The Roman and The Fort

One Roman survived. The soldier appeared in our village in the misty gray of dawn, mud spattered and bloodied. If the blood was his own or that of someone else did not matter to us. He was Roman and we were Brigantes.

When it was over, our chief ordered his feet and head removed and his body burned. No honorable burial for him. I held the torch that set his pyre ablaze. There was silence as he turned to smoke and ash. We watched until the pyre had crumbled in on itself. What remained was scattered to the winds.

It was not until later that we learned Garn had found a scroll on the Roman and secreted it away for himself. The poor fool could not even read their written language. He was instructed to burn that as well, but the Druid intervened. This could be useful to read, he said, to learn what makes their barbaric minds work.

After a long council, the elders agreed with the Druid, who sent a messenger under his protection to the next village over. The messenger returned with a boy of fifteen. The boy had been a slave to the Romans but escaped his master. Before that, the master had taught him how to read and write. He was to translate the scroll for us.

There was a great gathering. Women and children were allowed to attend to hear the foreign words so that all might learn something. The boy’s speech was halting as he struggled with the strange tongue. This is what we heard:

“To Centurion Quintus Seneca: Your direct orders are to hold fast the outpost to which you have been assigned. Any abandonment of the fort will be deemed treason and you and your legion will be treated accordingly with the strictest punishment of the law. Your men will be punished with decimation while you will be drawn and quartered.

Centurion Flavis Appius

* * *

The mist is deceiving. It twists and plays tricks on the mind. It blankets the land and seeps cold deep into the bones. No matter how great a fire there is or how many furs to wrap oneself in, the cold will always find a way through. Even during the day, thick fog can settle over the land, obscuring all completely. Thinking back on this now, I did not see the omens that portended our fate.

My name is Titus Pompeii, Tribune of the 8th Legion, assigned to the Acinipa outpost, just north of Hadrian’s Wall, truly the land of the godless. The orders were to provide support to the garrison in the northern region. We marched miles through the territory of the Brigantes, a formidable tribe of barbarians. Fortunately, other than a minor skirmish here and there, it was a relatively peaceful march. The true horror awaited us at our destination.

The fort was rotting. The men were unkempt, their sandals worn. Many of them had not eaten or slept in many days and their jaws were covered in thick beard growth. It was as though we were walking amongst the dead in Pluto’s domain. Soldiers wandered about the fort aimlessly, lost men with no purpose, like shades in the underworld. The garrison commander, Centurion Quintus Seneca, was stricken with an illness and could not rouse himself to meet his reinforcements.

His second, Julius Aurelius, greeted me with the proper salute, although exhaustion was clearly etched into his worn face.

“Welcome, Tribune Pompeii,” he said, dry lips cracking even further, blood slowly oozing from them and I had to force myself not to look away.

“Thank you, Praefectus Aurelius,” I nodded, glancing around the fort, “I must ask, what happened here?”

The Praefectus shuffled anxiously and I fixed him with a hard glare, making his shuffle cease. No Roman soldier was allowed to show fear or weakness, particularly if they were a commander.

“There have been attacks by the Druids of a nearby Picts tribe,” he finally admitted, “And their warriors have been ruthless. That, combined with the lack of supplies from the south have completely demoralized the men.”

I frowned. Surely they could not have been without supplies for that long.

“How long have you been waiting on supplies, Aurelius?”

The Praefectus scrunched up his nose as he tried to recall.

“Eight months, I believe,” he admitted, “Although I think it might have less to do with Rome’s dedication to its soldiers and more to do with the meddling tribes.”

I felt my face twist into a scowl that had most men cringing away, but Aurelius was clearly too tired and hungry to be intimidated.

“This is most upsetting news,” I stated, keeping my voice even, not betraying the pure fury I felt against the Picts for their meddling, “Be that as it may, let me see the state of our men.”

Julius Aurelius nodded and gestured for me to follow him. What I saw was more disheartening than the state of the defenses of the fortification.

Most could barely hold their shields up, and tarnished armor hung from thin bodies like rags. Julius explained the grain supplies had not arrived in the past month and what little they had left was mealy. They did not dare to venture out on hunting expeditions to supplement their supplies for fear of attack from surrounding villages.

I ordered a small party to search the land for wild game. The supplies we had brought with us were not enough to support the entirety of a garrison and reinforcements, even with officers putting their own rations into the lot. Our scouts were well-equipped and ready for battle should there be an ambush during their hunt.

