Soldier of Rome: The Centurion (The Artorian Chronicles)
Page 36
“Fine,” he lied. “Just thinking, that’s all.”
“Yeah, well there’s not much else to do on a cargo ship, now is there?” the young man mused as they both put their backs into rowing away from the isle.
Alaric had grown strong and well conditioned during his time at sea, and the task of rowing was little more than a routine for him now. Though the captain had promised them leave in Rome, his instincts told him otherwise. If they were transporting more slaves to North Africa, he figured that would be where they would be given some leisure time. Rumor also had it that they might be headed towards the Far East; Egypt or Judea perhaps. Suddenly he didn’t even care. Though not a slave, he felt trapped on the ship. It was the only sure way of holding a steady wage that he knew of; he was fed and had a place to sleep at night. He could not leave until he knew for certain what it was he was looking for. He was starting to panic that whatever it was, he would not find it sitting in the hot and sweat infested hull of a Roman cargo ship.
It had been months since the ‘slaying of the Roman army,’ as people now called it. The people called for celebrations, for they had succeeded in expelling the Romans from their lands. The hated scourge brought on by that bastard Olennius was now over. Frisia was free once more! To the warriors who fought at Braduhenna, they knew better. The reality was that they had lost the Battle of Braduhenna, along with their beloved King, the Royal Prince, and thousands of warriors. The sound diplomacy of their new King, Tabbo, had brought freedom to Frisia, not the swords and axes of their fighters.
Still, with the time for mourning of the dead over, one particular warrior felt the time was now appropriate to conduct one last honor and to fulfill a promise made. He still needed his rudimentary crutches in order to walk great distances, and it was several miles to the sacred grove. He left in early afternoon, his young son helping him heft a sack onto his shoulder.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to come with you?” the boy asked, wishing to help his father, whom he watched struggle as he tried to walk and carry the sack.
“This is something I have to do alone, lad,” the warrior said. “Besides, it would not do if your mother came home to find us both missing.”
His wife had been out in the woods harvesting berries all afternoon and would not be back until dark. He told his son to let her know that there was something he had to do, and that he may not be back until late, possibly the next morning.
As painful as it was, it still felt good, in a way, to stretch his stiffened legs out as he walked along the dirt road. Most of the farmers were out harvesting their crops, at least those who were still able. Many in the community worked to assist those families who had lost their fathers and sons or whose men had come back too injured to work. It was a great strain on all, yet there was still a sense of relief in the air. Cattle hides were no longer set aside to be sent to Rome as tribute, and all the grain and hay grown would feed their livestock and themselves, not some fat, foreign aristocrat. The people would survive and thrive.
By late afternoon he arrived at the sacred grove dedicated to the goddess Freyja. It was the same place where his people had taken all of their dead and wounded after Braduhenna. He found it fitting that this was where the dead had been taken after the battle, since it was Freyja who took the fallen heroes to her great house, known as Sessrúmnir. Great stone alters were spaced throughout the edges of the grove. All of them were blackened with ash from thousands of vigils dedicated to Frisia’s fallen. Blue irises, which were common in the land, grew throughout and contrasted with the scorched rock.
The warrior set down his sack and sat on a wooden bench located near one of the altars. His legs were cramping badly, and he knew it had been foolish to make such a long trek on foot alone. Still, he did not care, determined as he was to fulfill what he felt was a final honor to a fallen hero. There was still time before dark, and he pulled a slab of spitted meat wrapped in cloth, along with a small loaf of freshly baked bread from his sack. As he ate his supper in silence a gentle breeze blew through the glade. The smell of old burnt offerings mixed with the sweet scent of flowers. The sun cast its glow on the horizon, and he felt a chill as a stronger gust of wind blew through the trees.
He pulled his cloak around his shoulders and lifted the hood up over his head. There was still some dry kindling by the altar, and he pulled the flint and steel from his sack and worked on starting a small fire on the stone. As the cloud of incense smoke filled the glade, he bowed his head and started to chant prayers to his deities.
“Freyja and Óðr, hear my prayer,” he said as he held his arms straight out from his sides in supplication. “Guide this fallen hero into the arms of Elysium where the valiant of his people await him. Protect him so that our own Vanir in Fólkvangr will not hinder him on his journey through the afterlife. As this man gave me life, let this sacrifice I offer to you guide him and grant him the peace befitting the valiant.”
How long he stayed in the grove he could not say. He was certain hours had passed before he felt a gentle breeze channel from behind the altar, blowing the scented smoke into his face. A feeling of euphoria came over him, and he could almost hear the voice of the fallen hero as it whispered to him on the wind. Whether he could actually hear the voice did not matter. What he felt was a bond reaching out from the boundaries of this life. He stood, bowed deeply, and turned away from the shrine as the predawn of the new day cast its glow on the horizon. As he pulled the hood of his cloak off his head he was shocked to see his wife standing just outside the firelight, watching him. He let out a sigh and hobbled over to her.
“I thought I would find you here,” she said with a sad smile. “I brought the oxen cart, so you won’t have to walk back.”
