By Terikel Grayhair





"That is just great," groaned Caius Dillius Vocula as he put down the scroll delivered to him here in Colonia Agrippensi this morning. He rubbed his weary brow with one hand while the other reached for a flagon of watered wine to wash away his distaste.

"What does it say, Caius?" asked the larger of the two legates sharing the office with Vocula. Aulus Herrennius Gallus was like Vocula a big man, and respected by the legionaries as a worthy commander, but unlike Vocula, he had earned few victory wreaths for his legionary eagle. The last time the I Germanica had won a battle on its own was under Drusus Germanicus, and that was decades ago. Once a proud and honorable legion, it was now filled with recruits so raw their gladii still bore the marks of smithing, or with men to whom dead Vitellius was an idol. Either way, his legion was far from the powerhouse that had punished the Cherusci for their ambush of Varus forty-odd years before. Nor was the legion up to strength- each of its eight remaining cohorts was missing a full century.

"Yes, dear Caius, what troubles you so?" asked Decius Paullus, commander of the IV Macedonica. Though he had traveled down from Moguntiacum for the strategy conference, his legion remained behind as the only full-strength legion in the province. That was because the legion had not fought much in the last six months, and when it had, Flaccus had managed to pry loose replacements from the tight-fisted governors of Gaul to fill their ranks. But Flaccus was now dead- murdered by the legions- and with him died the ability to sustain and replenish the four legions of his army.

Vocula stood. Standing, he was almost a half-head taller than Gallus. His shoulders were almost as broad, making the legate a muscled giant among his men. How he ever passed unnoticed through the murderers of Flaccus seeeking to murder him as well that awful Saturnalia remained a mystery. For that miracle, he silently thanked the fourth man in the room- the Vascon tribune Pietrus.

"I have just been appointed as governor for the provinces of Germania Superior and Germania Inferior," he uttered. "And charged with defending the border from further German incursion."

He paced. "That fool in Gaul has absolutely no understanding of our situation," he continued. "There is no more Germania Inferior- it is now the Batavian Kingdom. Germania Superior exists as only this empty civitas and our single castra at Moguntiacum. And our legions..." he snorted again, harder this time. "My XXII Primigenia is the strongest with eight veterans of ten still alive. Your IV Macedonica, Paullus, is second strongest at full strength but of mostly raw recruits and is upriver at Moguntiacum, while the I Germanica of Aulus here and the XVI Gallica with no commander can barely muster thirteen full cohorts between the two of them.

"And with this mighty but dispersed army," he concluded sarcastically, "I am to drive back the Batavians who have crushed our forces time and again, reclaim two entire provinces, defend our base, and seal a bloody river which we do not even control. Cacat!"

Gallus grinned. "It may not be as bad as you think," he said, striding to the map and pointing to his former base at Novaesium. "Our Lingone scouts reported Civilis and his army here yesterday, moving north. With the Batavian King out of the way, we might be able to retake that fort and start our reconquest. In the very least, we get a buffer to keep him away from here, so that if any replacements do arrive, we have somewhere to organize them."



Vocula looked at the map and concentrated. North of Colonia Claudia Ara Agrippensi, once the Ubii civitias but now a war-torn ghost town, lay Novaesium. Beyond that lay the ruins of the camp at Gelduba. And north of that lay Castra Vetera, where Quintus Munius Lupercus and the V Alaudae and XV Primigenia have been besieged since the early fall. Lupercus and his men were starving, and the few boatloads of food that got through the Batavian blockade were not enough to sustain the legionaries indefinitely. He had to get north to free his colleagues. He had done it once, and by god he would do it again.

But how?

"General, a visitor for you," announced a centurion. Vocula beckoned the man to send the visitor in while he resumed his seat behind the desk of Flaccus... His desk now.

The man entering was a Batavian prince wearing the uniform of a Roman tribune. An hour later he departed, desperate hope glowing in his wake.

"The order is given, Aulus," Vocula commanded joyfully. "Your I Germanica, the XVI Gallica, and my XXII Primigenia will be seizing Novaesium and then driving for Vetera. Start the planning. I want to see a good plan by the end of the week." He turned to Decius Paullus. "But you will not be going, Decius. Return to your troops. You are to hold Moguntiacum at all costs.

"And I mean at all costs. If we fail, you are all that is left of our two provinces, and the only suitable base for Roman military operations upon the Rhein. You must hold. One day Rome will wake up and realize how dire her position here is, and help will come. That help must have a base, and you are it."

"I understand, Caius," Decius Paullus acknowledged solemnly. "I will hold there, not matter what."

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Around Vetera, the German noose was tightening.

"We caught this," beamed a Bructeri warrior to his king. The warrior had his men thrust three bound Romans before Seval. A small pile of wet ropes and sticks landed upon the captives seconds later. "And they had these with them."

Gaius Julius Civilis, King Seval to the Batavians and Germans he ruled, looked over the captives with glee. The men were almost skeletal, their eye sockets withdrawn so deep into their heads as to appear black and empty. Yes, the siege was having a worse effect on them than on him, though that long red-dyed hair he swore not cut until Vetera fell was annoying the living hell out of him. Still, irritation was such a small price to pay. Starving into oblivion was by far much worse.

"And what exactly is that crap you so proudly displayed with your captives, Bjorn?" he asked, moving his eyes from the human wreckage to the wetness polluting his dining hall.

"Netting and poles, lord," Bjorn replied, opening the piles and holding it up for his king. "They were fishing at night, it seems. One of our patrol ships noticed them the night before, and this night we were ready for them." He kicked one of the captives, eliciting a low groan from the bound man. "They did not put up much of a fight."

"Take them to within sight of the fortress at first light," Seval commanded. "Have them burned there. I doubt there will be many volunteers to take their place after that. And then maybe they will realize their fate if they do not surrender soon. Patrol those walls more often, Bjorn, in case there are more fools anyway."

The warriors removed the prisoners to their fate while Seval sat back contented. At last, he thought. His fleets blockaded the rivers, and his armies had twice now driven off Roman attempts to free the trapped legions. Yet Vetera had held out. Now he knew how those starving men had held out so long- they were getting food in. His siege lines were not perfect. He picked a chunk of meat from his teeth and grinned. They would be now!

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Quintus Munius Lupercus and his men watched helplessly as their fishermen colleagues burned at dawn. To make matters worse, the men were not simply slain and burned. They were put into wicker cages and slowly roasted over large fires, twitching and howling in agony as their flesh cooked and their blood boiled. It took hours, but at last the men twitched no more and the wicker burned away to allow the remains to plunge into the fires below.

"Sick bastard," Lupercus muttered. He turned to his men watching the grisly display from the walls. "You men remember this!" he cried. "Remember your comrades there who died roasting like sour pork! That is your fate, should any one of you be taken alive by those animals out there."

His words sank in to every brain. Yet there were not few who smelled the roasting flesh of their comrades and experienced the twisted watering of mouths at the scent.

Human flesh did smell a lot like pork when it was roasted slowly...

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"What do you want to do with those clowns?" asked Legate Gnaeus Vipsanius Messala, pointing to the ten cohorts of former marines now pretending to be a real legion upon the Campus Martius outside Rome. He knew well what a legion was supposed to be- he commanded the XI Claudia, a renowned legion of veterans who fought at Dyrrachium, Pharsalus, Philippi, Actium, and Bedriacum. Messala laughed at the thought- he ought to rename his legion to Legio XI Creatores Imperator.

Quintus Petillius Cerealis was not amused. His forty year old body felt like it had seen sixty hard winters, and his once luxuriant thick dark hair was both thinning and going gray. But he had heavier tasks to deal with than poke fun at lowly marines trying to impersonate true legionaries. And he had a watchdog to ensure he performed those weightier tasks- the consul Gaius Licinius Mucianus had assigned his personal legate to ensure the general met with success.

Cerealis grinned cruelly at the thought. How could he fail? He had the veteran XI Claudia, as well as its sister XIII Gemina who had fought in the same battles with the same success. He had the VIII Augusta, another veteran legion with a string of victories dating from the great Augustus who called it to his banners. And the XXI Rapax, a former Vitellian legion, but one who was now sworn to Vespasian and knew Germania better than anyone, having served years there before being brought here to Rome last year by Vitellius to be his new Praetorian Guard. And of course, he had the ten cohorts of Ravenna marines his brother-in-law Vespasian had promoted to legionaries.

But still Mucianus felt it his duty to put a watchdog on him. He knew why, and the knowledge still ate at him even after ten years. Camulodunum. He led the IX Legion in that battle against that witch Boudicca, and lost so badly at only the cavalry escaped death. The IX and its eagle were lost, and only later rebuilt. Mucianus granted him now five legions, with three more enroute, to crush the Germans. And put his new personal watchdog on him as a consular legate to ensure he doesn't lose this army like he did the IX.

Cerealis ripped his mind from his jaded past and looked again over the marines. They were ten cohorts strong, the largest legion in his army. The others, having fought and bled at Bedriacum and along the road to Rome, were at an average of eight cohorts strong. But they were veterans, and the marines had never fought on land. They also had no officers other than centurions, and even those hoary warriors had never wielded a gladius in anger on land. Nor had they ever commanded more than a single century. Worse, they had no grasp of tactics, maneuver, or terrain.

Why should they? The ocean was flat, and the captains of the ships did the maneuvering. The only thing the centurions had to do was repel boarders, or board the enemy. That was it. Sea-mutts. Bloody useless on land.

Then he smiled as inspiration shone through him. "Fetch the watchdog, Gnaeus," he ordered. "Mucianus made him a legate. So will I. He is to command the II Adiutrix."

"Well done, Quintus," Messala replied with a broad smile of his own. Putting the watchdog to good use will have the added benefit of keeping him out of the command tent where his presence was not welcome. Well done, indeed.

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Marcus Rutilius did not think it was well done at all. In fact, he thought it rather poorly done. But he did not expect anything else since Gaius Licinius Mucianus commissioned him his personal legate. He was a legate, and there was a legion needing one. He had hoped for the VII Claudia, now that its former commander -that ape Antonius Primus- was made the urban praetor, but the VII Claudia was heading East where he did not want to go and the II Adiutrix was heading north where he did want to go.

Worse, the II Adiutrix was an embarrassment of a legion. There were ten cohorts as was proper, but other than that there was nothing. His inspection of the ranks confirmed his worse fears. There was absolutely nothing else. No artillery, no auxilia cavalry- in fact, no auxilia of any kind, no supplies, no mules, no wagons and worse, no officers. They slept in borrowed tents or were housed in barracks in the city.

He had sixty centurions but not a single tribunus or prefectus. The men were still dressed in their ship-board leather armor, still carried their flat naval shields, and plied their naval bows. None of them had ever seen a pilum, much less held one.

But there were some good points as well. Each man did have a gladius he did know how to use. They were eager, by the gods were they eager, to prove their worth. And they had few things to unlearn, unlike most legionaries.

