The centurion, Marcus Aurellius Paullus, was not a having a good day. He should have been ecstatic. The eighty men of his century were joyous. This was the first day in three weeks without the bone chilling rain that made each step a battle with the clinging mire. The anemic northern sun had actually managed to burn off the omnipresent fog before noon. The men marched, they joked, they even sang at times. They didn't know how lost they were.
Paullus did. At thirty-five, he was the youngest centurion in the legion, maybe the youngest in any legion. Somehow his men had confidence in him, though that would change when he forced them to make camp with the fort still nowhere in sight. The men said he was lucky, that may have been true. Mithra knows how many battles he and his men have walked out of unscathed, surrounded by heaps of dying Celts. They slashed through the land of the Britons, a swath of destruction behind them. Subjugating tribe after tribe. No power in that land could face them.
But Claudius wanted more: bloody Claudius. He could have stopped at the inner sea, but his greed forced his men into this hell of dark fens and foot-sucking moors. And now they were lost. Lost in the land of the half mad Eirish savages. Just as he was about to turn from praying to Fortuna to cursing her for a fickle whore, a faint pillar of smoke rose in the distance.
His men approached cautiously, fearing ambush. What they saw amazed them. A small gathering of thatched roof houses surrounded an opened central patch of beaten earth. All the people of the village, and much of another must have been gathered in this space. At least a hundred grown men: his soldier's eye assessed them first. Maybe half again that number of women: a man no less than a soldier. The children and old people were irrelevant to his calculations.
He called back for Getorix, a legionnaire, recruited from the Nervi in northern Gaul, distant kin to these Celts.
"What festival is this, what God do they placate"
"None Sir, this is naught but a simple marriage" He replied, pointing out the bride.
Paullus' eyes followed the out stretched hand. His breath caught in his throat as he found her. He had tumbled his share of these fair northern wenches, but this one seemed beyond compare. Her hair, fair even for a Celt, was drawn back in a pair of long tight braids. Her head was crowned with garlands of wild flowers. The blue and scarlet blossoms stood out against her golden tresses. Before her, an elderly man in white robes stood holding a sprig of holly and Oak...a Druid. He had memories of the resistance these shadowy figures cobbled together in Briton. They were trouble.
She stood in a stiff white robe of her own, thoroughly concealing her youthful figure. Her presumptive husband, in the same, was by her side. The vibrant colors of the garland in his hair did nothing to conceal the gray. This man could as easily have been her father as her betrothed.
"Maybe she will thank me"
"Excuse me Sir?"
"Nothing, ready the men. We feast tonight!"
********
The matter was decided in a few bloody, panicked moments. Not truly a battle at all, since those drunken warriors that did not fall in the first rush of the century's charge, ran screaming off onto the moors. Only those too slow to make for the woods were caught in the Roman's snare, and of course those young females that were unlucky enough to attract men to pursue them. Paullus surveyed the haul. Mostly old people, he would let them go if they caused no trouble, and ceased that infernal wailing. More than a score of young women, hardy and fair, they would fetch a high price if they remained undamaged by the men's lusts. A dozen younger boys, they were more likely to get damaged. He would have to warn the men not to cut their own purse strings. Just as he was figuring his share, Getorix approached with a prize, blood flowing freely from a gash on his forearm.
"Look at the little bitch I've found, her teeth are worse than any hound I've ever owned." He said, displaying his laceration with humor.
Paullus' eyes grew wide; he should have known that she could never escape in that ceremonial garb. Blood ran from the corner of her mouth, he knew from Getorix that it was not her own. She stood tall, eyes glazed with hate as he coldly appraised her. Her stare never wavered. Her finery was torn. Remnants of greenery in her hair hinted at the once beautiful garland. Her hands were tied behind her back with a length of rope between them, so that her tightly clenched fists rested on either hip.
"That old husband to be of hers?"
"Dumped her, and his robe, and ran like a rabbit,” said Aratus of Syracuse, the laughter animating his swarthy Greek features.
"Does she speak anything I would understand Getorix?"
"Not really Sir, some of it is close enough to Gallic for you to pick out I'd guess."
Men learned many languages in a legion fort: so many men from all over the empire, and so damn much free time between battles. Paullus could manage Greek, Syrian, Gallic and some of the Speech of the Alemmani tribes to the east of Gaul. And of course Latin, the common tongue of all the soldiers.
He said nothing for a moment, returning her stare with one of his own, but showing only amusement at her plight. Her features were as if carved by a Rhodian sculptor from milky Chiossian marble, more angular than a Roman's would be, but beautiful nonetheless. He held out his hand to tilt her chin for a closer inspection, but drew it back hastily at the sight of her snarling lips parting. For only the briefest of moments, a smile curled her lip at his discomfort. He smirked at her reaction.
"Getorix, Aratus, Galba, Tigranes, and Arminius, take her to that hovel and wait for me..."
As they dragged her, struggling, away, he issued the commands that would ensure their safety from counter attack. Then he stopped by one of the tables of food, which were crowded by those men not already fornicating. Eating some roast boar, he grabbed a platter of butter; he knew he would need it. He made his way to the hovel.
The sight that greeted him would have been comical if not for its urgency. Arminius bellowed as he tried to disengage her teeth from his thigh. The huge German dragged her around by the mouth, but she refused to let go.
"This one belongs in the arena, gnawing on Christians!" said Galba, the only other real Roman present.
"Don't hurt her, pinch her nose!" Paullus ordered. Having three small nephews he knew much of biting.
She let go for a chance to breathe, and the men quickly threw her down.