That task done, I took command of the fort in the ill Centurion’s stead. We refortified the wooden walls with thick mud to protect them from further disintegration and replaced those logs that were beyond repair. Within the trench surrounding the wall, we placed sharp spikes shaped from young trees. Once these repairs were set, oil was poured over the stakes and in the trench surrounding the wall—should an attack happen, a torch set to this defense would rebuff anything the Brigantes and their damnable Druids might muster.

The hunting party returned after a day loaded with game. Other than a lone individual, they had no encounters with the native population. That night we feasted and it seemed as though the fort was once again well-defended and prosperous. It could have been an inn back in Rome, all jovial and happily drunk on full stomachs.

Days passed slowly with no word from the Roman outpost south of Hadrian’s wall of fresh supplies. There were none of the expected attacks from the Brigantes either. The people of the nearby village kept their distance from the fort, giving it a wide berth. It felt as though we were a forgotten garrison, an island in a sea of mist. I worked the men hard, finding ways to keep their minds occupied with training, drills, and tasks to be completed around the fort.

A fortnight after our arrival, Centurion Quintus Seneca died. We burned his body in the field outside the fort. Concerned the death of their leader would harm the men’s morale, I permitted a day of idleness with double rations. I also dispatched a courier to report the death of the Centurion and request fresh supplies.

Hours later, the courier returned, disoriented. He claimed to have been traveling through the field for all of that time, and never made it to the woods or road. Every time he emerged from the fog, he found himself at the fort. Julius chastised him thoroughly.

A good soldier, the courier stood silently and accepted his reprimand. I ordered him to leave again and he mounted his horse without complaint. Once more, he disappeared into the mist. There was uneasiness among the officers at this news, including my fellow captain. I warned them not to mention it among the legates as it could cause a rash of insubordination. Old superstitions were hard to quash when it came to soldiers.

Days passed and there was no news from the courier. A trip that should have been two days out and two days back was stretching over a week. I suspected the courier had been ambushed by the local population or bandits along the road, or he had deserted. A small reserve was ordered to gather their arms and go deliver the message. If they found the courier along the way, they were given instructions to return with him so we might crucify him for desertion.

The men marched away, following the road from the fort. Anxiety began to gnaw inside me as I watched them disappear from sight. As acting commander, I could not show weakness, so I pushed it aside. That was only the first of my mistakes.

The group returned that evening. They bore the armor and satchel the courier had carried with him. When questioned, they said they had discovered his possessions on the side of the road along with what remained of his horse. Rufus Varius, a dependable soldier, reported in private to Julius Aurelius and me.

The messengers walked for several hours as the courier had, unable to find their way through the fog. Over and over they made their way back to the road, only to be turned around again. The horse’s carcass was discovered still saddled, the valuable leather of its tack left where it was. There was no sign of struggle, and no outward sign the horse had been slain. No footprints led away from the spot, although there had been no rain to wash them clear. More worrying was the dead horse itself. Nothing remained of it but its bones.

This time, the rumors spread like wildfire through the ranks. There were murmurs of old gods and demons that lived in this heathen land, of Druids known to cast vicious curses, and monsters that lurked in the thick forests. I will admit my own fears matched that of the men. Action needed to be taken to assuage our superstitions and find the culprit who killed a valuable horse of the Roman army. I could not allow myself to be afraid of the strange gods in this country.

Julius and I took private counsel to find a solution. It was a short meeting as we reached the same conclusion almost immediately. With Rufus Varius leading the way, I would join a search party while Julius remained behind to command the fort in my absence.

By next dawn five and twenty of my most dependable men were gathered at the gates, each readied with determined expressions and freshly sharpened spears. They appeared as Roman soldiers should and I felt a confidence that had been missing these past days.

Mounted and with Rufus walking by me, we set out from the fort. Only a few minutes away from our safe hold and the mist had swallowed us whole. It became clear to me how a man might get turned around in grayness like this with no sun or discernable landmarks to provide navigation.

It did not take long to lose the road. One moment we were on packed earth, the next found us in the tall grass of the field. I ordered my men to return to the path, but any direction we chose only led to more grass. Rufus said not a word to these odd circumstances; he had already imparted this exact tale to me back at the fort.

For hours we marched, aimlessly, lost within our own field. I can only imagine how foolish we would have felt if we were walking around the fort in endless circles. Half-seen figures moved in the mist around us. Surely these visions were caused by our growing restlessness and the tricks the moving mist played on our minds. The men walked in silence and I could feel their anxiety beating against my back.

Sweat foamed on my horse’s flanks, but not from exertion of the walk. He had been nervous from the moment we stepped out of the gates, prancing about anxiously. It took all of my horsemanship to keep him reined in and under control.

