The Lost Centurion
Chapter 1
Disclaimer: I don't own Legends of Tomorrow or these characters.
Notes:
This is a Roman Britain AU which jumped me in my sleep one night. I have no excuse. It is the bastard child of Legends of Tomorrow, Gladiator, and Rome.
The Romans had very disparaging views of the Britons, so there was mutual dislike on both sides and given that the Romans are the bad guys in this story, Rip and the Legends don't get along too well to begin with. That will change.
Also a couple of words on historical accuracy: I've done my best to make this correct for the time period, however I have taken some liberties where things are unknown or it was just too much fun not to. So, unfortunately, it is not historically accurate for the Vandals to be anywhere near Rome at this point, but because I wanted savage Vandals, they are. I studied Classics many years ago, and I'm putting my knowledge to use here, however, I'm not as well versed on the tribes of Britain and their lifestyle at this point, so I've researched what I can.
Rip's Roman Name is Centurion Agrippa Lacerius Venator Drusanus, which is basically a Latin translation of Rip Hunter, but Romans had at least three names, so he is Agrippa as the closest I could get to Rip (and maybe that is actually what Rip is short for, because I could just imagine Rip picking that). Roman names were complicated and generally Romans were addressed by their second name, so he is usually called Lacerius, except by close family. Friends of equal rank might call him Venator.
tum de salute, mox de victoria certavere
"Non sane alias exercitatior magisque inambiguo Britannia fuit: trucidati veterani, incensae coloniae, intercepti exercitus; tum de salute, mox de victoria certavere."
"Never indeed had Britain been more agitated, or in a more critical condition. Veteran soldiers had been massacred, colonies burnt, armies cut off. The struggle was then for safety; it was soon to be for victory." - Tacitus, Agricola, bk 5
***AD 61***
The Centurion would not have predicted that it was a swearword that would save his life, but Fortuna often seemed to like to play with him. He did not always appreciate her games.
It was a grey and overcast day, with a cutting wind that swept across the rolling grass-covered hills of southeast Britannia. As Primus Pilus, or First Spear, of the Legio XX Valeria Victrix, he should have been dealing with marshalling the cohort back at the fort rather than leading this foray into the wilds of Britannia. But, and there was always a but, his father had sent specific orders that he be tasked with this duty. The job was too important to send any mere ordinary Centurion and century, only the highest ranked amongst the Centurions could be entrusted with this task.
Centurion Lacerius Venator very much wished that someone else had been given this tedious mission now. He stood with his century, fighting off one of the fiercest attacks by any tribe of Britons that he had ever come across. Many of his men had already fallen, but there was no easy way for them to retreat. This had been a carefully planned and well executed ambush, that had been sprung by a group who knew this territory well. They had entered an area of the road with rising terrain on both sides, and then their path had been blocked by a sudden landslide of stones, giving them no way to move forward. At their rear, the Britons had left their cover and charged, taking them by surprise. Meanwhile attackers on both ridges pelted the legionaries with stones. Lacerius would have been very impressed by their tactics under other circumstances, but with lives at risk, he found himself with other things on his mind.
He put his whistle in his mouth and blew, getting the attention of his remaining men. "Double formation!" he yelled, and watched somewhat proudly as his century did exactly as ordered. "Shields out! March!"
The men had formed two lines, back to back with shields out and facing the enemy. They now marched backwards, away from the enemy's stone barricade, with Lacerius bringing up the rear. Stones were raining down on them, but at least progress was being made now. They clearly couldn't employ their superior numbers in this arena. They had to get onto the open ground and there was only one way to do that, they would have to break through the enemy line behind them.
"Optio Gavius!" he shouted to his second in command. "Your orders are to get these men back to the fort."
"Yes, Centurion," replied his Optio.
Lacerius moved through the ranks of his men, shield at the ready. "I need two men with me."
"Ave!" shouted several of his finest. He accepted the help of the two nearest, with a rapid hand signal in their direction and they followed him without question. He'd trained with these men and fought with them for years. They knew he would get them home if he could, and if he couldn't then their death would be as honourable as he could make it.
