Note from Kanuro5: Sorry for being out of commission for so long. Unfortunately, several real world problems popped up. This chapter was intended to be released a month ago. Better late than never. Enjoy!

XXXI

The Raid

Day 51 of the Campaign

"Gather your men and search through the quarry once more!" Talorc growled, looking out from the top of the fort's wall.

"Talorc, we have searched for two days, the Romans are not here," one of his men complained.

"The Romans probably fled back to the south," another added.

"Then explain how you found no tracks heading back south? I am waiting? They are here somewhere; you all are not searching hard enough! I shall not report back to our king that I have lost track of the Legion!"

The first man grumbled, "Then do not report such a thing. Just send word that they shall not return to Samarobriva. We have searched the entire area with great effort, but have found nothing. The men are tired and the constant snow is beginning to fill the tracks made from the battle. They have vanished. Are you to blind to see this?"

Talorc walked up to the man and placed a heavy hand around his throat, "How dare you question me in such a manner!" he sneered into the man's face, Talorc's vile breath burning the man's eyes. "You better hold concrete evidence of the whereabouts of the Legion or where it's heading, or so help me I shall strangle you with your own innards!"

Talorc threw him down and spat at both of them, "You two are worthless! Be gone! And don't return until you found something!" The two men scuttled down the fort to organize the men for another fruitless patrol. Talorc grunted loudly to himself. Why was he surrounded by fools! How hard was it to find their target? And yet from the shade of the trees outside the fort, the unknowing Talorc was being watched by his target.

"Do you see them, General?" Oroles asked.

"Yes, I do." Vitus said. He leaned closer in to the tree, his eyes taking note of the layout of the fort. A small contingent of Gauls and Thracians sat patiently in the treeline of the woods, out of sight by any curious Briton sentries.

"Have you collected a tally on the Britons inside?" Vitus asked.

"The bare minimum that we have gathered was 75 Britons hiding in that fort. There is not that many more inside."

"75 plus more, such odds are not too bad," Vitus said, scratching his chin. "Have any tried to travel up North?"

"None. If they try, we have stationed some men to lie in wait to stop them."

"Very good. Are...Are you sure they cannot see us from here?"

"Well…we have been here for the entire day and they have not sent anyone to investigate us, so I am sure—get down now!"

Oroles pulled Vitus down into the snow. The gate of the fort opened and out came around 30 disgruntled, shaggy barbarians on foot and a few on horsebacks, walking down the trail and venturing out onto the road. Vitus held his breath, praying to the gods that the Britons would fail to notice them hiding like prey beneath the trees and praying that their tracks in the snow would not be noticed.

"Apologies for that Vitus, but they're gone."

Vitus stood to his knees, watching through the dense woods as the crowd of Britons roamed out of sight. He could feel an exhale of relief.

"Thank the Gods. Alright, I am going to head back. You know of our plan?"

Oroles nodded confidently, "I do. We are ready. We shall stay here and keep watch of the fort and keep wait for you. Be careful in heading back."

It would take around 45 minutes for Vitus and two Thracians bodyguards trudging through the snow to reach the Legion, carefully retracing their footprints they left in the snow so as to not be detected by the Britons. Upon reaching the outskirts of the Legion, several Cretan archers—who hid behind great, thick trees—met them with nocked arrows.

"Greetings, General." They said as they eased their arrows, "Any sight of the Britons?"

"Yes, about thirty of them ventured out a while back. Though they did not roam in this direction, that may change, remain vigilant."

"Yes, General!"

"Well you sure took your sweet time in venturing back," Proculus called out, leaning on a tree with a smirk.

Vitus smiled back, "We had to ensure that the Britons would not discover us or our tracks. We had to be slow. How is it here?"

"Cold, I think my balls are beginning to turn blue." Proculus chuckled. "Besides that, I am just watching the engineers and multiple volunteers chip away at the ladders."

"And how are the men?"

Proculus extended a finger at the crowd of legionaries behind him. The men were sparring with one another at an alarming intensity, their swords clattering hard as if they were in battle, wrestling with one another and slamming their bodies into the snow. Others sat silently as they sharpened their blades with dour expressions. Others sat in a circle and prayed to Mars for brutality in the face of the enemy and the promises of offerings to him if they were victorious.

"Well…they are most certainly eager." Vitus forced himself to say.

