Soldier of Rome: The Last Campaign (The Artorian Chronicles) (44 page)

As Artorius wiped down the blade of his gladius,
he wondered if this was his last battle. He certainly hoped so! After decades of serving in the legions, he had grown tired of the suffering and death they had inflicted. He thought when he was younger he would grow accustomed to it, but this had been a foolish notion.

He was reminded of war’s abject horror as he happened upon a young girl, whose leg had been smashed by catapult stone. The leg was completely mangled with splintered bones protruding grotesquely. Though her face was covered in sweat and her breath was coming in rapid gasps, she bravely made not a single cry. Her mother held her head in her lap, tears running down her cheeks. Artorius watched as a legionary removed his helmet and knelt down next to them. His eyes were full
of pity as he drew his gladius and rested the blade against the girl’s neck. She looked up at her mother and nodded pleadingly, hoping to end her pain. The woman then met the soldier’s gaze. Though they could not communicate verbally, she gave an almost imperceptible nod before closing her eyes and turning away as the legionary quickly slashed his blade across the girl’s throat. Torrents of warm blood gushed into her mother’s lap, who broke down in wails of a broken heart. The young girl’s eyes betrayed a sense of relief as her life left her, in a sense thanking the soldier for ending her pain.

Tears streamed down the legionary’s face
as he hung his head for a brief moment. Though he understood the reality that women and children also perished in war, he found no honor in slaying the weak. As Artorius continued to gaze at the sad spectacle, he wondered if perhaps the soldier also had a daughter around the same age. The man turned his head and looked up at him, though he was unashamed by his tears.

“Is this glory, sir?” he asked.

The question caused Artorius to instinctively think back to a siege he’d taken part in, many years before this soldier was even born.
The words reminded him of a brief conversation between him and Magnus as they’d watched the survivors of that siege being mercilessly executed by their commanding general’s order. What was the question he’d asked his friend who now, twenty-eight years later, lay badly wounded? Oh yes, it was,
‘Is this victory?’
Different words, but almost identical meaning.

“There is no glory in what we’ve done,” the master centurion replied with surprising candor. It was true, however, and it was best that his men learned that sooner rather than later.
He believed in Rome, and that there was honor in fighting for the empire. That being said, war was anything but glorious. It was savage, inhuman, and wrought with pain, terror, and sorrow. Whatever came next for the Roman conquest of Britannia, Titus Artorius Justus decided then that his fighting days were over.

With Vespasian’s Second Legion occupying and seeking to quell any dissidents within the Durotriges kingdom, Artorius and his three cohorts made their long journey back towards the growing camp along the Tamesis River. Legionary and auxilia vexilations were already scattered throughout the recently conquered lands.
The Ninth Legion was temporarily holding at Camulodunum, where Sabinus had been tasked with ensuring that the Catuvellauni abided by the accords of the peace treaty they had negotiated with the emperor. Geta had the Fourteenth Legion at Durovernum Cantiacorum, near the site where the invasion force had landed. That left the Twentieth holding the area just north of the Tamesis River, where engineers were building and improving upon existing bridges.

Artorius had been compelled to leave his most seriously wounded soldiers, those too badly injured to be moved, with Vespasian.
Some of the others, including Magnus, were loaded onto the now-depleted ammunition wagons of the siege train. As Mai Dun was the last formidable obstacle in the region, Vespasian was sending all siege engines that did not belong to the Second Legion back with Artorius.

On the second day of the march the skies were cloudy with an occasional pelting of rain. Even by midafternoon it was still foggy, with a perpetual mist clinging to the air. As he rode his horse over to the wagon where his Nordic friend lay, Artorius heard grumblings amongst the legionaries about how their cloaks never got a chance to dry out with the unpredictable weather.
Magnus said as much as his friend rode up beside him. The Norseman was sitting upright with his back against the front wall of the cart, his leg propped up on a soldier’s pack and heavily bandaged.

“The gods gave us a beautiful day with which to attack,” he said glumly, “and now Thor calls upon the rains to wash the blood away.”

