Soldier of Rome: The Centurion (The Artorian Chronicles) (3 page)

“Keep reading,” Livia replied, taking another drink from her chalice. Claudius’ eyes grew wide as he finished reading.

“But this can only refer to the youngest, Gaius Caligula!”

“Yes, vile little monster that he is,” Livia agreed. Germanicus’ youngest son, Gaius, who was known as
Caligula
due to his mother dressing him in legionary caligae sandals as a child, was just shy of his thirteenth birthday and already displaying his terrible qualities. His mother, Agrippina, spoiled and refused to discipline him, much to the chagrin of Claudius and all of their family friends. Claudius feared that the child was not just a mischievous brat; he felt that there was something much darker to him.

“What did my uncle say when he saw this?” Claudius asked, hold
ing the scroll up.

“He doesn’t know,” Livia replied. “I paid
Thrasyllus to keep quiet, and he knows not to cross me.” Claudius contemplated what he was reading before responding.

“But if this holds true, then my uncle still has a number of years left in power,” he said after drinking some water and trying to clear his mind. “If by then you’re dead, what difference does it make to you?”

“Because I still serve Rome,” Livia stated with an air of power in her voice. “Don’t think that because I am extremely old, and a woman, that I can’t still influence what happens in the Empire. I confess there is another reason. You know I spent the majority of my life married to Augustus. I divorced your grandfather and married him back when he was still known as Gaius Octavian and long before he came to power. He spent more than forty years as Emperor of the Roman Empire, and was deified by the Senate.

“As a god, Augustus is free from any retribution the divines may have exercised against him in the next life. His enemies are powerless against him in both life and death. I do not hold such an advantage against the Fates.”

“So you wish to become a goddess,” Claudius surmised, exhaling loudly. “Well, you certainly don’t lack for ambition, Grandmother.” He looked like he immediately regretted his words, though the Empress dowager did not take offense, for her grandson was correct.

“My son does not believe in the deification of monarchs, though he allowed the Senate to make Augustus a god for political stability,” Livia replied. “He would not allow himself to be cast as the one who attempted to deny the beloved Augustus his divinity. Tiberius will make no such concessions for his dear old mother. So I must look to another.”

“You think I can influence Gaius Caligula to make you a goddess?” Claudius asked.  “I admit that he always acts as if he is fond of me as his uncle…” Livia’s laughter cut him short and he sat up quickly, startled.

“Oh
, you are a fool after all!” Livia mused, tossing the other, much larger, scroll at her grandson. “No, if Gaius Caligula does indeed succeed my son as emperor, I suspect that he will not sit on the throne for long. But I will still need you if I am ever to reach the divine and see my beloved Augustus again.”

“Of course,” Claudius replied. “Not sure what a fool like me can accomplish, but if it is
in my power, Augustus will take you by the hand and lead you into paradise.”  As he spoke he started to unroll the scroll before realizing it was an entire book. “What is this?”

“Prophecies of the
Divine Sybil, kept out of the official texts by order of Augustus. Mark well the dates, for the Sybil has never been wrong on such important matters. In fifteen, perhaps sixteen years’ time, your destiny will be revealed to you.”

That evening Claudius sat in his study, reading the book Livia had given him. His wife had already moved out of the house. Claudius was divorcing her on grounds of infidelity, seeing as how she was now pregnant with a child that could not possibly be his. There was also the issue of her being suspected in the murder conspiracy involving her sister-in-law’s death. Still, the issues with her were the least of his worries. As he read, the effects of the wine from earlier suddenly evaporated. His eyes grew wide as he read the prophecies set forth by Sybil, Rome’s holiest of oracles.

“No,” he gasped. “It cannot be!”

Chapter II: An Uneasy Peace

Fortress of the Twentieth Legion, Valeria, Cologne, Germania

***

“The frost is off the ground,” Calvinus observed as he eyed the cool spring morning. The Legion’s Master Centurion leaned on the dew-stained rampart of the front gate as he watched the city of Cologne coming to life in the light of the rising sun. Markets were opening, with merchants noisily setting up their wares as a section of legionaries marched towards the gate having finished their nighttime patrol of the city.

“A
nd with no spring campaign planned, we need to keep the men duly occupied,” replied Lucius Apronius, the Commanding Legate.

Training for the annual
Legion Champion
tournament would keep some of the lads busy as they sought to dethrone the young soldier who held that honor. For Optio Titus Artorius Justus, the pressure of defending his title did not weigh on him like it would others. For starters, he was not required to take part in the tournament itself. Rather, the competition would take place without him, with a
tournament winner
being named. That legionary would then face Artorius, the defending champion, a week later in a single bout.

