Soldier of Rome: The Last Campaign (The Artorian Chronicles) (8 page)

Signed,

Aulus Plautius

Governor-General, Germania Inferior

“How can this be?”
he asked as he read the official order. “I don’t understand why the centurions of a legion I left ten years ago would elect
me
to be their new primus pilus!”

“Perhaps in your absence, your reputation turned to legend,” Metellus
shrugged with a grin. “I will say this; many of us believe that our new emperor will try and finish what his nephew proposed doing with Britannia, only with an actual invasion force and not just ordering us to attack the sea with our weapons and then ‘plunder’ seashells as booty from Neptune; that was an embarrassing, fucked up gaggle as I’ve ever seen. Any potential operations are all speculation and rumor, of course.”

“It would have to be at this point,” Artorius observed. “Claudius has only been on the throne a few months. I doubt that conquering new lands for the empire is foremost on his mind right now.”

“Agreed. However, we’ve been keeping ourselves ready for any such potential campaign, regardless of who is Caesar. And like I said before, most of our cohort commanders are very new, plus the two other centurions primus ordo have scarcely held their billets longer than Magnus and Praxus. The chief tribune is eager enough, but like all young senators who acquire this posting, he is young and inexperienced. And as for our commanding legate, well let’s just say he does not exactly command respect from the ranks.”

“Who is he?”

“His name is Lucius Glabrio,” Metellus answered. “He means well, but his greatest weakness is his age. He’s at least twice as old as any of his peers in the Rhine army and probably has grandchildren my age! He also has little to no experience at all. Honestly, I have no idea how he got the position, given how the patricians will practically knife each other in the back in order to get command of a legion. I feel bad, because he’s an agreeable enough fellow and even friendly with the lads. Thing is, the men don’t need a friend. They need a commanding general who can lead them in battle. But since we don’t have that, it was decided we would influence the leadership within the legion as best we could, and that was by selecting a primus pilus that the centurions have confidence in and who our legionaries will follow. And just so you know, there wasn’t even a runoff vote. You garnered more than sixty percent of the vote right from the start. Your two competitors even consented that you were the best choice to guide the Twentieth in whatever endeavors the emperor may send us on.”

As his son spoke, Artorius read and
then reread the order, still in shock at how his life was suddenly turned upside down.

“This is all unexpected
,” Artorius said after a few moments of silence. “I honestly don’t know what to say.”

“I
t’s what you wanted, isn’t it?”

“It is,” Diana answered for him as she stepped through the archway. “Forgive me, but you two were gone for a while, and I thought I’d better check on you.” She then walked over and took her husband by the hand.

“You’re not opposed to leaving home for the Rhine again?” Artorius asked.

“Home is wherever you are, my dear,” Diana replied, kissing him gently.

“There will be much to do before we leave,” Artorius noted, still trying to grasp what had just transpired. He then added with a chuckle, “I don’t suppose we’ll be able to buy back our old manor house in Cologne.”

Among the dispatches Metellus brought with him were the official notifications to the government bureaucracies that oversaw the appointment of public magistrates, and in light of Artorius’ recall to the legions, a replacement was named for him as prefect of the Ostia vigiles almost immediately. The house
he and Diana stayed at was owned by the government and was for the prefect, so there was no need to worry about the strain that came from trying to sell. And at the legion fortress on the Rhine, the master centurion had his own rather spacious house, which would suit them unless they decided to find someplace larger away from the fortress.

“A rather painless transition,” Artorius’ replacement, whose name escaped him, noted.

“Just a matter of signing all the necessary documents that relieve me of responsibility for the vigiles and passing it on to you,” he replied. “My household goods will be ready to move within a week, though the army has given me a month to make preparations before I have to start my journey back to the Rhine.”

It was beautiful, sunny day, and they had the shutters open as well as the main doors leading from the office. The new prefect was looking out the window when he saw a young woman walking towards the entrance to their building.

