Fallen Legion

by David Thompson

  Prologue

  Line after line of Roman soldiers stood upon the plain of Agrippinensis, their formations precise and well-ordered, specifically arrayed to give the impression of an invincible fighting force. Standing behind all the heavily armed and armoured lines of soldiers on a gently rising slope which gave a perfect view of the entire battlefield was a large tent, home to the Military Tribunes and Legion Commanders. In front of the tent stood a man who would have seemed almost entirely unremarkable if not for the impressive armour and purple cloak which adorned him, signifying his rank as the General in command of the assembled army. A cold breeze ruffled the shock of neatly trimmed black hair atop the General's head. The cold air forced him to narrow his piercing blue eyes as he gazed down upon the soldiers before him. An intricately decorated short sword hung in its scabbard at his side, swaying delicately in the breeze. Every puff of his breath hung in the air for a moment as a translucent cloud of mist, a visible representation of the chill which permeated every square inch of the land. Germania Inferior was not a pleasant province in the early stages of winter.

  Satisfied with his inspection of the soldiers, the General turned on his heel and strode confidently into the command tent. No sooner had he passed through the heavy cloth flaps and entered the considerably warmer structure than one of the Tribunes scuttled to his side.

  "General Ulpius," the Tribune said in an ingratiating voice, "we have prepared your orders for the troops and are prepared to send them to the Centurions upon your request."

  "Have we heard from the scouts yet?" General Ulpius asked, trying in vain to hide his contempt for the weasly young Tribune. The General had little respect for the Tribunes - often, they were nothing more than privileged boys using the position as a stepping-stone to senatorial positions back in the comfort of Rome. He, on the other hand, was a soldier born from a long line of soldiers, trained from childhood to be a mighty warrior. While the Tribunes had cushy administrative positions handed to them, it was only through the blood and sweat of his unending toil that he had been able to earn the favour of the province's Governor, and thus the command of the provincial legions. Even the Emperor had once praised Marcus for his skill in battle - an honour which few others could claim.

  "I'm sorry , sir," the Tribune wheedled, "but we have not heard from our scouts yet. It is, of course, possible that they were intercepted and killed by the Sicambrii army - in such a case, it would be foolish to delay giving orders to the troops."

  "It's just as possible that they haven't reported back yet because they haven't found the Sicambrii army," General Ulpius snapped back. "And if I give my men orders to hold their ground against an enemy attack, only to find out hours from now that the Sicambrii have turned back or somehow circumvented our position, it will take hours to straighten out the mess - provided we were able to catch up with the Sicambrii forces before they reach Cologne. I will not take such a foolish chance."

  The Sicambrii were one of the tribes of roaming barbarians who made their home in the province of Germania Inferior. Up until recently, they had been one of the least aggressive tribes in the region, fighting only in retaliation for Roman encroachment on their perceived territory. As of late, however, rumours had begun to circulate that the tribe was concentrating their forces from all over the province under the command of a group of renegade Roman citizens. The sighting of a large group of armed Sicambrii marching towards the provincial capital of Cologne had sparked an immediate reaction only three days earlier, forcing General Ulpius to rally the provincial legions and fortify their position at Agrippinensis in expectation of a Sicambrii attack.

  "You'd best listen to him," said a booming voice from behind General Ulpius, accompanying a freezing draft as the tent flaps were pulled open. "Marcus knows what he's doing."

  "Governor Ceresius," General Ulpius said with a slight smile as he turned to face the new arrival. "I was not expecting you here. I was lead to believe that you would be remaining in Cologne while we take care of this minor issue with the Sicambrii."

  "Are you objecting to my presence?" The Governor's tone was jovial, but it was undercut by the unspoken question: are you challenging my authority?

  "Not at all," General Ulpius replied. "In fact, I welcome it - sit back and enjoy what you are about to witness, Governor. The battle will be a decisive display of the Roman superiority over the heathen hordes, and will be well worth remembering."

  "Actually," Governor Ceresius said, placing his arm around Marcus' shoulder, "I'm not here to observe."

