Soldier of Rome: Journey to Judea (The Artorian Chronicles) (9 page)

Pilate nodded and Justus quickly saluted before donning his helmet and leaving once more.

Diana elected to remain with Primus and Juliana during their stay. Though her own family was wealthy with a large palatial house in Rome, she preferred the honest company of her husband’s parents. She would pay respects to her father before their departure, though this would be more out of obligation than love. There had been a strain between Proculeius and his oldest daughter ever since the passing of his first wife. The woman he was now married to was little more than a girl when he wed her. She was, in fact, younger than Diana and possibly younger than Claudia. Who her father spent his life with was his own business, but what upset her was his demeanor towards Artorius. Because he was a soldier who came up from the ranks, Proculeius viewed him as an unworthy addition to the family, despite the fact that Artorius, as a ranking centurion would be elevated into the equites upon his retirement from the legions. A centurion pilus prior was still authorized to wear the narrow purple stripe of an equite on his toga, with most of the less nobility viewing them as peers. This was not the case with Proculeius.

It wasn’t even contempt with which he treated Artorius, but rather indifference
, as if his daughter were not married at all. She knew that what would complicate matters further was when she finally broached the subject of Metellus, as legally he was Proculeius’ only grandchild. It was such family matters that the young legionary wished to discuss with his father during the ride towards Rome.

“Proculeius is a jackal,” Artorius said bluntly. “His father was a great man, but I think he cast a shadow too great for his son, which made him bitter. He’
s accomplished nothing on his own merit in this life, and he knows it. He barely acknowledges me, and he does not even know you exist.”

“But should this be kept from him?” Metellus asked. “I mean, I am kind of his grandson.”

“There is no
kind of
about it,” Artorius said sharply. “I know you were not raised with our customs, but understand that under Roman law, a son is a son; whether by birth or adoption, there is no differentiating. You
are
Proculeius’ grandson, just as much as you are my father’s. That being said, given his obsession with birth, were he to know that you came from my brother, a lowly legionary, and a Germanic woman, it would drive him insane.”

“Then I am surprised you have not rushed to make an introduction,” Metellus added with a laugh. He was then sober once more. “I have something I’ve been meaning to ask. Do I resemble my father that much? It’s just that…
well…Grandfather’s attitude towards me was rather peculiar, far more deeply emotional than I would have anticipated. And when he addressed me by name, it’s like he wasn’t talking to me, but rather to his dead son. I can’t say it made me uncomfortable, just not what I expected.”

“The answer is yes,” Artorius replied.
“People may notice that we are blood-related if they look closely enough. However, your resemblance to my brother is uncanny, to say the least. Neither he nor I ever shared such a distinct resemblance to our father. The only difference is your complexion is fairer, which I am guessing came from your mother.”

“It did,” Metellus confirmed. “She had brown hair, but light skin, like most of her people.
I almost said
our
people, but then I never fit in with my mother’s tribe. There was emptiness in my life the entire time I was growing. I knew I belonged with my father’s people and that Roman citizenship was rightfully mine.”

“When you first told me who you were, it confirmed that which I had suspected yet coul
d not articulate even to myself,” Artorius replied. “Though your father would have now been in his forties, he was but a legionary recruit of seventeen the last time we saw him two years before his death. You’re but a few years older now than he was, so when your grandfather sees you, it is as if his son were reborn. I confess it was the same with me when I realized who you were. When I first saw you with the auxiliary detachment that reinforced our line at Braduhenna, I swore I was looking at my brother. I did not take it as anything literal, but rather a symbolic premonition that my brother was with me that day.”

“And
, in a way, I suppose he was,” Metellus surmised.

The two men rode in silence for some time while Metellus contemplated all he had learned over the past few days.
His personal history was a far more complex one than the young man had ever envisioned. He was born of a Germanic mother and Roman father who was killed in battle before he was born. Raised by his mother’s people, he had joined the Roman auxilia after her death, serving with the Army of the Rhine. His later adoption by his uncle, Artorius, and subsequent transfer into the legions had thrust him into Roman society and culture, which before he had only been vaguely aware of. That by adoption he was now not only a Roman, but related to one of the wealthier equite households, was surreal. If Proculeius was even half as pompous as Artorius said he was, then only the gods knew how he would react once he found that his sole grandchild came from what he would consider an ignoble background.

At the main crossroads that split between Ostia and Rome, they took their leave of each other. Metellus was to report back to Centurion Praxus, while Artorius had business within the Imperial City.

“Something else you should know that makes me proud,” Artorius said. “I was twenty-two when promoted to decanus, which was considered extremely young. In fact, I was younger than all of the men I was required to lead. You’re twenty-one, correct?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then if by chance your promotion is made permanent, you will have achieved the rank a full year before I did. And whatever any of our pompous relations may think, there is one thing that can never be taken from you. You are a soldier of Rome!”

Chapter IX: Ghosts of the Past

***

Artorius was grateful for the office space lent to him by the
praetorians. He marveled at how comfortable their quarters were, with far more amenities than those of regular legionaries. Of course, no expense was spared when it came to the emperor’s personal bodyguard!