"The thoughts of deserved vengeance wet their tongues. You can offer forgiveness for such eagerness, can you not?"

"Did you tell them we can only take a few of the best?"

Proculus nodded with a chuckle, "Oh I did. They all consider themselves to rival Hector for an opportunity to join. I spoke to Aelianus and Cossutius to gather the men they think are best for the raid."

"Very good. How are the ladders?"

"They shall be completed within three hours. An hour ahead of schedule."

Vitus smiled as he walked by his brother, "Fortuna smiles on us, Proculus."

Proculus followed him, "She does indeed. I cannot wait to see the terror in the eyes of those savages when we descend upon them."

Vitus stopped, "What? What do you mean?"

"You know, how we will take them by surprise in the raid."

"No not that. You mentioned, 'we'? You include yourself?"

"Uh, of course. I shall accompany you."

"Brother…you cannot come."

Proculus' brow furrowed. "For what reason do you refuse to take me?"

Vitus sighed, "We need those of the most skill to be in this raid."

Proculus scoffed, Vitus winced in error. Proculus made a dark grin, "So I stand as unskilled?"

"My words were not meant as such, brother."

"Well guess what? It sounded as such. I can still fight! I fought with you during the ambush, and I fought with you when we reclaimed Father's body, and I have killed my fair share of Britons that day. I desire to be a part of this, as your elder brother I am going."

"Do not drop that 'elder brother' hammer here. This is not about age, this is bigger than that. This is life and death."

Proculus glowered, "What about your hand? It is still bandaged; you are not in the best condition to raid the fort yourself."

Vitus clenched his wounded hand. He winced. The pain was still there, but not as bad as the days before. "Proculus, if I faced you in a contest, you know with full heart that I shall best you, even if I was missing an arm."

The eldest child growled to himself against the truth of the statement, but he quickly cooled off, "I know…I know. I shall accompany you though; I shall not stand idle in the camp with my arm up my fucking ass. That is non-negotiable."

"Fine. Know that I meant not to offend. You may hold the mantle of elder brother, but know that I hold the tactical mind. If we both enter the fort under stealth and the mission goes awry, then the Legion has lost two Generals in one blow. One of us must stand outside the fort and await the gates to open to charge. And…if I fall in the attempt—"

"Do not say that."

"If I fall, then you shall be in command of the Legion. Does such make sense?"

"Yes…I agree."

Cossutius approached the brothers and saluted, "Generals, the men are ready."

"Gratitude, Cossutius, we shall be there shortly."

Vitus stood in front of the Romans gathered before them, most of them chosen from the First Cohort. They sat with faces of stones, yet their eyes were fueled by fire. They patiently awaited their General's plan, regardless of how the day would end; the men ensured that they would spill Briton blood. Vitus' palms began to sweat but he steeled himself and spoke clearly.

"Listen carefully, I'll—I'll make this quick. There are four walls, four ladders, four teams of ten. Aelianus shall command one team, Oroles the second with his Thracians, Antonius the third team, and I shall command the fourth. We move out during midnight, some of the Thracians and Gauls who have been watching the fort shall guide us in the dark. Once we get our ladders in place, we climb and take the walls and kill all the guards as quietly as possible without alarming the garrison. This appears to be a standard Roman fort, so the gate mechanism is on the ground by the gate. Once we get the gate open, we shall have men waiting outside the fort to take it. Remember men, speed is the key. We shall need to get as many men aboard the wall as quick as possible."

"How many men shall be waiting outside the fort?" one of the chosen legionaries inquired.

Cossutius stepped in, "General Proculus and I shall wait outside the fort with the First and Second Cohort hiding within the trees. We shall be in full armor, but we shall leave shortly after the raiding teams' leave. The Cohorts shall move out five men at a time, so the Britons shall not hear us. It shall be a slow approach but such is the cost for the element of surprise. Once that gate falls, we shall rush in."

Antonius spoke up, "And for the raiding team, I must emphasize this. Before we go, you must know; nothing should rattle, nothing should shine. No armor, shields, or helmets. We are to be as silent as the grave in our approach. We have enough furs, skins, and blankets to stitch together to create makeshift armor for us all. It won't offer the same amount of protection but it shall keep us protected from the cold of the night and mask our sounds. If we are discovered, then the Cohorts shall mount the ladders and assist us. Come now, get situated in your armor of furs."