Their first battle drill was a disaster, but one which had a silver lining. He asked a few cohorts from the XXI Rapax if they would make a mock assault on his men. His men repulsed the XXI attack after an hour, bloody and bruised from the wooden weapons, but they had held. Then he attacked the XXI, and was laughed off the field- for when the II Adiutrix responded to his command to attack, each century expertly and quickly formed up into columns four men wide and punched into the waiting lines of the Rapax.

Rutilius shook his head in wonder. Of course, he had expected something of the like, but watching the debacle was something totally unforeseen. In retrospect, he ought to have known- attacks by boarders were made across the corvus- wide enough for four men abreast. His former marines had no other experience, thus the commands were followed expertly and quickly and by rote, but totally against his will.

Still, it allowed him to see where his problems were. They were many but able to be solved, if he had the time.

He didn't. The next morning, the XI Claudia led off the march north, followed in line by the other legions. The II Adiutrix, being the newest and thus most junior legion, brought up the rear. Rome was settling on the horizon behind, and the long road to Germania just beginning. It would be a long, hard march for the sea-whelps, and for their new commander.

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"Help is on the way," cried Vocula in sheer joy as he read the latest dispatch from Rome. "Eight legions!"

Gallus whooped with joy. "You were talking about the fools not realizing the importance of the Rhein, eh Caius? Eight legions!"

"I hope Lupercus can hold out a little longer," Publius Arrius agreed. The former decurion of the V Alaudae cavalry Auxilia was now a tribune commanding the XVI Gallica- for lack of any other officer. The euphoria at the news affected him as well, but he was more dour by nature. "Eight legions? That's like a third of the entire army! Jupiter! They are serious."

"The XI Claudia, the XIII Gemina, and the II Adiutrix are marching from Rome," Vocula read further, "accompanied by our own XXI Rapax and VIII Augusta. The XIV Gemina is coming from Britannia, and the I Adiutrix and VI Victrix from Hispana."

"Good outfits," Gallus nodded in approval. "Except for this II Adiutrix. Who the hell are they?"

"It does not matter," Arrius replied. "They are coming. That matters."

Vocula agreed. "I have never heard of them either, but as long as their caligulae bring them here, I do not care."

"And shall we sit here on our butts until they come, with their general to take the credit, or do we help them out a bit?" Gallus asked.

"We help them," Vocula said with determination. He walked to the map and pointed to where Chauci warriors held the former castrum at Novaesium. "It starts here, in two days. Aulus, your plan is approved. Move your men to the eastern side. You remember how we always had problems keeping the sentries there? I am betting the Germans will have the same problems."

Gallus laughed. "The sewers emptied out on that side. The sentries could not stand the smell."

Vocula agreed. "There is a dip in the ground that will conceal most of an assault from view- which was precisely why we had to post a sentry there. If the Germans react like our legionaries did, your assault from there will not be seen until it is too late."

He turned to the tribune commanding the XVI Gallica. "Arrius, you get the honor of staging the world's most exorbitant demonstration on the north-western side to keep the fools occupied so that Aulus can get inside and open the gates. Then I will lead my legion in and we clean house. Now move, boys. Let's kill some Germani."

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Dawn was breaking in the east when fire and death rained from the north.

The Chauci garrisoning Novaesium had heard movement and groaning all night, the racket disturbing their otherwise pleasant life in the former Roman castra. And Life was pleasant in the clear winter weather- the defeated and subjugated Ubii had finally accepted their fate, returning to the villages ravaged in the recent fighting and taking up the plow once again. With the return of the Ubian men came the Ubian women, many now widowed. And these needed a man in their life, so who better than a victorious Chauci warrior to replace a dead Ubian one?

Now the flaming pots arcing out from the north threatened to eradicate that pleasant life.

"To the walls!" roared the Chauci chieftain Waldhelm as he emerged from his tent, hitching up his pants while trying to raise his sword at the same time. It couldn't work, and didn't, forcing him to drop the weapon in order to raise his pants. The omen went unseen, despite the rush and hustle of his fellow warriors answering his cry. He retrieved his sword and ran through the flaming rain to the north wall.

Across the fields, the devastating volleys continued to stream forth. While his men saw walls of fire rising to fall upon them, with giants lumbering forward in their wake, Waldhelm saw eight onagers and scorpions launching their missiles to illuminate the advance of three siege towers.

Among the masses of infantry huddling in the dissipating dark, he saw ladders and grapnels. Suddenly it was clear. The Romans had arrived just after dark and using prefabricated parts, assembled their engines in record time. Well, he thought, looking over the cohorts, there are not enough of them to worry me. I still outnumber by two warriors to each of them. Still, better safe than sorry. "To the North wall, my brothers! The enemy wishes for us to kill them there!"

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"It seems to be working," a centurion called to his legate.

Publius Arrius looked over the defenders now crowding the north wall and agreed. "Its quite a show. Too bad the towers are mere mock-ups."

Something on the walls caught his attention. Chauci javelineers, gathering in force.

"Now, Lucius. Have the VII and IX cohorts begin that zigzag dance to the right, while the II and III juke to the left. Spread out boys out while you are at it. I don't want our tight-packed men making wonderful targets for German missiles."

Lucius Oppius nodded and saluted. "By your command, legatus."

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Waldhelm called more Chauci to west wall as Romans spread and danced, directing them to be ready to cut ropes and repel ladders. His men responded well to the rude awakening and desperate call to arms, he felt, and were more than ready to repulse the Roman attack. As long as he kept a weather eye on the Roman flanks, to make sure that none strayed to where his men could not kill them.

Unbeknownst to Waldhelm, there were Romans were he could not see them. While the pretty rain of fire came from the north in glowing clumps, knots of men crept up to the fort from the south, concealed by the heavy underbrush growing near where the latrines emptied. There, Aulus Herrennius Gallus spied the walls and noted with glee the lack of any Germanic heads moving about above the parapets.

"First cohort!" he whispered, "Go!"

Around him the First Cohort I Germanica rushed silently forward. In their hands were grapnels, and these they began to swing upon a shortened rope before letting them fly. Behind him, men of the Second Cohort moved up with pila at the ready, in case some stupid Germani decided he did not like the light show the XVI Gallica had arranged for them. But their readiness was not needed as the First Cohort ascended to find the parapets devoid of life.

"Okay, Second!" Aulus whispered. "Our turn! Move out."

Gallus led the Second cohort up the ropes as well as any legionary. Atop the walls, he saw the backs of the Chauci lined up on the far wall, a tempting target if he had a scorpion. Sighing at the lost opportunity, he directed the men of the First to move toward the south gate, and the men of the Second to seek the east gate.

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Aasle Simsma was a simple javelineer, being too poor to afford the armor and better weapons of the battle-worthy. Since he was relegated by destitution to the ranks of javelineers, he decided to become the best javelineer of the tribe. He was well on his way, being known as the best spear-chucker in his home district before the war broke out. Now he was a simple thrower, and one currently afflicted with the Revenge of the Romans. He emptied his bowels of the pungent liquid mass for the third time this morning and exited the odorous latrine with his pants in his hand- to quicker escape the stench.

As he put his pants on, he saw the fiery barrage assailing the fort and marveled at its beauty. The cacophony of the attack called his attention to the front, but the tinkle of steel upon steel from behind ripped his focus from the flaming balls ahead to the wall behind the latrine. He looked up, and saw to his horror the walls were not manned by his comrades, but by the very men whose pungent food created the need to visit the latrine.

So he did what any champion javelineer would do. He hurled his javelin at the enemy and ran towards his comrades, screaming the alarm.

"Cacat! They've seen us!” Gallus cursed, dodging the missile. “Go, First, move your butts!" Then he leaned over the wall to the men below and bellowed, "Get your sorry asses up here! Its dropped in the pot now, boys!"

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Aasle Simsma was not only blessed with a great throwing arm, he was also gifted a magnificent voice. That voice boomed out over the thunk of missiles and groans of wounded to reach the ears of Waldhelm. The chieftain whipped about, wondering what his star tenor was shrieking, when the movement caught his eye and he knew.

Romans on the walls!

"Steef! Hans! It's a feint! These bastards before us mean nothing- the real attack is there-" he shouted, pointing to the I Germanica with his sword. The two subchiefs, following his sword, realized the danger and charged along the walls towards the Romans.

Waldhelm watched as his henchmen charged toward the Romans. He felt a wonderful satisfaction when the Romans realized their deception failed, and readied themselves to die upon Chauci steel.

It was especially satisfying to see the Roman commander, that arrogant bastard Herrennius Gallus, realize his peril and personally lead the charge against Steef's men.

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Waldhelm never saw the end of that clash. As soon as he saw Gallus moving, he dispatched Aasle to pick a couple of fellows and cast their weapons upon the Roman commander. When Aasle moved off, Waldhelm leaned back against the parapet to watch the demise of the man who had slain his brother before the walls of Vetera a month ago. And died in flames when a burning amphora burst against the wall where he stood.

Worse for Waldhelm, the amphora did much more. That section of wall had been weakened during previous sieges, and had never been put right. Now it collapsed, burying the burning Chauci chieftain beneath a pile of rubble.

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"Edepol!" Publius Arrius cried as he saw the wall collapse. "We breached it! How the hell those amphora of pitch did that, I will never know. But we have a breach!"

"What the hell do we do now?" Oppius questioned. Their assignment was to draw all attention to themselves to allow the I Germanica in to open the gates. Well, he mused, breaching the wall definitely did that, even with those underpowered, makeshift onagers he was using. "We were the side show, not the main event!"

Arrius grinned with glee. "We're the main assault now, centurion," he said, pointing to the I Germanica battling impotently upon the walls. He ran to before his legion.

"XVI Gallica! Follow me, to Honor and Glory! For Rome!" he cried, rushing toward the breach.

The men of the XVI followed, swords banging on shields in the Germanic manner as they closed with the Chauci.

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The Chauci found themselves in a jam rather quickly. Assaulted from the front and the rear, they chose the only option that meant life- the side. They opened the south gate and fled forth- directly onto the waiting swords of Vocula and the XXII Prinigenia.

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Vocula surveyed the battlefield with satisfaction. He had lost very few men due to the fiery show the XVI Gallica had put on, while the Chauci had died to a man. The only thing that soured his victory was when three men of the I Germanica brought the body of Aulus Herrennius Gallus before him and laid it gently on the ground.

"What happened?" Vocula said as his eyes fell over his subordinate legate. There was a hole in the legate's neck, not bigger than a thumb, with a matching hole on the other side.

"He was fighting an axe-wielding Germani, sir," an optio from the I Germanica reported. "He dodged the axe coming from his left but in doing so dodged directly into a javelin from his right. He never had a chance."

Such was battle, Vocula thought. Sometimes there is no choice, no chance. Still, the loss of the only other true legate in the province hurt him inside.

"Give him a proper burial," Vocula ordered.

The men of the I Germanica nodded. "It shall be done."

