Note from Kanuro5: Fun little tidbit, this chapter had been one of the longest planned chapters of Invictus. What I mean is, as soon as I came up with the story behind Invictus, this chapter: beginning, middle, and end was already drawn out, so I'm very excited finally to put it on paper, -er web, whatever. Enjoy!
XXIX
The Will of the Sons
Day 49 of the Campaign
The shine of the morning sun glared off of the silver snow into the mouth of the cave. The blinding sunbeams hit Vitus in his closed eyes, waking him from his slumber. He took to his feet and yawned, suddenly feeling a surge of pain shoot through his face. His jaw was sore, he couldn't breathe through his nose—which was throbbing, the vision out of his left eye was obscured by a mass of swelling, he could feel two loose teeth wiggling within his mouth, and he felt nauseous in his stomach.
The first thing he did was piss away the wine he drank last night, as the memories of all that occurred suddenly filled his thoughts. He looked over his shoulder at his brother who was wide awake, and who was staring at him with shame-filled eyes. Once Vitus was done, he walked over to his brother and sat down next to the dwindling flames. They sat there for minutes staring at the flame, neither of them looking at the other; both of them afraid to say the first word, yet hoping something could break this barrier of tension and regret that separated them.
Vitus broke the silence. "Do you have more wine?" His voice was soft and broken.
Proculus took a long pause before speaking; his voice was soft as well. "We finished it last night. Do you not, recall?"
Vitus sighed. "Yes, I do."
The flames had finally died out. Vitus stared into the embers that were still alight in the charred wood. "Is such the reason you drink, to kill any pain you feel?"
"Was such the sensation you felt when you were drunk? Did it kill your pain?"
"It…only for a moment. I felt…good that I was able to forget. But then, the pain came back…stronger than when I was sober."
"That happens, more often than you think."
"I desire to stay in that state all the time. When you feel happy and invincible, you know? When you do not think of all the wickedness in life?"
"If you strived for that drunken state, you would be no better than the homeless retches in Rome, you would be no better than me."
The silence grew between them once again, only to be broken by the whinnying of their horses; pulling and tugging on the reins for freedom. They had been stuck in the cave for a while now and they desperately sought the freedom of open air. The brothers picked up on their stallions' distress and took a good look outside for the first time. The blizzard that had engulfed the area had died completely. Now there existed a light flurry that gracefully enveloped the land.
"Brother," Proculus said, "Let us leave this damn place."
"Yes, I would very much desire that."
The brothers untied their horses and left the confines of the cave. The ground around them was blanketed in a heavy yet pristine layer of snow that shined brightly against the rays of the sun. The air was still heavy with frost but the thankfully it was a tad warmer than yesterday and no biting, freezing wind. The brothers paused to get their bearings, but they could not find any discernable landmark to alert them of their location. Proculus made a quick prayer to Mercury to hope he was leading Vitus in the right direction. Maybe Vitus knew where to go, but Proculus held his tongue to ask him. Vitus hung precariously in the rear, silent as a stone, as was Proculus.
The brothers had fought each other all the time, most times were verbal, and often over trivial matters. But this, this was something different. Not even their fight for their stallions was as intense as their fight last night. And the influence of wine surely didn't help. Proculus kicked himself for that and for other things as well. Did the two have to play the blame game with one another? Though what they both said was true, it didn't have to be said. Now, now he couldn't even properly look him in the face anymore. But maybe, maybe he could—
A rhythmic crunching of snow came from their far right, followed by a high pitch screech. A lone boar was racing towards the brothers, screeching in terror. The brothers soon saw why. Four Britons were chasing the boar on foot, lobbing spears at the frightened creature. The brothers hopped off their horses and hid behind a large mound.
One of the spears landed in the nape of the pig's neck. The pig crashed into the snow, writhing in agony before an axeman lopped off its head to the adulation of his fellow hunters. The brothers slowly peered out from the mound, silently study the rowdy hunters. The Britons grabbed the headless boar and walked back the way they came, singing.
"They are leaving," Vitus stated.
"Yes, but do we follow them?"
"For what purpose should we pursue?"
"Maybe…if we follow them, we can gain some direction instead of wander aimlessly."
"Fine, let us follow on foot."
The brothers crept quietly in the snow, pulling their horses by the reins and keeping a safe distance from the hunters, who were too lost in a bawdy song to hear the soft yet audible crunch of snow from the Romans' horses. The brothers followed them for several minutes, eventually coming down a slope from the dense woods. Their mouths fell at what they saw. The four hunters walked out of the woods and into a narrow road, filled with hundreds if not thousands of blue, frozen corpses. Most of them were Roman.
The trees surrounding the road were broken and charred by fire, a banner of the Sixth Cohort was propped up against a broken tree, and the Roman bodies were stripped of armor and weapons that were laid across the slopes of the snow.
