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Thread: Wishing For Ages Past... - A Late Roman Story [Updated: 24/02/2014]

  1. #21
    Magister Militum Flavius Aetius's Avatar δούξ θρᾳκήσιου
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    Default Re: Wishing For Ages Past... - A Late Roman Story [Updated: 09/02/2014]

    Oh lol, yeah I've been working on my book (The Whole North into Gaul: An Analysis of the Battle of the Catalaunian Plains) and haven't had much time for other things (other than school of course).

  2. #22
    McScottish's Avatar The Scribbling Scotsman
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    Default Re: Wishing For Ages Past... - A Late Roman Story [Updated: 09/02/2014]

    Quote Originally Posted by Magister Militum Flavius Aetius View Post
    Oh lol, yeah I've been working on my book (The Whole North into Gaul: An Analysis of the Battle of the Catalaunian Plains) and haven't had much time for other things (other than school of course).

    Oh...well...in that case, carry on sir!

  3. #23
    Magister Militum Flavius Aetius's Avatar δούξ θρᾳκήσιου
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    Default Re: Wishing For Ages Past... - A Late Roman Story [Updated: 09/02/2014]

    I'll find some time for an update, but non-fiction comes before fiction (unless I somehow manage to get bored.)

  4. #24
    McScottish's Avatar The Scribbling Scotsman
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    Default Re: Wishing For Ages Past... - A Late Roman Story [Updated: 09/02/2014]

    I've been thinking of actually re-starting this tale and, after a little 'research', around the time of Valentinian III might not be such a bad idea - been looking into possibly the arrival of the Huns or even the lovely reign of Honorius as well. So many bloody conflicts and clandestine conspiracies to choose from!

  5. #25
    Magister Militum Flavius Aetius's Avatar δούξ θρᾳκήσιου
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    Default Re: Wishing For Ages Past... - A Late Roman Story [Updated: 09/02/2014]

    I insist you must continue. This is a great timeframe for your tale.

  6. #26
    McScottish's Avatar The Scribbling Scotsman
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    Default Re: Wishing For Ages Past... - A Late Roman Story [Updated: 09/02/2014]

    Quote Originally Posted by Magister Militum Flavius Aetius View Post
    I insist you must continue. This is a great timeframe for your tale.

    I shall bend to your will then, oh Magister, due in no small part to the fact that you seem to be the only one reading/replying to this tale. I also agree - just harder to shoehorn the Huns into it.

  7. #27
    Cavalier's Avatar Vicarius
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    Default Re: Wishing For Ages Past... - A Late Roman Story [Updated: 09/02/2014]

    I enjoy this story. I especially like how you describe the characterns in-between monologue, something I'm trying to learn from. Though I wish the chapters were slightly longer, even if they are fine as they are!

    +rep
    August Strindberg: "There's a view, current at the moment even among quite sensible people, that women, that secondary form of humanity (second to men, the lords and shapers of human civilisation) should in some way become equal with men, or could so be; this is leading to a struggle which is both bizarre and doomed. It's bizarre because a secondary form, by the laws of science, is always going to be a secondary form. Imagine two people, A (a man) and B (a woman). They start to run a race from the same point, C. A (the man) has a speed of, let's say, 100; B (the woman) has a speed of 60. Now, the question is 'Can B ever overtake A?" and the answer is 'Never!'. Whatever training, encouragement or self-denial is applied, the proposition is as impossible as that two parallel lines should ever meet."


  8. #28
    McScottish's Avatar The Scribbling Scotsman
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    Default Re: Wishing For Ages Past... - A Late Roman Story [Updated: 09/02/2014]

    Chapter I, Part V: Beyond The Worlds Edge, Part I




    The journey from Eboracum to the Wall, using a series of roads the names of which had long been forgotten, had been one of quiet contemplation and relative ease. Few issues arising among the ranks of the mass of bodies which Vibius called his 'cohort' that could not be smoothed over by the milites themselves. They followed where their tribunus led them, out of a sense of loyalty, companionship, or payment. It mattered not to Vibius or Flavas, all that mattered was that they followed without question and trusted their superiors implicitly. After the discovery in the letter supplies had been bought, weapons sharpened, and armour repaired, and now they made their way north-west toward the wall-fort of Aballaba – known colloquially as 'the orchard'.