"For the Twentieth!" he shouted, he drew his short sword, the gladius, and the three of them charged the line of Britons who were taken somewhat by surprise by their attack. He and his helpers carved out enough of a hole that the advancing century, previously hampered by its larger size and the fact that it was a more obvious target, were able to march through.
Lacerius shouted at his two companions to rejoin the century, and he saw them do as asked before he too also went to make his retreat. He slashed at his enemy, drawing blood, but also stepping away from them towards the safety of his century's shields. A slingshot stone knocked the helmet from his head.
"Orgjian!" he swore.
One of the Britons, who was wearing strange red armour, and could be their leader, looked at him in a very peculiar way, but he didn't have time now to contemplate what that might mean. These people were barbarians after all.
The Centurion's helmet had a large plume and they were expensive to replace. He didn't particularly want the item's cost docked from his wages. He would already be in enough trouble for failing to fulfil his mission. He kicked the helmet behind him, intending to pick it up as he moved backwards. Unfortunately, a second stone found his now unprotected head. Lacerius fell to the ground, on his knees, with his skull ringing from the blow. He had a horrible feeling that he knew what followed and it wouldn't be good.
There were about a twenty very angry Britons behind him and they all wanted him dead. He gripped his sword, ready to go down fighting. He caught a glimpse of his Optio, Gavius, who was clearly thinking about turning around to save him.
"Go!" he shouted, trying to get to his feet again. "Return to the fort! I'll catch up!" Liar, he thought. He'd be dead in less than a minute. At least Gavius was capable of doing as he was told. He ordered the century onwards, back towards the fort, and now the Britons were distracted by him so they stood a good chance of getting away.
"By Mars, I will take as many of you down with me as my strength will allow!" By his reckoning, he might get a couple before he was overwhelmed. He was rapidly being surrounded on all sides.
"Sedajeo!" shouted the Britton who had looked at him strangely earlier. Apparently, his earlier assumption had been correct, he commanded these men because he issued orders now. "Kirken ris. Sele ris biwotut."
Lacerius realised that he half understood that. The Brittonic language was mangled garbage compared to the beauty of Latin, but he'd picked up enough to be able to hold a conversation. The Britton had just told them to stop, surround him and take him alive. That was unexpected and not something that he intended to let happen.
However, the dark-haired Briton was now looking at him with interest and the men had stopped. Lacerius used the distraction to push himself to his feet and stood there shakily, defiantly holding his sword ready. He realised how ridiculous he must look, with blood pouring from the cut on his forehead, but he was incapable of giving up and letting this happen.
"Thu bede Albioni?" asked the man. Lacerius translated that to something like "do you speak Brittonic?" For a second, he wondered how the man had known, until he remembered his use of a Brittonic swearword. It had always amused his men that he swore in the native language of the country that they were conquering. He'd never really considered why they were the swearwords that came most naturally to his lips.
"Tha, beag." He hoped that he'd just said "yes, a little" but he suspected that his accent was terrible. He'd also just admitted to something that he wasn't at all proud of, and if his father ever found out, he'd be in a great deal of trouble. Perhaps it might buy him some time to get away though.
"Mi sele ris biwotut. An dunjo ankena tameo." The man's hands were out in a placatory gesture.
Lacerius shook his head. He would not be taken alive. That was basically what the Briton was saying, he wanted to take him alive and no one needed to die now. He had heard stories of what these Britons did to their prisoners, and he did not intend for that to happen to him. If he was going to die then it would be in battle, not tortured by a tribe of Britons until he died of his injuries. He slashed out with his sword, uncoordinated and with poor technique. The injury to his head was affecting him, but he refused to stop fighting. One of the men grabbed his sword arm and another grabbed his torso. He couldn't shake off so many attackers and before long Lacerius was down, pinned to the ground.
Ropes were tied around him, but he continued to struggle, yelling crossly.
"You damned barbarians. Let me die with honour!"
There was some kind of apology, which was weird and unexpected. Then a fist slammed into his jaw and he didn't even notice his fall into unconsciousness, it was so rapid.
Consciousness came back to him more slowly. He could feel the bite of rough ropes around his neck, ankles and wrists. He was lying on his side, slightly curled, and if he tried to move his hands then it pulled on the rope around his neck. There was pain in his head and jaw, but he knew that it would pass. He could no longer feel the heavy weight of his armour, or of his sword at his belt, and his boots were gone. He wasn't surprised by that.
