Soldier of Rome: The Sacrovir Revolt (The Artorian Chronicles) (2 page)

Chapter I: Changes in the Ranks

Fortress of the Twentieth Legion, Cologne, Germania

February
, 20 A.D.

***

It was a brisk winter morning; the sun cast its light on the semi-frozen ground. Snow crunched underfoot as the two
legionaries eyed each other. Artorius and Vitruvius had faced each other on the sparring field on the first Thursday of every month for several years now. Originally, they sparred once a week, but Vitruvius’ duties as the century’s optio, combined with the sheer beating Artorius’ body was suffering, had caused the men to cut back their bouts. Artorius was baffled that in five years he had not once defeated his adversary and mentor. He swore that Vitruvius was not even human. Both men wore a standard-issue legionary helmet, while wielding a practice gladius and wicker shield. The weight of these was twice that of service weapons, though both men hardly noticed.

Artorius was
a strong young man of twenty-two years and had been in the army for five. He was of average height, though his frame was massive, wrought with powerful muscle, his biceps threatening to tear through the sleeves of his tunic. His brutal physical strength and skill in battle were becoming legendary. He learned his lessons so well from his mentor that he had made a name for himself, not just within his century and cohort, but within the entire legion. Many had challenged him to similar sparring sessions, only to be dispatched like amateurs. Even soldiers from the elite First Cohort held a large amount of respect for the young legionary. Only one man potentially stood between him and the title of
Legion Champion
. Optio Vitruvius had held that title for so long it had fallen into disuse; there was no one in the entire Twentieth who could come close to defeating him.

Vitruvius was of similar build to Artorius
. Though he was slightly taller, he looked to be as muscular. He possessed the quickness and agility of a cat and was able to wield his gladius with terrifying speed and skill. Unlike most veterans, his body was devoid of any noticeable scars from battle. Secretly, he hoped Artorius would best him someday. That would show that his young protégé had learned his lessons and there was nothing left to teach him.

More than
three years before, during the triumphal games in Rome that followed the defeat of Arminius and the Germanic tribes, Vitruvius had killed a gladiator that many considered to be invincible. He had dispatched the man with such contemptuous ease it was still the talk of the legion to that day, to say nothing of the enormous wagers won by the friends and associates of Vitruvius. Indeed, Artorius had been brave enough to wager an entire stipend of seventy-five denarii, a third of his yearly wages, and had walked away with a considerable sum following Vitruvius’ victory. The gladiator’s owner, a weasel of a Gaul named Julius Sacrovir, had lost a large quantity of his fortune that day. He left Rome screaming curses towards Vitruvius, as well as the entire Roman Army.

“By the gods, but it is cold!” Artorius muttered as he blew hard into his hands; he despised being cold. Even five years on the Rhine frontier had failed to thicken his blood. He wished they could have used the cohort’s indoor drill hall; however, it was being used that day to train recruits.

“That’s alright, a little exertion and you won’t even notice,” Vitruvius replied as he waved his gladius about, warming up his joints and muscles. “You ready?”

Artorius nodded as both men settled into their fighting stances. As if on cue, both soldiers lunged forward, punching with their shields, looking for openings with which to strike. They had faced one another so many times they each knew the other’s fighting style by heart. Theirs was truly a test of pure skill, seeing as how their physical power was so close that neither could claim it as an advantage.

