Chapter 1

Caledonia (Northern England), 205 CE

My name is Titus Cenius Argentus, but Titus is a common name. Everyone calls me “Cenius”. Before our wedding, my wife Lyria once joked that she would only love me if I could be “Centenary Cenius”, by making love to her a hundred times in a month. She was so flirty and beautiful that it was easy for me to exceed that by a good margin.

I left to join the army the day after I turned 21. Lyria stayed at home, to look after our two sons and our island town, Balit. To please the Gods and protect my town and family from their wrath, I prayed daily and sacrificed to the Gods weekly. I was a rare man who fully honored his marriage vows. I was the sole occupant of my bed since I left home over a year and a half ago.

My fierce but loyal dog Tyranus was my only source of affection. Oh, how I longed for my pretty wife! How I wished to hug my boys and see them smile! I’d leave the army for the winter and finally see them again!

I glanced at the law scrolls on a shelf. I knew the law well enough. When it was time for me to go, I’d leave the scrolls for the officer who would replace me. Some of the soldiers complained the laws about slaves, family, and sex were too restrictive, but I thought just the opposite.

When walking around Rome, you might see various couples having a quick rendezvous in alleys or other partly concealed areas three or four times in a day. In some of the seedier areas, especially near the army barracks and the docks, prostitutes would perform sex acts on a public street. The customer would lean on a wall and the whore would lick and suck him, sometimes with crowds watching. Other times, whores would lean over a table or bench and get fucked from behind in public.

If the law could watch or get a free sample, the whores were usually left alone. In the temples of Venus or Faunus Pan, well, they were less restrictive yet.

I had four male slaves and five slave women helped my wife at home. I was more generous than a lot of owners.

Over the eight years I had them, my two older slaves, brothers Kuth and Doke, saved nearly enough to buy their freedom. They had a plan to go back to Persia and sell “exotic” Celt and Roman foods there. Kuth was a skilled skinner and butcher and Doke was a good cook. I thought they would do well. The upper officers and I were happy they made most of our meals, instead of the army cooks.

Poz and Menak were younger and used a lot of their money for sweets and wine. Poz was unskilled but quite strong, a good laborer.

Menak had skin a curious shade of dark brown, and his mother’s complexion had been nearly black. I was told she came from a remote Egyptian province called “Sudan”. My other three slaves were only a touch darker than myself, being from western Persia.

My father bought Menak’s mother when I was a young child. She was a laundress, and did a good job keeping our family’s clothes clean. Most nights after supper, mother taught my younger sister Elliah, Menak, and I languages, as the laundress spent a long time helping father change clothes, so she could wash them in the morning. I thought nothing of it until I realized Menak was probably my half-brother.

Few slaves could read and write. I planned to free Menak and offer him a job as a scribe or messenger next year. Poz was 22 and looked after him like an older brother.

Masters needed to provide food, clothing, and a place to sleep. For the unluckier slaves, their bed could be a dirt floor under a table, or a pile of straw next to a cow. Their food could be the same as dogs or pigs got, table scraps and kitchen waste.

My slaves had cots and blankets in a tent, and plenty of decent food, just like ordinary soldiers. I knew treating them badly would only make them rebellious and lazy.

As part of my generosity, once a week I paid a friend to borrow Jez, one of his female slaves, and let my four spend the night with her. Men have needs, and happy slaves work better. Since my marriage, I have never touched anyone but my wife in a sexual way but I liked to watch the five of them, then handle my arousal problem alone later.

It was considered good form to give slaves a small amount of money on major holidays, and occasionally if they did something unusually well. Most owners could easily afford it, and it often provided serious motivation. In theory, slaves could buy their freedom or marry another slave if they saved enough. If they saved up every coin they were given, most could buy their freedom in 15 to 20 years, but only one or two out of ten ever did.

Two year’s worth of coins was sometimes enough to marry another of the same owner’s slaves. All slaves were automatically freed at age 50, or 20 years if they were over age 30 when captured, but not many lived that long. The only real benefits slaves got by being married were that a master could only buy or sell the couple as a pair, or family with their children, and married slaves had to be allowed at least one night of privacy together per week. Any children born to female slaves were property of their mother’s master until they reached age 21, then they were freed.

