James Mace - Soldier of Rome - Journey to Judea

Diana’s feelings were mixed at best. She was glad to be leaving Judea and anxious to get back to Roman culture and society. By the same token, this was not how she envisioned things coming to an end for her husband. It upset her greatly that Artorius had given so much of himself for so long, and now he was being relegated to an administrative position in disgrace. Disgrace . The word struck Diana hard, for she knew that Artorius had had to make a split-second decision and had done what he felt was right. Her thoughts were interrupted as Metellus opened the door to the room where servants were packing Diana’s personal belongings.

“I’m not disturbing you, am I, Mother?” he asked as he cautiously stepped in.

Diana smiled and kissed him gently on the cheek. “You know you’re not required to address me that way.”

“Yes, you tell me that all the time,” the young decanus said with a smile of his own. “And I always remind you that I find it appropriate to do so.” He paused and noted the sad demeanor in his adoptive mother’s face.

“He did the right thing,” Metellus asserted. “I don’t give a damn what Vitellius or anyone else says. The fact that in six years, gods know how many skirmishes, and a final pitched battle, the cohort never suffered a single fatality. That has to count for something!”

“I know,” Diana replied, shaking her head and stepping towards the doorway that led to the small balcony. She gazed out towards the sea, where ships came and went from the Caesarea harbor. “I wasn’t there, but I cannot believe he would order his men to attack if he did not sense an immediate danger.”

“Had he not done so, the Samaritans might have seized the initiative,” Metellus concurred. “The loyalties of the auxiliaries have always been sketchy, and had the enemy been given a chance to attack on their terms, I do not know that they would have held. I think they attacked because we took advantage of the Samaritans’ shock at the loss of their ‘prophet’. What enrages me is that Artorius and Pilate shoulder the blame for the incident, yet no one has placed blame upon those Samaritan bastards who massed on their supposed holy mountain armed for battle!”

“Any word on what will happen to all of you?” Diana asked, changing the subject. She continued to stare into the sea.

Metellus shrugged. “We’re all being sent back to our former legions,” he replied. “As a decanus it shouldn’t be too terribly difficult for me to find a vacancy. For the centurions it is going to be tricky. The First Italic Cohort was its own entity, and with its disbandment there will be an excess number of centurions. I’m guessing that final dispositions won’t be made until we at least return to Rome. Vitellius has already decreed that none of us will lose any rank, so they’ll have to work something out.”

“The seas are treacherous this time of year,” Diana observed. “I suspect we will be traveling by land. Perhaps we can take a holiday in Greece, like Pilate and Claudia had intended.”

“Not a bad idea,” Metellus concurred. “From what I heard, we’re not expected back until spring at the earliest, so travelling at a methodical pace will give the powers in Rome a chance to sort out the rosters of the legions and find us all assignments.”

The door opened again and Artorius entered without paying any mind to the servants who were still working at a feverish pace. He carried a pair of scrolls, one of which bore the imperial seal.

“Ah, good, you’re both here,” he stated. “Word hasn’t gotten out yet, but it will soon enough.”

“Word about what?” Metellus asked, his arms folded across his chest.

“It’s not about Pilate and Claudia, is it?” Diana asked, her face creased in concern for her sister and brother-in-law.

“This first letter comes from them,” Artorius answered, presenting the scroll without the imperial seal. “His meeting with the emperor went as well as could be expected, given the circumstances.”

“So Tiberius pardoned him?” Metellus asked.

“It wasn’t Tiberius.”

Villa Jovis, Isle of Capri

16 March, 37 A.D.

“The emperor has risen!” the slave said with eyes wide in disbelief. “He’s asking for his supper, and he wants his ring back.”

Caligula’s face twisted in anger and embarrassment. A number of senators had gathered at the Imperial Villa on Capri when they heard that Tiberius was close to breathing his last. Many were anxious for the man they had so long hated to finally pass into the afterlife. In Gaius Caligula, the last surviving son of the great Germanicus Caesar, they saw hope for a new golden age. Indeed, they were about to hail the young man, who carried Tiberius’ ring, as their new emperor. Now that word had come that the old emperor was, in fact, still alive, they were instantly filled with fear. What would Tiberius do to them should he hear they were celebrating his demise? Caligula signaled with his head for the Praetorian Prefect, Naevius Suetorius Macro, to follow him.

“I need you to take care of this, now!” Caligula growled under his breath.

“It will be done… Caesar ,” Naevius replied with a wicked grin.

Caligula returned the look and nodded. The burly praetorian popped the knuckles of his hands and briskly walked towards the wing where Tiberius lay, apparently not dead.

Tiberius was, indeed, still very much alive, even if he had fallen into a temporary stupor that had fooled his great-nephew and his minions into thinking he had expired. He laughed at how absurd they must now feel! He had sent a servant to fetch his ring back, as he did not want that disgusting little man to defile it. It mattered not to Tiberius that Gaius Caligula was the son of Germanicus. He lamented that he had been slow in realizing just how wicked Caligula was, but he would make things right. He wasn’t sure who would be his successor, but if he had his way, he’d remove that debauched little man from his will.

The door opened, and Naevius bolted into the room. The look in his eyes immediately betrayed his intentions. It was then that Tiberius realized there would be no making things right. He could only hope that Caligula would not last long on the imperial throne, and perhaps posterity could forgive him for placing him in such a dangerous position. It would prove a vain hope.

“Come to do your master’s bidding,” the emperor observed. His face was twisted in a defiant sneer.

Naevius was big and strong, but Tiberius would not go quietly into the next life. The praetorian strode forward and started to draw his gladius. With surprising speed, Tiberius lunged forward and slapped him hard across the face.

“Don’t be stupid, man!” he snapped as Naevius took a step back, surprised. “If you cut me, it will be clear I was murdered! At least try and be subtle about it! Here, use this…” He quickly moved to the bed and grabbed a large pillow, which he threw at the prefect. This caught Naevius off guard, and as he reached up to catch it, Tiberius stepped in and kicked him hard in the groin. Naevius fell to his knees, and the emperor punched him hard twice across the temple. Though he felt a surge of his old strength returning, Tiberius knew it could not last. The praetorian was much larger than him, wearing armor, and if need be, he would use his weapon.

“Come on,” Tiberius goaded, taking a step back. “Damn yourself for eternity and betray your emperor!”

Naevius gave a growl of anger at the humiliation this old man was putting him through. He gave a shout and tackled Tiberius, slamming him onto the bed with a crash. The emperor grabbed his neck in both hands as Naevius tried to strangle him in turn. Tiberius was still surprisingly resilient, but Naevius knew he would outlast him, even as his face turned purple from exertion and the emperor’s attempts to choke him. Tiberius then released the grip of his right hand and punched Naevius repeatedly in the face. The praetorian kept squeezing even as his left eye closed shut from the repeated blows. As Tiberius ceased in his strikes, Naevius released his grip.