Soldier of Rome: The Last Campaign (The Artorian Chronicles) Page 13

  “Fuck that, I can still wield a gladius and my cock with the best of them!” his friend scoffed as they approached the principia. “Here we are then.”

  The meeting hall within the principia held a number of tables, as well as a raised platform at the far end with a very long table. During meetings of the centurions’ council, this was where the master centurion and those of the First Cohort sat. It was also used by tribunals during court martials. On this particular day, it was Artorius, the primi ordinones and the cohort commanders who occupied the hall.

  Artorius and Praxus made their way to the long table. The only non-centurions present were a pair of clerks, who sat on either side of the master centurion. As Artorius was scanning some notes he’d made the night before, one of the cohort commanders stepped onto the dais.

  “Centurion Tyranus!” Artorius said with a grin, standing and extending his hand.

  “Ave, master centurion,” Tyranus replied.

  “I was just told yesterday that you made centurion pilus prior,” Artorius observed.

  “Yes, three years ago they gave me the Fifth Cohort,” Tyranus said. “And I hope you do not take offense, but I was one of those who ran against you for the position of primus pilus.”

  “No offense taken.” He then paused in thought for a moment. “I heard that both men who put their names in for consideration were Civic Crown recipients. I did not know you had one.”

  “Two, actually,” Tyranus corrected. “My first came at Braduhenna, though since you and I were scarcely acquainted before you departed, I would not expect you to have known that. I was awarded a second not two months after you left for Judea.”

  “Oh, yes,” Artorius remarked. “The punitive expedition against the Marsi in Germania that I had to miss out on. A real bitch that was! I never heard anything about it, so I assume it must have gone well.”

  “Well enough. The Marsi are so close to our border that we only spent maybe a month in Germania. The legion awarded me my second Civic Crown during a raid. One of the lads was wounded in the arm and couldn’t hold on to his shield. I grabbed him just as the German archers unleashed a volley on us and pulled him beneath my own shield. I didn’t think anything of it until after the campaign when I was called before the entire legion. To be honest, I had forgotten the whole incident and was a little embarrassed for receiving the Civic Crown again.”

  “You remembered one of the most important aspects of leadership,” Artorius noted. “And that is, our lives are no more important than those of even the lowest-ranking of our legionaries.”

  “My men knew that though I could be a harsh disciplinarian, who was never one to spare the lash, I would have given my life for any one of them.” Tyranus paused for a moment then made another observation. “You know your son is one of my centurions. He commands our Fourth Century.”

  “I hope he does well by you,” Artorius stated. “And if he does not, that you would readily tell me.”

  Tyranus chuckled in reply. “Metellus is about the least of my worries,” he said. “If he has a glaring fault, it’s that he is far too hard on himself. Sometimes he sets his own expectations unreasonably high. He won’t admit it, but I think he sometimes feels like he’s living in your shadow; probably even more so now, with you being our master centurion. But don’t worry, I’ll break him of it well before we ever leave for the lands of oblivion.”

  “Beg your pardon, sir, we’re ready to begin,” one of the cohort commanders stated, cutting short his conversation with Tyranus.

  Artorius recognized a few of their faces, but regrettably not their names. He reckoned he would get to know all of them well enough. The Second through Tenth Cohorts were each led by a centurion pilus prior, and consisted of six eighty-man centuries. At full strength, a cohort could have as many as four hundred and eighty legionaries. The elite First Cohort, with its five double-strength centuries had a total compliment of around eight hundred legionaries. They were also the most experienced, with an average time-in-service of fifteen to twenty years. Their centurions, though having fewer men under their command, were actually senior in rank to the cohort commanders and served as tactical and strategic advisors to the commanding legate. The fourteen men who sat around the long table in the meeting hall were the most experienced men in the entire legion. Regardless of who was in command, it was they who would lead their men to either glorious victory or ignominious destruction. And with their assistance, Artorius began to lay out the training plan for the legion for the following year, as well as quelling any unsubstantiated rumors that may have been persisting throughout the ranks.