Artorius said nothing, but simply watched his friend, who shivered beneath his cloak. Magnus’ Nordic blood gave him a substantial tolerance to the cold, and yet his face was pale, and he trembled badly. His eyes soon closed, and he seemed to drift off to sleep.

“He’s lost a lot of blood,” Valens observed as he rode up behind Artorius. The usually jovial centurion appeared very s
ober and as gloomy as the skies, for he was deeply concerned about his friend and brother-in-law. “Magnus’ wound would have killed lesser men already.”

“I recommended he stay with the others,” Artorius remarked, “but he would have none of it.
”

“He’s always been the stubborn one,” Valens replied. “He may look like shit
right now, but that stubbornness will be what keeps him alive.”

The two centurions said little more as they continued onward. From the worn expression on Valens’ face, Artorius sensed that the years of hard campaigning, along with the loss of so many friends over the years, was taking its toll.
Both men, along with Magnus, had served in the same squad together during their early days in the legions. Two of their former mates, Decimus and Carbo, had been killed at Braduhenna, along with Artorius’ close friend and mentor, Vitruvius. Another lifelong friend, Camillus, was now dead, and Magnus was very much in danger of infection and possibly succumbing to his injuries. If he did survive, they knew his road to recovery would be a long and arduous one. And since coming up from the ranks, Artorius took the loss of every soldier under his command very hard; it was impossible for him not to, despite the harsh reality that in battle soldiers died. He blamed himself in part for Sempronius’ ghastly death, and with every soldier slain on this campaign, he felt as if his soul was slowly breaking.

“I pray,” he said quietly, “that I have fought my last battle.”

The day was overcast, but still holding the warmth of the end of summer as Artorius rode into the legion’s encampment a few days later. Near the entrance stood two men who, given their ornate breastplates and plumed helmets, the master centurion could only surmise were his new legate and chief tribune. He abruptly dismounted his horse, which he handed to one of the men at the gate, walked over to the two officers, and rendered a salute.

“General Scapula?” he asked. When the man nodded, Artorius extended his hand. “Master Centurion Artorius
, a pleasure to have you here, sir.”

“My only regret is I did not arrive sooner,” the legate replied. He then introduced the younger officer with him. “This is Marcus Trebellius Maximus, our new chief tribune.”

“Honored to meet you, master centurion,” the tribune replied, also taking Artorius’ hand, who nodded in reply.

Artorius looked around at the plethora of activity that was happening. In addition to the daily chaos of a Roman marching camp, he noted a number of engineers working on a large bridge, as well as surveyors scraping away the ground with the help of legionaries, making ready to lay a road.

“Rome wastes no time in establishing herself,” he noted. He motioned with his head back up the road he’d come from. “We have a number of wounded that require attention.”

“Understood,” Scapula replied. “There is already a field hospital established
, and the doctors are anticipating the arrival of your men.”

“Well
, they’re your men now, sir,” Artorius said as the three walked slowly through the camp towards the Principia tent.

“Technically speaking, perhaps,” the legate conceded. “However, it was you who led them throughout this campaign. And I have no doubt it is you who they will look to as we continue in our work here.”

“About that, sir,” Artorius replied, causing the legate to halt abruptly. “I don’t mean to abandon you as soon as you’ve arrived, but I am intending to leave the legions.”

Chapter XXV: A New Province

***

Sixty miles to the north of where Vespasian had conducted the brutal Siege of Mai Dun, Tribune Cursor halted his advance guard on top of a hill that overlooked a
large valley. They had picked up a local cobbler, who had been all too anxious to take the Romans to their leaders. On the far side of the valley, it sloped up to a long ridge that was covered in groves of trees. Like much of the land, the valley was a mix of both open farm fields, as well as copses of trees.

“Fertile lands, an established settlement,” Centurion Taurus noted as he rode up next the tribune.

“The river
1
runs all the way to the sea in the west,” their Dobunni guide stated as he nodded towards the flowing waters that dissected the valley. He then addressed the tribune, “Our leaders have anticipated your arrival and await your pleasure.”

