Post by GrimmRiffer on Jun 8, 2005 20:08:38 GMT
OK, I've been reading Scarrow's legionary novels, Manda Scott's Boudica novels, and playing Rome Total War. Playing as the Britons I pushed through europe and squidged the Romans into Italy, all but ready to wipe them out. Then I thought - wouldn't a book about this alternate history be cool?
But how would it happen that way? Well, the Brits need some geeing up, and the Roman's need some disasterous alternate course. This is what could trigger it all, I reckon. And yes, in Real Life HE really was there, he led the first expedition in fact - before he got to be the big shot. And in RL a storm did deny him his cavalry... What the hell, here 'tis. If this sucks, well, at least I can do piccies, ride, and fight well.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Prologue
A general must be skilled, and the Governor of Gaul knew that he was skilled. But a general must also be lucky, and tonight the Governor of Gaul knew he was not. The rain tore almost completely horizontal across the pebbled beach as the screaming off-shore wind drove the wallowing ships against the land.
If this storm had arrived a week earlier the governor would be cursing his lack of cavalry, whose arrival would have been prevented by the squall. Just one day later and he would be sitting comfortably in Gaul, mulling over the possibilities of the rich, fertile, savage island on whose shore he now stood, watching his army die.
The three hundred ships of the two Roman legions were scattered, some had drifted along the coast before finally succumbing to the wrath of the sea and crashing back to the shore, most were grounded in the shallows of this beach or soon about to be. The legionaries they carried were drowning in the ship’s shattered bellies or dragging themselves exhausted from the surf to be slaughtered like animals by the howling barbarians who flocked along the beach. The Governor knew the legions could beat these scum – in ordered rank and file fighting together as brother soldiers they could grind these savages to pulp.
But they could not win this. Isolated knots of legionaries had formed and where they had managed to group and close shields they were claiming a cruel price for their lives, but most were disordered and confused, exhaustion and the weight of numbers the barbarians brought to bear would beat the Romans – and soon. The Governor of Gaul was among maybe a dozen legionaries, the remains of his bodyguard, all of whom had protested his decision to leave it so late before seeking a ship – done so that he may say he was the last to leave these shores – and as their small boat had been tumbled over and sunk barely 50 yards from the shore he had thought they may have been right. But no Roman was leaving this place alive, his gesture was futile but it would not be his death – his death was certain either way.
The Governor had thought he and his bodyguard were lucky, they had been washed to a point not immediately busy with the enemy and may have stood a chance to close ranks and die fighting like true sons of Mars. But as the men struggled to draw themselves together a black mare flew from the night, her eyes rolling white and her rider screaming like a dark goddess. The mare scattered their ranks, and pawing and kicking was through them and beyond reach in a moment, the rider’s one sword stroke left a man on his knees with blood seeping from his shattered helm. As the rider had closed on them the Governor had seen it was a woman, hair like a blade recently from the furnace and her face twisted with hatred and joy.
Great Jupiter, what manner of place was this where women bear arms and kill like demons? Such reflection was curtailed as a howling mass of warriors descended in the rider’s wake and struck the Romans like a hammer. As a legionary struggled to shake his arms from the loop of a shield just wrecked by an axe blow he met an attacker’s sword blade to blade. The barbarian fought as though reaping hay, but his strokes were fast and strong and the dull ring of shattering Roman steel spelled the legionary’s doom as his own short sword failed.
The bodyguard were scattered and dying before the onslaught and the Governor was all but alone, he must now send as many of these savages to their gods as possible before they took his life. ‘Great Jupiter, let me kill one at least!’ he prayed
He turned and met an attacker, the man’s swung sword crashed against the Roman’s shield but the attacker spun away from the Governor’s reply. Another savage rushed in from the loose ring of howling men and the Governor raised his shield to fend off the clumsy overhead blow, lunging beneath its rim with his gladius – but instead of the solid blow he had expected to receive he felt only the thin scrape of a sword tip on his shield and knew the attacker had feinted and was back beyond reach even as he stabbed.
He knew then that they toyed with him, with a scream of rage he skipped forward and lunged but the savages fell back hooting and laughing. His back tingled with expectation of a blow and he spun and swung his blade – against every bit of training he’d ever had – but there was no target. The barbarians feinted and taunted and clubbed his shield and yet stayed beyond reach as he lunged and span in terror and frustration.
Then as he lunged again he felt the hot deep pain in his leg as he was hamstrung from behind. His scream of pain and rage pierced the night as he sagged helpless to the shingle amid the closing shadows of his foes. A booted foot crushed his sword into the beach. ‘Not one, I’ve not killed one! And now I die hobbled and helpless like a fucking hog!’ Rough hands seized his arms, his shield was ripped away from him and he was dragged up to his knees. Before him stood a tall man, his head adorned by the soaring antlers of a stag and a huge cruel sickle in his hand. Behind this man similarly armed figures slowly and deliberately hacked a legionary to death, even as he screamed and begged and fended hopelessly against their deliberately weak and measured blows with handless stumps.
The antlered druid stepped forward; he held the sickle towards the Governor of Gaul point up as though it was a crooked finger beckoning him towards an awful fate. The druid sighed with a sound like ecstasy and drew the point of the sickle across the Roman’s fine armour, then nodded and smiled as though suddenly sure of some important fact.