"And while you are at it, men of Rome," Vocula added, eyes raising to gaze upon a bloated, caged corpse hanging above the principia where Gallus was to command. He knew instinctively whose body it was. "Take the body of Marcus Hordeonius Flaccus down from that wicker cage and bury him with full military honors as befitting a Roman Senator and proconsul well."

The old hatred of Flaccus flared up at the mention of the man they had murdered during the past Saturnalia, but the fury in Vocula's voice stopped them in their tracks. All knew Vocula and respected him- he was the first legate in a long time who dared to chastise his men when they deserved it, and the only one who could whip a legion man to man. None dared disobey a general who could do that. Besides, Flaccus was dead.

"It shall be done, lord," the men replied sullenly.


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The sun set with a wondrous glow into the Mare Nostrum while the optios of the II Adiutrix struggled mightily to get their men to pitch a proper Roman camp. That was normally the job of the centurions, but those were getting ready for their nightly meeting with the legate. Thus the optios sweated alongside their men under the careful scrutiny of the Praefectus, a withered old man with half an arm and a shriven leg, but one who had enough fire and sulphur to whip the best of them.

"Thanks again for taking this post, Uncle," Rutilius said as he approached the Prefect supervising the construction. "If anybody can help me whip these sea-mutts into proper soldiers, it is a veteran centurion from the days of Claudius when the legions were proper men."

"Show more respect, Marcus," Prefect Publius Salvius admonished. "These lads have been putting up a proper camp and doing it right every night for a week now, though I dare not tell them that yet. They are wonderful lads. So eager to learn, so happy to please you- almost like puppies. It brings back fond memories, it does. It is I who should be thanking you for this post."

"It is you they should thank," Rutilius replied evenly. "You got them proper tents, mules, and wagons."

Salvius scoffed. "That was easy- the VII Galbiani were staying in the old Praetorian barracks and didn't need their baggage train, and their primus pilus knew me from Britannia. Mucianus being the consul and your commander being married to the Emperor's sister made it even easier... "

"You couldn't do anything about those leather cuirasses or getting us real pila, could you?" Rutilius asked.

Salvius shrugged. "Tents and encamping equipment first, the rest will follow in time. Now, get moving, you. Those centurions are waiting for today's lesson."

So it was, every day during the march. The optios, under Salvius, would construct a proper Roman encampment while Rutilius drilled the centurions on land warfare. He taught them how to use the terrain, how to maneuver, and how to command. He rotated cohort command through each centurion in each cohort, until he found those who were the best. After the evening's lessons, Rutilius and Salvius would discuss the day's events and plan the following lessons. Then at cock's crow, the II Adiutrix would rise and take down its camp. While awaiting its turn in the line of march, the centurions would practice the lessons learned the night before.

While marching, if the terrain permitted, the II Adiutrix deployed its centuries online so that the men could practice keeping formation twenty abreast and four ranks deep. Where it did not permit, the men marched on hearing their centurions explain land battle and repeated the words. Whenever the army stopped, the cohorts would deploy and maneuver under their primi pili. At the day's final halt, they would pitch the camp and the cycle began anew.

Rutilius, despite his initial skepticism to the sea-whelps, grew to love them as did Salvius. They worked harder and marched longer than the legions who snickered at them, yet did not bitch or complain like those veterans did. They were lucky to have him and knew it, for his time under Vorenus Carnifex made him especially well-suited to command the former marines.

He had been a tribune in the II Vorena, one of four privately-recruited legions of auxilia, and had almost single-handedly trained those raw recruits into proper legionaries while the other tribunes and their cousin the legate Sextus Cornelius drank unwatered wine and spoke of their glorious family history. It was a lifetime ago, it seemed, though it was but two summers past. Jupiter but it had been a busy year!

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"Gelduba no longer exists, generalis," Julius Tutor reported. He had just returned from scouting the north, as his squadron of Lingone Gallic cavalry was the only reliable horsemen left in the army who could pass for locals.

Vocula nodded. He was pretty sure Civilis would destroy the fort, but there was always the chance the Batavian kinglet might have let it stand, just in case he needed it.

"It was burned to the ground," Tutor continued. "The area was clear of Germani and Batavi, but there are rumors of troubles to the West."

"Labeo," Vocula muttered. "The Batavian who came to see me before we came north. He wants to open a second front against Civilis to the West. I see he is succeeding."

"I know nothing of this Labeo or any Batavian troubles, lord," Tutor replied. "The rumors I heard are of Gallic troubles to our west."

"What?"

"Our tribes are on the verge of revolt, lord," Tutor continued. "There were rumors of Gallic noblemen being seen in Batavian camps, but the recent rumors seem to indicate the warriors themselves are gathering. I heard the names Gaius Julius Sabinus, and Julius Classicus being bandied about in the taverns."

Vocula's eyes narrowed as he asked the Lingone what that meant to him, especially to his loyalty to Rome.

"They are just names, lord," the Lingone replied evenly. "Rome is eternal. What are names in the face of Roman might?"

"They are names of men, Julius, and men who command loyalty. Classicus is the Treveri leader," Vocula reminded him, though he knew the Lingone knew well who was leader of the tribe bordering his own. "But he is a beaten nobody now that the Batavians and their allies have trounced them into submission. But Sabinus... If they are talking of Sabinus, then it can get very bad indeed."

He glared at Tutor with intensely hawk-like eyes. "Send your best cavalry decury to ride like the wind for Lugdunum, Tutor. Have them tell them what you told me, and to freaking act for once. If they are fast enough, they can nip this in the bud. If they fail to act, sitting on their butts thinking that since they are Roman all is well, then not only Germania but all of the Empire north of the Alps is lost."

"Aye, commander," Tutor acknowledged. He signalled his men to mount and converge on him, then departed.

"Who is this Sabinus anyway, that he generates such anxiety in you?" Publius Arrius asked once the Lingone had ridden off.

Vocula looked up at the tribune as if he were a mere babe in the woods. Politically, he was. "Gaius Julius Sabinus is rumored to be a great-grandson of our own divine Gaius Julius Caesar, who is also worshipped by the Gauls he crushed, Arrius. He is the only man who could unite the diverse Gallic tribes into a single nation, on the basis of his blood. If they are speaking of him in the taverns, it bodes very bad for us indeed."

Arrius cringed at the thought. If Gaul revolted, Germania was lost as Vocula said. Britannia, across Gaul from Rome, would be lost as well. Those awful British never cease to revolt- just nine years ago one of their tribes tore apart the IX Legion. Hispana, linked by sea as well as by land, might hold on, but if invaded by a resurgent Gaul, could be lost, along with its mineral wealth. It was a sudden and very bad feeling that crawled over him now.

*********** ********** ********** ************* ************ **************



The Via Aurelia to Pisae was busy. Columns of men were marching north eight abreast, blocking all traffic southwards. Luckily for the young dandy upon his prancing horse, he was heading north. But in marching eight abreast, the army created a moving roadblock heading slowly north, blocking the road north as well to all traffic moving faster than a man could walk.

The young man left the road and attempted to pass the army. Unfortunately for him, the terrain was narrow, removing the ability to go around. A few miles later, fuming at the delay, the young man saw the hillsides fall away, allowing him to finally pass the slow-moving column. His heart leapt for joy, then fell crushed when the centurions reformed their centuries from column to line abreast- effectively blocking the road again.

"Damn!" he complained. "Must you men block the road so totally?""

One legionary looked up at the young dandy and laughed.

"Yes sir, we must!" he called cheerfully. "Legate's orders- march twenty abreast where we can."

"Your legate must be a fool," the dandy retorted bitterly. “And you men with him doubly fools for obeying such a silly order.”

And with that, he galloped his horse into the mud, finally passing the irritating column. An hour of cursing and sloshing through mud later, he had passed the annoying legion and found the army of his uncle marching as legions should- eight abreast no matter the terrain, to allow vital traffic to flow regardless of direction. A few minutes after that he found the command group, and his uncle.

"Ave, Uncle Quintus," the young man said with a salute.

The generalis greeted his nephew by name, and with a smile. That smile faded when he learned his nephew's business, and died when he learned with whom that business was.

"Are you sure that is your wish?" Cerealis asked. When his nephew affirmed it was, he gave him the directions he needed. The young man scowled, then began heading south again.

Shortly he ran into the legion who insisted on marching its centuries in ranks of four, twenty men abreast to block the road to all traffic.

"I am looking for Marcus Rutilius," he called to the centurion he assumed was the primus pilus. "Can you tell me where to find him?"

"Who wants to know?" the centurion replied rudely. The antics of the young fool by the rear of the column had already reached his ears, creating an instant dislike.

"Titus Flavius Sabinus," the young ass answered haughtily, to the guffaws of the men within earshot. The laughter died when he added, "Nephew to Quintus Petillius Cerealis and Titus Flavius Vespasianus, your Imperator."

That generated some respect among the legionaries whom Vespasian had promoted from marines. The primus pilus nodded an unspoken apology to the man, who had the grace to return the gesture.

"The legate Marcus Rutilius can be found in one of the villages up ahead around Pisae," he added, "Listen for the sounds of coins and bugles. He will be nearby, recruiting laborers and artisans for the legion."

Sabinus knew immediately why he was so rudely greeted by men- who were otherwise devoted to his uncle- as soon as the name of the legate was spoken. Cacat, he thought. Insulting their commander, whom the men obviously care about, is a poor beginning for a man seeking a job.

He thanked the primus pilus and turned back north. Somewhere up ahead was Pisae, and in one of the villages around it would be the man he came to see.

He found his quarry by following the sound of the bugles. Closer, he heard the tinkle of denarii clashing together. Here was a recruiting detachment, and that was where Rutilius was busy trying to convince carpenters and smiths and builders- verily, anybody with a trade and even those without- to join the legionary prefect’s support battalion. And from the looks of things, not doing too badly. Sabinus sat back and watched, analyzing the man, and trying to see what Mucianus saw in him that was different than what he himself had witnessed in Rome. As the sun set, the legate closed up shop and had his prefect- whom Sabinus recognized as that bitter old half-man from the crossroads tavern- escort the new recruits back to the legion. Titus Flavius took his cue and made his move.

“Ave, Marcus!” he called, tearing the legate’s attention from his business to himself. “I wish to speak with you, if you have a moment.”

Rutilius saw a dandy addressing him in such a nonmilitary manner, then identified him. He gave Salvius his final orders then approached the lad to see just what the boy thought he was doing.

Flavius Sabinus wasted no time. “I would like to serve under you, Marcus.”

Rutilius was taken aback by the request. Sabinus noticed the reaction, and thought it in horror. He chuckled, then added, “I want to serve in the legions, Marcus. My uncle suggested I speak with Mucianus, who suggested I seek you out and have you instruct me in the ways of a legionary and officer. He said there was nobody better to learn from- that you were the best and most experienced soldier he had seen in a long time. He said I would be able to learn the most from you. He didn’t realize- and neither did I- that Uncle Quintus would make you a legion commander. Since it is so, I wish to be a cadet on your staff, sir.”