The legionaries shed their distinct armor and shields and placed on heavy and somewhat cumbersome, skins and furs, bearing striking resemblance to the barbarian menace that they were so accustomed to fighting. They even wrapped scarfs around their sandals to help mask the sounds of their feet crunching the snow. Vitus simply placed his fur coat crafted by Cassius over his tunic and fastened his sword belt to the fur. The sun was beginning to set and the last reports indicated that the last Briton patrol was heading back to the fort. Vitus turned to the men and spoke with the authority that his father had.

"We all know our part. We are committed. This night, serves only a precursor for our vengeance against the Britons. We shall move like thieves in the night and shall take their lives in accord. Twenty-Eighth!"

"Twenty-Eighth!" The men shouted lowly in agreement.

Proculus patted Vitus' back, "I want you to be careful, my brother. I know you can do this!"

He was right. Vitus could do this this. Vitus seized his chest, his breath suddenly turned hoarse and he fell to his knees. He could feel the cold of the snows biting through his knees as he tried to reclaim his breath. He could have sworn that he was now perspiring through the freezing air as the impact of the raid finally hit him. He had finally come to the anguishing sensation that this would be his first mission he gave to the legion as its general, success and failure would be solely on him. The lives lost in the attack would be on him.

"Fuck Talorc! Fuck him in the ass!" a Briton cursed loudly as he traveled down the road on his horse, followed by several other Britons. They had just returned from hours of searching the widespread area of forests, only to turn up with the same results as before. Nothing. The snow that kept falling began to obscure old tracks and the tracks they did find only belonged to them. It did not occur to them that the Romans were retracing the steps of the Britons in order to sneak through the forest. What also contributed to the diminishment of quality in the Britons' searching was Talorc's constant demeaning of his men. The Brittonic man cursing was the same one who argued with Talorc earlier this day, along with his friend whom walked beside him.

"I know. He is obsessed with finding the Romans! Can he not see that they have vanished?"

"The man is too busy bending over for our king to see what is painfully obvious."

Upon arriving at the entrance of the fort, the Britons came up with a plan. The man with the biggest grievance with Talorc told the others, "I tire of endlessly searching for vanished men. The Romans have fled back to their lands, but Talorc desires evidence? So we shall give him evidence. You all tell him how we found multitudes of trails of footprints heading south to the Roman lands. Tell him this and he shall have to give up the search so we can return to Samarobriva where the true glory is, instead of wasting away in the cold in this bleak forest!"

The other men conversed with one another and with scheming smiles they agreed. To hell with Talorc and his obsequious behavior towards their king's order. The Briton who thought of the plot started heading out along the road on his horse, he told his men, "I am for Samarobriva to tell the king that the rest of you shall join him shortly. Tell that fool, Talorc, where I am heading. And ensure that he believes your tale!"

The Briton spurred his horse with a kick and sped down the road past the fort in the deep snow. The stinging wind slammed against his face, but he ignored it as he smugly thought to himself how he outsmarted Talorc. No longer would he be subjected to his mistreatment, let him freeze in the woods while he returns to glory.

Something heavy hit his throat. The next thing he realized was that he was falling off his horse, choking—as if he swallowed a tortoise. He landed in the snow with a crunch, thrashing around gasping for air, feeling warm liquid filling up his throat. Within moments, two figures slowly approached him; the Briton's eyes grew wide. The two figures began talking to each other in a language the Briton did not understand.

"That shot was beautiful, Bulox, an arrow right in the neck! I did not believe you would get him!"

"Gratitude for the words, Ligadis. I told you I could hit him from within the woods."

"Anyway, where did the horse go?"

"Don't know, probably still running. Unfortunately, it forgot him."

The Briton gurgled bubbles of blood. His squeals became more high-pitched and he began flailing his arms in the air. The Thracian knelt down and covered the wounded man's mouth with one hand and pulled out a dagger with the other.

"Enough of your whining and die with dignity," Ligadis callously remarked. He slammed the dagger into the barbarian's skull.

"Well, that's one messenger that shall not be heading to Lugotorix," the Gallic archer exhaled with a smile.

"Good. For tonight, no Briton shall escape our wrath," Ligadis smirked back. "Now aid me with the body."