As Cursor rode into the settlement, a large contingent of locals stood waiting for him. Their leader stepped forward and bowed deeply.
He was an older man, clean shaven with close cropped hair. “Hail, emissary of Rome!” he said. “I am King Eisu, and I welcome you to our lands.”

Cursor dismounted his horse and gave a short nod of respect to the man before removing his helmet. “It is good to see we have friends this deep into Britannia,” he observed.

Cursor noticed that both the king and his nobles dressed in a manner very similar to Roman senators, albeit their togas were earthier in color, rather than the white and purple seen in Rome. He conjectured that perhaps the Dobunni had purchased the very fabric their garments were made of from Roman traders. He was further surprised at the man’s ability with the Roman tongue and glad that he would not require an interpreter.

“Given our proximity to the sea, we have been able to enjoy trade relations with Rome since the time of Caesar,” the king replied.
“But come, a great feast awaits you!”

The troopers of Indus’ Horse made camp just outside the town, while Cursor and the senior officers joined King Eisu and his nobles in a great hall that was surprisingly decorated with Roman columns, with familiar frescos adorning the walls.

“You have, indeed, enjoyed much in the way of trade relations with Rome,” Cursor observed as he marveled at the décor within the hall.

A long table was laid out with a variety of delicacies, both Britannic and Roman.

“It is because of this that we have been ostracized by many of our neighbors,” Eisu observed as he took his place in the great oaken chair at the head of the table. “When we refused to join the Durotriges confederation in their battle against you, King Donan swore he would exterminate my people in retribution. I am glad to see that he can no longer try and make good on his promise.”

“We have fought them many times before,” a noble spoke up.
“They lust after our iron mines; the ore from which we have long traded with your provinces in Gaul and Hispania. But with his alliance with the Catuvellauni, Donan could very well have overwhelmed us had he defeated Rome.”

“I am happy to tell you that the Durotriges are no longer a concern,” Cursor said.

“We heard Mai Dun had fallen,” the noble stated, to which the tribune nodded in reply.

“King Donan is dead,” Cursor
continued, “and those who fought beside him are being sold into slavery, along with their families. Those who remain understand their fate, should they resist the will of Rome.”

“And what of our nei
ghbors to the north?” King Eisu asked. “They are extremely warlike, and their lands consist of arduous mountain ranges.”

“
Those who fought with the Catuvellauni, we gave them a taste of Roman steel,” Cursor asserted. “But I agree, they will be a thorn in our side for a long time to come. For now, we will look into establishing garrisons here and in your capitol. Most likely we will eventually have to post a legion on the border of the Silures lands until they can be conquered.” The tribune then produced a scroll, which he handed to the king. “These are the terms the emperor is offering to all kingdoms within these lands who embrace the friendship of Rome. You will retain your status as ruler of your people, albeit as a client king under Caesar. A Roman magistrate will be assigned to act as the emperor’s intermediary and to enforce tax collection.”

The king, who was literate and fluent in Latin, read through the terms slowly, his expression unconcerned. “It says here that client kings are allowed to maintain their own armies and are not required to garrison Roman soldiers,” he noted. “However, I am surmising
, given our proximity to the Silures, an exception will be made here.”

Cursor nodded in reply.

“The taxation levels may seem high,” the tribune said, “but know that this is to help pay for the infrastructure that comes from becoming part of a Roman province. “Roads, schools, markets, sanitation, and baths are costly to build and maintain. Increase your efforts within the iron mines, and I promise you will enjoy some of the greatest prosperity in the region.”

“You speak of baths,” the king replied, seeming to ignore Cursor’s explanations, though it could be
concluded that he was already well aware of what would be expected of him and his people. “I think it is time I show you the heart of the valley.”

Since the defeat of the Catuvellauni and their allies, eleven tribal kingdoms had submitted to Roman rule w
ithout so much as drawing a single weapon in resistance. Granted, some of these were little more than a lone oppida with perhaps a hundred acres of total land. However, Plautius was glad to spare bloodshed as much as he was able. The word of Vespasian’s savage trek through Durotriges, culminating with the bloody siege at Mai Dun, was spreading quickly throughout the land. And yet, not every tribal kingdom required abject fear to bring them to bear. The Brigantes were amongst the larger kingdoms, and they had thus far remained neutral throughout the conflict. That was about to change.

