Soldier of Rome: The Centurion (The Artorian Chronicles)

by James Mace

  This morning was different. Daily calisthenics were shortened, and the morning formation run was only four miles. They were ushered afterwards over to the drill field where a lone soldier stood with his hands clasped behind his back, his gaze sizing up the recruits. Though he wore no helmet or decorations, just his red tunic, Gaius knew right away that, at last, they were meeting Centurion Artorius. He had heard his father talk about the physical anomaly that Artorius was, and given that here stood the thickest and most powerfully built soldier Gaius had ever seen, there was no one else he could be.

  “Stand easy, lads,” the Centurion said as the recruits stood rigid before him. Gaius took a breath and tried to keep from trembling. He wasn’t sure if it was fear, or awe, or perhaps both, that made him uneasy in the presence of his commanding officer. Though his voice was booming, Artorius’ demeanor, at least, made him appear to be somewhat approachable.

  “My name is Centurion Titus Artorius Justus,” he said, confirming what Gaius knew. “You are here because, in a fit of what I assume is utter madness, you have decided that you want to become legionaries. Know this; only those who earn the right become soldiers of Rome! As you have seen from your first week of training, my instructors are hard, but they are fair. No one gets singled out for reward or punishment in this Century without reason. Your actions, both right and wrong, will be what decide your fate, not who your father or sponsor was. I don’t give a damn if your father was a senator or shoveled shit for a living!”

  “We have one standard and one standard alone in this Century; you will either make it or you won’t. Unless you are willing to sweat, bleed, and even die for the men on your left and right, then you have no place in the legions! Your crucible of pain has only just begun. Over the next seven weeks you need to not only survive, you must prove to the men of the Second Century that you deserve a place on the line with them!” After what felt like an eternity of pacing in front of them, the Centurion then nodded to Optio Praxus, whose voice startled the recruits.

  “Recruits…right face!” The ten young men suspected what was coming. The Optio had not given them a reprieve from physical training out of mercy; he had simply taken time out for them to finally meet their Centurion. “At the double time…march!”

  Tiberius paced quietly back and forth along the grass outside the wall to his villa. It was a bright and sunny day, even though on his isle of paradise away from Rome, he still felt the grip of political intrigue, with all its plots and treachery, bearing down on him. He looked down the steep path that led to the sea. There was a private dock where only the most discreet and important of ships was allowed to dock. In fact, it was only large enough for a rowboat, one of which was tying off as the Emperor paced. The ship it belonged to continued on its way through the swell of the sea. It would find its way to the main docks at the port, its crew pretending to not have disgorged its small boat with a few of their crew. It troubled Tiberius that this was how the most important correspondence got to him. It resembled the shady whispers in the dark of Roman politics, rather than that of an Emperor who ruled tens-of-millions. It was Sejanus who had suggested building of the private dock, stating that there were too many wandering eyes at the main port that could cause suspicion and trouble.

  Tiberius then wondered what had happened over the last thirteen years since he had taken the mantle of Caesar. Though his reign had started off awkwardly, once the Senate and people came to terms with Augustus’ passing, the new Emperor had proven himself a worthy successor. If he never had the engaging personality of his predecessor and step-father, Tiberius was, in fact, an even better administrator than Augustus in a number of areas. After all, he had the first-hand experience of leading men into battle that Augustus had lacked. He was also more frugal with the imperial purse, and while this led many to defame him for being a miser, Tiberius had greatly increased the size of Rome’s treasury. Yet for all that, the Emperor was all too aware that his gloomy personality permeated people’s thoughts rather than any appreciation for the peace and economic stability he had brought them.

  “When we lack an enemy to fight, we turn on each other,” he lamented out loud.

  “It is the nature of men,” he heard Thrasyllus’ voice behind him. The Emperor turned to see the aged astrologer standing behind him. The little bearded Greek was annoying at times, though his ability to read the stars was unnervingly accurate. Tiberius remembered many years before when he almost arranged for Thrasyllus to have a little accident, only to recant at the last minute when the Greek’s prophecy regarding the end to his exile in Rhodes came to pass.

