“Damn it all,” the centurion swore under his breath. A pair of legionaries were kneeling next to the dead man. Artorius knelt down to get a look at the soldier’s face. He recognized him as one of the newest recruits who had just completed training the month prior. Artorius looked down and shook his head. Regardless of whether it was a new recruit or veteran soldier he had known for years, he always took the loss of one of his men hard.
“At least he got one of the bastards before they took him,” one of the legionaries said, picking up the dead man’s gladius which was soaked in blood.
“Send a runner back to the fort,” Artorius ordered a nearby decanus. “Inform Centurion Dominus of the raid.”
“Yes, sir.”
Artorius then placed a hand briefly on the slain legionary’s shoulder before rising. The man’s companions were already making a litter, using fallen branches, as well as his cloak, to carry the body back to the fortress, where he would be given proper honors by his fellow legionaries.
“Artorius!”
The centurion looked over to see it was Praxus, shouting for him. His old friend was waving to him from over at one of the farm houses. “You’d better take a look at this.”
Artorius let out a sigh and feared the worst as he followed Praxus into the house. Inside, a farmer, his wife, and teenage son lay dead. Farm tools lay next to the bodies, showing that they had fought in vain to defend their home. The cry of a baby forewarned Artorius. Next to the bed in the back room was a crib. Praxus held the torch over, letting the light cast its glow on the sobbing infant.
“Can’t be more than a week old,” the optio observed. “I’ll have the lads check the other houses, see if there are any relations living in the settlement that can care for it.” Praxus handed his torch to a legionary and picked the child up, consoling it as best he could. Artorius was no good with children and was glad his optio took the initiative with the now-orphaned baby.
The centurion walked outside to see the half dozen prisoners on their knees as the farmers slowly emerged from their homes. One gave a loud cry as he ran over to where Praxus emerged, holding the now quiet child. He looked at the optio, who quietly shook his head. The farmer’s eyes filled with tears as he rushed into the house, quickly emitting a howl of sorrow as his wife took the baby from Praxus. The other families gathered around, holding each other close in the eerie scene that played out under the torchlight.
“Only one house was breached, sir,” Sergeant Felix reported. Artorius nodded in reply. He looked over as the sobbing farmer emerged from the house and noted that the man now carried a short scythe in his hand.
“Bastards killed my sister!” he cried as his wife embraced him while still carrying the infant. The man then looked over at Artorius accusingly. “The legions were supposed to protect us from this!”
The centurion did not reply, though he kept his gaze fixed on the man.
The enraged farmer then pushed his wife aside and with his eyes locked on Artorius he started to walk very quickly towards where the centurion stood behind the prisoners, who were on their knees with their hands bound behind their backs. A legionary made to step between them, but was stayed by Artorius’ hand.
“Let him have this,” he said quietly. He then nodded to the farmer, whose red face twisted into a snarl of pure hatred.
The man stood over one of the prisoners, whose hands were bound behind his back. The raider defiantly spat on his feet, uttering dark words in a tongue the centurion could not understand. With a scream of both sorrow and rage the farmer swung his scythe in a hard swing which severed the prisoner’s arm above the elbow. The raider’s scream pierced through the night as his severed limb hung off his side, the twitching hand still tied to its mate. Gouts of blood spurted forth as the farmer went into a frenzy, slashing away at the stricken man. His scythe tore into the raider’s torso, smashed his face as the blade cleaved through the bone, and finally, with a series of blows he severed the man’s head.
As the mutilated body of the raider lay thrashing in a growing pool of blood and bodily fluids, the farmer stood trembling with tears streaming down his face. Artorius signaled to a pair of legionaries, who quickly took the scythe from him and guided the man away. He then looked back at the corpses of their slain enemies.
“Hang the bodies from trees on the far side of the river,” he ordered. “Let them serve as a warning to those who would threaten the peace of Rome.”
While two dozen men carried out the macabre task, the rest of the century began the task of collecting their equipment and making ready for the march back to Cologne. Artorius always donned the lorica segmentata plate armor worn by legionaries, as opposed to the more traditional hamata chain or squamata scale worn by his fellow centurions, only the transverse crest on his helmet called attention to his rank. His belt was also devoid of the hanging leather strips covered in small metal discs that his men wore. As he dug through his leather pack, he pulled out a harness bearing all of his phalerae, the embossed decorations that denoted his campaign medals and other awards. Though campaign decorations were awarded to all soldiers who fought, only centurions and, in some cases, options were allowed to wear them over their armor. Artorius found them to be an unnecessary encumbrance, never wearing them in battle. As it was, he felt he should look the part of a proper centurion for the march back to the fortress. His superiors harried him enough as it was for wearing a common ranker’s armor, despite Artorius’ assertion that it provided better protection.
“Soldier!” the voice of the village chief alerted him as he cinched up the straps on his phalerae harness. The man’s face was one of sadness, but also of understanding.
“We did what we could,” Artorius said as he put on his helmet. “I am sorry for the loss your people suffered.”
“They are very bitter,” the chief acknowledged. “They say that Rome has failed to protect us.”
“Did they not see the body of my slain legionary?” Artorius snapped. “He gave his life protecting them! And rest assured, Rome does not allow such incursions to remain unpunished.”
Chapter II: Unrest in the East
Governor’s Palace, Caesarea, Judea
Pontius Pilate quickly read over the letter he had dictated to his freedman clerk before signing his name to it. He then handed it back to the man, who rolled it up before dripping candle wax onto the overlap, which Pilate then pressed the seal on his ring into. He then took the scroll and handed it to a waiting imperial messenger, who saluted and abruptly left. Pilate then dismissed the clerk and sat behind his desk. All the while, the commander of the Jerusalem garrison, an auxilia centurion named Abenader, stood silent.
Though Jerusalem was the capital of the province, like previous procurators, Pontius Pilate had elected to rule from the coastal city of Caesarea. In the five years of his governorship, he had scarcely been able to so much as set foot in Jerusalem without offending the entire populace. Images of the Emperor Tiberius, which his troops had paraded through the streets, had caused gross offence, as it violated the Jewish customs regarding idolatry. What surprised Pilate was that the emperor had sided with the Jews in the matter, rather than his appointed procurator, ordering him not to parade his images through the cities again. At least in Caesarea there was a sense of what Pilate viewed as civilization. As a major costal trading port, it was full of persons from the whole of the Empire, with a population of more Alexandrian Greeks than Jews.