by James Mace
“Excuse me, sergeant?”
Artorius turned to see it was the recruit he had chastised earlier for complaining about the weight of the practice weapons. The young man was standing rigid, his hands clasped behind his back.
“What is it?” Artorius asked, folding his arms across his chest.
“I…I wanted to apologize for my behavior earlier. It was unbecoming, and I assure you it will not happen again.”
“What is your name, recruit?”
“Felix Spurius, sergeant,” he replied. “I’m the bastard son of a magistrate of Ravenna. I’m here to prove my worth to my father, as well as to myself.”
“You can prove yourself by becoming stronger in the mind, as well as the body,” Artorius replied. “Each drives the other. A strong mind will carry the body beyond its limits, thereby making it stronger. Learn your lessons well, and you’ll be alright.”
“Thank you, sergeant,” the recruit replied.
Artorius waved for him to go join his fellow recruits, who were getting briefed by Optio Flaccus.
After he dismissed the recruit, Artorius walked over to where Centurions Macro and Vitruvius had been watching. He had completely forgotten they were even there. Both men had their arms folded, but did not look displeased.
“Not bad,” Vitruvius remarked with a smile.
“Well done,” Macro added. “When you finish stowing your training gear, I need you to come to the century office. We need to discuss your own training regime for the Legion Champion Tournament.”
“Yes, sir,” he replied with a nod.
Vitruvius winked at him as both centurions walked away. Artorius took a deep breath and blew out hard. He was genuinely surprised the training had gone as well as it had. The physical chastising was to be expected when recruits were raw and undeveloped. He again thought back to when he was in their place. The extreme conditioning had been a wakeup call for him, given that his entire physical training regime up to that point consisted of gaining size and power. Artorius still possessed an extreme amount of muscle size and was considered by many to be the most physically powerful soldier in the entire legion. However, he had supplemented his training with extreme amounts of conditioning. In truth, he knew stamina was far more important for a legionary than raw power. Still, he worked hard to maintain his size and strength as a matter of personal pride.
He walked into the centurion’s office and sat down across from Macro, who was leaning back in his chair, his feet up on his desk.
“I take it you have given some thought to how you are going to prepare for the Legion Champion Tournament?” Macro asked.
Artorius shook his head at that.
“To tell you the truth, sir, I’ve been totally focused on preparing for weapons training with the recruits, not to mention the day-to-day running of my section.”
Macro frowned slightly and nodded. “Well, I can understand you being quite busy,” he replied, “especially since you are new to both duties. You do know, however, every legionary who fancies himself as a master of close combat is looking to beat you.” “So I’ve been told,” Artorius retorted, dryly.
“The thing is,” Macro continued, “these men all know your talents. They will push themselves to be at their best in order to beat you. I know you haven’t been sparring as regularly as you would like, and we need to fix that. Your duties as chief weapons instructor are paramount and cannot be changed. However, you can delegate your tasks as decanus to one of your more competent legionaries. Anyone you might have in mind?”
“Magnus would be the most logical choice,” Artorius replied.
Macro cracked a partial smirk. “You’re not just saying that because he is your friend, I hope.”
Artorius was taken aback by that. “Sir, I hope you think better of me than that!” he said indignantly. “Believe me, our friendship is irrelevant. Magnus has the respect of the entire section; they listen to him and follow his lead without question.”
Macro raised a hand for Artorius to cease. “At ease, sergeant, I understand. I wasn’t accusing you of showing favoritism. I just want to make certain it is avoided in this century. Very well, I’m going to elevate Magnus to immune status. Appoint him as acting section leader until the tournament is over. When you are not conducting weapons drill with the recruits or preparing lesson plans, I want you focusing on your own preparations for the tournament. I thought to ask Vitruvius to come back to be your sparring partner, however, that would be in poor taste, given that he has his own representative to prepare. If you wish to use members of your section as sparring partners, by all means do so. I’ll get Statorius to lay off hammering your guys too much on the duty roster. However, do not allow them to use that as an excuse to be lazy. If they are getting out of fatigue details, they need to be sparring with you, understood?”
“Yes, sir,” Artorius replied with a nod. “I’ll spar with them until they beg me to put them back on the detail roster!”
Macro grinned, then stood and extended his hand, which Artorius clasped. “I know you’ll make this century proud.”
Artorius saluted and walked out of the office. He was partially relieved that, at least now, he could pawn off some of his duties. At the same time, he was nervous about the pressure Macro was putting on him. He figured he would go practice some drills on the training stakes and work off some of his nerves. He was shocked to find Magnus waiting for him at the stakes, equipped with a practice shield and gladius.
His friend grinned at him as Artorius approached. “What, you didn’t think I was going to let you practice on your own, did you?”
Artorius shook his head, set down his weapons, and started to stretch and warm up his muscles.
“How did you find out?” he asked as he stretched out his chest and upper arms.
“Decimus told me,” Magnus replied with a shrug.
Artorius started laughing. “Okay, I’m not even going to ask how he found out!” “It is a unique talent he has,” Magnus observed. “So you want to do some stake drills and then spar?”
