Soldier of Rome: The Last Campaign (The Artorian Chronicles) Page 12

  The optio blew his whistle and the men ceased in their exertions. “Stand easy!” he shouted. “Squad leaders, assess your sections!”

  “Optio,” Artorius said as he stood behind the man, who quickly turned to face him.

  “Sir?” he asked; his eyes then growing wide as he recognized his new centurion primus pilus. “By Mars! Hey, lads, it’s our new master centurion!” He then saluted sharply, which Artorius returned.

  “Which century are you?”

  “First Century, sir!” the soldier replied with enthusiasm. “I guess this means I’m your optio…provided you’ll have me, sir. Name’s Parthicus; Titus Minicius Parthicus.”

  “Titus Artorius Justus,” Artorius replied, extending his hand. “How long have your men been on the stakes?”

  “About an hour,” the optio answered. “I’ve got the lads running in two-minute drills; two on, two off. That lets us simulate rapid passages-of-lines. And don’t let the age of these men fool you, sir. The First Cohort sets the standard in physical condition and battle readiness in this legion!”

  “As it should be,” Artorius replied. “Come see me in my office after the evening mess. I need to at least get to know the man who will be leading my century. Between my duties to the cohort, as well as having to provide oversight to the rest of the legion, I doubt I will get to spend nearly as much time with these men as I ought.”

  “Not to worry, sir,” the optio replied. “These men can win battles in their sleep. All we do is fight! No gate guard or shit-shoveling details for us. Trust me, master centurion, even if we never see you before the day of battle, we’ll be ready.”

  “Carry on then, optio,” Artorius said with a nod.

  His second-in-command saluted and went back to his men, shouting orders for them to make ready to start again. Artorius let out a sigh of relief and smiled for the first time since his arrival. Even just a brief glimpse of seeing his men perform their most basic close combat drills filled him with confidence. Whatever lapses there may have been in their legate, the men in the ranks had confidence in each other. They were still the same hard, disciplined killing machines they always were. It filled Artorius with pride to be leading such men once more.

  ________

  Chapter Endnotes:

  1 – Scotland

  2 – Ireland

  Chapter VIII: Valeria’s Return

  ***

  The hot bath water was a godsend to Artorius at the end of the day. One of the privileges of the being the legion’s centurion primus pilus was he did not have to share facilities with the men in the ranks. Though he was not above public bathing, on this evening he was glad to have his own private, albeit far smaller, personal bath. It still had a small warming room, heated bath, cold plunge, and a pair of tables for massages and getting one’s skin scraped clean. He leaned back against the edge of the heated bath, a wet cloth over his eyes. As he started to drift off, he heard a loud banging coming from the front door, followed by some protests by his servant, Nathaniel.

  Artorius chuckled as he heard a familiar voice say, “Piss on that, he’ll make time for me!”

  The sound of sandaled feet on the stone floor echoed quickly as the rather abrupt guest stepped through the open doorway off to the side of the small heated pool.

  “Oh, this is nice,” the voice snorted. “First time I’ve seen you in four years, and you’re sprawled out naked with your cock hanging out!”

  “Good to see you too, Magnus,” Artorius replied calmly. He took the cloth off his eyes and threw it at his friend. He was shocked to see the Norseman stripping out of his tunic. “What in Hades are you doing?”

  “Hey, even us First Cohort centurions don’t get our own private bath,” Magnus retorted. “There’s plenty of room, so I won’t be all rubbing up against you. Now move over!” With a loud splash, Magnus sat down on the far side of the bath, just across from his friend. “There, that’s better. And how was your first day back in the legions?”

  “Odd,” Artorius replied, unsure what else to say as the Norseman snorted in reply. Despite being away from each other for several years, his and Magnus’ demeanor made it seem as if he’d never left.

  “That’s putting it mildly,” Magnus said. “I don’t envy you, old friend. With such a weak excuse of a legion commander, much of the burden will pass on to you.”

  “So everyone keeps telling me,” Artorius grumbled, rolling his eyes. “And I haven’t met the chief tribune yet. I hope he has, at least, some potential, even without experience.”

  “He wants to learn, so that says something,” Magnus noted. “And, of course, our staff tribunes are typical six-month-and-done types who are doing their compulsory service in the legions. Leave the bureaucratic shit to them. Also, don’t think that you’re in this alone. I’m sure Camillus filled you in on some of his behind-the-curtain methods for keeping the legion functioning. And you’ve got me and Praxus. The other two First Cohort centurions are decent fellows, too. Honestly, I have never had an easier posting in my entire career!”

  “Yes, I’ve seen how the First Cohort pretty much runs itself,” Artorius observed.

  “That they do,” Magnus continued. “And as the ‘elite’ troops of the legion, we spend probably twice the amount of time training as the other cohorts, with still plenty of downtime for the men.”

  “And speaking of training,” Artorius said, “I will need to get your input on what essential tasks we need to focus on this year. Since we’re not dealing with the logistical nightmare of relocating just yet, we have time to make certain we are ready for next spring.”

  “I took the liberty of calling a meeting of all cohort commanders tomorrow,” Magnus remarked. “It’ll be in the late afternoon, following the First Century’s long run. Your optio can fill you in on the details.”

