Beasts of Hades

PROLOGUE




The moon glows a silvery white, but black clouds have already choked out most of the night sky and threaten to do the same to the moon. A human skull shines dully in the moonlight despite its weathered bone and dark red stains. It tops a six foot spire of stone with other skulls embedded in its length, and stands dead center of a clearing in a dense, primeval forest. The moon’s dull light filters down through the pines creating wicked shadows, but the woods are quiet. No crickets chirp, no birds sing, and no animals rustle about. The night has swallowed up all normal sounds of life.

Just beyond the clearing is a hill with a jagged face of gray granite. At its top are two massive stone pillar standing parallel to one another. The moon is framed between these ancient monoliths and its rays seem to brighten as they stab down between them and illuminate the clearing below.

The intensified light floods the scene, revealing the two people that have been waiting just for this moment. One is a blonde haired young girl with fair soft skin and addolescent features dressed in a long white cloak. She is kneeling reverently at the base of the totem. Behind her, standing upright, is an older man, also in a white cloak, with a head of long, gray hair and a moustache whose tips reach far below his beardless chin. The man holds his hands outstretched to the sky. The left hand is open to the moon, while the right holds a knife with a long, thin silvery blade.

“It is time dear.” The old Druid said softly. The girl nodds and waits patiently for what is to come. The Druid began a chant in an archaic form of their Gaulic language.

But the forest was not so empty or silent of life as it had first appeared. Twigs suddenly crackled and dull metal glinted in the light as seven men stepped from the shadows. They are hard men, squat but lean with dark latin features. They are Roman soldiers. The lead man is a Centurion, wearing a gilded Greek style helmet and muscled curaiss. His helmet is topped by the mark of his rank, a transversed horsehair crest of bright red. The other men wore simpler bronze helmets with a wide neck guard and cheek pieces, each one topped by a single plume of black horsehair. They also wore the standard issue of the rank and file, chainmail hauberks covering from shoulder to thigh, and large red, oval shields. The last item being an idea stolen from the Gauls themselves, the Romans being a very practical people. They take whatever works best and make it their own. Prime example being the Germanic style breeches and leather boots each man is wearing in lieu of the standard Roman tunica and sandals. Cold winters, heavy rain, and thick mud soon proved these to be useless here in the far North. These men had followed Julius Ceasar through years of fighting, and were now the new rulers of Gaul.

“Stop old man!” The Centurion said as his men fanned out around the Druid and his skull topped totem. “The practice of your religion has been forbidden. You will not speak another word or sacrifice this woman.”

The Druid is stunned. His outstretched hands waver.

“I must finish this ceremony. This spell must be renewed or we will all suffer.”

“Stinking Barbarian!” The Centurion waves his hand and his men pull out their famed short, stabbing swords. “Kill this old fool and destroy that stone pillar.”

With desperation, the Druid returns to his chant, reciting the words as fast as he can while fear grows in his eyes. The moon is already beginning to shrink away behind the black clouds.

A sword tip suddenly bursts out of his chest with a spray of crimson. The Druid falls against the stone. He holds on with trembling hands and tries to finish his chant. The Roman legionaire pulls his sword out of the old man’s back, then yanks on his long, gray hair to expose his neck. “No, no, you do not know what you are doing...” The moon high above is only a sliver of its former self. The clouds are overtaking it. “When the moon is gone, THEY will be free!” He shouts. A quick slash across the throat and the Druid dies in a gargle of blood.

“What do we do with the girl?” One of the men asked as he stood over the kneeling figure.
Another man, are larger, heavier set soldier bends low to pick up a huge stone to hurl at the human headed totem.

“The girl should be grateful we saved her life,” The Centurion said with a hint of a smile. “Let her show us her gratitude.” The men laugh. One paws at the girl’s robe.

The Huge man lifts the stone high above his head. Straining with it, he takes a step towards the totem and hurls it as hard as he can. The stone smashes one of the skulls to bits, but the rest of the spire only trembles.

“Try it again Hercules.” The other men laugh, but the laughter stills as darkness overcomes the clearing.

The last of the moonlight is snuffed out by the clouds. The girl sobbs in the darkness, and the Roman’s begin to sense that something is wrong. Shadows form in the dark woods all around them. Huge, hulking shadows that growl like beasts and have glowing red eyes.

“Form circle!” The Centurion desperately cries out, but it is already too late. The Forest stillness is shattered by the bone-chilling screams, and the terrible thrashing and growling of wild beasts tearing at their meal.

It is only moments before the quiet returns, a deathly quiet. But the beasts have not gone, they are on the move fanning out through the trees in search of more prey.




CHAPTER ONE


Pomponius Canio is pissed. His fat pudgy face with its grizzle of a beard, but no moustache, and bulbous red nose, is wrinkled in anger. He stamps his elephantine feet on the muddy face of a dirt road and pulls his long, fur coat for which a thousand or more rabbits had given their hides to produce, tightly against the fall weather. It is morning, but hardly noticable as the sky is filled with angry gray clouds threatening to rain. A typically cold, miserable autumn day in northwestern Gaul.

“Can you do something?” Pomponius asked irritably.

At the end of the muddied road is the River Liger, its normally calm, serene waters now a bloated, thrashing mess. All that was left of the Roman bridge that had spanned it is two stone pillars with twisted skein’s of rope flailing in the water, and a few shattered wooden planks. Centurio Minucius stood at the remnant overlooking the nasty flow of floodwater.

“No sir, not when the river is like this.” He walked back to Pomponius. “We couldn’t get boats across it let alone pontoons with pile drivers.”

Pomponious stammered his feet again. “Damn it man, Caesar did it, he crossed the Rhine!”

“Yes Procurator, I was with him. The Rhine is a big, but slow moving beast, not like this.” The Centurio wasn’t phased by Pomponius obvious anger. Everyone knew that the fat senator was known as ‘the Bulldog’. Not for a ferocious bite, but for the endless slobbering from his jowls when he threw a tantrum.

“We’ll have to go back to camp and wait for the river to die down.” He said.

“We can not wait, Centurio, those damn Gauls are already late on their taxes. If we let them off now, they may choose to ignore our demands. Then what eh? More years of fighting?” Canio fumed, steam beginning to rise from his flabby bald head.

“You will have to take that up with the Legion commander, Legate Craestus.” Minucius said matter of factly. “After you sir.” He waved his hand back to the waiting carriage and its escort of Auxilliary cavalrymen, Germans by appearance, and the twenty four man detachment of Roman Infantry.

“Damn you man.” Canio fumed and sloshed off through the mud. Above them, thunder boomed, and a light rain began to fall.

The camp had been transformed in only a few years into a permanant residence for the Legion. Instead of tents, it now had mudwalled, grass thatched rows of barracks. Though for the Romans, even these were considered temporary. Eventually even these will be replaced by brick walls and clay roof tiles. Once it’s stone and brick buildings were in place, it would no longer be a camp at all, but a fort. It had the typical Legion layout, a square grid with the cohorts having distinct quarters, and an area for supply and the officers. The legion’s commander, a man appointed by Ceasar himself, had his quarters next to the Legion’s temple which both sat astride the large square in the center of camp where the men assembled and often drilled. The square was, at present, a sea of thick Gallic mud. The cold, drizzling rain continued to fall from the gray skies.

Surrounding the camp was a ditch and a rampart of earth, squared in the front but sloping in the back. Atop this was a palisade of wood with towers spaced evenly along its length. Sentinels stood in each tower, protected from the rain by wooden roofs. Each tower held a brace of ‘Scorpions’; Fast firing, and very accurate artillery pieces that resembled a man sized crossbow and fired iron tipped bolts that were the length of a mans arm. These however, were wrapped tightly in oiled leather to keep them from getting to wet. The men looked alike in their bronze helmets with horsehair plumes removed, and thick woollen cloaks.

A muddy, wheel rutted dirt road led to the camp from a small, but growing village. Some buildings were already made of stone, and a brickworks had been set up in the Roman fashion for the latin merchants that were making their way to this new frontier of the Roman world. The majority of the buildings were simple huts and longhouses in the traditional Gallic style with earth walls and thick thatch roofs. Individual houses had small stone walls surrounding a vegetable garden or a pasture for the families personal herd of sheep or rabbits or geese. One or two had a skinny cow for milking. Gauls in their traditional woolen cloaks and plaid troussers wandered among the mud streets avoiding the puddles and bundled up against the chilly rain. Few worked the fields that lay beyond the village. Here, surrounded by simple dry mortared stone walls, were the communal pastures and furrowed fields. The herd of cows and sheep had already been thinned by the fall slaughter and the nearby smoke houses were at work, despite the rain, drying the meat for winter.

Beyond the Village and the Camp that overlooked it, was the Sea. Here along a wide beach of gray gravel were several Gallic fishing boats and a few Roman triremes, all drawn up onto shore and roped in place. The ocean swelled with whitecaps and snarling waves. The surf pounded in relentlessly attempting to snag a boat and drag it back into the sea. Though held fast on land, the Roman ships bobbing to and fro with the flush of the surf, swayed enough to make the land loving infantry pacing on the decks, sea sick. This would have been highly amusing to the sailors if they were not already in one of the Roman built Inns sleeping off a night’s drunkenness.

This was the home of the Sixth Legion. It was similar to all the Roman camps settling upon this foreign land. But the Sixth Legion was close to the coast, and near the swollen Leger river whose bridge had been washed away when the waters rose in the last heavy rain. Pomponius Canio’s tax collecting mission had been twarted. His tiny caravan of wagons, cavalry and infantry made their way along the mud road and through the camp gates. The men were wet, cold and in a sullen funk. Canio himself, snug warmly in his carriage had to be awakened roughly when they arrived.

“Do you wish to see the commander right away?” The tired and mud specked Minucius asked.

“What, Certainly not. I need a hot bath first to wash of this filth. My man has written a letter for your commander.” He motioned to a man who had been standing by in his shadow. The man is a short, somber looking man with a mop of white hair atop his head and a sharp pointed white goatee. He is bundled in a Roman style Paenula cloak but it is blue with no stripes. He had silver rings on a few of his fingers, and a silver earring, all with an owl inscribed on them. He had the air of an educated foreigner. He steps up holding a bronze cylinder in his hand, a scroll holder.

“This is Parmenio, my personal secretary. He is a freeman, a Greek.” Canio continued. The Centurion nodded to the man. “He will deliver the letter if you will show him the way.”

“Of course, follow me.” He began to trudge away through the mud with Parmenio in tow.

“Centurion!” Canio shouted, stammering his fat feet as he did so.

The man stopped, bit his lip to keep from cursing and turned about.

“Yes Procurator.” He tried to hide his growing disdain for this man. The weather was miserable enough without having to deal with this self-important, fat little pig.

“My bath.”

“Dromus!” The Centurion barked out and a tall soldier ran through the muck and came to stiff attention in front of him. “Show this fat lard ass,” He said in a whisper. Parmenio smiled. “to the Legion bath hut.”

“Yes sir.” Dromus said with a nodded salute. “Come with me Procurator, I will show you the way.” Dromus marched off.

“Neebu, bring my things.” Canio said with a clap of his hands, then he followed Dromus off into the camp. Neebu, a young, skinny negro slave from far off Nubia, wearing clothes similar to Parmenio’s, obviously given him by his Master, pulled a large leather pack from inside the carriage, and trudged off. Under his breath, in his own language he obviously cursed the fat man, but nontheless, he smiled as he always did no matter what.

“You men disband, get some rest. Put the horses in the stalls, and the wagons in the park.” Minucius barked again. This time to the delight of his weary troops who suddenly broke ranks with a unified sigh of relief.

“Come with me.” He said to Parmenio, and the two headed towards the Legate’s Quarters. It and the Legion’s temple were as yet, the only two buildings in camp that were made of stone.

Legate M. Gaius Craestus was a balding man in his late forties. He was not fat, but bulky. A very serious minded, senator with a professional soldiery quality very rare from those ranks. He always seemed to wear his fine, iron and gilt muscled cuirass that had been made for him in Athens. Over this was a very heavy, fur overcoat. It was a black bear hide and its head had been cleaned and hollowed out to make a hood that would fit over the man’s fine corinthian style helmet. His helmet, and shield were hung on one side wall on a cross shaped rack. His room was bedecked with fine tapestries, some Greek, some Latin which were copies of Greek fashions, and a few were Gallic. The gallic one’s were very colourful but the art work was crude showing Gallic warriors or gods. The finest of civilian furnishings and comforts were in the room. A small table with a silver pitcher and washbowl, a blackware commode in a corner, a sleeping/eating couch with small pillows, all lined with fine purple cloth and golden thread, and an ornately carved writing desk in the center of the room. Craestus sat at the writing desk reading. A wooden pail sat on one corner holding several of the rolled scrolls. A bronze brazier filled with white hot charcoal sat beside the table warming his feet, but not doing much for the rest of him. Tallow candles in an iron candelabra hung from the center beam of the roof and gave the room a warm, yellowish glow.

A steady PING, PING, PING could be heard from one corner of the room where a bronze bucket was collecting rain water from a leak in his thatched roof.

Avoiding the leak, a clerk in the standard issue paenula cloak and privately purchased gallic plaid breeches, stepped into the room followed by Centurion Minucius and Parmenio.

“Legate, Centurio C. Callus Minucius brings a messenger from Procurator Canio.” The clerk said stiffly. Craestus looked up from his work and nodded. The clerk left.

“Back so soon Minucius?”

“Yes sir, the Liger has overflowed her banks and the bridge is washed out.”

“Damn,” the Legate said with a slight chuckle, “I guess the Bulldog frothed abit at the mouth over that, eh?”

“Yes sir.” Minucius seem to blush.

He then eyed the Greek. “You have a message for me?”

“Yes your excellency.” He pulled the scroll from the brass tube and handed it to him.
Craestus unrolled it and held it up to the light, reading it quickly.

“Not too pleased with you Minucius, looks like your luck has changed. You are relieved. Get some hot wine for you and your men.”

The Centurio stepped to attention and thanked his commander. “Good luck.” he said, in Greek, to Parmenio as he left with a smile.

“As for you, tell Canio that I will arrange a boat trip for him, it will leave in the morning.”

“Thank you your excellency.” Parmenio bowed and he too left.

Craestus dipped a feathered quill into a silver inkwell and scribbled a few lines on the bottom of the scroll.

“Baccus!” He yelled. The clerk came rushing back in. “Give this to Master Centurio Marcus Paullus of the tenth Cohort. He’ll know what to do.” The clerk snapped to attention as he took the scroll and spun about and left.

The PING, PING, PING was getting louder and quicker and the bucket began to fill up.

“And I want my roof fixed sometime today Baccus!”

The Roman Army, like any army, had many a wise old saying that soldiers passed from vetren to newbie, and one of them was this; Shit rolls down hill. And this was a fine example. The order Craestus had penned was first given to Centurio M. Paullus of the Tenth Cohort. Paullus was a short stocky man dressed completely in Centurion garb with several award belts strapped to his bulk. Upon reading the scroll he began pacing back and forth and gesturing theatricly with his hands as he bitched and griped to his second in command, Centurio C. Galbus.

Galbus was a bit taller, wearing the same uniform, with almost as many awards as Paullus. He was sturdy as a rock, listening to his commander with a nodd or a simple “Yes sir.”

“Who’s the Centurio of the sixth Century?” Paullus asked.

“Buccio sir.”

“Ah yes, Buccio. It’s his baby. Give him the orders from the Legate.”
Galbus took the scroll and left.

And the shit continued to roll til it hit the bottom. Centurio Marcus Buccio was the lowest ranking Centurio of the Legion. The sixth Centurio of the sixth Century of the tenth Cohort. He was a clean shaven man, average height, muscular, but not to heavy, with a full head of black hair tinged with gray. Despite being a Centurion, he was noted for a quick smile and friendly, boyish face despite the ugly scar that ran down the entire left side of his face. An early award given him from a Gaul at the beginning of the Roman campaign so many years before. He sat at a table in a small room at the end of the barrack row that his Century occupied. The room had a table with two bench type chairs, and two bunks with straw filled mattresses and simple, white wool blankets. He and Optio Flaccus Arminius shared the room, while the other eight men of his Century slept in bunk beds lining both sides of the barracks. The men were off duty, lounging near the hearth at the far end, or sleeping like bugs cacooned warmly in wool blankets.

Buccio and Arminius were playing a dice game on the table while drinking warm wine. Both men were not wearing armour. Buccio wore a gallic style, plaid tunica that had been made for him as a warm undergarment. He wore heavy weight Germanic breeches under that. His Centurio’s vine staff was set on the table between the two men. The vine staff was the symbol of a Centurio’s rank and position. The vine staff gave him the right to beat a Roman Citizen, and thus it was used often in training recruits and in general discipline. Arminius was slightly taller than Buccio, with a short crop of brown hair and a slightly darker tone of skin. He his arms and legs were stout and hairy and his sword arm bore a row of nasty scars. He wore the standard Roman white Tunica of heavy winter wool, and German breeches. He did not carry a vine staff. Optio’s were a rank below the Centuriate. Each Century was commanded by one Centurio with an Optio as his second in command.

Arminius rolled the dice and both men looked on with interest, but only Arminius smiled.

“Damn.” Buccio said in dismay. He tossed over a silver coin that rolled across the table into Arminius’s cupped hands.

“Want to go again?” Arminius asked in between a swig of wine from a ceramic mug.

“No, I’m tapped out.”

“What? You? Come on, your hiding some, I know you.” Arminius said in jest.

“No.” He too took a drink and poured some more from the clay pitcher on the end of the table.

The two of them sat pensively for a moment, listening to the light rain striking the walls outside.

“Gets alot of rain here.” Arminius noted. Both men rested their backs against the wall. Buccio took his wine in sips. Arminius flipping one of his silver coins in the air.

“Yes it does. Good farming land. The Legion is forming a Veteran’s colony further down the Liger valley.” Buccio said.

“Thinking about it?” Arminius said curiously.

“Maybe.” Unconsciously Buccio rubbed a bulge that protruded slightly just below his neck.

“Can’t really see you as a farmer though. Sounds kind of boring.”

Buccio pulled out a hidden necklace, a small chunk of wood on the end of a leather thong. It was a crude carving of a face, with a tuff of black horsehair sewn to the top, and little eyes made of shell glued in place. A big smile was carved awkwardly across it. He rubbed the tiny face.

“Let’s play again. Tell you what, I’ll float you a loan. I’ve recently come into some extra money.” Arminius smiled, holding up a handful of silver coins. “Maybe your luck will change.”

BAM! The wooden door to the outside suddenly slammed open and a spray of rain heralded the coming of a large cloaked figure. Galbus stood before them shaking water from his hood.

Buccio and Arminius stood to attention.

“Got a mission for you Buccio.” Galbus said. It was what they always said when they were rolling the shit down to the bottom of the hill. He handed over the scroll. Buccio read it and passed it on to Arminius. Both men grimaced.

“Chance to earn some glory.” Galbus continued with a sly grin. Another saying when they knew how much it stunk to be on the bottom with the shit. “Make the arrangements, pick your men and be ready to sail in the morning.” Galbus pulled his hood back on and dissappeared in the rain that had spawned him.

“Sail?” Asked a stunned Arminius as he looked out the door. The camp roads were turning to mud as the rain continued to fall from the blanket of thick, gray clouds covering the sky.
“In this ...?”

CHAPTER TWO

The beach was a wide circular expanse of fine gravel. Choppy gray waves rolled in ceaselessly below a sky dark with clouds. The Roman ship was a Quadreme, a narrow ship built for sail and rowing. It was broader in the beam than the ships that plied the more forgiving waters of the Meditterranean, and was used more as a transport than a warship here in the far north. It had a projected bank on both sides that housed three sets of oar holes. Each long, heavy oar would be rowed by four men, slaves, chained in place at benches in the outter banks. They were already in place, wrapped up against the cold and wet as best they could considering their lowly status. The ship had been pushed down the beach into the water up to it’s bow and was being loaded via a heavy plank of wood that spiked into both the gunwale of the ship and the gravels of the beach. A set of slaves on the beach held fast to two lines of rope, holding the vessel at bay like human anchors. Despite this the ship bobbed endlessly which each wave. The bow of the ship had a bronze tipped spike reaching about five feet ahead of it, the ship’s ram. It was an undecorated piece on this northern ship. Those in the South often were cast in the shape of a trident, or a fish or even a Ram’s head itself. Here in Gaul, practicality overtook aesthtics as Rome was more interested in consolidating her hold. Finer civilization would have to wait.

A cold Northwesterly wind whipped salt spray into his face as Centurio Buccio stood on the seawall overlooking the scene. A group of sailors were trying to coax the last of the horses onto the ship. The animal was halfway up the plank but had balked when a large wave had caused the boat to nearly bounce of the beach. Some where pulling on its reins, and others trying to push it up. A Roman dressed much like a Centurio, but without armor or helmet, stood overlooking them from the bow stem, a large wooden piece that extended above the point of the bow, and had the shape of a Raven carved at the top. This was one of the ship’s officers and he was barking at his men to get that beast aboard. Buccio couldn’t help but smile at the poor seamen so frustrated by this land animal.

He was wearing a heavyweight wool hooded cloak, the standard Paenula, but it was dyed a blood red with a brighter red stripe running along either side. It was fastened from neck to waist with thick bone buttons, hiding the chainmail hauberk he wore underneath. A thick Germanic style belt was wrapped about his waist with his gladius and pugio, Spanish style short sword and Roman dagger, hung on opposite sides of his hips. He wore no decorations though he had earned a few armillae, army awards, that most Centurio’s would wear on leather bands across their chests. About his neck he wore the standard issue red strip of wool. This was not just a scarf, it was long and wide and was stuffed down around his back and chest to keep the mail from chafing his skin. His helmet was an Iron piece, similar to his men’s Bronze coolus with wide cheek pieces and a neck flare, but it had silver decorations scrolled on it and a transverse crest of red horsehair. The leather chinstrap bit into his chin. Strapped over his back is an oval scutum, protected from the weather by a leather cover. He waits patiently for the sailors to win their battle with the horse so he and his men can board.

Behind Buccio is two files of soldiers. Twenty four in all, three squads all from the sixth century of the tenth cohort. In the Legions, eight men make up a squad because that is how many can fit in a Roman tent. They would carry no tents on this mission, only a leather satchel with spare clothes and some rations. Each man waited somberly just as their Centurio did, and were dressed much the same, except their cloaks were of a rougher wool and a yellowish-beige color. Their helmets too were simpler, with only a single plume of black horsehair atop each. They waited with their covered shields leaning against a leg and a bundle of Pilum, short stabbing or throwing spears, and a shaft with a t-bar at the top for holding their leather satchel of foodstuffs and a bronze canteed of water. Though it was not raining, the cold wind spit sea spray at them relentlessly.

Standing nearby in a cluster, talking and joking in their own harsh language, are four German auxilliary cavalrymen. They are dressed in Germanic style clothes, Heavy fur cloaks pinned at the shoulder with silver broaches, dark colored wool tunic’s, broad leather belts and baggy wool trousers. Each had wool strips bundled about his legs and was wearing leather boots. They had iron helmets with nose guards, but no plumes of hair or feathers atop them, and a short chainmail chestguard. They had small round shields strapped to their backs, and carried a long sword each, and a long cavalry style spear, and a couple of short throwing javelyns. They had been nobles or men of some means in their own tribes and as mercenaries for Rome, they would earn more prestige if not added wealth when they returned to their homeland. Each man, except for their leader, seemed to have a wild mane of blonde or sandy brown hair, a flowing beard and moustache and a stocky build with long limbs. Garax, a chieftain’s son, was their leader, but he was an older man, his long hair was almost white and he shaved his beard leaving only a stubble of pale whiskers on his chin. The horses belonged to these men, and they laugh raucously as the sailors tried to get the last one up onto the ship. One of them throughout words of jest or advice but in German which neither the Sailors nor the horse seem to understand.

The sound of leather soled feet marching roughly over gravel can be heard as Arminius appears, dressed like Buccio, with the same kind of cloak, but his helmet is the simpler type like the soldiers, with a single plume of horsehair, but his plume is white. Behind him are Four more men, each bundled against the wind with black wool cloaks of a very simple style. They are young men with skinny bodies, tanned hairless faces, and short, cropped hair.

“A gift from Galbus,” Arminius said. “Baelaric slingers, he says they’ll be more useful in the rain than archers.” The group stops just short of Buccio’s perch on the seawall. He eyes them one by one.

“Any good?” He asks.

“My name’s Casada,” One of the young lads said as he stepped forward and pulled off his heavy black cloak. Underneath he wears several sets of undyed tunics, a pair of plain brown breeches and a simple leather belt with a buckle. A leather pouch is threaded to the belt on his right hip, as is a water bottle made from an animal stomache. On the left hip dangles a hide covered sack holding his slingshot. He doesn’t reach for one of these lethal bullits, instead he picks up a small pebble from the ground and holds it up for the Centurio to see.

“May I demonstrate Sir?”

“Go right ahead.”

He produced a braided sling from the pouch on his right hip and placed the pebble in it. The other’s moved back to give him room and he twirled the sling in a wide circle, once, twice and then snapped it out with his arm.

The pebble flew straight and true. It passed over a sailor’s head and SMACK! Right into the rear haunches of the horse that was stuck on the gangplank. The horse whinnied and trotted up the plank into the ship, dragging the sailor’s behind and almost running over the men on top.

The Germans cheered.

Other groups were at the seawall. Pomponius Canio, pugnacious as ever, in his thick fur cloak, his man Parmenio was squating nearby on a folding stool, writing copiously in a parchment codex. Neebu, his slave, stood behind loaded down with sacks, bedrolls and a large goatskin whine carrier. Despite being loaded down like a human donkey, the kid’s oval face was bright with his perennial smile. He seemed generally awestruck by the huge Roman ship.

Beside Canio, was a procession of officers. The Legate himself, Craestus, decked out richly in his awards, arms and armour as well as purple cloak with gold fringes. He too had a converse crest on his head, but the horsehair was purple. Next was Paullus, commander of the tenth cohort, and then Galbus, both decked out in their finest arms and armour and chest of awards. None of them were coming of course, just making an appearance for appearance’s sake. The way they do in the army when they’re sending someone on a mission that noone else wanted or a bad one, a so called suicide mission. The army always showed great pomp and ceremony when they knew they were sending men to Hades. Buccio didn’t feel this was such a dangerous mission, just a simple tax collecting patrol, but then again...

“There may be a promotion in this for you Centurio.” Craestus stated as loud as he could against the wind. Paullus and Galbus clapped hands.

“Oh shit.” Buccio said under his breath. “The kiss of death.”

They always offered promotion to men they deemed would not be coming back. It was just the army way.

“Centurio?” Arminius cut in. “Do you want to listen to more of this bullshit?”

“No, I’ll puke. Get ‘em on board Arminius.”

Arminius took a few steps forward so that he stood in front of two silent ranks of legionaires. The men stiffend to attention.

“Detachment! Single file!” The men quickly stepped together and formed one line. “To the ship, March!”

The men picked up their shields and bundle of pilum and headed down the slope of the beach towards the ship’s gangplank.

“Fall in with the line!” He barked at the slingers and they joined the tale of the procession.

The officers were saluting and then shook Canio’s hand, wishing him well. The Germans were still milling about in idle chatter.

“Garax! Do your men need a personal invitation to board?” Buccio asked.

“No, Herr Centurio,” Garax spoke in his deep, gravelly voice. “Just a big wet kiss from you.” He puckered his lips. The other Germans laughed and then in a mob they picked up their gear and ran for the ship.

Canio walked by without uttering a word. He was followed by Neebu and Parmenio.

“Not the best weather for sailing.” The Greek said in his accented latin.

“We’re just going to the mouth of the Liger river. Should only be a day at most.” Buccio said, studying the man closely as he trudged by, his writing materials put in a large leather pack hung under his shoulder.

“The sea can be a fickle mistress.”

“Buccio!” Craestus yelled. The officers were all standing at attention. Buccio turned to face them.

“May Mars smile on you and may Fortuna see you home safe.” He saluted. The sentiment was genuine, not just your usual ‘bend over and take it’ army muck. It was soldier to soldier. Buccio snapped to attention and returned the salute.

The soldiers were already boarding the ship where the ship’s Optio was ordering them down into the lower deck through a gangway in the center of the deck just behind the massive main mast. The only other group still on the beach was a small contingent of Gauls. Mostly a few women and children. Roman soldiers were not permitted to marry, but there was no law stating they couldn’t have girlfriends, concubines or common law wife’s and children. Many did. Some had women at every post they went to.

Buccio’s eyes sifted through the crowd until he saw her. She stood off a little from the rest. A tall blonde headed girl, young, fair, wrapped in a wool cloak. In her arms, a baby bundled in white linen and a red wool blanket, held tightly to her chest. Clinging to her thigh was a little four year old girl. She had bright smiling face, a latin face, with large round eyes and a head of curly black hair. He felt for the necklace he hung around his neck but hidden under his tunic and armour. He pulled it out. The crudely carved face of a latin child. He waved it. The little girl jumped excitedly and her mother smiled. The smile he had fallen in love with.

“Why don’t you go say goodbye?” Arminius asked. Buccio frowned and put away the necklace.

“Career suicide.” He nodded back to the trio of high ranking officers who had not yet left. “Rome is watching. Remember we might get a promotion.”

“Or we might get dead.”

“Let’s go meet our destiny Arminius.” He claps him on the shoulder and the two head towards the ship.

On the way, Buccio steals one last glance at his secret family. Ruida, the blonde woman, smiles, but tears fall from her cheeks. Lucia, his daughter, waves goodbye. The Officers leave, and most of the Gaul’s follow suit. He waves, then boards the ship.

The gangplank is drawn up. Slaves pull the anchor’s from the gravel so that they can be hauled on board. The ship begins to slide in the water.

A rash of orders and the oars are pushed out from their oarlocks and splash into the surf.
With a drumbeat, the oars begin to move, the strokes are backward, and the ship begins to slide in reverse, pulling away from the beach, at fist sluggishly, but gaining momementum as the oarstrokes synchronize together.

Buccio holds onto the ropework that forms a protective barrier along the deck. He watches as the beach recedes. He pulls his helmet off and the cold salty wind whips through his hair. At the bow stem of the ship is a wicker work awning and wooden cage. This is the Bow officers spot. Above it, high on the bow stem, just below the carved raven, is a wooden perch. A sailor bundled tightly in wool, stands on this, tied with rope to an iron eyelet bolted into the wood. He is the bow lookout and there are pegs pounded in the bow stem as a crude ladder to reach his post.

On either side of the bow, is a large frame hidden under oiled leather hides and lashed in place with thick ropes. Onagers, stone throwing artillery pieces. There would also be scorpion’s below decks, the man sized, crossbow shaped bolt throwers. Those could be manhandled up on deck whenever needed.

At the rear of the ship, the stern, was a large framed mini deck with a wicker work and leather awning. This was where the commander of the ship would be. Buccio made his way towards it, trying to keep his leg’s steady as the deck rolled with each wave. The awning was nestled under the stern stem which reached up and curled over like the tail of a fish. On either side of it, also heavily bundled in wool, were the helmsmen. One on the left, and one on the right, both holding on to what looked like a vertical pole slotted through an upside down oarlock. They were the ships steering oars.

Buccio had to move carefully passing other sailor’s who were laying out rope and preparing the sails. The ship had two square sails, a large one on the main mast and a smaller one on the foremast. Once they had cleared the beach they would switch from oars to sail.

Below deck, a ship’s Officer yelled out a new command and one side of oars held their oars out of the water. The ship slowly began to turn around.

The commander came out of his leather walled shelter and shook Buccio’s hand.

“Centurio Caius Julius Philo.” He stated with a big grin on his heavily bearded face. The man was huge and his hands were twice the size of Buccio’s. He wore an older fashioned military cloak called a Sagum. It was a simple square of cloth usually tied or broached at the shoulder. Often used as a blanket it was thick and a deep red in colour.

“Buccio, Marcus Buccio.”

“Ever had sea duty?”

“No, first time.” Buccio said while trying to steady himself. The ship had stopped turning and a new command started both sides rowing again, but this time to the front. The bow hammered into the waves and the ship rocked.

“You’ll get used to it. You can allow your men on deck in small groups, but only if its not to rough out. I don’t want them falling overboard.” He smiled. For his bulk, he was a jovial man, quite likable.

“But let me give you a word of advice.” He continued, but now he put a hand on Buccio’s shoulder and motioned for him to walk to the opposite side of the ship. They walked or rather Philo walked, and Buccio staggered like a toddler learning to walk for the first time.

“I ordered my men not to wear their armour. I don’t expect any trouble with pirates, not in this shitty weather, but it could make a difference for the men, if they end up in the water.” At the far rail they stopped holding onto the ropes. “You might want to order your men to put their armour with their gear. See out there.”

He pointed to the horizon. Buccio followed with his eyes. The sky was still choked with volumes of gray clouds. In some areas a dark veil descended down where it was already raining. Philo’s finger was pointing to the very edge of the horizon where the clouds were a different hue. They were tinged red.

“In the navy we have a saying ‘red sky at night, sailor’s delight, red sky in the morning, Neptune’s warning.”

The deck officer gave a shout and the lines of sailors began to pull on ropes running through small capstan’s on the deck. The large square mainsail began to rise.

“Thank you Philo, I’ll have my men stow their armour.”

“There’s hammocks below decks for you and your men, but we may not get much sleep tonight.” He smiled. “See you later.” He slapped Buccio on the shoulder and headed off.

“Not too much sail Domitius, I don’t trust this weather!” He shouted as he headed back to his stern hootch.

“Yes sir.” Came the reply. The sail was hoisted high on the mast, but only about three fourths of its mass was let out into the wind. It bulged in the breeze and the ship began to go faster, slicing its way through the cold waves. Buccio headed for the hatchway behind the main mast. He took one last look at the red tinged horizon and then headed below deck.



CHAPTER THREE

Thunder boomed slightly in the distance where the veil of black rain was heaviest. The ship plied its way through the choppy sea following the coast. The helmsmen guided her along the jagged, rocky cliffs of this remote northern land. The Quadreme was a broad ship and could take the deep swells of the Alantic better than the narrow Trireme’s which made up the bulk of Meditterranean fleets. Still the ship rolled endlessly with each wave and sea spray coated every inch of its wooden deck, masts, and rope. The ship had only weathered one minor rain squall thus far and Centurio Philo had decided to go to full sail on both the Main mast and foremast. Oars had been withdrawn and she ran fast and free, creaking and groaning with every wave. The square sails were made of linen and had a fine sheen to them as they puffed out fully in the wind. A plain, practical ship she may have
been, but she was a beautiful sight along this desolate shore with its gray and black stone face.

Buccio watched from the railing along the landward side of the bow. He had had enough of the cramped space below deck. It was dark, wet and noisy down there. He, Arminius, and his men were billeted under the bow portion of the deck. They were given hammocks that had been lashed in four high between posts along the center of the ship and the ribs of the hull. This arrangement left little room for each man, especially when the hammocks sunk with the weight of each man. Their gear was stowed in wood biers along the walls. Four horses, a donkey, the Germans, Slingers and Canio’s men were in the stern section, along with most of the ship’s supplies and its stowed armament The men also had hammocks, but for the horses the sailors had put in some temporary wood railings and leather hides to form hay lined stalls. Canio, the dog, as the men had nicknamed him, was staying with Centurio Philo in his sturdy leather and wicker work quarters by the sternpost. Lucky Philo, Buccio thought to himself. He wouldn’t be surprised if he found the ship’s Centurio bunking down in the hull with him.

UUAAACKK! The sound came from the Centurio’s right. He looked to see about six of his men leaning over the ship’s rope railing, all moaning and one vomiting into the sea. Most of the lads were below decks sleeping already or playing dice. Wasn’t much else to do and if what the ship’s commander had said was true, there wouldn’t be much chance of sleeping later. A sailor trotted by. Buccio was amazed at how easily they walked. The deck shifted slightly one way then the other but the upperpart of the sailors body seemed to stay perfectly straight while only the legs seem to bend slightly this way or that. They were in tune with the sea.

“Be careful there lads, don’t fall in. You’ll be swimming in your own muck.” The sailor chuckled as he strolled on his way.

One of the men fell to the deck and slid his head under the last rope. UUAAACKK. His face was pale and he curled up his legs to his stomach.

“Here sir.” Came a gruff voice from behind. Buccio turned about. An old, short grizzled sailor held up a ceramic mug with steam rising from it. “Barley tea, it’ll warm you up.”