It was 55BC on the shores of the island of Britain, and among the butchered and drowned ruins of two whole Roman legions the smiling druid spoke in careful, yet clumsy Latin.
“Our gods will reward us well for a prize such as you, Julius Caesar.”
But how would it happen that way? Well, the Brits need some geeing up, and the Roman's need some disasterous alternate course. This is what could trigger it all, I reckon. And yes, in Real Life HE really was there, he led the first expedition in fact - before he got to be the big shot. And in RL a storm did deny him his cavalry... What the hell, here 'tis. If this sucks, well, at least I can do piccies, ride, and fight well.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Prologue
A general must be skilled, and the Governor of Gaul knew that he was skilled. But a general must also be lucky, and tonight the Governor of Gaul knew he was not. The rain tore almost completely horizontal across the pebbled beach as the screaming off-shore wind drove the wallowing ships against the land.
If this storm had arrived a week earlier the governor would be cursing his lack of cavalry, whose arrival would have been prevented by the squall. Just one day later and he would be sitting comfortably in Gaul, mulling over the possibilities of the rich, fertile, savage island on whose shore he now stood, watching his army die.
The three hundred ships of the two Roman legions were scattered, some had drifted along the coast before finally succumbing to the wrath of the sea and crashing back to the shore, most were grounded in the shallows of this beach or soon about to be. The legionaries they carried were drowning in the ship’s shattered bellies or dragging themselves exhausted from the surf to be slaughtered like animals by the howling barbarians who flocked along the beach. The Governor knew the legions could beat these scum – in ordered rank and file fighting together as brother soldiers they could grind these savages to pulp.
But they could not win this. Isolated knots of legionaries had formed and where they had managed to group and close shields they were claiming a cruel price for their lives, but most were disordered and confused, exhaustion and the weight of numbers the barbarians brought to bear would beat the Romans – and soon. The Governor of Gaul was among maybe a dozen legionaries, the remains of his bodyguard, all of whom had protested his decision to leave it so late before seeking a ship – done so that he may say he was the last to leave these shores – and as their small boat had been tumbled over and sunk barely 50 yards from the shore he had thought they may have been right. But no Roman was leaving this place alive, his gesture was futile but it would not be his death – his death was certain either way.
The Governor had thought he and his bodyguard were lucky, they had been washed to a point not immediately busy with the enemy and may have stood a chance to close ranks and die fighting like true sons of Mars. But as the men struggled to draw themselves together a black mare flew from the night, her eyes rolling white and her rider screaming like a dark goddess. The mare scattered their ranks, and pawing and kicking was through them and beyond reach in a moment, the rider’s one sword stroke left a man on his knees with blood seeping from his shattered helm. As the rider had closed on them the Governor had seen it was a woman, hair like a blade recently from the furnace and her face twisted with hatred and joy.
Great Jupiter, what manner of place was this where women bear arms and kill like demons? Such reflection was curtailed as a howling mass of warriors descended in the rider’s wake and struck the Romans like a hammer. As a legionary struggled to shake his arms from the loop of a shield just wrecked by an axe blow he met an attacker’s sword blade to blade. The barbarian fought as though reaping hay, but his strokes were fast and strong and the dull ring of shattering Roman steel spelled the legionary’s doom as his own short sword failed.
The bodyguard were scattered and dying before the onslaught and the Governor was all but alone, he must now send as many of these savages to their gods as possible before they took his life. ‘Great Jupiter, let me kill one at least!’ he prayed
He turned and met an attacker, the man’s swung sword crashed against the Roman’s shield but the attacker spun away from the Governor’s reply. Another savage rushed in from the loose ring of howling men and the Governor raised his shield to fend off the clumsy overhead blow, lunging beneath its rim with his gladius – but instead of the solid blow he had expected to receive he felt only the thin scrape of a sword tip on his shield and knew the attacker had feinted and was back beyond reach even as he stabbed.
He knew then that they toyed with him, with a scream of rage he skipped forward and lunged but the savages fell back hooting and laughing. His back tingled with expectation of a blow and he spun and swung his blade – against every bit of training he’d ever had – but there was no target. The barbarians feinted and taunted and clubbed his shield and yet stayed beyond reach as he lunged and span in terror and frustration.
Then as he lunged again he felt the hot deep pain in his leg as he was hamstrung from behind. His scream of pain and rage pierced the night as he sagged helpless to the shingle amid the closing shadows of his foes. A booted foot crushed his sword into the beach. ‘Not one, I’ve not killed one! And now I die hobbled and helpless like a fucking hog!’ Rough hands seized his arms, his shield was ripped away from him and he was dragged up to his knees. Before him stood a tall man, his head adorned by the soaring antlers of a stag and a huge cruel sickle in his hand. Behind this man similarly armed figures slowly and deliberately hacked a legionary to death, even as he screamed and begged and fended hopelessly against their deliberately weak and measured blows with handless stumps.
The antlered druid stepped forward; he held the sickle towards the Governor of Gaul point up as though it was a crooked finger beckoning him towards an awful fate. The druid sighed with a sound like ecstasy and drew the point of the sickle across the Roman’s fine armour, then nodded and smiled as though suddenly sure of some important fact.
It was 55BC on the shores of the island of Britain, and among the butchered and drowned ruins of two whole Roman legions the smiling druid spoke in careful, yet clumsy Latin.
“Our gods will reward us well for a prize such as you, Julius Caesar.”
