Note from Kanuro5: Feels great to write this kind of chapter once more, gets more variety instead of sticking solely with the Legion. Am very excited for the season premiere of Game of Thrones Season 6! Enjoy!
XXXIII
Hammer and Nails
Day 56 of the Campaign
The Outskirts of Samarobriva
Another day, another headache. Segovax stirred from his straw bed, cantankerous that he had to spend another day waiting outside his own city. Segovax exited his tent and in an undignified manner scratched his genitalia in front of his men. He stared at the Green Boar that stood as the sigil for the Gauls and yawned, his breath reeking of wine. Another day, another headache.
His head throbbed in irritation as he glared into the colorless noon day winter sky that loomed above him. He snorted up and spat out some phlegm before deciding to inspect his army. Army? His ancestors would laugh at what they saw. A year ago to the day, he had 12,000 proud warriors under his command, now he had fewer than 400. The damn Romans were the cause of this. He stood at the outskirts of the camp, and a quarter mile away, he could see the village of Samarobriva, Staring at the village for an entire year, he memorized every contour of its wooden palisades, the patched refortified coverings in the walls that the Romans made during their initial siege in which they repaired somewhat once they captured the city, the exact number of huts on the south side that faced the Gauls, and the exact route the Romans would march everyday inside the village.
He could see them all, every day, the Gallic camp stood on a slope that overlooked Samarobriva. In fact, the unique layout of Samarobriva was that it was built in the middle of a valley, the lowest decline whilst surround by hills on every side except for the north, which was flat and extended half a mile until it touched the Channel between the mainland and the Isle of Britons. Segovax watched over and over the legionaries in their purple Senatorial armor, walking around the village, doing every monotonous activity to keep their sanity until they were rescued. He watched them waiting for rescue for months. Segovax smiled, for he held an advantage that the despicable Marcus Maxentius was unaware of, that the rescue force of the Twenty-Eighth Legion would never arrive to save them.
Segovax poured some wine down his gullet and chuckled at the thought. He realized that he had been drinking more often since he heard the news of Lucius' defeat. Was his drinking from joy or from anger? He could not say, all he knew for sure was that he was angry at everything now, even when he should be ecstatic. He wanted to be great, he wanted Gallia to be great once more. The great do not sit around and do nothing.
Lucius has been defeated, the monster that destroyed his people and his uncle, had been defeated; alas not by his hands but by the hands of the mysterious and accursed Britons, the people who Rome never even met on the field of battle before. He fought Marcus' army back with his own when they tried to breakout a week before, by himself, proving that he didn't need any other barbarian tribe to assist him; yet Marcus took out half of his Gallic army in the process. Remarkably unbeknownst to Segovax, out of the Three Barbarian Kings, he himself was the most prideful, even more so than Cunovindus. The Gauls and the Romans shared a special bond in war, for as long as both civilizations remembered, they've been at war with one another past the centuries. Hundreds of thousands, if not millions of casualties fell because of this blood feud between them. When one thought of Rome's enemies, the rest of the world immediately thought Carthage, and Gaul. But now, this generation was on the losing side of this long war. Segovax was the one losing the war, losing all the land that his people once had, and now he faces extinction. But the only victory that was ascertained against the Romans was not even by his hands, but by a foreign people, a people who never knew what it was like to be squeezed beneath a vicious heel and exiled from their lands, they never knew the pain. And it vexed him, terribly.
He had many things to consider once he took back Samarobriva and reestablished the Gallic tribe. The foremost decision was how to kill that boy-fucking Roman Praetor, Marcus Maxentius. Segovax's eyes darted towards the settlement, burning with hatred. He could see several Romans walking around, and lying next to Gallic huts; his people's huts. Fucking coward! If he had the stones to face me alone as a real warrior in front of our armies! If only he had the STONES! Segovax growled and chugged some more wine. That Roman coward hid from him in the village, refusing to meet him on the field of battle. If they had a single contest of strength, oh he would overpower the Praetor and embarrass him in front of the legions. He would have his revenge.
