by James Mace
“Soldier!” a man said in heavily accented Latin behind Artorius.
The centurion turned to face him.
He was a farmer, though with his more brightly colored tunic and breaches, along with his well-groomed hair and shaven face, he appeared to be a man of greater importance.
“What is it?” Artorius asked.
“I trust your men will be able to protect us,” the man, who Artorius surmised to be the village leader, stated. “During the last raid I recognized some of the men or at least was able to see what tribe they belong to. They are Marsi, same as my people.”
“The Marsi were all but annihilated during the last Germanic War,” the centurion affirmed. “With their lands so close to the border, they would not dare risk a renewed call of Roman vengeance.”
“It has been fifteen years since then,” the village leader observed. “Mallovendus, our chief who attained peace with Rome in exchange for the return of a lost imperial eagle, has since passed on to the halls of our ancestors. His sons have fallen from favor, and those who now lead the Marsi curse those of us who live across the Rhine within the boundaries of who they view, still, as our most hated enemy.”
“The senate granted you lands on the border to prevent conflict with the native Gauls,” Artorius said. “It was also with the intent that having the same tribal peoples directly on both sides of the empire’s border would create a sense of peace and harmony.”
“Your senate’s intent may have been noble,” the man replied, “yet, sadly, it has had the opposite effect. We who seek Roman community and protection have been branded as traitors. They do not just want our food stores, they wish for our deaths.”
“It is they who will pay the price in blood,” Artorius promised. As he left the man and returned to his century, he furrowed his brow in contemplation. Though it affirmed his suspicions that the raiders would certainly return, it troubled him to think more substantial troubles may be brewing.
“The Germanic tribes will always be trouble,” Praxus conjectured when Artorius told him of his concerns. “Why do you think we live in one of the only double-legion fortresses in the whole of the empire?”
“True,” Artorius concurred. “One does not post ten-thousand men, especially legionaries, in a single place without reason. Still, it does wear on me from time-to-time. As our soldier said a while ago, these bastards never learn.”
The remainder of the day passed without incident, and it was well into night when the Marsi raiders returned. The legionary runner sent from the pickets somehow managed to make his way back to the century without causing a commotion. It was only when he reached the embankment that he lost his footing and pitched headlong over the side in a crash of armor and weapons. A few stifled chuckles were heard from amongst the legionaries lying against the slope. Their demeanor immediately changed when they understood why he’d come.
“Sir,” the runner said as quietly as he could, once he found Centurion Artorius. “The raiders are coming.”
“Any idea on their strength?” Praxus asked as squad leaders started to rouse their sleeping men.
“No,” the soldier replied. “It is so bloody dark in the thicket that we can’t see a thing. However, we could hear them. They’re not making any attempts at being quiet. There must be a lot of them. The sounds of the river would mask the approach of a smaller force. They’ll be on the settlement in a matter of minutes.”
“Whatever their numbers, we will stop them,” Artorius asserted. He then turned to his optio. “Praxus, get our flanking forces set.”
“I still don’t agree with you only taking two squads with you,” the optio remarked as he signaled for decanii to have their men make ready.
Most of the century would fan out in either direction in order to envelope the raiders and prevent them from escaping. With another squad still on picket duty and providing their blocking force, that left Artorius with only sixteen men.
“When I’m a bloodied corpse, you can say you were right,” the centurion retorted. “Now move!” It was rare for him to give such a biting rebuke to his second-in-command, who was also a close friend. However, he was facing an enemy of unknown strength, with many of his own men having never seen combat. This was not the time for indecisiveness.
The raiding force proved to be far larger than Artorius had anticipated. At first all he could see was a handful of shadows moving amongst the homesteads, some heading for the kraal, the rest for the grain silo. He took a deep breath and squeezed the upper arm of the soldier lying to his left. This noiseless signal was passed down the line and everyone stood with shields and javelins ready.
As his men quickly stepped off and advanced towards the settlement they heard the sounds of doors being smashed and screams coming from within. There were now numerous shadows rushing about and the flash of torches was glaring in the blackness.
“Impudent bastards,” Artorius growled. He had hoped to get as close as possible to the enemy before making his presence known, but now he had no choice but to distract the raiders, lest they wipe out the settlement. “Advance!”
Though his shouted order would alert his men moving to flank the enemy that the situation now called for speed, it also let the enemy know he was coming. Shouts in a foreign tongue echoed in the night, and it was only when those bearing torches came into view that the light cast on the field let Artorius know just how badly he was outnumbered. There was nothing for it. As a horde of what he figured were at least a hundred men bore down on them, he quickened his step and shouted his next order. “Javelins…throw!”
His men unleashed their heavy javelins, which tore into the bodies of the oncoming raiders. Some managed to block the incoming missiles, though their shields were rendered useless as a result. Others fell with their guts ran through, tumbling to the ground in overwhelming agony. There was no time for further orders and without waiting for the centurion’s command, every legionary quickly drew his gladius.
“Orb formation!” Artorius shouted.
