“But should this be kept from him?” Metellus asked. “I mean, I am kind of his grandson.”
“There is no kind of about it,” Artorius said sharply. “I know you were not raised with our customs, but understand that under Roman law, a son is a son; whether by birth or adoption, there is no differentiating. You are Proculeius’ grandson, just as much as you are my father’s. That being said, given his obsession with birth, were he to know that you came from my brother, a lowly legionary, and a Germanic woman, it would drive him insane.”
“Then I am surprised you have not rushed to make an introduction,” Metellus added with a laugh. He was then sober once more. “I have something I’ve been meaning to ask. Do I resemble my father that much? It’s just that…well…Grandfather’s attitude towards me was rather peculiar, far more deeply emotional than I would have anticipated. And when he addressed me by name, it’s like he wasn’t talking to me, but rather to his dead son. I can’t say it made me uncomfortable, just not what I expected.”
“The answer is yes,” Artorius replied. “People may notice that we are blood-related if they look closely enough. However, your resemblance to my brother is uncanny, to say the least. Neither he nor I ever shared such a distinct resemblance to our father. The only difference is your complexion is fairer, which I am guessing came from your mother.”
“It did,” Metellus confirmed. “She had brown hair, but light skin, like most of her people. I almost said our people, but then I never fit in with my mother’s tribe. There was emptiness in my life the entire time I was growing. I knew I belonged with my father’s people and that Roman citizenship was rightfully mine.”
“When you first told me who you were, it confirmed that which I had suspected yet could not articulate even to myself,” Artorius replied. “Though your father would have now been in his forties, he was but a legionary recruit of seventeen the last time we saw him two years before his death. You’re but a few years older now than he was, so when your grandfather sees you, it is as if his son were reborn. I confess it was the same with me when I realized who you were. When I first saw you with the auxiliary detachment that reinforced our line at Braduhenna, I swore I was looking at my brother. I did not take it as anything literal, but rather a symbolic premonition that my brother was with me that day.”
“And, in a way, I suppose he was,” Metellus surmised.
The two men rode in silence for some time while Metellus contemplated all he had learned over the past few days. His personal history was a far more complex one than the young man had ever envisioned. He was born of a Germanic mother and Roman father who was killed in battle before he was born. Raised by his mother’s people, he had joined the Roman auxilia after her death, serving with the Army of the Rhine. His later adoption by his uncle, Artorius, and subsequent transfer into the legions had thrust him into Roman society and culture, which before he had only been vaguely aware of. That by adoption he was now not only a Roman, but related to one of the wealthier equite households, was surreal. If Proculeius was even half as pompous as Artorius said he was, then only the gods knew how he would react once he found that his sole grandchild came from what he would consider an ignoble background.
At the main crossroads that split between Ostia and Rome, they took their leave of each other. Metellus was to report back to Centurion Praxus, while Artorius had business within the Imperial City.
“Something else you should know that makes me proud,” Artorius said. “I was twenty-two when promoted to decanus, which was considered extremely young. In fact, I was younger than all of the men I was required to lead. You’re twenty-one, correct?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then if by chance your promotion is made permanent, you will have achieved the rank a full year before I did. And whatever any of our pompous relations may think, there is one thing that can never be taken from you. You are a soldier of Rome!”
Chapter IX: Ghosts of the Past
Artorius was grateful for the office space lent to him by the praetorians. He marveled at how comfortable their quarters were, with far more amenities than those of regular legionaries. Of course, no expense was spared when it came to the emperor’s personal bodyguard!
Though he had not yet seen Centurion Cornelius, a guardsman informed him that arrangements had been made with an unoccupied room at his disposal. As Artorius organized a few things within the office, the Tribune Cassius Chaerea entered the room. He was someone the centurion had wished to speak to for many years. Though both had served in the Germanic Wars, Artorius had been but a lowly legionary in the ranks, while Cassius commanded a cohort of praetorians who had served as Germanicus Caesar’s personal guard. But that was not the only reason he wished to speak to this man.
“Tribune, sir,” he said, rising to his feet.
“Centurion Artorius,” Cassius replied, clasping his hand. “I hope the accommodations are suitable for your work. I scarcely use this office, so it’s no burden to me.”
“They are more than suitable,” Artorius replied. He then apprised the tribune for a second.
Cassius was in his late forties, his thick hair almost completely gray, with several scars marring his otherwise handsome face. One in particular ran across the right side of his forehead, where his helmet had been torn from his head more than twenty years before. A serious wound to the groin led to his voice cracking on occasion, something that along with his facial scars caused him some embarrassment. Roman society was notoriously vain, viewing any physical blemish with contempt. That he was regarded as a hero within the Roman Army garnered sympathy rather than scorn that others with similar afflictions were often subjected to.
“Tribune, if I may ask a question,” Artorius said after a brief pause.
Cassius nodded.
“I do not wish to bring up any painful memories of the past, but there is something I have to know. You were in Teutoburger Wald. Did you know my brother?”
“No,” Cassius replied, shaking his head sadly. “I never met him and only saw him once at the very end. We were in separate legions, and even if we had served in the same legion, a tribune does not often interact with soldiers from the ranks.”
“I understand,” Artorius acknowledged.
“I did watch from a distance as he saved the lives of Centurion Calvinus and two of his legionaries,” Cassius added. “I made sure he was mentioned by name in my dispatches to Rome. Had he survived, the civic crown would have been his. I understand you later served with Calvinus.”
“In a matter of speaking,” Artorius replied. “We were in separate cohorts during the Germanic Wars but the same legion. He later became our master centurion, though my closest interaction with him came at my court-martial, which I’m certain you got word of.”
“Centurion Artorius,” Cassius sighed, “Everyone within the Roman Army got word of it, as did half the senate and most of the equites. That you were both acquitted and promoted at the same time raised a few eyebrows, to say the least. While making his case to be elected as a plebian tribune, following his retirement from the legions, Calvinus was repeatedly pressed about that particular ordeal. I was one of the few who knew about his connection to you via your brother, though I made certain it was never mentioned.”
“Something for which we are both grateful,” Artorius noted. “My dealings with Calvinus have been few, and I think it has been deliberately so. When we first met, I made it clear that I wanted no special favors or patronage because of who my brother was. A bit foolish, perhaps, but I was still a new legionary, idealistic, perhaps naïve, but I was determined to make my own way in the legions.”