Soldier of Rome: Journey to Judea (The Artorian Chronicles)

by James Mace

  “Well, that’s odd, given that you made one consul!” Caligula retorted.

  The emperor gritted his teeth but refrained from lashing out at the young man. It was clear that Caligula was attempting to get a reaction from Tiberius, and he was not about to take the bait. As much as it grated on him, he knew the vile young man was correct. That he would make Sejanus consul and yet deny Pontius Pilate authority over a single legion was, indeed, hypocritical.

  “I do not have a spare legion just lying around, doing nothing,” Tiberius remarked, keeping his composure despite Caligula’s impudence. “Still, I think we can reach a compromise that will preserve the balance between the senate and equites, while giving Sejanus and Pilate the support they requested.”

  Chapter IV: Seasons End

  ***

  Spring was always a time of reflection for Artorius, especially with the news he’d just received from Dominus. This winter marked sixteen years since he ascended into the ranks. On days when he thought back on the time spent in the legions, his mind sometimes turned to friends from his youth; those who had not gone off to war on the frontier. Many days he pitied their dull and sedentary lives. He had seen more in his first year in the Twentieth Legion than all of them would ever see in their combined existence. His profession gave him stability, a guaranteed source of income, as well as security. Many who he grew up with were barely surviving. Others fared better, but were in vocations that left them stale and devoid of life. Yet for all that the legions had given him, it came at a terrible price.

  The first time he had drawn his sword in anger, Artorius had learned the painful lesson that war was nothing like the historians and philosophers described. Every time he took the life of another human being, it felt as if a part of him died with them. His very soul would break whenever a friend and fellow legionary fell. It was no small wonder that men who spent too much time on the battle lines often became shells of what they once were, expressions dull and lifeless. Such was the toll for those who kept the empire’s borders safe. The coming summer would mark three years since the Battle of Braduhenna; by far the most savage clash he ever engaged in. Though the battle had been won, nearly half his men had either perished or were so badly injured that they would never fight again. Those two days still haunted him, and on nights where he woke up trembling in a cold sweat, his wife, Diana, would do her best to console him. He had spent the last three years trying to rebuild his century into some semblance of the fighting force they had once been.

  The skirmish in the outlying village had given his newest recruits a taste of battle and they had performed admirably enough. His plan had been rather brazen and it left him temporarily exposed. However, it did allow Praxus to envelope the raiders with the rest of the century.

  As he brooded over the events from the previous evening, he had hoped to take part in the pending expedition that the commanding legates of both legions were planning. It would by no means be a full-scale invasion; that would require approval of both the emperor and Senate. Along the empire’s ever-hostile borders, it was not uncommon for preemptive raids and punitive expeditions to cross beyond the frontier and teach a brutal lesson to Rome’s many enemies.

  The letter he had just received looked to change everything. He looked down at the scroll clutched in his hand before turning his gaze towards the setting sun. For Centurion Artorius, he would be heading east, just not across the Rhine into Germania.

  “Thought I’d find you here,” Magnus mused as he walked up behind him.

  Artorius turned to face his Nordic friend and fellow centurion. The two men had come up through the ranks and been close friends ever since their days of recruit training. Artorius’ promotions had been extraordinarily rapid, and he’d received command of the century while his friend was still a decanus.

  “Pity we almost never see each other anymore,” Artorius replied.

  Magnus had been awarded the Civic Crown for extreme valor at Braduhenna and had subsequently been promoted to the centurionate. This had required him leaving the Third Cohort and transferring to the Fourth, which was still being rebuilt after its members had panicked and committed mass suicide in a strange turn of events that none of them would ever fully understand.

  “I heard the master centurion say the other day that you’ve taken a century’s worth of raw recruits and made them into one of the best units within the entire legion.”