Everything was silent that night; save for the wayward wind that blew among the ghastly trees. The new moon night draped the fort and its occupants in a cover of darkness. The Brittonic sentries walking on the ramparts of the wall stared monotonously into the obscurity, their eyes straining to see any figure looming in the endless shadows. They quickly rubbed their eyes and continued walking along the walls, believing that for three straight days, nothing was out there. A sentry on the East Wall stopped his boring back-and-forth pacing and took a moment to yawn.

Crunch-Crunch-Crunch…

The sentry stopped, his ears picking up the faintest sound of something.

Crunch-Crunch-Crunch…

It seemed to originate over the side of the wall. The sentry moved his head over the stakes and looked below, only to be greeted with never-ending shadows at the base of the wall. The sentry watched for a brief moment, before a chilling blast of wind told his body to continue moving for warmth.

Over on the South Wall, another sentry heard the same crunching of snow over his side, and so he peered over the wall. His eyes could not focus on anything in the dark obscurity of the night, but his ears picked up something peculiar. He heard the crunching continue directly below him, very close to the gate. He looked at the sentries in the watchtowers to see if they picked up something, but they were unaware of anything. The sentry knew something was down there. He motioned for the other sentry on his wall to join him. He was prepared to whisper lowly at him, but an arrow from the shadows took his breath away.

The arrow tore through the sentry's throat, the Briton silently gagged on the shaft, flailing his arms in the obscurity of the night. He fell on the rampart with a soft thud, his death attracting none of his comrades.

"I got him."

"Excellent shot, Ardunas!" Vitus whispered to the Gaul.

Vitus motioned for the other two ladder teams to move towards the last two walls: the West Wall and North Wall. The ten-man teams picked up their 10 meter long ladders by their side and briskly jogged to their assigned fort walls. Vitus moved with the team assigned to the West Wall. Proculus stopped him before he left, "Good luck, brother."

The hard part then reared its head: angling the ladder to the walls. The sharpened stakes at the bottom of the ladders were to be shoved in the dirt for stability for the climbers. But such was now impossible to do in the dark and between several feet of snow. The men had to silently scoop out a hole of snow for the ladder stakes whilst ignoring the burning sensation of frost on their hands. Once the snow was scooped, the men had to jab their heavy ladders into the dirt and silently push the ladders until they rested against the walls.

Aelianus was the first man up his ladder and the first man of the Legion to mount the ramparts. He immediately fell to a crouch and drew his Gladius, and stalked behind a roaming sentry. Aelianus covered the Briton's mouth and shoved his sword through the man's back. Five of Aelianus' men mounted the ramparts and followed Aelianus at a crouch.

Oroles and his Thracians placed their ladder against the North Wall and climbed the wooden siege instrument. As Oroles jumped onto the rampart, one of the Britons unknowingly bumped into the Thracian Captain. Oroles plunged his sword through the man's throat before he could speak. Oroles clicked his tongue thrice for the nine other Thracians to scale the wall.

Vitus and his team placed their ladder securely against the West Wall, only stopping to see if they were detected. Vitus volunteered to go first. As quick and silent as a squirrel, Vitus nimbly climbed the rungs of the ladder and softly jumped onto the ramparts. He landed right in front of a roaming sentry unfortunately.

The sentry jumped back in surprise of the phantom figure with an audible yelp. In a swift horizontal motion, Vitus quickly unsheathed his sword and slashed the throat of the bewildered man. The man gurgled loudly and fell forward, but Vitus caught him before his body could make a thud.

The lookouts in the watch tower between the West and South Wall heard the commotion; they sprang forward to peer into the darkness. Vitus' instincts kicked in, he froze like a statue, hearing the faint footsteps of the men in the watchtower. Try as they might, the men could not make out the figures below them, so they called out the slain sentry's name. Vitus' heart began quickening, listening to the foreign language.

After no reply, they called out once more. The two barbarians turned to light a torch but were overtaken by Antonius' Romans who climbed the South Wall and snuck inside the watchtower; thanks to Vitus' unlikely diversion. The Romans whispered an audible "Clear" down to Vitus. The young man breathed easier. With all the teams upon the ramparts; they moved onto the watchtowers and slayed the men stationed there with the silence of serpents.

With their eyes adjusting to the dark, the men could make out several roaming sentries in the courtyard of the fort, unware of the raiding Legion. Vitus gulped, the raid was going swimmingly, he thought to himself.

