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

  Chapter XVII: Unworthy Allies

  ***

  Artorius paced back and forth in front of the auxilia century, hands clasped behind his back, clutching his vine stick. They were mostly Samaritans and the stench alone told the centurion that most had probably never properly bathed in their lives. None were properly shaved, their hamata armor in varying states of rust and disrepair. By contrast, the twenty or so legionaries behind Artorius looked immaculate; their armor polished, equipment fully serviceable, and all were bathed and shaved.

  “These men look like shit,” the centurion grunted to Abenader who swallowed hard in embarrassment.

  “Yes, but they do their job,” he replied.

  Artorius snorted in disgust and walked over to an auxilia decurion at the far left of the line.

  “Weapon,” Artorius said, holding out his hand. The decurion reluctantly drew his gladius and handed it to him. The blade was nicked and spotted with rust. Artorius sliced the blade hard over his hand, causing the men behind him to wince. He then held up his hand, which was uncut.

  “You couldn’t cut butter with this, let alone kill a man!” he spat. He then looked over his shoulder and pointed to one of the legionaries that were observing the spectacle. “Legionary, post!”

  The soldier quickly stepped over to his centurion, who held out his hand. The legionary drew his gladius and handed it to him, pommel first.

  Artorius held the weapon up. “As you can see,” he noted, brushing his thumb along the cutting edge, “this weapon has a razor sharp blade. Though meant for stabbing, it will easily hack through limbs if need be.” He swung the gladius in a short slash for emphasis.

  “The blade has been kept oiled and is free of rust,” he continued, the gladius gleaming in the sunlight. “Any nicks or burrs are worked out with a sharpening stone. This is what a serviceable weapon looks like.” He then handed it back to the legionary who snapped a quick salute and took his place back on the line.

  “This, on the other hand,” he said, holding up the auxiliary’s rusted sword. “You could not cut through pig fat with this!” He threw the gladius into the dirt.

  He then eyed the fittings of the decurion’s shoulder armor and saw that many were broken. He grabbed the shoulder pad and easily tore it away from the rest of his armor, nearly pulling the man over as he did so. “Your armor is useless!” he shouted into the man’s face. “You’re supposed to be their leader, yet what kind of example are you to the rest of these men?”

  A stifled snicker alerted him and he quickly stepped over to where an auxiliary was doing little to conceal his amusement.

  “You find this amusing?” he growled into the man’s face, almost gagging on the stench of his breath.

  “Little,” the man muttered with a sarcastic sneer.

  Artorius started to turn away, only to spin around and smash the Samaritan across the helm with his vine stick, sending him sprawling into the dirt, and his helmet tumbling off his head. The other men in the formation gasped while the on looking legionaries grinned as Artorius proceeded to beat the man savagely. The rusted chain mail would absorb much of the repeated blows, though the strikes to the exposed legs and shoulders left the semi-conscious man grimacing in pain. After more than a dozen blows he stopped, though his face was red, and he was snarling in anger.

  “Get up!” Artorius barked, kicking the man hard on the backside.

  The dazed auxiliary was helped up by a couple of his companions. He stood with his eyes glazed over and a trickle of blood running out of his mouth. The centurion paced back and forth for a minute, his face red and twisted into a scowl of rage. His clenched fists caused his enormous forearms to pulse.

  “Anyone else?” he said after allowing himself a moment to calm down.

  The assembled auxiliaries all bore looks of utter disbelief, and Artorius correctly assumed that none had ever been given even rudimentary training or discipline in their collective tenures.

  When there were no further responses he continued. “I didn’t think so. Throughout the empire, auxiliaries serve alongside legionaries in hopes of earning the right to become citizens themselves. It is a hard and dangerous life, but one of honor with great reward for those who complete their service to the emperor. Judea is one of the only provinces where auxiliaries have served autonomously from the legions. Your slovenly appearance and the complete disregard you have shown for the arms and armor given to you by the emperor’s good will demonstrates that not one of you holds a shred of discipline or self-respect. Centurion Abenader is your commanding officer; however, as long as I am in Jerusalem, all of you answer to me.”

  He slapped his vine stick across his palm for emphasis. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Abenader, though he remained silent. Artorius had to make certain that whatever their personal differences, he did not publicly undermine the auxiliary centurion or do anything to directly embarrass him in front of his men. For all they knew, the two were close colleagues who had full confidence in each other. Artorius quietly hoped for such a resolution once he broke these men down some and started to show Abenader and his officers how to rebuild them.

  He walked back and forth in front of the men for another minute, letting his words sink in. At length he spoke again, pointing his vine stick at the decurion.

  “You are responsible for these men,” he stated. “Therefore it is your duty to see to it that they are inspection ready by tomorrow morning. If they are not, you will be stripped of your rank, and I will find a new decurion to lead them. All will be in fresh tunics, clean shaven, and washed. I will not have any of you smelling like you slept in a fucking pig sty! And if any man shows up with a dull, rusted weapon or his armor and kit are not fully serviceable, he will be fined a week’s pay!”

