Eagles and Dragons Tribune Box Set

IV - Allies-1

IV

Socii

‘Allies’

The stairs that led to the lower level cells of the exercise hall had dried considerably with all of the extra torches and the passage of guards. They watched over the Boar of the Selgovae on the other side of the final set of bars, at the end of the subterranean corridor.

The Boar was calm where he sat on the straw-covered floor, legs bent, elbows on his knees. He knew it was only a matter of time before he was taken to a public place to be strangled in front of the provincial populace. And yet, he was calm, ready. The Morrigan had seen him fight the Dragon in war. He had lost, and so his time on this land was at an end. But he knew his name would live, his deeds, as having stood against the Roman invaders rather than being bought for buckets of silver.

He would die their enemy, not one of them as Caractacus had, long before, when he was taken to Rome itself and made his case to the wretched Claudius. Caractacus had a path, and the Boar knew his own. He would not go to Rome an oddity, a freak. He would die on the island he loved.

Severus was not going to leave until all Caledonia was subdued, and the Boar knew it.

He was ready for when it came, death that is. But he would have liked to have held his wife once more, and played with his children, all nine of them. The price of losing in battle? Perhaps. He did wish to speak with the Dragon, however, an enemy that he had never seen the likes of, an enemy that sought to heal and protect him.

The footsteps coming slowly down the corridor told him that he would now be able to.

When Lucius came to the last cell, the Boar was waiting, looking up at him from between the lengths of his matted locks. It struck Lucius that the chieftain looked calm, almost confident, despite his incarceration.

“There is magic lighting your movement. Your gods love you,” the Boar said.

“Leave us,” Lucius said to the guards who stood in the shadows.

“Praefectus!” They saluted and moved to the end of the corridor to stand with a few more of their comrades. The Sarmatians watched warily as their commander approached the bars.

“For a while, I did not think you would come,” the Boar said as he stood slowly, betraying the effects of his shackles.

“Well, I’m here now,” Lucius replied, obviously uncomfortable. “How are you wounds?”

“Fine. I’ve had worse.” The Boar stood straight, stretched his oak-like torso, the boar tattoo bristling. “How are my people? Giving you trouble, I hope.”

“No end of it,” Lucius eased a bit. “They’re a constant headache. There have been three attempts to break out and free you. They’re lucky none of them was killed.”

“Hmm. You do not understand them, Dragon.” He moved to lean on the bars not two feet from Lucius’ face. “That is exactly what they want, not to break free, for they know that is now impossible, but to die fighting.”

“They want to be hacked by a Sarmatian long-sword, or impaled on a kontos?”

“What is the alternative? To be sent away from our land to some inferno of a mine, a slave in darkness? To die entertaining Romans as they stuff their fat faces in the arena? No. Death now, with a sword or dagger in hand, or bare-fisted to strike a final blow. It is the only honourable way for a Selgovan warrior to leave this world.”

“Many who survive the arena, if that is where they go, win their freedom eventually.” Lucius knew this was empty, but tried to offer some hope. He felt ashamed for having even said it and stared at the floor. “Why did you want to speak to me?”

“Why did you let me live? Why heal my wounds?”

“You may yet be allowed to live.”

“Come now. The weight that I see pressing down on your armoured shoulders tells me that you have had a taste of Roman politics. You know they will not let me live. They cannot. They have already tried to kill me, but you stopped them. You will wish you had not done that.”

“If there is a chance that you live, you and your family might live under the Pax Romana.”

“Like the tribes of the South? No. They sold their souls to Rome and lost their way of life. Now they dress and live as Romans.”

“I have a good friend who is Dumnonian, and a sculptor of great renown about the Middle Sea.”

“Pah!” the Boar scoffed. “Dumnonians are Romans now. I’m of the ancient Selgovae, and always will be. Until I die that is, which I hope will be soon.”

“What of your family? Have you any children?” Lucius noticed the Boar relax at this and slump his shoulders ever so slightly.

“I fought for my family, my people. And yes, I have nine children.”

“Nine?”

“Ha!” the Boar laughed proudly. “Yes, nine - five sons, and four daughters. Tell me, how would I inspire them by becoming a Roman? I would not. But by dying in battle, they would be able to hold their heads high, proud that their father, the Boar of the Selgovae, died for them and our people. My death will k****e a fire in their hearts that will not easily sputter.”

The chieftain stood tall, strong and proud in that moment, looking to a time and place far beyond the confines of his dank cell.

Lucius could not help but admire the warrior’s straight-forward thinking.

“What if…if you are executed in Eburacum? It will not be with a blade in your hand, but by strangulation. What then?”

This hit home.

“I do not believe the Morrigan will abandon me completely. In the end, she will grant me my warrior’s death, for I have offered her many enemies.”

“May that be so. I have a family too…what I would not do to be with them in peace.”

“Peace? How can peace be had when you serve Rome? You are one of the greatest warriors I have ever met, Dragon. Your men are a true force of nature. Why would Rome allow you to withdraw when they can use you beside her legions of butchers?”

“You underestimate our legions.”

“I do not, but what would we be but stalks of scythed wheat if we did not stand against Rome’s might?”

“Futility is the word that springs to mind.”

