Soldier of Rome: The Centurion (The Artorian Chronicles) Page 8

  “That and being my friend does not get a man any favors.”

  “Yeah, so I’ve noticed,” Magnus remarked with a roll of the eyes.

  Artorius sat back, the look of shock on his face causing the Norseman to burst into laughter.

  “Oh come on, I’m kidding.” He reached across the table and smacked his friend across the shoulder for emphasis.

  “Well, yeah, if being my friend did get you one special privilege, you know you would have been my first choice for Optio,” the Centurion replied with a relieved sigh. Magnus’ sarcasm had almost made him believe for a second that the Norseman was unhappy that he had not been selected for the position and had to settle with being the Century’s Tesserarius.

  “Still,” Artorius continued, “does it ever feel strange to you? I mean, that I passed you up on promotion even though we have both served the exact same amount of time.”

  “I’ll get there soon enough,” Magnus replied with another shrug. “I’ll make my move after I’ve watched you fall on your face a few times, so I learn what not to do.”

  The dry humor was enough to bring a chuckle and sigh of relief from Artorius as the two men finished their drinks.

  Artorius stood at the head of the column of men from the Second Century, this time as their Centurion. He still wore his issued set of lorica segmentata armor. He had ordered a set of chain mail armor, known as the lorica hamata, to be custom made. He liked protection offered by the segmentata, but a Centurion was supposed to purchase his own armor, and all wore either scale or mail since it was more comfortable and allowed the wearer greater mobility. He had at first protested against this, knowing that the segmentata offered far greater protection, but it was an argument he ultimately lost. Since his armor would not be ready for at least a month, he stuck to wearing his issued segmentata. After his armor was delivered he would turn his old suit in, though as he told the armor master, “Good luck finding another legionary that it will fit.” The customary harness that he would wear, showing all of his awards and decorations, was also being made. Legionary Decimus, who worked in the leather shop, had promised he would have it ready by the end of the week. Artorius had managed to acquire an appropriate Centurion’s crest made of red dyed horsehair, which he had attached to his helmet.

  “Century!” he boomed as he looked back at the column of men. His heart was bursting with pride from the professional look of his legionaries. All were in full body armor with shield, javelins, and a bulging pack. Today’s march would be a full twenty-five miles. They would set up a camp for the night and head back in the morning. “Forward…march!”

  A feeling of elation washed over Artorius as he led his men out the gate of the fortress. The knowledge that he was now a Centurion was finally becoming a reality to him. Rufio was at his side with the Century’s Signum. Magnus, now the Tesserarius, was at the front of the legionaries. Optio Praxus walked in the very back where his purpose was to monitor the pace and watch for stragglers. Diana was standing by the gate and raised her hand, her pride in Artorius evident as she waved to them as they passed through, a broad smile on her face.

  “Ave, my lady!” the legionaries shouted in unison, causing Artorius’ face to turn red and a playful laugh from Diana.

  “Did you put them up to that?” Artorius asked over his shoulder.

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Magnus replied, his broad grin revealing his guilt.

  Artorius had tried to set their departure to coincide with the time between sunrise and when the streets of Cologne became crowded with citizens about their daily business. As they marched through the streets, shopkeepers who were opening up their places of business stopped to watch them pass by. A few small children even waved at them. A variety of street urchins stumbled beside the column, imitating the legionaries’ march. Once out of town it was rolling hills, copses of trees, and fields as far as the eye could see.

  It was still the first part of spring, and the air was cool. Still, the sun shone brightly and the exertion of the march felt good. The Century kept a modest pace of roughly three miles an hour. This was reasonable for men who were weighted down with armor, weapons, and full packs. The nights in Germania were still chilly this time of year, so each man had his cloak stuffed into his pack. Artorius closed his eyes and breathed deeply through his nose. Whether it was the relief of the recent ordeals being over, the fact that he now commanded the Second Century, or if it really was just the most beautiful of days, he did not know; nor did he care. The miles seemed to slip by, and by midday they had already covered nearly twenty miles. At twenty-five miles Artorius pointed to the top of a small hill with a single tree adorning the top.