But I could not calm his nerves completely. Without warning, he reared high and I only kept my saddle by holding fast to his mane. The march stopped at that moment, the panic of the horse a signal to the group. Rufus Varius stepped away from my side, shield up and spear at the ready. The men instinctively followed suit, standing back to back as they had been trained, eyes straining to see through the gray wall around us.

I drew my own sword, attempting to steady the men with quiet commands.

“Easy men, hold steady, keep your eyes up and your ears sharp,” I ordered. Other than my voice and the snorting of my horse, it was all silent. The gray figures continued to move around us and I was reminded of a wolf pack surrounding its prey.

A yelp from one of the soldiers startled me and I whirled the horse about, racing to the end of the line where the cry had come from. One was missing, and the one who had been standing with him looked as though he had seen the Argos. Before I could question him there was another shout from the end I had just left.

The men shifted, grips tightening on their spears. They kept ranks, proving their bravery. Rushing to the head of the line, I found Rufus Varius gone, my squire terrified. The young man had seen nothing. One moment Rufus was there, the next he was gone silently into the mist.

I shouted to the men to stay steady, but chaos fell upon us the next moment. There were more yells and I whirled about as fast as I could, but to no avail. Each time I turned, another was missing. The men panicked then. Who could fight an unseen foe? It was impossible to hold back fog with a spear and sword.

My attempts to control them were as fruitful as they had been with the horse. It was not long before I found I was alone, every man fleeing into the fog. Curse those cowards, no Roman should run from a battle no matter the opposition. I spurred the horse forward blindly, and he flew as Pegasus across the ground. I intended to recover what remained of my soldiers and return to the fort.

For as fast as he moved, the horse stopped just as quickly, rearing again. This time I was thrown from his back and it is only thanks to the Fates that I was not impaled on my own sword. The horse galloped from me, leaving me on my own in tall grass and swirling grayness.

All was silent. The mist seemed to wrap around me, gray tentacles reaching out to touch my arms and legs briefly before pulling back. There was something just beyond my sight in the void, something terrible and vicious. I could feel it with every breath I took, and my flesh prickled. My legs trembled, and I can say now with no shame that I was tempted to run, just as the others had. Whatever stood out there was waiting, but for what?

Moments crawled by like years, and in each one I pictured my home, my dear family, my wife, all back in Rome. I was on the verge of giving up and simply running when the mist lightened, almost imperceptibly. I could see the fort only a hundred yards away.

I stumbled towards it, tripping over hillocks and the rogue stone throughout the field. A form emerging from my left made me jump, sword at the ready, but it was only a stray cattle lowing as it sought edible plants.

The gates opened when I pounded on them. Without a word to the rest of the soldiers, I went directly to the officers’ quarters. The expression on Julius’ face at my sudden appearance would have been laughable, had I any wish to laugh.

Explaining how an entire command disappeared under my watch with I the only one to survive was no simple task. I could not provide a description of what had attacked us or what had happened to my men. If I had been the one hearing the tale, even from another Tribune, I would have questioned it. Perhaps the fact that I startled at every small noise or that I looked as though I had been to Hades and back was enough in itself to convince Julius of my honesty. He still recommended a search for the missing soldiers, to which I vehemently objected. Whatever it was out there was using the fog as cover, and until the thick clouds cleared we would be vulnerable.

Julius was not pleased with my decision. The parting look he passed to me left me with no doubt that he was questioning my leadership. I slept an uneasy sleep as the gods bestowed upon me dreams of strange beasts with glowing eyes, storms crushing ships on rocks, and countless villages ablaze.

When I awoke, Julius Aurelius was dead. A legate found him alone in his quarters, throat torn by a great force, blood splashed everywhere. There was no sign of struggle, no evidence that Julius had even awoken until whatever it was ripped him open. No man wanted to approach him to provide proper burial rites. Soldiers are notoriously superstitious, and a dead captain after the loss of twenty men, not to mention their previous Centurion proved to be a terrible omen. So Julius remained as he was while I determined a course of action.

Now I stand on the ramparts of our forgotten fort, watching the rolling sea of gray, the never ceasing fog. I can see the movements of figures in the mist, barely visible in the constant movement of the thick cover. It seems to have grown thicker since my return to the fort and I feel a true sense of terror creep over me as it creeps up and over our oil slicked wooden stakes.

From the mist there is a low call, like an animal in pain and my soldiers look at me uncertainly but I keep my gaze ahead.

