by Terikel Grayhair




"Get those damned carts in here now!" roared Gaius Aquillius to the drovers blocking his makeshift gate open. This is not what he needed when German warbands were on the prowl. He should know- he spent fifteen years in the legions, and was now serving as a centurion of the first rank. What he needed was a locked gate, many towers, and all his supplies inside until the rest of the army or even the bloody navy could get down here and pull his tunic out of this German fire.

He didn't have nearly what he needed. He had his walls, a palisade really. Two towers catty-corner to each other, above that palisaded wall. A proper Roman trench before the wall to increase its relative height, and three cohorts of veteran Roman legionaries. Aquillius cursed again. Seven days ago a centurion in an army four legions strong, albeit two of those were privately owned and raised, he was now the de facto commander of that army- reduced to three Roman cohorts. But he did have some help. Huddling in the fort with his men were the various sutlers and traders who supplied them, now streaming in and screaming for protection against the very people they exploited.

And then there were the three auxiliary cohorts. Aquillius snorted in disgust.

Two were Nervii auxilia, and their soldiers were as unhappy at this turn of events as the Roman commander. Good swordsmen but better spearmen, they were Romanized barbarians conscripted into the armies of All-Powerful Rome as support troops for the awesome legionary. Before Caesar, they a major power in this area, arrogant and warlike; after him they were barely a tribe and preyed upon by the other tribes of this area. Once praised by Caesar himself for their bravery, this lot was forcibly recruited. The Nervii were definitely facing hard times. They faced death if captured, or worse.

The Tungrian axemen, however, were still more barbarian than Romanized. They enlisted voluntarily for the sheer excitement of battle, and were already blooded in putting down that pathetic revolt of Vindex in Gaul. Aquillius thought them worse than mercenaries- mercs fought for pay, these bastards fought just to spill blood. All three barbarian cohorts were being kept under a watchful eye by the suspicious Romans.

Ain't life grand, thought Centurion Aquillius sarcastically as he watched his gates close after the last cart finally came free. Here we are, three cohorts of solid Romans, sharing an inadequate fort with three cohorts of Germanic warriors, while even more Germans outside the walls gather to slaughter us. At least the walls are solid and the trench before it deep. That should buy us some time.

* * * * *
The blonde rider in the red-striped beige cloak crested the low hill overlooking the Rhein. He was too short to be a proper German warrior, though mounted as he was that was difficult to see. He rode a horse like a German, though- no Son of Mars could ride for squat, which was why all the best Roman Cavalrymen these days were Batavians and not Italians.

He glanced along the river towards Batavodurum, the civitas or capital of the Batavians. They were a Romanized tribe, he recalled, and provided the best horsemen to the Empire. Cohorts of them served in Britain under Vespasian’s campaigns there, and were reportedly better than the Aeduii cavalry used by the Great Caesar himself. Better yet, on the hill above the civitas was a solid, stone Roman fort flying the standards of Rome. There he would be able to spread the word of the catastrophe that had chased him for the last week.



Who knew the loyalty of the Romanized Batavians now that Rome had attacked another Friend and Ally and had gotten soundly trounced? He had left the Cananefate warhost which had destroyed his legion far behind, and was wearing the cloak of a fallen Cananefate warrior, but he still had to cross what he considered hostile territory to get to that fort. He sighed, and kicked his mount toward the fort. His long ride was far from over.

* * * * * *

Gaius Julius Civilis was not a terribly handsome man, but he was an august scion of an honorable and noble house. He might have been handsome once, before a British spear scarred his face and ripped one of his eyes out, leaving a most ugly scar and gaping hole where the green eye once was. That wound ended his usefulness in Titus Flavius Vespasianus's campaign in Britain, and he transferred away from his good friend and back to Rome. Now he was commander of auxiliaries in the backwater of the Empire, on the Batavian frontier, which was erupting in flames.

“A tribune is here to see you, lord,” an auxiliary officer announced. “He claims to bring you news from Traiectum.”

Civilis nodded to the officer then faced the map on the wall behind him. Traiectum... There it was, a castrum between Batavodurum here and the sea. Titus Vorenus Carnifex commanded two legions of solid Roman legionaries from there, and supplemented that powerful army with two legions of auxiliaries he raised and paid himself. He was a cruel, little man, but a worthy general. A shame.



