you revere the Romans.”

  “Not at all,” Tabbo snorted. “I have no love for their Government or the petty magistrates they send out to collect their taxes. Their army I have the highest respect for. One must know an ally or enemy’s strengths and respect them, as well as any potential weaknesses. Many of the younger generation wonder why we give tribute to Rome, when all they see is the single magistrate and his tax collectors who every spring come to collect cattle hides. You are one of the most prominent voices of that generation, and as a leader of the King’s bodyguard it is important for you to understand why we pay tribute to Rome. It was men such as these, under the command of the General Drusus Nero, who was the current Emperor’s brother, that expediently routed our warriors all those years ago.”

  “Can they be beaten?” Amke asked. “I’ve heard stories…”

  “They are fearsome, but they are still men,” the war chief answered. “Yes, they can be defeated. The stories you have heard stem from the Cherusci tribe, who formed an alliance of twelve tribes sixteen years ago to oust the Romans from their lands. In simple terms, they succeeded. Three legions were destroyed in the forest known as Teutoburger Wald. The Emperor’s nephew, Germanicus Caesar, who was the son of the great Drusus Nero, invaded six years later with an army of eight legions, plus auxiliaries and allied troops. I was one of those allies.”

  “I remember that a little bit,” Amke added. “I was only eleven when you, the prince, and several hundred of our warriors left to fight the Cherusci. I never knew that it was Rome you were fighting for. I thought it was simply an intertribal affair between the Frisians and the Cherusci. Most of you were back before the harvest moon, so I thought little of it. Although, I do remember, vaguely, the funeral pyres for some of our warriors.”

  “We ended up facing the Cherusci cavalry,” Tabbo explained. “Like most of the tribes within the Germanic Alliance, they were a fearsome enemy. One in ten of our warriors who left to fight beside Germanicus Caesar never returned. Our losses still paled in comparison to what the legions did on that field of Idistaviso, and later at the stronghold of Angrivari.”

  “But Rome never conquered the lands of the Cherusci,” Amke replied.

  Tabbo confirmed with a nod. “True, though not because they couldn’t. The Emperor Augustus died the year before Germanicus launched his invasion. In his will he forbade the expansion of the Empire beyond the Rhine. This did not mean that the Romans could not still invade and raze civilizations to ash; it simply meant that they would not stay once the fighting was over. Under the order of Emperor Tiberius, who our own noble King fought beside many years ago, Germanicus laid waste to the tribes east of the Rhine. The Marsi were nearly exterminated, and the Cherusci paid dearly in lives and spoils. Even their wives, children, the old, and the infirm were not spared from the legions’ wrath. Those who could not flee…” His voice trailed off and his eyes seemed lost, as if seeing beyond. Suddenly he shook his head, brought back to the present.

  “My apologies,” he said, swallowing hard. “I will speak no more of that time.” Amke noticed sweat had suddenly formed on his brow, even though it was not hot out.

  The war chief, like her cousin Prince Klaes, had always been a mentor and brotherly figure to her. Amke then understood the paradox within Tabbo. He understood the Romans and held their war fighting abilities with the highest respect, but there was something darker, something that he had almost told her yet elected not to. Amke knew about the brutal nature of tribal warfare, where villages would be destroyed and all within killed or enslaved. Yet from what she could see of the few dozen legionaries training in the open valley below, she sensed that once unleashed, the Roman war machine was able to inflict death and destruction on an unimaginable scale. She was both horrified and fascinated at the same time by the concept of such fearsome power.

  Artorius was elated when he heard the news regarding the promotion of his Centurion, Platorius Macro, to the First Cohort. He had served as Macro’s second-in-command for two years; the Centurion having been a father figure and mentor to him ever since he first joined the legions ten years ago. At twenty-seven years of age, Optio Titus Artorius Justus was still the youngest of his rank within the Third Cohort. He also knew that he was three years shy of the minimum age requirement for promotion to the rank of Centurion, so he understood that he would not be considered as Macro’s repla
cement. The Centurion noted this as he spoke to his Optio while directing servants to pack up his personal belongings out of the Centurion’s quarters.