  “Then Macro exaggerates,” Magnus replied with a chuckle. He then tossed his friend a clay wine jug. “Here, I thought you could use some refreshment. I stopped by your house and the Lady Diana told me you had gone off for some thinking. I know that anytime you go off into deep thoughts, it usually means you need a drink.”

  Artorius took a long pull off the wine jug and then handed it back to Magnus, who started to drink as well.

  “I’m leaving Germania,” Artorius replied, causing Magnus to spew wine everywhere.

  “Come again?” the Norseman asked, his eyes wide.

  Artorius handed him the scroll that had arrived along with the orders from Rome. It bore the seal of Pontius Pilate, Procurator of Judea.

  Magnus began to read, vocally stating the last line; it is time to redeem your promise. “What is Pilate talking about?” he asked after he finished reading.

  “A long time ago, I made a promise to him,” Artorius explained. “I swore that I would serve under him anytime he needed me. He needs me now, Magnus.”

  “But I thought Judea was only authorized an auxilia garrison.”

  “Not anymore,” Artorius replied, shaking his head and handing him the scroll from Rome. “Though the emperor will not authorize Pilate an entire legion, he is allowing him to raise a single cohort of volunteers from throughout the empire.”

  “Well, if he’s looking at you to lead this mob…” Magnus began as Artorius’ face broke into a broad grin.

  “That means I may finally see Centurion Pilus Prior, regardless of my enemies’ best intentions.” Though not one for political intrigue, Artorius had a number of adversaries in Rome, even a few in the senate. Such had made any promotions beyond centurion seem unlikely at best. That he was now selected for cohort commander would be intolerable to those who had done their best to hinder his career.

  “Then we should be drinking in celebration!” the Norseman said with a boisterous laugh. He gave his friend a smack on the shoulder before taking a long pull off the jug.

  “I’ll miss you, old friend,” Artorius replied.

  “Miss me nothing,” Magnus retorted. “Wherever you go I shall follow!”

  “If only it were that simple,” Artorius observed. “Were we both still legionaries, it would not be an issue. Even if Macro does exaggerate, and I for one do not think he does, then we will be hard-pressed to convince him to let go of one of his best centurions, especially with an expedition across the Rhine pending.”

  Magnus let out a loud belch and handed the jug back to his friend. “Piss on that,” he retorted. “This posting comes from Pilate via Sejanus, and therefore the emperor himself. I’m certain you can get whomever you wish. Besides, they’re not going to send all of both legions to slap around the Marsi. I’m sure I can be spared. After all, none of us are indispensable.”

  “That may be,” Artorius concurred. “However, I will not go around Macro’s back; I have too much personal loyalty to him.” Platorius Macro had taken command of the Second Century before Artorius and Magnus and first enlisted. His tenure had been an exceptionally long ten years with Artorius serving as his optio for the final two.

  “Apologies,” Magnus replied. “I did not mean any disrespect towards our master centurion. And I would never insinuate going behind him, I simply thought perhaps he would be willing to allow me to accompany you, given who the orders are coming from.”

  “Well, the answer is ‘no’ if we don’t ask.”

  A rather burly praetorian greeted Gaius Caligula as he left the bathhouse near Villa Jovis. He’d had a most invigorating rubdown
from a North African slave and was debating how to further amuse himself this day. He knew this particular guardsman who now approached him or at least knew enough about him to recognize his unbridled ambition. Such could prove useful to the young man who had great ambitions of his own.

  “Naevius Suetorius Macro, is it?” Caligula asked as he casually tossed the fold of his toga over his shoulder.

  “Acting deputy prefect of the praetorian guard,” the big man asserted.

  “Ah, still only acting deputy prefect,” Caligula chided as he walked down the stone steps and onto the path that led towards the town.

  “As long as Pontius Pilate still holds the actual billet, yes,” Naevius conceded.

  “What a shame that is,” Caligula persisted, “you do all the work, and he gets to keep the title for himself.”

  “Quite,” Naevius grunted. “Still, I did not come to talk to you about my posting or lack thereof.”

