James Mace - Soldier of Rome - The Sacrovir Revolt

It has been three years since the wars against Arminius and the Cherusci. Gaius Silius, Legate of the Twentieth Legion, is concerned that the barbarians, though shattered by the war, may be stirring once again. He also seeks to confirm the rumors regarding Arminius’ death. What Silius does not realize is that there is a new threat to the Empire, but it does not come from beyond the frontier; it is coming from within, where a disenchanted nobleman looks to sow the seeds of rebellion in Gaul.

Legionary Artorius has greatly matured during his five years in the legions. He has become stronger in mind; his body growing even more powerful. Like the rest of the legion, he is unaware of the shadow growing well within the Empire’s borders, where a disaffected nobleman seeks to betray the Emperor Tiberius. A shadow looms; one that looks to envelope the province of Gaul as well as the Rhine Legions. The year is 20 A.D.

Fortress of the Twentieth Legion, Cologne, Germania

February, 20 A.D.

It was a brisk winter morning; the sun cast its light on the semi-frozen ground. Snow crunched underfoot as the two legionaries eyed each other. Artorius and Vitruvius had faced each other on the sparring field on the first Thursday of every month for several years now. Originally, they sparred once a week, but Vitruvius’ duties as the century’s optio, combined with the sheer beating Artorius’ body was suffering, had caused the men to cut back their bouts. Artorius was baffled that in five years he had not once defeated his adversary and mentor. He swore that Vitruvius was not even human. Both men wore a standard-issue legionary helmet, while wielding a practice gladius and wicker shield. The weight of these was twice that of service weapons, though both men hardly noticed.

Artorius was a strong young man of twenty-two years and had been in the army for five. He was of average height, though his frame was massive, wrought with powerful muscle, his biceps threatening to tear through the sleeves of his tunic. His brutal physical strength and skill in battle were becoming legendary. He learned his lessons so well from his mentor that he had made a name for himself, not just within his century and cohort, but within the entire legion. Many had challenged him to similar sparring sessions, only to be dispatched like amateurs. Even soldiers from the elite First Cohort held a large amount of respect for the young legionary. Only one man potentially stood between him and the title of Legion Champion . Optio Vitruvius had held that title for so long it had fallen into disuse; there was no one in the entire Twentieth who could come close to defeating him.

Vitruvius was of similar build to Artorius. Though he was slightly taller, he looked to be as muscular. He possessed the quickness and agility of a cat and was able to wield his gladius with terrifying speed and skill. Unlike most veterans, his body was devoid of any noticeable scars from battle. Secretly, he hoped Artorius would best him someday. That would show that his young protégé had learned his lessons and there was nothing left to teach him.

More than three years before, during the triumphal games in Rome that followed the defeat of Arminius and the Germanic tribes, Vitruvius had killed a gladiator that many considered to be invincible. He had dispatched the man with such contemptuous ease it was still the talk of the legion to that day, to say nothing of the enormous wagers won by the friends and associates of Vitruvius. Indeed, Artorius had been brave enough to wager an entire stipend of seventy-five denarii, a third of his yearly wages, and had walked away with a considerable sum following Vitruvius’ victory. The gladiator’s owner, a weasel of a Gaul named Julius Sacrovir, had lost a large quantity of his fortune that day. He left Rome screaming curses towards Vitruvius, as well as the entire Roman Army.

“By the gods, but it is cold!” Artorius muttered as he blew hard into his hands; he despised being cold. Even five years on the Rhine frontier had failed to thicken his blood. He wished they could have used the cohort’s indoor drill hall; however, it was being used that day to train recruits.

“That’s alright, a little exertion and you won’t even notice,” Vitruvius replied as he waved his gladius about, warming up his joints and muscles. “You ready?”

Artorius nodded as both men settled into their fighting stances. As if on cue, both soldiers lunged forward, punching with their shields, looking for openings with which to strike. They had faced one another so many times they each knew the other’s fighting style by heart. Theirs was truly a test of pure skill, seeing as how their physical power was so close that neither could claim it as an advantage.

Artorius brought his shield down in an attempt to smash the optio’s foot. Vitruvius pulled his foot back and stabbed at Artorius’ exposed face. Quickly, the young legionary dodged his head to the side. As he did so, he brought his shield back up and caught Vitruvius in the face. Vitruvius stumbled, though Artorius knew better than to attack recklessly. Too often he had tried to follow up on such an advantage, only to have victory snatched from him by the crafty and skilled optio. Instead, he settled back into his fighting stance once more. Vitruvius lunged in, allowing their shields to collide. He swung his shield to the left in order to block the stab he knew was coming. Artorius stepped to his own left and worked his arm past Vitruvius’ shield. With an elbow to the wrist, he knocked the shield away. As the optio dropped his shield, he swung his left hand up and caught Artorius on his helmet cheek guard with a roundhouse punch. The young legionary fell to the ground, dazed, while Vitruvius wrenched his shield from his hand. Artorius instinctively rolled to his side and sprung to his feet, lunging. Vitruvius countered. Both men stopped in mid-attack, catching their breath. Vitruvius’ gladius point was resting against Artorius’ throat, while the legionary had his poised to thrust underneath the optio’s ribcage. In a real battle, each man would have slain the other. Vitruvius stood breathing hard for a second while Artorius took a step back and threw his gladius straight down into the snow.

“Damn it!” he cursed, removing his helmet. “Five years and this is the best I can do?” He was certain that he would finally best Vitruvius.

The optio started laughing. “Hey, a draw is better than another thrashing. Besides, I think I’ve finally found someone to succeed me as chief weapons instructor for the century.”

“Who is it?” Artorius asked.

Vitruvius raised an eyebrow. “Artorius, did I hit you so hard that you’ve gone completely dense?” he asked, looking down at his hand, which was bleeding. Artorius dropped his head and chuckled to himself. “I guess you did ring my bell a little bit,” he replied as he rubbed the sore spot on his cheek. Vitruvius clapped him on the shoulder. “Come on. I’ve got a meeting with the centurion. Do you mind putting my practice weapons away?”

“Not at all,” Artorius replied as he took both shields and swords over to the armory. As he walked he thought about his fight with Vitruvius. Something in his mind told him that it would probably be their last. He regretted not getting the much desired victory over the man who had taught him so much. He then considered the significance of becoming the century’s chief weapons instructor. It was a position usually occupied by a decanus or above or, failing that, at least someone already on immune status. Artorius met none of these conditions.