“Yeah, I need to work some of the rust off,” Artorius replied as he donned his helmet. “Alright, shield drills first. We’ll start by working on boss-punches as well as bottom-shield strikes.”
“You got it,” Magnus replied as he set into his fighting stance.
While punching an opponent with the metal boss on the center of the shield was preferable, there were times when one could tilt the shield up and jab with the brass strip on the bottom for improved reach. This was particularly effective when an adversary was disengaging. Artorius was shocked by the sheer speed and tenacity Magnus displayed. He seemed to have a preference for using bottom-shield strikes to keep his enemy at a distance. It had been some time since they had fought side by side in actual combat, and Artorius was feeling very much out of condition.
“You like using the underside of your shield,” he pointed out to Magnus as he continued to work his own strikes.
“It frustrates my enemy,” Magnus replied as he lunged forward quickly to demonstrate a rapid stab with his gladius. “They become desperate in their attempts at closing the distance with me, then I can bait them into falling onto my blade.”
“A sound tactic,” Artorius commented between deep breaths, “but don’t attack too high. Someone could slip underneath your shield.” His own shield arm was starting to limber up, and he felt his rhythm coming back.
“I always keep that in mind, hence, I keep my gladius at waist height. You want to switch to gladius drills?”
“Yeah,” Artorius replied, his heart starting to race as sweat started to form up on his brow. “High and low attacks, keeping your shield at the defensive.”
On order, both men started to stab at the wooden stakes, not once pausing or losing their rhythm. Artorius kept Magnus in his peripheral vision, making certain he kept pace with his friend. He realized that, if given the opportunity, Magnus could give him a run for the Legion Champion title. Having his friend at his side f
orced him to push himself harder than he ever could on his own, and he was, once again, thankful for the motivation.
Time and again they assaulted the training stakes, incorporating more footwork and movement, as well as executing combinations of blocks and strikes with both the shield and gladius.
“Switch up your combinations,” Artorius ordered. “Use multiple shield attacks to set up your gladius strikes.” He was starting to have trouble speaking as it took all he had to keep his breathing regular. His hips were starting to ache from using them to magnify the impact of his blows. He had no idea how long they had been drilling, though he knew it was far longer than he would have gone had Magnus not been there. At length, he finally stepped away from the stakes. “Alright, that’s enough for now.” His heartbeat was ringing in his ears and his face was completely flushed. He set his weapons down and rested with his hands on his knees. “Thank the gods for that!” Magnus slurred as he dropped his weapons and fell to his back in an overtly dramatic manner. He took his helmet off and tossed it aside, his arms falling straight out at his sides. “I didn’t think you were ever going to end this!”
“I was too afraid of looking weak in front of you,” Artorius replied, removing his own helmet and having a seat on the grass. “Having you here has certainly pushed me beyond what I thought I was capable of.”
“Just don’t be asking me to spar right now,” Magnus remarked, his eyes closed and his arms still stretched out at his sides. “I don’t think I can even stand up just yet.”
The two friends stayed like that for a while, allowing their bodies to cool down and their heart rates to return to some semblance of normal. Artorius found his mind drifting as he stared off into the distance.
“Do you think he’s guilty?” he asked after some contemplation.
“Do I think who’s guilty?” Magnus asked in return, rolling onto his side. The color had returned to his face, though his hair was sticky and matted from the dried sweat.
Both men started to stretch out their sore limbs to prevent them from stiffening up.
“Piso,” Artorius replied. “I know he and Germanicus hated each other, but would he really resort to murder?”
“I don’t know,” Magnus said, rolling onto his back once more, placing his hands behind his head. “Someone murdered Germanicus; the evidence overwhelmingly showed signs of poisoning. I mean, who else had a motive?”
“That’s what troubles me,” Artorius remarked as sat down and brought his feet together to stretch out his groin. “I know we’ve been told to silence any implications of the Emperor; however, one cannot help but wonder. Did Tiberius somehow see Germanicus as a threat of some sort? I don’t see how. After all, Germanicus was his successor to begin with.”
“Hard to tell, given what we hear may not be all the facts,” Magnus conjectured. “I honestly doubt we will ever know for certain. What gets to us is often times hearsay and rumor, born often out of delusional fantasy.”
“That is for damn sure,” Artorius observed as he rolled onto his back and pulled his knees into his chest, stretching out his back. It hurt and yet felt good at the same time. He let out a sigh of relief as he let go and extended his legs out as far as he could. “I’ve got to tell you, Magnus, I worry about the lads sometimes. Germanicus was well-loved by everyone in the entire army. I only hope that justice, or at least the perception of justice, can be done. Otherwise, I don’t know how the troops will react. It is not good to allow the strong emotions his death stirs to simmer for too long without a resolution.”
“I wonder if that’s not at least part of their reason for wanting to send us on a sortie back across the Rhine,” Magnus pondered. “They keep us busy, for a time, while this mess gets sorted out in the courts back in Rome. Hopefully, by the time we get back, word of a resolution reaches the Rhine.”
“What sortie?” Artorius asked, as he stared at his friend dumbfounded.
“Oh, sorry,” Magnus replied with a grin. “Decimus told me.”
