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Damned Emperors

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I guess it’s slowly becoming my speciality. It all started with Marius’ Mules, written back in 2003, in which I portrayed (and continue to do so throughout the series) the great dictator Julius Caesar. History gives us a larger than life hero in Caesar, (and Caesar’s own writings do nothing to disabuse us of this notioin) though even the slightest reading between the lines shows us a man of more depth and considerably more ambition and callousness than that. But from Caesar I’ve explored so much further.

Caesar accepts the surrender of Vercingetorix by Royer (1899)

The next step came with Praetorian: The Great Game, in which I dared, against traditional opinion, to show a Commodus who was golden and glorious, and not at all a sadistic, wicked and megalomaniac emperor. Admittedly he was young then, and even the ancient sources tell us that he started well. But still…

Then, persuaded to it by my agent (an all-round genius) I moved on to a truly great villain: Caligula, and I was determined to try and find the real man amid the cruel legend, picking holes in the logic or veracity of sources and trying to distill a truth from their viciousness. I think I succeeded, not in finding a nice man, for I don’t think that is true, but a man driven to cruelty by his experiences, not at all insane, and more a victim than a lunatic. This was followed up by re-examining Commodus once more, this time in great depth for his own novel, and from an angle that considered the possibility that he was actually bipolar. This opened up a wealth of possibility in terms of what could have been the truth. I have signed on to write two more fictionalised and rehabilitative biographies of damned emperors for Canelo in the coming years. Watch out for more rehabilitation…

Commodus as Hercules

Now, with the release of Sons of Rome, I’ve managed to get my claws into another maligned emperor: the enemy of Christians everywhere: Maxentius. Of course, once again, the meagre evidence gives us a very different picture to recognised history. This is a man accused of persecuting the Christians and yet who allowed them to elect a pope? Hmmm. I shall leave you to read the book to see what I mean.

What is it, though? What actually is a damned emperor?

Those emperors who suffered what we now call Damnatio Memoriae were surprisingly common when one looks down the list, and do not always tally with what we see as a villain in history. To take an objective point of view, let us say that it matters not how an emperor lived, but more how he died, as to whether he was damned or praised. There are plenty of emperors who started so well but ended corrupt and wicked (Tiberius) or who did the most appalling things but are remembered as great men (Hadrian), so I don’t think we can safely say that being a good man was a ticket to herohood, while being a bad one would label someone a villain for history.

Come on Caracalla, give us a grin….

Essentially, when an emperor, for good or ill, ended up at odds with the senate, or a powerful family member, or often his own bodyguard, and eventually the knife came in the dark (Caligula), or in the toilet (Caracalla), or in the groin (Domitian) or poison was given (Claudius), or sometimes they were just openly hacked to pieces (Didius Julianus), their fate beyond death was decided. Of the 81 emperors, or successful usurpers, who ruled Rome from the foundation of the Principate to the fall of the city in 410, up to 35 may have suffered damnatio memoriae!

If they were popular, even if they had been assassinated and their assassin seized the throne, they might well be granted apotheosis, and be given rites and said to have risen to sit among the gods. They would be given their own cult, they would be remembered in festivals, have priests assigned to them and be generally godly from then on. If they were unpopular, or their enemies were powerful enough to insist upon a course of action in the face of public opinion, the opposite would happen, and they would be officially damned. For the record there were odd occasions that buck the trend. Tiberius was neither damned nor ascended, while damnation for Caracalla was popularly sought, but not granted.

The emperor’s apotheosis as he rises to the heavens, from the column of Antoninus Pius

What happened, then, when an unpopular emperor was damned? Well it was pretty thorough as evidence, or lack thereof, clarifies. Firstly their statues and busts were torn down and destroyed, as well as other images. A famous painting of the Severan family has the face of Geta scratched out after his brother first murdered, then damned, him. Many damned emperors have left remarkably few statues for their incumbency.

Where’d you go, bro?

My latest investigation, Maxentius, has left half a dozen statues at most. Why? Not just because they were smashed. After all, marble was expensive. Bronze statues of an emperor could be melted down and recast, but with marble that was more troublesome. The great colossus of Nero that stood next to the Flavian amphitheatre in Rome (and gave it its eternal name) was changed to a statue of Sol Invictus after his death, and then into one of Commodus in the late 2nd century before being changed again after that. One of the most famous statues in the Roman world is the colossal Constantine that survives as fragments in the Capitoline museum in Rome.

Errrr…. Constantine

The interesting thing is that an examination of the head shows that it is unrealistically shaped, much wider than it is deep. This is a clear indication that the statue was not originally Constantine and has been cut back to change the face. Originally, it was almost certainly either his opponent Maxentius, or possibly his son Romulus who had a giant statue voted to him by the governor of Sardinia. The reworking of statues is an incredibly common theme in imperial imagery, and not as troublesome as you might think. After all, the statues of rich ladies were occasionally tooled to allow for separate hairstyles that could be changed depending upon the fashion of the time. For reference, the only surviving full body statue identified as Maxentius is now in the museum in Ostia. Not a single statue or bust remains in Rome.

Maxentius in Ostia

So does it stop there with the image? No it does not. The unfortunate’s name also gets scratched out of public inscriptions and even things like milestones. There is a wonderful milestone in the Tullie House Museum in Carlisle (RIB 2291) which has been changed three times. The first inscription is now illegible but then, after that was defaced, a new one to Carausius (a usurper emperor who ruled Britain for a while) was added. When Constantine’s time came, the milestone was upended and that end was planted in the ground, a new inscription worked into the other. Another nice example of this practice is to be found in the museum in Alba Iulia in Romania, where Geta’s name has been erased from a monument.

Oops… there goes Geta’s name
The Carlisle Milestone

Is there more to it? So far a damned emperor is lucky to have his face come down to us for posterity, and his name has been removed from most things but the rather damning accounts of later vicious biographers telling what must usually be apocryphal stories. Often the defacing goes so far that coins are deliberately mutilated. Remember that at this time, a coin’s value lies in its inherent metallic content, so defacing it does not necessarily decrease its value. And wait… there’s more.

Often decrees, laws and declarations made by an emperor would be repealed. A prime example is Commodus’s renaming of everything but the family cat in line with his own appellation. Clearly the city remained Rome, and not Colonia Commodiana (though an altar found in Syria confirms that the changes had been accepted readily before his death.) Tellingly, Gaius (Caligula) was in absolute power over the empire for four years and we know from contemporary accounts that he had made reaching changes to seating organisation in theatres, amphitheatres and circuses. We know that he made huge changes in laws to allow his sisters precedence. Yet there are no new laws or statutes surviving from his reign. That he might play with the social order but not alter laws and statutes seems unfeasible, which tells us that after his fall his opponents repealed everything he had put into place.

To some extent then, since usually any remaining family were executed alongside the emperor, they were by and large removed from history entirely, other than the defaming carried out by later biographers. As time went on, and Christianity became more powerful and rooted, the damning of emperors takes on a new angle. Nero is also now remembered as an aspect of the Antichrist in the Catholic Church, Julian was not damned politically as of old, but was demonised and damned by the Church. And my personal favourite, Maxentius, was turned into a vicious hater of Christians by Constantine’s pet Christian writers.

Julian the (fabulous) Apostate

But to those of us who like to study such things, the challenge presented by damned emperors is too much to resist. We are given men portrayed as monsters, with little in the way of evidence, yet there are tantalising hints throughout that there is more to their story than we are told, that they were more rounded and human than history tells us.

I won’t stop investigating them and writing about them, as the damned emperors fascinate me. I hope you find them as interesting.

Four ‘bad’ emperors in a classic Horrible Histories song – (from left to right) Commodus, Nero, Caligula and Elagabalus

Written by SJAT

October 28, 2020 at 10:56 am

An Imperial Miscellany

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Most of us know a few of the Roman emperors. Many of us can recall important facts about the better known ones. What occurred to me as a fascinating question was whether it was possible to say something short but interesting about each of them drawn from their contemporary sources, and so I decided to try. I’ve used here only classical sources and gone from the first acknowledged emperor (Augustus) to the last emperor of a unified empire (Constantine), and so a period of just over 3 centuries, for a total of 53 rulers (not counting most co-emperors or usurpers). Of course, these ‘facts’ are only as accurate as the ancient writers who recorded them for posterity. Fake news is nothing new….

Augustus – The first emperor, famed for enacting numerous morality laws, yet was accustomed ‘to lie among twelve catamites and an equal number of girls.’ Let’s hope he had a king-sized bed eh?

Tiberius – Narrowly escaped being crushed by a rockfall in the grotto of his villa near Tarracina. Shame it missed, really…

Caligula – Bridged the Bay of Naples from Baiae to Puteoli, held a triumph across it and claimed to have conquered Neptune. Neptune may have thought otherwise.

Claudius – Had knives fashioned from the swords of two gladiators who felled one another simultaneously.

Nero – Sent his mum down the Tiber on a ship designed to collapse, yet she survived the shipwreck and he got so frustrated he just sent a centurion to kill her instead.

Galba – Claimed descent from Jupiter on his father’s side and from the wife of King Minos on his mother’s. Talk about connected….

Otho – ‘Splay-footed and bandy-legged’ and ‘almost feminine in his care of his person.’ Clearly he was no oil painting.

Vitellius – Banished astrologers from Rome. Well done, Vitellius!

Vespasian – Imposed a tax on public urinals and it was so unpopular that they soon became known as Vespasiani!

Titus – In the arena he had a battle between cranes! While I love to picture this as Roman scrapheap challenge, I think it means birds, though that raises its own questions….