“Noble Plautius,” an equite tribune announced, “I present Queen Cartimandua of the Brigantes.”

Plautius stood and gave a short nod of respect. Cartimandua did the same. Her demeanor was pleasant enough, though Plautius noted the signs of strain in her face. She was alone, her entourage being directed into another large tent, where they would be entertained by the legate’s officers and staff. For now, he wanted his meeting with the queen in private.

“Thank you for receiving me,” the queen said, her voice showing only the slightest traces of a foreign accent.

Plautius knew she was well-educated, the rumor being that her father had even gone as far as hiring a Roman tutor when she was very young.

“Please, the honor is mine,” Plautius replied, motioning for her to be seated. The only other persons present were servants who brought the two wine
s and what delicacies the Romans had been able to acquire since arriving in Britannia.

“I am aware of the terms you’ve made with the other tribal kingdoms,” Cartimandua said. “I want you to know that I accept them without hesitation.”

“Very well,” Plautius replied. “That will keep our meeting short, then. Know that we have been anxious to meet you for some time, as Brigantes has intrigued us. We have had one of your royal guardsmen acting as a guide and interpreter for us these last couple months.”

“Alaric,” the queen noted. “I will be glad to have him back in my employ.”

“Of course,” the governor nodded. “I understand he means a lot to you.”

“All my people are important to me,” Cartimandua emphasized. “You must also know that my kingdom is anything but stable. My own consort conspires with our enemies, so while some of the kingdoms have requested to maintain their own security, I am asking you to garrison Roman soldiers within Brigantes.”

“It will be done,” Plautius assured her. “Rome values her friends and I assure you that the legions will never be far away should enemies threaten you, both from hostile neighbors as well as any who may lurk within your kingdom.”

The queen was at first startled to think that Plautius was speaking of her husband, Venutius, but then she realized that he likely had been building quite the network of informants within the province. The Romans understood that knowledge was the most powerful weapon there was, and doubtless they knew about the inner turmoil that existed between Cartimandua and her consort.
This actually came as a relief to her, and she would make certain that Venutius understood as well that while he may have commanded the loyalty of a large number of Brigantes warriors, the queen was now under the direct protection of the legions. The defeat of Togodumnus, along with the rapid fall of Mai Dun, would ensure that whatever his feelings towards the occupiers, Venutius would keep his hostile tongue in check.

A few tents down, the Romans and their new allies were feasting and enjoying a bevy of mind-altering drinks of both Britannic and Roman origins. Artorius left the revelry after a single cup of wine and decided to take a long walk in the brisk evening air. Earlier in the day he had felt the need to decompress, especially with the relief of a cessation in immediate hostilities, and also having a qualified legate and chief tribune to take over command of the legion. And while he was always up for a bit of low-brow debauchery, once evening came he simply did not feel up for it.

Scapula had taken his resignation well enough. He was an experienced officer and understood that nearly three decades in the ranks could take its toll on even the strongest of men. His only request was that Artorius stay on through the winter and only return to Rome when those who would take part in the emperor’s triumph departed. Apparently Plautius had recommended Scapula to the emperor, and in just the few meetings he’d had with him, Artorius was lamenting that the general had not been with them during the campaign. It still felt surreal to him that he had commanded an entire legion during the conquest of a province. Of course, the strict and unbending class rules of Roman society would never allow him to hold the actual rank of senatorial legate, so his assumption of command was always going to be a temporary one. But no matter. While Artorius mourned for the men he lost, foremost being his longtime friend Camillus, he was thankful that most of his men survived the campaign to great glory, and that in the end he could know in his very soul that he’d done right by them.

As he leaned against a support post of one of the tents, the master centurion drew his gladius and turned the weapon over in his hand, watching the torch light dance off the blade.

“You have served me well all these years,” he said quietly. “I hope that I will never have to call upon you again.”