  “I’m just glad that regardless of who replaces me, the men of the Second Century still have a strong leader they can look to,” he said as he pointed to a chest with a number of his personal affects. A pair of slaves hefted the chest with a pair of grunts and hobbled out of the room.

  “You flatter me, sir,” Artorius replied with a shrug. “There are a number of solid leaders within this century. I daresay any of the Principal Officers and probably half the Decanii could step into my position.”

  “Well, it’s a shame none of them will,” Macro said as he led the Optio out of his quarters and into the open street. It was an early spring morning, and the fortress of the Twentieth and First Legions in Cologne was always a bustle of activity at this time of day. Squads and centuries of legionaries marched towards the drill and parade fields for training, others ran in small formations as part of their daily physical fitness, administrators and logisticians went about the business of supporting and supplying the legions with the mountains of food and equipment they needed.

  “I am still too young to replace you,” Artorius observed.

  “Young in years, but not experience,” Macro countered. “On every action this legion has fought since you enlisted you have been singled out for your valor and leadership. That’s far more than can be said for my replacement.” He walked along the road towards the east gate, hands clasped behind his back as he did so.

  “You know who it is then,” Artorius said.

  Macro nodded. “Yes, and you’re not going to like it. His name is Fulvius; he was a direct appointment, meaning he has never spent a day in the ranks as a legionary. The sad thing about our society is that Rome is full of men in positions of power who got there not because of their own accomplishments, but rather because of whom their father’s were, or their father’s friends for that matter.”

  “So he got to where he’s at because of who his father sucked up to,” Artorius replied with a shrug while trying to maintain a positive outlook. In truth, he hated the idea of losing Centurion Macro for some upstart who had never served in the ranks and was suddenly placed in power. “It is part of the world we live in and can’t be helped.”

  “Thing is, I know Fulvius, at least enough to know that he is everything that is wrong with the system,” the Centurion responded. “He has never served in a major battle and probably has never even drawn his sword against the enemy. His father has powerful friends in the Senate who owe him a number of favors; perhaps he’s blackmailing them after they got caught fucking each other’s wives or something. So unless Fulvius does something blatantly criminal, and believe me he walks the line on this, nothing ever happens to him. He simply gets moved to another assignment.”

  “And becomes someone else’s problem,” Artorius observed with a sigh.

  “The good news is that he rarely stays in one assignment for more than a year, so hopefully we will be rid of him soon enough and can get a Centurion of quality into the Second.”

  “Well, at least we know Proculus won’t put up with any stupid bullshit,” Artorius said with satisfaction. His demeanor soured when he saw the look of consternation on Macro’s face.

  “I guess you haven’t heard,” he replied as they exited the gate. A pair of legionaries on duty saluted the Centurion as they passed. “Proculus is moving on to the First Cohort, too.”

  “Well, you can’t tell me we are getting a lackluster Pilus Prior as well to replace him,” the Optio reasoned. When Macro did not reply Artorius stopped walking and stared at his Centurion. “Oh, come on! Don’t tell me we get some weak-willed limp-dick as our Cohort Commander!”

  “That is exactly what you are getting,” Macro said, his face full of sympathy. “Lincinius means well enough, but to be quite honest, he has no balls. He got his position because his father has even better friends than Fulvius. Artorius, I tell you these things not to try to discourage you. I’ve spent too many years making this Century what it is, and I don’t plan on sitting back from a comfortable billet in the First Cohort and watching it all fall apart. You need to know what to expect. You know I’m always here for you, but once I leave and take the promotion to Primus Ordo, I cannot directly interfere.”

  Artorius decided to vent his frustrations the best way he knew how. Under normal circumstances, those in his position would head to the tavern to get slobbering drunk and waste their coin on wine and prostitutes. While the idea of a few hours of uninhibited sex with a delicate young maiden sounded good, he was not going to do so under the conditions brought on by too much drink. He preferred to be in control of his senses when he violated a willing, supple woman. Instead he walked over to a small walled-in courtyard that his good friend, Centurion Vitruvius, had built. It was a microcosm of the gymnasium they had used during their three years in Lugdunum. Artorius had a passion for the gymnasium; it allowed him to exert all his frustrations in the purity of brutal power.

