Soldier of Rome: The Legionary (The Artorian Chronicles) (5 page)

It was a warm
, sunny day. A young boy ran through the glades, waving his toy sword about. He pretended he was with his brother, off in the legions, fighting for the glory and honor of the Empire. It was getting late in the afternoon, and he would soon have to come in for his lessons. He did not particularly enjoy these, especially on days such as this. However, it was something he knew was necessary if he were to live up to the promise he’d made to his brother before he left two years before. He thought about his brother as he walked towards his home. What was life in the legions really like? His brother had sent him letters telling him about his home on the Rhine, of his brothers-in-arms, even of the beautiful young woman he had fallen in love with. Though Roman law did not recognize the marriages of soldiers below the rank of centurion, it did not stop these men from settling down and starting families. He wondered if Metellus intended to start a family with this woman. It was something eleven-year-old Artorius thought to be silly. After all, he was not yet at the age when girls became interesting, though his closest friend was a young girl named Camilla.

As he ran down the hill towards his home, he saw a pair of riders on the road. The
y were heading towards his home. He couldn’t be sure, but it looked like they wore the uniforms of legionaries. He was immediately filled with excitement. Could it be Metellus, come home for a while? Did that mean the stories he had overheard about a disaster on the Rhine were not true? He immediately started sprinting towards home. His elation was cut short when he saw the riders dismount and hand a parchment over to his father. His mother was standing with her hands covering her face. What could be wrong? Did these men bear news concerning his brother? If so, what could it be? He slowed to a walk as he approached the house. The two soldiers looked less than pleased with the task of delivering their message and seemed anxious to leave. One stood with his head downcast, clutching at the bridle of his horse. The other shifted nervously from one foot to the other, unsure of what they were supposed to do next. Artorius walked over to the man who was standing with his horse.

“Are you a friend of my
brother’s?” he asked, looking up at the man.

The s
oldier closed his eyes and turned away. “Your brother was a brave man,” he mumbled. He was obviously shaken.

“Artorius,” his father said with his arms now around his wife.
“Go inside, lad.”

Instead, the young boy turned and walked away towards the river nearby. Incomprehensible thoughts
crossed his mind, and he started to run. His father did not try to stop him.

Several weeks later
, Tiberius stood at the gate of the Rhine fortress that now housed the Twentieth Legion, Valeria. A small band of refugees was being escorted in. Rumor had it these were more survivors from the Teutoburger disaster. A reconnaissance party had spotted the ragtag bunch and almost attacked them until one of them starting shouting
in perfect Latin that he was a member of the Eighteenth Legion and had survived the massacre. There had only been a couple other groups of survivors found so far. The largest had been led out by Cassius Chaerea, a tribune with the Nineteenth. One hundred twenty had been with that group. Another group of about fifteen who escaped being captured turned up a week later. This latest group looked like it had been hit the hardest. There were only six of them, and they were a frightful sight.

Tiberius was stone
-faced as he watched the men pass through the gate, yet his heart broke for them. Two were borne on litters hastily constructed by the reconnaissance party. The others stood, heads lowered in shame, their clothes tattered, bodies covered in partly healed bruises and infected lacerations.

“What are we going to do with them, Tiberius?” a
centurion asked. “I mean, after we feed them and treat their wounds, of course.”

Tiberius’ expression remained unchanged. “We welcome them back. We tell them that the fault of the
disaster is not theirs. The blame rests with one man alone, that damned Quintilius Varus, who now burns in hell. These men will take their proper places back amongst the ranks.”

“But
, sir, what of the Emperor’s standing order about not accepting back soldiers who have been publicly disgraced? I pity them, yes, but I do not know if it would be proper, in the Emperor’s eyes at least, to accept them back as if nothing happened.”

Tiberius turned to face the
centurion. “Centurion, you, as a professional soldier and a practical man, should realize that with the loss of life we have suffered, we need every man we can get. The shame and disgrace lies
not
with these men.”

“Yes
, sir.” The centurion smiled and nodded. He felt the same way, but had to be sure of his Commander’s feelings and intentions.

Without further delay, Ti
berius walked up to each soldier in turn. He placed his hands on each man’s shoulders and kissed them all on the forehead. He next grasped each of the litter-bound soldiers by the hand in a sign of friendship. He then took a step back and with a sweeping gesture of his arm towards the camp, said, “Welcome home, my brothers and friends.”