“Tribune Marcus Rutilius reporting from Traiectum, domine,” the rider announced with a salute.

Civilis turned to greet the man. The disheveled rider facing him was blonde and larger than most Romans, yet there was no trace of the tribes in the tribune's voice or posture. His head was bandaged crudely, and dark blood seeped through the dressing. An assortment of cuts and abrasions dotted his exposed skin, while his armor was torn and battered. He looked like he had been through Hell.

Rutilius locked his eyes with the single eye of the man before him and was instantly startled. He had expected a Roman of the Old Guard commanding here; what he saw was a German warlord. His hand flew to his swordhilt.

Civilis chuckled lowly. “Yes, Roman, I am Batavian. By long tradition our cohorts fighting for Rome have been commanded by men of our royal House. These cohorts are no exception.” Seeing the tenseness remain in Rutilius, he added a bit of personal history which the man could easily research, “And I myself have personally guarded your Imperial Nero in Rome itself, as a member of the Corpus Custodes- you know, the Emperor’s Batavian Guard? ”

Rutilius blushed and released his sword to fall back into its scabbard. He was still startled to see a Germanic prince commanding Rome’s cohorts, especially a Germanic prince named Gaius Julius, but the Batavians had served Rome well for a long, long time. And the Emperor’s Bodyguard was a Batavian unit, at least if Galba or Otho had not changed it.

“Report, tribune,” Civilis commanded.

Old habits die hard. Rutilius resumed the position of attention. “Lord, the tribe to your West is now at war with Rome. Titus Vorenus commanded his legions to seek plunder and slaves among the Cananefate; the Cananefate destroyed those legions and Vorenus. If they continue their victorious march, they will be here soon. You must be warned, thus I reported here.”

Civilis looked again at the disheveled tribune, re-appraising the man. The man's pain was obvious yet he held the position of attention like a real soldier. His obvious disgust at finding a Batavian nobleman commanding Rome’s soldiers was well-hidden after that initial outburst. Older scars could be seen on the man's arms and thighs, giving evidence that the young officer before him had once been a veteran legionary and had risen. His spear-straight back and high-held head suggested he might once have been a centurion before becoming a tribune. For one so young, that said much.

Civilis blinked his one eye, then pointed to the map. “The Cananefate are a small tribe, tribune, much smaller than we Batavians. They will not attack here, nor anywhere east of here. If anywhere, they will follow the remnants of our forces south towards Samarobriva. But thank you for your concern.” He looked again at the tribune. “How did you get through their warbands?”

Rutilius shrugged his aching shoulders. The movement made his stiff muscles scream in protest, though he ignored their plea for rest. “My father is a scion of an old Roman noble family who favored red hair. My mother was descended from Chatti and Cherusci slaves taken by Germanicus. He bought her, freed her, and married her. Their son, me, was disposed toward fair hair and grew up speaking her German and his Latin. Dressed in a Cananefate cloak taken from the field of battle and avoiding the main trails, I was often mistaken for a German and thus passed through easily enough.”

Civilis nodded, and smiled. He had scented the blood of the tribes in the veins of the young man, though the man was now stained with the blood of the tribes upon his hands. A shame. Killing one’s own was always a shame.

“Get some rest, tribune. You are quite safe here, “Civilis said. “If you are ready, you may ride with us. There are several cohorts further downriver that have forted up to weather the Cananefate storm. We shall see to them in the morning.”

Rutilius saluted, and exited the praetorium. An auxiliary led him to an empty officer’s berth, had food brought to him, then left the young Roman to get some much-needed sleep. He had survived two Roman defeats so far- he had earned his rest. Still, the vision he saw when first laying eyes on Civilis refused to leave him. A Germanic prince in Roman trappings- was this what the future held for Rome when men like Vorenus attack our allies, and men like Vitellius lead Roman armies against Rome itself to become Emperor themselves?

* * * * *

“We have a deserter,” Centurion Bracco Oscarson reported the following morning. “The tribune who rode in yesterday. His tent is empty and his gear is gone. He most likely slipped out with the morning supply run.”

Civilis nodded at the report. He was surprised, but not by much. “It doesn’t matter, Bracco. Make ready the cohorts. We have an appointment downriver.”

