by James Mace
“Are we digging the ditch and palisade tonight?” Vitruvius asked.
Macro shook his head. “No, Severus feels that needlessly tearing up the area so close to Rome would be bad business. Everything else will be set up the same, though.”
As the section set about erecting their tent and unpacking their pallets, Artorius noticed that Macro and Camillus had both disappeared, along with the centurion’s carts of precious cargo. It wasn’t until later, as the sun cast its red glow on the horizon, they got their answer to the mystery of Macro’s carts.
“Second Century on your feet!” Vitruvius barked.
The men wasted no time in heeding the call of Optio Vitruvius. Some had even started strapping on their armor and rounding up their weapons.
“What the hell are you doing?” the optio shouted. He was dressed only in his tunic and sword belt.
The overzealous soldiers sheepishly put their gear back before following Vitruvius out of the camp. About half a mile from the legion’s camp, on a ridge with a perfect view of the city, stood the centurion and signifier along with the carts. Camillus had brought the Century’s Standard, which he had planted next to the wagons. Macro stood with his arms folded across his chest, while Camillus leaned against one of the carts, a wry smile on his face.
“Gather around,” Macro said. His voice was extremely calm, though it still projected loud enough to be clearly heard by all.
As the century clustered around their commander, Macro pointed towards the city behind him.
“Down there is a place many of you have never seen before, yet all have fought for. I want you to look hard upon Rome; gather Her splendor into your very soul, for She is the light in what otherwise would be a dark and twisted world. See and remember, never forgetting what it was we fought for.” He paused briefly, allowing his men to take in what he had said and what they could see. He had picked the time and place perfectly, knowing full well the effect it would have on his soldiers, weary and battered as they were after the absolute brutality of their campaigns across the Rhine.
“Over the next several weeks,” Centurion Macro continued, “we will be hearing speeches and accolades given to us by men of the highest offices: generals, senators, perhaps even the Emperor himself. This triumph will be a glorious affair, one of the most significant events in our time. This moment, however, belongs only to the Second Century. Camillus, if you would.”
He motioned to the signifier, who pulled the tarp off one of the wagons. Underneath the cart was packed tight with vats of wine.
“The best wine, from the best grapes grown in the world,” Macro said to his shocked, yet delighted soldiers, “and it is for the best fighting men the world will ever know. Section leaders, fill the goblets of your men.”
Statorius and the other decani grabbed goblets from one of the other wagons and started to fill and pass them out to their men. Camillus walked over to Macro with two full goblets, handing one to the centurion. Vitruvius and Flaccus joined them, their own cups filled to the brim. Once complete, the Second Century waited for their centurion to finish his speech. As Macro raised his cup, he seemed to glow in the fading light. The image of his centurion, silhouetted against the backdrop of the greatest of cities was something Artorius knew he would remember until his dying day.
“To Victoria and Bellona, goddesses of victory and war; to Commander Germanicus Caesar; to the Emperor Tiberius, guardian of the light that is Rome; to our friends, who did not come home; to the Eternal City and the ideals that our friends died to protect; and most importantly, to you, my brothers, who give our legion the right to be called The Valiant!”
Every soldier raised his cup in salute and drank. Artorius was shocked by the sweetness and potency of his drink. This was no watered-down tavern wine. This was straight from the vineyards, and indeed was the finest he had ever tasted.
Macro must have paid a fortune for this as we passed through Gaul he thought, as the strength of the wine seared his throat and stomach. It was a wonderful feeling. The daylight gave out as the sun was eclipsed behind the mountains. The men of the Second Century stood gazing at the city, alive with the muted noises of nighttime traffic. They stayed on the ridge for some time, drinking their centurion’s wine, talking only in hushed voices, the infinite stars overhead their only light. For Artorius, no triumph, parade, speech, or celebration could ever compete with this simple moment.
