Prologue

Prologue

Northern Britain, circa A.D. 60

Under a bleak sky, with the rain falling steadily in the early dawn, a column of Roman soldiers wound its way down a muddy road.  Not a word was spoken as the men marched, the treading of their feet muffled in the soft earth.  Armour rattled and plinked in the rain.  Leather straps creaked.  

            Deridimus wiped the rain from his cheekgaurd.  He would never be able to live in Britain.  Even on the clearest days, the sky held a grey pallor, a numbing chill.  Shivering, he gripped his pylum tighter, causing water to seep from the leather grip.  He had to keep his spirits up �" could not let the men see him growing weary now.  Their patrol, which had taken them far past the last Roman outpost, was almost over.  It had lasted for five days.  He rubbed his chin, where a stubbly beard was forming.  Five days since he had shaved, or bathed, or slept on a real bed.  One did not join the Roman Legions for a life of comfort.

            Not that he really minded.  Most marches were pleasant enough, and he was growing used to the rain.  This patrol, though, was different.  They had not seen a single sign of the Celts during the entire five days.  He would usually call that a blessing, but not today: it was far too quiet, far too peaceful.  Something was building up, preparing for the final pounce on an easy prey.  An ambush would be far too easy here, where the road was strangled by the encroaching forest.

            “Centurion Deridimus!”  The column of marching men halted, as a scout appeared from ahead, running swiftly towards him.  ‘I should have horsed the scouts,” Deridimus thought to himself. 

 

The man was winded when he at last came to the front of the line, and his mud-spattered clothes were saturated with rain.  He waited for the man to catch his breath.  Septimus was a good scout, a loyal soldier, and Deridimus relied on him heavily.

            “Centurion Deridimus, finally a sight of the savages.  Jupiter!  Far too many to count, all dressed for war.”

            Deridimus’ mind sprang to life.  At last, some excitement.  “Did they see you?  Do they know we are here?” 

            Septimus glanced behind him, down the lonely road, as though expecting the enemy to appear at any moment.  He spoke slowly.  “I am almost certain they are preparing to attack us, even now.”

            Deridimus clenched his teeth.  Should the century fight or run?  He murmured his thanks to the scout, dismissing him with a salute.  Then an idea sprang to mind, and he whirled around, the heel of his boot grinding in the mud. 

            “Septimus!”  He called.

            “My lord?”

The men in the column were growing uneasy, beginning to shift and murmur.  Deridimus spoke again.

            “Septimus, you are the swiftest of my scouts.  I know you are weary, but the other men are weary as well.  The nearest outpost is not far away now.  I need you to send for reinforcements �" we are too few.  A single century is not enough to hold off the enemy.”

            Septimus nodded.  “I will not stop running until I reach the outpost.”  He grinned and added, “They will call me Phippides.”

            “Good.  Farewell, then.”

Septimus sprang away, past the line of soldiers, vanishing southward down the road.   

            A plan had formed in his mind.  Maybe not the best, but the best that time would allow.  Strange, he thought, how time was always shortest when he needed it most.

            Turning away from the southward road �"the road that led home �" he faced the men.  One hundred of them, grim, weary faces, determined jaws, steel eyes.  Mostly young faces, but this was not their first fight against the Celts.  They were waiting for him to speak.  Taking a deep breath, he began.  Confidence �" show them confidence, and spur them to action. 

            “Hurry!  The Celts will soon be upon us.  Form up the ranks.  We will be outnumbered, but we are soldiers of Rome.  We do not know defeat.”

            The men moved quickly and without a flaw.  Deridimus shouted out orders, his voice crisp in the early morning air. 

            “Form the shield wall!  Ready the pylums in the second row!  Archers, slingers, form up behind!  And every man ready his sword.”

