Soldier of Rome: The Sacrovir Revolt (The Artorian Chronicles) (17 page)

“The Andecavi and Turani are ready to make war on Rome,” Florus announced.

This caused a stir amongst the various chiefs.

“Then we must rise up and support them!” a chief named Belenus shouted as he rose to his feet, a meaty fist in the air. “Let us join our valiant cousins in the liberation of our lands!”

The others started to clamor, voicing their support.

Florus looked at Sacrovir, who
shook his head. “If we rise up now, every Roman legion within a thousand miles of here will be on our doorstep.  What we need now is a ruse, a diversion, something that will lull the Romans into thinking they have our loyalty and support.” “What are you getting at, Sacrovir?” Belenus asked suspiciously.

Sacrovir smiled wickedly
. “We will join forces with the Romans, our men fighting as auxiliaries
against
the Andecavi and Turani.” The chiefs were appalled.

Sacrovir was quick to explain.
“These tribes are only a minor political force within the region. Their numbers are few, and the Romans will scarcely unleash the entire Rhine Army on them,
if
they think they have our support. They will send a handful of legionaries who will bear witness to our loyalty. They will report back that the province is secure, which, in turn, will cause the Emperor to become complacent in his dealings with us. It will also give our army a chance to test itself in battle, a ramp-up to the real campaign, if you will.

“When the time is right,
we will lead our forces in a full-scale revolt, smashing whatever minor legionary forces remain in the region,” his voice rose. “This will send a message to Tiberius that he should abandon his plans for keeping Gaul Roman.”

There was
a hushed silence as the war chiefs contemplated Sacrovir’s plan. Only Heracles and the Sequani chief, Taranis, seemed to be amused at the idea.

“Your plan is sound,” Taranis
conceded. “This battle will provide our men with the confidence and experience they need. Once we make an example of the legionary forces, the Emperor will see that re-conquest of Gaul will be a futile effort.”

“Let us not forget the significance of the death of Germanicus,” Heracles added.
“Rumors abound that Tiberius himself was directly involved in his death. The Rhine Legions cherish the memory of the son of Drusus and will be reluctant to conduct a full-scale invasion at the behest of his murderer.”

“When will this battle take place?”  Belenus asked Sacrov
ir directly.

“All in good time.”

Chapter VIII: Legion Champion

***

With every
century within the legion supplying a candidate, there was an initial field of fifty-nine soldiers competing for the title of
Legion Champion
. To make it an even bracket, five additional competitors would be allowed to enter. Since there was a plethora of volunteers, a mini-tournament was held the week before the competition. There were twenty legionaries vying for these five spots. A man would have to win two matches in a row in order to earn a placing.

Artorius was assisting Magnus in getting ready for his first match. As
chief weapons instructor, Artorius was assured the honor of representing the Second Century. Oddly enough, Magnus was the only other in the century who wished to compete for one of the remaining vacancies, and even then did so reluctantly. Artorius had been persistent in his insistence that Magnus compete. The two men trained together for several weeks in preparation for this event, and Artorius was confident his friend would have little difficulty getting a place in the main bracket.

“You ready for this?” Artorius asked as he checked Magnus’ chinstrap and helmet.

“I think so,” he replied. “This is the first time I have sparred with someone outside the century.”

“Do
esn’t mean anything. Do like we’ve been training, and you will be alright.” With that he gave his friend a slap on the shoulder and walked over to where numerous legionaries were crammed into the stands.

This was the first time in many
years they were using the arena.

Magnus walked to the center of the arena and stood face to face with a
legionary from the Seventh Cohort. The man was young, looked to be just barely out of recruit training. A signifier served as the marshal.

“Alright
, you guys know how this works,” he stated. “You fight until one man scores what would be a lethal blow with a service weapon. Listen to my commands, and break off fighting when I tell you to. Any questions?”

Both men shook their heads.
The two combatants settled into their fighting stances. The young legionary looked nervous facing the big Norseman. At the sound of a whistle they came together. Magnus braced behind his shield and bore hard into the legionary. The young man held his ground but was rocked by the force of Magnus’ attack. Magnus continued to let their shields collide as he punched and looked for openings. The legionary he was facing had the basic skills, but no real experience. With a quick step to his right, Magnus brought his shield back hard against the young man’s, continued to circle to his right, and then reached down and quickly stabbed him in the back of the leg. The young man gave a yelp of surprise as Magnus seized the advantage. He had the legionary’s shield tied up and was able to circle far enough to stab him in the back at the kidneys. The legionary gave a yell of pain and frustration as the whistle blew again, and he knew he was beaten.

“You are all worthless and weak!”
Heracles screamed at the Gauls. “Do you faggots not know what a phalanx
is
?” It had been an exhausting and exasperating ordeal for the Spartan. He knew he was delusional if he thought for a second that the rabble before him could ever come close to replicating a Spartan battle formation. But then, all he needed them to do was learn the rudimentary skills that would allow them to at least attack as one cohesive unit. How many fell when the time came for battle mattered not to him. He thought by this time they would at least be able to form a phalanx with their shields locked together, spears protruding forward. Instead, they milled about, often crashing into each other, which, in turn, would lead to brawling amongst themselves. Heracles knew these troops would be most critical for overwhelming the Roman lines. He took a deep breath.

“If you expect to have a chance at surviving against the Romans, you will learn what it means to fight as one!
The phalanx is useful not only for sweeping the legionary ranks, but it is also crucial for repelling cavalry,” he instructed.