  “Ah, but I think you did,” Caligula stated as he quickly turned and faced the man. “You did not come to exchange pleasantries nor did you come to bathe, though you could most certainly use it!”

  Naevius snorted at the insult, but gave a curt nod of acknowledgment. As Sejanus’ deputy, he found himself constantly on the move between Capri and Rome. The praetorian prefect rarely came to Capri anymore, perhaps afraid that if he left the city his enemies might use the opportunity to move against him. What he did not know was that Naevius was no mere lackey who was content in his current posting.

  “I think you and I could find each other useful,” the praetorian replied.

  “Hmm,” Caligula thought for a moment, “Not sure what use I could possibly have for an acting deputy prefect.” He waved a hand dismissively and started to walk away when the praetorian grabbed him by the shoulder and spun him around.

  “Damn it, man!” Naevius growled. “Your position here is not as secure as you think. Don’t be a fool. You need all the friends you can get!”

  “Unhand me, sir!” Caligula snapped indignantly, pulling his arm away, eyes growing wide. “I should have you arrested and flogged for this insult!”

  “You mean like how I arrested and flogged your brothers?” Naevius replied, his demeanor suddenly cool.

  Gaius looked off to the side briefly and cocked his head slightly. “You say we could find each other useful,” he noted. Though a young man of highly questionable morals and tastes, one could never accuse Gaius Caligula of being naïve. “How?”

  “We both want what is rightfully ours,” Naevius answered. “We should talk more in private.”

  “Yes,” Caligula said, lost in thought. His tone immediately changed, almost as if it was he who had approached Naevius in the first place. “If you are half as ambitious as I am clever, then we may find each other useful after all.” He then started to walk away once more. “By the way, I saw your wife accompanying you from the main docks. Lovely creature.”

  “She is at your disposal.” The praetorian’s remark caught Caligula off guard, and he stopped in his tracks. His eyes were wide once more as he turned and faced Naevius, who was grinning crassly.

  “My, but you are ambitious!” Caligula noted. “I think we shall get on famously. Send her to me tonight, and tomorrow we’ll talk.”

  Naevius bowed in reply before turning and walking away.

  “You know this should have happened three years ago,” Magnus said. “After Braduhenna they needed a number of cohort commanders replaced, and you ought to have been on the short list…especially after holding the line on the right flank!”

  Though Artorius and Magnus had debated at length on many nights over his actions during the battle, Artorius did not feel like arguing with his friend at the moment. Many had spoken highly of his century’s actions in standing their ground against overwhelming odds, and yet not once had he ever felt like his actions were in any way heroic.

  “Braduhenna was a giant blemish to the entire Rhine Army,” Artorius remarked. “Not to mention there was still residual bad blood from Senator Gallus and his friends, who would have caught word of my being promoted to centurion pilus prior.”

  Artorius had risen through the ranks very quickly, achieving the rank of centurion in only ten years. This had required a special dispensation, as he had at the time been three years shy of the minimum age requirement of thirty. His reputation among both his peers and subordinates was one of admiration and mutual respect. Though Artorius was immensely strong and a great close-combat fighter, he never tried to win battles alone. He gave respect to his subordinates and understood that in battle he was but one among many.

  His years under the eagle had not been without blemish. Just prior to his promotion he had been court-martialed on the charge of murdering his centurion, a vile and abusive man named Fulvius. Though he was acquitted when it was revealed that the centurion in question had been drunk and assaulted Artorius, along with another soldier, the stigma still carried with him. Some of the men, when talking about usurpers overthrowing kings, would refer to it as ‘the Artorian method of promotion’. Such talk was never spoken in his presence or in front of any officers who could be counted among Artorius’ friends. But like any other foul rumor or insidious talk it spread quickly, and it seemed every soldier within both legions stationed in Cologne had heard or used the term.