The hunters greeted two Briton sentries who stood guard of the woods on the opposite side of the road. The hunters bragged at their catch and passed by the sentries, still singing their barbarous song. The brothers looked at one another with fire in their eyes and nodded. They unsheathed their swords.
The two sentries yawned at the monotony of their guard detail; one of the sentries approached a Roman corpse nearby. He pulled out a dagger and bent down and examined the Roman's mouth.
"You know we are supposed to be sentries, correct?"
"Aye. That I know," he slammed the pommel of his dagger into the teeth of the Roman corpse and sliced around the gums. He carefully pulled out the teeth and put them in a bag, "For my children when they reach the mainland."
"What would your children possibly do with Roman teeth?"
The Briton sniggered, "Plant it to see if a Roman grows."
Both men chuckled. The souvenir-seeking Briton knelt down and examined the frozen Roman corpse. "You know, Thumolf said that Romans died in that blizzard last night."
"Thumolf says that men will fly to the heavens within a thousand years," the other Briton laughed, "Why do you believe such lies? Was he there?"
"No, but he suspects they did, they are not birthed within winter as we."
A loud crunch emanated close to them. Both men shifted their head to the noise. Their eyes lay upon snow falling from the tree branches, making an audible thump. They turned their heads back to their watch.
"Gods this is boring," the souvenir-seeker said.
"Well apologies for being a dull partner in this monotonous affair."
The souvenir-seeker walked ahead ten paces and inspected another Roman body. "I do not mean such. It is that the rest of them are digging through Roman corpses and attaining gold and drinking, why we must be here and sober."
"I do not believe a drunken sentry is effective."
"You know what I meant. They have entertainment in wine. All I desire is that our celebration from last night could continue, we go to Samarobriva, kill the remaining Romans, kill the remaining Gauls, and mark are return in history. Not stay in the wilderness and act as wary eyes for a Roman attack that shall never materialize. Do you understand?"
The other Briton didn't reply.
"Did you not understand?" the souvenir-seeker asked again. He was met by silence.
"Are you listening? I know such is dull but w—" he turned around only to see that the Briton sentry's throat was slit, and the culprit was standing next to him. A young, small Roman with fiery red hair, a battered face, holding a sword with blood dripping down the edges.
The Briton unsheathed his sword, but before an action was taken, he heard the quick crunching of snow behind him, before a sword entered his back. His attacker covered the man's mouth, muffling his scream, then pulled out the sword from his back and slit the Briton's throat. The brothers looked over their handwork with silent stares. They stared at the dead Romans and back to the sentries.
Vitus took one of the sentries' bow and arrows, and with his brother, ventured deeper into the forest, following the hunters; knowing that more Britons awaited them. Upon passing bodies of Roman that were strewn across the woods sporadically, the brothers finally made it to the outskirts of the quarry. Hiding in the treeline, they saw the result of their father's defeat. Horror had seized their hearts.
Within the quarry, were 13 live Britons, scavenging the dead Romans and Britons that had littered the entire quarry. It was identical to the carnage on the road, but on a much larger scale. Though the blizzard from last night buried virtually all the bodies, these live Britons had done their part and scooped up half of the battlefield and rid it of the excess snow, exhuming the cadavers buried by the storm of winter. They lined up their fallen warriors in neat, organized lines with their weapons; while they callously threw the frozen corpses of Romans into a grand pile. Vitus was the one to take notice of a ghastly sight. Many of the Roman corpses were missing heads. Hundreds of the corpses were thrown around, their armor still attached to their bodies, but their heads were gone, apparently chopped off in mass. But why? Did their own father still have his head?
Several of the Britons were pitilessly scavenging through the Roman corpses; they broke the frozen limbs of the bodies to pull off the armor and weapons and mockingly wore them. Several of the scavengers were drunkenly swaying about, still relishing the thought of their victory.
"For what purpose are we out here?" one of the barbarians slurred.
"Edonoc, for the love of the gods, cease drinking your mead!"
"Why should I cease? Huh?"
"Because for the tenth time, we have told you why we are here."
"To search for anything of worth among the Roman dead, and to see our dead properly attended to," another barbarian answered.
"So Talorc only sends 15 of us to complete such a daunting task?" Edonoc slurred, performing a drunken twirl. "Why does he hate us so?"
"Talorc does not hate us, Edonoc…he just hates you."
The barbarians broke out in laughter. Edonoc stuck out his tongue and spat. Several barbarians took swigs from their pouches of mead before they continued their shoveling of the battlefield. The brothers watched, and waited for the right moment. Do they attack with fury and vengeance? Or do they return to the camp now that they knew where they are and risk discovery from a Briton patrol? They contemplated, for half an hour they contemplated while observing the scavenging, until one of the Britons unveiled a grand discovery, the Twenty-Eighth's golden eagle.
The founder pulled the standard from up under a pile of frozen cadavers and raised it high in the air, his fellow Britons cheered. He ran to the group and paraded the standard mockingly as if he were a legionary, much to his friends' amusement. The founder kept up the farcical marching, unknowingly marching in the direction towards the hidden brothers within the trees.