“Perhaps. But, mighty Dragon, is it not also futile to chain you and your family to Rome?”

Lucius stepped to the bars. “I am Roman,” he said through gritted teeth. “My ancestors were Roman.”

“Yes, but I have a sense you are more than that. This symbol,” he pointed to the tattoo on Lucius’ forearm where he gripped the bars, “and the symbols on your armour, your ring, the sword at your back, all of it sings of something more.”

“What? Are you also a poet to your people?”

“Ha! No. Poetry is s**t. I am, however, one to see that you have not yet found your place. If being with your family is your goal, if peace is your goal, fight your way free of Rome’s iron grasp. A dragon should not be chained, but many free men would be led by one.”

“Why are you telling me all of this? Fighting my way free to my family will mean crushing every tribe from here to your highlands.”

“Futility for both sides then. It is the nature of the warrior’s song, is it not?” The Boar stepped back, hands at his sides. “I tell you these things as one warrior, a leader of men, to another.” He nodded and looked at Lucius again. “In the past, when I have sought to unchain myself of fear, of anger, of the burden of leadership, I have climbed to the peak of a tall mountain and screamed and yelled until my gods have given me a sign, until I have felt free.”

“And that works?”

“When your Roman walls are closing in on you to crush your spirit, you should try it.”

Just then, the sound of approaching hobnails echoed in the corridor.

Lucius recognized the sound of Dagon’s sure step.

“Praefectus.” Dagon saluted formally then glanced at the Boar.

“Yes, Princeps. What is it?” Lucius still stared at the caged Boar, disturbed by the chieftain’s frankness.

“The Votadini are arriving.” Dagon did not volunteer any more information in front of the Selgovan prisoner.

“Votadini?” The Boar smirked as he stared at Lucius and brushed back his hair, his expression dark. “Ah, the Roman sympathizers, or ‘clients’ as you call them. Good fighters.” His gaze bore deep into Lucius’ eyes. “You will need them in the bloody months to come.” He spat, and Lucius turned to follow Dagon who was already on his way back down the corridor.

“Dragon!” The Boar jumped up, a hint of desperation upon him.

Lucius turned back. “What is it?”

“Think hard on what I have said. For both our sakes.” He smiled, though sadly. “My parting gift to you as a brother-warrior.”

Lucius turned and headed back to the surface, sunlight, and the sound of distant horns.

“What was that about?” Dagon asked as they made their way to the east gate. “Did the Boar plead for his life?” Dagon watched Lucius closely for any sign that his hard exterior might have cracked.

Silence.

“Not for his life,” Lucius finally answered. He stopped at the bottom of the stairs leading up to the gatehouse tower. “He asked for a good death.”

Lucius continued up the stairs, Dagon looking at his armoured back before he and Barta made their way up to join him on the battlements.

“What will you do?” Dagon pressed.

Lucius turned to face him. “I’ll do what is expected. I’ll hand the Boar over to sixth legion tomorrow.”

“So that he can be taken in chains to Eburacum, and then thrown to the mob in Rome?”

“Since when do you care so much?” Lucius’ voice had risen, and Barta glanced around at the surrounding men.

Dagon straightened to meet his praefectus’ eyes. “How many battle lords have we killed since we came to Britannia, Anguis?” How many skilled warriors’ bodies have we left for the crows when they would have made powerful allies who could help Rome hold this island?”

“They don’t want Rome, Dagon.” Lucius’ voice was calm. “They’re not our friends, and they don’t want to be our allies.”

“But we Sarmatians made our peace, didn’t we? And we’re a proud race.”

Lucius could see Barta’s neck straighten, his eyes closed momentarily to feel the wind and sun on his face. Lucius put his hands on his princeps’ shoulders.

“Different times, under a different Caesar.”

Dagon looked around nervously.

“You know what I mean,” Lucius continued. “Severus has come to Britannia to wipe out the Caledonii and all else who stand against Rome. He’s got thirty-five thousand men, his Praetorians, and auxiliaries like us to make sure it happens. We’re not here to make friends. We’re here to ensure our allies are still allies, and to wipe out our enemies.”

Lucius turned abruptly to the East to watch the Votadini approach.

“Here come the only friends we have in this region.” Lucius nodded for the cornu to sound from the opposite tower.

The sound was met by a similar signal from the other side of the river where the Votadini column made for the bridge.

“Looks like five hundred horse,” Dagon said.

“Open the gates!” Lucius ordered before making his way down to where their horses were being held. “Easy, Lunaris,” he soothed. He looked behind to see Dagon, and Barta hoisting the dragon vexillum high in the air. “Let’s go meet out allies, then.”

Dagon knew Lucius well. The look he saw was one of resigned sadness for the life he wished he was leading.

Lucius charged out of the fort’s gates with Dagon and Barta behind him. Outside, on the muddy field, two hundred Sarmatians fell in behind them to go and meet the approaching Votadini. When they arrived at the bridge, Lucius ordered his cavalry to line up in two great semi-circles while he, Dagon, and Barta waited before them to meet with the Votadini chieftain.

“They look more Roman than I do,” Dagon commented.

“Rome’s provided them with weapons, armour, and horse harness since Antoninus built his wall. The Votadini have held this region on their own for a long time.”