by James Mace
“Have all senior officers in the meeting hall,” Artorius said over his shoulder to Justus, who had been walking behind him. “I’ll be there shortly.”
“Yes, sir.”
Artorius then walked over to Pilate, whose face bore a look of consternation.
“Apologies, procurator,” Artorius said as he walked over and snapped off a sharp salute.
“The auxilia garrison is missing a substantial portion of its strength,” Pilate noted.
“Yes, sir,” Artorius acknowledged. “I am meeting with my senior officers now to address it.”
“I’m depending on you, Artorius,” Pilate replied, his expression unchanged. “Desertion is an ugly thing which could destroy the entire garrison. I trust you will deal with this appropriately.”
“I will have a draft resolution to you this afternoon,” the centurion said. “What I plan to do is going to require your approval if we are to enforce it.”
“I will trust your judgment,” Pilate said after a brief pause. “I don’t know if we will be able to keep from the people that a number of the Jerusalem garrison has deserted. It could give the zealots something to rally around; saying that our own men have lost its faith in our ability to rule.”
“We won’t keep it from the people,” Artorius explained. “We will proclaim it to them.”
Two days later, Artorius was observing the morning drill exercises one of the centuries was performing on the drill field. Working in close proximity with the cohort had given him a better understanding as to the true makeup of the Roman world, as its legionaries had come from every corner of the empire. He noticed his chief armorer, Cicero, who was mending a helmet under a shade tree.
“Not working in the armory today, sergeant?” Artorius asked, walking up to him.
“It’s rather stuffy in there, sir,” Cicero replied as he worked a crease out of a bent cheek piece. He then set the helmet and tools down. “Besides, days like this are rather pleasant.”
Artorius knelt down next to him and picked up the helmet. It looked like it had been smashed with a hammer.
“What happened here?” he asked.
“You may recall some of the lads from Julius’ century got into a brawl with a handful of drunken ruffians the other night,” Cicero explained.
“Oh, yes,” Artorius chuckled. “So this is the helmet of the legionary who got bashed in the head.”
“Knocked him silly, that did,” Cicero agreed. “Had blood dripping out of his ear for about a day, too. The drunken sod who did it is still sitting in the dungeons awaiting trial. The others were given a good thrashing by Julius’ men and left in a pool of their own blood and vomit. One pissed himself, and I don’t think anyone wanted to drag his sorry ass away.”
“And the fate of the man who assaulted our legionary will depend on how magnanimous Pilate is feeling,” Artorius surmised. “He may get off with a hundred lashes and a month imprisonment. Although if Caiaphas has put Pilate in a foul mood again, he may order the man’s crucifixion.”
The sounds of wooden gladii and practice shields striking the six-foot tall training stakes echoed throughout the courtyard. Artorius glanced up and watched as a decanus shouted orders to his squad.
“Shield boss strikes…go!” On the order, all seven legionaries began to punch their targets with the practice wicker shields. Grunts of exertion accompanied each blow as the soldiers slammed their shields home again and again.
“Gladii strikes, throat to groin…go!”
Artorius cocked his head slightly as he surmised each of the men on the stakes. Two were fair-skinned and had come from the Rhine legions. Three were of Latin origins, another was Greek. The last man was most likely Syrian or Mesopotamian. The decanus, who had removed his helmet and had his hands on his knees as he checked the technique of his men, was a black African.
“Cicero, you said you were from Belgica,” Artorius noted to the armorer.
“Yes, sir,” Cicero replied as he took a pair of pliers and started working on the helmet again.
“That man who is drilling his squad in front of us,” the centurion continued, nodding towards the decanus, who continued to shout orders to his men.
“Sergeant Galerius,” Cicero replied. “What of him?”
“What do you notice about him?” Artorius asked.
Cicero set the helmet down again and apprised the decanus.
“He should have me check the hinges on his left shoulder plates,” the armorer replied. “The rivets look a little loose.”
Artorius started to chuckle.
“That’s not what I meant, although good observation. I was referring to his being a black African.”
