Soldier of Rome: The Sacrovir Revolt (The Artorian Chronicles)

by James Mace

  “I’ll come back myself,” the tesserarius replied. Agricola nodded in reply and waved for him to go.

  “Optio Castor!” the centurion called.

  His second came running over from the line. “Sir?” “Get the men on their feet and ready to move. Leave six of our best runners with me. We will keep a visual on the enemy while you take the rest to link back up with the cohort.”

  “Right away,” the optio acknowledged. “First Century, on your feet!”

  “I’ll see you in a couple hours,” Agricola said to his tesserarius as the man saluted, turned his mount, and rode away at a gallop. The centurion then turned to see his six runners awaiting his orders.

  “Alright lads,” he said, “let’s get back up to the tree line and see what those bastards are up to. I want you to take notes on everything you see. Get as accurate a count as you can regarding their overall strength, as well as light and heavily armed troops. Any questions?”

  The men shook their heads.

  “Let’s get this done.”

  Artorius was lounging next to the open gate of their tiny fort when he saw the rider approaching. He recognized the man as Agricola’s tesserarius, and he was riding for all he was worth. He rode into the camp of the main force and looked to be headed right for the Principia, where Silius’ headquarters was posted.

  “Anything good happening?” Magnus asked with a yawn.

  Artorius had not even noticed his friend walking up to him. He could only nod in reply.

  “Make sure the lads are up. If they haven’t had breakfast, have them do so now. I sense that we may be moving soon.”

  There was a flurry of excitement going on in the main camp. Artorius knew it would not be long before the order to move was given. He was suddenly thankful that he had gotten a full night’s sleep, for his body had sorely needed it. He was still a little stiff, but his muscles would loosen up once they were on the march. It would not be long before the issue was decided, and Artorius was tired of waiting.

  “I agree with Agricola’s assessment that the enemy intends to face us here,” Calvinus remarked as he pointed to a section on Agricola’s map that showed an open plain just a few miles away.

  “We can get there well before Sacrovir does and deny the terrain to him,” Chief Tribune Decius replied.

  Silius sat with his chin resting in his hand. “What do you guys think?” he asked his first centurions, who always were part of the legion’s tactical planning.

  “I say let Sacrovir have it,” Draco offered. “That terrain will work more to our advantage than his. It will be a confusing mess if we try and fight him in the woods.”

  “I’m with Draco on this,” Aemilius added. “Though I do feel that as soon as we are ready, we strike quickly.”

  Silius nodded affirmatively. “I agree,” he said after giving the matter some thought. “The plain is only about three miles from here. I don’t see Sacrovir getting there until late in the day, maybe not until nightfall. We will scope out the terrain and see how we can work it to our advantage. I want the men to focus on building a solid defensive palisade. Should things take a turn for the worse, we need to be able to fall back to a strong defensive position.”

  “We’ll make it happen, though I assure you we will not need it,” Calvinus asserted.

  Once he was satisfied that they had a thorough assessment of the enemy’s strength, Agricola had his small force move rapidly back through the woods, along the road. Anytime they could find some high ground, he would order a halt and look back to keep an eye on Sacrovir’s movements. It would be close to nightfall by the time they made their way back to the main army. At no time was Sacrovir’s army more than a mile or so behind them.

  “Think they’ll try and catch us, sir?” one of his men asked, as they caught their breath from atop a small knoll.

  “I don’t think so,” Agricola replied, shaking his head. “They have but a handful of horses, and those are bearing their leaders. I doubt that any of them would have the stomach to fight us themselves.” The legionaries smirked at the assessment of their enemy. “Come on, the open plain is not far from here. Once there, we will make a break for it and head back to camp. If Silius is following my advice, the legion will be encamped just beyond the plain.”

  Running for miles in armor took its toll on the centurion and his men. Agricola smiled weakly as he saw the newly erected camp come into sight; thankful that Silius had, indeed, heeded his recommendation. It would have been a much further trek back to friendly lines otherwise. He was hungry and thoroughly exhausted as they moved at a slow jog through the gate.