The drunken Edonoc chased after the founder, wanting so desperately to be in the "legion's parade". He called out to the founder to give him the standard. The founder stopped, dropping the standard and fell backwards in the snow. Through his inebriated eyes, Edonoc bent over laughing hysterically at the man tripping over himself. His laughing ceased as red liquid began pooling in the snow. Edonoc looked harder at the squirming founder, finally taking notice how he was gagging on an arrow lodged in his throat.
The drunk turned to yell back, an arrow found its way into his lower spine. The barbarians turned to the direction of the screaming man, their eyes falling on two figures coming out of the treeline—their armor resembling that of Romans. The barbarians grabbed their weapons and charged at the two Romans they must've missed.
Vitus aimed his arrow at the charging throng and loosed it, the missile falling short of a barbarian's chest and entering the man's stomach. Proculus grabbed a discarded Roman shield and stood his ground. Vitus loosed his arrow once more and managed to score a kill before switching to his sword. The Britons unleashed a war cry as they charged, the brothers were silent—their rage the only motivation they needed.
Edonoc, with an arrow in his spine, began crawling back to the quarry to escape these wrathful Romans. Edonoc couldn't feel his legs; the only way he could crawl was to claw his fingers in the snow to pull himself. As he crawled, he saw his comrades rushing forward to avenge him and the eagle carrier. The sounds of fighting erupted behind him—the cursing of his native comrades, the clanging of steel, and the squeals of death— but he dared not look back, he had to reach a safe distance away from the fighting until the Britons slayed the two young Romans.
Edonoc counted, the two Romans were facing nine Britons, they didn't stand a chance against them. A harrowing howl broke his thought, the howl of his friends. The paralyzed Briton looked over his shoulder to witness that most of his fellow Britons were slain by the two Romans—as they efficiently and silently carved through the barbarians.
Proculus blocked an attack with his shield and lunged his sword into the man's chest. An axeman came at him from the side and swung horizontally. Proculus weaved outside the wild strike, slicing the tendons in the back of the barbarian's knee. The Briton fell to his wounded knee and received a fatal blow to the skull by the rim of Proculus' shield.
Vitus cleanly sliced a Briton's stomach open, before moving to his next target and slicing open that man's neck. One Briton brought down a warhammer on top of the small Roman, but the nimble young man sidestepped the heavy attack and lopped off the head of the attacker.
Only one last Briton remained. He charged the Romans with wild abandon; the brothers moved as one. Vitus went to the left, Proculus to the right; Vitus ducked an incoming attack and drove his sword through the man's thigh, Proculus slammed the rim of his shield into the man's throat and then drove his sword through the man's chest. The wounded Briton collapsed to his knees, wheezing and coughing up a fit of blood. The brothers calmly walked up to him and swung their swords at his meaty neck. Edonoc helplessly watched the head roll off his comrade's shoulder.
Both of the Romans turned to Edonoc. Edonoc raised his hands in the air, begging for mercy. Vitus walked up to the paralyzed man in a cold emotionless stride, Brittonic blood splattered on his face. Edonoc protested louder. Without a word, Vitus raise his sword above the man and brought it down on his neck.
Proculus sheathed his sword, picking up the Aquila from the snow, staring deeply into the eagle's eyes; possibly looking for an explanation or maybe waiting for Jupiter to speak through the eagle to tell him where his Father's body was. Proculus turned, facing the quarry full of death along with his brother.
Their eyes scanned the aftermath of the onslaught, their hands trembling at the mere thought of the savageness of the battle. They knew what they must do. They closed their eyes, expecting for the blood of their father to call out to them his exact location. The only thing that came to them was a crisp chill of wind. They remembered, bitterly, that Antonius said their father was sliced in half by chariots. Most likely the only one. The task of finding one unique body in a quarry of thousands of corpses made their heads spin—but they would be damned if they ventured this far for nothing.
Luck had kissed their cheeks; the Britons had done most of the work for them by excavating the bodies from the blizzard's snow, but it did not make their job easier. The boys went from body-to-body examining them if they bore any similarities to their father or were lacking legs or a torso. Corpses upon corpses, all with their limbs frozen awkwardly and grotesquely in the air as if they were wounded animals. They wondered if they would ever find his body. They carried the bodies that were burdened by the weight of ice off to the side, sometimes breaking off a hand, arm, or leg by accident. Every time a Roman limb had broken off, the stomachs of the brothers churned. For an hour, they searched.
Pain throbbed, deep within Vitus' left palm. His mind's eye visualized Biua's mouth uttering her final words. It must have been a dying curse, but did she know something he didn't? Did she know what they would have done to her father? His hand throbbed once more; he gritted his teeth and fell to his knees clutching his hand. May the abyss of Tartarus swallow her! He leaned over a Briton corpse, pushing it off a Roman body.