Buccio took the cup and nodded to the man as he left. The ship hit a larger than normal wave and it bucked up momentarily then rolled back down. He was amazed at the old sailor still walking as if nothing happend, but his poor men were hanging on to the railings for dear life. He attempted to walk himself but another big wave sent him stumbling til a hand reached out and steadied him.

“Thank you...” Buccio looks into the smiling face of Parmenio. He had seen him earlier sitting beneath a covered onager, trying to write in his codex. “Parmenio, right?”

“Yes Centurio. I was about to head below when I saw you sliding my way. Thought I lend you a hand.”

“You seem to have sea legs.”

“I’m a Greek, we are born with sea legs.”

Sea spray suddenly hit both of them and Parmenio motioned to the covered onager.

“This seems to be the driest place to sit, right here under the leather cover of one of their, um, catapults is it?”

“We call em Mule’s because they buck when they throw a stone.”

“Yes, it fits. I’ve seen them in action.”

The two men sit down in the spot. The onager, lashed to iron bolts in the deck, still groans and shifts slightly with the rolling deck.

“Might be better to write down below. Drier.”

“Yes, but its so dark and noisy down there.” Parmenio said.

Buccio takes a sip, then two, of his barley tea. He then offers the cup to other man. Parmenio looked shocked and hesitated.

“Barley tea, its good.” Buccio said.

“I...I’ve never had a Roman offer me anything.” He took the cup gingerly and drank. “Well, except my freedom. That was after seven years of servitude, and then, only if I promised to go into the employ of one Pomponius Canio.” He sipped again from the cup and handed it back.

“Seems noone wants to work with that prick and yet here we are, both of us, in the same boat, so to speak.” Buccio added, finishing the tea. “So, what are you always writing in that book of yours?”

“Its a journal. I hope to write a history one of these days, a tale of my travels and the things I have seen in Gaul and Italy.” Parmenio said.

“A budding Herodotus or Polybios, eh?” Buccio chimed in.

“You’ve read them? Both Greeks.”

“Who hasn’t. Read them in school along with Livy and other Roman writers. Had a Greek schoolteacher.” The older man seemed impressed. “Have you been in Gaul long?” Buccio continued.

“I was born and raised in Massilia. In my youth I spent my time between school, gymnasium and my father’s business. He was a merchant trading wine with Gauls and spaniards. I was the bookkeeper. I started obsearving the Gauls, their traditions, ceremonies, religeous beliefs and the way they feast and make law and war. I wrote everything down. Still have those journals in my kit.”

“Sounds like it will be a good history.” Buccio said, “I will have to read it. Though I’ve spent enough time here in Gaul. We came with Ceasar, eight years ago. I think there will be more fighting, but for the most part, we own Gaul. It’ll be Roman someday, through and through, law, language and art. So a book like yours will be good to see what it was like before we came.”

Thunder CRACKED overhead and the sky began to darken. The ship bit into a larger swell and was suddenly sliding over at a steeper angle. Parmenio fell over but Buccio grabben onto him. His leather bound codex slipped from his hands and slid along the deck towards the railing and the nasty green sea. Several sea sick soldiers also slid past along the deck, moaning with green faces.

The book halted for a moment then slid again, some of its pages flapping in the wind. A leather soled boots studded with lead hobnails stomped down on it.

“Loose something?” Arminius said to the Greek. The ship lurched the opposite way as it slammed into another big wave. The sick men who were trying to get to their feet were instead bowled over and rolled back the other way. Cold, salty spray hit Arminius full in the back as he bent over and picked up the book. He looked at one of the written on pages then closed it and handed to Parmenio.

“Too bad I don’t read Greek. The Centurio does though. I think his father wanted him to be a lawyer, or something, but he joined Caesar’s Legions instead.”

Another thunder break and a light rain began to fall.

“Better get you and your men below.” The bow officer cried from his berth at the bow stem. He and the lookout were tying ropes around their waists that ran through iron eyelets bolted into the stem. “We’re going to get hit with some nasty weather.”

“Its coming on fast.” The lookout shouted.

The ship suddenly veered hard to port. The Helmsmen pulling tightly on the oars. They too had tied safety ropes around their waists. She headed away from the shoreline. Heading farther out to sea and into the wall of rain and churning waters.

“Their heading into deeper water so the storm doesn’t throw us against the rocks.” Parmenio said to his astounded companions. “Thank you for the book, Optio.” He said and then he headed for the hatchway leading below the main deck. Arminius watched him for a moment.

“Greeks, Germans, Spaniards, what’s this army coming to?” He muttered.

“Don’t forget fat Roman senators too.” Buccio chimed in. The deck lurches again and the two of them hold on to the onager. All six of the sea sick legionaires loose their footing and slide across the wet planks. One of them barfing as he goes.

“What are you men doing playing on deck? Get your arses below and kiss a chamber pot!” Arminius yelled. He took a wide stance with his hobnails biting into the wooden deck and place his fists against his hips. The men were flopping about trying to get up. They looked like fish flapping about after being caught in a fisherman’s net. Helping one another, moaning as they went, they made it down the hatchway. Arminius followed them.

Thunder CRACKLED from the black clouds and the rain fell harder.

“Lower the fore sail!” Shouted Philo from somewhere astern. “Reef the main one. Give us a quarter only. We’ll try and run with that.”

The rain began to obscure things on the deck, but Buccio could see the sailors running to their lines. The old grizzled tea bearer came to the fore mast. He had a rope tied about his waist, like a safety belt, but its end was not tied to an anchor yet. Another man joined him and they began pulling on the wet ropes that lowered the front, smaller square sail, towards the deck where it could be lashed closed.

Buccio looked over the bow. The very water was turning black and rising with higher waves. A curtain of rain hid the horizon and the shoreline from view. He looked down. The bronze tipped ram bit hard and deep into the water. Above it was a large painted eye. The eye helped the ship ‘see’ its way through the dangers of the sea.

“Better get below sir, not much you can do up here.” Said the grizzled one as he struggled to pull down the sail.

Buccio nodded and wobbled along the rolling deck to the hatchway and below.

The forest was dark and wet. Rain fell through the thick evergreen canopy drowning out any other sound. The man listened carefully. He was crouched amid the underbrush, wrapped in a brown wool cloak. He was a gaul with long, curly brown hair and a thin beard and moustache. A glint of silver from an earring and another from a torq about his neck. A pooll of mud had formed along the trail he was watching. Nothing moved along it. Thunder broke again from the sky. The storm seemed to be the trick. All livings things hid from it, burrowing into the ground or into cracks and crevices whereever they live. At any other time he would have been in his house, throwing more wood into the hearth and sleeping through it with his wife and kids. He had no house left, and he was taking a chance. He hoped the heavy rain would keep them at bay long enough that they could escape. They would have to make it to the forests edge, to the river. What was it the old Druid had said so long ago? They could not cross running water, feared it, and would never venture out of the forest near the river. It was a more than a day’s walk from the village. But in this storm, and if they ran, they might make it. All living things hid from the rain, but were they alive or dead? He couldn’t remember what else the Druid had said. It had been so long ago, stories around a fire when he was young.

The man looked back. His eleven year old son, short brown hair, fair cheeks, bright blue eyes, knelt behind him. He was wearing several sets of wool clothing rather than a cloak and he was soaked through to the skin. His small hands held firmly to a grain sickle. further behind was the man’s wife, and mother in law, both cloaked in dark wool that held in their body heat despite the deluge of water. The wife, a young woman with fair hair and peach white skin, held a bundle close to her. A sleeping baby.

“I’m going to check the trail. If its clear we’ll go. We’ll have to move fast.” They all nodded.

“Let’s just go together, now.” The wife pleaded.

“Hold on, let me make sure its clear.” The man pulled an iron bladed axe from under his cloak. “When we get moving, we move fast, we don’t stop. Right?” He said, looking specifically at his mother in law. He worried about the older woman keeping up. She nodded.

The man stepped from the clearing and headed along the trail. The mud gripped lightly at his bare feet, oozing between his toes. He had felt it would be easier for them to move without leather shoes. He moved around a bend, stopped and listend. Only the rain could be heard. Nothing could be seen but the shadows of the trees.

A shadow moved. He tensed, lifting the axe. Another shadow moved. They were not hiding after all. They were there, waiting. He had hoped to escape, had gambled their lives on the storm, and had lost.

A shadow burst out of the underbrush with such speed and size, he had only a moment to turn and lift his axe. The last thing he saw was burning red eyes and a flash of white fangs. Huge hairy paws with black inch long nails, tore at his chest. He flew backwards as the beast tackled him, growling insanely, slobbering onto his face. The axe flew from his grip.

“Run!!!” He yelled pitifully but the shout ended in a blood as the beasts bit deeply into his neck and shattered his jaw with one large chomp. It shook him like a rag doll until all life had left. Another beast, snarling like the first, lept onto the dead man and made a meal of his meaty legs, tearing them into bloody chunks of bone and muscle. The first beast used his paws like a man would use hands, and ripped the Gaul’s head off. He carried it away in its jaws, dripping blood into the mud as it went. Two or three other beasts rushed in to tear the carcass to pieces in a frenzy of feeding.

The eleven year old had heard his father’s yell. He gripped harder on the spear and stood, looking back at his mom.

“Should I go help?”

“We need to run away, back to the village!” The grandmother urged.

When the boy turned to face the trail again, a shadow loomed in front of him. The shadow stank like sewage and blood. Suddenly there was a PLOP at his feet. He looked down to see the shredded face of his father, eyes wide in fear, laying in the mud. The boy screamed and thrust his spear at the shadow before him. Huge paws grabbed the shaft and jerked it hard. The boy didn’t let go, and was yanked away, screaming.

The old lady turned and ran. Ran as fast as the years would let her. Something ran beside her, something dark, and hairy, smelling of wet dog. She tripped over a root, and fell headlong into mud. The beast pounced on her back ripping it to shreds with black nails and ivory fangs. She cried out only once before her head was ripped in two.

Still kneeling, the woman uttered a prayer. She was crying. The baby had stirred and she kissed its soft cheek. The shadows loomed about her. Their breath coming in shots of steam that smelled like rotten meat. A paw swiped out of the dark and slammed the woman against a tree. Blood streaked her face. She desperately tried to hold onto the baby, but another set of paws took it from her. She cried again as two beasts leapt on her and started biting voraciously.

The baby, crying, was carried away.

Thunder BOOMED from the terrible night sky, and the rain continued to fall. Blood mingled with the mud, but the forest had become silent again.

Out at sea the storm lashed the ocean waves into a black frenzy. Thunder ROARED and lightening streaked the angry clouds as the Roman ship stumbled through the water. It shuddered with each blow and water gushed across its decks. The sail was reefed as shallow as it could be in the hope that she could maintain some momentum. The crew knew that as long as they could keep moving that they had some contorl. If they lost that, the ship would bounce around like a child’s bath toy in danger of being swamped by the waves. Without some control it would be useless to try to steer her. The ship had to be guided directly into the waves so that she wouldn’t be capsized by a large one breaking over her sides. If the mast went, it would be over. She would be at the mercy of Neptune. And all sailors knew Neptune was not merciful. The helmsmen stayed at their steering oars, pulling whatever way Centurio Philo called out. They were soaked to the skin, and fought for breath with each wave that broke over the ship. The mast creaked and groaned but was holding firm. The sail had begun to shred, but still bulged in the nasty wind.

The Bow officer and his lookout were still at their post holding on tightly and hoping not to drown with each wave that the ship crashed headlong into. No other crewman were above deck anymore. Even Canio had left. His large body moaning and greenfaced, being helped below decks by his african slave and a steady sailor.

“Wave!” called the lookout and the ship slammed into another monsterous wall of water. The bow officer held tight against his safety rope as the water cascaded over him. It rushed at him, overtaking him and for a moment he was submerged in a cold, turbulent pool that drowned out all other sights and sounds. The water slushed along the tilted deck. The wood and leather trimmed hatchway cover could not hold back the deluge anymore and water poured below.

It was dark below deck. All oil lamps had been snuffed out for safety. Bodies hunkered for warmth on the oar benches. Soldiers slung in hammocks rocked mercelessly, and moaned. The Horses pranced and whinied endlessly. The Germans normally would have been at their sides, comforting them, but they too were hunched in their hammocks moaning and groaning. Now and then you heard UUAACCKK as someone vomited hopefully into a chamber pot. Water was sloshing about the lower hammocks and was getting deeper. Each time the ship rocked in a wave, the water was cascade to one side or the other like a mini tidal wave.

“Buckets!” came the cry. The tired and wet sailors who had been on deck, now formed a thin line up the gangway to the deck hatch. They began scooping at the water, dragging it upwards hand over hand, until the top two men could hurl it on deck. Seemed pointless when each wave brought more water surging back down.

Buccio climbed from his hammock and in the dark, found Arminius.

“Arminius, this is a different kind of fighting. Not against men with swords and spears, but against the sea.”

Buccio sensed that the sailors were loosing the battle. They were tired.

“First squad?” Arminius asked as he too stepped out of his hammock.

“Get them in the line and find more buckets. It will be less tiring with more backs in the work.”

“First squad!” Arminius boomed out. “Out of your fart sacks NOW!” There was a collective groan and curse from the shadows that crawled out of their hammocks. “Get in line with these sailors and lend a hand hauling that water out.” The shadows moved. A sailor dragged over two more buckets and handed it to the first legionaire. He promptly threw up into it.

“Second squad, don’t get too cozy, your turns coming up.” Arminius continued.

In the darkness Buccio noticed a blob of white that looked familiar. The blob had joined the bucket line.

“Parmenio?”

“Yes Centurio, I couldn’t sleep anyways.” He grunted as a bucket was handed to him and he passed it along.

“Well, old man, I can’t let you show me up.” Buccio said as he took a position beside him. Parmenio’s grin shown clearly.

More buckets were found and the line worked hard at the pool of cold water that was now ankle deep. They worked feverishly. Later the second squad took over from the first, and then the third. Buccio and Parmenio were relieved by Arminius and Neebu. The Baeleric slingers joind in as well, but the Germans could not seem to move. All but one of them retched endlessly through the night. The last one slept through it all.

The ship is suddenly slammed from the side and tilts over hard to starboard. The oarsmen on that side scream and rattle the chains at their ankles.

“Let us free!” They yell. Water rushes in through the leather lined oarlocks on that side. The men on the bucket line hold onto eachother or to ships posts. The horses kick franticly, busting some of the wood spars of their makeshift stalls. The lone sleeping German snores. Canio jumps from his commandeered hammock, splashing in the surging water.

“I can’t swim. I’ll pay a hundred Secsterces to the man who saves me!” No one seems interested in the offer. The ship stops tilting then slowly heels back over. Some of the Oarsmen continue to sob, but the others are silent.

KRAAACK the sound of splintering wood. BOOOMMM! The upper deck shudders.

“What was that?” A fearful voice cries out in the dark.

“The mast.” Comes a reply from one of the tired sailors. “We’ve had it now. Its in Neptunes hands.”

Buccio can sense their despair. Water cascaded in again through the hatchway. This was it, he knew it, this was the critical moment in the battle.

“What are you men standing around for!” He yelled out. “On your feet, all of you!”

Arminius followed his example as he had done before in countless battles.

“You heard Centurio Buccio! Get in line, haul this water out.” He began kicking his men to their feet and into a line. Buckets began moving again.

“Its useless.” A sailor cried. Buccio kicked the man in the stomach and he fell to his knees slashing in the water, gasping for breath. Lightening shown through the hatchway and all could see a flash of steel. Buccio held his thick bladed dagger above the man’s head.

“Any man here talks of quitting and I’ll slash your throat. Is that understood?” There was stunned silence.

“Is that understood!?” He yelled.

“Yes sir.” Came the unified answer. The men began to bail the water in earnest. A large shadow sloshed its way unsteadily over to where Buccio stood.

“Ja, Herr Centurio...” Came Garax’s unmistakeable harsh voice. “I will...urrr, help too.” He took another step then threw up onto the kneeling sailor. It stank of old beer.

“Thats okay Garax, go back to your hammock. Germans were not meant to be on the sea.”

“Ja, jaaaa...” He wandered back, vomiting again to the curses of the men on the bucket line.
The ship rocked sideways from another big wave and water poured over them from above.

“Keep at it!” Buccio yelled above the rushing water. He would not let himself or his men give in to despair.

CHAPTER FOUR

A gray sunlight sparkled like starlight as the oarsmen, warm despite their soggy woolen clothes, pulled open their oar holes and slid the long oars outwards. The ship, battered but not beaten, rocked gently with the waves. Below decks, the gloom dissolved with the glow. The walls still sweated seawater, but men slept everywhere, in hammocks and on bags of cargo. The horses in their shattered stalls seemed to sleep to. Only the donkey BRAYED as if annoyed by the rustle of the Oarsmen. The Officer of the Oars is walking up and down the center walkway, kicking slaves awake and ordering them to push the oars out and be ready. The time keeper puffs up his seat pad and unwraps the oilskin from his small drum.

Above deck the ship, water soaked as she is, sails towards the rocky cliffs and the mouth of a river. The main sail is still full of wind below a gray, clouded sky. It was the foremast that had broken during the storm, and it had been cut away and left floating in the sea. Centurio Philo leaves the Bow Officer who had notified them of the sighting.
“Lower the sail.” Came his order to the haggard sailor’s on the deck. “Good job men, good job.” The sailor’s sing out as they pull on the ropes, lowering the large square sail. Below the rumblings of the oars can be heard as they are pushed out of their oarlocks and held aloft, waiting for a command. The light wind rushing in to shore is cold, but refreshing. Philo pulls his hood off and lets the wind rustle his hair. He looks about deck for the grizzled whiskered old seadog named Dorian.
“Dorian, have you got the kettle on?”
“Of course Triarchos.” The old man said, using the term for a commander of a trireme, it was however, becoming the general term for all sea commanders.
“Good then wake up our guests eh.” The man hurried below decks while Philo stood at the railing breathing in the morning sea air.
The main sail came down and the men bundled it around its tree length spar and lashed that against two deck posts made to cradle it.
“Helmsmen!” Philo called out, “Steer us for that river.” He pointed to starboard. Then he walked briskly to the hatchway and called down to the Oar Officer. “Forward row officer of the oars. Steady pace.”
“Yes sir.” Came the reply, followed by a shout of “Forward, Row.” and then the steady beating of a drum.
The oars dipped as one into the dark gray sea and began their gentle circular motion, in, pull back, out and back over to drop in again. The ship slowed from its loss of wind power, then began to move forward and to the starboard, cutting across the waves.

Buccio was fast asleep in his hammock, swaying back and forth, oblivious to the grunts of the oarsmen and the PUM PUM PUM of the drum. He cuddle a soft, plaid scarf as he slept. Dorian almost hated to wake him. He nudged the man on the shoulder. Buccio woke to the vision of a gray whiskered old man with several teeth missing from his smile.
“Good morning sir, we’ve arrived at the Liger river.” The sailor holds out a steaming ceramic mug.
“Barley tea?” Buccio asked as he gingerly sat up in his hammock.
“No sir, hot wine, compliments of the ship’s Commander.”
Buccio takes the drink and wolfs it down. Steam rises from his mouth. He hands the mug back and the sailor leaves. He feels like a bird sleeping in a nest. His fingers scrape his scalp, pushing away any thought of going back to sleep.
“Arminius!” He yells.
Arminius is sleeping in the hammock above him, he wakes up with a wild eyed start, pulling his dagger and holding it blade up.
Buccio stands beside him.
“Man, how many times have I told you not to play with your pugio?” He claps him on the shoulder, “Wake them up. We’re here.”
Buccio sees a line of sailors. The lead one is peeing out an oarlock that is not being used. He joins the line.
“Garax!” He shouts while waiting his turn. “Garax, Raus bitte!”
“Ja Herr Centurio. I am alive.” Comes a voice from the stern of the ship. A horse also neighed in response and its hooves clattered on the deck.
“Wake your men up and saddle the horses. Don’t pack them down I’ve got a job for you right away.”
“Jawohl...” Garax managed and then it came UUUAAAAACCCKKK. The sailor’s wrinkled their noses.
“Wake up ladies!” Arminius called out as he prowled the tiers of hammocks in the bow.
Silent curses and bitching groans came from the sleeping forms. Finally the Optio chose a victim and spun the hammock so that the legionaire fell on his face with his gear landing on top of him.
“Do you want to kiss wood this fine morning? Then so be it.” He chose another and spun him til he fell out as well. The other men began to rise, quickly. One in his haste caught his foot and fell on his face anyways. “That’s the spirit Ruffio.” Arminius said walking past and heading for the line at the empty oarlock.

The ship pulled into the mouth of the river. It was a wide here, so the currant was not as strong as further up in the hills where the flood had washed away the bridge. The left side was a face of granite, topped by trees and grass, much like the coastline in general. The right side was also hilly, but not of rock, it sloped gently with grass and trees running down almost to the water’s edge. From the deck railing, Buccio, and Arminius, both heavily laden with their gear, since they had yet to redress in armour, watched beside Parmenio and Pomponius Canio. The ship continued up the river, oars slicing through the currant at a steady beat.
“Not too much further Buccio.” Centurio Philo called out from the bow stem. “There’s a spot on the right bank with a wide beach.”
The cliffs began to fade and form a thick wall of woods. A cove opened to the right. Just as Philo had said, it had a wide, sandy beach. Behind the beach was a hill with a winding trail leading up to a grass plateau. That’s where they would land.
The Helmsmen watched Philo intently and we he held up his right hand, they pulled the steering oars in and the ship swerved to the right.
“Now, straight in lads.” He called out, pointing with his full hand at a spot on the beach.
The rowing didn’t seem to slacken, the ship gained on the beach quickly.
“Hold on.” Parmenio said, “They are going to ride her right up onto the beach.”
“Is that normal?” Buccio asked.
“Oh yes. It’s a good, flat beach.” The ship rode straight. Philo waited til the bow lookout could see the sand beneath the water, then held his arms out in a V. Sailors on both sides of the stern throw out a line with a stone anchor. The acnchor’s would keep the ship from drifting left or right in the river’s currant. Next, the Commander lowered his arms so they were straight out to either side and he made fists. A man at the hatchway yelled down.
“Beach!”
The command echoed below deck and the oars stopped, held in a line above the water. The ship’s momentum carried her onto the beach with a grinding CRUNCH. Soft, wet sand parted like a wave as the bronze headed ram bit into it. The ship rode up onto the beach about five feet before lurching to a stop. The men on deck almost toppled over with the sudden jolt.
“Corvus!” Philo called out still at his spot on the bow. Four sailors picked up the planked gangway from where it had been stowed between the onagers. It had iron spikes on the bottom of both ends. They slid the piece over the side of the bow where a gap had been made in the rope railing. The spikes under the top edge were hammered down into the wooden deck, with the spikes at the other end easily dug into the sand. One of the sailor’s walked down the gangway to make sure it was set. He nodded to the Commander.
A clattering of hooves suddenly erupted from the hatchway. Garax and his Germans rode up onto deck and galloped towards the corvus. They had had enough of the ship and the sea. The men’s belongings were strapped behind the saddles, and each man had a shield one hand, and the horse’s reins in the other. The animals were wild eyed. The Germans rode on the typical Barbarian saddle, a leather padded wooden affair with four posts that held the rider in firmly. It was belted around the horses chest and loins over a wool blanket. Garax was in the lead with his mottled Gray Mare flaring its nostrils. He saluted Buccio as he passed.
“Scout the plateau. not too far, then wait for us.” Buccio called out. Garax barked some commands in German and his men called out a unified ‘Ja.’ and then they flew down the gangway at a full gallop. The sailor below had to jump for his life and the German’s laughed. Their gait barely slowed when they hit the deep sandy track leading up the hill. Soon they had dissappeared beyond the grassy rim at the top.
Arminius meanwhile had gone to the hatchway to call out the men. A file of legionaires, carrying their packs and their armor, on a wooden t-shaped shaft, as well as several pilum, marched up and formed a line on deck.
Next up the hatchway came Neebu leading the little meditterranean donkey with its back heavily laden with Canio’s belongings. The African was smiling as usual, but the donkey only made it half way before it decided it didn’t want to leave the ship. It stopped. Neebu mumbled at it in his Nubian tounge, but the animal ignored him and sat on his hind haunches. Neebu’s smile left and he stammered at the beast, pulling hard on its reins. The animal merely barred its teeth and HEEHAWED at him. The legionaires laughed.
“Get that animal moving Neebu.” Canio said. “Use a whip.”
Neebu held up a leather strap and swatted his hand in a gesture. He spoke quickly in his native tounge, motioning to Canio and then gesturing again with the whip. The donkey sat firm.
One of the Legionaires, a bull chested man with thick black hair and a whiskered chin, named Mallus, pulled a heavy bladed butcher’s knife from the side where one normally carried a pugio. The blade was bright and sharp.
“Anyone for a donkey steak?” He flashed the blade towards the donkey and on cue the animal stood and began allowed Neebu to lead him on. Neebu spoke softly in one of the animal’s big ears. “That’s right, tell him we Romans are crazy, and we eat Donkey’s.” The other men laughed and Mallus returned his blade to its sheath.
“Alright you son’s of whores!” Arminius called out, pacing in front of them. “Form three lines on the beach.” He ran to the front of the line. “Now!”
The soldiers picked up their loads and their hobnailed boots skittered on the wood deck as they rushed for the gangway and the beach.

Bundled in fur and wool cloaks, wearing their short chainmail hauberks underneath, the Germans ride in a loose trapazoid shaped formation. Their shields were small simple ovals with iron bosses and leather lined rims. Each one painted green with a simple animal motif. Garax had a black boar in outline on his. Attached to the saddle on the left side was a large leather quiver which held six barbed javelyns and each man had a long bladed German sword on the left hip. In addition each man carried a eight foot cavalry style, stabbing spear with a long, leaf bladed point.
A rutted trail leads along the grassy plateau. It was used often by the Romans to supply the stone watchtowers they had built along the coast during the war with the Veneti. These were a Gallic tribe that inhabited the rocky inlets of the northern coast. They built their villages on islands or manmade islands, protected by the sea, and lived as much by piracy as by herding cattle like most mainland Gauls. The Romans had bested the Veneti at sea, then burned their villages. Still, the watchtowers served a purpose as forts in this remote region, and to watch for Britons. They too often left their island and came to these waters as pirates. Caesar had made a landing on that far shore, a sort of recconaisance, and it was rumoured he intended to return someday.
Beyond the trail to the edge of the plateau, could be seen the dark expanse of the sea. Cold and choppy under a thick canopy of gray clouds. To the right was a dense forest. The trees were shoulder to shoulder with thick underbrush. The Germans were a forest people. Their homeland abounded in thick woods of all kinds. But these woods were different. They should have felt at home near them. They were silent, dark, with forbidding shadows. Garax felt a chill looking at them for too long.
After a short ride, the land curves, and in the distance can be seen a square sided tower of stone and timber, with a wooden palisade around it.
“That’s it. Thats the watchtower.” Garax said in his German tounge. “Vertold. Go tell the Centurio that we can see the tower, and all looks clear.”
Vertold, riding the yellow mare to the right is young, tall and blonde like the other younger Germans. He differs in appearance only by the horse he rides and the black raven painted on his shield. He nodds and pulls his horse around, kicking hard in the sides and gallops back down the track. Garax and the others halt and watch. The horses nibble at the grass.
Bertolis, with a chestnut mare, on the left, trots closer to the trees to have a look. He is a barrel chested man with big hands and his shield sports a bear paw on it. The horse suddenly balks stamping her hooves and refusing to go closer to the dark woods. Bertolis squeezes with his knees and pats the animals neck.
“Wooaaa, girl, what is it? What’s got you spooked, eh?” He stares at the trees. His eyes, born to the woods back home, sharpened by a lifetime of forest hunting and war, can not see anything out of the ordinary. But he feels something. The hairs on the back of his neck tingle. He nudges the horse on and rejoins Garax.
“Those woods are so still, so silent.” He said. “No birds, nothing.”
“That’s not the only thing odd around here.” Garax said while pulling on the end of his moustache. He had been staring at the Watchtower. There had been no movement along its walls, no signal, no sign that they had been spotted. Bertolis looked at the watchtower as well. It didn’t take his expierience eyes long to notice what bothered his leader.
“No smoke from the tower chimney. They should be cooking breakfast.” He said. Garax nodded, still pulling on his long moustache as he often did when deep in thought.
“Something isn’t right.”

The twenty four legionaires are standing in three ranks of eight men each. Before them, stacked on the sand, is their weapons, armour and gear. On top of these lies each man’s cloaks and scarves, and then helmet. Wearing only a linen undertunic and then a military issue white tunica plus their privately purchased Gallic or German breeches, wool leg bindings and boots, they shiver in the cold wet wind blowing in from the sea. Arminius strolls amongst them checking each one carefully.
“Not the worst for wear I see. No injuries to cry about.” He stops in front of a tall, lanky soldier with a curly brown locks and a freckled face. His nose is two sizes to big and he has a set of buck teeth like rabbit incisors. “Except for you Barsalus, you might have something to complain to your mother about.” The others laugh.
Buccio is the last man to leave the ship. He and Philo shake hands.
“If the Gods are kind, we should be back in seven days to pick you up.” Philo said.
“We’ll be here.” With that Buccio heads down the gangplank. After he’s on the sand, sailors haul it up and stow it. Eight seamen still on your push at the bow while the oars begin a backstroke. The ship grinds back into the river. A rope is tossed out and the eight men climb aboard. The oars continue to backtroke as the helmsmen pull the steering oars hard to the right. The ship backs up while the bow swerves away from the beach until it is pointing towards the sea. Another shouted command and the oars begin to row forward. The ship drifts for a moment, catching the currant, then picks up speed and heads back to the ocean.
Vertold comes down the trail riding hard.
“Herr Centurio, the way is clear.” Vertold’s latin is not as clear as Garax’s, but it serves the purpose.
“We’re coming now. Tell Garax to wait for us.”
Vertold salutes and rides off again. Buccio stands beside Arminius. He looks over his men, the twenty four legionaires, the four slingers, Canio and his men plus their donkey. The soldiers aren’t complaining but they look cold. He nodds to Arminius.
“Listen up.” The Optio steps before the men, fists on his hips. “We’re going to march along the coast to a watchtower. We’ll pick up supplies and some more men there.” He began to stroll along the first line.
“Then will head inland to a Gaul village in the forest. Its a large village and they owe Caesar taxes.” He pushes through to the second line and strolls along it.
“Some of you might doubt the sense of this mission, we’re cut off from the Legion, we’re outnumbered by the natives, and the weather is shit.” Now he pushes through to the third line.
“That’s fine, doubt all you want, we don’t want heroes, but we don’t want you to hesitate, to get scared or to think about leaving. You will do as your told, the minute your told to do it, is that clear?”
“Yes sir.” The men yell in unison.
“Good then lets put our worries behind us. Bend over!” The men hesitate, then bend over. “Grab your legs.” He waits until they do so. “Now kiss your ass goodbye.” The men laugh. Arminius takes his place in the front again.
“Stand at attention!” He yells. The men snap up straight. “You have til the count of twenty to gear up and ten of them are gone!” The men scramble to get their chainmail on, followed by their cloaks and packs.
“Eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen...” All the men except for Barsalus who is struggling with his cloak. “Eighteen, nineteen...” Another man helps Barsalus get his pack pole on his shoulder, and then they both stand to attention.
“Very good.” Arminius spins an about face and salutes Buccio. “First, Second, and Third squads, sixth century, tenth cohort, ready sir.”
Buccio returns the salute. “Let’s move out. Two files. Slingers in the rear.”
“This is an outrage! Centurio, do you expect me to walk?” Canio said as he stormed over, his huge feet pounding heavy in the sand.
“Sorry Procurator, we didn’t have room for a horse and buggy.”
“Then give me one of The German horses.”
“No, not army property. They belong to the Germans, and I need them to scout around us.” Buccio nodded to Arminius.
“Two lines, Slingers in the rear.” The men rushed to form two lines. The slingers threw their sacks of belongings over their shoulders and went to the end.
“Caesar will hear of this.” Canio said.
“I was with Caesar at the River Sambre.” Buccio said. “He sent away his horse and marched with us in the mud.”
Canio storms off. Buccio and Arminius take their place at the head of the column.
“Column!” Arminius barks. “forward, march.” The line of men march up the trail.



CHAPTER FIVE



A cold wind rushes over the men as they follow the wagon track along the plateau. There is no sign of the sun high above, only gray clouds. The smell of wet grass and a hint of rain still lingers in the breeze. Mud begins to cake the hobnail soles of the men’s boots, making it harder to keep an even pace.
“Route step.” Arminius calls out. The men may now march at their own pace, as long as they keep their positions in line. Every now and then one of them steps into a puddle of water sitting deep in one of the ruts and a silently curses.
“I can feel another rain coming on.” Buccio mutters. The clouds are churning above. Garax and his horsemen are now with the column. Garax rides with Bertolis at the front of the line. He looks back. The legionaires are following Buccio in two evenly spaced lines. The slingers are in a loose group behind that walking like a knot of school kids.
“Ha, I didn’t know we had another horseman guarding the rear.” He said in German. Bertolis takes a quick look back. At the end of the column is Canio and his two men. Canio is sitting on the back of the poor donkey, fat jaw jutting out with as much arrogance as he could muster. Neebu and Parmenio are sharing the load that the donkey would have been carrying and both are struggling along the track.
“Guarding his own rear I suspect.” Bertolis replied, also in German.
Vertold and the last German, Dax, ride in tandem between the Infantry and the woods. Keeping watch on the woods for any surprises. Vertold felt his spine chill.
“Are we watching the woods, or are the woods watching us?” He said.
“Just like the forests back home. Thick, dark, and full of ghosts.” Dax finishes with a deep throated laugh, but his companion remained serious. Vertold eyed the trees with suspicion.
A shadow moves amongst the firs and pines. It seems to be a person, but so dark like a whisp of smoke, shimmering. Vertold stops his horse and his eyes widen. An old woman, then...gone.
“Did you see something?” Dax stops beside him and stares into the woods. Nothing is to be seen of the shadowy image. Vertold didn’t say anything, he rubbed his eyes and looked again. Gone, she was gone. He was sure it was an old woman, but a familiar face, if it was a face that had seen.
“Nothing there. Come on, if you stare too long you’ll see your dead mother or something.” Dax nagged. Vertold’s eyes widend as if that were the answer. “Oh, you’re seeing ghosts now, huh.”
Dax studied the trees again, but again, saw nothing.
“Damn it man, snap out of it and move on.” He said, pushing at Vertold with his shield and finally kicking the man’s horse and forcing it to trot away.
The Roman’s too feel uneasy beside the woods. Each man, young recruits and old vetran’s alike, steal a nervous glance over their right shoulders. The Roman’s are not forest dwellers. To them, each shadow could be a demon or a Gaul. Buccio senses his men’s jumpy nerves, even Arminius seems skitterish. Both of them have also been watching the woods.
“I don’t know what it is, but I feel...” Arminius is the first to speak of it. “As if we are being watched.”
“I know.” Buccio said.
“But I don’t see anything. I just, feel it.” He said gritting his teeth. “I never felt that way when we were surprised by that Gaul ambush, remember. They came out of the woods howling like wolves.”
“I remember.”
“But now I have, a don’t know, a chill running down my back.” Arminius, a soldier’s soldier, was scared but didn’t know why. “When I was a kid, I felt that way next to a house. The house was burned, the people living there had all died in the flames. Every time I walked by that house, I felt it. My Mom called it, well ...”
“The evil eye.” Buccio said, glancing at the woods again, and putting a hand on the comforting grip of his sword.