Bracco thumped a fist to his heart and departed. Within minutes one could hear him barking orders to the men. The missing tribune no longer mattered. He was doubtless on his way to Moguntiacum to spread the word about Vorenus and his fallen legions, like a good tribune. By the time he got there, those news would be old and useless. And a whole new order would have come about.

* * * * *

I knew I was right not to trust that man, Rutilius thought as he watched the Batavian cohorts move out in column formation. They were headed along the road to Traiectum, instead of the path along the river. Civilis had asked no questions about Vorenus or the legions when I reported them dead, thus he must have known already. The quiet of his castrum was not forced, thus his men had no fear of a Cananefate attack. And now he marches in standard columns towards Traiectum and not the cohorts along the river.

Rutilius smelled a rat, and had the tremendous urge to follow that rat to see what would happen. Yet there were Roman cohorts downriver awaiting relief, and that relief was not coming in the form of Batavian cohorts now moving the wrong way. With a sigh he turned his stolen mount north towards the river and bundled his stolen blue Batavian cloak about himself. At least now he had a proper saddle- maybe his butt wouldn’t ache as much as it had these past eight days.

* * * * *

He found the remains of the Roman army forted up atop a small rise overlooking the Rhein two mornings later. He did not approach directly, for he had learned the hard way these past days that doing so could seal his doom. Instead, he cast his eyes about in search in Batavians or Cananefate hiding in the woodlines. Satisfied that nobody was observing the fort, he shed his Batavian cloak to reveal his Roman armor and broke cover. And was almost skewered by an arrow from the fort.

“Hold your arrows, you idiot!” he yelled in Latin. “And crack the gate. I need to speak with the commander. Now!”

“Approach and be recognized,” commanded the sentry in the tower in a bored voice. Rutilius did just that, but the gate remained closed. A second man appeared in the tower a few minutes later. He called down to Rutilius in a cynical tone and demanded his name and business.

“Ave, centurion,” Rutilius replied. “I am Marcus Rutilius, tribune from the II Legio Vorena. We were ambushed in Cananefate land and-“

“Yeah, right,” the centurion snarled. “My sentry saw you in the woodline wearing a Batavian cloak. And for your information, whoever you are, Cananefate land is that way,” he said, pointing to the west. “We saw you in the eastern woodline.”

“I went to Batavodurum first, centurion,” Rutilius countered. “The Batavian auxiliary cohorts were to march here to relieve you- which is how I heard you were here- but they rode to Traiectum, which they knew was already fallen. So I came here to warn you- get out now while they are to your west. Flee to Moguntiacum, and report the situation to Flaccus.”

“Good advice, mister,” Gaius Aquillius replied cynically. “That is exactly what we are going to do. A sutler took his boat upriver to seek aid already. And when the fleet gets here, we will go with it. Nice try in attempting to get us far out into the woods where you and your German buddies can slaughter us.”

Rutilius cursed the man’s intransigence, then softened. He would say and do the same thing if he was in the tower and a blonde man with a Batavian cloak told him the same thing, except he would not so blatantly reveal his escape plans. Seeing that he was going to get nowhere with the man, he turned his horse to the west and added one last piece of advice he knew the men would probably take- “I am going to see what those Batavians are up to. Stay alert, stay alive, and trust nobody.”

With that, he spurred his horse out of the fort’s field of fire and towards the ruins of Traiectum. Why did Civilis go there, when he knew the place was stormed and burned? What was Civilis up to?

* * * * *

That night, Rutilius got his answer. In the fields around the ruined castrum were hundreds of small fires. Around those fires he could see thousands of Germans of many tribes, some like the Cananefate and Batavians he knew, others he could only guess at by the colors of their cloaks, like the Frisians. And others he did not recognize at all. He maintained a discreet distance from the fires and observed casually. After an hour, with the moon rising, he moved deeper into the woods then made his way back to the cohorts upon the Rhein.



He had seen enough. The jocular noise and friendly drinking around the campfires confirmed his suspicions. The Batavians were not there to fight. And that ceremony by the ruined gates... Mars! Word of this has to get out!

His plans were now set. He would return to Aquillius’s little fort, circle around, and wait in the eastern woodline again until the fleet arrived. Then and only then would he break cover and try to seek passage to Moguntiacum. Aquillius might be too tense and stressed to see he was dealing with a Roman officer, but he was willing to bet his life that the crews of the Roman fleet would not be so judgmental.