Domitian – He prided himself that he didn’t bury perfidious Vestals alive as was custom. He just had them executed in other ways. Ah well, that’s alright then…

Nerva – Always had to ‘vomit up his food’! I’ve seen his beak-like nose. Maybe he was trying to feed the fledglings.

Trajan – Brought pantomime back to theatres, an artform periodically banned, since it often led to riots! Pantomime riots? Who knew?

Hadrian – It is because he lost a cloak that emperors thenceforth never wore such a garment in civilian public.

Antoninus Pius – Swarms of bees settled upon his statues all over Etrutria!

Marcus Aurelius – The famed philosopher king was fond of boxing and wrestling. Not bad for a sickly child…

Lucius Verus – Out in Syria he became so fond of restaurants that when he came home he had one built and staffed in his villa. A McVerus Happy Meal, please…

Commodus – Put a starling on the head of a man with thinning white hair so that it pecked at his skull, thinking they were worms. Strange behaviour, but stupid bird!

Pertinax – At meals he would serve nine pounds of meat in three courses, no matter how many were eating.

Didius Julianus – On the other hand (see above) made a hare last for three days!

Septimius Severus – Was charged with adultery in his youth, but acquitted. He wasn’t, however, charged with youthery in his adulthood.

Geta – Never gave presents.

Caracalla – Was busy having a whizz when he was killed by a knife blow to the side at the urinal.

Macrinus – Gave himself the nickname ‘Felix’ – lucky. Ironic, really, given he reigned for only a year and was decapitated.

Elagabalus – Had himself completely waxed or plucked regularly. Mmmmm… smoooooth.

Severus Alexander – Was born on the same day that Alexander the Great died.

Maximinus Thrax – Punched a horse and knocked out its teeth.

Gordian I – Owned a house once owned by Pompey the Great.

Gordian II – Had 22 concubines, with 3 or 4 children from each. Playaaahhhhh!

Maximus & Balbinus – Maximus thought Balbinus was weak, while Balbinus though Maximus was too low class. A partnership made in heaven…

Gordian III – When he was proclaimed emperor there was a solar eclipse.

Philip the Arab – May have been the first emperor to convert to Christianity.

Decius – Disappeared in a swamp.

Trebonianus Gallus – Exiled not one, but two Popes…

Valerian – Was captured in battle by Shapur of Persia and lived out his days used as a human stool when the Persian king mounted a horse. So he was sort of… a stool sample?

Gallienus – Planned a colossal statue of himself that was never quite finished.

Claudius Gothicus – Had two gold statues set up by the senate

Aurelian – This emperor was one of three Aurelians around at the time, and so this particularly martial one was nicknamed ‘Sword in Hand’ to distinguish him from the others.

Tacitus – Forbade the wearing of purely silk garments

Probus – Cultivated viticulture in Western Europe. He is the man responsible for French and Spanish wine! All hail Probus, Lord of vino!

Carus – May, or may not, have been struck by lightning. Crispy…

Carinus – Appointed a hobo to sign documents for him!

Numerian – Was killed in secret in his litter on campaign, and then still carried around until the stench alerted his soldiers, and the killer was attacked.

Diocletian – The only emperor who successfully retired, Diocletian grew the most astounding cabbages, or at least, according to him. He refused to return to power in case his horticulture suffered.

Maximian – Built a palace near Sirmium on the spot where his parents had once been ordinary tradespeople.

Galerius – Died as the result of a ‘malignant ulcer’ in his ‘secret parts’!!!

Constantius – The nickname ‘Chlorus’ he later acquired means yellowy-green and may point to a long-term illness he suffered

Severus – Called a dancer and habitual drunkard by Galerius, who was one of his better friends!

Licinius – His ‘boundless ignorance’ made him ‘hostile towards literature’

Maximinus Daia – Suffered an illness so painful that he went mad and began to eat handfuls of dirt

Maxentius – The last emperor to have a Praetorian Guard, and the last to be appointed by them.

Constantine – Through the marriage of sisters of Maxentius, he was both the brother-in-law, and nephew of his opponent! Duelling banjos, anyone?

And thus ends our exploration into the world of imperial miscellany. Hope you’ve enjoyed it.

Oh… alright then 😉

Written by SJAT

October 16, 2020 at 9:00 am

Posted in Non Fiction

Tagged with , , , ,

What has that Roman ever done for us?

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Yes, I’m talking about what one Roman in particular did for us. As you may know if you’ve been following my social media recently, I have a new book coming out imminently (14th October in ebook, 10th December in hardback), written alongside the redoubtable Gordon Doherty, a fabulous author and a good friend.

Sons of Rome is the first volume in the Rise of Emperors trilogy, and deals with the early days of the emperors Constantine and Maxentius in the late 3rd and early 4th century. Most people will be familiar with the world-famous Constantine, I’m sure, though I expect fewer of you know much about our other protagonist.

Of course, history is written by the victor, and so Constantine has become both a saint and a household name, his image still visible all over the Roman world and his reputation impressive, while Maxentius has been resigned to barely-remembered footnotes and piecemeal wicked legend.

But the fact remains that though Constantine has left us a few monuments, it is actually Maxentius who has bequeathed to posterity a large spread of monuments that can still be seen and visited. Constantine’s main architectural legacy remains the impressive palace, basilica and baths in Trier (Augusta Treverorum), while the towers often attributed to him in York are now believed to be Trajanic, and the arch erected to celebrate him beside the Colosseum is largely pieces of much older imperial arches that have been stolen and rebuilt for the new hero.

As we shall see, Constantine actually appropriated many of his opponent’s works in his own name, and the main monument in Rome that could be said to be definitively his (a bath house on the Quirinal) has left no visible traces above ground. So what of the other contender. What has Maxentius left us? Well there are still a few monuments in Rome that bear his name, and others that might be a surprise for you. Let’s have a look at them.

This grand structure, just one remaining aisle of what would have been one of the world’s most impressive basilicas, is still mostly known as the Basilica of Maxentius, though some sources do refer to it as the Basilica of Constantine, which is satisfying evidence that while the victor attempted to take credit for everything, it did not always work. Lying within the forum, on the far side to the Palatine Hill, the building remains an iconic monument in Rome. It was most certainly begun by Maxentius, some time after 308 AD, but was probably finished and consecrated by Constantine after 312.

The Palatine Hill was the main city residence of the emperors from the time of Augustus far into the 3rd century. Only by the late 3rd did emperors put more stock in foreign locations, and the Palatine complex declined. Maxentius was the last of Rome’s emperors to have definitely resided upon the Palatine, and he has left his mark in a small way, for atop the Severan Arcades overlooking the Circus Maximus a visitor can find the remnants of a small but ornate private bath house built by Maxentius during his short time ruling the city.

A short distance from the urban sprawl, along the Via Appia Antica (a beautiful walk on a sunny day), lie the remains of several structures that if you are lucky will be open when you pass. The most obvious one is the remains of a chariot-racing stadium, constructed by Maxentius as part of his suburban villa. It remains one of the better preserved stadia in the western world and is impressive in scale.

Attached to the complex I just mentioned, and close to the stadium, lies a great brick box of high walls, surrounding a drum-shaped structure. This is the mausoleum of Romulus, Maxentius’s son, and abuts the road itself, where generations of Roman greats had been interred in mausolea. Despite that this is quite late for Rome, the form of this tomb echoes the great mausolea of Augustus and Hadrian, giving some clue as to how rooted in tradition this emperor of Rome was.

And the last part of that great complex on the Via Appia is the villa itself, Maxentius’s home away from the bustle of the city. There is some suggestion that this villa is a rebuild of a much earlier villa that belonged to the famous Herodes Atticus. Now little remains of the villa above ground, barring a cistern nearby, and the attached mausoleum and stadium, but the importance of this site cannot be overestimated.

Back to the city now, and you might have seen this one in the forum. It is a temple known as the Temple of the Divine Romulus. Though it was possibly an earlier structure dedicated to another divinity, this building was renovated by Maxentius, and seems to have been dedicated to the memory of his son. It forms the rear end of the Church of Saints Cosmo and Damiano. Impressively, the bronze doors are original!

You might now be sputtering angrily, and telling me that the Temple of Venus and Rome at the end of the forum and overlooking the Colosseum is nothing to do with Maxentius. Alright, the temple is definitely far older, yet Maxentius had a hand in it. By the time he reigned in the city, this temple had seen much better days and was in much need of work. What we can now see is largely the result of Maxentius’s reconstruction. So there you go!

What? But the walls of Rome are Servian and Aurelianic, are they not? The great stretch that surrounds the city are most definitely attributed to Aurelian and Probus, decades earlier than Maxentius. But what you might not know is that they were considerably lower and less defensive in their original form. It is thanks to Maxentius’s rebuilding of the walls that they remain the impressive specimen they are. Maxentius raised the height of the walls, added buttresses and hole storeys to the gates, added an archer’s gallery to large stretches of the circuit, and essentially turned them from ‘good’ to ‘formidable’.

My penultimate offering will now have Constantine’s fans spitting feathers. This, clearly, is the famous ‘colossus of Constantine, or the remaining pieces of it in the Capitoline museum on the Campidoglio, Well, yes it is, but the thing is that Roman emperors had this nasty tendency of tearing down the statues of their predecessors if they were unpopular or opposed and vanquished, and having them re-carved to resemble themselves. The simple fact is that this iconic statue shows all the signs of having been reworked from an earlier one (the head is a weird flat shape where the original face has been chiselled off.) The fact is that this was quite possibly a grand statue of Maxentius. But the more enticing fact is that it might just be of his son Romulus. The governor of Sardinia paid for a massive statue of Romulus, and it is more than possible – likely even – that this image of Constantine once bore the image of his opponent’s son.