The watchtower is a three storied stone square. The first floor can not be seen through the tall, wood palisade wall built atop a mound created by digging a ditch around the post. It would be a windowless floor, a sort of basement for storage. The second floor has several narrow arrow loops for windows. It also has the only entrance, a solid wood and iron door that could only be reached by a wooden stairwell. The top floor was open with a man sized crenallated wall and several thick wooden post supporting a tile topped roof. Two artillery pieces, man sized bolt throwers called scorpions that looked like oversized crossbows, could be seen as shadows behind the walls. There should also have been sentries with the artillery, but none could be seen.
Garax and Bertolis ride hard, coming back to the column from a scout of the palisade. Arminius halts the men. Garax pulls his frothing gray horse to a stop directly in front of Buccio.
“We saw no one Herr Centurio. No one on the walls, and no one hailed us.” Garax said, breathing hard from the fast ride. Behind him Bertolis rambles on in German. Garax nodds.
“What’s he saying?” Buccio asked.
“The post is quiet. Too quiet, no dogs barking, no roosters crowing, no goats, no donkeys, nothing.”
Buccio and Arminius look to one another. Both men no the signs of war all too well.
“Another thing, the gate is open.” Garax added.
“Shit.” Buccio said quietly. He looks back at his men who rested their scutums and pack poles along their legs. He and Arminius both take a few steps off away from the men, and study the watchtower. The track leads through the ditch and up to a wooden gate which is slightly ajar.
“I don’t see any signs of a fight.” Arminius said.
“Could be a trick, an ambush.” Buccio studies the empty walls and then scans the woodline. Another rutted trail leads away from the fort, in the opposite direction, going directly into the woods. “Only one way to find out.”
“Why have we stopped?” Demanded Pomponius Canio as he guided his struggling donkey up to the head of the column. He ignored the chuckles from the line of Legionaires. “I am hungry and tired, I warm up a bit before we move on.”
“Do you see any smoke, Procurator?” Buccio asked.
Canio studied the watchtower. There was no smoke rising from the roof.
“What does that mean?” He asked. Garax pulled his horse closer to the senator and looked down at him.
“Well, Herr prokurator,” He said in his thick German accent. “There’s noone on the walls keeping the fire or blowing us kisses, not a good sign, eh?”
“I’ll take four men with me, and check it out.” Buccio said to Arminius.
“Maybe I should go.” Arminius said, but Buccio put a hand on his shoulder.
“No, I need you out here, just in case. Form the men into a square. Divide the slingers to support either side.” Buccio said. He looked at Garax and continued, “You keep your four men between the infantry and the post. If we come running back with our tails between our legs, I’ll need you to cover us.” Garax nodds and rides off to gather his horsemen.
Arminius marches to the line.
“Drop your packs, First four men, leave the line and join Centurio Buccio. The rest of you, form square, five men to a side, Now!” The packs drop in a flurry and the men hustle. The first four move off to join Buccio, the others form four lines of five men each, one side facing the woods, one the back where they had come, another the sea, and the last facing the watchtower.
“What about me?” Canio asked.
“You and your men get inside the square and wait.” Buccio said as the four lead men reach him. Canio kicks the donkey’s sides and it hurries back.
The slings, two to each side of the square, drop and sit in the grass. They are not soldiers but hired mercenaries and as such are not as disciplined as the Romans. The legionaires are ready for action, shields held high, hands on Pilum.
“Rest at ease men.” Arminius commands. The men rest their shields and spears on the ground and open their stance for a more relaxed stance. Arminius knows his men can be readied in a split second, there is no need to tire them out beforehand. Canio leads his donkey and his two human mules into the square. Parmenio and Neebu drop their loads onto the ground.
“Neebu.” Canio calls and Neebu moves over and gets down on hands and knees so that Canio can use him as a step stool to get off the donkey. The animal shudders, happy to be rid of the great load. Canio sits on one of his packs, and waits. Neebu sits by his feet, but Parmenio joins Arminius, watching Buccio and his four men advancing on the watchtower.

Buccio leads his men in a single file, until they reach the ditch. He halts them. He studies the palisade. There is a rampart behind the pointed log wall, but no guards stolling along it.
“Boar’s snout.” Buccio calls out. Two of the men move to the left of him, and the other two to the right, not on a line, but in an arrow shaped formation. “Pilum in shield hand and draw swords.” The men switch both pilum to their left hands. The pilum were more like long heavy javelyns than fighting spears. The lower half of each was a wooden shank, but the top half was a narrow solid rod of soft iron with a hard point. This made them bend when they struck an enemy shield or body, but it also made it easy for them to grip in one hand along with the handguard of their shields. From their right sides the men drew their swords. Buccio pulled his from the left. They held their long oval shields in front of them, with the points of their swords poking out from the right edge.
“Stay alert, and follow me.” Buccio said and he moved along the track, down into the ditch and towards the palisade’s gate. The men scanned the walls carefully looking for any secretive movement that might signal an attack. The walls were a good place to hurl stones, or spears at an approaching force. Archers could fire volleys of arrows from the wall or the tower itself. They saw no movement, no attack.
A blustering wind blew over the plateau and it caused the wooden gate to moan and open slightly. No other sounds came from the fort.
When they reached the gate, Fortunis, a large, square faced man with straight black hair and black whiskers, opened it so they could pass. His arms were thick like a bricklayer’s and the gate swung easily in his grasp.
As one, the five men went inside.

Arminius watched them dissappear beyond the palisade wall. Garax and his horsemen moved up along the trail until they were just beside the ditch. There they waited, allowing the horses to munch on grass while the riders remained alert. Parmenio was jotting notes into one of his diaries.
“Exciting.” He said to Parmenio.
“Ever been in battle?” Arminius asked the older man.
“Why yes. I was a hoplite with my city, Massilia. We had to fight off a Gallic tribe once, the Sunumbri. It was a bloodbath. But it was over quick. They rushed, we stood our ground and hacked them to pieces.” He said. “Nothing like this though. This is...”
“Exciting.” Arminius said.
“Spooky, actually. Is it Gauls, or ghosts.”
A rush of cold wind blew over the plateau again and the tree’s seem to MOAN. The men stiffen, eyeing one another for comfort. From the Germans, a horse neighs and prances nervously, Bertolis tries to soothe his mount. They too study the woods.
“relax men, it’s only the wind.” Arminius said firmly to steady them.
“I’m not so sure about that.” Parmenio said in greek and he continued to write.

Buccio and the four soldiers following him, walk through the gate and into an open parade ground. The ramparts behind the palisade wall are empty. There are huts and animal shacks, a chicken coop, and a well with a trough, surrounding the parade ground, but also empty. No bodies can be seen, human or animal. Buccio steps cautiously forward. The yard has turned to mud from the constant rain, and has been beaten up. bootprints, hoove prints and dog prints are in the muck. An unhitched wagon sits nearby. The stalls for the fort’s horses and donkeys are well stocked with hay, but empty. One stall stands out from the rest. It is smeared with blood. The chicken coop has been torn open. Several rabbit hootches also have been ripped apart and thrown haphazardly to the ground.
Fortunis avoids stepping on a leather bag laying on the ground. It has chicken feed in it.
“Looks like they packed up and left in a hurry.” Fortunis said quietly.
Buccio eyes the tower. The top floor is empty. The second floor has several small arrow loops. An odd, dark shadow seems to be peering out of one.
“Anyone there?” Buccio calls out. The shadow dissappears. “My name’s Centurio Buccio, sixth century, tenth cohort, sixth legion.” There is no reply.
Buccio heads for the narrow wooden steps leading up to the second floor entrance.
“Two of you with me.” Fortunis and the tall, Barsalus, whom Arminius had singled out during the inspection on the beach, follow him. The steps groan under their feet. Several of the planks in the middle have been smashed, leaving a large gap. They stop. It would be too hard to jump in their heavy chainmail armor. Buccio places his scutum down and it is just long enough to bridge the gap. He steps on it gingerly, then hurries across. He pulls his shield back up and the two other men follow his example, using their shields to cross.
“Not too hard to cross, they should have torn out more planks.” Fortunis said.
“They don’t want to make it impossible to leave, just difficult to get up.” Buccio replied. At the top of the steps is a wooden deck with a railing. It is just large enough for the three of them to stand on and face the massive wood planked door, with its iron reenforcing bars and lock. There is, oddly, several large ceramic pots just in front of the door. Its the kind normally used for storage. The inside of each is filled with oil, and a coil of rope sticks out, held in place by makeshift, iron clamps.
“Fire pots.” Buccio notes. Soot covers the the lip of each pot. “They’ve been used, but the oil is new.” He steps past them and tries to push open the door. It won’t budge.
“Bolted from inside.” He said. He uses the pommel of his sword and pounds on the heavy door. BAM BAM BAM.
“Open up. We’re Romans. Open up.” He said while continuing to pound on the door.
Fortunis looks over to the arrow slit on the right of the door. A shadow is there, with a blood shot eyeball looking back at him. His first reaction is to reach for the bulla hung around his neck. A bulla is a leather pouch filled with magical items, they are given to Roman children by their mothers to ward off evil. Fortunis, though a grown man, still wore his. Overcoming his superstition he waves a fist at the arrow slit.
“Open this damn door, or we’ll use the firepots to burn it!” He yells. The clatter of hobnails can be heard shuffling behind the door. A metallic CLANK is followed by a SQUEALING as the door slowly opens. The smell from inside makes Buccio grimace. The three walk in slow, shields up, swords at the ready.
“By the gods...” Fortunis mumbles as they enter.

CHAPTER SIX

The room is dark, save for a few shafts of gray light streaming in from arrow loops. Buccio steps in cautiously, followed by Fortunis on his right and Barsalis on his left, their shields protect them from chin to ankle. A guant shadow of a man shuffles back, away from the door. He is a Roman soldier. A tall, young man, but his face is thin, haggard with uncombed, dirty black hair. His face is unshaven, and pale. The eyes are puffy and bloodshot, and fearful.

“Open that door wide Fortunis, get some air in here.” Buccio said, his nose wrinkling at the stale air. It smelled of urine, and feces. The man before him is still wearing a chainmail hauberk but the armor is dirty and sweat stained, and his sword is hung from a baldric. A rug, gallic from the plaid weeve, is on the middle part of the floor. Everything else is ugly, gray stone. In one corner sits several chamber pots. Two are full of excrement and a host of flies buzzed around them. The other, apparently, emptied through an arrow loop where spilled urine has left a stain down the wall and onto the floor.

In the center of the room is a large, stout table made of planks of untinted wood. It has only one bench for a seat, must surely have had two. The table is large enough for a squad or two of men to sit. Uncleaned wooden plates, mugs, and spoons clutter the table. Another man sits pensively at the table. He has the same dirty, unkempt appearance as the first, a shorter, older man with a receeding hairline, this man is almost in tears. He too is wearing his armor and sword.

Oddly, there are dozens of Pilum piled in the room, some by the arrow loops, and some by the door. Also, every so many feet hangs a ceramic dipper shaped oil lamp, each one full of oil but unlit. Dead rats hang from their tales on the wall above the room’s bronze hearth. The hearth has fresh wood placed on ash, and a makeshift iron rod above probably used to roast the rats. A pile of wood sits by the hearth, made by smashing up the missing seat bench.

In the dark of the fartherst corner can be seen the wooden stairs leading up to a trapdoor in the roof. Behind the ladder is another trapdoor, this one on the ground.

“Are you all that’s here?” Buccio asked.

“Yes.” Said the standing man is answer was very meek. The man was ashamed.
“Where is your Centurio?”

“He never came back.” The standing man continued. The other began to sob. “We had been watching the villagers. They were up to something. So he took a detachment into the forests and never came back.”

Barsalis takes a step to the left, CRUNCH. He looks down. small piles of white powder form a line on the floor. The line runs from one wall to the other across the front of the door. Fortunis leaned down and pinched some between his fingers then took a sniff.

“Salt.”

Buccio stepped over in between the standing man and his seated companion. Both smelled of dirt, sweat and urine. They had the look and smell of fear.

“How long ago was that?” He asked.

“Last week.” The standing man said. “A few days later, Optio Pulcher took half the men into the woods to find him. None of them came back either.” The standing man began to tremble.

“How many of you were left here?” He asked as he moved about the room, first eyeing the dead rats, then the ladder to the third floor. “Anyone down below or upstairs?”

“No sir.” The standing man continued. “There were twelve of us. A squad of eight and four Creten archers.”

Buccio leaned down to the trapdoor in the floor and with a squeal of rusty hinges, pulls it up and open, letting the wood fall on the floor. BAM! The seated man yelped. He peered down into the darkness. He couldn’t see anything but he didn’t smell anything unusual either.

“Continue man, what happend here.” Buccio said.

“We stood guard that night, two sleeping at a time, the rest on the palisade. Me and Carus,” He motioned to the seated man, “We’re the first to sleep. We woke up the next morning. Everyone else was gone. We never heard a thing. We...We don’t stand guard anymore. We’ve just been waiting.”

“Maybe they were cowards and they ran off into the woods.” Barsalis said.

“No, no of us would go into the woods. There’s something odd in the woods.” Carus, the seated man, began to sob again and his companion put a hand on his shoulder.

“Fortunis, check below.” Buccio said. Fortunis leaned his shield agains the wall and stepped to the trapdoor that the Centurio had opened. A wooden ladder led down into the gloom. He sheathed his sword and climbed down into the darkness.

“We’re going to the village. Do you men want to come with us?” Buccio asked, but doubted that the two emaciated beings in front of him would have any soldier’s spirit left in them.

“No. We plan to wait til summer and then run for the crossing at the river.”

“Summer?” Buccio asked. “Why wait that long?”

“The days are longer. We can make it out of the woods before the sun goes down.” said the same man who had been doing all the talking. But Carus began to stir, tears running down his cheeks.
“You don’t want to be in the woods when it’s night.” He said.

Buccio set his shield beside the ladder and sheathed his own sword. He took a look up the ladder to the third floor.

“Barsalis, watch these two.” He said and then began climbing upwards. Barsalus leaned against the open doorway and rested his shield on the ground. He watched Buccio climb to the roof and push open the trapdoor. More gray light streamed into the stink of the room. Buccio pushed himself up and was gone.

“You two need a bath.” Barsalis said in disgust. “You stink. Are you sleeping in your armor?”

“We don’t sleep much...anymore.” They seemed ashamed of themselves and huddled together.

The roof of the third floor was intact, and consisted of wood beams topped by red clay tiles. These would have been brought in by ship. In was dry hereFour massive posts held the roof aloft, one on each corner. The floor was of wide, thick wood planks. In the center were the scorpions. One faced in the direction they had come, and the other faced the woods. They were large, but could easily be moved in any direction by several men. Four men usually crewed the weapons, but two would do in a pinch. One of the bolt throwers had its bow bent, with a bolt loaded in its track, ready to fire. It was pointing at the woods. In between the two was a crate full of iron tipped arrows with stubby feather ends, bolts. Buccio stepped past them to look out over the wall on the left, it overlooked the trail from the river mouth. His men were standing there, formed in a square. He then moved to the next wall. It overlooked the forest. There was another wagon trail there, leading from the fort through a lane cut among the trees. He knew this was the way to the Gallic village where a tribe called the Adini lived. Over the next wall he could see the coastline plateau, nothing but empty grass, cliffs and woods, no trail. The last wall overlooked the ocean. It was gray and rumbling with the wind. In the distance was a curtain of black. More rain falling, and probably rolling this way.

Fortunis popped his head up through the trapdoor.

“What’s below?” Buccio asked.

“Some bags of salt, and grain, either wheat or rye, I couldn’t tell. A stone grinding mill, hand cranked. A crate of onions. Nothing alive, except the rats. Lots of rats.”

“Go Tell Arminius to bring the men into the parade ground and lets get a fire going.”

“Yes sir, Rat for breakfast?” Fortunis smiled.

“If you want, but I’ll stick to porridge.”

Fortunis dropped down the ladder like a stone and moments later could be heard scampering down the wooden stairwell. Buccio watched him run across the parade ground and out through the gate in the palisade. He stepped behind the scorpio and pulled it around. looking over a simple bronze post that sat atop the trigger lock, he sighted in on Fortunis as he ran past the Germans and upto the square.

“What the hell happend to these men?” He wondered aloud.

Wheat porridge, brown, dull muck, but the staple food of the Roman people. Buccio topped his with some fried onions, to give it some flavor. The men, except two guards walking back and forth on the rampart behind the pallisade wall, were sitting in groups eating porridge. They had started several wood fires on the parade ground. Used a ceramic mortar and pestle to grind up the wheat, added water and boiled the mix in their mess bowls. The Roman mess bowl was made of bronze and resembled a smallish kitchen pot with a long handle. The handle had a hole in it so it could be tied with a leather loop whereever the bearer wished to carry it, belt, pole, or pack. Distributed amongst each eight man squad, was the squad’s mess. Sacks of wheat that could last several days, an folding iron grill, fire starting flints, and a mortar and pestle. Each squad would normally carry leather tent pieces, iron stakes, rope, two short pallisade stakes, and a dolabra. The dolabra being a tool with a wooden haft and an iron head that on one side was a spike and the other a flat blade. It could be used as a pick, shovel, or adze. Very useful when making camp at night. They had left their tents and other camp supplies back at the Legion’s camp. Buccio figured they would use the watchtower or the village to quarter his men. Now he wasn’t so sure.

The smell of fried pork made Buccio’s stomache growl. Many of the men were watching Canio finish his meal of porridge and pork bits. He had packed smoked pork and had Neebu fry some on a griddle. These men were used to senatorial types like Caesar and Craestus who ate what their men ate. Buccio looked up to the see ‘the dog’ coming his way.

“Those men in that tower are cowards.” Canio said. “They should be flogged.”

“That will be for Legate Craestus to decide when the time comes.” Buccio said, finishing the last of his meal.

“Where are the horses, the donkeys, the extra men we were suppose to get? How are we gong to bring in the tribute?”

“We’ll have to do without.” Buccio said as he stood. “We’re not on a tax collecting mission anymore Procurator.”

“Preposterous! I am in charge here...” Canio stammered his feet.

“Not anymore!” Buccio cut him short and stepped to within a few inches of his face. “We have forty Roman soldiers missing including their Centurio. I’m going to find out what happend.”

Canio was astounded, his face showed surprise and then turned red. Buccio brushed on by him and moved off. A quick fat hand grabbed him by the shoulder and spun him back around.

“You are finished! I will see to it when we get back.” Canio gritted his teeth when he spoke. Spittle frothed at the corner’s of his mouth. He jabbed Buccio in the shoulder with a pudgy index finger. “Finished!”

“As you like Procurator.” Buccio grabs the man’s finger and squeezes. Canio winces. “But we are leaving soon. You can stay here til we return, or come with us, or...” He pushes the man’s hand back wrenching his finger and bringing a tear to Canio’s eyes. “You can go fuck yourself. I don’t care which.” Buccio let go and left.

“Ruined!” Canio yells.

“Let’s finish our meals and pack up.” Buccio called out as he moved amongst his men. “Anyone know this coast?” He called out.

“I do.” A man said from behind. It was Parmenio. He stepped up and joined Buccio.

“Don’t you help that bastard.” Canio said, jumping to his feet again. Parmenio walked by him and headed to where Buccio stood. “You had better listen to me Parmenio.” But the Greek kept walking. “Hah! You are no longer in my employ. Feed yourself.” Canio waited for Parmenio to turn back around, but the man ignored him.

“Seems I am in need of a job.” He said when he approached Buccio.

“How about chronicler for this mission.” Buccio said. “How far along the coast is the next Roman watchtower?”

“That would be about fifteen miles to the South, on the far side of the Liger river. Belongs to the Ninth Legion.”

“Would they see a large enough signal fire?”

Arminius joined the two.

“Well...” Parmenio rubbed his chin in thought and looked up at the thick gray clouds choking the sky. “They should if it doesn’t rain.”

“Sending out a call for help?” Arminius asked.

“No, we’re on our own, I just want to send a warning, let someone know something is going on.” Buccio said. He looked around at the empty animal stalls, the hay, and the wagon. Arminius followed his eyes.

“Use the wagon, bust up the animal stalls and make a pyre, use the hay and those firepots from the stairwell. Get it going before it rains.” Buccio said.

“Yes sir.” Arminius leaves. “First squad, get your lazy arses up and follow me.”

“The Adini will see the fire too.” Parmenio noted. “Their village is only about a half days march to the South East.”

“They are going to know we are here, sooner or later.” Buccio said. There was a crash of wood as Arminius men began breaking up the animal stalls.

Bertolis and Dax ride side by side along the wagon track leading to the forest. A cool breeze rustles their furs and the horsehair plumes on there iron helmets. The wind flitters through the leaves in the trees and the underbrush. No other sounds escape the woods. The two Germans halt their horses just short of the treeline. Both animals snort and paw at the ground as if agitated.

Suddenly a fat, plump rabbit hops out of the underbrush. It’s floppy ears lay down rather than up and alert, its nose twitches and its eyes seem to have a watery glow. It looks at them.

Dax, his hunters blood excited, slowly pulls a javelyn from the quiver dangling the side of his saddle.

“Rabbit!” Dax yells out, almost slobbering as if he could taste the meat already. The rabbit hops back into the forest and Dax excitedly kicks his horse to give chase.

“No, Dax!” Bertolis yells in German. He kicks his horse too and cuts him off before he can get into the trees.

“Out of my way man, didn’t you see it!” Dax’s eyes were clouded with excitement. “A big one, We could have rabbit stew tonight instead of Roman gruel. Just like home.”

“No!” Bertolis said. He grabbed Dax’s reins and held them firmly. Bertolis scan’s the woodline and the track. He looks back at his companion.

“Remember what Vertold told us, the stories about the forest back home?” Bertolis asked. Dax started to calm down, but he angry that he had been stopped.

“Stories to frighten children. I’m no child.”

“He said the people would see things in the trees.” Bertolis continued. “Things that weren’t there. Spirits playing tricks on them to draw them into the darkness, and those who fell under the spell, would never be seen again.” Bertolis held tightly to Dax’s reins until he was sure the other man would stay.

“Hah!” Dax blurted out, but already the fire in his eyes had waned.

“Dax, My eyes are just as good as yours. I saw no rabbit.”

A horn is blown, its a long, wallowing note.

Dax sneers then pulls his reins out of Bertolis hands. He whips the horse around and gallops back towards the gate. Bertolis takes one more look at the woods. The rabbit appears again, this time he saw it. He closed his eys a moment, and when he took a second look, the rabbit was gone. He took turned his horse and galloped back to the watchtower.

The column of soldiers in lined up neatly on the parade ground in two files. The slingers bringing up the rear and the four horsemen waiting near the gate. Canio is sitting atop the poor donkey, now sharing his berth with some of his belongings. Neebu is holding the reins, smiling as usual, but his smile belies his intelligence. His eyes show that he is concerned, that he knows whats going on and he was scared. He still carried a heavy pack, but not as heavy as before. Buccio, Arminius and Parmenio walk passed him. Parmenio has his own pack and a borrowed Roman canteen.

“Decided to stay with us Procurator?” Buccio asked.

“I’m not staying with those filthy buggars.” He nodded to the tower.

Arminius held out a sword, sheathed and hanging from a leather baldric so that Canio could take it.

“You might need this, and a shield.” He said.

“I’m not a soldier.” Canio said, looking away from he weapon. The only defence he carried was a silver, jewel encrusted pugio.

“Every Roman’s a soldier.” Arminius said. “What about your man.” He nodded to Neebu.

“Don’t you dare arm my slave.”

Arminius pulled the weapon away. Buccio takes the weapon and offers it to Parmenio.

“You work for me now.” He said, and the Greek took the baldric and slid it over his shoulder.

“It has been along time since I had a sword at my side.” He grips the hilt and smiles.

Buccio leads the two of them back down the line of men.

“Did you have the men make a litter.” Buccio asked.

“Yes, we have extra water, some of the grain from the basement, and extra weapons and shields.” He pointed to the last four soldiers in the formation. They carried what looked like a stretcher, a leather hide strung between to wooden poles. The litter had some supplies on top. To make it easier to carry, then men had put their own packs on it, then used leather straps to sling the pole around their shoulders.

They were moving to the head of the column. Buccio stopped to look back at the tower. The second floor door was slightly ajar. Two shadows tood there with blood rimmed eyes peering out.

“I’ve never seen men act like that.” Buccio muttered.

“Fear.” Parmenio said. “Utter and total fear. I’ve seen it before. We Greeks call it hysteria.”

Buccio continues on to the front of the column, Parmenio and Arminius behind him.

“We’re going to be moving fast. No one drops out, No one!” He takes a hard look at Canio then nodds to Arminius.

“Column, Forward March!”

Their hobnailed boots pound on the dirt in unison as the line moves out through the gate. The Germans gallop out first and spread out leading the way down the track towards the forest.

The column follows the wagon track out through the gate and towards the forest. Thunder can be heard far out to sea and the black clouds there sparkle with lightning. The wind picks up, rustling the grass. Dax and Bertolis break away from the front and curl around to take up the rear.

“Germans in front, and Germans in the rear, sounds like we’re surrounded.” Arminius said. “Don’t know if I like that.” Buccio and Parmenio smiled.

Carus, one of the tower men, steps out of the doorway. His face is pale, almost skeletal like.

“Come back!” He whines. “Don’t go into the woods. They will come, when its night, they will come!” Another hand reaches out and yanks him back. BAM! The door is slammed shut and bolted.

They march along the trail and into the forest.



CHAPTER SEVEN

The forest swallowed them up in its dark silence. The threes stood almost shoulder to shoulder, with a thick carpet of dead mulch and underbrush. Nothing stirred the stillness. No birds flew off out of surprise and nothing moved amongst the shadows. The leaves dripped with water from the previous rain and the cool wind moaned through the canopy. The whole place smelled of wet grass and mud.

Thunder suddenly BOOMED. The clouds above turning from gray to black, crackled with lightning and rain fell again. The deluge thrashed the trees and quickly filled the ruts on the wagon trail with muddy slime. The mud clings to the leather soles of the Romans as they march, hoods over their heads, pilum, packs and shields slung above their shoulders. They march in silence, cold rain pouring down on them from above and occaisnonally slicing into their faces with the wind. A man stumbles through an unexpected puddle of water in a deep rut and curses. Each man is lost in his own thoughts, following the men in front.

Buccio and Arminius lead the column without hoods over their helmets. Rain makes a steady tapping on their iron helmets and drips cold water down their faces and necks.

“Shitty weather.” Arminius mutters.

“Yep.” Buccio said. “That’s the only kind you get in the army.”

“I’ll check the men.” He steps away and strolls back along the line.

Lightning crackles across the sky. Each time it does, the shadows between the nearest trees are momentarily aglow. Fortunis, stumbling along in the middle of the right file of men, dares to glance over each time it does. Maybe his mind was playing tricks on him, but he swore he saw something. Another flash and there it was, a patch of creamy white...skin! He passes the spot. No one else seem to see a thing. Thunder breaks again followed by a fingers of lighting. Fortunis looks back. It is a woman. She is young, a naked from head to foot. She has long black hair, with eyes darkend with kohl, and lips painted red. An egyptian dancer, she twirls, spins, and licks her lips taunting him. She’s swallowed up by darkness again and Fortunis stumbles out of line and waits. With another brilliant flash of lightning, he sees her again. She motions for him to come into the woods. He hesitates, but licks his lips at her supple charms. She has tattoos running from her breasts, down past her belly button and flanking each thigh. He takes a step closer. She turns and bends over, spreading her thighs and looking at him from between them. Fortunis smiles eagerly and takes another step towards her, but she vanishes into darkness.

“What the hell are you doing?” Fortunis turns, bewildered, to see Arminius standing beside him. “Did you ask permission to leave my formation?”

“No sir...I...I..” The vision of the girl does not come back. The next lightning flash ony reveals the livid face of his Optio. “I’m sorry sir.”

“Get back in line!” Arminius barks. Fortunis runs back to his spot, splashing mud on his companions who curse him.

“Nobody leaves my column, nobody. I don’t care if you have to pee, I don’t care if you have to shit. Nobody stops, nobody breaks formation and nobody goes into the trees.” Arminius said as he went back to the front of the column. “Is that understood?”

“Yes sir.” Came the reply, but it was weak, muted by the rain and wind.

“What? I didn’t hear you.” He was louder.

“YES SIR!” Came the retort from the men.

They continue their silent slog through the rising mud and constant rain. The trees looming on their sides like dark ghosts watching them, waiting for them. All through the line of men, eyes glanced nervously left or right. Balbus, an old soldier from southern Italy with gray whiskers and a large white scar cutting deep across his cheek, pulls his hood further over his face so as not to look into the trees. The men have all hung their bronze helmets on their poles so they can cover their heads with their cloak hoods. He had faced Greeks, Gauls and Germans, but never ghosts. He had never felt the chill run down his back like now, as if cold, bony fingers had tickled his spine.

Further down the line, Pollius was staring ahead of him at big Matho. Pollius stood about a foot and a half shorter than Matho, and was a thin lad from the City of Rome. Matho on the otherhand was a hulking farmboy, the type of recruit the Romans preferred. He was half Latin, half Etruscan, from the latinized area of Etruria just north of Rome. Pollius was surprised and a bit worried. Matho was never one to talk much and never complained, yet he had been constantly reciting something eversince they entered the woods. A KABOOM of thunder directly above made the big man jerk. Pollius poked him in the back.

“Whats wrong big guy?

Matho turns his head around and Pollius is shocked to see that his face is ash white with fear.

“What is it you keep muttering?” He asked.

“It’s an old Etruscan prayer my mother taught me. She died when I was little, but I remember it. I always said it before going to sleep, to keep the evil spirits away.” Matho said, eyeing the woods in fear.

“Are we surrounded by evil spirits?” Pollius asked, not feeling too frightend since, like most city born men, he had fewer superstitions.

“I hear a voice from the woods calling me.” The big man said. “My mother’s voice.”

Pollius felt the hairs at the back of his neck tingle and Matho continued to mutter his Etruscan prayer.

At the front of the column the Germans too are quiet, hunched over the back of their horses, riding close together. Now and then Dax or Garax steals a glance back at Buccio.

Finally the rain slows and then stops. rivulets of water run along the wagon ruts in the trail. The men pull their hoods off. Even the wind drops to a light breeze, but the tension in the line of men is thick. The silence is eating away at their nerves.

Buccio can feel the tension. He senses it, even feels it himself. To order the men to pick up the pace might create panic. Even Arminius seems sullen and irritable.

“What are you thinking?” Buccio said.

“These blasted trees. I feel like they are closing in on me, choking me.” Arminius replied.

“I know, the sooner we’re clear of them, the better.”

“You could walk two days and not be clear of the forest.” Parmenio interjected from behind.

A surprise thunder BOOM makes the men suddenly jump and the whole line quivers.

“You’re all acting like old women!” Arminius hollers. He laughs, he had jumped too.

“How about a march song?” Buccio said. “Keep their minds occupied.”

Arminius holds a Pila up so that all behind would have his attention, then he begans to sing in a long, slow Latin marching song. The men follow his lead, and sing. Their voices get louder, brightening their spirits. They are not alone, they are together and the song heals their nerves. The step matches the song and they march more freely.

Garax, far ahead, pulls his hood down and grimaces.

“They call that singing?” He asked Dax in German.

“Let’s give them a real song.” Dax said with a laugh, and the two begin to belch out an old Germanic hunting and drinking song. Soon their voices are joined by those of Vertold and Bertolis who are riding behind the column.

“Well,” Parmenio said, “I don’t have time to write so I guess I will have to sing too.” He begins to sing a Greek ballad. Something from Homer’s iliad.

The spaniards from the balearic islands begin a song of their own. Canio nearby simply scowls at them.

“Fools.” He said.

Neebu rubs the nose of the donkey then sings his own tune in his african dialect. The animal heehaws.

Lightening flashes through the clouds followed by more thunder. Rain begins to fall but the men pay no heed. The forest trail echoes with song.

The sky was still choked with clouds, but the rain had stopped. There was no sign of the sun to tell what time of day it was as the column finally stepped into a clearing. They were in a sort of bowl shaped by several heavily wooded hills. The clearing had been made by man. The track followed between ploughed fields and pasture broken into plots by gray, unmotared stone walls. Ahead of them, nestled together at the center of the bowl of cleared land, was the thatched rooftops of gallic round houses. They had reached the village. Strange for a Gaulic tribe, this village was unfortified.

As they march along, Buccio and Arminius studied the fields beside them. Some were early fall crops that had not been harvested yet.

“They are letting some of their grain go to waste.” Arminius noted.

“Even worse, where are their cattle and sheep?” Buccio said. “It’s too early to have moved them into their huts or to have slaughtered the rest.”

“We should have been spotted by now.” Parmenio chimed in. “I don’t see anyone.”

“Just like at the watchtower.” Buccio said to himself.

There is no hearth fires from the houses, no animals, no people to be seen. Buccio holds fist up.

“Column, Halt.” Arminius barks out. He and Buccio step a little further away from the men. “Maybe it was a raid by the Britons?” Arminius said.

“No, listen...”

He raises a hand to motion for silence, and they listen. A faint pinging of metal followed by the CRUMP of several stones being stacked can be heard. These sounds come from somewhere in the village.

“Someone is working stone.” Buccio motioned silently to Garax, he and Dax have stomped their mounts a little ahead of them. Garax rides trots back.

“I want you to split your men up. Send two around the left and two around the right, scout the fields and edge of the woods then meet us in the center of the village.” Buccio said looking up.

“Ja Herr Centurio.” Garax said. He rode back along the track and barked out an order in German to Vertold and Bertolis, both yanked their horses to the left and kicked them hard in the flanks. The horses galloped off and one after the other, jumped over the first low stone wall they came too. Garax then waved to dax and the two of them, starting from different spots, went right, also at the gallop and jumping the walls dividing the fields.

“Let’s go Arminius, straight up the gut.” He motioned up the trail leading to the cluster of thatch roofs. “Tell them to keep their packs, but to unsling their shields and keep a pila ready.”

“Alright, listen up. Helmets on, Unsling your shields, and keep a Pila in your ready hand. Stay alert, but keep quiet.” He waits while the men shift their shields from a sling around their backs to grip them in front. The strap was then hung around the neck to help carry and guide the shield’s weight. Most men then had to set the shield on the ground so they could free their right hands to unhung their bronze helmets and place them on their heads. The helmets looked like overturned cooking pots with a wide brim protecting the neck. Plumes of black horsehair stood in high above their heads dangling in the breeze.

Barsalus, second man in line on the right file, awkwardly shifted his shield around and his helmet fell to the ground. He froze, afraid to bend over and pick it up.

“Pick up that helmet.” Arminius barked at him. “Do you think and ugly face is enough to ward off arrows.” Barsalus bent over to pick up his helmet, and his pack banged against his head. The men around him vainly tried to smother their laughter. When Barsalus had resumed his position, he had his helmet on his head, unbuckled and slightly at an angle. Arminius stepped over to him and straightend the helmet, and buckled the leather chinstrap.

“Don’t forget to put a pila in your shield hand, that’s one of those long pointy things you throw at people.” He said. The other men laughed again, and Barsalus, turning red, fumbled to get one of his throwing spears into the palm of his shield hand.

“Column, forward, March.” Arminius said. The column began its measured roman pace, each man moving in unision with the men around them. They followed Centurio Buccio up the wagon track. Arminius and Parmenio stood just behind him.

Other than a lack of hearth smoke, the houses seemed normal. Round, in the Gallic fashion, with dried mud walls. As they closed on the first ones, they could see that all was not normal. The mud walls were ripped open in several spots. The sparse furnishings were scattered on the ground. Copper pots, wood buckets, wood benches, ladles, furs, and wool blankets, torn to bits, all lay abandoned. At one point, an Iron cauldron lay overturned and half buried in a mud puddle.

“A raid? But why leave all this iron.” Arminius shook his head in disbelief. Somewhere ahead of them they could hear the sounds louder now. Stone being worked, men groaning with weight. Whoever it was was working in haste.

Each house they passed was gutted. One seemed to have been burned.

“Parmenio.” Buccio said.

“Yes Centurio.” The Greek said, stepping quickly to stand beside him.

“I speak Gallic.” He continued. “But I don’t want them to know. I will speak to them through you. So stay with me at all times.”

Nearing the center of the village, they come across several circular buildings made like the houses, with thick mud walls and thatched roofs but sitting two feet above ground on wooden poles for support.

“Granaries.” Parmenio said. They were intact. Peering in to one, Arminius saw barrels of both grain and some probably had beer. None had been disturbed.

“They weren’t after grain or beer.” Arminius said, returning to his spot just behind Buccio. Suddenly Buccio stops and Arminius raises a fist to stop the column without giving a loud command. Jammed into the ground up to half its blade length, is a Gallic iron double edged sword. Buccio bends to examine the long blade. It is nicked here and there and has clumps of black hair and skin sticking to it. Other than that it is in perfect condition and would be worth a great deal of silver. The ground around it is covered with a thick dried paste that was once blood.

He stands and listen’s. The stone work continues and is up ahead just beyond the last two houses.