A triumph was a complicated thing to organize, not to mention expensive. There would be banquets, a grand parade, games, and other entertainment, most of which was free to the public. The citizens themselves were exceedingly grateful to the brave legionaries who had completely annihilated Arminius and removed his threat from Rome. Gifts of food, wine, and even the occasional prostitute were heaped upon the soldiers.
The gladiatorial contests were a huge event, and all of the soldiers were encouraged to attend. A section of the arena was even reserved for legionaries wishing to observe the spectacle. Camillus walked over to where Statorius and the section were lounging by their tent. The signifier was always intrigued by what he described as “exotic entertainment.” He was carrying a parchment with the events listed on it.
“Check this out,” he said, presenting the scroll to Statorius. “For the next two weeks ‘the best gladiators in the whole of the Empire in one place.’ What do you think?”
The decanus said nothing as he read the list of upcoming events.
“I think it’ll be a good place to pick up loose women,” Valens remarked.
“So just how good are these gladiators supposed to be?” Magnus asked.
“Supposedly they are the best fighters in the whole of the Empire,” Gavius answered.
“Really?” Artorius mused. “This I have got to see.”
“You mean you’ve never been to a gladiatorial match?” Valens asked.
“Never,” Artorius replied.
“I haven’t either,” Magnus said.
“I went once as a boy. My dad thought it would help make me strong,” Valens seemed a bit puzzled at the logic behind that. “Anyway, I thought they were quite the spectacle then.”
“That was before you learned how to actually fight,” Gavius said.
“Who says he has?” Vitruvius laughed as he walked over to the group. He looked at the parchment the signifier was carrying. “It says here ‘automatic admission and reserved seating to all visiting legionaries.’ Well, let’s not disappoint them.”
Sergeant Statorius straightened up and called out, “Time you lads got a taste of Rome.”
As they walked out of the camp, it seemed like quite a few from the century were going to the games. It was a long walk over to the arena; however, it was made easy not being encumbered by weapons, armor, and equipment. There was such an air of ease and relaxation that Artorius almost forgot for a second that they were all professional soldiers. One might think they were simply a large group of friends going to the games. The red tunics and daggers they wore on their belts revealed their true identities.
Artorius was somewhat surprised to see that even Centurion Macro was out enjoying the day, though he kept a deliberate distance from the men of the ranks. Instead, he walked with Proculus and the other centurions from the Third Cohort. All wore resplendent togas, as opposed to legionary tunics. Artorius knew these men, upon retirement, would be enrolled into the Equestrian Order of society. Because of this, they were granted a lot of the privileges and courtesies normally reserved for those already a part of the patrician class; such was the respect and awe that Romans held for the men who led their legions into battle.
The well-made road to the city was lined with trees on either side, their leaves rustling softly in the slight breeze. The air smelled sweet with the scents of the olive groves and grape vineyards that donned the hillsides. There was little traffic, mostly soldiers walking to and from their camps outside the city. Most of the city’s population would be at the games or at least trying to get into them.
Soo
n the city came into sight. It had been years since Artorius had last seen Rome herself. The effect it had on him then could not compare to what he felt as he saw the immortal city in all Her splendor. It was absolutely breathtaking! The Forum, the Circus Maximus, the Temple of Castor and Pollux, the Imperial Palaces all shone in the bright sunshine, along with the mind-boggling number of houses and apartments occupied by the citizens of the city. These were certainly no mud hovels or rickety wooden buildings so commonly seen on the frontier. Here was civilization! Clean, modern, and above all, organized. The volume of people moving to and fro made the scene seem very chaotic, at least to those who had never seen the true chaos and poverty that existed on the Empire’s borders.
At last they reached the Circus Maximus. There was a huge line of people, waiting to get into the arena. They were dancing and shouting, clambering and betting with each other as to which of their favorites would find victory that day. There were wine and food vendors surrounding the arena, gambling tables, and ladies of ill repute. Valens eyed them with a glazed-over look on his face.
