Tears streamed down the legionary’s face as he hung his head for a brief moment. Though he understood the reality that women and children also perished in war, he found no honor in slaying the weak. As Artorius continued to gaze at the sad spectacle, he wondered if perhaps the soldier also had a daughter around the same age. The man turned his head and looked up at him, though he was unashamed by his tears.
“Is this glory, sir?” he asked.
The question caused Artorius to instinctively think back to a siege he’d taken part in, many years before this soldier was even born. The words reminded him of a brief conversation between him and Magnus as they’d watched the survivors of that siege being mercilessly executed by their commanding general’s order. What was the question he’d asked his friend who now, twenty-eight years later, lay badly wounded? Oh yes, it was, ‘Is this victory?’ Different words, but almost identical meaning.
“There is no glory in what we’ve done,” the master centurion replied with surprising candor. It was true, however, and it was best that his men learned that sooner rather than later. He believed in Rome, and that there was honor in fighting for the empire. That being said, war was anything but glorious. It was savage, inhuman, and wrought with pain, terror, and sorrow. Whatever came next for the Roman conquest of Britannia, Titus Artorius Justus decided then that his fighting days were over.
With Vespasian’s Second Legion occupying and seeking to quell any dissidents within the Durotriges kingdom, Artorius and his three cohorts made their long journey back towards the growing camp along the Tamesis River. Legionary and auxilia vexilations were already scattered throughout the recently conquered lands. The Ninth Legion was temporarily holding at Camulodunum, where Sabinus had been tasked with ensuring that the Catuvellauni abided by the accords of the peace treaty they had negotiated with the emperor. Geta had the Fourteenth Legion at Durovernum Cantiacorum, near the site where the invasion force had landed. That left the Twentieth holding the area just north of the Tamesis River, where engineers were building and improving upon existing bridges.
Artorius had been compelled to leave his most seriously wounded soldiers, those too badly injured to be moved, with Vespasian. Some of the others, including Magnus, were loaded onto the now-depleted ammunition wagons of the siege train. As Mai Dun was the last formidable obstacle in the region, Vespasian was sending all siege engines that did not belong to the Second Legion back with Artorius.
On the second day of the march the skies were cloudy with an occasional pelting of rain. Even by midafternoon it was still foggy, with a perpetual mist clinging to the air. As he rode his horse over to the wagon where his Nordic friend lay, Artorius heard grumblings amongst the legionaries about how their cloaks never got a chance to dry out with the unpredictable weather. Magnus said as much as his friend rode up beside him. The Norseman was sitting upright with his back against the front wall of the cart, his leg propped up on a soldier’s pack and heavily bandaged.
“The gods gave us a beautiful day with which to attack,” he said glumly, “and now Thor calls upon the rains to wash the blood away.”
Artorius said nothing, but simply watched his friend, who shivered beneath his cloak. Magnus’ Nordic blood gave him a substantial tolerance to the cold, and yet his face was pale, and he trembled badly. His eyes soon closed, and he seemed to drift off to sleep.
“He’s lost a lot of blood,” Valens observed as he rode up behind Artorius. The usually jovial centurion appeared very sober and as gloomy as the skies, for he was deeply concerned about his friend and brother-in-law. “Magnus’ wound would have killed lesser men already.”
“I recommended he stay with the others,” Artorius remarked, “but he would have none of it.”
“He’s always been the stubborn one,” Valens replied. “He may look like shit right now, but that stubbornness will be what keeps him alive.”
The two centurions said little more as they continued onward. From the worn expression on Valens’ face, Artorius sensed that the years of hard campaigning, along with the loss of so many friends over the years, was taking its toll. Both men, along with Magnus, had served in the same squad together during their early days in the legions. Two of their former mates, Decimus and Carbo, had been killed at Braduhenna, along with Artorius’ close friend and mentor, Vitruvius. Another lifelong friend, Camillus, was now dead, and Magnus was very much in danger of infection and possibly succumbing to his injuries. If he did survive, they knew his road to recovery would be a long and arduous one. And since coming up from the ranks, Artorius took the loss of every soldier under his command very hard; it was impossible for him not to, despite the harsh reality that in battle soldiers died. He blamed himself in part for Sempronius’ ghastly death, and with every soldier slain on this campaign, he felt as if his soul was slowly breaking.
“I pray,” he said quietly, “that I have fought my last battle.”
The day was overcast, but still holding the warmth of the end of summer as Artorius rode into the legion’s encampment a few days later. Near the entrance stood two men who, given their ornate breastplates and plumed helmets, the master centurion could only surmise were his new legate and chief tribune. He abruptly dismounted his horse, which he handed to one of the men at the gate, walked over to the two officers, and rendered a salute.
“General Scapula?” he asked. When the man nodded, Artorius extended his hand. “Master Centurion Artorius, a pleasure to have you here, sir.”
“My only regret is I did not arrive sooner,” the legate replied. He then introduced the younger officer with him. “This is Marcus Trebellius Maximus, our new chief tribune.”
“Honored to meet you, master centurion,” the tribune replied, also taking Artorius’ hand, who nodded in reply.
Artorius looked around at the plethora of activity that was happening. In addition to the daily chaos of a Roman marching camp, he noted a number of engineers working on a large bridge, as well as surveyors scraping away the ground with the help of legionaries, making ready to lay a road.
“Rome wastes no time in establishing herself,” he noted. He motioned with his head back up the road he’d come from. “We have a number of wounded that require attention.”
“Understood,” Scapula replied. “There is already a field hospital established, and the doctors are anticipating the arrival of your men.”
“Well, they’re your men now, sir,” Artorius said as the three walked slowly through the camp towards the Principia tent.
“Technically speaking, perhaps,” the legate conceded. “However, it was you who led them throughout this campaign. And I have no doubt it is you who they will look to as we continue in our work here.”
“About that, sir,” Artorius replied, causing the legate to halt abruptly. “I don’t mean to abandon you as soon as you’ve arrived, but I am intending to leave the legions.”
Chapter XXV: A New Province
Sixty miles to the north of where Vespasian had conducted the brutal Siege of Mai Dun, Tribune Cursor halted his advance guard on top of a hill that overlooked a large valley. They had picked up a local cobbler, who had been all too anxious to take the Romans to their leaders. On the far side of the valley, it sloped up to a long ridge that was covered in groves of trees. Like much of the land, the valley was a mix of both open farm fields, as well as copses of trees.
“Fertile lands, an established settlement,” Centurion Taurus noted as he rode up next the tribune.
“The river1 runs all the way to the sea in the west,” their Dobunni guide stated as he nodded towards the flowing waters that dissected the valley. He then addressed the tribune, “Our leaders have anticipated your arrival and await your pleasure.”