James Mace
Soldier of Rome: The Last Campaign
No one is free who does not lord over himself.
Preface
Following the assassination of Emperor Gaius Caligula in 41 A.D., his uncle, Claudius, assumed the imperial throne. After establishing his legitimacy and stabilizing his position with the Roman Senate and people, he looks to legitimize himself militarily. His eyes turn towards Britannia; the elusive isle that even Julius Caesar failed to conquer.
Far from being unknown to the rest of the world, various Britannic peoples have maintained trade relations with the continent, and a few of the tribal kingdoms have even formed alliances with Rome that extend back decades. Constant warfare, however, has left the isle in a state of perpetual instability. When several allies call upon Rome for assistance in their volatile struggles, Claudius seizes the opportunity to finish what the Divine Julius started almost a hundred years before.
In Ostia, Centurion Artorius spends his days as a police commissioner, while only holding an honorary posting with the legions. Soon after Claudius’ ascension, however, he is recalled to active service with his former legion, the Twentieth Valeria, where his peers proclaim him as the new master centurion. It has been generations since the empire expanded its borders via conquest, and Artorius readies his men to spearhead a massive invasion force in what he knows will be his last campaign.
Pro log
Lugdunum, Gaul
January, 74 A.D.
The blade gleamed in the lamplight and as Magnus caught his reflection, he did not see an old man. In his mind he saw one far younger, full of vitality and strength. It was as if the weapon were possessed by the spirit of the youth who had joined the legions so many long years ago; at a time when he was really little more than an overgrown boy, tossed into the brutal and unforgiving world on the Roman frontier. That he had kept the same weapon all these years was remarkable; the blade had slain many of Rome’s enemies, and in his hands it felt as if it possessed a life of its own.
It was a façade, of course; for he was very old now. He came from a long-lived line and had done and witnessed more than most would in ten lifetimes. After so many years in the ranks, his greatest struggle had been allowing the younger generation to deal with the woes that besot Rome after he left the legions.
“Father,” the voice of his son caused him to smile as he turned towards the half-opened door. “Everyone is here, and the grandchildren are asking for you…rather boisterously, I might add.”
“Give me a few minutes, son.”
The young man, Titus, saw the gladius in his father’s hands and immediately understood. He understood his father well enough to know that there were moments when one did not ask questions, just let the old soldier alone for the time being. As soon as the door was closed, Magnus sheathed the weapon and looked into the spacious trunk he’d pulled it from. It had not been opened in many years, yet somehow he found it calling to him; perhaps because he knew his grandchildren would want to hear stories of his ‘adventures’ in the legions. And yet, what he found within gave him reminders of a much darker time.
Inside, folded up, was his once-gleaming scale armor with the harness that bore his phalerae campaign disks and other decorations. On the left side of the chest was his battered helmet that still bore his centurion’s crest, and in the upper right, almost as an afterthought, a piece of cloth was folded over a circular shape. It was the brittle remains of his Civic Crown that he’d been awarded at the Battle of Braduhenna forty-six years prior. His old crumpled cloak was rolled up haphazardly underneath.
“That which consumed me for so many years is now but a faded memory,” he said quietly.
Magnus’ pillar of support in his years away from the legions had come from his family. He had met Ana, who had been a childhood friend of his sister Svetlana, while on leave from Britannia, and they had married soon after. He was privately ashamed that he had taken her as his wife simply as a means of forcing himself to finally let go after the death of the only woman he had ever loved. As the years passed, he came to love Ana, as well as the two fine sons she’d born him. But now she was gone as well. And despite Magnus’ efforts to convince him to do otherwise, his youngest son, Hansi, had joined the ranks as soon as he came of age. He currently served with the Second Legion, Augusta, at a fortress called Isca that had been raised in western Britannia four years prior. It filled him with both pride, as well as fear, knowing that his son was posted on the same violent frontier he had once been; perhaps fighting the children and grandchildren of some of Magnus’ former enemies.
It had not been easy, leaving the army behind after so many years serving under the eagles. The greatest difficulty had been being forced to sit idle when the empire erupted into civil war six years earlier, after the death of the despondent and hated Emperor Nero. In the span of a year, four men had claimed the mantle of Caesar. Magnus had kept his personal feelings to himself, though friends and acquaintances would constantly ask the ‘old soldier’ his thoughts on who he felt had the most legitimate claim to be emperor as the war raged on with various factions staking their claim through violence and bloodshed. Magnus always deferentially stated that his loyalty was to Rome, though he privately held out hope for the empire when the legions in the east declared his former commander, Vespasian, emperor. It had pained Magnus that he was in no position to draw his sword in support of the one man he knew was worthy of ruling Rome. Fortunately, Vespasian, the man who had helped conquer Britannia, would emerge triumphant, bringing stability and peace to the empire. In the five years since becoming Caesar, Vespasian had proven to be as benevolent as he was strong, the brutal suppression of the Judean rebellion notwithstanding.
The sky had been dark grey all day and now it was black. The sun had set, and the storm that had been brewing all afternoon was blowing hard and cold. But amidst the storm was Magnus’ large, warm house, and the occupants ignored the wind and the rain that started to fall outside.
In the modest dining hall, it was full of warmth and laughter with children playing games and running amok through the house, the adults drinking wine and sharing gossip as well as the latest news while lounging on couches that surrounded the long table. As he joined the family, Magnus would reach out sneakily and swipe one of the smaller children as he or she went tearing past the table. They would squeal with laughter as Magnus swung them high in the air then caught them in his old, but strong, arms. He would kiss them and put them down, giving their bottoms a smack and send them off again.
He was very content. It had been an easy journey from Rome and the Nordic realms for the members of his extended family. Amongst the gathering were his eldest son, along with his wife and their children. In addition to his youngest son, his late wife, Ana, was the only other one absent.
Magnus’ sister, Svetlana, smiled privately every time he tossed another child in the air. The older he got the more he reminded her of their grandfather. Every time he laughed she was surprised that it wasn’t Mad Olaf returned.
Later, after the little ones wore themselves out and most of the family was drunk on various libations, they all gathered around the fire in a small antechamber, telling stories. It wasn’t long before someone asked Magnus to give them a tale from The Chronicles of Artorius.
“Oh, you don't want to hear that old tale do you?” he asked reluctantly, heaving a great sigh as if it were an arduous task.