by James Mace
At length they came to the modest country house where Artorius grew up. It seemed much smaller now than when he was a child. He could see lamplight glowing in the dining room that overlooked the front of the house. The door was opened, and a stooped old man stepped out, leaning on a long staff. For a moment, Artorius almost did not recognize his father, Primus Artorius Maximus. His hair was now completely gray, and he’d developed a noticeable stomach.
“Father!” Artorius said, trying to conceal his concern.
“By Juno!” Primus replied, his face beaming as he embraced his son. He then took Diana by the hand. “And my Lady Diana. You have grown more beautiful, daughter.” He kissed her hand at this remark. In the failing light, as the sun sank behind the hills, Primus did not yet notice the young man with them.
“Father,” Artorius said. “There is someone else I want you to meet.”
Primus’ smile vanished as Metellus stepped into the light coming from the house. His eyes grew wide, and he shook his head slowly. “It cannot be.”
“Your grandson,” Artorius stated. “Metellus Artorius Posthumous.”
“An honor to finally meet you, sir,” Metellus said awkwardly. His appearance was so similar to his biological father that, for Primus, it felt as if his late son was with them once more. With tears rolling down his cheeks, he dropped his walking stick, limped over to his grandson, and embraced him hard.
After a few moments, they were led into the house where they were greeted by Artorius’ stepmother, Juliana. Her hair had started to gray as well, though she still held much of the dignified beauty that had enraptured Artorius’ father all those years ago.
“At last our family is all together,” she said with a smile as she kissed Artorius, Diana, and Metellus each on the cheek.
Artorius noted her tired expression but said nothing. He suspected that his father’s failing health was placing a great strain on Juliana. Because he did not know when he would be returning home again, he resolved that he must do what he could to provide for both of them. For a brief moment, he surmised this journey might be the last time he ever saw his father.
“Centurion Justus Longinus reporting, sir!” The burly, copper-haired man snapped a sharp salute, which Pontius Pilate returned before clasping his friend’s hand.
“You are most welcome!” the procurator said with much fervor. “Please come inside, you look parched.”
“Thank you,” Justus replied. He barked some orders to his optio, who marched at the head of a column of legionaries. The brightly painted shields and gleaming plate armor contrasted sharply with the shabby auxiliaries seen in the province, drawing the curious and somewhat fearful gaze of many onlookers. Doubtless it would have caused more alarm were their numbers not so few.
Justus removed his helmet and followed Pilate into the atrium of the governor’s palace. A servant walked over with a tray bearing two goblets of watery wine, from which Justus drank deeply. “I’ve brought three centuries from the eastern legions.”
“And Artorius should be arriving within the next month, I hope,” Pilate observed. “His letter came to me two weeks ago. Three weeks after it was dated. Of course, we know the imperial post moves far quicker than legionaries on the march.”
“Well, unless they’ve met with some unforeseen disaster, they have undoubtedly arrived in Rome by now,” Justus added. “Give them a couple weeks to assemble and arrange transport, plus the travel time by sea, and yes, I think they should be here within another month. And just so you know, though I have three centuries with me, there is only one other centurion besides me.”
“Artorius is bringing the others,” Pilate replied. “Only one has command experience as a centurion, the rest are newly promoted.” He handed Justus a scroll that had come from Rome with the names of the senior officers coming from the western legions.
“I know Magnus and Praxus,” Justus said. “Or, at least, I’ve met them. Cornelius I am not familiar with.”
“He came from the praetorians,” Pilate explained. “Sejanus felt that at least one of the guard should be in a leadership position within the cohort, to give it the emperor’s personal touch.”
He noted the scowl on his friend’s face at the mention of Sejanus, though Justus held his tongue. There was an intense hatred between the two men, which had caused Pilate many uncomfortable moments, even at his own wedding feast! Justus was a lifelong friend, despite the difference in their social status and birth. And while Pilate did not feel the same sense bonding with Sejanus, the praetorian prefect was his benefactor, and so there was a large amount of personal loyalty, if not brotherly affection.
“Cornelius may be a praetorian, but he has line experience,” the procurator continued. “Do not forget I was, and technically still am, a member of the emperor’s bodyguard.”
“I did not say anything,” Justus asserted, even though his expression of contempt showed his loathing for Sejanus had not dissipated at all over the years. He quickly sought to change the subject. “What are your orders while we await the rest of the cohort?”
“Keep your men in Caesarea,” Pilate directed. “Have them form a presence within the city to let the people get used to seeing legionaries. Keep the patrols small, no more than two squads. They are here to bring order, not cause alarm. Also, feel free to check on the barracks, which I ordered construction of as soon as I received authorization to stand up the cohort. I confess I had hoped to house an entire legion within Caesarea.”
“I will personally oversee the quality of the barracks construction,” Justus asserted.
There was another issue which Pilate wished to address. He struggled with how to articulate it properly. In the end, he decided the direct approach was his only option. “I have to ask, what are your feelings about falling under Artorius’ command?”
“The same as any other pilus prior,” the centurion shrugged.