“Oh, that,” Cicero remarked with a shrug. “Sure, I noticed. Beg your pardon, but it is kind of obvious, sir.”
“You both came from opposite ends of the empire,” Artorius observed. “And yet you both have Roman names, you share the same language, culture, and upbringing. Galerius isn’t exactly an African name and, I daresay, Cicero is not a name held by your ancestors.”
“In that you are correct,” the armorer replied. “We’ve held our citizenship for generations, and I was never told what our ancestral name was. All I know is that my great-grandfather changed our name to Cicero sometime around the death of the great orator himself. Mind you, it was his agnomen, rather than a cognomen. However, mere plebeians like us taking the name as our own caused little notice. As long as you don’t try and take the name Caesar, no one really cares what a man calls himself or his family. You, sir, are among the few in this cohort who truly are Roman by birth.”
“The Artorians are of Messapic origin, in southeast Italia,” the centurion noted. He continued, “But then one has to ask, what does it mean to be a Roman? Rome is not about a location or one’s ethnicity. It is an idea, an assimilation of many peoples into one culture that brings light into what is otherwise a very dark and unforgiving world. Rome brings law, order, as well as education and a far better quality of life to those who fall under our rule. Men like Sergeant Galerius may be different in appearance to those born in Italia, but he is every bit as ‘Roman’ as the Gracchi or any of the other old families. The Jews, on the other hand, by their refusal to integrate have remained little more than conquered serfs who deny themselves the light that is Rome.”
Chapter XVIII: A Whisper of Death
***
It was a crowded day in the market. Atop a long stage were auctioneers selling various wares. Travelling merchants could rent the space, as stalls and shops were almost all taken by local vendors. This day it was spice merchants from Parthia and beyond. It was a chaotic display and a wonder that any business transactions could take place in the flurry of noise and the crowding of potential buyers at the foot of the stage. The merchants were suddenly silent as the squad of legionaries approached from the left end of the stage. Two forced their way through the crowd and began to nail a scroll to the large center support post. Optio Valens led the rest onto the stage where they flanked him on either side, facing the crowd. He removed his helmet and started to read off a scroll that was identical to the one his men were nailing to the post.
“Let it be known that a number of Samaritan auxiliaries from the Jerusalem garrison have committed the heinous crime of desertion from the ranks! The punishment for this act is death by strangulation. In his mercy, the Procurator Pontius Pilate is giving every auxiliary a week to return to his unit. As being absent without permission of one’s commanding officer is still a punishable offense, those who return will be given twenty lashes and a week’s confinement but will then be allowed to return to the ranks. Those who do not willingly return and are captured will be given one hundred lashes and then executed by the comrades who they deserted!
“Attached to this edict is a list of names of every auxilia who has abandoned the standard. Anyone who captures and returns a deserter to the garrison will receive a monetary reward. Know that anyone falsely accusing another of being a deserter in order to achieve satisf
action of a personal grievance will be dealt with appropriately. Signed, Gaius Pontius Pilate, Procurator of Judea.”
Valens scanned the crowd to judge their reaction. Most appeared indifferent and were anxious for the Romans to leave the stage so they could go about their business. If they were smart, most of the deserters would have fled the city, knowing they would be sought out.
“Well, that roused them,” a legionary muttered sarcastically.
“Let’s go,” Valens grunted.
As soon as he and his men were off the platform it immediately erupted into a frenzy of activity once more. They made their way through the crowded market. Most of the people avoided contact with the legionaries, though occasionally they would have to shove their way past those oblivious to their presence. As they reached the corner of the market square, a legionary tapped Valens on the shoulder.
“Sir, isn’t that your wife over there?” he asked.
Valens glanced to his right. There was no mistaking Svetlana. Though his centurion’s wife, Diana, had decided to remain in Caesarea, Svetlana was anxious to see what all the fuss was about regarding the Jewish capitol. A tall Norsewoman with blonde hair and fair skin stood out in stark contrast to the mix of Judean and other eastern races that populated the market. The optio grinned and walked up behind her. She was talking excitedly to a young Parthian woman, whose stall was full of small clay pots and pungent dried incense plants. Valens gave her a quick pinch on the backside, which caused Svetlana to yelp. She turned and made ready to slap him, then laughed when she saw who it was.