  “Place the standard up there,” he directed Rufio.

  “Yes sir,” the Signifier replied, taking off at a moderate jog up the gentle slope of the hill. Once at the top, he found a good place over by the tree to post the standard. The rest of the Century would form up around him. He slammed the spiked bottom of the Signum into the ground, drew his gladius, and gave a loud battle cry.

  “Second Century!” Artorius shouted. “At the double-time…action left…to the standard!”

  A loud shout echoed from the ranks as the Century did a sharp left face and then, in step, started to jog up the hill. Once they came to where Rufio stood, his gladius still raised, they split off to the left and right, the Decanii guiding their squads to the appropriate staging areas. Magnus oversaw the placement while Artorius and Praxus stopped in front of Rufio. The Centurion was breathing hard, but still grinning from ear to ear.

  “You’re sweating, sir,” Rufio observed as he sheathed his gladius.

  Artorius and Praxus dropped their packs and removed their helmets, sweat trickling down their necks and faces. “A Centurion never carries his own pack either.”

  “Soldiers will follow those who foremost lead by example,” Artorius retorted. He then looked around and saw that the Century was all positioned where they needed to be.

  “A bit out of practice, but they’ve still got it,” Praxus observed.

  Artorius gave an affirmative nod before shouting his next order. “Stack your gear and weapons by squads! Set up sentry shifts…Decanii report when complete!”

  Shields were set upright with a single javelin holding it in place. Legionaries paired up and helped each other out of their heavy armor, each man stacking his in front of his shield then placing his helmet on top. Gladii were still worn on the hip. In lieu of palisade stakes, each soldier took his second javelin and stuck it, butt first and angled, in the ground on the outside of their section; a wall of evenly spaced javelins forming their perimeter. A pair of legionaries guarded the front entrance of their small camp, two more the back. Within minutes of Artorius giving the order the entire camp was set and all squad leaders gathered in his area. He and the Principal Officers had also removed their armor and, in spite of the cool spring afternoon, each man had perspired freely from the exertion of the march.

  “Well done,” he told the assembled squad leaders. “Check your men for blisters on the feet and any other health problems that may have arisen. Also spot check their equipment, especially their caligae sandals, and make certain they’re still serviceable. After that the men can rest and break for their afternoon meal.”

  “Yes, sir,” the Decanii answered together before departing.

  Artorius walked over to the large shade tree and sat down against it, removing his sandals.

  “Damn that feels good!” he told Praxus, who sat across from him on the grass, also removing his footwear.

  “You chose the perfect day to take the men out,” the Optio replied. “I think after all they’ve been through, they needed this. Doubtless they will be cursing the cold come nightfall, but for now all is right with them.”

  “I put the word out that they all needed to pack at least an extra blanket,” Artorius reminded him. “I’m the worst when it comes to the cold, so if I can handle it they should be just fine.”
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br />   As he finished speaking Rufio and Magnus walked over. The Signifier was eating an apple and stretching out his back.

  “Any thoughts on what you want the lads to do for the rest of the day?” Magnus asked. “I know we’re not in hostile territory, so the men can be more at ease. I just thought we’d have something for them to do this afternoon.”

  “There’s wild boar in this region,” Praxus observed. “Maybe some of our best javelin throwers should be sent off on a little hunt.”

  “I like it,” Artorius agreed. “Have each squad send its best javelin thrower out. They’ll all go together, I don’t want anyone getting lost or gored by a boar. Tell them five denarii awaits whoever brings down a boar with his javelin first. Have some of the others dig us a pit and gather firewood, also have them refill our water bladders with fresh spring water; there’s a source nearby. Provided our javelin throwers hit their targets, we should have us some spitted boar for supper.”

