Eagles and Dragons Tribune Box Set

II - Trimontium-1

II

Trimontium

‘The Place of Three Hills’

The column of armoured horsemen and captives snaked for miles among the bulbous hills and rushing rivers of the war zone north of the Wall. The dragon banners fluted above the mounted warriors at whose head rode the praefectus, Lucius Metellus Anguis and the princeps, Dagon, the Sarmatian king. Accompanying the praefectus and princeps as always, was Barta, the praefectus’ vexillarius and bodyguard. Dagon had assigned the giant Sarmatian to be Lucius’ shadow when his friend had been given command of the quingeniary ala over a year ago.

Barta was the tallest of the over five hundred Sarmatians in the ala, his loyalty and sense of duty as sturdy and rock-hard as himself. From his head of dark hair, icy eyes were ever searching, watchful for threats to his commander and his king. On his shoulders were the skins of wolves he had killed, which added to his ferocity; a good thing, as the Celts, in battle, always went for the vexillum that was Barta’s charge. His long sword was lightning-quick, and much of the time, before attackers got close enough to attack the praefectus or Sarmatian king, they would be on the ground clutching at one of Barta’s many throwing knives.

In truth however, every bronze-scaled, fighting man of the ala was loyal to the praefectus to their death. Half of the Sarmatians had known him since the days in Numidia when they had fought the desert tribes together on the sands of Africa.

Lucius Metellus Anguis had been a tribune then, subsequently recalled to Rome when the Romans of the III Augustan legion had seen him as god-abandoned. The strange and tragic murder of the tribune’s visiting sister in the midst of the legionary base at Lambaesis had fostered great unease among the troops there.

Shortly after the tribune’s departure from Numidia, Mar, the former Sarmatian king, and Dagon’s uncle, had, on his death bed, recommended Lucius to Imperial Command as the new Praefectus of the Sarmatian ala. He had also commanded his warriors and his nephew to follow Lucius Metellus Anguis, warrior and friend of his people, who carried the mark of the dragon and the favour of the Gods.

King Dagon and his Sarmatian warriors had become family to Lucius, had given him their loyalty, their love and their blood. It was a gift for which the Roman dragon was grateful, a burden which he felt acutely every day when atop his horse and leading them to yet another battle beneath the howling draconaria.

The three peaks of the hills overlooking the refurbished base at Trimontium loomed larger now in Lucius’ field of vision as they approached the patched-up ditches and walls of the fort from the West, following the line of the river below. From the time that Rome first invaded and conquered the southern reaches of Caledonia, Trimontium had been a choice stopping point for travellers and a base for operations north of Hadrianus’ great wall.

Beneath his expressionless cavalry mask, Lucius felt the usual oppressiveness of the three peaks’ shadows upon him, like angry Titans ready to crush them without hesitation. Those hills had been sacred to the Selgovae, and now he returned with one of their greatest chiefs in chains. The small Roman signal station at the top seemed a meagre presence, one that could be extinguished, flung from the heights to the valley below. The troops assigned to the station up on the northern peak complained of spectral harassment, and a loud keening from what the local Celts called banshees, a sort of Celtic fury that wailed upon rooftops in the middle of the night. Lucius believed it, but could not say so in front of his men. Soldiers of all nations were extremely superstitious, and Romans were no exception. Lucius made as if he were not bothered, but in reality, in that faraway land, the shadows moved all too often in the mists of night.

Still, in addition to being strategically useful, Trimontium had proved useful to Lucius’ persona as the ‘Dragon’ in the region. The indigenous Celts believed the Dragon had taken the hills as his own; the peaks were his horns and the signal station at the top became his poisonous fire. Rumour had its uses in a war of re-conquest, and Lucius used it to his advantage. At the very least, it kept the war bands at a safer distance.

As the marching column came parallel with the fort’s walls, Lucius observed the defences again, as was his habit. They would need to be solid with their new intake of prisoners, especially the Boar of the Selgovae, whose people might try to free him. Lucius made a mental note to keep the chieftain apart from the other prisoners and to double the sentries until troops from Eburacum came to take them all away. For now at least, the defences were solid, having been rebuilt by the men of VI Victrix prior to the arrival of Lucius and his Sarmatian ala. The stone and timber wall stood dark and imposing behind three consecutive rows of deep ditches that surrounded the fort, western and eastern annexes. The latter two areas contained a bath house, a mansio for visitors, and a small civilian vicus where traders and camp followers had set up temporary homes.

When the praefectus acknowledged the sentries at the Decumana gate, a cornu rang out, deep and groaning, to signal the Dragons’ return. The oak and iron gates lurched inward and Lucius, Dagon, and Barta turned in beneath a massive stone block reading:

ALA III BRITANNORUM

Quingenaria Sarmatiana

The cornu continued to sound as rank upon rank of Sarmatian warriors came through the gates, the chained prisoners and the cart carrying the defeated chieftain in their midst. The Boar was conscious again, standing straight and defiant, the muscles of his tattooed body strained against his chains. His eyes met Lucius’, but they were not full of hate, or resignation, simply a sort of calm defiance that belied his angry body.

The Boar saw the praefectus give his princeps an order that was passed along, and soon after the chieftain was led away from his people to a building farther down the Via Decumana. The rest of the prisoners were taken to various holding cells at the north-eastern corner of the fort where they were kept under tight guard by infantry auxiliaries and archers. Lucius watched the chieftain disappear into the lower levels of the Principia-turned-exercise hall before giving his mount to Dagon and heading to the commander’s house at the southern end of the fort. As always, Barta followed.

