Soldier of Rome: The Centurion (The Artorian Chronicles) (15 page)

“Eighty-eight years old and I
can still boot your sissy backside!”

“
Who is
that?”
Diana asked in a low whisper, gripping her husband’s arm.

Artorius let out a soft chuckle.

“I forget, you’ve never met Mad Olaf,” he replied. The old Nordic warlord and former Auxilia Centurion splashed around as he turned to see who had mentioned his name.

“Ah, if it isn’t young Artorius!”
he shouted with a laugh, pulling himself out of the pond. Magnus sat up and spewed a mouthful of water out before letting out a sigh.

“And good to see you too, Olaf,” Artorius replied as he was embraced
by the dripping older man in a hard bear hug. “Still mad as ever, I see.”

“Aye, and still able to thrash my weakling grandsons!” Olaf responded with a boisterous laugh. He then noticed Diana for the first time, her eyes wide and not sure if she should laugh or be scared of the old Norseman who had upended Magnus into the pond.

“And who have we here, then?” Olaf asked, his naturally bellowing voice softening considerably, his eyes gave the lady a quick once over.

“Olaf, may I present my wife, the Lady Diana,” Artorius replied as Diana gave a short curtsey.

“Of course,” Olaf said, nodding enthusiastically, “of the Proculeius house! My lady, you are even more beautiful than I had heard.” He placed his hand over his heart and gave a deep bow of respect.

Diana marvel
ed at how such a gruff, surly man could all of the sudden show the softest demeanor and manners towards women.

“If you two are done breaking everything in my house and garden!” a voice called from the entranceway.

Artorius looked over to see a man he could only assume was Magnus’ father. He was taller than Olaf, though like his sons he was clean shaven and his blonde hair kept shorter. He also wore a Roman toga, while Olaf was dressed in Nordic breaches and a vest.

“City living has made you soft, son!” Olaf said with a dismissive wave. “You’re lucky young Magnus here chose a masculine career in the legions, even if his decrepit grandfather can still toss him around like a sack of moldy potatoes!” Svend let out a sigh as he followed his father into the house, where Olaf shouted that he needed some fresh clothes and a towel.

“I didn’t know Olaf was here,” Artorius replied, trying to stifle a laugh at the sight of his friend.

“Neither did I,” Magnus
admitted as he removed his water-soaked sandals. “I only showed up just before you did. Turns out Grandfather is headed to Arabia to see what all the fuss is about their horses. He was set to leave yesterday, but decided to stay long enough to give me a ‘warm welcome,’ as he put it.”

Both men turned to see Diana leaning against the doorway, hand over her mouth,
her breathing ragged, laughing uncontrollably.

“I’m sorry,” she gasped, trying to compose herself. “It’s just the look on your face…” Her
own face was now red as she burst into laughter once more and collapsed on the step.

Magnus was a sight to behold, his mop of blonde hair frayed in every direction, with his
head band matted to his forehead. His left cheek was turning purple and his lip was cut.  His eyes had a slightly glassy look as he flopped down beside her and began laughing himself.

That night Artorius found he could not sleep, despite the fact that the bed in one of Pilate’s many guestrooms was very comfortable. He lay on his back, staring into the blackness. Diana’s inside leg was intertwined with his, which usually made him feel comforted and relaxed by her presence. Despite all that, he was edgy and could not shut his brain down. He understood why Pilate needed to talk about anything other than Judea, and it was, indeed, almost the tenth anniversary of the Battle of Idistaviso. Doubtless there would be some type of celebration within the city. Two cohorts of the Praetorian Guard had taken part in the battle, and he was certain they would take the opportunity to be paraded through Rome like heroes once more.

Slowly he eased his leg out from underneath Diana’s. He gave her a gentle caress on the shoulder and kissed her on the cheek. She let out a whimper but was immediately back to sleep.
He bumped into an end table and cursed under his breath, hoping he would not wake his wife up. He stepped out onto the balcony as a warm breeze blew in off the Tiber. He both loved and hated nights like this, where memories of the past kept him from sleep. He climbed up onto the wide marble railing and looked out across the expanse of the city below. Rome never slept, especially since night was the only time traffic was allowed to move within the Eternal City. During the daytime, only pedestrians and litters were allowed on the streets, so it was after the sun set that the true bustle of the city began.