Though he had not yet seen Centurion Cornelius, a
guardsman informed him that arrangements had been made with an unoccupied room at his disposal. As Artorius organized a few things within the office, the Tribune Cassius Chaerea entered the room. He was someone the centurion had wished to speak to for many years. Though both had served in the Germanic Wars, Artorius had been but a lowly legionary in the ranks, while Cassius commanded a cohort of praetorians who had served as Germanicus Caesar’s personal guard. But that was not the only reason he wished to speak to this man.

“Tribune
, sir,” he said, rising to his feet.

“Centurion Artorius,” Cassius replied, clasping his hand. “I hope the accommodations are suitable for your work. I scarcely use this office, so it’s no burden to me.”

“They are more than suitable,” Artorius replied. He then apprised the tribune for a second.

Cassius was in his late forties, his
thick hair almost completely gray, with several scars marring his otherwise handsome face. One in particular ran across the right side of his forehead, where his helmet had been torn from his head more than twenty years before. A serious wound to the groin led to his voice cracking on occasion, something that along with his facial scars caused him some embarrassment. Roman society was notoriously vain, viewing any physical blemish with contempt. That he was regarded as a hero within the Roman Army garnered sympathy rather than scorn that others with similar afflictions were often subjected to.

“Tribune, if I may ask a question,” Artorius said after a brief pause.

Cassius nodded.

“I do not wish to bring up any painful memories of the past, but there is something I have to know.
You were in Teutoburger Wald. Did you know my brother?”

“No,” Cassius replied, shaking his head
sadly. “I never met him and only saw him once at the very end. We were in separate legions, and even if we had served in the same legion, a tribune does not often interact with soldiers from the ranks.”

“I understand,” Artorius acknowledged.

“I did watch from a distance as he saved the lives of Centurion Calvinus and two of his legionaries,” Cassius added. “I made sure he was mentioned by name in my dispatches to Rome. Had he survived, the civic crown would have been his. I understand you later served with Calvinus.”

“In a matter of speaking,” Artorius replied. “We were in separate cohorts during the Germanic Wars
but the same legion. He later became our master centurion, though my closest interaction with him came at my court-martial, which I’m certain you got word of.”

“Centurion Artorius,” Cassius sighed, “
Everyone
within the Roman Army got word of it, as did half the senate and most of the equites. That you were both acquitted and promoted at the same time raised a few eyebrows, to say the least. While making his case to be elected as a plebian tribune, following his retirement from the legions, Calvinus was repeatedly pressed about that particular ordeal. I was one of the few who knew about his connection to you via your brother, though I made certain it was never mentioned.”

“Something
for which we are both grateful,” Artorius noted. “My dealings with Calvinus have been few, and I think it has been deliberately so. When we first met, I made it clear that I wanted no special favors or patronage because of who my brother was. A bit foolish, perhaps, but I was still a new legionary, idealistic, perhaps naïve, but I was determined to make my own way in the legions.”

“One does not usually shun patronage,” Cassius observed. “However, I think Calvinus respected you for it. I rarely see him, just during public assemblies of the
plebian tribunes when matters are discussed that pertain to the praetorian guard, but I have no doubt he knows about your arrival in Rome. You might consider paying your respects to him and to another old friend, Aulus Cursor.”

“I would like to see Cursor again,” Artorius said. “We fought in many of the same battles, and yet we never even met until after I became a
centurion. Where can I find him?”

“Well
, he was recently appointed as an Aedile, so probably inspecting one of the bathhouses or brothels. Of course, there are hundreds of each within the city.”

This brought a brief chuckle from both men.
The Aediles were official magistrates of the Roman government. They were primarily tasked with the licensing of brothels and bathhouses while overseeing the hygienic inspections of both. It was hardly what one would expect a man who’d once saved a legion to be appointed to do.

Cassius was serious once more. “I sent word to Centurion Cornelius
. He knows where to meet you. I believe he has also made some of the arrangements for your transportation to Caesarea.”

“Thank you, sir. I am much obliged to you.
”

“Good day,
centurion,” Cassius said as the two exchanged salutes.

As Cassius left,
Artorius saw in his face the same eternal anguish that haunted all survivors of Teutoburger Wald. Master Centurion Macro was also a survivor. One of the few to escape from captivity and pending execution following the battle. Though Cassius was a national hero for having organized a successful stand and extraction that saved the lives of over a hundred soldiers, nothing could ever relieve the sense of loss he had suffered. Several of the tribunes in his legion had been lifelong friends; they had grown up together, were on similar career paths, and had been doing their compulsory service in the legions. All were killed. Cassius was the only officer of the equite class to survive the disaster, and none of the senatorial legates or laticlavian tribunes lived. Artorius had felt similar loss at Braduhenna. The difference being, despite their terrible losses that battle had been won.

The campaigns of retribution
that came six years after Teutoburger Wald had been Artorius’ first, and for him it had been a personal vendetta. He sometimes wondered how differently his life would have been had his brother not been killed in that terrible place.

