Soldier of Rome: The Centurion (The Artorian Chronicles) (32 page)

Conspicuously absent from the list was the Dictator Lucius Cornelius Sulla, who though awarded the Grass Crown during the Social War one hundred years before, the scourge later placed on his name made listing him amongst Rome’s historic heroes in very poor taste. The legionary at last addressed Cursor directly.

“Tribune Aulus Nautius Cursor, it is by your actions in leading your ten thousand forty miles in a single day, flanking the Frisian army, and killing the enemy King that you have saved the Twentieth Legion from being wiped out of existence. It is by universal acclamation of the men of the Twentieth that we present you Rome’s most sacred honor, the
Grass Crown
.”

The Tribune
removed his helmet, tucking it under his left arm, and bowed his head slightly as the legionary placed the crown on his bald head. The soldier then drew his gladius and turned to face the legion.

“Twentieth Legion!”
he shouted.
“Gladius…draw!”

“Rah!”
responded the host of legionaries, who had been deathly silent to this point.

“Salute!”

“Ave Cursor, savior of Valeria!”
the Legion cried while holding their weapons high in salute to the Tribune.

Cursor drew his own weapon and returned the salute. He then briskly turned and left the field.
He removed the crown as soon as he was out of sight of the legion.

As he made his way back to where his tent had been erected he saw an old friend,
Centurion Artorius, sitting on a tree stump. Though he was still without a tunic, he did manage to get his cloak to try to keep off the biting chill of the coming night.

“You know
, that actually looked good on you,” the Centurion said with a smile. “Makes one forget that you’re bald.”

“Believe it or not, the ladies like my smooth head,” Cursor replied, running his hand over his dome and wiping away a few bits of grass. He then stood and stared at the crown of grass that the legionaries of the Twentieth had just presented him. Part of him wished to throw it into the river, the other part to hold it close, lest it ever get away from him.

“How many men in our history have ever been awarded that?” Artorius asked, nodding towards the crown in the Tribune’s trembling hands. “A dozen, maybe?”

“I
don’t
deserve this honor, Artorius,” Cursor replied quietly. “The Fifth Legion is who turned the tide of the battle. My auxiliaries were spent and ready to break. Hell, numerous companies had already started to retreat when the Fifth made its crossing! This is a sham, I am no hero.”

“Yes
, you are,” Artorius replied, using his vine stick to stand up. “You gave the Fifth the breathing space they needed in order to cross. Had you not hit the enemy in the flank so hard, the Fifth would have never gotten across that bridge. I know. I overheard their Master Centurion talking to Calvinus. They came upon a number of Frisian corpses just on the far side of the bridge, well past the end of our line. There were also a handful of dead and wounded auxiliaries. That means the Frisians were waiting for the Fifth. They would have ambushed them and kept them from coming to our aid. Were it not for you and your ten thousand, the Twentieth would have been ignominiously annihilated, and the Fifth would have been stuck on the far side of the river. Whether you wish to accept it or not, you
are
a hero, Cursor. You have earned your place in the annals of Rome’s most valiant.”

“And yet,” the Tribune said after a moment’s pause, “this crown feels like it is made of lead, rather than grass.”

Artorius gave a sad nod, understanding what the Tribune meant.

“It is a heavy burden you now bear,” he answered. “But know that your place in history is well earned.”

What Artorius could not know was that the actions of the Senate would undo the ultimate honor bestowed upon his friend. Were Cursor to know that
his deeds of valor would be forgotten almost immediately, he would have been relieved. As it was, he accepted that no matter what posterity said about his actions, as long as the Twentieth Legion, Valeria, breathed life, he would remain immortal in the eyes of its men.

The following day was set aside to send the fallen to Elysium. Massive funeral pyres were assembled in a clearing near the fort. Nine hundred of their comrades were to be consigned to the gods; the other four hundred of the Fourth Cohort ignominiously burned within the house, they had sacrificed each other. Several smaller pyres were arranged around the perimeter to honor those of higher rank, with fallen Tribunes and Centurions placed on individual pyres. Sergeant Valens had requested one to honor his friends, Carbo and Decimus, even though they were but legionaries. He had gathered the wood for this himself, his simple explanation of why he wanted the pyre was readily accepted. He would see them off to the Elysium Fields together; friends in death as they had been in life.

Artorius
also stood by one of those pyres, while several officers and men that knew Vitruvius best, gathered near. To Artorius was given the dubious honor of torching the stacked logs holding the body of his friend. A lighted torch was placed in his hands as he stared at the last remains of his beloved mentor. He refused to tear his eyes away as he thrust the burning pitch into the oil soaked logs. Flames arose with a roar, causing those nearest to back away. Artorius remained motionless while the flames carried Vitruvius away. As he stared into the fire, the men drew their gladii in a final silent salute.