He looked up to the sky. It was a clear night
, and the stars shone brightly. He closed his eyes and wondered if his brother and his mother were up there somewhere. He wasn’t sure what he believed in, theologically. The Roman Pantheon seemed too perverse, even by his standards. The deities Romans worshipped struck him as an orgy of grandeur whose purpose was to make men feel like they were more important in the divine scheme of things than they really were. Perhaps the Jews were right to shun all that in favor of a single god. It certainly kept things simple, having to only account for the eccentricities of a single divinity!

Regardless of who or what may have created the universe, Artorius still had a long suppressed fascination with the afterlife. He knew there had to be one; after all, he had seen his brother seven years after his death. It was absurd to acknowledge such a thing, but Metellus’ face was still burned into his mind as clearly as the day he saw him just after the triumphal parade of Germanicus. The two had even conversed briefly before his brother
faded and left him. To this day, Artorius had yet to tell anyone about what he had seen, not even his beloved wife. He did not believe in keeping secrets from Diana, and he longed to tell her. He just could never find the words nor the appropriate time and place. Would she think he was mad? Perhaps, but then again maybe he was. It was mid May, still a couple months shy of the tenth anniversary of Idistaviso, yet it was nine years that very month since the Triumph of Germanicus and the divine vision of his brother.

He felt the presence of a set of eyes watching him, and he was unsurprised to see Diana leaning against the rail next to him.

“Can’t sleep again,” she stated rather than asked.

He nodded as he
stepped down from the rail. He was completely naked, as was normal. Diana had on a loose fitting robe that was undone in the front. He never tired of looking at her, perfect as she was in supple grace and fit beauty. The light from the stars showed just enough of her firm breasts and well defined stomach. Though his conscience mourned their inability to have children, his inner lustful mind was glad that her body had never suffered the ravages of childbirth. It was a welcome sight, and he reached out to her.

Chapter XI: Proculeius’ Hospitality

The House of Proculeius, Rome

15 June, 26 A.D.

***

It was two days before the nuptials between Pontius Pilate and Claudia Procula were scheduled to take place. At the insistence of Claudia’s father, Proculeius, a massive banquet would be held that evening before all the formalities of the pending marriage rituals began. Artorius was discouraged because the formal toga he had ordered had not been delivered before his departure from the Rhine. He had tried on others that the clothing merchants had, but none
of the hateful garments fit him right. Those large enough to fit around his gigantic chest and shoulders had been designed for men of much greater height, not to mention abdominal girth, than the young Centurion.

Diana had told him repeatedly to quit worrying about it, even though her formal stola only made them clash when they walked together hand-in-hand. All of the other legionaries were wearing their best tunics, though anyone who was a
Centurion or above was in a formal toga. As the assembled host of friends met at the inn just up the road from where the Proculeius mansion was, Artorius felt grossly out of place.

“If it makes you feel any better,” Vitruvius said, “it took three months for my toga to arrive.”

Artorius glared at him, but then shrugged. Vitruvius was basically a taller version of himself when it came to body frame. The fact that he had been a Centurion for a number of years and had not put off buying all the trappings of his position had made it easy for him. His young protégé had not even considered buying formal dress clothes until roughly a month before coming to Rome, and he realized he had nothing appropriate to wear.

“Eh, our good
Centurion stands out too much in a crowd to be mistaken for a lowly legionary like the rest of us,” Valens said, smacking Artorius on the shoulder.

He
, too, looked out of place when he stood with Svetlana. Though not a noblewoman, Svetlana and her brother Magnus’ family was very wealthy. Their grandfather, Mad Olaf, had insisted that she wear the best gown that his fortune could afford. The Norsewoman had the good sense not to allow her grandfather to purchase her anything that would outshine the patrician and equestrian class ladies.

“Hey, where’s
Centurion Proculus?” Praxus asked; looking around to make sure everyone was there.

Last thing any of them wanted was for one of their own who had been invited to Pilate’s prenuptial banquet to be off drunk, whoring, or at the gambling dens.

“He’s staying at the Proculeius house,” Magnus answered. “Him being family and all.”

“So just how big is this place?” Valens thought aloud.

“You’ll see,” Artorius replied with a grin. “Alright, everyone will be on their best behavior, at least until the patricians start hitting the wine and start puking. They can get almost as rowdy as drunken legionaries, only difference is they have a lot nicer things they get to break.”

“Yeah, we’re not allowed to have nice things,” Valens complained.