After relieving himself, Proculus came back from the side of the quarry and came behind the kneeling Vitus. He looked over his brother's shoulder and reeled. This is him. The eldest looked once more; his heart was in his throat. The first thing his eyes fell to was the corpse's missing head. They took it. Mother Venus, they took your son's head…It was him, they both knew. His legs were separated from the abdomen; his entrails were frozen in the middle, corrupted by the frost into a nauseating mix of pink and blue. His armor was stripped from the corpse, along with his sword. The distinguishing feature that set him apart from others was his unique build, old yet strong. Their father's fair skin had diluted into an eerie paleness. Dried and frozen blood caked his extremities.
Vitus was shaking. Was this his punishment? Was this a cruel joke by the gods? For failing to claim the armor of the Germanian at Praxus, the enemy would claim his father's armor? Why?
The brothers' stares lingered. Their thoughts were one. Would he have praised them for being brave and silencing fifteen barbarians by themselves, or would he scold them for being reckless? Lucius was a complicated man, everything he told them had a lesson. He would break them down and try to build them up in his own image. But the last moment they were with him, he accepted them as they were. Or so they think he did? They could never understand what loomed in that mind of his. And now…and now…they never…
Lucius' chest began to be pelted by warm drops of water. Tears. "True Romans do not shed tears." That's what he always told them. The words of a true soldier. It was to never show weakness. But this was a lesson the brothers refused to take, no one was here to watch them weep except for the souls of dead. If their father was watching, let him see how they dealt with their pain. Let him see how after this day, no more tears would be shed. After this day, everything would change for them.
Roman Encampment
In the relative warmth of his tent, Antonius stared emptily at a table before him, at his sword in the middle of the table. His eyes were engrossed on the tip of the sword. The cold, sharp tip that slayed many enemies of Rome. It was an honor for soldiers to die by the sword, even their own should they fail.
He buried his face into his hands. He had failed. He allowed for his General to die, he personally ordered the retreat from the barbarians of all people, he lost the standard of Rome, and he was powerless in allowing the General's sons to flee in the blizzard. They were dead. They had to be dead. The legion had failed the Senate's mission. By the gods, more shit to pile on him. The Praetor is dead and the Senate lost five legions. This would be the darkest chapter in Rome's history. And all fingers would be pointed at him. He had shamed himself and his clan, the Antonia.
Why shouldn't he do his duty to Rome now…and end it? What is he to do? March back to Arretium in disgrace, and meet Decius Julius to tell him that his brother died from treachery and his nephews were lost in a blizzard under his watch? No. He needs to preserve whatever honor he had left.
He grabbed the hilt of his sword and stared at the steel. As Tribune of the Twenty-Eighth, it was his duty. Cossutius would lead the men back. He must inform Cossutius of his new position of leadership, before he ended it all.
The tent flap flew open and in came Oroles, his eyes red with rage.
"For what fucking purpose are you in my tent?!" Antonius shouted. "Guards!"
"You have no guards stationed. You Romans are pathetic. One loss and all your discipline falls to shit! It is most fortunate that Cossutius is here to station sentries to guard the camp!"
Oroles' eyes fell on the Roman's sword, "Why do you wield your sword?"
He was quiet for a brief moment, "It is my duty as a soldier of Rome."
"You craven dog," the Thracian sneered through his teeth.
Antonius raised his sword. "You forget your place, Thracian! How dare you call me, craven! I only do my duty!"
"I label you craven for you fail to do what is necessary. Morning has broken and the blizzard has died. Why not send men to search for the brothers?"
Antonius sheathed his blade and fell back in his chair, the fire withering in his eyes and sighing in sorrow. "Because…I hold no knowledge if they survived or not."
"You have given up hope?"
"What hope was there? Either they died in that blizzard, or the Britons who still lurked in the area finished them."
"You act as if you possess no care for them."
"Do not place words in my mouth. You know I looked upon them as family, even Proculus. Where shall we look? Tell me where?"
Oroles threw his hands in the air, "If you shall not order a search, then it falls to me. Go ahead and take your life. We need to at least find their bodies; it is what is right."
What is right? Antonius couldn't even tell what was right or wrong anymore. After everything that has fallen on the Legion…what it meant that he—wait…what is that noise? Oroles heard it too. It was a loud drone of liveliness coming from the gate of the camp. The Thracian opened flapped, both men witnessed as throngs of excited legionaries were rushing to the gates. The liveliness slowly reverberated into…cheering. It was Ligadis who approached the Tribune's tent, out of breath with a smile from ear-to-ear.
"Oroles! I—I held doubt but—the brothers! They have returned! They have returned with the golden eagle!"
