Soldier of Rome: The Legionary (The Artorian Chronicles) (40 page)

“I’m afraid so,” Pr
oculus replied. “Macro, I’ve held the centurionate for ten years, three as pilus prior. I had to write my first such letter just two months after I took command. And you know what? It has never gotten any easier.”

“Your words are encouraging,” Macro said with a slight scowl. He glanced at the letters and then set them down. “As much as I try and play the tyrant, these men mean everything to me. Unlike many, I rose through the ranks within the same
century. Most of the time, you’re lucky if you get to even stay in the same cohort once you are promoted past optio. Many of these men I’ve known and worked with for nearly seven years. A part of me dies every time one of them does.”

Proculus sat back, his fingers intertwined.
“I know this doesn’t help, but consider Calvinus, Commander of the Fifth Cohort.”

“Yes, I know him,” Macro replied with a nod.

“He had to write over seventy of these letters once. Imagine how much of him died that day,” Proculus announced.

Macro leaned forward, resting his chin in his hand. “I know,” he replied. “One of my men lost his brother under Calvinus’ command. Not that he was at fault. I think it is a credit to Calvinus that he managed to get those whom he did out of that cursed place. My own centurion did not survive to write his letters.”

Proculus looked down for a second. He was surprised to see that Macro was not quite so troubled when the subject of
Teutoburger Wald surfaced. Before then it was something he had always avoided discussing with his subordinate centurion.

“Does it still haunt you?” Proculus finally asked.

“Does what still haunt me?”

“Don’t play dumb with me. You know what I’m talking about,” Proculus replied.

“Of course it does,” Macro answered. “I swear the spirits of the lost never leave me. But at least now, especially after my men found the Eagle of the Nineteenth, I can at last live in peace with them.”

Chapter XXVI: Return to Rome

Camp of the Twentieth Legion, five miles outside of Rome

May, 17 A.D.

***

It would take several weeks to make the journey from the Rhine frontier all the way down into Rome
herself. The army passed quickly out of Germania and through Gaul. Progress was made easy by the quality of the paved roads; roads which Artorius noted had been built on the backs of their predecessors in the legions. He also noticed an immediate change once they had reached the southernmost portion of the Alps and passed into Italy. The cold wetness of the Rhine was replaced by the warm and invigorating climate of the Mediterranean. In spite of being in friendly territory, Severus still insisted upon the troops setting up the standard marching camp, complete with ditch and palisade, every night. Every evening the camp was crowded with locals, mostly curious citizens anxious to set eyes on the famed legions who had smashed the barbarian giants into oblivion.

One evening Artorius and Magnus were standing outside their tent when they saw Centurion Macro inspecting the covered loads on several carts.

“Macro’s certainly anxious about his baggage carts,” Artorius observed.

“I noticed,” Magnus replied. “What’s strange is he packed a lot more than the other
centurions. A bit unusual for him, don’t you think?”

“Not only that, but
he’s also intent on keeping whatever it is hidden from view. I noticed that he never takes anything off those particular carts, yet he makes certain they are placed right next to his tent every night. And every morning he checks everything to make sure they haven’t been disturbed. Come to think of it, I believe he acquired those carts when we were in Gaul.”

“I think maybe our
centurion’s gone a bit mental,” Magnus said, shaking his head as he wandered off.

Artorius
grunted at the remark and went back inside his tent.

As the Army of the Rhine grew closer to Rome, there was a noticeable increase in traffic. Farmers and merchants from the outlying areas drove great wagonloads of goods with which to feed and provide comfort for the city’s inhabitants. Late one afternoon, the men of the Second Century crested a hill and gazed at a breathtaking sight. Though still approximately five miles away, Rome stood out in stark contrast to the surrounding hills. The men could just make out the Temple of Jupiter on Capitoline Hill, the Basilica Julia, the Roman Forum, the Theater of Marcellus next to the River Tiber and, of course, the Circus Maximus. The sun at their backs cast an almost divine glow upon the city below which stretched for miles.

