Soldier of Rome: The Centurion (The Artorian Chronicles)

by James Mace

  A raucous cheer erupted from within the hall as if emphasizing his point.

  “Sure…” Artorius replied as he stumbled out the door. He downed some more wine, and then splashed the remainder into his face before dunking his head in a nearby fountain. The water was quite cold and he beat his right foot on the ground as if counting off the time. When he figured he was alert he pulled his head out with a dramatic gasp.

  “That’s better… I think,” he said with a loud sigh of relief. His mind was at least temporarily cleared, and he slicked his soaked hair back. “So how’s that son of yours doing, anyway?”

  “It is about him that I wish to speak with you,” Justus replied, leaning up against the fountain next to him.

  “What is he now, fourteen?”

  “Sixteen,” Justus corrected. “Another year and he’ll be of legal age to join the legions.”

  “You must be proud,” Artorius mused.

  “Normally I would be,” Justus agreed. “The thing is, I’m afraid for Gaius. When he was two we took him to a priest to see his future, spent a shitload of money on it, too, what with the sacrificial birds and all that poking through their guts. The son of a bitch told Flavia and me that our son will not live to see a full score in years. He said that my son will die in battle before he reaches his twentieth birthday!” His hands gripped the edge of the fountain, his knuckles turning white.

  Suddenly Artorius no longer felt any of the effects of his previous imbibing, his mind clearing in an instant.

  “So refuse to sign his endorsement to join the legions,” Artorius offered. “After all, one must have proof of citizenship…”

  “Spare me the technicalities,” Justus growled. “I know how it works, and trust me, my wife has asked me to do the same thing. I also know that I would only delay the inevitable. Every recruiting officer in the entire eastern region of the Empire knows that Gaius is my son. Once he’s of age they can enlist him with or without my approval. Besides, it is his life to live, though I wish he was not so damn adamant about following me into the ranks. I didn’t spend a fortune on his education so that he could stab barbarians for a living!”

  “Fuck the auspices,” Artorius retorted.

  Justus looked at him with a raised eyebrow.

  “I’m serious! We make our own path in life, Justus. Our fates are not ruled by the flight of a gods’ damned bird or by what color their bloody entrails are. For being such an advanced and learned society, Rome has some truly backward traditions. I mean, seriously, since when do educated men believe disemboweling a peacock will somehow win favor with the gods? Only a fucking moron believes they can tell the future from a swallow’s liver.”

  “My wife believes it,” Justus replied quietly.

  Artorius smacked himself on the forehead.

  “Damn it, that’s twice in one hour that I’ve insulted your wife.”

  “No offense taken,” his friend replied, shaking his head. “And besides, I don’t believe much in omens either. If I believe it at all, it’s because Flavia believes. Her devout faith in the gods is what sustains mine. I suppose she feels that she has to have enough faith for both of us.”

  “Faith that your son will die before he’s twenty,” Artorius thought aloud. He closed his eyes, expecting a sharp rebuke from Justus.

  “Do you even believe in the gods?” Justus asked after a short pause.

  Artorius shrugged his shoulders.

  “I believe in something,” he emphasized. He almost let slip about his encounter with his brother’s soul, but stopped himself short. He was suddenly grateful he had at least sobered up partially. Surely Justus would have thought him mad were he to tell him about seeing and speaking with Metellus.

  “I believe something created us,” he continued. “Whether it was one god or many, I have no idea. What I do know is we did not just appear out of nowhere. I think man makes the gods look like us so we can relate to them, so that in our arrogance we can say we are made in their image. What I don’t believe is that we can determine the will of any such deities based on slashing the throat of a bull or gutting a bird.”

  “That’s why I’ve always liked you, Artorius,” Justus said, looking his way and forcing a smile. “You never hold back and are not one to mince words.”

  “Hence, why I would be a lousy politician,” Artorius replied, getting a short laugh out of his friend.

  Justus took a deep breath and let out a sigh of relief.

