Soldier of Rome: The Centurion (The Artorian Chronicles)

by James Mace

  “All I know is I need to bury my cock is something warm and wet,” the first legionary asserted.

  “Stick it in the piss vat!” Decimus replied, bringing more drunken laughter from their friends. Artorius laughed and shook his head. He really was enjoying the spectacle his men were putting on. A few years ago he would have been one of the worst offenders of the lot. But now the responsible leader within him knew he had to rein his men in soon, lest they do something drastic.

  “Give them another half an hour and then start rounding everyone up,” Artorius directed.

  Even in his drunken state Praxus still comprehended an order when it was given.

  “Yes, sir,” he replied with a hiccup.

  A woman’s shrieking echoed from down the hall, followed by sounds of laughter. Artorius and Praxus watched as Valens came through the kitchen, a fetching young servant woman draped over his shoulder. Svetlana was behind them and was smacking the girl on the butt, who yelped gleefully at each swat.

  “Oh, she likes this then, the saucy little bitch!” Svetlana laughed as they passed the Centurion and Optio and headed towards the servant’s quarters.

  “Does Magnus know that his sister…” Praxus started to say but could not find the words.

  “That his sister is a female replica of Valens?” Artorius finished for him. “I’m almost certain, though we never mention it around him.”

  It was only after the last of his legionaries had safely left the Proculeius estate—with the exception of Valens who was occupied with Svetlana and the slave woman—Artorius returned to the banquet hall to find his wife. Diana lay curled up on one of the couches, with other guests strewn throughout. Pilate and Claudia had long since departed, and slaves had taken their host to his room. Justus and Flavia also had left earlier, which was just as well. Though Artorius had enjoyed watching his friend stand up to Sejanus, he knew that Justus had played a very dangerous hand.

  He had considered simply finding a blanket for Diana and letting her sleep where she lay, not wishing to wake her. He then thought better of it and did not wish to leave his wife in the sticky room that a few hours before had smelled of fine wine and delicacies, but now stunk of spilled wine, sweat, and even a trace of vomit and urine.

  “Patricians do know how to party,” he said with a crooked grin as he bent down and picked his wife up.

  Diana moaned quietly and put her arms around his neck, her eyes still shut. The night air felt good as he carried his wife the few blocks over to Pilate’s house. The upstairs floor where the guest quarters were was cool, dark, and quiet. It was a far cry from where they had just come.

  He helped Diana out of her clothes. She was semiconscious, though her eyes had remained shut the entire time. He got himself undressed and opened a window, letting the cool breeze caress his body. He then lay down next to his wife and drifted off to sleep.

  Chapter XII: A King Undone

  ***

  A group of five of Olennius’ henchmen stood outside the door to King Dibbald’s hall. They carried clubs, and their leader wore a sword on his hip. It was this man who greeted the King with a sneer.

  “The magistrate wishes to see you,” he said through his teeth.

  Queen Femke found it laughable that the man was trying to look fierce, even though he had the face of a ferret, with a bowl cut hair style that looked ridiculous on his oblong head. Dibbald let out a sigh.

  “It is the end of the day,” he replied. “I was retiring for supper. Perhaps the magistrate can wait until morning.”

  The thug immediately drew his sword and pointed it at the King’s chest. A pair of warriors who escorted Dibbald drew their axes and stood protectively in front of him. The King placed his hand between them and gently pushed them off.

  “I see you still have at least some sense,” the ugly man with the sword replied. “Wouldn’t want to cause a fuss and have to call on the legions, now would we?” He gave a sickening grin as he signaled for the King to follow him. “Oh, and gather all the people from the capital into the public square. Master Olennius needs to address them, too.”

  Amke clutched Klaes’ hand as she watched her uncle walk up onto the dais in the center of town. In front of him was a large tarp, and she wondered what could possibly be underneath it. She guessed that whatever it was had something to do with why the entire town was summoned to see Olennius so late in the day. The magistrate was standing smug next to the King, who bore a look of resignation on his face.