Rutilius looked the lad over, noting his straight back and absolute lack of any sarcasm or deceit on his face. The man had just turned eighteen, which was young for a cadet, but he had seen blood flow and had stood up to armored legionaries during Primus’ sack of Rome. He was a serious lad, and this was therefore a serious offer.

“I assume you can read?” he asked.

Sabinus nodded. “Both Latin and Greek.”

“Can you handle a sword? Better than you did on the Clivus Suburana?”

“No, but I can learn,” Sabinus replied honestly, adding, “That is why I am here.”

Rutilius nodded. “I will have to think about it, Sabinus. There is a lot of nobility crap you have to forget, and a lot of mundane, common labor you will have to learn. And above all, you will have to learn to take orders, not just give them as you and that foolish cousin of your were wont to do. Can you do that?”

The young man nodded. “Give me a chance, sir. You are my mentor; I am your protege. Your will be done.”

“I have to get back to the legion, son, and teach my centurions the art of using terrain. Join me, listen well, and after the lesson we will talk more."

Sabinus nearly jumped with joy. “Yes sir!”


The army camped outside Pisae for three days, gathering supplies and resting for the following march segment. Only the II Adiutrix built a camp, and inside that camp the legate was addressing his troops. After praising their performance over the last few weeks, and pointing out their deficiencies, he called Titus Flavius Sabinus to join him before the legion.

“I would like to present to you Titus Flavius Sabinus,” he announced. “He is a scion of a consular family, a nobleman, who is also the son of the former consul Titus Flavius Sabinus, who was brother-in-law to our generalis Quintus Petillius Cerealis, and full brother of our Imperator, Titus Flavius Vespasianus. Many of you remember his arrival a few days ago, where his senseless comments and arrogant attitude insulted both you and I. He is a stubborn young ass who has his head filled with crap.”

Sabinus felt his ears burn at the rebuke, and knew that his face just flushed beet-red before the troops. But Rutilius continued as if unaware of the lad’s reaction.

“Most boys his age of such nobility are down in Rome, with their lips glued to an amphora of the finest Falernian and chasing anything female that walks on two legs- chickens included.”

The men roared with laughter. Sabinus seethed inside.

“But not this lad. He left Rome to carry out his citizen duty with the legions. Note there is no amphora stuck to his face, and his prick is well-concealed within his garb. He stands here, beet-red in embarrassment, a recruit for our legion. He can read and write, in both Latin and Greek. He has his own equipment, which I have ensured was regulation. And he has discipline, currently displayed by his rigid stance of attention while I verbally lay him out on a platter for your inspection.”

He walked in front of the fuming young man and winked before turning back to the legion.

“I know this lad. Personally, I think he will make an excellent officer, once we get him squared away. That is where I need your help, men. I will teach him how an officer acts, addresses his men and superiors, and polish the grasp of tactics he already has. From you, I need patience, diligence of effort, forgiveness, and understanding that this young lad has his heart in the right place, even if his body and manners are lacking. Together we will knock the crap out of his head and fill it with brains. We will make him a decent officer, worthy of commanding men like yourselves.”

Rutilius raised his hands to his men. “I would not ask this of you, did I not think this lad has potential. So tell me, men of the II Adiutrix, will you accept my plea? Will you help me make a worthy man of this boy you see before you?”

The resultant roar of “AYE!” deafened both him and Sabinus.

Rutilius smiled. “Good, then we have an agreement. Titus Flavius Sabinus will join this legion, a cadet at first, but soon to be a tribunus militum. Every man here has now agreed to shape this block of flesh into a legionary officer worthy of the name, and I will hold you to it. How fast he rises depends on him, but I warn you, he is a fast learner.”

He turned back to Sabinus and whispered, “From this moment on, I am legate or sir. No more Marcus or Rutilius. Your dear Uncle Quintus is generalis or sir, and your Uncle Titus is the Emperor or Imperator. They are no longer friend or family, you are in the legions now. Act like it.”

The legion was dismissed, and Sabinus left alone on the podium, his head rocking with the approval of the legion he had not thought meant so much, and the words of Rutilius erasing his stupidity and bringing him into the fold of the II Adiutrix.

*********** ********** ********** ************* ************ **************

Gaius Julius Sabinus did not waste any time flexing his growing military muscles. Men from all over Gaul were flocking to his legendary Bull banner, eager to serve the Gallic Caesar and evict the pompous and decadent Romani. He decided to use this power to help his Batavian ally on the Rhein, and in doing so reap a portion of the glory of defeating Rome for himself.

The first Caius Vocula learned of it was when Lingone auxilia failed to return. And the first he learned of that was when Arrius came to him seeking the latest local scouting reports.

“Why did the Lingone not report the results of yesterday’s patrols?” Arrius asked. “Before I send out my cavalry patrols, I really need to see what he found and where, so I can give a decent order.”

“Tutor didn’t report?” The question caught Vocula at a bad time- trying to figure out his logistical needs. He bemoaned the death of Flaccus once again- the man was obese, old, and crippled by gout, but he had a fine mind when it came to the administration and planning.

“No, and nobody has seen him or his men- they never came back,” Arrius informed. “I thought they were on a three day patrol, but it is still proper to send a daily courier back with the day’s results. I haven’t seen it yet, which is why I am here.”

Vocula shook his head. “They were due back the same day- their orders were the same as yours- sweep the area and report. Three days screening our advance and scouting, three days rest. And return to us every night.”

“It looks like they forgot that last part, as had I,” Arrius mused. His face hardened as another thought came in. “Or they are dead, or deserted.”

Vocula came to the same conclusion. “Take your cavalry and find them,” he ordered. “Bring them in if they are lost, bury them if dead, or return at once if you find any evidence of desertion.”


Arrius returned that night.

“Its worse than we thought,” he frowned. “We found the Lingone cavalry in an encampment of several thousands Gauls. They were not fighting- they were celebrating.”

“Celebrating what?”

Arrius spat. “One of my men who spoke some Gallic sneaked in. They were celebrating the election of Gaius Julius Sabinus as Emperor of Gaul. You were right, generalis, Sabinus has united the Gauls against us, and the fools in Lugdunum and Alesia did nothing about it. But for us it means the end- there are two other Gallic hordes heading our way- they mean to take Novaesium and Moguntiacum behind us and strand us deep in the heart of enemy territory, like Lupercus in Vetera. Alone, and without support or supplies.”

“They cannot take Moguntiacum,” Vocula uttered bitterly. “If they do, we are all well and truly screwed. Two legions starving in Vetera, and three here. It is simple. And brilliant.”

“Most successful plans are,” Arrius agreed.

“The solution is likewise simple, Publius,” Vocula retorted, using the decurion-turned-legate’s first name for the first time. “Take my XXII Primigenia to Moguntiacum. That cuts our supply needs here by a full legion, and gives added strength to the most vital and best-supplied castra on the Rhein. I will lead the I Germanica and XVI Gallica back to Novaesium and fort up.”

Arrius thought it over and agreed. Novaesium was far from Moguntiacum, but not all that far away. No matter which castra the Gauls attack, they could be caught in a vice by a legion from the other. And Moguntiacum had to be held at all costs- it was the last command of Flaccus, and every man knew its value. It would be done.

*********** ********** ********** ************* ************ **************

Julius Classicus took his heritage very seriously. He was the leader of the Treveri, who had fought with the Romans under the Divine Caesar, and under a rebellious prince against them- which saw the tribe get as thoroughly trounced as had every tribe in Gaul. The Treveri learned, and had been mostly loyal to Rome ever since. And then the Batavians rose in revolt and proved that the legions and commanders of today were far less than those hard men who conquered entire tribes in battle after battle. Classicus had stood by Rome, and provided the best cavalry available to be lost in battle after battle, until the Batavians began purging his lands. To survive, he abandoned weak Rome in exchange for Batavian immunity, and his people lived.

Now he was on the warpath against Roman Moguntiacum, not as a Batavian lackey, but as a Gallic commander. A millennium of hundreds of disunited and feuding tribes had shattered Gallic strength, allowing it to be crushed by a single city. Now, after a century of Roman yoke, the Gauls had learned and were now a single strong nation. And he, Julius Classicus, a Gaul and a Treveri, was one of the first generals appointed by the Gallic King.

His cavalry commander Inditrix broke his reverie. “The Romans are reinforcing,” he reported. “A full legion, the XXII Primigenia I believe, and a strong one. It is six hours away and closing.”

Classicus thought over the report and frowned. There was no way his army could storm the Roman base now, not within six hours and not without being caught from behind by a full legion. That would spell death for his army, and death for him as a commander. No, his first action in service to his king must be a victory.

“Pass the order,” he commanded, his mind made up. If he could not succeed here, he could succeed elsewhere. “Fall back. Let the Romans have their precious castra upon the Rhein, for the time being. We move north, where the pickings are better.”

Inditrix smiled and nodded.

*********** ********** ********** ************* ************ **************

The army of Cerealis reached Genua and halted. Here Quintus Petillius had to make a decision that could either cost him the empire north of the Alps and his brother-in-law’s wrath, or make him a hero. The decision was simple, finding the correct solution was complex. Put simply, he had to decide which way to go.

He could continue along the coast to Massilia, then up the Rhone valley to Lugdunum and link up with the legions from Spain. That took him several hundred leagues out of his way, but left him with a stronger army once he reached Moguntiacum. The downside of that option was that Moguntiacum and all Roman forces north of it would be burned and he would have to reconquer both the Gauls and the Rhein, a campaign lasting for years.

Or he could go north through the Alps. This way was shorter, and would bring him into Germania far closer to his goal- maybe in time to make a difference and rescue them. Raetia had declared for Vespasian early, so he foresaw no hindrances that way- except for the weather. It was winter, and those passes were treacherous enough to cost him a large portion of his army. And it was snowing in those mountains, according to the postal couriers.

So Cerealis slumped over his desk and struggled, trying hard to decide whether he goes north with his heart, or west with his brain. Marcus Rutilius chose this inopportune moment to interrupt his commander’s mental wrestling.

“Sir, I was wondering if while we wait for the passes to clear, I could quick-march my legion to Cremona.”

Cerealis looked over the young legate with an astonished look. “What makes you think we are waiting for the passes to clear, pup? And why should you go gallivanting off to Cremona when the rest of the army rests here? Your sea-pups need the rest more than any of us.”

Rutilius’s ears burned with the rebuke. “We are waiting for the passes to clear sir, because we have not moved at all today after marching every day since we left Rome in January,” he replied in a solemn monotone. “The alternative is to think that the commander has no idea how best to get to his destination. We all know that is not true, since the quickest way to Germania is up the Via Mala through the Alps to Aventicum and then on to Vindonissa. Thus we are waiting for the passes.”

Cerealis sat straight up. Of course! The Via Mala. He had almost forgotten it.