Unknown to the Romans, the time they chose to initiate the raid was the exact time of the changing of the sentries. Several of the drowsy Britons in the courtyard traversed the stairways onto the ramparts, one of them calling to a watchman in the watchtower.

"Shegurn, you son of a goat, get down here, your shift is over," he shouted loudly in a yawn.

"Silence you fool!" the yawning man's partner said, elbowing him in the arm. "We are to silently replace them. Not wake up the camp."

"Who cares for that? We are leaving tomorrow and—wait, Shegurn always responds to what I say…Shegurn!"

But silence was the only answer the Briton received. The men on the wall held their breath; Vitus closed his eyes and began imagining what the barbarian was saying, and even contemplated replying in gibberish in a hope to copy the Briton language.

"Shegurn! Are you there?" the barbarian stopped halfway up the stairs and looked at his partner. "He does not respond…go alert the others in the courtyard, I fear something has happened."

From the shadows of the ramparts, Aelianus peered below to see the one of the barbarians running backwards in a hurry.

"Give me a spear!" Aelianus demanded in a whisper.

The legionaries gave him the dead sentry's spear, and with impeccable form, Aelianus casted the spear from the walls to the courtyard; penetrating the alerted Briton with great force. The Briton in the stairway heard his partner's corpse crunching against the snow, he ran down and saw the sight—and with terror in his voice he shouted, "We are being attacked! We are under attack! We are under—"

The quick Antonius descended the stairway with his infiltrating legionaries and came behind the alerting barbarian. Antonius struck him across the neck with a flashing hack of his sword, the tendons snapped and the shrieking Brittonic head went tumbling in the snow. But it was too late, the damage was done.

The Britons stood alert and began shouting amongst the camp that they were under attacked. Slowly the courtyard began to fill with groggy Britons who had just awoken from sleep. The infiltrators descended the stairwell from the walls and charged the courtyard with screams of curses. Since stealth had died away, the next best thing to enforce was sheer terror and confusion.

They clashed with great force against the barbarians. The grunts of the fighters and the clanging of steel reverberated in the night. Amidst this violent, darkened rabble, Vitus could hear more screaming Britons rushing the courtyard.

"Get the gates opened now!"

Two Romans ran to the lever mechanism and began operating it with efficiency. A rogue javelin found its mark in one of the Roman gateman, crashing through his back and out his chest.

The caster was Talorc who screamed to his assembling men, "We are being attacked! Wake the fort! Do not allow them to open the gates!" With his order, one of the men blew on a ram's horn.

As quick as a lightning bolt, the fort came alive with activity. The Britons sprang out of the barracks with weapons in hand and charged the infiltrating legionaries. They lit torches all across the fort that broke the blackness covering the area. Vitus, in a way, was thankful for this, now he could see the barbarians; then his thoughts quickly soured, now the barbarianscould see him.

A heavyset barbarian grabbed Vitus from behind and threw him to the snow. Vitus jumped back to his feet but received a hard punch to his face that knocked him down. The heavy Briton drew his sword and brought it down on him, but Vitus blocked it as he stood once more, only to receive another punch to his face that sent him falling to the snow again. Vitus growled with anger. Whilst still on the ground, the young man drove a hard foot to the barbarian's groin, and laughed inwardly as the man hobbled over in pain.

Vitus drove his sword straight through the man's leg, a few inches above his knee. The man fell backwards cursing in his native tongue. Vitus mounted the man and drove his sword through the man's chest. Two men came at him screaming, but were shot down by arrow fire. Vitus looked over his should to see Ardunas and Bulox on the ramparts, nocking new arrows unto their bows.

From his perspective, the young Roman could see that the Roman raiders were holding their ground at the moment, though it might not last for long. With every passing moment, more Britons flooded the courtyard and assaulted the Romans. And without their crucial shields and armor, the Romans' defense would suffer greatly. Two Britons flanked a legionary and drove both their swords through the man's back. A Briton swordsman slashed away at a Roman's chest, easily tearing through the Roman's fur armor. Vitus witnessed a large axeman slam his axe through the back of a Thracian's skull, the Thracian fell limp and crashed into the snow like a fallen tree.

The axeman scoured the courtyard looking for another Roman to kill, until his eyes fell on Aelianus who was mowing down Britons left and right in a combination of grace and brutality. The axeman came charging behind Aelianus—who was too preoccupied with another assailant to notice. Vitus called Aelianus' name, but his voice was lost in the din of the fighting.

