by James Mace
“Why not?” Statorius mused. “After all, I live but a few blocks from you.”
Artorius had forgotten that Statorius had purchased a nice villa of his own. He had married soon after his promotion to Centurion. His wife was the daughter of a flax merchant, though he figured her father’s business must have done very well, for the villa Statorius lived in was almost as large and ornate as the one he and Diana lived in.
“And how is the family?” Artorius asked as they walked down the road towards the main gate. His mind had been so jumbled as of late that he could not even remember his former squad leader’s wife’s name or how many children he had! It shamed him and he hoped Statorius would not notice.
“They are well,” his fellow Centurion replied. “With Julia expecting again, we are hoping for a boy this time.”
It was then that Artorius remembered that his friend had two daughters.
“And what of the Lady Diana?”
“Well enough,” Artorius replied, “though I think she tires of having to constantly entertain the wives of traveling nobles and wealthy businessmen. Even though she married a lowly Centurion, she is still of the Proculeius line, and therefore, still of great influence. Honestly, I think she wields more power than even the wife of our esteemed Legate! Thankfully she conducts most of this away from our house.”
They walked in silence for some time. The sky was red as they headed out the gate, the legionaries on duty snapping to attention and saluting the Centurions. It was another mile to Artorius’ villa and though each man owned a horse they usually chose to walk each day. It seemed Diana took his horse out far more often than he did.
“Let’s take the long way,” Statorius suggested, pointing to a dirt path that ran parallel to the river.
Artorius shrugged. “Got something on your mind?” he asked.
“Yes,” Statorius replied simply as the sounds of the bustling city grew quiet. “I know you have always spent long days working at the Century.”
“Longer than I would like,” Artorius replied. “Believe me, I hate devoting my entire life to paperwork, especially the tedious crap. I figure it’s because my organizational skills are not the best. I really need to delegate more to the Principal Officers.”
“They’re all good men,” Statorius acknowledged. “Three of you were all in the same squad at one time.” He referred to when he had been the Decanus, with Artorius, Magnus, and Praxus, all serving under him as legionaries.
“That feels like a lifetime ago!” Artorius said. “It was the only time I was ever in a line squad that was at full strength. It was you, me, Magnus, Praxus, Gavius, Valens…” He stopped and wiped his forehead, which was suddenly damp with sweat.
“Carbo and Decimus,” Statorius finished quietly for him.
They continued to walk in silence for the next few minutes.
“It is about them you wish to talk to me,” Artorius said. It was a statement, rather than a question.
“Not just them,” Statorius answered. “But as I was close to them, as well…” It was his turn to find that he could not speak.
“Thirteen years,” Artorius observed after a short silence. “Thirteen years I knew them. They were more than just my legionaries; they were my friends. They truly were brothers to me.”
“Have you allowed yourself time to mourn for them, and for the others?” Statorius asked.
“We’ve done the call to the fallen, in case you forgot,” Artorius replied, not liking where the conversation was headed.
“That’s not what I asked you. I asked if you have allowed yourself time to mourn. My Century did not suffer nearly as badly as yours did, but I still lost men. No one saw me for days, not even my wife, after we returned. I had to give myself time to mourn them, lest it tear me up inside. I’m sure that being around your Century reminds you of that…”
“Look, Statorius,” Artorius snapped, turning to face him. “I do not deliberately avoid my men!”
“Not intentionally, perhaps,” Statorius replied, matching his gaze. He then followed up with a difficult question; one that he knew would grate at his old friend and former protégé. “How many men do you have battle ready?”
“As of this morning, twenty-eight fit for duty. The rest come back here and there as the hospital releases them.”
“And how many will come back?” Statorius was being persistent, though Artorius did not begrudge him for it.
“Perhaps another twenty,” he replied. “The rest will most likely never fight again. After what happened to my father in Pannonia, I hate the idea of good men being forced out of the legions. But if they are unable to fight, they can’t be legionaries.”