"Your sea-pups need rest more than do our veteran legions," Cerealis repeated after a moment of thought. "The others are used to marching hundreds of leagues; your boys are only used to marching to their ships. Permission denied."

"My sea-pups need metal armor, pila, and proper scuta more than they need rest, generalis," Rutilius retorted mildly, keeping his voice in monotone to disguise his displeasure. "There is much of all three stored in the warehouses at Cremona- recovered from the dead of many legions and more than enough to outfit the II Adiutrix as a proper legion. We can rejoin the army on the way to Mediolanum."

Cerealis groaned. His watchdog was correct, and he had been baiting him for being the watchdog of Mucianus. In truth, he had noticed the II Adiutrix's massive improvement since he had given them to Rutilius, and knew that both Rutilius and Salvius were the causes of that improvement. Grudgingly, he nodded.

"The rest of the army will march to Mediolanum, Rutilius. We shall wait there for one week while supplies come in, the passes clear, and our men rest. I expect you to join us there before we move off toward Aventicum."

Rutilius saluted smartly and departed quickly before Cerealis could change his mind. Yes! He was going to have a proper legion, properly equipped!

The march from Genua to Cremona went well. The flat lowlands allowed the legion to march centuries abreast, giving the men good training in marching twenty abreast. By the time Cremona hove into view, the cohorts of the II Adiutrix were moving like veterans across the fields in perfect blacks of men.

"Salvius!" the legate called. "Have the centurions pitch our camp here, on the south side of the city. Then you and I will be going to get our men some real armor."

"I'll have the optios do that, Marcus," Salvius replied. "They are better at it anyway."

"No, I want the centurions to do it- its their job anyway. Let the optios supervise!"

Salvius smiled at that. Sweet revenge for those seconds-in-command, to supervise their commanders. Though he thought the mundane construction of a fort best suited to the optios, giving the centurions time to confer with the legate, it was tradition for the legate and tribunes to command and the centurions to pitch the camp. But the legate was right- the more who knew, the better it would go. It was time for those centurions to learn their part.

Salvius got the centurions started, then left the ranking optio in charge while he joined the legate and the legion's sole tribune, newly promoted at that.

"Titus Flavius, you remain here in command," Rutilius ordered. "I want nobody going south to the hills, and absolutely nobody east of the city. Understood?"

"Aye, sir," the tribune replied. "But may I ask why?""

Rutilius laughed. "South are hills with paths the men might get lost in. I know, I was there watching the battle which made you uncle the Emperor. And to the east are the graves and ghosts of the men contesting that event. Leave them undisturbed, and they may not haunt us for taking their armor and shields, which Mucianus had stored in their old castra."

Flavius gulped once and understood. He had enough trouble keeping up with the living- he wanted no dead chasing him.

Satisfied, Rutilius turned to Salvius and rode along the Prefect's wagon. Twenty other wagons followed as the long convoy moved toward the former Vitellian camp on the east side of the rubbled town of Cremona.



"You were here, Marcus, when it happened?" Salvius asked suddenly.

"Up there for most of it," Rutilius replied, pointing to the hills to the south. "I was ordered by Fabullus to scout the Flaviani coming in. I found them and trounced them, then withdrew when my idiots went roaring off chasing the routers. I was relieved for returning by a foolish commander who got himself killed a few minutes later. So I went up there and watched as the Vitelliani and Flaviani battled back and forth from Cremona to Bedriacum and back all night."

"So this was where you lost your franciscas," Salvius smirked. "At least you still have mine."

Rutilius smiled. "Mine knocked Marcus Arrius Varus damned near off his horse and gave him a major headache."

Salvius glared at his commander and uttered curtly, "Better you had killed that whoreson, Marcus. Better for Rome, better for you. That one knows how to hate, and he is now Prefect of the Praetorians. A bad man."

Rutilius laughed again. “He was too busy slaughtering his fellow Romans to notice who threw the axe, Uncle.” Then he turned a bit somber. “I noticed a horse on our legionary standard. Why a horse, and not a bull? Horses run away, bulls charge their foes.”

Now Salvius chuckled. “Its not any horse, pup, its a winged horse. Pegasus. The boys chose it themselves.” He turned to his legate, handing the reins of the wagon to his driver. “As you obviously don’t know, I’ll tell you about the bull. It fights, all right, which is why Caesar himself had his legions carry it into battle. Caesar’s legions, Marcus. And only Caesar’s legions. The rest of us make do with other creatures, like the Rapax- predators, or the Alaudae- Larks. Your boys heard Sabinus telling of his first meeting with you, and they chose the Pegasus- unanimously.”

“Eh?”

“Those boys love you, Marcus! They truly do. You took command and treated them with respect when nobody else would. You taught them, albeit with my help, to be true legionaries. And they are proud of it, and you. When Sabinus told how you had carried him and Domitianus flying off the Capitoline, one wag called you the Pegasus. The others took up the idea, and were are the Pegasus legion- named for you, boy.”

Rutilius sat back stunned, letting his horse hold station with the wagon. “I had no idea.”

“They are your boys now, no matter whose ass sits on the throne,” Salvius affirmed. “Just as I am your man, whether Vespasian allows it or not.”

The two entered the town while the convoy halted outside. Salvius and Rutilius went to the local commander, who also guarded the stored arms, and made their request.

“Add in some hasta as well, tribunus,” Salvius added once his legate had made the order. Rutilius turned to him with surprise, as did the tribune.

“Why hasta?” Rutilius asked.

“Those old things?” the tribune added. “Nobody has used those in centuries!”

“True,” Salvius said with a knowing smile. “But in the centuries since they were last used, the legions using pila had lots of armorers to fix the things after practice. We have some armorers now, thanks to your recruiting, but nowhere near enough to fix a legion’s worth of pila every night after practice. Hasta have about the same weight, and don’t need fixing after every toss.”

“Add the hasta to my order, tribune,” Rutilius ordered. “The Prefect is right.”

“Aye, sir!” the tribune said, detailing his centurions to make it happen. The II Adiutrix would have its arms.


The wagons returned to the camp full of armor, shields, hasta, and pila. Rutilius had Salvius distribute the armor and shields to his men, cohort by cohort, sending wagons back to the storehouses for more until all were equipped. But the next morning, when he began handing out the pila, he saw mutiny raise its head for the first time. The men steadfastly refused to turn in their trusted bows for the iron-and-wood javelins.

“What is going on here?” Salvius barked at the commotion. “I bust our butts getting you men proper equipment, and you balk?”

“We want to discuss it with the legate, sir,” a centurion shouted. “He’ll understand.”

“Understand what, centurion?” Rutilius asked, exiting the command tent. “That Prefect Salvius has good equipment, and you do not want it?”

“It’s not that, sir,” the centurion replied respectfully. “Its that we don’t know the pilum, sir. But we know this,” he said, raising his naval bow, ”and twenty arrows are a lot easier to carry than two pila. Sir.”

Rutilius understood. He had seen the same reaction among the Gauls and Marsaci who had joined the II Vorena when they were first handed the pila. Like he did then, he picked up a scutum and ordered the centurion to pace off fifty paces.

“Now, shoot me,” he ordered. ”Empty your quiver.”

“I can’t do that, sir. I’d kill you, and that would be our loss.”

“Okay, try now,” he commanded, and crouched down behind the shield. No part of him was visible, so the centurion sighed. Three minutes later the shield bristled with arrows, and Rutilius stood. He gave the shield to another centurion and commanded him to run to the first.

The man did so.

“Now, you men step aside,” he ordered, “but leave the scutum against the wagon there. Clear out.”

The men did so, and Rutilius hefted a pilum and threw. It struck the scutum and sank in, twisting and bending with the force of the blow.

“Now, pick up the scutum and run back to me.”

The centurion got about fifteen steps before tripping over the hanging, dangling wooden shaft. He got up, tried again, and in the end threw the useless thing away to complete his run.

“That’s why the pilum is superior to your bows,” he said with a satisfied nod.

His words had some effect, but not total. The men still refused to part with their bows, though the demonstration did impress them about the worthiness of the pilum. In the end, they took the pila, two each, but kept their bows.

“It gives us an edge over the other legions, sir,” the primus pilus explained. “Each of us can hit a bird in its balls at a hundred paces with this. That kind of combat power you don’t want to throw away. We can carry both, at little extra effort. And be able to do what no other legion can.”

Rutilius thought it over and was forced to agree. “Keep your bows, but take the pila.”

The men rejoiced.

Their joy at keeping their beloved bows was not dampened in the least by the three days of hard training he put them through afterwards. Tactics, terrain, and deployment were the objectives of those three days, followed by pilum practice until sundown. Not a man went to bed less than utterly exhausted. But at the end of the three days, Rutilius gave his men a day off and a hundred amphora of wine to enjoy it with, before heading north to rendezvous with Cerealis and the army.

*********** ********** ********** ************* ************ **************

Classicus planned it well, a benefit of his Roman training. A Batavian flotilla shut down the docks of Novaesium and burned them, stranding the Romans from river-borne aid. While the Romans reacted to the river-borne attack and were occupied with that, he brought up his infantry until he had the castra surrounded by land. Then and only then did he send forth a chieftain to parley- from a position of unassailable strength.

Vocula watched the single man approach, carrying the headless spear signifying a wish to parlay. Around him, men raised pila readying for the command, but at a gesture from Vocula they lowered them. The man came to the walls and asked admittance.

“That’s passing strange,” mumbled a legionary. “Most times these bastards want to talk outside of range of our weapons.”

“It is passing strange,” Vocula agreed. “Especially when the man coming to the parlay is a Roman officer. Let him in.”

The gates opened a crack and Alpinius Montanus entered the fort of Novaesium for the second time in two months.

“Report, tribune,” Vocula commanded. “And explain why you are dressed in Gallic garb and commanding warriors against Rome?”

“Good to see you too, Vocula,” Montanus replied. “The words of Gaius Julius Classicus are for the ears of Marcus Hordeonius Flaccus, who sent me north to Batavodurum as a messenger. As to why I am in service to the Treveri, my tribe, let us say that I wish for both my tribe and myself to live through this awful time. But I am still Roman, too, and do what I can to keep one of my peoples from killing the other.”

“Divided loyalties will get you killed,” Vocula answered sharply, but he understood what the Treveri tribune felt. “Flaccus is dead. I am the governor now. Tell me the words of Classicus.”

“He wishes for you and your men to surrender. He gives until tomorrow at noon. After that he will storm the castra with twelve thousand Roman-trained Gauls- including your auxilia, and slaughter everyone.”

“Not much one for bargaining, is he?” Vocula laughed.

“He has little choice,” Montanus answered. “He was to take Moguntiacum and starve you out, but you sent the XXII Primigenia there and thwarted him. He knows there are many legions coming from Italy. He must take Moguntiacum before they get here or it will be lights out for a reborn Gaul. So he will attack this fort with everything he has then move on to Moguntiacum by the end of the week.”