  That soldiers would jest about such grave matters was accepted as a matter of course. Fighting men have always shared a rather dark sense of humor that more sane people would find perverse and socially unacceptable. For legionaries, it was simply what one did. Still, there had been an even higher price to Artorius than just a few cruel jests; the centurion he had killed had powerful friends, including a few in the senate. Since he had not been convicted of a crime, their influence had determined that at the very least he would stay where he was. In effect, his career was over just as he was on the rise. In the minds of his peers, Artorius should have been one of the strongest candidates for command of the reconstituted Fourth Cohort following the Battle of Braduhenna. As it was, he was not given any consideration and a ranking centurion from Hispania had been given the promotion.

  “Well, it looks like your own friends have come through for you,” Magnus observed. “You are fortunate to have a lifelong friendship with Pontius Pilate given his close rapport with the emperor’s right hand.”

  “Sejanus,” Artorius muttered. “I despise that man.”

  “What do you care?” Magnus retorted.

  “You’ve never met him,” Artorius explained. “I have. At Pontius Pilate’s wedding back in Rome, while you were getting piss drunk with the lads, I had to step in and prevent a brawl between Sejanus and Justus Longinus. Were Pilate not Justus’ friend, it could have ended very badly. Pilate not only saved Justus’ career, but possibly his life. The praetorian prefect is not one to let a grudge go easily, and most of his enemies meet an ignominious end.”

  “I heard about that,” Magnus remarked. “Still, whatever his personal issues are with Justus, that doesn’t mean you cannot use Pilate’s sway with Sejanus to your advantage. I know you loathe politics, which I have always felt has come as a detriment to your career.”

  “I’ve never used patronage to further my career, you know that,” Artorius scoffed. “I have always stood on my own merits, nothing more.”

  His friend shrugged. “That’s all well and good,” Magnus agreed. “However, you know as well as I that ability only gets one so far in the legions. Whether we like it or not, politics and patronage will always trump leadership ability. You cannot change that, so you’d best embrace it.”

  It was not the answer Pilate was looking for, but it had to suffice. Lamia, the absentee-governor of Syria, had the only legionary forces in the region, yet none of his deputies had so much as paid a visit to Judea since Pilate took office. The pressure was enormous, as Judea was one of the most volatile provinces in the entire Empire. The letter from Sejanus alleviated his constant strain, if only slightly. It would have been simplest fo
r the Emperor to have ordered the Twelfth Legion to detach one of its cohorts as a vexilation in Judea. As it was, they had all clamored so strongly against allowing Pilate any authority over their soldiers that a compromise was reached in that the legionary cohort would be a separate entity from the legions, holding an independent command in Judea.

  It would still be at least a couple of months, if not longer, before the soldiers from the western part of the Empire arrived. Lamia and the other legates in the Far East and North Africa had only allowed a minimal number of volunteers from their ranks to join the Judean cohort, and even then it had been very reluctantly. A dispatch from Lamia’s chief tribune bordered on outright hostility as he made it clear that the only reason he was giving Pilate any legionaries at all was because the order had come from Sejanus, and therefore from the emperor.

  The one letter he’d received that he got any pleasure in reading came from his old friend and brother-in-law, Artorius. It was very short and to the point as Pilate read the words aloud:

  Hail Pontius Pilate!

  You will be pleased to know that I am rallying volunteers from the Rhine Legions. Once assembled, we will head to Rome posthaste and then set sail for Judea.

  T. Artorius Justus

  Centurion Pilus Prior

  “Never one to mince words, was he?” Claudia asked as she stepped into her husband’s study.

  Pilate looked up from the stack of papers on his desk and gave a tired smile. Though his hairline had started to recede at a young age, in the five years since they came to Judea he’d gone almost completely bald. He swore it was hereditary, but Claudia blamed it on the strain of work. Though now only in his late thirties, there was no mistaking that what hair Pilate did have was almost completely gray.