With only sixteen men, he knew he had no chance of holding a battle line against the mass of barbarians whose clubs and spears were already slamming into the wall of legionary shields. His men quickly formed a circle, keeping their shields together as they suddenly found themselves in a fight for their lives. In the flashes of torchlight, he could see the looks of glee on the faces of the barbarians as they hoped to add nearly a score of legionaries, not mention a centurion, to their trophies of plunder.
One man swung a club which banged repeatedly off Artorius’ shield. The barbarian’s one eye was clouded and white, the other red as he howled in a berserker rage. The centurion tilted his shield and hammered the raider in the gut with the bottom edge, causing him to double over. Before he could finish the man, a spear caught him in the cheek guard of his helmet, knocking him back. Artorius regained his footing and brought his shield up as the spearman thrust his weapon at his face once more. With only brief glimmers of torchlight it was difficult for him to see anything. He thrust his gladius randomly in the direction that the enemy blows were coming from. He heard a shriek as the point of his sword impacted what he guessed was the man’s forearm.
As his men battled against the onslaught, panicked cries echoed from amongst the barbarian warriors. They soon fled in all directions as legionaries from Artorius’ century bore down on their flanks. They had elected not to employ their javelins, lest they risk hitting their own men. The darkness worked to their advantage, as the raiders were unaware that they had the Romans outnumbered.
Artorius and his men breathed a collective sigh of relief as the enemy fled towards the river. More than a dozen lay dead and another six had been captured. As he scanned the scene, his heart leapt into his throat. Lying on the ground in a pool of blood was one of his legionaries. The man had been stabbed in the throat; one of the few places their armor could not protect them.
“Damn it all,” the centurion swore under his breath. A pair of legionaries were kneeling next to
the dead man. Artorius knelt down to get a look at the soldier’s face. He recognized him as one of the newest recruits who had just completed training the month prior. Artorius looked down and shook his head. Regardless of whether it was a new recruit or veteran soldier he had known for years, he always took the loss of one of his men hard.
“At least he got one of the bastards before they took him,” one of the legionaries said, picking up the dead man’s gladius which was soaked in blood.
“Send a runner back to the fort,” Artorius ordered a nearby decanus. “Inform Centurion Dominus of the raid.”
“Yes, sir.”
Artorius then placed a hand briefly on the slain legionary’s shoulder before rising. The man’s companions were already making a litter, using fallen branches, as well as his cloak, to carry the body back to the fortress, where he would be given proper honors by his fellow legionaries.
“Artorius!”
The centurion looked over to see it was Praxus, shouting for him. His old friend was waving to him from over at one of the farm houses. “You’d better take a look at this.”
Artorius let out a sigh and feared the worst as he followed Praxus into the house. Inside, a farmer, his wife, and teenage son lay dead. Farm tools lay next to the bodies, showing that they had fought in vain to defend their home. The cry of a baby forewarned Artorius. Next to the bed in the back room was a crib. Praxus held the torch over, letting the light cast its glow on the sobbing infant.
“Can’t be more than a week old,” the optio observed. “I’ll have the lads check the other houses, see if there are any relations living in the settlement that can care for it.” Praxus handed his torch to a legionary and picked the child up, consoling it as best he could. Artorius was no good with children and was glad his optio took the initiative with the now-orphaned baby.
The centurion walked outside to see the half dozen prisoners on their knees as the farmers slowly emerged from their homes. One gave a loud cry as he ran over to where Praxus emerged, holding the now quiet child. He looked at the optio, who quietly shook his head. The farmer’s eyes filled with tears as he rushed into the house, quickly emitting a howl of sorrow as his wife took the baby from Praxus. The other families gathered around, holding each other close in the eerie scene that played out under the torchlight.
“Only one house was breached, sir,” Sergeant Felix reported. Artorius nodded in reply. He looked over as the sobbing farmer emerged from the house and noted that the man now carried a short scythe in his hand.
“Bastards killed my sister!” he cried as his wife embraced him while still carrying the infant. The man then looked over at Artorius accusingly. “The legions were supposed to protect us from this!”
The centurion did not reply, though he kept his gaze fixed on the man.
The enraged farmer then pushed his wife aside and with his eyes locked on Artorius he started to walk very quickly towards where the centurion stood behind the prisoners, who were on their knees with their hands bound behind their backs. A legionary made to step between them, but was stayed by Artorius’ hand.
“Let him have this,” he said quietly. He then nodded to the farmer, whose red face twisted into a snarl of pure hatred.
The man stood over one of the prisoners, whose hands were bound behind his back. The raider defiantly spat on his feet, uttering dark words in a tongue the centurion could not understand. With a scream of both sorrow and rage the farmer swung his scythe in a hard swing which severed the prisoner’s arm above the elbow. The raider’s scream pierced through the night as his severed limb hung off his side, the twitching hand still tied to its mate. Gouts of blood spurted forth as the farmer went into a frenzy, slashing away at the stricken man. His scythe tore into the raider’s torso, smashed his face as the blade cleaved through the bone, and finally, with a series of blows he severed the man’s head.