  “You seem to seek the worst qualities of men,” the Emperor replied with a trace of sarcasm in his voice.

  “Hence, why you and I enjoy such a remarkable rapport,” the Greek replied, matching Tiberius’ sarcasm.

  The Emperor had turned back towards the boat and his face twitched into almost a smile. Thrasyllus’ candor was only bested by Sejanus. No other man would have talked to him in such a tone, yet the astrologer knew how close he had come to annihilation all those years ago and nothing the Emperor could do scared him anymore. If he had learned a lesson from that time, it was that blunt honesty would keep him alive and employed.

  “What news do you prophesy the messengers on this boat bring?” Tiberius asked as a man in Praetorian armor disembarked at the private dock. Two of the men from the Century that lined the path walked down and shook his hand.

  “I have not consulted the heavens for this, however, I can take a logical guess,” Thrasyllus replied. “The man is a Praetorian, so doubtless his messages come from Sejanus. The deputation from the Sanhedrin in Judea left last week, and with Pilate struggling through his first year as procurator, I hazard that the message is from him, along with a recommendation from Sejanus. Perhaps he is requesting you give him a legion?”

  Tiberius snorted in reply and stood with his hands clasped behind his back as the messenger made the long trek up the slope. The Praetorian looked to be in his late twenties, probably a Decanus from the looks of his uniform, though he was not wearing a helmet. He appeared flushed and out of breath when he reached the top, saluting the Emperor.

  “I see the Praetorians are making you lot soft,” Tiberius said as he returned the salute.

  The young man looked as if he did not know whether the Emperor was jesting or reprimanding him. Tiberius liked it that way.

  “Messages from the Prefect Aelius Sejanus and the Procurator Pontius Pilate for the Emperor Tiberius Claudius Nero Caesar,” the Praetorian replied, handing a pair of scrolls that were still sealed to the Emperor.

  Tiberius looked back at Thrasyllus, his mouth cocked into a small smile. The astrologer simply shrugged and stood with his hands folded in front of him.

  “Servants will take you to your quarters,” Tiberius told the messenger. “There you can refresh and clean yourself up. You will have my replies to take back to Rome in the morning.”

  The Praetorian saluted and left, leaving the Emperor to his readings.

  “Some days I find your predictions frightening,” Tiberius said to the astrologer after a taking a few minutes to read the messages from Sejanus and Pilate.

  Chapter XIV: The Coming Storm

  ***

  Gaius was beaming with pride as he stood in formation, waiting to be called forward with the other recruits to take the oath of allegiance. He still wasn’t certain if Centurion Artorius knew who he was or not. He figured that with eighteen new recruits in the Century it had been fairly easy to keep a low profile. As soon as they had sworn the oath and sheathed their gladii, Artorius walked the line, clasping each man’s forearm and congratulating them on their ascension from civilian to legionary. When he got to Gaius he was grinning broadly.

  “Your father will be proud,” Artorius said with a nod as he clasped Gaius’ hand. “Welcome to the Century, Legionary Gaius Longinus.” For his part, the newly appointed legionary’s face turned red and he swallowed hard. Of course it was silly to think
that his Centurion did not know all along whom he was. As they exchanged salutes Gaius thought back and wondered if Centurion Artorius had actually been harsher to him than the other recruits. Indeed, the bruising from the physical discipline he had taken at the hands of the Centurion, as well as Optio Praxus, had only just started to fade in the last few days.

  That evening Gaius sat quietly at a table in the corner of the tavern, sipping some local ale as the other new legionaries shared a raucous evening with their brethren in the ranks. One of his friends sat down and smacked him hard on the shoulder.

  “Gaius! What the hell is it, man? Don’t feel like celebrating with the rest of us?”