* * * * *

Rutilius came instantly alert at the shouted cry of several thousand throats. Cacat! He cursed to himself, I have fallen asleep! He roused himself quickly and glanced about. The woods to his left and his right were as empty of life as the fort to his front. In the fort only fire lived, its tendrils licking the palisade on its quest to reach the sky.

The river was crowded, he saw- the fleet must have arrived while he slept. Gaius Aquillius hadn’t been caught sleeping like he had been- his six cohorts were probably out of the fort the moment the ships came into sight. Not that it helped him much. The ships were still pulling oars to make the shore and Aquillius and his men were almost to the beach when the Batavians and Cananefate emerged from the woods.

It was a race the heavily armored Romans could not win, and both Rutilius and Civilis knew it. So did Aquillius. Rutilius watched in horror as the cohorts turned away from the approaching ships to present a shielded front to the attacking Germans.



It wasn’t much of a battle- it was more like a massacre. Aquillius had six cohorts- about three thousand men. Facing him were six Batavian cavalry alae- hardened veterans all, and the Cananefate warhost which a week ago wasn’t reckoned much of a force until it destroyed four legions in open battle.

Aquillius met them like a man who knew he was going to die and was determined to die well. He deployed his three Roman cohorts as a center, and flanked them on the left with the Nervii auxilia. To his right he placed the Tungrian axemen. To a trained eye it was a good deployment, a textbook deployment. To Civilis and the Batavians it was a godsend.

No sooner had Civilis taken the field with his ranks, and deployed his warriors to face the Romans when the Tungrians decided that cold gold was a worthless reason to die at the hands of fellow tribesmen. The Tungrian chieftain decided to change their fate. Bellowing a warcry, he ordered the cohort to pivot to the left and attack. Tungrian axes were chopping through Roman armor and into Roman flesh before Aquillius knew what had happened or why.



As the honor cohort turned to battle this new menace, it opened a hole in the Roman lines. Civilis was never one to dally when there was blood to spill, and blew his rams horn to signal the attack. Ten thousand throats echoed his call, and the Germans charged the Roman line.

The Nervii did not even wait for the impact. Seeing the hosts of famed Batavian cavalry charging down on them- the best horsemen in the Empire- they lost their nerve and broke ranks. Within seconds, the Nervii were fleeing the field, only to be run down by the racing Batavians.



This turn of events sealed the fate of the Aquillius and the Romans. Three minutes into the battle and their forces were halved. The Cananefate warriors before them charged amongst them too quickly to get off a good volley of pila, and then it was swords and axes against scuta with spears and gladii darting madly to and fro in a stormy frenzy for blood.

The Romans fought well for men who considered themselves already dead. They held their formations and made the Cananefate warriors pay dearly for every life they took. Unit on unit, no army in the world could match the Romans. Then the Batavian cavalry exploded into the rear of the cohorts and broke the formations apart with violence and savagery. It turned into a brawl, one mob against another. Mob on mob, no mob in the world could match the Germans. The Romans went down under bloody axes and dripping spearpoints.

Gaius Aquillius would not regret his death. He was a madman with rage at this unfair turn of fate. He did not flail about madly with his gladius as many a tyro would do, but methodically blocked with his scutum to his left and drove his sword into some exposed gut on the right before moving and spinning to repeat the process. Axes broke his shield, forcing him to throw it away. He saw he was the last Roman standing, and that the Germani had backed away from him. They made a circle around the crazed Roman who was covered in blood from friend and foe who and crying to the gods for release from the grief of losing his men. For a second he imagined his rage had earned him German respect. Then he saw Batavians approaching with ropes in their hands and he knew. The respite ended abruptly with a sudden German rush and Gaius Aquillius went down, never to rise again.

Rutilius watched silently as the Germans backed away from the corpse of Aquillius with a rousing cheer and began moving through the mounds of dead and dying. Here and there an axe fell or a spear darted forward, ending the misery of some poor Roman who had not the brains to die when he was stabbed but to live on in agony. The dispersing mass of men revealed Aquillius on his belly, his gladius thrust through his own heart and jutting out of his back like a shark fin. Amid all the turmoil and chaos of his last stand, he still had the wits and opportunity to fall on his sword like a good Roman officer and thus avoid the infamy of capture, torture, and slavery. Rutilius heartily approved.