    Like most of the wall-forts it had been constructed during the reign of the Emperor Hadrianus and, with its sixteen or so siblings of solid stone, acted as a buffer between the savages of the northern lands and the civilised provinces of Roman Britannia. As with with these others it had known many garrisons and stood as a safeguard for centuries; the Ala Primae Tungrorum had been the very first to find themselves stationed to this northern outpost, five-hundred or so mounted tribesmen of the long-since disappeared Tungrii – their own countrymen making up other foot-slogging cohorts along the Wall – only to be replaced years later by a part-mounted cohort of Nervians. During the reign of Caracalla a formation of Frisii were given the honour, moved then to Derventio. Lastly came from distant shores Mauri tribesmen or, to put it more fully, the Numerus Maurorum Aurelianorum. This final formation originating from the peoples of North Africa garrisoned it still, and it was to a meeting with the Praefectus of both those men and Aballaba that Vibius now sought.

    Blustering rainstorms dogged their every step, men grumbling and the usual assortment of slaves and camp-followers echoing the sentiments of the soldiers. Germans, Romano-Britons, Gauls, Iberians and others all simply wished for a warm shelter and a bowl of something hot and nourishing in their bellies, but all Vibius could supply was thin porridge.

    “Over a week, tribunus,” mentioned Flavas one evening, both he and his superior listening to the shouts of changing sentries and the pattering of the rain on the canvas of the tent in which they both found themselves, “the men are more restless than ever for action or pay - one could well distract them from the other.”

    “A couple of days Flavas, that is all we have left! Keep them together, old friend, just until we reach Aballaba. Our pay should be waiting there, as should food, women and shelter.”

    Those last days passed with greater consequence, some men becoming just a little too vocal about their leaders route or plans, and consequently leaving the cohort of their own accord or being forced to leave. There could be no division in what Vibius saw as his family, he would not allow it. If it took the exile of a few to hold together the many then so be it.



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



    Rain gave way to sleet and sleet gave way to a thick layer of fog, the consistency of the air like a thick soup and vision cut to barely a few feet in front of your eyes. Riders were sent out but only a couple returned, those that came back having found the road they were to follow and those that didn't more likely than not becoming lost. They were no wet-eared tiros and would have found a place to stop, waiting for the deathly drape of grey and featureless moisture to pass by, Vibius therefore gave little thought to their safety and could only believe that what he assumed about them was true.

    Nearly nine days had passed, the long march through comparatively plain surroundings of fields, sparse forests and one or two villages of simple wooden dwellings ostensibly coming to an end.

    On the early morning of that ninth day, with winter winds biting at any exposed flesh not expertly concealed, the two-hundred man column and its many hangers-on wandered over the boundaries of the vicus which had grown from humble beginnings at the south-western edge of the fortress. Nothing moved and more than a few breaths became trapped in chilled throats, indeed the silence of the place was deafening, not a sign of the inhabitants to be found using any of man’s Gods-given senses. The buildings, as far as they could be seen in the murk and gloom of the mist, seemed untouched by violence and it was this that puzzled the tribunus the most.

    “I don't like it,” growled Flavas to his superior, both sitting astride their mounts at the head of a halted column, each soldier on edge and each civilian mumbling prayers to their respective deities, the Goths jaw set hard and his mouth barely moving as he spoke, “you know as well as I what that letter said. What sort of welcome should we have expected? Now the fog smothers us, our sights and our hearing, and we sit here waiting for some non-existent omen to guide us.”

    “Silence yourself!” Hissed Vibius, raising an open hand and tilting his head, listening beneath his golden helmet. Convinced that his second-in-command was correct, at least about not liking their situation, he pointed one gloved finger toward the central road leading through the vicus and out, “we follow that. Whatever waits for us at the end of the road we shall deal with. I want riders on our flank and a rear guard of experienced men to defend the civilians if necessary. No-one is going to take us by surprise.”

    Orders were swiftly given, riders and footsoldiers shifting into their positions with instinctive ease as the column was gestured onward.

    Ahead of them loomed the thick stone walls of Aballaba, those bulwarks appearing as if from the very air itself, upon the ramparts came and went solid figures like wraiths from a nightmare. No matter how hard he looked, Vibius could not tell who patrolled the wall of the fortlet, narrowing his eyes and trying to ignore the droplets that fell from the rim of his helmet. At length it was decided that Vibius and Flavas, followed very closely by a dozen or so horsemen, would approach the fort and 'knock on the gate' as it were.

