“Cut the fucker down Lucius, at least you can do that I’m sure.” He looked at his comrade not even attempting to hide his contempt. Marcus felt that he had allowed him alone to carry the burden of vengeance. Lucius did as he was instructed, he understood the anger in Marcus and shared it but cared for no more blood that night and wasn’t prepared to violate a prisoner even though he had helped to make her one and was therefore ultimately as guilty as Marcus for the nature of her death.
Marcus crouched near a small stream and washed the blood from his hands and arms. “Let’s get out of here and back to the Legion, we’ve got to try and free Varro from that other murdering bitch.” They untied the horses, jumped onto them and rode into the night.
Quintus led his own small reconnaissance force further away from the Legion and into the open space appearing before them. The sun had been high in the sky when they had departed the fortified lines of the encampment. It was originally intended to be used for just one night as usual but instead it had now been for many and had become more solidified in its defences. Not quite permanent but not a structure that would be ripped up and abandoned like most all the same. Vespasian had decided instead that this was as good a spot as any to build a fortress of a more permanent nature and so the building had begun the day before in earnest. A century of men would be left to defend the structure which would be much smaller yet better defended using deep revetments, higher walls and watch towers than the larger temporary emplacement.
The Roman war machine knew that it was pointless to march into an area, dominate the ground and destroy the enemy just to walk away without holding the territory they had taken. They had learned to fortify specific areas especially where resistance was strong and their enemies were many. At such places they had mile forts, garrisons built on the edge of the empire, the frontier. They were manned by hardened soldiers used to remote areas and desolate places, men who knew their presence itself would bring attack.
Auxiliaries normally helped make up the numbers in such places and were usually made up of men who were not from the local vicinity. Here however, some of those men were actually Britons who were yet to be drafted into the auxiliary legions properly as most of their neighbouring tribes were yet to be conquered. Those who had agreed to join the Empire, as client Kingdoms were yet to expose themselves to the tribes still fighting Rome. This fact and reduction in numbers gave Vespasian a problem he could ill afford, leaving a full century of battle ready men behind exposed, which meant he was a large quantity of fighters down. An entire century and twenty cavalry were to be left at the new fort from where they would scout the local lands. The Britons were to provide support and knowledge of the area.
Servius had been treated by the medicus, doctor after receiving an arrow wound to the upper thigh during the battle a few days before. The injury had been clean and had missed any vital arteries or bone and the medic had assured him there would be no internal bleeding or permanent damage. Padded and strapped up now, every step his horse took was a jolting reminder of the injury but he was glad to be away from the Legion and in the fresh open air of the countryside.
The arrow had somehow flown further and higher than those around it landing within the confines of the well fortified and guarded position, where the reserve cavalry units were waiting to be deployed if necessary. It had sunk into his leg without warning unseen like a burning spike instantly sinking into his flesh. Fortunately its power was dwindling when it fell to the earth and Servius wasn’t pinned to his horse as some had been later, nor was his bone shattered.
After reporting to General Vespasian, Quintus and his men had been ordered to link up with Varro who had left the day before. They had been instructed to track the Britons and if possible locate an area ahead of their progress that would be ideal for an ambush and killing ground, in effect, an area where Caratacus and his army would meet their demise and be destroyed. Quintus had given his second in command Servius, the opportunity of staying behind and healing properly but he wouldn’t hear of it and was eager to return to active duty as soon as possible.
By noon Quintus had led his men further west, they had stayed within cover wherever possible and now stopped to let the horses feed and get some water at a stream and the men some food. They had found the water where the banks were sandy and only high in a few places so it was ideal for the horses and for the men to relax for a while. Quintus stretched removing his sword and walked into the crystal clear water still wearing his boots, it was cold on his skin.
“Ahhh!” He sighed and then continued walking further in as he said to no-one in particular, “you should try this,” His men were already biting into food or drinking from their water sacks. “We’ll take a few moments then keep going.”
A sudden burst of movement somewhere further up the stream had the men rushing and diving for their weapons, Servius grabbed his spears and took up a stance ready to throw as horses and riders quickly came into view. They were Britons, confirmed by the appearance of chariots behind the single horses. Scrambling out of the water Quintus slid his spatha from its sheath, there was no time to get on the horses and get away. Servius ran forward, limping slightly and hurled his pilum into the air, ripping his arm forward up and over with almost unnatural speed, the weapon flew towards the enemy.
“Stop. Stop.” A voice called out in his own tongue from somewhere within the group now advancing on them with terrifying speed.
“Fuck!” Shouted Quintus as he watched the spear, cut the air through the riders, it thumped into a tree behind them, buried inches deep.
“Quintus, it’s me Varro, stand down.” Shouted one of the riders somewhere towards the rear as the horses got closer and began to come to a halt spraying sand up at the waiting men who were standing swords ready.
“Gods teeth Varro what happened to you where’s your armour, your uniform and weapons?” Quintus saw that he and Decimus were dressed like locals. “Where are the others, where’s Veranius, Marcus and Lucius?”
Varro jumped from his horse splashing water and saw that Quintus was stood with his weapon pointing at Tevelgus.
“Stand down they’re friends.” He grabbed the spatha and lowered it. Quintus satisfied that these Britons were no threat sheathed his sword as did the others. Servius limped back to his horse and returned his second javelin.
“I’m glad you’re throwing hasn’t improved any.” Varro said with a smile. Servius pointed to the leg wound, “You’re lucky I’m wounded commander, it slowed me down and made my throw less accurate. If I hadn’t been punctured by an arrow a few days ago, your blood or that of your friends would be mingling with the water in the stream.”
Varro smirked and clapped Servius on the shoulder, “I for one am glad of your injury my friend. After the few days we’ve just been through, the last thing I need is a Roman spear through my belly.” Quintus looked at the centurion his expression questioning.
“My friend, and yours Veranius, has gone to the next world.” Varro felt anguish and sadness as he spoke these words, it still didn’t seem real. Quintus couldn’t believe the words and literally staggered back a few feet with their force.
“What? How, how did it happen? It can’t be true, he survived years campaigning through Gaul, survived the Germanic tribes and black forests, what happened?”
“I’m afraid it’s true Quintus, we were ambushed, captured and tortured. Veranius died before Brenna and her brother Tevelgus could come to our aid. Quintus looked at the large barbarian and the female they were quite striking for locals and not the normal barbarian pig faced bastards he had been unfortunate enough to come into close contact with before. He knew these Britons like most others were descended from Celtic tribes that came from the mountains near Rome and now called themselves Britons. These however looked bigger, stronger and better looking than the usual limed faced primitives he’d seen before.