As he sat by himself, the
centurion contemplated something that had lingered inside him for some time. Just how many people had he killed in his career? He honestly did not know for certain. It was not unusual for a legionary to go his entire term of service without bloodying his gladius. Patrolling the frontiers, building roads, and conducting the mundane tasks of garrison life made up the vast majority of a Roman soldier’s career. Contrary to what many thought, the life of a legionary was far less glorious than the depictions on columns and friezes that adorned popular artwork and monuments. When a legionary stood on a watchtower at the edge of the frontier, weighted down by his heavy armor, wrapped in his cloak while the rain poured down on him, his feelings were those of misery and boredom rather than glory.

When battles did occur, t
he total amount of time a legionary spent on the fighting line often amounted to no more than a few minutes. With multiple ranks constantly rotating, for every five minutes a soldier spent fighting he spent roughly twenty-five resting. And if the battle was over quickly, he may not get a chance to engage at all. Yet whether it was fate or just dumb luck, Artorius had most often found himself in either the first or second rank during major battles. At Braduhenna, his first battle as a centurion, Artorius’ century had fought by itself, rather than as part of a larger cohort formation. Therefore, Artorius had been out front the entire duration.

He
had been personally trained by the late legendary Marcus Vitruvius, the most perfect killing machine the Roman Army had ever unleashed. And though there were many occasions where he would score only superficial injuries to his enemies or be unable to close the distance effectively, when Artorius was on the fighting line, enemies of Rome often died. After his final skirmish on the Rhine, he’d heard some of his younger soldiers complaining they had not been able to kill anyone. He thought they should consider themselves lucky.

As he sat brooding for a moment, the door opened once more and a younger
praetorian officer stepped in.

“Centurion Pilus Prior Artorius?” the man asked. Artorius replied with a nod, to which the
praetorian extended his hand. “Centurion Lucius Cornelius.”

“I trust you’ve made arrangements for legionaries arriving from North Africa and the other western provinces?”

“Yes, sir.” Cornelius then produced a series of scrolls. “Here is the roster of every volunteer and which legion they arrived from. I have made marks next to all who’ve arrived. The only ones unaccounted for are from the First, Fifth, and Twentieth Legions. Am I correct to guess they all came with you?”

“They did,” Artorius answered. “What about transportation? By my estimat
e, we will need at least three
Quinquereme
class ships to transport all of our men, their equipment and baggage, plus all the household goods and slaves brought by the officers.”

“I’
ve got you two,” Cornelius replied. “Apologies, sir, but there simply are not enough merchant ships with sufficient empty space. They tend to leave as full as when they arrived, only with other types of cargo. Any wasted empty space costs them money. Getting a detachment of military vessels has proven extremely difficult, though I did manage to get the two Quinqueremes. They were confiscated ships taken by imperial customs from a band that was caught smuggling cargo from the Far East and attempting to avoid paying tax on goods brought from beyond the empire. They are slated to be refitted as warships. However, I was able to acquire their use for this mission.”

“Fair enough,” Artorius acknowledged. “The household baggage and slaves of the officers can travel by land
, though their arrival in Judea will take months rather than weeks.”

“I’m afraid it’s unavoidable, sir,” Cornelius apologized. He then handed Artorius another parchment. “Every officer
, optio and above, will have personal quarters aboard ship and be able to take one personal servant, as will any spouses.”

“You’re quite the logistician,” Artorius noted with approval as he read through the scrolls, which detailed the storage of rations, drinking water, as well as any equipment they would need as soon as they landed in Judea.

“It was one of my duties with the praetorians, sir. In addition to being an optio, I was responsible for the handling of all supply transactions within my cohort. Any time we needed new blankets for the barracks, bunks constructed, exotic foods for the officers’ mess, or any other assortment of things a praetorian cohort needs, I was the one who was told to make it happen.”

“Good to know,” Artorius stated. “I’m certain we’ll have a further use for your skills once we arrive in Caesarea.”

Cornelius nodded in reply and then continued going through his notes about the travel by sea. “Legionaries will have to sleep on deck, of course. It will be cramped, and I hope not too many get seasick.” Artorius took a deep breath through his nose, which made Cornelius grin for a moment. “Not a fan of the sea are you, sir?”

“Let’s just say I may be spending more time leaning over the side of the ship than in my quarters,” Artorius replied dryly.
“Two days from Massilia to Ostia was bad enough. I admit that I loathe the thought of two weeks at sea.”

“Of course
, it depends on the weather,” Cornelius added. “Commander Stoppello tells me he once made it to Alexandria in nine days, though that was under ideal conditions. Plus he and a fellow captain had placed a rather sizeable wager to see who could get there first.”

“Stoppello?”

“Commander Tiberius Stoppello,” Cornelius read from other scroll that had the names of the ships’ officers and crew. “Twenty years with the Imperial Navy, eight as a ship’s captain. He knows his way around the Mediterranean better than any man alive.”

Artorius looked at the parchment and grinned when he recognized one of the names, which he pointed to. “I think I know this man.”

“Hansi Flavianus,” Cornelius observed. “That’s unusual, he has a Roman family name, yet his given name is either Germanic or Nordic. It says here he’s Stoppello’s sailing master.”

“And if he is who I’m thinking of, he’s the brother of one of my
centurions.”