The rarest thing of all to finish. This is something Maxentius bequeathed to us that is utterly unique. In the national museum in Rome sit these pieces. Discovered just over a decade ago under some stairs in a structure below the Palatine hill, they are the only known Imperial regalia ever found. The sceptres and wands of office of a Roman emperor, probably buried by Maxentius’s men after his demise. They are fabulous and one of a kind, and a reason alone to remember this most obscure of men.

Maxentius is one of those emperors who have suffered Damnatio Memoriae, their memory damned and cursed, their images destroyed, coins defaced, inscriptions scratched out and laws repealed. But while Constantine’s favoured bishops might have done their best to wipe the record of his reign from history, the monumental record speaks for itself. Here was a man who was a traditional Roman, in the mould of the oldest emperors. Thank you, Maxentius, for your gifts to us.

Read about Maxentius and Constantine in Sons of Rome, out tomorrow! Buy it here

Penda: Fictional and Historical ‘Hero’ – A guest post from Annie Whitehead

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A fabulous treat for you today, as two great authors delve into the world of Anglo-Saxon England with their latest works, and the wonderful Annie Whitehead has agreed to guest post here as part of their blog tour. Annie is a writer with a focus on, and a tremendous knowledge of ‘Dark Age’ Britain. I’ll be back here next week with something of my own, but I leave you in very capable hands now.

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I’m delighted to be on Simon’s blog today, as part of the Stepping Back into Saxon England tour with Helen Hollick.

When I was an undergraduate, studying all periods of history but choosing more and more to focus on pre-Conquest England, I ‘met’ many historical figures whose stories – I felt – were perfect for historical fiction; Æthelflæd Lady of the Mercians was an obvious one, but there was another who, at first glance, might seem a surprising choice.

Penda of Mercia was, apparently, a vicious pagan marauder who attacked his enemies for no reason and was generally a thoroughly bad egg. So where was the appeal?

Well, I remember feeling that he kept having to defend his kingdom when one northern king after another tried to annex his lands. He was described as an aggressor, yes, but in fact we only have the word of Bede for that. Bede, of course, was a northerner himself, writing effusively about those northern kings. Indeed, there’s a rather ambiguous statement in another work, the Historia Brittonum, which suggests that Penda was in the business of liberating Mercia. “He first separated the kingdom of the Mercians from the kingdom of the Northerners.” Was Penda, in fact, just fighting back? He’s often been described as ‘energetic’ and when we take mix-ups with dates into account, it seems he was still taking to the battlefield at the age of fifty. I found him intriguing.

We don’t have a Mercian equivalent of Bede, mainly because at this time Mercia was, indeed, pagan and literacy comes with Christianity. But what we do have is Bede’s very interesting comments on a man who as far as the writer was concerned was a savage, yet intriguingly a savage with some rather redeeming characteristics.


For a start, whilst he chose not to embrace the new faith himself, Penda did not forbid Christians from preaching in his lands. His children not only converted, but at least two of his daughters fully embraced the religious life. So it seems he was a religiously tolerant savage.

There are also hints in Bede’s history of Penda’s attitude towards his female kin folk. We are told that he went to war against a king of the West Saxons because that king had ‘divorced’ Penda’s sister. The first king of Northumbria with whom Penda had less than cordial dealings also married, and put aside, a kinswoman of Penda’s. There were other factors which caused the battles between these two kings, but I couldn’t help thinking that Penda was in part motivated by the lack of care taken with his precious family. 

For I do believe he was a family man.

Elsewhere Bede mentions Penda’s wife by name, calling her Cynewise. She is mentioned because she was entrusted with a high status hostage, no less than the son of the king of Northumbria. The impression is very much that while he was away on campaign, Penda was happy to leave his wife as regent of Mercia.

But there’s something else which speaks to me of his loyalty. Penda and his wife – his only wife, as far as I can tell, which puts him very much in the minority in this period – had a great number of children. One of those children was called Merewalh and his name has been the subject of much debate. It’s possible that he was Welsh, or part Welsh, and some historians think that he might not have been a relative, but a subordinate rewarded with land after a campaign. But there is another school of thought, which is that Penda adopted Merewalh who may have been the son of Cynewise by a previous husband. 

This scenario is not without precedent as we know that, across in East Anglia, the mighty King Rædwald also fostered a son who was not of his issue. If Penda took on the child of another man and raised him as his own, this gives us an insight into the kind of man he was.

He was a warlord, certainly, but who wasn’t at this time? Bede wrote of King Edwin of Northumbria that he made his lands so safe and secure that a person might walk from one coast to the other i.e. from East to West, without fearing robbery or murder. Yet Edwin waged wars and subjugated a number of previously independent British kingdoms. So Penda was not unusual for having a penchant for battle.

I think, though, that he might have smelled a certain amount of hypocrisy. He must have seen these kings converting to Christianity (and in the process setting aside their first wives) and wondered why this new religion, which split up families, was worthy of consideration. And yet he did not issue a ban on anyone who wished to preach the Word, nor did he prevent his many offspring from converting. While other kings put aside their wives, he remained loyal to Cynewise, even entrusting his kingdom into her care.

The fact that we learn almost all of this from a writer who was his natural enemy, speaks volumes to me about the kind of person he was.

There’s just one more tantalising detail about Penda which actually had not come to light when I initially began writing about him. In 2009 the Staffordshire Hoard was discovered and it was quite the archaeological event. Even now, the experts are not sure what it is (almost all the pieces are of a military nature and yet so beautifully bejewelled that it’s hard to imagine they were used in battle) and no one is yet sure why it was gathered or, indeed, why it was buried. But it can possibly be dated to around the time of Penda’s rule, and it was found within his territory. This was a gift to me as a writer of historical fiction and I devised my own theory as to how it was collected and how it came to be buried…

(Image courtesy of http://www.staffordshirehoard.org.uk/explore-the-hoard/stylised-horse#1)

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About Annie Whitehead

Annie has written three novels set in Anglo-Saxon England. To Be A Queen tells the story of Æthelflæd, Lady of the Mercians. Alvar the Kingmaker is set in the turbulent tenth century where deaths of kings and civil war dictated politics, while Cometh the Hour tells the story of Penda, the pagan king of Mercia. All have received IndieBRAG Gold Medallions and Chill with a Book awards. To Be A Queen was longlisted for HNS Indie Book of the Year and was an IAN Finalist. Alvar the Kingmaker was Chill Books Book of the Month while Cometh the Hour was a Discovering Diamonds Book of the Month.

As well as being involved in 1066 Turned Upside Down, Annie has also had two nonfiction books published. Mercia: The Rise and Fall of a Kingdom (Amberley Books) will be published in paperback edition on October 15th, 2020, while her most recent release, Women of Power in Anglo-Saxon England (Pen & Sword Books) is available in hardback and e-book.

Annie was the inaugural winner of the Dorothy Dunnett/HWA Short Story Competition 2017.

Connect with Annie:






Written by SJAT

October 13, 2020 at 9:00 am

Simon Turney / Gordon Doherty : Sons of Rome (Guest Post & review)

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book cover of Sons of Rome

Sons of Rome  (2020)
(The first book in the Rise of Emperors series)
A novel by Gordon Doherty and Simon Turney

Four Emperors. Two Friends. One Destiny.

As twilight descends on the 3rd century AD, the Roman Empire is but a shadow of its former self. Decades of usurping emperors, splinter kingdoms and savage wars have left the people beleaguered, the armies weary and the future uncertain. And into this chaos Emperor Diocletian steps, reforming the succession to allow for not one emperor to rule the world, but four.

Meanwhile, two boys share a chance meeting in the great city of Treverorum as Diocletian’s dream is announced to the imperial court. Throughout the years that follow, they share heartbreak and glory as that dream sours and the empire endures an era of tyranny and dread. Their lives are inextricably linked, their destinies ever-converging as they rise through Rome’s savage stations, to the zenith of empire…

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Written by SJAT

October 12, 2020 at 9:19 am

Posted in Private

Ladies of Magna Carta

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Today, I have something of a treat for you. The lovely, knowledgeable and entertaining Sharon Bennett Connolly has just released a new book covering the impressive women with an involvement in the great Magna Carta. You might know that I’m a devotee of Sharon’s work, having read and reviewed her two previous books, and this one holds up her excellent standard. Quite simply I’ve not come across anyone more knowledgeable on the subject of the women of Medieval Britain than her. I’ll review the book at the end here, but first, as part of her Blog Tour, Sharon has kindly penned an article on the book, so feast your historical hunger on this:

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Thank you so much to Simon for inviting me to his blog to talk about Ladies of Magna Carta: Women of Influence in Thirteenth Century England.

Family Ties

When writing Ladies of Magna Carta, I was struck time and again by how closely the nobility of England was related, through blood and marriage. Each of the women I wrote of had at least one familial connection to someone else in the book; some had a number of links to several families. It is a tangled and complicated web, but I will try and give you a brief overview here.

