Soldier of Rome: Journey to Judea (The Artorian Chronicles) (2 page)

Prolog
: The Passing of Livia

The Imperial Palace, Rome

September,
29 A.D.

***

Livia is dying.

The loud banging on the door to his house had startled Claudius. Though he hated being woken in the middle of the night, he knew that it could only mean something dire for his slumber to be disturbed. As he rubbed his hand over his sleepy eyes, his instincts told him it must have something to do with his grandmother, Livia, the empress dowager. Though viewed as a stuttering imbecile by many, as Livia’s only surviving grandson and with his uncle away, he would be the first notified if there were any drastic changes in her health.

His perpetual limp made progress slow, and it was his wife, Aelia, who read the one-line note that was handed to her by an imperial messenger.
Without a word, she handed the parchment to her husband. As he read, the words struck Claudius hard. Though he had spent most of his life living in fear of his grandmother, during the last four years they had grown surprisingly close. Her absent son, Emperor Tiberius, now lived in self-imposed isolation on the Isle of Capri. In truth, he had been estranged from his mother years before his departure. Seven years earlier, when Livia had fallen ill, Tiberius put aside his personal animosity and immediately rushed to her side. This time there would be no return of her wayward son.

In some small way, Livia
managed to find solace in the company of the lone surviving grandson that Tiberius denied her. Her younger son, Drusus Nero, who was Claudius’ father, had passed into the afterlife nearly forty years before, when Claudius was an infant.

“The
m…mother of our empire is dying,” he said quietly to himself. He had been around the Empress dowager his entire life, yet it was only when Livia’s time had grown so late did the two finally understand each other. It had been over dinner with just the two of them. A few goblets of wine brought Claudius’ guard down and his grandmother realized her suspicion. Though his afflictions were real, all his life he’d exaggerated his stutter and limp so that he’d be thought a fool and left alone.

“G
o to her,” Aelia insisted. “Her son will not come, and it would not be fitting for an empress to die alone.”

Claudius nodded and quickly made for the door, almost forgetting to throw a tunic on as a slave hurried after him with some clothes.
A pair of praetorian guardsmen awaited him.

“We’re here to escort you
to the palace, sir,” one of the men spoke. He was an optio by the name of Cornelius. Many of the guardsmen viewed Claudius with contempt; Cornelius was one of the few who recognized him for his strength of mind and character. “There’s a litter waiting for you.”

“M…much obliged,” Claudius replied as limped
towards the curtained litter, borne by a dozen slaves.

The
praetorian optio walked alongside, and he sought to take Claudius’ mind off his grandmother’s failing health with conversation. “I served under your brother,” he stated.

Claudius’ brother was the late great general, Germanicus Caesar.
“Yes,” Claudius acknowledged. In truth, it pained him to talk about his brother, who’d been murdered ten years earlier while serving in the east.

“I was fortunate to have been with the
praetorian cohorts that fought beside him at both Idistaviso, as well as the siege of Angrivarii,” the optio continued, unaware of the vexation this brought to Claudius, whose face was hidden in the dark behind the partially drawn curtain of the litter. “He led the assault on the stronghold without donning his helmet, that way all the lads could see him. By Mars, he was the bravest of us all!”

“That he was,” Claudius said quietly, allowing himself a brief smile at more pleasant memories. Germanicus and Claudius
were so completely different in both physical appearance and demeanor that one could scarcely believe they were brothers. Germanicus had been a physical specimen, devoid of any of his younger brother’s deficiencies. He was well-spoken, highly intelligent with a natural apt for military prowess. Trained in the art of war under Tiberius, he’d shared the same distinction in that in his years of command he not once lost a major battle.

Oddly enough, Claudius had never envied Germanicus, even when the lat
ter was awarded the first Triumph in a generation for destroying the Germanic Alliance and avenging the disaster of Teutoburger Wald. Germanicus had been one of the few to recognize his brother’s true qualities and, in fact, he was one of the few people Claudius had never stammered around. But now he was gone.

Premature deaths seemed to haunt the imperial household, as Claudius
’ cousin and the emperor’s only son, Drusus, had died of a mysterious illness just a few years later. And Claudius’ own son had been just a boy of four when he choked to death. Such thoughts made him fear greatly for his unborn child. He had only just found out that Aelia was pregnant, and unpleasant reckonings plagued him as the litter made its way through the night, despite the well-intentioned banter of Cornelius.