    This time they stopped mid-way between the intimidating gateway of solid wood and the fences of the vicus, open ground as far as could be seen in the fog, made deliberately so by the garrison, Vibius removing his helmet and taking a deep breath of heavy air even as it soaked his hair and features.

    “I am Vibius Quinctilius Atellus of the Numerus Vibiorum...I wish to speak with Praefectus Aulus Gratius Pulvillus.”

    Moments passed and he called out to that mute wall once again, three times, and still nothing. Only as he prepared to announce himself again was there any movement, and this time it was alarmingly quick, the gates thrown back almost by the hand of a giant and the thundering sound of hooves coming ever closer. Nothing of the riders could be seen, but they were coming.

    “Tribunus,” sighed Flavas, his hand reaching for his sword before he even realised it, “I think we may have made a big mistake.”
    Last edited by McScottish; February 13, 2014 at 02:59 PM.

  9. #29
    McScottish's Avatar The Scribbling Scotsman
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    Default Re: Wishing For Ages Past... - A Late Roman Story [Updated: 09/02/2014]

    Quote Originally Posted by Cavalier View Post
    I enjoy this story. I especially like how you describe the characters in-between monologue, something I'm trying to learn from. Though I wish the chapters were slightly longer, even if they are fine as they are!

    +rep


    Why thank you Cavalier, I hope I can be of some assistance in your learning. I'm also going to attempt to write longer parts - they're all of Chapter One at the moment - and hopefully add a bit more detail to the proceedings.

  10. #30
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    Default Re: Wishing For Ages Past... - A Late Roman Story [Updated: 09/02/2014]

    The last chapter was excellent. The plot is thickening!
    August Strindberg: "There's a view, current at the moment even among quite sensible people, that women, that secondary form of humanity (second to men, the lords and shapers of human civilisation) should in some way become equal with men, or could so be; this is leading to a struggle which is both bizarre and doomed. It's bizarre because a secondary form, by the laws of science, is always going to be a secondary form. Imagine two people, A (a man) and B (a woman). They start to run a race from the same point, C. A (the man) has a speed of, let's say, 100; B (the woman) has a speed of 60. Now, the question is 'Can B ever overtake A?" and the answer is 'Never!'. Whatever training, encouragement or self-denial is applied, the proposition is as impossible as that two parallel lines should ever meet."


  11. #31
    McScottish's Avatar The Scribbling Scotsman
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    Default Re: Wishing For Ages Past... - A Late Roman Story [Updated: 09/02/2014]

    Chapter I, Part VI: Beyond The Worlds Edge, Part II




    “Keep your blade where it is primicerius,” cautioned the bare-headed Taifali, his own hands resting only by his own mental will on the front horn of his saddle, “at least until we know who is coming.”

    Flavas and his superior had by now been joined by their hand-picked retinue of riders, Ellich among them - his browned skin and deformed skull with only a top-knot upon it causing him to stand out among the other eleven, mostly 'Germanic', horsemen – each taking up a post near their commanding officer and his second. None drew sword or bow strong, following the order of their tribunus obediently, some eyes scanning the fog in front of them and others looking to their flanks and rear. To try and listen for the unseen riders was a fools errand, sounds echoing in the fog and tricking the senses. The more you tried to locate the sound, the more it would allude you.

    Not only that but the sound had ceased, the clattering of hooves fading, replaced by hushed whispering only a few Roman feet away. Every once in a while the outline of a rider or a mount could be seen, yet no details presented themselves, uncertainty grasping both parties by the throat.

    In the end it was Flavas, as usual, who broke the calm...

    “Oi! I said oi!” He bellowed, cupping his hands to his mouth just to get his point across, “if you're going to kill us then get on with it, otherwise you'd best show your pretty faces before we come after you-”

    The voice that came back made Flavas halt his tirade before he would have chosen to end it, his mouth shutting itself and his back stiffening, it was a voice with the authority of Vibius but amplified many times over. There was something about the sharp tone that spoke of one used to giving orders, and just as adverse to being threatened by the common soldiery.

    “You will do no such thing,” it snapped back, “keep your hands away from your weapons.”

    Vibius' eyes glittered in the clogging murk, though whether it was from the damp or a more internal source it would be hard to say. Far from looking like the tribunus of two-hundred men at full strength, he looked more like a farmer, and a dirty one at that, the adopted Roman simply happy he had washed his clothing before leaving Eboracum. At least he would speak to whomever without blood on him.