My favourite medieval woman is Nicholaa de la Haye, castellan of Lincoln Castle; she successfully defended the castle through 3 sieges, the last 2 when she was a widow in her 60s. Nicholaa was related to King John’s half-brother, William  Longespée, Earl of Salisbury, through her son, Richard, whose daughter Idonea was married at a young age to William, Longespée’s son by his wife, Ela of Salisbury. It was as a result of this connection that William (I) Longespée claimed Lincoln Castle and the shrievalty of Lincolnshire following the Second Battle of Lincoln in May 1217. Longespée claimed they were his by right of his daughter-in-law; Idonea’s father, Richard, had died sometime in the previous 12 months, leaving Idonea as his sole heir. Despite Nicholaa’s stalwart defence of Lincoln Castle during a 10-week siege, Longespée was granted the castle and position of sheriff just 4 days after the battle. Nicholaa’s refusal to accept this saw her presenting herself to the royal court and requesting she be reinstated. A compromise was reached whereby Longespée remained as sheriff of Lincolnshire, but Nicholaa was reinstated as castellan of Lincoln Castle, her home since childhood.

Ela of Salisbury provided at least 2 further familial connections among my Ladies of Magna Carta. Through her grandfather, Patrick of Salisbury, Ela was a cousin of William Marshal and his five daughters. Marshal was the son of Patrick of Salisbury’s sister, Sybilla. Patrick himself had married, as his second wife, Ela de Talvas, who was the widow of William de Warenne, 3rd Earl of Warenne and Surrey. From her first marriage, Ela de Talvas was the mother of the heiress, Isabel de Warenne, Countess of Surrey in her own right and wife to, first, William of Blois, youngest son of King Stephen and secondly, Hamelin Plantagenet, illegitimate half-brother of King Henry II. Isabel de Warenne, therefore, was aunt to Ela of Salisbury, Richard the Lionheart and King John.

Isabel de Warenne’s own aunt, Ada de Warenne, was married to the son and heir of King David I of Scotland, Henry, Earl of Huntingdon. Ada was the mother of 2 Scottish kings, Malcom IV the Maiden and William I the Lion. She was, therefore, the grandmother of the Scottish princesses, Margaret and Isabella, the only two women, other than the queen, who can be clearly identified in a clause of Magna Carta. Margaret and Isabella had been handed over to King John as hostages following the 1209 Treaty of Norham, agreed between their father, William the Lion, and King John. John was supposed to find suitable husbands for the teenage girls; it had been implied that they would be married to John’s sons, Henry and Richard, but no marriages had ever materialised. Clause 59 of Magna Carta stipulated that John would find spouses for the princesses or send them home.

The two girls were eventually wed to English noblemen, though not until the 1220s. In 1221 Margaret married Hubert de Burgh, Henry III’s Justiciar and widower of another of my Ladies of Magna Carta, Isabella of Gloucester, who also had the dubious honour of having been the first wife of King John. Princess Isabella was married, in 1225, to Roger Bigod, Earl of Norfolk, who was 14 years her junior. The marriage was not a happy one. A third Scottish princess, Marjorie, who was several years younger than her 2 sisters and not part of the conditions of the Treaty of Norham, also married into the English nobility. She became the wife of Gilbert Marshal, 4th Earl of Pembroke, 3rd son of the great William Marshal, Earl of Pembroke and regent for Henry III.

Roger Bigod was the son of Hugh Bigod, Earl of Norfolk, and Matilda Marshal, eldest daughter of William Marshal. Marshal was the man who had led the army that relieved Nicholaa de la Haye and the siege of Lincoln Castle in May 1220. Matilda married as her second husband William de Warenne, fifth Earl of Warenne and Surrey and only son of Isabel and Hamelin, mentioned earlier. Matilda’s sister, Isabel, was married to Gilbert de Clare, Earl of Gloucester; he was the nephew of the same Isabella of Gloucester who had been wife to King John, Geoffrey de Mandeville and Hubert de Burgh. Isabel Marshal then married, as her second husband, Richard, Earl of Cornwall, brother of Henry III and youngest son of King John. Another sister, Eva, married William (V) de Braose, grandson of William (IV) de Braose and Matilda, the poor woman who was imprisoned by King John and starved to death, alongside her eldest son, in his dungeons in 1210. It was Eva’s husband who was hanged by Llywelyn, Prince of Gwynedd, after he was found in Llywelyn’s bedroom with Llywelyn’s wife, Joan, Lady of Wales and illegitimate daughter of King John.

Which brings us neatly to the royal family. John’s eldest legitimate daughter, also named Joan, was betrothed as a child to Hugh X de Lusignan, Count of La Marche. The marriage never materialised, however, as Joan’s mother, Isabelle d’Angoulême, decided to marry Count Hugh in her daughter’s stead, causing a rather juicy scandal in the process! Joan was not without a suitor for long and within a year of her mother’s marriage she was married to Alexander II, King of Scots and brother of those same Scottish princesses who were included in Magna Carta’s clause 59. Of Joan’s sisters, Isabella was married to Frederick II, Holy Roman Emperor and Eleanor, only a baby at the time of her father’s death, was married to William (II) Marshal, eldest son and heir of the great William Marshal, at the age of 9. Eleanor was a widow before her 16th birthday, dramatically taking a vow of perpetual chastity in front of the Archbishop of Canterbury shortly after her husband’s death.

As her second husband, Eleanor married Simon de Montfort, Earl of Leicester, despite that pesky vow of chastity, which was to prove costly to Simon when he had to travel to Rome to seek a papal dispensation to have it annulled. Simon de Montfort was to continue the fight for reform that had been enshrined in Magna Carta, but would meet his end at the Battle of Evesham in 1265. Simon and Eleanor’s daughter, also named Eleanor, would marry Llywelyn, Prince of Wales, grandson of Llywelyn, Prince of Gwynedd. Eleanor died in childbirth in June 1282, while Llywelyn was defeated and killed by Edward I’s forces in December, the same year. Their only daughter, Gwenllian, was placed in a convent in Lincolnshire before she was 18 months old and would never leave it, dying there in 1337. Another perpetual royal prisoner was Gwenllian’s distant cousin, Eleanor of Brittany, a granddaughter of Henry II, niece of King John and first cousin of Henry III. Her royal blood meant that she would never be afforded the protection enshrined in clause 39 of Magna Carta and inspired by the gruesome death of Matilda de Braose, that:

“No man shall be taken, imprisoned, outlawed, banished or in any way destroyed, nor will we proceed against or prosecute him, except by the lawful judgement of his peers or by the law of the land.”

There are many more familial links between the Ladies of Magna Carta. I could go on…

But I’m guessing that your heads are spinning and this is more than enough … for now.


* * *

All that remains is for me to give you my impressions of the book and thereby perhaps encourage you to pick up a copy. ‘Ladies’ is an all-encompassing work. In order to fully explain how each of her chosen characters fits into the tale, we are first treated to a concise history of King John and his immediate family, from his early days until after his death, explaining how Magna Carta came about and in some ways how the important families fit into its history. This alone made the book a worthwhile read for me. I’ve read much about Richard I, with only peripheral reading on John, who is often villainised in a very Richard III way, but this was quite eye-opening. It is a very balanced account of the man, cutting through much of the folklore.

From there we move into an examination, chapter by chapter, of certain women who were either instrumental in the creation of Magna Carta and its specific wording, mentioned in the charter itself, or whose own life contains critical moments that were driven by the charter. As usual with Sharon’s work, it becomes clear that the women of Medieval Europe were in no way as uniformly meek, passive and downtrodden as general culture would have us believe. Indeed, there are some characters in here that deserve a movie of their own, defending castles and threatening kings.

Just two examples of such powerful women include Matilda de Braose and, if I may quote the book: “one legend arose of Matilda building the castle of Hay in one night, single handed, carrying the stones in her skirts.’ Similarly impressive is Nicholaa de la Haye, who defended Lincoln castle and held positions one would presume to be solely the mark of men. I found at least three characters I would love to write fiction works about within these pages. Oh, and the book also taught me about Anchorites, which was a fascinating sideline for me.

In short, this book is another fascinating and eye-opening work and anyone with an interest in the subjects of Medieval Women, British History, or the legends of King John and the Magna Carta should be rushing out to get their copy.

And while Sharon gets back to work on her next opus, here are the links to check out her work and buy the book:

Blog: https://historytheinterestingbits.com/

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/Thehistorybits/

Twitter: @Thehistorybits

Pen & Sword Books: https://www.pen-and-sword.co.uk/Ladies-of-Magna-Carta-Hardback/p/17766

Amazon: mybook.to/LadiesofMagnaCarta

Written by SJAT

July 8, 2020 at 7:57 am

Posted in Non Fiction

Tagged with , , ,

Vengeance – Chapter Thirteen

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The time passed with strained and strangulated slowness, each of them fretting and fidgeting in their own way. Elia sat with her burbling child by the trapdoor to the secure strongroom below, a stone cube of a room only six feet across and filled with sacks and age-old detritus since the unit moved out. Fulvius finished his ministrations and moved on to tending to even minor scratches in order to keep his mind focused on something useful. Pollio kept singing two verses of an ear-reddening refrain about a man from Buthrotum with an bulging scrotum, despite the fact that everyone silenced him every time he came to the worst part.

Rigonorix sat as though relaxing in the baths on a quiet afternoon, his only movement the rhythmic scrape of a whetstone up his blade. The old hunchbacked woman spent her time mostly staring at the dagger in her hands that was both an alien item to her and also her potential desperate salvation.

‘How long has it been?’ the wounded soldier asked from where he worried at his splint.

‘An hour now,’ Valens said. ‘Or thereabouts.’

‘And the door hasn’t given yet. Must be no dry wood out there,’ Fulvius noted. ‘They can’t keep the fire going. You never know, the rest of the century might still come in time.’