  Chapter IX: March to Glory

  Gesoriacum, Coast of Belgica

  May, 42 A.D.

  ***

  Fall passed into winter and winter soon gave way to spring. In Rome, Emperor Claudius continued to strengthen his hold on the empire. In the sixteen months since his ascension, the legions had reaffirmed their loyalty, while members of both the senate and equites felt an immense sense of relief no longer serving a maniacal tyrant who fancied himself a god. And all the while it was thankfully quiet along the Rhine frontier.

  Artorius had established a sound working relationship with the centurions of the legion. He had also taken to mentoring the young chief tribune as much as he was able. On those occasions when Legate Glabrio did make an appearance, Artorius or one of his centurions would simply reassure him that they had matters in hand, and he would always leave it at that. For Artorius and Diana, they found themselves resuming their old habits from the time before they’d left the Rhine. Despite the vast changes that had occurred in both Cologne, as well as to themselves, over the years, they essentially resumed their lives where they had left off. The most substantial changes had been Artorius’ duties, as well as them living in the house provided within the fortress, rather than their own dwelling in the city. Diana had gone to their former manor house, which was now owned by a wealthy merchant originally from Ravenna. She had toyed with the idea of possibly purchasing the house; though the owner made it very clear he had no intention of selling.

  “I make a fortune off the legions and have expanded into an entire forum’s worth of shops, as well as two brothels, within the town,” he had said. “The weather here is damned awful when compared to northern Italia, but as long as soldiers are willing to depart with their coinage so readily, I have no intention of leaving.”

  Diana was, at first, disappointed but then realized it mattered not. A message that came to the fort via the imperial post in the early spring would start the transition not just for Artorius and Diana but the whole of the empire. In the message, Plautius had ordered all senior officers within the Rhine Army to join him at the coastal city of Gesoriacum1 in Belgica, just across the channel from the Isle of Britannia. As Legate Glabrio stated he was not feeling well enough to travel, he sent his chief tribune and master centurion in his place. Artorius had insisted on Magnus coming with him, leaving Praxus to oversee the First Cohort. Two dozen cavalrymen acted as their escorts.

  It was ten days’ ride by horse, and as the contingent from the Twentieth Legion crested a small hill just to the east, the port city came into view. It was not very large, with the majority of buildings lining a series of docks and boardwalks along the water’s edge. The roads leading down the slope were lined with thick groves of trees, making their way down to the beach. A large inlet from the sea cut into the coastline, creating an ideal natural harbor. In addition to the constant flow of merchant vessels, a pair of Roman warships was anchored in the bay. Just off the sandy beach, in an open field near a long row of trees, was where Plautius had erected his camp. A massive tent, dyed in deep red, sat in the center. It was surrounded by the tents of a vexilation cohort from the Second Legion, Augusta. Along with the legionaries was encamped an ala of cavalry. The typical trench, lined with palisade stakes, encompassed the camp; not so much because of perceived threats, but rather to the keep curious and disruptive civilians at bay. A squad of legionari
es guarded the east entrance; the decanus calling the men to attention and saluting as Artorius and his companions rode into the camp.

  “Check on our accommodations,” Chief Tribune Sempronius ordered, “I will report to General Plautius.”

  “Yes, sir,” Artorius replied. The men dismounted and left their horses with a pair of groomsmen.

  “A heavy burden he bears,” Magnus noted as they watched Sempronius walk towards the principia tent. “With our commanding legate an incapacitated wreck, the onus of command falls on him and by extension, to you.”

  “We talked extensively about that over the past few months,” Artorius remarked as the two centurions made their way through the camp. “Like all chief tribunes, he is young with little to no experience, but he is surprisingly pragmatic and eager. He listens well, has a grasp of how cohorts operate in battle, and has a natural talent for logistics.”

  “Well, I do hope he’s a quick study,” Magnus said.