“I’ll see you all later,” he said with a wry grin. He walked over towards a pair of fetching young lasses, his money bag in hand.
“Anybody thirsty?” Artorius asked, turning back to his friends.
“Damn right I am!” Magnus answered, licking his lips.
“Hang on,” Artorius replied as he walked over to the nearest wine stand. He turned and looked back to see how many of his friends were still with him. Many had become distracted by offers from merchants, gamblers, and women. Praxus, Decimus, Carbo, Magnus, Gavius, Sergeant Statorius, and Signifier Camillus had accompanied him all the way to the arena. It felt strange to have the sergeant and signifier with them. Then he realized that they were still men after all, and perhaps there were times when formalities could be eased, if not altogether discarded. Camillus, though senior in rank to Statorius, rarely had a use for formalities as it was. Artorius guessed Camillus was probably older than Statorius, though his boyish face made him appear much younger.
“Eight goblets of your best wine,” he said, turning back to the merchant.
“Here you are, sir,” the merchant said after he poured the last.
Artorius reached into his money pouch.
“How much?” he asked.
The merchant waved him away.
“Your money is no good here,” he said, smiling. “Consider it payment for having saved our city and our Empire.”
“Thank you, my friend,” Artorius replied as he motioned for his friends to come grab their goblets.
They saluted their new found merchant friend and proceeded to quench their collective thirst.
Having been properly refreshed, they made their way into the arena and found the section designated for military guests. The seats for the general public were practically full, the crowd already rowdy in a frenzy of anticipation. The military seats were a lot less populated than Artorius expected them to be. He looked across the way to where the imperial box was located. It was filled with senators and dignitaries. He could see Germanicus and what he guessed to be members of the imperial family, though the box was conspicuously devoid of the Emperor himself. Artorius pointed this out to Camillus, who happened to be seated next to him.
“It seems the Emperor is not a big fan of games or of gladiators in general,” Camillus explained. “He thinks they are an expensive waste of time. As frugal as he is with the treasury, he would probably abolish them altogether were they not so popular with the masses.”
At that moment the gates below opened, two gladiators stepped into the arena, and the crowd erupted.
“See what I mean?”
Both men wore only sparse amounts of body armor, mainly on their limbs. One man carried a gladius and small, circular shield. The other carried a net in one hand and a trident in the other. They turned to the imperial box, saluted the senators and imperial family on hand, and then turned and faced each other. They were very cautious at first, taking only token strikes at each other. Then the one with the gladius made his move and rushed in, his sword high overhead.
“What in Hades is that guy doing?” Decimus asked, annoyed. “Stab him in the armpit!” he shouted through cupped hands at the gladiator with the trident.
Instead, the man backed away, sweeping with his net as he tried to trip his opponent.
“Oh come on, what’s with the stupid net?” Gavius chided.
The swordsman chopped away at the net, cutting it. He then continued his attack. The man with the trident stabbed at him, only to have it deflected by his opponent’s shield.
“Step in and punch him with your shield!” Artorius shouted.
When the gladiator failed to do so, he threw his hands in the air in frustration. Only Camillus seemed to be enjoying himself.
“I don’t get it,” Artorius stated. “What’s so spectacular about this? Those idiots are complete amateurs.”
“I’ve seen better fights every time Artorius gets his ass pummeled by Vitruvius.” Magnus stated, causing Artorius to reach over and cuff him across the back of the head.
Finally, the fight ended with the trident gladiator on his back, his adversary standing over him. Holding his gladius high he looked to the crowd. All were screaming and shouting and waving their hands. Some pointed to their throats with their thumbs though most pointed towards the ground.
“What does all that mean?” Artorius asked Camillus.
“If the crowd points to their own throats, it means they want the victor to cut the throat of his opponent and slay him. If they point towards the ground, it literally means ‘leave him on Earth.’ In other words, let him live. Believe it or not, most fights are not to the death. If the crowd feels a fighter fought well, they usually let him live.”