The previous spring had been the f
irst time Artorius had defended his title since the Third Cohort returned from its garrison duty at Lugdunum. The match had been anticlimactic, with the Optio dispatching his opponent in less than a minute.

“You know everyone was a lot more excited to watch the Pankration competition,” added Calvinus, the Legion’s Master
Centurion. “It was something different, watching men fight in the arena without weapons.”

Apronius responded with a scowl.
“That’s all very well, except for the fact that nearly a third of the men who took part in that tournament ended up badly injured and unable to perform their basic duties for almost a month!”

“There are no campaigns planned,” Calvinus reasoned as they descended the ramparts and entered the Legate’s quarters. “This corner of the Empire is relatively at peace for once, so if the lads want to beat themselves into oblivion in the name of sport, let them.” He then shuffled through some papers that he had brought into the commanding Legate’s office and handed two of them to Apronius.

“Retirement certificates requiring your signature,” he explained. “Two of my First Cohort
Centurions have decided to call it a career.”

Apronius whistled quietly when he read the citations. The men were among the
Centurions Primus Ordo, the elite commanders of the centuries within the First Cohort. There were only four per legion, and they were senior to the Cohort Commanders, answerable only to the Master Centurion. One man had been in the legions for thirty-two years, the other for twenty-nine. Each had had a distinguished career, as only the best within the ranks ever made it to Centurion, and of these only a minute few ever made it to Primus Ordo.

“We will make sure we have a proper send-off for these men,” the Legate directed as he signed the orders. “I take it you have replacements selected?”

“Your predecessor, Legate Gaius Silius, had already authorized two men to be placed on the roles as selectees for these positions. Both men are of the Third Cohort. One is their commander, Centurion Pilus Prior Valerius Proculus. The other commands the Third Cohort’s Second Century, Centurion Platorius Macro.”

The sky was cloudless and the sun bright. For Tabbo, war chief of the Frisian army, this was the perfect day. The path leading through Braduhenna Wood to the River Rhine was clear this day, though groves of trees lay thick on either side, creating a canopy of shade. Frisia was a tiny kingdom along the coast of the North Sea. Though their territories lay east of the Rhine, they were still a sub-province of the Roman Empire and subject to what amounted to a modest tribute. It w
as ruled by King Dibbald Segon, son of Diocarus Segon. Diocarus had been an old man when he came to the throne; his father, Adel IV, had been a young boy when he became King and ruled an astronomically long eighty-one years. Diocarus’ reign was much shorter, lasting only four years. His son, Dibbald, had ruled for ten years so far. He was also a great warrior, and father to Prince Klaes, who was roughly the same age as Tabbo. Both men had led two cohorts of allied auxiliaries for Rome during the Germanic Wars and had fought at Idistaviso nine years prior.

Tabb
o was in his early thirties and displayed a strong, Nordic physique. He kept his hair around shoulder length, and his face was clean shaven, showing his powerful, square jaw line. He wore a simple tunic vest this day, along with woolen breaches. Like all Frisian warriors he was an expert in close combat and preferred using a short, double-bladed hand axe as his primary weapon, which was attached to a baldric and hung off his left side. In battle he would wear a bronze helmet and carry an oblong shield, though today was not a day for battle. In fact, the last time Tabbo had swung his axe in anger was at Idistaviso.

With him walked a strong and
attractive young woman. Her name was Amke, and she was the niece of King Dibbald. Frisian culture allowed certain women to serve as warriors within a special regiment of the King’s bodyguard. Amke was only twenty years old, but she was already a capable warrior.

“I’ve never
been this far west before,” she observed as she and Tabbo approached the southernmost bridge.

“I know,” Tabbo replied, “that is why I have brought you with me today.”

“Where are we going?” the young warrior maiden asked as they stepped onto the wooden bridge. It was sturdy, built by the Romans four decades previously. Half a dozen men could comfortably walk abreast and it was perfect for trade. Amke paused to gaze into the water of the rushing Rhine.

“A little place up on a hill off the beaten path a bit,” Tabbo answered. “There is something I want you to see.” As war chief, Tabbo was responsible for all the fighting men, and the women at that, who served Frisia under arms. As niece of the
King, Amke was soon to be named the head of the all-female regiment of the King’s bodyguard, and Tabbo felt the need to help with her education of the world around them and the people they dealt with. One never knew whom they would have to fight beside, or against for that matter. As soon as they crossed, Tabbo led them north through an open field. After a mile or so, they came to a wooded hill. Amke followed the war chief in silence as he made his way to the top. There he found a spot overlooking a small open valley.

“Here we are,” he said
, as he sat beneath a large shade tree, bushes to his front masking his presence to the valley bellow.

“What am I looking for?” Amke asked as she knelt down next to him.

Tabbo grinned and pointed down into the valley.