“Husband!” she giggled. “You’re the third person to try and get fresh with me today!”
“And the other two?” Valens asked as Svetlana kissed him gently on the lips.
“One has an eye closed shut, the other a broken nose,” his wife replied.
“Nice,” a legionary said from over Valens’ shoulder. “Sir, your wife is a rough one.”
“Tell me about it,” the optio replied. He then waved his men off before addressing Svetlana once more. “So what are you getting here?”
“Well,” she replied, “This lovely lady here has an assortment of various incense burners, not to mention scented massage oils that we cannot find in Caesarea.”
“Your wife has the most lovely skin,” the Parthian woman said, running her hand over Svetlana’s cheek and causing her to blush.
“I see,” Valens said with a grin. He then winked at his wife. “That’s not all you’re shopping for is it?”
Svetlana grabbed him by the shoulder armor and pulled him aside.
“If you’re a good boy, maybe I’ll bring her home with me,” she whispered seductively. She then gave him a quick kiss and went back to bantering with the Parthian woman.
“I envy you some days,” a legionary said to Valens as they left the market.
Back at the fortress, Artorius was reading over the inspection reports his officers had given him. There was a noted improvement within the garrison that remained, though they were still far beneath acceptable standards. Still, it was a start. He hoped to have his men on their way back to Caesarea by the end of the month, with him and his officers conducting periodic inspections to ensure that the Abenader and his men were making progress, and above all not upsetting the delicate balance with the people. The last thing any of them needed was for their enemies to put aside their differences and mass against the Roman occupiers.
A loud banging on the open door drew his attention, and he grinned when he saw it was Magnus.
“A message just came for us,” the Norseman said excitedly, holding up a single piece of parchment.
“Well, it cannot be anything too terrible, given that you’re smiling.” Artorius sat back in his chair and folded his hands behind his head.
“Our dear friends, who we sold the pirate prisoners to, have cordially invited us to be their honored guests at the arena the day after tomorrow.” Magnus smacked the parchment with the back of his hand in emphasis. “And joining us will be Commander Tiberius Stoppello, along with my brother.”
“You know I loathe gladiatorial games,” Artorius said, leaning forward onto his desk. “However, if this entertainer…what did you say his name was?”
“Sukhbataar,” Magnus replied. “And it’s not him I care about seeing or any of his gladiators. No, I want to see that nubile Syrian woman, Achillia, who is supposed to be fast and deadly with the bow!”
“After the last couple weeks we’ve had, I could do with watching a Syrian nymph shoot a bunch of pirates that tried to hijack our ship.” This thought brought about some much-needed laughter from Artorius. He was still disturbed by the execution of the auxiliary who assaulted him, and this would give him some reprieve. “A pity Diana isn’t here to see it.”
“Well, now that you mention it…”
“I came with Stoppello and Hansi,” Diana interrupted as she bounded into the room. Artorius leapt to his feet, taking her in his arms and kissing her passionately.
“I…I didn’t expect to see you,” Artorius said, unable to conceal his joy at seeing his wife.
Diana simply shrugged. “I’ve had plenty of time keeping my dear sister company,” she replied. “When Hansi came to tell us about the little exhibition their new friends were putting on in Jerusalem, I decided I had to join them.”
“I will leave you two to catch up,” Magnus said with a wink.
Though they’d only been gone a couple weeks, it felt much longer. Diana sat on her husband’s lap, her arm draped over his shoulders. While such open displays of affection were frowned upon in Roman society, there was little about their relationship that fit within what was considered ‘normal’. The fact that they had married at all, even though it was known that Diana could not have children, defied one of the prime reasons for marrying in the first place.
“I have to warn you,” Artorius said. “My quarters here are pretty austere. There’s barely enough room for me on my bunk.”