“What siege equipment does he have?”

“He has men making ladders, and he has a lot of rope. Look for an infantry assault on the walls, with a cavalry diversion- led by myself- on the other side. He knows of your weak point on the south east, but I did not tell him. He saw it himself while the Batavi were burning the docks. I tried to get him to siege instead, but he is committed to an assault.”

“Those legions he fears are weeks away,” Vocula said. “And Moguntiacum is well-stocked. No matter what he tried there, the two legions there will repulse him. They can wait out the siege, he cannot. Tell him to quit this war now, and I promise the Treveri will survive.”

Montanus laughed. “He knows the Treveri will survive. Veleda made one of her poetic prophecies that the civitas of the Treveri will rule an area greater than all of Gaul, and last thousands of years.”

“I am the governor. I can ensure they do survive, or do not. Point that out to him. And tell him we are ready to repulse his storm. Many, many Treveri will die before they set foot in here over our dead corpses.”

“I will tell him,” Montanus promised. “I may be able to buy you a siege instead of a storm, but I cannot guarantee how long it will be before he does storm- and he will. He has to. Those legions coming north scare the crap out of him.”

“But the legions here do not, is that it?”

“Veleda again,” Montanus replied. “She saw you death with winter snows, your own sword in your heart, with our standards outside the walls. Classicus believes you will die, and his storm successful. So no, generalis, he does not fear you.”

“He will pay the price for that folly,” Vocula vowed. “I do not intend to fall on my sword, no matter what words some barbarian woman utters. Rome rules, even here.”

*********** ********** ********** ************* ************ **************

“The witch is here to see you, my king,” announced a Guardsman in the royal Hall of Batavodurum. “She says it is important.”

Seval looked up from the map he was studying and nodded. He rolled the parchment as Veleda swept in, his actions destroying the grandeur of the woman’s entrance, which he knew annoyed her to no end. Seval smiled.

“I was wondering what you are doing here studying musty scrolls and worrying about the West while you could be elsewhere fulfilling the prophecy of your imminent victory, Seval,” she said.

Seval looked up at the seeress through his long red hair. “The guardsman said you had something important.”

“I do, your victory. If you wish to be rid of that awful party wig, it is suggested that you listen,” she demanded.

“I have listened plenty, woman,” he retorted angrily. “You have prophesied me dancing in the ruins of Vetera, and Vocula dead by his own sword. You predicted that Trevorum will rule an area greater than all of Gaul, and will stand for thousands of years. You predicted Germans ruling in Rome, and that I will be king of an alliance of tribes greater than Rome. None of which has come to pass, woman.”

“Prophecies such as mine do not occur overnight, you fool,” she replied angrily. “And you are well on your way to fulfilling them- if you would but get off that well-polished chair of yours and take the field! You are already king of an alliance of tribes which had proven stronger than Rome, and are well on your way to dance in the ruins of Vetera if you but listen and do something instead of sitting here polishing that chair with your butt and drinking ale. Victory is upon you, if you but take it!”

Seval sat up abruptly. She had also correctly foreseen the actions of Vocula after his defeat before the walls of that Roman castra. Maybe she had something worthwhile, something pertinent to now. Respect for the woman returned.

“Tell me what I must do, seeress,” he commanded.

Veleda smiled and stood proud. That was better! “The equinox is almost upon us. It is our tradition to celebrate it with a feast, as you well know. I have foreseen you having this feast within sight of the fort, but downriver from it. I see the men feasting, and the Romans exiting their stone house as beggars. When the sun was high the next day, you were dancing and cutting that ridiculous hair.”

Then she turned sternly to him and bent over to peer into his eyes. “But that will not come to pass if you remain here! You must be there for it to happen.”

Staring into the liquid eyes of the witch, Seval felt something jump into his head. He saw what she saw, him laughing and dancing and cutting that silly hair away lock by lock. He felt her power, and when he did, he felt her conviction.

“It will be done, as you say, Veleda,” he uttered lowly, the powerful vision draining him. “And thank you.”

Veleda nodded once and spun about, heading for the door. Seval watched her lithe body move, all sensual thought removed by the vision he had witnessed, then stood up.

“Guards!” he cried. “Make ready! We ride to Vetera with the morning sun!”

Julius Maximus came running at the bellowed order. His cousin was insane, he thought, going east when there is such a problem in the West. Seval explained to his kinsman Veleda’s prophecy and what he saw in her eyes. Nothing and nobody could dissuade him from that.

“But cousin,” Maximus pleaded. “Our rogue kinsman Labeo has overrun the Tungrians and subdued the Marsaci. He has an army of thousands now, and is working for the Romans. He must be dealt with, and that right soon!”

But Seval was adamant. “Feast first, then Labeo!”

And so it shall be, Maximus thought as he withdrew. And by the gods let us pray that the witch saw truly this time, for her words were vapors but Labeo was a threat that could slay them all.

*********** ********** ********** ************* ************ **************

Alpinius Montanus was true to his word. He told Classicus about the Roman refusal, and how they were prepared for an assault on their walls. Two legions, battle-hardened veterans all, and plenty of weapons, but little food.

That last bit decided Classicus. If the Romans had little food, he could wait them out and be done with them before the legions from Rome came anywhere near Germania. Satisified, he had his men build an encampment a mile away from the Roman fortress. And had them sit down to wait out the Romans.

The report from Montanus was very good indeed. Very detailed, very accurate. A Roman report. Well, that goes without saying, since the man had served Vitellius as a tribune. But Vitellius was dead and the oaths sworn to him died with him. Now the Treveri were seeking their own way. And that way led to Sabinus and his ally Civilis, who even now was pressuring his ally for trained troops.

Classicus smiled. His men were all veterans of Roman service, and most were of his tribe. He was not going to give up his wonderful Treveri cavalry to the Batavians who had their own outstanding horsemen, so he decided to send them Montanus and his warband. There. That should appease both the Batavians, Sabinus, and that nagging doubt he had about the former tribune in battle against the men he once served with.

Encamping so near the Romans with whom many of his men had been friendly gave him another idea. They were low on food, eh? He had his men bring a few deer and cattle to the fort and slaughter them, hauling away the entrails but leaving the meat. The next day he sent over some beer, and then some fine Treveri wine.

The Romans retaliated by leaving bolts of cloth outside the Treveri encampment, and pottery from the city. Sometimes the bands bearing gifts ran into each other, but as men recognized each other, they hailed and lifted no weapon. Often they came together and conversed, other times held a respectful distance. It did not matter a whit to Classicus, whose men were free to come and go as they pleased. But he knew it mattered a great deal to the governor inside that stone fort, and that gave him great satisfaction.

Vocula was indeed mightily upset at this unorthodox approach. Unlike Classicus who thought himself clever for dreaming this little maneuver up himself, Caius Dillius Vocula was seething at the use of the ploy old Sulla Felix used against Scipio Asiagenus on that terrible march that ended with him Dictator of Rome. He let his men get cozy with the enemy by building a pool, and when it came time to slay, his veterans were ready to kill but the others deserted their commander en masse. He would not let that happen to him!

But he saw the effects take hold, and heard the words whispered in the tents at night. There was treason afoot, and no solitary ringleader to pin it upon and crucify. The will of the legions was fading, and with a catastrophic effect to Rome

“Centurion!” he ordered. “Assemble the army in the parade ground. Both legions. I need to address them.”



When the army was assembled, Vocula exited his command tent in full regalia. His armor was burnished to a high gloss, and his red general's cloak flowing like a sunset behind him. Upon his chest were three sets of silver phalerae and two of gold that he won while a tribune among the I Germanica, and around his neck was a golden torc he won in Armenia under Corbulo. Upon his head was the corona muralis, which he won for being first man on the walls when Corbulo conquered Tigranocerta.

He walked through the awed and quiet ranks of his men and climbed a tower to give his speech. Tears were welling in his eyes at the necessity of it- a Roman general about to plead with his legionaries not to defect to the enemies of Rome. It was yet another instance of shame for the Army of Germania, one that would not have come about had his beloved XXII Primigenia been here instead of the rabble he commanded here.

Silence greeted him when he reached the top and faced his men.

"Legionaries of Rome!" he cried, reminding them of themselves and their duties. "We have come to this place to refit on our way north- to relieve our brethren of the V Alaudae and the XV Primigenia, besieged for months now in Castra Vetera. Those men are counting upon us to free them. We cannot fail!

"Yet that is exactly what will happen if you surrender to the Gauls! You will fail in your oaths to Rome, who birthed you and where you grew into men, and you will fail your comrades who starve under a Germanic siege. You will fail me as your commander, but most of all you will fail yourselves as men if you surrender while you still have the ability to resist!

"Men of the I Germanica, you belong to a proud legion. Your predecessors were called to the Eagles by Gaius Julius Caesar the Dictator and fought for him at Dyrrachium and Pharsalus. Later, you fought under Drusus, punishing the Cherusci who had so treacherously ambushed Varus and three legions of your brethren. And most recently, you yourselves have defeated the Gaul Julius Vindex when he revolted against Rome.

"Men of the XVI Gallica, your legion boasts also a proud history. Your were raised by the son of the Divine Julius, Octavian, and made him the Emperor Augustus at Actium. When the Germani invaded Gallia Belgica revolted, you put them firmly in their place and made Rome supreme in these parts, earning your title Gallica- conqueror of Gaul. And like your fellow legionaries of the I Germanica, you crushed the revolt of the Gaul Vindex and restored Roman honor to the province.

"Men of Rome! Think of your heritage, your honor, your place in history. Think of Rome! Do NOT become the first Roman legions to disgrace themselves by voluntarily defecting to serve Rome's foes. For if you do, not only will your grand accomplishments be as naught, washed away in dishonor but your actions will have cost Rome her empire north of the Alps and your fellow legionaries their lives.

"Without you men fighting for Rome here, Rome is finished. Without you men of the I Germanica and XVI Gallica, there will be no more provinces of Germania and Gaul for you to draw your titles from. Those unwashed Gauls will besiege your colleagues in Moguntiacum, and starve them like the Batavians are doing to the V Alaudae and the XV Primigenia in Vetera.

"Do NOT abandon Rome, who has not forsaken you! She sent eight legions to aid us in defeating the Batavians, whom these heathen Gauls have joined. Eight legions- good outfits all!- are on their way. Hold on, Men of Rome, hold strong!"

Vocula let his gaze wander over the ranks. Nowhere was there a dry eye to be seen. Some cried for their lost honor, some for the respect they lost in eyes of their general- who was indeed well-respected among the ranks. But most of them cried out of respect for Caius Dillius Vocula, the man they all loved who had led them to victory after victory and fought beside them as a warrior should. They cried for the shame they had brought upon him by forcing him to make such an impassioned speech to Roman soldiers concerning loyalty to Rome.

"I will return now to my tent, to await the decision of this army. Think upon my words, Men of Rome. Think upon your heritage, your colleagues, and your place in history."