He pulled open his eyes sluggishly and tried to make sense of where he was. It was dry, and there seemed to be a rock wall in front of him. He lay on earth, and the place was lit by orange flames. It smelt of something strongly herbal and reminded him vaguely of something from his childhood, but as soon as he attempted to pin down the memory, it was gone.
He tried to shuffle into a position that would relieve the pressure on his neck. Instead he accidentally pressed upon the cut on his head and the pain was suddenly sharp rather than dull. He groaned without thinking.
"Disufenajeog?" asked a female voice, from behind his back. "Swilla?"
His brain wasn't sharp enough to help him with those words. He did his best to squirm towards the rock wall and push himself up into a sitting position. With both hands and feet tied, it wasn't easy, but he did manage it eventually and leaned back against the wall breathing hard.
He could now see the woman who had spoken to him. She had light brown hair, that fell in curly waves over her shoulders, and hazel eyes, and was currently observing him critically. Had she not been a Briton he might even have considered her to be pretty, but she was barbarian scum and beneath his contemplation. She wore a white robe of the type that he'd seen the priests of the Britons wearing, cinched by a belt in the middle and with a long-sleeved tunic beneath.
He could make out the shapes of other Britons towards what seemed to be the entrance to a cave. A fire burned in a hearth nearby, generating smoke that seemed at least partially responsible for the herbal odour. There appeared to be a stack of earthenware jars at one end of the cave and plants hung, drying in the smoke from the ceiling.
He reached up to touch the cut on his head and found it had been cleaned. There was no blood crusted on his face as he would have expected. He frowned. He would not have expected these barbarians to do something like that.
The woman held out an earthenware cup towards him.
"Degu, swilla," she said. "Wiska."
Water. He understood that. He shook his head. She might say it was water but there were rumours of the magic that the Britons used and the potions that they made. He had no wish for a spell to be put on him.
She placed the cup on the ground, easily in his reach. "Drink or don't," she said, as he finally worked out what she'd said before. "Die or don't," she added.
"Degu" was "drink". It was such a long time since he'd heard or spoken this language, but it was coming back to him the more he heard. "Swilla" seemed to be the form of address she was using for him, and he wasn't sure it was entirely polite.
"Ni me taro," he said. "I won't."
"Die or drink?" she asked.
"Drink," he replied.
"Then you are a fool, swilla," said the woman.
"Probably poisoned," he said.
"So, you speak our language?" she asked.
"Yes, a little. I am… not in practice," he said.
"You are unusual for a swilla," she said.
"Swilla?" he asked.
She mimed something crawling along the ground. Maybe it meant insect, so he'd been right that it wasn't exactly complimentary. He'd called Britons worse though, so he supposed it was only fair.
"Ah. I see. Am I allowed to know the name of my captor?" he asked.
"You are a prisoner of the Untaridi," she said. "My name is Gideon."
He took in a surprised breath. He was a prisoner of the Untaridi, the Waverider Clan. They were renowned as tough fighters and cunning adversaries. However, he had never heard of them taking prisoners before now, especially not a Roman. He looked away for a moment, suddenly contemplating his current predicament. His options here were very few.
"Will you give me your name, swilla?" she asked.
He looked up at the woman, Gideon. He doubted it would do much harm to give his name, since he did not expect to be here long. He was already formulating escape plans, but it was much more likely that he was about to be tortured to death by his captors, so one way or another he would not remain a prisoner.
"I am Centurion Agrippa Lacerius Venator Drusanus, First Spear of the Twentieth Legion, Valeria Victrix."
"That is a long name for such a slight man," replied Gideon.
"Most address me as Centurion Lacerius Venator," said Lacerius, ignoring the insult to his physique. He may not be as overtly muscled as some of his compatriots but he more than made up for it with his determination.
"One name is not enough for you? Even swilla normally only have three," she said.
He raised his eyebrows at her knowledge, but clearly she didn't know everything about Roman naming customs.
"I have the honour to carry both the name of my family, Lacerius, and my adoptive father's family, Drusus," replied Lacerius.