As if the carnage before him was not disparaging enough, worse was happening in the river. Twenty four ships, once pulling mightily for shore before turning away from the Germanic onslaught, suddenly began churning the water madly. First one ship, then another, lost direction and acted erratically. Two ships almost collided, then turned away. As the Roman soldiers near the beach died, the ships regained control over themselves and began to pull toward the shore again.

Rutilius realized two things as the ships beached and several rowers started heaving armored bodies overboard. One, there was a mutiny aboard the ships or some swimming Germans had commandeered them. Either way, the result was the same- the Rhein Fleet was now in German hands. And two, it was going to be a long long trip to anywhere Roman.

* * * * * *

Rutilius made his escape while the Germans were rifling the dead for weapons and armor. After that, he knew they would ransack the burning fort for anything missed by the fire. Given that every Roman who had taken the field was dead and the fleeing Nervii auxiliaries fled south, he had a pretty fair chance of making it to the east.

After skirting Batavian patrols near Civilis’s capital at Batavodurum, he had a clear shot down the river. He rode like man possessed, which he was. He alone knew what was happening and why. If he died now, with the entire northwestern border wide open and nobody in Rome the wiser, it could lead to a catastrophe worse than that of the Teutoburger Forest. And that happened under Augustus, the Great One, when we had thirty legions under arms. Now, with Nero dead and the Spanish legions making Galba emperor, to be followed by Otho, who killed himself after the debacle at Bedriacum, and Vitellius taking half the army to make himself emperor, who knew what damage could stem from this. Gaul had just suffered a revolt, put down by Batavians, no less! If they should rise again, the entire empire north of the Alps was lost.

* * * * * *

A welcome sight greeted him two mornings later. A cavalry patrol, dressed in Roman armor, came trotting by where he lay hidden. The men, chatting casually as they rode, were not speaking a German dialect, or even a Gallic one. Rutilius seized his chance. He broke cover and dashed onto the road. He was immediately surrounded by the troopers who lowered lances even at his Latin rantings, of course, but he had the attention of their decurion. That was all he needed.

“Marcus Rutilius, tribune of the II Legio Vorena,” he announced. “I need to speak with a legate at once!”

“Pubilus Arrius, decurion of the V Alaudae Cavalry Auxilia,” the decurion replied tersely. “Let me guess. The Germans are in revolt and rampaging all along the border.” The stunned look on Rutilius’s face answered for him. “We heard this before. A few deserters from Traiectum said the same thing, trying to save their ass from the lash. It didn’t work. They are now gladiator slaves heading for Massilia.”

“The Germans are in revolt,” Marcus cursed. “I can see you questioning the honor of mere legionaries, but do you really doubt the word of a tribune, an officer? Mithra’s balls, man, look at the blood on this cloak and the gouges in my sword and armor. Do you think I put them there?”

Arrius shrugged. He had seen crazier things done by men sick of military life on a peaceful frontier. Yet this one was an officer, or so he claimed. At least he acted like one. “Do you have a horse?” Marcus nodded. “Fall in. We are heading back to Castra Vetera tomorrow. You can come with us.”

Castra Vetera! Marcus cursed to himself. How could he forget that? Two legions had their winter quarters there- the V Alaudae and the XV Primigenia. This was summer, but the decurion’s words made it clear that the post was occupied. Yes! Two solid Roman legions working together could put this revolt down, if properly led. Rutilius saw a glimmer of hope. The future of the Empire lay in the able hands of the commander of the legions at Castra Vetera, and thus he was bound for Castra Vetera.


* * * * * *

Despite the blatant disbelief in the decurion’s attitude, both he, the troopers, and Rutilius visibly relaxed when the wooden walls of Castra Vetera came into view. The cheerful chatter resumed, and when the gates opened, it was like coming home. Rutilius finally felt safe after almost a fortnight on the run. That feeling lasted until the decurion brought him before the post commander, legate, Quintus Munius Lupercus of the V Alaudae.

“Another deserter, legate,” Arrius announced coldly. “This one claims to be an officer.”