  “They arranged the whole thing,” he replied, taking a long pull of ale. It was bitter, and he could not remember why he had ordered it in the first place.

  “What are you talking about?” his friend asked, taking a seat next to him.

  “My father…and Centurion Artorius,” he replied. “I want to make my own way in the legions, not have my way made for me by my father’s friends.”

  “Your father knows the Centurion? Well, when you think about it, there aren’t that many Centurions in the entire Roman army. I suppose those who have been around a while probably all know each other in one manner or another.”

  “I guess it just never dawned on me why father was so insistent that I not join one of the eastern legions. He said his name was too well known there, and he did not want the officers and instructors showing me any leniency. Instead, he sends me clear across the Empire and has me placed under his old school friend.”

  The other legionary simply shrugged.

  “It makes sense, I suppose,” he replied. “Your father gets you out of the east, but still puts you under the charge of a Centurion he knows he can trust. Hell, as brutal as he was to us in training, I hear Centurion Artorius is nothing like the last one we had.”

  “You mean the one he murdered for abusing a legionary?” another of their companions blurted through slurred speech as he sat across from them, wine goblet precariously balanced in his numbing fingers. “At least that’s the rumor I’ve heard. I tried asking the Centurion about it once, and he beat me across the legs with his vine stick and then made me do boulder squats until I threw up four times…never did get my answer either…think it’s true?”

  “It’s true,” Magnus said placing his hands on the table, having heard them from across the room. “And if I were you, I would keep talk of that to yourself! Your voice is carrying across the damned tavern! The men of this Century have done their best to forget the incidents surrounding the last Centurion; a man who is never mentioned by name and who was convicted in absentia for crimes that got his name struck from the legion’s rolls. Am I making myself clear?” He grabbed the drunken soldier by the back of the neck and gave a squeeze for emphasis, half lifting him from his seat.

  “Yes, sir,” all three men said together.

  Magnus made his way outside the tavern and was surprised to see his old friend and Centurion leaning against a pillar, brooding. A half-drunk cup of local ale hung loosely from his hand.

  “I thought you didn’t come here anymore,” the Tesserarius observed as he leaned up against a pillar opposite his friend.

  “I usually don’t,” Artorius replied, eyes staring off into the blackened night. “I came to reminisce a bit. You realize it’s been twelve years since we were in their position?” He nodded his head towards the inside of the tavern, where his newest legionaries celebrated their ascent into the ranks. “I still remember that night clearly. I swear the conversations were almost identical to those I overhear from our new men.”

  “Except we don’t have a naked Valens chasing Praxus through the tavern with his gladius,” Magnus replied with a laugh.

  Artorius chuckled at the memory.

  “Yes, well I think your sister has calmed him down a bit.”

  Magnus scowled briefly at Artorius’ assessment.

  “Svetlana is just as much of a deviant as Valens,” the Norseman replied. “She may have redirected his carnal lust, but believe me, I don’t think our friend has calmed down at all. Did you know he’s got this thing he does to amuse himself? He gets into a wide stance and starts to thrust his hips front to back vigorously so that his balls start slapping really loud.”

  “Yes, I’ve heard the slap,” Artorius replied, rolling his eyes. “I was talking with Proculus the other day, and the twisted fuck stands directly behind the Primus Ordo and starts doing it! Proculus could not for the life of him figure out what that loud slapping sound was.”

  The thought of Artorius trying to keep a straight face while one of his legionaries acted in such a vile manner directly behind one of the most senior-ranking Centurions in the legion caused Magnus to burst into a fit of laughter. Even Artorius could not help but chuckle at the absurdity of it all.

  “Ah, I know you didn’t come here to reminisce about my sister’s disturbed, albeit amusing, husband,” Magnus said at last, becoming serious once more.

  Artorius finished what was left in his ale cup with a grimace.

  “To be honest, old friend,” he began, “I’m a bit worried about our new soldiers. There’s just so many of them. They make up a full third of the Century!”