  “You men are exempt from sentry duty tonight,” he told his companions, all of whom stood panting with their hands on their knees. “Go find your section mates and get some supper in you.” With that he slapped each one on the shoulder, told them how well each had done, and sent them off.

  Silius came walking up to him, a goblet of wine in his hand. “Here, it looks like you could use this,” he said with a grin. “Actually, if I could get some water first, my mouth is about dried out,” the centurion replied.

  Calvinus walked over and threw his water bladder at him, which Agricola proceeded to drain in one long pull. After a few deep breaths, he accepted Silius’ offer of wine.

  “The enemy is already arrayed in battle formation,” he said as all three men walked over to the Legate’s tent. “They’ve got quite the unique formation they plan on using. I have to give them credit, it is a rather creative way of trying to disperse our ranks.”

  Vipsania was dead. Tiberius rested his hand against a pillar and lowered his head. From his balcony he could just make out the smoke of her funeral pyre. He had elected not to attend, feeling the entire spectacle was an insulting charade. That bastard of a husband of hers would be giving the eulogy; the professional mourners would wail and chant and shed tears as if they indeed bemoaned the loss of Vipsania Agrippina. Tiberius bit the inside of his cheek at the thought of such hypocrisy. He had already said his goodbyes to his beloved, and besides he did not need to provide more fodder fuel for the gossips slanderers. He could not win, of course, for the very people who would cry “shame” at his being present at the funeral of a woman who was no longer his wife, would be the same who would now call him two-faced and hypocritical for having professed his love of Vipsania in life. And yet he failed to even say farewell to her in death. It was these types of people who had used his not having attended the funeral procession for Germanicus as a means of implicating him in his death. Would they now be so crass as to suggest that he had murdered his beloved Vipsania as well? As he stood, tormented by the foul combination of anger and grief, his son Drusus walked out onto the balcony. His head was hung low down, and he held a medallion by the chain in his hand. It was the same one that Vipsania had given Tiberius so many years before.

  “The answer is yes,” Tiberius spoke without taking his eyes off the slight wisps of smoke. “You may take that medallion your mother gave me and use its image to issue a series of currency in her memory.”

  Drusus gave a sad smile and looked down at the medallion.

  “Thank you, Father,” he replied hollowly. When he did not leave immediately, Tiberius turned and faced him. Drusus’ face was filled with misery. There was something added to his burden of the loss of his mother. “Gallus pulled me to the side not two minutes after the funeral was over.”

  “Did he now?” Tiberius’ face darkened.

  Gallus wishing to have words with Drusus would not come from any sense of mutual mourning. Indeed, Tiberius ventured that the senator was glad to be rid of her finally.

  Drusus swallowed hard, sweat forming on his brow. “He told me that with Mother gone it was time for the truth to be told.”

  “And what truth would that be?” Tiberius asked, folding his arms across his chest.

  “He said that I am not the son of the Emperor of Rome. The cad said he had had a brief ‘fling’ with my mother many years ago—yes, he ev
en put it so crassly--and that I was the issue of that affair.”

  The Emperor’s face hardened. Such a story was impossible to believe. Gallus scarcely even knew who Vipsania was when Drusus was conceived and would have paid little heed to the wife of a man who, at the time, was merely the less-favored stepson of the Emperor Augustus. Drusus also shared many of Tiberius’ physical traits, traits that a father would pass down to his son. Tiberius knew that Gallus was not looking to stake any legitimate claims into the parentage of Drusus Caesar; he knew that Gallus’ sole purpose was to cause him further harm and grief. He realized that with Vipsania’s passing the Emperor was weakened. He was also smarting from the humiliation Tiberius rendered him at his own house just a couple of weeks previously.

  “You know I don’t believe it. I swear that bastard will say and do anything to harm us,” Drusus continued, reinforcing what his father already knew.