  Vitruvius had taken boulders of various weights and had them sculpted into perfect spheres for lifting. He had the metal smiths cast heavy balls with handles that could be used for other strength building exercises. An iron bar was held up by wooden supports at a height of a normal man’s arm stretched above his head. He wanted to set up some climbing ropes as well, but was waiting on the materials to build the scaffolding necessary.

  Artorius removed his tunic, revealing a mountainous, powerful body beneath. Though he was of average height, his muscular frame was out of proportion and made him look inhuman. His forearms were larger than a normal man’s biceps, and his biceps looked like they belonged on someone’s legs. His neck was thick with the muscles that came out of his shoulders, inflating it to even bigger size. His chest was large and his back ripped with muscle, all tapering into a normal-sized waist. Jutting out from his waist was a pair of thick and well-defined legs. What he lacked in height he more than made up for in size and power. Only Centurion Vitruvius and the Norseman, Sergeant Magnus, came close to matching him. All three had trained together at the Lugdunum gymnasium and each was his own icon of strength. All three required their tunics to be custom made, along with their armor.

  He decided to work his chest and shoulders this day. He made sure he properly stretched and limbered up his muscles, lest in his frustration he injure himself. He took a medium-sized boulder and while lying on a bench he went through a series of presses. He then took a pair of the handled metal balls and used them to stretch and strengthen his chest. Boulders of increasing weight were pressed overhead to add size to his shoulders, while he took a pair of the heaviest weights and let them hang from each hand while shrugging his shoulders. It felt good as his muscles burned.

  “You could have come and got me first, you know!” Centurion Vitruvius’ booming voice interrupted his thoughts, and he almost dropped the weights.

  “Sorry, I had to burn off some aggression first,” he replied without sounding apologetic. Vitruvius removed his tunic, revealing a taller, though almost equally well-muscled body. He leapt up and grabbed the bar and started to repeatedly pull his body up, working his back muscles. He then dropped to the ground and addressed his former protégé.

  “If it’s about the new Pilus Prior, I understand.”

  “At least you have command of your own century,” Artorius replied, dropping the weights. “You don’t have to answer to some pompous ass that has never had to draw his blade against the enemy.”

  “Yes, not a good situation to be in,” the Centurion agreed. “To go from having Macro and Proculus to…well to be honest, I’m not sure what.”

  “I don’t know,” Artorius grunted as he hefted an even greater sized boulder over his head. “I just hope that our fears are unfounded and things won’t be so bad. After all, Macro and Proculus could not stay with us forever. Perhaps we should give their replacements a chance.”

  Vitruvius simply grunted as he
walked over to where he had set up a pair of stone steps on a platform. There was a gap that was just large enough for a man to stand with his feet shoulder width apart. A large square block with a rope fixed to it sat in the hole. The Centurion squatted down, grabbed the rope in both hands, and proceeded to repeatedly lift the heavy weight out of the hole, his forearms, back, and legs threatening to tear through the skin as blood rushed to the engorged muscles. His face red from exertion, he dropped the block after several repetitions.

  “So how’s the family?” Artorius asked as he set a boulder down after working his shoulders. His former mentor was down on one knee, catching his breath.

  “Well enough,” Vitruvius replied. “Celia keeps me in line, and the boys are getting bigger and scrappier every day!” There was a broad grin on the Centurion’s face, which Artorius could not help but match. Vitruvius had married the daughter of a wine merchant soon after their return from Lugdunum. Though the family did a very respectable amount of business, in private, Vitruvius would complain that his father-in-law’s wine was overpriced and “tastes like mule piss!” Celia had born him twin sons, Marcus and Tiberius, the year before. It seemed like the two had learned to fight before they had even fully learned how to walk. They were always rolling on the ground, trying to beat each other, which their mother found appalling, especially since Vitruvius encouraged it.

  “And what about you?” Vitruvius asked. “No comely young lady that’s caught your attention lately?”

  “Eh, not for more than a couple hours at a time,” Artorius replied with a laugh as he stretched his arms and shoulders out. He had a few more exercises to do before heading over to the bathhouse. He was contemplating getting a full body massage while he was at it.

  “Well, you’ve still got time,” the Centurion conjectured, while grabbing the rope for some more heavy dead-lifts with the stone block. “After all, you cannot legally get married until you’re a Centurion anyway.”