  This was met with a loud grumbling from the ranks, and Artorius was surprised to hear Abenader quiet them.

  “At fucking ease!” the auxilia centurion barked.

  Artorius nodded towards him approvingly, and then looked over at the Samaritan who he had beaten for insubordination. The man’s face was red, and he was breathing quickly through his nose. All the men from this century looked in various states of shock and utterly appalled. As Artorius turned to walk away, the Samaritan drew his sword and rushed up behind him with it held high to strike.

  “Sir!” one of the legionaries shouted, but Artorius already sensed what was coming. He spun around, dropped his vine stick and grabbed the man by the wrist and throat, tossing him through the air with superhuman strength. The Samaritan landed on his back with a loud crash, the air taken from his lung, and his weapon flying from his hand. Artorius’ hand held his throat in a vice grip.

  “Idiot!” he shouted into the man’s face, his booming voice echoing across the courtyard. “If you’re going to condemn yourself to death for assaulting an officer, at least do it properly! You stab with the gladius!”

  He looked up and saw some of the auxiliaries stirring and starting to move towards him. They were protesting rapidly in their own tongue, completely forgetting themselves as they watched their friend struggle in vain against the centurion’s grip. Felix snapped his fingers and all the legionaries took a single step forward with hands on the pommels of their gladii. The tesserarius drew his weapon and stood between the auxiliaries and his commander.

  “Anyone who makes another move will share this man’s fate!” he snapped.

  The auxiliaries were immediately silent.

  “Assault on an officer is punishable by death! The procurator will decide his fate.” He then nodded to Artorius, who pulled the Samaritan to his feet, still grasping his throat.

  “Take this piece of shit away,” he ordered as he shoved the man towards a pair of waiting legionaries. He then turned to Felix. “Draw up the charge sheets and have him brought before Pilate by this afternoon.”

  “Yes, sir,” the tesserarius replied. He then signaled to the legionaries who drug the man away, thrashing and shouting at them in a language they did not know.


  Artorius stepped forward and addressed the flabbergasted auxiliaries. “You men have two choices,” he said, surprisingly calm. “You can either start acting like soldiers, for which you will be rewarded.”

  He then nodded to where a group of legionaries had stripped the Samaritan out of his armor and were beating him with their fists until he ceased thrashing. They then drug him away.

  “Or you can end up like him; a simple choice. Dismissed!” When the auxiliaries did not move he shouted at them once more, “That means get the fuck out of my sight!”

  The decurion shouted some orders quickly and, attempting to make some sort of formation, they turned to their right and briskly left the field. Felix let out a sigh and a soft chuckle.

  “That went a little rough,” he observed.

  “Are you surprised?” Artorius asked, watching through the entranceway where the auxiliaries left. He could hear the occasional shout from their decurion.

  “Not even a little bit,” Felix said with a snort. “Though I have to admit I did not foresee one of them pulling a weapon on you.”

  “Really? Because I did.”

  Felix nodded in acknowledgment, then turned and dismissed the legionaries, many of whom were laughing amongst themselves and lamenting the pitiful state of the Samaritan auxiliaries.

  “Worthless bastards,” one grunted as their decanii marched them back to their barracks.

  “All officers are to dine with me this evening,” Artorius said to Felix. “I want to know how the rest of the inspections went.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  As Artorius made ready to leave he noticed Abenader, who had been watching the entire ordeal in appalled silence.

  “Centurion Artorius, I must protest!” he said. “That man…”

  “What’s there to protest?” Artorius interrupted. “He attacked me with a weapon and meant to kill me. You know what Roman law says regarding assault on an imperial officer. It would be no different if you were assailed by one of my men. I am sorry.”

  Abenader simply nodded in understanding. It was still very awkward between the two centurions, and there was little doubt that there would be numerous spats between them. Still, Artorius was glad to see that there was at least the beginning of some sense of understanding between them.

  Twenty-four men gathered around two long tables in the hall Artorius procured well away from the fortress. Tesserarii, signifiers, options, and centurions of the cohort all gathered around. The hall belonged to a Jewish merchant, who loathed the idea of it being used by Roman officers, though he relented at the sight of a handful of silver coins.

  “I sent out for your dinner, as requested,” the owner said as he and his wife approached the table with a tray bearing pitchers of wine. “I’ve spoken with the local bakers and butchers. They have made the best efforts to prepare proper Roman food for you and your men.”

  “Very good,” Artorius replied as the man poured him a cup of wine. He then addressed his assembled officers. “While we are in Jerusalem, we will mess together weekly. This will allow us to share any information gathered throughout the city with all senior leaders of the cohort.”

  “The real issue we have is bettering the effectiveness of the auxiliaries,” Praxus spoke up. “The city is huge, and they are few in number. Even if they were crack troops, which they most certainly are not, they would be hard-pressed to confront a major crisis.”

  “Agreed,” Justus added. “That is why force alone will not be enough. We also have to accept that we will never have the good will of the people, no matter what we do. I’ve been in the east most of my career, and yet Judeans are by far the most laborious to contend with. I think we would be better off expelling them from the empire.”

