S. Turney: Sons of Taranis

Aulus Vincentius stamped his feet in the cold morning air and blew into his frozen hands, his eyes playing across his meagre domain while the adjutant rattled on and on about supply routes and wagon capacities, traders’ fees and endless excruciating mundanities. The young, pink faced clerk seemed oblivious to his commander’s waning interest as he trotted out figures and facts that went unheard.

Beyond the eager fellow, the depot that had been Vincentius’ home and command – and prison – for most of the winter languished under a frost that had killed off all forms of optimistic life, as well as the commander’s spirit. As a decurion, he had led a turma of cavalry in the heroic actions at the foot of Alesia’s slopes mere months ago, when the Gauls were making their last great bid for freedom. And now? Now the only time he drew his blade was to check it for the inevitable rust, which he would then have the young clerk polish out for him while he rotted away in a sullen mood in his unpleasant quarters. His eyes drifted to that building which, even though he hated it with every fibre of his being, still looked inviting when compared to the cold outdoors and the monotonous reports of the adjutant.

Home. A simple round structure with a stone base as high as the windowsill and timber walls above, topped with a conical thatched roof that was home to a million dreadful spiders and which let in more weather than it kept out. And next to that: a small shed which was young Plautus’ accommodation. Other than those two structures, the entire complex consisted of six large supply sheds, one granary, a well, and a stockade that would have trouble holding out against an onslaught of octogenarians. And the goat. Mustn’t forget the goat. The stinking, noisy, over-affectionate goat. He wondered maliciously whether he should take pity on the goat and quarter it with Plautus?

Since the collapse of the great rebellion, things had calmed down considerably in Gaul. There were still troubles here and there, and there were endless rumours of new revolts that would be raised in various quarters of the country. But Vincentius had seen the slave trains at the end of last year, heading for Massilia and the Graecostadia slave market in Rome. They had looked like hopeless, dishevelled legions marching to war, there were so many of them. And the burial pits after Alesia had been vast . After eight years of war, more than half the population of this entire benighted region had been either killed or enslaved. A new rebellion? By whom… the cows? Because there were more of them now than men – or there would have been had they not also been butchered and commandeered by Rome. No, there might be a few small troubles to deal with, but the considered opinion of all the senior officers was that Gaul’s resistance had collapsed.

Why anyone actually wanted this land in the first place rather baffled Aulus Vincentius.

‘Sir?’

He looked ahead once more, focusing on young Plautus. Young? The lad was probably the same age as him in truth, but his eagerness for this dismal supply depot duty made him seem so much younger.

‘What?’

‘Do we hire four new men, sir, or do we wait for instructions from command?’ the man repeated with exaggerated patience.

Vincentius huffed and blew angrily into his hands again. It had both surprised and irritated him when he’d been given this command that he’d had no Roman troops assigned to him. Legionaries would pass through regularly of course, with the supply wagons, but his grand command had consisted of four surly, ill-spoken, hairy, stinking locals who resented his very existence. They had been paid monthly – more than Vincentius thought they could ever be worth, but apparently they were Aedui tribesmen and therefore the commanders seemed to think they needed to be looked after. At least they spoke Latin, even if only as well as a three year old. But then two days ago the four men had gone off-duty, leaving the two Roman officers alone and rather defenceless in the depot, and had gone to carouse in Decetio across the hill. And they’d not come back.

Personally, Vincentius couldn’t care less what happened to them, but for two reasons. Firstly, a huge caravan was due in from Massilia heading north to the winter quarters of the legions, which would require a full complement of workers. And secondly, while he hated the locals, and trusted them about as far as he could kick the goat, it felt a lot less safe with only Plautus keeping him company.

‘Take the coins from the pay chest and head into Decetio. There’ll be a few likely lads that will jump at the chance of steady payment to ride out the winter. See if you can cut the pay offer and still get strong men, though, Plautus. Might as well skim a few coins from the top and make this awful place worthwhile.’

As the young cavalryman saluted and wandered off about his business, Vincentius pulled his cloak – an item of apparel that made about as much difference as a gossamer tunic in this weather – tight around him and scurried off back to his hovel. As he approached, he noted with some relief that at least his adjutant had got a fire going while he’d been out for a shit and a wash. A grey column drifted up from the smoke-hole in the centre of the roof.

With immense gratitude, Vincentius pushed open the door of his accommodation, pausing just inside for a moment to let his eyes adjust as the door clunked shut behind him. The difference in comfort of the interior’s fire-lit warmth – even if it did still smell of the goat which had clearly lived here before him – was palpable, and he dropped the ice-cold cloak onto the chest near the door and strode over towards the small central hearth, rubbing his hands and anticipating the warm orange glow.

He barely noticed the movement in the periphery of his vision, but some sense made him look up away from the fire, the lights still dancing wild in his retinas, just as the figures emerged from the shadows at the edge of the room. Three thoughts ran through his mind in quick succession.

Where is my sword?

Are these my missing workers?

Where is Plautus?

The answers were clear, and not encouraging. His sword was by his bed at the far side of the room, along with anything else of use. There were more than four men here, and they did not have the same churlish air that he’d come to recognise from his Aedui workers, radiating more menace than irritation. And Plautus would be somewhere out in the compound going about the endless tasks that kept him busy.

He tried to shout out in alarm, but a huge hand clamped across his mouth and stifled the noise. How many figures there were, he couldn’t tell, but he could see half a dozen before him, and felt the presence of more behind. They moved like hunting cats, with grace and silence – so eerily, in fact, that he wondered for a moment if they were lemures – the restless dead – come to claim a living victim.

But these were no spirits, for all the terror with which they filled him. Each wore a dark wool cloak that had blended with the shadows at the room’s edge, rendering them almost invisible, and beneath the hoods as they looked upon the Roman commander, emotionless, staring cold faces peered out. Identical ones, too. Masks, he realised with what might have been relief had he not been quite so terrified. All of them wore masks much like the cult ones he’d seen the natives using at their religious ceremonies.

Gauls then?

He felt his bowels and bladder fighting him for independence, and struggled to free himself, but the man who held him had a grip like iron and was enormous, his shoulders at Vincentius’ head level and his arms like sides of beef.