  “You’ve grown up since I last saw you,” the red-haired Centurion said. “You’ve grown stronger in both mind and body.”

  Artorius’ face gave an involuntary twitch as Justus had unknowingly repeated the last words of advice his brother had given him while he was alive. Justus did not notice, and instead gave Artorius a friendly smack on the shoulder.

  “Come!” he said. “Let us return to the celebrations!”

  As they made their way back towards the raucous sounds coming from within the house, they saw a man leaning over the large fountain by the main entrance, dry heaving like he was about to throw up. Upon closer examination they recognized him as one of the Praetorian Tribunes.

  “Hmm, seems the Emperor’s bodyguards can’t hold their drink,” Artorius laughed as the man heaved again.

  “Hey, not in the fountain, you Praetorian twat!” Justus shouted as he walked over and gave the Tribune a hard kick to the backside.

  It wasn’t every day one had the opportunity to commit assault on a superior officer, especially one of the “elite” Praetorians, and get away with it. Artorius walked over and grabbed the Tribune by the neck of his tunic and guided him towards some bushes. The dry heaving was soon followed by the splash of half digested wine, ale, and stomach acid all mixed together in a noxious combination.

  “Good gods, what did that man eat?” Justus snorted, his senses assailed by the stench.

  “Well, at least there’s no chunks,” Artorius observed.

  “What’s he been drinking then, ram’s piss?” Justus was disgusted, yet at the same time starting to chuckle. “Seriously, it smells like…”

  “…like a bitter, sour ass!” Artorius finished for him, leading both men to laughing uproariously.

  They left the Tribune to his misery as a pair of slaves stood off to the side, waiting to offer assistance, though unable to hide the disgust on their own faces at the stench. The two Centurions then walked towards the house with an arm around each other’s shoulders, debating over how either knew what ram’s piss and a sour ass smelled or tasted like.

  “You should have just let him spew in the fountain,” Artorius said as they walked into the foyer.

  “Well, this place does belong to your father-in-law…” Justus began to say.

  “Who’s a royal asshole,” Artorius finished. He then briefly told Justus about the dispute they had with Claudia and Diana’s father over the presence of legionaries within his banquet hall.

  Justus was feeling the effects of drink as he stared unrelentingly at Sejanus. The Praetorian Prefect pretended not to notice. It would be reasonable to think that he did not, given the large numbers of people and the amount of commotion within the hall. It was only when Sejanus got up from his couch and left that Justus looked down and started eating once more. Flavia sat nervously by her husband, clutching his forearm the entire time.

  “No love lost between you two then,” Artorius stated, trying to break the ice. Between all the lamp flames and the plethora of human bodies the room was stifling, yet he felt a cold chill running down his back.

  “That man is a menace to Rome,” Justus growled, taking another pull off his wine.

  “Be easy, love,” Flavia said quietly, “the wrong ears may hear your words.”

  “Oh, yes, I quite forgot that defaming the commander of the fucking bodyguards now constitutes treason!” Justus said in a louder voice, although no one else seemed to hear him besides Flavia, Artorius, and Diana.

  “What are you talking about?” Artorius asked, sudde
nly interested.

  Diana elbowed him hard, not wanting him to encourage Justus any more. It was already too late.

  “Just that free speech is not what it once was,” Justus continued. “Make no mistake, I am no republican; however, one has to admit that during the Republic one could be far more relaxed with one’s tongue than you can today. Take for example poor Senator Cremutius Cordus…”

  “A man whose words incited sedition and treason!” Sejanus’ voice sounded behind them.

  Thankfully, no one else was paying them any mind, though Flavia’s face darkened, and she lowered her head while closing her eyes. Justus only grinned thinly, his eyes shining with hatred for Sejanus. In spite of Artorius shaking his head, he turned and stood face-to-face with the Praetorian Prefect. Sejanus stood about half a head taller than the Centurion, though both men were of equal muscular size. The Prefect appeared to be impressed that Justus was not intimidated by him.

  “Cordus wrote a bloody history book,” Justus retorted. “Where was the harm in that?”