“Here we are, sir,” the
praetorian said as the slaves bearing the litter came to a sudden halt, jolting Claudius awake. Cornelius extended a hand and helped him from the litter.

Claudius then took a deep breath and sighed as he ascended the steps leading into the imperial palace.

It should have come as no surprise
that Livia Augusta was breathing her last. At her extremely advanced age she had seen more than most would in ten lifetimes. Most had forgotten that she had been married to Tiberius Claudius Nero, who despite having served as Quaestor to Julius Caesar, sided with his assassins, the Optimates, in their civil war against Caesar’s nephew, Octavian. Livia had been forced to flee with her husband and infant son in wake of Octavian’s onslaught against the Optimates. As fugitives, they had journeyed all throughout what was still known as The Roman Republic. Their exploits, now forgotten, would have been worthy of Homer!

After
the warring factions reconciled, Livia and her husband returned to Rome. Even after all these years she could still remember the charming young man who had so recently been their enemy and the reason for their exile. What was intriguing was that Octavian was completely enamored with her, despite the fact that she was six months pregnant with her second child. Octavian’s own wife, Scribonia, was about to give birth to his daughter, Julia. Through much intrigue, her husband had been compelled by Octavian to divorce her. Their separation was amicable, even friendly. Nero even gave Livia away at her wedding to Octavian, which happened just three days after their son, Drusus, was born. During this time, Livia never imagined that the young man she had married would in just a few years become master of the known world.

Her sons would not come to live with her until the death of their father, though they were still very young.
Octavian would raise them as his own, along with his own daughter. In the years that followed, Livia would watch as her husband rose in prominence; and following the defeat and subsequent death of his rivals, Antony and Cleopatra, he became the most powerful man in Rome. He became known as
Augustus
, or
majestic
. Though he would avoid titles such as ‘king’, he was now sole ruler of what history would call the Roman Empire. Within the span of just fifteen years, Livia had gone from fugitive to Empress of Rome.

For more than forty years Livia would serve Rome
beside her husband, though often out of the public eye. It was she who convinced Augustus to send Germanicus to the Rhine after the disaster in Teutoburger Wald, rather than the volatile and inexperienced Posthumous Agrippa. Livia had secretly shuddered at the thought of what further disasters would have befallen the Empire had Posthumous been left to command the eight legions charged with unleashing Roman vengeance upon the barbarians. And yet despite her lifelong service to Rome, Livia’s influence was abruptly halted upon the death of Augustus and the rise of her son, Tiberius. It was a constant source of bitter irony between the two that if not for Livia’s substantial influence over Augustus, Tiberius may never have become emperor at all. The truth was, Tiberius had never wanted the imperial mantle. One could argue that his estrangement from his mother was born out of resentment for being saddled with the burden of ultimate power.

The room was dark, with the empress dowager only allowing a small oil lamp on a nearby table. It was the end of an era as Livia’s life slowly gave way. The powerful soul that had both inspired and terrified many lay trapped in the frail and dying body of an extremely old woman. Above all else, Livia’s spirit was tired.

She
fought to hang on for just a little while, for she had one last task to complete. Then she would be ready to face Charon, on the River Styx, who would take her to the afterlife. She fought for breath, her vision starting to fade slightly, as the door opened and her grandson stumbled in.

“G…grandmother,” Claudius
stuttered, rushing to her side. He took her hand in his and shuddered as it was already cold. He then looked around, puzzled. “W…where is my uncle? Capri is but a couple days from here by ship. He should be here with you!”

“He will not come,” Livia reply, sadly shaking her head. “I lost my son years ago. Now that my time is
nearly done, he will be glad to finally be rid of me.” A single tear ran down her cheek. Livia had been stoic most of her life, but now she was finally unashamed by the tears that came. “He loathes me now as much as he once loved me.”

“I have spoken to some of my friends in the
senate,” Claudius said, reassuringly. “Caecina Severus and several others have agreed to press for your deification.”

“That’s very kind of you,” the dying
empress replied. Her voice was raspy, and Claudius struggled to hear her. “It was kind, but in vain. You forget that Tiberius holds the Tribunician power of veto. Even if the senate votes unanimously in favor of my becoming a goddess, he will simply cast his veto and nullify it. I hear he plans to void my will as well. Livia Augusta will simply pass into the afterlife a mere mortal, no more worthy than a Sicilian whore.”

It broke Claudius’ heart to hear how his uncle cou
ld be so heartless towards his mother. Though Claudius’ relationship with his own mother, Antonia, had been tumultuous at best, he still loved her and would never dream of hurting her. Tiberius seemed to go out of his way to injure Livia.