“But he didn’t fight well! Both those men fought like untrained dancers the way they pranced around! Magnus was right; I have taken bigger beatings from Vitruvius with a practice sword!” Artorius said in frustration. He then sighed audibly. “I guess these people have just never seen real men fight.”
The next fight scarcely impressed the legionaries any more, though the crowd was whipped into an even bigger frenzy. Two men, both carrying long swords and rectangular shields, smaller than those carried by Roman soldiers, faced each other. Two minutes into the fight and most of the soldiers had their foreheads resting in their hands in boredom. Decimus had decided to go for a walk and left as soon as the fight began.
“By Thor, who actually taught these men how to fight?” Magnus asked loudly.
A nobleman sitting in the next section over glared at Magnus in irritation. The man looked to be of Gallic ancestry, though he was dressed like a Roman Magistrate. He had a stylus and wax tablet in his hands. A number of scrolls and parchments lay scattered at his feet. He turned back to the fight, making notes onto his tablet as he did so.
Artorius noticed the man’s annoyance at their comments. He leaned over and elbowed Camillus. “Who is that man?”
“That man? That’s Julius Sacrovir. His origins are Gallic, though he is a Roman citizen and a rather prosperous one at that. He makes most of his money sponsoring these events. In fact, I would say that half the fighters here are from his school.”
“So he’s the man whose ass needs to be whipped?” Magnus retorted, purposely loud enough for the man to hear him. “When are we going to get to see a real fight?”
“When one of us steps into the arena.” Statorius boasted. He had been quiet most of the time, yet even he was starting to get irritated and bored.
Suddenly, the man that Camillus had said was named Sacrovir was standing over them.
“I could not help but overhear your observations in regard to the spectacle we have put on,” he said. Though he looked Gallic, he spoke perfect Latin with no trace of an accent.
“All we’re saying is these gladiators are poor fighters who don’t know the first thing about real combat,” Artorius said as he sat back on his elbows.
“The citizens do not seem to think so,” he observed.
“That’s because these mindless eunuchs have never seen how legionaries fight,” Statorius retorted.
Sacrovir smiled thinly at that. “Really? Then why don’t we place a small wager amongst friends?” The wickedness of his smile betrayed him. He in no way thought of the soldiers as friends.
“What do you have in mind?” Statorius asked, sitting up.
“While I admit that many of the preliminary fights here may seem, well, shall we say, amateurish, I do have a host of gladiators who would be more than a match for any of you legionaries.”
This elicited groans and catcalls from the soldiers.
“There’s no way.” Artorius retorted. “We’ve got a soldier who would cut the nuts off every last one of your gladiators in a matter of seconds.”
“It’s settled then,” Sacrovir remarked. “Your best legionary against my best gladiator. How much will you be betting?”
“Absolutely not!” Macro shouted. “There is no way I can allow one of my soldiers, my optio at that, to fight in a mob-induced spectacle just because some of my men decided to get drunk and volunteer him for it.” He then turned and glared at Camillus.
“We weren’t drunk, at least not at that exact moment,” the signifier replied, his speech slightly slurred.
Macro threw his hands up in the air as Vitruvius sat on a couch smiling broadly.
“You think this is amusing, optio?” Macro snarled.
“A little bit,” Vitruvius replied as he stood up, composing himself. “While I admit, I think our friend Camillus here may have gone a bit far volunteering me to fight in a gladiatorial match without so much as asking me, I think it may be time to show the Roman people just how real Roman soldiers fight.”
Camillus replied with a hiccup and a grin.
“What for?” Flaccus asked, lounging on a couch with a goblet of wine resting precariously on his chest. “I saw the way those gladiators fight. You’ll kill the guy in a matter of seconds, I don’t care who it is. And the crowd won’t want that. They want spectacle, which is something we do not specialize in, at least not in terms of close combat.”