The s
oldiers stood dumbfounded. After all, they had just returned from the biggest disgrace an army had suffered since any could remember. No one could recall a time when a single Eagle had been taken, let alone three. Indeed, none of these legionaries had been alive during the disaster in Parthia, under Crassus, a generation before. Yet here was the Commanding General of the Army of the Rhine, a man all of them knew was destined to be the next Emperor of Rome, welcoming them back. They slowly started to walk towards the interior of the camp where legionaries stood ready with fresh clothes, bandages and medicine for their wounds, hot food for their empty stomachs, wine and companionship to salve their shattered souls. Theirs’ was a bond only soldiers could understand. Yet one soldier stood fast where he was. Tiberius walked over to him. The man was young, in his early to mid twenties. He had little to no facial hair, in spite of his lack of a shave. His eyes did not look as lost as those of his companions. Rather they were filled with stark awareness of horror and sorrow.

“Why do you not join your compani
ons?” Tiberius asked the young soldier.

“What righ
t do I have to join them?” the soldier asked, his voice breaking as he looked at the ranks of the Twentieth Legion. “We failed you, sir. We failed the Emperor, we failed Rome. Worst of all, we failed each other. I’ll never forget the savage horrors we witnessed. I can still hear the screams of the tortured as they begged for death. Some had their tongues cut out. The barbarians thought that by eating the tongue of a Roman they might learn to speak Latin. Some were crucified and gutted. Others they put in wicker cages and burned alive. My friends, my brothers, and yet I was helpless to do anything for them.” He closed his eyes hard as tears streamed down his face. He was beyond being shamed by them. “I swear their ghosts haunt me. I don’t know how I can ever forget the horror… the pain… the suffering. How do I live again, sir? How do I find redemption?” He was now looking Tiberius straight in the eye.

Tiberius placed a hand on the man’s shoulder.
“What is your name, soldier?”

“Macro,
sir. Platorius Macro. Formerly of the Nineteenth Legion, Third Cohort, First Century.”

“Platorius Macro, you can live again by doing them justice, by ensuring that your survival was not in vain. Rejoin your comrades in the ranks, and in time
, I promise you will find redemption.”

Macro nodded and without another word went to rejoin the other survivors.

As he walked off, Tiberius said to himself, “And you shall have
revenge.”

Germanicus would join his uncle on the Rhine two years later. After capturing and repairing the Rhine bridges, Tiberius led many sorties into the frontier. These were limited at first, as he did not have the resources available for a massed campaign. As the months went by, fresh troops, mostly recruits, started to rebuild the Army of the Rhine. Varus was publicly damned and the numbers XVII, XVIII, and XIX were never again used to number a legion. Units were transferred from all over the Empire, increasing the army’s strength to eight legions. Soon they would be ready to launch an offensive unlike anything Arminius had ever witnessed.

Late in the year 13
A.D., in the forty-second year of the reign of Augustus, Tiberius was recalled to Rome.

As
his chariot approached the gates of Rome, Tiberius looked upon the Eternal City with nervousness and dread. On the frontier, he never felt more alive. That was his true calling, to be on the front lines of Rome’s battles. He knew full well why he had been recalled. The aged Emperor was nearing the last of his days. The succession and transition of power would have to come swiftly and smoothly in order to prevent chaos and unrest.

Many in the Senate pined for the days of the Republic, when they alone ruled the
Roman Empire. In truth, very few could even remember what that time had actually been like. The political infighting, the corruption, and the unchecked abuses of power were conveniently forgotten. Augustus had ruled for so long that a large proportion of the masses knew of no other system of government and were very much reluctant to even think about returning to the days of the Republic, where in its death throes there had been numerous civil wars and much internal strife.

Rome expanded its borders so far as to make a true Republican system virtually ineffective. Someone had to keep the Senate and regional administrations in check, to ensure all worked together for the greater good, which now expanded far beyond the borders of Italy. From Gaul to
Egypt, all known civilizations and peoples fell under the domain of the Empire. To effectively rule an Empire required an Emperor. The Emperor was dying, and his successor felt the full weight of the world coming down on his shoulders.

Tiberius stopped his chariot in front of the
Imperial Palace. He knew right away where to go. Though he had been away from Rome and the Imperial estates for nearly five years, he knew the area like the back of his hand. Servants came and took the reins of the chariot from him as he ascended the steps into the palace proper. He saw his mother, Livia, pacing slowly back and forth in front of the door leading to the gardens.

“It is good you have returned,” she said without even looking his way.