“Well, fancy that,” he said with a grin. “There’s a pretty thing. Do you know her?”

“Can’t say that I do,” Artorius replied as the woman walked into the building. He went back to signing documents when one of the vigiles escorted the young woman in.

“This lass is here to see you, sir,” he said to Artorius.

“Very well.” He then looked to his replacement. “Wil
l you excuse us?”

“Of course. I think we’re pretty
much done here anyway.” He eyed the woman over before leaving.

Artorius then
made his own assessment. She was rather fetching and looked to be in her early twenties. She was very shapely, with auburn hair that reached just past her shoulders. There was something about her that seemed familiar to Artorius, but he could not place from where. For some reason, she kept looking at the floor and was fumbling with her hands. His eyes then fell upon a leather cord around her neck that seemed out of place with the rest of her garb. Whatever hung from it was tucked into her stola.

“Well
, my dear,” he said, folding his hands in front of him. “What is it I can do for you? To start, do you have a name?”

“My name is Marcia Marcella,” she replied, looking at him and swallowing hard. It seemed as if she was awestruck to be in his presence, which Artorius found made him uncomfortable. Her next words
nearly caused him to fall over. “My mother was Camilla Corda. I…I think I may be your daughter.”

Chapter V: Oceans of Time

***

Artorius paced back and forth behind his desk, hands clasped behind his back.
He had met the young woman once before, albeit twenty years prior, just after the death of her mother, who she resembled subtly. It was that resemblance that caused Artorius to sense a familiarity about her.

“You certainly are Camilla’s daughter,” he noted.
“You even wear your hair, and kind of carry yourself, like she did.”

A flood of memories came over him, though they were more long-lost feelings rather than remembrances of specific events. Even though Camilla had been his first love, twenty-four years and countless experiences had passed since he last saw her. He then noticed the small medallion hanging around her neck
that had fallen out of her stola. It was well-worn on its leather cord, but if one looked closely they could still see the image it bore of the goddess Diana.

“
This may sound strange,” Marcia said, following his gaze and grasping the medallion, “but I remember when you gave this to me. It’s silly, I know, given that I was barely three. I have no recollection of my mother and can only envision the heat of fire and clouds of black smoke from her funeral pyre. And yet, I have never forgotten the gallant soldier who gave me this.” She then palmed the old medallion reverently.

“Your mother gave that to me, just before I left for the legions,” Artorius explained. “
After she departed this life for the Plain of Asphodel, I felt it was only right that it pass on to you.”

“Then you do think you are my father?” Marcia asked, her eyes wide with hope.

Artorius’ expression and slight shake of the head dashed those thoughts. “No,” he replied. “Though I wish I was. When, precisely,  were you born?”

“The man whose house I lived in, for I never called him ‘father’, said I was born at the end of May, a year following the triumph of Germanicus Caesar.”

“And would he have any reason to lie to you about this?” Artorius persisted
, as Marcia slowly realized where the conversation was leading.

“No,” she said, swallowing hard. “I don’t think he knew of your existence nor did he care what transgressions my mother may have done. He divorced her soon after I was born, blaming her because I was not a boy.”

“If we can assume that your date of birth is as you’ve been told, then it is impossible for me to be your father. The Triumph of Germanicus was in May, a full year before you were born. I returned to the Rhine as soon as it ended, and I never saw your mother again. I am truly sorry, and believe me when I say that I felt a bond with you when I gave you that medallion. I had hoped at that time that you were mine, but I knew, even then, that it was impossible. Though I never saw your mother again, I also think that if there was any chance I had a daughter, she would have told me.”

“I understand,” Marcia said, her eyes downcast and wet with tears.

“Does Marcellus know you came to see me?” Artorius asked.

“Only if
he has eyes that can see from Tartarus,” Marcia scoffed. “For if my mother is where good spirits go in the afterlife, then he is surely where they are punished. He went mad years ago and, mercifully, left us last year.”

