AUTHOR'S FOREWORD:
This is the long-promised side short stories for Outlander, telling the tale of other humans throughout history that have been pulled from Earth to Thedas, starting with the First Outlander. It's also the story of the Tiberius dynasty, and their attempts to claim these individuals for Tevinter.
Each chapter will be around one or two thousand words.
I hope the story is readable without having an intimate knowledge of the main story, but it is best to check that out before this.
Enjoy!
Pater Familias
As he marched through soft mud and moss, dodging trees, Marcus Tiberius Pansa was reminded of why hated Germania.
It had been ten years since the great slaughter at Teutoburg, and it was ten years of complete misery. The Thirteenth Legion had been called in to safeguard the borders against the Germans after that defeat, and every man in it discovered the reality of the situation. The entire province could be compared to no other in its difficulties. The air was cold, yet thick, forcing a man to cough nearly constantly except at the very height of summer, when he was crushed by heat exhaustion. It was heavily wooded and threaded with freezing rivers. Worse, it was the haunt of witches and druids, cursing those who stumbled through the land.
Not that Marcus would ever speak his complaints aloud. There had been victories aplenty, revenge for the dead. He had killed one hundred and thirty one warriors and maybe twice as many of those who were not. It would be a disgrace to dishonour Mars' blessings upon him to bitch like an old woman about the weather. Besides, he had finally received his much sought-after promotion to second-spear centurion, after a little more than a decade in the army and much time spent learning how to read and write.
Centurions didn't complain. Centurions disciplined those who complained.
Instead, Marcus turned his hatred of the land and its conditions into hatred for the people that lived there. That was an easy salve for his woes. The Germans stubbornly refused to realise the inferiority of their way of life and engaged in any number of barbaric traditions. He had personally seen the pots in which men had been cooked, the gnawed bones tossed into piles beside them. At least those who could be bought off had the good sense to wash a little more than those that didn't.
It was the perpetrators of such acts that pushed continued war with Rome. The barbarian priests saw the presence of the legions as a great blasphemy. They encouraged and coordinated acts of terrorism up and down the frontier of the Rhine, from the Alps to the ocean, even as Roman armies defeated German armies on their side of the river.
Which was why Marcus found himself tasked to retaliate.
The goal was simple. Take the centuria across the Rhine into the lands of the Chatti, to a hillfort village atop a wooded hill nearby, and slaughter everyone to be found there. Boats had been observed taking captives from recent raids to the banks of the river. Scouts had observed huge pyres and drumbeats. Stopping whatever was going on wouldn't put an end to the war on the edge of the world, but it would be another victory.
The soft clanking of the armour underneath the long red cloaks seemed to echo through the forest as the legionnaires advanced up the hill. Marcus winced. He searched for any sign that they had been heard, through the morning mists. There was none, but that did not mean anything. Worse, the line was breaking up due to the trees, both those standing and the fallen ones.
"Slow," he ordered, "Keep order."
His second, Lucanus, repeated the command quietly to the runners. The advance faltered as the whole unit received their instructions, but resumed at the desired less audible pace soon afterwards.
Much better, Marcus thought. There would be far less time for the savages to prepare for the attack now. If the alarm went up, it was because the other raiding parties had done something stupid, not him. The other centurions weren't new to this either. The noose was tightening around the druids' world.
Yet, as he peered forwards towards the village once more, the walls of wood and mud discernible at last, his sight was robbed from him. Blinking rapidly, trying to clear his vision, it took him a minute of half-stumbling to realise that there was nothing wrong with his eyes.
Fog had closed in, as if it had been poured like milk from the sky, throwing the world under a white-green liquid the likes of which he had never seen before. He opened his mouth, but bit down the thought he wished to speak aloud. The men didn't need it in their own heads.
"Sorcery."
Lucanus had said it for him. He swivelled around to rebuke his second, only to find that the entire unit had stopped dead. Eyes searched the swirling mists, wide between the rims and cheek-pieces of the round helmets of most of the legionaries.
Marcus searched his mind for something to say, but came up with nothing but empty platitudes, his mind addled with his own fear. This was supposed to be an easy errand, to blood the newcomers and see if everyone else worked well together under the new arrangement. The recruits were well trained, but real battle hadn't yet selected those who could tough it out through the worst the world could throw.
The one directly behind was pissing himself. The poor bastard, Marcus thought, he wasn't going to survive. The veterans were quiet, indicating that they didn't like what was happening either. There were no calls from any of the lower ranks to keep moving. Everyone had decided that they weren't in favour of continuing, without another word.