"And the other names you bear?"
"Agrippa is my personal name, which only my family may call me by. I was called Venator by my father for my prowess in hunting. Venator means "hunter" in Latin. I'm good with the bow," he replied, wondering why he was telling her this. He had very rarely had to use his knowledge of Brittonic this much and he was having to concentrate, but he was finding understanding her easier the more he used the language.
He glanced towards the doorway and the men stood there. "Why didn't they kill me?"
"We needed you, swilla. We need your knowledge."
"I will die before I tell you anything," he said.
Gideon smiled at that. "We will see."
"So you mean to…" he knew the word in Latin - torture, cruciatus - but not in Brittonic, "force me?"
"We are not a cruel people."
"Really? Your Queen is known as Hasta, the Lance, for her abilities in battle. She has killed more men than I have," he spat.
"I find that hard to believe, Centurion Lacerius Venator," said Gideon, with acid in her tone. "I remember when the swilla sacked Venta Iceni. I remember the procession of displaced people and the tales they told. How all the men were killed, the women and children enslaved, except those who ran from their burning homes. I remember them telling how the soldiers had boars on their shields, just like the one on the shield that we took from you and the double cross, just like yours."
Lacerius suddenly found himself without words. He had been there, at Venta Iceni, only a few months previously. There had been an uprising against the Romans and he had been ordered to help deal with it. The Iceni had been all but wiped from the face of the earth, but it had been a righteous fight. They had pledged their loyalty to Rome and then broken their vows.
However, he remembered the blood and the screaming, the heat of the fires that they burnt the town to the ground with, the smell of smoking wood, and the dead men who had been under his command. He had sent those men to their deaths. And they had killed the Iceni without mercy for their temerity to stand against the might of Rome. The Iceni had died honourably, protecting their homes, and he had been party to their slaughter. He still saw the faces of the dead in his dreams at night.
"I am a soldier of Rome. I do as I am ordered." He spoke quietly.
He was not proud of his words, or of the truth of them. Nor was he particularly proud of what he was and what it stood for, but he had made his choice when he had asked Drusus to allow him to hunt down the Vandals who had murdered Miranda and Jonas.
"Then maybe you should look again at your chosen profession," said Gideon.
"I did not choose it, it chose me," he replied, crossly.
Lacerius kicked over the, most likely poisoned, cup of water that Gideon had placed in front of him.
"That was stupid," said Gideon. "If you don't drink then you will die."
"That is my intention," replied Lacerius, and then finished his thought in Latin because he didn't have the words in Brittonic. "It's better than being tortured to death."
Gideon shook her head, stood and left him in the cave with his own thoughts. Lacerius closed his eyes and tried to pretend he was anywhere but here. The rope around his neck pulled as he stopped holding his hands in position. His arms were aching and he couldn't hold up his bound wrists any longer. He raised his knees and rested his fists upon them as a respite from the unpleasant feeling of the rope biting into the skin of his neck.
He doubted that there was any serious chance that he could escape this prison, with guards at the mouth of the cave and his ankles bound tightly, but he was not entirely ready to dismiss that possibility yet. However, his situation was not good and it could only worsen. It would not do for a Centurion of Rome to be tortured and kept as a prisoner of war by a mere tribe of barbarians. If word returned to his Legion, then his digntas would be tainted forever.
He knew that his sword and armour were gone, but he hadn't checked whether his other personal possessions were still present. He felt around his belt to the pouch he carried there. He had a small picture of his wife and son in it, painted at great expense upon a square of lacquered wood and carefully kept, wrapped in cloth. His fingers at full stretch found that the pouch only held the scrap of cloth now, and that realisation was like a physical punch to his gut. The single picture he had of them had been taken from him, and suddenly everything seemed all the more hopeless. He clutched his cloak, pulling it around himself and remembered the faces of his wife and their son. Perhaps it wouldn't be too long before he was able to join them.
*** AD 59***
"Agrippa!" his adoptive father shouted. Zamanus Drusus Temporis was one of the few people who used his first name. He strode across the entrance hall of his country villa, his toga flapping in the slight breeze.
"Temporis," he replied, with a smile. "You are looking well. I think the sea air must suit you."