As Lucius made his way to his quarters, the familiar sounds of the base began to ring out - the c***k of Sarmatian scale armour, the neighing of hundreds of war horses, the call of the sentries atop the walls. Added to this was the angry groaning of the Selgovan prisoners, the shuffling of their manacled feet. But Lucius had become inured to the latter after so many battles.

Lucius and Barta walked through the wide doorway into the commander’s house, returning the salute given by the guards flanking the entrance. Of all the refurbished structures in the fort, after the defences, the commander’s house had received the most attention from VIth Legion. They crossed the courtyard of the square structure, hobnails scratching on the weathered stone surface. Before entering his personal rooms, Lucius turned to Barta.

“Barta, you may go now. Rest and eat.”

The massive Sarmatian stood tall, but bowed his head as he replied.

“I am content Praefectus,” he answered in his deeply guttural, accented Latin. “I will remain here until Lord Dagon arrives. The enemy are among us now…”

“And they are all chained and under guard. You need not worry.”

Barta looked up then, at the darkening sky, a shadow blanketing his features.

“Nevertheless, Praefectus, I would prefer to stay.”

Lucius knew the man would not be moved. His loyalty was sometimes uncomfortably stringent, but it was admirable too.

“Very well, my friend.” Lucius smiled for the first time that day, and placed his hand up on Barta’s shoulder. Barta looked down again, eyes trained on the dragon image across Lucius’ black cuirass. Lucius gripped more tightly to get his message across. “You fought well these last days, Barta. Lord Mar and your people would be proud.”

The man said nothing, merely tensed his jaw in pride, but also in a sort of fought-off sadness. Despite being a brutal giant, a deep pain harassed his soul, a pain at the loss of his former king and kinsman, and the loss of his own family on the great plains north of Pontus, far away. It was the same for almost every Sarmatian under Lucius’ command. Having lost almost everything, Lucius Metellus Anguis, the ‘Dragon’, was now the keeper of their loyalties, and their lives, which they gave willingly.

Lucius released his hold and turned into his rooms. Barta stood outside his door, despite the fact that his own room was just across the courtyard.

The door closed and Lucius stood in the middle of his rooms, alone for the first time in days. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply of the scent of pine that yet emanated from the new beams that held up the tile roof. It was beginning to rain outside, as it always did in that far corner of the Empire. His armour and weapons, his crimson-crested helmet, all felt three times as heavy in that moment as exhaustion finally clawed up his body. His head began to pound and he felt his guts twist.

When the feeling abated, Lucius Metellus Anguis, Praefectus of the Ala III Britannorum, sat on a stool in the middle of his quarters feeling more alone than ever, though surrounded by friends. This latest battle flashed again in his mind, every cut and thrust of sword and spear, screams of triumph and of pain and the thundering of horses’ hooves. The dragons’ howling and…birds, white birds in the barren branches. Three of them, watching…

He looked to a niche in one of the walls where three small oil lamps illuminated three statuettes, the first a pink marble representation of Venus, beautiful and serene. Another, Apollo, his family patron and protector. And the third, a newly carved image of Epona, Goddess of Horses who was now his constant companion and the mother of their camp. Lucius moved to a table in a corner and picked up a small branch of rosemarinus, a chunk of frankincense and a small sheaf of wheat, one of many such he had tied with lengths of dyed thread.

Standing before the immortal renderings, blood encrusted on his person, Lucius laid the rosemarinus at the feet of Venus. He then set the frankincense alight in the flame of a lamp and laid it in a dish before Apollo. Lastly, he offered the sheaf of wheat with both hands to Epona, who stood with a strong stallion at her shoulder. The warrior said not a word but fell to his knees as his heart screamed out for help. Every battle he had engaged in from the beginning of the war had been successively easier. The Dragon and his iron warriors vanquished all comers. This last battle had been too easy, Lucius thought. He had actually enjoyed it, defeating and humiliating the Boar, and it sickened and frightened him to his depths. He felt more machine now than man, an engine of war hurtling against flesh and bone foes, unrelenting. He was haunted by Mars and his iron laughter.

Then, a light dawned within, thoughts of his wife, Adara, and his twin son and daughter, Phoebus and Calliope. They would be over four years old now. It had been over a year since he had left them, an eternity, and he struggled to remember their faces amidst the countless dark memories of battle. Rallying himself, Lucius Metellus Anguis rose, felt the dried mud and gore on his ancestral armour and set about disarming himself to clean and polish it all, to remove all traces of the death of others.

It was strange, the peace that a menial task could blanket upon the mind. With the mud and blood wiped away, the cloth floating in the crimson water of a basin, Lucius dipped a piece of doeskin in oil and set about polishing his bull’s hide cuirass, rubbing the grain of the hardened leather in a calm, circular motion. That done, he moved on to the image of the dragon, its wings outstretched, powerful and wise. As ever, it took on a light of its own, that ancient symbol given to his ancestors over four hundred years ago by Apollo himself, who slew the great Python at Delphi. He often thought of the irony that he, Lucius Metellus Anguis, a Roman, should be given command of the Sarmatians, a people who venerated the dragon. Just as the symbol appeared on their banners and bodies, so it adorned his cuirass, the cheek pieces of his masked war helmet, his greaves and the sword given him by Adara and shown to him by Apollo at the ends of the world. The Gods are a mystery to me.