The sound of fighting began ahead. The clash of metal on metal, the shouts of exertion, the screams of fear. The other centuria had made it to the village first.
Marcus found his backbone again.
"You hear that!" he roared, pointing uphill with his sword, "Our brothers aren't pissing themselves over a little fog! No sorcery can protect the Germans from Roman steel! Are we going to sit here and let Aulus' men have all the fun?!"
"NO!" shouted the veterans, startling the new recruits with their zeal. Marcus smiled. He had the advantage now.
"MARS!" Marcus cried, sword held aloft.
"ROMA VICTOR!" cried all, from eldest to youngest.
"Charge!" Marcus ordered.
The signifier went first, holding the centuria's standard close to him in one arm, the other grasping his blade. Marcus followed, every other man falling in step with him. What had been a soft pattering of boots on the ground turning in a clanking rumble. Silence was no longer a requirement.
The line rolled forwards and upwards, towards the memory of the village walls. The fog was still too thick to see them until they were right beside them. When they reached the walls, the sounds of fighting easily distinguishable now, Marcus found that they had buckled outwards. Curious, but helpful.
"Pull this away!" he ordered.
A dozen men did as they were commanded, while the rest formed up and readied their javelins. The logs were shoved and grabbed aside, until there was enough space for the centuria to pass. They had approached from a side where there were buildings, and so no sight of battle greeted them. Instead, bright green light shone, glowing around the cracks in the buildings. The men began hesitating again.
"Romans are dying," Marcus growled at them, "Forward!"
He was obeyed, but without the previous enthusiasm.
The centuria marched around the buildings, shields raised. The sight in the middle of the village was as strange as Marcus had expected. In the very centre, hovering over a plinth, was a glowing green light that sparked like lightning. The centurion removed his eyes from it, as the air around seemed clearer from its presence, and the sounds of battle seemed to be drowned in the light instead. A sure sign that it was the source of the sorcery and thus was not to be trusted. He looked on the figures around it instead.
Aulus' centuria had failed to remain in formation and they were fighting Germans in individual combats all around the space. Strangely, some of the Germans seemed to be fighting other Germans as well. Bearded, bare-chested warriors fighting with black-hooded figures just as often as red-cloaked Romans. The figures in black, druids Marcus assumed, definitely had the upper hand on both of the other factions.
Except that most were turned away from his men.
He nodded to Lucanus, who raised his hand over his head and then dropped it again. The legionaries threw their javelins. The hail of black projectiles fell on the Germans, both hooded and unhooded. To Marcus' great satisfaction, they fell in equal numbers, some with shouts and moans of surprise, others bloodlessly with strange screeches that barely seemed human. The latter didn't matter much. In a single stroke, he had proven to his men that all the enemies before him were mortal.
He gave the order to advance once more.
The men moved, drawing their gladii and laying them across their thighs to make the quick underarm thrust to the guts of their foes. Finally, the enemy noticed them. The black-clothed druids flung themselves at the line, revealing their hideous faces. Grey-skinned, gaunt and pockmarked faces, glowing eyes, large heads that were attached to necks that were too long. How Marcus had thought they were men before, he did not know. If he had not seen twenty of them felled not seconds earlier, he would have thought them evil creatures, immune to his efforts to kill them.
They battered against the shield wall, and the men stabbed, taking fight over flight. Marcus himself saw off the first, jamming his sword into its face and getting a gout of black ichor back for his trouble. The thing fell forwards onto his shield, and he snapped it forward for good measure. Whatever they were, they were not harder to kill than men. They did not seem to use weapons, instead relying on huge, muscular arms. Another detail that had been lost in the glow of the baleful green light. The men made short work of them.
The line ground forwards, stabbing and slicing its way through the opponents. The Germans, the real ones, backed themselves into a corner at the other side of the plinth, letting the creatures slow down Marcus while they took care of the other Romans. They had the better of Aulus, it was clear.
Unacceptable, Marcus thought. Whatever the hell was happening was second place to duty. If they avoided the light, which was very much his instinct to do, they would never make it in time to save their comrades. The Germans and Aulus' men seemed to have no trouble near the light, stragglers of both parties retreating or fighting the creatures nearby.
"With me!" Marcus shouted, and rushed forwards across the space. He plotted his route past the light, hoping simply to avoid being touched by the green lightning, sure that if he did so, no harm would come to him. Instead, he felt himself pulled, as if a god had grabbed his entire body with an invisible grasp, straight into the light.
Blinded by its brightness, Marcus shouted himself hoarse as the sensation of falling began to crush him.