  “Oh, fuck!” Artorius shouted as he suddenly splashed his way out of the tub. “I’m supposed to meet with him this evening!”

  “Mind if I stay here, then?” Magnus asked as Artorius sprinted naked out the door and down the hall. When his friend didn’t answer, the Norseman shrugged. “Right you are.” He then placed a cloth over his eyes and leaned back, letting the heated waters sear into his pores while wondering if Lady Diana would let him borrow her maidservant to give him a massage.

  Caratacus was growing uneasy. His annexation of the Atrebates was but a minor inter-tribal affair. And as small as the kingdom was, its downfall was scarcely acknowledged by the other kings and chieftains within Britannia. Some of the Atrebates nobility had proven quarrelsome, and he regretted not capturing or killing their king. He had a couple of nobles put to death recently for trying to stir up the populace against him. And while this quieted the people for the time being, as long as their king remained alive in exile, those who loathed being ruled by the Catuvellauni still held out hope.

  When word reached Caratacus that Verica and his great-nephew, Cogidubnus, had fled Britannia altogether and were seeking help from the Romans, he requested a private meeting with his brother and overlord, Togodumnus. He had also summoned one of the most respected druids within the isle, an elderly sage named Archantael. They met in his great hall, which Caratacus had had rebuilt, after destroying the previous one.

  “So Verica has gone cowering to the Romans,” Togodumnus scowled, resting his chin in his hand. His other hand rested on the pommel of his large two-handed great sword, which stood upright near his chair.

  Caratacus and Archantael sat on either side of the table, with Caratacus giving Togodumnus his seat at the head. He had dismissed his servants once they served them food and drink, lest there be unfriendly ears that could hear their talk. A pair of warriors guarded the entrance to the hall, with orders that no one was to enter.

  “And the armies of Caesar will march on our lands once more,” Caratacus grumbled. “I thought we rid ourselves of their scourge a hundred years ago!”

  “Their strength has grown over the past century,” Togodumnus said. “Few of our
people have ever left this isle and crossed over into their lands, which are vast beyond comprehension. However, we must remind them that the Romans are still just men, not gods.”

  “And it is to our gods that we must turn,” Archantael spoke up. “They are the only force that can unite the kingdoms.”

  “Which is where we will need your services, old friend,” Togodumnus noted. “You are well-respected amongst the druids, and you can move about freely amongst the various kingdoms without fear of assault.”

  Caratacus then said, “With your leave, brother, I will need our best scouts to go to the mainland and learn of their intentions. For now, all we have to go on are rumors spread by merchant sailors, as well as the self-imposed exile of a deposed feeble king. The fact that he even lives gives the more rebellious peoples of this land hope.”

  “I will go myself,” Togodumnus asserted. “My lands are secure, and I have much experience with the Gauls and Belgics. I want to witness the Romans’ intents with my own eyes.”

  “I still must enforce order on our new lands,” Caratacus said. “The silver and tin of the Atrebates will do much to fund our war efforts. And with the help of the gods, through our friend Archantael, I will ascertain who amongst the kings of this isle who will side with us or the invaders.”

  “We should offer an initial sacrifice to the gods,” the druid replied. “And first must be those nobles of the Atrebates that continue to resist your rule.”

  “Agreed,” Caratacus concurred. He was far more devout in his theological beliefs than his brother, who simply viewed religion as a means of controlling the ignorant masses. “There are six we have imprisoned; four men, two women. It will be a fitting offering. Conduct the sacrifice tomorrow at dawn.” The old druid nodded in reply.

  “There are only two ways to rule people,” Togodumnus added, “fear and love. It will be some time before the people of Atrebates grow to love you, though defeat of the Romans will aid in this. But for now, my brother, you must use fear as your device of control.”

  It was an hour before sunrise when Artorius joined the men of the First Cohort’s First Century. Due to the necessity of an early rise, he had kept his meeting with Optio Parthicus the night before very short. He reasoned there would be time to get to know the man better as time went on. Magnus had spoken well of him, and so far it seemed he had firm control over the century, which was enough for Artorius.

  “The rain pissed on us good last night,” Parthicus noted as the master centurion joined his men.

  The century’s one hundred and sixty men were stretching and limbering up as they made ready for the day’s exertion.

  “Ground will be a little soggy for the first couple miles, but the skies promise to be rather clear today. At least I saw some blue skies to the west, where the wind is coming from.”

  “Five miles out, five miles back,” a decanus said as he stretched his lower back. Though he had marched endless miles in his years in the ranks, this was the first time Artorius had been with an entire unit that was readying to run such a distance.

  “Different kind of conditioning,” Parthicus explained. “Makes our men faster and more mobile, plus we’re then able to cover longer distances in a hurry during battle without exhausting ourselves. Of course we do this in just our tunics, with sword baldric, water bladder, and some light rations, rather than full kit. Still, we’ve found that this supplements our training nicely. Our other centuries go on longer runs as well, usually three to four times a month.”

