343 Anno Domini - The Winter Campaign of Constans I, Pursuit By Flavius Sanctus - A Village Some Miles North of Hadrian's Wall
One moment all was quiet, Vitulus searching through the inside of a roundhouse and his men spread across the centre of the village, when he heard the roar of his optio. There was a bellowed refrain from the charging heath-demons that many called 'Picts', but it was the rolling and constant tirade of the heightening barritus that grabbed his attention; it was a uniquely 'Germanic' addition to the armies of Roma, a war-cry that most legions had adopted as their own, but that the Goths of his century had always retained as their own. After all, there was only so far that Roman discipline could temper an already red-hot blade.
Between the rumbling of deepened voices, the chink of mail and the hammering of weapons on shield rims, he could hear Fridenot giving commands in a language that was not his own, fighting for an Empire that was not his own, Vitulus knowing that he did it for pay, plunder and the likely blood-related soldier next to him.
"Ad aciem! Celeriter!" At his words around forty of the most barbaric 'Romans' in the Sixth hurriedly formed into a line, two ranks deep and twenty across, "crescent!" The two flanks now shifted backward, two roundhouses being used as anchors on either side of the line, the entire gritting their teeth and planting themselves into the ground.
"Signifer," yelled the Briton, rarely raising his voice but certainly now feeling the need, "Curtius, where are you?!"
Within moments a North African appeared at the doorway, the centuries draco standard held in one hand and his shield in the other, "centurio?" His voice was hoarse, the man clearly out of breath, his loyalty (and the situation) bringing him to his superiors side with all haste.
"Gather the rest of the men as quickly as possible," he demanded, his mere century not enough to warrant a musician of any kind to relay orders any faster, "then we move to help the Goths."
At the edge of the village it was, what once would have been called anyway, a good situation for Rome; two enemies of the Empire, no matter whether one half were serving in their army, were about to annihilate one another. It was preferable that the bearded barbarians from beyond the Danube came out victorious, of course, but should both sides assure the destruction of the other...well...no doubt the praefectus would be happy enough.
Fridenot swaggered before his own lines, limbering his axe arm as casually as if he were about to hew some wood, glances of disdain directed at his painted foes from time-to-time. How could they have known that the centuries prime brawler was also a man of chiefly blood to his own people? That his lineage was a glorious and respected one? How could these wild-haired and pale-bodied understand that, once upon a time, those they were about to fight had once been very much like them...many, many, years ago.
"Bloth! Sair! Dauthus!" Roared the wild-eyed warrior, looking ever the more the image of his noble ancestors, "bloth! Sair! Dauthus!" Came the refrain of men- blood, pain, death. It was a war-cry heard from the steppes of the east to the most western province of the Empire, unfortunate therefore that it may well be the last time it was heard. Here, here in the frigid north, on an errand that was not even required to bring about victory for Constans.
Although Crautreic and his kin did not have the language of the Goths, knowing not a word of it, they understood a challenge well enough! The chieftain himself made certain that he was first among the attackers, overtaking in his fervour healthier men that were half his venerable age, his bare feet skipping over the rocky ground with the sure-footing of a mountain goat, and the swiftness of a stag.
It would be thought, and with good reason, that trained and armoured soldiers of Roma would simply grind through these mostly bare savages with ease. Indeed, this was the thinking of most backward-looking senators and leaders of men. Yet these were not the soldiers of yesteryear, they did not wield the short, stabbing, gladius and they were not bound by the spirit of Old Roma. Nevertheless they stood their ground, maybe not Romans but fighting for them all the same, weighted darts replacing the old pila as they were launched with practised ease into the soft Brythonic flesh of yet another unruly horde...or were they?
Crautreic, coming to an impressive and oddly disciplined halt in front of his warriors, thrust out his spear and bought them all to an equally stationary stance; halted within mere feet of one another there was an unmistakable tension, a build-up of violent energy that yearned, nay, demanded to be released. All the same, the one they followed into battle would not allow them to advance before him, nor to yet take the heads of their enemies, but fanned out his line so that there was nowhere for the Goths to go but back into the village- their strategic plan was both a clever one and a death-trap.
Looking the tattooed chieftain up and down, a sneer on his face, Fridenot removed his helmet and let his long hair free. His eyes momentarily half-closed as he felt the cool breeze on his face and neck, opening them wide once more to glare at the man he knew he was about to kill.
"Loquerisne Latine?" Came the grunted question, thickly accented but Latin still, a man behind him translating for the entire half-century.
"A little..." Came the stilted reply, the butt of his spear now placed in the hardened earth, "you are willing to die for people not of your blood?" It was a question that Fridenot had even heard from his own father.
"No...killing you I shall do for no-one but myself. Surrender now, Pict, and my Emperor may be lenient."
The reply was for Crautreic to take a few steps forward, bring his spear into a guard position, and stick his tongue out to a quite impressive length.
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An Island in Flames - A Tale of Dark Age Britain [Updated: 26/01/2015]
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Originally Posted by Tigellinus
