“A series of technicalities meant to stifle you completely,” Cursor grumbled as he dismounted his horse and clasped his friend’s hand before boarding the waiting ship. “I am sorry, old friend. I do wish it had ended differently for you.”
“As do I,” Artorius replied. “My political enemies were very patient, and after what happened in Judea, they were able to exact at least some retribution.” He then watched his friend make his way up the boarding ramp and was soon on his way to Capri. He reckoned, perhaps, it was time he took his wife on a holiday as well; a very long one.
For Artorius, it had been four years since his return from the east. The Battle of Mount Gerizim, which had seen over a thousand Samaritan rioters slaughtered by both auxiliaries as well as Artorius’ own legionaries, had cost him his command of the First Italic Cohort. Though never criminally charged, he was removed from his position, with the cohort disbanded and its members sent back to the legions. Artorius was the only one not to return to the ranks, instead being named Prefect of Vigiles for Ostia which was, essentially, command of an urban cohort, meant to keep the peace on the busy docks of the port city. Though his men were more agreeable to work with than the undisciplined auxiliaries that had plagued him in Judea, they were nowhere near the caliber of legionaries.
Although he and his wife, Diana, were grateful to be home after many years away, their lives had been beset by personal tragedy. Within six months of his return, Artorius’ father had finally succumbed after many years of poor health. That winter, his stepmother, Juliana, had fallen violently ill and died before the spring.
“They were such wonderful people,” Diana said one evening as they lounged on the couches in their small dining hall. “A pity I did not get to spend more time getting to know them.”
“Father’s health had been declining for many years,” Artorius noted. “When he was younger, he was able to work through the pain of the leg injury he suffered in the legions many years before I was even born. But as time went on, it slowed him considerably, and the stress of owning the vineyards took its toll on him. I wish he had accepted Cursor’s offer to buy the place or, in the very least, let me purchase the vineyards from him and install an overseer. I had spoken once to Juliana about it, and she seemed to embrace the idea. Sadly, father’s pride would have none of it.”
“Cursor and Adela do seem to enjoy having a place just outside the city,” Diana observed. After Juliana passed on, Artorius had asked his friend if he was still interested in purchasing the villa and vineyards, which the tribune was. “Do you ever regret selling him your childhood home?”
“No,” Artorius replied, shaking his head. “It’s been twenty-six years since I left. It ceased to be ‘home’ for me a long time ago. After Father and Juliana died, I no longer felt any connection to the place.”
It bewildered Diana to hear her husband mention just how many years had passed. He was now forty-three, she was forty-five, and yet neither of them looked or felt remotely close to their age. Though both Artorius and Diana were physically in the prime of health and looked far younger than they were, the memories of all that had transpired over the years was sometimes overwhelming. A decade had passed since they left the Rhine frontier for Judea. The battle they had fought on their sea voyage with a renegade pirate ship sometimes felt like it had happened within the last month, rather than ten years ago.
Their reminiscing about the past was interrupted by their freedman, Proximo, who entered with a short bow.
“Forgive me, sir, but you have an honored guest.”
“Guest?” Artorius asked. “But we are not expecting anyone. Who is it?”
“Centurion Metellus Artorius Posthumous,” the freedman answered, as in walked Artorius’ adopted son.
He was in full armor, wearing the harness with his phalerae campaign medals and decorations. His helmet, which he carried tucked under his arm, bore the transverse horsehair crest that denoted his rank.
“Son!” Artorius shouted, jumping to his feet.
“This is a most welcome surprise,” Diana added as she rose more slowly from her couch.
“And a centurion, no less!” Artorius said with emphasis after he embraced his son. Though biologically his nephew, and only eleven years younger than he, Artorius still loved and regarded Metellus as if he were his son by birth rather than adoption.
“It happened two months ago,” Metellus explained as he handed his helmet to a servant who also took his belt and gladius from him. Proximo helped him out of his armor as he explained, “I meant to write and tell you, but since I was being given leave, I figured I would see you in person long before the post ever arrived. Granted, I underestimated the speed of the imperial post and overestimated my own abilities to acquire transport clear to Ostia from Cologne, but still I am glad to have told you in person.”
“Well, this does call for celebration,” Diana stated as a number of the household staff helped Metellus out of his armor and took his equipment for him. “You must join us for supper.”
“Gladly,” the young centurion replied. “But first I have official business I need to take care of that involves you, Father. Can we speak privately in your study?”
“Of course,” Artorius replied.
Metellus then turned to Diana. “Apologies, Mother. I will gladly join you as soon as I finish with the formalities of my coming here.”
“We’ll talk outside,” Artorius stated. “My office is too small and feels rather stuffy in the evenings.
“Of course.” It seemed strange to Diana how the two men could immediately change from the joy of seeing each other after being apart for four years, to that of formality as they exited the room.
“Well, do tell,” Artorius said as they walked onto the small patio that was enclosed by large shrubs. “What official business could the Rhine army possibly have with me?”
“It’s been ten years since you left the Twentieth Legion,” Metellus observed, bringing with him a leather satchel which he set on a nearby bench. “That being said, your reputation has continued unabated.”
“I’d hate to think what my reputation there is now,” Artorius snorted before taking a long pull of wine. “I was but one centurion out of many when I left. And after six years as a cohort commander, I was relieved in disgrace after Mount Gerizim.” There was a lingering trace of bitterness in his voice. Though he’d come to accept that he no longer commanded soldiers of Rome, despite on paper holding the rank of centurion primus ordo, it aggrieved him that he had not left the legions on his own terms. He never said it openly, but Diana knew that he felt he had left things unfinished with the Roman Army. Metellus was aware of this as well. “No one in the ranks faults you for what happened with those Samaritan bastards,” he explained. “In fact, most credit you for achieving such a decisive victory against a numerically superior enemy. Our brethren in the legions could care less about who we slaughtered that day. A victory is a victory to them. Our actions may have caused a political debacle, but from a tactical standpoint the legions view your actions as brilliant.”
“That, at least, is good to hear,” Artorius replied. “Still, it doesn’t matter. My time as a soldier of Rome is long over.”
“I wouldn’t say that,” Metellus replied, reaching into his bag and producing a pair of scrolls. “Some of the younger soldiers, who were but legionaries or decanii when you left, are now centurions and options. They remember you winning the Legion Champion Tournament several times, and none have forgotten how you held the flank during the Battle of Braduhenna. And don’t forget, two of your closest friends now serve with the First Cohort.”