  That evening would see the Second Century gathered over a large fire, a pair of boars roasting on spits. To no one’s surprise, Legionary Gavius had proven his mettle as the best javelin thrower in the Century, downing a running boar from a distance of nearly twenty meters. Another legionary had brought down a boar as well, after a struggle in a thicket. Even though Gavius had killed his first, Artorius had elected to grant both men the five denarii stipend, which was approximately a week’s pay for a legionary.

  “Not quite as good as the boars back home, mind you,” Magnus said with his mouth full. He took a drink off his water bladder and lay back with his hands behind his head. Artorius, too, took a long drink of the cool fresh water and let out a relaxed sigh. The night was cold, and his breath fogged in front of him. He wrapped his cloak around himself and leaned back against the tree.

  “You know, old friend, life is good.”

  Spring and summer would prove uneventful, though as expected, Artorius did succeed in defending his Legion Champion title once more. He was disappointed when Magnus did not enter the tournament, as he felt his Nordic friend had the best chance of beating him. He also felt that he had never fully gotten out of the shadow of his mentor, Vitruvius, who had retired from competition unbeaten. Artorius had, once in a private sparring match, fought his Cohort Commander to a draw, though this was only after being soundly beaten by him for several years.

  His duties as a Centurion kept him occupied, despite the frontier enjoying a long-lasting, if ever uneasy, peace. Diana was utilizing her personal fortune to have a manor house built for them outside the fortress. Valens, whose common-law wife was Magnus’ sister, Svetlana, had allowed her to stay in a spare room at their modest flat while the manor was being built. It was crowded between the three of them, plus Valens’ slave woman, Erin, and her son three-year old son, Tynan. The thought of a Roman noblewoman living under such conditions would have scandalized most; yet Lady Diana found a sense of comfort and realism that was absent amongst the false flattery and constant political backstabbing of the Patrician class.

  As summer turned to fall, and fall to winter, Artorius and Diana looked forward to the day they would become husband and wife, never knowing of the fires of hate that were being stoked on the edge of the Empire’s frontier.

  Chapter VI: Frisia

  Frisian Coast along the North Sea

  April, 26 A.D.

  ***

  Tabbo felt like a warrior without a profession. Since assimilating into the Roman Empire there had been little use for men of his trade. Frisia enjoyed the protection of Rome, though it took the war chief much doing to swallow his pride and admit it. His people were great fighters and had held their own during the constant warfare with their much larger neighboring tribal kingdoms. When Rome invaded across the Rhine during the wars against the Cherusci and the Germanic alliance eleven years ago, Frisia sent warriors to serve as auxiliaries alongside the legions. They had fought well and during the Battle of Idistaviso had even garnered the praise of Germanicus Caesar himself.

  Even though he was a war chief of much renown, Tabbo was not the ruler of Frisia. That duty fell to his King, Dibbald Segon, a legendary warrior in his own right. Dibbald was the latest of the Segon dynasty and his son, Prince Klaes, had been a friend and brother to Tabbo since both were children. It was the prince who happened upon his friend, who was sharpening has war axe on a wheel grinder.

  “Still keeping your axe sharp, I see,” Klaes observed with a grin.

  He and Tabbo were both above average in height, with broad shoulders and strong jaw lines. Each kept their dark blonde hair pulled back, and though Klaes sported a long mustache that hung down either side of his mouth, Tabbo was clean shaven having adopted the more Roman grooming habit. The differences in facial hair aside, the two men did look so like they could, in fact, be brothers.

  “I believe in maintaining vigilance,” Tabbo replied, relishing the sound of the stone wheel grinding on the warming steel.

  “Vigilance,” Klaes said with a shrug, “against what exactly? Germania is pacified, and I don’t think the Romans will need our services again in my lifetime.” In a flash, Tabbo spun around and flung his axe towards the prince. It embedded itself deep into a tree stump just inches from him. Klaes didn’t even flinch.