            The impenetrable wall was formed.  He stood in the midst of his men, their energy pent up like a bent bow, ready to fire.  He tried to relax, but found he could not.  All around him the dark forest loomed, writhing ghostlike.  He shook his head and cursed himself as a fool, and it stopped.  His fantasies could be the death of his men.  A clear-headed centurion was needed to win this battle.  He gripped his pylum tighter as the moments dragged by.  A rustling was growing in the forest, like the hissing of many snakes.  He shivered.

            Suddenly a devilish cry rent the air, caught up by many voices, the words harshly, wildly beautiful.  Arrows hissed among the trees, glancing off armour and shield.  Deridimus caught a glimpse of the blue-painted warriors rushing closer among the tossing trees.  He looked around at his men �"they, like himself, were all afraid.  What could he say?  How could he urge them on?  They stood, bows bent, slings ready, facing the jaws of death�"they needed steady hands.

            The words came to him of their own accord, and rang clear as a trumpet through the woods, rising above the din of the Celts.

            “Sons of Rome.  You are men of valour.  Reach down, each of you, and set your sword alight with it!  For Caesar!  For Rome!”

The hearts of his men swelled at his words, and the joy of battle rushed over them.  Life as never before surged through their veins.  Each of them was urging to be spent for Rome. 

            As for him�"he fought for more than Rome.  Once Rome had been enough.  He had been fifteen when his life became Rome’s.  Crimson plumes and bronze eagles had captured his heart; his only desire had been to become a Centurion, to lead his hundred brothers into battle with words as he had just spoken to them in such soaring tones.  Two years passed in yearning, as his life was consumed with drills and duties when his greatest dream�"to march out of Rome in glory to the field of battle to test himself�"became his worst nightmare in the space of a day.  Rome’s place in his heart was usurped. 

            He had met her several times before, but he had been younger then and his eyes blind to all but the glory of war and his dream of becoming a Centurion.  After he enlisted as a soldier, he had not seen her save three times in passing.  It was the third time that forever changed him.  He had thought he was alone on the street when he heard the sound of tears.  That had been early in the morning.  They walked and talked until late that night.  Pity had seized his heart�"more than pity.  She took his breath away.  Her tears glistened like diamonds on her face; the look in her eyes brought tears to his own.  After that third meeting, things had changed.    Now they met often.  It was the fateful night that he learned of his deployment that she had found him, weeping in the street, their positions reversed. 

            A week later he had been called away to the distant south to garrison a city. 

            Now�"five years later�"she was everything he fought for.  She was the strength in his arms and the bravery in his words.  But he had been gone far too long�"he always was.  A brief vision came of her smile.  “Hang on” she had whispered, “and come back to me.”  He would.  And when he did, he would marry her.

            He sighed, and clenched his spear. 

 

            The Celts poured out of the woods, the earth trembling under their feet.  Thousands of arrows leapt seething into the air, darkening the sky.  Icicles of fear clutched at Deridimus’ heart, and not even the bravest thought would drive it away.  He shouted out more commands.

            “Men, order yourselves!  Act as one!  Ready!  Let Fly!”

The missiles shrieked forth from the Roman lines, falling like deadly hail among the enemy.  Stones, arrows, and flights of spears, all for Rome.

            Yet even under this onslaught, the swarms of Britons came on, unstoppable as the rising tide.  Closer and closer they came, until Deridimus could see their wild, frenzied eyes.  Run, Septimus.  Run as never before.

            Deridimus lifted up his voice, his last words to the Century. 

            “Raise the Eagle!  Here they come.”

           

            Beside him, two of the men released their weapons and lifted the great bronze eagle, its wings outstretched, its beak raised in defiance.  It was set on a great pole, and from its talons there fluttered a crimson banner.  Grasping it with steady hands, they thrust its base deep into the earth.  The banner fluttered in the wind, and the men gave a shout.

Let them come.  Let the floods of the enemy thrash and toss and rage against the might of Rome, and still the eagle would stand.  Let them come and break themselves.