“Justus, do not play dumb with me…” Pilate started to say.
“Alright!” Justus snapped. “Apologies, sir, but you want to know something I have never wished to discuss with anyone. You want to know if I blame Artorius for the death of my son, is that it?”
“Well, do you?”
“I don’t know,” Justus shook his head, his face red and suddenly dripping nervous sweat.
“I do not mean to cause you unnecessary anguish, old friend,” Pilate said reassuringly. “However, with your seniority to the other centurions, you will be Artorius’ second-in-command. I need to know if the past will come back to haunt either of you.”
“Artorius is my friend,” Justus asserted. “Though I have to keep reminding myself of that. The logical side of me says that Gaius knew the risks when he joined the legions. And I was not at Braduhenna, so I can never know exactly what happened there. All I do know is they were cut off with their backs against the river, with over half the men in their century either dead or wounded by the time it was over. Even Artorius was amongst the fallen injured. And for all that, I keep asking how they ended up there in the first place? The other side of me, the father who still grieves for his lost son, wants to know whose fault was it they ended up stranded and horribly outnumbered? I loved my son more than anything else in this world! I would have gladly died in his place…”
“I am sorry, Justus.”
“Flavia says that Gaius’ death must have been the will of the gods,” the centurion continued. His hand was resting against the wall and his head bowed slightly. “Ha! I say there are no gods, and if there are I have already blasphemed against them to the point that for me there is no salvation. My wife is a deeply religious woman, and I cannot imagine the fear that set in her when I destroyed every last statue and image of a Roman deity within our house. You wonder if there will be trouble between Artorius and I? No, there will not be. I know deep down that Gaius’ death was not his fault. And I have my duty to perform. That is about all I have left in this world.” He then stood erect and composed himself. “And now, with your permission, I wil
l take my leave and begin my duties.”
Pilate nodded and Justus quickly saluted before donning his helmet and leaving once more.
Diana elected to remain with Primus and Juliana during their stay. Though her own family was wealthy with a large palatial house in Rome, she preferred the honest company of her husband’s parents. She would pay respects to her father before their departure, though this would be more out of obligation than love. There had been a strain between Proculeius and his oldest daughter ever since the passing of his first wife. The woman he was now married to was little more than a girl when he wed her. She was, in fact, younger than Diana and possibly younger than Claudia. Who her father spent his life with was his own business, but what upset her was his demeanor towards Artorius. Because he was a soldier who came up from the ranks, Proculeius viewed him as an unworthy addition to the family, despite the fact that Artorius, as a ranking centurion would be elevated into the equites upon his retirement from the legions. A centurion pilus prior was still authorized to wear the narrow purple stripe of an equite on his toga, with most of the less nobility viewing them as peers. This was not the case with Proculeius.
It wasn’t even contempt with which he treated Artorius, but rather indifference, as if his daughter were not married at all. She knew that what would complicate matters further was when she finally broached the subject of Metellus, as legally he was Proculeius’ only grandchild. It was such family matters that the young legionary wished to discuss with his father during the ride towards Rome.
“Proculeius is a jackal,” Artorius said bluntly. “His father was a great man, but I think he cast a shadow too great for his son, which made him bitter. He’s accomplished nothing on his own merit in this life, and he knows it. He barely acknowledges me, and he does not even know you exist.”
“But should this be kept from him?” Metellus asked. “I mean, I am kind of his grandson.”
“There is no kind of about it,” Artorius said sharply. “I know you were not raised with our customs, but understand that under Roman law, a son is a son; whether by birth or adoption, there is no differentiating. You are Proculeius’ grandson, just as much as you are my father’s. That being said, given his obsession with birth, were he to know that you came from my brother, a lowly legionary, and a Germanic woman, it would drive him insane.”
“Then I am surprised you have not rushed to make an introduction,” Metellus added with a laugh. He was then sober once more. “I have something I’ve been meaning to ask. Do I resemble my father that much? It’s just that…well…Grandfather’s attitude towards me was rather peculiar, far more deeply emotional than I would have anticipated. And when he addressed me by name, it’s like he wasn’t talking to me, but rather to his dead son. I can’t say it made me uncomfortable, just not what I expected.”
“The answer is yes,” Artorius replied. “People may notice that we are blood-related if they look closely enough. However, your resemblance to my brother is uncanny, to say the least. Neither he nor I ever shared such a distinct resemblance to our father. The only difference is your complexion is fairer, which I am guessing came from your mother.”
“It did,” Metellus confirmed. “She had brown hair, but light skin, like most of her people. I almost said our people, but then I never fit in with my mother’s tribe. There was emptiness in my life the entire time I was growing. I knew I belonged with my father’s people and that Roman citizenship was rightfully mine.”
“When you first told me who you were, it confirmed that which I had suspected yet could not articulate even to myself,” Artorius replied. “Though your father would have now been in his forties, he was but a legionary recruit of seventeen the last time we saw him two years before his death. You’re but a few years older now than he was, so when your grandfather sees you, it is as if his son were reborn. I confess it was the same with me when I realized who you were. When I first saw you with the auxiliary detachment that reinforced our line at Braduhenna, I swore I was looking at my brother. I did not take it as anything literal, but rather a symbolic premonition that my brother was with me that day.”