Artorius brought his shield down in an attempt to smash the
optio’s foot. Vitruvius pulled his foot back and stabbed at Artorius’ exposed face. Quickly, the young legionary dodged his head to the side. As he did so, he brought his shield back up and caught Vitruvius in the face. Vitruvius stumbled, though Artorius knew better than to attack recklessly. Too often he had tried to follow up on such an advantage, only to have victory snatched from him by the crafty and skilled optio. Instead, he settled back into his fighting stance once more. Vitruvius lunged in, allowing their shields to collide. He swung his shield to the left in order to block the stab he knew was coming. Artorius stepped to his own left and worked his arm past Vitruvius’ shield. With an elbow to the wrist, he knocked the shield away. As the optio dropped his shield, he swung his left hand up and caught Artorius on his helmet cheek guard with a roundhouse punch. The young legionary fell to the ground, dazed, while Vitruvius wrenched his shield from his hand. Artorius instinctively rolled to his side and sprung to his feet, lunging. Vitruvius countered. Both men stopped in mid-attack, catching their breath. Vitruvius’ gladius point was resting against Artorius’ throat, while the legionary had his poised to thrust underneath the optio’s ribcage. In a real battle, each man would have slain the other. Vitruvius stood breathing hard for a second while Artorius took a step back and threw his gladius straight down into the snow.

“Damn it!” he cursed, removing his helmet. “Five years and this is the best I can do?” He
was certain that he would finally best Vitruvius.

The
optio started laughing. “Hey, a draw is better than another thrashing. Besides, I think I’ve finally found someone to succeed me as chief weapons instructor for the century.”

“Who is it?” Artorius asked.

Vitruvius raised an eyebrow. “Artorius, did I hit you so hard that you’ve gone completely dense?” he asked, looking down at his hand, which was bleeding. Artorius dropped his head and chuckled to himself. “I guess you did ring my bell a little bit,” he replied as he rubbed the sore spot on his cheek. Vitruvius clapped him on the shoulder. “Come on. I’ve got a meeting with the centurion. Do you mind putting my practice weapons away?”

“Not at all,” Artorius replied as he took both shields and swords over to the armory. As he walked he thought about his fight with Vitruvius. Something in his mind told him that it would probably be their last. He regretted not getting the much desired victory over the man who had taught him so much. He then considered the significance of becoming the century’s chief weapons instructor. It was a position usually occupied by a decanus or above or, failing that, at least someone already on immune status. Artorius met none of these conditions.

Centurion Macro was slowly pacing back and forth behind his desk, both hands clasped behind his back. Vitruvius walked in to see that Tesserarius Flaccus and Sergeant Statorius were in the office as well.

Macro was fairly young for a
centurion, being that he was only in his early thirties. War and the life of the legions had done much to age him. What ravaged him the most was that he was one of the few survivors of the Teutoburger Wald disaster; something he never fully recovered from. The traumatic shock of the massacre had caused his jet black hair to gray on the sides and back almost overnight. He was a ruggedly handsome man, though his hands and face bore visible scars from countless adversaries.

Flaccus was perhaps the oldest soldier in the
century. His face was gnarled by the effects of age and, perhaps, a little too much wine. A few wisps of grey hair adorned the sides of his head. Vitruvius was bald himself and was quick to chastise the tesserarius for refusing to accept the loss of his hair. Flaccus was a good soldier, although a bit one-dimensional for Vitruvius’ liking. He knew drill and regulations by heart, but he lacked imagination.

“I found someone to succeed me as
chief weapons instructor,” Vitruvius announced as he walked in.

Macro
grunted as he continued to pace back and forth. Vitruvius looked over at Flaccus, puzzled, and decided it was best to wait. With that, he stood next to the other two men, with his hands clasped behind his back.

At length Macro finally spoke.
“The reason I have called you in here is because this affects you all. To start with, Vitruvius, I must first congratulate you. Centurion Justinian of the Third Century has elected to retire after twenty-eight years in the army. The entire chain of command was unanimous in its recommendations that you be selected to succeed him.” He paused to let the words sink in. Vitruvius stood rigid, though in his eyes Macro could see the sense of disbelief. He turned his gaze towards Flaccus and Statorius.

“Flaccus, I have decided that you will replace Vitruvius as optio. I know you only have a handful of years left before your own discharge and retirement, and I feel this is the best way for you to serve out your final years in the army.

“Sergeant Statorius, you will be promoted to
tesserarius. I need you to recommend a successor to take over your section.”