“This wasn’t a raid, this was some kind of punishment.” Buccio motions with his hand, and the column edges slowly towards the center of he village.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Buccio leads his men between two very large round houses and onto an open courtyard as such. At the center of the yard is a wooden post hammered into the ground. It is newly carved with animal faces and human skulls.

“That’s blasphemous!” Canio shouts from his donkey perch. “Caesar has expressly forbidden these people to worship their Gods.”

“I have seen them before. They are guardian totems.” Parmenio said.

“To which God is it dedicated?” Buccio asked.

“I would have to check my journals, but I would guess it was Cernunnos, the horned god of the underworld.”

The sounds of stonework come from the opposite side of the square. A large round house, the one used for village assemblies and ceremonies, was being surrounded by a six foot high wall of stone. The stone was unmortarted, being piled on by a knot of sweaty, bare chested men in breeches. Men, old and young, all with long flowing hair, some blonde, some brown, some gray, all with moustache or beards, are working to restore a stone wall that had apparently fallen down. A group of women and children were gathered in between the wall and the large round house that it was encircling. The a rough, hurried construction, three fourths of the wall seemed to be done and the men were hurriedly trying to finish the last part.

An old Gallic woman in a long, rough cloak suddenly spotted the approaching Romans and screamed. In a flurry of bodies, the men, young and old, scramble to gather weapons and shields that have been stacked just inside the wall.

Buccio halts his column then holds an arm left and right. Arminius doesn’t need to give the command, the men know it. They form from column to a single line.

“Drop your packs, hold your pilum ready, but do not draw swords.” Arminius said as he hurriedly moved up and down the line.

A mass of angry Gauls, at least Sixty of them, form about ten yards from the Romans. Most are sweaty and dirty from working with the stone. Some are just teenagers, not your normal warriors unless the tribe is in desperate straits. All are livid with rage, frouthing at the mouth as they yell and curse at the Romans in their deep throated, gallic language. The men all have large oval shields just like the Romans, but they are armed with a variety of weapons. Long swords, war spears, hunting spears, axes, hammers, and the odd pitchfork or grain sickle. Younger boys stand on the wall holding slings and bags of stone. The Gauls are a big people, generally taller and broader than the Romans. Greeks say it is because the Gauls like the Germans eat more meat than the Meditterranean people, especially beef and pork. Greeks and Romans tended to eat more fish and poultry.

These Gauls had already been in a fight. Several were scarred with fresh cuts. Their sheilds were battered and scratched. One looked as if it had a huge bite mark on its rim. One man had a bloodied linen wrapped around one eye. The Romans, though smaller, were just as tough and some were bull chested. They had been in fights too, many of them, and had killed Gauls by the hundreds. They did not flinch at the numbers, they were steady men, good soldiers, and they knew it.

“Give me a gap here.” Arminius calls out pointing to the very center of the line. The men side step so that a file gap, a man wide, opens between them. “Slingers to the front.”

The Balearic slingers drop their cloaks and head through the gap. They fan out just in front of the line, but behind Arminius, Parmenio and Buccio. They draw their braided slings and from the pouches hanging over the opposite shoulder, they draw shot and place it in the sling. the shot is an oblong piece of lead or fired clay, with points on either end. The slingers can fling these accurately and with deadly velocity for hundreds of yards.

The Gauls continue their tirade against these interlopers. Some stab at the air or ground, others beat their weapons against their shields and a few make false rushes at them. Buccio holds his hand up to calm his men. They wait silently.

“We should have pila ready.” Arminius whispered to Buccio. “We are too close.”

Buccio knew he was right, but he was reluctant to provoke the Gauls into attacking. At the moment they were only gesturing. They outnumbered the Romans, but the Gauls always did, and had yet to beat them.

“Alright Arminius.” He said.

“Pila, ready.” Arminius called out. The line of Legionaires take one slender iron spear from their shield hand, and heft to their right shoulders reading them to be thrown.

One of the Gauls in the front ranks is not so enraged as the others. He seems more cool and calculating and has gray frocked hair. He is also carrying a very ornate sword, and an Iron helmet with a raven crested on it, signs of wealth and probably high status. Buccio stepped forward, motioning Parmenio to follow. He stares at this man for a moment before speaking.

“What kind of reception is this?” He asked in Latin. “Do you want war with Rome? Haven’t we killed enough of you yet?” Parmenio repeats his words in Gallic as he said them.

The man Buccio had been staring at, stepped forward and held his shield and sword high in the air. Slowly the Gauls quieted down.

“My name is Centauric.” He spoke in Gallic. Parmenio repeating them to Buccio in Latin, even though Buccio understood them as spoken. “I am chief of this village of Adini. This is our village, and it is your people who brought war to us!”

“War? The war has been over many years now.” Buccio continued. “Your great chiefs asked Caesar for peace and Caesar granted it. You are now Roman subjects. We are here only to collect tribute. The tribute you agreed to pay in return for peace.”

A younger man with hair stiffend by lime to resemble a hedgehog, steps out of the Gallic mass. He has burning blue eyes and a long flowing moustache tied in braids, but no beard. His chest and limbs, like most Gauls, is heavily tattoed.

“Peaceful relations! Your men from the fort killed our Druid.” He said. Parmenio continued to translate. The chief, Centauric turned around sharply and waved a finger at him.

“Ventorix!” The chief said. “That is enough.”

“What happend to our men?” Buccio asked.

“They went into the woods and have not been seen again.” Centauric said.

“Dead!” Ventorix yelled out and to emphasize it, he said it again, but in latin. “Just like our village. Look around you Roman. We are only a handful of what is left. Thanks to your man killing our Druid!”

The mass of Gaul’s began to seethe back and forth, beating their shields and waving their weapons. They wanted blood, Roman blood in revenge for the ravages the village had suffered. As a group they stepped closer as if preparing to charge. The Balearic slingers began to twirl their slings. The legionaires tensed.

“They’re going to attack. We should join the line.” Arminius said, but Buccio only held up his hand. He wanted to wait.

“Stop, stop!” Centauric yelled waving at his men to keep them back. “We do not have time for this. It will be dark soon!” He was right. Though the sun could not be seen, the gray light filtering through the clouds was already waning and shadows formed to the east.

While Centauric tried to calmn his raging men, and the Romans sat, square jawed and tensed for battle, a little girl crossed the square. She was a black haird child, dressed warmly in plaid and a wool cloak, only six, but she had large, earthy blue eyes. Seers eyes. In her hand she had several a silver mug brimming with a dark brew. A rich drink called mead, made from fermented honey, that had been stored in the fortified house for ceremonies.

The girl walked up to Buccio and tugged on his cloak. The Centurio looked down and was surprisded to be looking into the bright smile of a little pale faced girl.

“Caena!” Ventorix yelled and rushed towards them.

A Legionaire bent to throw his Pila at the onrushing Gaul.

“Hold there you.” Buccio yelled. The legionaired stopped.

Centauric in turn grabbed Ventorix by the shoulders and held him in place.

Caena offers Buccio the mead. He bends down.

“What’s this little one?” He asked in Gallic.

“Mead. Its very good, at least my dad drinks alot of it when he can.” She said.

Buccio takes the cup and stands, holding it towards the Gauls, and then towards his own men.

“I am Centurio Maximus Buccio,” He said in Latin while Parmenio translaged. “Of the sixth Century, tenth cohort, sixth legion. Considering the present circumstances of your village. I accept this offer as this years tribute.” He drank.

The Gauls cheered. His men relaxed and lowered their Pila.

“That is unacceptable!” Canio fumed, spurring his donkey to move, but the beast wouldn’t. “You are not in a position to make that decision.”

“Yes Procurator.” Buccio said with mead running down his chin. “Rome will hear about it. I know, I know, but only if we return alive.”

Buccio knelt again and handed the cup to Caena.

“You are a smart and brave little girl.” He said.

“I knew you would not hurt me.” She said with a pleasant smile.

“And how did you know that? I am a big bad Roman.” He spoke very good Gallic.

Caena pointed to a spot just below his neck. Buccio felt there, the lump, he had almost forgotten. He pulled on the leather thongs around his neck and out came the rough wooden necklace his daughter had carved for him.

Ventorix and his Chief walked up to them. The Romans were still apprehensive, ready to strike if neccessary.

“Caena, what are you doing?” He asked, his voice softer than Buccio would have expected from a Gaul warrior.

“He doesn’t scare me papa. He is not bad. Not like the others. He will help us.” Ventorix picked the child up and kissed her cheeks. “See papa.” She points to the crude necklace around Buccio’s neck as he stands.

“You have children?” Ventorix asked. “Gallic children.”

“Roman children, two.” Buccio said in Gallic. “Their mother is a Gaul, but not a slave.”

“Caena has a gift, she can see things in people. She could be a Druid, if it were allowed.”

“Our Druid is dead.” Centaurix chimed in. “Your Centurio from the fort butchered him while he was performing a very important rite.”

The mass of Gauls had calmed down and were resting their shields and weapons on the ground. They still puffed out their chests and tried to intimidate the Roman soldiers with cold stares.

“Go now, go to your mother.” Ventorix said and put Caena to the ground. She waved at Buccio then ran back to the fortified round house where a squat woman with dark hair and a large cloak, grabbed her and led her inside.

“Go back to your Fort.” Centauric said, “There is nothing you can do here.”

Shadows were looming longer behind the men. It was almost sunset though the sun could not be seen.

“They’ll never make it, it’s almost night.” Ventorix said.

“Not our concern. We have to finish this wall.” With that Centauric left. He called to the warriors to finsih the wall as best they could. A few remained as if on guard. The others returned to their work.

“If you are not at war with Rome, why do you build a wall? What happend here?” Buccio asked.

“Not war with Rome. The Druid was killed before he could cast a spell...”

“Ventorix!” The chief yelled. “Join your people and finish this wall, or leave with the Romans, now.” The gauls agains stopped working and looked as if they might pick up their shields and weapons.

“I had better go, We, you and us, can not afford to fight eachother. Evil comes from the woods at night...” He said nervously.

“Ventorix!” Centauric yelled again. The man began to stumble backwards.

“I must go. Don’t go back through the woods at night. Find the goat herder’s shed. It is stone, with a stone corral. You might have a chance there.” With that he ran back to join his people.

“What is all this maddness?” Buccio asked Parmenio.

“Well, in the more remote parts of Gaul, especially forests like this one. They believe, in fall after harvest time, if Cenurnnos is not placated with blood he sends his demons to punish the people. They can only come out at night and only if there’s no moon.”

Buccio and Arminius look up at the darknening clouds above them.

“No moon tonight.” Arminius said.

“So a Druid has a ceremony, casts a spell, and sacrifices blood to ward them off.” Buccio said.

“Something like that. I’ve seen the ceremonies. They use blood but don’t have to kill someone to get it. It usually a tribal virgin, a young girl.” Parmenio said. “I’ve never seen Demons in the forests.”

“So it works, eh?” Arminius asked.

“Unless someone kills the Druid.” Buccio said. “We need to find that Goat shed. We don’t have much time before nightfall.”

Just then a clatter of hooves can be heard, and Garax and his three horsemen ride into the village making their way through the clusters of round houses instead of along the wagon track. They ride up to Buccio.

The Gauls agains stop work and watch the new arrivals apprehensively.

“Nobody outside the village.” Garax said. “We don’t go into the trees too much. Horses were spooked.” From the look of the other Germans, it wasn’t just the horses that were spooked.

“Every house in this village has been smashed in.” Garax continued, “But nothing seems to have been carried off. Well, nothing except...” He hesitated.

“The dead.” Vertold spoke up. “There are no bodies and no graves, anywhere.”

Buccio looks at Garax and padds his horse’s sweaty neck.

“Did you see a stone corral?”



CHAPTER NINE

The clouds choking the sky are tinted a yellow-orange. Nontheless, a slight drizzle of rain is falling. The Goat corral is on a downward sloping patch of grass pasture. At the bottom of the slope is the edge of the forests. There are no goats and part of the loose stone wall has crumbled or been torn down. Several Romans, stripped down to their tunicas, are sorting through the rocks and restacking them to repair the damage. Other men, using dolabra’s are digging at the ground in front of the wall. They are creating a ditch and piling the earth up in front of the stone in order to make the wall sturdier. They work hurriedly knowing night is coming quick.

A long, low structure built of large stone walls and heavy wood beams for a roof, served as the goatshed. It had three walls, with the last being open to allow goats to meander in and out. The Romans hung wool blankets over the opening to give some protection from the wind and rain. Inside the ground was covered in straw and the men piled their gear close to the door as an additional layer of protection from the outside weather. A full squad were in full gear, armor and weapons standing on guard. Four of them in the corral, and four others around the pasture between the dark trees and the stone corral. Two slingers were also acting as sentries. They stood atop the shed roof. It was solid wood, not thatch, and had a mild slope. Pefect as an overwatch position from which they could fire slingstones in any direction. The pasture beyond the corral was a good three hundred yards from the edge of the woods to the stone corral. The stone corral abutted on both sides against the end of the shed. Behind the shed was a dirt track that led into the village. The nearest round houses were only fifty yards from the shed on top of the gentle rise of the ground.

The Germans had tethered their horses along the stone trough used to water the goats. The horses drank and the Horsemen combed the animals and fed them grain from leather sacks. Neebu has grabbed some thatch from a nearby round house and made a lean to beside the shed. Here he has thrown some straw for him to sleep on and for the donkey to munch on. He brought the animal a bucket of water and both are content. He pulled his woolen cloak over him and laid on the straw watching the Romans work.

Parmenio suddenly stepped up to the lean to and squatted down.

“Cozy?” He asked. Neebu smiled his usual smile.

“Who working hard?” Neebu asked in his heavily accented latin. “Not Neebu. Look those Romans. Work hard.”

“They do.” Parmenio agreed. “That’s why they are such good soldiers.” Parmenio set down something bundled in cloth. He slid it over to Neebu. “Keep this with you tonight. You may need it.” With that Parmenio rose to his feet and left.

Neebu unwrapped the parcel. It was a hand axe.

Inside the shed, two slingers are curled up in the corner already asleep. The other corner has a plaid blanket nailed up to the ceiling to make a small partition. Arminius, fully clad like his sentries, pulled the blanket aside. Canio was lounging on an extra bed of straw covered with another plaid blanket. He is eating what appears to be plums. An oil lamp hangs from a rope tied to a beam above him. Parmenio appears and Canio motions to the otherside of his little enclosure.

“Can I use your light to write by?” He asked.

“Go on, I will make a bill to your new employer for the cost of the oil.” Canio said.

“You two will get along fine.” Arminius smiled, then left. Parmenio sat down against the wall in Canio’s little enclosure and by the dull light of the oil lamp, he opened one of his journals. He shook the clay pot carrying the ink, and then dipped a wooden stylus into it and he began to relive the days events.

Arminius bends his head low to avoid the last and lowest of the roof beams and stepped outside. Buccio was walking along the wall checking on the work. The activity had shook of the bad nerves that they had felt marching through the forest. Not to mention the stand off with the Gauls. He looked to his left. The center of the village was obscured by round houses, but he could see a strong yellow glow of firelight coming, he knew, from the fortified house the Gauls had been working on.

“Is this deep enough Optio.” Came a tired voice from a corner of the wall. Arminius looked and there was Fortunis, waist deep in a pit of earth he had been digging. He was covered with mud and sweating.

“That will do fine. Never seen a better shit hole. String up a blanket or something for privacy.” He said.

“Yes sir.” Fortunis said as he climbed out of his hole.

“This is the price for leaving my formation.” Which was why Arminius had chosen Fortunis to dig the latrine. “Remember that.”

“Won’t forget it sir.”

Arminius walks down the slope to join Buccio at the edge of the wall.

“Not our standard entrenchment and palisade wall.” Buccio remarked. “But it will have to do.”

“Do we keep a fire?” Arminius asked.

“If the rain stops, I would say so, right in front of the shed. It will keep the shed warm and the Guards can step up to it from time to time. A full squad on guard all night. Each squad will take a turn.” Buccio said. “Get some thatch or wood from those houses and keep it dry in the shed. This rain shouldn’t last long its pretty light.”

Arminius looked over to Fortunis, who had just finished rigging up a blanket as a lean to for the latrine.

“Fortunis, I have another job for you.”

“Yes Optio.” Fortunis said as he pulled on his tunica.

Buccio and Arminius continued to walk along the wall. Both men watched the forest and the open pasture between them.

“We’re too close to those trees.” Buccio said. “In a moonless night, we won’t be able to see much until it crosses this pasture.”

“One volley of Pilum, maybe two, and a few from the slingers, that’s it, then they would be at the wall.” Arminius said.

“Twenty four men should be just enough to hold this wall, but pass the word.” Buccio said. “If the line is breached, I want every man to fall back on the shed. We’ll be stronger in a double line in front of the shed than at the wall.”

“I agree. I’ll pass on the word.” Arminius starts to leave.

Parmenio joins them.

“Finished your notes?” Buccio asked.

“Yes. Quite alot to write about. Wonder what the night will bring.” He said.

“I have a question for you.” Buccio continued. “The Greeks know how to make a substance tht burns even when wet, do you know what it is?”

“Yes, Greek fire. You can make something similar with resin or pitch and some ash.” Parmenio said.

“Go with the man gathering wood and thatch for a fire. See if you can find some ingrediants and a pot or two in those house.” Buccio placed a hand on Parmenio’s shoulder. “It might be the only light we have if it rains all night.”

“Fortunis,” Arminius called out, and Fortunis rushed over. “Take another man with you, arm yourself and find some thatch and wood from those nearby house.” Arminius pointed out.

“Yes sir.”

“Also escort the Greek and help him find whatever he needs.”

“Yes sir.” With that Fortunis and Parmenio left. Fortunis took a quick look around at the men still working on the wall. “Ah, Barsalus, my friend. I have a mission for you.” He smiled.

Buccio motioned for Arminius to follow him. They walk halfway to the shed.

“Start here.” He said. “I want a circle around the shed, wood, thatch and pour some of that greek fire on it, enough to burn even if its wet.”

Arminius studied the ground and nodded.

“We won’t light it unless we have to fall back on the shed. This will be our last wall. A wall of fire.”

“I will put more men collecting wood and thatch. We could use some of that dry straw from the shed.”

“Yes, straw burns easily.” Buccio added. “I think the stone walls as good as it will get. Recall the men and let them eat and dry out.”

“Yes sir.” Arminius leaves and begins to bark orders to those working on the wall and guarding the pasture.

Buccio looks up at the sky. The clouds are darkening from a light orange to a dark, blood red. The glow is barely enough to see one’s hand in front of them. Soon it will be pitch black. The woods have become black with shadows.

“Torches!” Buccio yelled. “Let’s get a few torches lit.” Luckily the rain had died.

The Gaul’s had built up their wall of stone like a rampart with a slope. Ventorix and Centauric both knew that the wall could be climbed easily, but it couldn’t be helped. They had to make it in a hurry and without mortar. It would hinder any attacker at the most, long enough for the Gaul’s on top to kill off who ever was coming up as long as they were busy with their hands climbing instead of fighting.

“Roman walls are better.” Ventorix said. “They are high and smooth. You can’t climb them.”

“Maybe we should try a wood wall like they do at their fort. Thick logs, pointed at the top, driven into the ground then nailed together.” Centauric said.

“Do we have enough men left for that?” Ventorix asked. To the far right of the village he could hear the Romans still hard at work picking the earth and heaving stone. “The Romans are at the Goat corral. If they survive the night, maybe we can join together and make a better fortress.”

“Five years ago we were fighting them.” Centauric said. “Things change, but I don’t trust the Romans.”

“I trust this man, Buccio.”

Centauric looked to the sky. Black as coal, no signs of stars or the moon.

“How long will this weather last?” He asked.

“We are being punished.” Ventorix said. A clinking came from his right and he stepped back from the rim of the wall. Men were placing large ceramic pots just inside the edge of the wall. Each pot contained oil and a corded wick. Every few feet was a pot and beside it was placed a couple of cloth wrapped torches, and javelyns with cloth and straw balls wrapped around the tip. Fire seemed to be the weapon of choice in this war against darkness. More and more pots were being brought up from the round house. The entire circuit of the wall would have them.

“Ventorix. Take your group inside and get some sleep while you can. I will keep my group up tonight and light the fires. We don’t know when they will come, but they will come.” He clapped the younger man on his shoulder. Ventorix nodded and stepped down the crude wood ladder like steps that they had thrown up the inner side of the wall.

“Men of my group, retire!” Ventorix called out. Half of the men manning the ramparts followed him down into the round house.

There was only one opening into the mud walled structure. It was a doorway of wood, carved with animal faces and images of the Gods and of hunting and feasting. The door itself was only a thick leather hide.

The inside of the round house had been divided by stone and timber walls to make the round house a citadel. If the walls were breached, the defenders would fall back inside, if they could, and form in one of the tiny squared rooms as a last defence. There were about eight small squared rooms all with one entrance from the center of the house. Fire pots, already lit, were at the entrance to each, along with piled spears, axes, and shields. Every room had a bed area of straw and a cluster of women, children and old people. The remnant of a tribe. They had been the first victims. The women, children and the old ones. The attacks had run rampant through the village on that first cold night. Warriors in loose groups were easy prey. The men had to form a mass in order to defend themselves and the village, but that had taken time. At least thirty or more warriors had been killed. It had been even worse for the others, left to fend for themselves unless they could reach the circle of warriors that had formed on the ceremonial village square. Hundreds had been slaughtered or dragged off. The children, screaming. Ventorix shuddered when he thought of the fate of the children. They were not killed, they were always carried off into the woods for some other fate. Cernunnos wanted blood and he was not done yet.

Ventorix saw his wife and daughter nestled on the straw in the fifth square, and he joined them. They had been a family of six, three older children and his wife’s elderly mother. They had been lost on the first night, and the three of them had held on each night since. Each night could be their last night together. He hugged both of them and tried to sleep.

Centauric watched as the last of the pots was emplaced.

“That’s good lads.” He said. “Now, let’s give this blackness some light, and pray Luge will see us safely through til morning.” Luge was, for the Celtic people, such as the Gauls, the God of Gods. They prayed for him to stay awake this night and keep them safe.

A glow came from inside the Goat shed as night fell. Oil lamps were used inside to give the men light. Parmenio’s hands were black as he mixed ash and tree pitch together in a bowl.

“Here’s the last batch.” He said, wiping his hands on a cloth. “Dip the torches in this. They’ll last longer.”

Arminius had four stout pieces of wood, each had its tip wrapped with straw and cloth strips. He dipped them into the bowl and the spun them around so that the goo covered the cloth, straw and wood. He lit one from an oil lamp and it caught and blazed. When he had all four burning, he and Parmenio pushed through the blankets covering the opening in the shed and went outside.

It was pitch black. The woods were one long, jagged shadow in the darkness. The wall could be seen as a black line against the emptiness of the pasture. Eight soldiers stood ready, all armed with shield and pilum, and wearing helmet and mail under their cloaks. Arminius handed every other man a torch and their faces lit up in the glow of the fire.

“Operate in pairs.” Arminius said. “Two of you stay by the shed at all times. Two take the left side of the corral, two the front, and the other two the right side. Keep moving and stay alert.” The men nodded and six of them walked off into the darkness. Two kept where they were just inside the circle of wood, thatch, straw and greek fire that had been placed in front of the shed.

Buccio came out and joined Arminius and Parmenio. He held up a stoutly made sand timer consisting of two bowls of glass seperated by a tube and surrounded by wood.

“Good for an hour at a time. We’ll do four hours you and I, Three hours for the men.” He said.

“I’ll take first watch sir. You get some sleep.” Arminius said.

“Thank you Arminius, if the Gods will it, maybe we’ll have a good nights rest.”

Suddenly from the center of the village came a bright yellow glow. It was bright enough to show the rooftops of the many house in between them and the fortified round house. The glow came from many lit fires around the rim of the Gaul’s stone wall.

“What a sight.” Parmenio said. “At least we’re not alone.”

“I’m jealous, their fire is bigger than ours.” Arminius said.

“Well,” Buccio added. “We haven’t lit our yet. Young men are always too eager.”

Buccio watched the fires and could see Gauls manning the ramparts.

“They have at least half their men up.” He said.

“They are expecting a visit, or to go visiting?” Arminius asked.

With that, he and Parmenio went back inside the shed.

Despite the light of at least four oil lamps hung from the ceiling beams, most of the men were fast asleep, bundled next to eachother stretched out on straw. Matho sat against the wall repeating over and over his mother’s Etruscan prayer. Canio’s legs can be seen under his partition, he is bundled like a cacoon in a layer of wool and fur. He even has a silk cushion to rest his head on.

“I think I’ll retire to my books.” Parmenio said and left for his spot against the wall where his things had been laid. He was sleepy eyed, but seemed to be deep in thought nonetheless.

Some of the men were snoring. already fast asleep. It didn’t take long for hard work to make men sleep, no matter what the conditions. He’d seen legionaires sleeping in full armour, standing, leaning against a wall or eachother.

“Matho, get some sleep like the others.” He said to the legionaire still sitting, praying.

“I can’t Centurio. I, well, I...” A chilling wind suddenly blew in, flapping through the hung blankets and blowing out one of the oil lamps. Matho shivered. His eyes wide. “I feel...” Matho struggled for the right word. Buccio relit the oil lamp with from another one. The dull light flickered in Matho’s eyes.

“Condemned.” With that the man went back to his silent prayer, and Buccio let him be.

CHAPTER TEN

The sand clock sat atop the roof of the shed, its yellow grains spilling from top to bottom were visible in the sentries torchlight. Arminius waited as the last of the sand emptied the top bowl then flipped it over so that the full bowl was on top and the sand began its journey downward again.

“One down.” He said. From near the shed he could barely see the wall, but he could clearly see three points of light as the paired guards made their back and forth movements along the section of wall he had placed them at. So far nothing had come from the woods except a slight, cold breeze. At least it wasn’t raining though thunder did break in the distance with an occaisional flash of lighting.

“I need to take a dump.” Arminius groaned. He set his shield and Pilum against the shed wall and tapped the first sentry on the arm as he walked off into the darkness. By the horses he spots one of the Germans, Dax, sitting on the pile of straw feed in front of the horses. All five, the horses and Dax, seem to be asleep.

“Germans.” Arminius mumbled as he continued his walk to the latrine. He looked over to where the Gauls fortified round house iluminated the night with its rim of fire pots. He couldn’t see any of their sentries either. “Probably asleep too. Barbarians have no discipline.” He said to himself as he neared the lean to blanket that covered the pit Fortunis had dug. The latrine was faintly lit by the torchlight from the guards. The blanket was a dark, flat shape but the opening was black, as black as a raven’s eye.

“Arminius.” Someone whispered, but when the Optio turned, no one was anywhere near him. He shook his head, the wind. “Arminiussssssssss” Another whisper that ended like a hissing snake. Arminius put his right hand on the hilt of his sword. He stares hard at the blackness in the opening of the blanket. He senses a presence and hesitates to go in. Two pale eyes appear and then the ghostly outline of a man, a legionaire.

“By the Gods.” Arminius said startled. “Are you done?”

The legionaire doesn’t respond, he walked out slowly, staring at Arminius, then passed him by. Arminius felt a cold chill run up his spine as the man passed. He was the same height as Arminius and looked damn familiar, even though he couldn’t recognize who he was. That youthful face looked almost like his own when he was a recruit. No, there wasn’t a man in the unit that looked like him.

“What squad are you with?” He said, turning, but the legionaire was gone.

Arminius took a deep breath and stared at the opening to the latrine. It was pitch black, and menacing.

“I think I can wait.” And with that he went back towards the shed. Halfway there his gut began to growl and he grimaced. He was in the dark, no torchlight gleaming off his pale face. “Oh hell with it.” He said as he squat and did his business.

Inside the shed it was quiet. Men were either stretched out fully or sat up against the cold stone walls, but they were asleep. Some were snoring. Barsalus talked in his sleep and seemed to be having some sort of romantic encounter. His lips kept smooching the air and he grinned sheepishly. Even Matho had nodded off. All were in full armor and kit, sleeping in their cloaks, helmets, weapons and shields within arms reach. Buccio, also lay in a seated position against the wall but fast asleep.

Stiff velum fluttered and the sound woke Buccio with a start. His eyes were wide, but red rimmed.

“What the...?” He relaxed when nothing stirred other than Parmenio pouring this the pages of his journals by oil lamp.

“Sorry if I woke you Centurio.” Parmenio said, reading a page quickly.

“Why are you still up? Don’t tell me your not tired.” Buccio said.

“That ceremony the Gaul’s were talking about, the one for Cernunnos. I’ve seen it.” He said, turning a few more pages and reading again. “It was maybe ten years ago I think. Its a rare ceremony.” He took his eyes away from the book to see if Buccio was still awake and listening.

“It is an appeasement ceremony.”

“Appeasement?” Buccio asked, rubbing the sleep from his eyes and licking his lips trying to get the stale taste out. Parmenio handed him a mug of ale.

“Gallic ale.” He motioned as he held it up. “Found a jug of it over there in one of the houses when I was looking for resin.”

“You brought the jug back?”

Parmenio patted a ceramic object nestled beside him.

Buccio took a drink then whinced.

“Got a bite to it.” Buccio said, then drank more.

“Not as sweet as whine, but it will warm you up, and it burns good.” Parmenio motioned to the torches stacked and ready against the shed opening, the ones with pitch smeared linens wrapped around top but not lit yet.

“You were saying, I mean this cernunnos thing?” Buccio said after finishing the ale.

“Yes they do the ceremony in the fall, after the harvest and just before the winter slaughtering. Cernunnos requires a blood offering, sometimes animal, sometimes human, to appease him. Without an offering of blood, Cernunnos will send his demons out to fetch it. Something like that.”

“There’s definately some evil loose here.” Buccio said.

“It’s rare because these ceremonies only take place in the most remote places. Cernunnos does not control the more open places, and his evil can not extend into the light. Any light, sun or moon. However, he can temporarily control the weather.”

Parmenio placed the journal he had back in his pack and pulled out another one. It was bound by leather straps that he had to untie before opening the cover.

“If you kill all the Druids, then Cernunnos will never be appeased again.” Parmenio said, feverishly reading pages in his journal, searching.

“So what is it then, that you are looking for? You seem to know what’s going on.” Buccio said.
“The words. The chant that the Druids spoke. I’ve heard it, and I wrote it down, word for word. If I could just find it.”

Parmenio continued to read bending slightly to get more light from the oil lamp hanging above his head.

Buccio ran his fingers through his hair then pulled out the crude necklace and stared at it.

“Do you like it here, in Gaul?” He asked the older man.

“Yes,” Parmenio said. “Its so green. The grass fields are lush and thick, and the trees, by Zeus, the trees are thick everywhere.”

“Its good country. Not like back home, eh. Mostly dry, small plots of woods, hills, farmers having to break the backs of their slaves to grow anything.” Buccio said.

“Anything will grow here. The Gauls have small farms, they don’t know what they can do with the land. The lakes and rivers are full of fish. I love to fish.” Parmenio said, putting his book aside for a moment.

“I’ll have to try it one day.” He stared at the face carved on his necklace. “I think it might be good to live here. A farm, some sheep, goats, geese, an apple orchard, you know, the works.”

“A wife, and a bunch of mischeavous kids.” Parmenio said with a smile. “Families grow good here to. Of course, one would have to give up the soldiers life. You can’t have both.”

Buccio squeezed his hand around the necklace and placed it back under his tunica.

“I know.”

The Gauls standing on guard moved restlessly. Some of them were already asleep, sitting against the inner lip of the rampart, with their shields draped over them like blankets. The other’s kept moving, trolling back and forth. Centauric never even blinked, as long as one man was awake to give warning, that was all that was needed. He would be that one man no matter what. Sleep could not conquer him.

The stone walled squares inside the round house were dark. No lights hung and the people in each one slept soundly. The warriors were closest to the entrance where there was light from an oil pot lit and set on an iron tripod in the middle of the hall. Ventorix held his wife and daughter while they slept. He could not sleep. He could feel that the time was near, and they would come again.

“Alarm!!!” Came the yell from the Ramparts. It was Centauric. Everyone woke instantly. Old women sobbed, kids screamed but the warriors were silent. They grabbed their weapons and shields, and rushed for the door. Ventorix moved his wife and daughter to the back of the square.

“Stay here.” He handed his wife a short sword. The same one he had given her each night when they parted. She could defend herself if neccessary, or if worst came to worst, she could spare herself and Caena a dreadful end. He kissed her, and patted the little girl’s head, then left. As he joined the other warriors rushing out for the fight, he spotted a warning horn strung up on a post. He thought about the Romans and grabbed the horn on the way up the wooden steps to the rampart wall.

Men filed along the narrow walkway and formed a dense wall, shoulder to shoulder. A few men with bows lit fire arrows, notched them and waited at a half-draw. The village beyond was barely visible in the glow from their fire pots. The dark round shapes that were the buildings and beyond that the even blacker dense mass that was the forest. They waited in silence. Ventorix stood next to Centauric.

“Are you sure?” He asked.

“Watch.” Centauric said, choking up the grip on his sword and shield.

A black blob moved quickly from behind one building to another. It was followed by another quick moving shadow, and a third. From everywhere came the sounds of growling, of slobbering jaws, of black nails scraching the earth.

“Their coming, but tonight, we send them back to the underworld empty handed!” Centauric called out. His men gave a shout of defiance and beat their shields. Ventorix lifted his horn and blew a long bellowing tone. First once, then again. Soon the blobs rushed out from behind the buildings. They moved as one sea of shadows. Eyes peering at the wall like fireballs.


The bellowing of the horn echoed throughout the silent skeleton of the village. The Romans knew the sound of a Gallic horn. It was the note they blew when giving the command to charge.

“To Arms!” Arminius yells. His sentries suddenly dropped back from the wall and formed a line in the center of the corral. “It is the Damn Gaul’s. They’re attacking us.” In two bounds he was at the shed and threw open the blankets covering the entrance.

“Stand to!” The men had already begun to stir when they heard the horn. “Everyone on your feet, put your dicks away and grab your weapons, Now!” They bumped into eachother in their haste to grab shields, spears and helmets. A few banged their heads into the low ceiling. Hobnails bit into the grass and the men moved like ants, scurrying out into the corral. The slingers grabbed their bags of shot and climbed the walls up onto the sturdy wood roof of the Goat shed. From there they could see the pasture, the forest, the dark ruined houses of the Gaul village and their fire lit stone fort. The glow flickered as dark shadowy shapes stormed to the top of the stone. The Germans, in their dark fur cloaks, rushed out with their light colored hair glowing. Garax led them to the horses, but they did not mount them. They took the reins in their hands and waited, calming the animals with gentle strokes on the nose and a few soft words in the ears.

Buccio pulled his Centurion’s helmet on with its red transverse crest and slapped Parmenio on the shoulder.

“Get a shield and stand with me.” He said.

Canio cowered in his corner, pulling his blankets up around him.

“What about it Procurator. Care for a little action?” He picked up his scutum and pilum.

The fat man said nothing. Fear was obvious in his eyes. Buccio had seen it before, it was a paralyzing type of fear. What the Greek man had called ‘Hysteria’. Buccio shook his head in disgust and left, followed by Parmenio.

“Neebu! Neebu!” Canio called out from his lonely corner. The african came running in, pulling the donkey with him. For once the animal came freely. It’s eyes were as wide eyed as Canio’s and it stomped and skittered about nervously. A flash of silver caught Canio’s eyes. Neebu had a sword. For once the young black man didn’t smile. His face looked determined. He stroked the donkey’s mane and spoke softly to it in his sing song African voice.

Outside, Arminius had the men lined up in two ranks, each squad forming an eight man block in order, first, second and third. Buccio rushed out followed by Parmenio who was armed with a shield and an iron helmet that had been liberated earlier from one of the Gallic houses. A quick scan of the wall and the shadows beyond revealed nothing. But the sound of fighting could be heard from the center of the village. Stone crashed, men yelled and cursed, iron clanged and wood cracked. Amongst those were the strange sound of snarling, and yelping.

“Sir, the Gaul’s are being attacked.” Came a voice atop the shed. It was Casada, the lead slinger. He and his fellows stood atop the roof watching the flickering glow at the Gallic fort.

“Arminius, we’ll march to the aid of the Gauls.” Buccio said motioning with his hand the direction.