Unlike later days, even the smallest coins had significant value. The least valuable, a bronze sestertius, would buy a meal or three cups of ale or wine. A denari was worth 4 sestertius and would get you a small knife or a long wool tunic that most commoners and slaves wore.

The barbarian Picts and Celts around here crudely called sestertius ‘pennies’, because the oval shape and light brown color reminded them of a penis.

When their wives tired of army life and left for home after a month or two, most of the other Centurions, all five Tribunes, and even the Legion’s commander, Legatus Julius Pullo, did as they pleased. They slept with free women, slaves, or prostitutes when it suited them.

Pullo made sure all the officers knew his standing order, no women were allowed in his quarters without a cane and a leather belt. I was a bit curious, but there was no way I was going to ask. I think I have an idea what went on, since all the women left smiling.

As long as they were still respectful in public and obeyed my orders, I tolerated the men joking behind my back. “The cavalry Tribune leads horsemen all day, but can’t find a mare at night.” “Cenius commands horses, is hung like one, but only mates with his blankets.” Trust me, the jokes are much funnier in the local Celt dialect. I even laughed at the more humorous ones.

My sense of humor was nothing like the Legatus’. At the start of last autumn, somebody mentioned the leaves were changing color. Pullo demanded we find out who did it and have them whipped. He liked jokes where people cowered in fear instead of laughed.

He hid it well, but I knew our Legatus cared very much about the well-being of the men. He spent hours every day making sure they were trained and fed well, and sometimes even bought necessary items from his own purse if the Senate wouldn’t pay.

Since our legion didn’t have a priest accompanying us, I was happy to share my personal shrine to Apollo and do weekly prayers and offerings with the few men who were religious away from home.

My four slaves and my four freedmen servants complained about moving the heavy shrine wherever we traveled. It was the weight of a large horse and took up half a wagon by itself. I sympathized, so each time we moved I gave each of them a few coins and an extra wine ration for their trouble.

The men mused that even my dog was religious, since he usually slept near the shrine. It was important to him because I fed him in front of the shrine and kept his spare food on a shelf above it. He was a good guard, growling or barking at anybody who approached it, but me.

The shrine was important to me, but only partly because of the Gods. I had a small fortune hidden inside it, eight talents, the weight of four men in silver bars and coins. If I was ever lucky enough to meet the Emperor, I would use the money to buy him an extravagant gift, so he might do me a certain favor.

It was mid-morning on a Caledonian summer day. Summer was the only time the weather in this Gods-awful place was decent. The rest of the year it was either cool and rainy, cold and rainy, or foggy. Last winter this dreadful area had gone four whole months without seeing the sun, getting a nearly eternal slow rain or mist instead. The days would be uncomfortably warm soon, but nothing compared to the nearly tropical summers at home on the Mediterranean.

I deeply missed my wife and children. This time of day, they would be watching the townspeople starting their work. The fishermen would bring their boats and their catch in from a night netting sardines, bream, or sea bass. A few would herd their goats out to the hills to graze, and most of the others would start harvesting their grapes, olives, or vegetables. The island’s soil and weather weren’t right for grain, so we traded wine and olive oil in exchange for Egyptian wheat. We also got oats and barley from Taurica, which would later be called Crimea. We bought a lot of Taurican cheese. It was softer and not as salty as most of the cheeses made near Rome. It spoiled after only a few months, but was mild and delicious.

I was well off, but not outrageously so. I was among the lowest ranked nobility. The main source of my wealth was a closely guarded secret, known only to my immediate family, the blacksmith, and the three men who worked the mine. If it was known we produced silver, the Governor would try to claim the mine as his own, since my father had never paid the taxes he rightfully owed for it.

To keep up appearances, the three miners also dug iron for the blacksmith at another mine on the island. They only mined silver secretly two days a week, which was enough to produce two or three talents of silver a year. If only I could get official rights to the mine from the Emperor! But he rarely even talked to anyone lower ranked than Senators, High Priests, or Legates.

I could have fifty miners digging every day instead, and be one of the richest men in the empire! If only!