The small procession left the inn in high spirits. There were approximately two dozen legionaries in the group. The top two soldiers from each cohort had been given leave to attend, as well as a few personal acquaintances for Tribune Pilate. All were excited because opportunities for mere plebs to celebrate with the nobility came but once in a lifetime, if at all. Artorius and Diana walked with his Cohort Commander Vitruvius, who, while Artorius felt out of place being devoid of a proper toga, felt the same for having had to leave his wife in Cologne.

It seemed strange to Artorius that he had never even met his father-in-law before. Diana had reluctantly let him read a couple of letters Proculeius sent to her just after their own marriage. He expressed disappointment that she had decided to bind herself to a lowly plebian that could only attain their social status at the end of his career. He later stated that as a barren divorcee she was free to be with whomever she wanted, though he wished that if she was going to be with someone
, that she could have at least tried to find a man of quality. Centurion Proculus had warned him in advance of Proculeius’ nature and disdain towards anything plebian. Proculus said the only reason he was even tolerated was because he was family, and that his rank had somehow earned him the right to associate with his distant cousins.

Like most
villas in Rome, the gateway leading into the courtyard of the Proculeius mansion was rather plain and unassuming. A few potted trees and plants were the only ornaments, until they entered the opulent atrium. One would never guess the grandeur that awaited them inside. People were gathering at the place like flies on honey; magistrates, Plebian Tribunes, business owners associated with Proculeius, and even a few senators. The legionaries stood in awe at the sight of the magnificent banquet hall, once they were inside. It looked large enough to hold an entire cohort, with couches and small tables strewn throughout. At the far side was the head table, on a short dais, with the most ornate couches behind. Artorius noted that, aside from those on the head table, the goblets and plates were all clay rather than the ornate silver. He reasoned that this would be a rather rowdy feast, and Proculeius felt that clay was more expendable than silver. As they mingled in the foyer, wondering where their place would be to sit, Artorius saw his father-in-law for the first time.

He was a taller man, though aside from that he resembled neither of his daughters. His father had made their family’s name
, and the younger Proculeius had always lived reluctantly in his shadow. His father’s status had made the family extremely wealthy and given them all a comfortable lifestyle. He wore an ornate toga and was almost as splendidly dressed as any of the senators present. The host at any Roman banquet needed to make the best impression possible, hence the look of consternation as he quickly walked towards them.

“What are legionaries doing in my house?” he fumed, his voice angry but quiet, lest any of the senators notice the plebian soldiers amongst the throng of guests.

“And good to see you too, Father!” Diana retorted. “Ten years I’ve been from Rome, and this is how we’re greeted?”

“Daughter, it
is
good to see you,” Proculeius replied, giving her a quick kiss on the cheek. The woman who accompanied him looked to be younger than Diana, and one could only assume that he married her in order to keep up his own appearances. He then glared at Artorius.

“Hmm, so you must be my new son-in-law,” he said curtly. “I suppose your presence will be tolerated this evening, in spite of the disrespect you show my house in your manner of dress.” Artorius’ face twitched
, but he kept his composure.

“We appreciate your hospitality,” he replied, pretending not to hear the insult.

“Oh, no,” Proculeius responded. “I said
your
presence will be tolerated…that and your fellow Centurion, who at least has the courtesy to make himself presentable. But these…” He waved his hand with disdain while glaring at the legionaries.

“With
all due respect, sir, these are soldiers of Rome,” Vitruvius replied smoothly as he glided up beside Artorius. “They are the ones who protect you while you sleep and while you feast in your great banquet hall.”

“And their place is on the frontier, rather than my banquet hall!” Proculeius scowled. “I will
not
have my house and reputation tarnished by their presence.”

“They are
my
guests,” Pilate said, stepping between Proculeius and the legionaries. “These men fought beside me through hell itself, and I will not have them dismissed like this. If they go, I go.”

Knowing that he could not have a feast without the groom, Proculeius gave a false smile
once he realized Pilate was not bluffing.

“Very well,” he replied coldly. “If you wish to continue to
stain yourself with the contagion of the legions, so be it. But they cannot stay in the hall. Your friends will eat in the kitchens and outside in the gardens.”

Artorius started to protest when Praxus grabbed him by the shoulder from behind.

“It’s alright,” he said quietly. “This place is a little too stuffy for us anyway.”

Feeling
as if he had gotten the best of the rabble, Proculeius abruptly turned and walked away, his giggling wife in tow.

