The warrior set down his sack and sat on a wooden bench located near one of the altars. His legs were cramping badly, and he knew it had been foolish to make such a long trek on foot alone. Still, he did not care, determined as he was to fulfill what he felt was a final honor to a fallen hero. There was still time before dark, and he pulled a slab of spitted meat wrapped in cloth, along with a small loaf of freshly baked bread from his sack. As he ate his supper in silence a gentle breeze blew through the glade. The smell of old burnt offerings mixed with the sweet scent of flowers. The sun cast its glow on the horizon, and he felt a chill as a stronger gust of wind blew through the trees.
He pulled his cloak around his shoulders and lifted the hood up over his head. There was still some dry kindling by the altar, and he pulled the flint and steel from his sack and worked on starting a small fire on the stone. As the cloud of incense smoke filled the glade, he bowed his head and started to chant prayers to his deities.
“Freyja and Óðr, hear my prayer,” he said as he held his arms straight out from his sides in supplication. “Guide this fallen hero into the arms of Elysium where the valiant of his people await him. Protect him so that our own Vanir in Fólkvangr will not hinder him on his journey through the afterlife. As this man gave me life, let this sacrifice I offer to you guide him and grant him the peace befitting the valiant.”
How long he stayed in the grove he could not say. He was certain hours had passed before he felt a gentle breeze channel from behind the altar, blowing the scented smoke into his face. A feeling of euphoria came over him, and he could almost hear the voice of the fallen hero as it whispered to him on the wind. Whether he could actually hear the voice did not matter. What he felt was a bond reaching out from the boundaries of this life. He stood, bowed deeply, and turned away from the shrine as the predawn of the new day cast its glow on the horizon. As he pulled the hood of his cloak off his head he was shocked to see his wife standing just outside the firelight, watching him. He let out a sigh and hobbled over to her.
“I thought I would find you here,” she said with a sad smile. “I brought the oxen cart, so you won’t have to walk back.”
“The walk did my legs some good,” he replied, though she noticed a serious limp in his stride.
“Can I ask who it was that you came here to honor?” the question stopped the warrior in his tracks. He had done plenty of ceremonies for friends slain at Flevum and Braduhenna, and it puzzled his wife that he would return again months later.
“Someone who saved my life,” he replied, turning back to face her. There was a sad smile on his face, and she replicated it with one of her own.
“Who was it?” she asked.
“His name was Gaius Longinus, soldier of Rome.”
Epilog: Three Years Later
House of Artorius, Cologne, Germania
March, 31 A.D.
“What is it, Love?” Diana asked as Artorius furrowed his brow while reading the letter from Pontius Pilate. Diana’s letter from Claudia was the exact opposite in nature as the one he had received. He could only suppose that Pilate did his best to spare his wife the stresses of his office. Still, he was certain she had to know of the troubles that beset him. Judea was one of the smallest provinces in the whole of the Empire, and it was also possibly the most difficult to maintain. One of the many issues at hand was the fact that Pilate had no legionary troops under his command, only local auxiliaries. Discipline problems were running rampant and the Procurator was desperate to find a way to fix the situation. Syria was where the nearest legionary forces were stationed, yet the Legate there had refused to detach any of his men to Pilate; only offering to “clean up the mess” should his auxiliaries prove unable to maintain order. Artorius knew that any such outside interference would spell the end for his friend. The Emperor placed a lot of faith in Pilate and did not like to be disappointed by those he personally selected for higher office.
“Pilate’s letter is troubling,” he replied at last. “While Claudia talks about the marvels of the East, all Pilate seems to see is conflict with the different warring factions and prophets that seem to spring out of every bush.”
“Perhaps he’s just working too much,” Diana said as she leaned over her husband’s shoulder in order to see what it was that Pilate had said. She wrapped her arms around Artorius and kissed him on the cheek as they both read. The end of the letter weighed heavily on them both.
“The time has come for me to redeem your promise,” Diana read aloud. “What does he mean by that?”
Artorius sat back and placed one of his hands on his wife’s arm, caressing it gently.
“I made a vow to Pilate a long time ago, that I would serve under him whenever and wherever he might need me.” He then stood and made his way towards the front door.
Diana let him go, knowing he needed time to himself in order to think.
He walked to the top of a nearby hill that gave a breathtaking view of the fields below. Since moving into Diana’s house, this place had become his new favorite place to come and think. As he cast his eyes on the rising sun, Centurion Artorius knew that his time on the Rhine would be ending soon, and that his destiny lay in the east.