“You know, Gaul is rather pleasant this time of year,” Gavius remarked as he tied down one of tarps on a cart. “I used to spend summers at Augustodunum when I was a child.”
“I’ve been there myself a couple of times,” Magnus replied. “Father had business dealings with some of the city councilmen. My brother, Oleg, still travels there in the spring.”
“When was the last time you saw him?” Artorius asked.
“Just before we joined the legions. I had hoped to see him when we were in Rome for the Triumph, but he wasn’t able to make it. And the last two times I’ve been home on furlough, he was away on business. I did get to see my other brother, Hansi. He has been an oarsman in the navy for ten years now. I have to say, working a galley oar all day puts meat on you! He was as thin as a beanstalk when he left, and now I think he is almost as big as you are.”
Artorius laughed. His size made him stand out in any crowd, and his years of training with Vitruvius had taught him to make the most of his natural assets. Though he was extremely quick and agile in close combat, he still had a tendency to rely on his strength and voracity. Such had allowed him to win the title of Legion Champion.
Magnus’ talk about his brothers suddenly made Artorius sad. Though it had been eleven years since his own brother’s passing, he still felt the pain of his loss. His first campaign as a legionary had been to avenge Metellus and every Roman slain during the Teutoburger Wald disaster. He had made an uneasy peace with his hatred and lust for vengeance. The dull ache of loss never truly left him, even after the vision of Metellus again. . but then such a thing was impossible for a rational man to believe; that he had seen and spoken with his brother long after Metellus was dead. And yet he could still see Metellus vividly, and hear the words he spoke to him, as clearly as if he was still alive. It was so surreal. Artorius never spoke of it to anyone, not even his father.
He forced those thoughts from his mind and found himself wondering about the places they were headed to. He had only been through Gaul once, and that was when he was a recruit on his way to their fortress at Cologne. He knew the region prospered and advanced socially, as well as economically, since being assimilated into what was then the Roman Republic. Valens interrupted his thoughts.
“This auxiliary commander that we’re linking up with, I heard his name is Sacrovir. Why does that sound familiar to me?” the legionary asked as Magnus burst out laughing.
“If it’s the same guy I am thinking of, he’s the one whose gladiator was killed by Vitruvius at the games!” he answered.
Artorius thought hard about the briefing he received earlier. “Macro did mention that the auxiliaries were augmented with gladiators,” he replied. “Seems strange, slaves would be willing to fight for Rome.” “Perhaps that’s part of the reason for us going,” Magnus remarked. “It sounds to me like we’re going along just to make sure the auxiliaries and mercenaries hired for this mission don’t get out of hand.”
“Or worse, turn on us,” Gavius added as he joined his section mates. “If this is the same Sacrovir we met in Rome, I wonder what his motivations might be? You know he had a particular loathing for Vitruvius.”
“That I do not know,” Artorius replied, as he leaned against the wagon, gazing off into the distance. He remembered the slimy, weasel of a man all too well. After Vitruvius killed his gladiator, Sacrovir left the Circus Maximus in a huff, screaming profane oaths of vengeance not just towards Vitruvius, but all soldiers of Rome. So what was he doing fighting alongside the legions? What could he possibly have to gain from this? Artorius hoped their commanders had the same suspicions and would investigate further.
Later that afternoon, Artorius was strolling over towards the bathhouse when he noticed his old friend Pontius Pilate walking towards him. He smiled and waved to his friend.
“Sir,” he said as he saluted the tribune.
Pilate laughed and returned the salute. “It’s been a while, old friend.”
“Indeed it has,” Artorius agreed. “Where have you been lately? Not getting corrupted by the other tribunes, I hope!” His smile disappeared when he saw the downcast look upon his friend’s face. “What is it?”
“I’ll not be going with you guys on this one, I’m afraid.” Pilate was visibly upset.
“Why?” Artorius asked. “You’re one of the finest officers in this legion; not to mention our chief of artillery!”
“That’s just it,” Pilate replied with a sigh. “I’ve been in this post for too long. It’s been decided it is time for me to move on.”
“Where will you go?”
“The Praetorians.”
Artorius’ face lit up, though Pilate still looked grim.
“The Praetorians? Are you kidding me? That’s fantastic news!” He smacked the tribune on the shoulder enthusiastically.
“It’s fantastic if I was interested in pursuing a career in politics and government. Which I’m not,” Pilate retorted. “That’s the bastard about being part of the patrician class. One does not always get to choose one’s own career path. And when it is the Emperor’s closest confidant who selects one, one would be very foolish to decline.”
“Did Sejanus choose you?”
Pilate nodded. “The Emperor’s right hand no less. I suppose, really, I should be excited about my new promotion. It will put me back in the social circle and in the eye of the Senate. Most of the tribunes I started out with here have already done time as minor provisional governors.” He looked down for a second before continuing. “Listen, I want you to gather up some of the guys and meet me at Lollia’s tavern tonight. I, at least, owe the lads of the Twentieth a good send off!”
It was a sunny day in Augustodunum. Farquhar was conducting his studies outdoors. His father, an influential nobleman named Lennox, had sent him to the city to attend the university. Farquhar was an athletic, bright young man of fifteen winters. He was studying economics and marketing, and hoped to one day expand his family’s fortunes beyond their already vast estates. Slaves were always a profitable trade, one which his family had yet to take advantage of. He thought he would speak to his father about this when his term at school ended.
He’d heard rumors recently about civil unrest in the province, but that was something he never concerned himself with. Granted, his sense of adventure relished the thought of military glory, however, Farquhar was also a realist. The warrior societies of Gaul had ended with the conquest of Caesar. The only Gauls who took up arms now were those whose families were noncitizens seeking Roman citizenship through service in the auxiliaries, or else lower class plebes who enlisted in the legions. Farquhar was neither a mere Gaul, nor a plebe. He was of Gallic nobility. His family had been Roman citizens since the conquest. His citizenship meant little to him, for he still bore a Gallic name and considered himself a Gaul first. He had never been to Rome, much less paid mind to her petty politics. His great-grandfather fought with Vercingetorix against Caesar, all those years ago. They claimed fealty to Caesar and to Rome as a means of survival. As a boy, his father showed him his great-grandfather’s sword and told him great tales of his bravery. Farquhar just laughed and shook his head at the absurdity of it all.
He was sitting on a bench, enjoying the warmth of the sun while he wrote, when he felt a pair of soft hands cover his eyes.
“Guess who?” a girl’s voice whispered into his ear.
He smiled and lifted her hands off his eyes. He turned to face Kiana, who seemed to radiate in the sunlight. She was a beautiful young girl, a year younger than he. Her father also a wealthy nobleman and, upon his death, he left her a considerable fortune in land and treasure. This inheritance would fall to whoever her future husband would be, and Lennox wasted no time in arranging their marriage.
“It’s a beautiful day, why are you wasting it studying?” Kiana asked as she pulled him to his feet.