by James Mace
“Caesar, honorable senators; whereas we seek to protect the best interests of the Imperial family, this legislative body, as well as the whole of the Empire, how then do we protect such persons to the fullest without overstepping the bounds of reason? I propose a simple measure that will rectify any further embarrassments on this house.” Lepidus shot a dark look at Agrippa, who scowled at the veiled insult. “A simple stay of sentence will alleviate any rash judgments. Therefore, I propose that any sentence instituted by the Senate of Rome be postponed for nine days to allow time for cooler heads to review and implement justice that is both hard but fair.” He then turned his gazed towards the Emperor, who nodded affirmatively. Agrippa had also seen Tiberius’ gesture and he seized upon it in order to save any face he may have lost.
“I second the motion and move for an immediate vote!” he spoke quickly as he came to his feet. The corner of Tiberius’ mouth twitched slightly, pleased as he was by Lepidus’ motion. As he rose to his feet to leave the hall, the rest of the senate also stood as a sign of respect. Though Tiberius knew that the Senate would vote how they thought he wanted them to, he did not want to give the impression of influencing any vote; therefore he left before any further action on the motion could be taken. Outside the senate house Sejanus was waiting for him.
“It is done,” Tiberius said as he continued walking, Praetorian guards falling in on either side of him. As soon as the Emperor climbed into a waiting litter slaves hoisted it up and started the walk back to the imperial palace. Sejanus walked beside the litter.
“If I may be so bold,” the Praetorian Prefect began, “I know it is not my place to question the judgments of the senate, and even less so that of your highness.”
“Sejanus my old friend,” Tiberius replied, pulling the veil of the litter aside and propping himself upright onto some pillows, “you know that I cherish your candid feedback more than any; probably because you are among the few who will say what is on your mind, rather than what you think I want you to say.”
“It’s just that…well to be perfectly blunt Caesar, I did not agree with your assessment that words are not deeds. Treasonable utterances can lead to wider sedition, which in turn brings about discourse and eventually threatens us directly.”
“Sejanus,” the Emperor replied, sighing audibly, “You know I am not one for bringing someone to trial just for speaking foolishly.”
“I am not speaking of poor Priscus,” Sejanus corrected. “He was indeed a fool; but a harmless one. No, what I speak of is something a little…darker.” Tiberius sat up, suddenly curious.
“Have you heard such things?” Sejanus smiled internally, knowing that he had at last planted the seeds of doubt within the Emperor.
“Only traces here and there,” he replied. “Nothing I would be alarmed about. However, you do have enemies; some I hate to say, within your own family.”
“You need not remind me about Agrippina and her lot,” Tiberius replied with a scowl, settling back down once more. All around them the city of Rome slowly moved by. People trying to catch a glimpse of the Emperor were forced back by the Praetorians on either side of the litter. At the head of the procession a Centurion was barking orders for people to move out of the way. For Tiberius it was a tedious ordeal. He could not even so much as leave the palace and go to someone’s house without surrounding himself with Praetorians. And though he preferred to walk, it was Sejanus who suggested he ride in a covered litter for extra protection. Given their present conversation, Tiberius wondered if there was indeed that much of a threat to his personal safety. Even Agrippina, who was both his niece as well as one of his most hated enemies, would not dare to even think of such a thing. He put this to his Praetorian Prefect.
“Agrippina is a thorn in my side,” he observed, “however; she would not dare to seek my physical demise.”
“If only that were so,” Sejanus replied, baiting the Emperor even more.
“What do you mean?” Tiberius asked, perplexed. “She is still friends with my son, and surely Drusus would be the first to hear of any truly treasonable talk on her part!” Sejanus’ face twitched at the mention of Drusus Caesar.
While it was tempting to try and implicate his hate rival as well, he knew better. Tiberius may have had a sometimes awkward relationship with his son, but nevertheless he knew that Drusus’ love and loyalty to be unquestionable. Sejanus knew that if he even so much as hinted otherwise he would quickly be on the receiving end of Tiberius’ wrath. So as much as it pained him, Sejanus sought a different explanation for Drusus’ lack of information regarding Agrippina.
“Perhaps the Imperial Prince has taken his father’s directive regarding utterances too literally and has ignored her poisonous speech,” he conjectured. “Or more likely she just keeps her tongue in check when in his presence.” Tiberius frowned in contemplation and shrugged.
“Well if that little bitch or her friends do overextend their forked tongues, I would like to know about it.”
“You will,” Sejanus replied, beaming inside, “you have my word, Caesar.”
One afternoon following their workouts, Artorius decided to see what else the gymnasium had to offer. He strolled into one of the back rooms, where what sounded like men grunting and striking each other could be heard. He looked inside and saw what he thought was a boxing match. Two men were squaring off, throwing jabs at each other. Artorius was surprised to see one man throw a side kick to his opponent’s body. At that instant the other grabbed the leg with his outside arm and lunged in to take out the kicker’s other leg. The men were now on the ground in what had morphed into a wrestling match. Artorius was then shocked to witness the man on top smashing his elbow into the other man’s face and head. He then spun around and grabbed his opponent’s ankle. The combatant on the bottom immediately started yelling in pain and slapping the mat with his hand as fast as he could. He was quickly let go of, and his adversary then helped him to his feet.