    “Salvete,” greeted a small man, mounted as fate would have it on a rather small horse, he and several other cavalrymen appearing as if out of nothing, “Mihi nomen est Aulus Gratius Pulvillus, I have been waiting for you.”

    Glances were exchanged between many members of Vibius' retinue, as well as between he and Flavas, none of them quite sure whether the man they were looking at was joking or was genuine in his introduction. It was not that they took him immediately for a liar, only that he did not look like their presumptions of what a Praefectus should look like. They had been expecting some Roman aristocrat, tall and lean with a large nose, olive skin and a bearing the likes of which they did not have, maybe dressed in Roman finery and the richest of armour. What they got was a short man with broad shoulders and long arms, dressed in nothing but a pair of sandals and a tunic, no saddle visible on his mount but for a blanket, his face with skin like toughened leather that wrinkled as he smiled – a smile that went all the way to his quick and intelligent eyes of brown – and his tightly curled hair tied back behind him ears.

    “P-Praefectus Pulvillus?” Stuttered the brash Goth, surprise lighting his features as he realised he had spoken that out loud, “Praefectus, hail. I am Flavas, and this is Tribunus Atellus,” he had regained his wits quickly enough and gestured to his leader and compatriot, “it is good to meet you, sir.”

    Smirks brightened the faces of those men which the high-ranking cavalryman had bought with him, each equipped in the same manner as their Praefectus and almost all of the same ethnic make-up. There were some who were clearly Romano-Britons by birth, though they had adopted the dress and habit of riding with only a blanket, and even a couple of bright-haired Germans who looked extremely out of place. As with all of the units stationed along the Wall the Mauri had once been composed purely of North African horsemen but now, due to the ravages of time and the deaths of comrades, replacements had been sought from elsewhere, including the local populace.

    “It is good to know that you received my message,” like the setting of a sun his smile vanished, and a business-like tone replaced that of friendship, “we cannot remain where we are though, and I am sure that your men would like the hospitality of our garrison. Please, gather them all and tell them that they may take what they want from the vicus, or join you in Aballaba.”

    “Will the villagers not object to their possessions being taken and their houses used as lodgings by my men?”

    For a moment something like sadness ghosted across the face of the Praefectus, but was gone just as fast, “no they will not, tribunus. They are either gone or dead and I am of the mind that it is unlikely they will return.” After turning his horse about, his men doing likewise, Pulvillus waved a hand in the direction of the open gate, “shall we?”



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



    On entering the fort, followed by roughly half of his soldiers, Vibius could not help but take note of the recently reinforced walls or the fact that those men who patrolled the ramparts were armoured in scale or mail and bearing their arms at all times. Fires burned in the courtyard and on the walls and never went out, kept fed and alight by soldiers ready with more wood. Lastly were the great number of horses, at least seventy, all ready and waiting outside the vast stables.

    While the garrison took care of their guests, Pulvillus took Flavas and Vibius to his very own chambers. They were sparse dwellings; the interior warmed by a flickering fire and furnished with a desk and a bed, a rack for weapons and a small wooden mount for armour, and a couple of small figurines of deities not known in Britannia. There was no armour on the mount, and only a sword and a clutch of javelins on the weapon rack, and both were ignored as Pulvillus took a seat behind his desk.

    “I would bid you sit, friends, but as you can see I have but one chair for my own use and comfort.”

    “We have no need of a chair, sir.”

    “Very well...”

    Pulvillus rubbed his chin and propped his elbows onto the top of his desk. In the light of the fire he looked worn out, his face craggy and his eyes circled with black, and Vibius could not help but feel a little sympathy for a man who was likely fighting back the numerous enemies of Roma each and every day since taking up his post at the edge of the world.

    “What happened?” Asked Vibius, unable to hold back his tongue or his questions any more, “you hinted at something of urgency in your message, something that would change Britannia.”

    “Oh yes tribunus, oh yes,” those brown eyes swept around the room before Pulvillus seemed to relax, if only a little, “treachery is what I have to tell you. Treachery. Against our Emperor, against our people, against the Dux and Comes both.”

    “Treachery?” Grunted Flavas, suspicious of concepts that involved betraying others, “by whom?”