"And I think soldiering must suit you, my son," said the older man, looking at Lacerius with some pride. The two men clasped arms in the customary style.
Lacerius was dressed in his full uniform, including his prized armilla, a gold bracelet presented for gallantry, and his phalerae, the metal discs arranged across his chest that detailed battles won and his honours. His red cloak and tunic were dusty from the road, but it had been a long ride.
"But alas, I'm soon to be leaving it," said Lacerius. "I can't continue to spend so much of my life away from home. It's past time that I returned to Rome and started on my senate career."
"I know that General Spinosus will be disappointed to lose you," said Drusus.
"I'm a mere Centurion, I doubt he even knows that I exist," replied Lacerius.
"I think you underestimate what being First Spear of the Twentieth means in political terms, Agrippa," said Drusus. "You have the ear of generals and Spinosus in particular listens to your every word. I have it on good authority."
Lacerius laughed. "I fear you exaggerate. Whereas I have it on good authority that you will be assuming the position of Consul in Rome at the next elections."
Drusus smiled. "Well, we shall see how the ballots are cast, but I believe Fortuna will smile upon me this time." He turned to usher Lacerius into the house. "Come now. You'll want to bathe and change into a toga before dinner."
"Of course," he handed off his cloak and leather satchel to the slave who had come to take it.
"Danik will take you to your room. How long are you planning to stay?"
"A night, no more. I promised in my last letter that I would visit Miranda and Jonas one last time before I return to the Legion."
"They're at your villa in Pisea?" asked Drusus.
The two men walked together towards the sleeping quarters.
"Indeed. Jonas loves it there, by the sea. I feel quite mean that we'll have to move to Rome once my current tour is up," said Lacerius. "Miranda has been very happy there too."
"Have you looked for property in the city yet?"
"I have, and purchased a suitable house on the Via Julii," said Lacerius. "I really hope that Miranda likes it."
Drusus chuckled. "You worry more about what your wife thinks than any other man I've met."
"Whilst I know that you arranged our marriage for the benefit of both our families' honour and advancement, I cannot thank you enough for the match you made. I love her dearly and she returns my love. She and Jonas are the centre of my world." Lacerius had nothing that was more important to him than his family and it was a wrench every time he had to leave them to return to war.
Drusus laughed again. "If your men could hear you, then they would laugh you out of the centuria."
Lacerius smiled himself then. "Then it is lucky that they are not here to hear it. I admit that I am a somewhat different person when with my family. However, I am not less of a soldier because of it."
Drusus nodded. "Indeed, and Spinosus would have me ask you to take up another tour with the Twentieth."
"You know I can't. Miranda would never forgive me," said Lacerius. "And I want to at least spend some time with my son before he is grown, teach him how to use a sword and ride a horse."
"Spinosus has offered you a Tribunate if you remain," said Drusus. "It is a generous offer."
"It is, but I must decline. I have made promises, and cannot break them," said Lacerius.
"A promise to a woman and a boy is no promise at all, Agrippa, not when the safety of the Empire is at stake," replied Drusus.
"On the contrary," replied Lacerius. "It is the most important promise I have ever made."
Drusus again smiled, having probably known what his adopted son's answer would be. "Of course, of course, and I will ensure that there's a suitable post waiting for you in Rome. Go on, then, food will be ready when you are done."
Lacerius went about the business of bathing to rid himself of the dirt from his ride to his father's summer villa. It had been a long journey and he wasn't done yet. He had only a brief stop here before he would continue on to visit his beloved wife and son. He was very much looking forwards to seeing them. It had been many months and no doubt Jonas would have grown. He had a small wooden horse in his saddle bag for him, and he was looking forwards to witnessing the joy on his face when he saw the gift.
He changed into the traditional toga. This one was patterned and a dark blue, something which was deemed gauche when in Rome, but here was entirely acceptable. As he stepped back into the atrium he saw his father talking to a servant. The servant was dismissed and the sound of a horse galloping away could be heard moments later.
"Problems?" asked Lacerius. It was late to be riding anywhere.
"Not at all," smiled Drusus. "I just had to take care of a couple of small issues, including your refusal of Spinosus' offer. A messenger was all that was required. You must be hungry."