“In this blackness?” He said. “We’ll be ambushed for sure, no defence.” Buccio gritted his teeth, Arminius was right. What was he thinking. Their best hope was to stay here behind these walls until morning.

“Damn.” He said.

“Look there.” Parmenio said and Buccio looked. In the dark corner where the latrine was, there stood a man. He looked like a legionaire, but was pale and wore no cloak. Buccio grabbed a torch and walked towards him. The figure smiled but when Buccio got close enough to shine the fire in his direction, he was gone. A chill ran down the Centurio’s back. He shivered.

“Ghosts?” He asked. He stood there thinking about how pale the man had been, then he remembered the horns. The man had horns atop his head. That’s when he smelled them. The stink of the sewer, of the fish house, of the slaughtering hut all rolled into one. In came in from the woods, brought by the wind. He stepped to the wall and raised his torch. A hundred pairs of burning red eyes sparkle amongst the dark trees like the stars of hell.

“On the wall!” Buccio commanded. A cry rang out from the forest. It was an eerie mix of a Howl and a Snarl. The Romans hesitated.

“You heard the Centurio, get the lead out of your arses!” Arminius bellowed, kicking a few men in their behinds. They snapped out of it, and rushed forward in three ordered lines. The first squad lined up along the left wall, the second joined Buccio at the center wall, and the third went to the right line. Two men in each line held torches that lit the pasture up with a pale, flickering light.

“Surprise number one.” Buccio said, looking back at Parmenio and nodding to him. He then leaned back like an olympic javelyn thrower and tossed his torch as far as he could. The torch arched, sailing through the night air like a comet, and then landed in a circle of straw, thatch and wood, coated heavily in Parmenio’s mix of pitch, resin and ash.

WHOOSH! The fire took instantly, blossoming into a huge fireball and then leveling off into a bonfire. The field was now bright. The shadows in the trees growled and held back for a moment, then rushed out. They were coming.

The light revealed them to be huge, hulking beasts with corse black fur. Some ran on all fours like huge dogs, others, on two legs, like bears. Their arms and legs were thick like tree limbs and ended in claws with black nails. Froth ran down their stout jaws that nashed at the air with wicked, fanged teeth. Some had short manes and tusks just below their noses, like wild boars. As they ran, their claws dug chunks of out of the earth.

A tremor of fear ran through the ranks of waiting Romans. Lesser men might have paniced, but Buccio knew his men would stand. He felt their eyes upon him.

“By the Gods.” Arminius muttered. The first hundred was followed by another. “Where did they all come from.”

“The Netherworld.” Parmenio said. Arminius looked at him, confused. “A region deep underground that is between us and the underworld.” He continued. “The Gauls believe that when a man dies he goes to the underworld where Cernunnos judges him. If he had lived a wicked life, he becomes a slave off Cernunnos. A demon, to bring him his tribute of blood.”

The beastly horde reached the bonfire and parted around it. Their stench blew into the men’s faces and made Barsalus puke. Buccio’s expierienced eyes studied them. They were running uphill but hadn’t slowed a bit. They would fight like animals, not men, with ferocious strength. This thin line could hold against a charge of tribesmen, but against these? Should he try? Would they have a chance to fall back if the beast overtook the wall. They were too fast, too many. The men eyed him nervously.

“Back to the front of the shed. Two lines, anchored on the shed.” He yelled. This time the men didn’t hesitate. They ran.



CHAPTER ELEVEN

Fangs flickered in the fire light as the Beasts reached the Gallic stone wall. The wall did not stop them, it had too much of a slope and because it had been thrown up hastily without mortar or fitting, too many places for black claws to grip. They climbed upward. Gaul’s began to hurl stones down on them. Some missed, some bounced off the huge muscled bodies, but one or two would smack hard into a things face and send it tumbling downwards.

“Fire!” Called Centauric.

Men grabbed the stacked spears that were entwined with linen soaked in pitch. One aftet the other they lit them in the firepots and hurled them at the beasts. Fire did not deter the evil things as sunlight or moonlight would, but it could kill them. A few spears hit their mark and a beast burst into flame and howled, sliding down the wall and dying in a bonfire.

An archer lit his arrow, then as quick as he could, loosed one and then another. The flaming tips shot through the black sky and hit black furred bodies that were jammed together, awaiting their turn to climb the wall. When hit, some beast clawed at the arrow franticly but the fire would soon catch and it burn the things life away. A few managed to claw the arrows out and one dropped to the ground and rolled, breaking the arrow and putting the flame out.

The Beasts reached the top of the wall, and the Gauls locked shields, holding them back with the weight of their own bodies. Men behind them struck out with spears, swords and axes. Black blood sprayed over them from the animals wounds, but unless it was a stout hit to the heart or the head, it would not kill them. Fangs bit down on the edge of the shields, and claws ripped at the wood.

“Their are more of them every night.” Ventorix yelled as he moved down the left side of the line, striking heavy with his large battle axe. One Beast attempted to bite a shield man’s head, but he swung his axe in time to split the beasts head in two. It fell, dead, bowling over others of its kind as it fell.

There came the sound of stone creaking against stone, and then the wall trembled and CRRRAAASSSHHH! Rock, Beasts and Gauls all tumbled down into a slag heap as a section of the rebuilt stone wall gave way. More Beasts piled into the breach. The men caught in the stone were helpless and died, screaming, torn to pieces by fangs and black claws. Worse, the hole was just to the left of the main entrance of the ceremonial round house. Centauric had no choice, he led the men on the right side of the wall down into the round house to defend the squares. Ventorix watched from the left side, he and the men there were trapped. They bunched together and continued to fight. A column of snarling black beasts charged into the round house. Screams and cries could be heard from within.

The crash of stone could be heard at the Goat shed. A huge blackness doused the light of the Gaul’s firepots.

“The Gauls have had it.” Arminius said. He held his shield up, his Pila ready. He stood next to Buccio and Parmenio. In front of them forming a half a square, with their backs on the shed entrance, were their men.

The Beasts had reached the corral’s stone wall and had leapt over it. Some scrambled over like cats, others climbed like men and one section crumbled from their weight. They came on without stopping, teeth nashing with froth, eyes burning like fire. The corral was filled wall to wall, other shadowy groups moved on the outside of it, left and right.

Buccio was afraid, more than he had ever been before. He licked his lips and looked to Arminius. Arminius, the stalwart soldier, was never afraid. But this time was different, his eyes were wild and he looked nervous. Even Parmenio seemed to breathe in laboured breath and his forehead was dotted with sweat. The line of men shimmered. Roman lines never shimmered. They were always steady. A roman knew, no matter how great the odds, as long as they stood firm, shoulder to shoulder, they could not be beaten. These men were at the brink of panic.

“We’ve nowhere to go!” Buccio called out, steadying his own voice as he spoke. “We stand here together, as Roman soldiers, as brothers, as a family.” He walked the line patting a shoulder here and there, giving comfort.

“I am you father,” He continued, “And Arminius is your Mum!” the tension broke and a ripple of laughter came out. “Hell, even your Greek Grandfather is here with us.”

“We are here together, no matter what, we fight together, and if neccessary, we die together, as ONE!” The soldiers beat their shields and uttered “As One.”

“Boy My Mum sure is ugly.” A lone voice came from the ranks.

“I know that voice, Galbus,” Arminius said. “I have work for you when all this is over.”

The others laughed. A stunted laugh, the simple mirth of men preparing to die.

“Pila Ready!” Arminius called out, and the men lifted their pila on their shoulders and prepared for the command to throw.

A WSSSH, WSSSH, WSSSH came from above them as small streaks of gray hurtled through the air. The slingers were twirling their arms and letting fly with a barrage of deadly lead shot.

THWACK, THWACK, THWACK each bullit hit hard biting into the beasts, causing a dark fluid to flow. They growlind in pain as a dog would, but the body shots did not slow them down.

“The head!” Parmenio cried out. He looked to the roof and pointed at his head. “The head,” The slingers nodded and fired their next vollies with more care.

A beast took a hit right between the eyes, the lead buried deep into its skull with a THUD. The animal took two steps, and fell dead. One shot took another things eye out, it screamed almost human like, but kept coming, with only one fireball burning in its head.

The horses began to whinnie and stomping their hooves. The Germans had rushed to them, dressed in their armour and ready to fight. Now they held to the reins with all their might. The horses were in full panic, they wanted to run.

“Calm down girl, calm down.” Garax said soothingly, stroking his mare’s neck. But her eyes bulged with fear and she snorted and stammered her hooves.

“We can’t hold them.” Dax said. He reached down for his shield and bag of javelyns. It was the last thing he would ever do. His horse kicked out and a hoove smashed the back of Dax’s head to a bloody pulp. Dax fell and his dead fingers let go of the reins. His horse bolted, jumping the stone wall and was off.

Vertold suddenly cringes away, tears forming in his eyes as his German superstitions overcome him. Bertolis shakes him hard.

“Knock it off man, we’ve work to do.” He says in a growl of German.

‘Yes, we must ride!” Garax said and with that he leaps upon his horses saddle, pulling out his sword and yelling a Germanic war cry.

Bertolis does the same. He looks back at Vertold. The man grimaces then follows suit. Bertolis pulls out an axe and Vertold a sword.

“Duck you Roman bastards!” Garax yells in his broken latin. The legionaires looked back to see the three Germans riding hard towards them, and the line of men dropped to a crouch. The horses jumped over them and thundered towards the beasts.

Garax’s mare snorted in fear, but his hard kicks and the firm grip on her bit kept her going into the deadly, snarling mass in front.

Garax swung his sword hard and it sliced through the head of a Beast, killing it. Black blood sprayed him. Another Beast lept at him, biting the edge of his round shield. Gripping it like a dog who had a play toy and wouldn’t let go. Garax thrust his sword through the things neck and up into its skull. The red light of its eyes went black and it fell away, taking his shield still clamped tightly in its jaws. A Beast on the left jumped up and attempted to bite the old man on his huge thigh, but Garax was quick. He pulled a javeleyn and jammed it down through one of its eyes and it staggered away and dropped dead. He kicked his horse hard to force it to charge and it ran headlong into the mass of animals and they parted.

Vertold using a spear like a lance, skewered one beast through the chest, but this did not kill it. The beast grabbed the spear with his claws and unhorsed the hapless man. Vertold fell to the ground, and the things jumped at him. His legs were bitten into first and he screamed and cursed. Claws couldn’t rip through his iron mail, nor could they bite through the helmet. Vertold drew his sword and swung at the beast biting at his legs. POP! The animals head split open and it died on top of him. Slobber dripped on his face and He looked up into the face of a Beast with a large fanged mouth. The bite came quick, slashing into his neck and lower part of his face. Bone shattered and blood spewed onto the ground. Vertold’s scream was drowned in blood. They tore at his body, ripping it from the mail, tearing off the limbs and head.

The Romans watched in horror. The charge of the Germans had momentarily stopped the Beasts but it would not last long. The men shifted restlessly waiting to throw their Pilum. Garax had rode hard, cutting left and right. His horse kicked at the things and they recoiled from it. Soon he reached the back of the Corral wall, and his horse jumped over it. She was a strong mare, and beyond the corral wall, the numbers of the beast were thinning, open pasture lay beyond the bonfire Buccio had started. Garax pulled the reins and took his horse through a few more beasts killing them with blows to the head though he suffered some nail slashes to his legs. Suddenly they were at the large fire. The Beast that were around, milled about him, they seemed afraid to get to close to the fire. His horse neighed and kicked out, prancing back and forth with steam puffing from her nostrils.

“Good girl, good girl.” He said, patting her on the neck. “We can rest here, they are afraid of flames. Hah!”

Bertolis attempted to join his leader. He made his own charge along the far left wall of the corral. The animal kicked at anything standing before him and Bertolis swings hard with his axe. The axe cleaves the top of a demon’s head off and black blood mushrooms out like goo. Another Beast lept at him, with snarling teeth and extended claws. A circular swing of the axe and the black hands are lopped off and a fanged teeth are shattered from the mouth. The thing falls away howling. Claws rip at Bertolis legs and one hand slashes his horses belly, making the animal buck in pain. Bertolis squeezes his legs onto the animals back, trying to hold on. Another demon scampered up to the top of the corral wall and jumped onto the horses back, digging in with its claws and biting down onto Bertolis shoulder. The fangs puncture his skin but he can not take a bite through the iron mail. The horse has had enough. It ran through an open lane of growling beasts and lept over the corral wall. Bertolis, trying to back swing the axe at the demon biting its back, could not control the horse. It rode on into towards the trees. Soon they were nothing but a large shadow. The rider screamed and bent over as the Beast ripped at him and then they vanished into the darkness.

The Beasts momentarily stopped by the horse riders, now charged again at the Romans.

“Throw Pilum!” Arminius yelled. The men grunted and threw the first of their heavy spears. The iron sang as they flew through the air. Several hit their mark. One demon fell, a pilum poking straight through its head. One pila speared into a Beasts thick, furry chest and bent. The animal couldn’t pull it out, and it hampered its arm, and slowed its run. The Roman’s threw another volley, and then their last. The volley of spears were not as effective against this host as they would have been against men. Some Beast ran on with pila stuck in their bodies, a few lay dead, struck through the head, but the mass charged on.

Arms flailing, teeth biting the air, the Beasts closed. Their putrid, Hot breath reached them first. One man puked, the stench making him sick. Then they were on them. Slamming into the shields, pushing against them, throwing clawed hands like axes, and biting at the rims of the scutums. The line wavered back. Men grunted to hold. The men fought as they had been trained. Shields opened at the right, swords pushing out like piston’s. Back and forth, up and down, fast. Slicing and biting into the furry bodies to their front.

A Demon poked his head above a shield rim and howled at the man on the other side. The gladius was quick, thrusting deep into the things neck, up through its open jaws and into the base of its head. The red fire in its eyes went out and it fell away. Unfortunately, the sword was stuck and it pulled the man out of the line. He desperately tried to free his weapon, but was pounced on from above. The teeth biting into the back of his neck where only leather protected it. The fangs pierced the leather and ripped huge gouges into the meat of the man’s neck. Blood spurted out like a fountain and the Beast crushed the neck bone with its bite. Killing the fellow instantly.

Fortunis is bucked back and a gap opens between him and the protecting shield of his partner on the left. A powerful arm swipes in. Inch long nails, as sharp as iron, slices through his cloak, leaving it in tatters, but the mail beneath could not be punctured. Fortunis uses the scutum as a battering ram and pounds the Animal away so that he can reform the line.

Another black furred fist slams down on a Roman’s helmet, denting it, but the iron saves the man’s skull. He is dazed but his comrades to the left, right, and behind, hold him firm until he recovers his senses.

In front of Arminius, the four legionaires are suddenly shoved aside by a black furred demon as huge as two beasts and three times as furious, it steps through the shield wall and howls at the Roman officer.

Arminius howls back, and the Demon stares at him, its red eyes piercing into his soul. Then it struck, its great clawed hand pounding Arminius helmet. The helmet cracks and falls away, exposing the man’s head. Arminius shakes it off and with razor quickness first stab the beast in its groin. Thick dark blood gushes out and the animal staggers. The gladius then slices into the things neck, piercing completely through. Another painful howl, but the Beast still stands. A man would have dropped dead from either blow. A second powerful swipe of its claws and Arminius is sent staggering. His hand grabs at his face, blood pumping through the fingers. A sword thrusts between the huge Beasts eyes and its howling stops. Parmenio removes the sword and attempts to push the carcass back through the broken line. Buccio helps him. The dead animal is soon seized by other claws and torn away from them.

“Reform this line!” Buccio yells. The men do, stepping back and bunching up. Buccio bends over his optio, his friend. Arminius looks at him, blood streaming from a gash across the left side of his face. His left eye looks like a cracked eggshell.

“Arminius?” Buccio said.

“I’m not done yet, Centurio.” He said and spat blood from his mouth.

“Good, I need you.” He shook the other man’s shoulders and stood. Parmenio brought a strip of linen and wrapped it tightly around the left side of Arminius face. He tied it tight.

“That should keep you together for now Optio.” Parmenio said. Arminius stood. It was neebu who handed Arminius another helmet, that of an ordinary legionaire. Arminus took it and placed it on his injured head. He nodded to the African and Neebu smiled.

The Demon’s are strong, everywhere the men strain and are being pushed back. Their claws strike out, but bronze or iron armour save the men’s flesh. One Beasts grabs a man’s shield and pulls it and the man out of the line. He yelps, kicking his feet helplessly, but the Demons pounce on him, tearing at his arms and legs and finally biting the neck, killing him. The animals gorge on his flesh, pulling it out from the mail armor as one would a lobster from its shell. They tear off bloody chunks and gulp it down.

The line stumbles back. More and more Beasts hurl themselves at the shields, slamming against them with their huge bulk, propelled by thick muscled legs. A shield parts in two and its stunned owner has its helmet ripped off, taking his ears with it. Stunned, he is defenceless when the second bite chomps down on his forehead and crunches through his skull. The body slumps to the ground. A rear ranker thrusts with his sword, stabbing the beast through the top of its head, running it out through its spine. The animal dies, with the Roman still gripped in its teeth. The line falls back, bunching up where the gaps have opened, where thier comrades have fallen. Their shields and armour can protect them as long as they can hold together, but whereever the Beasts overpower one or more, the line cracks and the men become vulnerable. Another geyeser of red blood sprouts from the line as a man is clawed through the throat. He sags, gargling for help. A rear rank man steps over him and reforms the line, but a push from a demon sends him tripping over his wounded comrade. Both are pounced on by Beasts despite swords hacking and thrusting down into their backs.

“The head. You can only kill them through the head.” Came the shout and the Romans followed by thrusting their swords into the animals skulls. The beasts died atop the two hapless Roman corpses. The line fell back and bunched again, this time, thinner, and more vulnerable.

The slingers continued to fire their iron bullits. When the aim was true, a lead shot would explode through a demon’s head and it would howl and die. They concentrated on the mass thrashing just ahead of the struggling line of Romans. None saw the shadows approaching the shed from behind. The sudden clattering of claws on stone made one man look to the rear. It was too late. Beast clambered up and lept on the unarmored slingers. Bowling them over one by one in a flurry of black arms and gnashing teeth. The Baeleric islanders were slight and could not fight back, they were torn apart. Only one had time to screech in pain. That warning, plus the blood that suddenly splattered on his helmet, made Buccio look back. He could see more Demon’s climbing onto the roof of the shed and joining in the feast.

“Fall back against the opening!” Buccio commanded. The men hesitatated, they were locked shoulder to shoulder desperate to hold back the demons.

“Get them back Arminius! Testudo!” Buccio shouted, grabbing at the men’s shoulders, pulling them back. “Testudo! At the mouth of the shed!”

“Get back to the shed you sons of bitches! Testudo!” Arminius yelled, shaking off the ache in his face. He smacked at the backs of his men. The line quivered. They were afraid. The rigtht side began to take steps back with Fortunis calling to his comrades.

“Step back, but keep the line, don’t break ranks.” He said. “Back again, keep those shields up!”

No one on the right side moved. No one gave encouragement to do so, and when they realized the left side had folded back, they paniced. The line broke. Some men kept their heads and fell back, shields to the front while others turned and ran for the shed.

“No!” Yelled Buccio, but it was too late.

CHAPTER TWELVE

The Romans who turned their backs could not run fast enough, and no longer had protective wood between them and the Beasts. The Demons lept on them like tigers, biting down on their backs of their necks and ripping at their exposed limbs. They tore grisly bits from their bodies, howling like blood mad hyenas. The men screamed and died. Those that had kept their heads fell back steadily, but several were overcome by numbers before they could band together and reform a line.

Matho used his shield as a battering ram, pounding back the Beast that charged against him. His sword dripped with evil black blood. Suddenly his shield shattered into fragments of wood. He still held the iron boss and he used that to punch at the snarling face in front of him. The Beast hurtles against him. Matho is knocked back, feet sliding. But he is a strong bull of a man, a farmer from the po valley. He lifts the beast up and throws it back against others of its kind, knocking down three of them, and saving a group of his fellow soldiers in the process. They fall back. Matho is not so lucky. Two more Demons hit him from the darkness and tackle him down. He smashes one in the face with his shield boss, keeping it from biting him. The other recieves a quick thrust of his sword, straight through the mouth. Thick blood drenches his arm, Demon’s blood. Not warm like a living human, but cold like the dead, like the underworld. And then a pale face leaned over the demon and looked down upon him. A face with flowing gray locks and a smile. A smile he knew, and would never forget.

“Mother.” Matho said. He was lost in the vision until a slobbering, fanged mouth ripped into his forehead and the crushed his skull.

The left side of the line had been shattered. Only a few of the second rank men made it back to the shed and reformed a line. The right side fell back in good order. There was a momentarily lull in the attack as the Demon’s flocked to the left in order to gorge on their new victims.

There were now fourteen legionaires left, plus Arminius, Parmenio and Buccio. Canio hung back in the shed.

“Form Testudo!” Buccio commanded.

“Seven men, front rank, seven men to the rear, shields up!” Arminius said. He kept his good eye moving back and forth and to the front. When the two ranks formed, it was just wide enough to cover the opening of the shed.

“Two steps back!” Arminius called out. The lines moved back one step at a time. Buccio, Parmenio and Arminius stepped just inside the shed, and the two lines formed from the left wall of the shed to the right. The second rank lifted their shields above the heads of the first and the first rank took a half step back, until they formed a solid wall of shields both to the front and as a roof. The men of the second rank rested one end of their scutum on the lip of the shed roof and the other on the top of the front rank men’s shields. This was testudo. It was a battle formation created by the Romans for use in the attack on fortified positions. The shields top and on the sides, held firmly, were proof against arrows, bolts and even rocks. Thus the formation was nicknamed the Testudo, latin for Tortoise. Like the tortoise, the Romans formed a protective shell of shields, and could move in any direction, well protected. Though the scutum was a direct copy of the Gallic shield. The Gauls could never fight in a testudo. They were simply not disciplined enough. Gaul’s wanted to show their stuff in battle. Each man trying to outdo his comrades in bravado. The Roman’s on the other hand were masters of discipline. They stood shoulder to shoulder without complaint and trusted in one another to stand firm.

A dim light from oil lamps inside the shed, ensured the men had a little vision, but they could not see the beasts except through the slits between the corners of the shields. The men in the front rank crouched like boxers, keeping their scutums wedged against the ground and the shield on the top. There wasn’t much room to move or fight in this formation. The Beast could be heard breathing and growling. Their breath steamed in and filled the shed with its vile stench.

“Hold tight men. No matter what, hold!” Buccio said. The sound of clawed feet could be heard scratching at the wood beams above them. A trickle of blood dripped down through one of the cracks in the roof.

Canio looked up through a small hole. A fiery red eye looked down at him, followed by spit as the beast above bit at the wood an its tounge slobbered over it. Canio recoiled, sobbing.

“What are those things?” He cried. He grabbed at Parmenio. “You, stay with me, protect me.” His eyes bulged and threatend to pop from his fat face. Parmenio pushed him away.

“Relax, the fight’s out there.” He pointed to the line of Roman soldiers at the front of the shed.

“We’re all going to die.” Canio screamed. “We’re all going to die.”

Parmenio grabbed the fat senator by his fur lined cloak, and slapped him hard across the flab of his cheek.

“Have faith in your men. They’ve conquered the world for you!” Parmenio said through a grit of teeth.

Canio falls back into his corner, crying like a baby. Parmenio looks nervously to Buccio. He could be killed for striking a Roman Senator, especially him, a foreigner, a freedman, a Greek.

“I should have thought of that earlier.” Buccio said.

“Watch over him.” Parmenio said to Neebu. Neebu nodded, but was having trouble getting the donkey to calmn down. It was skittish, and kept kicking up its hooves. Neebu spoke to it softly and stroked its frisky mane of hair.

“Quiet that animal down or I’ll cut it’s throat!” Canio said with livid rage. He pulled his pugio from a hidden sheath. The blade glistend in the dim light of the oil lamps. Neebu gripped his own blade, the one Parmenio had given him. Canio saw the movement, the tightening of the young man’s arm muscles. He didn’t know if it was a threat, or maybe he was prepared to kill the donkey. They stared at one another for a long moment, until dust filtered down from the roof, and the beams creaked from the weight of the demon’s atop. A scratching against the wood and a growl made Canio cringe again and he covered his face with his cloak.

The very air tightend with anticipation and then BBBAAABBBOOOOMMMM! The world crashed against the shields of the front rank. They shuddered backwards, pushed hard, the men gritting their teeth and trying to push back. BAM! A large body hurtled down onto the shield roof from above. Jumping up and down. The shields rocked, but straining arms held tightly, the men using even their helmeted heads to brace them. The Demon’s jumped up and down like apes. The pounding of the shields, the hard pushing from the front, the scrapping of claws, the gnashing of teeth against wood, the stink of putrid slobber and the endless growls deafend those inside the shed. This was a battle like no other.

Garax was still at the bonfire in the pasture, watching the tide of Beasts envelope the goat shed. He thought it must be over, but wait, no. He could see the Roman testudo. The animals pounded on it relentlessly. The shields wobbled under the impact, but held firm. Most of the demon’s were already inside the corral, but a small knot still hung about the pasture, watching him. He pulled a javelyn and stuck its head into the burning thatch and straw. When he pulled it up, the tip held a small burning mass. He threw it at the Beasts and they scattered. The javelyn landing harmlessly in the grass.

“Afraid of a litle fire, eh?” He laughed. From one of the rear saddle horns, he pulled a leather, jug. He bit open the bunched leather stopper and drank heavily. Gallic ale flowed down his whiskers. He spat some into the fire, and a flame shot out. Then he saw him. Staggering, bleeding from the head, and skin as pale as a cloud.

“Dax?”

Dax walked on wobbly legs. His head was bleeding from a massive wound on the right side, and he stared at Garax as he stumbled on. The Beast watched him, growling and barking at him. Their teeth slobbered with blood lust, but they didn’t pounce. Dax held a feeble hand up towards Garax.

“Damn you man.” Garax said. He through down the ale and kicked his horse hard. JAAAAAA he yelled as he charged away from the bonfire. Sword and shield held aloft, guiding his mare with his knees and rushing to save his wounded comrade.

A demon rushed him from the side, and Garax through his sword out in a hard arc that sliced completely through the animals neck. It dropped into a lump of black fur. Another, from the opposite side, lept onto his horses buttocks. Clawing into the horses hide, digging in with those black nails and preparing to bite. Garax slammed his round shield into the side of the things head, and it fell away, leaving one finger nail embedded in the mare’s side.

Dax stopped and held a hand. Garax pulled back on the reins. The mare stomped the ground, breathing heavily and wild eyed, it did not want to stop. Garax held it firm and reached for Dax’s hand.

“Come on boy.” He said. Garax’s hands were huge compared to Dax’s, with long, stubby fingers, but his hand gripped nothing. Dax was no longer there. “By the Gods!” Garax grumbled. His eyes were wide. His halt prooved fatal. The entire knot of Beasts lept onto him, six or more, some biting at the horse, others, slashing with their claws at the man. He pounded one away, but he could not use his sword. A pair of jaws clamped down on his sword arm, biting the muscles in two and cracking the bone. Garax screamed. Claws suddenly slashed through the horses underbelly and its warm, steamy entrails plopped out. The horse bucked in pain and Garax fell off. He landed hard on his back, with Beast still clinging to him, biting at his arms. Other Beasts gnawed at his thick legs as he kicked at them. Lastly they tore off his helmet and bit into skull.

The horse stampeded away, trailing entrails and a pack of hungry black beasts.

Through the crack between two shields, red glowing eyes peer in. Barsalus brings his gladius up and threads it through the opening and thrust through them. A hard body slumps against the shields, black ooze spilling through the crack. As long as the men held firm, the shield wall was like a wall of mortared stone. But the constant pounding made it hard to hold on. The shields buckled left and right with each impact. Sweaty hands felt the grips turn in the hand and could nothing about it. Suddenly one shield is pushed back, perhaps a few inches. But just enough to let a pair of clawed hands grab hold of its rim and yank. The hapless Roman, gripping his shield so tightly, is yanked out with it. His legs kick franticly as he is dragged away. Buccio tried to grab the legs and save his man. Holding him by the ankle, he strains against the might of the Beasts. Arminius grabs at the ankle and they both pull back.

POP! The ankle comes back with its adjoined calf and a knee, but the leg had been bitten through and all they could save was the bloody stump. A huge Beast steps into the gap, its clawes held in front like a boxer, and its short legs coiled, ready to jump. It howls. Buccio shoves the leg into its mouth and pushes the thing back. Arminius uses his own shield to hammer at it, until it falls backwards and he takes the place of the missing man in the front rank.

The fury outside intensifies and the shields are pounded in rush after rush. Claws scrape at the wood and nostrils poke into the cracks smelling the men inside. Fortunis is almost knocked back, but Buccio pushes him back in place.

“That’s it men, hold on.” He said.

Parmenio steps up holding an oil lamp.

“Centurio. The circle. We’re inside the circle.” He said. Buccio suddenly remembered the line of pitch marinaded straw and thatch in front of the shed. He cupped Parmenio’s cheek.

“Good man. I had forgot.” He took the oil lamp, and lay down at his men’s feet.

“Fortunis, lift your shield up to your ankle.” Fortunis did so. Buccio could see lots of black, hairy feet with massive claws. A few of the Beasts were on all fours, and one sniffed at the ground. Buccio could just see the dark shape of the line a few feet away.

“Give me one of those pila, the one we wrapped.” He said to the Greek. Parmenio retrieved one from the stack that had fallen to the ground. It had a ball of pitch soaked linen around the tip. He held it over the lamp and it blazed afire.

“This should reach.” He pushed it under Fortunis stance. The man winced as the hot flames burned into his thigh. “Sorry man.” Buccio said. He pushed it out under the shield and shoved it hard. A Beast snapped at it, but their feet jumped away from the flame and the tip reached the line.

POOOFFF! The line sparked and flame ran along it from end to end. A wall of fire suddenly sprang up. Demon’s lept away. Some caught fire and their dry, brittle hair caught the flames and instantly they became fireballs, running, howling through the dark. The pounding on the shields ceased. Yelps of pain could be heard from the darkness beyond.

The men relaxed. They could feel the heat of the fire. Smoke filtered in through the cracks in the shields, and filled the shed with its acrid smell. Then they heard it. The cry of a child.

“Momma!” She cried out. “Papa!” and then she shrieked. The Beasts howled like wolves baying at the moon.

Buccio stood and gripped his sword.

“Open ranks!” He said.

Parmenio put his hand to his shoulder.

“It could be a trick. We’re dealing with evil here.”

A terrible sobbing continued, and it seemed to be drifting furhter away.

“Fortunis, stand aside.” Buccio said. “The rest of you hold firm.” Fortunis pushed his shield away and Buccio stepped out.

The flames were burning fiercely. Beyond it, he could see the shadowy mass of the Demons running back into the forests. Held above them was a pale, blob. A child, not a ghost, but a living child, screaming in fear.

“Papa!” She cried before dissappearing into the darkness of the trees. Arminius and Parmenio stepped out of the Testudo and stood behind him. Arminius studied the corral with his good eye.

“Where are the bodies?” He asked. “The dead, ours and theirs?”

“They took them, to eat.” Parmenio said. His voices trembled.

“That’s not all they took.” Buccio said through gritted teeth. “Cernunnos will have his sacrifice.”

The night was still upon them, but it was waning. The men stood for awhile watching the shadows, expecting another attack. The bonfire in the field faded away to smoking embers.

“Where did they go? Its still dark, no moon, no daylight.” Arminius said.

Buccio took a headcount of his men, he had thirteen of his original twenty four. More than half had been downed in a single fight. All killed and dragged off into the forest to be eaten. His slingers were gone and his cavalry too.

At the very edge of the corral, slightly alit from the fire burning around the shed’s opening, was a whisp of a man. He stood watching them from the dark. Buccio picked up a Pila and threw it. The spear’s flight was lost in the black of the night, but it landed true. Spearing the man through the chest and sticking into the ground behind him. The vision blurred and then was gone.

The circle of fire still burned, though it began to lessen. It had served its purpose. The evil creatures were definately afraid of fire.

“I will stand guard.” Buccio said. “The rest of you, into the shed. Get some sleep, but keep your weapons and armour ready.”

“I will stay up with you.” Arminius said. His bandaged face was blood streaked.

“No, you need rest.” Buccio said, putting a hand on Arminius shoulder. “Go one. It won’t be long til morning, and then we’ll check on the Gauls.” Arminius nodded.

“Break ranks.” Arminius said. “Lets get some sleep while we can.” He and the legionaires scrambled into the shed and huddled together against the walls. They were exhausted. Most were scratched in some way, a few even had bite marks on their arms.

Canio stepped out of the gloom momentarily. He looked around in horror.

“You have lost.” He said. “Look how many men are left. I knew it. We should have gone back to the watchtower and waited for the ship.”

“Waited like cowards?” Parmenio said. “Like those two wretches we left back there?”

“We’re soldiers Procurator, and soldiers die in battle” Buccio said. “Be thankful some of us are still alive to stand between them and you.”

“We must go back to the watchtower.”

“We may just do that. We’ll take the Gauls with us.” Buccio said.

“No! This is their cursed land, those are their demons. Let them stay and deal with it all.”

Buccio stepped to within an inch of the Fatman’s face and glared at him. Canio’s face softened and he backed up.

“They are now Roman subjects, for better or worse, and it is our job, as Romans, to protect them.”

Canio didn’t respond. He shuffled back into the shed and returned to his corner. Neebu, holding tightly to the donkey’s reins, was already fast asleep in the straw. He snored once and Canio kicked him.

“Why don’t you get some sleep old man.” Buccio said to Parmenio.

“Plenty of light from this fire, I think I will jot down some notes and look through my journals. If that’s allright.” Buccio nodded.

Parmenio pushed his way through the blanket curtains and could be heard rumaging through the shed. When he returned he had his leather satchel and sat at the corner of the entrance, near the fire. He produced books and his quill and ink.

Buccio stepped onto a fallen stone and looked over the roof of the shed. The village was quiet. The glow from the Gaul’s fires were out.

The round house had been violated. At the front, stone had spilled down from the wall. Torn away by the sheer weight of the attack. Through this gap, the black mass had surged into the round house. There were six stone squares inside, all built solidly of mortared stone and with a single entrance. Here the few surviving women, children and old people had gathered. The warriors that could retreat into the round house divided themselves into each square. It was a solid defence, but three of the squares were broken into. Everyone standing in each had been killed and dragged off. Pottery lay shattered on the ground, grain sacks spilled open, bedding thrown everywhere. Blood smeared the stone walls, and broken shields lay at the entrance to each.

Ventorix and five other men survived the fight outside. There had been twelve of them cut off from retreat when the wall collapsed and had formed a circle. The Beasts had clawed at them from the walls, had jumped on them from the thatched roof top, had even broken their circle, but hey hung on. They were scracthed, bitten and bloodied, but alive. They had heard the screaming from inside but could do nothing.

As it had happend the night before and the one before that, the Beasts left when they secured a sacrifice for Cernunnos. A young girl or boy, or a child, he knew not, but Ventorix had seen them rush away carrying someone.

A few torches were carried by the warriors and the squares that had not fallen still had oil lamps aglow. How few warriors were left now.

Centauric greeted him with a hand to his shoulder.

“I am glad you are still alive.” He said, “But I am afraid...”

Ventorix didn’t wait for him to finish. He pushed the older man aside and ran to the square where he had left his wife and daughter. It was dark, and quiet. He stepped over broken shields and spears went inside. One of his men held out a torch and it iluminated the carnage. No bodies, only torn bedding, broken shards of pottery and spilled blood. Ventorix, the warrior, sank to his knees and cried.

“No!” He was angry. He flailed at the floor with his hands. “No.”

Centauric came in.

“I think the one they spared. The one they carried off...” He said. Ventorix looked at him, his eyes rimmed red and tearful.

“Was your daughter.”

The demons were gone. An unnatural stillness hung in the air. A wind blew through the dark trees, it was a cold wind carrying the smell of rain. Slowly the black clouds brightend, and one by one, from the east, they began to glow a slate gray.

It was dawn.



CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The sky above, still cloaked in clouds, was gray and alive. A slight rain began to fall. Parmenio had fallen asleep against the side of the shed. His books lay on his lap. A shadow loomed over him.

“Parmenio.” Buccio said, shaking the man gently.

The Greek awoke with a start, grabbing for his sword, but producing only a quill.