“Uncle has named both Gemellus and Gaius Caligula as his joint heirs,” he replied
, referring to Tiberius’ grandson and great-nephew. “I will speak with them and see if perhaps…”

“Ha!” Livia interrupted before succumbing to a brief coughing fit. “Gemellus is still but a child, and he is not even mentioned in the sibylline prophecies. Gaius Caligula? He’ll try and deify himself before he ever thinks about his great-grandmother!”

“What can I do then?” Claudius was beside himself. His grandmother wished more than anything to be with Augustus in the next life, and that could never happen as long as she was but a simple mortal. Despite his own reluctance regarding deification while he lived, soon after his passing, the senate had voted unanimously to make Augustus Caesar a god. Even Tiberius had voiced his support for the measure, yet he would never allow his mother to receive such divine honors.

“You forget the rest of the prophecy,” Livia chastised.
The prophecy she spoke of was written by the divine Sibyl many years before and kept locked away by order of Augustus. Besides Livia, Claudius was now one of the very few who even knew of its existence. It foretold the rise of both Tiberius and Gaius Caligula, further elaborating that Caligula would not sit on the imperial throne for long. What had startled Augustus, causing him to lock away the book lest it cause a panic amongst certain members of the imperial house, was that after a brief reign, Caligula would be succeeded by none other than his Uncle Claudius.

“You are the last truly noble mem
ber left of the Julio-Claudians,” Livia continued. “I always thought you a fool, but I later realized it was all of us who had been fooled. Your destiny will be revealed to you when you least expect it. Don’t forget your promise!”

“N…never!” Claudius said with an involuntary twitch of his head. “I promise that Augustus himself will lead you through the gates of paradise.”
Though he had no delusions of becoming emperor, he was determined that Livia Augusta be given justice in the next life.

His grandmother
gave a resigned nod. Her eyes twitched and her breath became shallow and labored. “Stay with me,” she said quietly. “Stay with me until the end and place a coin in my mouth for the ferryman.” It did not take long.

Cl
audius, ever the sentimental, wept openly as he watched his grandmother close her eyes and slowly allow her spirit to leave her body. After her last breath gave out, he reached into his toga with a trembling hand and took out a single coin, which he placed in her mouth. He stayed by her side for some time, lamenting that Livia Augusta, Mother of the Empire, had been left utterly alone at the end.

Chapter I:
Incursion on the Rhine

Fortress of the Twentieth Legion, Cologne, Germania

March, 31 A.D.

***

“Bastards never learn,” a legionary growled as he huddled under his cloak. Though the frost was off the ground and spring had come once again to the Rhine, the perpetual dampness made the still-present cold cling to the shivering soldiers that lay hidden behind the embankment.

“When one is without food, the risk of death by the sword is still preferable to that of starvation,” Optio Praxus reasoned as he walked behind the line of soldiers.

Spring was a time when trouble would strike the borders of the Empire. The previous fall’s lackluster harvest, combined with an unusually harsh winter had left many in want of food and other resources. It had also led to an increase in raids from across the Rhine. Though the region had been largely pacified since the campaigns of Germanicus Caesar fifteen years earlier, the deprivation of the tribal peoples just outside of the Empire had emboldened many to raid the more fertile lands west of the Rhine.

“I’ll spill their guts and then warm my hands in their blood,” the legionary said as he rubbed his hands together and breathed on them in emphasis. Praxus ignored the man and took an assessment of the
farm settlement.

They were
just a few miles southeast of the Roman fortress at Cologne. The complex consisted of about half a dozen dwellings with thatched roofs, a kraal for livestock, and a large silo full of grain. With but a handful of farmers residing there with their families, it was an easy target for starving bands of marauders. A few days before, an auxiliary patrol had encountered a band of raiders as they fell upon the farms. So fast and so great were their numbers that the auxiliaries were quickly overrun and forced to withdraw; leaving four dead behind. Fearing the threat of additional Roman forces in the area, the barbarians had panicked and fled.

In response
to the raid, Centurion Pilus Prior Dominus, Commander of the Twentieth Legion’s Third Cohort, dispatched one of his centuries to the settlement. A routine patrol would normally consist of an eight-man squad of legionaries or auxiliaries. However, given the size of the raid and the losses already suffered, a stronger show of force was needed. The Roman governor had been harried with numerous complaints from locals, demanding that Rome make good on its promise of protection. The Third and Fourth Cohorts had been tasked with dealing with the situation, and Dominus knew the magnitude of what was at stake. He wanted the raiders destroyed! His remaining centuries, as well as those of the Fourth Cohort, were dispatched to various settlements and small farming villages in the region.