Valens just grunted, peering at the door. It was odd. There had to be plenty of burnable fuel still available in the charred remains of the vicus if people looked. When a town burned, not everything combustible was utterly destroyed, after all. And yet the smoke that had been drifting under the door had come in three or four flurries, but seemed to have stopped for the past quarter of an hour. He frowned. ‘Can you hear anything?’ he asked.

The room fell silent, the whetstone scraping to a stop. The roof creaked and groaned with the winds and the weight of snow outside, but other than that all was silence.

‘Nothing,’ Fulvius noted.

‘Have they gone?’ the old woman asked with a note of desperate hope in her tone.

Rigonorix looked to Valens, then over to her. ‘It looks suspiciously like it. But it may be that they can’t burn the door in these conditions, so they’re being quiet, trying to lure us out. If we open the door and they’re still there but just being quiet, we’re all fucked.’

Valens nodded. ‘It’s possible, but I think there’s a way. Pollio, climb up on Fulvius’s shoulders and grab the wall above the door. Climb up to the window and tell me what you see.’

‘Why me?’ demanded both men at the same time.

‘Because you, Pollio, move like a rat and weigh about the same, and you, Fulvius, are the tallest one here. And because I’m you’re commander and it’s an order. Get moving.’

Grumbling and struggling, Fulvius stood close to the door as Pollio climbed up onto his shoulders. The medic gripped the smaller man’s boots and hoisted him up, hissing with effort as he pushed his arms straight, Pollio standing on his hands. The small man was above the door now but still almost five feet short of the upper windowsill. The building was old, though, and had not been repaired and renovated since the last time it had been reoccupied. Cracks in the plaster and missing mortar between stones granted him plenty of handholds, and moments later the rodent-like soldier was pulling himself gingerly up into the window.

‘Well?’ called Valens.

‘Empty. The street outside is deserted. The snow’s thinning out again, quite light and the… wait.’ The little man shuffled in the window. ‘I can see figures. There’s five of them standing further down the street, between here and the south gate. That’s all. No sign of anyone else.’

Valens looked across at Rigonorix. ‘Suspicious. Why would they leave? Is it a trap? And if there’s five waiting for us, they must be confident. That means they’ll be strong. Warriors. Can we take them?’

‘Better to go to Elysium fighting in the street than starving in a hole,’ Rigonorix replied with a shrug.

Moments later, they were heaving the basilica door back open, having removed the bar and shifted the piles of junk securing it. The lower reaches of the door were carbon-scored, and a pile of sodden, snow-coated charcoal outside showed how difficult the enemy had been finding the job. Presumably they had used all their good material burning the granary, which now sat as nothing more than a blackened shell up the slope.

The courtyard was empty, and Valens looked back and nodded before stepping out. In response, Elia and the kid sat by the trapdoor, still ready to drop inside and secure themselves if the situation suddenly turned sour. The old woman waited nearby, more confident now of her ability to distance herself from the defenders if required.

The rest left the building, Fulvius giving support to the injured soldier, Pollio and Rigonorix flanking the optio. Gingerly they made their way through the great arch and its open door and into the street which, as the diminutive soldier had noted, was entirely empty. Sure enough, though, five figures stood in a line across the street ahead, halfway to the south gate. The soldiers stepped forward slowly towards them, and Valens sized them up as they moved. The five were warriors, in the prime of youth. Big men and well armed.

‘Fulvius? You alright?’

‘Aye, sir,’ the medic said, letting the wounded man slowly down to the charred and sodden kerb and then drawing his sword. Four against five. That was fair enough, Valens supposed. Better odds than had been offered over the past few hours, anyway. The four soldiers, swords out, advanced down the street.

Valens leaned closer to Rigonorix. ‘You speak their language. Tell them this doesn’t have to end in a fight.’ The fugitive did so, and sounded quite peaceable to Valens, but it seemed to have no effect on the men awaiting them. ‘You realise we might not make it out of this,’ Rigonorix muttered. ‘They’re unmarked and rested. We’re all exhausted and sporting a whole variety of wounds.’

‘I’ll go down fighting, though, like a soldier.’

The man nodded. ‘I suppose I still count as one until I’m caught and executed.’

‘There’s nothing like a bit of positivity eh?’

The four men closed and any hope of a peaceful resolution vanished as the five natives suddenly roared something and raised their swords angrily.

‘What was that?’

Rigonorix snorted. ‘Nothing. Just bullshit, unless your mother really was a whore.’

‘Yes, well let’s not delve into family histories right now,’ Valens said uncomfortably, which made Rigonorix howl with unexpected laughter.

‘Come on then, my son of a whore optio friend, let’s show them what Noric steel tastes like.’

The four men burst into a run, each bellowing their own war cry, calling on a plethora of gods. As Valens ran at them, he couldn’t help but notice the exquisite gold torc gleaming around the neck of the central figure. Oh good, he thought to himself, the groom’s come for a bit of cold revenge.

And with that the two small groups met with a crash. Valens’ sword came up to block the blow of the big man with the torc. The initial blow was so strong that he felt the reverberation all up his arm and into his shoulder.  Swiftly, he dropped the blade low and tried to land a jab into the man’s inner thigh, but the warrior ducked easily back out of the way and Valens staggered, only just managing to turn the next swing. Beside him, Rigonorix was having better luck, though far from instant success, the two men struggling back and forth, evenly matched. Pollio, at the end of the line, was darting in and out and stabbing like a hornet, dancing quickly out of the way like the rodent he was. Fulvius, though, was in trouble. The medic had been landed with facing two men alone and had already taken two wounds, slumping to the side and trying to hold himself up long enough to fight them off.

Rigonorix was right. They were just too tired and badly injured to win this.

A glancing blow to Valens’ skull sent him reeling back, a second immediately striking his numb left arm and probably breaking the bone again, though that was the least of his worries. As he staggered, half-blind from the dancing lights in his vision and the throbbing of his head, the warrior was battering at him and only Rigonorix, who had taken on both his own man and now Valens’s, was stopping the native from killing him. A cry arose from Fulvius as the medic fell, clutching his side.

They were done for.

Valens pulled himself upright, fighting the fuzziness of his brain with the intent of living long enough to at least have one more go at the man, when suddenly the warrior with the golden torc spasmed. The man’s shoulders tightened, his head snapping back, and the sword fell from his jerking fingers.

The optio stared as his anticipated killer folded up and fell to the snowy ground. Behind him stood the weird figure of Vibius Cestius with his white hair, black brows and inscrutable mismatched gimlet eyes. As the warrior fell, Cestius’s pugio came free from the man’s back with a sucking sound. Barely waiting for the man to fall, Cestius slammed his sword into one of the two men who were even now leaning in to finish off the fallen medic.

Valens stared, recovering himself just in time to block the last man’s falling sword, turning it away from the shuddering shape of Fulvius and leaving Cestius, the weird, mad, wonderful bastard, to finish him off.

Turning, he could see now that Pollio and Rigonorix had managed to overcome the others and together were working for finish off the last warrior. The optio blinked repeatedly, his whole world a mass of confusion and questions. He staggered back and found a burned-out beam fallen from a destroyed barrack block, sinking down to it and shaking. Cestius was there with him a moment later as Rigonorix helped the medic back up and Pollio went around putting a knife into each fallen native to make sure, like Charon at the games, and coincidentally fleecing them of a few coins in the process.

‘Where the fuck did you come from?’ Valens managed eventually, his voice shaky.

‘Oh I’ve been about, here and there, sir,’ the strange soldier smiled, his grin worryingly dark and feral.

‘I saw you fall.’

‘And it was the only thing that stopped them shooting me again. But they were watching the pass and the valley. If I’d run for Glannoventa they’d have seen me and killed me. I hid for an hour and then picked my way carefully around to the east and over the parade ground, around the outside of the enemy.’

‘So where have you been for the past few hours?’ A thought occurred to Valens. ‘Did you see them leave? Where did they go? Why did they leave?’

Cestius gave him that wolfish smile again. ‘Well I couldn’t go for help, so I started wondering what might matter to them more than you lot. It took me an hour to reach their nearest village.’ He jerked a thumb over his shoulder to the south and Valens’s eyes followed it. Columns of roiling black smoked poured up into the clouds over the next hill. ‘Funny,’ the soldier grinned, ‘but their villages are empty coz they’re all here. And they’re made of wood and straw. They burn really easily.’

Valens stared from the strange soldier up to the smoke on the horizon and then back, and began to laugh.

‘Don’t get too comfortable, sir,’ Cestius said. ‘When they’ve put that out, I suspect they’ll come back and they’ll only be even more angry. I think we might want to be gone by then.’

Valens’s already frayed nerves continued to tighten as they left the scene of the last fight, shuffling slowly and painfully along the road and through the south gate. The vicus was more of a ruin even than the fort, and the small group passed between the charred remains of the civilian settlement tensely, watching every side street and doorway, still half expecting some trap.


Fulvius and his former patient now walked together once more, holding each other up, the medic and the wounded soldier as badly injured as one another. Pollio had run back to fetch the women from where they lurked nervously in the basilica and now Elia and her son and the old woman walked along behind them, eyes darting nervously this way and that. Only Valens, Rigonorix and Pollio walked strong with heads high and swords out, though each of them was more gravely wounded than they would care to admit. Blood continued to run out from underneath Rigonorix’s mail shirt after their last scuffle, and Valens was quite certain now that he’d lose the arm, which effectively ended his military career without a proper pension. Only Pollio, the weaselly bastard, seemed to have got away without a proper wound. And their saviour, of course. As Valens glanced across at Vibius Cestius, he privately formed the opinion that when that strange one had matured fully into military service, it wouldn’t be long before all of them were having to salute him as a superior.