Oroles and Antonius exchanged bewildered glances for a hot second, before leaping out of the tent and following Ligadis to crowded commotion. The entire legion was formed near the gate, jumping in jubilation. Both men saw the golden eagle flying high near the gates. The Tribune and Thracians pushed their way to the center of the crowd where they were greeted by a smiling Cossutius, and the Julius brothers riding into camp—Vitus holding the standard, while Proculus' horses carried something heavy wrapped in the cape of legionaries.
"Would wonders never cease?" Cossutius smiled to Oroles. Oroles looked on to the tired forms of Vitus and Proculus and couldn't help but smile at their safety. The same could be said for Antonius. His grin was as long as a foot. He looked around to the men who just yesterday were so beaten down that the earth could open up and no one would care. But now they cheered as if they won Praxus Hill all over again. The morale of the Legion was rejuvenated.
The Tribune ordered the men to silence themselves. He addressed the brothers, "You two…you are alive!"
"In our trial of suffering, the Gods granted us this small mercy," Vitus smiled weakly.
"The blood on your faces?" Oroles noticed.
"From the Britons," Proculus replied. The legion began to murmur. "It was fifteen in total by the quarry on the road. We came back on said road, no barbarians in sight. I am sure we cleared the way. But we are unharmed."
"It lifts heart to know you both are safe."
"And that you returned with our standard," Aelianus chuckled.
Vitus looked to the eagle, "Yes, we did return with your pride…" his smiled suddenly faded, "Along with something else of more worth."
All eyes turned to the two heavy items on Proculus horse. It took a moment, but every smile in the legion evaporated once they caught on.
Antonius' voice was fractured when he spoke, "I-Is that—"
"Yes. It is him."
Every legionary present whimpered softly, removing their caps and helmets as they took a knee.
Vitus continued. "They took his sword, his armor…and his head."
The soldiers began cursing lowly and gnashed their teeth. Cossutius ordered for several men to place the body back in Lucius' old tent. The brothers jumped off their horses and made their way to speak with the officers of the Legion inside Antonius' tent. There was much to discuss.
The brothers informed the officers of everything that happened to them, sparing no detail except the fight they had between each other. At the end of the story, all men except the Thracians believed the brothers were blessed by the Roman gods. The brothers did not see it that way. Oroles, without saying a word, walked up to Vitus and sent him flying to the ground with a powerful punch. He turned to Proculus and knocked the bigger brother to ground with a hard hook. All the Romans in the tent—except Cossutius—grabbed their swords by the hilt.
"Do not mistake intent, boys," Oroles sneered to the brothers, "It lifts heart that you reclaimed the standard and your father's body. But it infuriates me that you both charged into a raging blizzard to do so! What fool would do so?! Vitus, I know you were angry, but that gives you no right to do something so fucking reckless! And you Proculus, your motive was to reclaim your brother, but what you did was just as reckless beyond reason! If you had fallen to the winter's storm…" Oroles couldn't even finish the sentence.
Antonius glared at Oroles while speaking to the Julius's, "Know that I echo Oroles' thoughts. What you did was beyond foolish. How could I face your mother and tell her that not only did I let her husband die, I was powerless to stop her sons from venturing into a blizzard and dying?" The brothers got back to their feet, their eyes brimmed with pangs of guilt of placing worry on the men. Vitus's heart felt heavy, was he really this much of a fool?
Antonius continued, "But Oroles, know that I will have you crucified if you ever lay a hand on them again."
"As long as they cease with their recklessness, I shall."
"I…I deserved that," Vitus spoke from a sore jaw. "I offer apologies to you all, and the legion, for my blinded act."
"As am I," Proculus said, "We need to make it up to the men."
"All in due time," Cossutius said. "The men are glad you both are alive."
"Really? I could feel their disdain for me yesterday..." Vitus said.
"That changed since you brought back their eagle and their general. You proved your words and braved the impossible. That's all a soldier wants to see from their leader. Morale was lower than snake shit, but now is as high as the eagle and Jupiter himself."
"Such is well and good, but what should we do now?" Ligadis asked them. The tent fell silent.
Vitus stood tall, "Continue with the mission." All eyes fell on the young man.
Oroles' gaze did not waver. "You would have us continue forward?"
"Yes. It is my father's mission, and it shall still be ours. I do not know if the Praetor is still alive or if his legions are, but our mission is to reach Samarobriva. And come blood or death, we shall fulfill that mission."
"I understand what you are trying to say, Vitus." Oroles gave him an unflinching leer, a leer that was testing the mettle of the young Roman, "But you are a boy. How would you lead us when we were at our lowest? You claim you went to find your father's body, which is true; I saw desperation and forlorn in your eyes. You went out there to die in the blizzard, did you not, Vitus?"