Segovax beseeched the gods above to deliver Marcus into his hands. Oh what he would do with Marcus in his grasp. Placing Marcus as a burnt offering inside a statue of wicker to the gods would be great for morale and could probably win the favors anew from the gods; and yet, it didn't seem quite enough torment for Marcus. Torture was paramount; Marcus would not fade to the afterlife without a scratch on him. What could he do…what could he do…what could h—flaying! Hearing the man's screams as he personally drives a fleshing knife through the Roman's delicate pink skin, and peel. The thought made Segovax squirm in delight, and then another thought entered. Mutilation. Hacking off pieces of him, bit by bit until there's nothing left. Fingers, toes, feet, hands, nipples, lips, tongue, nose, cock, ears, eyes, and then scalp him. Oh the joys to be had. He tasted his wine and entertained a more delicious idea. The Romans are said to consume more wine than any people in the world, let Marcus' death be ironic. Marcus would be held down with his mouth pried open, as he's forced to drink gallons upon gallons of wine. And his stomach expands, and expands, and expands, and expands until he resembles a woman heavy with child; and then you release him. He rolls over to his knees, vomiting all the wine he consumed with childish whimpers and heavy tears, his aching stomach filled to the brim. And then you tie him down on his back and repeatedly jump on his stomach until he bursts. Yes. That would do it. That would show him, that would show those beardless cunts with their Senate not to fuck with the Gau—
"My king!" a Gaul called, running to him. His face was a mixture of uncertainty and fear.
"What do you want?" the Gallic king grumbled.
"I…I am here for…the desertion report."
Segovax growled to himself. Fucking cowards, how dare they. "Break words! How many craven fools fled this time?"
"About forty have fled, my king."
"'Forty'…" he repeated, pressing his teeth tightly against his bottom lip. He threw his empty wine pouch to the ground and ordered another Gaul to fetch him more. He turned to the bearer of bad news and scoffed, "Yesterday, the number stood at thirty. Cowards. All of the—wait, allow me to guess, was it the Osismii?"
"It was, my king. As it were the ones who retreated yesterday, and the day before. At this rate, the army might—"
"Find the Arverni and bring 50 of them to me, now."
The messenger bowed and ran off and brought back the selected number. The king marched towards the Osismii camp with his men behind him, fully aware of what their king had in mind. The Osismii, the thought of these people caused Segovax to spit. The Osismii were known as "the people from afar", simply because their original lands before it was seized by Rome, was in the most northwestern area of Gallia, at the very edge. They were a pathetic people, willing to have other tribes fight for them, Segovax wondered how they lasted so long without being absorbed or destroyed by another tribe. But when the Kingdom of Gallia united, they were brought into the fold, and when Lucius began conquering all of Gallia, the Osismii along with other tribes migrated to Samarobriva. Their warriors were nothing special and hardly shined in battle, their purpose was solely for numbers. Yet Segovax knew that even this purpose does not neglect punishment for desertion. If only he had more true warriors in his small, demoralized army, if only he had more Arverni.
Segovax was of the Arverni, the strongest tribe of all of Gallia, and the most loyal of warriors under Segovax; they represented what was truly glorious in warfare. They currently made up most of his army numbering about 130 hundred strong and would follow him to the ends of the earth if Segovax so commanded him. Then there was the Nervii, known as the Bravest of the Belgae. If the Arverni were what was glorious about war, then the Nervii were what was most brutal of warfare. Ferocious and fearless to the point of insanity, austere in their lifestyle, they swore off luxuries for the simple pleasure of an axe. If only he had more men from these tribes. If only.
He found the lowly tribe huddled by a meagre fire, stirring a pot of beige-colored stew. The Osismii looked up at their king with an expression that Segovax took as a mixture of surprise and scorn. They rose slowly to their feet in his presence; some didn't even bother to stand, opting for a subtle nod. Before he had arrived he could overhear some of them gossip like women about him, saying how he was cursed to fail, cursed by his ancestors. Fuck them. Fuck them all! What the fuck did they know about kingship? They knew not of what they speak of, they knew not the weight of the crown. Segovax wished anyone of these ungrateful shits to wear his crown for one day, so that he may watch how they buckled under the pressure. Only the strong were fit to wear the crown, only the strong! Fuck the rest! He had lost his city for months and he lost his kingdom for a month now, but he was still heralded by his men as king, so he was still strong. Segovax swallowed another mouthful of wine. Fucking cowards, fleeing into the wilderness, questioning his decisions; he didn't need these ewes. The Osismii, he could piss in any gutter and soak ten of them.
