Soldier of Rome: Journey to Judea (The Artorian Chronicles) (18 page)

“And what of the Samaritan who attacked you today?” Felix asked. “What sentence did Pilate hand down?”

“The only one he could,” Artorius replied, holding up a stuffed mouse and then tossing it back onto the tray in disgust. “I want everyone there tomorrow when the sentence is carried out. It will serve as a reminder to our men, as well as the auxiliaries. We also need to make certain that while our methods need to be firm and sometimes harsh, we do not make a habit of being abusive for its own sake. All discipline needs to be meted out fairly with our men setting the example for them of what right looks like.”

The next day the entire garrison
, at least those not on duty or leave, was assembled on the drill field. Facing them was the First Italic Cohort. In the center was a large wooden pole. Artorius gazed at the auxilia formation and noted that it should have been much larger. Abenader stepped over to where Artorius and the other centurions were gathered.

“
As I feared, there have been a mass of desertions,” he lamented. He then glared at Artorius. “These heavy-handed tactics may cost me half my garrison.”

“If you’d been a bit heavy-handed yourself instead of coddling these filthy rats we could have avoided this entire problem,” Artorius replied calmly. He then nodded towards the edge of the field, where Pontius Pilate, his personal bodyguard, and a handful of staffers were approaching.

“Go stand by your men,” he said. Abenader gave a grunt and turned back to his formation.

As soon as Pilate arrived Artorius shouted a subsequent order,
“Bring forth the prisoner!”

A squad of legionaries led the condemned Samaritan forward. His hands were bound in front of him and he was naked to the waist. Unlike the previous day, he made no protest and seemed resigned to his fate. He was tied with his back to the pole, facing his former companions in the Jerusalem garrison. Doubtless he had many friends who were saddened by
his fate. Worst of all were the two auxiliaries who had been tasked with carrying out the sentence. As was customary in the legions, it was a condemned man’s peers who had to administer his punishment, not the officers. They stood with their heads bowed, a corded rope in their hands. Artorius was suddenly having doubts about the sentence they were passing. He swallowed hard. He looked over to Pilate, who simply nodded. It was too late to turn back.

“This man has been found guilty of assault upon a superior officer!”
he shouted to the assembly.
“The penalty for this is death by strangulation!”

He then nodded to the auxiliaries, who were at first reluctant to move. Valens stepped forward and gave one a hard kick in the backside
, and they quickly went about their hateful task. They whispered a few things to the Samaritan. Artorius imagined they were asking for his forgiveness. They then wrapped the cord around his neck and tied it into a slip knot behind the pole, which they then proceeded to twist in order to constrict the rope around the man’s neck. At first the Samaritan made little sound, but as the rope grew tighter and gouged into his neck, his eyes grew wide, he started to gurgle and gasp in vain for breath. The two auxiliaries turned the knot faster, hoping to expedite their companion’s passing and save him from further torture. The man’s eyes bulged out of his skull as he thrashed violently, his tongue protruding sickeningly. At last he gave one last jolt and was still. The auxiliaries held the rope in place for a few more seconds before releasing it. Artorius then pointed to one of the men, who looked down for a moment and sighed. He then drew his gladius and stood in front of the now lifeless Samaritan. He looked over at Artorius, who nodded. The auxiliary plunged his gladius into the man’s heart, his eyes welling up with tears as he did so. The Samaritan did not move or make a sound. Pilate had ordered the stabbing as a means of preventing the men from faking the man’s death.

Artorius was suddenly sweating
, and his face betrayed his sense of regret. Surely he could have had the man lashed, thrown in the stockade for a week or docked a month’s wages. He did not have to push for the death sentence, but then it was not his decision to make. There was nothing for it. The man’s body would be left on display for a day and then disposed of. He now had a much larger issue to deal with, and he feared he would have to implement similar measures if he were to correct it.

“All
centurions and options are to meet in the principia!”
he shouted to the assembly.
“Signifiers and tesserarii, take control of your centuries! Formation…dismissed!”

“
Proud of yourself?” Abenader asked as he walked up behind him.

“No, I’m completely
disgusted,” Artorius replied. Deep down he wanted to beat Abenader for insubordination, though he knew that was petty at best. Besides, their difference was one of appointment rather than rank. Abenader was more of a peer than subordinate, and the only reason Artorius held seniority was due to his command of legionaries instead of auxiliaries. “I hope it does not come to this again.”

Abenader simply nodded and returned to dismiss his formation. The auxiliaries were in a state of shock and disgust. The iron discipline so common within the legions was completely foreign to them.

“Centurion Artorius!” Pilate’s voice caused him to stop in his tracks. He had completely forgotten the procurator was there and had neglected to so much as greet him after the execution was complete.

“Have all senior officers in the meeting hall,” Artorius
said over his shoulder to Justus, who had been walking behind him. “I’ll be there shortly.”

“Yes
, sir.”

Artorius then walked over to Pilate, whose face bore a look of consternation.

“Apologies, procurator,” Artorius said as he walked over and snapped off a sharp salute.

“The auxilia garrison is missing
a substantial portion of its strength,” Pilate noted.

