Writer Obscura

TAGS: Present Tense, War Violence, Roman Republic, Celtic Britain, Druids, Serial Fiction, Re-Post

V – The Stour Reeds

Night marches are perilous without a torch or stars.

Scipio and his men ride ahead of the legions until the roar of wind-swept trees replaces the clopping of infantry boots.

Planus drew Fortuna’s lot, putting him and his horsemen behind the columns, minding provisions carts and the camp servants. Titus earned Fortuna’s love; he and his equestrians guard the beachhead.

A wall of reeds appears where the grass ends, its chorus of insects and amphibians cavorting in a desperation that drowns out his thundering heart. Somewhere within the bushy-topped reeds is water, but entering the wetlands tempts death.

Scipio sends his second, Actus, to ride its length.

Actus returns with the word that the reedbed is too long to march around.

No longer avoidable, Scipio and his men dismount and enter the marsh. The deafening toad song ends when they begin hacking at the reeds, and his fear amps when a snake darts past his boot.

“River sign,” comes a shout.

“Occasio be praised,” groans Scipio. “If I walk anymore through this muck, I’ll open a vein.”

Chuckles resound though no man is seen.

Scipio barks the order: “Light up!”

A burning arrow soars into the sky, presenting the finder’s location.

Suddenly, flames rain down, sending hundreds of birds to the wing. Their chaotic retreat blinds Scipio and his men, and an arrow strikes one of his scouts, its once-flaming head steaming as it juts out the man’s neck.

Scipio pulls his shield and holds it over him for protection. His horse cries somewhere behind him, her agitation a beacon that leads him out. Free of the reeds, he comes upon the three men left behind.

Headless, armless, and without legs, someone stacked the trio of bloody torsos up like starter logs, and within their gruesome tent sits a pile of amputated kindling.

A howling woman charges naked from the trees, her skin painted blue and black. She wields a flaming club as if born to it, but Scipio sidesteps her blazing strike and follows through with a sword thrust, cutting the bone under her shoulder.

Two of their horses gallop past, their reigns held by a skeleton that stands upon Scipio’s beast, Luna, as if she were a chariot. Death rides his mare with its head aflame, yet passing close reveals a mere man with white bones painted upon his lean woad-coated body.

Fearless orbs regard Scipio from the eye-holes of a wooden owl mask.

Fiery arrows pluck the ground around him as Actus emerges with two painted warriors on his heels. Howls close in from every direction, painted men and women bleeding from the reeds. Scipio and Actus stand with their backs together and swords swinging until mounted Romans break through the trees.

Vitus leads the charge and dismounts with a sword drawn.

Gaius Trebonius follows, leading his infantry footmen to form an attack line beside the burning reeds. As more Gauls spill from the smoke, his men quickly pair off in a backs-together stance.

Pre-dawn’s light reveals their enemy on higher ground across the narrowest of rivers. Hundreds of painted men and women hurl rocks and spears amidst teeming arrows that lessen in number once the sun peeks on the horizon.

Scipio joins his round shield to the infantry’s rectangular ones and marches blind toward the embankment. Soon, water treads his knees, but he and others gain ground under the dark safety of the shield awning.

Arrows pelt the wood, some poking through the closer they get to the enemy. The leather arm straps grow hot as his shield burns, and smoke robs him of breath. Driven to his knees, Scipio commands the men around him to hold steady and await Planus’s archers.

When a familiar horn blares, they brace themselves.

Roman arrows whip overhead, and the first falling body lands upon his shield, driving him further into the mud. Unable to take any more weight, Scipio stands and sheds his burning shield and the corpses piled upon it.

Planus appears with the engineers and helps them hastily drop rafts of tied-together tree branches atop what remains of the smoking reeds, discarded shields, and burning corpses. The infantry advances over the flat surface with Scipio and Planus among them.

Planus tosses Scipio an extra sword and joins him in double-handed combat until soon, the advancing Romans take control of the fight. Behind the morning sun looms an angry blue sky—a storm whose mightiest moments still rock the coast.

Scipio joins the infantry-charge up the grassy ridge until the sandy crag falls under their boots. They scramble over the enemy’s shallow wooden barriers as grunts, growls, and groans join the gnashing of teeth.

All fight without shields through the enemy trench until multiple horns call for retreat, none Roman.

A tempest clears the smoke and dampens death’s rancid perfume.

Scipio’s armor drips with blood, and entrails blot his sword, but he only thinks about his horse.

Later, after the enemy flees into the trees, he walks a stretch of grassland reserved for the fallen horses, and he thanks Fortuna that his beast isn’t there.

