“Recruits,” he spoke. He was not yelling, yet his voice boomed deeply and carried far. “I am Centurion Titus Artorius Justus, Commander of the Third Cohort’s Second Century!”
Chapter XXX: Imperial Justice
The Imperial Palace, Isle of Capri
October, 28 A.D.
Olennius’ hopes of clemency faded as the Isle of Capri came into view. The Praetorians who escorted him to the Emperor’s villa had maintained their silence throughout the voyage. The merchant ship they had chartered was docked on the shore just south of the Villa Jovis, the most private of the Emperor’s houses on the island. An Imperial Navy warship patrolled the waters outside the villa; about half a century of Praetorian Guardsmen were lining the path leading up to the house.
The magistrate found he was unable to appreciate the splendor of the Emperor’s estate as he was led to the gardens that overlooked the sea. Lost to his senses were the ornate statues, the smells of the botanical gardens, and the sounds of fountains whose water cascaded into pools below. A Praetorian pointed through the archway where Tiberius waited on a stone bench. The soldiers stood outside the garden, leaving Olennius alone with the Emperor.
Tiberius was not wearing his imperial toga, as expected. Instead, he had donned the armor of a Legionary Legate. The armor was old and worn, the blows of countless adversaries having scored its surface. Olennius had forgotten that the Emperor had once been among Rome’s greatest generals. He further did not realize that having commanded the Twentieth, Tiberius took their savaging personally.
“I’ve been expecting you,” the Emperor said, as he arose and turned his back to Olennius, hands clasped behind him. “Do you know why I summoned you?”
“A misunderstanding, Caesar, I assure you,” the magistrate stammered. He took a quick step backwards when Tiberius whirled around and faced him.
The Emperor’s gaze burned into his soul, his face as hard as stone.
“A misunderstanding, of course,” Tiberius replied. “Under most circumstances I would never bother with issues surrounding such a minor province as Frisia. I allow the Senate to appoint magistrates as they see fit, and leave such magistrates to execute their duties.”
“I implore you, Caesar, to know that I executed my duties only in what I felt was best for the Empire.”
In response, the Emperor tossed a scroll onto a nearby stone table.
“The tribute for Frisia was set by my brother decades ago,” he responded coldly. “And yet you took it upon yourself to alter the established sum. Strange that you sent only the required amount to Rome, and yet you extracted much more. You lined your coffers while impoverishing the people of Frisia.”
“They are nothing but mindless barbarians!” Olennius snapped. He knew he was damned unless he defended himself. “It was better for all if they had starved to death!” Tiberius snorted in reply, keeping himself surprisingly calm. Only a few who knew the Emperor best understood that the calmer Tiberius appeared, the deeper his rage. He produced another scroll, which he unfurled as he tossed it at Olennius’ feet.
“Read,” the Emperor ordered, pointing to the scroll. The magistrate picked one end and started to read.
“It is just a list of names,” he scoffed.
“Yes,” the Emperor concurred. “Roman names, or rather, Roman soldier names. That is the list of every legionary and auxilia soldier who died at Flevum and Braduhenna. They died because of your greed! Their deaths are on your head, and their souls cry out for vengeance. It has been a long time since I donned my armor. I do so now out of respect for them. And now it is time that justice was served.” With that he picked up a gladius that was in its scabbard on a nearby table. He then threw it at Olennius’ feet.
“Take your own life, and you will spare your family the ignominy of a trial and execution,” Tiberius explained dispassionately. “Everything you plundered from Frisia will be used as compensation to those who died there. You still know how to wield a gladius, don’t you?”
Olennius stared at the weapon at his feet as Tiberius again turned his back to him. He picked it up and drew the gladius from its scabbard. The blade and point were extremely sharp. The Emperor at least wanted him to be able to grant himself a quick death! No thoughts did the magistrate spare his family. Instead hatred consumed him, thoughts of betrayal. The Frisians had betrayed him, the legions who should have put the rebellion down expediently, and now the Emperor himself had betrayed him!
“Oh yes, I still know how to use a gladius,” he growled. Eyes filled with rage, he rushed towards the Emperor. His last act in this world would be to slay the tyrant who had abandoned him and had the gall to demand he take his own life.
As he grew closer time seemed to crawl. When he was but a meter from his prey, the Emperor spun around to the right in a flash, drawing his own weapon, smashing the pommel into the side of Olennius’ face. The magistrate stumbled, dropping the gladius as he fell right into the point of the Emperor’s blade which plunged into his guts.
Olennius fell and rolled onto his back, clutching his stomach in horrible pain as he spewed bile and blood from his lips. Tiberius casually knelt down and wiped his blade off on the magistrate’s tunic.
“No,” Tiberius replied, “I don’t think you ever knew how to use a gladius properly. Lucky for you I never forgot. You will take some time to die from your wound, though it is nothing compared to what the Praetorians outside that entranceway would have done to you.” Bending over, the Emperor whispered, “Remember the Twentieth.”
Alaric was startled by the sight of a body falling from the cliff and splashing into the sea. The young man stood on the prow of the ship, trying to catch a glimpse of the Emperor’s villa high up on the rocks.
“What in Hades was that?” he asked some of his mates who were also above deck.
“Imperial justice, no doubt,” one of the other oarsmen replied. “I suspect that our guest fell ill of the Emperor’s graces. Does me good to see how far the mighty can fall…at least a hundred meters!” he chuckled.
“Alright, make ready to cast off!” the sailing master shouted.
Alaric immediately headed down below and found his seat on one of the oar benches.
It had been three years since he had left Britain, seeking for what he did not know. His mother, Milla, had been devastated by his departure. By contrast, King Breogan of the Brigantes, who had cared for Alaric and his mother since their village in Germania had been destroyed by the Romans, was supportive of his decision.
The one person that he missed the most was Breogan’s daughter, Princess Cartimandua. She had been like an older sister, although he had viewed their friendship as something more than just that of siblings. It was a foolish boy’s fantasy, of course. Cartimandua was not only several years older than he, she would be Queen of the Brigantes someday. A lost boy from a destroyed Germanic race had nothing to offer her. Still, he allowed himself to feel at least some amount of affection for her. She and her father had been very kind to Milla and Alaric after their great tragedy.