“I do wish he would let me know these things before he goes and tells everyone else,” Artorius mused.
Chapter III: Shadows of Conspiracy
***
The apartment in Augustodunum was tucked back at the end of an old, dank alley. This was the less than civilized section of the city, infested with the dregs of society that the populace pretended did not exist. Sacrovir found it ideal for conducting business he preferred to keep away from his estate.
He’d conducted many such “business” meetings over the last few months. First it was with Florus, then with a few of the more disaffected nobles that Florus brought with him. He started gathering a larger circle of conspirators. A whispered word here, an overheard conversation there, and loyalists to Gaul were found. The chiefs of many ancient tribes had flocked to his calling. Through them the battle cries of freedom from Roman oppression would be heard. Sacrovir counseled his followers on patience.
“All in due time,” he told them with a smile that had nothing to do with humor. “One cannot fight without good weapons.”
He listened to the rain outside, rolling his plan over in his mind. He was becoming more convinced at their chances of success with every meeting. He waited impatiently for his guests of the evening; guild leaders of the Gallic metal smiths whose loyalties were not necessarily to Gaul, but lay in coin. Sacrovir knew he would require a large contingent of heavy infantry in order to have a chance against the legions. Even the few individual cohorts that manned the small garrison stations would be a formidable threat against an untrained and ill-equipped force. Roman soldiers were well-armored and, more importantly, ingrained with an iron discipline which made them utterly fearless in battle.
Sacrovir knew he would require sound tactical leaders to assist him in battle preparations, and they might be more difficult to procure. The Romans fought in close order lines of battle, and it was standard procedure for the legions to unleash a storm of javelins before closing with their enemy. Their swords, the gladii, were simple yet fearsome weapons. He was thankful the cohorts he would face lacked artillery and possessed little, if any, cavalry. Legionary infantry was all he had to concern himself with, as daunting as that was. Many a foe had faced the legions with overwhelming numbers of the bravest warriors, only to break once javelin and gladius had been employed. There had to be a way of overwhelming their forces without succumbing to the Romans’ shock weapons and tactics.
Patience, he thought to himself. Our friends will help us to conquer the Romans one step at a time.
Sacrovir knew all of these things and worked with his fellow conspirators to try and find ways to negate the Romans’ advantages. It was Taranis, a nobleman of the Sequani, who came up with the concept of encasing some of their men completely in plate armor which would be impervious to the Roman javelins. They could be used as the vanguard, who would be break up the legionary formations, allowing the lighter-armed troops behind them to dispatch the Romans piecemeal. Formation was everything to legions; fighting together as one was what allowed them to time and again defeat superior numbers. Once their formations collapsed, they could be overwhelmed. Of course, breaking that formation would require a corps of men with enormous strength, not to mention the astronomical cost of outfitting them. In this, Sacrovir was not overly concerned. He had money, and money could buy anything. He intended to prove this in his meeting with the smiths.
His thoughts were interrupted by a knock at the door. With one hand on his long-sword, he peered through the small hole in the door. Three well-dressed men were standing on the landing. All looked rather irritated, as well as nervous, at their surroundings. Sacrovir kept them waiting for several minutes before he opened the door.
“To be inconspicuous is not in any of your natures I see,” he hissed as he impatiently waved the wet and uncomfortable men to a table in the center of the room.
The men snorted as they took their seats.
“Surely you do not expect us to walk around dressed as mere peasant st
ock!” one of the men retorted. He was fat with a thick, well-maintained mustache on his upper lip. He was slightly bald, with his long hair in the back kept in a ponytail. Several exotic rings adorned his hands, matching his equally elaborate attire.
“If you expect to have any part in this contract, you will!” Sacrovir snarled, slamming his hands on the table.
Two of the men were taken aback. The fat one did not jump, but took a sudden interest in his rings, which he fiddled with.
“Very well, you do realize, I expect to be recompensed for any inconvenience I have to endure in meeting here,” he replied.
Sacrovir waved a hand dismissively. “You need not concern yourself with that. You will all be paid handsomely enough, I assure you. Each of you owns a large guild of metal smiths; the best in all of Gaul. This contract will require one-third of your best men. I emphasize that I want only the best. I want men who can turn out high quality arms in short order. They, along with all of their equipment, will be moved to a remote site I have acquired in the hills. There they will be put to work.”
“You expect us to up and move one-third of our best smiths and all of their tools?” one of the men asked indignantly, raising his bushy eyebrows.
“I told you, you will be well paid for this,” Sacrovir continued smoothly. “It would not do for the Romans to start sticking their arrogant noses into our affairs. They may ask questions were they to find out that we are mass producing arms and armor.”
“So you really do intend to go through with your little rebellion,” the fat leader said.
“Indeed I do,” Sacrovir replied. “For too long our nobles and our people have been subjected to the hypocrisy of Roman rule. You yourselves are of the patrician class; you pay Roman taxes and are subject to their laws. And yet you are denied the most basic rights which your so-called peers in Rome entitle themselves to! Think of this as your duty to your nation and your heritage to help us throw off the yoke of imperial oppression.” He snickered inwardly, seeing the patriotic spark in their eyes.