TotW 177: The Painted Ones - VOTE NOW
The Painted Ones
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Submission 1
The story of Gnaeus Julius Agricola is far from a simple one. Enduring the trials and tribulations of the difficult life of a military officer, serving abroad as a commander of border legions, and in an often harsh, and inhospitable climate, nothing deterred him from his duties to Rome.
He quickly ascended up the officer ranks. So brilliant, and influential was he, in his young age, that the governor, Seutonius, made him one of his advisers, during the vile Iceni queen Boudica's rebellion. Even then, at the age of 21, his years of studying military strategies paid off. His knowledge of the natives' would help Britannia's legions to defeat the barbaric mongrels, and put down the rebellion, enshrining permanently his deeds, and solidifying his reputation, throughout the empire.
It has been over thirty years since that furious battle, along Watling Street. The Iceni hoped to outmaneuver the Romans quickly, and take Londinium, but she failed. It was Agricola who chose the battlefield. The location had every ingredient for perfection. Due to the consistent reliance on overwhelming odds, a commonly seen pattern among the northern barbarian tribes, in which they focused on sheer numbers, over quality of soldiery, it was the suitable location of a forest in the rear, and an open plain in front, which prevented flanks, and ambushes. The location was indeed brilliant. To the slaughter, the barbarian curs flocked. The legions of Seutonius, under direct assistance from Agricola, bound together, creating a continuously growing wall of corpses, until it was impassable by the filthy cretins, who poured upon it, making the clutter of carnage worse. Thousands and thousands had fallen, while the legionnaires suffered so minimally.
Unable to create a proper breach in the Roman lines, the native Britons lost heart, their fervor obliterated, by the sheer losses they sustained. Their momentum diminished, just as quickly as it was gained, through a series of minor successes.
This was the battle to end all battles, in this rebellion. The thug queen Boudica, had been defeated. Her armies in shambles, what morsels of reputation they had left, shattered forever more. Having been walloped with such apparent ease, by the mighty armies of Rome, under the subtle command of Agricola, whom simply treated Seutonius as nothing more than a senatorial figurehead, a chief puppet, on the stage that is Britannia. It is Agricola who was the puppeteer, however. It was Agricola who put the native tribes to shame. Who would secure a land, relatively safe now, for future generations. For the Empire.
Just as was rumored then, it had come true, though years later, many songs have been written. Musicians from all over the Empire paid respects to what had been done on Watling Street. A boost of momentum, for the growing reputation of the legions, as far as away as the second cataract of the Nile. Though songs oft lose their luster, the war song of Gnaeus Julius Agricola, will live on, forever.
P. Cornelius Tacitus
Submisssion 2 They are coming.
I can hear them now; shouting and singing, cursing and killing. They must have forced a breach. Maybe we’ve had this coming. During the invasion the locals here welcomed us in: I think so we could beat to death another equally barbaric clan. Anyway, I guess they’ve had a little rethink and decided that while it’s just us seniors, they can run in, take back their lands and burn down a few temples. Most of these were still wet behind the ears while I was fighting. And apparently I’ll have to fight again. This was supposed to be an easy retirement now, settle down with the other veterans; not carry on killing - without pay.
I can see them now. At the end of the street, a mob of thugs patterned rich in blues and greens, streaked in red. Red with the blood of my fellow soldiers, most of whom I have spent years with. They brandish wickedly sharp swords and spears, all the while bellowing what they are going to do to my daughter. I let myself laugh at the thought for my daughter is non-existent. And I can easily say the same for the man next to me. He looks about fourteen, barely strong enough to hold the shield and knife he has been given. Unlike my soldier’s frame, shaped by years of military grudge and honed by a will to live. Nay. A determination.
I can smell them now. The stench of burning and blood is thick around them. Covered in thick swirling woad, a death trance to the lighter of heart, they charge. Back in the day I’d be launching my pilum into the barrel chest of this warrior before me. Then my gladius would be drawn, ready to be thrust upwards into the flesh of yet another man, as ready to kill as I. But this is now and I have but a short spear and shield. Nothing of the glory I lived in, just the grim reality of war.