  “The harm,” Sejanus said; his tone like one would use on an ignorant schoolboy, “was that he dared to eulogize the murderers of the Divine Julius Caesar as the last of the Romans.”

  “A stupid one-line eulogy in the entire text,” Justus retorted. “And you accused him of treason for that! The poor bastard starved himself to death, and you burned his writings as if he were inciting a rebellion against our beloved Emperor!”

  Across the banquet hall Pontius Pilate saw the dispute going on. His eyes grew wide with anxiety, and he attempted to work his way through the celebrating throngs of people lest Justus get himself into greater trouble.

  “The treason laws of Augustus have been re-enacted to protect the Emperor…”

  “Who in his own words stated, in a free state there should be freedom of speech and thought,”

  Justus interrupted with a sneer. “Those were the words of Emperor Tiberius Claudius Nero himself. Do you deny it?”

  Before Sejanus could answer, Pilate forced his way between the men.

  “I think we’ve all had a little too much to drink and are letting our tongues get the best of us,” he said quickly. The Praetorian Prefect turned his nose up slightly at Justus.

  “Yes, this upstart of a Centurion would certainly not be so loose with his words in the presence of his betters were he sober,” he said icily. “You’re drunk, so I will let your…indiscretions go.”

  “Fuck you, Sejanus,” Justus retorted, causing his wife to gasp and Artorius to grab him from behind by both shoulders.

  “Easy there, old friend,” he said quietly into his ear.

  Sejanus shoved Pilate aside and stood nose-to-nose with the Centurion. Again he could not help but ruefully admire that Justus still wasn’t backing down.

  “Think yourself lucky that you’re a friend of Pontius Pilate’s,” he said quietly. He then stepped back and in a louder voice stated, “Though I do now question what kind of people my deputy calls his friends.” He then walked slowly away, as Pilate guided him by the shoulder.

  Flavia’s hand was over her mouth in shock, and Artorius let out a relieved sigh as Justus grinned in triumph. Diana laid her head on her husband’s shoulder, wine and a sense of relief making her suddenly tired.

  “You have to admit, that took some Herculanian-sized balls,” Magnus observed as he casually walked over to the group, a wine cup in hand. He appeared to be more sober than anyone else in the room.

  “Magnus, what are you doing here?” Artorius asked, suddenly remembering Proculeius’ directive that anyone below the rank of Centurion was prohibited from dining in the banquet hall.

  “Oh, come on,” the Norseman said, looking around. “Everyone here is completely wasted; no one will even know I was here. Besides, we’re running out of alcohol in the kitchens, and the slaves won’t give us the keys to the cellar where I know all the good stuff is.”

  “So?” Artorius questioned.

  “So, either I find a key from someone or else the boys are going to use one of the tables as a battering ram on the cellar door. I would rather they didn’t, lest we mere plebeians wear out our welcome with the great Proculeius…no offence intended, my lady.”

  “Mmm, none taken,” Diana replied, her eyes still closed and arms wrapped around Artorius’ left arm.

  The Centurion was suddenly aware once more of the party going on around them. So intent had they all been on watching Justus’ exchange with Sejanus that he had failed to notice the hundred or so boisterous souls drinking and shouting to make themselves heard in Proculeius’ hall. All looked to be completely intoxicated, and many were passed out on their couches or on the floor. Wine goblets and food trays littered the ground as servants worked frantically to try to keep up with the ever growing mess. Across the hall, next to where Pilate’s couch sat, was Proculeius, his butt and legs still on the couch, though the rest of his body was on the floor where his arms were splayed out to his sides.

  “I’ve got an idea,” Artorius said with a grin.

  He then handed his wife over to Flavia, who guided her onto a couch. Justus had sat back down and was eating and drinking as if nothing had happened.

  “Please forgive my friend, he meant no harm,” Pilate pleaded once he and Sejanus were alone.

  “I’ve never known a man to use the words fuck you and not mean any harm,” Sejanus replied coldly. Pilate swallowed hard but then decided to take a chance. After all, he should be the last person who needed to be afraid of Sejanus.