A few hours later, after a series of speeches and several courses, Artorius decided to take a break from the prenuptial feast when a late guest arrived. He gave a broad grin as he recognized a face that he had not seen in many years.

“Justus,
you old sod!” he shouted, saluting with a full cup of wine, which he slopped onto the expensive marble floor.

His friend was adorned in a crisp white toga
with the appropriate trimmings, to include the Equestrian’s narrow purple stripe. Though technically not a part of the equities until after retirement, Centurion’s still serving were authorized to wear the status when in civilian garb.

“Well
, the gods do have a sense of humor after all!” Justus Longinus replied boisterously, embracing his friend in a hard bear hug. Artorius cursed himself that here was his friend of equal rank looking like a patrician, and he was in what amounted to little more than an expensive red tunic and a polished Centurion’s belt.

“Easy there,” Artorius protested with a loud belch. “People are going to think I’m your bloody
catamite or something!”

Justus laughed and cuffed him across the ear.

“Damn, but you’ve gotten big,” he replied as he released him. “How many years has it been now?”

“Too many,” Artorius replied, resting his arm on Justus’ shoulder. “A couple years before I joined the legions, in fact. Say, weren’t you taller than me back then?”

His red-haired friend gave a short laugh and nodded as if embarrassed.

“Yes, though I think now you still have
to stretch to get me by an inch! And I think I was right in stating that the gods have a sense of humor
, Centurion.”

Artorius shrugged in mock humility.

“Ah, just got lucky I suppose.”

“I’ll say,” Justus emphasized. “You beat me to it by a full year
, you bitch! I was just promoted to the Centurionate two months ago.”

“Well
, there isn’t as much going on in the east now is there? Not like the Centurions are as willing to give up their comfortable billets in that corner of the Empire,” Artorius mused, his eyes clouding slightly. It was still warm and mildly stuffy in the atrium. He had hoped to get some cool air outside to sober up, but instead found he was now more inebriated.

“Justus!” a female voice snapped.

Artorius glanced over his friend’s shoulder and saw his fellow Centurion’s wife walking through the large double doors.

“Artorius, I would like you to meet my wife, Flavia.”

“It is an honor to meet you at last,” Flavia said with a short curtsey.

“The honor is mine.” Artorius forced his brain to think clearly as he bowed and took her hand, kissing the back of it.

“Uh, you seem to be drooling a bit,” Flavia said with a nervous laugh.

Just then Diana appeared at Artorius’ side.

“And you must be the lady Diana.”

“A pleasure,” she replied, taking both of Flavia’s hands. “Forgive my husband. He just needs to get some fresh air.” She playfully prodded Artorius with her knee before leading Flavia into the banquet hall.

Artorius burst into laughter, which was cut short when he turned and saw that Justus was stone faced.

“Um…sorry old friend,” he stammered. “First time I’ve seen you in gods’ know how many years, and I slobber on your wife’s hand.”

Justus forced a short laugh.

“It’s not that,” he replied. “Look, if you can sober your ass up for a few, I do wish to talk with you before I get lost in the frenzy of Pilate’s prenuptial celebration. Once I start hitting the sauce, I’m fucked.”

A raucous cheer erupted from within the hall as if emphasizing his point.

“Sure…” Artorius replied as he stumbled out the door. He downed some more wine, and then splashed the remainder into his face before dunking his head in a nearby fountain. The water was quite cold and he beat his right foot on the ground as if counting off the time. When he figured he was alert he pulled his head out with a dramatic gasp.

“That’s better…
I think,” he said with a loud sigh of relief. His mind was at least temporarily cleared, and he slicked his soaked hair back. “So how’s that son of yours doing, anyway?”

“It is about him that I wish to speak with you,” Justus replied, leaning up against the fountain next to him.

“What is he now, fourteen?”

“Sixteen,” Justus corrected. “Another year and he’ll be of legal age to join the legions.”

“You must be proud,” Artorius mused.

“Normally I would be,” Justus agreed. “The thing is
, I’m afraid for Gaius. When he was two we took him to a priest to see his future, spent a shitload of money on it, too, what with the sacrificial birds and all that poking through their guts. The son of a bitch told Flavia and me that our son will not live to see a full score in years. He said that my son will die in battle before he reaches his twentieth birthday!” His hands gripped the edge of the fountain, his knuckles turning white.