I can feel them now. Soft flesh writhing in agony upon my sandals. Stab, block, stab again; years of drilling become as routine as life itself. Not death. I no longer suffer the shock of taking life but the faces still haunt me. The boy next to me is long gone, no more than a mere blood stain before an unrelenting tide of anger and hate. But that is what war is. I know. I have suffered before.
I can taste them now. Their hot blood welling up inside my mouth. Unless it is my own. I cannot breathe, nor move. The world is fading. The last image I see is of a grand figure, atop a majestic chariot. Her flame red hair burns as the centrepiece of my death. She is their flame and holds their lives. My own has long since left. My own song is ending: I too must now leave.
Submission 3 The withered man repeatedly struck the smoldering iron blade with calculated precision, raising the hammer he held in his hand slowly then throwing it down upon the anvil again and again. The dazzling blaze of the forge cast an orange glow upon his wrinkled face. He sported a homespun tunic and a ragged apron. The man’s gaze never left the blade.
“Indeed, I was like you. I fought, fought hard. Fought well. I killed. Like a savage,” he growled. “Got tired of it though. Too much. Too much blood. Too much death.” The soldier waiting for his sword shifted uneasily. The old man stopped and looked at his customer. “You know,” he whispered, “I was there. I was there.”
“I…where,” the soldier stammered in reply. The blade was nearly finished. He longed to leave this bumbling fool.
“The forest,” said the old man. “I was there when they came…” He could remember it like yesterday.
***
“Formation! Back in formation!” he heard a centurion shout above the chaos and confusion. Arrows whizzed past his head and struck pierced the segmented armor of his cohorts. Steel clashed against steel. Hundreds of warriors continued to emerge from the dark and foreboding forests of Germania shouting bloodcurdling chants and wielding battle axes. Death surrounded the young legionary.
He heard an animal-like roar behind him and turned to find a barbaric thug swinging a battle axe above his head. The brute’s bare chest had been painted in an intricate geometric pattern. He rushed toward the legionary and delivered a deadly blow to the side of his head. The young soldier spun to the ground. A shroud of darkness came upon him and his mind began to slow. The din of battle faded. “This is the end,” he thought with resignation. All went black.
Light finally breached the darkest depths of his mind. He slowly opened his eyes. The forest was silent save for the sorrowful song of a distant lark. Butchered corpses were strewn about the path upon which three Roman legions had once walked. His nostrils flared at the pungent smell of rotting flesh. He raised his hand to the side of his head and felt a large gash from which sticky blood seeped. The wound was deep, but he had survived the carnage. He had survived.
***
“And now,” grumbled the old man, “I am here. Better to have died than to suffer each and every day through the memory of that slaughter.” He lifted the blade off the anvil and plunged it into a bucket of frigid water.
The soldier stood frozen in shock. “By Jupiter, I wouldn’t have guessed it in a million years,” he said quietly to himself. “You were really…there?”
The old man handed him the blade. “Use this weapon to kill as many damned Germans as you can,” he instructed gravely. “And indeed, I was. I survived Teutoburg Forest.”
Submission 4 The Worm
Whisht lads, had yez gobs, and I'll sing yez all an awful song
Of Britishmen in times of yore, before wor kings before wor queens
When days were short and folks were poor, and nights were awful long
Of lads knew nor right nor wrong, and whose folk loved awful things
It was a time of blood and beer, and also of iron and fear
Our lads would go out and fight, in those brief hours of light
Come back by even for their ale, and to victory they would hail, hail!
Golden times were round our fire, but every man knew himself a liar
With painted skin and painted soul, our victories were never whole
Men we seemed but truth were not, this knowledge lead to our rot
Barbaric thug! Such a heady ideal, something we yearned to feel
But though our strength seemed firm, in truth it came from the worm.
Great big teeth and a great big gob and great big goggly eyes
A scaly brute, a fearsome beast, nursery rhymes are no lies
He ate our sheep and he ate our lambs and he ate all of our calves
He took the lord of our land and snapped him into two halves
But there was one among us, who swore to do more than solely cuss
And one day he took ten and went, up to the worms' dread sulphrous vent
To make treaty to our mortal fear, knowing to death he was mortal near
None expected our men to return, for the worm did love to make meat burn
What happened there did seem great, seemed until it was too late
The worm did nod and sagely say, that peace had a price to pay
He would have us bring him our enemies, to do with as he please
Two score a moon, became our greatest boon
For if we did not bring our kills, upon us the worm would wreck great ills
Instead we took two score men a month, and watched the worm crunch and grunth
And rip and tear and gobble and wolf and worm and devour and chow and gnaw
Their bones a litter that scattered, in a deadliest deadest pattern
It was a time of blood and beer, and also of iron and fear
Our lads would come home and fight, in those long hours of night
Not to watch those limp bodies flail, hear the live meals wail, wail!
