Soldier of Rome: The Centurion (The Artorian Chronicles) (10 page)

“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.”

“Is that because he doesn’t think these women
are worthy of being warriors or is it simply to protect his niece?”

It was a fair question.
The women of Frisia served their people in one of two ways; either they married and bore Frisian children, or they joined the Daughters of Freyja and were trained as warriors. As a member of the royal family, Amke was chosen by King Dibbald to lead the Daughters despite the fact that she was just over a score in years.

“I don’t think he doubts their courage or tenacity,” Klaes answered as they moved on. “Besides me, Amke is the only other child of the Segon line. Father loves her as if she were his own daughter.”

Tabbo nodded, understanding the King’s desire to protect his niece.

Klaes continued, “Our culture has always valued the fighting spirit of our women. It shocks other races that we would allow any of our women to take up arms. By the same token, it also makes them
wary of attacking us. Most nations are conquered once the male warriors are dead. In Frisia, they find that our ‘helpless’ women are not so helpless after all.”

Arto
rius never imagined that he would be suffering from a massive hangover at his own wedding. Nerves had gotten to him the night before and his friends decided to calm him down the only way they could. The manor house that Lady Diana had ordered built was still under construction. However, the banquet hall was complete and had been hastily furnished with some borrowed furniture. All of the Second Century had piled into the hall, sitting around boxes and on the floor when no more couches or table space was available. The other Centurions from the Third Cohort were also there, as were Macro, Proculus, and Master Centurion Calvinus. The usual speeches had been spoken, with everyone offering a drink to Artorius, to the point that early on in the evening he was completely inebriated and unable to stand. The next morning he could not remember if he had vomited on any of the fancier borrowed couches or not.

“You know
, they say that Patrician villas have what’s called a
vomitorium
, where guests go to purge between courses of a fancy meal,” Magnus observed as he helped Artorius into his best looking tunic.

“That’s just a stupid myth,” the
Centurion groaned, his head pounding and a wave of nausea rolling over him. He now regretted not having purchased a formal toga. While Options and below wore their issued tunics even when off duty, Centurions and above were strongly encouraged to purchase civilian togas. Artorius hated the garments, feeling that they were neither practical nor even fashionable. He was proud of his muscular physique and he loathed the idea of covering it beneath layers of folded robes.

His
hamata mail armor had had to be custom made to fit his disproportionately muscular frame, and it had not yet been delivered. He felt that wearing his battered segmentata would have been in poor taste.

“Do you at least have a decent belt you can wear?” the Norseman asked, rummaging through Artorius’ trunk that he kept at the foot of his bunk. He still lived in the
Centurion’s quarters while waiting for the manor house to be completed. “Ah, here we go!”

Artorius strapped up his belt and gave himself a once over. He had bathed, shaved, and tried to fix his hair. He felt he was due to get it cut soon and hoped he would not look as nauseating as he felt. He ran his tongue over his teeth and grimaced.

“Here,” Magnus said, handing him a small dish smeared in paste and a bristle brush. “Lady Diana sent over some of her white wine based mouthwash that she got specially shipped from Gaul. It’s got a pretty strong scent to it, but at least it will help keep your breath from knocking her and the priest over at the ceremony!”

“That would be well below average,” Artorius muttered in reply.

“I wonder if the gods have a special punishment for that,” Magnus mused.  Artorius scrubbed his teeth more vigorously, thankful that at least Roman society had included dental hygiene in their cleanliness evolution. 

Diana was giving herself a final critical look in the polished bronze mirror.  The slave helping her dress and adorn her hair was misty-eyed. 

“My lady looks so lovely,” she murmured.  “But, you don’t have an engagement ring.”

“I have the most important thing,” Diana answered.  “Artorius is all I need.  He’s worth more to me than all the jewels or gold in the world.”

The year that they had spent together had been the happiest time of her life. Now Rome and the gods would join them in a bond that could not be broken, either in this life or the next.

Even though his head was still pounding, Artorius was alert and very nervous when he arrived at the outdoor shrine. A priest assigned to the legion as a spiritual advisor and oracle to the commanding Legate was there to conduct the ceremony.
Artorius had declined spending the extra denarii for the auspices, reasoning that if the trials he and Diana had been through had not solidified an eternal bond between them, gutting an ox or a couple birds would not do so either. Two stools with a small table next to one sat before the altar. The table held the honey cake to be shared by the newlyweds, and an offering of it made to Jupiter. 

Artorius’ breath was taken from him as the love of his life walked through the arch of climbing roses.
It was midmorning and the sun was shining perfectly through the arch, illuminating her glowing face. Artorius felt as if he was staring not at Lady Diana Procula, but the goddess herself, whose name she bore. She wore an elegant white stola trimmed in gold; a crown made of flowers adorned her head where her hair was pulled up. As he took her by both hands, she smiled and winked at him. He had told the priest to keep it short and to the point, not wanting to waste time on pointless ceremony, but Diana also knew what was important in a Roman wedding.