"King Segovax," one of the Osismii said, obnoxiously slurping from his stew whilst sitting by the fire. "Is there something you desire from us?" Segovax's face crinkled at the look of the man. His flesh was tinged with an unsettling pasty white, he was noticeably fatter than the other men beside him; how exactly this feat existed in his camp, Segovax could not determine, maybe it was because he kept eating more than the expected portions each tribe received.
"Forty of your kin have fled in the night like craven dogs, and you all seem content with the absence of your numbers. The number that preceded the day before was thirty. I stand with wounded pride that sons of Toutatis would shame themselves and their ancestors in cowardly flight of their duty, and my pride suffers more upon seeing you all, uncaring in such desertion. This leads me to believe that maybe, fifty of you shall desert tonight, or sixty; the number can increase if you possess no burning passion for our cause! So which among you allowed such desertion to take place? Speak!"
Many of the Osismii looked unsure of how to respond to such an accusation, deciding to suck their teeth and keep their eyes to the ground. Several spoke up to Segovax saying how they had no idea that their kin had deserted until the morning and the mornings before as well. Others looked disinterested, as if they were repeatedly scolded by a nagging mother over a trite issue. Then, there were the ones who vocally brushed off the accusation with scoffs and clicking tongues and rolling eyes, the fat Osismii was among them. They were the few, they were the stupid.
"Maybe their 'burning passion' had frozen over in this damn weather," the fat one scoffed as he supped from his soup bowl, "Gods know my balls have."
Segovax lunged forward and grabbed the insolent pig by the back of his long chestnut hair and yanked it downward. The Osismii grunted in pain as his head buckled backwards from the yanking, exposing his meaty throat, in which Segovax hammered at with his heavy fist. The fat man fell on his back, stricken by a horrible fit of coughing and wheezing as he gasped for air. The fellow Osismii who watched their assaulted comrade took several steps back, the Arverni stepping forward with their hands on their swords, glaring at the scum who presided "at the end of the world".
Segovax stood over the wheezing Osismii and repeatedly stomped on him for good measure and sneered with drunken volatility, "You should shut your fucking hole! You ugly little cunt! If you're so cold, how about my boots warm up your flesh?" Segovax punted away at the man's face. "Look at you, you disgust me. How are you so fat and wrinkled? You look like a fucking ballsack!" He kicked him again, the man yelped like a beaten dog. "Your kin fled and then you form the notion to berate me?! Me! I am the King! I am your King! How dare you, you measly fuck! You Osismii shit! How, dare, you!" he emphasized with three more well placed kicks in the man's face.
"Apologies, my king. It was wrong of me to speak as such," he blubbered through a bloody mouth and chipped teeth. Segovax glared daggers at the man and kicked him in the chest, most certainly breaking a rib.
"No! I shall not have it!" Segovax turned to his Arverni and pointed a large finger at the insolent Osismii in the snow, "Strip his eyes from his skull and rip out his tongue! A man as useless as this has no place as a warrior in my army!"
"No, my king! Forgive me, please!" he begged as he coughed. The Arverni took him by the arms and dragged him away in the snow, the man pleading for his king to spare his sight and speech. Segovax turned to the frightened remainder, "Many of you gossip amongst yourselves, speaking of inevitability in restoring Gallia. You fucking cowards! You would turn to embrace the frozen wilderness instead of rebuilding our people? Not I! I shall not be known as "The King Who Lost Gallia", never! As long as I draw breath, our people have a future! I shall restore what Rome has diminished, and it starts with Marcus Maxentius' death! Once we take back Samarobriva, our people can take back our kingdom! We shall not fade from history as a people conquered by Rome! So help me, I'll drag your limp and useless corpses to ensure our future. You can either live and fight with me in glory or die as forsaken worms!"
At the end of his rant, Segovax was panting as if he ran a marathon, his face was a bright pink which accented the wind and snow chills that tattooed his face with white splotches.
"Which tribe was on guard duty last night?" he asked openly to the Arverni.
"The Redones tribe, my king."
"Find the men and place them in chains. Either they slumbered into dreams at their post or conspired with the Osismii. Pursue the truth from them and take their heads."
The Arverni complied and went on their way; the remaining Osismii wore the stares of frightened rabbits and scattered to make themselves useful within the camp.
"My king!" a runner said to him.
Segovax rolled his eyes with a grunt, "What is it now?"
"The Britons, they have returned!"