Soon after receiving their orders, t
he Second Century, under the command of Centurion Titus Artorius Justus, left the fortress under the cover of night. They had made the final mile of their trek off the main road, keeping to the trees, lest unfriendly eyes spot them. The embankment sloped down from the far side of the farming settlement, where a small stream trickled. It was here that Artorius had his men bivouac for the remainder of the night.

Dawn had come, and w
hile most of the century lay hidden behind the embankment, a single squad walked about the settlement, coming upon the spot where the auxiliaries had been beaten back. Enemy spies would not be alarmed by the presence of a few Roman soldiers; in fact, it was to be expected following a raid from across the Rhine.

“These people never learn,” a legionary
reiterated as he gazed at the body of a slain auxiliary. “The locals could have at least had the decency to bury him.”

The man’s corpse
had been stripped of armor, weapons, and anything of value. His body was sprawled on its back, head turned to the side, tongue sticking grotesquely between his teeth, eyes open and vacant. Flies had started to gather in the pool of dried blood that saturated his slashed throat. The bodies of the other three had been taken away to be burned; however, this poor fellow had been left to rot in the dense undergrowth along the river. It was only when the corpse started to stink that he’d been found.

“They’ll learn a permanent lesson soon enough,” his
decanus replied. The two men immediately snapped to attention as they saw their commanding officer, Centurion Artorius, approaching.

“Pickets are positioned within the tree line, sir,” the
decanus said. Artorius nodded in reply. “There’s a narrow ford that makes for a perfect crossing point. Though they got the jump on our auxiliaries, they were spooked enough that they left without taking hardly a thing from the settlement.”

“A scouting mission,” Artorius grumbled.

“Then you think they’ll attack again, sir?” the legionary asked.

“I hope so,” the
centurion said as he turned and walked away.

Though their commander’s face was stone serious, the
decanus could not help but grin at the remark. Like his cohort commander, Artorius understood the need to teach the raiding barbarians, as well as the indigenous peoples, a lesson in Roman power.

“Then
centurion enjoys killing, does he?” the legionary asked once he felt Artorius was out of earshot. The young man had only been in the legions for six months and was barely out of recruit training. Like most, he’d stumbled many times when learning weapons drill and marching; as a result suffering centurion’s wrath, along with that of his training officers. It was something every young man who joined the Roman army went through, but the legionary still caught himself cringing when his centurion approached.

“No,” his squad leader replied, shaking h
is head. “He hates it. Many days he curses the gods that he is so damned efficient at it.”

Though the legionary only
saw his commanding officer perhaps twice a week during battle drills, his reputation was legendary. Despite being the youngest centurion within the Twentieth Legion, Artorius had held his command for six years. Given how quickly he accelerated through the ranks, it surprised many of his men that he was not on the short list for promotion to cohort commander.

Artorius reckoned he would get the chance soon to prove his killing efficiency, as well as testing that of his men. It was their second night at this settlement, and he knew that sooner or later the raiders would strike.

“They have to return,” he told his
optio, Gaius Praxus. “That last raid was just a reconnaissance mission. Were it not, I doubt they would have fled in the face of less than a dozen auxiliaries.”

Praxus remained silent. The two senior leaders of the Second Century were feeling the same agitation as their men.

“With such a large supply of grain,” Praxus at last replied, “to say nothing of the handful of cattle and goats, it is too ripe of a target to be ignored. I wonder how Magnus and the Fourth Cohort are faring.”

“His men are still fairly raw and inexperienced,” Artorius noted. “I think a clash with the chance to bloody their weapons will do them some good.”

Centurion Magnus Flavianus was a close friend of both men. He’d come up through the ranks with Artorius. After the legion’s Fourth Cohort met disaster at the Battle of Braduhenna, Magnus had been selected as one of the centurions to lead the reconstituted unit.

“The pickets have been instructed not to engage the enemy directly,” the
decanus from the patrol squad said as he joined the two senior leaders.

The men assigned this duty had the most difficult task of all, particularly regarding their need to remain hidden in the dense undergrowth along the river, unable to move about freely.
Artorius made certain only the best disciplined men were posted here, with the previous pickets being relieved just before the predawn cast its glow through the dense mass of trees.