Stator
ius did not hesitate before announcing his recommendation. “Praxus is senior to the other legionaries in my section. He is also the most experienced and one they all look up to.”

“Not Praxus,” Macro replied immediately.

Statorius looked crestfallen. Praxus had committed a grievous error by falling asleep on sentry duty once and had been caught by Centurion Macro. Macro had burned his orders, which at that time would have promoted him to sergeant. He also stripped him of his immune status, which he later reinstated. That had been six years before, and Statorius was hoping that Macro would finally let Praxus advance up the career ladder that he was certain he was meant to take.

Macro saw the concern on the
decanus’ face. “Praxus will be moving to take over for Sergeant Sextus, who has also elected to retire from the legions.” Vitruvius smiled when he thought about Praxus commanding the section that he had led before Sextus.

“What about Artorius?” Vitruvius asked.

All eyes fell on him.

“I
also recommend that he replace me as chief weapons instructor. I feel that he is ready to take charge of his own section.”

Macro looked over at Statorius.
“Sergeant?”

Statorius thought for a second and then nodded.
“He’s young, but he is well educated and has demonstrated sound leadership potential. Hell, he and Praxus practically run the section as it is.”

“It’s settled then,” Macro said, slamming his hands down on his desk.
“Camillus!”

The
century’s signifier strolled in. “No need to shout,” he said in his usual good-natured manner, “I was listening at the door the entire time.” Macro ignored him. “Get me Praxus and Artorius.” Camillus nodded and exited. Vitruvius walked out as Camillus dispatched an orderly to summon the two legionaries. He felt bad in a way. Camillus had been on the promotion fast-track early on in his career, though everything seemed to have stagnated once he made signifier. Technically, he was third in command of the century and should have been the next optio. Vitruvius had passed over both him and Flaccus, having been promoted directly from decanus to optio. And now Flaccus would pass up the signifier as well.

It was impossible to gauge Camillus’ age. He possessed a boyish, almost cherub face that perpetually made him look like he was still a young boy; though he was certainly much older. Vitruvius figured the
signifier had never shaved a day in his life. Camillus’ face was always more filled out during the winter months, making him look even younger. It was an odd thing, the way his weight would drastically fluctuate throughout the year. During the campaign season’s warm months, he would be lean and fit from the countless miles of marching while carrying the century’s signum. During the winter, he put on what he referred to as his ‘protective coat’ of fat from inactivity and too many hearty meals.

“So,
Centurion
Vitruvius, is it?” Camillus asked with a sincere smile.

“Not yet,” Vitruvius replied. “Though I have to say I feel kind of bad for you. This is the second time you’ve been passed over for
optio.”

Camillus waved his hand dismissively.
“Vitruvius, you’ve got to remember, I’m a lot younger than you and Flaccus. The only reason I made signifier as fast as I did was because, at the time, the century was in a crunch, and it seemed like none of you jackals knew basic mathematics. I got my rank because they needed somebody to do the payroll, that’s all. Besides, I have a pretty comfortable billet here! An optio’s pay is only marginally higher than mine, and the duties and responsibilities are nightmarishly more complex. If I can tell you a secret, I’m the one who told Macro to put Flaccus in your spot. I’m holding out for a cohort standard bearer position or perhaps even aquilifer someday.” The position he referred to was that of the man who carried the legion’s eagle standard into battle. He was also the senior secretary and treasurer of the legion, whose rank and pay was equal to that of a centurion primus ordo.

“Still, you shouldn’t sell short your own leadership abilities,” Vitruvius countered. “The younger guys look up to you. They respect you because your demeanor is so relaxed, and yet you still have a sense of valor and command presence that I don’t think you realize.”

Camillus shrugged at that.
“I only let it come out when I’m in a bad spot. You know they gave me the
Silver Torque for Valor
at Idistaviso for protecting the standard.”