Vitus lowered his head; his voice was soft, "Yes. I did. I failed my father, because of us, he sprung the trap. Why did I live when he was dead? How could I face my mother again? I ruined my father's legacy. All of these surfed in my thoughts and overwhelmed me with fear. But now…" he struggled to find the words; he could feel the eyes of the room upon him, but he felt his brother's stare as the only eyes that mattered. "My brother waked me up from such melancholy, and seeing my father's body turned me from despair…I learned from my selfish mistakes. After seizing my father's body, I am not afraid to die. What I fear is my father's legacy grinding into the mud. All that he struggled for, all that he taught my brother and I; will be but ashes in memory. The legion is bigger than me, my brother, all of us. The legion is an idea of the spirit of my clan, that we always triumph despite the odds. Like our ancestor Aeneas, we rise from the ashes, stronger."
Proculus smiled, "I agree with my brother. For the Legion to return running from the enemy and failing the Senate's mission is too much. I am not afraid to die as well. I mean, of course I do not seek to die, but if I must die, I rather die by a barbarian sword than falling on my own. We shall be ostracized if we return to Roman lands, why not we all die with honor and still march to Samarobriva, and face the Briton King one last time…and be redeemed in glorious death."
The eyes of the brothers did not falter. Their words were strong and true. The men in the tent saw this. Antonius stood tall as well, telling the brothers, "You ask us to venture down the throat of the Beast."
"We do," they said as one.
"And what of the Britons in the wilderness?" a centurion asked.
Vitus said, "Yes, the Britons are still out there. But not as strong as we would think. My brother and I killed fifteen of them in the quarry. But why fifteen, why not hundreds who still should be scavenging after yesterday's battle? From what we witnessed, the scavenging was not even half complete when we discovered them. I believe the Brittonic army has moved back to Samarobriva, and maybe a smaller force remained here."
"And if we track down the smaller garrison and destroy it, we may have a straight shot to Samarobriva," Proculus added. "And I hold a certain feeling that the men will want vengeance for what they've suffered."
"By their honor as soldiers of Rome and under the oath of the Twenty-Eighth, the men shall do it." Cossutius said with a smile, "We hold distinction of elitism and pride ourselves on that. How would it look if the elite turned tail and ran? I, personally, would rather die with honor than live in disgrace."
"Also it is a more practical solution to press forward," said Aulus Silius, the Legion's geographer, "At our previous strength; the Legion was twelve days away from Samarobriva. But now with our…smaller number, I calculate we can reach the town within nine days, and we are two months away from Alesia. If we go back, we may have to contend with more blizzards and barbarians. I vouch for pressing forward."
"Oroles? Ligadis?" Vitus asked them.
"The Thracians are with you, I can assure you."
"Well it seems we have our new objective," Antonius shook his head with a smirk.
"Not new, it is still the same," Proculus said, "Rescue the Praetor and the Senatorial Army."
"Yet one concern lingers," Vitus urged, "The fallen in the quarry, we shall not press forward until dealing with them."
"I wholeheartedly agree," Cossutius insisted, "Seeing you brothers come from the quarry with blood on your faces, the men have nothing to fear upon going back."
As the assembly grinded to a close, the brothers were astonished to find the entire legion was gather outside the tent, waiting with the eyes of children for their new orders. The brothers exchanged glances and announced the legion was going back to the quarry to bury their comrades. The men shouted in approval, they left their comrades to their death, and they would receive the proper rights they deserved. The brothers also announced the plan to continue marching to Samarobriva. The shouting stopped. The brothers were met by countless blinking stares of legionaries.
Proculus stepped forth, preparing to motivate the men, but Vitus grabbed his arm. The young brother rustled his hair and sighed, stepping forward to address the survivors. "Men of the Twenty-Eighth, forgive me if my oration is lacking substance but I must speak to you all. Yesterday, I…um, I spoke to you all about finding my father's body so that he could receive p-proper funeral rites. B-But you all turned away from me…" The soldiers lowered their heads. "No-No…I-I speak not to shame you all for my action. I…well I, uh, seek to mend my actions through apology if you would have it. I failed to understand what you all had...experienced recently, and that I was asking of suicide to venture out in the blizzard with the unknown r-r-risk of facing thousands of barbarians…I-I realize how foolish it might have been of me to ask this of you, I was blinded by anger and grief to recognize the dangers, but I am sure you all were aware of that…and so I recklessly ventured out there. And so, I apologize. I apologize for my behavior."
Vitus chuckled awkwardly before continue, "I ramble…I know, but, I understand if you fear going forward, I understand you want to return to your families. But I cannot go back—if-if-I do, then I have to live with the shame I led the Twenty-Eighth to destruction. Taking the words from Primus Pilus, 'I, personally, would rather die with honor than live in disgrace.' I would die fighting the Britons to maintain the honor of my Father's legacy, and to make them pay for what they did to my Father. This isn't about me or my brother, my clan, the Praetor, or even Rome. This is about the honor of the Legion and of my Father and your brothers. I fight to preserve their memory and greatness. Wouldn't you? Would you flee from the men who made your brothers suffer? So I ask you. I am willing to venture forward into danger. Me…this awkward, short, boy with frail twigs for arms and legs, a bashed face and freakish eyes." That got a laugh out of the legion. "I am willing to go forth, are you?"