  “The coming conquest will make or break him,” Artorius observed. “I think if he survives the invasion, he just might make a fine legate someday. We owe it to both our men, and to Rome, to make certain that he does. Though, at least from Glabrio, he has learned how not to be!”

  As they walked through the camp, they soon found the centurion pilus prior in command of the vexilation from the Second Legion, who pointed them towards a row of tents just behind the principia.

  “Each legate and chief tribune has their own tent,” he explained. “However, as your legate did not make the journey, then I suppose one of those tents is yours, master centurion.” He then addressed Magnus. “I apologize, sir, that we don’t have suitable quarters for one of your rank.”

  “I’m fine sharing a tent with the men,” the Norseman replied. “I’ll sleep under the stars if necessary.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” the centurion chuckled, relieved that Magnus was not one of the insufferable types who demanded that subordinates go out of their way to accommodate him. “If you’ll come with me, I’ll see what we can arrange.” Artorius gave the Norseman a friendly smack on the shoulder and made his way over to his tent. He was rather impressed by the quarters given to him. Senatorial officers certainly lived to an exponentially higher standard than men in the ranks, even in a marching camp. The tent was about twice the size of that shared by an eight-man squad, with a large camp bed, writing desk, a standing wardrobe, as well as several small decorative columns. A chest-high pillar by the desk was topped with a recently sculpted bust of Emperor Claudius. A small bunk for his manservant lay next to the large opening to the tent. Nathaniel had just finished helping him out of his armor when the flap was pulled open, and he was joined by Sempronius.

  “I see you’re getting settled in,” the chief tribune observed. “Not bad accommodations, eh?”

  “Feels kind of wasteful to me,” Artorius remarked. “You could house sixteen legionaries in this one tent.”

  “At this stage in your career, I would say you’ve earned it,” the chief tribune replied. He then addressed his reason for calling. “The command groups from the Fourteenth and Ninth Legions are expected to arrive this evening. We are to meet with Plautius tomorrow after first watch.”

  “Understood.”

  That evening he joined Magnus for a stroll down towards the water. Both men stood with their arms folded across their chests, feeling the sea breeze blowing through their hair while the waves lapped endlessly against the sand. Ships continued to sail to and from the harbor, with the port carrying about its business almost as if it were oblivious to the large presence of Roman soldiers at its doorstep.

  “I suspect that by this time next year we will be standing on those distant shores,” Artorius speculated.

  “New adventures and new challenges,” his Nordic friend added. “This will not be like our campaigns of retribution or suppression of rebellions.”

  “Agreed. And whether we rule through temperance or intimidation will be determined by those people across the water.”

  “It is a strange feeling,” Magnus noted. “The emperor may tell us that we invade to restore an allied king, yet the reality is we go to conquer a province. Rome will bring many things to Britannia, and the people will have a chance to rise up out of the squalor of their existence. And yet, we don’t really do this for them, do we?”

  “No,” Artorius said, shaking his head. “We do this for Rome, not the barbarians. Personally, I could care less if those unwashed hordes wish to live in squalid shit and continue to destroy each other. However, if the emperor says we must conquer and Romanize them, then that is what we will do. It is a harsh reality, my friend, in that all great empires and civilizations are wrought through brutality and subjugation. It is simply the way the world is.”

  For having never ridden a horse in his life, Alaric had proven a quick learner. He had taken the time given to him by Cartimandua to mourn for his mother and then fully committed himself to his duties. Landon was the primary equestrian trainer for the queen’s guard, and he spent the winter months training his friend to ride. Protection of the queen was but one of their duties, for they also served as her messengers both within the kingdom and throughout the lands. Another tasking involved watching the main roads leading into the kingdom, as Landon had been the day he reunited with Alaric.