The young Julius ran forward into the chaotic fray of battle to intercept the axeman, even killing a Briton without stopping. With the help of the illumination from the torches, Vitus saw a swordsman coming right for him with a mighty swing of his sword. The small, nimble Roman ducked out of the strike, and utilizing a spin to keep his momentum, Vitus sliced the man's stomach open and kept running.

The axeman—only a few feet behind the sole remnant of the Mighty Three—brought his axe back and heaved it over Aelianus. But Vitus arrived and with a clean hack of his sword, chopped the Briton's arm off at the elbow. The wails of the armless man alerted Aelianus, who spun around and drove his Gladius through the Briton's cold heart.

"Gratitude for the assistance, General! You saved my life. But that may not last long. We cannot hold here, we need the Cohorts now!"

"The gate is almost open! We can hold!" Vitus reassured him; he turned to the rest of the men, "Twenty-Eighth! Line up on us! We need to hold this area, do not let the Britons through!"

From the outside of the fort, Proculus and Cossutius waited impatiently as the racket of combat rang from inside the fort. They could hear the ringing steel and the curses and cries of the combatants, but the gate remained halfway open and stayed locked for the longest time. Proculus' imagination began running wild, he began to envision Vitus' untimely demise and how he should have been there with him. Vitus, you little shit, please do not die before we get in there. Please you better not—

The wooden gate began to reopen once more, the scenes of the fighting inside becoming clearer the higher the gate was raised. Cossutius and Proculus drew their swords as the gates reached its apex.

"First Cohort! Second Cohort! Let us take this fucking fort!" Proculus bellowed as he charged forward with the armored legionaries. And like a tidal wave, the legionaries crashed through the open gate and flooded inside the fort, completely overtaking the remnants of the Britons inside. At the end of the raid, 78 Britons were slain, while the Legion suffered 11 wounded and 9 dead—Romans, and 8 wounded and 2 dead—Thracians.

As the men of the Cohorts walked around the "liberated" fort, plunging their swords into the wounded Britons—Vitus took the time to sit in the snow-filled courtyard, and stare at the carnage around him. Endless amount of Briton dead surrounded him, and among the corpses were men of the legion. Eleven men were dead—Vitus shivered at the thought, but it could have been worse, his father told him that in warfare it could always be worse. Men will always die in combat. Vitus had played his part, as did his men, and the objective was captured. Not bad for his first command of the Legion.

To his right, he noticed Proculus ordering the men to scour the fort for any supplies. The younger brother's eyes drifted to his brother's weapons. "You have blood on your sword," Vitus remarked.

Proculus made an attempt to smile, "Very astute. I drove this through a Briton's chest. It felt good." He paused, his eyes trailing the Briton dead that littered the snowy courtyard, "Still; it was not enough to make up Father's demise…"

"I do not believe 50,000 dead Britons would be enough to make up for Father."

"How about their island razed to the ground?"

"That…That would be a start."

"…You did well, brother."

"No, we did well. You and the cohorts came in the fort at the most opportune moment. This is our victory."

Proculus lowered his head and smirked, "Yes…well if we're done stroking each other off, what now?"

"Now? We go after Lugotorix."

A legionary ran forward to the brothers, "Generals, Primus Pilus Cossutius reports that we have captured seven Britons!"

"Have any of them broken tongue?" Proculus asked.

"They have not, they prefer to remain silent and spit."

"Take us to them now."

"At once, Generals."

The man led the brothers to the seven survivors of the raid, kneeling in a line before a crowd of legionaries with their hands bound behind their backs, their sullen faces staring down in the snow in defeat. Unbeknownst to the Romans, the leader of the fort—Talorc—was among the survivors and he stood at the far end of the line. Unlike his comrades who had lost all hope, his face exhibited furious anger directed at everybody around. Anger for his comrades for failing to stop this assault and not being prudent enough in their search, and to have the gall to lie to his face, anger at the Romans to have tricked them, and most of all, he was angry at himself for failing his king's prime directive.

"So these are the unfortunate shits who have fallen to capture?" Proculus said loudly, waltzing in front of the Britons. He gazed into their morose faces and scoffed at the humiliation that decorated their expressions, all except Talorc. He walked up to him and looked at him, Talorc glared with anger.