“We’re going to the Gauls round house. Get yourself ready.” Parmenio nodded and placed his things back into his leather sack.

“Get your arses up and moving.” Arminius could be heard in the shed. Here and there could be heard a thud when He used his boot to motivate a sleeping figure. “Get your gear together and stand to.”

A line of men filed out, forming against the left wall to relieve themselves. The woods were again, silent. At first only the light pelting of the rain could be heard. Then a large shadow moved among the trees, and a horse snorted. Buccio stepped to the corral wall and watched as Bertolis rode his chestnut colored mare out into the pasture. Both horse and rider were covered in bloody scratches and bite marks, but alive. The German kicked at the animals sides and it thundered into a gallop and jumped over the stone wall. The Romans cheered his return.

Bertolis rode up to Buccio, looking around at the survivors. He muttered something in German before stopping in front of The Centurio.

“Bertolis, reports for duty herr Centurio.” He said grimly in very accented latin. “My latin, not so good, like Garax.” Once again he looked around. “Deutscher? er, um, Germans?”

“You’re it Bertolis. The others didn’t make it. Even old Garax went down, alot of Romans too.” He stroked the horses neck as he spoke. Neebu came running out of the shed. He had something cupped in his hands and he held it to the German. It was some sort of paste. The man began jabbering in his native African language. Bertolis shrugged. Neebu motioned to the mare’s cuts with the paste.

“Ah, ja, ja.” He hopped off the horse and let Neebu smear the long jagged cuts with the salve. “Gut, gut man. Danke.” Bertolis noticed the Romans were coming out of the shed with their gear and lining up.

“How did you survive?” Buccio asked.

“Mein horse, never stop. Beast cut her, and give chase. We too fast.” The German smiled. “We should be here.”

“I’m glad your back. Get something to eat and drink. Quickly, we’re going to check on the Gauls.” He patted the man on his broad shoulder. The German winced.

“Bitte.” He said, then headed off to the shed. Arminius walked over to Buccio after the German left.

“He is the only one who could make it to the River before nightfall. He could get a warning out.” He said as he approached.

“Do you think the river is calm enough for him to cross?” Buccio said. Arminius shrugged.

The remaining Roman legionaires have lined up, shields ready, packs on their carrying sticks, a few still have pila. The scutums are scratched and here and there a rim sported a bite mark. Neebu brings the donkey out and squats so that Canio can use him as a step stool to sit on the animals tiny back. Parmenio stands off to the side, still pouring through one of his books. Arminius struts by him.

“Come on old man, you can read later. Get in line. You’re a legionaire now.” Parmenio puts his book away and grabs his borrowed Scutum. The two lines are uneven, one has seven men and the other has six. He gets at the end of that line. Bertolis comes out of the shed, face dripping of ale. He chugs the last from a small wooden cask and tosses it aside. He lets out a burp.

“Ja, gut.” He hops back onto the back of his horse.

“Listen up.” Buccio said, standing before his men. “I think our best bet is the watchtower. We can march there before nightfall and hold up inside til our ship arrives. We’ll take the Gauls with us.” He nodds to Arminius.

“Column, forward, march!” He said, and the line moves towards the gate in the corral, heading towards the village center.

“No!” Centauric said. His seventeen surviving warriors stood behind him. They too shook their heads, agreeing with their chief. “We will not leave the village.”

Buccio cursed silently. They stood in the village square. He and the chief. His men were arrayed in a half circle behind him, shields and weapons resting on the ground. A small knot of women and children stood amid the ruins of the stone wall that surrounded the great round house.

“What about them.” He motioned. “We can protect them better in the tower.”

“Roman’s protecting Gauls? Ha!” Centauric said. “They will stay here. We will wait it out, together.”

“Can you make it through another night?”

Centauric looked at his weary men and the four women, two old men and five children still alive and his will seemed to fade.

“This is our home. We will stay.”

“Then we will stay too.” Buccio said. He spoke in Gallic so his men could not here. Their spirits were bright with the hope of marching to the tower and waiting out the next three nights til the ship came back.

“Good.” Centauric was pleased. He yelled to his people. “Share our food and drink with these men. They will fight with us tonight.” Smoke was rising from the round house, cooking fires.

“Arminius, tell the men to break ranks and go into the round house. The Gauls are treating us to breakfast.”

“Come with me, Centurio.” Centauric motioned. Buccio followed.

Canio ordered Neebu to squat again so he could get off the donkey. He put a heavy foot on the man’s skinny back and then another. Neebu tried to steady himself, but couldn’t. Canio slipped off and fell on his backside.

“You oaf!” Canio yelled while trying to swat at the boy. The Roman and Gauls laughed, and together, the group went through the crumbled debri of the rock wall and into the round house. Bertolis tied his horse up and followed in. Canio shook the mud from his cloak and with as much dignity as he could muster, went in as well. Neebu tied up the donkey next to the horse and when he was sure noone was looking, he laughed, said something in his own language, and slapped his knee.

The Gauls sat in groups around small fires inside the great round house. The Romans sat around seperate fires. The few Gallic women served them soup from cauldrons boiling over the fires. In was mostly dry inside the great round house, but here and there the thatch roof leaked. Buccio walked with Centauric, checking out one of the stone squares with its thick mortared walls and single, narrow opening.

“A few warriors could defend this. The rest backing them up and replacing them when needed.” Centauric said in Gaelic. Buccio agreed.

“Who built these walls?” He asked.

“Ventorix spent some time with you Romans. He did.”

Buccio remembered the man and his daughter, but hadn’t seen him in the round house. He noticed a thin line, broken and smeared, of white powder. He bent down, pinched some between his fingers and sniffed at it.

“Salt?” He said.

“Yes, some of the old women say Evil can not cross something as pure as salt. But we did not have much to use, and it got kicked into the dirt.”

Buccio stood and looked through the room. Bertolis was seated at a fire with Gallic warriors.

“Bertolis.” He called out. The German jumped to his feet and walked over to him. Buccio continued to scan the room. “Fortunis.” The legionaire looked up. “Still alive, good, come here . I have a job for you.”

Buccio stepped into the square and motioned to an area just inside.

“Centauric, can your men build me a platform right here. Stone, earth or wood, doesn’t matter, but it needs to be sturdy, flat and about...” He raised a hand to his knees “this high.” Centauric nodded.

Bertolis and Fortunis met with him at the entrance to the square.

“We’re staying.” Buccio said.

“But sir, you said...”

“Doesn’t matter. The Gauls won’t leave so we’re staying. Bertolis...” He patted the man’s big chest. “I need you to take Fortunis and ride back to the watchtower. Hitch your horse to the wagon and bring back some supplies.” Bertolis nodded.

“What do you want Centurio?” Fortunis asked.

“Remember the basement. Bring back some grain and as much salt as you can. Also anything burnable, oil, pitch, ale, anything like that.” Buccio said. Fortunis nodded.

“What if they won’t open that door, those two rats in chainmail?”

“Take a torch and burn your way in, or a hammer. Kill them if they get in your way.” Buccio said.

Fortunis and Bertolis turned to leave.

“Fortunis.” Buccio said. “If you can, I also want one of those Scorpio’s and as many bolts as you can find.”

“Yes sir. We’ll try.”

“Fast as you can, if you need another man, take Barsalus. He can ride the donkey.”

Barsalus looked up from his soup, and the donkey HEE HAWED in protest.

“We’ll manage.” With that Fortunis and Bertolis left the round house. Buccio followed them out. It was still raining, but the rain was light. The men threw their hoods over the helmets they wore. Bertolis hopped onto his mare and held a hand out for Fortunis. The Roman had to hop onto the animals backside, just behind the rear prongs of the saddle. Not a very comfortable position, but he managed.

“Good luck, May the Gods be kind.” Buccio said.

“Hold on Roman.” Bertolis said and then with a grunt in German and a hard kick with his heels, the Horse was off at a full gallop. They headed fast down the muddy track leading out of the village and towards the coast.

As he stood, Buccio noticed five figures walking out of the nearest trees. He recognized the leading man, it was Ventorix. He and four other Gallic warriors were carrying their shields, and spears. They were also wearing Roman Chainmail hauberks, and bronze legionaire helmets.

They crossed the pasture then dissappeared for awhile amongst the ruined round houses before entering the square.

They reached the crumbled stone wall, where Buccio stood, and stopped.

“Go, get something to eat and some sleep. We’ll leave before nightfall.” The four others filed in over the rocks and silently passed by Buccio. The Centurio studied the armour as they walked by. Each one glistened with blood stains.

“Roman armour.” He said to Ventorix when the man reached him. Ventorix looked different. He was scratched across the face and arms, and he was tired, but it was his eyes that were different. When they had spoken yesterday, the man’s eyes were gleaming with fire. They were optimistic, bright and cheerful. Now they were dull. The life sucked out of them.

“Found them in the forests. The Beast can’t eat iron. They tore the flesh out and left these like garbage, scattered among the trees.” He thumped the bronze helmet with his spear haft. “Good protection. Better than bare chests and good luck charms.”

“Why did you go into the forest. Isn’t that dangerous?” Buccio asked.

“We kept clear of the shadows.” He looked down at the ground carefully, not speaking. He looked where into the moist earth and then pointed at a spot. “Look there.”

Buccio looked. It was a round indentation with four long grooves poking out from the front and one short thick one out the back.

“They leave tracks. We followed them to the mouth of a cave.”

Centauric rushed out onto the wall, happy to see Ventorix.

“Good, you’ve come back. We need you and your men. The Romans are going join our defence tonight.” He said, giving Ventorix a bear like hug.

“I’m glad the Romans are staying, but I have not changed my mind.” He pushed Centauric away. “Excuse me, I need to get some sleep.”

“Ventorix, listen to reason. We need you. We have hope now.”

“My ony hope is to reach them before midnight. If I am too late, hope will not mater anymore. I will be dead.” He left.

Centauric looked troubled.

“What is it?” Buccio asked.

“The Beasts broke into several of the squares last night. His wife and child were in one of them.”

Buccio remembered the mass of Demons rushing by the goat corral and heading for the forests. He remembered the small pale blob that cried like a child. Papa was the cry.

“That was his daughter, Caena, they carried away.” Centauric nodded. “His wife?”

“Dead. The body gone of course, like all the others.” Centauric ran his fingers through his hair and wrenched at them. “I wish I could have done something.”

“What did he mean when he said he must be there by midnight?” Buccio asked.

“The child will be kept alive until midnight. That is when she will be sacrificed, her pure heart pulled out, still beating, and given to Cernunnos.”

A line of warriors without shields or weapons, followed by several Romans also without their gear, began to form next to them. One by one they started a chain, passing flat faced stones back into the round house.

“We could use him and his warriors here. Fighting with us to save what is left.” Centauric said.

“Maybe you could talk some sense into him.” Buccio said.

“I doubt it. Some men can love many women without a care, and father many children. Not Ventorix. He loved only them.”

The sky darkenend and a heavier rain began to fall. The men cursed, but continued their work. Roman and Gaul working together side by side. Centauric joined the line, keeping his men in good spirits with a bawdy joke or two in Gaelic. Thundered Cracked in the distance.

Buccio stood watching the silent woods. He pulled out the necklace around his neck. The crude wood face, the crooked painted on smile, the big eyes, and the tuft of real black hair, all made by the hand of his own daughter. He rubbed it.

A moaning wind rustled through the trees and whistled through the holes in the gutted round houses of the village. Buccio felt its touch and a chill ran down his spine. He clutched the necklace tightly. As a Roman he could turn his back on this village and let it rot. His mission was to collect tribute and there was none to collect. If not for the circumstances, the village would have been burned to the ground by them anyways. Centauric was right about men too. They needn’t risk their lives for women and children. Men could go anywhere and have as many wives and children as they wanted. Matter of fact, it was an old saying in the Army that soldiers risk their lives only for comrades, not for camp followers. Buccio rubbed the necklace again and tucked it back under his tunic. Of course he, Maximus Buccio, did not believe any of that. He could only do what he thought was right. He would not force his men to make the same decision, but for him, there was only one place to be tonight, and it scared him.

“Damn.” He muttered and went back into the great round house.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

It was Hard work for men who had been up all night fighting for their lives. They built a new stone wall at the mouth of the square that was to be held. The new wall was to be waist high with a fighting step on the back side so two ranks of men could fight on it at a time. The stones were carried from outside to the square by a line of tired men. Both Buccio and Centauric had only half of their men working. The other half slept. The trusty sand clock kept time.

Buccio watched the men while Arminius tried to sleep. He kept tossing about on the straw, his missing eye obviously hurting. An old Gallic woman had made a concoction from plants that oozed some sort of fluid. She had applied this to all the men’s cuts, Roman and Gaul. Ventorix said it was a healing potion. Parmenio had seen it before and asured him that it worked.

A shout arose from the men outside and Buccio, followed by Centauric ran out. A wagon, pulled by Bertolis mare, was pulling into the village square. Bertolis was at the reins and Fortunis stood at the back waving triumphantly. The wagon was filled to the brim. A scorpion bolt thrower was jammed on top.

“Got everything sir.” Fortunis said as he lept from the wagon. “Salt, grain, the Scorpion, lots of bolts, extra Pilum and ale. Lots of ale.” He smiled.

Buccio patted the man on the shoulder. He eyed the wagon. It was not a large wagon, but large enough to hold the scorpion.

“lets get this wagon unloaded. Bring everything inside the square.” He shouted in both Latin and Gaelic. The Romans and Gauls had been working together for hours, no complaints and no problems. The line of men who had been moving stone, now moved to wagon and began hauling sacks and amphorae hand over hand back into the round house.

“Fortunis,” Buccio said. “You desearve some sleep, but first, grab four other men and haul that scorpion inside.” Fortunis nodded and left, calling out a few familiar faces from the line.

“What about this platform you mentioned?” Centauric asked.

“This wagon should do, if we can haul it over the wall.” He pointed to the wagon. It would be sturdy as long as stones were jammed against all four wheels to keep it from rolling. “Bertolis, knock these rails off the side of this wagon. We need this inside the square.” The side rails were skimpy enough that it would be easy to break them off.

“Ja, Herr Centurio.” Bertolis said. He had stepped down from the wagon and was unhitching his horse. He pulled the animal away from the wagon and then cut loose the four horned saddle and slid it off the animals back. The slashes across the animal’s flanks seemed to be healing thanks to Neebu’s salve. Bertolis gently stroked the animals neck and spoke softly in its ear.

“There’s no room for you here tonight.” He spoke in German. “Go to the river, stay away from the woods.” With that said, he slapped the animal hard on its buttocks. It ran. He yelled a war cry and the horse broke into a frenzy running as hard as it could. The mare lept one stone wall then dissappeared into the forest.

“Keep running girl.” Bertolis said.

Neebu, in the spirit of the moment, pulled the donkey out in to the square and unbridled it. He too slapped the animal on the butt and shooed it away. The donkey ran a few feet then stopped to eat grass. Neebu yammered at it in a string of African, but the Donkey turned its backside to him. He pushed at the animal, but still it didn’t budge.

“You free!” Neebu said in Latin. The donkey sat on his haunches and heehawed. Neebu pushed at the animal, keeping up a tirade of African jeers and curses.

The line of men stopped working and started to laugh, Roman and Gaul alike. Bertolis ran over and growled like a Demon. GGGRRRRRAAAARRRR! The donkey suddenly lept up like a jack rabbit, knocking Neebu aside, and it ran down the trail, ears bent low, mane standing straight up.

“There goes our steak dinner for tonight.” One of the Roman’s said. The men went back to work. Bertolis took his axe to the Wagon and began cracking off the railing. The rain began to fall again.

It was late when they had finished. The men had worked and slept in four different rounds, all timed by the sand clock. The sky was still a single shade of gray, but everyone knew it was late afternoon. The wall was finished. The women and children had to be lifted up and over into the square. Everyone had gotten a good laugh when Canio tried to pull himself over the wall. It took two Gauls, a Roman and Neebu to get him over, and then he fell on his face. The other men could vault it with a good run. Behind the wall was the wagon, anchored in its spot by stone wheel brakes. The scropion had been lashed atop it. It stood above the men’s heads and could fire over them into the round house. A crate of bolts lay open behind the wagon. Buccio had designated three men as the crew, all Roman. One man would hand up the bolts, while the other two cranked back the bow and then fired it. It only took a few minutes to load and fire and was very accurate, especially at such close range. If it were men they were shooting at, the bolt would probably go through three of them before stopping. Some of the Scorpion bolts and Pilum were being wrapped with pitch smeared linen to make inciendiaries. Everyone had agreed not to build a fire break outside of the wall. The danger of fire leaping onto the thatched roof of the great round house was too dangerous. The burning thatch would fall into the square and kill everyone. So they settled on a lone rampart of salt. They would stand together, taking turns holding the wall. Hopefully it would not be their last stand.

Two gauls holding a heavy leather sack, were pouring the line. It was a half foot thick in places, and followed the line of the stone wall about two feet away. When they were done, they still had a quarter sack of salt that they placed next to the wall.

“I’ll take that.” Ventorix said, grabbing the leather sack. He and his five warriors climbed over the wall. They were armed to the teeth. All carried shields and wore the liberated Roman chain mail armour and bronze helmets. They carried extra spears, some wrapped with pitch-soaked linen. Ventorix carried a war axe with a haft four feet long and a blade the size of a man’s head. They carried torches and one man toted a jug of ale or water. Each man had blue paint applied to his face and arms in various lines, cirlces and curves. These were Gallic war tattoos, good luck charms, usually painted by a Druid. Buccio had seen them many times before, but had never seen them protect the men wearing them from death. Centauric scrambled up onto the wall behind them.

“Ventorix, you can not leave. We need you and your men.” He said.

“You have enough warriors, Roman and Gaul.” He said, leading his men towards the opening.

Centauric jumped down and grabbed Ventorix by the shoulder, spinning him around.

“There’s nothing you can do out there, but die.” He said. “Stay here with us, and live.”

“My daughter needs me. It is getting late. I must go now if I am to save her.” He hugged the older man. “May the Gods watch over you and see you through the night.”

He turned to leave, and Buccio stood before him and his men.

“Wait, I’m going with you.” The Centurion said. Buccio pulled his well worn cloak over his armor and buttoned it closed. Arminius stepped up to him.

“I go with you.” He too pulled on his cloak. Some of the Romans held back, but others started to put on their cloaks.

“You have to stay, Arminius, and lead the fight here.”

“There are enough men here. They won’t run.” He buckled his sword belt over the cloak. Arminius picked up his Scutum. “I go with you.”

“You are disobeying an order.” Buccio said.

“Yes sir, I am. You can report me when we get back.” Arminius said, staring intently with his one good eye.

“Now you sound like me.” Buccio smiled. He looked at the Legionaires who were donning their cloaks and gathering shields. Big Fortunis was one of them, as was tall, ugly Barsalus. Six men in all. It would have to be enough.

“Six volunteers.” Arminius said.

“Plus six Gauls.” Buccio added. Bertolis lumbered over, already cloaked and carrying his small shield and axe.

“Und one German.” He was taller and broader than any of the Romans or Gauls.

“You six gather around here. The rest of you men will stay here and fight side by side with the Gauls.” The six volunteers joined Bertolis and Arminius. Ventorix and his men stood near by listening. Buccio walked over to the wall where Centauric and his Gallic warriors as well as the remaining Legionaires, waited. The three designated to work the scorpion were on the wagon, setting the weapon firmly in place. Canio, followed by Neebu, wandered over.

Buccio stepped closer to Canio and spoke that only he could here.

“I am staying here.” Canio said.

“I agree.” Buccio said. “I need you here.” Canio looked puzzled. “I need someone to stay and lead these men.”

“What? Me?” Canio’s eyes widened. “Nonsense.”

“Think of what they will be told back in Rome when this is all over.” Buccio, continued. “Will they hear that a lowly Roman legionaire led this desperate defence, or worse, a Gaul?” Buccio let the words sink in.

“Or would it be better that they heard that you led them, a Senator of the Roman people?”

Canio looked down at the ground.

“That would be good for your career, wouldn’t it Procurator?”

“I’ve never been in a battle.” Canio said.

“You don’t have to fight senator. There are good men here, Romans and Gauls. Just stand with them and yell at them.” Buccio smiled. “They like to be yelled at. Then they feel like soldiers.”

“I can...do that.” Canio said, meeting Buccio’s eyes.

“Trust Centauric, he has been in many battles. He has been fighting to save his people.”

Canio looked to the large, old Gaul with the billowing gray moustache, and steel eyes.

“Raise your right hand Centauric.” Canio said. The old Gaul was hesitant, and looked to Buccio who nodded. Centauric raised his hand, palm out.

“I, Pomponius Canio, Senator of the Roman people, Procurator of the Roman Province of Gaul, give you Roman Citizenship and pronounce you Deputy Commander of this detachment.” There was utter silence in the room. The confusing latin words did not register on Centauric. Buccio quickly translate in Gaelic and a cheer shot up from the amassed Gauls. Centauric nodded and shook Canio’s hand.

“I leave the defence in your hands.” Buccio said to the Gaul.

“We will be here in the morning, when you return.” Centauric said.

Buccio returned to his group of Volunteers, all of whom were fully armed and ready to march.

“No matter what happens, we’ll be caught in the woods come midnight.” He said. “Our only hope is to form an circular Tortoise, and hold through the night.” He looked at each man intently.

“Is that understood?” They nodded.

“Do I have to lock arms with this ugly bastard here?” Fortunis asked, standing next to Barsalus. Barsalus smacked him with his shield and the others laughed.

“Thank you men, thank you for coming.” He said.

“Now get your Arses in a column of two!” Arminius shouted. “We’ve got to move.”

Ventorix and his Gauls joined the Romans.

“What’s your plan Ventorix?” Buccio asked.

“We go to the cave, go in and find my daughter.” He said. “Thats as much as I...planned for.”
“Then we better get going so we don’t arrive too late.” Buccio said.

“Wait!” Parmenio shouted as he ran up to Buccio and Ventorix. He was beaming like a forty year old school kid who had just completed his homework. He held up a well worn journal. “I found it.”

Parmenio opened the book and, catching his breath, began to read a chant in an ancient form of Gaelic. The Gauls were stunned.

“Those sound like the words the Druid use to speak.” Ventorix said.

“They are. This is the chant they used. The one the Druids would speak at the time of the Autumn moon. Its a spell. Once cast, and an offering of pure, virgin blood is placed on the totem to Cernunnos, his demons were trapped in the underworld.” Parmenio shook the book joyously.
“Are you sure that’s the right passage?” Buccio asked.

“Yes. I was very young when I wrote it down, one of my first trips into Gaul. I wrote it word for word because I was so fascinated.”

“Good, then I can read it after we’ve rescued the girl.” Buccio said.

Parmenio shook his head and held the pages open. The words were in Greek.

“I wrote them down phoneticly, in Greek.” Parmenio said. “I’ll have to come along.”
“I think you planned that.” Parmenio smiled.

“I would have come anyways.” He said. Arminius stepped up to the Greek and stared at him with his one good eye.

“If you’re coming old man, you better get your shield and get your Arse in line!”

Parmenio jumped, grabbing his cloak, sword belt and shield. He hurried to get the gear on. Arminius winked at Buccio.

Buccio looked to Ventorix and his men.

“Lead the way.”

The Gauls shouldered their weapons and shields and headed over the stone rubble at the entrance of the round house. Arminius waved his hand and his Legionaires followed them. Buccio helped Parmenio get his satchel of books.

“Keep that one where we can find it.” Buccio said of the all important journal.

“I will.” He put it inside his cloak. “This is exciting.”

“So exciting, I might shit on myself.” Buccio said with a laugh.

They headed outside.

The odd column, a circle of Gauls, a column of Romans and a Greek and German bringing up the rear, headed down the wagon track towards the forest. Rain continued to fall, plinking off their helmets and shields and their feet splashed through puddles as they walked. Behind them, smoke and light emanated from the Great round house, but the rest of the village was a dark skeleton.

Thunder boomed over the distant hills and the land was filling with shadows. They continued on into the woods, silently, each man in his own thoughts.

The sky began to darken. Night was coming.




CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The sky is a rolling, dark gray mass with just a hint of orange beginning to creep in. A light, cold rain drizzles from above. Water drips from the bony limbs of the trees, forming puddles amid the dead, rotten leaves that cover the ground. Boots splash in the muck and a file of quiet men, some Gaul, some Roman, make their way through the darkening forest. Their faces are tight, and grim. Eyes peer left and right skittishly. The strange uneasiness that pervades these woods bites at their nerves, tickling their backbones and caressing the hairs that raise at the nape of their necks. They continue on. The men are burdened with bags of supplies, rope, javelyn’s, unlit torches, jugs of pitch or ale, and a quarter sack of salt.

Rain drips off the Brim of Buccio’s iron helmet. Through the drops he sees a shadow flit through the trees. He knows he shouldn’t look, but something about the shadow seemed familiar. He stares at it. The whispy image freezes and looks back at him. It is a beatiful, long haired Gallic woman. She has a round, smiling face with dark blue eyes and perfect lips. She turns to her side revealing the bulging belly of a pregnant woman.

“Ruida?” Buccio said, stopping in his tracks. A hand pushes him hard from behind.

“Begging your pardon, Centurio, but don’t stare into the woods. Your own orders.” Arminius said. He roughly pushed him ahead. That broke the spell and Buccio kept going. He looked back once more but the vision was gone.

They leave the trees and enter a perfectly round clearing. In the middle of which is a large stone pillar encrusted with human skulls. Buccio notices the abandoned Roman armour laying about on the Grass. Arminius picks up a glittering silver helmet with a converse crest of red horsehair. He hands it to Buccio. It is embossed with naked men and women and a name in Latin; Rufus.

They drop their gear near the totem and Arminius forms his six legionaires into a loose picket. Parmenio studies the totem. At its base, the stone is tinted black with a sort of laquer from years of blood offerings, human blood. One of the skulls has been shattered, half of it still embedded in the totem while the rest lies scattered at the base as bone fragments.

“Will that affect the magic?” Buccio asked.

“I don’t think so, as long as the totem still stands, it should be fine.”

“I know that this chant you are going to read is in an ancient form of Gaelic, but do you know what the words mean?” Buccio continued.

“Some what.” Parmenio said.

“Could you..” Buccio said, thinking about his words. “Could you change any of it, and still have it work?”

“What do you mean?”

“I want this to be the last spell anyone ever has to say. I want this to last forever.” Buccio stared at the Greek. “There are no more Druids left, and human sacrifice or blood offerings are forbidden under Roman law.” Parmenio pulled on his stout, gray beard and thought about it. The Gauls gathered around the totem, each one touching it. They had never seen the place before. They were both awed and nervous at being there.

“I don’t want to change the wording, and have it not work.” He said. “We may only get one chance at this. I can; however, add something at the end, in the Gaelic tounge, that may or may not have the effect you want.” Buccio smiled and patted the older man on the shoulder.

“Thats all I ask, at least try.”

Ventorix brings over his quarter sack of salt and stares at the ground around the pillar. Its not enough.

“Make a small circle around the base of the Totem.” Parmenio said. He steps over to the stained stone and motions for a circle.

“That won’t protect you.” Buccio said to Parmenio.

“No, but it may protect someone else.”

Ventorix pours all the salt in a line that forms a circle around the base of the totem. The three of them look at the tiny circle. It is just big enough for a child to stand in.

“I can say the words anytime, over and over if I want, but by themselves they won’t have any affect at all.” Parmenio said. “The key is the midnight offering. The blood of a virgin, an innoncent...”
“The blood of a child.” Ventorix said. “Caena.”

“She’s the key. That’s why Cernunnos wants her dead at midnight.”

“Then we must hurry.” Buccio said. Ventorix nodded. He pointed to the granite cliff close to the clearing which was topped by two more pillars of stone.

“The cave entrance is at the base of that cliff.”

Ventorix picks up a coil of rope, as does one of his other Gauls.

“Arminius.” Buccio called out. “I want you here.”

“I should come.” Arminius said. “I can see well enough.”

“I need you here. I need you to protect Parmenio no matter what. Form testudo, if you can, but Parmenio must complete the ceremony.” Buccio spoke quietly, but firmly. “You are the only one who can lead these men if I am not here.” Arminius stared down at the ground with his good eye. “Understood.”

“Yes.” Arminius said.

“Romans, stay here with Arminius and wait for us.” Buccio said. The Gauls were already heading off through the trees towards the cliff.

“There are six fire pots. Take four of them.” Parmenio said. “And a torch or two.”

Buccio picked up two of the clay jugs which were strung with rope and capped with linen smeared in pitch. He strung them over his shoulders and they dangled awkardly. The other two were grabbed by Bertolis, who strung them around his neck, then grabbed two unlit torches.

“I no Roman.” The big German said with a grin. “I come.”

“Good. Lets go.” He and Bertolis hurried to catch up with the Gauls. He stopped to look back at his men. They still formed a loose picket around the clearing, watching the Trees nervously.

“Attention!” Called Arminius, he stood stiffly near the totem. The men snapped straight like arrows. “Salute!” Arminius and the men raised their sword arms. Buccio raised his own, and nodded at Arminius. Parmenio waved. After that, Buccio and his huge German shadow, dissappeared into the woods.

Thunder rattled in the heavens and the clouds turned an angry red. Rain continued to fall.

“You men.” Arminius called out. “Form a line here.” He pointed along the front of the totem. The men ran over and formed a loose line. “Stand at ease, but don’t wander.” The men rested their shields on the ground and against a leg. None of them talked, and no one stopped watching the trees.

“Lot of good those fire pots will do in this rain.” Arminius said looking at the last two clay jugs filled with Parmenio’s ‘Greek fire’ mixture.

“Don’t worry, if you can get them going, nothing will put them out, not even water.” Parmenio said. “We will need to light one and put it atop the totem so I can read by.” He started to rummage inside his cloak. “Now where did I put that book.”

“If you’ve lost that book old man...” Arminius said in a huff. Parmenio smiled and pulled out a leather bound codex. He waved it at him, then put it back inside his cloak to keep it dry.

“By the Gods if only this rain would stop.” Fortunis said from the line.

“Its not one of our Gods controlling this miserable weather.” Parmenio said. He and Arminius stared intently at the pillar of stone with its grisly decorations.

“Cernunnos.”

“The horned one,” Parmenio added. “Gallic God of the underworld and of Animals.”

Ventorix leads his Gauls along with Buccio and Bertolis, down a narrow animal track that has been chewed up by hundreds of large paw marks. The track leads to an outcropping of fractured, dark gray rock. Water pours down its slick suface in small rivulets. The men follow in silence as Ventorix leads them along the edge of the rock. Finally they come to a crack in the cliff face, taller than a man and about twice as wide. Buccio looks up, but the sheer mass of the cliff face nearly obliterates the sky. He can, however, see the two stone monoliths on the cliff top above, almost directly over the mouth of the cave. Ventorix follows his gaze.

“Our people have known of this cave since we first settled here.” He said. “They use to send warriors down to fight the demons, but they never came back.” He pointed to the two stone pillars.

“Those line up with the moon and the sacred clearing. It was an early Druid that cast the first spell and gave the first offering that placated Cernunnos and trapped his Beasts.”

One of the Gauls, a tall man named Algarth, stepped just inside the cave where it was dry. He bent down and pulled straw and two stone flints from a leather purse tucked under his cloak. With a few hard CLACKS, sparks flew from the stone and the straw began to smoke. When the small fire lit, the men filed in, each unwrapping the leather that had protected the head of their torches, and lit them. The cave was alight in a bright yellow glow. Ventorix makes a silent prayer, then leads the way down into the cave.

The walls close until only they are only wide enough for a one man. They are black, slimy walls, scarred by countless claw scratches. Here and there, water drips down the face of the rock. The dirt that had been on the floor of the cave for the first twenty feet, soon gave way to jumbled and crushed rock. Buccio’s hobnailed boots crunched loudly on it. The Gauls boots were only leather soled and did not make a sound. Here and there the walls would widen out and the ground would again be covered in sand. In one such area, a stack of rusted chainmail lay in a corner. Eventually the passage opened into a wide bowl. The men formed into a group and looked about. It seemed a dead end. Torches lit the bowl brightly but there was no exit other than the one they had come in.

“Did we pass another chamber?” Buccio asked.

“No.” Ventorix said. He shown his torch upward and looked to the ceiling. Nothing but black stone and a few pale white stalagmites.

“Magic of some sort.” Algarth thought aloud.

Bertolis left the group and began walking along the edge of the walls, he shown his torch low and followed the cirlce. At one very black spot, a slight wind sucked at the flames. He bent down and looked at the black spot, he pushed in the torch and discovered it was a knee high tunnel.

“Here!”

The others rushed over.

“They are animals, Ja? They crawl, so we crawl.”

Buccio and Ventorix squat and look down the tunnel.

“We crawl.” Ventorix said. “But I hope its not too long.”

“This is a good place for a fire pot.” Buccio said pointing at the narrow tunnel mouth. “I mean, when we come back this way, we’ll probably have company. A fire pot would block this opening for awhile.” Ventorix nodded in agreement. Buccio took one of the four firepots that Parmenio had given him, and placed it to the side of the tunnel mouth. Algarth took one of the spare torches he carried and jammed it deep into the sand beside the fire pot, then lit it.

“After you.” Buccio said. Ventorix strapped his shield over his back, and got on his hands and knees. With one hand he held his spear and torch, while the other groped ahead. The tunnel was high enough they didn’t have to crawl on their bellies.

“Keep back a little so you don’t burn my ass off.” Ventorix said then he crawled off into the darkness. Buccio followed his example with the shield and torch, waited a moment and then he too went in on hands and knees. Each man followed, with Bertolis being the last. He thought he might get stuck as he was a big man, but the tunnel was just wide enough to let him through.

The tunnel bends downward. The men’s hard breathing echoe within it. Suddenly Ventorix torchlight reveals two shiny eyes. A large Rat SQUEALS and runs off. It had been chewing on what looked like a human finger. The tunnel opens up at the top and Ventorix can stand, he shines the torch around. The walls are drier here, blacker and still only as wide as a man, but he can not see a ceiling. The passage continues down, following a spiral set of rocks that resemble stairs. He continues on and each man stands and follows. The last Gaul, Algarth, stays a moment to help big bertolis get back to his feet.

“Germans are not to be in tunnels.” He said.

“Gauls neither, but we’re here.” They hurry to catch up with the others whose fire glows are quickly dissappearing downward.

The downward spiral ends on a much wider, even, section of cave. Here the rock walls are not so smooth, they are fractured and creviced. The floor is sandy and showed countless claw prints. One of the Gauls, a stout bodied fellow with flowing red hair named Ballick, was noticably stammering his legs in the dirt.

“What is it Ballick?” Ventorix asked.

“I need to pee.” The other’s hissed, and then laughed.

“Well, hurry it up man.”

Ballick rushed over to an outcropping of rock and set his shield, spear and torch down against it. Quickly he peeled down his breeches and began his business with a splash of water against stone and a sigh of relief. The rock outcropping moved, and two blood red eyes opened, staring at him. Ballick was oblivious until the outcropping snarled. Suddenly a hairy hand lunged out of the darkness and a strong, clawed grip tore into the Gaul’s throat. Black nails dug into the soft flesh, poking through his windpipe and jugular veins. Blood sprayed forth like a fountain and the Beast lapped at it with its thick, black tounge. Algarth and Bertolis rush to Ballick’s side, but he was already dead. The Beast used the body like a shield, batting it against both onrushing men. It growled deeply until Bertolis swung down heavily with his axe, splitting its skull in two. Black brains splattered against the rock and the two bodies, man and beast fell in one big lump on the ground.

“A sentry.” Buccio said. “By the Gods, they think like...us, like men.”

“We must hurry.”

Ventorix turns his torchlight back down the cavern and continues on, quickening the pace.

“Stay alert, both sides, look for more sentries.” Buccio said as they hurried in a line two abreast.

Ventorix stops at what appears another dead end. He flashes his light downward.

“Who has the rope?”

A tall fellow by the name of Ferrix steps up and begins to unwind a hemp rope from around his chest and shoulders.