  “People of Frisia!” Olennius shouted to the assembly. “It would seem that there are traitors in your midst, people who would undo the years of peace and prosperity that have existed for nearly four decades! Behold the traitors!” With his last words, two of his men threw back the tarp, revealing the corpses of the messengers that Dibbald had sent. Women gasped at the sight of the men, their eyes bulging and tongues protruding from their gaping mouths. Purple marks on their necks showed that they had been strangled.

  “These men,” Olennius continued, “carried with them messages of treason! One even had words of slander to be delivered to the Emperor himself! Look well upon them and see the fate of all who would disrupt the harmony of our corner of the Empire!” He then nodded to two of his men, who forcefully removed the King’s tunic. Olennius then picked up a corded whip off a bench.

  Dibbald raised a hand, staying those who sought to rush to his defense. Amke released the grip on her cousin’s hand and started to rush forward, drawing her axe. Klaes quickly restrained her, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her away.

  “Let me go!” she shouted. “By the gods, it’s your father they are going to whip!” The shouts and protestations from the crowd drowned out her words.

  “Not this way!” Klaes said into her ear. Amke ceased in her struggles and faced her cousin, whose tears matched her own. “Please cousin; there will be a time, but not today…not yet.”

  Both turned back towards the raised dais. Olennius appeared to be enjoying himself. He snapped the whip on the platform in an attempt to silence the crowd.

  “Your own King has allowed these traitors to run free within his domain!” he called over the shouts of the people. “For this he must be punished. Even a king is not above the law!”

  With that he stepped behind Dibbald and with much flamboyance lashed him across the back with the whip. The slap of the cords against his flesh caused even Amke’s stomach to turn. She held a hand over her mouth as Olennius lashed the King repeatedly. The cries of protest had turned to ones of revulsion. Amke could see Queen Femke being held close by Tabbo, whose face was purple with blinding hatred. King Dibbald made not a sound as the whip scored him again. The clenching of his fists was the only sign he gave of the agony he was feeling. After more than a dozen lashes, Olennius rolled up his whip.

  “Let this be a lesson that your people never forget!”

  Without another word he and his henchmen left the dais and walked out of the town square. The crowd was in a state of shock at what they had witnessed. All was quiet as Amke forced her way to the front. She and Klaes then climbed onto the dais. Dibbald could no longer hold back his tears of shame, though he still made not a sound as they ran down his cheeks. Amke, her own face soaked in tears, placed her hands on either side of his face, and at last he allowed himself to look at her. She then placed her arms around her uncle, careful not to touch his bloody and lacerated back. The King’s strength left him as Amke and Klaes helped him down, practically carrying him back to his hall. Tabbo and his wife held onto Queen Femke as they followed close behind. The will of their King was broken, and with it the will of the Frisian people.

  “I will gut that bastard myself!” Amke snarled as she furiously ground a sharpening stone across the head of her axe later that evening.

  Lourens was much more slow and methodic as he ran a whet stone over the blade of his cavalry spear. As head of the King’s household cavalry regiment, he worked in tandem with the Daughters of Freyja as part of Dibbald Segon’
s personal guard.

  “In due time, love,” Lourens replied.

  Amke hated it when he called her that. It was no secret that the Master of Horse held a certain amount of affection for her, despite being fifteen years her elder, as well as married with a son that was a couple years younger than she. To his credit, whatever his personal feelings may have been, Lourens always maintained a professional rapport with the King’s niece.

  “Time for what?” Amke retorted. “Our people go hungry, the King has just been humiliated in front of the entire kingdom, and our will to fight is all but broken. What exactly are we supposed to be waiting for? For famine and disease to render our people so weak that we cannot possibly fight the Romans?”

  Lourens ceased in sharpening his spear and gazed at the young woman, whose face shown in the light of the nearby fire. He hated himself for the feelings he had for her, for he knew it was inappropriate. He knew that now was not the time to deal with such things, so he forced any fond thoughts of Amke from his mind.