Other than paying yearly taxes, on my island I was effectively king. The Governor of the region had visited the island once when I was a child, and he was treated with the reverence Neptune or Apollo would get, if they had appeared in person. Women and children tossed flower petals at his feet and there were three days of sports and feasting in his honor. He seemed annoyed that we were so poor, and hadn’t returned in twelve years.

When my father passed away from the consumption when I was 19, I became Patrician of the town and island. I had the choice to do military service or not, and I was free to leave when a yearly campaign was over. There was only one way I would ever meet the Emperor, so off to the army I went.

I expected my status to get me a position of Decanus, in charge of about twenty men. I was lucky and got a better position as Optio, second in command of a century of ninety soldiers. I was Optio for only a month, before my Centurion retired and I took his place!

After only four months and a couple minor battles as a Centurion, I was shocked and very happy, to be promoted to Cavalry Tribune. The Senator’s nephew who had the position before me left to campaign for political office. Since I could read, do math, and ride a horse well, I was the only nobleman available who was qualified. I commanded 300 mounted soldiers and another 150 laborers and servants. Now only three men in the whole legion outranked me!

Legatus Pullo would be called a General in later days. He was cousin to a Senator, but deserved respect and his high rank. He had seen at least ten battles and actually fought in the front ranks a few times himself. Legatus Pullo is infamous for having four moods. He’s either eating, sleeping, fucking, or angry.

Second in rank was the Legatus Secundus, sometimes called the Laticlavius, for the wide rank stripe on his sleeves. In most legions they were either sons of senators or relatives of the Emperor. Most were only Secundus a year or two, as a start to their political careers. Ours left the day before the battle. He said he needed to go because his wife’s favorite horse was ill. Coward!

The oldest and probably wisest man in the whole legion was third ranked, the Prefect. He decided where camps would be set up and if we should build walls or catapults and other siege machines. He also helped the Legatus decide when and where we would choose to fight. Our Prefect would be 60 years old in a month! He had risen from slave laborer at age 14 to soldier at 18 and Optio at 23. He saved the life of a Senator’s son, and became the only Centurion in the empire who used to be a slave. He was a Centurion longer than most of the soldiers had even been alive, 34 years!

Many of the young soldiers came to the Prefect for advice when they first joined the legion. His advice was practical and honest, but grim. He had fought in more than two score battles and seen thousands die up close, both friend and foe.

The first thing he told them was “Put your name on your money pouch and your helmet, so your corpse is easy to identify.” The next thing was also important, and depressing; “Always carry at least twenty denari, that’s the cost of a decent funeral and a message to your family.”

One day the young soldiers were talking of heroic stories and glorious battles. They made the huge mistake of asking the Prefect, “What’s the most difficult thing you’ve ever done?”

He told them, “I held my son’s head and told him everything would be fine, as he slowly died from a belly wound. The second hardest was writing his mother.”

The prefect ate like a hungry bear that night, but the others had lost their appetites. I suspected part of his reason for scaring them was to get their share of dinner.

The porridge and unseasoned venison jerky a servant brought me this morning ... filled my stomach. I wasn’t hungry, at least. Praise the Gods for that. Oh, how I missed the delicious honey, oat, and wheat bread my wife’s baker would make each morning! Topped with fruit paste or cheese, it was a great way to get the day started! This morning, the hunks of jerky sat in my belly like rocks.

Our scouts reported the Picts had twelve to fifteen thousand men getting ready to fight, plus a few thousand women warriors. Three times our number, but we were confident.

Far from being honored and revered for my lofty position of Tribune, this morning I laid on my belly in the dirt. I was peeking over the top of a hill west of our main formation. It was necessary, but very undignified. I wondered at the odd shape of a trio of hills in the distance. I had no way of knowing that a few hundred years in the future a town would be built there. It would become Ingram, Northumberland, a third of a day’s march from what would be the Scottish border. But that has no bearing on my story.