Out from the vicus, they passed the bath house and emerged onto the trade road over the pass. The passage of the remaining mass of natives was evident here, for even the continual drift of light snow could not hide the footprints of so many folk moving at speed up the southern hill towards that column of smoke.

‘Where now?’ Pollio asked. ‘Glannoventa?’

Valens turned to look down the valley where that sea-side fort lurked hidden some ten miles distant. He frowned, peering into the white. ‘Do you see what I see?’

Rigonorix followed his gaze and shaded his eyes. ‘That looks like about half a century of men to me. Looks like the cavalry are coming just a little too late.’

Valens wrinkled his lip. ‘I’m about to have a really uncomfortable conversation with the boss.’

‘Oh?’ Rigonorix was smiling oddly.

‘I’ve effectively lost him half a century of men, burned down a fort and vicus he was responsible for and started a small war with the local tribe. I’m tempted to point out that this is somewhat your fault. I might get away with being beaten to death then.’

‘The man responsible for that is dead back there, and you know it. You did everything you could. Why are you wanting to own up anyway?’

Valens frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Your centurion’s not going to want you now. The eagle’s turning its back on you. Your left arm’s dead, man. No medic will save it, bar the possibility of hacking it off and burning the stump. You’re done as a soldier, Valens.’

The optio gave him a weird look. ‘What else do you suggest? Maybe go into acting? Perhaps start a wine company? I’ve nothing but the armour I’m stood in, like you.’

Rigonorix grabbed him somewhat uncomfortably by the shoulder and steered him away from the tired group. ‘Funny thing is that I’m done here too, Valens. I’m not sticking around to suffer whatever punishment is dreamed up for me. I’m off.’ His voice lowered. ‘Come with me.’

‘What?’ Valens stared.

Rigonorix glanced over at the group waiting for them on the road and spoke quickly, urgently. ‘There’s a world out there that could pay well for two men good with a sword, Valens. I’ll bind your arm and get you to someone who can save it. We’re two days from Luguvalium and there’s a good local physician at Derventio halfway there.’

‘You’re mad,’ Valens muttered looking up dramatically into the snow. ‘Two days in this?’

‘I managed that across worse terrain and pursued by soldiers last night. We can do it.’

‘And when we get to Luguvalium?’ the optio snorted derisively.

‘That’s near the border zone. Lots of trouble up there. Endless call for mercenaries. I’ve met men who made a year’s pay for a soldier in just a month up on the border. All we need to do is set ourselves up.’

‘With what? Sell my dead arm?’ Valens huffed, though Rigonorix’s words had set him thinking. His immediate future looked bleak. He’d been set to move into a centurion’s role someday, and now he’d not even be a soldier. A man with one arm’s only end was begging in the gutter and telling stories about what it was like when he was in the army.

The fugitive quickly glanced over to make sure the others were not watching, then grinned and pulled his scarf aside to reveal the gleam of a near-priceless golden torc underneath. ‘I reckon we’re set for life.’

Valens stared. That torc was huge and ornate. Even a proper shark would buy it from them for enough to keep them for two years. ‘You’re mad. It’ll start all over again.’

‘No. I’ll sell it in Luguvalium to a Brigantian or a Selgovae, or maybe some rich Roman officer. And whatever happens here now, we’ll be long gone.’

‘I can’t leave the others to take the blame,’ Valens said too quickly, eyes darting to the folk waiting on the path even as images of himself as a one armed beggar slouching in the gutter assailed him.

Rigonorix grunted. ‘Wait here.’

As the man disappeared Valens, fretting, looked down the road. The rest of the century were closing, though they seemed as yet unaware of the figures up at the ruined vicus and were marching as though heading for business. Valens chilled at the thought of explaining everything to the miserable old bastard leading them. Moments later, the fugitive was back, drawing his attention. ‘Right, Fulvius is down there with his friend. He can spin any tale he likes, lay the blame on you or me and make himself the hero. I spoke to your weird-eyed man. Trust me and don’t worry about him. He’s not daft and he’ll come out of this smelling of roses.’

‘I can’t leave…’ Valens started, then his eyes fell on the shape of Elia as she emerged from behind Rigonorix, holding her child. Her expression was encouraging. He looked back to Rigonorix, who was almost urging him on with his eyes. It came as something of a surprise to him that he didn’t resist when the fugitive grabbed him and pulled him behind the ruins of the bath house. Elia and the boy followed into cover, and they stood there for moments. Valens was about to argue and leave when Rigonorix pulled him back. The centurion and his men were too close now, had seen Fulvius and the others. It would look extremely odd if they leapt out from behind a wall now.

‘I think you’re committed,’ Rigonorix grinned.

Fulvius watched the centurion storming towards him like a tidal wave of puce skin, bristling with irritation, and he paused. He’d assumed Rigonorix would run. Who in his position wouldn’t? He’d wondered more, when Valens vanished, what was happening. The man had no future in the army, of course, but still Fulvius had been sure the optio would hold onto command until the bitter end. Then he’d turned to see that Elia had gone too, and Vibius Cestius gave him a meaningful look.

‘Explain,’ demanded the centurion, coming to a halt on the road and pointing up at the ruins, his men coming to a halt behind him.

Fulvius stumbled mentally, looking for the words, and suddenly Vibius Cestius was ducking around him, his mismatched eyes gleaming with wicked intellect.

‘Centurion, allow me to tell you a story of fallen heroes, of brave medics and of the vengeance of the Carvetii. But,’ he added with a smile that would turn a marble statue to pliable putty, ‘let me tell you it on the run back to Glannoventa, because you’re going to want to man the walls there when I finish.’

* * *

Here ends, for now at least, the story of Valens and his men. You’ll find Fulvius making a brief appearance some time later in Alex Gough’s tale ‘Who All Die’ and you’ll find Vibius Cestius in several of my Praetorian novels, many years later.

This story was inspired by a combination of John Carpenter’s ‘The Thing’ and the movies ‘Zulu’ and ‘Assault on Precinct 13’ and I suspect you’ll have seen echoes of them throughout this tale, as well as hints of other classic stories too. This is a bit of a homage in many ways and something I’ve been meaning to write but never would had lockdown not presented this challenge.

Whether you go on to read my books or not, I wish you all well and this has been a blast. When lockdown ends and you can all move about freely, I heartily recommend visiting Mediobogdum fort, now known as Hardknott. No matter the season, when you visit, take a car that can manage steep slopes and take boots that can handle sphagnum moss and squelchy terrain. Hardknott remains one of the most impressive and enigmatic sites in all of Roman Britain. Alauna has fared less well, but a further visit could be made to the other site mentioned at Glannoventa (Ravenglass).

That’s all for me. I may return for another story in the future as clearly Valens and Rigonorix have a lot of scope left yet, but for now, I lay down my stilus and snap shut the wax tablet.

Vale all.


Written by SJAT

June 20, 2020 at 9:20 am

Posted in Roman Military

Vengeance – Chapter Twelve

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Valens braced himself as the Carvetii ran at him, wishing he had a shield. Instead, he swung the optio’s staff in his left hand. The man at the head of the growing crowd dropping from the roof and running at them held forth a spear, point reaching for the optio, but as he approached, Valens swept his staff around, smacking the spear shaft aside. Stepping forward with all his weight on his left leg, the one with the bronze greave, he stabbed out viciously, ripping the life from the unarmoured native.

There was no time to appreciate the success, though. In a heartbeat they were past him, rushing at the men at each shoulder even as someone leapt over the falling body of the spear man, swinging a rusty sickle. Valens caught him a vicious blow with the bronze tip of his staff, cracking the man’s skull even as he swept his sword up and cut deep into the weapon arm of another man.

The fight descended then into simple butchery. Valens lashed out again and again, stabbing and hacking, battering and parrying with the staff. Time became meaningless, measured only by failures and pain and the quantity of lifeblood on his blade. The moment his staff was cut by an enemy sword and left him holding little more than a baton with a bronze head. The moment something smacked unseen into the side of his helmet and blood ran down into his eyes, accompanied by a crippling head pain until he could wrench off the helmet with the deep dent in the skull and cast it away. The wounds. A burning line of fire across his thigh, source unseen. The numbing of his left shoulder as something heavy smacked into it. The relief as a sword point jabbed agony into his chest, but did not kill him because the chain shirt robbed the blow of sufficient force to impale.

A cry of pain drew his attention suddenly, across the din, and he glanced aside to see Secundus suddenly bend double over a spear, the shaft sticking out of his belly as the point did its damage inside. The optio from Alauna gurgled something and blood gouted from his lips as he staggered back. But he did not fall, for natives were on him, grabbing at him, tearing, rending. Valens fought at them as well as a man to his left, but they were more intent on a prize than on fighting the officer.

Finally the dying optio was allowed to fall as the enemy pulled away from him, their leader pumping a hand into the air, gripping a gold torc they had torn from the officer’s neck. The cry was one of triumph, and realisation dawned on Valens. That torc was no Roman decoration of bronze-coated iron, but solid gold. It had to have been stolen from the wedding party the idiots had massacred when they started all of this. A torc of that value, which would be three years pay for Secundus, or more, could only belong to a chieftain. No wonder the bastards were persistent.