  “What of it?” Magnus shrugged. “We were there once ourselves. Hell, we were barely out of recruit training when we saw our first action.”

  “Yes, but most of the Century was made up of veterans at that time,” Artorius replied. “There were only four of us straight out of recruit training then; you, me, Gavius, and Antoninus. The veterans took care of us, and Antoninus was the only one of us to not come home from Germania.”

  “I remember that,” Magnus said. “Poor bastard was killed at Angrivari. Look, I see what you’re saying; we have a lot of inexperienced legionaries within the Century. That can’t be helped. The only thing we can do is train them the best we can and hope that there aren’t any real wars to fight for the next couple years.”

  “It will take at least that long to get them fully proficient,” Artorius agreed. “We taught them the bare basics during recruit training. Our focus now needs to be building upon that foundation, lest they all follow young Antonius to the afterlife.”

  “Even the veterans have become a bit complacent lately,” the Tesserarius observed. “We’ve been so focused on the large number of recruits we had, plus no one seems to be keen on training for the Legion Champion tournament, seeing as how the lads all think you are unbeatable.”

  “They need to get that kind of bullshit out of their heads!” Artorius snapped, smashing the cup against the post. “I’m no god, Magnus, and I’ve had my ass beaten more times than I can count!”

  “Sure, but not since Vitruvius retired from active competition,” his friend replied with a shrug. “I agree that the men need a bit of added motivation. We’ll start increasing sparring sessions, in addition to century-level drill.”

  Artorius gave an affirmative nod.

  “Get with Praxus tomorrow and come up with a tentative schedule,” he replied. “Whenever they are not on work details, they will be drilling or sparring; and that includes us! You, me, Praxus, and Rufio need to set the example to the rest of the century; just as the Decanii need to be the most fit and ablest fighters within their respective squads. And if they need any extra motivation, any man who bests me in single combat gets twenty denarii from my own coffers.”

  Magnus whistled as Artorius gave a sly grin.

  “That’s more than a month’s pay for most of them,” the Norseman observed. “I don’t think you’ll have too many who will be able to collect, if any.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” the Centurion replied. “If it makes them train harder, that’s all I care about. I would rather we sweat now than bleed later.”

  “Our people starve,” Tabbo said to the gathering inside his home. He had kept it small, just Prince Klaes, Amke, and a couple of warriors, including Sjoerd and Olbert. It was black outside,
and a single lamp gave off a feeble light inside of the war chief’s hall. “Our King’s spirit has yet to recover; he takes no interest in anything, just keeps staring into the fire. We stand on the brink. Our people can either die fighting for our freedoms, or they can slowly waste away and die of famine.”

  “Tabbo,” Klaes replied. “There is not one of us here who disagrees with what you are saying. What I don’t want is for our people to fight a war that is suicidal. Surely there must be a way for us to fight the Romans without facing extermination!”

  “How can we?” Amke countered. “We’ve all heard the stories about what the legions did to us the last time we faced them. Klaes, you and Tabbo both fought beside the Romans! You know how dangerous they are!” The leader of the Daughters of Freyja was overcome by frustration and emotion. She shook her head and regained her composure.

  “I don’t even care anymore,” she continued. “I would rather die with a Roman sword in my guts than begging for scraps from that bastard Olennius!”

  “I’m with Amke,” Sjoerd concurred. “The Romans can spill my guts for all I care! I’ve been so hungry that they are empty anyway.”

  “I see that it is almost time,” a voice said from behind Tabbo. The group gasped as King Dibbald walked into the light. He had aged, his face drawn and pale, but the old fire was in his eyes. “I am sorry for having failed you for so long. It is time we remembered our warrior past and expelled the blight that has tainted our land. Tell the people that they are to consume the grain and barley meant to be given as tribute. We will need all our strength when the spring arrives and Olennius comes and attempts to collect his tribute!”