  “Tabbo and Olbert are seeking a way to fight the Romans,” he replied after gathering his thoughts. “With any hopes of contacting the Roman authorities dashed, we need to find a way to deal with the situation ourselves. Your uncle had hoped to find a solution that would avoid bringing the wrath of the legions upon us. Our warriors are brave and they excel at the same type of close combat that the Romans do, but there are many things we lack. The Romans have auxiliary cavalry that will overwhelm our own, as much as it pains me to confess. Our weapons and armor are also severely lacking when compared to theirs. The Roman army is simply a better equipped and more efficient killing force than ours. And even if they don’t let loose the legions against us, they can simply withdraw their protection and leave us at the mercy of the Cherusci and other tribes to the east.”

  “So what if they do?” Amke retorted, grinding the stone into her axe even harder. “At least they make it known when they intend to plunder and conquer. Rome pretends to be our friends. They sicken us with their flattery and promises of protection. My father was a great warrior for both Adel and Diocarus Segon, long before he married Diocarus’ daughter, my mother.”

  “Yes,” Lourens replied, “and he also saw the terror that the Romans could bring. Don’t forget that my father was killed by the forces of Drusus Nero. We were unprepared for the Romans when they came and they rolled right over us.”

  “We had never seen their kind before,” Amke added, her temper cooling slightly. “Such discipline, my father said! I understood why he admired them, and when Drusus offered our people such reasonable terms it seemed too good to refuse. I wonder, though, if Drusus had other reasons for wishing to end the fighting so quickly.” Amke’s eyes brightened as a realization came to her.

  “What do you mean?” Lourens was suddenly interested to know what the young warrior maiden was thinking.

  “Think about it,” she continued. “It is understandable that Rome would want to end the fighting in any war as soon as possible and he could have set any terms he wanted. Why so little? Did he see the potential our people possessed, and he looked to stifle it with diplomacy rather than the sword?”

  “Doubtful,” the Master of Horse replied. “As much as it pains me to admit it, we were soundly beaten. He could have demanded any terms he wanted.”

  “Then perhaps Drusus Nero was the great man that some say he was.”

  “There is a ring of truth to your words,” Lourens replied as he started to sharpen his spear once more. “Drusus respected our people, though not because of our fighting prowess. He had hoped to integrate us fully as a province of the Empire. He died before he could follow through on this. His brother, Tiberius, did not see this the same way he did. Although this could be because, at the time, he was too busy fighting in Germania proper. Drusus had another reason for suing for peace so quickly with us. He needed all of his forces available to help his brother against our neighbors to the east.”

  “I try not to hate the Romans,” Amke said after a brief silence. She was now staring into the fire, which danced in her greenish blue eyes. “But this spawn of hell that infects our lands has undone what relations existed between our peoples for the last forty years. I don’t know if we can defeat them, but we have a better chance against the legions than we do against starvation.”

  The actual wedding of Pontius Pilate and Claudia Procula had been rather anticlimactic compared to the prenuptial feast and all that had transpired. The auspices were taken, much to Artorius’ annoyance, the vows spoken, and the two finally bound together after many years of betrothal. Somehow the Praetorians and legionaries managed to mingle without starting a brawl amongst each other during the marriage feast. Flavia had dragged Justus away early, lest he start another quarrel with Sejanus. She understood what another spat between those two could mean, even if her husband did not.

  Too soon the day came for their return voyage. Though Artorius was sad to see his friends leave, and to say his goodbyes to Pilate and Claudia, he was more melancholy about not having spent more time with his father and Juliana. He said as much to Diana as they watched Ostia slowly disappear from the back of the ship that would take them on the first leg of their voyage back to the Rhine.

  “They are wonderful people,” she replied, wrapping her arm through his and gazing at the ring on the third finger of her left hand. Her father-in-law had shyly presented it to her during their farewell meal. It had been the ring on Artorius’ mother’s finger for many years. It was a rather plain ring, all that Primus as a teacher and former legionary had been able to afford. And yet, it meant more to Diana than the most expensive gold and jewels in the world. “To tell the truth, I would have much rather spent more time with them than with my own father and stepmother.”