Named for the quarter-moon dark patch between her eyes, Luna, white like the mountain peaks back home, raced alongside the cart that took Scipio to school in Mediolanum as a teen. After making rank, he’d sent for her, and instead of housing her in a meager barracks stall, he kept her in the posh stables of Novum Comum.

Vitus approaches, his bald head slick with sweat and his shirt stained with blood. Scipio comes to attention until a paternal hand finds his shoulder.

“Is she here?” he asks.

“I do not see her,” Scipio replies.

“Vitus,” comes the winded voice of Caesar.

He and his father come to attention, but the exhausted leader waves it off.

“We’ve got a problem,” Caesar says to Vitus.

“What problems?” Scipio pivots his attention between them. “We are victorious this day,”

“Yes, and we’ll camp here,” Caesar says, slapping him on the back.

“We should pursue,” Scipio presses. “Their chariots fled into those woods,”

“Woods, we do not know,” Caesar says, head swinging.

Vitus scoffs. “I mapped this land last year,”

“That’s our problem,” Caesar stands tall and cracks his back. “Your cart is raided.”

Vitus starts. “My maps?”

“All taken,” Caesar tells him. “Along with your private letters.”

“By Jove, how?” wonders Vitus.

“According to the Greek that survived,” Caesar explains. “A blue-skinned Pluto ransacked the cart until he found the maps.”

Scipio turns to them. “He’s no god of death, he’s a man.”

“You saw this painted Gaul?” asks Vitus.

“He took Luna and a couple of other horses.” Scipio frowns. “He wears a stick crown under an owl’s face,”

“Another owl king,” says Vitus.

“With a crown of fire,” Scipio contends.

“There’s no royalty among the druids,” Caesar reminds.

Scipio wonders, “How would he know where the maps are stored?”

“Because he’s clever enough to know a camp slave from a free man,” says Vitus. “Greek is the language of the world, my boy, and some carts were marked with it.”

“We have spies,” says Scipio.

“He took every last scroll,” Caesar adds. “Then burned four carts of grain.”

“Wiley fucker,” Scipio growls. “He’s got Luna!”

---

Downriver, men tired from the fight wash blood from their bodies.

Servants brought from home by the wealthiest in ranks scrub armor and tunics, and those men unwilling to clean shovel latrines while naked while others begin pitching tents.

Across the river, Scipio finds his comrades.

“That storm’s from the sea,” Castor whispers, his blue eyes on the horizon.

“If it’s damaged any ships,” says Planus. “We’ll be forced to return.”

“We must keep going.” Castor turns to Scipio. “I’ll ask your father if I can scout,”

“They’re not far from here,” Scipio nods and then points. “The chariots went through those trees together, so there’s an escape path. Get to it. I give the order.”

Planus rises from the grass. “Castor’s your father’s footman,”

“My father is blind at the moment,” Scipio says. “A druid painted as death took his maps,”

Castor furrows his brow. “The same owl-masked bastard that burned our grain?”

“He also took Luna,” adds Scipio.

A massive goose flock blackens the sky, and shouting draws attention to an approaching horseman. It is Terentius Drusus Valerian, there by order of his superior Titus, and Scipio, Planus, and Castor arrive in time to see Drusus dismount and salute.

After glancing at Castor, the young man informs Caesar that a storm tore through a significant portion of the offshore fleet. Vitus teases that Drusus leads the storm to them—to wit, he apologizes in earnest.

“That’s it then,” says Caesar. “We return to the beach,”

The legates agree, even Vitus.

“They’re not far from here,” Scipio blurts. “Let me lead an archer contingent—”

“—And when you do?” asks Gaius Trebonius.

Scipio answers, “We’ll burn their fort to ashes,”

“In the pouring rain?” Vitus asks, eyeing the sky.

Distant thunder rumbles as Caesar considers the young man’s proposal.

“Please,” Scipio begs. “If we find nothing by sundown, we’ll turn around and rejoin.”

Castor stands by him, eager, as does Drusus.

“What say you, cousin?” Caesar asks his aunt’s youngest son.

Planus folds his arms and huffs a sigh.

“I see no harm in it,” he eyes Scipio. “But no horses and no archers,”

Scipio looks betrayed.

“A group of fifty with swords,” Planus adds, finger raised. “And yes, I will join you.”

A smile spreads across Scipio’s face.

“I don’t think so,” says Caesar. “Even if you catch them unawares, I cannot afford to lose such talented fighters in a skirmish with the defeated.”

“Please,” Scipio pleads.

Caesar regards the tall son of his friend and notices he’s the only man among them, besides himself, who doesn’t jump when thunder rolls loud enough to shake the trees.