Zixrix, a Pict traitor, laid on the ground next to me. The only sounds were horses grazing behind us. Yesterday the men had grumbled loudly about digging dirt to build a six-pace thick, knee-high mound. The Prefect and Legatus agreed with me, and I ordered that it be the full width of the battlefield with a ditch in front of it. The soldiers groaned and complained, but they did it. It would be well worth it today. Moving a lot of dirt would save a lot of blood.

The front ranks of our men would be atop the mound, making the enemy stand in the ditch and fight uphill. It would also be an important fire barrier later.

Zixrix pointed to the rear of the enemy tribe and said, “Chief Stelevor, there.” The man he was pointing at wore part of a bull’s skull as a helmet, making him stand out from the mass. The long horns on the skull must have been heavy. I could see his neck was hunched. He was one of only ten or so Picts on horseback. He held a hatchet, waving it in the air. His powerful voice echoed off the hills as he shouted. I could hear him from half a thousand paces away.

“RAH PICTA! DU VEEK NI UNTRA, BIST HA NA VAHOOL!”

Zixrix translated for me, “He say ‘All Picts, take no prisoner, cuts heads off.’”

The disorderly mass of Picts walked toward our Legion’s shield wall, a few hundred paces from them, then started running to charge as they got closer.

A third of our infantry and most of our archers were sitting on the ground, behind the mound and our first eight ranks of infantry. This made our numbers look even smaller. Only about 2,000 of our 4,800 archers and foot soldiers could be seen. The other 300 men were behind the hill, with me.

I motioned to my friend Narvus, the senior of my three Centurions, telling him to have the men ready themselves quietly. I briefly looked back and saw my 140 lancers and 160 horse archers gather their weapons and mount up.

The first large mass of Picts charged, stepping in the ditch by surprise as they collided with our shield wall. Many of them stumbled and were dispatched almost instantly. The half day of digging had cost the enemy at least 200 men, before the fight really started. Our soldiers in the back ranks threw their pila, or light spears, injuring or killing a few hundred more.

More than half of the first Pict group were dead or badly wounded within the first ten breaths. The infantry Centurions blew their whistles, signaling an exchange. The first row of our soldiers faded back into our formation to rest, as the row of men behind them quickly stepped up and took their places at the front. The Picts were tiring rapidly, since they had to reach up to fight.

Another large clump of Picts reinforced the first and met their fates as well. Our large scutum shields made it nearly impossible for them to hurt our soldiers, except for a few lucky arrows and spear thrusts. Our sturdy short swords were excellent for stabbing through the finger-wide gap between the shields. Our third and forth ranks used long spears, holding them up high to thrust down over the shield wall. More than half the tribal army stayed back. Apparently, our victories over their neighbors last year had made an impression on them.

A far away trumpet sounded twice. It was time. I ran to my horse. As I climbed into the saddle I saw the archers stand up behind our main line. They started firing arrows as fast as possible. They weren’t aiming, other than pointing in the general direction of the enemy rear. Several dozen of the Picts near the back were hit and fell. This pressured them to charge, as we wanted them to. The Centurions blew their whistles for another exchange. The few Pict survivors from the first attack were exhausted by now and our row of fresh soldiers slew them easily.

Their chief screamed and twirled the hatchet over his head, then joined the charge. All of them were running toward our main formation now. They still obviously outnumbered us, but numbers never guaranteed victory. Our men were neatly lined up eight ranks deep. The Picts clustered randomly and piled up behind each other. Twenty or thirty rows of them were pushing the fighters in front toward the ditch, and the line of shields and death. Their numbers didn’t matter much, since only the ones in front could fight.

I led my horse archers and cavalry to the edge of the woods, behind the enemy. We were to the rear of their whole army, but it wasn’t time for us to attack them yet. First, we rounded up the fifty or so Pict villagers that had come to watch the battle. We didn’t want them running home to warn their friends after our victory. My men only had to kill two, and the others gave themselves up.

The trumpet blew four times, and I saw the rain of fire arrows start. Fires started in the midst of the Pict army, fueled by the dry grass and the straw, wood, and oil that had been spread around by our soldiers the night before. The Pict warriors in front attacked our line more urgently and started falling even faster. Those in the middle had nowhere to go, as the dozens of small fires merged into an inferno. They were so crowded that many of the dead didn’t even fall, they were held upright by the bodies of their comrades.