A lone legionary stepped forward. "General, my name is Octavius Pulchra, Second Cohort. General…I came from the gutters of the Lower Aventine; I had nothing to be proud of. Every day I breathed, I dreaded my meagre existence. But then I joined the army, and served with your father at Lucretian Bridge. It was he who gave me purpose, the legion who gave me a home. I remember after the battle, your father came to us individually and spoke of our wellbeing. I swore to him that day if the Twenty-Eighth were to invade Tartarus, I would be beside him holding the banners."
Many of the legionaries shouted. Pulchra continued, drawing his sword, "Generals Vitus and Proculus, you are that man's sons, I offer apologies for showing disdain and speaking mutinous words and holding venomous thoughts. You two have earned my respect in your daring act, I will follow the legion wherever it goes, and I shall follow you two. I so swear."
The other legionaries drew their swords and recited the last sentence of the sacramentum militare in unison. "By Jupiter Optimus Maximus, we so swear!"
Proculus chuckled and patted his blushing brother on the back; Oroles gave him a warm smile of approval. Vitus dug deep and shouted, "Twenty-Eighth! Dissemble the camp, prepare to move out!"
The quarry and roads were empty of Britons, just as the brothers said. The legion marched once more on the cursed road and came upon the dreaded fork; the Romans went left, the Thracians to the right. Both nationalities came upon their dead; both sides reeled back in horror. Anger and sorrow gripped the Thracians, too many of their brothers had fallen because of their blunder in springing an ambush. But the Romans were possessed by wrath and humiliation upon reaching the quarry. Their dead, who several hundred were missing heads and others were missing their armor and weapons, was the ultimate testament of their failure as soldiers. They ran from the Britons, lowly barbarians in their first engagement with the mysterious people. The Romans felt the bitter sting of anguish as they moved through the quarry of frozen corpses. Their friends, their brethren, some men closer than blood were dead beneath their feet. Briton would pay for this sacrilege.
The legion wasted no time. They laid down their weapons and began moving the bodies of their countrymen neatly along a line, while callously heaving the Briton corpses to the buzzards. The snow was thick and the ground beneath it was frozen, making burial difficult, but that mattered little. Vitus gave the order; half the legion would dig a mass grave for cremation, while the other half would organize and bring all the bodies to the quarry. Aelianus was busy moving the bodies when a legionary alerted him of a discovery. Aelianus followed the man, finding he was pointing to isolated body of Metellus. Aelianus took a knee in the snow, his hand covering his mouth; he noticed how Metellus ran himself through, suffering from hundreds of wounds. Aelianus sighed and carried Metellus' large body back himself and placed it next to Arminius. He would've wanted that.
The men said nothing as they performed this grim task, no work songs were sung, no jokes were spoken, only the small murmurs of prayers for the dead. To the men's surprise, the Julius brothers were helping them along the way. They witnessed Vitus moving the dead and Proculus shoveling dirt and snow and chopping the trees for the pyre. Every now and then Vitus and Proculus would leave the quarry to assist the Thracians in their funeral rites. Oroles was obliged to keep the swords of his fallen kin, yet so many died that the practice seemed impractical. Instead as the men were buried, he drove the swords above their graves as markers for his men. Vitus and Proculus witnessed the Thracians sing songs of mourning for their dead; bitter and melancholic in the Thracian tongue. Once the Thracians were finished, they returned to the quarry and assisted the Romans. The Romans would never forget that moment.
The burial took all day, from morning to the sunset evening. 3,680 Romans were buried in the middle of the quarry, their bodies stacked on top of one another neatly. The 820 remaining men of the Twenty-Eighth took up a square formation around the rectangular grave, all men facing front. In front of them stood the Julius brothers who carried torches, and Antonius who stood beside Lucius' pyre. Lucius' slaves had already washed the body, caked with frozen grime and blood, and lathered the corpse with anointing oil and incense. Upon the wooden pyre, seeped with oiled, his bisected body rested peacefully; wrapped in the crimson capes of his fallen legionaries. The colors of war. The colors of his family. The men stood with pride, in silence, in respect of the man they were glad to call Father.
Oroles looked over at the brothers and nodded in approval. They were standing tall as oak trees, composed and professional. They couldn't break down here. This was not a standard funeral, this was a military funeral. True Romans do not shed tears.
Vitus stepped forward, raising his torch in the air. His voice would quiver, but it would quickly steel itself, "What can be said of a man, who raised something from nothing? What can be said of a man, who's greatness rivals that of brave Aeneas and Hector? That he was Mars reborn? The General of all Generals? Or that he was a loving husband and a caring father? Whatever titles come to the mind, this man that rest before you deserves it all. He deserves your respect, your honor, your remembrance. He is at home with the All-Mother of his clan, Mother Venus who has called him by her side. And at this time let us not pass from memory, those left absent from our side. Our brothers, who fought, bled and died by our side. Those who sacrificed their lives so that we may all live and fight another day!"