“Steady,” I order in a deceptively calm voice, even though I want nothing more than to flee, “Stand strong, men. Whatever comes, we are prepared for it.”

I gestured for a soldier with a torch in hand to be prepared to light the large stakes on fire. His hands were shaking and I murmured a word of comfort.

“It’s alright, man, your brothers are here and we will protect you,” I assured him and he looked at me through a dirt streaked face and nodded, his hands ceasing their shaking.

From the swirling mist there was a low cry which grew to a piercing shriek and they attacked. Not the Picts like we had expected. No, these were something straight out of Tartarus. They were covered in thick skin, eyes glowing bright red even in the darkness. After the initial shriek they fell silent, clawing their way up the wooden posts of the fort with talons sharp like spears. I knew with certainty these were the same creatures that had attacked me and my men in the field days before.

“Now!” I cried out to the soldier holding the torch, and he tossed it over the side, lighting the wooden stakes on fire. The creatures shrieked, some catching alight, others merely ignoring the flames and pressing onwards, their claws digging into the wood as though it were butter.

“Archers at the ready!” I ordered and they knocked their bows, dipping the arrow tips into already lit braziers, “Fire!”

They let loose a volley of arrows, lighting the large stakes surrounding the fort alight. Some of the creatures fell to our arrows, but more clawed their way up the mud packed walls than were killed.

“Ready swords!” I commanded, “Ready shields! Spears!” The order had barely left my lips before the first of the monsters breasted the top of the wall, leaping towards my soldiers. I was in admiration of the bravery they demonstrated in the face of such horrible creatures. Not one backed down, spears and swords stabbing as shields deflected claws the length of knives.

“Keep on, Romans!” I urged, my own sword flashing, shield raising, as I spun meeting each attack. One particularly large beast crested the fortification and came straight for me. I barely managed to deflect its claws, heaving with all of my might as it landed on top of my shield, shoving it over the side and into the fire. It screeched and as suddenly as the attack started, it ended. Those beasts still alive clambered back over the wooden spikes, leaping through the flames and back out into the fog.

Taking a deep breath, I looked around at my men, some injured, three dead, and I felt a surge of pride.

“Roma victor!” I cried out and was met with a resounding response. I knew it was only a short-lived victory, having no doubt they would return once they had regrouped. We waited for a few hours before the watery dawn started breaking and I ordered the men to get some rest before the next bout.

They willingly went to their barracks, pulling off their stained and dented armor as they did and I watched them go feeling gratitude for their unwavering bravery in face of such terror. I followed, trying not to stumble down the rickety wooden steps and onto the packed dirt floor. Somehow I made it to my own quarters, managing to pull off my greaves, hauling my breastplate over my head without unclasping the buckles. That was all I managed before I collapsed on my cot falling immediately into a sleep plagued with teeth and blood.

All too soon, someone was shaking my shoulder and I jolted upright, gladius in hand until I realized it was one of the legionnaires, his expression grave.

“Tribune, come quickly,” he said, voice sharp and tight with worry. I moved fast, barely pulling on my breastplate, before following him out into the cold light of day. I squinted against the dim light as he led me up the stairs and onto the parapet of the fort.

“There!” he pointed out and the first thing I noticed was the mists had dispersed, revealing a crowd of Brigantes, fully armed, crowded around something in a circle. They parted and through them came a pale man with long hair and beard, covered in tattoos, who gestured behind him with a gnarled staff.

“Druid,” the soldier who had woken me up hissed like a curse, and I felt the same curl of disdain rise up in me.

“Make sure the gates are barricaded and our archers are ready,” I ordered and he nodded before marching off. I kept my eyes on the druid who stretched his arms wide, gesturing for another Brigantes to pull forward a small boy, no more than twelve. The Druid spoke to the child who looked uncertain before he relayed the message.

“Master Cailte wishes to relate to the infidels who have invaded our land the following: leave our island immediately and we will send no more of our children to attack your people.”

My soldiers looked confused.

“Children?” the same soldier whispered.

I spoke up.

“My name is Tribune Titus Pompeii, and I would like to relate to your Master that we are not leaving,” I declared, “You can send as many of those creatures as you want, but we will hold strong.”

The boy spoke to the Druid who waved his staff in the air.

“Very well, Tribune Titus Pompeii,” the boy relayed, “You have chosen death.”

With that, the Brigantes turned, disappearing into the mist, which closed up even more thickly behind them.

“What do we do now?” another soldier asked and I stood tall, hiding the shaking of my hands.

“We prepare to fight.”