Segovax followed the runner to meet the returning "heroes", as did many Gauls who heard the approaching Britons. It had been two weeks since they left to battle the Twenty-Eighth and a week since the messenger returned of the Britons victory. In that time, Segovax wondered how Lugotorix would boast of his victory; the Gallic king knew that Cunovindus would be coming returning with a mock triumph to boast how he toppled the Romans, but such a thing might be too auspicious for the Briton. As the Britons came out of the forest and unto the trail, what Segovax witnessed was far above anything he expected.
He distinctly remembered over ten thousand Britons leaving Samarobriva, hardy and impetuous for blood, singing songs as they marched through the snow. But now, a skeleton of the army had returned. Its ranks filled with a phantom quietness, the spirit of the eyes were hollow, and their flesh was pale from the bite of the freezing winds, and yet their march was filled with passion, they were marching strong, not a single hint of fatigue was shown in their movement, but their faces were devoid of emotion. These Britons were a walking contradiction of morale, showing a mixture of superior pride in victory and the desolation of loss in casualties. In the middle of the column was Lugotorix the Bloodyhanded, riding on his stallion in silence, fierce stoicism painted on his face.
"Lugotorix, bless the Gods, you have returned," Segovax said as the king rode towards him.
Lugotorix grunted, his eyes fixated on the ruined village in the background. "Yes, bless the Gods."
"Where is the rest of your army?" Segovax asked, "This small a number cannot stand the remainder?"
"The rest, you ask?" Lugotorix's stare did not leave Samarobriva. He got off his horse and took a few steps past Segovax. He gnashed his teeth at the sight of the pathetic village, his fist clenched hard and he began to growl. Segovax took a step back, he did not know why; he just felt a small sense of danger if he remained close to the Briton king.
"The rest are dining with Woden in the Hall of Heroes. Lucius has seen to it."
The statement sent Segovax shivers.
"A Pyrrhic victory eh, but a victory all the same," he said with a half-made smirk. He thought that such a sentence was profound, but the glare he received from Lugotorix begged to differ.
Lugotorix took out his wine pouch and drank from it with mighty gulps. Segovax decided to continue, "Though they trudged through the snow, I knew the Legion could still put up a fight…"
The Brittonic king removed the pouch from his lips, "Such casualties would not have been sustained if my advice was heeded."
"Do…do you speak of Cunovindus? For that I agree, if he had listened to you, both of your armies would have crushed the Legion. Cunovindus' death at the hands of the Legion was well-deserved for his folly."
"Well-deserved."
"I know you stand victor, but can we seize this advantage of victory over the Praetor with this battered army of yours?"
Lugotorix looked away from Samarobriva and stared into the Gallic ranks. His contempt was evident, "Segovax, even if I possess an army half the number as yours, I shall still emerge the victor over you. We suffered a fatal blow in the attempt, but we've made our point against the Roman legion. Rome is not invincible. My men know that, yours do not. Look at them, none of them have earned a solid victory against the Romans in open combat, all they did was keep the Praetor inside the village as one cages a mad dog. Look at my men, though they are silent and exhausted, you can gaze into their eyes, into the windows of their souls and you shall see that their resolve is as hard as iron. They know victory is assured. As hard as your men fought, they know not of victory. It seems that you have the Praetor still caged. Good. I lost 300 men just returning to Samarobriva to ensure that the Praetor does not break out. Do you know what we had to endure?! We had to walk through a blizzard, and many of our wounded froze to death. We lost 300 on a forced march just to arrive to save you. So do not dare question the mettle of these men again, any one of them is worth ten of your men, do you understand me?"
Segovax bit his lower lip. You Brittonic bastard… Where did he get off speaking down on him like he was an irresponsible child? Segovax wanted to fire back a volley of insults, but held his tongue, much to his chagrin for Lugotorix was right. Speaking with the Osismii proved that Segovax's cause was waning among the tribes. Yet, for whatever it was worth, Segovax was fortunate that this was Lugotorix telling him this instead of Cunovindus. He knew that if Cunovindus was in Lugotorix's position, the Germanic king would be mocking him without any hint of subtlety; his language would be vulgar and filled with disgusting laughter. At least Lugotorix possessed some tact in his insults, but even that thin margin of respect greatly irritated Segovax.
"It must have been quite a battle," Segovax said through his teeth.
"Indeed it was. My men fought valiantly, yet I would be remiss in speaking of how the Romans fought."
"Who cares how they fought, as long as they are dead."