“The walk did my legs some good,” he replied, though she noticed a serious limp in his stride.
“Can I ask who it was that you came here to honor?” the question stopped the warrior in his tracks. He had done plenty of ceremonies for friends slain at Flevum and Braduhenna, and it puzzled his wife that he would return again months later.
“Someone who saved my life,” he replied, turning back to face her. There was a sad smile on his face, and she replicated it with one of her own.
“Who was it?” she asked.
“His name was Gaius Longinus, soldier of Rome.”
Epilog: Three Years Later
House of Artorius, Cologne, Germania
March, 31 A.D.
***
“What is it, Love?” Diana asked as Artorius furrowed his brow while reading the letter from Pontius Pilate. Diana’s letter from Claudia was the exact opposite in nature as the one he had received. He could only suppose that Pilate did his best to spare his wife the stresses of his office. Still, he was certain she had to know of the troubles that beset him. Judea was one of the smallest provinces in the whole of the Empire, and it was also possibly the most difficult to maintain. One of the many issues at hand was the fact that Pilate had no legionary troops under his command, only local auxiliaries. Discipline problems were running rampant and the Procurator was desperate to find a way to fix the situation. Syria was where the nearest legionary forces were stationed, yet the Legate there had refused to detach any of his men to Pilate; only offering to “clean up the mess” should his auxiliaries prove unable to maintain order. Artorius knew that any such outside interference would spell the end for his friend. The Emperor placed a lot of faith in Pilate and did not like to be disappointed by those he personally selected for higher office.
“Pilate’s letter is troubling,” he replied at last. “While Claudia talks about the marvels of the East, all Pilate seems to see is conflict with the different warring factions and prophets that seem to spring out of every bush.”
“Perhaps he’s just working too much,” Diana said as she leaned over her husband’s shoulder in order to see what it was that Pilate had said. She wrapped her arms around Artorius and kissed him on the cheek as they both read. The end of the letter weighed h
eavily on them both.
“The time has come for me to redeem your promise,” Diana read aloud. “What does he mean by that?”
Artorius sat back and placed one of his hands on his wife’s arm, caressing it gently.
“I made a vow to Pilate a long time ago, that I would serve under him whenever and wherever he might need me.” He then stood and made his way towards the front door.
Diana let him go, knowing he needed time to himself in order to think.
He walked to the top of a nearby hill that gave a breathtaking view of the fields below. Since moving into Diana’s house, this place had become his new favorite place to come and think. As he cast his eyes on the rising sun, Centurion Artorius knew that his time on the Rhine would be ending soon, and that his destiny lay in the east.
Historical Afterward
***
Following the rebellion, Frisia was freed from the Roman Empire for a brief time. With the death of Dibbald Segon, Tabbo would rule as the independent King of Frisia from 28 to 47 A.D. Rome would reestablish relations with Frisia, appending it to the Roman Empire as a client state under the joint rule of the client Kings Asconius and Adelbold. In 58 A.D. the anti-Roman usurper, Titus Boiocalus, overthrew the client Kings and attempted to break away from Rome, but was quickly put down. The Kings of the Ubbo dynasty would then rule Frisia under the status of an allied state of the Roman Empire, a status that would remain unchanged for nearly four hundred years. Today, Frisia is known as Friesland, and has been a province of the Kingdom of the Netherlands (House of Orange-Nassau) since 1813.
The adventures of Centurion Artorius and his legionaries continues in Part Five of The Artorian Chronicles,
Soldier of Rome: Journey to Judea
A new trilogy of Ancient Rome by James Mace
Available now through Amazon and Amazon U.K.
Table of Contents
Copyright
Dedication
Other books by The Author
Preface
Cast of Characters
Roman Military Ranks
Chapter I: Gods and Emperors
Chapter II: An Uneasy Peace
Chapter III: A Disgrace in the Ranks
Chapter IV: Soul Forged
Chapter V: The Centurion
Chapter VI: Frisia
Chapter VII: Simmering Hatred
Chapter VIII: The House of Pontius Pilate
Chapter IX: A Better Journey Home
Chapter X: A People Apart
Chapter XI: Proculeius’ Hospitality
Chapter XII: A King Undone
Chapter XIII: Son of Longinus
Chapter XIV: The Coming Storm
Chapter XV: Another Way to Die
Chapter XVI: Flevum
Chapter XVII: Wings of Rage
Chapter XVIII: Eye of the Nightmare
Chapter XIX: When the Heroes Fall
Chapter XX: Ten Thousand Strong
Chapter XXI: Horror and Madness
Chapter XXII: Battles Won and a War Lost
Chapter XXIII: Souls Broken
Chapter XXIV: Call to the Fallen
Chapter XXV: A Goddess to Her Soldiers
Chapter XXVI: Redemption
Chapter XXVII: Fathers and Sons
Chapter XXVIII: Valeria’s Rebirth
Chapter XXIX: A Legend Reborn
Chapter XXX: Imperial Justice
Epilog: Three Years Later
Historical Afterward