“Forgive me sir,” the legionary said, maintaining his bearing once more. “I just do not know what to do. I have one more day left as his aide and I don’t know if I can go back there tomorrow…I hate that he hides behind his rank. He told me that if I dared to raise a hand to protect myself that he would have me flogged and then strangled! I know that in a fair fight I could break him…sorry, sirs, I mean no disrespect to his position.”
“It is not you who disrespects his office,” Artorius replied finally. “We will do what we can. As for tomorrow, I know the Century is scheduled for a day-long road march, so go have your face attended to and get some rest.”
“We are?” Praxus asked with a look of puzzlement on his face. As he caught Artorius’ stare, his eyes suddenly brightened. “Ah yes, of course. It will be good for the lads’ fitness since it is that time of year again.”
Artorius dreaded returning to the Century’s administrative office, but he knew he had no choice. Rufio, the Century’s Signifier, had made himself scarce at some point. Fulvius was sitting behind a desk with his feet up on it, drinking a cup of foul smelling wine. Drinking during duty hours was a severely punishable offense, regardless of one’s rank. Artorius decided to mind his tongue.
“You’ve got some discipline problems within this century I see,” Fulvius mused, waving his vine stick absentmindedly. “If you’re not quick to correct them, I will do it for you.”
“As part of maintaining order, as well as the men’s physical fitness, we are scheduled for a road march tomorrow,” Artorius replied. “Since it’s early in the spring we will keep it light, only about fifteen miles. It is customary for the Centurion to lead us on these marches. It will give the men a chance to meet you in person.”
“Can’t,” Fulvius replied immediately, “got pressing business to take care of. You’d best start pressing the men about my offers regarding the duty roster. I want to see results by the time you get back.”
It was late when Artorius and Vitruvius knocked on the door to Centurion Lincinius’ quarters. The Optio had explained the situation to his friend, who offered to go with him to help make his case to the Cohort Commander.
“We have to try and let the system work,” Vitruvius had advised.
“Who the hell is it knocking on my door at this hour?” They heard coming from inside the room. The outer office of the First Century was lit by a small oil lamp on the Signifier’s desk. As Lincinius opened the door he was surprised at the sight of the two men who greeted him.
“Oh, Centurion Vitruvius,” he said with a nod. “Ah, and you are Optio…”
“Artorius,” the Optio replied. “Sir, we need your help. I apologize for the hour, but this cannot wait.”
“Very well,” the Pilus Prior replied, coming out into the office. “What is it that requires you to wake your Cohort Commander in the middle of the night?” He tried to give off an air of authority, but the façade was weak and Lincinius appeared to know it. He was smaller in stature, a good two inches shorter than Artorius, with a frame that looked to be sixty to seventy pounds lighter than either of the other two men in the room.
“It’s Centurion Fulvius,” Artorius said, bringing a bored sigh from Lincinius, who walked over to a pitcher of water that always sat on the Signifier’s desk and poured himself a cup.
“Spare me the details,” he responded. “Fulvius is a hard man to know, but you just need to get used to him is all.”
“He’s an abusive prick!” Vitruvius snapped. “He’s been here but a week and already he’s brought down the morale and discipline within the Second Century!”
“Your Century is the Third,” Lincinius observed. “The affairs of the Second are not your concern.”
“With all due respect, yes, they are,” Vitruvius asserted. “I spent many years in the Second; I know all of the Principal Officers, Decanii, and most of the veteran legionaries. And as Commander of the Third Century of this cohort, the good order and discipline of all centuries is a concern to me. If one century fails on the line, our entire cohort collapses! We are all in this together, and I will not let one man bring us down!”
“You forget yourself, Centurion,” Lincinius replied, still trying to maintain some semblance of authority over Vitruvius. He, at last, gave up and sighed while turning away from the men. “Look, I am not unsympathetic to you. I understand what you are talking about.”
“Then why not do something about it?” Artorius pleaded. “You’re his superior! He answers directly to you.”
“Only according to the army,” Lincinius replied, facing them once more. “You see, I have known Fulvius for some time. He was a bully since the time I met him as a child. I never thought we’d end up in the same legion together, let alone the same cohort. At the time we were eligible, my family held greater sway within Roman politics, and I was commissioned as a Centurion Pilus Prior. Fulvius had to settle with being a regular Centurion. Over the years my family has fallen out of favor, to the point that Fulvius now wields far greater power than I do. Every Cohort Commander he has fallen under has understood this, and so they keep shuffling him around the Empire, always keeping him away from the fighting and never leaving him in one place for very long.”
“Typical,” Vitruvius scowled. “Meantime the men in the ranks pay the price for his abuse and incompetence, but they don’t really matter do they?” The Centurion was quickly stepping over the line in terms of insubordination, though if Lincinius was scared of Fulvius, he was certainly terrified of Vitruvius, whose bald head shone in the lamplight.
“I wish I could help,” Lincinius said, wincing at the looks of disgust that Vitruvius and Artorius gave him. “All I can say is keep Fulvius pacified and he will be gone within a year; sooner if the Rhine Army should be mobilized for war. His protectors also make certain that he is never assigned to a Century that may see actual combat.”
“At least they did one thing right,” Vitruvius growled. “Meantime, those left behind have to live with this mess before legionaries die needlessly!”
“We will speak no more of this,” Lincinius said with finality, though he dared not look either of the men in the face. “Do not trouble me with this again.” Immediately he walked back into his quarters and closed the door.
“I wonder if he’ll hide underneath the blankets and hope that we are gone,” Vitruvius spat.
“Regardless,” Artorius replied, “now my men really are on their own.”
Artorius brooded over the events from the night before as he led the Second Century on a march up the road, away from Cologne. The men marched in body armor, though they left helmets, shields, and javelins behind. Each wore his gladius and carried just some rations in his pack. The winter months on the Rhine were unsuitable for marching, and in spite of their best efforts, the men’s fitness always suffered slightly as a result. A few weeks would get them back into shape soon enough. There was a lot of tension in the air, and he suspected that all of the men dreaded the thought of returning to the fortress. He could not say he blamed them at all.
That night as Artorius and Vitruvius walked in silence past the Century’s barracks, they heard a loud cry coming from inside the main office. The men stopped and stared at each other.
“Dear gods, he’s done it again,” Artorius said quickly as he turned and raced towards the sound, which was now accompanied by the echo of a loud slapping sound. Vitruvius was on his heels as Artorius burst into the office.
On the floor in a pool of blood lay the hapless legionary who had been tasked with being Centurion Fulvius’ aide for the week. His head was covered in numerous cuts and abrasions. Blood was oozing from several nasty gashes, as well as from his left ear. His tunic was torn, showing nasty scouring along his back. The Centurion himself had a glazed look in his eye, his chest heaving with his exertions, and a broken wine jug in one hand and his vine stick in the other. Bloodied pieces of the jug lay on the floor, a sign that the young legionary had been hit repeatedly with the jug, as well as the vine stick.