by James Mace
“By Thor’s hammering cock!”
Before Magnus could turn to see the source of the voice, a large mass tackled him to the ground, knocking the wind from his lungs. Magnus struggled to throw his assailant off him. He flipped onto his back, eyes rolling for a moment as he recognized his brother. Hansi Flavianus was commander of the second ship in the line and, perhaps, the only man in the entire division large enough to manhandle the Norse centurion. Legionary and sailor alike were watching the spectacle in both bemusement and confusion.
“Oh, sorry, little brother. I forget the army has made you soft after all these years.” Hansi was taller than Magnus, with an equally thick mop of blonde hair atop his head. In Roman fashion, he was also clean-shaven. Though two years older, his face seemed ageless. As he stood up, he leaned down and offered his hand, laughing all the while.
Magnus gritted his teeth, and while still trying to force air back into his lungs, punched his fist hard into his brother’s groin. Hansi doubled over, falling onto his shoulder.
“Nicely done,” he wheezed, clutching his manhood. He gasped and pulled himself up, suddenly aware of hundreds of eyes staring at them. With great annoyance in his voice he barked, “Alright, no one told you to stop working!”
“I’ll be buggered,” Magnus laughed, shaking his head and embracing his brother. “I thought for certain the fell beasts of Neptune had swallowed you up by now.”
“Only thing getting swallowed by fell beasts is my cock!” his brother roared with laughter. “I’ve been wondering ever since they gave us this assignment, what are the chances that my baby brother is still with the legions? To be honest, I’m kind of surprised you’re alive. Last I heard, you were bleeding your guts out on the slopes of some barbarian hill fort.”
“They got me in the leg, not my guts,” Magnus corrected, showing Hansi the scar.
“Nice one. Surely the gods will let you into Valhalla with a mark like that.” With his arm around Magnus’ shoulder, they walked toward the assembling officers.
“And what of you?” Magnus asked. “How many more years do you plan on splashing about on your little boat?”
“There’s nothing for me back home,” Hansi replied. “I figure I’ll keep sailing until the seas claim my corpse or the emperor decides he has no more use for me. Lucky for me, he’s giving me a whole mess of boats to play with soon.”
“You’re taking over the Britannic fleet?”
Hansi shook his head. “No. Stoppello is like me; he’s not ready to give this life up just yet, the selfish old bastard. He’s recommended I assume command the Tyrrhenian fleet out of Ostia, and the senate has accepted.”
“Ostia,” Magnus mused. “So I guess that means you are going home after all.”
He shrugged. “More or less. Though they always talked about keeping a strong bond with our ancestral lands in the Norse lands, Father and Grandfather raised us to be Romans. Ostia is more home to me than some balls-freezing land where I’ve never even been. But that may change…” His voice trailed off for a brief moment.
Before Magnus could inquire what his last words meant, Hansi began again. “Best part about getting the Tyrrhenian fleet is the flagship; it’s an Octeres-class behemoth. Eight files of a hundred oarsmen on each side, sixteen-hundred total. Plus another thousand sailors and marines. It cuts through the seas at great speed, and is remarkably manoeuvrable for a ship of that size. A true fortress of the seas, and soon she will be mine!”
They soon arrived at the meeting place, and Magnus was obligated to join his fellow senior officers from Legio XX. However, there was something he wanted to know first.
“You say the senate approved your promotion to admiral,” he said. “I always thought such a posting came directly from the emperor.”
“Yes, well…” Hansi paused for a moment. “Obviously none of you have been told about the little problems within the imperial family as of late. I’ll give you the details later, but suffice it to say, Emperor Claudius had far more important issues to deal with than the posting of a single flag officer in the fleet. To be quite honest, he’s fortunate he still has his skin, let alone remain Caesar.”
“It is done, Caesar,” Narcissus, the emperor’s freedman, said solemnly.