Munius Lupercus did not even raise his eyes from the scroll he was reading. “Any sign of hostile action or forces in the area, decurion?” At the negative reply from the decurion, Lupercus sighed and commanded Rutilius to be cast in fetters to await the next sutler who could take him to Massilia, like the others.

“Vorenus and the Traiectum garrison are dead, legate!” Rutilius called as he was being dragged away. ”I am no deserter! I came here voluntarily to report a military catastrophe!”

“Yes, yes,” Lupercus commented as the man was being dragged away. “We have heard this before, yet I am reading the weekly dispatch from Vorenus now. He put down a riot near his post and sent a punitive expedition to punish the rioters. All’s well there, lad. Take him away.”

The fight went out of Rutilius as the legate’s words sank in and the strain of the last two weeks set in. Did Titus Vorenus yet live? He saw the Germani slaughter the garrison- very few escaped, and those that did were being chased by fleet-footed warriors and cavalry. What was going on here?


* * * * * *

“Morons,” Rutilius muttered to himself in the darkness of the dungeon. He shook the fetters chaining his feet to the floor. “Utter idiots! The border is in flames, we lit the fire, and not a single one of them notices or cares.”

A scuffling sound erupted from the corner, ending his monologue. “Who’s there?” he commanded.

“Eine Mann wer Sie gelauft,” came the low reply, in a Germanic tongue. A man who believes you.

Rutilius scuttled away from the voice. He had had enough of Germans these past days to last a lifetime. By the gods, he did not want to pass the night fettered and locked in a closed room with one of them.

“Du bist der Geist von Rutilius,” came the voice. “Ich habe Ihr Tot gesehen. Was willen Sie hier?”

“I am not the ghost of Rutilius,” Marcus replied in the same tongue. “I am Marcus Rutilius. I am not dead, thus you could not have witnessed my death. And what I want here is to get out of here.”

“I have indeed seen you die,” the German replied. His voice was on the high side, Rutilius thought, but that could be from the fact that he thought he was talking to a ghost. “At Vidar’s Altar, west of here, many days ago. Oddmund the Handsome bashed your head in with his shield.”

“So that was his name,” Rutilius mused. “Well, kamerad, he knocked me from my horse and broke some skin above my eye, but the good Roman steel of my helmet protected what brains I have from becoming scrambled. I was stunned senseless for a long time, but awoke in time to get away before your kind could give me the mercy of the dagger, Cananefate warrior.”

A chuckle arose. “Did you mean what you said about the world in flames and the Romani lighting the fire?”

“I do,” Rutilius affirmed. “Vorenus heard that the Cananefate had much wealth and no food. To him, that meant slaves and riches. When I learned that the Cananefate were Friends and Allies of Rome, I told my commander, but he ignored my words. He had his orders, and those orders were to betray Roman interest to line his commander's wallet with wealth. Why do you care, warrior? We are both bound to the arena at Massilia.”

“I care because I am unfettered,” laughed the warrior. “And if you give me your word that you will tell the Roman King that his men brought war to the Cananefate, and not the other way around, I may be able to make you unfettered as well.”

Rutilius jumped eagerly at this chance. “I swear by Mars and Jupiter Optimus and every god no matter what his name that if you can free me from these fetters, I shall indeed journey to mighty Romeburg and tell of the innocence of the Cananefate in this matter.”

“You need not swear such terrible oaths to convince me, Marcus Rutilius,” the German replied reverently. “You have the reputation of being an honest man. We have seen this many times in your actions when our paths crossed yours. You need only give your word, and I shall free you.”

“You have it, friend,” Rutilius said. “Who are you, by the way?”

“I am Jorgen, a warrior of the Cananefate. I was captured with ten others by a horseborne warband while chasing those fleeing from Traiectum. Eventually I was brought here. My comrades were either killed or sold to slavers, while I was to be a present for Lupercus once I have been properly broken. But I shall not break. I shall break out instead. I shall free you of your fetters, Marcus Rutilius, and you shall free me of this place and fulfill your word. Then we shall be even.”

Rutilius agreed. He had broken out of the castrum at Batavodurum amidst a whole warhost of Batavian warriors; escaping from a castrum filled with his own ought to be easy.