  “We’re the only full-time soldiers the queen has,” he explained one spring morning when Alaric noted how busy and scattered they usually were. “While everyone, including women, is expected to take up arms as necessary to defend Brigantes, the people are mostly farmers, miners, fishermen, and laborers. Even a kingdom as large as ours cannot afford to employ and equip a permanent standing army. You’ve seen how humble my dwelling is, and yet I am more fortunate than most of our people. At least the queen was gracious enough to give you a small room within her great hall.”

  “For that I am grateful,” Alaric confessed. “It’s very small and barely has enough room for a bunk and a chest for my personal belongings. But then, how much room do I really need? That I am often invited to sit at her table is an even greater honor. As a member of her guard, as well as one she regards as a brother, no one questions my presence. Still, I find her husband to be rather boorish and insufferable.”

  “Landon!” The two men looked behind them to see a rider from the guard galloping up the road from the southwest.

  “What news?” the guards’ commander asked as he turned his horse about.

  “Caratacus of Catuvellauni comes,” the rider explained. “He rides from Atrebates and seeks an audience with the queen and consort. He’ll arrive in Isurium Brigantum in two days.”

  “Very well,” Landon replied. “Ride on and inform the queen and see if she has any instructions for us.”

  “Why is Caratacus coming here?” Alaric asked as the messenger rode away, clots of mud from the damp path kicking up in his wake.

  “The queen is expecting him,” Landon answered, “or rather her consort is; boorish and insufferable as you duly pointed out.”

  “What business has he this far north?”

  “Hard to say,” Landon replied. “Cartimandua expressed her displeasure at his conquering and brutal subjugation of the Atrebates. The ghastly druidic sacrifice they made of six of their nobles has also brought them the queen’s loathing. All the while Venutius has praised Caratacus for bringing stability and order to the southern kingdom. But I do not think that Caratacus coming here has to do with the annexation of a tiny realm.”

  “Why not?” Alaric asked, his friend turning to face him. “We have both witnessed the queen’s revulsion to some of his actions.”

  “True, but then the Kingdom of Brigantes is one of the largest in this land,” Landon said. “And as the queen told you, we even have claim to certain territories across the sea in Hibernia. These did not just manifest themselves as part of our lands. All kingdoms are wrought through conquest, and if Cartimandua were to openly chastise Caratacus for conquering the Atrebates, it woul
d be viewed as hypocrisy and quite possibly provocation for war.”

  “Then what?”

  “As you will see, we have eyes everywhere,” Landon stated. “The dozen or so men of the guard whom you’ve met are but a fraction of us. Caratacus’ brother, King Togodumnus, sailed for Belgica a few months ago. We sent a small group of men across the channel as well, and they saw a camp outside the trading port of Gesoriacum. Though the actual number of soldiers was but a few hundred, they clearly noted the eagle standards of four Roman legions.”

  “Rome…” Alaric’s voice trailed off and he closed his eyes, his heart suddenly pounding. “It was only a matter of time, I suppose.” His thoughts suddenly turned to his mother and he broke into a cold sweat. “She came here to escape from them,” he whispered. “Perhaps it is a mercy that she never lived to see them land upon these shores.”

  “What was that?” Landon asked.

  “I never told you where I came from originally,” Alaric replied, turning to face his friend. “It is time I did.”

  As they were the same age, and Alaric had only been a boy of four or five when his mother brought him to Britannia, Landon had never given much thought to his friend’s origins when they were growing up. Alaric had also been but thirteen when he left Brigantes. So it was with great interest that Landon listened to his friend tell of the Marsi people in Germania, a great race of warriors who lived along the River Rhine, near the frontier of the Roman Empire. His mother never told him why the Romans had come to destroy their village, though a conversation he had with a centurion many years later led him to believe that it was in retribution for what the soldier had called an ignominious betrayal by the Marsi.

  Alaric remembered little of Germania and regretted that he could not recall what his father had looked like. All he had were stories Milla had told him, along with a few details the Roman soldier had given him.

  “Do you think the centurion had any reason to lie to you?” Landon asked.