  Tiberius remained silent and in thought. At that moment, Sejanus walked out onto the balcony. He stopped when he noticed Drusus and stood with his hands behind his back.

  Drusus glared at him, eyes filled with hate. “What the fuck are you doing here, Sejanus?” he asked with venom.

  “I only came to extend my condolences to your grieving father . . .”

  “Like bloody hell you did!” Drusus interrupted. “Come to play upon his sympathies so that you can further your own endeavors, more like. I have no time for you.” As he stormed through the doorway, Drusus made it a point to ram his shoulder hard into the praetorian prefect.

  Tiberius gave an audible sigh. It troubled him much to witness the sheer animosity that his son displayed towards Sejanus, a man who had come into his own of late. Tiberius had come to depend on both men equally, and he could not displace one at the expense of the other.

  “Forgive my son for his ill manners,” he said, once he was certain Drusus was well out of earshot. “He mourns for his mother.”

  “As a son should,” Sejanus replied with a short smile. “I apologize for interrupting you, Caesar. It is only that there were some rather disparaging things said towards your person at the funeral of Vipsania Agrippina.”

  “So I’ve heard,” Tiberius replied curtly, turning back towards the city and the now dissipating smoke of the funeral pyre.

  “I do not speak of Senator Gallus,” Sejanus remarked. “His disdain for you is of no secret to anyone. No, I speak of others, others who have besmirched the name of the Emperor of Rome under the mantle of mourning. Most are simply malicious; however, others could be construed as treasonous.”

  Tiberius gave a loud sigh at the last remark. “Sejanus, I have told you how I feel about treason trials. Roman citizens are free to speak as they see fit, even at the expense of the Emperor’s character.” “I think you will want to look at these,” Sejanus persisted, holding up a small bundle of scrolls. “Many of the worst utterances came from friends of Agrippina.”

  Tiberius turned abruptly and snatched a scroll, his temper finally getting the best of him.

  Sejanus smiled internally. He had struck the final nerve, the one that would bring the Emperor to do that which he despised.

  Once word reached Tiberius that Agrippina, or at least her associates, were using her sister’s death to strike at him, Sejanus would be able to use the Emperor to bring them down, one by one. The only thing that would be left standing between Sejanus and the Emperor would be Tiberius’ own son. He would handle Drusus another day.

  Chapter XV: The Wrath of Germanica and Valeria

  ***

  “That is one hell of an odd plan,” Flaccus replied when Macro had finished briefing the section leaders and senior officers.

  “We are Romans, we adapt,” Camillus replied. “I kind of like it.”

  “Calvinus said it was actually Centurion Draco’s idea,” Macro added. “Have to give him credit for his creativity. Alright let’s go over this again.”

  “Seems simple enough,” Statorius remarked. “The first two centuries each form up in two ranks, with these men grounding their javelins. The remaining four ranks will be in standard battle formation, about twenty meters back.”

  “Correct,” Macro replied. “And we make certain that all of our men in the second rank pair off with someone in the front rank. I’d prefer it if they can do so by section, if at all possible. With a plan like this, they will feel more comfortable having their best friends protecting them.”

  “I’ve already ordered the lads in the second rank start sharpening their pick axes,” Statorius added.

  “Good,” Macro nodded. “So we all know what we need to do then.”

  “Once the cavalry sets to engage the wings, we charge the van,” Ostorius replied.

  “Soldiers in the front will provide protection with their shields, while those in the Second will use their pickaxes to chop down the heavily armored troops,” Artorius observed. “Second rank will have to ground their shields in order to use both hands on their pickaxes. It’s going to be tricky, because every blow that lands will likely cause the pickaxe to get stuck once that armor crumples.”

  “That means each pairing needs to work together ever more diligently,” Rufio added.

  “Just remember that we are not the main effort,” Macro continued. “The purpose of this is to prevent the enemy from disrupting our remaining formations. Working together on this will be crucial, for we have to shock the enemy quickly. They have us sorely outnumbered, and once deployed online, we’re it. We have no reserves for this battle.

