James Mace - Soldier of Rome - The Centurion

Amke had a gloom about her that failed to dissipate. King Tabbo had noticed it ever since Braduhenna. He could scarcely blame the girl. The Daughters of Freyja had paid dearly for their valor in trying to protect her uncle, the King. Nearly half had been slain, with most of the rest badly injured for their efforts. Every day Amke visited the grove dedicated to her matron deity. It was there that Tabbo found her kneeling before an altar, her face blank, eyes shut.

“If you wish to honor the goddess, you must allow yourself to move on,” the King said gently.

Amke’s eyes remained closed. “I am not worthy to serve the goddess,” she said after a brief pause. She then opened her eyes, but kept them fixed straight ahead. “My sisters and I were charged with defending the King, and we failed. Freyja found us unworthy and abandoned us at the end.”

“You should not say such things,” Tabbo soothed as he sat on a log near where Amke knelt.

At last she looked up at him. Though her eye had since reopened, her face was still discolored and partially swollen from the blow she had taken during the battle. The bandage was off her arm, as well, but the scar left behind was fearful to look upon. While her clothing covered it, the gash on her side was still a sickly, oozing mess, even as it was slowly healing. Amke now walked with a limp that she was very self conscious of. She quietly wondered if she would ever be able to walk properly, let alone wield a weapon.

“I mean no disrespect to your person, sire,” she replied. “I know that my uncle chose you to be his successor after my cousin was killed. You are a good King and have saved our people…”

Tabbo raised a hand and Amke looked down.

“Please, I know what you mean,” he replied. “Dibbald Segon was the greatest of Kings. I am but a humble warrior, unworthy to follow him. But follow him I did, because he asked me to do so. I also know that he wished for me to look after those of his family that remained. Besides your aunt, Queen Femke, you are all that is left of the family of Dibbald Segon.”

“And it is a line that will end with me,” Amke emphasized. “Remember, I am of the Daughters of Freyja. Our place was by the King.”

“It is still your place,” Tabbo replied, lifting Amke’s chin with his hand. His smile softened her hardened gaze. “Your King calls upon you, and the other Daughters, to stand by his side.”

“We are but few in number, sire.”

“I will take your few over a host of lesser mortals,” Tabbo emphasized. “Amke, you are the last of the Segon line, and as such you will always hold a place of honor in my household. I will not command you to take your position as the head of the Daughters of Freyja, though if you wish to do so you will be most welcomed back.”

“It is an honor I accept,” Amke replied, allowing herself to smile for the first time since Braduhenna.

Tabbo helped her to her feet and walked arm in arm with her back to the capital. She still limped badly, and by the time they returned he was practically carrying her.

“I miss them,” she said as he set her down on the bed inside her house. The King sat on a chair and looked at her quizzically.

“Who do you miss?”

“All of them,” Amke replied. “My sisters who fell at Braduhenna, Sjoerd, my dear cousin, Klaes, Uncle Dibbald, even that deviant bastard Lourens.”

“Lourens was an honorable man,” Tabbo chastised. “He may have had feelings for you, but he never once tried to act upon them. And besides, what man would not have longed to be caressed by one such as you?”

Amke looked down, embarrassed by the King’s statement.

“Sire, you flatter me too much,” she replied. “I am scarred and broken now. I doubt any man would want me. But you are right; Lourens did stay faithful to his wife and never let his feelings for me bring disgrace to his family or mine. I guess that’s why I miss him. He was a good man. He died by my uncle’s side, refusing to leave him.”

It was now fall, and every day Artorius checked on his wounded men that were still in the hospital. Every few days one or two legionaries were returned to the Century. These men would be placed on light duty for various amounts of time, depending on the extent of their injuries. Many would require months of rehabilitation to regain full use of their bodies once more. Eight would never fight again and were awaiting medical discharges from the army. This left the Second Century critically short on manpower. Fifty-one names remained on the rolls, though only twenty were now fit for full duty, another fifteen had returned to the unit but were still on medical restrictions, including Artorius and Praxus. Rufio and Magnus had stepped forward and carried much of the burden of running the Century for them.

The Centurion was finally able to walk unassisted. He had lost a tremendous amount of weight, and he constantly felt weak and out of breath. That would change soon, he kept telling himself. He had started back into his workout routine, though the weights he used were much lighter than before. His side ached whenever he tried running, so for the time being he would go on extended marches with some of the men who were also recuperating. It was after one of these short marches, only about ten miles that Artorius returned to find another of the wounded waiting outside his office.

“This is an auxiliary trooper who requested to see you,” Rufio explained. “He said you would know him.”

At first Artorius did not recognize the man. He then realized who the man was and nodded. The trooper looked much different from the last time they had seen each other. Indeed, this was the first time the Centurion had seen him without either helmet or a face covered in blood. He nodded and signaled for the auxiliary to follow him into his office. As soon as he sat down behind his desk the man snapped a sharp salute.

“Trooper Metellus Artorianus reporting, sir.”

The name struck hard at Artorius, for the man had his brother’s first name. There was more to it as well.

“Your surname is the adoptive variation of my own,” he observed. “We’re not related, are we?” He grinned as he said this, his hands clasped behind his head as he leaned back in his chair.

The young man was not smiling. Instead, he swallowed hard before answering, his eyes straight ahead as if he was afraid to look at the Centurion directly.

“I…I am your nephew, sir.”

Artorius fell over backwards in his chair.

Artorius paced back and forth, his hands clasped behind his back. The auxiliary trooper’s remark had sent him falling backwards out of his chair. It was impossible; his brother Metellus had died childless. Surely if he had had a son Artorius would have found out by now!

“You say you are my nephew,” the Centurion said at last, as he stood facing the young man. “Do explain…and for gods’ sake stand easy, man!”

The trooper breathed deeply as he relaxed his stance and finally found the courage to look Artorius in the eye. Artorius tried to see if there were any similarities between this young man and himself. Could he see his brother in him? In spite of the years that had passed, he still knew his brother’s face. There could be a resemblance…but he immediately ceased such ludicrous thoughts.

“I am the son of Metellus Artorius Maximus, Legionary of the Seventeenth; killed in action, Teutoburger Wald. My mother’s name was Rowana.”

“Was?” Artorius asked. “She is dead then?”

The younger Metellus nodded.

“She died of an illness last year. It was only at the last that she told me to follow my destiny. All my life she never wanted me to join the Roman army and risk sharing the same fate as my father. She never married, and still loved him to the end of her days. Yet she cursed Rome for taking him from her.