"Indeed I am. It has been some time since I've had a decent homecooked meal," replied Lacerius, thinking about the camp fires back at the barracks, and the dubious fare they produced.
He ate dinner with his father, conversing about the ride and the army that he had left. General Spinosus was making short work of suppressing a Gaulish uprising and soon the Legion would be sent to Briton to help deal with the conquest of Britannia. Lacerius would not be joining them of course, which he was a little sad about even if he knew he'd rather be with Miranda and Jonas. He was a soldier of Rome and his duty was to go where he was ordered to protect the Empire, but that duty would be over soon. He was somewhat apprehensive about starting his new career in Rome, and how it would compare to trudging around Europe to deal with threats to the Empire.
The two men talked long into the evening and then Lacerius pleaded tiredness and an early start. He headed to bed, and slept well, dreaming of his reunion with his loved ones. The following day, he ate breakfast and bid farewell to his father. It was only a day's ride to his own summer villa at Pisea, but he perhaps pushed his horse slightly more than he would have done under other circumstances, especially as he neared home.
He smelt the smoke long before he saw the fire. It wasn't until he rounded the final bend that he realised the smoke billowing across the land was from his own farm. His villa was on fire. Every part of it was ablaze and his mind was suddenly consumed with fear. He kicked his horse into a gallop.
He got close enough to see the entrance to his house and there were the bloodied bodies of Miranda and Jonas lying on the front steps. He stumbled, going to his knees twice in his haste to reach them. He could not fully believe they were dead until he felt it with his own hands. The blood no longer moved in their veins. The breath had left their bodies.
He held their bodies in his arms, dragging them away from the fires inside the house, even though he knew that it was too late to save them. He screamed and cried, and begged the gods to take him too, or return the ones that he loved. He had no idea how long he sat with them in his arms, but the sky darkened and the sun rose again before he moved. A brief investigation of the area where he'd found the bodies produced weapons, of the kind that belong to the Vandal tribe of the Germanic peoples. Barbarians had murdered his wife and child; the evidence was there before him.
He dug graves, moving like an automaton. He buried his loved ones in the dark soil of his land, overlooking the sea so that Jonas and Miranda could still see the beach and water they so loved from their resting place. He buried the toy horse, that he had brought as a gift, with his son, tears spilling down his face so thickly that he could barely see at all. Jonas would never get to play with it now. Then he said the required prayers for the dead, feeling as if none of this was real.
He took his sword and held it to his own neck, but found himself unable to cut. He cursed himself as a coward, more tears falling down his cheeks. He could not even do the honourable thing and go to join his wife and son. He removed every piece of military honour insignia that he'd been awarded over his time in the Legion, dug a hole beside his wife's grave and buried everything there. He was unworthy of it all, because he had failed to save and protect the one part of the Empire that he really cared about.
He spent another day and night at the villa, not really knowing what he should do with these broken, burnt out ruins but not wanting to leave them. He became hungry and cold, and didn't really care. But he was due back with the Legion, and although he hated himself for it, he could not ignore his duty. He made the day's journey back to his father's house, where he tumbled from his horse, and he only vaguely remembered a slave helping him to stand. They took him to the room he'd slept in only two nights before and he stayed there, unmoving for many hours. His father came to him, trying to offer some words of reassurance and comfort, but there was nothing to be done. No words would help him. The two lights of his life were gone.
It took him a long time before he could even hear anything that was said to him. It was even longer before he was capable of forming coherent thought.
"Tell Spinosus that I'll sign up again," he finally told his father, "but only if we decimate the Vandals."
There was negotiation, of course. Centurions did not normally get to dictate to the senate where their legions went, but the unusual attack on a Roman villa by a barbarian tribe was enough of an outrage that he got his wish. The fact that he was the adopted son of the consul elect helped considerably. He conceded the promotion that had originally been offered to him, and simply took up his previous position.
The Vandals had no idea what wrath they had drawn down upon themselves. The might of Rome, driven by the burning grief of one Centurion was a force to be reckoned with. The Legio XX Valeria Victrix dealt with the tribe that Lacerius believed to have killed Miranda and Jonas, and continued onwards on their mission to civilise the world under Roman rule.
They continued onwards to Britannia.