For a moment, Valens wondered if that might be it, if having retrieved what could only be a chieftain’s wedding gift, the natives might finally be satisfied. He glanced to the other side to see Rigonorix spitting out blood, flesh and hair. The man was clearly utilising every weapon at his disposal. Rigonorix looked past him and nodded his understanding. The two men paused, as there was a lull for perhaps a heartbeat. The world held its breath.

The Carvetian with the torc bellowed something into the air, and Valens didn’t need to look at Rigonorix to know that it was no order to fall back. The optio couldn’t translate it, but the tone was clear.

‘Kill them all. No survivors.’

The tide of angry Carvetii came again now, surging forward. Valens looked up and past the men racing at him and realised that while the figures surging over the rooftop were still visible, they were fewer and slower coming now. His sharp eyes picked out the two side doors that had easily been pushed open and the rear that was even now giving with a crack. The pressure on them was already not what it was when they’d started this. For the first time, he felt a glimmer of hope. The enemy were finite. They were almost all committed, and few remained outside to join the fray.

A gurgling noise drew his attention to the left and he felt his spirits sink to see, just beyond Rigonorix, the huge bulk of Rubellius stagger back with an arrow jutting from his throat. Even as the optio watched, the big man was suddenly swamped by natives.

Valens instantly quashed that hope that had momentarily coursed through him. The enemy were thinning out and starting to fail, but the defenders of Mediobogdum were almost gone. At best all they could hope for now was a pointless, bitter mutual destruction. More likely the day would still end badly for Rome. The enemy were shrinking, but there were still sufficient to finish the garrison and walk away. It was utter madness. Vengeance had meant so much to these people that they had lost their fellow tribesmen by the hundred just in the name of righteousness.

And Valens could not longer see any greyness to the situation. Whether Rigonorix was right or wrong – probably still wrong – he was not the root of this disaster. That was Secundus and his tent party. They had butchered, stolen and insulted from some of the most powerful families in tribal Britannia, and they had been in the wrong, committing vicious and unforgivable crimes under the banner of Rome and in the name of justice. Valens wanted to spit. Wanted to decry the men from Alauna, because the Carvetii were being brutal, unforgiving, suicidally homicidal, but above all they were right. They had been wronged and they were revenging themselves. In any other circumstances, he would cheer them on. But right now it was a them or us situation, and no matter what happened to him or the lads, Elia and her boy at least were going to survive.

Then the enemy were on him again, hacking and stabbing, slashing and battering, swords and spears, makeshift weapons and farm implements all seeking his end. Over it all, an arrow took a painful chunk of his chin away. He felt another blow to the left knee that almost felled him, and he had to ignore the pain in his knee and be careful how he moved to stay upright. An unseen blow numbed his left shoulder entirely and what was left of his staff fell away from lifeless fingers. Another man was coming at him and he pushed the man away with his shoulder and hacked at him with the blade, only to find himself forced to parry another blow from a surprisingly pretty young woman.

As he somewhat regretfully stabbed at her and she fell away, he heard the death knell of the unit behind him:  Fulvius’s voice ordering them all to fall back into the basilica hall. The battle had become untenable.

‘Fall back,’ Valens called in response to the medic’s signal, though a quick look over each shoulder made it clear that there were precious few to hear and fall back with him. Sweeping his sword low in an effort to keep the enemy at bay as he backed away, he connected with one of the Carvetii’s thighs. Stepping back, he lifted his legs high, careful not to trip on the body of Secundus.

The enemy rushed them now, realising they were on the retreat, and as Valens stepped back pace by pace towards the door he found himself fighting all the harder. At the last, as he could sense how close to the door he was, a howl arose beside him and one of the walking wounded collapsed with blood jetting from his neck. Valens felt the edge of panic, knowing he was alone now, that the others were all dead or safe in the basilica, while he was the last man, the rear-guard. Enemies pressed him from all sides, and every time he stabbed out, he felt blows crash against his chain shirt. His head ached and his body burned all over from myriad cuts. Something struck him in his left arm and even through the chaos he found time to feel a panicky despair over the fact that what was clearly a hefty sword wound only registered as a faint ache, which suggested his arm was a goner.

Swords, axes, sickles and staves came at him in a flurry and even as he stepped back he realised his fatal mistake, for in avoiding Secundus’ corpse, he’d strayed to the right and suddenly his back thumped into the wall. Panic flooded him as he swung his sword this way and that to try and keep the enemy at bay long enough to work out where the door was and to get to it in time.

He yelped in shock as something grasped his left shoulder and heaved. His head snapped round to see Rigonorix grinning at him.

‘Time to go, Optio Horatius.’

And with that he was hauled backwards and to his left into the doorway. As they reached the gap, Valens still trying to recover his wits, two natives leapt at them trying to prevent their escape. Rigonorix delivered a powerful blow to one with the pommel of his sword and while the other ducked out of the way of a spray of blood, Fulvius’ voice called out from behind ‘Duck!’

Valens had no time even to digest the command as Rigonorix grabbed his neck and pushed him down, bending him double. Valens struggled in shock, but as his head bobbed in the fugitive’s strong grip a scorpion bolt whipped over his head close enough to part his hair and plucked the remaining attacker up and back, throwing him from the doorway.

As he staggered back and fell, pulling himself slowly and painfully up to his feet, he saw Rigonorix slam the door and ram home the bolt.

‘That’s it,’ the fugitive announced. ‘We’re safe. Trapped and doomed, but safe.’

Valens rose slowly, looking around. All faces were turned to him, expectantly. There were so few of them. Of the thirty four men who’d garrisoned Mediobogdum mere hours ago, only he, the rat-faced Pollio, Fulvius the medic and two men who could only stand with a crutch remained. Of the three from Alauna only Rigonorix watched him in the gloom. Of all those from the vicus, only the hunchbacked old woman and Elia and her son sat nervous in the dim corners. Six men, two women and a child. Not the strongest of forces.

‘What happens now?’ the old woman asked quietly.

Valens plastered a look of false confidence across his face. ‘I remain hopeful that our runners…’

‘Tell us straight, Optio,’ Elia murmured. ‘No one here is gullible.’

Valens sighed. ‘Barring a miracle, we’re trapped. Eventually the enemy will probably get in. They’ll not get through the door – that could hold for hours – but they’ll get up on the roof and start shifting the tiles until they can get inside. It’s possible that they won’t think of that, I admit, in which case they’ll try and burn us out as they did with the granary. Whatever happens, it’s not going to be pretty.’

‘Not good,’ Elia answered.

‘You’ve got my instructions,’ he reminded her, and then flashed a glance at the old woman, guilt gnawing at him. ‘Elia is to hide herself and her child in the strongroom underneath this place. The enemy might just miss them, so they could live through this. I’m sorry, woman, but with you there as well there’s no hope they might miss you all. The strongroom’s not that big. It has to be just her and the child. I’m not being cruel, but the kid has to come first.’

The woman gave him a dark glare, saying nothing, but Valens registered the look and decided there might be a problem brewing there. For now he shifted to the men around him. ‘You all made the same oath as me. We know what waits for us if we surrender or we’re captured, so I expect every man to make good account of himself before the end.’ His gaze settled upon Pollio. ‘All of you. If I see anyone trying to sneak out or pretending to be Carvetii I’ll kill them myself.’

As the men all nodded, even the wounded, Valens crossed to the old woman. ‘I have not the words to apologise for including you in our fate. I can only spare the room for the child and his mother, not even the wounded.’ Wincing, he passed over his pugio dagger and leaned close, dropping his voice to a whisper. ‘I’d prefer that you use it on the enemy, and I’d heartily advise you to save it for yourself in the end too, but I’ll make you this one offer: stay close to me, look panicked and beaten, and when we’re at the very end, stick it in me and claim to be a hostage. I’m assuming you speak their tongue and you might just get away with it. It’s all I can give you.’

The old woman said nothing, glowered, took the knife and for just a moment he actually wondered if she’d stick it in him right now. She didn’t. Gripping it tight, she stepped back into the shadowy corners.

‘Now we wait,’ he said.

The time that followed was almost certainly the worst in Valens’s life. He’d barely finished offering his words of wisdom to the rest of the trapped occupants before the barrage began. Men outside in the courtyard hammered at the door repeatedly, the whole thing crashing and banging as the Carvetii sought a way into the basilica. Behind that a distant periodic roar told them that the bulk of the force was still out there.

Almost half an hour passed with the door suffering a repeated hammering until finally the enemy seemed to give up, deciding that the door was not going to give in a hurry. In the weird momentary silence that followed, Fulvius worked on the leg of a wounded man and Rigonorix and Pollio produced a pair of dice and began to gamble.

Then, with an initial crash, the natives began to work on the upper approaches. One of the small, very high windows shattered inwards and native shouts echoed in. Moments later a figure struggled through the window. Valens watched with interest. Elia looked at him sharply. ‘Are you not going to do anything?’

Valens shrugged. ‘That window is twenty feet up.’ A moment later the figure toppled through the window with a cry of triumph which swiftly turned into a howl of horror as he plunged to the floor and hit it with half a dozen crunches. Pollio rose from his game of dice and crossed to the body, stabbing his sword into it to finish the broken native off.

Now others were scrabbling at tiles on the ceiling. Valens looked up. ‘Everyone into the chapel.’

‘Why?’ grunted the wounded man waiting for attention, though he was answered rather fatally a moment later as one of the men coming through the roof cast down the tile he’d just removed. The heavy terracotta square hit the injured soldier in the head, smashing it and driving him from his senses. He fell to one side and blood started to drip from his nose and mouth.