  The owner of the hall had stepped out, and Artorius hoped he was out of earshot of Justus’ callous remark. The men muttered a few words amongst themselves as servants entered the hall, carrying trays with various courses. As legionaries’ tastes were simpler than those of noble Romans, the fare was far more practical, consisting of soups, freshly baked bread, roasted vegetables, as well as lamb and beef. Artorius had relented to the requests of some of his officers and procured a course of dormice, even though he found the supposed delicacy repugnant.

  “And what of the Samaritan who attacked you today?” Felix asked. “What sentence did Pilate hand down?”

  “The only one he could,” Artorius replied, holding up a stuffed mouse and then tossing it back onto the tray in disgust. “I want everyone there tomorrow when the sentence is carried out. It will serve as a reminder to our men, as well as the auxiliaries. We also need to make certain that while our methods need to be firm and sometimes harsh, we do not make a habit of being abusive for its own sake. All discipline needs to be meted out fairly with our men setting the example for them of what right looks like.”

  The next day the entire garrison, at least those not on duty or leave, was assembled on the drill field. Facing them was the First Italic Cohort. In the center was a large wooden pole. Artorius gazed at the auxilia formation and noted that it should have been much larger. Abenader stepped over to where Artorius and the other centurions were gathered.

  “As I feared, there have been a mass of desertions,” he lamented. He then glared at Artorius. “These heavy-handed tactics may cost me half my garrison.”

  “If you’d been a bit heavy-handed yourself instead of coddling these filthy rats we could have avoided this entire problem,” Artorius replied calmly. He then nodded towards the edge of the field, where Pontius Pilate, his personal bodyguard, and a handful of staffers were approaching.

  “Go stand by your men,” he said. Abenader gave a grunt and turned back to his formation.

  As soon as Pilate arrived Artorius shouted a subsequent order, “Bring forth the prisoner!”

  A squad of legionaries led the condemned Samaritan forward. His hands were bound in front of him and he was naked to the waist. Unlike the previous day, he made no protest and seemed resigned to his fate. He was tied with his back to the pole, facing his former companions in the Jerusalem garrison. Doubtless he had many friends who were saddened by his fate. Worst of all were the two auxiliaries who had been tasked with carrying out the sentence. As was customary in the legions, it was a condemned man’s peers who had to administer his punishment, not the officers. They stood with their heads bowed, a corded rope in their hands. Artorius was suddenly having doubts about the sentence they were passing. He swallowed hard. He looked over to Pilate, who simply nodded. It was too late to turn back.

  “This man has been found guilty of assault upon a superior officer!” he shouted to the assembly. “The penalty for this is death by strangulation!”

  He then nodded to the auxiliaries, who were at first reluctant to move. Valens stepped forward and gave one a hard kick in the backside, and they quickly went about their hateful task. They whispered a few things to the Samaritan. Artorius imagined they were asking for his forgiveness. They then wrapped the cord around his neck and tied it into a slip knot behind the pole, which they then proceeded to twist in order to constrict the rope around the man’s neck. At first the Samaritan made little sound, but as the rope grew tighter and gouged into his neck, his eyes grew wide, he started to gurgle and gasp in vain for breath. The two auxiliaries turned the knot faster, hoping to expedite their companion’s passing and save him from further torture. The man’s eyes bulged out of his skull as he thrashed violently, his tongue protruding sickeningly. At last he gave one last jolt and was still. The auxiliaries held the rope in place for a few more seconds before releasing it. Artorius then pointed to one of the men, who looked down for a moment and sighed. He then drew his gladius and stood in front of the now lifeless Samaritan. He looked over at Artorius, who nodded. The auxiliary plunged his gladius into the man’s heart, his eyes welling up with tears as he did so. The Samaritan did not move or make a sound. Pilate had ordered the stabbing as a means of preventing the men from faking the man’s death.
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  Artorius was suddenly sweating, and his face betrayed his sense of regret. Surely he could have had the man lashed, thrown in the stockade for a week or docked a month’s wages. He did not have to push for the death sentence, but then it was not his decision to make. There was nothing for it. The man’s body would be left on display for a day and then disposed of. He now had a much larger issue to deal with, and he feared he would have to implement similar measures if he were to correct it.

  “All centurions and options are to meet in the principia!” he shouted to the assembly. “Signifiers and tesserarii, take control of your centuries! Formation…dismissed!”

  “Proud of yourself?” Abenader asked as he walked up behind him.

  “No, I’m completely disgusted,” Artorius replied. Deep down he wanted to beat Abenader for insubordination, though he knew that was petty at best. Besides, their difference was one of appointment rather than rank. Abenader was more of a peer than subordinate, and the only reason Artorius held seniority was due to his command of legionaries instead of auxiliaries. “I hope it does not come to this again.”

  Abenader simply nodded and returned to dismiss his formation. The auxiliaries were in a state of shock and disgust. The iron discipline so common within the legions was completely foreign to them.

  “Centurion Artorius!” Pilate’s voice caused him to stop in his tracks. He had completely forgotten the procurator was there and had neglected to so much as greet him after the execution was complete.