“Out there,” he replied, “where that road comes out of the tree line. You will see them soon enough. They always come around this time of day, especially on pleasant days like this.” Amke wanted to ask him who he was referring to, but decided to sit and wait.

As the sun reached its apex in the sky, they heard the sound of footfalls marching in step, along with the rhythmic banging of metal on metal. The sun caught the standard carried at the front of the column as they exited the trees across the way. It was a brilliant standard, one that Am
ke had never seen before; a long pole with a series of several silver discs running up it. A small rectangular plaque was above these, and at the very top was a copper hand, palm facing towards them. The man who carried the standard wore bronze scale armor and a helmet with some type of animal skin covering it. The men who marched behind the standard, and were now fanning out on either side into a large rectangular formation, were equally impressive.

“So these are the Romans,” Amke observed.

“Not just Romans,” Tabbo added. “These are
legionaries
, the best fighting men in the entire Empire.” Their iron armor consisted of banded plates around the torso, as well as vertical plates covering the shoulders. Their helmets had a protruding neck plate off the back with guards covering the cheeks. Each carried a large, rectangular shield that was painted a bright red with gold colored wings coming off the bronze metal boss in the center. Brass strips ran the along the edges as well.

“I did not know there was so much iron in the entire world!” Amke said, marveling at the gleaming armor.

This caused Tabbo to chuckle softly.

“This is but a single
Century,” the war chief explained, “a paltry fraction of a legion. They paint their shields bright so that not only can a commander identify his men, but so that the enemy can see them coming and be afraid. If you count their heads, there are not even eighty men on the field. Imagine what their enemies must feel when facing a legion of five thousand of these men!”

“You admire the Romans,” Amke noted,
still watching the scene below as a soldier in the distance who looked to be wearing chainmail instead of plate armor raised his short staff in the air. His helmet was adorned with a red horsehair crest that ran transverse across the top. The legionaries immediately halted.

“Squads one through five, make ready for javelin practice!”
The man’s voice carried a great distance.
“Squads six through ten, to the training stakes!”

“That man is a
Centurion,” Tabbo explained to the unasked question. “And yes, I do admire the Romans greatly. I have fought beside them before, in fact, our people have adopted some of their practices in close combat to our own weapons and tactics. As you can see by looking at the men attacking those tall poles with their short swords, they like to get in close to their enemy. The Romans believe that those who fight with longer weapons, such as spears and pole arms, do so because they are afraid of their enemy. A Roman gets right into his opponent’s face, making him look him in the eye and feel his breath before being killed. That is why our people fight in close with short hand axes, swords, and stabbing spears, rather than the great spears and clubs that many of the neighboring tribal kingdoms use.”

“I admit they are impressive to watch,” Amke conceded, “though I can’t help but wonder if perhaps your admiration runs a little
too deep. You sound almost as if you revere the Romans.”

“Not at all,” Tabbo snorted. “I have no love for their Government or the petty magistrates they send out to collect their taxes. Their army I have the highest respect for. One
must
know an ally or enemy’s strengths and respect them, as well as any potential weaknesses. Many of the younger generation wonder why we give tribute to Rome, when all they see is the single magistrate and his tax collectors who every spring come to collect cattle hides. You are one of the most prominent voices of that generation, and as a leader of the King’s bodyguard it is important for you to understand why we pay tribute to Rome. It was men such as these, under the command of the General Drusus Nero, who was the current Emperor’s brother, that expediently routed our warriors all those years ago.”

“Can they be beaten?” Amke asked. “I’ve heard stories…”

“They are fearsome, but they are still men,” the war chief answered. “Yes, they can be defeated. The stories you have heard stem from the Cherusci tribe, who formed an alliance of twelve tribes sixteen years ago to oust the Romans from their lands. In simple terms, they succeeded. Three legions were destroyed in the forest known as Teutoburger Wald. The Emperor’s nephew, Germanicus Caesar, who was the son of the great Drusus Nero, invaded six years later with an army of eight legions, plus auxiliaries and allied troops. I was one of those allies.”

“I remember that a little bit,” Amke added. “I was only eleven when you, the prince, and several hundred of our warriors left to fight the Cherusci.
I never knew that it was Rome you were fighting for. I thought it was simply an intertribal affair between the Frisians and the Cherusci. Most of you were back before the harvest moon, so I thought little of it. Although, I do remember, vaguely, the funeral pyres for some of our warriors.”

“We ended up facing the Cherusci cavalry,” Tabbo explained. “Like most of the tribes within the Germanic Alliance, they were a fearsome enemy. One in ten of our warriors who left to fight beside Germanicus Caesar never returned. Our losses still paled in comparison to what the legions did on that field of Idistaviso, and later at the stronghold of Angrivari.”