With that, he climbed down from the tower and returned to his tent. He prayed his men would make the proper decision, but vowed to accept their will.

With Vocula retired to his tent, another climbed the tower so recently vacated to address the legions. Julius Tutor had entered the castra along with several other Lingones while Vocula spoke, admitted by friends among the I Germanica. Now it was his turn to pitch a plea to these legionaries.

"Friends!" he began, reminding them of their fellowship. "Yon generalis has made a worthy speech, filled with honor and duty. But he speaks of Roman honor and Roman duty, while implying that we of this land have neither. We all know that this is simply not true."

"We of this land have fought in your legions, manned your auxilia, and bled beside you versus Rome's enemies. You know us, and know that what I tell you now is true. We are your colleagues as well, your comrades, though now we no longer fight for Rome, but for freedom.

"Rome has sent you here to conquer and die, to oppress the peoples living here for the benefit of wealthy men in Italia. Much wealth has been extracted from this land, by your efforts, but that wealth has not come into your purses- it lands in the hands of the very men in Italia who murdered our beloved Vitellius.

"That gross act of heinous torture and murder revolted we who were your allies. And other acts, both before and after, have proven that the men who rule in Rome have their own interests at heart, and not those of Rome. Where is the honor in allowing a centurion to sell furloughs to his men- selling you what you have earned by honest service? Where is the honor in recruiting old men for the auxilia, and young boys for the orgies of the Senators? Where is the justice in draining this land of men and wealth, forcing us to leave our women and children prey to ogres?

"There is none! Therefore we of Gaul had decided enough is enough, and rose up against our former masters seeking freedom. We have the chance now- with Germania Superior all but vanquished and Germania Inferior already the Batavian Kingdom. We are not alone- all of Gaul is rising, seeking freedom.

"This will end one of two ways, my brothers. We may be forced to storm this castra and slay all within. We cannot allow two more legions to join those coming, nor allow those men coming to have a base within our lands. Verily, we wish this option not- but we may have no choice. If it comes to that, we will slay you all, but will do so with regret in our hearts and tears in our eyes- for you are wonderful comrades and have been good friends. We will sing praises of you for generations.

"Or you can join us, and live as free men. You have already seen that we respect and admire you. When you were thirsty, did we not bring you wine? And when you were hungry for fresh meat, did we not share the spoils of our hunting with you? And provide Ubian women upon whom you could satisfy your lusts? And show you with every action that we are still your friends, despite our war?

"Rome is finished north of the Alps. The Age of Rome here is ending, and the Age of Gaul beginning. We need men like you, trained warriors willing to fight for freedom and equality between men. Gaius Julius Sabinus, our emperor, is descended from the Great Gaius Julius Casar, who was so impressed by the beauty of a woman that he took her to his bed and fathered the grandfather of Sabinus. If Gallic women were good enough for the Greatest of All Romans, than they are more than good enough for anyone else.

"The Sequani think the same thing. That is why they prepare for war now, seeking to invade our lands while our men are away fighting for freedom for all. The Sequani plan to steal our women and children for themselves, in the Roman manner. We cannot win our freedom from Rome and destroy the Sequani threat at the same time, not without your help.

"Come to us, my brothers! Join Sabinus, become free men, and help build a nation where all men are equals. You will be well-rewarded as the premiere units of a resurgent Gaul.

"Or stand by yon generalis, and perish at our hands, breaking our hearts at the senseless acts that must be done to ensure our families survive. Please, brothers, choose wisely!"

With that, Tutor looked up and down the ranks. The legions were silent, but he could see heads bobbing as his words sank in. And he saw acceptance.

"Who shall inform Caius Vocula of your decision?" he asked lowly.

Not a single man raised his hand or head. Tutor understood- they had made their choice, but had too much love and respect for the general who led them to Vetera and back to break his heart. He himself respected the man immensely, and he had only served under him for a short while. These men, fighting under his command and by his side for almost a year, had much, much more respect for him.

Tutor nodded. "I see," he said lowly, and beckoned to Gallic fort across the way.

From the encampment strode a single warrior, who crossed the abandoned fields between the two encampments alone and with purpose. He approached the gates of Novaesium, which opened upon his knock.

Sextus Aemilius Longinus had not set foot inside this castra since he abandoned it with such recklessness on that awful Saturnalia night the Batavians attacked. He had fled, scattering like every other man-jack of the legions, the night after they had murdered the governor Marcus Hordeonius Flaccus and tried to murder the man who commanded now. Vocula had scooped up most of the fleeing men and reformed them into legions, but some scattered refugees were lost to the cold, Longinus among them.

Gauls had succored him, having found him frozen and wandering aimlessly in the forests. They had restored his health, and restored his honor. He was adopted into the clan and treated as a warrior of note. Now he was called upon to prove his loyalty.

Aemilius Longinus passed through the ranks of men with his head held low. He did not wish to embarrass any by witnessing the stream of tears cascading down the cheeks of each and every man there. He made his way silently to the command tent, and entered it respectfully.

Vocula was sitting on the edge of his bed, his face buried in his hands. He had heard the speech of Tutor, and knew the effects it would have. He had argued heritage, honor, and duty; Tutor argued for Life and Freedom and hope. As soon as Tutor began, he knew what the men would decide. And he was ready for it.

But he was not ready for his executioner. He looked the man over, recognizing him as a deserter, and saw the shabby cloths his wore, as well as the shaggy beard and unkempt bush of hair sprouting from his head.

"Get out, traitor," he hissed. "I will not be sent to the gods at the hands of a man clad worse than an Armenian beggar. Clean yourself up first, and then try again."

Aemilius backed out of the tent, shamed. He was to slay the general, and had come to do so in rags not befitting a thief in Rome. He swore softly. Turning, he entered a legionary tent where he found water and a razor.

Twenty minutes later he returned, his hair carefully cut to regulation and his beard gone. His cloak was gone, discarded in the tent, and his armor cleaned. Vocula nodded with approval.

"Outside," he commanded. "I wish to see the sun while I die."

The two retired outside, where the men still stood facing the tower. None turned to witness the fall of their general, and none made a move to stop the execution. To Caius Dillius Vocula, it was enough. He did not wish them to see his death.

Longinus stood so that the sun was shining in the face of his victim. He drew forth his gladius, and was bringing it back to strike when Vocula stopped him.

"You wish to kill me with that?" he roared, pointing to the deserter's sword. "It is rusted, and dull! Would you hack me to death, torturing me with that, while you hack chunks of me apart looking for my life? Here," he said, pulling his own gladius out and offering it to the assassin. "Use this. Strike well, strike hard."

Aemilius Longinus held the general’s sword and admired it. It was perfect, shining with power, chased with gold, ivory-handled, and spotless. It was also so sharp it could cut sunlight- a fitting weapon for a warrior generalis.

He struck Caius Dillius Vocula without warning, slicing deep into the neck to cut the great artery that fed the brain, and almost lodged in spine. He drew back for a second swing at the other side of the neck, but lowered the sword. It was not needed.

Caius Dillius Vocula lost consciousness when his carotid artery was severed, and bled out within seconds. He never felt a thing beyond the initial pain of metal slicing its way through his skin. He certainly did not feel Longinus rolling him over so that his sightless eyes could feel the last of the sun's rays, or the final thrust of his sword into his chest.

The deed done, Aemilius Longinus picked up his own sword, leaving the sword of Vocula where it was. He then exited the fortress with quickening steps, anxious to escape this place of horror and the deed he had committed.

Tutor watched the man depart and turned to the men. Each of them had heard the deed, and knew now there was no going back. Tutor pointed to his tribesmen and to the body of Vocula. "Bury him as befitting a Roman hero, my comrades."

With that, he dismounted the tower and made his way out of the gate, his duties here complete. The former legionaries remained standing, as pines in a dying forest, until they were sure the body of their general was no longer present. Only then did they disperse to their tents, gather their belongings, and move across the field to the Gallic encampment- each one studiously avoiding the command tent and the patch of bloody ground before it.

*********** ********** ********** ************* ************ **************

Gaius Julius Sabinus received the news of Novaesium with joy. Two legions! Two hardened, battle-worthy legions, Roman-trained legions at that!- were now his. He cursed as he heard that the Lingone Tutor had promised them they would not be used to fight the approaching Roman army, but smiled as he realized that was a godsend. Romans may balk at killing Romans, and Gauls balk at killing their fellows, but now he had the opportunity and means to kill both. He would have the former legionaries subdue the Sequani, freeing up Gallic warbands with whom he could stop the approaching Romans.

But first, Tutor and his Lingones were ordered to link up with Julius Classicus and seize the last Roman bastion in the east- the fortress of Moguntiacum. Once that fell, he could concentrate all of his forces upon his foes, or leave the incoming Romans to the Batavians while he secured all of Gaul for his empire.

Decius Paullus had no intention of letting Moguntiacum fall. Eight legions were on their way from Placentia, and would be here within weeks. He had enough supplies to sustain his IV Macedonica and Arrius's XXII Primigenia for months- well after the legions arrived. He could well withstand a siege, but a storm... Two legions were plenty of power, but he had no idea of what the Gauls were bringing. Or who. So when Publius Arrus returned from the day's patrols with the news gathered of the fall of Novaesium, he decided to accelerate the relief.

"No more cavalry patrols, Publius," he ordered. "We are going to stay put and fort up. Knowing what they bring is of little value since we cannot change anything anyway.

"I evicted every Gaul, German, and other non-Roman we have in this fortress this morning," he continued. "I do not trust those bastards not to betray us. That is why you have been doing the patrols and not the auxilia. But tonight, when the moon rises, you and your V Alaudae Cavalry Auxilia remnants will be departing this fortress as well. I want you to go to Lugdunum yourself, a brevet legate, and explain to them that we are stuck here and if they want a base, to send those eight legions on the double."

He handed over a dispatch bag. "In these scrolls I have detailed our plight, and all pertinent events leading up to it, including the Gallic Revolt and the Treveri and Lingones joining it. This last bit of news you brought, about Novaesium and its aftermath, is not in there. Tell Rome yourself. I don't want those mutinous bastards to be shown any quarter when we reconquer this place."

Arrius nodded. Neither did he.

*********** ********** ********** ************* ************ **************

Lupercus sat on the ramparts and looked down at his pitifully small bowl of lichen soup with disgust. Since the Germani had closed off his access to the river by killing those daring to fish, the staple diet had been reduced drastically. Help had to come soon, or they were finished. Every kernel of grain was gone, every animal with more than two legs killed and cooked, every scrap of leather boiled for soup. All the grass in the fort was eaten, and now the best they could do was scrape lichens from the stone walls for sustenance. Every other edible thing in the entire place- and some things not- had already been eaten.

A ruckus along the walls ripped his attention from his thin soup to the walls. The groans spread, down into the parade ground, and when the scent hit him, he groaned as well. Down below, men began bashing their helmeted heads against the wall in frustration. He looked out to where the Batavians were encamped, and saw them roasting steers and deer over bonfires, surrounded by trophies taken in battle. Merriment and drink went along with the overabundance of food flooding the encampment.

