by James Mace
Amke had a gloom about her that failed to dissipate. King Tabbo had noticed it ever since Braduhenna. He could scarcely blame the girl. The Daughters of Freyja had paid dearly for their valor in trying to protect her uncle, the King. Nearly half had been slain, with most of the rest badly injured for their efforts. Every day Amke visited the grove dedicated to her matron deity. It was there that Tabbo found her kneeling before an altar, her face blank, eyes shut.
“If you wish to honor the goddess, you must allow yourself to move on,” the King said gently.
Amke’s eyes remained closed. “I am not worthy to serve the goddess,” she said after a brief pause. She then opened her eyes, but kept them fixed straight ahead. “My sisters and I were charged with defending the King, and we failed. Freyja found us unworthy and abandoned us at the end.”
“You should not say such things,” Tabbo soothed as he sat on a log near where Amke knelt.
At last she looked up at him. Though her eye had since reopened, her face was still discolored and partially swollen from the blow she had taken during the battle. The bandage was off her arm, as well, but the scar left behind was fearful to look upon. While her clothing covered it, the gash on her side was still a sickly, oozing mess, even as it was slowly healing. Amke now walked with a limp that she was very self conscious of. She quietly wondered if she would ever be able to walk properly, let alone wield a weapon.
“I mean no disrespect to your person, sire,” she replied. “I know that my uncle chose you to be his successor after my cousin was killed. You are a good King and have saved our people…”
Tabbo raised a hand and Amke looked down.
“Please, I know what you mean,” he replied. “Dibbald Segon was the greatest of Kings. I am but a humble warrior, unworthy to follow him. But follow him I did, because he asked me to do so. I also know that he wished for me to look after those of his family that remained. Besides your aunt, Queen Femke, you are all that is left of the family of Dibbald Segon.”
“And it is a line that will end with me,” Amke emphasized. “Remember, I am of the Daughters of Freyja. Our place was by the King.”
“It is still your place,” Tabbo replied, lifting Amke’s chin with his hand. His smile softened her hardened gaze. “Your King calls upon you, and the other Daughters, to stand by his side.”
“We are but few in number, sire.”
“I will take your few over a host of lesser mortals,” Tabbo emphasized. “Amke, you are the last of the Segon line, and as such you will always hold a place of honor in my household. I will not command you to take your position as the head of the Daughters of Freyja, though if you wish to do so you will be most welcomed back.”
“It is an honor I accept,” Amke replied, allowing herself to smile for the first time since Braduhenna.
Tabbo helped her to her feet and walked arm in arm with her back to the capital. She still limped badly, and by the time they returned he was practically carrying her.
“I miss them,” she said as he set her down on the bed inside her house. The King sat on a chair and looked at her quizzically.
“Who do you miss?”
“All of them,” Amke replied. “My sisters who fell at Braduhenna, Sjoerd, my dear cousin, Klaes, Uncle Dibbald, even that deviant bastard Lourens.”
“Lourens was an honorable man,” Tabbo chastised. “He may have had feelings for you, but he never once tried to act upon them. And besides, what man would not have longed to be caressed by one such as you?”
Amke looked down, embarrassed by the King’s statement.
“Sire, you flatter me too much,” she replied. “I am scarred and broken now. I doubt any man would want me. But you are right; Lourens did stay faithful to his wife and never let his feelings for me bring disgrace to his family or mine. I guess that’s why I miss him. He was a good man. He died by my uncle’s side, refusing to leave him.”
It was now fall, and every day Artorius checked on his wounded men that were still in the hospital. Every few days one or two legionaries were returned to the Century. These men would be placed on light duty for various amounts of time, depending on the extent of their injuries. Many would require months of rehabilitation to regain full use of their bodies once more. Eight would never fight again and were awaiting medical discharges from the army. This left the Second Century critically short on manpower. Fifty-one names remained on the rolls, though only twenty were now fit for full duty, another fifteen had returned to the unit but were still on medical restrictions, including Artorius and Praxus. Rufio and Magnus had stepped forward and carried much of the burden of running the Century for them.