“Sadly, no society has ever done right by its broken heroes,” his fellow Centurion replied somberly.
“I won’t lie to you, Statorius. The lack of fighting soldiers in my Century does serve as a stark reminder for me. Thirteen of my men never came home, and of the ones who did, as many as half will never march with us again!” His anger was rising, though it was not directed towards his friend.
Statorius simply nodded and let him continue.
“I mean, what the hell?” Artorius ranted. “We fought the most savage battle of our time and nobody fucking cares! I don’t think the Roman army has ever lost as many as we did in a battle that was won; and yet when it was all over we’re told to go home, that it was all one big fucking mistake! My men died for nothing!” His entire body trembled as rage and sorrow overtook him. He now understood why Statorius had suggested they take the long road home, and why he had deliberately avoided going through the center of town. Artorius’ face was red. He looked away and shook his head.
“No triumphs for us,” he continued. “No accolades of a job well done. Instead, we have been the subject of a shame that is not ours.”
Apronius sat brooding over the same stigma that haunted his men. So many had fallen; his Chief Tribune was dead, two of his First Cohort Centurions were badly wounded. Proculus’ injuries were so extensive that he would most likely never fight again. A message had just arrived, and his face turned red with rage as he read it.
“Message from Rome,” Master Centurion Calvinus stated, rather than asked.
“Those fucking bastards!” Apronius snarled through clenched teeth. “They’ve completely disavowed our actions in Frisia. The Senate seems content to allow what happened to be simply forgotten. Hell, most people in Rome have no idea where Frisia is. Its tribute was minimal, so I doubt they will miss it very much.” His voice was thick with venom. His fist closed around the scroll, crumpling it and then throwing it across the room.
Calvinus stood silently as the Governor General placed his forehead in his hands.
“How can they ignore the loss of thirteen hundred men?” the Master Centurion asked after a minute of silence. “The Army of the Rhine suffered nearly five thousand wounded, as well. That’s twenty-five percent casualties! I swear by all the gods that this must be the highest percentage any Roman army has lost in a battle that they actually won. We came back from the brink of disaster, preventing another Teutoburger Wald! How can they ignore that?”
“Oh, it’s simple, really,” Apronius replied. “Most of our men came from the provinces. What does the Senate care if a few hundred Spaniards, Gauls, Germans, and other various non-Latin legionaries die? We won the battle, and that was good enough for them! So now they would just as soon forget it ever happened.” Apronius stopped in his tirade when he saw Calvinus was gripping the edge of the table, his entire body trembling.
“They were my men,” Calvinus said quietly. “Whether they were born in Italy or not, they were still citizens of Rome. They died serving the Empire, and the Senate dares to defile their memories!”
“Our losses have been great,” Apronius concurred. “To say nothing of the loss of the entire Fourth Cohort…”
“And I’m afraid you stand to lose more.” Calvinus stood upright, his face composed once more as the Legate raised an eyebrow.
“I’ve had enough,” he replied calmly. “Apronius, I’ve given thirty-three years of my life to the legions. Nineteen of those were with the Twentieth. I’m tired. My daughter never knew me when she was growing up. My wife barely acknowledges my existence!”
“Forgive me, Calvinus, but I did not even know you were married.”
“I keep my personal life private,” Calvinus replied with a shrug. “Besides, she doesn’t live in Cologne. Ours is a typical Roman marriage; one of political expediency and the hopes of offspring for my line, nothing more. Though I was but a legionary, my family had strong connections, ones that allowed me to get a special dispensation allowing me to marry, provided my wife did not reside where I was stationed; which suited us both fine. Our first two sons died within days of birth, a third was stillborn. My daughter, Calvina, is the only one of my children to live to adulthood.”
“How old is she?”
“She turns thirty-one next month,” Calvinus answered.
Apronius was surprised. He had envisioned a young girl, or perhaps a teenager. Still, he was glad for the change of subject.