“I heard he was a wealthy man,” Artorius conjectured. “I take it that he left you well off?”

“He had a lot of debts,” the young woman replied. “I was forced to sell the house, along with many other things, in order to cover them. But yes, I was left with enough that I will not starve in the gutter. Forgive me, sir, for my intrusion.”

Clearly upset that her lifelong dream had been so abruptly shattered, s
he quickly made ready to leave and as she turned, she almost stepped into Metellus, who was walking through the open doorway.

“Beg your pardon, miss,” he said, placing a hand on her shoulder to steady her as she stumbled. “Not int
errupting anything, I hope.”

“Not at all,” Artorius said quickly. “Marcia is the daughter of an old friend. Marcia, may I present my son, Metellus.”

“Honored,” she said with a short curtsey before looking up into the face of the well-built and handsome centurion.

“Please, the pleasure is all mine,” Metellus replied taking her hands in his.

“Metellus, be a good man and escort her home,” Artorius directed. “She has had a bit of a rough morning and doubtless could use some company.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Marcia replied awkwardly, her voice shaking.

“Nonsense,” Metellus said, noting the look in his father’s eye. He then linked his arm in hers. “It would be a privilege. Come, we’ll follow the path along the shore. The sea air will do you good!”

Artorius smiled
as the two left, then collapsed into his chair and let out a deep sigh. After a few minutes, he was feeling cramped in the office he was soon to vacate, and so he stepped out onto the balcony as the cool breeze off the Mediterranean gusted into his face. In the distance, off to his left, he could just see Metellus walking with Marcia along the beach. He couldn’t tell for certain, but it almost looked as if he was holding her hand. Artorius nodded in approval and looked up to the heavens.

“Dear
Camilla,” he said. “Your spirit lives through her. If only I could have called her ‘daughter’.”

It had been a long journey for Alaric
as he stepped onto the shores of the southern coast of Britannia. As there were no direct passages available from Caesarea in Judea to the isle, he had had to gradually make his way west, stopping off in whatever port the ship he was on was bound for and then trying to bribe his way onto the next vessel. His years of experience as a mariner allowed him to sometimes offer his skills in lieu of payment. Still, it had taken several months for him to get as far as northern Hispania. And when no other ships could be found that were heading north, he made his way on foot to Burdigala
1
, a port city in Gaul. Here he had found a trireme bearing wine casks bound for the southern coast Britannia. Though he would have preferred finding a ship that would take him to the eastern shores near the Kingdom of the Brigantes, he was happy simply finding any ship that got him closer to his journey’s end. His offer to man an oar was readily accepted by the sailing master, and a week later he found himself standing on the shores of the isle he’d left seventeen years prior.

Though a German by birth, he had been raised in the house of
King Breogan of the Brigantes, many miles to the north. As one of the largest kingdoms in the land, their size and power alone ensured a relative sense of peace for their people. They were too large for other tribes to risk quarreling with them; they also did not bother their neighbors, as their lands were ample to the point that any further annexations would prove too cumbersome to administer.

By contrast, t
he lands to the south had seen much turmoil in Alaric’s absence, with the numerous tribes in a near-constant state of warfare. He had hear rumor while in Gaul that the kingdom of the Atrebates
2
had been conquered the year prior by the Catuvellauni, led by their king, Togodumnus and his brother, Caratacus. Indeed, the impacted dirt road Alaric traveled took him past the burned out remains of the Atrebates’ king, Verica’s former stronghold. The charred ruins had been left as a reminder of what happened to those who opposed Caratacus. Roman merchants had once held substantial trade relations with the kingdom, which was rich in silver and tin. As Caratacus detested the foreign purveyors, they had either fled or been driven off.

“Every corner of the world is savage and unforgiving,”
Alaric noted as he pulled his cloak close around him. He had been exposed to brutality and death at a young age, when his village in Germania was destroyed by the Roman Army and the inhabitants massacred. As far as he knew, he and his mother, Milla, were the only survivors. He had not seen his mother in many years, and he hoped she was well.