  The men were soon joined by the tesserarius, whose name Artorius had yet to learn. Though they were technically his, he felt almost like an outside intruder, given that days like this would be about the only times he would spend directly with them.

  “We’ve found that when we do the compulsory twenty-five mile marches in full kit three times a month,” the officer added, “our men can travel substantially faster than the rest of the legion and still have more energy when time comes to set up camp at the end of the trek.”

  “That’s because the rest of the legion is made up of a bunch of fucking girls!” a legionary shouted, eliciting a few laughs and further insults from his mates.

  “Belay that shit!” Parthicus snapped. He turned back to his commander. “Sorry, sir, but the lads’ one vice is they are a bit on the arrogant side.”

  “Well, perhaps they have a reason to be,” Artorius chuckled. He then took his place at the head of the column. Whatever their tasking was, it felt good to be leading fighting men once more. “First Century, fall in! At the double time…march!”

  As the glow of the predawn lit the world around them, Artorius made every effort to regulate his breathing and set a quick, yet manageable pace for his men. By the first mile he was breathing hard and drenched in sweat, despite the cool air of the morning. He begrudgingly acknowledged that while he’d been sitting docile on his ass for the last few years these soldiers had been training constantly, keeping themselves ever battle ready. Still, he was not about to look weak in front of them, and he was thankful that a little past the second mile his legs started to loosen up and his breathing became more controlled. With such a distance to cover, combined with the large number of legionaries clustered together, they moved more at a rhythmic jog rather than an all-out run.

  At the mile castle that marked five miles from the fortress, he called his men to a halt. For the first time since they started, he finally turned to face them. They were all sweaty and breathing heavy, though mostly no worse for wear. He hoped none of them could see his expression of pain and exhaustion. He was already feeling humbled by these legionaries, though he took it as a necessary lesson, and that he would endure whatever pain was needed in order to gain their confidence.

  “A decent pace,” Parthicus said as he walked over to him, taking a drink off his water bladder. “Just remember, sir, the men still need to be able to function later, so let’s not go so hard that they can’t walk tomorrow.”

  “It’s I who won’t be able to walk tomorrow!” he retorted with a laugh as he tried to stretch out his legs, which were starting to cramp.

  “Well, just take it easy on the lads on the way back, if you would, sir. And also, a nice cold plunge after always helps. It’ll make you shriek, not to mention your balls will shrivel up a bit, but it’s the best thing to help the legs recover.”

  The run back actually felt better to Artorius than their trek out, though he heeded his optio’s advice and set a more measured pace. Whether they made their way back quicker or not, it certainly felt far more invigorating for the master centurion. It was midday when he halted his men outside the gate to the fortress. As soon as he dismissed them, they gave a loud whoop and started sprinting towards the river.

  “Well, come on, sir!” Optio Parthicus shouted back to him. “The water’s as frigid as my former girlfriend, but don’t worry, your balls will drop again soon enough!”

  Artorius chuckled and followed the men through the trees down to a man-made dock that led down into the River Rhine. The men had constructed a type of pool in the river that allowed the current to come in and out without the hazard of sweeping them away. Most of the legionaries were already naked and splashing about in the cold water. The master centurion stripped down and plunged in after them, fighting back the urge to yelp as the freezing waters bit into him with a shock. He sank down to his neck and let the cold bite into his flesh. He had removed his sandals and reached down to feel his numbing feet, where a couple of blisters were forming. He knew there was nothing for it, and that his feet would simply have to adapt to the impact if he was going to continue these runs with his men.

  “Oy! Master Centurion, Artorius!” a voice shouted.

  He looked back and laughed when he saw it was another long-lost old friend, Gaius Praxus.

  “If you’re done playing, the cohort commanders await you.”

  He held up his friend’s tunic and sandals, which Artorius snatched from him as he came out of the water, shivering as a gent
le breeze caught him.

  “Good to see you, too, you old bastard,” he said as he braced himself against Praxus while pulling on his sandals.

  His legionaries continued to splash about while shouting obscene names at each other, and were oblivious to his absence.

  Optio Parthicus had been right. The cold water had done his legs some good, though he figured he would still be sore and limping the next day.

  “Tell me, Praxus,” he said as they walked through the fortress gate, legionaries on duty saluting as they passed. “Do you go on these types of runs with your century?”

  “Whenever I can,” Praxus replied. “Though in all honesty, I can manage it maybe once a month. And you’ll be lucky if you can do even that. I’ve already spoken with Magnus and the other centurion primus ordo, and we all agree that we need to help you shoulder the added burdens that will come over the next year, especially since getting a viable legion commander seems out of the question.”

  “Hence my meeting with the pilus priors,” Artorius emphasized. “I figure I’ll be seeing them a lot more than the men of my own century.”

  “You are correct there, sir,” Praxus added boisterously. “Hell, I hardly even see my own son anymore! Not sure if you knew that Ioan joined the ranks.”

  “I did not.”

  “He’s with the legion, in the Tenth Cohort. And like you were with Metellus, I’ve had to let him make his own way, though to be honest, having a son in the legions makes me feel awfully old!”

  “Well, you’re six years older than me,” Artorius noted, “you’re hardly the virile young man you once were.”