“Well done,” a voice said from just off the mats. Artorius looked over to see a lean and well-muscled Greek wearing nothing but a loin cloth, his hands clasped behind his back. A number of other men stood on either side of him, most sweating profusely, with more than a few scrapes and bruises amongst them. Artorius was surprised to see Camillus, sporting a rather nasty-looking black eye.
“That is enough for the day,” the Greek continued. “Remember what we went over regarding submissions and strikes from the top position.” He then clasped the hand of each of his students as they left. Artorius overheard them calling him Master Delios. The name Delios sounded familiar to him, but he was not sure from where. Then it dawned on him. He remembered where he knew the name from, and he also realized what it was he had witnessed.
“Artorius, good to see you,” Camillus remarked as he walked out of the room.
“Camillus,” Artorius acknowledged. “Nice mark you got there. I would hate to see what the other guy looked like!”
“Yeah, his hand did take quite a beating,” Camillus laughed.
“And strangely enough, Camillus won that match,” another man remarked, smacking the Signifier on the shoulder.
“I grew tired of getting hit, so I choked him out,” he replied with a casual shrug. Once the men had left, Artorius walked over to the instructor, who was wiping his face off with a towel.
“That was quite the display,” Artorius said. The Greek smiled at him.
“Romans love blood; they love spectacle,” he replied. “What they don’t love so much is the purity of man versus man combat; no tricks, no weapons. It is simply the skill of one man against another. You, on the other hand, look like one who has little use for spectacle.” Artorius folded his arms across his chest and nodded.
“Blood-letting for the simple purpose of blood-letting is pointless,” he remarked. “The mob loves blood. Whether it is from a gladiatorial fight, or a public execution; they always exhibit the same animalistic lust. I have no need for such things. I seek purity and strength through
both the mind and body. It has been my passion in life to seek ultimate power. I know who you are; you are Delios, two-time winner of the Olympiad Pankration.”
“And I know you are,” Delios said with a smile. “You are Titus Artorius Justus, Legion Champion of the Twentieth Valeria and one of the most feared close-combat fighters ever to come from Rome. Yes, I do keep tabs on the more well-known legionaries in our community. But tell me; are you as skilled without your weapons as you are with them?”
“Perhaps you can tell me,” Artorius replied, a smile crossing his face. Delios returned it and set his towel down.
“Pankration is an ancient form of combat. It is a conglomeration of the words pan and kratos, and it literally means all power. When you face a man with your bare hands, when you seek to find pankration, it becomes the quest for ultimate power.” Artorius found himself utterly enthralled with what Delios was saying. He then realized that pankration was the perfect complement to his physical strength. Without another word being said, both men stepped onto the mat and faced each other.
Unarmed combat was a basic skill taught to all legionaries, though emphasis was placed on it being used as a last resort, and only until one could retrieve his weapons. Artorius knew that his training paled in comparison to what Delios had spent as a life study. Nevertheless, he settled into a fighting stance similar to that which he would with weapons. The most crucial difference was that he kept his hands up by his head in order to block against strikes. He had wrestled with bulls as a young man, and he knew that he held a dominating strength advantage over his opponent. He understood that Delios recognized this as well.
As both men advanced on each other, Delios started throwing rapid punches at Artorius. As blows bounced off his hands and forearms, Delios landed a hard kick to the outside of Artorius’ thigh. This caused Artorius to panic slightly and he shot in to take out Delios’ legs. This is exactly what the Greek expected. Artorius was surprised that Delios actually let him take him to the ground, where he wrapped his legs around the Roman’s waist; a move which isolated Artorius and hindered his movement. In spite of being immobilized, he proceeded to hammer his fist into the man’s side and head, all the while Delios remained calm, trying to get a grip on one of Artorius’ arms. Artorius realized what Delios was attempting, and immediately ceased in his blows. He found himself wrestling with the Greek, and strangely enough found that though on top he was on the defensive. The Greek was a master of leverage, something which negated an enormous amount of Artorius’ strength. As Delios started to pry one of the Roman’s arms loose, Artorius would drop his fist or elbow into his face. Delios then moved his head to one side, causing Artorius to drive his fist into the mat. With lightening reflexes, Delios let the other arm go and grabbed onto the one Artorius had punched with. He then wrapped both his legs around the arm as well, arching his back and driving Artorius onto his. The young Roman was shocked to find himself on his back, his arm stretched out in Delios’ grip. He felt his elbow joint start to hyperextend; his shoulder joint being pried apart as well. He started slapping his free hand onto the mat in the same manner the defeated combatant had earlier. Delios released his arm and both men stood up. Delios had fresh bruises on his face and his ribs were red and battered.
“You are incredibly strong,” Delios observed, “not to mention naturally talented. You have decent wrestling skills, and you are a respectable striker on the ground. However, you don’t seem to know the first thing about submissions, and your striking on the feet is rudimentary at best. Would you like to learn these skills, as well as others?”