Claudius lounged on his dining couch, his eyes distant as he slowly drained his wine chalice, his fourth in the last half hour. The emperor gave an almost imperceptible nod of acknowledgment and held out his hand. Narcissus gave him the report, which detailed the execution of Empress Valeria Messalina. Her lover, the consul-designate, Gaius Silius, would be executed by strangulation atop the Gemonian Stairs the following afternoon. Fellow conspirators had confessed that they intended to overthrow the emperor, with Silius becoming regent for Messalina’s son, Britannicus. Despite this vile treason, Claudius could not bring himself to have his wife, whom he’d loved with every last measure of his very soul, subjected to the humiliation of a public execution.
Messalina and Silius had been carrying on an affair for almost a year; albeit Silius was just the latest in a string of lovers the empress had taken into her bed over the years. It seemed everyone in Rome, except the emperor, knew of her rampant promiscuity. She was renowned within in the brothels, where she had volunteered her ‘services’ in an effort to satisfy her endless lust. Rumour had it she had once competed against a legendary prostitute to see who could wear out the most men in a day…and won.
“I c…could have forgiven her infidelities,” the emperor said quietly, more to himself than to his freedman. “What could I have done to drive her away? She was all I have ever loved…”
“They planned to murder you, Caesar,” Narcissus replied firmly.
Of course, the emperor knew this. Were there any doubts as to Messalina’s guilt, he never would have signed the order for her execution.
“Her farce of a marriage to Silius was to humiliate and weaken you. Had they succeeded in escaping justice, your head—and mine most likely—would be on a spike. Silius would now be attempting to seize the throne for himself, under the false pretence of serving as regent for your son. It’s all there in his confession.”
“My son,” Claudius whispered, shaking his head. Given the sheer volume of Messalina’s adulteries, could he even be sure Britannicus was his son? And what of the lad’s elder sister, Octavia? Was she the emperor’s daughter or the spawn from one of her mother’s random liaisons?
A long, awkward silence followed. Narcissus sympathized deeply with Claudius, who was as much a personal friend as he was his emperor. Up until a day ago, he’d been very much in love with his young wife, not knowing she had been humiliating him openly while plotting his overthrow and death.
The sound of hobnailed sandals echoing on the floor tiles down the hall brought both men out of their contemplative reverie. They were soon joined by the praetorian prefect, Lucius Geta. He was accompanied by a centurion named Cornelius, whose blade slain the empress. Cornelius was one of the praetorians who saved Claudius’ life after the murder of his nephew, Emperor Gaius Caligula, seven years before. He also helped Claudius attain the imperial throne soon after. As such, the emperor was very fond of him. He took it as a sign of Cornelius’ devout loyalty that he was willing to kill his empress. Little did he know, Messalina was responsible for the death of the centurion’s wife. This killing was as much about vengeance as duty.
“Empress of Death,” the prefect said, breaking the silence. “At least that’s what some of the lads called her.” What he did not say was that many of his soldiers further stated she carried death both in her viper’s tongue, as well as between her legs.
“Despite her crimes, I still hoped she would have the dignity to end her own life,” the emperor mused. Now on his fifth chalice of wine, he was relaxing substantially and feeling more accepting of what he’d had to do.
“She lacked any sense of dignity, Caesar,” Cornelius said coldly. Given his history with the emperor, the centurion often spoke more candidly towards him than most men
of his rank and status. “Strangulation atop the Gemonian Stairs would have been fitting.”
“We captured over two hundred people at her ‘wedding’ to Silius,” Geta added quickly, casting a glare over at his centurion. “What’s to be done with them?”
Narcissus pondered for a moment and said, “I recommend we determine which are the lowest-born and, therefore, of little to no threat. Have them exiled with all their lands and fortunes confiscated. It would look rather despotic if we spent the next week piling up the bodies on the Gemonian Stairs.”
“Agreed,” the prefect concurred. He turned to the emperor. “The people still recall the bloodbath your Uncle Tiberius left in the wake of Sejanus’ betrayal. Let them see justice, not tyranny.”