  "Then may I ask why you are here, Governor?" Marcus winced internally; he knew the answer to his question already, but hoped that the Governor would surprise him and allay his fears.

  "You are right when you say that this is a battle which will be worth remembering," Governor Ceresius said. "The triumph over the barbarians will be one which will be sung of even as far away as Rome, with the same hushed reverence usually reserved for discussion of Emperor Trajan's conquests.

  "But I digress. I have decided to invoke my authority of command as Governor of this province. I will be the one who leads our legions into battle."

  "Governor, with all due respect -" Marcus said. His heart sank down into his stomach - the apprehension which had settled deep inside of him suddenly flared to life.

  "I will accept no arguments in this matter," Governor Ceresius interrupted. "My mind is settled, and the issue is decided. I have prepared orders for your men, Marcus. I expect that they will be carried out to the letter."

  "Governor Ceresius, I must protest. With the utmost respect and deference to your civil authority, you have never commanded an army before. While I fully trust that your orders and tactics will undoubtedly be sound and well-advised, I must nonetheless request that you abandon this course of action."

  "Do you forget my own military experience, General? Unless your mind is getting clouded in your old age, you should remember that I served honourably as a Tribune on many glorious conquest in my younger days. Now stand aside, General. Join your men if you feel the need to be involved in the battle, but your commands will be superceded by my own."

  "Sir," a breaking young voice came from the entrance to the tent. A breathless young man, still in the grips of adolescence and barely able to fit into the military uniform which hung from his body, stood panting just inside the tent's door-flap. "The Sicambrii have been spotted. They will be upon us almost immediately!"

  "Dispatch these orders to the Centurions," Governor Ceresius said, handing the young man a leather bag filled with scrolls. "Ensure that they are followed to the letter."

  "Of course, Governor," the young man said, taking the bag with a bow. He rushed out of the tent to obey his orders. As the tent flaps swung open with his egress, a cheer came up from the front lines of the army. General Ulpius glanced at Govenor Ceresius impudently before leaving the tent to discover the cause of the cheers. It took very little time to find the cause of the noise - the first Sicambrii soldiers could be spotted on the opposite end of the plain, even from great distance which seperated them from the Roman army.

  "Here they come," Governor Ceresius said gleefully. His glee was cut short as the trickle of Sicambrii soldiers churning onto the battlefield became a flow, until the entire opposite side of the plain was rapidly lost under the stomping of Sicambrii boots.

  "Here they come indeed," General Ulpius said gravely. "I hope for the sake of our people that your orders are sound, Governor. I shudder to think of the consequences if we should lose this battle."

  "We shall not lose," General Ceresius said with a dismissive wave of his hand. "Our forces are invincible. Trust me, my friend, and we shall soon be relaxing in the warmth and comfort of my mansion, laughing at the pathetic antics of and these petty ba
rbarians."

  Chapter I

  Marcus Ulpius sat at a table, staring down into his glass of cheap wine. He was not a physically imposing man, but rather the contrary. A shock of unruly black hair sat atop an almost entirely unremarkable blue eyed face, which rested upon a lightweight body of average height. Looking at him, one would be tempted to write him off as a nothing, a nobody. Today, that assessment wasn’t entirely inaccurate - he certainly wasn't the clean-cut, carefully groomed soldier that he had once been. A thick layer of stubble covered his cheeks and chin, and an unpleasant odour wafted from his body. Even his clothing was tattered and dirty, from his threadbare grey tunic down to a pair of pants held together by little more than Jupiter’s blessing. There was not a single thing about Marcus that even hinted at the fact he had once been a great man, renowned through all of the Roman Empire. He looked filthy. He looked disgusting. He looked weak. Looks, however, can be deceiving.