“And, in a way, I suppose he was,” Metellus surmised.
The two men rode in silence for some time while Metellus contemplated all he had learned over the past few days. His personal history was a far more complex one than the young man had ever envisioned. He was born of a Germanic mother and Roman father who was killed in battle before he was born. Raised by his mother’s people, he had joined the Roman auxilia after her death, serving with the Army of the Rhine. His later adoption by his uncle, Artorius, and subsequent transfer into the legions had thrust him into Roman society and culture, which before he had only been vaguely aware of. That by adoption he was now not only a Roman, but related to one of the wealthier equite households, was surreal. If Proculeius was even half as pompous as Artorius said he was, then only the gods knew how he would react once he found that his sole grandchild came from what he would consider an ignoble background.
At the main crossroads that split between Ostia and Rome, they took their leave of each other. Metellus was to report back to Centurion Praxus, while Artorius had business within the Imperial City.
“Something else you should know that makes me proud,” Artorius said. “I was twenty-two when promoted to decanus, which was considered extremely young. In fact, I was younger than all of the men I was required to lead. You’re twenty-one, correct?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then if by chance your promotion is made permanent, you will have achieved the rank a full year before I did. And whatever any of our pompous relations may think, there is one thing that can never be taken from you. You are a soldier of Rome!”
Chapter IX: Ghosts of the Past
***
Artorius was grateful for the office space lent to him by the praetorians. He marveled at how comfortable their quarters were, with far more amenities than those of regular legionaries. Of course, no expense was spared when it came to the emperor’s personal bodyguard!
Though he had not yet seen Centurion Cornelius, a guardsman informed him that arrangements had been made with an unoccupied room at his disposal. As Artorius organized a few things within the office, the Tribune Cassius Chaerea entered the room. He was someone the centurion had wished to speak to for many years. Though both had served in the Germanic Wars, Artorius had been but a lowly legionary in the ranks, while Cassius commanded a cohort of praetorians who had served as Germanicus Caesar’s personal guard. But that was not the only reason he wished to speak to this man.
“Tribune, sir,” he said, rising to his feet.
“Centurion Artorius,” Cassius replied, clasping his hand. “I hope the accommodations are suitable for your work. I scarcely use this office, so it’s no burden to me.”
“They are more than suitable,” Artorius replied. He then apprised the tribune for a second.
Cassius was in his late forties, his thick hair almost completely gray, with several scars marring his otherwise handsome face. One in particular ran across the right side of his forehead, where his helmet had been torn from his head more than twenty years before. A serious wound to the groin led to his voice cracking on occasion, something that along with his facial scars caused him some embarrassment. Roman society was notoriously vain, viewing any physical blemish with contempt. That he was regarded as a hero within the Roman Army garnered sympathy rather than scorn that others with similar afflictions were often subjected to.
“Tribune, if I may ask a question,” Artorius said after a brief pause.
Cassius nodded.
“I do not wish to bring up any painful memories of the past, but there is something I have to know. You were in Teutoburger Wald. Did you know my brother?”
“No,” Cassius replied, shaking his head sadly. “I never met him and only saw him once at the very end. We were in separate legions, and even if we had served in the same legion, a tribune does not often interact with soldiers from the rank
s.”
“I understand,” Artorius acknowledged.
“I did watch from a distance as he saved the lives of Centurion Calvinus and two of his legionaries,” Cassius added. “I made sure he was mentioned by name in my dispatches to Rome. Had he survived, the civic crown would have been his. I understand you later served with Calvinus.”
“In a matter of speaking,” Artorius replied. “We were in separate cohorts during the Germanic Wars but the same legion. He later became our master centurion, though my closest interaction with him came at my court-martial, which I’m certain you got word of.”
“Centurion Artorius,” Cassius sighed, “Everyone within the Roman Army got word of it, as did half the senate and most of the equites. That you were both acquitted and promoted at the same time raised a few eyebrows, to say the least. While making his case to be elected as a plebian tribune, following his retirement from the legions, Calvinus was repeatedly pressed about that particular ordeal. I was one of the few who knew about his connection to you via your brother, though I made certain it was never mentioned.”
“Something for which we are both grateful,” Artorius noted. “My dealings with Calvinus have been few, and I think it has been deliberately so. When we first met, I made it clear that I wanted no special favors or patronage because of who my brother was. A bit foolish, perhaps, but I was still a new legionary, idealistic, perhaps naïve, but I was determined to make my own way in the legions.”
“One does not usually shun patronage,” Cassius observed. “However, I think Calvinus respected you for it. I rarely see him, just during public assemblies of the plebian tribunes when matters are discussed that pertain to the praetorian guard, but I have no doubt he knows about your arrival in Rome. You might consider paying your respects to him and to another old friend, Aulus Cursor.”