"What the fuck is your problem?" Proculus sneered in his face. The man was silent.

"Slap him around, General, that'll get him to talk!" some of the men encouraged.

"Listen to me, barbarian, who is in command here? Does he yet live or is he dead? Answer me…I said answer me. Are there more of your kin hiding in the woods like cowards?"

Talorc spat on Proculus' foot and locked eyes with him.

"Oh, I see. You understand what I am saying, do you not?" Proculus asked with a twist of his mouth. Talorc still stared with defiance. "You fucking cock-swallower, answer me! What were your king's other commands to you? Who leads this fort? You best break words to me now! How many more men does your king have? Though we lost the battle at the quarry, I am told we killed many of your kin!" Talorc continued to stare. Proculus leaned in closer, his nose barely touching the Briton's, he growled slowly, "Give me a fucking answer."

Talorc snapped at Proculus with his teeth, but Proculus jumped back before the teeth touched his flesh. Proculus broke the man's nose with a quick boot to the face. Talorc groaned loudly, blood shooting from his nose as he fell back into the snow.

"Fucking savage!" Proculus sneered.

"We shall not get anything out of them, General." Cossutius sighed, "I doubt they know Common Tongue and I know we have no one to speak their language."

"With respect, General, if they are useless, then allow us to put them to grass," a legionary chimed in with several others, cracking their knuckles.

"No." Vitus shouted. "Save your energy. We shall rest in this fort for the night. I need runners to bring the remainder of the Legion inside the fort, now. Once morning assembly is called, we shall disassemble the fort and continue on our trek." Vitus' eyes narrowed with steel at the prisoners. "We can use these prisoners, have them bury our dead. And come morning when we are prepared to leave…crucify them. Use the wood from the fort to do the deed. Show what happens when one humiliates Rome. And if they do speak our tongue, then they shall speak while nailed to the cross."

The men were silent for a moment before grins of malevolence grew on their faces. They saluted with pride and aggressively dragged the prisoners away. Proculus nodded to his brother with a sinister smirk, Vitus nodded back. Proculus grabbed Talorc by the throat and dragged him away. Come dawn, Talorc and his men were nailed to the cross, their ghastly wails echoing across the forest until one-by-one they would fall silent.

"I'll be damned; I did not believe the raid would go as smoothly as it did."

Vitus turned to his side to see the Archer—carrying a torch and snacking on food he found in a tent—looking at him with an arrogant smirk.

"What are you doing there?" Vitus asked.

"I was just observing the spectacle. Crucifixion? You are not fucking around with them."

"After the grievances they inflicted upon us? Of course not. Rome does not forget—"

"—And Rome does not forgive," Ardunas said with the roll of his eyes, "I know, you Romans love repeating yourselves about your vengeance."

Vitus couldn't help but chuckle, he didn't know why. "Ardunas, I—well, gratitude for saving me, even with all my suspicions, gratitude for aiding me. I mean it."

It was hard to tell, but within the flicker of the flame, Vitus believed Ardunas cracked a warm smile.

"Of course, I cannot allow harm to befall my employer. When we heard the fighting, me and my men rushed the ladders to provide support."

"And I expect you want recompense for such deeds."

His face twisted like a mischievous child, "I have not thought of such, but I would not decline such an offer."

Vitus scratched his chin and smiled, "Fine. I shall speak to Oroles and have his men cease as sentries for you and the Gauls."

"Oh, well…um, gratitude for such. But I was expecting something more tangible..."

"You have an entire fort to ransack, there's your tangibility."

Ardunas walked away with a groan, and halfheartedly said, "Sometimes, I regret saving you, Roman."

Vitus couldn't help but laugh. He felt great. The frivolous sensation in his chest was transforming into confidence. He could lead these men. The men who once gave him looks of scorn now saluted him with beaming faces of pride. Aelianus respectfully saluted him and expressed thanks in saving his life. Oroles rustled his hair with remarks of praise. And Antonius patted his back and said how Vitus resembled his father. He proved to them his courage in reclaiming his father's body and the eagle, and now he ascertained his tactical mind to them. Vitus closed his eyes, envisioning his father watching him with approval. But now, it grew serious. The last obstacle of discovery had been dealt with. Now was the time to reclaim his father's honor. Now was the time to march to Samarobriva, it was time for a rematch with Lugotorix.

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