The other men gather around and look down. The torchlight reveals an opening in the ground. It’s a well like tunnel, with smooth black walls, leading straight down into the bowels of the earth.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Ventorix led the way down the rope with his shield on his back, spear tucked into his sword belt, and torch clamped between his teeth. He moved quickly but carefully, now and then sparks would fly when he would scrape the tunnel wall with an end of the torch. The walls were slimy and wet. No way to use them for footholds to help with his descent. It would be harder coming back up. Buccio left another firepot and a spare torch at the top of this tunnel. That left them two for whatever they ran up against later. His mind was planning for what he knew would be a desperate escape, a race between the survivors and the Beasts. The well was short, most of the rope was coiled like a snake on the sandy floor where it opened out into another level passage. Ventorix couldn’t see how the Beast could climb without rope, but they must have, unless there was another way out.

The passage here smelled both musty and wet. Water could be heard dripping from rock and plinking with a ripple on another surface watery surface. Ventorix waited til his men all joined him and they continued on. The walls were wide enough for two men and high. The rock was wet, stained with green streaks that resembled tears. Here and there, along the edge of the stone, were small pools of water. Their images were reflected in each glassy pool as they walked by. This tunnel was not straight, but kept zig zagging back and forth.

Ventorix stopped, holding up his hand. Buccio stepped next to him.

“Listen.” Ventorix said softly. Both men listened.

It was barely noticable at first, but there was a sound. A steady, faint hiss of breath, rising and lowering like when a man slept. But these sounds did not come from one sleeping mouth, but hundreds. Ventorix put a finger to his mouth and then handed Buccio his torch. He crept forward, keeping low and against the stone wall. The far end of the passage opened out onto a huge, gaping cavern with rocky shelves, outcroppings, and pointed stalagmites. A large pool of black water lay at a lower portion to the right. Amongst the rocky outcroppings, and the sand of the main cavern, lay hundreds of large, black hairy bodies, curled up like dogs, sleeping. There were crystals encrusted in the walls that glowed faintly. Ventorix eyes took a moment to adjust but then he could see clearly that there was a pathway leading from the passage where he was, to the far side of the great cavern. At that end there was a short stairway carved in the rock leading to a narrow opening. Another chamber from which their was a feint glow of light. He knew she would be there, and that she was still alive, he could feel it. He had lost track of time, but if the Beasts were still asleep, it couldn’t be midnight yet. Ventorix crept back to the others.

“Its a huge cavern. The Demons are asleep on the ground.” He said.

“Won’t be asleep for long.” Buccio said. “Did you see her?”

“There’s another chamber at the far side. She’s there.” He looked at Buccio. “What do you think?”

“Let’s go get her, you and me. The rest of you wait here with these.” He hands them the last two fire pots and the torches. “Keep quiet, and be ready to move, whatever happens.” They nodded.

Buccio unstrapped his boots an slides them off. The sand is wet and mucky between his toes. Bertolis puts a big hand on the Centurio’s shoulder.

“I stay until you come out. So hurry your arse up.” The German grinned, and Buccio nodded. He and Ventorix crept away into the darkness.

Parmenio stared at the heavens. The clouds broiled against one another, the last blood red tinge of dusk had faded away and the sky was dark. The rain never let up. The men had stood for an hour as a picket around the totem. Then Arminius had allowed them to make lean to’s of their shields against the rocky pillar and keep out of the rain. One man stood guard, and that was Arminius.

“When should you read your prayer old man?” Arminius asked. He was completely soaked by the rain, but the wool cloak still kept him warm.

“I guess I could say the first part now. The last line would have to wait til we have a blood offering for the totem.”

Parmenio fumbled inside his cloak for the book. Arminius stepped over and lifted his shield over him to keep the rain off.

“Fortunis. Light me a torch.” He said.

Fortunis scrambled up and from his pack grabbed dry straw and flints. Like the Gauls it did not take long to start a fire, but he kept it under his shield so the rain would not put it out. He too stood next to Parmenio, holding the torch in one hand and his shield overhead in the other. One by one the other Romans did the same, making a canopy over the Greeks head so that he was out of the rain. Parmenio opened the book and ran a finger down the page til he came to the passage.

“Here goes. No one interupt me. I must say it all in one go.” He took a breath, read the lines a few times to himself like an actor preparing for a part, then read the strange words aloud.

BAABOOOOM! Thunder suddenly broke overhead. It jarred the men. Parmenio stumbled over a word but continued. Again the thunder roared, followed by a flash of lightning that crackled across the clouds and blinded them.

“Someone doesn’t like those words.” Arminius said. Parmenio continued to recite the chant. Rain lashed out harder. Drenching the roof of shields. A wind howled against into their faces and threatend to extinguish the torch. Fortunis protected it as best he could. Parmenio took a breath and continued to read aloud. Pale shadows began to move through the tree’s. They bobbed and floated amongst the dark shapes, surrounding the clearing. The Romans began to waver. They were, by nature, a very superstitious people. Demons were mostly flesh and blood and cold be killed, but ghosts scared these hardend warriors. Arminius could feel cold fingers tickling the back of his neck.

“Bah!” He said. “Ghosts are to frighten children, not Roman soldiers.” He said. This calmed his men and the pale visions dissappeared.

Parmenio finished his ancient chant with a sentence in normal Gaelic.

“And let this spell last as long as the stone that binds it.” He looked upon the totem and it seemed to glow feintly with an eerie green light. “Now we shall see, its up to the Centurio and the Gauls.” He said, closing the book and returning it to the folds inside his cloak. Arminius steps over and draws something from within his own cloak. It is a long slender, silver embossed dagger.

“Here, you’ll need this when they bring the girl. Centauric gave it to us.” He handed the small blade to the Greek. Parmenio examined the sharp, thin blade. “Won’t be any good against one of those Demons. Well, I guess you could stab one in the eye, but I don’t think that would kill it, just piss it off.”

“I’ll leave you to fight the Demons Optio. Just keep them off me and the child long enough to say my last words.” He ran a finger along the blade and it cut a fine line that began to bleed. He winced. “This blade will do.”

Arminius barked an order to his men and they formed a loose circle around the totem, resting their shields against a leg and the ground. The sky was still angry, rumbling with thunder and spewing cold, lashing rain at the Romans. The salt circle around the totem began to dissolve away.

“Hurry.” Parmenio said quietly. They waited in silence.

Buccio and Ventorix inched ahead slowly, stepping gingerly among the sleeping, beastly forms curled up on the cavern floor. They crouched low, Buccio holding his gladius and Ventorix his large war axe. Their shields were strapped to their backs. The room was dimly lit from the crystals in the walls, and a feint golden glow from the torches held by Bertolis and the other Gauls at the tunnel entrance. It was enough to see by and both men moved their feet carefully. Missing a black hairy limb here, or a tail there. A Beast shifted position, smacking its lips and spitting saliva out. It growled slightly but didn’t open it’s eyes. The two men froze, then continiued on. The animals slept with mouths open, drooling at the corner of their mouths and breathing heavily.

One Beast barred its teeth and snarled loudly. The two men froze again. The animal seemed to be having a nightmare, if it were possible. It rolled to its side and yawned, opening its big, nasty mouth to exhale. Buccio’s winced at the smell. He stuck his face into his cloak and took several quick breaths. Ventorix shook his shoulder and they continued on bypassing the yawning Beast. Buccio’s feet were bare and his toes suddenly squished into a mound of stinking, mud like dung. An animal nearby suddenly convulsed and its tail propped up so it could squeeze out another gushy pile of dung. It never woke up while doing so, but flailed its feet as if kicking dirt over something.

They moved to the rough cut stone stairwell and stepped lightly up the cold steps. At the opening, they each took a side and carefully peered in. Ventorix nearly dropped his axe at what he saw within.

The room inside was small, a simple squared chamber. The walls were heavily encrusted with the strange glowing crystals and so too was a pillar of rock that stood in the very center of the room. It was a totem, like the one in the clearing, only it did not have human skulls. Instead it was decorated with the recently decapitated heads of Gallic children. At the base of the totem Caena lay curled up in deep sleep. Next to her, stroking her head gently was her dead mother.

Ventorix stood in a stupor.

“That can’t be.” He muttered.

“It’s a trick, don’t believe your eyes.” Buccio said, trying to shake the man out of his trance.

The ghostly pale vision of Caena’s mom sensed them near and began to hiss.

“Come on man, now!” Buccio said as he rushed into the chamber, sword at the ready. Quickly he pulled his shield from his back. Ventorix followed.

Caena awoke with a start and rushed to her mom crying loudly.

“Shhhhh. No little one, its me.” Ventorix said, softly, yet he held his axe out menacingly.

“Papa?” Caena slowed, tears still falling from her tiny cheeks.

“Yes, Caena. Its me.” He kneels and his face brightens.

The mother hisses again and her pale unearthly hands reach for the little girl. A gladius flies through the air and pierces the vision where the woman’s heart would have been. The ghost vanishes and the sword clatters to the ground.

Caena screams again, but there is no time for soothing. Ventorix scoops her up in his arms. Buccio retrieves his sword.

“Let’s go. That scream would have woke up the dead!” They rush to the entrance of the chamber. Ventorix slides Caena over his shoulders. She keeps her arms wrapped about his neck but her body is nestled firmly between him and the shield still strapped to his back.

“Hold on tight.” He said then he hefted his axe up and nodded to Buccio.

A Beast suddenly exploded into the room, hissing with a show of fangs and froth. Buccio thrust his gladius deep into the animal’s throat and kicked it back down the stairs.

“Now!” He said, as he led the way down the stairwell. Ventorix followed close on his heels. The cavern floor was a sea of squirming, waking black, hairy bodies. Beasts woke with a start, some sitting up or squating on all fours. A few snapped at one another after the shock of being woken up so suddenly. Some growled like irritated old men.

Buccio and Ventorix stepped over the first few bodies at the base of the steps, and ran as fast as they could. Waking Beasts began snapping at their feet as they ran by. Buccio used his heavy scutum to smash a sleepy, yawning Beast out of his way. The animal hissed as it rolled onto a group of others that woke with a start and snapped at it.

Claws slashed out at their feet. One set of black nails slashed through Ventorix’s ankle, leaving five ugly streaks of oozing blood. He grimaced at the pain, but kept his balance and continued to run, hanging onto Buccio’s backside. Another claw ripped at Buccio’s cloak, then locked around his right calf. The centurio jolted to a stop. Ventorix slammed down with his axe, chopping the clawed hand in half. The Beast howled as Ventorix kicked it away and pushed Buccio back into movement. The two continued to run.

The cavern air became hot and fetid. Beasts were howling and hissing, the sounds echoeing off the walls, drowning out all other noise. One Demon jumped from the darkness, landing squarely onto Buccio’s shield, biting the rim as it landed, tearing a big chunk of the leather lining its edge. The weight knocked the man backward, but as his back hit the ground he kicked the shield up with his feet and the Beast flew off. It tumbled head over heals into other animals, knocking them over into a mass of flailing limbs. A second Beast roared out of the darkness, mouth agape, teeth ready to bite down onto the Roman trying to regain his feet. A dull streak of metal flew overhead, glinting in the greenish glow of the crystal encrusted walls. The wide bladed axe cleaved completely through the Animal’s open mouth, chopping off the top half of its head, which flew off into the darkness in a spray of black blood. The rest of the animal fell like a boulder onto the ground. Buccio regained his feet and the two ran on. Claws ripped at them, slashing arms, thighs, but they kept moving. One Demon’s claws reached for Caena, but only managed to scrape down the shield slung across Ventorix’s back.

A smaller Beast suddenly lunged out of the darkness from the left, slamming into Buccio’s body and hugging him. The animal instantly bit into his side. The long ivory fangs crunched down onto the iron chainmail. A few of the teeth poked through the rings and into the man’s flesh, but most didn’t, and some of the animal’s fangs cracked and splintered. Buccio ignored the pain, and clamped down on the Beasts head with his arm, so it could not pull away. Then he pointed the gladius at the animal’s eye and thrust it deep into the socket until the tip hit bone on the otherside of its skull. The thing went limp and buccio kicked it away, ripping the sword out as it fell, pulling out brain matter and black ooze. Ventorix again pushed at the man to keep him moving, but Beast were already lining up shoulder to shoulder to bare their way.

Buccio slammed another demon to the side with his scutum, but both men stopped, standing side by side, breathing heavily. Beasts swarmed into a circle around them, howling, gnashing their teeth and spitting stinky saliva at them. Their run had come to an end. They couldn’t see how far away the tunnel was beyond the wall of black furry bodies. Both men stood back to back, weapons held tightly and ready to swing.

Caena buried her face into her father’s shoulders. He could feel her little body trembling and her tears dripped onto his neck. Ventorix elbowed Buccio to get his attention. The Centurio glanced his way.

“I don’t want them to get their hands on her.” He said through gritted teeth. He pulled a long, silver dagger from his belt and held it for Buccio to take. “Be quick, and merciful.” The Gaul face was like stone, but tears welled in his eyes.

The demons suddenly howled and as one, they rushed forward.




CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

The huge cavern seem to vibrate with noise as the Beast charged. Over their heads, two brown objects with flames flickering from them, tumbled through the air and fell at their feet. With a loud CRACK the clay pots shattered and their oily, black contents spewed out. The puddle caught fire instantly and a wall of flames shot up. The animals hissed and balked, several burst into flames. These began to shriek and thrash out maddly, unable to put out the fire, but causing other beasts to back off or dodge our of the way. Those that couldn’t, caught fire as well.

A Beast, cringing back from the flames, was suddenly flung head over heels into the fire. It jumped to its feet, but was already ablaze and ran off howling. Bertolis threw a second into the fire then knocked a third sideways with a powerful punch from his round shield. Algarth and another Gaul did the same to the right, knocking Beasts back or into the flames.

“Come on!” Buccio yelled and he and Ventorix ran through the open spot created by their comrades.

“Alright little one?” Ventorix said.

“Yes papa.” Caena said. They ran to the tunnel and kept going, Buccio in the lead, followed by Ventorix, Bertolis and the five Gauls. The last two men holding torches as they ran. A general howling roared from the cavern they had just left. The Beast would be rushing after them. The tunnel is narrow, the Demons can only rush them one or two at a time. One comes crashing along the tunnel walls and the last Gaul, Ferrix, spears him with his torch, the Beast burns. Others freeze behind him, until in its dying twitches it rolls to a side. The animals rush on. The tunnel is chocked full of black, hairy bodies trying to outrun eachother and get to the humans. The men round another of the zig zagging corners, the last man, a Gaul, throws a heavy spear at the first Beast that comes scampering around the bend. It plunges through the animal’s body pinning it to the tunnel wall. It lives, having not been pierced through the head or the heart, but momentarily blocks the tunnel since it can not pull the haft free. Other Beast simply tear the hapless one apart with their claws in order to pass. A terrible yelping echoes off the tunnel walls.

Ventorix reached the upward chimney chute with the coiled rope still dangling in place. He slides his axe handle through his sword belt and then hand over hand, begins to climb the rope. The cord creaks with the weight and Ventorix muscles strain. Buccio and Bertolis reach him and push him upwards. Soon Algarth, Ferrix and the three other Gauls are there. The last three form a shield wall at the last bend in the tunnel.

Ventorix slides back down, his hands unable to pull himself up the rope with the added weight of shield, armor and his daughter.

“Bertolis, you first.” Buccio said, breathing hard. “Algarth, you too. The two of you can then pull Ventorix up.” The two big men nodd and slide their shields onto their backs. Algarth looks up and with a mighty heave, tosses a lighted torch high up the chimney. It rolls away at the top, but a bright yellow light can be seen. Bertolis leaps up and in a grunt begins climbing the rope, followed closely by Algarth.

“Here they come.” One of the Gauls forming the shield wall, called out. It wasn’t neccessary, the Growling and sounds of dozens of pointed nails scraping against rock could be heard. They rushed the shields, banging into them, hammering down onto the rims with claws and biting at the wood. Buccio and Ferrix thrust over the shoulders of the men holding up the shields. One Beast was speared through the mouth and fell away, another had the top of his skull clipped off by Ferrix’s sword. A Beast attempted to climb up on the shoulders of the demons pushing against the shields, but Buccio singed its face with the last remaining torch. The Beast fell away but was soon ablaze causing a commotion amid the dark beastly mass in the tunnel. The smoke and smell of burning black fur was thick in the stifling air.

“Get ready!” Came Algarth’s voice from above.

“Go on.” Buccio said to Ventorix. The man gripped the rope and held on firmly.

“Ready.” He was suddenly yanked up and into the darkness. Caena yelped in surprise.

“Got you.” Came Bertolis thick voice. “Next!”

Buccio pulled Ferrix back away from the shield wall and held the rope out to him.

“No.” Ferrix said.

“Don’t argue with me man, get up that damn rope!” Buccio yelled, pushing the rope at the man. Ferrix plunged his sword back into its sheath and held onto the rope. A moment later he was whisked upwards.

Buccio looked at the three Gauls holding the shield wall against the Beasts. They rushed at them two abreast with dozens behind them, pushing. The men began to slide backwards, feet not be able to grip the moldy sand on the floor.

“Centurio.” One called out in Gaelic. “You better go while you can.” The men were straining to hold back the black tide of death. The rope dangled back down the chute.

“Two now, Herr Centurio.” Came Bertolis voice again.

Buccio grimaced. The three Gauls would never make it if they broke the shield wall, and he couldn’t leave these men to their fate.

“Buccio!” Ventorix yelled from above. “Catch.”

Buccio looked up and could see a round shadow falling downward. He held his hands out and caught it. A firepot!

He smiled and lit the rag linen jammed into the pots mouth.

“Get ready! All of us will climb the rope, leave your shields, they will only hinder you.” Plus, Buccio knew the wood would burn nicely. He lifted the smoking pot above his head. “Now!”

The three Gauls dropped their shields and ran behind the Centurio, sliding their weapons into their belts. One after the other they began to climb up the rope.

Buccio hurled the firepot at the stacked shields. PWWOOOFFF! The claypot smashed and the shields lit up like a bonfire, creating a wall of flame between them and the angry mass of black demons. Their eyes burned red in the darkness and they hissed and snarled, but they would not cross the flames.

Buccio stood, shield ready, torch in hand, until the Gauls were up the chute.

“Your turn Herr Centurio!” Came the German. Buccio wrapped the rope around his arms and held on firmly.

“Raus, bitte” He spoke in German. Bertolis could be heard laughing as the rope suddenly yanked upwards taking Buccio with it.

A demon charged through the burning shields, his body caught flame instantly, but he rushed on, trying to claw at the Roman’s bare feet. He managed to get a fiery hand around Buccio’s ankle and began to rise with him. Buccio dropped his torch onto the Beast red eyes, and his head exploded in flame. The Beast withered to and fro, slamming against the wall of the chimney chute, until finally, its grip slackend and it fell away.

At the top of the shaft, the Gauls and Bertolis help Buccio to his feet. They still have two torches. Below them, the glow from the bonfire is diminishing.

“That bought us a little time.” Buccio said.

“Let’s hurry.” Ventorix said and he again led the way, followed by Algarth with the spare torch that had been stashed with the firepot. Up they went, through the fractured, natural stairwell of rock.
Bertolis slaps Buccio hard on the shoulder.

“I’m okay.” The Centurio said trying to steady himself from the big man’s blow. Bertolis pulls a pair of hobnailed, Roman boots from within his cloak.

“You need these on the rocks.” The German smiled.

“I beginning to think,” Buccio said, grabbing the boots and throwing them on his feet. “That you are my mother.” Bertolis smiled.

“Ja.” Both men then followed the others.

The chimney chute began to echo with the sounds of nails grabbing onto rock. A howl of bloodlust resounds through the chambers.

The Romans around the clearing shake out their cloaks as the rain finally stopped falling. The ground was puddled here and there and muddy. Water dripped down the face of the totem, falling off the skulls like tears. The air was cold and moist, smelling of wet grass. Parmenio carefully molded what was left of the salt into a circle, now even smaller than before. He didn’t know if wet salt was as pure as dry, but there was no time to worry about it. He couldn’t see the moon through the choking black clouds, but he knew it was almost time.

Torches were lit and a golden, warming glow, lighted the faces of the men. They still formed a loose square in front of the totem, resting shield and Pilum against their wet legs.

Arminius was restless, pacing back and forth in front of his men, watching the stone cliff not far away, waiting.

“Won’t be too much longer.” Parmenio said as he placed the two firepots next to the totem. He lit the last torch and jammed it into the open mouth of one of the skulls. The light shone eerily on the weathered old, bones. The dark eye sockets flickered with light as if ghostly eyes peered out.
The trees were silent, except for the dripping of water. A light breeze rustled through the leaves and Arminius shivered from its touch. The torchlight flickered, casting shadows onto the grass. Roman shadows, not the nasty beasty kind with burning red eyes.

“Come on Buccio.” Arminius said in a grimace. “Where are you?”

One by one the Beasts crawl out of the chimney shaft and scamper up the stairwell of rock. They are like ravenous wolves, drooling at the mouth, snapping their teeth at the scent of the men. Their eyes burn red with murder and they rush on, climbing over one another in their race to feast on blood.

The tunnel’s twists and turns and rocky floor are slowing the men down. They scramble over the fractured rock, climbing upwards. The tunnel is narrow. Their torchlight flickers off the wall. The neverending howl that echoes off the wall pounds into their ears. The golden glow on the wall suddenly shows a loping shadow, first one, then more. The last Gaul looks over his shoulder and sees the last sight of his life. A huge black face, rushing at him, mouth open wide, saliva dripping from a row of inch long fangs. The Beast chomps down onto the man’s face, ripping the flesh from bone, exposing a red stained skull before the man could even yell. The body falls under the weight of the animal and it rips and shreds his neck, arms and legs. Only the body, encased in Roman chain mail, is spared. Blood sprays onto the dark rock. Other Beast leap over the first one and claim another Gaul. the man turns to swing his sword, but it is too late. Two of the Beast clamp their jaws down onto him, one around the throat, the other on top of his head. Blood gushes into the animals mouth and they rip away flesh in a frenzy. One munches on a mass of blood smeared, brown hair.

Ventorix reaches the crawl space. He breathes heavily and waits for the others.

“Centurio, go first. Remember the last fire pot.” He said. Buccio nodds, then gingerly gets down on his hands and knees, cradling his shield and torch under him, he crawls off as quick as he can. Ventorix pulls Caena from his back.

“You next, follow the Roman closely, don’t be scared.” He pushes her into the low tunnel. “I’ll be right behind you.” She can actually walk, hunched over, in this tunnel and does so, following the pale white of Buccio’s legs. Ventorix looks back at Bertolis and his men.

“Go on!” Algarth yells to him. Ventorix nodds and then crawls off following his daughter and Buccio. Bertolis grabs Ferrix and shoves him down to the tunnel. The Gaul is shocked.

“You!” Bertolis said, shoving the man onto the heels of Ventorix. Ferrix doesn’t argue he crawls as fast as he can, cradling his shield. Algarth holds up his torch. The light reveals the onrushing shadows. The sound of frenzied eating can also be heard as well as the dog like panting and nails scraping against stone as more and more demons fill the tunnel. Bertolis grabs the next Gaul by the nape of his neck, and pushes him down to the crawl space. He starts to struggle.

“You have no shield.” The big German said, “Better you go now.” The Gaul crawls off.

Bertolis looks to Algarth. Both are big men.

“Don’t try to push me German.” Algarth said. “I am as big as you.” A howl erupts into their ears, and they see red eyes peering at them from the last bend in the narrow tunnel.

Algarth pulls a silver Greek coin from a leather pouch on his belt. He shows the German that one side has an owl and the other, the helmeted head of Athena. Bertolis knows the game.

“Owl.” He chooses.

Algarth flips the coin. It flies up into the darkness, a silver glint in the glow from Algarth’s torch. When it falls, Bertolis grabs it. He opens his fingers revealing the face of Athena.

“You go.” Algarth said. The Beast rushes, loping like a hungry wolve. “Now!” Bertolis shakes the man’s hand. “You can keep the coin.” Algarth smiles.

Bertolis throws his big body down and squirms away like a giant worm.

Algarth faces the oncoming Demon, holding his shield before him. He yells a Gaelic battle cry that echoes through the chamber, and then hurls the torch at the beast. A shower of sparks ignite the animal’s head and it howls as flames burst over it. A second Beast leaps over the first one and snaps at Algarth’s shield. He pulls his sword and thrust it through this one’s mouth, pushing the blade deep into its head. Black blood sprays him on the chin. He can taste the putrid salty ooze and spits it back into the animals dying eyes. Another Demon, then a fourth rush at him, one by one, as the tunnel walls are narrow. Algarth holds them back with his shield. Hacking onto the furry heads with his sword and yelling his war cry to drown out their own growls and hisses.

“If Cernunnos wants a feast, let him dine on your rotten hides!” Algarth said, slashing through the throat of another beast. The animal’s growl ends in a gurgle of blood that soaks the man’s arm. A claw reaches out from the side and its nails slice through the exposed arm, digging deep, gouging out flesh and muscle down to the bone. Algarth drops his sword, yelling in pain as he withdrew his arm. His shield, running from his chin to his ankles, held firm, and he pushed back with his shoulder’s holding the beasts at bay. Suddenly a Demon leapt above the one biting down on the shields upper rim. This one landed on his comrade’s shoulders and bit down onto Algarth’s helmet. The fangs shattered on the bronze coolus.

“Hah!” Algarth yelled. “Choke on Roman bronze you...” His words were cut short by the claws that reached under the shield and yanked on his ankles. He fell hard onto his back. He slammed into the dirt, but still held the shield firmly atop him. A Beast loped over him and headed for the crawl space. The man let go of the shield and grabbed the animal by its hind leg, holding it desparetly. The Beast dragged the man for a moment then spun about and chomped down onto his arm. Bones cracked with the bite. Another beast pushed the shield aside and bit down ferosciously into the man’s exposed thighs. Blood was flung against the walls and Algarth screamed.

Bertolis was the last to scramble out of the crawl space. Long, agonized screams echoed for a moment through the crawl space then there was silence. Buccio squat and stared back down the tunnel. Red eyes could be seen staring back.

“Light the last fire pot.” Fortunis took the torch and lit the rag atop the clay pot. He slid it over with his foot, and Buccio picked it up. He stood back away from the tunnel mouth. From within, and closing, came the panting of the Beasts. The sand muffled the sound of their paws clawing at the ground, but the low unmistakable growls were easy enough to hear. Bertolis threw his small round shield down at the entrance.

“Will burn good.” He said.

Buccio threw the fire pot down hard onto the iron pot shaped boss in the center of the shield. It cracked and dark resin spilled out. With a Woossshhh the flames caught and the mouth of the tunnel was closed by a ball of fire. Beasts hissed from within an the flames bent with their breath, but didn’t go out.

The survivors caught stood by for a moment catching their breath. Ventorix picked up his daughter and held her close.

“We have to hurry, its almost midnight, I can feel it.” Buccio said. Ventorix nodded and lead the way out of the cave.

“I need you to do something Caena.” He said trying to say it as soothing as possible, “It will not be pleasant, but very, very important.”

Her little eyes were watery but she did not cry, she nodded and hug him around his neck as tightly as she could.

The flames blocking the tunnel were already beginning to thin out, and red eyes peered through impatiently waiting.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN



There was a sudden rustling amongst the dark trees. Arminius had been leaning against the totem, head bobbing back and forth while he fought sleep, when the sounds startled him.

“Stand to!” He yelled, rubbing his bleary eyes, and staring into the darkness. The six legionaires snapped to attention, lifting their shields and hefting Pila onto their shoulders. The feint sounds became a crashing in the underbrush and a crackling of twigs.

Ggggggrrrrraaaaaarrrrrr! A growling, hissing and terrible wolf like howling suddenly filled the air. These came from the cliff but grew in intensity coming from several dark, hairy throats.

They came out of the trees like hurried ghosts, and Arminius almost ordered his men to throw their pila.

“Damn! By all the Gods, you’re alive!” He shouted, a bit out of anger, a bit out of joy, as the survivors crashed through the bush and came running into the clearing. Ventorix in the lead, carrying his daughter, Buccio, Fortunis, the last remaining Gaul and the Big German, Bertolis, bringing up the rear.

“Their right behind us Arminius!” Buccio said as they approached the totem. Already, shadows could be seen loping through the dark trees. Here and there, red pinpricks stared out of the blackness.

“We might stand a chance if we could form testudo.” Arminius said, but he already knew the answer.

“Not enough men.” Buccio said, trying to catch his breath. Parmenio stood by the pillar of stone, he held his book in one hand, and the silver knife in the other. At his feet were the two last fire pots and a torch was jammed through the jaws of one of the skulls in the pillar.

“You ready?” Buccio asked the man.

“Yes, I’ve already said most of the chant. I just need to say the last sentence and then....” He hesitated, looking at the frightend little girl and the fierce Gaul who held her.

“I need to draw a little of her blood.” Parmenio held up the knife. “Its very sharp, a simple cut across the finger or arm, should do, then I’ll wipe it on the totem for effect.” The girl had tears running down her cheeks, but she didn’t cry or complain.

Hulking shadows encircled the clearing, growling, pawing at the earth, ready to charge.

“A circle.” Buccio said calmly, looking at each man as he spoke. “The totem will be the center man, then five men to each side, forming a circle around Parmenio and the girl.” No one moved. They stared at the movements in the trees, and at the red eyes staring at them with blood lust.

“You heard the Centurio!” Arminius yelled, kicking a few of the men to get them moving. They scrambled around the totem. “We hold them off the Greek and the Child. Understood!” No one answered. Fear had crept into their nerves.

“I said did you fucking understand me!” Arminius yelled lividly. The men barked out a unified “Yes sir.”

Buccio and Ventorix stood to the left of the totem, while Arminius and Bertolis, who took up Parmenio’s shield from the ground, stood to the right. Behind them stretched a cirlce of six legioniares and a Gaul. Ventorix bent down and set Caena within the salted circle by the base of the totem.

“Don’t be scared.” He said, though he knew she was, and hard as he tried not to show it, he was too. He stood and faced the woods. Caena watched the slender, white haired man before her as he flipped open his book.

“You can read and write?” He asked the child.

“No.” She said softly.

“Well, I will have to teach you one day.” He spoke softly and warmly.

A tremendous roar shattered the near silence and tree limbs swayed and crashed to the ground as the Demons of hell rushed from the forest. Every Beasts frothed at the mouth, growled and hissed as it ran and bit at the very air, gnashing their long, pointed teeth. They came from every direction, some on all fours, some on two legs, all racing to be the first to tear apart the humans.

“Pardon me child.” Parmenio said calmly. He took his torch and lit first one and then the other firepot. The soaked linen smoked. He handed the girl the torch.

“Use this as a weapon, they hate fire.” She held it firmly. Parmenio picked up one pot then lobbed it over Buccio’s head. It shattered a few feet away and a ball of flame created a small bonfire. He threw the other one over the rear end of the cirlce and it too created a small, dense fire. The flames lit up the clearing and forced the Beast to channel their attack through the two gaps on either side. At least five of the animals couldn’t check their headlong rush and ended up rolling through the fire and bursting into flames themselves. Their thrashing about caused confusion amid the other Demons and slowed them up even more.

“Now, where were we.” Parmenio said as he opened the book again. He could clearly see the words in the added light. The heat of the fire burned off the touch of the rain and the cold wind that the men had endured throughout the night.

Parmenio began to chant the last sentence, word by word, uttered loudly and clearly but his voice was drowned out by the crashing of heavy bodies against the men’s shields. The line of men quivered, threatening to be pushed back against the pillar of stone. The Beasts howled and bit down on the shields, thrashing with their claws, scraping the wood and the bronze helmets of the Romans. The men jabbed with their pila aiming for eyes or the mouth. Here and there a Beast dies, its black blood gushing from its mouth. The Romans, however, are pushed back.

Bertolis is too big to give ground, he swings left and right with his sword and smashes the Demon’s back with his borrowed scutum. The smaller Roman to his left is pushed back, and Bertolis uses the iron boss on the shields front to pound into the head of the Beast doing the pushing. The animals drops away in a howl and Bertolis uses his hip to nudge the man back up.

One hapless Roman looses his helmet, as a Beast clamps down on the top where the plume of horsehair is attached and with a yank, it pulled the helmet free. This leaves his head dangerously exposed and he has to jerk it left or right to avoid the gnashing teeth of the Beast clinging to his shield. A pila from his neighbor spears through the Beast open mouth and it falls like a rock to the ground gargling black blood. The bare headed man smiled at his comrade, but the momentary lack of concentration proved fatal. Another Demon lept from the darkness and its claws ripped through the man’s scalp, peeling away the black, curly hair and thin layer of skin, exposing the bone of his skull. The loose flap of skin and hair covered his eyes and he could not see to dodge the following snap of the thing’s huge jaws, which bit into the bone with a sickening Crunch. The Roman’s legs sagged, but the body did not fall as it was firmly held in the demon’s mouth.

Parmenio ignored the commotion about him, and held up the book slightly to read the next few words. As he lowers the book, a man stands before him. The man is pale and old, with wisps of white hair, but his face is bitter and cruel. Parmenio had not seen that face for a decade, but it was one he would never forget, one that even now made him cringe in fear. It was the face of Gaius Commenus, the Roman who had enslaved the young Parmenio, who had whipped and beaten him mercilessly. A man whose heart was as black as coal.

“What are you...?” Parmenio said, stumbling over his words. The old Roman grabbed Parmenio by the throat with his two huge hands. He squeezed, his face a mask of cruelty, his eyes a piercing red. Parmenio gasped for air, the book and then his dagger, fell to the ground as his hands desperately pulled at the iron hard arms that gripped him.

Another Roman was yanked from the line and set upong by the Beasts as he fell, kicking and screaming, to the ground. They tore off his legs and arms first, then the head. A half-dozen of the animals fed fiercely like a pack of dogs.

“Shorten the line.” Came Arminius as he instinctively felt the danger. The remaining men fell back, almost on top of one another.

Caena looked at the silver dagger shining just outside of the line of salt. From her vantage she could see the men falling back, struggling against the black bodies hurling themselves at their shields. She could see their legs tightening, trying to plant a feet firmly on the earth to keep from being pushed back. She could see the hairy paws of the beasts as they jumped and kicked at the men. What she could not see was what had Parmenio by the throat. The old Greek seemed to be choking himself.

She looked down at the dagger. She could step out of the circle of salt and grab it, then step back quickly.

“Caena.” Came a soft, sweet voice. A woman’s voice. Caena looked to see her mother standing not to far off amongst the trees. The woman smiled and waved at her daughter. “Come her Caena, come on. I won’t let them hurt you. Not you, my precious.” She said. She motioned for the girl to come to her. Caena’s eyes widened.

“Momma.” She said. Now she cried. She wanted to run to her, to be scooped up and held tightly in those soft arms that had held her when she was a baby. That had held her so tightly the night before when the Beast broke into the round house and seperated them forever. She wanted to believe that it would be okay, that her mother would protect her and never let her go. Her mom had held her, the night before. Had held her tightly, until black nailed claws ripped those arms off and her mother had screamed as the Demons bore her away.

Caena stepped from the salt circle and picked up the dagger and Parmenio’s book. She looked at her mom and turned away, stepping back behind the salt. With a heave she threw the book at Parmenio.

The old man’s face was turning blue but then something hit him, his book. It flew right through the sour face of Gaius Commenus, and like a whisp of smoke, he disappeared. Parmenio dropped to the ground gasping for breath. He smiled at Caena, and grabbed the book. He again flipped through the pages.

Time was running out. The last Gaul was torn from the line, when two Demons grabbed his shield and yanked. He was torn to pieces and then became a meal for a hungry pack.

“Shorten the line!” Came the desperate cry. One of the Romans almost tripped over Parmenio who was still down on his hands and knees.

Parmenio read a final three words then rubbed Caena’s forehead.

“Now girl, give me the dagger.” He said, holding his hand out.

“Nooooooo Caena.” Came he mother’s pleading voice. She held the blade up, but as shiny as it was, she could not see her Mom’s reflection in it.

Two hairy bodies crashed through the shield wall. Parmenio looked up as one jumped onto him. He was pinned to the ground by its weight. The Beast dripped stinking saliva on his face as it prepared to bite down. Parmenio pushed his leather bound book deep into those gaping jaws, and the demon chomped down on it, struggling to tear it apart.

“Girl, you know what to do. Hurry.” He said, all trace of calm forever lost from his voice. The animal’s black claws clamped down on the man’s shoulders and parmenio screamed.