    “My German friend, by everyone!” Pulvillus threw his hands into the air, an exasperated look on his features, “this is why I have my soldiers on the walls and fresh mounts kept ready night and day, why I have done so for days now.” The North African rubbed his eyes with calloused fingers, wiping a hand over his face and tasking a deep breath, “it began like an infection, extra pay being received by my fellow praefecti and tribuni along the wall, a few coins here and there at first and then larger 'donations'. This would have made no difference, had they not been from an unknown source somewhere south of the Wall.”

    “They were bribes?”

    “Yes tribunus, they were bribes. Bribes for what purpose I did not know at first, not until a man appeared at the gates of the fort and asked to speak with me. He was a Briton, but would not tell me his name, telling me only that his master had more wealth and would give it to me if I only allowed entry to his brothers beyond the Wall.”

    “I take it you refused?” Snorted Flavas, now paying full attention to the strands of web being exposed before his eyes. The look which he received was more than enough of a reply, but Pulvillus spoke anyway, “I had him decapitated and his body thrown into the ditch on the other side of the fort, yes.” Raised eyebrows and a request that he go on were the only things to meet that confession.

    “The state of the garrisons had been...below what was required for some time by then. Many were asking for more pay, better supplies, an end to the constant day-to-day hardships which we all face here. Grumblings turned into demands and Fullofaudes was forced to punish the ringleaders, an act which only led to further resentment from the soldiers garrisoning the forts, the flames of some form of perfidiousness kindled that day. By the middle of this month I had received no word, no messages or reports, from any of my fellows and became suspicious....”

    “And?”

    “And,” sighed Pulvillus, “I was disgusted to find that at least three of my brothers had chosen to accept the wealth offered to them. They would allow enemies of Roma through the gates of the Wall and into free lands. It was on that very day that I sent away all of the villagers, urged them to leave and find somewhere to hide.”

    Both Vibius and Flavas were speechless, each looking to the other and then back to the Moor, “we must send word to the Dux! This cannot go without response.” Was all Vibius, in spite of all his calm and clarity, could say.

    “I have already sent several riders to his headquarters, yet I receive no response. When I heard of your Numerus I thought that he may have sent you...clearly I was wrong.”

    Standing once more from his desk, hands brushing down his still-wet tunic, Pulvillus walked sedately over to a small chest and opened it. Dipping one hand into it he turned his head and raised an open hand, “we received this only the evening before last, quite a surprise I can tell you,” slowly but surely the face of a dead man came into view. Both onlookers reached for their weapons, but neither drew them, instincts seeing their hands to the closest form of protection.

    “Wodan's swaying scrotum,” exclaimed Flavas, his face contorted into a grimace and his clenched fingers flexing as they drew away from his sword hilt, “who is it?”

    The head, with skin now whiter than snow, everything drained of blood that now stained the bottom of the chest, blank eyes staring at all three of them, had clearly been cut from a still living body.

    “Let me present Praefectus Tiberius Cyriacus, commander of the Second Cohort of Lingones, his fort being the nearest to our own if you travel eastward along the Wall. Apparently gold was not enough to protect him, as I am certain he would have hoped.”

    “Gods be merciful,” muttered the hushed voice of Vibius, loud enough inside the chamber when no-one else was speaking, “we must seek out survivors, halt the enemy at Concavata. We cannot allow them to proceed further south.”

    “Oh tribunus,” mocked Pulvillus, giving a small shake of his head, “I would advise against such a course of action. No. I think it would be wiser if you armed your men and told them to be ready.”

    “To pursue the enemy!” Grinned Flavas, always ready for a scrap or a battle.

    “Pursue them? Of course not. They're already on their way here, and if you wish to survive to see tomorrow I suggest you do as I say.”
    Last edited by McScottish; May 13, 2014 at 04:18 AM.

  12. #32
    Magister Militum Flavius Aetius's Avatar δούξ θρᾳκήσιου
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    Default Re: Wishing For Ages Past... - A Late Roman Story [Updated: 13/02/2014]

    Thick Fog and Thick Plot, I like it!

    Numerus Vibiorum I think.

  13. #33
    Riverknight's Avatar Last of the Romans
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    Default Re: Wishing For Ages Past... - A Late Roman Story [Updated: 13/02/2014]

    Great job!