As the mutilated body of the raider lay thrashing in a growing pool of blood and bodily fluids, the farmer stood trembling with tears streaming down his face. Artorius signaled to a pair of legionaries, who quickly took the scythe from him and guided the man away. He then looked back at the corpses of their slain enemies.
“Hang the bodies from trees on the far side of the river,” he ordered. “Let them serve as a warning to those who would threaten the peace of Rome.”
While two dozen men carried out the macabre task, the rest of the century began the task of collecting their equipment and making ready for the march back to Cologne. Artorius always donned the lorica segmentata plate armor worn by legionaries, as opposed to the more traditional hamata chain or squamata scale worn by his fellow centurions, only the transverse crest on his helmet called attention to his rank. His belt was also devoid of the hanging leather strips covered in small metal discs that his men wore. As he dug through his leather pack, he pulled out a harness bearing all of his phalerae, the embossed decorations that denoted his campaign medals and other awards. Though campaign decorations were awarded to all soldiers who fought, only centurions and, in some cases, options were allowed to wear them over their armor. Artorius found them to be an unnecessary encumbrance, never wearing them in battle. As it was, he felt he should look the part of a proper centurion for the march back to the fortress. His superiors harried him enough as it was for wearing a common ranker’s armor, despite Artorius’ assertion that it provided better protection.
“Soldier!” the voice of the village chief alerted him as he cinched up the straps on his phalerae harness. The man’s face was one of sadness, but also of understanding.
“We did what we could,” Artorius said as he put on his helmet. “I am sorry for the loss your people suffered.”
“They are very bitter,” the chief acknowledged. “They say that Rome has failed to protect us.”
“Did they not see the body of my slain legionary?” Artorius snapped. “He gave his life protecting them! And rest assured, Rome does not allow such incursions to remain unpunished.”
Chapter II: Unrest in the East
Governor’s Palace, Caesarea, Judea
***
Pontius Pilate quickly read over the letter he had dictated to his freedman clerk before signing his name to it. He then handed it back to the man, who rolled it up before dripping candle wax onto the overlap, which Pilate then pressed the seal on his ring into. He then took the scroll and handed it to a waiting imperial messenger, who saluted and abruptly left. Pilate then dismissed the clerk and sat behind his desk. All the while, the commander of the Jerusalem garrison, an auxilia centurion named Abenader, stood silent.
Though Jerusalem was the capital of the province, like previous procurators, Pontius Pilate had elected to rule from the coastal city of Caesarea. In the five years of his governorship, he had scarcely been able to so much as set foot in Jerusalem without offending the entire populace. Images of the Emperor Tiberius, which his troops had paraded through the streets, had caused gross offence, as it violated the Jewish customs regarding idolatry. What surprised Pilate was that the emperor had sided with the Jews in the matter, rather than his appointed procurator, ordering him not to parade his images through the cities again. At least in Caesarea there was a sense of what Pilate viewed as civilization. As a major costal trading port, it was full of persons from the whole of the Empire, with a population of more Alexandrian Greeks than Jews.
As Pilate mostly visited the Judean capitol only during the Passover week in spring, he had left the day-to-day running of the city to the Jewish city council, the Roman-appointed high priest, as well as the auxiliary garrison. He had summoned his garrison commander in part to reprimand him for lapses of discipline within his men, but also to seek his input on the message he had just sent to Sejanus.
“You disapprove of my requesting legionary support,” Pilate observed after allowing for an awkward silence.
“If I may be blunt, sir,” the auxilia centurion began, “my men are able to control the streets of Jerusalem. I fail to see why we must be usurped by
the legions.”
“Your men can scarcely police themselves,” Pilate replied coldly. “They are undisciplined, cannot follow simple instructions, and have damn near provoked rebellion on numerous occasions.”
“The Jews are a hard people to control,” Abenader persisted. “Sometimes unorthodox methods are necessary.”
“I’m not arguing that,” Pilate said. “However, they disobeyed a direct order to not use lethal force against an unruly crowd, only to fall upon them with their swords. Were they threatened or if the people had turned exceedingly violent, I would not have faulted them for their actions. As it was, there was no escalation of force at all; they simply drew their gladii and started killing! It was also not the first time such gross lapses in discipline have occurred and it is inexcusable.”
Though he would not say so openly, Pilate sympathized with Abenader. He had served for over twenty-five years and was by no means incompetent as an officer. However, the procurator also knew the quality of men that the auxilia centurion had to deal with. Were they citizens, they would have been rejected for service in the legions. Discipline was practically nonexistent, and while Abenader may have been a capable officer, his subordinate leaders were just as unruly as their men. The problem was that there was little he could do in terms of discipline. Even if he were to remove one from his leadership position, there were few viable candidates to replace him. No Jew would consent to serve in the ranks of the Roman army in any capacity. Conversely, the Samaritans, with whom the Jews shared a mutual antipathy, were all too eager to enlist.