“
Now then, there’s something you don’t see every day,” Gavius said in a low voice.

“Ever been to the
Eternal City?” Magnus asked.

Gavius could only shake his head.

“Neither have I,” Magnus replied, awestruck.

“There She is, men.
” Camillus pointed, “The one bastion of freedom, order, and civilization in the world.”

“Alright, let’s keep moving
,” Macro ordered. “We’ve still got work to do before dark.”

“Are we digging the ditch and palisade tonight?” Vitruvius asked.

Macro shook his head. “No, Severus feels that needlessly tearing up the area so close to Rome would be bad business. Everything else will be set up the same, though.”

As the section set about erecting their tent and unpacking
their pallets, Artorius noticed that Macro and Camillus had both disappeared, along with the centurion’s carts of precious cargo. It wasn’t until later, as the sun cast its red glow on the horizon, they got their answer to the mystery of Macro’s carts.

“Second Century on your feet!”
Vitruvius barked.

The men wasted no time in heeding the call of
Optio Vitruvius. Some had even started strapping on their armor and rounding up their weapons.

“What the hell are you
doing?” the optio shouted. He was dressed only in his tunic and sword belt.

The overzealous s
oldiers sheepishly put their gear back before following Vitruvius out of the camp. About half a mile from the legion’s camp, on a ridge with a perfect view of the city, stood the centurion and signifier
along with the carts. Camillus had brought the Century’s Standard, which he had planted next to the wagons. Macro stood with his arms folded across his chest, while Camillus leaned against one of the carts, a wry smile on his face.

“Gather around,” Macro said. His voice was extremely calm, though it still projected loud enough to be clearly heard by all.

As the century clustered around their commander, Macro pointed towards the city behind him.

“Down there is a place many of you ha
ve never seen before, yet all have fought for. I want you to look hard upon Rome; gather Her splendor into your very soul, for She is the light in what otherwise would be a dark and twisted world. See and remember, never forgetting what it was we fought for.” He paused briefly, allowing his men to take in what he had said and what they could see. He had picked the time and place perfectly, knowing full well the effect it would have on his soldiers, weary and battered as they were after the absolute brutality of their campaigns across the Rhine.

“Over the next several weeks,”
Centurion Macro continued, “we will be hearing speeches and accolades given to us by men of the highest offices: generals, senators, perhaps even the Emperor himself. This triumph will be a glorious
affair, one of the most significant events in our time.
This
moment, however, belongs only to the Second Century. Camillus, if you would.”

He
motioned to the signifier, who pulled the tarp off one of the wagons. Underneath the cart was packed tight with vats of wine.

“The best wine, from the best grapes grown in the world,” Macro said
to his shocked, yet delighted soldiers, “and it is for the best fighting men the world will ever know. Section leaders, fill the goblets of your men.”

Statorius and the other
decani grabbed goblets from one of the other wagons and started to fill and pass them out to their men. Camillus walked over to Macro with two full goblets, handing one to the centurion. Vitruvius and Flaccus joined them, their own cups filled to the brim. Once complete, the Second Century waited for their centurion to finish his speech. As Macro raised his cup, he seemed to glow in the fading light. The image of his centurion, silhouetted against the backdrop of the greatest of cities was something Artorius knew he would remember until his dying day.

“To Victoria and Bellona, goddesses of victory and war; to Commander Germanicus Caesar; to the Emperor Tiberius, guardian of the light that is Rome; to our friends, who did not come home; to the Eternal City and the ideals that our friends died to protect; and most importantly, to you
, my brothers, who give our legion the right to be called
The Valiant!”

Every s
oldier raised his cup in salute and drank. Artorius was shocked by the sweetness and potency of his drink. This was no watered-down tavern wine. This was straight from the vineyards, and indeed was the finest he had ever tasted.