“I would be honored,” Artorius replied with a nod. In truth he deeply respected this man. It was ironic that most Greeks were known for their art and philosophy. The warrior class of old Sparta was thought to be dead, especially after the combined Greek and Macedonian armies had been utterly routed by Rome more than two hundred years before. Many forgot the purity and masculine virtues portrayed in the games of the Olympiad. Physical contests such as wrestling and pankration were shunned by the average Romans in favor of sport that guaranteed a greater quantity of blood, if not skill.
It became routine for Artorius during their tenure in Lugdunum. When not performing his duties as a Legionary and Decanus, he could be found in the gymnasium, strengthening his body through the exertion of heavy lifting, or learning to better utilize and channel his strength through pankration. Delios became his mentor in much the same way that Vitruvius had been when he learned close-combat and weapons drill. In time he felt he would achieve all power. That spring the Cohort held two tournaments; one with weapons in similar fashion as the Legion Championship, and one in unarmed combat of pankration. Artorius elected not to take part in the weapons tournament, seeing as how he was the current Legion Champion and should only defend his title when the entire Legion was present. He was proud to watch as Magnus tore through the competition, becoming the champion for the Third Cohort. His friend had become a force to be reckoned with, and Artorius hoped that if any man did ever take his title from him, that it would be the Norseman.
In a surprise move, Artorius also abstained from the pankration tournament, preferring instead to train and mentor soldiers within his Century who wished to compete. Legionary Felix Spurius was one of these men. He became a mainstay at the gymnasium, and pankration became his passion. He would finish third in the tournament, behind Optio Castor of the First Century. Both men would be bested by Camillus, the tournament winner. Many were shocked to watch the mild-mannered Signifier manhandle his opponents like they were bags of straw. Spurius gave Camillus the most trouble, though even he was forced to submit when the Signifier sunk a deep choke hold on him from his own back. Castor would fall much quicker in the final match, with Camillus knocking him to the ground and then landing a series of unanswered punches which forced a stoppage of the contest.
The legionaries appreciated both styles of competition. Close-combat with gladius and shield would always be popular, seeing as how it was their mainstay and unique from the vulgar displays in gladiatorial matches. They also grew to love the purity of the pankration contests as well. Men would compete with each other in both forms of combat, often-times one man besting the other at one form, but falling short with the other. Proculus and the Centurions took note of this. Though bruises and other minor injuries were moderately increased, the sense of competition was good for the men’s morale, and also kept their individual fighting skills well-honed.
Time passed as it did for the soldiers of the Third Cohort. Lugdunum had indeed proven to be quite the respite for them. They had lived comfortably in the embrace of civilization, away from the hard life of the frontier. While Proculus and the Centurions had enforced rigid training regimes to keep the men fit and busy, the sense of leisure could not be overlooked. Artorius spent much of his time at the gymnasium, which ironically was just a few blocks down from their flats and the Temple of Bacchus. There he continued to pursue his quest for physical perfection, driven by the desire for a godlike physique and power that would shame Hercules. He was always joined by Magnus as well as Centurion Vitruvius, two men who shared the same passion. In time, they grew in size and strength. All three were already fearsome to gaze upon, yet now they looked even harder, to the point that the idealized statues of the gods paled in comparison to them. His other passion, the perfection of pankration, had increased his fighting prowess far more than he had figured initially. He was more limber and agile because of his training, and in weapons drill he had become even more dangerous, much to the dismay of those who hoped to one day take the title of Legion Champion from him. It seemed ironic that even after Magnus won the Cohort Champion tournament that he had yet to face his Decanus. There would come a time for them to face each other, but not yet.
Proculus stuffed the sealed letter underneath the cord that bound the parcel together. Nothing would have pleased him more than to take the package to the estate himself; however there was a banquet with the provisional governor that he
was required to attend. He let out a sigh and walked out into the foyer, the parcel tucked under his arm. The modified Principia was always a bustle of activity. He glanced around and saw Macro talking to one of his Decanii. The young man looked familiar to Proculus and then he remembered; it was Sergeant Artorius, who had been decorated for valor during the battle against the Turani in the mountains outside of Augusta Raurica. Better still; Proculus remembered that he was also able to ride a horse.
“Macro!” he shouted as he walked up to the men who immediately ceased in their conversation. Artorius took a respectful step backwards and stood with his hands clasped behind his back.
“What have you got there?” the junior Centurion asked.
“A parcel and some letters that I need delivered to my estate in the country. I need someone who can ride a horse to deliver them for me.”
“I see,” Macro replied, guessing at his Cohort Commander’s intent. He folded his arms and looked over his shoulder at the Decanus. “Artorius, you can ride can’t you?”
“I can, Sir,” he replied with a grin. Macro of course knew the answer.
“Here’s your man,” Macro said, facing Proculus once more. The senior Centurion stuffed the parcel into Artorius’ arms.
“Excellent! Go down to the stables and requisition yourself a horse. I’ll send an order to the Master of Horse to let him know that you will be doing this for me quite often and will require your own mount.” Relieved, Proculus immediately turned and walked back to his office. He still had to prepare for the function that evening and his wife had not even arrived yet.