Jorgen crawled out of the corner and came forward holding a big hammer. Rutilius saw at once why he was spared the slavers. Jorgen was but a boy, and a handsome one at that. Disgust filled him at the thought of why Lupercus would want him ‘properly broken.’

“Your jailors are careless,” Jorgen muttered. “Or they wished me to kill you to stop the truth from emerging. No matter.” He propped a shackle upon the ring linking them to the floor. A single swing and the shackle fell apart. Another minute saw the other shackle open. “And now, the door.”

“Wait,” Rutilius commanded. “The noise you made will bring the guard in. Let him open the door first. Hide.”

Rutilius was proved a prophet a minute or two later. The jailor would have a lump the size of an apple in the morning, but by then the men who gave it to him would be far away. And when the gates open for the morning patrols, one of those patrols would have forty two soldiers instead of forty. And it was still a long long road to Moguntiacum. And from there, on to Rome to fulfill his promise.

* * * * * *

It was indeed a long, long ride, but finally, Rutilius saw the walls of Moguntiacum rise before him. Jorgen had disappeared the morning of his escape, heading west. Rutilius rode south. His aching arse had gotten used to the riding, and the aches for their part subsided in defeat. His thighs, however, continued to torment him beyond belief. He dismounted by the gate and walked his horse in. Once inside, he turned the beast over to a stable and walked the rest of the way to the praetorium. He needed to use his legs as they were meant to be used- it helped with the cramps and helped clear his head for the report he knew he must give.




Inside the praetorium, he fumed silently at having to wait until the commander was ready to see him. Two hours he waited, while the sun tracked across the sky and began to dip below the western hills. Finally, he was led in and announced. He ignored the chair set aside for him and reported to the commander standing as a proper Roman should.

Propraetore Legatus Marcus Hordeonis Flaccus ignored the bruised and bleeding man before him while he continued to read his dispatches. His wrinkled face screwed up as his failing eyes tried to read in the fading light, then finally he acquiesced and had his body slave light the oil lantern. Satisfied, he continued reading. Finally, he sat back and motioned for Rutilius to begin explaining why he needed to see the district commander personally instead of a legate.

"Your command is infested with traitors and fools, lord," Rutilius barked. He was fuming mad at this disciplinarian treatment. He had urgent news, and was made to wait as if a client. "The entire border from here to the sea is in flames because of them. And from what I see here in this post, you have no idea of the magnitude of this catastrophe!"

Flaccus blinked at the violence in the tribune's voice, and at the accusations. As he digested the impact of the words, he smiled. Typical youthful ardor coupled with inexperience, he realized. It was time for a wiser, older man to explain the facts of life to the next generation.

"Now now, tribunus, be not too hasty to judge your superiors," he said in what he hoped was a relaxed tone, in stark contrast to the heated rush from the disheveled man before him. "Often times things look terrible from where you stand, but are the daily tribulations when seen from my curule chair."

He dug through some scrolls, and opened them upon the table. With a gesture, he invited the tribune to peruse them. "See here, young man," he said, pointing to a scroll. "Here we have a dispatch from the West, which you claim is in flames. In it, the older and wiser commanding officer mentions that he encountered a hostile warband of Bructeri and was pursuing. In another, he decided to change his course of action and prudently retreated to his castrum to offer battle from there. And in this one here, the post commander says he will be bringing cohorts of Batavian auxilia to the aid of his colleague. Between the two, they shall crush the Bructeri like so many times before and thus restore the border."

He paused, letting the man read the evidence. "Now, these things happen all the time, tribune. To you and your comrades on battle lines, it may seem like the world has erupted in flames and revolt. But it is actually a minor nuisance that will be promptly and effectively dealt with."

Marcus Rutilius looked up from the scrolls towards the heavens. How thick was this old geezer's head? He was not a tyro on his first campaign, by the gods! He was a legionary who was made optio because he could read, and then centurion when the former centurion caught a javelin in the ribs. And then his actions in small engagements brought him to the attention of that Titus Vorenus, who promoted him to tribune. He might never have sat his ass in a curule chair, but by the gods he knew warfare. And he knew incompetence when he faced it. Or corruption. He saw he had to explain what happened in tiny droplets so there would be no confusion.