“Since when have I ever cared about that?” Diana asked while playfully running her fingers through his hair. “I’ll sleep on the street if I need to.”
“Well, thankfully, there’s no need for that,” Artorius chuckled.
“Ah, my dearest friends!” Sukhbataar said excitedly as the contingent of Roman guests arrived at the arena. He embraced Magnus and Hansi hard. He then noted the other members with them.
“This is our good friend, Titus Artorius Justus, Centurion Pilus Prior and Commander of the First Italic Cohort,” Magnus said in introduction.
“A pleasure,” Sukhbataar said, taking his hand. He then noticed Pontius Pilate, who was flanked by several legionaries that were keeping the gawking crowds at bay.
“And this,” Magnus continued, “Is Gaius Pontius Pilate, Procurator and Roman Governor of Judea.”
“Your honored servant,” the entertainer said, bowing deeply. Pilate nodded in reply.
“I have never visited this arena,” Pilate stated. “All entertainments I have hosted have been in Caesarea.”
“Ah, then you have seen some of my work before,” Sukhbataar said, as he guided the entourage up the enclosed stairs to the covered box seats. The arena, which was made almost entirely of wood, was far smaller than those seen in Rome and other imperial cities. Despite the vast population of Jerusalem, there was less of a taste for gladiators than in other regions of the empire.
Artorius glanced over his shoulder and saw that, near the steps, his legionaries were attempting to communicate with Sukhbataar’s men. He had to chuckle when he saw the men exchanging and comparing each other’s weapons to their own.
“So where is the lovely Achillia?” Magnus asked excitedly, as servants brought them fresh fruit and wine.
“She is preparing to make her appearance,” Sukhbataar said with a devious grin. “She will be pleased to see our friends from the northlands have joined us.”
There was a small dais in the sand and a cloaked figure discretely made its way over and stood on to
p with its head bowed and hidden from view. Artorius and his friends knew who it was, though most of the crowd was oblivious in their own affairs as they called for food and argued amongst each other over wagers being placed on the day’s events. At length, Sukhbataar, who as the host of the games was also acting as the announcer, stood and addressed the crowd. His booming voice carried far and all was immediately silent.
“People of Jerusalem and honored visitors!” he said. “Today, we bring a special treat. A spectacle of skill and prowess unseen within these walls! Bring forth the condemned.” With all eyes on him, few had even noticed the cloaked figure, whose arms hung loosely, though if one looked closely they could see the fists clenching repeatedly.
On the other side of the arena, a gate opened and fifteen of the pirates walked in defiantly, flanked by the oriental guards, who quickly left once the last man stood in the sand. Two of the guards carried in a long crate, which they dropped on the pit floor with a loud crash. They threw back the lid, revealing an assortment of crude weapons.
“I promised them all freedom and an imperial pardon, should they prove victorious,” Sukhbataar said over his shoulder.
“A promise you do not have the authority to keep,” Pilate noted with great agitation.
“My dear governor, I would not be too concerned. However, if by chance they should succeed, please feel free to condemn me in their place.”
“I intend to,” Pilate remarked, though the entertainer did not look in the least concerned. Instead, he chuckled softly and addressed the crowd once more as the pirates feverishly grabbed for weapons from the crate.
“These men have been condemned to death for acts of piracy and terror! Yet, they have this one chance at life and freedom if they together can defeat a single opponent. Facing them, and promising to send each to hell’s door, I give you Achillia!”
The crowd gasped in shock as the Syrian threw her cloak aside. Magnus’ jaw dropped, as it was the first time he had seen her uncloaked and in broad daylight. She wore loose-fitting trousers common amongst the Far East, though all she wore above the waist was a tight-fitting top that held her breasts in place. Her arms, shoulders, and torso were all completely exposed, revealing a supple, yet extremely well-muscled physique. Her stomach muscles looked like they could break rocks. Her hair was pulled tight, and across her back were a Syrian longbow and a quiver of arrows.