Segovax looked to his waist and drank from his wine pouch, failing to notice the cold, murderous stare of Lugotorix. After finishing his drink, he continued his questions. "And what of the Legion, I know a few of them have escaped. What of them?"
Lugotorix said confidently, "I broke them. They have fled back to Alesia."
"Why didn't you pursue them?"
Lugotorix groaned loudly. He turned sharply to the insolent Gaul, "Because your messenger came with news of a breakout from the Romans in Samarobriva and how you desperately needed us. But as I said, the Legion has fled back to Alesia."
"Are you sure?"
"I am. I sent a hundred men to guard our rear and report back if any sizeable force is spotted. No one has reported back. The Romans have fled."
"What of the Cherusci? Are they yet among your numbers?"
"On the eve of the ambush, I told Biua that once she claims her vengeance with Lucius' sons, she can join us in fighting the Praetor on her own volition; but she starkly refused me. She claimed that once her father was avenged her tribe shall venture off to whatever lands they find."
Segovax rubbed his black hair back and chuckled, "My messenger only spoke of the slain bodies of Romans and Britons intertwined with one another, please provide the…copious details of what occurred in the battle."
This was the first time that Segovax noticed the Briton king give any semblance of a smile since he arrived to Samarobriva. "Certainly. We lured the sons of Lucius away from the Legion, using myself as bait. The Cherusci descended on them, thus luring the Legion out of their camp. While they trudged through snow, they grew tired and we ambushed them on the road, yet they escaped the ambush into a quarry in which we tracked them down and destroyed them."
"T-That's it?" Segovax asked, expecting "copious" details. "How did you lure the Legion out, how was it that easy?"
Lugotorix whistled back to the ranks of his men, and Segovax witnessed a blond man in armor and a blue cape approaching them, Lugotorix explained, "The man that stands before you is of rare renown. He was the instrument that brought the Twenty-Eighth to its knees."
Segovax eyed the man from head to toe, "Truly? How many Romans lives did your sword claim?"
"About eight. But that is not why my king recognizes me. I misled information to Lucius and sent him down the path of destruction. Literally."
"This man stood a spy?" Segovax asked Lugotorix.
"Indeed he was. His tongue has been sharpened like a sword and he aims his words like deadly arrows. This man's original purpose was to blend into Alesia to discover what lies beyond the great city, but he took initiative and blended himself effortlessly within the ranks of the Legion, befriending Lucius' son and ultimately Lucius, and then plunging them superbly into our trap."
Lugotorix was tempted in revealing to Segovax the true nature of Briton spies, but he decided it best to keep it hidden from the Gauls.
"If only I had loyal men like you," Segovax said with a jolly chuckle.
Cassius smirked, "There are few men like me with my talents, but there exists even fewer men who know how to greatly exploit such talents for the future," he said, glancing at Lugotorix.
"You are wearing armor, the make is Roman…where did—"
"This is Lucius Julius' own armor that my king saw fit to bestow upon me as a laurel in battle. Lucius didn't need it anymore, so I am more than happy to take it."
"You truly deserve such a trophy; I pray that more of these trophies shall present themselves when we fight against the Praetor."
"Such a day shall arise, sooner than you think." Lugotorix said. "We have seized Roman siege weapons, their 'onagers', and with it, we shall rain death upon the Praetor who hides behind his thin walls."
"You've gained siege weapons? Outstanding!" Segovax looked around to spot them. "Where are they?"
"They are quite large and bulky, and pushy it through the snow is quite demanding. My men are pushing it, but they shall arrive within half a day."
"And then we attack the Romans?" he asked, his face twisted in childlike mischief.
"Only then."
"Good, but listen well, Lugotorix. I demand a condition!" Segovax said with a raised voice.
Lugotorix was about to scowl. You drunken Gaul. How dare you make demands of me! But he reeled it back before Segovax noticed. "What condition would that be?"
"I demand I be the first one to enter my city. It belongs to the Gauls and we shall be the ones to take the first step into the city."
Lugotorix did not say a word, his frustrating glare lingering on the impoverished king. Ermanar was more vocal. "You still hold fortune of clinging to life. If it was not for us, the Romans would have slaughtered your meagre army! Your demands are piss in the wind! We Britons shall—"
"Fine. You shall have that honor." Lugotorix said.
"Gratitude. As man to man, you have great wisdom in such a decision. But as a king to another king, I would govern my men with more accord," Segovax sneered, his eyes fixed on Ermanar. "It speaks volumes of your leadership when your men speak out of turn."