Everywhere the scent of fresh roasting meat and spicy vegetables from the Batavians spread, the reactions were the same. The starving men inside Vetera cried, groaned, and went insane with hunger.

"Enough!" he cried. "Men of Rome, stand like men when your commander addresses you!" When he had the attention of his men, he sobbed and continued. "You have pleaded with me to surrender, and ever have I put you down for it. But that time is past. From the standards our foe proudly displays, the I Germanica and XVI Gallica are no more. The other legions are helpless. We are beaten, and there is no help coming. I accede to your demands, Men of Rome. We shall surrender, for I can no longer bear to see my men destroying themselves needlessly."

He turned to where the most out-spoken advocate of surrender stood. "You, Lucius Nobilus, have the loudest voice. Arrange a parley with that Batavian monkey. We are surrendering. You have won."

The parley was quickly arranged. Civilis in his awful red hair stood alone outside ballista range of the fort, and outside arrow range of his own forces. Lupercus walked out alone to meet him.

Civilis was shocked to see how far Lupercus had degenerated. He was always a slim man, but before the siege he was always a bit ruddy and always with an air of superiority about him. The emaciated skeleton before him was pale as a fish's belly, with skin hanging like curtains from his slender bones. The air of superiority had been starved out of him, replaced with an atmosphere of death. His eyes had fallen so far into his skull that Civilis thought he was addressing a skull instead of a man.

Lupercus dissuaded him of any pity, though. His had been one of the loudest voices calling for his death when Nero had him and his brother thrown into irons. His brother had been tortured and murdered. Lupercus had called for the same for Civilis.

"You win, Civilis," Lupercus coughed out. "We will give you Vetera, in exchange for four days rations and safe passage south."

Civilis was so shocked to see just how far down he had brought the Roman that he merely nodded.

"I want your word, you ape!" Lupercus screamed hoarsely. "Give me your word; I give you Castra Vetera."

Civilis nodded. "I shall have my men bring you victuals immediately, Lupercus. After that, leave your pile of rocks by the south gate unarmed. No weapons! You will see several wagons loaded with food there. If your men are in the same shape as you, you cannot carry it anyway, so I will give you the wagons. I will tell my men to let you pass to Massilia unmolested, and pass the word to allow you access to more supplies along your way. You have my word.""

"Massilia? Why so far?"

"You have held out alone and incommunicado for a long time, Quintus," Civilis explained lowly, showing respect for the first time. "Longer than I have thought, through much more suffering than I thought humanly possible to withstand. We have conquered all of Germania Inferior and Germania Superior, Quintus, and have Moguntiacum under siege- I don't think you wish to experience another. Gaul has declared its independence from Rome. Massilia is thus the nearest Roman post from here."

Lupercus cursed. The situation outside the fort had been much, much worse than he could even conceive. Massilia! No wonder help had not come!

"Tomorrow, Civilis," Lupercus affirmed. "No weapons. Then you can finally cut that silly hair of yours."

"You heard about that vow?" Civilis recoiled in shock.

Lupercus snickered. "Our men weren't the only ones getting caught by the enemy. Though yours were incredibly poorly-informed over anything except what went on in your own camp."


It happened as agreed. The excess food from the Batavian feast came to Vetera that evening, and the men tasted their first morsels of real food in weeks. Numisius Rufus and Lupercus had to forcefully restrain their men from attacking the food, but in the end, the men realized there was enough for all and too much would kill them as surely as a Batavian lance.

Daybreak saw the Exodus. Lupercus led the March of the Skeletons out of the south gate, standards flying proudly. Every scabbard was empty, and every gladius and shield placed carefully along the wall by its owner before he joined the ranks. The men were sullen with defeat, but proud to have endured so long with no outside aid.



The victorious Batavians reacted to the emaciated men as had their king- with disgust and revulsion at first, turning into respect for tolerating the starvation for so long and so well as the initial reaction wore off. Some warriors beat their shields as a sign of their respect; others applauded the Roman endurance. Nowhere was a weapon lifted in anger as the ruins of men walked away from the fort that had sheltered them for almost seven months.

The wagons of food were there as agreed, as was a scroll from Civilis with his seal allowing the Romans free passage and supplies to Massilia. The weakest were put as drivers. Then the procession headed south, towards Massilia and Rome.

Gaius Julius Civilis entered Castra Vetera when the last Roman had exited. The sight of the neatly-arranged shields and swords along the wall impressed him, as did the bare ground. Nowhere could he see anything other than stone or wood. The fort was as much a skeleton as its former inhabitants.

But he had finally taken Vetera.

Civilis began his Victory Dance before his cheering men who clapped out a rhythm. At its climax, he cast his helmet into the roaring men and drew forth his sword. With its sharp edge, he began cutting away the red locks that had so irritated him the last six months. Little by little, the red annoyances fell away, then his beard, until at last he was what he once was- a blonde warrior worthy of respect.

The cheering and joviality at Vetera covered treachery to the south. Six miles south of Vetera the March of the Skeletons ended abruptly as Bructeri warriors burst forth from the woods with swords in hand. The emaciated men could hardly scream, let alone run, but they fought bare-handed like animals at this infuriating treachery. The legionaries died where they stood- not a single one had tried to flee, and many had bloody mouths where they had bitten their attackers. The savageness of the emaciated men surprised the Bructeri, who carried out this slaughter without the warcries one would expect. Instead they silently butchered the hapless men of the V Alaudae and XV Primigenia silently until only Numisius Rufus and Munius Lupercus were left alive.

"Such is the word of a barbarian," Lupercus scorned. "Safe passage my ass."

Ulfrich, chieftain of the Bructeri, snorted. "Seval promised you safe passage, but Veleda did not. We who serve Veleda have made our own vows concerning your fall- and ours was to kill you all except the chieftains, whom we shall bring to our Queen. No mere words of a kinglet can sway one from a sacred vow made to the divine Veleda."

"Veleda advises Civilis, does she not?" Lupercus retorted. "She is in his service, thus his word binds you too, moron."

Ulfrich smashed a fist into the bony face of the arrogant Roman, knocking him to the ground. "Veleda does not serve Seval! She gives him advice. If anything, you impudent rat, Seval serves her by doing her bidding."

"Civilis serving a woman," he snickered, wiping blood from his mouth. "Now we know who wears the pants there."

Ulfrich raised his fist to strike again, then lowered it with a smile. "Very clever, Roman. You seek to anger me, so that you will find death at my hands. You shall not succeed. You shall be delivered alive to Veleda, who will roast you in wicker cages like we did your fishermen. You are to die a slow and painful death, Roman."

"Like starvation is a quick and easy death?" Lupercus snorted. "You are an idiot, and I will be dead long before you haul me before your witch."

He was.

He and Rufus were bound and thrown into a boat to be taken to Bructeri lands, where Veleda lived in her fabled and ancient tower. The prisoners were ignored thereafter, thus none who survived could recall if they spoke. But they must have. When the boat was halfway across the river, Quintus Munius Lupercus and Gnaeus Numisius Rufus stood up and jumped overboard together, too fast for the crew to react and too simultaneous for it to be anything other than planned. The Romans sank quickly in their armor, as would any Bructeri trying to rescue them.

They had slipped away, leaving a frothing Ulfrich to face the fact that he had not only broken the word of Seval, but his own vows.

*********** ********** ********** ************* ************ **************

Cerealis was making good time over the Via Mala. He had figured on ten miles per day, but his veterans were laying caligae over fifteen. The passes were high but clear, and the weather had lightened considerably with the approach of spring.

Cerealis was not the only one putting in good time. The II Adiutrix had missed its rendezvous with the main army due to a flooded river, but the former marines were putting twenty two miles per day behind them. They were on the Via Mala headed north, and were within sight of the XI Claudia. Rutilius spurred his horse to cover the distance and find his commander to report his arrival.

While these two forces were moving north, another was moving south. Publius Arrius was carrying a desperate plea south. His troop was supposed to go to Lugdunum, but Gallic warbands had sealed Germania away from that nearby Roman support. His only option for help was south along the Via Mala.

Thus the three met up shortly.

Rutilius raced along the flank of the marching column looking for the command group. Instead, he encountered a cavalry troop racing south along the same side. He raised his hand in a hail, and watched with wary satisfaction the cavalry slowing to a walk the halting. He rode forward, thinking the horsemen the bodyguards of Cerealis looking for him, and approached their commander.

His eyes flew wide when he saw the man leading the cavalry. Though he had met the man only once in the late summer, he could not forget the decurion who risked his career to do what was right.

“Publius Arrius, decurion, V Alaudae Cavalry Auxilia,” Rutilius said, holding out a hand to the man who freed him from Vetera’s jail.

Arrius looked the legate over and with a shock recognized the tribune he had taken to Lupercus as a deserter in those awful days before the devastating defeat outside Batavodurum.

“Marcus Rutilius,” Arrius replied. “Tribune, II Legio Vorena. I see you have come far since our last encounter. As have I.”

“I am a legate now, commanding the II Adiutrix,” Rutilius acknowledged. Then Arrius shocked him with his rank and station.

“Tribunus Laticlavus, commander of the XVI Gallica until it deserted, then I had the XXII Primigenia before being sent to hurry up the help.”

“Command of two legions!” Rutilius whistled. “Not bad for a decurion of cavalry!”

"Decurions breveted to legates?" asked Cerealis, who recoiled in horror. He had come upon them while trying to track down his missing legate and heard the last bit before the men realized his presence and snapped to attention, saluting. "What is happening up there?"

"Disaster beyond words, lord," Arrius informed him, dropping the salute. "Germania Inferior is lost, along with the V Alaudae and XV Primigenia- murdered in the woods. Germania Superior is holding out with two good legions stuck in Moguntiacum, under siege but with good supplies thanks to Flaccus, who is now dead. The I Germanica and XVI Gallica have gone over to the Gauls after killing Caius Dillius Vocula. Every legate Vitellius had left in the two provinces is dead. Decius Paullus, a tribunus laticlavus, commands Vocula's old XXII Primigenia and the IV Macedonica."

He threw a daring glare at Cerealis as the general’s reaction to his promotions twisted a bitter knife in old wounds. "I was promoted to tribunus laticlavus and given legions to command because there simply was no other officers available. We are bled whiter than Alpine snow."

"My legion is short on officers, too," Rutilius interrupted Arrius before his hostility warranted a flogging for insubordination. "If I can get Arrius assigned to me, the II Adiutrix would be considered ready for battle."

"Good," Cerealis replied with approval. “Late, but good.”

He nodded for Arrius to assume duties under Rutilius and thought hard over the former decurion’s report. Shades of Hades, the situation up there was bad!

"We are going to need them, marines or not," he added softly.



To be continued….

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 @ 08:36 AM).]