“Have designated runners been assigned to notify us when the enemy is spotted?” the
centurion asked.

“Yes
, sir,” the decanus confirmed. “They also know they are to provide the blocking force to prevent any raiders from escaping back across the river.”

Aside from the pickets he posted to watch for movement on the far side of the river, his men had remained mostly hidden
, encamped in the small defilade just on the other side of the road that ran past the settlement. Though the farmers had wished to send their wives and children away, Artorius had forbidden it, as he wanted everything to have the appearance of normality. The Roman governor made it clear to the legions that he wanted the raiders wiped out, not scared away. Artorius’ men mostly slept during the day, and their chief enemy proved to be boredom. Two of his men had already felt the lash of his vine stick for fighting amongst themselves. The sooner they had an actual enemy to battle, the better.

As the day wore on, Artorius elected to take another walk through the settlement. As he reasoned that a raid during the daytime was highly unlikely, he allowed his men not on picket duty to remove their armor. He strolled along the dirt path between thatched houses, the ground still damp as the sun did not penetrate through the tall trees until near midday. He
’d left his armor with his century, his centurion’s belt and his sword hanging from his left hip being the only indicators of his rank. The smell of livestock was strong, and he caught the aroma of the grain silo as he walked past. The Gallic farmers went about their business, most paying him no attention. Though he hoped the presence of Roman soldiers so close would instill feelings of safety, there was an air of overwhelming fear amongst the populace.

“Soldier!” a man said in heavily accented Latin behind Artorius.

The centurion turned to face him.

He was a farmer, though with his more brightly colored tunic and breaches, along with his well-groomed hair and shaven face, he appeared to be a man of greater importance.

“What is it?” Artorius asked.

“I trust your men will be able to protect us,” the man, who Artorius surmised to be the village leader, stated. “During the last raid I recognized some of the men or at least was able to see what tribe they belong to. They are Marsi, same as my people.”

“The Marsi were all but annihilated during the last Germanic War,” the centurion affirmed. “With their lands so close to the border, they would not dare risk a renewed call of Roman vengeance.”

“It has been fifteen years since then,” the village leader observed.
“Mallovendus, our chief who attained peace with Rome in exchange for the return of a lost imperial eagle, has since passed on to the halls of our ancestors. His sons have fallen from favor, and those who now lead the Marsi curse those of us who live across the Rhine within the boundaries of who they view, still, as our most hated enemy.”

“The
senate granted you lands on the border to prevent conflict with the native Gauls,” Artorius said. “It was also with the intent that having the same tribal peoples directly on both sides of the empire’s border would create a sense of peace and harmony.”

“Your
senate’s intent may have been noble,” the man replied, “yet, sadly, it has had the opposite effect. We who seek Roman community and protection have been branded as traitors. They do not just want our food stores, they wish for our deaths.”

“It is they who will pay the price in blood,” Artorius promised.
As he left the man and returned to his century, he furrowed his brow in contemplation. Though it affirmed his suspicions that the raiders would certainly return, it troubled him to think more substantial troubles may be brewing.

“The Germanic tribes will always be trouble,” Praxus conjectured when Artorius told him of his concerns.
“Why do you think we live in one of the only double-legion fortresses in the whole of the empire?”

“True,” Artorius concurred. “One does not post ten-thousand men, especially legionaries, in a single place without reason. Still, it does wear on me from time-to-time. As our soldier said a while ago, these bastards never learn.”

The remainder of the day passed without incident, and it was well into night when the Marsi raiders returned.
The legionary runner sent from the pickets somehow managed to make his way back to the century without causing a commotion. It was only when he reached the embankment that he lost his footing and pitched headlong over the side in a crash of armor and weapons. A few stifled chuckles were heard from amongst the legionaries lying against the slope. Their demeanor immediately changed when they understood why he’d come.

“Sir,” the runner said as quietly as he could, once he found Centurion Artorius. “The raiders are coming.”

“Any idea on their strength?” Praxus asked as squad leaders started to rouse their sleeping men.

“No,” the soldier replied. “It is so bloody dark in the thicket that we can’t see a thing. However, we could hear them. They’re not making any attempts at being quiet.
There must be a lot of them. The sounds of the river would mask the approach of a smaller force. They’ll be on the settlement in a matter of minutes.”

“Whatever their numbers, we will stop them,” Artorius asserted. He then turned to his
optio. “Praxus, get our flanking forces set.”