            But this thought, Deridimus knew, was but a burst of passion, brought on by the heat of battle.  His men could not stand forever, mighty as they were.  And so Rome, he feared, could not stand forever.  But what would happen to the world if fall it did indeed?  All order, all law, all art, all science �" the roads and the temples, the courts and the judges �" all would pass away.  Love and pride surged in his heart, and he fought on, stroke after tireless stroke. 

            But the day wore on, and the tide of Britons rose ever higher, each minute bringing it closer to breaking through.  Septimus would not be in time.  The centurion was crumbling away under the onslaught, pressed back until only a few remained alive, encircling the eagle, fighting for everything they knew.  Those final words, spoken by Deridimus, were etched in their minds.  They would not let their eagle fall. 

            All about him the great storm raged, threatening at any moment to break through.  Should any more fall, it would be over, the wall broken.  Deridimus let out a cry as he felled yet another of the enemy.  So many, he thought, so wild and free.  He feared they would never be subject to Rome.  A blow glanced off his shield, and he retaliated fiercely, his blade striking deep.  The man fell, joining the dead and wounded on the ground.  When would it end?  His muscles screamed, his body groaned, but he could not stop. 

            Sorrow swept over him, mightier than the sea of steel, shaking his resolve.  A wave for the brothers he led to death.  A wave for the Empire that was doomed to fall.  A wave for a sister he would never see again.  A wave for the men he had lead to their deaths.  A wave for her who for him was everything.  A wave for a future forever lost. 

            Their resistance could not last.  The waves crashed forward, the press of men smiting them with the force of the sea.  Septimus was too late.  The blows of the Britons fell thick as the rain, beating down the final brave resistance.  Deridimus was fighting fiercely with several in front of him when a blow crashed down on his head from behind. 

He tottered and fell, his vision spinning, faces �" of the enemy and of his still, cold comrades �" flashing in his eyes.  Then, just before the blackness swept over him, he saw an axe descend on the pole, shattering it into many pieces.  The eagle plummeted earthward, the banner clutched in its talons fluttering bravely in the wind.  Then it struck the ground, trampled into the blood-soaked mud by many feet, buried beneath the billows of the waves.  

 

He breathed her name, and closed his eyes.

 

 

Reviews

[Alex W]

This is fantastic! The writer I mentioned started one of his books like this, it was a Roman Outpost in Parthia, but a similiar theme. You pull it off very well indeed!

There are some strange sentances, which i'd look at changing, such as perhaps mention his sister a little more as it may be me being stupid but apart from the mention at the end, I didn't see her in there. Either put a little more in for her, or don't mention her at all as it makes you think you've missed something. (If I have, please excuse that part lol)

There are a few more things, but they are merely of historical relevance so this has nothing to do with your writing style, just the actual piece:

I think the actual term for the Romans spears are spelt 'Pilum', and when referencing more than one of them it is 'Pila'.

The Celts were more inclined to use slingers, as they were more effective. Maybe change the bit about arrows to slingers? Also the Roman patrols very rarely carried missiles other than the pila, so perhaps mention that there were scouts among the patrol if they are to have missiles on the Roman side.

The Roman century would have been overrun and surrounded if they'd have been stood still, perhaps have them slowly retreating? That's if the back line weren't turned around of course. Usually the patrols wouldn't like to stand still unless they were forced to. A Roman Patrol would retreat to the nearest outpost even if it took days followed by the Celts as even large forces of Celts could usually be stopped by the line of shields.

One last bit is the Eagle Standard. I think it was carried at all times, not stuck in the ground. THere was a standard bearer in each unit, which was a step into becoming a centurion. I think it was a two year stay as a Standard Bearer, then if you survived and were of good enough leadership you were promoted to centurion (or the place just under the centurion, I can't remember the name right now)

Hope you don't think i'm nit picking, it may come across as a right arseholey comment. Just thought knowing these things would help for the better. Your piece is great, it's the sort of thing that i'd pay money for in real life. I'll be reading the next bit for sure. One of my favourite pieces on here, if not favourite.

95/100.