James Mace - Soldier of Rome - The Centurion

“Then you will lead us back,” the Centurion replied with an approving nod. He then turned and addressed the rest of the Century. “We’ll rest here for an hour. Squad leaders, make sure your men eat and get plenty of water. Also check everyone’s feet for blisters.” He then found a shade tree and stretched out his lower back and his legs before sitting down beneath it. He pulled a hunk of bread and dried beef from his hip pouch and took a long pull off his water bladder. As he took in a deep breath and enjoyed the cooler breeze coming up from the valley, Praxus hunkered down in front of him.

“The lads are finding their fighting spirit again,” he said approvingly.

Artorius took another bite of bread and downed some more water before answering.

“It never left them,” he replied. “Just went dormant for a while. How could it not after what we’ve been through? They need to build their confidence back slowly while allowing their bodies to heal properly. Take that soldier who violated his light duty restrictions in order to be with us. There is no quit in him. He will recover faster than some of us who may or may not have been injured as badly as he was. While I do not condone men violating their restrictions set forth by the medics, it makes me glad to see this kind of resolve once more. I also placed him at the head of the column going back so he can set a more measurable pace for himself, rather than trying to keep up with the rest of us.”

“I just wonder if we’ll ever be at full strength again,” Praxus mused as he sat back against the same tree. “I know a century almost never has all of its billets filled, I just would like to see us where we were before Braduhenna.”

“Never happen,” Artorius replied. “Oh, we’ll get most of our numbers back, but the century will never be the same again. The copper wreath that adorns our standard came at a terrible price, as do the laurels all units receive from battle. The men who replace our absent friends will have to earn the right to march under the Signum of the Second Century! So no, old friend, the century will never be what it was before. Through hell fire, death, and pain we have forged her into something better. The men may not realize it just yet, but they will.”

The former tax collector for Frisia was nodding on his couch after a late night of drinking and some amazing nubile wenches, when a ferocious banging was heard loudly from the front of his villa. Several servants rushed to open the vibrating oak door. Olennius was shocked to see legionaries waiting at the door. Senator Gallus had set him up in comfortable quarters and had assured him that he would find a suitable assignment for him soon enough. So when he heard the loud banging on the door at an hour past midnight it took him completely by surprise. Upon further examination, he saw that it wasn’t legionaries that stood outside; it was the Emperor’s own Praetorian Guard.

“Olennius?” the Decanus at the head of about a dozen men asked.

“Who wants to know?” the magistrate sneered defiantly as he ambled toward the Decanus. “And what business have you banging on people’s doors at this hour?”

Before he could say another word, the Decanus slammed his fist into Olennius’ gut, crumpling him to the floor where he vomited some expensive wine. The Praetorian was a big man, one who was not used to having people talk back to him.

“My business is the Emperor’s!” he snarled as Olennius fought for breath. “And so is yours.”

“But Senator Gallus promised…” Olennius’ words were cut short as he was dragged to his feet and met by a hard cuff across the side of the head, the soldier’s brass cuffs opening a nice slice on his forehead.

The Decanus then grabbed him by the hair, pulling his head back, and leaned down so that his face was inches from the magistrate’s.

“Senator Gallus does not give orders to the Emperor, or to us!” he snapped. “Now we can do this the easy way and my lads here will escort you to the Imperial Palace. Or we can do it the hard way, which I’m sure you don’t want to hear; your choice.”

Olennius swallowed hard and nodded as the Decanus tightened his grip on his greasy hair and slammed him to the wall.

“Now was that so hard, sir? Be a good man and step between the two ranks of Praetorians. Don’t want anything happening to you at night in the middle of Rome. It can be dangerous out there,” he sneered.

The Praetorians marched on either side of him as they headed to the docks. Olennius meant to ask about the Imperial Palace but then he remembered, the Emperor was no longer in Rome. It was to Capri, Olennius would be taken. He hoped that Tiberius was feeling merciful by the time he arrived.

“What is this?” Artorius asked. Seventeen young men stood rigid in front of the Century’s barracks.

“You tell me,” Dominus replied with irritation. “I figured it was another one of your recruiting drives. These all arrived from the depot this morning, asking…no, begging to be assigned to you.”

“Dominus, I haven’t done any personal recruiting drives this year,” Artorius replied with genuine surprise.

“Well, Macro said that if they want to follow the legendary Centurion Artorius, who was he to deny them?” The Cohort Commander grinned as he finished.

“Dominus, I’m hardly a legend,” Artorius retorted.

“Then your powers of observation aren’t what I thought they were,” Dominus replied, walking away.

Artorius exhaled audibly as his mind raced. He had not expected to receive any new recruits. Fortunately, a legionary from the Century happened to walk past him. He grabbed the man quickly.

“Fetch Optio Praxus!” he ordered. “Tell him we need to arrange billeting and training schedules for seventeen new recruits.”

“Sir!” the legionary acknowledged, noticing the new men for the first time.

Artorius then stood tall and breathed in deeply. All he wore was his tunic and belt. He did not have his gleaming armor and polished helmet like he normally did when addressing new recruits. He didn’t even have his vine stick, the very symbol of his office! In spite of that, these young men were in awe of him. He always joked that it was his large, muscular frame that intimidated people; however, for perhaps the first time he realized that there was more to it than that.

Slowly he walked the line of recruits, silent and with his hands clasped behind his back. They were a typical lot and still in civilian garb. Some had come from the cities, others were farmers, some the sons of merchants, and there were those whose slovenly appearance told of abject poverty. For these men, their names alone allowed them the honor of serving in the legions. Like all new candidates, they varied in age, though most were very young. The youngest were seventeen, the minimum age by law for a citizen to enlist. The oldest looked to be around twenty-five. The recruits did not know whether to be excited or terrified at the prospect of serving under the legendary Centurion Artorius. It mattered not. Soon they would be subjected to the harsh rigors of recruit training, where only sheer intestinal fortitude and dedication would see them through. Many, perhaps all, would sooner or later feel the wrath of his discipline via the vine stick. But then Artorius had taken his share of beatings as a recruit, and even later as a legionary. Finished with his assessment, he walked slowly back to the center.

“Recruits,” he spoke. He was not yelling, yet his voice boomed deeply and carried far. “I am Centurion Titus Artorius Justus, Commander of the Third Cohort’s Second Century!”

The Imperial Palace, Isle of Capri