Ermanar gritted his teeth, lurching forward to the Gallic monarch. But Lugotorix's stopped him by placing his heavy hand on his Captain's shoulder. "Ermanar, is only moved by passion and frustration of the past days. Please forgive him. Yet at the same time, I would chose words balanced with delicateness and intelligence when you speak about my Captain, especially in my presence. For I failed to mention a detail of most import, 'twas my Captain, Ermanar, who personally killed Lucius. He drove his chariot through the Roman and with his scythed-wheels, bisected the General. Our victory is due to him."
Segovax uttered a soft curse to himself. He remembered how a bounty of land, livestock, and weapons was once offered to whoever provided the head of Lucius Julius. And now this brave yet insolent Briton was the man who personally killed one of the most hated Romans to all of Gallia. The gods truly had a strange sense of humor.
"Your name is 'Ermanar', correct?"
"It is."
Segovax sighed but made a sincere face, "Gratitude for ending this vile villain, you cannot fathom how many Gauls wanted to hear of this man's demise, and now you and your kin have finally brought the closure that we sought."
"But of course, how could I forget." Lugotorix expressed, with a grating laugh, "I hold a gift that would bring a larger sense of closure to you and your kin. I bestow this gift as a notion of good faith in tethering the fragmented relations between our people."
Segovax couldn't help but smile. "The gift of your army's return and the death of Julius' Legion is enough for me. But…there exists more?"
"One that any man worthy to call himself a Gaul could enjoy," Lugotorix ensured.
The king nodded to Cassius, who in turned whistled to some other men. A Briton came by carrying a bag in his hands. The man handed Segovax the bag. The weight of the burlap bag was moderate and Segovax hesitated to open it, but the eager looks of the Britons around him was something he could not resist. Segovax opened the bag and examined it in complete, revered silence.
Lugotorix cleared his throat and stroked his beard with a smile, "It pleases me that the frost of the air and a dust of preserve have decelerated the decay. I thought it most appropriate to give this to you. For behold, here is the head of Lucius Julius the Mighty!"
Segovax trembled before the head. He was short of breath, but large of joy. He held it delicately and stared into the pale, glazed eyes of the Roman; trying with futility to establish a connection with the man who had destroyed his people. He searched in the eyes, hoping to see any details of suffering; to ensure that he had suffered just as how Segovax had suffered in his ineffectual war against him. He had never laid eyes upon Lucius, but now he finally knew what the bastard looked like, he looked like a wrinkled man in his 40s with a protruding, disgusting scar that ran down his nose and past his thick blond beard; he looked like the monster his people gossiped about.
The Gallic King cackled lowly. He held the "Bane of the Gauls" in his hands, a name in which his people bestowed on him after his victory at the Lucretian Bridge. The battle, that robbed the former Gallic King, Agracingetorix—Segovax's own uncle—of his life. Segovax remembered that day that forever haunted him. He was wounded in the leg in a previous engagement with the Romans and rested at a village to heal. He desperately wanted to fight by his uncle's side, his pride as the Heir to the Gallic Kingdom demanded him to fight, but his uncle ordered him to rest and heal. Agracingetorix promised him that once he invaded Italia, he would take his young nephew to the steps of Rome once he returned; but alas, he never returned. The only thing that did return was news of their Crushing Defeat. 16,000 Gauls were defeated in a course of three days by the Twenty-Eighth Legion, and his uncle Agracingetorix died of his wounds sustained on the battlefield. Such was the day where he became king, such was the day he became the ruler of a dying kingdom. Lucius would then ravage the Gallic kingdom for the next two years, before finally ceasing—the reason for the sudden stoppage was unknown to Segovax, but he blessed it—and for five years, Lucius did not wage an offensive war with the Gauls, until now. But those five years, Segovax had to endure constant civil strife among the tribes debating on how to survive, some even threatening to revolt against him, but then came Lugotorix with his crazy Brittonic schemes to get back at Rome, schemes that have borne delectable fruit that he now held in his hands.
"A-A-A-A—" Segovax stammered before his tongue caught up to his brain. "A gesture most unexpected, bu-but much appreciated!"
Lugotorix walked up to Segovax and patted him on the shoulder, "I thought such would please you, he has inflicted the greatest insult towards you and your people, and I see fit to bestow this trophy towards you."