  “You missed,” he said sarcastically, arms folded across his chest. Both men got a laugh as he attempted to retrieve the axe, which was buried several inches into the wood. “Bloody hell, you bury this in someone and you’ll never get it back!”

  “If one’s weapon is sharp and heavy enough, it can render even the strongest armor useless,” Tabbo grinned as he wrenched the axe free. He twirled it around in his hand and then set it on a nearby bench. He was still grinning when he faced Prince Klaes, whose face was now sober.

  “You mention rendering the strongest armor,” Klaes said. “Whose armor are you referring to?”

  “I’m not inciting violence against Rome, if that is what you’re accusing me of,” Tabbo replied.

  “I didn’t say I was accusing you,” the prince stated, holding his hands up. “I was only kidding when I asked who you needed to be vigilant against. The gods know we will always have enemies, and a tiny nation such as ours needs all of its collective strength.” The two men took the dirt path that led into the woods towards the capital. Preparations were underway for the arrival of an important guest.

  “It is our strength and resourcefulness that has kept us from being enslaved by any of the other tribes within the region,” Tabbo said. “You and I both fought against the Cherusci and the Germanic alliance, though I confess my role was born more out of malice towards the Cherusci rather than any affection for Rome.”

  “If I may make a confession also, it was the same with me,” Klaes replied. “I know Father is rather fond of the Romans, though to be honest I have always been a bit leery of them.”

  “Romans are like any other men,” Tabbo remarked. “There are good and evil amongst them. The difference is one evil man can ruin an entire people.”

  “You speak of the new magistrate,” Klaes observed. “I don’t know much about him, just that he is a former Centurion.”

  “A Centurion who gained his rank through birth and personal favors of the aristocracy,” Tabbo sneered. “I’ve seen such men before. They are as weak as they are hungry for power. They bully those beneath them because they think it masks their masculine shortfalls.”

  “At least the last magistrate proved harmless enough,” Klaes responded. “He collected taxes for the Emperor and left Father to rule in peace.”

  “I agree the last man to represent Roman interests in Frisia was of little regard,” the war chief conceded. “However, he was simply a lazy man fulfilling his required duty. I cannot say for certain why I feel so uneasy about this former Centurion, but something about this makes my skin crawl.”

  “Any idea where he had been stationed?” the prince asked as they reached the northern bridge leading west across the Rhine. On the other side was a small Roman fort,
garrisoned by a single Cohort of legionaries and a handful of Batavian auxiliaries. The two men stopped and stared across the bridge. Tabbo breathed deeply through his nose and let out a resigned sigh.

  “Egypt,” he replied finally as they turned east, away from the bridge and towards the Frisian capital. He did not feel like watching Roman drill practice this day. “The bastard lived a pampered existence there his entire twenty years. Egypt has been at peace since the fall of the Ptolemy dynasty more than fifty years ago. Soldiers stationed in that corner of the Empire grow fat and spoiled gorging on Egyptian wealth.”

  “As long as he does nothing more than collect the taxes and leaves us in peace it doesn’t matter,” Klaes replied hopefully.

  Tabbo said nothing more, though he knew his friend had similar misgivings, as he did. He also knew that worrying about them would solve nothing.

  They passed by a grove, one dedicated to their goddess Freyja. Klaes smiled as he watched his cousin, Amke, lead a number of other young women through weapons drill. Each girl carried a short war axe or stabbing spear in one hand and a circular shield in the other. The drills that Amke lead them through were very similar to those conducted by male warriors.

  “I see you are not the only one who wishes to maintain their vigilance,” Klaes observed with an approving nod towards his cousin.

  “Amke was the right choice to lead the Daughters of Freyja,” Tabbo said.

  “A symbolic position,” Klaes added, “though one of great honor. I have little doubt that the Daughters can fight readily enough. My father, the King, has been reluctant to use them as an active regiment. Instead he keeps them close, as an extension of his bodyguard.”