“Yes
, sir,” Artorius acknowledged. “I am meeting with my senior officers now to address it.”

“I’m depending on you, Artorius,” Pilate replied, his expression unchanged. “Desertion is an ugly thing which could destroy the entire garrison. I trust you will deal with this appropriately.”

“I will have a draft resolution to you this afternoon,” the centurion said. “What I plan to do is going to require your approval if we are to enforce it.”

“I will trust your judgment,” Pilate said after a brief pause. “I don’t know if we will be able to keep from the people that
a number of the Jerusalem garrison has deserted. It could give the zealots something to rally around; saying that our own men have lost its faith in our ability to rule.”

“We won’t keep it from the people,” Artorius explained. “We will proclaim it to them.”

Two days later, Artorius was observing the morning drill exercises one of the centuries was performing on the drill field. Working in close proximity with the cohort had given him a better understanding as to the true makeup of the Roman world, as its legionaries had come from every corner of the empire. He noticed his chief armorer, Cicero, who was mending a helmet under a shade tree.

“Not working in the armory today,
sergeant?” Artorius asked, walking up to him.

“It’s rather stuffy in there, sir,” Cicero replied as he worked a crease out of a bent cheek piece. He then set the helmet and tools down. “Besides, days like this are rather pleasant.”

Artorius knelt down next to him and picked up the helmet. It looked like it had been smashed with a hammer.

“What happened here?” he asked.

“You may recall some of the lads from Julius’ century got into a brawl with a handful of drunken ruffians the other night,” Cicero explained.

“Oh
, yes,” Artorius chuckled. “So this is the helmet of the legionary who got bashed in the head.”

“Knocked him silly, that did,” Cicero agreed. “Had blood dripping out of his ear for about a day
, too. The drunken sod who did it is still sitting in the dungeons awaiting trial. The others were given a good thrashing by Julius’ men and left in a pool of their own blood and vomit. One pissed himself, and I don’t think anyone wanted to drag his sorry ass away.”

“And the fate of the man who assaulted our legionary will depend on how magnanimous Pilate is feeling,” Artorius surmised. “He may get off with a hundred lashes and a month imprisonment. Although if Caiaphas has put Pilate in a foul mood again, he may order the man’s crucifixion.”

The sounds of wooden gladii and practice shields striking the six-foot tall training stakes echoed throughout the courtyard. Artorius glanced up and watched as a decanus shouted orders to his squad.

“Shield boss strikes…go!”
On the order, all seven legionaries began to punch their targets with the practice wicker shields. Grunts of exertion accompanied each blow as the soldiers slammed their shields home again and again.

“Gladii strikes, throat to groin…go!”

Artorius cocked his head slightly as he surmised each of the men on the stakes. Two were fair-skinned and had come from the Rhine legions. Three were of Latin origins, another was Greek. The last man was most likely Syrian or Mesopotamian. The decanus, who had removed his helmet and had his hands on his knees as he checked the technique of his men, was a black African.

“Cicero, you said you were from Belgica,” Artorius noted to the armorer.

“Yes, sir,” Cicero replied as he took a pair of pliers and started working on the helmet again.

“That man who is drilling his squad in front of us,” the
centurion continued, nodding towards the decanus, who continued to shout orders to his men.

“Sergeant Galerius,” Cicero replied. “What of him?”

“What do you notice about him?” Artorius asked.

Cicero set the helmet down again and apprised the
decanus.

“He should have me check the hinges on his left shoulder plates,” the armorer replied. “The rivets look a little loose.”

Artorius started to chuckle.

“That’s not what I meant, although good observation. I was referring to his being a black African.”

“Oh, that,” Cicero remarked with a shrug. “Sure, I noticed. Beg your pardon, but it is kind of obvious, sir.”

“You both came from opposite ends of the
empire,” Artorius observed. “And yet you both have Roman names, you share the same language, culture, and upbringing. Galerius isn’t exactly an African name and, I daresay, Cicero is not a name held by your ancestors.”

“In that you are correct,” the armorer replied. “We’ve held our citizenship for generations, and I was never told what our ancestral name was.
All I know is that my great-grandfather changed our name to Cicero sometime around the death of the great orator himself. Mind you, it was his agnomen, rather than a cognomen. However, mere plebeians like us taking the name as our own caused little notice. As long as you don’t try and take the name
Caesar
, no one really cares what a man calls himself or his family. You, sir, are among the few in this cohort who truly are Roman by birth.”

“The Artorians are of Messa
pic origin, in southeast Italia,” the centurion noted. He continued, “But then one has to ask, what does it mean to be a Roman? Rome is not about a location or one’s ethnicity. It is an idea, an assimilation of many peoples into one culture that brings light into what is otherwise a very dark and unforgiving world. Rome brings law, order, as well as education and a far better quality of life to those who fall under our rule. Men like Sergeant Galerius may be different in appearance to those born in Italia, but he is every bit as ‘Roman’ as the Gracchi or any of the other old families. The Jews, on the other hand, by their refusal to integrate have remained little more than conquered serfs who deny themselves the light that is Rome.”