  The Squealing Weaselwas much like any other tavern in Xanten. So far removed from the heart of the Empire, few establishments could boast of any real civility or amenities. Smoke clouded every corner of the tavern’s main hall, and the smell which pervaded throughout was a sickly combination of cheap wine and unwashed bodies. To say that fights were common would be a gross understatement; indeed, scarcely a night went by when there wasn’t at least a handful of minor skirmishes, and it wasn’t rare to see seriously wounded patrons being thrown out on the street by the bartender. Tonight, the entire tavern was on edge. It had been quiet all night - not a single fight had taken place. Approximately thirty patrons were scattered throughout the hall (which was only large enough to accommodate fifty men without being overcrowded), most lost in alcohol induced stupors. This was a good place to come when you had to drown your sorrows, or at least needed to hide from them for a while.

  The night’s peace was suddenly disturbed when an extremely inebriated patron stumbled into Marcus’ table, jostling it hard enough to send Marcus’ drink square into his lap. Marcus leapt to his feet, shoving the drunkard backward in the same movement.

  “Blasted fool, watch where you’re going!”, he spat angrily.

  “My apologies,” the drunk slurred, “But I think the table moved…hey…I know you! You’re that sot…oh, what’s the name…Ulpius!”

  A shiver ran down Marcus’ spine. Being recognized was never a good sign. He was not a well liked man in Germania Inferior since the Battle of Agrippinensis. His reputation had taken a steep dive shortly after that fateful day. People blamed him for the defeat, rather than placing the blame with Governor Ceresius. They said that Marcus should have known better than to allow a civilian to command an army.

  “No,” he said, “You must have me mistaken for someone else. I apologize for yelling at you. I’ll just be on my way now.”

  “You are him, aren’t you! You bloody spineless coward! Mangy whore-monger! You led my brother’s legion at Agrippensis…you got him killed.”

  Marcus winced. The drunkard seemed to be sobering up in a hurry now, slurring fewer words and standing in a decidedly hostile stance.

  “I have no quarrel with you,” Marcus said quietly. “Move on, and let this quarrel go. No good will come of this, I assure you.”

  “The hell it won’t! Someone should have put you down long ago, like the blasted cur you are! First you run two full legions of men headlong into their deaths, and then run away like a coward…You’re no more than a traitor.”

  That was enough. The mere mention of the word “traitor” motivated Marcus to action. With a fierce cry, he lunged forward at the man, swinging his fists in rage. A soldier never forgets his training, and Marcus was no exception. Even with a brain half addled by drink, he landed his blows quickly and accurately. First his left fist smashed the man’s nose, and then his right came down onto the man’s temple. While the drunkard staggered backwards a step, Marcus’ right hand arced upwards again, this time connecting with the man’s chin. In the blink of an eye, his body collapsed into a heap on the floor, blood gushing out of his nose.

  Memories came flooding back to Marcus as he watched his opponent drop to the ground. Time seemed to slow to a crawl as he was lost in a deluge of mental images: formation drills in the Empire's capital, his drill instructor red-faced and screaming out the proper instructions for weapon drills, days on end spent fighting in hazy battlefield, choking on the acrid fumes of massive barrels of burning oil, and grand ceremonies to commemorate his victories. That was all gone now, the memories no more substantial than the smoke which filled the tavern. This is my life,Marcus thought bitterly. Supreme warrior of the bar-room brawl. The great cautionary tale, the fallen General.

  Marcus sighed sadly as he stepped over the drunk’s fallen body. Events always unfolded this way when he was recognized: shock, then anger, and then the inevitable violence. Forget the fact that he’d been a damned good soldier for over fifteen years, and that he had led the Legion 1 Minervia for a further two years before being appointed General of both of the province's legions. Forget that he was a brilliant tactician from a long line of brilliant tacticians and warriors. Forget that he was, and always had been, loyal to the Empire. In the blink of an eye, all of that reputation was wiped away.

  More than just my reputation,Marcus reflected, my entire life. I was a hero once. Now I’m nothing – a slovenly drunk in a tavern full of other drunks, with nothing to distinguish myself from the masses. I lived my life as a hero, and now I’m going to die a traitor…and all because of that son of a bitch.