Macro must have paid a fortune for this
as we passed through Gaul
he thought, as the strength of the wine seared his throat and stomach. It was a wonderful feeling. The daylight gave out as the sun was eclipsed behind the mountains. The men of the Second Century stood gazing at the city, alive with the muted noises of
nighttime traffic. They stayed on the ridge for some time, drinking their centurion’s wine, talking only in hushed voices, the infinite stars overhead their only light. For Artorius, no triumph, parade, speech, or celebration could ever compete with this simple moment.

A triumph was a complicated thing to organize, not to mention expensive. There would
be banquets, a grand parade, games, and other entertainment, most of which was free to the public. The citizens themselves were exceedingly grateful to the brave legionaries who had completely annihilated Arminius and removed his threat from Rome. Gifts of food, wine, and even the occasional prostitute were heaped upon the soldiers.

The gladiatorial contests wer
e a huge event, and all of the soldiers were encouraged to attend. A section of the arena was even reserved for legionaries wishing to observe the spectacle. Camillus walked
over to where Statorius and the section were lounging by their tent. The signifier was always intrigued by what he described as “exotic entertainment.” He was carrying a parchment with the events listed on it.

“Check this out,” he said, presenting the scroll to Statorius. “For the next two weeks ‘
the best gladiators in the whole of the Empire in one place
.’ What do you think?”

The
decanus said nothing as he read the list of upcoming events.

“I think it’ll be a good place to
pick up loose
women,” Valens remarked.

“So just how good are these gladiators supposed to be?” Magnus asked.

“Supposedly they are the best fighters in the whole of the Empire,” Gavius answered.

“Really?” Artorius mused. “This I have got to see.”

“You mean you’ve never been to a gladiatorial match?” Valens asked.

“Never,” Artorius replied.

“I haven’t either,” Magnus said.

“I went once as a boy. My dad thought it would help make me strong,” Valens seemed a bit puzzled at the logic behind that. “Anyway, I thought they were quite the spectacle then.”

“That was before you learned how to actually
fight
,” Gavius said.

“Who says he has?” Vitruvius laughed as he walked over to the group. He looked at the parchment the
signifier was carrying. “It says here ‘
automatic admission and reserved
seating to all visiting legionaries
.’ Well, let’s not disappoint them.”

Sergeant Statorius straightened up and called out, “
Time you lads got a taste of Rome.” 

As they walked out of the camp, it seemed like quite a few from the
century were going to the games. It was a long walk over to the arena; however, it was made easy not being encumbered by weapons, armor, and equipment. There was such an air of ease and relaxation that Artorius almost forgot for a second that they were all professional soldiers. One might think they were simply a large group of friends going to the games. The red tunics and daggers they wore on their belts revealed their true identities.

Artorius was somewhat surprised to see that even Centurion Macro was out enjoying the day, though he kept a deliberate distance from the men of the ranks. Instead
, he walked with Proculus and the other centurions from the Third Cohort. All wore resplendent togas, as opposed to legionary tunics. Artorius knew these men, upon retirement, would be enrolled into the Equestrian Order of society. Because of this, they were granted a lot of the privileges and courtesies normally reserved for those already a part of the patrician class; such was the respect and awe that Romans held for the men who led their legions into battle.

The
well-made road to the city was lined with trees on either side, their leaves rustling softly in the slight breeze. The air smelled sweet with the scents of the olive groves and grape vineyards that donned the hillsides. There was little traffic, mostly soldiers walking to and from their camps outside the city. Most of the city’s population would be at the games or at least trying to get into them.

Soon the city
came into sight. It had been years since Artorius had last seen Rome herself. The effect it had on him then could not compare to what he felt as he saw the immortal city in all Her splendor. It was absolutely breathtaking! The Forum, the Circus Maximus, the Temple of Castor and Pollux, the Imperial Palaces all shone in the bright sunshine, along with the mind-boggling number of houses and apartments occupied by the citizens of the city. These were certainly no mud hovels or rickety wooden buildings so commonly seen on the frontier. Here was civilization! Clean, modern, and above all, organized. The volume of people moving to and fro made the scene seem very chaotic, at least to those who had never seen the true chaos and poverty that existed on the Empire’s borders.