  “Once the remaining ranks push through us, we will have to fall back quickly and gather up our shields and javelins. Though if this works right, hopefully the enemy will be in disarray, and we will not have to engage them again.”

  Magnus sat leaning against a tree, running a sharpening stone over his pickaxe, when he noticed Artorius returning from his meeting. The sun had set and legionaries were gathered around their cooking fires talking in low voices. Magnus rose to his feet and greeted his decanus.

  “So do you want to carry this, or shall I?” he asked, hefting the pickaxe.

  “We’re both carrying them,” Artorius replied. “You and I hit harder than the rest of the men. I want you pairing up with Gavius. I will pair up with Valens. Carbo, you’ll be the other axe trooper for the section. Decimus, you protect him.”

  “Why do I have to protect Carbo’s fat ass? There’s no way both of us can fit behind my shield!” Decimus said in mock protest, only to take a cuff behind the ear from Carbo.

  This in turn got a chuckle out of everyone, including Artorius.

  “Alright, let’s gather up our equipment and go over this,” he directed as he, Magnus, and Carbo grabbed their pickaxes. The rest of the section picked up their shields and gladii. “Okay, we are going to have to be in a slightly looser formation than we’re used to. Those of us with the axes will have to be able to come off either side to strike their targets. I figure if we leave two meters between each soldier in the front rank, we should be good. Let’s practice, then.”

  As they lined up, Artorius, Magnus, and Carbo hefted their pickaxes in one hand and each grabbed the collar of the legionary in front of him. They then started to walk, acting as if their foe were in front of them.

  “Go!” Artorius shouted. He pulled with his left hand to help propel him around Valens’ right flank.

  Magnus and Carbo executed similar maneuvers, swinging their pickaxes to simulate an engagement. Decimus and the others stepped in quickly to cover their exposed companions.

  “That works, let’s try it again,” Artorius directed. The next attack would have worked just as well, had not Magnus slipped around Gavius’ right side, while Carbo attacked around Decimus’ left. The two legionaries collided, knocking each other down. A smattering of applause and catcalls arose from the fires where other sections were watching.

  “Okay, that one could have been done better,” Artorius remarked while suppressing his own laughter.

  Even in such dire circumsta
nces, with their very lives dependent upon their ability to execute on the morrow, they still found it in themselves to allow a little levity. He offered a hand to help Magnus up. Valens offered his hand to Carbo, while uttering “nice one, dumb ass” under his breath. Carbo kicked him in the shin in response.

  “How about we agree to only maneuver around the right side?” Praxus asked, his section walking over with their equipment. “Mind if we join you?”

  Macro and Camillus watched as Artorius’ and Praxus’ sections started rehearsing the plan for the morrow. As they did so, other sections joined them, all the legionaries talking with each other and making certain their actions were smooth and precise. The mood lightened, Artorius’ sound orchestration of the rehearsal relieving their anxiety. They were further surprised to see legionaries from Vitruvius’ century join them. Artorius had the men working in small groups, everyone paired up for the battle. Macro folded his arms and cracked a half smile.

  “That man is a true leader,” he said in a low voice.

  “The rest of the men follow him,” Camillus agreed, “and I don’t just mean those in his section. Hell, he’s got both centuries on their feet and rehearsing the plan for tomorrow. Moreover you can see the lads relaxing, their confidence rising. He makes them believe in themselves.”

  “That he does. I wish the rest of the decanii had his initiative.” Most seemed content to simply brief their men on the plan and leave it at that. Artorius knew better; he knew that it would take coordination and rehearsal to execute a battle plan the men had never done before. “I’m just glad to see the rest of the lads followed his lead.”

  Artorius dropped his pickaxe and lay down with his back against his pack. The exertion felt good; his anxiety about the morrow was nowhere to be found. This would be the second time in a few days that they were going into battle greatly outnumbered, yet he was not worried. He closed his eyes and stretched his arms out, yawning deeply.