  The son of a bitch that was the target of so much of Marcus’ hatred was a man by the name of Julianus Vestatian. Several years ago, Julianus had held a position of some influence in the governance of the province of Germania Inferior. He had been a Praetor, second in command of the province’s civil affairs. Marcus, on the other hand, had been the Dux Legatus Legionis, or Commander-General, of the provincial armies of Germania Inferior – a position which gave him complete control over the province’s military might; over ten thousand soldiers had lived or died at Marcus’ whim. While the two men had held positions of arguably comparably power and influence over their respective domains, Marcus had chosen to use his influence wisely. Julianus, however, had not.

  Enough thinking of the past,Marcus thought as he approached the bar and ordered another drink. I came here to get drunk, and that’s exactly what I plan to do.

  ***

  It was several hours later when Marcus finally stumbled out of the tavern, so drunk that he could scarcely stand. The rest of the night had gone largely without incident; bouncers had carried the body of the man Marcus had fought with out the door, and nobody else had dared approach him. Now, drunk and alone, he had no higher aspiration than to find his way home – or at least to find a comfortable alley to pass out in.

  I should be in Rome right now,Marcus thought in that disjointed, semi-random way that bitter drunks think in the twilight hours, retiring to some comfortable senatorial position, with Lucia at my side. Instead I’m here, defeated and dishonoured, and she…

  For better or worse, Marcus never had a chance to finish that particular thought. As he passed a particularly dark alley, a pair of hands grabbed him and pulled him inside. In the dim light Marcus’ blurred vision was barely able to perceive the familiar face of the man he had fought with earlier and two other shadowy figures before the blinding pain of a kick to the groin knocked him off his feet. Before Marcus knew what was happening, he was being assailed from all sides, unable to stand under the rain of blows. Before he sunk into the welcoming embrace of unconsciousness a single thought came to him: by Bacchus, this just isn’t worth it.

  Chapter II

  “Close your ranks! Break their columns! Don’t stop until Pluto claims either them or you!” Marcus’ voice boomed across the battlefield, and swarms of soldiers reacted to his call. The plain of Agrippinensis was chaotic - spears, swords, and shields clashed together violently, combining with the screams of dying and wounded men to form a cac
ophonous symphony. In the midst of all this chaos, Marcus stood resplendent as a bastion of order; his black and purple cape flowed around him, billowing around a suit of highly polished banded armour as he strode back and forth across the battlefield, gesturing his orders towards the various Cohorts in front of him. The units responded to him as best they could, wheeling about to face their enemies just as they were directed.

  The plain of Agrippinensis was a vast, open field flanked on the east and west sides by dense forests. Normally a tranquil pastoral setting, the plain had seen better days than today. Dark clouds covered the sky, and a fine mist drizzled down upon the combatants trampling the lush grass which covered the plain, forcing the nearly thirty thousand men to fight for their lives in mud and muck. Two full legions of Roman soldiers - over ten thousand men in all - fought in neat columns against a horde of nearly twice as many Sicambrii tribesmen lead by traitorous Romans.

  They fight in loose, sloppy excuses for formations,Marcus thought, but their sheer numbers are wearing us down.

  Reacting to a horrifying scream to his left, Marcus whirled just in time to see a half dozen barbarians cutting a swath through a nearby formation, rushing directly at him. With a primal scream ripped from the very depths of his soul, Marcus charged straight at the men, intent on slaughtering them all. After closing the gap between them, Marcus thrust his sword at the closest. The tip of his short sword entered the man’s throat at the jugular, piercing straight through the neck and nearly cutting his head clean off. Before the first kill’s body had even a chance to fall to the ground, Marcus had reversed the trajectory of the blade, swinging away from the dead man and slashing deep into the shoulder of the next barbarian. As Marcus’ blade bit deep into flesh, a spray of blood erupted from the wound, covering him in a fine red drizzle. Before he could pull his blade out of the wound it had created, Marcus felt a terrible flash of pain in his chest. Looking down, he saw the head of a spear protruding from his armour, having pierced straight through his back and out the other side. Oh, damn, was the only thought Marcus could register before the pain of a second spear piercing his side drove him to his knees. Agony overwhelmed him as the world faded to black.