The Master Centurion then gave a mirthless chuckle. “My son-in-law, I’ve only met twice. His father knew of my family’s wealth, in spite of my status as a mere soldier, so he knew Calvina’s dowry would be great. He is the mayor of Napoli, so it was a good match for us, too…do you realize I have a thirteen-year old grandson I’ve never even seen? I am a stranger to my entire family.”
“The love of family can push even the most committed soldier to long for retirement,” Apronius replied, his hands folded in front of him as he leaned across the table. “Tell me the truth, Calvinus, that is not the entire reason, is it?”
The Master Centurion breathed deeply through his nose and shook his head.
“No.”
“You just said you’ve spent the last nineteen years with the Twentieth,” the Legate observed, to which Calvinus replied with a nod. “There was another tragic event that happened around the time you came here.” The twitching of Calvinus jaw gave Apronius the answer he was looking for.
“Yes…I am a survivor of Teutoburger Wald,” he replied, eyes boring into Apronius.
“I am sorry to have brought up such a painful memory,” the Legate replied, eyes on the table and unable to meet Calvinus’ gaze. “We almost suffered the same fate in Frisia.”
“The Fourth Cohort did,” Calvinus retorted. “And when I saw Proculus and Macro fall, not knowing whether they were alive or dead, and the Chief Tribune covered in his own guts and begging for death to come, I felt as if I had returned to Teutoburger. I swear I felt like I was there once more! At that time, only three men from my Century survived including me. And when I regained my senses I saw the entire Twentieth Legion sharing the same fate…”
“But we didn’t!” Apronius countered. “The Fifth Legion repaired their bridge and flanked the Frisians, to say nothing of Tribune Cursor and his ten thousand.”
Calvinus closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He then fixed his eyes on his commander, and Apronius knew his resolve was unshakable.
“Forgive me, sir,” Calvinus said slowly. “I know my timing is horrid, but in all honestly, I just cannot see the faces of the broken and lost anymore. The gods have spared me twice, and now I think it is time for me to leave. I won’t go immediately; I will stay on for a couple more months. That should be enough time for us to get the Legion back on the path to recovery, as well as find a suitable replacement.”
Apronius stood and extended his hand. Calvinus was surprised at first, but then clasped Apronius’ forearm in his firm grasp.
“Calvinus, you have been all that one could ever want in a Master Centurion. Give Rome three more months and I will accept your request for retirement.”
Chapter XXV: A Goddess to Her Soldiers
***
Proculus’ injuries had been extensive, and he had yet to regain consciousness after swooning when the doctors had performed surgery on his stubborn wounds that had failed to heal, even after being back for a month. As Diana left her cousin’s house, she thought about the countless others who had come back wounded, some badly maimed. As a Centurion Primus Ordo, Proculus was one of the lucky ones. He could afford his own surgeons and was able to be cared for within his own house. The average legionary languished in the fortress hospital, which given the huge number of casualties suffered during the campaign, was overflowing. Since the fortress housed two legions, its hospital had twice the space, as well as doctors and medics. Unlike the Twentieth, the First Legion had only engaged during the Siege of Flevum and had suffered few losses. Be that as it may, no army facility was equipped to handle the more than five thousand wounded legionaries and auxiliaries that were crammed into every possible space, as well as many forced to suffer outside under temporary shelters, subject to the elements.
For reasons she could not comprehend, Diana felt compelled to visit these men. While her cousin had wished to protect his wife from seeing the horrors of war’s aftermath, at least he had a wife! Some of the legionaries had common-law ‘wives’ or significant others, though many more had no one. They suffered in silence and were all alone in the world, except for those who lay next to them in agony. Many of these were little more than boys of seventeen or eighteen, who had enlisted in the legions only a few months before.
A horrible stench greeted her as she reached the hospital. Several dozen soldiers, mostly auxiliaries, lay on tattered cloaks or torn blankets on the ground. Though they had fought just as hard and valiantly, legionaries would always take priority over their non-citizen compatriots. It was a type of bias that was simply accepted. The septic smell made Diana gag, though she fought to keep her composure. Proximo had accompanied her and was keeping a respectful distance behind his mistress. A medic was sitting on a wooden crate outside, his head resting in his right hand, while a soiled rag hung from his left.