The rear quarter of the enemy turned and tried to run, many of them dropping their shields and weapons as they frantically tried to escape the fire. The sounds were terrible, and traumatizing. Most of their remaining army, seven or eight thousand, were burning alive. I considered it a mercy that smoke now obscured most of the battlefield from my view.

I saw a little girl run out of the woods, toward the raging fire! Dammit! She screamed, “AMAAA! AMAAAA!” No matter the language, the meaning was clear.

Who in all the Hells would bring a child to battle! I remembered my four-year-old son. She was only a little bigger. I prodded my horse to top speed. A tree branch slapped me across the forehead, making a long, painful cut. I ignored it.

Centurion Narvus speared a Pict who was about to fire a bow at me as I reached down and grabbed the girl. I lifted her into the saddle in front of me. Just then, I saw a horse coming toward us.

A hatchet appeared out of the smoke, making a ‘Ting’ as the tip struck the edge of my segmentata shoulder armor. It cut my sleeve and bit into my upper arm. I saw horns on the rider’s helmet! It was the chief!

I slashed at him with my sword, holding the girl with my other hand. My blade did its work, slicing through his leather shirt and into his elbow. I took a return stroke, nicking his belly, but was thrown off balance. I needed a moment to recover. His hatchet was moving toward me again! It might hit the girl!

I turned to the side, covering her with my shoulder. There was a thunderous CLANG! as the hatchet glanced off the bottom edge of my helmet and cut my chin. My helmet fell off and I struggled for balance. On the return swing, the flat head of his hatchet hit the thumb of my sword hand and a loud ‘CRACK!’ told me it was broken.

My horse took ten or twelve strides as I struggled to stay on. I fell to the ground, nearly stunned, with the girl in my arms. I jumped to my feet and almost stumbled. I forced my eyes to focus. I had a dagger on my belt, but it would be useless against a horseman. WHERE WAS MY SWORD!

As the chief turned his horse and rode toward me again, I picked up a fist-sized rock with my left hand. It was the only thing in sight resembling a weapon.

His army was fleeing and he could easily get away. Why was he taking extra time to fight me? The chief took a swing with his hatchet and I spun aside. I threw the rock as he passed. It bounced off his back and he grunted.

I saw a crude Pict long spear on the ground! Yes! For a split second, I noticed the girl’s hair was pale blonde and her eyes were ice blue. She wore good-quality wool and a necklace with green beads. I’d have time to think about her later. I grabbed the spear with my good hand. It only had a sharpened wood point, but it might do.

In the distance I saw Narvus slash a mounted Pict’s throat with his sword as he and three other cavalrymen fought the Pict’s seven or eight horsemen.

The chief spun his horse for another pass as I braced the butt of the spear in the ground and tried to aim the point toward him. He charged me, yet again.

Blood started running into my eyes from the tree branch cut, temporarily blinding my left eye. The tip of the spear penetrated his lower chest, lifting him from the horse!

Around his neck, I noticed a string of green beads. I saw his pale blonde hair and sad, ice blue eyes.

I started to smile in victory, until he flung the hatchet. I stared at the spinning hand axe, only two steps from my face. There was no time to dodge. I was about to die! This was all I had done with my life? Run off to a faraway battle, and left my loving wife with two children to care for?

The handle struck me HARD, just above my nose. It hurt a lot and I’d have two black eyes tomorrow, but I’d live. If I were one pace closer or farther away, the blade would have split my skull.

I found my helmet on the edge of a burning patch of oil. The crest feathers and leather pieces were badly charred. I didn’t see my sword, and the main fire was getting closer. Hundreds of Picts ran out of the smoke toward me!

I threw the girl over my shoulder and ran back to my men, sprinting through a wide patch of burning grass at one point. I yelled the order, and our cavalry charge hit the retreating tribe like a club striking an egg.

Being disorganized and partly disarmed, they fell by the hundreds, and the rest tried desperately to scatter to the winds. The mounted archers pursued, filling half the remainder with arrows. The few hundred that survived were those who surrendered. Thanks to me, their chief wasn’t among them. He would have been an excellent trophy, but his horned helmet would do nicely.