The Roman nearest took a charge from another Beast and fell backward over Parmenio and his tormentor. The first Beast leapt on the hapless man and bit down onto his exposed thighs. The man cursed in agony as blood pumped from his legs, spilling out over Parmenio’s horrified face. The other Demon spat out the thick leather book and took the opportunity to snap down onto the Roman’s throat. His cries of pain suddenly drowned in a geyser of blood as the beast shook his head back and forth and ripped the neck completely through. The head fell away with his lips still mouthing his last scream.

Another dark hairy form jumped through the opening and hurled itself at the little girl cringing against the totem. It snarled and barked and gnashed its jaws, but as it reached the line of salt, its face grimaced and it slid to a stop. Another one joined it, the two pacing back and forth at the line, frothing at the mouth, eyeing the girl with their blood red eyes.

More Beast poured in through the gap, jumping onto the backs of the defender’s, tearing them down. One leapt on Ventorix, only the roman chain mail he wore saved his skin from being torn to shreds. Bertolis swung his sword and shield, shaking off one animal and then another. Buccio and Arminius stood back to back, pressed together as Beast swarmed at them from front and back. Buccio’s converse horsehair crest was bitten off by one animals lunging jaws.

Caena shivered, staring at the pack of beasts pacing in front of the circle of salt, snapping their jaws at her, wanting to bite inter her tiny body. She held up the dagger, then her hand. The Beasts howled and thrashed so violently, she almost dropped the blade. Shaking with fear she took the knife and ran it across her palm. Her small face grimaced in pain as a line of red appeared across the inside of her hand. Tearfully she turned. A brown, weathered skull, jaws agape, was next to her on the gray stone pillar. She looked up at the six foot slab of stone and to the black sky above.

Men screamed, fighting for their lives while the Demons swarmed over, jumping, biting, slashing with their claws to subdue them. Caena opened her palm that was dripping with blood, and pressed it agianst the forehead of the skull. The totem began to glow. It was a soft light, like that of the moon, but it grew in intensity. She backed away, leaving the mark of her hand in blood on the skull.

The black, clouds choking the sky began to rumble, and part. Moonlight shot down like a lighting bolt, hitting the clearing in a blast of brilliance. The Demons yelped. Some, caught in the sudden light, caught fire and burned with a strange blue flame. The others knocked over one another in their haste to run. They scattered into the forest, heading back to the cliff. The moonlight spread quickly as the clouds dissolved. The woods began to glow. Here and there a Beast howled and a puff of blue flame rose from the trees. Within minutes, they were gone and a stillness overcame the forest.

Fortunis and another bloodied legionaire stood from the carnage and stared over their dead comrades. Buccio and Arminius still stood back to back, breathing heavily. Bertolis fell to his knees with a weary smile on his face and thanked his German gods for looking out for him.

Parmenio shook the tattered remains of his book, thumbing through its pages. It was ruined, the important chant lost forever now. “damn.” he muttered.

Caena stared at the last vestige of darkness that existed among the trees. Her mom stood there for a moment, a feint glow, then vanished forever. She cried.

Ventorix, bleeding heavily from a gash on his shoulder crawled to her. He hugged her, then looked at her wounded hand.

“You’re bleeding.” He said, and he ripped a piece of her cloak off to wrap about her hand.

“So are you.” She said, touching his shoulder gingerly.

“A scratch, but I’m alive, and so is everyone else, thanks to you.” He sat against the totem, and she sat in his lap, hugging him tightly. The totem stopped glowing. The night sky was free of clouds and the stars sparkled in the heavens. The survivors walked over to the totem and sat around it, backs to the stone, and fell asleep.



CHAPTER NINETEEN

A twig broke. It’s crackle echoed through the still morning silence of the forest. A light, wet mist hung among the trees as the sunlight began to filter in from a partly cloudy sky above. A footstep splashed through a muddy puddle and dead leaves crunched loudly as something or someone aproached the clearing. Buccio, Arminius and the other’s were all bunched around the totem, fast asleep. Suddenly Buccio awoke to the sounds.

“On your feet.” He shouted as he stood, lifting his shield. Arminius, Bertolis, and Parmenio all stood, shaking their heads to clear them of sleep. Fortunis stood and pulled up his shield from the ground, holding it out in front of him despite it having been shattered in two. Ventorix woke too, but remained sitting, holding young Caena tightly. He stared up at the sky and smiled.

“It’s not them.” He said.

Just then a Roman appeared. His yellow paenula cloak was wrinkled and stained, his helmet was dull with several rust spots, and his face was dirty and unshaven. Buccio recognized him as one of the frightened guards living like rats in the watchtower. The man stopped just inside the clearing.

“Here.” He called out. More Romans appeared in a loose skirmish line. These men were dressed sharply, bundled in a light blue wool cloak, with shiny bronze helmets with blue horsehair plumes. Their Scutums were also painted blue with golden trident’s and lightning bolts on the face. They were marines from a Roman ship.

Centurio Philo emerged from behind the skirmish line. The big man, also dressed like his marines in blue wool but with a silver helmet embossed with images of neptune, dolphins and ships, and a converse horsehair crest of red, smiled through his thick black beard.

“So, you’re still alive and well I see.” He held out a hand and Buccio took it.

“You joined the party just a little too late.” Buccio said.

“Just in time for the wine, I hope.”

More men came up through the woods. They were Gauls led by Centauric and of all people, Pompanius Canio.

“We had a good night’s sleep.” Canio said. “Thanks to you.” He attempted a military salute in Buccio’s direction. It was a slovenly attempt, but Buccio returned it nonetheless.

“They be good nights from now on.” Ventorix said as he rose and lifted his daughter high above his shoulders so all could see her. The morning sun glistened off of her tiny face as she smiled. A cheer arose amongst Roman and Gaul alike.

“Are you fit to walk, or do you men need to be carried?” Philo asked.

“My men will outmarch you sailors anyday.” Arminius said, staring at the naval Centurio through his one good eye.

“Good, the sun is out but the weather is still shit, lets get to the ship and get back home before it gets any worse.” Philo looked to Buccio. The man seemed to be deep in thought, rubbing a crude wooden necklace on a leather tong around his neck. “Let’s go man.”

“Thank you.” Ventorix said in Gaelic to Buccio. The two men shook hands.

“No thanks needed. I wish you well.”

The words were strange, coming from a Roman but in clear, fluent Gaelic. Only a year before they had been at war, and now, perhaps, there would be a future together. Ventorix nodded. Caena reached over and kiss the Centurio on the cheek.

“I told papa you were a good man.” She said smiling. Buccio seemed to blush.

“You still remind me of my daughter. Maybe you two will meet someday.”

Centauric came over and put a hand on Ventorix shoulder. He noticed the terrible bleeding cuts.

“Come on boy, we’ve wounds to mend, a village to rebuild and cows to steal...er...” He looked at the Roman. “I mean to buy, of course.” He smiled a sly, Gaelic smile.

“We’ll send you some.” Canio said stepping over. “When the bridge is fixed over the river. Consider it an investment on our part.”

“And the tribute?” Centauric asked.

“We can a wait a bit for that.” Canio said. He didn’t smile, but the offer was genuine. Centauric smiled. With that the Gauls faded off through the tree’s heading for their village. Caena waved goodbye to Parmenio as they passed.

“What are we waiting for?” Canio asked. “Don’t we have a ship to catch.” A shout came from the other Romans. “Neebu, lets go.” The small, thin african came running, following his master, carrying what baggage he had salvaged from the ordeal of the last two days and nights.

“Parmenio. I expect a full, written account by the time we get back. Understood?” Canio asked as he walked by the Greek, not even stopping to hear the man’s reply. Parmenio was shocked. Didn’t Canio remember that he had been fired and was now working for Buccio. Buccio nudged him.

“I guess you got your job back.” Buccio said.

“What a pompous ass.” Parmenio muttered. “But...”

“He pays better than the army.” Buccio finished.

“Indeed.” Parmenio said with a sly wink and a tug on his beard. He gathered his things. Arminius, Fortunis, ugly Barsalus and huge, hairy Bertolis were all that survived the nights fight here at the clearing. They were tired, haggard and bleeding from hundreds of nicks and cuts.

“I took the liberty of ordering your men at the village to take the scorpio and reman the watchtower. They’ll have to stay until we can get another detachement out here from the legion.” Philo said to Buccio.

Buccio nodded.

“Good, let’s go home.”

Philo barked a command to his men, and they about faced and formed into a single line. With a measured step they headed back through the woods along a single track.

“You.” Arminius said to the watchtower guard. His one eye burned at the man, making him shake nervously. “Get in line with my men and keep up.”

“Yes Optio.” The man said, running in behind Fortunis and Barsalus. The men, followed behind the marines, keeping pace with Arminius. Buccio and Parmenio were the last to leave. Parmenio took a last look at the skull encrusted pillar of rock. One skull in the center had a small, bloody hand print on it.

“I hope you don’t let anyone destroy that.” He said.

“Why?” Buccio asked.

“It would break the spell again, and...they’d be back.”

“Do you still have the chant?” Parmenio reached into his pack and pulled up the remnants of a leather bound book that had been bitten through and the center torn to shreds. He shook it in front of him.

“I don’t know.” Parmenio said and he put the book back into his pack. “I hope something’s left.”

Buccio looked back at the stone totem.

“I’ll leave word to hide it, build a stone and earth pile over it, something. We wouldn’t want another Rufus to come through here and smash it down in the name of Julius Caesar.”

The two men walked together, following the line of legionaires marching away from the clearing.

A week later, the sky over the camp of the sixth legion is still gray and overcast. The channel is a broil of cold waves bouncing the Gallic fishing boats and the lone Roman Quadreme hugging the gravel beach. Plumes of smoke rise from the huts that cluster about the village, but no one stirs. The village and the camp seem silent except for the few men standing in the camp towers overlooking thier scorpion bolt throwers.

The Camp gate swings wide open and a column of legionaires march out in a dense block. They wear their paenula cloaks over their chainmail armour, and wool scarves wrapped around their neck and heads under the bronze, horsehair crested helmets. Their legs, below the gallic style breeches they now wear, are wrapped by wool strips in the German fashion. They carry their shields without leather cover, the bright red and gold designs bolding showing that they are the sixth legion. Any man with a decoration, torques, armillae’s or crests given for distinction in battle, is wearing them strapped on their chest or on the arms. The Centurions glitter with their many decorations.

The first block of men, marching neatly in step with one another, reach the open grass field just pass that rampart and ditch in front of the palisaded walls of the camp. Here they wheel left after a loud barking cry from their Centurion. This is the first century of the first cohort, the most prestigious unit in the legion. It is followed sharply by the following nine centuries of the first cohort. The first cohort is the largest unit of the legion, the remaining nine will only have six centuries each. One by one these cohorts march out and onto the grass field, lining up one by one by cohorts, and coming to a halt at attention.

A crowd of Gallic villagers and Roman settlers watch from a rise of ground bordering the village. Women, children and men of all ages, bundled warmly against the cold breath in the air. The legion’s detachment of German auxiliary horsemen is next. The ala trots out in a double line and wheel their horses into a block formation four abreast. They come to a halt to the right of the legion’s infantry. The horses snort and whinnie endlessly while the riders keep them in place. Finally Legate Craestus followed by Pomponius Canio and then the Legion’s standard bearers distinquishable by the golden image topped poles they carried and the bear or wolf skin’s they wore with the hollowed out heads draped over their helmets like hoods. These men lined up behind Creastus who was wearing his many decorations as well as a finely embossed Greek styled bronze cuirass that resembled the muscled chest of hercules with silver nipples.

For a moment their was utter silence, the men standing at perfect attention despite the cold. The wind flicked one of the banners held aloft by a standard bearer. It portrayed a golden boar flanked by lightning bolts.

“Men of my sixth legion!” Craestus called out after pacing back and forth checking each block of formed men. “I have assembled you, on this shitty day, for three reasons.” He held up his hand with three stubby fingers held up. His voice boomed out and echoed throughout the field.

“Several of our men have earned distinction. I will call them out now. From the sixth century, sixth cohort, Centurion Buccio, Optio Arminius, Legionaire Fortunis, and Legionaire Barsalus, step to the front.”

From the rear most block of men from the far right of the Legion came four men. Buccio, Arminius, Fortunis and Barsalus. Arminius sported a leather patch over his lost eye, and Fortunis limped slightly. They marched to a spot directly in front of Creastus, but below him, as he stood atop the rampart. They turned sharply and lined up from left to right, Buccio, Arminius, Fortunis and Barsalus and stood at attention.

“Galbus!” Creastus called. Galbus, decked out in his finest uniform with decorations clinking against his chest, came running out to stand the right of these men.

“These men have brought glory to themselves and the legion in the Service of Rome and the Procurator, Pomponius Canio.” Craestus motioned to the fat man, swaddled in a lush fur coat and wearing a long purple striped tunic instead of gallic or german clothing.

“Damn, I thought he was going to ruin us.” Arminius whispered to Buccio. “Rome would hear of this, or that.”

“We saved his fat Roman Arse.” Buccio smiled.

“Better than kissing it I guess.” Arminius grunted.

“Galbus, the awards!” Creastus continued. “For courage and fortitude in battle. Promotions will be granted.”

Galbus stepped before Buccio and held out a brand new gladius with a golden hilt guard and pommel, and silver embossed blade.

“Well done Centurio.” Galbus said in his low, gruff manner, but he did manage an inkling of a smile. “This is the award usely given for promotion to the command of a higher century, or for retirement with honour. Legate Creastus hasn’t told me for which you are being awarded.” He hands the sword to Buccio. “But I’m sure you’ve earned either one.” He shook the man’s hand, then saluted.
“Thank you sir” Buccio said, clicking his heels together and returning the salute.

Buccio held his glittering sword high above his head as Galbus moved to Arminius. The legion cheered.

“This if for you Arminius.” Galbus held up another Gladius, this one not golden but it was of the finest make and with a shiny blade. “You are now a Centurio.”

Arminius stared at the sword for a moment. His good eye reflected brightly from the new blade.

“I don’t know what Century you will be in command of, but that will be made known shortly.” He handed the sword to the former Optio. Arminius was slow to take it.

“Go on Centurio. Take your sword.” Buccio said. Arminius grabbed it, smiling now, and held it high above his head. The ranks cheered again. A tear rolled down the man’s war hardened face. Galbus saluted him and moved on to Fortunis and Barsalus, both receiving an armallae in the form of a golden torq. “For bravery in the face of incredible odds.” The legion cheered again.

After giving out the awards, Galbus returned to a spot to the right of the men and about faced so that he could salute the Legate.

“Very good, well done men.” Craestus voice boomed out again. “You men showed true Roman spirit in two days of bloody fighting with the enemy. From the Procurator’s statements, I can only assume they were briton’s, probably raiding from across the sea.”

Buccio gave a confused look to Canio, standing behind the Legate on the rampart. Canio merely shrugged his shoulders. A gallic sign of ‘what can you do’. It was obvious, he was afraid they would have thought us insane to tell the truth.

“You stood unwavering, side by side, shield to shield...” Craestus continued. “In true Roman spirit. This is how we win wars! Our loyalty to one another, our willingness to stand firm no matter what, this is how we’ve won against immense odds. Believe me, Caesar himself has heard of you men and sent his congratulations not only to you, but to the whole sixth legion!”

The men of the legion shouted out three echoeing cheers, one for the men being awarded, one for the Legion and one for Caesar.

Craestus paced back and forth waiting for the cheers to die down before he spoke again.

“Now, for the other two reasons I’ve called this assembly.” He continued. “The sixth legion is leaving.”

There was a slight stir amongst the men in the ranks at this surprise. The Gauls too seemed to become restless a few of the women even crying out.

“We have been ordered...” Craestus said, getting louder and firmer to ease the slight commotion in the ranks. “To join Caesar in the North. We will be building ships, Roman ships. Apparently Caesar intends to pay a visit to our heathen friends across the channel.” He motioned to the nearby sea and the britons who lived in safety, or so they thought, beyond it.

The men cheered. The Britons had been raiding the coasts of Gaul incessantly since the Romans conquered it. They came quickly by sea, hit whatever area they wished, and were gone before the Legion’s could come to grips with them. Now they would be punished.

“This camp will not be abandoned.” Craestus continued standing and looking more at the Gallic crowd beyond instead of his own men. “This camp will become a Veteran colony by order of Julius Caesar, governor of Gaul.”

He paced again, looking at his men.

“Already a detachment of 500 men, culled from Legion’s in Gaul and cisalpine Gaul, are on their way here. Once they arrive, we will depart.” Craestus paced again. He stopped dead center of the men and stood stiffly as if his next words were either very important, or an outright order.

“But not all of us. There are about a hundred of you who have enough years in service that you may retire and stay here with the veteran unit. You will be given your retirement pay as well as a plot of land here in the valley. You do not have to retire, if you do not wish, you may sign up for more service and some of you may be promoted. Centurio Buccio has chosen to retire. Any man wishing to join him, fall out of ranks now and line up with him.”

Arminius was shocked. He looked to his Buccio who didn’t look back.

“You’re retiring?” He asked. “But what about those britons, don’t you want to cross the sea and have a look?”

“I’ve had enough adventure.” Buccio said. He grabbed Arminius’s hand and shook it. “Now go back to the sixth century, they need and Centurio, and you are it.” Arminius looked at his new gladius and then to Buccio. He hugged him.

“I’m not used to you being so emotional. Get your arse out of here.” Buccio said and he saluted. Arminius saluted back. “May the Gods shine on you.”

“And you too.” Arminius said.

Buccio stared at the Gallic crowd near the field. He could see Ruida, hair blowing unsteady in the wind, his daughter, Aurea, smiling that bright, cheerful smile of hers as she clung to her mothers leg. The baby, their new son, swadled in a white wool blanket, was held tightly at her bossom.

“They already have my friend.” Buccio said.

Fortunis and Barsalus stood motionless, staring at the Arminius and Buccio.

“What are you two doing, grinning like apes?” Arminius growled. “Get back to your century.”
“Y,y,yes Opti...I mean, Centurio.” Fortunis muttered as he backed up into Barsalus. The men spun around and Arminius followed them away, barking at them to move faster or be wearing his hobnailed boots up their arses.

About ninety men formed alongside Buccio, mostly old, gray haired Legionaires, but there was also two other Centurions. Both outranked Buccio, but he had been given command of the veterans by Craestus, so they lined up beside him.

“And now for my last announcement.” Craestus said once the retiree’s had formed and the men in the Legion had quieted down. “My final official order to you men who have chosen to retire is this...” He again paced, now facing towards the far left of the formation so that the Gauls may hear his words as well.

“By order of Julius Caesar, Governor of Gaul, you men are released from military service with the sixth legion, and are free to marry if you so desire.”

A cheer now arose from the throngs of women and children amongst the Gauls. Several came rushing out of the crowd and across the face of the assembled Legionaire’s. Ruida was among them.

“That is all, you men are dismissed.” Craestus said yelling loudly above the joyous screaming of the women.

Buccio ran to Ruida and he hugged and kissed her. The baby, her cheeks rosey from the cold began to fidget and he kissed the boy on the forehead. There was a tug at his breeches and he looked down. His three year old, Aurea, stood there, her face beaming with a big goofy smile, black latin hair flopping to and fro in the breeze.

“Did you think I forgot you.” He yanked her up and spun her around and round. She laughed loudly and he pulled her down, holding her tight. He pulled out the familiar necklace, a crude smiling face, carved in wood, with a mop of black hair.

“How could I ever forget you.” He kissed her and held on tightly to Ruida and the baby. The retiree’s celebrated with their families, while the Legionaire’s marched back into the camp in blocks of centuries. Buccio and his new Roman wife waved at Arminius and the sixth Century of the sixth Cohort as they marched proudly by.

After the troops had marched in, an escort of cavalry rode out followed by a horse drawn carriage. Pomponius Canio looked out briefly from between purple curtains.

“Good luck to you Centurio.” He said mildly and for a brief moment, he smiled.

“Thank you Procurator.” Buccio said.

“Always a pleasure to greet new taxpayers.” He said and for once, smiled. The carriage rode on. Sitting on the top of it, amid the baggage, was Neebu and Parmenio. Neebu smiled that youthful, contagious smile of his, while the old Greek, waved a new book.

“Am I in that one?” Buccio called out.

“You’re the main character.” Parmenio said with a wink.

The carriage followed in the wake of the cavalry escort along the trail leading away from the village and the camp, heading to the north.

Thunder boomed above them and the gray clouds let out a light cool, rain that ended the celebrations. The crowd broke and ran for their warm homes in the village. For the first time, Buccio went with Ruida and Aurea to their home in the village.

EPILOGUE

The man’s name was Jean luc, he was twenty seven, a thin man with light, uncombed, black hair that was receeding at the forehead. He had a thin moustache and beard and wore wire rimmed glasses. He sat against a ancient tree whose leaves still dripped from the cold rain that had fallen only an hour before. The sky was choked with clouds but the moon still shown through. The woods around him were silent and black. He seemed to be the only living soul there, sitting against a weathered old tree, amongst the thick underbrush. He rested a rifle against his shoulder. It was a bolt action lebel, a French army rifle that had escaped the clutches of the Germans when they occupied this part of France in 1940. Now it was four years later, and the news in this northeastern part of the country, along the lire river valley, was that the Allies would be coming soon.

Jean luc was part of the resistance. From his vantage point atop this hill, he could see the river valley down below, and the narrow, paved road that ran along it. He was watching for Germans. The rest of his resistance cell were sleeping not to far off in their hidden sanctuary. It was an ancient cave in a granite cliffside not to far from the hillside, and hidden well amongst the trees and underbrush. The French had discovered it by accident when a small boy dug through a mound in a clearing and found an old pillar of stone. It prooved to be a celtic totem with the crushed remnants of human skulls embedded in it. The nearby villagers had come to dig out the totem. While searching nearby for other celtic artifacts they had stumbled upon the narrow cave opening. No one spoke of the discoveries. It was wartime and the Germans had occupied their country. There was a fear that the Germans might confiscate or worse, destroy, this national treasure, so the villagers had kept quiet. The resistance had found out, of course, and knew the spot would be perfect for a hideout. They calmed the villagers by promising to protect the totem and had set up an arms cache in the cave.

A twig snapped and Jean luc looked carefully over his shoulder. Nothing but lifeless shadows amid the trees. He waited tensely, fingering the trigger of his rifle, but there were no other sounds. He returned his gaze to the road below and relaxed against the tree. His face was black out with charcoal so that he blended in well with the darkness among the trees. Nothing moved on the road below nor amongst the fields and woods on the far side of the river. It was a calm, late spring night.

A flash sprang over Jean Luc’s eyes. It was a thin silvery streak of....wire. It was the last thing he would ever see. The thin steel wire wrapped about the flesh of his neck and with a sudden, hard jerk, sliced through the flesh all the way to the bone. Blood poured out of the gash and Jean could only gasp once before dying. A German slid out from behind the tree. His face was also blackend, and he had tucked leaves and whisps of grass into his helmet band. He was Waffen SS. His coal shuttle style helmet had a camouflage cover and he wore a baggy camouflage smock over his gray green uniform. The SS man studied his handiwork then let the lifeless body slide over onto the blood drenched grass.

Other SS men emerged from the shadows and slowly stalked through the tree’s. They were heading towards the cave. Some had rifles, but most were carrying Mp40 submachineguns. Two men moving together as one, were lugging an MG42 machinegun with the bipod folded open ready for instant use. The first man carried the gun over his shoulder, while the other carried cans of belted ammo. Behind them came an officer. In the army he would be a Lieutenant, but in the SS his rank was an Obersturmfuhrer. He wore a peaked camouflage cap with a wide brim and the SS eagle on its front instead of the customary steel pot, this way his men could identify him in the dark. He held a P38 9mm pistol in his hand and used it to wave at the sentry killer and motion him forward.

Like ghosts they moved silently through the underbrush and dissapeared into the dark shadows of the woods.

The cave entrance now overlooked the old clearing where the stone pillar stood like a black monolith drenched in moonlight. The tree’s near the entrance had been cleared away and a jumble of rocks lay before the entrance, both as camouflage and as defensive works. A man came out of the narrow slit that was the cave entrance. A cigarette dangled from the corner of his mouth, and a sten submacheingun hung lazily over his back. He looked around, blew a cloud of smoke, then stumbled to the nearby tree’s. Finding a nice one to his liking, he stood before it, unzipped and pissed.

A well camouflaged shadow moved close behind him. The man sensed something, he tensed. Without moving his head, he strained his eyes to peer through the far corner of his vision. Another movement. He slowly zipped up, then spun completely around. An SS man, crouched beside a tree was about to take another stealthy step, but froze. The Frenchman ran.

“Alarm!!!” He yelled as he ran. The SS man ran after him, pointing with his submachinegun, but the Frenchman was zigzagging behind tree’s. Grabbing at the Sten gun behind his back, the Frenchman whipped it around and fired blindly behind him.

Brt, Brt, Brt, the sten gun seemed a slow, sputteing weapon. Another SS infantryman popped out from the tree’s, shouldering his MP40, pointing at the running Frenchman and pulled the trigger.

BBBBBRRRRRRRRTTTTT! The German gun burped out a long, steady stream of empty brass casings,a and the stream of lead cut the man down in mid stride.

“Alarm.” He cried as he fell to the ground, withering from the shells ripping into his body.

A black object fell amongst the tree’s near the SS man, and he instinctively flung himself to the ground.

BBBBOOOOMMMM! A flash of bright light erupted to his left, and the tree’s were sprinkled with a flutter of shrapnel from the grenade blast. The CRACK, CRACK, CRACK of several rifles could be heard coming from the rocks around the cave entrance. Another Sten gun also fired, it’s lazy bursts whipping into the surrounding tree’s. Shouts and curses could be heard in French.

The SS men fanned out amongst the tree’s to the left and right, returning fire. Burp guns fired in short, crisp bursts, Mauser rifles CRACKED and a stick grenade flew through the air, only to bounce off the rocks and Explode in a sudden flash in the clearing. Short commands in German were uttered from the darkness of the woods. The Machinegun team crawled up through the underbrush and set up their MG42 beside the ancient stone totem. The gunner shoulder the weapon while the second man, completely covered by the pillar, lifted the reciever and placed a belted clip of ammo in the breach. He slammed the reciever down and tapped the gunner on the helmet. The second man leaned back as the gunner pulled the bolt back and then let loose with a burst.

BBBBBBBRRRRRRRRTTTTTTT, BBBBBRRRRRRRRTTTTT, The machinegun spit out lead like a buzz saw. Empty shells splattered out over his side into a mound of shiny brass. The bullets ripped through the boulder’s, carving into the rock, shattering stone, ricocheting into the night sky and creating spouts of stone dust whereever they struck. A Frenchman screamed in agony, but others kept firing back. The second man carefully fed the belt of ammo out of its can and into the ravenous weapon. He suddenly felt as if he were being watched and looked up. The ghostly vison made him cringe. An ancient human skull, jaw agape, encrusted into the base of the pillar of stone, seemed to stare at him. It’s forehead had the feint image of a human hand print. A small hand, perhaps of child, in a dark ink, or was it...blood.

Another Grenade sizzled through the air above them, landing in the trees and exploding with a flash of light and a loud KKKRRRUUUMMMPPP! A German cried out in pain. It was going to be a fight to the finish. The French had no where to run and the Germans would not take prisoners.

The village, nestled amongst the farm fields and pastures far below, lay dark and peaceful. Only a few street lights shown along the main street leading in from the river. As the sounds of gunshots and explosions began to echoe down from the forests, lights began to glow from windows in the houses.
George Bergeron stepped out of the door of the large stone manor he had inherited from his father. The family had been in the village for countless generations. The manor included a small pasture and a barn where the family raised horses. His wife and children stared out through the living room window, and even his mother’s upstairs window had the light on and the curtain partly open. He looked to the wooded hills far outside the village and saw flashes of light, large ones and small ones. A steady rumble could be heard.

“Good god.” George said to himself. “The clearing.” He had begun to sweat and the persperation fogged up his wire rimmed glasses. George was a thin fellow, in his late thirties, a business man of sorts, country style, wearing a wool sweater over a buttoned shirt and tie, his hair thinning at the top, his face thin and angular, with a large, very gallic nose.

“You there!” Came a shout in very accented French. The voice came from the street. George looked to the brick waist high wall that bordered there yard along the sidewalk and street. A German stood there, he wore the camouflage smock and helmet of the Waffen SS. Along the street were other SS Men, some standing in groups, other’s moving along the sidewalks from house to house. Far off in the shadows was the dark shape of an armoured car and a kubelwagen with an MG mounted in back.

“Yes sir.” George said.

“Get back in your house. You have no business out here.” The SS man said gruffly, he waved his rifle menacingly. “This village is under curfew until further notice.”

“Sorry, yes sir.” He went back to the door where his wife and three children, all in pajama’s, stood staring out. He shooed them back and then closed the door. locking it with a heavy metal bolt.
“What’s going on George?” His wife asked.

“Everything will be fine Beatrice.” He said with an unconvincing smile. He patter her cheek.

“Is that a tank papa?” The oldest boy, David asked excitedly, still peering out the window.

“Come away from there!” George said. He motioned for the boy to move away and he pulled the curtains closed.

“This is dangerous business.” He said. “They might shoot anyone looking out the windows or opening the doors. Do you understand?” He looked at David and the boy nodded. He padded him on the chin.

“Beatrice, take the children upstairs, but maybe some hot milk would do to calm there nerves.” He said.

“Come along children.” The woman said and she herded them into the kitchen. Gunfire, more feint now, here inside the house, still rumbled from the hills. George rushed up the stairs. On the second floor he knocked on the first door he came to.

“Yes.” Came the voice of an old woman.

George opened the door and stepped in. The bedroom had a large four post bed with white linen sheets, and a thick, paisley bed cover. The old woman was propped up against thickly stuffed pillows, with her glasses on. George sat down beside his mother.

“What is it George, what’s going on?” She asked.

He thought for a moment and put his hand on hers. He patted it gently.

“There were some resistance people hiding in the forests. The Germans have found them and there’s a battle going on.” The old woman sighed.

“When will this war be over.” She said quietly.

“Grandfather used to do alot of digging up there in the hills. Do you remember?” The old woman nodded. “He used to bring home artifacts, Celtic things.”

“Something to do with the druids, I think.” She said, trying to remember. “A totem or something.”

“Yes, that’s it.” George said. “He used to have a book. A very old book, bound in leather, with pages of parchment. Do you remember it?”

“Oh yes, Father use to sit in the study trying to translate it. It was very hard to read and...” She thought for a moment. “I believe it was written in Greek.”

“What ever happend to it? Is it still here in the house?” He asked.

“No, I don’t think so. When Grandpa died, your father gathered all those old things and sold them.”

“Sold them? To who?”

“Some museum curator. I think, in Paris.”

Several explosions could be heard followed by flashes of light through the window. A moment later the house shook slightly. The gunfire grew in intensity and then died away to a few lonely POPS. Then there was silence.

“Why Georgie? Whats so important about that book?”

“Hopefully we won’t need it Mother.” He looked grimm.

Smoke rose from the mouth of the cave. Amongst the boulders were several dead Frenchmen and women. Other’s lay in the clearing, near the tree’s. Five of them, four men and a woman, had made a desperate charge to break out, but the machinegun had dropped them in one long burst. An SS man with a rifle walked among the bodies, firing a single round into each one’s head to make sure they were dead. The Machinegunner’s sat by their weapon, and lit cigerette’s.

A group of four men, all with mp40’s, followed the officer into the cave entrance. One man pulled the square flashlight hanging from a button inside his smock and shown its tiny light into the cave. They entered slowly.

Another SS man, this one with a canvas bag hung under one arm, sat on a boulder, checking a dead Frenchman’s pockets. He held a P38 in one hand, and had several e39 ‘egg’ shaped grenades dangling from the ammo pouches on his belt.

“Steger.” The Officer called out before following the flashlight man into the cave.

“Yes herr Obersturmfuhrer.” The man who was sitting on the boulder replied.

“You still have charges?”

“Yes sir, two.” He motioned to he sack that hung under his arm.

“Good, stay there til I call you.” With that the officer went into the cave, followed by the three other infantrymen.

The cave was lit by candlelight from several glass lantern’s. The light flickered against the walls casting the men’s shadows on the stone. There were wooden crates stacked everwhere. Some with food, some with ammo or grenades. Cans of petrol or water were standing in groups, along with a crate of bottled wine. Loose ammo lay scattered on the floor and several rifles that had been stacked against the wall were knocked over in a heap. The men checked each corner of the cave looking for anyone in hiding, but they were the only living souls.

Blankets were rolled out in one corner over beds of straw. Books lay beside unlit candles. A rough made table and chairs sat in the center of the room with a scattered deck of cards on it along with a few metal mugs of wine or coffee. In another corner sat a radio atop its own small table. A bullet hole had shattered its dials and knobs.

“Over here.” Cried the man with the flashlight. The Officer hurried over to where the man crouched on a knee at the back end of the cave. The officer followed the shaft of light where it revealed a knee high tunnel leading away from the main body of the cave.

“Good work Karl.” He said. “Vogel, Durenberg, you two go with karl, check this tunnel out for any hidden surprises.” The two hurried over and crouched down, holding their Mp40’s at the ready. Karl nodded, then led off, crawling along the tunnel holding the torch before him. The other two followed closely on his heels.

“Mueller. Stay here and listen if they need help, clear?”

“Clear, herr Obersturmfuhrer.” The last man said with a click of his heels. The man then sat at one of the chairs and rested his Mp40 across his knees. He flipped over the five cards that had laid face down on the table.

“Full house.” He said. “A good hand.”

“Not for the French, eh.” The officer said as he left the cave.

Outside, the SS men were dragging the French bodies into a pile at the clearing. Photos, papers, weapons and ammo lay scattered at their feet where the searchers had thrown them. Two men came out of the woods. They wore gray trench coats and brown wool hats, one was tall and thin while other was a shorter, pudgy man smoking a cigar. Both men smiled as the officer came out of the cave.

“Good job Obersturmfuhrer. You got them all.” The taller man said with a grin as he pulled an out an oval metal disk that hung around his neck. He flashed it at the Officer as did the other man who wore one to. They were Gestapo.

“You’re intelligence was right, this time.” The officer grinned. All three men stood and stared at the ancient stone totem.

“Disgusting thing.” The cigar smoking Gestap man said.

“Celtic I believe.” The officer replied. “Very old, pre-Roman I suspect.”

“The French seem have great pride for their Gallic past.” The taller Gestapo man said. “We should teach them another lesson here.”

The officer nodded.

“Steger. Blow this ugly thing up.” He motioned to the totem. The assault enginer hurried over, pulling out a small cotton duck satchel with a fuse dangling from it. He placed the satchel on top of the totem and pulled the ceramic ball that hung at the end of the fuse. The line began to smoke and sputter.

“Fire in the hole.” The man shouted and he ran to back to the boulders. The officer did the same, followed by the Gestapo men. The pudgy man dropped his cigar in his haste.

The Other SS men dropped to the ground or crouched behind trees.

BBBBOOOOOMMMM! A flash of light and a shower of sparks erupted over the totem. An instant cloud of smoke appeared followed by lumps of stone flying through the air. When the smoke cleared, the pillar was reduced to a mound of crushed rock.

The SS men laughed as they stood dusting themselves off.

“Herr Obersturmfuhrer. How about a picture for signal?” The pudgy gestapo man said as he produced a camera with a large flash housing.

“Why not. Where?” The officer said.

“Stand over the bodies, there.” He pointed at the dead French.

The Officer stepped over to the bodies and placed one boot on the chest of a dead Frenchman. The Thin gestapo man stood beside him and a few of the soldiers gathered around. Behind them the stood a stand of tree’s whose shadows grew deeper and darker. Clouds had rolled in quickly and began to choke out the night sky. The moonlight was fading fast.

“Hurry Herman, before it’s too dark.” The thin gestapo man said to his partner as the officer and SS men posed with smiles for the shot.

“Don’t worry, I have a flash.” The pudgy man said as he stood back and aimed his camera.

A muffled cry could be heard from somewhere within the cave just as the moon was swallowed up by the black clouds. The officer stopped smiling and looked to the narrow entrance.

“Cheers.” Herman said as he looked through his camera viewfinder and composed his subjects. The SS men smiling, holding their submachineguns, the Officer and thin Gestapo man side by side, several dead Frenchmen at their feet, and behind them, the Trees. As the flash went off it revealed something else. Something standing in the shadows, watching them, waiting. It was huge, standing upright with a black, hairy body and a wolf like head. It’s piercing red eyes stared hard at them and glowed like the fires of hell.


THE END