The Centurion was finally able to walk unassisted. He had lost a tremendous amount of weight, and he constantly felt weak and out of breath. That would change soon, he kept telling himself. He had started back into his workout routine, though the weights he used were much lighter than before. His side ached whenever he tried running, so for the time being he would go on extended marches with some of the men who were also recuperating. It was after one of these short marches, only about ten miles that Artorius returned to find another of the wounded waiting outside his office.
“This is an auxiliary trooper who requested to see you,” Rufio explained. “He said you would know him.”
At first Artorius did not recognize the man. He then realized who the man was and nodded. The trooper looked much different from the last time they had seen each other. Indeed, this was the first time the Centurion had seen him without either helmet or a face covered in blood. He nodded and signaled for the auxiliary to follow him into his office. As soon as he sat down behind his desk the man snapped a sharp salute.
“Trooper Metellus Artorianus reporting, sir.”
The name struck hard at Artorius, for the man had his brother’s first name. There was more to it as well.
“Your surname is the adoptive variation of my own,” he observed. “We’re not related, are we?” He grinned as he said this, his hands clasped behind his head as he leaned back in his chair.
The young man was not smiling. Instead, he swallowed hard before answering, his eyes straight ahead as if he was afraid to look at the Centurion directly.
“I…I am your nephew, sir.”
Artorius fell over backwards in his chair.
Chapter XXVII: Fathers and Sons
***
Artorius paced back and forth, his hands clasped behind his back. The auxiliary trooper’s remark had sent him falling backwards out of his chair. It was impossible; his brother Metellus had died childless. Surely if he had had a son Artorius would have found out by now!
“You say you are my nephew,” the Centurion said at last, as he stood facing the young man. “Do explain…and for gods’ sake stand easy, man!”
The trooper breathed deeply as he relaxed his stance and finally found the courage to look Artorius in the eye. Artorius tried to see if there were any similarities between this young man and himself. Could he see his brother in him? In spite of the years that had passed, he still knew his brother’s face. There could be a resemblance…but he immediately ceased such ludicrous thoughts.
“I am the son of Metellus Artorius Maximus, Legionary of the Seventeenth; killed in action, Teutoburger Wald. My mother’s name was Rowana.”
“Was?” Artorius asked. “She is dead then?”
The younger Metellus nodded.
“She died of an illness last year. It was only at the last that she told me to follow my destiny. All my life she never wanted me to join the Roman army and risk sharing the same fate as my father. She never married, and still loved him to the end of her days. Yet she cursed Rome for taking him from her.
“When she knew her illness would be fatal, she finally mentioned my father having a brother and that I needed to find him. She said, ‘find the Valeria Legion and determine your destiny.’ Nothing else was said, I can only assume it meant she kept some connection with my father’s past and knew where I could find you. It was
then that she gave me these.” He handed a series of documents to Artorius.
They were a series of letters and short poems. A few were love poems, written in a hand that Artorius recognized. He swallowed hard as he continued to glance through the papers.
He almost dropped the lot when he found some letters in the stack, only having to read the first few words to know what they said. He was looking at his own handwriting, which had scarcely improved since these letters had been written twenty years before. They mostly talked about school and how he was keeping his promise about doing well in his studies. Each was closed with a favorite quote that he had learned from his brother; With a sound mind and strong body one can accomplish anything. There was one final letter at the very bottom, but it was in neither his nor his brother’s hand. It was addressed to Rowana and the signature made Artorius tremble. It took every ounce of his self control to maintain his composure as he looked at the young man once more.
“Come with me,” he said as he briskly walked out of the office.
The young man struggled to keep pace with him as the Centurion stormed out of the Century’s office and headed straight to the Principia. His gaze was cold and fixated to his front as he walked into the Legion headquarters, right past Camillus, who was verifying the promotion appointments for one of the cohorts.