  14. #34
    McScottish's Avatar The Scribbling Scotsman
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    Default Re: Wishing For Ages Past... - A Late Roman Story [Updated: 13/02/2014]

    Chapter I, Part IX: Traitors are Traitors, Part I




    His senses were so heightened by his current misfortunes that Desiderius could feel each and every independent drop of sweat rolling down his face, or his torso, and dripping from the end of his nose, every piece of stinking body-moisture that ran into the creases of his chins or the fold of his august belly and even between the sausages which he called fingers and toes. It was not helped by the thick robes he had been wearing when the Attacotti managed to force their way into Eboracum, ravaging, raping and pillaging everything in their paths. A group of them had found their way to his rather obvious villa, which had been bad enough, but what had been even worse was that they were led by their chieftain. Now the Bishop was tied to a pillar in his own hall-cum-audience chamber and forced to endure the overwhelming heat of a pyre of burning furniture and worse.

    “Well, well, Bishop,” sneered the red-haired barbarian, rarely using what Latin he knew and caring not whether his words were fully understood, “we finally meet face-to-face.”

    Days ago he and his war-bands had sailed to the fortress of Gabrosentum on the western coast, welcomed with open arms by the treacherous garrison and their unworthy Praefectus, men who had sold their own lands and scruples for gold. Such men were unworthy of life. Before any of the garrison had known what was happening it had been too late, every Roman hunted down and exterminated, the the Second Cohort of Thrakians simply ceasing to exist overnight. It was just another reason why at the present moment his warriors swanned about a burning Eboracum in the armour of their enemies and carrying their iron in their fists. Yet the Bishop was also someone to thank for that.

    “Please,” wheezed the bound man, the feeling in his fingers beginning to fade as his bonds cut off his blood, “please...take whatever you like, just be merciful.”

    “Have you crapped yourself, Roman?!” Laughed the barbarian, the axe in his hand seeming unacceptably close to Desiderius, even from a few feet away, “by the Gods...you have!”

    It was true, he had soiled himself. Desiderius had soiled himself nearly half-an-hour before, the stench only now reaching a 'ripe' state because of the heat. A patch of urine also stained his finely-crafted trousers, pooling in his closed-toe shoes and providing plenty of entertainment for his sharp-toothed captor.

    “I will not kill you, Bishop. You have been far too helpful to us already. No, more use alive, so alive is how you will stay.”

    Praise God! At least he would not die...yet.

    “Enjoying the view, yes?”

    For hours now the two Angle slaves, sleeping comfortably in his own bed when they too were taken, had been ploughed over and over again by Attacotti warriors. There blood was up, they were full of lust, and when a woman could not be found an attractive man or boy would serve just as well. It was a credit to his perversions that beneath his robes the Bishop was sporting a half-erect manhood, somehow gaining even a little pleasure from the view of his slaves bent over and buggered by one warrior and then the next, and the next, and the next.

    It was unlikely that they would survive their constant torment, but at least he would live.

    “Listen to me, Bishop,” demanded the larger man, gripping the face of the prisoner in one hand, squeezing his cheeks like two rolls of soft bread, “you will do as I tell you and nothing else.”

    “O-of course...I would never think of betraying you.”

    Who knew that trying to hold your own urine in could hurt more than being tied up and having your blood cut off from your hands? Well, after being threatened so much, Desiderius certainly knew.

    “Fullofaudes was not here, where he should be. I want his head, and you will help me get it.”

    Fullofaudes, the Dux Britanniarum, charged with command of the Wall and defence of Eboracum had managed to escape. This was good for the Roman cause, but not so good for the looting barbarians. Perhaps that Gallic fool was not as stupid as most thought him to be after all.

    “I will, I will h-help you g-get it.”

    “Good...”

    The pressure that had been building up as Atrexaros squeezed his fingers closer and closer now left, the hand removed entirely, those eyes, the eyes of a predator, weighing up the Bishop – in the sense of trust anyway – and finding him at least useful.

    “His encampment is not far from here, and with him many soldiers. You will tell him what I tell you to and no more. Once he is drawn out into the field we will crush him.”

    There were few enough left that were loyal, almost every garrison along Hadrian's Wall having joined with the enemy or been slain by them, and now Desiderius would help to crush a large part of the organised resistance against the pillaging warbands.

    “Yes, I will do it, just tell me.”

    “Listen carefully then, Roman. This is what you will do...”

  15. #35
    Magister Militum Flavius Aetius's Avatar δούξ θρᾳκήσιου
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    Default Re: Wishing For Ages Past... - A Late Roman Story [Updated: 24/02/2014]

    Another great entry!

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