  Artorius bit the inside of his cheek and stifled a laugh.

  “You don’t have to refrain from saying what’s on your mind,” Diana scolded gently as she squeezed his arm. “I know you think my father’s an ass, and really I don’t blame you.”

  “Pompous prick, I think is what Magnus called him,” Artorius replied. He then shrugged. “At least none of his mannerisms passed on to you or Claudia.”

  “No, we both took after our mother,” she replied. It was then her turn to stifle a giggle at the mentioning of the Norseman’s name. “Speaking of Magnus, I know about the ‘present’ he and the rest of the boys left in the wine cellar. I still can’t fathom how I was the only one to see you take the key from Father! Even he thinks he must have given it to you.”

  “A bit of divine justice, perhaps,” Artorius chuckled.

  “Yes, it was,” Diana replied. “You know that vat the boys used to relieve themselves with had contained his most expensive vintage! Thankfully, servants discovered this well before he asked for it.”

  “That’s too bad,” Artorius said with a trace of disappointment in his voice. “I can imagine the look on his face had he tried to sample a taste!”

  “Oh trust me, he was livid enough as it was,” his wife said while shaking her head. “At least now all he thinks is that the wine was consumed, not that some lowly legionaries then used the same empty vat to urinate in.”

  “Yes, well at least they didn’t go on the floor! They were all proper gentlemen.” Artorius and Diana were both laughing out loud by this point, causing some of the ship’s crew to stare at them.

  “That wine was almost a hundred years old!” Diana laughed as she envisioned the look of utter rage that her father must have possessed when he found out.

  “Well, next time just you and I come here,” Artorius mused as their laughter subsided. “We will only see who we want, the rest be damned!”

  Chapter XIII: Son of Longinus

  Fortress of the Twentieth Legion

  May, 27 A.D.

  ***

  “List of new recruits, sir,” Praxus said as he handed a scroll to Artorius, who sat behind his desk with his feet up.

  “Damn it Praxus, quit calling me sir when i
t’s just us,” the Centurion replied as he took the list from his Optio. “I see the recruiting drives have been paying off.”

  “Yes, sir,” Praxus replied, winking at Artorius who shot him a glare. “Ten more with this group, plus the eight others who started training two weeks ago. Provided they all survive training, this will finally put us back to where we were before that entire lot all up and retired, plus a couple to spare.”

  “Nice. Say, why did you underline this name…oh, I see!” Artorius was caught by surprise at the name of one particular recruit, though it was one he should have been expecting. The scroll read:

  Name: Gaius Longinus

  Age: 17

  Place of Birth: Syria

  Father / Patron Sponsor: Justus Longinus

  “Seems Justus’ son has joined the legions after all,” Praxus mused.

  “That he has,” Artorius agreed. “Just don’t go showing him any favorable treatment, but don’t single him out for extra punishment either. I know Justus will want him to make his own way in the legions. Now that I think about it, I’ve never even seen Gaius. I have no idea what he looks like.”

  “He’s the only copper-haired recruit in the whole lot,” the Optio replied, bringing a short laugh from Artorius.

  “Figures he would get that from his father. Ah well, let me know when you need me to do my indoctrination briefing with them.”

  “I’ll give them a week before that,” Praxus remarked. “Let’s break them in a bit first. Hell, none of us can even remember what went on during our first week of recruit training, so you might as well save your breath a bit with these lads.”

  Gaius’ back and legs hurt, as did his shoulders and arms; Hell, his entire body was in pain! He had to admit that there were no surprises when he joined the legions. Everything was just as his father had warned him it would be. His first week in the army had been nothing but physical training, all overseen by Optio Praxus. His helmet and armor had sat on the storage rack in his barracks room the entire time. He did not even have a gladius yet! All he had done was run, press boulders, and do calisthenics for sixteen hours a day. Each night he soaked in the heated baths of the legion’s bathhouse, trying to soothe his worn and savaged muscles. Each morning, before dawn, it would all start again.