"It is passing strange that you have chosen these scrolls as evidence that my first-hand knowledge of these events is exaggeration," he remarked in a tone calmer than his initial outburst. "For they are from the two men who I accuse of betraying Rome and yourself."

"Explain yourself," Flaccus demanded.

The tribune began with the orders of Titus Vorenus Carnifex and the attack of his legion into the lands of the Cananefate for the purpose of plundering and enslaving that Friend and Ally of Rome. His voice rose in pitch and tempo as he told of the battle where his first command perished, along with the entire legion. He told of his own fall and escape, and then of riding passed the ruins of the castrum at Traiectum.

Through it all, the aging general before him hardly batted an eye, until the mention of Traiectum.

“Wait a moment,” the aging general commanded. “Traiectum fell??”

“Aye, generalis,” Rutilius confirmed. "Weeks ago. I have had a rough trip of it since Vidar's Altar."

“But I have the dispatch here from Civilis,” Flaccus said as he lifted the scroll. “Here, tribunus Rutilius, Gaius Julius Civilis writes in his on hand that he was moving to relieve Vorenus after first sweeping up Aquillius and the other scattered cohorts. He will also send emissaries to the Cananefate, who are to broker a peace on Rome’s terms, though fair to the tribe. This is but a minor incursion of Bructeri brigands, not a threat to the Empire!”

Rutilius snorted in disgust. "Lord, Civilis swept the scattered cohorts up all right, and did send emissaries to the Cananefate. The cohorts died to a man upon the banks of the Rhein with Cananefate spears and Batavian lances in their entrails, while the ships you sent to pick them up ran into some kind of mutiny or revolt onboard. The fleet ended up joining the alliance of Cananefate, Frisian, and Batavian tribes. I have fought or been present at several of these battles and have yet to see a Bructeri warrior among the enemy. Civilis, your subordinate Gaius Julius Civilis, was elected their king in council, and the Cananefate king Brinno was elected general."

"What?!?" shouted Hordeonis Flaccus. "Are you sure?"

Rutilius smiled, now that he had the governor's attention. "I am sure. I witnessed the conclave between the three tribes myself, at the still-smoking ruins of Traiectum. Though I could not hear the words from where I was hidden, I did see them present their swords to Civilis, and toss Brinno into the air upon a shield. Those are German customs, lord, which declare the one a king and the other a general. And I am positive it was Civilis- I had just left his fort when he and his cohorts departed- heading not to Aquillius who was forted up on the Rhein, but to Traiectum which he knew was fallen. I followed him, of course, but did not want to be seen."

"And Brinno?"

Rutilius pulled out the smelly Cananefate cloak he had stolen at Vidar's Altar. "There were two men standing wearing cloaks like this by Civilis when he was crowned. The one was Niall, the prince who slaughtered Sextus Cornelius's legion at Vidar's Altar and Vorenus at Traiectum. The other must have been Brinno, his brother, who destroyed the legions of Decimus Cornelius and Lucius Glabius."

"Glabius... Both Cornelii... and Vorenus. And their four legions." Flaccus murmured as he sat down heavily. Something hard had just him in the heart and clenched a fist about the struggling organ.

Rutilius smiled wolfishly as he saw the truth register. "Aye, lord. All of them are dead, all of their men, also dead. Civilis has gone over to the Batavians. Aquillius and his cohorts are dead on the Rhein- they went down fighting when the German cohort among them turned on them and went over to Civilis. Your fleet mutinied or was captured, it doesn't matter. Either way, they sail for Civilis now. You have an incompetent idiot commanding Castra Vetera. So, lord, there is absolutely no respectable Roman presence between us here in Moguntiacum and the sea. None at all."

He grinned cruelly at the cringing old man before him and asked in a mocking tone, "Do you still think I am underestimating the situation, lord?"

Flaccus croaked out a weak "no" before collapsing on his bed.


Other chapters in this series:

1- They Come
2- Vengeance at Traiectum
3- Betrayal on the Border
4- Batavia Rises
5- Homeward Bound
6- The Long Road to Castra Vetera
7- Sunrise at Bedriacum
8- And yet, I was once our emperor
9- Midwinter Misery and Madness
10-Prophecies Fulfilled
11- The Little War
12- The Broken Bridge

[This message has been edited by Terikel Grayhair (edited 11-01-2008 @ 08:25 AM).]