Soldier of Rome: Journey to Judea (The Artorian Chronicles) by James Mace

Author:James Mace
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub, azw3
Publisher: Legionary Books
Published: 2013-04-30T14:00:00+00:00

Two days later, Artorius was observing the morning drill exercises one of the centuries was performing on the drill field. Working in close proximity with the cohort had given him a better understanding as to the true makeup of the Roman world, as its legionaries had come from every corner of the empire. He noticed his chief armorer, Cicero, who was mending a helmet under a shade tree.

“Not working in the armory today, sergeant?” Artorius asked, walking up to him.

“It’s rather stuffy in there, sir,” Cicero replied as he worked a crease out of a bent cheek piece. He then set the helmet and tools down. “Besides, days like this are rather pleasant.”

Artorius knelt down next to him and picked up the helmet. It looked like it had been smashed with a hammer.

“What happened here?” he asked.

“You may recall some of the lads from Julius’ century got into a brawl with a handful of drunken ruffians the other night,” Cicero explained.

“Oh, yes,” Artorius chuckled. “So this is the helmet of the legionary who got bashed in the head.”

“Knocked him silly, that did,” Cicero agreed. “Had blood dripping out of his ear for about a day, too. The drunken sod who did it is still sitting in the dungeons awaiting trial. The others were given a good thrashing by Julius’ men and left in a pool of their own blood and vomit. One pissed himself, and I don’t think anyone wanted to drag his sorry ass away.”

“And the fate of the man who assaulted our legionary will depend on how magnanimous Pilate is feeling,” Artorius surmised. “He may get off with a hundred lashes and a month imprisonment. Although if Caiaphas has put Pilate in a foul mood again, he may order the man’s crucifixion.”

The sounds of wooden gladii and practice shields striking the six-foot tall training stakes echoed throughout the courtyard. Artorius glanced up and watched as a decanus shouted orders to his squad.

“Shield boss strikes…go!” On the order, all seven legionaries began to punch their targets with the practice wicker shields. Grunts of exertion accompanied each blow as the soldiers slammed their shields home again and again.

“Gladii strikes, throat to groin…go!”

Artorius cocked his head slightly as he surmised each of the men on the stakes. Two were fair-skinned and had come from the Rhine legions. Three were of Latin origins, another was Greek. The last man was most likely Syrian or Mesopotamian. The decanus, who had removed his helmet and had his hands on his knees as he checked the technique of his men, was a black African.

“Cicero, you said you were from Belgica,” Artorius noted to the armorer.

“Yes, sir,” Cicero replied as he took a pair of pliers and started working on the helmet again.

“That man who is drilling his squad in front of us,” the centurion continued, nodding towards the decanus, who continued to shout orders to his men.

“Sergeant Galerius,” Cicero replied. “What of him?”

“What do you notice about him?” Artorius asked.

Cicero set the helmet down again and apprised the decanus.

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