I handed the little girl to one of the female prisoners, then fell to my knees in exhaustion. My broken right thumb throbbed and there was a pain in my left leg. I looked and finally noticed a crude arrow sticking out the side of my thigh, just above the knee. Thankfully, the Picts didn’t have much metal, and just sharpened the wooden arrow tips, instead of using arrowheads. I gasped as I pulled it out and bandaged the deep wound. In all the chaos, I hadn’t even noticed being hit.

A while later, a wounded soldier approached me using a long stick as a crutch. He saluted. “Decanus Krato, sir! I lost my dagger, and my lance is still stuck in two Picts. As the one I hit with my lance fell, he landed on top of one of their archers and the lance went right through the archer’s belly too! Amazing luck! You should have seen it, sir!”

He handed my sword to me and apparently it had been used very hard. The tip was broken off, the blade was nicked and bent, and there was flesh and hair stuck to it. “So sorry, sir. I hope this is enough to fix it? It’s a good blade.” He handed me three “pennies”, as the locals obscenely called them. It wouldn’t even be a start, but I didn’t care.

He was covered in blood and bits of body parts, from the nose down. I hadn’t seen him in action, but there was plenty of gory evidence. “With what you did for the Legion today, it’s far too much.” I handed him the three bronze coins back, along with five silver ones, then patted him on the shoulder.

“Thank you, sir!” He was more injured than I was, but asked; “Are you alright, sir? Can I get you anything?”

I smiled and said, “Today is a great victory! Ride behind me in the Triumph, Krato.”

“That’s a huge honor! Thank you, sir!”

Later I found out that he had been surrounded and killed seven Picts by himself. I’d heard stories of soldiers fighting better, but only a few. Several long moments later, Narvus urged a carter off his vehicle and helped me climb aboard. He handed me the chief’s helmet and I lifted it up high.

“Thanks. You spared me a second arrow wound.”

“I got three of them, sorry about the fourth.”

He drove the cart around the battlefield, as I repeatedly yelled; “For the glory of Rome, Stelevor is dead! Hail Legatus Pullo, and the Fighting Fourteenth Legion!”

We made three circuits around the entire area, until my voice started to fail. We must have gone at least five leagues!

Eleven prisoners who were crippled or elderly were given to the war God Mars, in thanks for our great victory. I had the honor of sacrificing one of them, an old man with only one eye. I made sure to stab downward midway between the collar bone and left shoulder blade, directly into the heart. There was no glory in making them suffer.

As I pulled the spear from his body, the tip glowed red and red lightning from the sky struck it! The spear shaft turned to ash and the head fell to the ground as a blob of molten metal.

The rest of the world paused.

I saw two huge red eyes in the sky, dripping blood, instead of tears. A deep and menacing voice shook the world, declaring; “Soon your commander will give you my gift. Serve me well, that one day you might rule the world!”

The blob of metal on the ground had changed to an amulet with the symbol of Mars on both sides. As I picked it up, time started again.

When we returned to camp, I found Legatus Pullo and handed him the chief’s bull helmet.

His inadvertent brief smile changed back to his facade of anger. He pointed at me and said, “All of you men, look at this soldier! He’s covered in blood, ash, and dirt! His lorica is dented and stained, his helmet plume has been burned to nothing, and his boots are charred! There are cuts and bruises all over him! He’s a wreck of a man! If I ever see any of you look this way, I’ll have you flogged!”

What was he doing?

“ ... unless you’ve just won the greatest victory in a generation! I also hear he saved a baby during the fighting. Cheer him! Celebrate his deeds and do the same the next time you fight!” He held a cup of wine up high then handed it to me.

The crowd chanted my name; “SEN - EE - US! SEN - EE - US! SEN - EE - US!”

When the cheers and applause died down, he told me; “I have bad news for you. You’re no longer Cavalry Tribune.”

He only paused a short moment this time. “I’m appointing you Legatus Secundus, my second in command. You get a cabin now instead of a tent. Enjoy having a wood floor and roof over your head, instead a tent over mud.”