But none could say around our fire, and every man knew himself a liar.
On our souls this truth did leech, until one day a man could breach
The truth between worm and man, as none had thought he can
But my bairns 'tis another tale, instead hear again the deathly wail
Of dead men dying for another's fear, in a time most exceedingly queer.
Submission 5 Hadrian's Wall
The blue painted warrior looked into the distance. The wall stood there like a great barrier stopping them from progressing any further. The Romans had come to his village and took his children away, raping his own wife as he stood there helpless, being made to watch.There stood the Roman sentries watching. Not expecting anything different they turned their heads the other way. ''Son of Osglric '',said a second warrior behind him. Osglric turned towards him. ''What? When will we attack?''
'' Play the tune, then we attack.'' He ordered. The bards began singing from their golden instruments playing the horns. A loud music blared from the forest. The sentries dismissed it. The thugs began repeating in a pattern, while barbaric sounds were incoming quickly.
A rhythmic pattern began to overcome the silence of the atmosphere. Shields clanged together, war cries were driven with hatred and anger, Osglric, their leader encouraging them on forwards. A few bowmen fired the signal. Out of nowhere a large band of blue painted warriors charged onto the walls, not because they were barbaric, but for their revenge. They attacked, breaching the walls using ladders. They soon drove further and further, cutting down any Romans they saw them into. Then they stopped. They saw a Roman Legion pointing their javelins at them. The centurion called our his orders. Osglric, holding his sword and shield gritted his teeth in frustration. He saw his men being cut down by the elite of the Roman Army. He roared, and led his men to their final destination. Death.
Submission 6 „There is a breach in the gate!“ – I shouted with all the might my lungs could muster. For the whole world needed to hear the news of this dreadful moment.
But all was not yet lost. Oh no. Without delay, giving only a moment for thoughts, I grabbed my wooden shield with blue paint on it. Swirling in awkward shapes but in an obvious pattern it decorated this old friend, who protects me from harm in tricky situations.
Speaking of paint, I myself was wearing some. Blue war paint, for it is the color of war. And we are at war, make no mistake in that. The enemy swarms through the gates each time we let up, giving us no time to catch our breaths, no time to rest. An endless fight, until we fall to exhaustion. How vile and cowardly indeed.
Once the shield was within the firm grasp of my left hand, I drew my trusted sword with my left and charged to battle. Let blood be spilled.
Preferably the enemy blood.
On my way to the gates I passed my people, for whom I spill blood to protect. With frightened eyes they watch me leave – their last hope for peace and salvation.
„My! How barbaric!“ – A woman gasped at the sight.
„What is that thug doing? Running around naked? Some sort of costplay?“ – A skinny looking man said to his friend, taking comfort in bashful words. No capable warriors those two.
What do they understand? A true warrior needs no armor, for it only slows down the movements. All I need is my loincloth, so that the enemy would not get distracted by my overly large manhood.
On second thought, if I live through this day, I shall loose that as well. A distracted enemy is a dead enemy after all.
Finally I reach my destination – the southern wall of our settlement, made out of see-through material with thin doors that open inward every time the enemy moves in. A lousy defense, for it invited all who see fit to enter. And this time they come in numbers – 10 grown-men, dressed in dark blue, with bright stars on their chests, wielding black sticks that bring only numbness and pain. But I did not hesitate, a true warrior fights even against terrible odds.
It took only a minute, but soon I found myself on the ground, with my arms twisted behind my back, claws of cold steel closing on my wrists. Sword and shield no longer in my grasp. I am defeated. Forgive me my people, for I travel to Valhala sooner than expected.
“Bloody lunatic”- One of the victorious enemy warriors said.
But I fear not death, for I know that at least one song will be written to honor my name and I shall forever be remembered as the warrior that fought until the end.
Farewell.
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