James Mace - Soldier of Rome - The Centurion

For reasons she could not comprehend, Diana felt compelled to visit these men. While her cousin had wished to protect his wife from seeing the horrors of war’s aftermath, at least he had a wife! Some of the legionaries had common-law ‘wives’ or significant others, though many more had no one. They suffered in silence and were all alone in the world, except for those who lay next to them in agony. Many of these were little more than boys of seventeen or eighteen, who had enlisted in the legions only a few months before.

A horrible stench greeted her as she reached the hospital. Several dozen soldiers, mostly auxiliaries, lay on tattered cloaks or torn blankets on the ground. Though they had fought just as hard and valiantly, legionaries would always take priority over their non-citizen compatriots. It was a type of bias that was simply accepted. The septic smell made Diana gag, though she fought to keep her composure. Proximo had accompanied her and was keeping a respectful distance behind his mistress. A medic was sitting on a wooden crate outside, his head resting in his right hand, while a soiled rag hung from his left.

“My lady,” he said tiredly, unable to stand up. “You know this is no place for you.”

“My husband comes here every day, what do you mean it’s not my place?” she asked sternly.

“My apologies, ma’am,” the medic replied. “It’s just…we are not equipped to handle this many wounded. No one can see what goes on in there and maintain their sanity!”

With a nod of understanding, Diana stepped over an auxiliary, who was holding a filthy rag over his abdomen, which reeked of infection. Her hand came over her mouth as she stared into the darkened hall of despair and pain. The most badly injured soldiers lay on bunks, stacked three high. Others simply curled up on the floor. Their companions had brought them bedding and blankets from their billets, though for the auxiliaries, whose forts were scattered along the Rhine, there was nothing for them but what they brought. Orderlies carried pots for the wounded to urinate or defecate in, seeing as how these men were unable to so much as walk to the latrines that were just two blocks away. Some of the wounded were in such a state of fever and delirium that they had no control over their bodily functions and the room stank of excrement.

Diana crept along the wall and looked into the other room where doctors and medics performed surgery and did the actual treatment of wounds. One poor man was lying on a table, his face clammy and pale, lips already turning blue. Gangrene had spread through his body, like so many of the others who had been badly wounded. He was fighting to stop the violent convulsions that sent shockwaves of pain through is broken body. Another soldier, perhaps the man’s Centurion or Optio, stood over him, clutching his hand. The officer looked at the doctor who, with a look of emotional exhaustion, simply shook his head.

“I’m sorry, sir,” the wounded legionary stammered, biting hard as another spasm sent torrents of pain through him.

“No,” the officer replied gently, shaking his head. “You have nothing to be sorry for.”

“Please…please tell me I fought well,” the man pleaded. His eyes showed that he knew his time in this life was coming to an end.

Diana stood in the corner with her arms wrapped around herself, sobbing quietly.

“You fought like a lion!” the officer replied forcefully, bringing a brief smile from the legionary through the convulsions and pain. “It took half a dozen of them to bring you down, and two of those bastards fell by your blade!”

“Y…you’re the only father…I’ve ever had,” the young soldier gasped. “I…I…I wanted to make you proud…” His eyes rolled into the back of his head, his tongue protruding from his mouth as his body thrashed about. His bowels let loose and the pungent odor mixed with the stench of rot that permeated the room.

“Sleep well, son,” the officer whispered into the ear of the now still legionary. He attempted to close the man’s eyes, though there was nothing to be done about the protruding tongue, which was bitten nearly in two. As he stood and took a deep breath, Diana recognized the man as Centurion Dominus, the man who had replaced Vitruvius as the Commander of the Third Cohort. He turned to leave and noticed Diana standing there. His face was ashen, and all he could do was give a short nod. This was the only gesture that showed he saw her, for his eyes were distant and lost.

“One more name to add to our call to the fallen,” he said quietly as he stumbled from the room.

“Can I help you, my lady?” a medic asked, startling Diana, who was staring at the dead legionary that orderlies were carrying towards the back door.

A bucket of water was dumped onto the table and it was quickly wiped off with a bloody rag before a less gravely injured soldier was lifted onto it.

“No,” she replied, trying to compose herself. “It is I who should be helping you. What is it you need?”

“Well, to be honest,” the medic began, not sure if he should speak candidly to her, but he took a deep breath and went on. “To be honest, we are terribly short of clean bandages and rags, as you can plainly see. Not enough hot water either. And those poor auxiliaries, they haven’t got so much as a proper cot, or even a pillow and nice blanket to protect them from the cold. Gods know how many more of them will perish in the freezing night! Nights in Germania, even in summer, are not kind to those who have to sleep out in that; to say nothing of their being weakened already by their wounds!”

Diana pitied the poor man. Even though he was not a legionary and did not take part in the fighting, he had to deal with the aftermath. If given the choice, most legionaries would sooner fight a thousand battles, rather than deal with the abject suffering that followed a single engagement. Diana nodded and then turned to Proximo, who stood loyally by, though his own senses were assailed by what they had witnessed.

“Return to the manor,” she directed. “Have the servants gather every spare blanket, bed sheet, towel, and whatever cloth we may have lying around. Have them boil water, as much as they can, fill every spare vat and jug in my possession. Also…tell my husband where to find me.”

“Yes, my lady,” Proximo replied, his face creased in worry. As soon as he had left, Diana turned to the orderly once more. She removed her stola, so that she was only wearing her tunic vest and riding breaches.

“It seems you are short staffed, as well,” she asserted as she proceeded to tear her stola into long strips.

Artorius was surprised by all the activity in his house. A cart that the gardener used was piled high with sheets and blankets. Wine vats and large clay jugs were stacked alongside with steam escaping from them.

“What’s going on?” he asked a slave, who was using a large rope to hold everything in place.

“My lady’s orders, sir,” the man replied averting his eyes downward. “This is to go to the hospital. We were also told to let you know that that is where you can find her.”

“The hospital?” Artorius asked to no one in particular. He had been there every day since their return from Frisia, visiting his wounded legionaries. He knew the squalid conditions that infected the place, and the thought of his wife being there horrified him. Suddenly, injuries to his side and leg seemed to cry out as he leaned against his vine stick, a realization coming to him. He hung his head, deeply ashamed. He had returned to the comforts of his manor house, not once thinking about how he could use his ample resources to help his men. Diana had spent five minutes in that hellhole and she knew what needed to be done. He cursed himself and started the mile-long trek back to the fortress.