There was a chorus of “Yes, yes! Please Grandfather!” from the children.
They knew his game and crowded around Magnus, the little ones pushing each other in their attempts to sit on his lap. Magnus roared with laughter and insisted on telling them a different story. But they would have none of it. They wheedled and teased him, with their parents cheering them on, until he finally relented.
“Alright, alright!” he bellowed.
There was instant silence and the children sat down on the floor as close to him as they could, eyes big and faces beaming. Magnus plucked up two of them and put them on his lap. The twins were four years old and fiercely proud of the privilege of sitting on Grandfather’s lap tonight.
There were many sagas in the family, whose lineage was a unique amalgamation of both Nordic and Roman. Some days it pained the old Norseman to see that the youngest generation of his family was all but removed from their Nordic roots. He supposed it was simply the way of things; when a people became Roman they over time were completely assimilated, their foreign ancestry buried as generations passed.
He quietly contemplated this for a moment before returning his thoughts to which stories he would tell. The Chronicles were of Magnus’ dearest friend, Artorius, whom his first born son had been named after, and who Magnus often referred to as, ‘the bravest man I ever knew’. Though the Norseman had been very much a part of every battle and adventure within, he always preferred to leave himself out of most of the stories, or at least diminished in role.
Years ago, Ana put his stories of Artorius into written form. It was difficult in some ways for Magnus, for the stories were written similar to a Nordic saga, oftentimes embellished, while also devoid of the graphic horror that he and his friends had suffered during those harrowing years. The perception of valiant heroes, worthy of Valhalla, who achieved great glory in conquest for the Roman Empire, sat uneasy with the former centurion. What his children and grandchildren never heard were the ghastly details regarding friends who bled to death in battle, suffering abject pain and terror; or the slaughter they wrought upon entire towns, when orders were to give no quarter, not even to women and children. He swallowed hard in the abject realization that there were those killed by his blade that had been no older than his two grandchildren that now sat on his lap.
Even when he was awarded the Civic Crown after the Battle of Braduhenna, Magnus never felt like a hero. Perhaps then, that was why he made his tales about his friend, rather than himself. Strangely enough, the written saga had ended after the campaigns in Judea, though this was in part because Magnus simply never spoke about Britannia to Ana, or indeed anyone. There were memories that were simply too painful to gloss over or twist into song.
The original script was safely wrapped in a chest, as it wasn’t needed. Over the years the family memorized The Chronicles and in some ways, Magnus blamed them for Hansi choosing to join the legions. His sons, and now his grandchildren, never tired of hearing about Centurion Artorius and his wife, the Goddess Diana. As with all sagas the story was often overstated, but fairly true to form. That added dramatization, with traces of fiction, had helped Magnus distance himself from the savage and ugly brutality that really was.
The old man adjusted the twins more comfortably on his lap. Most days he felt almost as young and strong as ever, but those days were swiftly diminishing. Having his children and grandchildren were like a fountain of youth, and he took advantage of it whenever he could. He felt like he did in the early days of the legions whenever he recited The Chronicles. He paused for a moment and then shook his head. For reasons he could not explain, perhaps because of the memories brought back from his old trunk, he decided in that moment that he would not tell this particular tale in the epic poetry of a saga. It was time, even for the youngest of his grandchildren, to know the truth about the horrors of war and what had happened all those years before.
“I think,” he said, “it is time I tell you all about the final harrowing saga of Artorius and his legionaries. But be warned, my beloved, this story is not simply one of adventure. It is one of immense personal tragedy that fell upon your grandfather so many years ago.” He then looked up at his son. “That is why I never told your mother, or any of you, about those days in Britannia. They were full of horror and extreme terror, as well as personal bravery. It is time for you to know about the last campaign…”
Thirty-four years earlier
Chapter I: Gate of Kings
Kingdom of the Atrebates, Britannia
April, 40 A.D.
The rains had ceased, and the ground was sodden and cold. The fog clung to the ground like a sinister shroud; ready to envelope the armies of two rival kings that faced each other across an open field. Copses of trees dotted the landscape with a small brook separating the two opposing forces. Though difficult for the outside observer to see through the engulfing mist, one of the armies substantially outnumbered the other, and their warriors were full of confidence and ardor as a result of their assured victory. That their vastly outmatched adversaries had decided to fight rather than capitulate, only fueled their inherent bloodlust.
“Our enemy reeks of fear,” a warrior said to his leader, a powerful warlord named Caratacus.
“Their folly in opposing me will be paid in blood.” Caratacus was a big man, with dark hair pulled back and well-groomed whiskers. He carried a large two-handed sword slung over his back, His brother, Togodumnus, was king of a neighboring tribe, and he had sent a large number of warriors to aid Caratacus in installing himself as king of the newly-conquered lands. A powerful and wealthy man who owned many fine weapons, Caratacus had on this day elected to wield his favorite battle axe that was capable of cleaving limbs and heads from bodies with a single blow.
Contrary to popular belief on the mainland, the peoples of the Isle of Britannia were anything but united. Consisting of more than a dozen kingdoms, they were as diverse culturally and ethnically as those who populated the continental Roman Empire. The loyalties of individuals lay with their tribes rather than any sense of larger nationality. In fact, the very term ‘Briton’ was an absurdity that meant nothing to those who inhabited the mysterious and volatile isle. Wars were constant, even though none of the kingdoms had anything resembling a permanent standing army; the concepts of supply and logistics needed for a prolonged campaign were completely foreign to them. Instead, every man of fighting age could be called to arms at any time to serve his king. Wars were mostly short in duration and extreme in brutality. The inability of any of the kingdoms to field a large army for prolonged periods prevented the isle from ever becoming anything resembling united. That did not stop the constant state of conflict, particularly as larger kingdoms attempted to annex the lands of their smaller neighbors, either by coercion or violence of action.
Warriors were armed at their own expense, and as such the majority carried spears, hand axes, or clubs, with simple oblong or circular shields. Those of greater wealth and social status would carry swords or in some cases large battle axes. Few, if any, wore anything passing for body armor. Courage was their only protection, and for the army on the eastern side of the brook, they would need all they could muster.
Before the sounding of the war horns, Caratacus met with those who would help him lead their men into battle.