Proculus stepped forward, "Here lies Lucius Julius the Mighty, Heir of the Julii clan. Commanding General of the Twenty-Eighth Legion. A true son of the Republic. A true Roman. He served Mother Roman and her Army for many years and has done his duty. A man whom vanquished a great many enemies, so we Romans can live without the threat of the savages upon us…Now his duty has ended and he shall join the Heroes of Rome in the bountiful fields of Elysium. Here lies the brave men of the Twenty-Eighth, whose deeds have catapulted the Legion into legend! They were the instruments to greatness, bravery, and honor. These men, shall never be forgotten!"
The brothers turned and faced the pyre, their eyes started to well but they held it back. They stared at their father once more, and remembered as he was. A cold man with faults but a loving father all the same. "Though I have won many laurels in my lifetime, you two have been the greatest achievements that I have ever earned." They tossed their torches on the pyre.
The remaining centurions who carried the torches for their battered cohorts tossed their torches on the mass graves of legionaries. The men leaned in as great flames consumed the bodies before them, illuminating the waning light of the quarry and warming the men who gathered besides the grave.
"Legion…march!" Cossutius bellowed.
The trumpets blew a short, forlorn cadence. The men silently began marching in place and slowly began moving forward, marching around the legionaries' grave, marching around Lucius' pyre. When a commander dies in the field, his troops march around his body so that the commander knows that even in death, they still follow and honor him.
The men somberly paraded around their general, the voices were empty, their souls nearly crushed, yet they marched with pride for the man they served under. The Tribune looked into the pyre, watching as the man's fleshed burned into the sky. The burning man took Antonius' clan of plebeians and raised it to prominence. If Antonius was to die, he would die honoring the man who gave him the best years of his life.
"For Lucius!" Antonius bellowed.
Aelianus marched in stride with his men. He remembered his friends, his brothers, if he was to die, it would be to the smiles of his comrades watching over him in the afterlife.
"For Arminius and Metellus!" Aelianus shouted.
"For Gilopnas, Argentumius, Biblius, Petrosidius, and Loganus!" Cossutius followed.
"For Lanatus!"
"For Terentius!"
"For Atacinus and Aulus!"
"For Varro!"
The brothers heard the chants of the fallen, the chants of power and honor. They shook in their boots with pride. These blessed men truly honor their dead, they honor their Father's legacy.
Vitus turned away from the fire, addressing the marching legion, pride welling in his chest. "Recall the names of your fallen brothers. Honor them with your courage. Let them know you shall not forget!"
"For Siculus!"
"For Cloelius, Mascius, and Vibius!"
"For Meneius!"
"For Cosingas, Liberus, and Totan!" Oroles shouted.
"For Gragon and Cosnen!" Ligadis bellowed.
Proculus turned to speak, with fire on his tongue. "Shout! Lift your voices so the dead may hear! So Lugotorix and Cassius may tremble! We shall avenge them, all of them! Be they Roman or Thracian, they shall be avenged!"
"For Longinus!"
"For Geganius!"
"For Asinius and Secundus!"
"For LUCIUS!"
The entire legion chanted in rhythm, ""LUCIUS! LUCIUS! LUCIUS!"
Vitus spoke up, "You all honor yourself in this deed. For he is not just my father. He is your father as well! He took you in and raised you when you were nothing and molded you after the base image of Mars himself! He made you legend, now wherever you go; Roman men, women, and children ask you of what legion that you hail from and you shout from your lungs, Twenty-Eighth!"
"Twenty-Eighth! Twenty-Eighth! Twenty-Eighth!"
Proculus screamed with all his might, "Split the heavens with your cry! We shall meet the Briton King, Lugotorix, in Samarobriva! He shall rue the day that he humiliated the Twenty-Eighth! Rome does not forget, and Rome does not forgive! The barbarians on his island shall weep from the carnage we shall inflict on them! We shall fight, with vengeance in our swords, with justice on our side, courage in our hearts, and honor in our souls! Delenda Est Britannia! I so swear on the Black Stone, we shall have our vengeance! Or die trying!
"Twenty-Eighth!"
"Twenty-Eighth!"
"TWENTY-EIGHTH! TWENTY-EIGHTH! TWENTY-EIGHTH!"
Vengeance is a great motivator for a people who rely on honor.
Just like in real life, Rome moves to destroy its enemies who have humiliated Rome. Just like the Punic Wars, Germanicus' expedition after Teutoburg Forest, Antony's Parthian Campaign (well, that may have been for glory, but yea, still to avenge Crassus' defeat), and etc. Let us see how this trek will turn out for the rejuvenated 28th.
I would like to thank everyone who is continually reading this fic. I want you all to note that it is keeping me committed to the story. Truly, thank you all!
-Kanuro5