“What the fuck, not so much as a hello?” the Aquilifer asked as the two men walked right past him. Camillus continued to watch them as they made their way to the Master Centurion’s office.
“Wait here,” Artorius commanded, pointing to a spot right outside the door.
“Hey!” Camillus shouted as Artorius bolted in without so much as knocking. Just as quickly he stopped and immediately went back to his desk when he heard the raised voices inside.
“Oh, shit,” he whispered.
“Centurion Artorius,” Calvinus said, completely taken by surprise. There was anger in the younger Centurion’s face, and the fact that he had not so much as knocked and waited for permission to enter confounded the Primus Pilus.
“Did my brother have a son?” Artorius said, his voice rising.
“Excuse me?” Calvinus replied.
“You fucking heard me!” Artorius barked.
Calvinus’ eyes went wide and his surprise quickly turned to anger.
“You watch your tone with me, Centurion!” he shouted back. “Don’t think our past history gives you the right to barge into my office unannounced and get insubordinate with me! You had better explain yourself!” He had completely forgotten the question the junior Centurion had asked.
“My apologies, sir,” Artorius replied tightly. He then held up the letter addressed to Rowana. “I thought perhaps you could explain this.”
The Master Centurion’s eyes grew wide as he recognized the letter.
“Where did you get that?”
“From an auxiliary trooper named Metellus Artorianus. Do you know him?” It all started making sense to Artorius, judging from Calvinus’ expression.
The Master Centurion looked deflated. He looked away, briefly covering his eyes with his hand.
“I know him, though I have not seen him since he was a newborn,” he replied. “It’s easy to forget just how many years have passed. The last time I saw him, his mother reaffirmed what she had written to me in response to my letter which you now hold.” He then sat behind his desk, gazing off to the side, and shook his head. “I guess little Metellus is not so little anymore.”
“He’s here,” Artorius said after a short pause. “I’ve brought him with me.”
Calvinus then looked up at the Centurion and nodded. Artorius returned to the door to see Metellus standing rigid outside, sweat forming on his brow. Camillus was sitting at his desk, studiously staring at the document in front of him, with his ear cocked towards the door. Artorius motioned with his head and Metellus followed him into the office. The young man stood before the Master Centurion and saluted. Before he could speak, Calvinus raised a hand, silencing him.
“I know who you are,” he said, taking a further moment to appraise the trooper. A sad smile then crossed Calvinus’ face. “You have your mother’s eyes…and your father’s strong jaw. Take a seat; we have much to talk about.”
All three men sat at Calvinus’ desk. The letter he had sent to Rowana had been the notification of Metellus the Elder’s death. After some rummaging around, he then produced another letter from his desk drawer and handed it to the young trooper, whose hands trembled slightly as he read his mother’s response to the Centurion.
My Dearest Calvinus,
I thank you for the kind words regarding my beloved Metellus. I have no doubts about his heroism or valor, or indeed his actions saving your life. He may have died a hero, but he died nonetheless. My husband is still lost to me and I curse Rome for taking him from me, just as I curse the Senate and Emperor he died for, who would not even grant him the simple courtesy of honoring our marriage! He was my husband in the eyes of the gods, if not in the eyes of Rome.
Know that I would gladly follow my love into the afterlife, were it not for that I carry his child within me. He died never knowing he was to be a father, just as his child will grow up without knowing him. If it is a son that I bear, I will name him in honor of his father, but that will be his only link to Rome. I disavow any further connections with Rome, and my son will be raised as a member of my people, not his father’s, lest he share the same fate.
I ask that you do not try to find me. Though I will always have fond feelings for you, I bear nothing but disdain for the legions you serve! Farewell, Calvinus, until I see you again in the next life,
Rowana
“I did not honor her request,” Calvinus said when he saw that young Metellus had finished reading. “I sought her out, for no other reason than I wanted to make certain that the family of the man who saved my life was safe. You were but a few months old then. I was surprised that your mother was not angered at seeing me. Your father’s grave fund was paid to your grandfather in Ostia, so I gave Rowana a bit of my own money to provide for you both. That was the last I ever saw of her. I only wrote to her one other time, and that was after I met your uncle during the Germanic Wars.”
