James Mace - Soldier of Rome - The Centurion

The last time he had been in this office he had barged in on Master Centurion Calvinus. He promised himself that he would behave with a little more decorum this time. This was his first dealing with Macro since he had become the Master Centurion, and it was hard to believe that Artorius had been his Optio in the Second Century a mere three years before.

The three men entered and stood with their hands clasped behind their backs as Macro stood behind his desk reviewing some scrolls. As the light of the late afternoon sun shone through the parchment, Artorius was able to recognize that it was a roster of his Century.

“Stand easy, men,” Macro said as he turned and faced them. He then addressed Artorius. “Your Century suffered the highest percentage of casualties at Braduhenna.” There was an air of sadness on his face.

Artorius looked down for a second and tried to shake off the sudden bout of depression that struck him.

“So they tell me, sir,” he replied stiffly.

“I see that you have fewer men fit for duty on your roster than any other century within the legion,” Macro continued. “It is because of this that I have left your legionaries alone as we attempt to rebuild the Fourth Cohort.”

Artorius shuddered at the mentioning of the cursed cohort, and by the look on Macro’s face it seemed that Magnus and Dominus had the same reaction.

“Look, whether you think the Fourth was cursed or not,” the Master Centurion remarked, correctly judging their feelings, “we cannot leave this legion minus an entire cohort. Now the recruit depots will be working overtime to send us replacements. However, I cannot have an entire cohort made up of rookies who don’t know their ass from their elbow. We’ve pulled experienced legionaries from most of the other cohorts, as well as promoted some of the Decanii. What we lack are candidates for Centurions. Rome is sending us two, one of whom is still an Optio, and therefore, will be brand new to the position. The First Legion is also sending us one of their experienced Options that is ready for promotion.

“The reason I brought the three of you here is because my next decision affects the Second Century, and as the Cohort Commander, Dominus needs to be kept informed. I said I was going to leave your legionaries alone, and this is still true. However, as much as I hate to leave you further shorthanded, especially amongst your best leaders, we need all the experience we can get in the Fourth.” Macro’s eyes then fell on Magnus. “Therefore, I am promoting Tesserarius Magnus to the rank of Centurion.”

“Holy shit, I thought for a moment he was going to offer you the Pilus Prior of the Fourth!” Magnus said with a cheerful laugh as they left the Principia.

Dominus had left them, stating he had other business to attend to.

“Never happen,” Artorius replied with a shake of his head, his grin just as broad as his friend’s. “I’m proud of you, my friend. The way you handled yourself at Braduhenna, they would have been mad not to have offered you the Centurionate.”

“I did what I had to do,” Magnus replied, his composure suddenly dark and sober. Braduhenna will always be a blackened scar on the souls of those who survived it.

“Well, I’m glad to finally have you as my peer rather than my subordinate,” Artorius said, attempting to lighten the mood.

“That means a lot, Artorius,” Magnus replied with a friendly smile, “though for what it’s worth, it has been an honor to serve under you. I hope I will be able to again someday.”

“Fat chance,” Artorius said. “Two Pilus Prior positions opened in the Fourth and the Sixth, and I wasn’t exactly on the short list for either one of them.”

“The Sixth?” Magnus asked. “What happened to Agricola?”

“He was promoted to the First Cohort, which I am glad to see. Agricola is one of the better Cohort Commanders within the Legion.”

“Still, I cannot imagine why you aren’t even being considered for one of those positions,” Magnus persisted.

Artorius was grinning, though there was a trace of bitterness behind the smile.

“You forget how I came to the Centurionate,” he responded. “My deceased predecessor still has powerful friends, to include several magistrates and even a couple of senators. One senator alone can stall my career indefinitely, no matter how much our Primus Pilus would like to mentor me for something higher.”

“Well, that stinks of buzzard shit!” Magnus surmised.

Artorius shrugged. “I was twenty-seven when I made Centurion, three years shy of the minimum age requirement. Whatever amount of political luck I may have had, it all got expended in one fell swoop. I dare say that if I retire at thirty-seven, or even forty-seven for that matter, I will still mostly likely remain the Centurion of the Third Cohort’s Second Century.”

“You sell yourself short,” the Nordic Centurion-select chided. “I think you have more friends in the right places than you realize. You’re just too damned daft to recognize it or use them to your advantage! Besides, I intend to keep progressing through the ranks myself, but not ahead of you. I prefer to sit back and watch you stumble for a while, that way you can learn all the difficult lessons for me.”

As he returned to the Century’s billet, a somber, though much awaited sight greeted him. A large ox cart sat outside, and Artorius recognized the man who sat on the bench. He knew what was beneath the canvas tarp on the back of the cart.

“Centurion Artorius!” the man said boisterously. His demeanor changed when he saw the mournful look on the Centurion’s face.

“It is done, then?” Artorius asked.

The man nodded. “Exactly as you specified. I worked many long hours to get this to you in time. Luckily, I happened to have a sufficient slab of marble readily available and did not have to place an order with the quarries. Would have taken a month to get something like that delivered!”

“Wait here,” Artorius replied, his expression unchanged. He went inside and found a locked box that he kept in his quarters. Inside was a large sum of gold and silver coins, many of which had been donated by friends, though the majority was his own. He walked outside and placed the box on the ox cart.

“As we agreed,” he explained, “half upfront and the other half upon delivery. Follow me and I will show you where it goes.”

He led the cart to just beyond the main gate, where a pair of legionaries stood, ever on guard duty. There was a small stream that ran alongside the fortress, and it was on a small hill near this, that Artorius had already selected. A rectangular hole had been dug to the measurements he had specified. As the cart came to a stop, he walked around behind it and lifted the tarp. Underneath were several slabs of ornate marble. They were slotted so that they would fit together into an altar that was almost the height of a grown man. Such a work of art had been extremely expensive, though Artorius did not care. He would have given his last denarius to see his fallen mentor properly honored. The altar would have a semi-enclosed box on top, where a bust of Centurion Vitruvius would be displayed. It was coming from a separate sculptor and had not yet arrived.

Artorius was explaining to the stone carver and his slaves how the monument was to be arranged. Just below where the bust would be placed a small niche had been carved into the front slab. This is where he would place Vitruvius’ ashes. The bronze tablet that would enclose the front of the space holding his ashes was already in his quarters. On the tablet was inscribed:

Marcus Vitruvius

Centurion Pilus Prior

Killed in Action, Age 41

XX Legion, III Cohort

Soldier of Rome

“He would have liked that,” a woman’s voice said behind him.