“The Romans have no
bloody cavalry in this region!” a voice spoke up.

“
True,” Heracles conceded, “but that does not mean they cannot bring cavalry to bear upon us. Remember, the Rhine Legions are but a couple weeks march from here. Hence, it is crucial we prepare for whatever they may throw against us. Now let us try this again.”

In the front rank of the makeshift phalanx, Ellard wiped his forearm across his sweat-covered brow.

“How long does that jackal intend to make us play Spartan?” he complained under his breath.

“Until you stupid shits get it right!”
Torin retorted from behind him.

Ellard snorted
. He was disgusted Torin was actually taking their training seriously.

It was as if he actually
believed
in what they were doing.

Radek seemed to already have a grasp of fight
ing. In his years of thievery, he inevitably got caught and had to fight his way out. Ellard hoped when the time came they would not be placed out front.

A week later Artorius and Magnus st
ood outside the arena once more. this time competing for the same prize. Magnus easily won his second elimination match and, therefore, earned a spot in the main tournament. They stood gazing at the gigantic parchment on which the tournament bracket was laid out. With sixty-four men competing, that meant having to win six times in a row in order to become the next Legion Champion. Artorius looked at where he and Magnus fell out in the bracket. He saw they would not be able to meet in the finals, like they had hoped. They would get as far as the semi-finals before having to face each other. Without a word being said, they entered the arena with the rest of the combatants.

The arena was packed with
soldiers, as well as citizens from the city and surrounding areas. The sixty-four combatants stood in the center of the arena facing a raised platform where Silius stood. With him were newly-promoted Master Centurion Calvinus and Centurion Vitruvius.

Silius raised his hands, silencing the crowd.

“The greatest honor that can be bestowed upon a soldier for his skill in close-combat is the title of Legion Champion,” he stated to the crowd. He looked directly at the men in front of him who would compete for this honor. “You men have been selected to represent your individual centuries and cohorts in this competition. You are the best of the best in this legion. Whoever amongst you walks away victorious will be presented with this.” He signaled to Vitruvius, who produced a silver gladius with an engraving on its blade.

“Centurion Vitruvius has held the title of Legion Champion longer than any other,” Silius continued.
“Therefore, he has been given the honor of presenting this ceremonial gladius to the man who proves himself worthy of being his successor to this auspicious title.
Let the tournament commence!
”

The roar from the crowd and combatants was deafening.

Artorius left the arena and walked over to a nearby tree, where he laid down. His was the fourteenth match, so he had a bit of time to rest. Magnus, who was fighting even later, joined his friend.

“Not going to watch the early matches?” he asked.

Artorius shook his head
, eyes closed.

“No.
If I watch, I’ll get all sorts of worked up, when what I need right now is to relax. I have to keep telling myself not to take any of these men lightly, with one mistake it could all be over. I hope you also do well, old friend.”

Magnus snorted.
  “I hope I don’t embarrass myself and get eliminated in the first round!”

Decimus was a fan of combat sports, and he was anxious for the competition to begin.
He watched as two legionaries entered the arena, their friends shouting encouragement and colorful insults to the opposition.

“Think this will be better than that disastrous spectacle we had to witness in Rome?”
Decimus asked his friends who were sitting next to him.

“Anything has got to be better than those sorry gladiators,” Gavius replied.
“Not one of those guys knew how to fight!”

Valens
laughed. “I think it would be more fun to watch our boys fight with metal weapons!”

They watched as the two
legionaries faced each other and commenced fighting. One of the greatest challenges for Roman soldiers was when they had to face other Roman soldiers. Each used the same fighting style with identical weapons. It boiled down to individual ability, rather than style or weaponry giving a man the advantage. The two combatants rammed their shields together, looking for openings. One took a blow to the wrist, causing him to drop his gladius. His opponent was quick to exploit this, driving into his disabled foe and catching him with a blow beneath the ribs. A whistle blew, ending the match.  Friends of the victorious soldier cheered wildly, while he tore off his helmet and ran into his ecstatic companions.

“Not bad,
” Carbo observed. “Can’t wait to see how Artorius and Magnus do.” He would not have long to wait.

The first round of the tournament started at sunrise.
By the time Artorius entered for his first match, the sun was casting its glow over the eastern edge of the arena. He limbered up his shoulders, arms, and legs as he waited for the signal. He entered the arena to the cheering from the Second Century. He couldn’t help grinning at the smattering of boos and profanity from what he assumed were the friends of his opponent.

He took a deep breath and mentally drowned out all distractions.
His adversary was a rather slender legionary who looked to be a good sixty to seventy pounds lighter than Artorius. He knew better than to discount the man. Everyone fighting in this tournament was a professional soldier, and he had to treat them as such. On the whistle, they started moving towards each other. Artorius deliberately stalked his opponent, constantly driving forward. His opponent allowed their shields to collide, but then stumbled, realizing his error. Artorius knew the man would not dare allow himself to get into a test of strength against him, so he waited, stalking forward. Finally, the legionary made a move, trying to rush past Artorius’ right. The young decanus spun hard, swinging his shield for all he was worth. It just managed to impact the legionary on the shoulder, but it was enough. The man stumbled forward, catching a gladius thrust to the stomach before he could right himself. He fell to the ground, the wind knocked from him, as a loud shout erupted from the men of the Second Century and, indeed, most of the Third Cohort. Artorius removed his helmet and raised his gladius in salute. He then walked over and extended his hand to his fallen opponent.