“Then that is how she knew where to find you,” Metellus observed, looking over to Artorius, who nodded in reply.
The Centurion was still in shock, the realization that the man he sat next to was, in fact, his brother’s son seemed surreal to him.
“Then it is time for you to take what is rightfully yours,” Artorius stated.
Metellus looked at him perplexed. “What do you mean, sir?”
In answer to Metellus’ question, Artorius stood and suddenly found a surge of purpose.
“Don’t you see? You are a Roman! The citizenship that will take you another twenty-four years in the auxilia to attain is already yours by right! You’ve been an auxiliary for the last year when in reality you should have been serving as a legionary, should you still wish to remain in the army.”
“But I cannot prove who my father was,” Metellus protested. “My mother is dead, and there is no one who can vouch for my lineage.”
“I possibly could,” Calvinus conjectured. “Though I admit it will be difficult. Even a Master Centurion carries little weight in matters such as this. I have not seen young Metellus since he was an infant, and if all were needed was an endorsement from me, then every auxiliary trooper in the Empire would be doing everything he could to find favor with the nearest Centurion.” Calvinus’ assessment made the situation look grim until Artorius’ face suddenly brightened.
“I have a better idea,” he said, his purpose now laid clear before him. “What about adoption?”
Metellus looked confused as Calvinus’ face broke into a grin. “A citizen may adopt whomever he chooses to be his son and heir, and you know Diana and I cannot have children.” He then faced the young trooper and placed a hand on his shoulder, taking a deep breath. “Metellus is already my nephew by blood. I would
be honored to have him as my son!”
Diana’s heart leapt as Artorius explained what had happened with Metellus and Master Centurion Calvinus. She folded her hands in front of her face, her eyes wet with emotion. Her husband seemed concerned about how she would feel about the situation, and he kept trying to explain himself to her, afraid he was upsetting her.
“I want this, not just to have an heir,” he said as he paced back in forth in their bedroom. “This young man is of my blood, he is an Artorius by birth. Never mind that I am only eleven years his elder…I feel a bond with him already. I swear on everything I love that I felt my brother’s presence in that room! It was as if he was guiding my hand.” He had turned away as he spoke and was staring out the window into the night, afraid of what her reaction would be. A gentle breeze blew in and he closed his eyes, his arms folded across his chest. Diana reached out and wrapped her arms around him, holding him tight as she kissed him on the cheek.
“When can I meet our son?” she whispered into his ear.
For one father there would be no joyous reunion with his son. Justus stood trembling, the letter from Artorius having reached him long before the official notification from Rome. He stood inside the foyer of his house, his left hand resting on a pillar, the other holding the message from his friend in a balled up fist. His eyes were shut, face red and teeth grinding. Flavia and Gaia stood in the doorway leading into the back hallway. Flavia placed a hand over her mouth, her eyes immediately filling with tears.
“It’s about Gaius, isn’t it?” Gaia asked her father. Though nine years had separated her from her brother, she had always adored him. He in turn had always been there for his little sister.
Justus’ face was clenched hard, unable to speak. His cheeks stained with tears, he turned to face his wife and daughter. He stared not at them, but rather at the statue of Bellona, the goddess of war, that sat on a niche behind them. As the wife of a soldier, Flavia had felt that extra care should be given to both Bellona and Victoria, whose statue also adorned the room. In fact, the entire atrium was a virtual pantheon of Roman deities. His sorrow quickly turned to hatred as he stared into the lifeless eyes of the statue. He had just come off duty and was still in his armor. Eyes still fixed on the goddess; he slowly drew his gladius and cupped the blade in his left hand. He squeezed hard, unaware that the ever sharp blade was cutting into his hand. Flavia grabbed her daughter by the shoulders and slowly backed away as blood dripped from Justus’ hand.