“My lady,” he said tiredly, unable to stand up. “You know this is no place for you.”
“My husband comes here every day, what do you mean it’s not my place?” she asked sternly.
“My apologies, ma’am,” the medic replied. “It’s just…we are not equipped to handle this many wounded. No one can see what goes on in there and maintain their sanity!”
With a nod of understanding, Diana stepped over an auxiliary, who was holding a filthy rag over his abdomen, which reeked of infection. Her hand came over her mouth as she stared into the darkened hall of despair and pain. The most badly injured soldiers lay on bunks, stacked three high. Others simply curled up on the floor. Their companions had brought them bedding and blankets from their billets, though for the auxiliaries, whose forts were scattered along the Rhine, there was nothing for them but what they brought. Orderlies carried pots for the wounded to urinate or defecate in, seeing as how these men were unable to so much as walk to the latrines that were just two blocks away. Some of the wounded were in such a state of fever and delirium that they had no control over their bodily functions and the room stank of excrement.
Diana crept along the wall and looked into the other room where doctors and medics performed surgery and did the actual treatment of wounds. One poor man was lying on a table, his face clammy and pale, lips already turning blue. Gangrene had spread through his body, like so many of the others who had been badly wounded. He was fighting to stop the violent convulsions that sent shockwaves of pain through is broken body. Another soldier, perhaps the man’s Centurion or Optio, stood over him, clutching his hand. The officer looked at the doctor who, with a look of emotional exhaustion, simply shook his head.
“I’m sorry, sir,” the wounded legionary stammered, biting hard as another spasm sent torrents of pain through him.
“No,” the officer replied gently, shaking his head. “You have nothing to be sorry for.”
“Please…please tell me I fought
well,” the man pleaded. His eyes showed that he knew his time in this life was coming to an end.
Diana stood in the corner with her arms wrapped around herself, sobbing quietly.
“You fought like a lion!” the officer replied forcefully, bringing a brief smile from the legionary through the convulsions and pain. “It took half a dozen of them to bring you down, and two of those bastards fell by your blade!”
“Y…you’re the only father…I’ve ever had,” the young soldier gasped. “I…I…I wanted to make you proud…” His eyes rolled into the back of his head, his tongue protruding from his mouth as his body thrashed about. His bowels let loose and the pungent odor mixed with the stench of rot that permeated the room.
“Sleep well, son,” the officer whispered into the ear of the now still legionary. He attempted to close the man’s eyes, though there was nothing to be done about the protruding tongue, which was bitten nearly in two. As he stood and took a deep breath, Diana recognized the man as Centurion Dominus, the man who had replaced Vitruvius as the Commander of the Third Cohort. He turned to leave and noticed Diana standing there. His face was ashen, and all he could do was give a short nod. This was the only gesture that showed he saw her, for his eyes were distant and lost.
“One more name to add to our call to the fallen,” he said quietly as he stumbled from the room.
“Can I help you, my lady?” a medic asked, startling Diana, who was staring at the dead legionary that orderlies were carrying towards the back door.
A bucket of water was dumped onto the table and it was quickly wiped off with a bloody rag before a less gravely injured soldier was lifted onto it.
“No,” she replied, trying to compose herself. “It is I who should be helping you. What is it you need?”
“Well, to be honest,” the medic began, not sure if he should speak candidly to her, but he took a deep breath and went on. “To be honest, we are terribly short of clean bandages and rags, as you can plainly see. Not enough hot water either. And those poor auxiliaries, they haven’t got so much as a proper cot, or even a pillow and nice blanket to protect them from the cold. Gods know how many more of them will perish in the freezing night! Nights in Germania, even in summer, are not kind to those who have to sleep out in that; to say nothing of their being weakened already by their wounds!”