Narcissus nodded in consent. “Those closest to Messalina will have to be put to death, naturally. Thankfully, they only amount to a handful.”
“See to it,” Claudius said, dismissively waving his hand.
The men all bowed and began to leave the dining hall.
“Cornelius!” the emperor called out.
“Yes, Caesar?”
“I…if I ever decide to get married again, p…promise you’ll run me through with your sword.”
It was a rain-soaked morning when the Britannic fleet set sail from Camulodunum. Legionaries, who were mostly confined to the topside, huddled beneath their thick traveling cloaks as they were pummelled by both rain and sea spray. Despite the terrible weather, there were still plenty of ships making their way to and from the isle. The majority of merchant vessels from the continent came via a pair of ports in northern Gaul. The largest, Gesoriacum, was where the initial invasion of Britannia had been staged. Ships coming from Gesoriacum were mostly bound for the River Tamesis, which would take them to the growing city of Londinium. Doubtless the numerous merchant ships and fishing boats would spread the word of a large-scale Roman operation, once they saw the fleet of ships crammed full of legionaries and auxilia troopers. Magnus said as much to his brother as they watched a trio of fishermen staring at them wide-eyed. The wake from the large warships rocked their small boat.
“It can’t be helped,” Hansi remarked with a shrug. “By nightfall, everyone in Cantiaci and Atrebates will know we are up to something. But even if Caratacus still has friends in those regions, by the time they get word to him, you’ll have long since landed and begun slapping around the Ordovices a bit.”
“How many days did Admiral Stoppello say it would take to reach our destination?”
His brother furrowed his brow and thought for a few moments. “He wasn’t exactly sure, since none of us have ever been there. Though my best guess would be four, maybe five. We’ll reach Vectis Island before the end of the day. It will take another day to round the southwest peninsula which will take us to Silures territory. Stoppello will likely keep us just beyond sight of the shoreline, lest the Silures sound the alarm. Unfortunately, none of us have been further north than where the River Sabrina feeds into the sea.”
“So none of you have ever seen the legendary isle the locals call Hibernia?” Magnus asked.
“If only,” his brother chuckled. “Rumour has it the Brigantes control much of the eastern regions, though apparently Queen Cartimandua will neither confirm nor deny this. Hell, I’m not certain the isle even exists.”
The weather was known to change very rapidly in southern Britannia, and even more so along the channel sea. A couple of hours after their departure, the rains ceased, leaving just a light misting in the air. By late afternoon the sun shone brightly. The soldiers threw off their cloaks and enjoyed the warm summer day. As the fleet approached Vectis Island, the ships veered to the north, sailing through the waters known as The Solent.
“Look lads!” the sailing master shouted from the ship’s forecastle, “there’s home!”
“Seems like we just left,” a sailor muttered.
“Portus Adurni,” Hansi explained to his brother. “I know it’s just a collection of ramshackle buildings and a fishing village, but the natural harbour and centralized location makes it the ideal headquarters for the fleet. A pity I won’t be around to see if they ever build a decent fort here.”
As the setting sun glared in their faces, the ships anchored for the night near a rather unusual harbour. The isle seemed to end, with the exception of a long, narrow sandbar that extended a couple miles to the south, connecting to a small island. Magnus stood along the ship’s railing, staring towards the mainland.
“You know where we are?” Hansi asked.
His brother nodded.
“Achillia and I spent an evening along this sandy beach, just prior to the attack on Mai Dun.”
Though the hillfort was perhaps eight or ten miles from the shore, neither man could actually see it due to the rolling hills, high hedgerows, and large expanses of trees.
Magnus nodded towards the sandbar. “Though I did not realize it at the time, it was here that I spent the happiest night of life.”
Chapter IV: Delivered by Neptune
Halkyn Mountain, Deceangli Territory
Mid-June 48 A.D.
Roman Legionary
Though he had no knowledge of the fleet manoeuvring around the coast, word of the other Roman column’s advance across Britannia reached Caratacus within a few days. The former Catuvellauni prince summoned a meeting of his allies atop a formidable hill he was claiming as his temporary stronghold.