During his years in
both Rome and the east, he had witnessed similar cruelties that men seemed to inflict upon each other with reckless abandon. Men killed to gain power, as well as for sport. Alaric found it hypocritical that the Romans would refer to certain races as
barbaric
, whilst forcing men, women, and beasts to brutally slay each other for the amusement of the mob in vast arenas. In this sense, he found
civilization
to be, at best, a relative term, subject to one’s own interpretation. At worst, it was an agreed upon fiction.

There was one who had tried to teach a different way of thinking; the way of love and compassion for all, even one’s bitterest enemies. The man had been a teacher from the city of Nazareth in Judea. Alaric’s lifelong struggle to reconcile himself with the Romans who had destroyed his people led him to listen to the Nazarene’s teachings voraciously. And yet even this man of divine peace had met an ignominious and ghastly end. Betrayed by his own people, he was subjected to a savage scourging before he met his end via the crucifix. To be fair, Alaric knew that the blaming of the entire Jewish people for this noble man’s death was short-sighted and naïve. In reality, it had only been members of the Jewish religious leaders, the Sanhedrin, who had called for the Nazarene’s execution. The common people had loved him, and many still professed to follow his teachings. There were even those who professed that the teacher had risen from the dead. Whatever the truth or myth of these beliefs, even the Romans, who never shied from unleashing their cruelest of punishments, had been extremely reluctant to carry out the Nazarene’s execution.

These events had left
Alaric even more lost and confused. He spent the next eight years wandering the east, sometimes with friends and disciples of the Nazarene, other times alone. When the coin he had accumulated during his years as a mariner started to run low, he decided it was time to leave the east. Judea was every bit as volatile when he left as when he’d arrived, and he secretly wondered if the area would ever know peace. His months-long journey had at last returned him to the shores of the one place he had thought of as ‘home’. And yet, he found he was still searching, his years of experience providing more questions than answers.

He kept to himself, traveling with his hood over his head whether the weather was fair or foul. No one bothered him, not even the occasional band of armed men who he assumed were part of King Caratacus’ personal guard.
A week after passing through the occupied remnants of the Atrebates kingdom, he at last reached the northern lands that had been his boyhood home, ever since he and his mother fled the onslaught of the legions. Though Isurium Brigantum was the capitol of the Brigante Kingdom
3
, the village Alaric now approached was about twenty miles to the south on the border of Corieltauvi
4
. As he walked along the hard packed dirt path, which was slick from the spring rains, he saw a pair of riders approaching him. Though devoid of armor, both men were armed, each carrying a lance and oblong shield. Both wore earthen colored tunics, belted around the middle, and each had a bronze helmet hanging off their saddle packs. They were relatively clean, unlike the grubby famers and laborers Alaric had seen, and he suspected they were part of the king’s guard. They stopped when they noticed him, one of the men eyeing him suspiciously.

“You’re a stranger to these lands,” the man said. He spoke in his native ton
gue, which Alaric had not used in many years. It took him a minute to form his words, during which time he could not help but think the horseman looked familiar to him.

“Not a stranger,” he replied at last. “I’ve simply been gone for many years.”

“Indeed.” The man dismounted and walked towards Alaric, who suddenly broke into a fit of laughter. “You find something in jest, or are you completely mad?”

“Not mad,” Alaric said, smiling broadly for what felt like the first time in years. His laughter was brought on by his recognizing of the man who stood before him. Despite his longer hair that was pulled back, and a lengthy mustache that ran well past the corners of his mouth, Alaric still recognized him. “It’s been many years, Landon.”

“You know my name?” The man looked at him while trying to recall where they had known each other. His eyes then grew wide in realization, for his childhood friend was more recognizable, as he was devoid of facial hair and had kept his hair cropped shorter. “By Belenus…Alaric!”