Several hours passed, and when the coals were settling into ash, he
scooped them into a small urn. He then sealed it with a cork and wax. Closing his eyes, he sent a last farewell to his dearest friend and turned away.

Chapter XXIII: Souls Broken

***

Even from a great distance, the flames of the burning manor house crept high enough to cast an eerie red glow upon the camp. Four hundred and twenty-seven men had been assigned to the Fourth Cohort, and every last one had been accounted for. Agricola had ordered their weapons and armor stripped from the bodies and the house burned over their heads. No pyres of honor amongst the other fallen of the Twentieth for them. As he watched the glow in the distance, Cursor knew it was because of the shame brought on by the disgraceful and eerie manner in which they had died, and they did not warrant any sort of honors.

The Tribune lay on his cot, thankful that he had not witnessed the macabre sight that
Centurion Agricola and the men of the Fifth Legion had dealt with. He had his own issues to worry about. Hundreds of auxiliary troopers had been killed or wounded during the battle. The few who had been missing had been found; two who had been wounded had, in fact, been treated and brought back to camp by the Frisians. Cursor marveled that men, who had but a few hours previously been in murderous combat, were now taking care of each others’ injured.

“Tribune, sir,” a
Decanus said as he stuck his head into Cursor’s tent. “Beg your pardon, sir, but Centurion Rodolfo has gone missing.”

“What in Hades do you mean
, missing?”
Cursor asked as he followed the auxiliary towards the edge of their camp.

Torches lit the damp earth at intervals leading down the makeshift path that led to the east entrance. Once the rest of the army had crossed with all the baggage trains
, the Romans had been able to set up a proper marching camp, complete with trenches and palisade stakes. They exited the camp where a squad of auxiliary infantrymen stood guard. Though there had been a cessation of hostilities, it was an uncomfortable feeling being on the Frisian side of the river. The Decanus carried a torch and led the Tribune to the tree line a few dozen meters beyond their camp.

“Me and some of the lads were conducting a sweep of the woods,” he explained.

Cursor saw more torches as they walked a few meters into the trees. A squad of auxiliary infantry stood around a tree stump. A battered suit of Centurion’s scale armor lay across it, the scored helm set on top. Another stump jutted from the ground a couple feet away, and in it a gladius had been thrust.

“This is exactly how we found it, sir,” a trooper said with a salute.

“That’s Rodolfo’s armor alright,” Cursor observed.

“We know he can’t have been captured,” the Decanus added. “Otherwise they would have taken his armor and weapon. It’s as if he just laid down his arms and left.”

“Why would he leave his weapon?” another trooper asked quietly.

“Does anyone else know about this?” Cursor asked.

The Decanus shook his head. “No, sir. I came to fetch you as soon as we found it. I asked the lads on the gate if they saw the Centurion leaving, and they said they had. He was on his horse, and it looked like his saddle bags were full. They asked where he was heading, and he told them to mind their own fucking business…well, with a reply like that, a mere trooper is not exactly going to question a Centurion further, now is he?”

A breeze caused the torches to flicker in the blackness.

“Why would he leave us like this?” a trooper asked to no one in particular.

The Tribune stared at the man and then understood. These particular infantrymen were from Batavia. They probably did not even realize that Rodolfo was a Frisian by birth.

“Take his gear and follow me,” Cursor ordered as he walked back towards their camp. He let out a sigh as his fears regarding Rodolfo bore down on him.

Were he but a mere trooper
, his absence would not have been noticed for some time. As it was, Rodolfo was the senior ranking Centurion within the Rhine Army’s Auxilia. He had been Cursor’s organizational second-in-command for several years, and the two men had grown close over that time. The Centurion had reassured him constantly that though a Frisian, his loyalty was to Rome. He had kept his oath and fought with valor. Cursor now reckoned that, in the aftermath of battle, the truth had been too much for Rodolfo to bear. So far, word as to the reasons behind the war had not been made public, but Cursor knew it was only a matter of time. In spite of their losses, the Romans had defeated the Frisian army, and now had their entire force on the far side of the river. And yet no orders of a pending advance. Even the lowest legionary knew that Rome did not cross into hostile territory and simply stop after defeating the enemy’s army. The senior officers all knew the real reasons, and this include Centurion Rodolfo.

After passing through the camp entrance he made his way directly to Rodolfo’s tent. As he pulled back the flap of the tent
, he was not surprised to see many of the Centurion’s personal effects missing, along with the blankets for his cot. On Rodolfo’s desk sat a large chunk of wood. It was an unfinished bust of a horse that he had been working on.

“Set his gear on his cot,” Cursor ordered.

The men did as they were ordered, their faces still showing their befuddlement. The Tribune then ordered the men to leave. He called out to the Decanus as the man walked out of the tent.

“Sir?” the auxiliary asked.

