Soldier of Rome: The Centurion (The Artorian Chronicles) by James Mace Read Free Book Online Page B

shields, and javelins behind. Each wore his gladius and carried just some rations in his pack. The winter months on the Rhine were unsuitable for marching, and in spite of their best efforts, the men’s fitness always suffered slightly as a result. A few weeks would get them back into shape soon enough. There was a lot of tension in the air, and he suspected that all of the men dreaded the thought of returning to the fortress. He could not say he blamed them at all.
     
    That night as Artorius and Vitruvius walked in silence past the Century’s barracks, they heard a loud cry coming from inside the main office. The men stopped and stared at each other.
    “Dear gods, he’s done it again,” Artorius said quickly as he turned and raced towards the sound, which was now accompanied by the echo of a loud slapping sound. Vitruvius was on his heels as Artorius burst into the office.
    On the floor in a pool of blood lay the hapless legionary who had been tasked with being Centurion Fulvius’ aide for the week. His head was covered in numerous cuts and abrasions. Blood was oozing from several nasty gashes, as well as from his left ear. His tunic was torn, showing nasty scouring along his back. The Centurion himself had a glazed look in his eye, his chest heaving with his exertions, and a broken wine jug in one hand and his vine stick in the other.  Bloodied pieces of the jug lay on the floor, a sign that the young legionary had been hit repeatedly with the jug, as well as the vine stick.
    “What is the meaning of this?” Artorius snapped, all sense of protocol having vanished in the horror of what he saw.
    “Not your concern, Optio,” Fulvius sneered. “This worthless pile of dog shit knocked over and shattered one of my wine goblets! And now he’s paying the price for his clumsiness.”
    “A clay wine goblet that cost you nothing!” Vitruvius observed. “This is an outrage and an abuse of the power given to you!”
    “Back off, Vitruvius!” Fulvius roared. “I do not tell you how to run your century, don’t you dare come in here and tell me how to run mine!” He quickly stepped back as Vitruvius moved towards him. “Don’t even think about it! You may be the greatest hand-to-hand fighter to have ever lived, but I have friends, Vitruvius; powerful friends who would break you and your career at a simple snap of the fingers!” As he turned towards the fallen legionary he raised his vine stick once more. He would thrash the poor man some more, just to spite the two men witnessing. As he brought the stick down once more in a hard smash, Artorius leapt forward and stopped the blow with his Optio’s staff.
    “Enough!” he growled through clenched teeth. Fulvius started to laugh.
    “You daring to challenge me, boy?” he said in mock surprise. With surprisingly quick reflexes he threw the remains of the wine jug at Artorius. It shattered against the Optio’s shoulder as the Centurion drew his gladius and swung it in a hard back slash. The weapon cleaved through the staff and Artorius quickly stepped back, instinctively drawing his own gladius.
    Fulvius lunged forward, his sword raised high to smash down on him. In doing so, he violated one of the most basic rules of legionary close combat; that one never slashes with the gladius. Artorius rushed in and grabbed his sword arm by the wrist, kneeing him hard in the groin. The Centurion let out a loud groan as his breath was taken from him. His gladius fell from his hand, his eyes wide in terror as Artorius slammed him into the wall, his own weapon pointed at his throat.
    “You will never harm another one of my men again!” the Optio said quietly into his ear. With a blinding , cold hatred he had not felt in years he slammed the gladius into the side of Fulvius’ neck. The jugular burst by the razor-sharp blade, spraying forth dark crimson; the wicked man’s windpipe cleaved in two as Artorius drove his weapon home. The Centurion tried to gasp, but his breath was