"You are too kind, you could have kept the head but instead you gift it to me."
"Do not fret; we still have scores of more Roman heads to demoralize Marcus Maxentius' legions with." Ermanar explained. "We lopped off many heads from the dead Romans' shoulders. We plan to place them in the catapults and lobbed them into Samarobriva." He laughed. "The Romans shall shit themselves."
Segovax laughed heartily. "Indeed they shall." He turned to Lugotorix with a grin of wile on his face, "How do you do it, Lugotorix? How do you constantly achieve this? You must have the blessings of Taranis bestowed upon you. You implemented a spy to bring down a legion, you had your captain personally kill Lucius Julius, and you tricked the Cherusci in fighting for us. I often believed that your name "the Bloodyhanded" was bestowed on you for personally killing your enemies. But I see that is not true, no disrespect, Lugotorix."
The Briton stroked his beard and starred at his opened hands. "You would think that I won this moniker for bathing my hands in the blood of my enemies that I had personally slain." He closed his hands. "But alas that is not true. I take pride in refraining from the simple joys of killing with my hands. No, the greatest pleasures come from forcing others to kill for you. We Britons prize cunning over strength; any man can swing an axe, but a mindful warrior chooses where to aim. I know where to aim; I know how to ensure death in others. Personal killings have its joys, yet if I could kill others with my mind, the world would be an emptier place."
"You sound like a weak ruler, elevating yourself above your kin and employing others to kill for you, you sound like a Roman." Segovax laughed, in which to him, the laugh was in a joking manner.
The Britons who surrounded their king remained silent, eyeing Lugotorix with concern. Yet the king remained composed, his face betraying no emotion. He simply stared at the Gallic banners, the Green Boar, and chuckled at Segovax's statement.
"You believe so? That I share the blood of those clean-shaven, hubris-filled toga wearers?" Lugotorix approached Segovax, his voice a somber whisper, "I only get my hands bloody when I really, really want to do it myself. Like, stepping on the neck of pigs, who grew too haughty for their station."
Segovax shrugged and stared simply at Lucius' head, "It matters not on who you step, we have gained the head of Lucius Julius! I must take a leave and show my men this; their spirits shall be raised upon seeing this treasure."
The entranced Gaul left the presence of the Britons to reinvigorate his men. Cassius spat on his trail.
"Preening Gallic fuck," Cassius slurred.
"A sentiment most shared," Lugotorix nodded. "Yet he volunteered to charge forth into Samarobriva, rushing headlong into a wounded wolf's jaw, and I would see that he destroys himself in such an attempt."
"Poor sod, doesn't he realize that the caged wolf bites deepest?" Ermanar proposed open-endedly.
"Wisdom has never been a trait of the Gauls, this last generation of them has proven that. All they care about is their pride, Segovax believes himself a God in the making, rising from the ashes of the fallen to reclaim lost glories. But he fails to see that the Age of the Gauls has long passed him," Lugotorix looked on Ermanar and Cassius warmly, "The Age of the Britons shall begin upon their downfall."
"And I long wait for it." Ermanar smiled.
"With respect, my king, we should have brought Lucius' real head, instead of sending it back to Alesia. Why give it to the Romans instead of keeping it?"
Lugotorix looked over towards Cassius, and the spy trembled at his gaze. "Listen well, the Gauls have been at war with Rome for centuries, their feat of sacking Rome was ages ago, Lucius conquered Gallia within 14 years and the Gauls never earned a victory against him. I defeated Lucius in our first encounter a week ago. Do you truly believe that Segovax deserves Lucius' head as a trophy? Besides, the Gauls cannot tell the difference of which head we give them, and they shall parade the head in front of Samarobriva, the Romans shall still lose morale at the sight of the head of their people. But…but I know such an answer is not what you seek. I hold an odd respect for this man. Not only was he the toughest adversary I have ever faced in battle, but he inadvertently aided us Britons to thrive on the mainland."
Ermanar spoke up, his face wrinkled in confusion. "What? My king, how did he 'aid' us?"
"He did not aid us directly. He destroyed the Kingdom of Gallia and weakened the Germanians to the point of repeated infighting. He made them so desperate that they had to resort to an alliance with us. He was the thorn in their eye, leaving them blind in one eye and with the other set to deadly ire in front of them, not able to see us work behind the scenes. Ye, Lucius has done more for us than any other barbarian tribe, he deserves more respect than be given to these fattened boars, or kept by us. He deserves more."