“Good work finding this,” Cursor replied. “Let the officers of the watch know that with the exception of authorized patrols,
no one
is to leave camp without my expressed permission. I don’t care what their rank is; no one leaves unless I personally clear it.”

“Yes
, sir,” the Decanus replied with an understanding nod.

Cursor then sat down on Rodolfo’s cot and
rested his chin in his hand. He was very tired and could not remember how many of his men were of Frisian origin. How many of them would attempt to desert when word about Rome’s betrayal of their people reached them? Cursor then shuddered at the thought of that vile word…
desertion
. All the evidence showed that Centurion Rodolfo had deserted his post, an offense that was punishable by death. He let out another sigh and looked around the tent.

He lit the lamp on Rodolfo’s desk and tried to see if there were any clues. In the dim light he saw a piece of parchment sticking out from underneath the horse bust. Cursor unfolded it and knew what it would say before he even read the first word.

My friend and honored brother, Aulus Nautius Cursor,

It is with a heavy heart that I write these words.
For nearly thirty years I have served Rome in the Auxilia. And now, at the last, Rome has betrayed me and my people. I cannot return to my people, for I have committed unjust war against them. I also can no longer serve the Empire that used me as a weapon of atrocity. Therefore, I am without a nation that I can call my own. Please do not come looking for me. I go to start my life anew.

I regret that I was unable to finish carving the horse for you.

Your loyal friend,

Rodolfo

“Do you mind explaining this to me, Tribune?” Apronius snarled as Cursor stood rigid. “Here I have an order signed by you, approving a leave of absence for
Centurion Rodolfo, and at the same time you request a leave of absence for yourself.”

“Yes
, sir,” Cursor replied, keeping his eyes looking straight ahead. The Legate shook his head, disbelieving what he was hearing.

“Are you out of your fucking mind?”
he snapped. “I hope you realize we are still in Frisian territory…”

“Just for another day or so,” Cursor
interrupted.

Apronius slammed his hand on the table, silencing him.

“I forgive your insolence only because it was your ten thousand that saved us in Braduhenna,” he said slowly. Apronius then looked away for a few seconds, trying to make sense of what the Tribune was asking of him. His voice softened slightly as he addressed Cursor once more. “You know, I would hate to have to present you with a court martial the same day you were awarded the Grass Crown. Oh, stand easy already!”

He then threw a pile of papers down in front of Cursor. They were awards recommendations.
Even in the wake of such a horrific battle, with names of the dead and wounded still being tallied, the efficient Roman bureaucracy still thrived. Officers, who even if they could not stand were still able to read and write, had hastily written awards recommendations for the most valiant of their men who still lived. Most were narratives for the
Silver Torque for Valor
. Intermixed were a handful of Civic Crowns. Apronius then showed Cursor another parchment. It was a large roll of all the awards and their status. At first glance it looked as if all of them had “approved” scrawled next to them. It was then that Cursor saw Rodolfo’s name on the Civic Crown list.

“You saved the entire Valeria Legion,” Apronius observed. “For that you have Rome’s eternal gratitude. With that in mind, I think you had better explain to me what is happening with your
Centurion.”

“Yes
, sir.” Cursor then told the Legate how his men had found Rodolfo’s armor the night before, along with the message the Centurion had left for him.

“I want to give him an official leave of absence until I can find him,” the Tribune explained. “In light of the circumstances, I do not wish to charge him with desertion.”

“And what of the other men in this army that are of Frisian birth or ancestry?” Apronius asked. “Centurion Rodolfo is hardly the only one who had to face the possibility of fighting members of his own family. Rumors are already running rampant as to what really happened between us and the Frisians, especially in light of our pending withdrawal. If we allow Rodolfo to arbitrarily leave, then what’s to stop the other Frisian auxiliaries from doing the same thing? Hell, I have
legionaries
whose families were originally from Frisia!”

“Just give me a few days, I know I can find him and reason with him.”

“Even if you are able to find him,” Apronius interjected, “I doubt that you will be able to convince him to return to the ranks.”

Cursor
closed his eyes and tried to think fast. He then came to the most likely and reasonable course of action he could fathom.

“Rodolfo has spent more than thirty years in the army,” Cursor replied ca
lmly. “He’s done his duty and proven his valor more than any man I know. He can retire from the army at any time, and to be quite blunt, he has
earned
the right to take a few liberties at the end.”

Apronius sat with his chin in his hand. It was clear he did not wish to make an example out of
Centurion Rodolfo. He also knew that while good order and discipline had to be maintained, Cursor was correct.

“Alright,” he said at last. “I will see to what needs to be done. But know this, I hold you fully responsible for the mo
rale and discipline of your men. Your men may be heroes now, but any lapses in order because of this and I will personally take it out of your hide!”

“Sir, the loyalty of my men has never been in question,” Cursor responded. “
The responsibility for their actions is mine alone. I take it then that my leave has been approved?”