King Orin of the Silures came with a thousand of his best warriors. Their curled hair and darker complexion denoted their Iberian ancestry, in stark contrast to the light skinned and more fair-haired indigenous tribes. Since the Romans sullied the lands of the Catuvellauni, the Silures had become Caratacus’ closest allies. Orin often called him ‘brother’; their bond growing stronger with each battle fought against the invaders. As the king had no sons or other living male relatives, there was rumour he intended to name Caratacus as his heir. A noble gesture that would prove unlikely to ever come to fruition, as Caratacus was several years older than the Silures king.
King Seisyll of Ordovices had arrived with five hundred of his personal guardsmen. Like the Silures, the Ordovices were not native to Britannia. They emigrated from northern Germanic and Nordic lands nearly five hundred years before. They were much larger and fairer-skinned than their neighbours to the south. While they were certainly valiant in battle, they lacked the bloodthirsty, ever-supressed rage that seemed to course through the veins of every Silures warrior.
Eurgain stood with her husband, in awe that a foreign exiled prince, whose lands now belonged to the Romans, had succeeded in compelling these age-old enemies to unite.
“King Orin,” Seisyll said with a nod. “By the grace of our friend, the noble Caratacus, I bid you welcome to my people’s lands.”
“And I accept,” Orin replied, as the two clasped forearms. “Let us go forward as allies from this day against our common enemy.”
“My brothers,” Caratacus said, his arms raised high, “it is with much joy and hope for all our peoples that I see the two mightiest tribes in this land united under a common cause. Our raids have been effective in cowering the Brigantes, and the Romans have taken the bait. That simpering bitch, Cartimandua, grovels before her masters, begging them for aid.”
“They are the largest kingdom in all of Britannia, yet they cower before our warriors,” Seisyll said with a derisive grin.
“How soon until our weapons taste their flesh?” Orin asked.
“Soon,” Caratacus reassured him. “Before the next ten sunrises the armies of Caesar will cross over the River Sabrina. Their forces number no more than ten thousand fighting men; a single legion, a few cohorts of auxilia infantry, and several regiments of cavalry.”
Seisyll remarked, “They are either bold or foolish, if they think they can subdue us with such a pathetic force. My warriors alone significantly outnumber them.”
“The woods will soon devour their flesh,” Caratacus continued. “And the mountains will grind t
heir bones into dust.”
A great feast was held that night. Copious amounts of mead and ale were consumed, with boars, deer, and other game roasted on giant spits. The warriors present were all members of the royal households, and their behaviour was measurably more subdued than that of the common rabble. However, both Silures and Ordovices alike engaged in feats of strength as well as outright brawls, while their kings looked on and enjoyed the spectacle.
“I hope they save some of their rage for the Romans,” Seisyll said to his peer from Silures.
“My people live to fight,” Orin replied. “Though I confess, it is better that their rage is focused on the imperial invaders rather than our northern neighbours.” There was a sinister trace to his words.
Seisyll paid it no mind. The Silures were an extremely aggressive and warlike race; however, this also meant they were difficult for even their beloved king to lord over. King Orin, like his brother before him, had kept their people in a constant state of conflict lest they fall into anarchy and fighting amongst each other. Only the strongest of hands could control the Silures. Yet Orin was slowly beginning to see there was one even stronger than he who could do so. As Caratacus joined the kings, he passed a jug of mead between them. The men drank to their health, to the glory of their ancestors, the valour of their collective warriors, and the obliteration of the imperial menace.
“There it is,” Stoppello said, pointing to the large river mouth several miles distant.
Neither Governor Scapula nor General Paulinus could quite see it; however, they trusted the admiral’s superior vision. The fleet had formed into a long line, with the distant shore off to their right. As the fog broke, Paulinus was able to see the large sandbar that dominated the landscape. Just beyond the beach the ground rose up to what looked like a small ridge in the distance.