"Maybe, you read too much into those circumstances, my king." Cassius said.
"Perhaps.
"Someone approaches from the south!" a cry went out.
"They resemble the Romans!" the sentry announced.
"To arms! To arms!" Segovax screamed.
Segovax turned to Lugotorix. "Impossible…" the Briton said.
"Wait, they're not Roman but they're some sort of heavy infantry—I-I—"
"Speak sense, what do you see!" Segovax demanded.
"They're wearing armor, but are waving the banner of the Britons!"
"The Swordsmen…" Lugotorix exclaimed in a hushed whisper.
"What?" Segovax asked.
"Lower your weapons!" the Brittonic king ordered the Gauls. "They are allies!"
"Do as he says," Segovax added before turning back to Lugotorix, "Who are they?"
"They're the Chosen Swordsmen. The finest warriors of the Briton Isles. The elite of the elite! And they have arrived! Simply put, the Germanians had their tier of great warriors. The Germanians have their Berserkers, while we Britons have our Chosen Swordsmen."
Segovax stood in an envy-filled awe as these proclaimed "elite warriors" marched into the Gallic camp. They were about 100 in number, each man possessing a face of gruffness that could rival a bear. They were well equipped with the finest swords that Segovax had witnessed smiths can make, and large oval shields that were stronger than standard wicker. What drew the king's attention—along with all the Gauls—was that these Brittonic barbarians were wearing armor. On their torsos, the Swordsmen all wore mail armor that were linked by chains that draped downwards to their waist in a bizarre uniform crispness. Their mannerisms, their discipline, their weaponry and armor, the Gauls reeled back in shock and inferiority. They seemed foreign—they seemed Roman.
"What do you gauge of my men?" Lugotorix asked, his face fighting hard to stop an impending childish smile.
Segovax glanced at his own men, and did not answer.
The Chosen Swordsmen bowed before Lugotorix, the leader of the Swordsmen presented his sword to him, "My king," he said, "If it pleases you, we have been sent by the Prince to reinforce your army."
Murmurs of the Brittonic Prince filled the crowd of onlookers, Gauls and Britons alike. But Segovax could witness a glow of pride on Lugotorix's face. He began chuckling loudly and patted the leader of the Swordsmen on the shoulder.
"Rise," he commanded, and the elite Britons did as he commanded. Lugotorix's eyes went to the sky, his mind drifting back fondly to the image of his son, "My son, always thinking one step ahead. He sends me the best of men to send!"
"B-But how did he send these men to you?" Segovax asked.
The Britons exchanged looks with one another and broke out into laughter. Ermanar decided to speak, "Really? You question how? Across the strait, of course! From where Samarobriva is to the southernmost port of the Brittonic Isle, the strait is only 20 miles long. We can see the mainland from our island. Do you forget such facts?"
"Yet it takes time to scrounge up a sizable force from all the tribes," Lugotorix explained, "But when such a force is created, with a favorable wind, we can sail an army across the ocean within a day or two." The king turned back to his elite warriors, "My son truly has sent me a great gift."
"If it pleases my king," the Swordsman continued, "the Prince has also sent a message for your ears alone."
The Swordsman leaned into the Briton's ear and whispered the Prince's message. Segovax stood silently and studied the Swordsman's mouth in a futile effort to see what he was saying. As the Swordsman finished, Segovax could see the illumination of surprise in the eyes of Lugotorix. The Briton king starred at Segovax for a moment before a smile crept on his face, followed by laughter and ended by a sigh.
"My son," Lugotorix said. "Oh my son…"
"What is such news that causes laughter?" Segovax asked.
Lugotorix held a long gaze at Segovax before answering, "My son. He…well…" Lugotorix laughed once more and looked out at Samarobriva, "All this trouble for that little village, how many lives were lost just to capture and hold that village? Barbarians and Romans lives alike. How many? It doesn't even look that glorious to be honest, the walls are falling apart, disease is probably running rampant within, it's a pathetic eyesore and yet many men have died and will die for it. But it shall end soon Segovax. It shall come to an end. You see, Segovax, you and I…we are just holding the nail in place. But my son, he is bringing the hammer."
Last month, I was given the position of an Elementary Teacher, and because of this commitment I will most likely be updating chapters at a slower rate. I'll try my best to update as best I can, but it probably won't happen as often as I would like.
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