  “Justus did have a point,” he observed. He started to explain quickly as his superior raised an eyebrow at the statement. “After all, his quote of the Emperor was exact. Besides, he’s nothing more than a Centurion from the east.”

  “I remember him,” Sejanus said, his voice still cool, though not with the venom it once held. “He was but a mere Optio when last in Rome; sent here to spy on us for the nosy Legates of the east who can’t seem to handle their own affairs, yet they feel the need to stick their dripping noses into the Emperor’s. Tiberius was correct to recall that nuisance Lamia and make him absentee governor from Rome. You’re right, of course. Your friend is harmless enough, as long as he’s in the east. See to it that he stays there.” His face was close to Pilate’s as he spoke his last words.

  The Tribune nodded in reply, relieved that Sejanus seemed to let the matter drop. The Praetorian Commander then started back towards the hall, suddenly cheerful once more as he turned and faced his deputy.

  “Seems you’ve been neglecting someone all night, old friend,” he said with a wink as Claudia walked past him.

  “There you are, love!” she said with exasperation. She immediately saw the vexation on his face even after Sejanus left. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing,” he replied with a quick shake of the head. He was suddenly tired. He knew he would have to deal with Justus later and lay out for him just how close he had come to oblivion. The thought of that sapped whatever energy he had left.

  “Many of our guests are either passed out or having their servants take them home,” Claudia said with a yawn. “It seems that Father gave his personal key to your legionaries in kitchen and gave them access to his special stock of best wine. I think there’s a whole other party going on in the wine cellar.”

  Pilate chuckled quietly at the thought of how livid Proculeius would be when he saw that his private cellar had been raided by the legionaries he spat upon. In his extreme stupor, he would never remember for certain if, in fact, he had given his personal key to the soldiers.

  “I think we should be off to home and bed ourselves,” Claudia insisted. “Our friends will have the marriage feast to debauch themselves again.” Pilate nodded in concurrence and put his arm around her waist as they walked towards one of the side exits, not wishing to pass through the now trashed banquet hall.

  Another party had, indeed, begun in the cellar. Artorius stood at the top of the stairs, laughing to himself as he absently turned Proculeiu
s’ key over in his hand. The kitchen slaves stood mortified, but they dared not protest. After all, the Centurion had the Master’s key. Praxus stumbled up the stairs, a sloshing silver goblet in his hand.

  “You have got to try this!” he slurred, thrusting the ornate chalice into Artorius’ hand. “We found his personal stash, and all I can say is he must have paid a fortune for it!” Artorius sniffed the wine and took a long, slow drink. It was a mellow red wine, with just a touch of sweetness that was not too overpowering.

  “Very nice,” he replied, taking another drink. “Where did you get the cup?”

  “He keeps the silver down there as well,” Praxus replied. He then let out a loud belch before continuing. “Don’t worry; the lads know they are not to walk off with any of it! I told them we will be good to our gracious host, asshole that he is…no offence, sir!”

  “None taken,” Artorius laughed. “He is an asshole, though gracious with his wine.” He made certain that his men thought that Proculeius had indeed given him his personal key, which would make his story more believable when the time came to explain to his father-in-law how filthy legionaries consumed his most precious vintage.

  “I need to piss!” a voice shouted from bellow.

  “No going on the floor!” he heard Magnus shout. “We are respectable guests to our Centurion’s beloved father-in-law! Here, we’ll use the empty vat.”

  Artorius almost dropped the goblet as he burst into laughter. Knowing his men, they would all relieve themselves into the empty vat, and then replace it onto the shelves as if it still contained Proculeius’ wine.

  “We need some quality prostitutes, too,” another soldier called out. “I want to fuck something!”

  “Anybody know where the nearest brothel is?” yet another asked.

  “Two miles east, I think,” Legionary Decimus said, his voice slurred.

  “No it’s not, dumbass!” they heard Carbo retort. “It’s to the west.”