“Why don’t you come with me and find out?” she replied coyly.
He looked back at the two soldiers still arguing. Well, whatever it was, it really wasn’t his concern, and besides there would be time to find out later. He smiled back at the young woman, placed his arm around her and walked off into the night.
“Damn it, Flaccus, you’re the tesserarius and are, therefore, senior. It should be you who replaces Valgus!” Vitruvius was shaken.
“Vitruvius, you have been ducking this promotion for years,” Flaccus replied calmly. “Though I may be older and have been in the army much longer, you were a decanus well before me. And let us not forget that you’ve been offered the optionate three times already! You need to understand there is more to being a great leader than just teaching soldiers how to fight with a gladius and javelin. You have a way with the men, and as much as it pains me to admit this, you are a better leader than I am. For the good of the century, you must take this position.”
Vitruvius sighed audibly.
“Then who will take over as chief weapons instructor?” he asked.
“Find a replacement,” Flaccus replied, looking briefly over to where Artorius had stood moments before. “Otherwise, I suppose you could pull double-duty as both optio and chief weapons instructor. Either way, it doesn’t matter. You know Macro’s not giving you a choice this time.”
“I know,” Vitruvius hung his head for a second. “Alright then, for the good of the century I will occupy both positions. Chief weapons instructor is an additional duty anyway. I can make time for it, until I find a suitable replacement.”
“And when will that be?” Flaccus asked smiling.
“When I finally find someone in this damn army who can beat me in single combat,” Vitruvius answered.
“You think too much of your abilities,” Flaccus remarked, “Though not entirely without merit, I admit.”
Vitruvius smiled and looked away. “All I’ve ever wanted was to be on the line, where the action is. This just doesn’t feel right to me. After all, you and Camillus both are senior to me. I still think one of you should take the position.”
“You’ve got to remember,” Flaccus replied, “that the term ‘Optio’ literally means ‘chosen one.’ You are the one Macro chose. It could have been anybody, but he selected you. And just so you know, Camillus feels the same way I do. Accept your destiny, old friend.”
“Come on, Artorius! You’ve gone soft today!” Vitruvius said as Artorius lay on the ground, gasping from the sergeant knocking the wind out of him.
It had just been a bad combination of events. His night of fun with his lady friend had run late, he was mildly feeling the effects of her enthusiasm, in addition to a little too much wine. Combine that with the fact that Vitruvius was extremely irritable after the events of the night before and was looking for someone to thrash for it. Why did all of this have to take place just hours before their weekly sparring sessions?
“What, did that little hussy drain all of your manhood out of you last night?” Vitruvius asked dryly.
“Something like that,” Artorius said as he staggered to his feet.
“Well, come on, man. A few more good beatings will purge her venom from your veins!”
Artorius came at him, punching hard with his shield, and jabbing with his gladius. He knocked Vitruvius’ shield up, lunged down, and stabbed the Sergeant in the foot. Vitruvius yelped in pain and brought his own gladius down on top of Artorius’ neck. The after-effects of the night had slowed him down, and he was unable to pull back and defend against the sergeant’s onslaught. Artorius lay groaning on the floor while Vitruvius limped around the training hall.
“Better, much better!” Vitruvius said through clenched teeth.
Artorius just lay on the floor moaning.
Vitruvius walked back to him and poked him in the ribs with his training gladius. “So was she worth it?” he asked, laughing.
“Oh, yes,” Artorius moaned as he worked up to his hands and knees. “I would say so.”
“Well, then, no harm done!” Vitruvius laughed and pulled the young legionary to his feet. “You’re still improving, even after a night of playing with the harlots! Just don’t make a habit of it right before we spar! See you next week.”
Artorius made his way to the bathhouse. He was sore, sweaty, and remembered that he had not bathed since the day before. He saw Praxus walking in just ahead of him.
“You’re catching up to Vitruvius,” Praxus remarked. “I saw him come limping by here just a while ago. He was trying to hide it, of course. It looks like he still got the best of you, though.”
“You have no idea,” Artorius said.
His body hurt all over and he just wanted to get cleaned up and soak in the hot water. He was aware of the fact that he still reeked of sex, something Praxus pointed out to him. As they lay on the tables where slaves rubbed them with oil and scraped the dirt away, Praxus continued their conversation. Artorius found he was only half conscious.
“The weather’s improving,” Praxus observed. “We should be readying ourselves for the spring campaign before too long.”
“Probably,” Artorius slurred in response.
“The boats are all done,” Praxus continued. “Everyone’s been conducting amphibious assault rehearsals, along with all of the usual drill and weapons practice, some of us more than others.” He reached over and punched Artorius on the shoulder as he said that.
Artorius simply groaned. After the massage, the cold plunge bath revived him, and time in the heated pool relieved his aching joints and muscles. He felt much better as he and Praxus walked out of the bathhouse.
“Can I ask you something?” Praxus asked, not waiting for an answer. “Why do you go through those weekly sparring sessions with Vitruvius? I can understand wanting to be a good fighter, but you’re not a gladiator, Artorius. Very few of us have skills even close to those of Vitruvius, yet we still succeed in battle. We work together. Eight men working as one unit can be more effective than a hundred fighting as individuals. Your body pays a heavy toll every week with the beatings he gives you. Remember, you’re not going to win this war by yourself.”
“I know that,” Artorius replied. “I just think it would be better if those eight men you speak of all fought as well individually as Vitruvius. I’ll be honest with you, Praxus. I have no intention of spending my career as a simple legionary. I know I’ve only been serving for a little over a year and that any type of promotion takes time. I also know it is not uncommon for veteran soldiers to retire at the same rank held when they first entered the legions. I just feel if I were the best close combat fighter in the legion, I might someday be able to take Vitruvius’ place.”
“If you can beat Vitruvius, you will be the best in the legion, probably in the entire army,” Praxus remarked.
“It’s also a challenge to me,” Artorius said. “I’ve heard he’s unbeatable. I’ve seen how all the veterans continue to get scarred in battle. His body remains conspicuously devoid of any injury, yet he kills more than anyone whenever we engage with the enemy. Something inside of me yearns to beat him, to be the best there is. Besides, I’d rather take my beatings from him than from a barbarian with an axe!”
Later that day the century stood in formation, all dressed for parade. Centurion Macro stood in front of the formation. In his hands he held a parchment bearing a set of orders, along with the staff associated with the rank of optio.
“The rank of Optio comes from a term meaning ‘chosen one,’” Macro stated. “The optio of a century is hand-picked by the centurion to act as his right hand. He is subordinate only to the centurion himself, having been selected for promotion ahead of his peers. In the absence of the centurion, it is the optio who assumes command.
“The staff carried by the optio has the practical use of keeping legionaries in formation during the heat of battle. Many a battle has hinged on the abilities of such chosen men to keep their soldiers focused and disciplined when it was most crucial. The staff is also a symbol of his rank, and of his newly granted authority.” Macro paused for a moment before unrolling the document he held.