“He’s the only copper-haired recruit in the whole lot,” the Optio replied, bringing a short laugh from Artorius.
“Figures he would get that from his father. Ah well, let me know when you need me to do my indoctrination briefing with them.”
“I’ll give them a week before that,” Praxus remarked. “Let’s break them in a bit first. Hell, none of us can even remember what went on during our first week of recruit training, so you might as well save your breath a bit with these lads.”
Gaius’ back and legs hurt, as did his shoulders and arms; Hell, his entire body was in pain! He had to admit that there were no surprises when he joined the legions. Everything was just as his father had warned him it would be. His first week in the army had been nothing but physical training, all overseen by Optio Praxus. His helmet and armor had sat on the storage rack in his barracks room the entire time. He did not even have a gladius yet! All he had done was run, press boulders, and do calisthenics for sixteen hours a day. Each night he soaked in the heated baths of the legion’s bathhouse, trying to soothe his worn and savaged muscles. Each morning, before dawn, it would all start again.
This morning was different. Daily calisthenics were shortened, and the morning formation run was only four miles. They were ushered afterwards over to the drill field where a lone soldier stood with his hands clasped behind his back, his gaze sizing up the recruits. Though he wore no helmet or decorations, just his red tunic, Gaius knew right away that, at last, they were meeting Centurion Artorius. He had heard his father talk about the physical anomaly that Artorius was, and given that here stood the thickest and most powerfully built soldier Gaius had ever seen, there was no one else he could be.
“Stand easy, lads,” the Centurion said as the recruits stood rigid before him. Gaius took a breath and tried to keep from trembling. He wasn’t sure if it was fear, or awe, or perhaps both, that made him uneasy in the presence of his commanding officer. Though his voice was booming, Artorius’ demeanor, at least, made him appear to be somewhat approachable.
“My name is Centurion Titus Artorius Justus,” he said, confirming what Gaius knew. “You are here because, in a fit of what I assume is utter madness, you have decided that you want to become legionaries. Know this; only those who earn the right become soldiers of Rome! As you have seen from your first week of training, my instructors are hard, but they are fair. No one gets singled out for reward or punishment in this Century without reason. Your actions, both right and wrong, will be what decide your fate, not who your father or sponsor was. I don’t give a damn if your father was a senator or shoveled shit for a living!”
“We have one standard and one standard alone in this Century; you will either make it or you won’t. Unless you are willing to sweat, bleed, and even die for the men on your left and right, then you have no place in the legions! Your crucible of pain has only just begun. Over the next seven weeks you need to not only survive, you must prove to the men of the Second Century that you deserve a place on the line with them!” After what felt like an eternity of pacing in front of them, the Centurion then nodded to Optio Praxus, whose voice startled the recruits.
“Recruits…right face!” The ten young men suspected what was coming. The Optio had not given them a reprieve from physical training out of mercy; he had simply taken time out for them to finally meet their Centurion. “At the double time…march!”
Tiberius paced quietly back and forth along the grass outside the wall to his villa. It was a bright and sunny day, even though on his isle of paradise away from Rome, he still felt the grip of political intrigue, with all its plots and treachery, bearing down on him. He looked down the steep path that led to the sea. There was a private dock where only the most discreet and important of ships was allowed to dock. In fact, it was only large enough for a rowboat, one of which was tying off as the Emperor paced. The ship it belonged to continued on its way through the swell of the sea. It would find its way to the main docks at the port, its crew pretending to not have disgorged its small boat with a few of their crew. It troubled Tiberius that this was how the most important correspondence got to him. It resembled the shady whispers in the dark of Roman politics, rather than that of an Emperor who ruled tens-of-millions. It was Sejanus who had suggested building of the private dock, stating that there were too many wandering eyes at the main port that could cause suspicion and trouble.
Tiberius then wondered what had happened over the last thirteen years since he had taken the mantle of Caesar. Though his reign had started off awkwardly, once the Senate and people came to terms with Augustus’ passing, the new Emperor had proven himself a worthy successor. If he never had the engaging personality of his predecessor and step-father, Tiberius was, in fact, an even better administrator than Augustus in a number of areas. After all, he had the first-hand experience of leading men into battle that Augustus had lacked. He was also more frugal with the imperial purse, and while this led many to defame him for being a miser, Tiberius had greatly increased the size of Rome’s treasury. Yet for all that, the Emperor was all too aware that his gloomy personality permeated people’s thoughts rather than any appreciation for the peace and economic stability he had brought them.
“When we lack an enemy to fight, we turn on each other,” he lamented out loud.
“It is the nature of men,” he heard Thrasyllus’ voice behind him. The Emperor turned to see the aged astrologer standing behind him. The little bearded Greek was annoying at times, though his ability to read the stars was unnervingly accurate. Tiberius remembered many years before when he almost arranged for Thrasyllus to have a little accident, only to recant at the last minute when the Greek’s prophecy regarding the end to his exile in Rhodes came to pass.
“You seem to seek the worst qualities of men,” the Emperor replied with a trace of sarcasm in his voice.
“Hence, why you and I enjoy such a remarkable rapport,” the Greek replied, matching Tiberius’ sarcasm.
The Emperor had turned back towards the boat and his face twitched into almost a smile. Thrasyllus’ candor was only bested by Sejanus. No other man would have talked to him in such a tone, yet the astrologer knew how close he had come to annihilation all those years ago and nothing the Emperor could do scared him anymore. If he had learned a lesson from that time, it was that blunt honesty would keep him alive and employed.
“What news do you prophesy the messengers on this boat bring?” Tiberius asked as a man in Praetorian armor disembarked at the private dock. Two of the men from the Century that lined the path walked down and shook his hand.
“I have not consulted the heavens for this, however, I can take a logical guess,” Thrasyllus replied. “The man is a Praetorian, so doubtless his messages come from Sejanus. The deputation from the Sanhedrin in Judea left last week, and with Pilate struggling through his first year as procurator, I hazard that the message is from him, along with a recommendation from Sejanus. Perhaps he is requesting you give him a legion?”
Tiberius snorted in reply and stood with his hands clasped behind his back as the messenger made the long trek up the slope. The Praetorian looked to be in his late twenties, probably a Decanus from the looks of his uniform, though he was not wearing a helmet. He appeared flushed and out of breath when he reached the top, saluting the Emperor.
“I see the Praetorians are making you lot soft,” Tiberius said as he returned the salute.