‘That,’ snapped Valens, and the occupants of the basilica hall swiftly rushed into the smaller sub-room of the building. Valens stood in the door with Pollio and Rigonorix as the natives continued to scale the outer walls with some difficulty to a height of twenty of thirty feet and try the windows or roof. Invariably their attempts to enter resulted in horrible falls and broken bones, and the three soldiers dispatched them with ease. A further quarter hour elapsed with this new routine before the natives stopped trying to come over the top. Valens waited for what inevitably came next, and a short while later he smelled it. Smoke, drifting in beneath the door.

‘Will the door burn?’ Fulvius asked as he worked.

‘Eventually,’ Valens answered, ‘but a lot depends on their fuel and the weather.’ He turned up his face as the snowflakes drifted down through the ruined roof and settled on his face. ‘I think it’ll take at least an hour, unless they can find pig fat or some such. Eventually they’ll come through.’ The smoke drifting in at floor level was increasing by the moment. ‘Three quarters of an hour,’ he corrected himself. ‘Possibly less.’

Written by SJAT

June 12, 2020 at 9:16 am

Posted in Roman Military

Vengeance – Chapter Eleven

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Valens staggered back into the principia courtyard, staring at Secundus. Damn it all, but now that he’d pulled back from the fight and had a think, he could see that the other optio was right. There was no way he’d have held the doorway. Trying not to feel bitter, he straightened and looked about. Pollio was standing beside one of the scorpions that was already being reloaded. The man had not fled in cowardice, after all, but simply abandoned a hopeless situation.

They were holed up in the redoubt. The main door would hold for a long time, for it was a secure and stout oak portal. The weak points now were the peripheral buildings: the granaries where the smith worked, commanded by the unpredictable lunatic Rigonorix, and the commander’s house where Fulvius treated the injured and Belliacus commanded. Both of those peripheral areas would be the next to fall. The headquarters building was formed of a courtyard surrounded by offices, with the basilica hall on the one side. With the door sealed, and likely to hold longer than anywhere else, those side entrances, each hacked through an office wall to the next section of the redoubt, would be the next pressure points.

‘Alright,’ he announced. ‘The main door is sealed. Out next problem will be when one side or the other falls. We need to get the survivors back through the hole in the wall straight away and seal the office door on whichever side goes first. That will not hold long, but it’s all we have, so we hold it. Once both peripheral areas are falling and the office doors get sealed, we’ll push all non-combatants into the basilica. Then, when the outlying areas finally fall and we come under attack here, we’ll beat a fighting retreat to the basilica. That hall has no windows or doors apart from the one into the courtyard. One way in, and one way out, and a solid roof. We fall back to our last fortress.

‘And then?’ Secundus asked.

‘And then we do our three hundred Spartans. The basilica is our Thermopylae; our last stand. We have three scorpions here. I want one set up in the basilica pointing out here and one at each of the office doors facing the areas that are about to fall.’

‘How long can you hold?’

Valens looked at the old, hunch-backed woman who had spoken in a shaky voice. ‘In all honesty, I have no idea. But time buys possibility. The longer we hold here, the longer we have before we pull back to the basilica and therefore the longer we can hold there. We buy what time we can, and we pray to every god and goddess who might be able to hear us for deliverance.’

Before the old woman could reply there was a cry of pain and Valens’s head snapped right. A soldier with only one and a half legs was struggling out of the office doorway that led towards the commander’s-house end of the redoubt. As he stumped and hopped inside, behind him came a man with a bandaged head, covered with blood.

‘What is it?’ he asked, breathless.

‘Belliacus told us to pull back.’

A moment later Fulvius, the medic, appeared in the doorway, helping two limping men. Valens threw him a questioning look.

‘The house is about to fall. Belliacus had us fall back.’

‘Shit,’ said the optio, with feeling. ‘Get that scorpion moved now.’

The scorpions were manhandled into their new positions, and Valens found himself with Pollio behind the one facing the hole through which the wounded were limping. ‘Let me at it, boss,’ the small soldier grunted.

‘Not a chance, Pollio. I’ve seen your aim in the latrine. If you can’t hit a foot-wide hole with your own knob, I’m taking control of this. You can ratchet the bloody thing back.’

Two men hurried over to help the last wounded soldier through, but the man waved them both away. They were about to leave when Valens gestured at them. ‘Stay there and grab that beam. The moment Belliacus comes through that door, slam the bastard shut, bar it – there’s mallets and nails next to you to seal the beam – and then heave those heavy sacks against it. That door has to hold as long as… well, more or less as long as we live. Got it?’

The two men nodded, going pale.

Valens looked beyond that last man. He could see through the open door into the room beyond. Years back it had been the office of the pay clerk, before the man had left for foreign climes with most of the unit. Now the room was dark and empty, but that mattered not, for it wasn’t the room the optio was interested in. As part of the redoubt’s construction, a hole had been knocked through the wall beyond, allowing access to the commander’s house. That hole now showed as a white circle, gleaming with snow. The sound of brutal fighting echoed through the room, and shapes moved out there. Even as Valens spotted a legionary fighting for his life the man fell, three natives jumping on his corpse with glee and stabbing repeatedly.

The hole in the wall was suddenly obscured by new figures as two men retreated into it. One was a soldier of the unit, the other was identifiable as Belliacus largely from the long cavalry sword he swung this way and that like a man half his age, swiping off limbs as he scythed the blade. As the two men reached the door, a spear came seemingly from nowhere, felling the soldier. Belliacus leapt back through the hole into the dark room.

‘Shut the door, Valens,’ the cavalryman bellowed.

‘Get back here.’

‘No time. Shut it now or it’ll fall,’ the grizzled veteran barked.

Even as he spoke, three men leapt through the gap behind the man into the room. Pollio looked up at Valens. ‘Sir?’

‘No one left to die. Are we ready?’

‘Think so,’ Pollio replied, nudging the bolt in its groove. As he snatched his fingers away, the optio tilted the weapon and sighted into the dark room. With an indrawn breath, and hoping he was as good as he thought he was, Valens pulled the trigger. The missile flew and mercifully snatched one of the attackers away, though Belliacus was still fighting two men.

‘Reload,’ snapped the optio, and Pollio fumbled another bolt and began to wind the machine.

‘Close. The fucking. Door,’ shouted Belliacus. Three more men burst through the hole into the room, and more were following. Belliacus bellowed in pain as a sword slammed into his side, but he succeeded in hammering a deep dent into his attacker’s head with his spatha in response regardless.

‘No,’ Valens shouted. ‘Come back.’

‘No time,’ Belliacus replied, then yelped in pain and turned slowly. One arrow jutted from his chest and another from his neck, clearly visible as black shapes against the white snow.

‘Senatus… populusque… Romanus,’ Belliacus snarled, and swung, taking the head from one of his attackers just as two more men piled into him, driving him down to the floor. The optio stared. Belliacus had been retired and living in the vicus when Valens had arrived as a young soldier. The old bastard had been a fixture.

‘Close and bar the door,’ he ordered the two men, straightening.

The door slammed shut, obscuring the last sight of Belliacus being driven to the ground by half a dozen howling Carvetii. Valens closed his eyes for a moment and cast up a brief prayer for the old man. Even as he watched, the soldiers barred the door and took an end of the beam each, along with the hammers, and began to nail it in place.

He looked around. Secundus and his friend from Alauna were in the doorway of the basilica, setting up one of the scorpions there as the medic, Fulvius, and his walking wounded shuffled inside. Valens waved at them.

‘Anyone who can still grip a sword and swing it get back here.’

‘These men are injured, sir,’ Fulvius said defiantly. ‘No one here is shirking.’

‘Unless they can’t stand up or are missing both arms, they’re still soldiers and still needed.’

With a disgruntled nod, Fulvius turned four of the five men with him and pointed them back to Valens. The optio took a deep breath. Along with the two from Alauna, the two at the door and four wounded men, the defence of the courtyard consisted of him and Pollio. Not good odds. The sounds of furious fighting still echoed through the other doorway towards the granaries, though if Valens was honest, he thought the noises were getting a little close and a little desperate sounding.

Their situation was looking less tenable by the heartbeat. The door so recently sealed was already being pounded on at the far side, even as the two men securing it piled benches and sacks and old wheels against it. It wouldn’t last long. Similarly, though it was a tough door, the main entrance from the street was now a focus for pressure, and the thumping against it was more than angry hands, suggesting the locals had found a charred beam in the wreckage that had cooled sufficiently to use as a battering ram. Once again, then, that door had a very finite lifespan. What would they do if one of those doors gave now? They’d have to pull back to the basilica as planned, but that would leave Elia and the others trapped in the granary. Time was running out.

A different kind of noise insisted itself on the scene now and Valens cocked his head, frowning, wondering what it was. His gaze slid upwards in dreadful realisation. The enemy were climbing the outside walls of the principia. Once up, they could slide over the roof and drop down into this courtyard. Damn it, but they needed to pull back from the granaries now and prepare their last stand. Decision made, he turned and swept his arm around. ‘Drop what you’re doing and get ready. They’re coming over the roof. We fight until we’re all together and then pull back to the basilica. Swords out.’

As the nine men with him prepared to fight, Valens hurried to the remaining open door to warn those who would be trapped. As he dipped into the dark office, the hole in the outer wall suddenly blocked as Elia clambered through it towards him, carrying her boy.

‘Get into the principia,’ Valens told her, urgently but not unkindly. She gave him a weak, worried smile and ducked past. Behind her, Rigonorix suddenly appeared, climbing through. ‘The others?’ Valens asked.

‘Gone,’ the fugitive said, darkly. ‘Run.’

Behind the man, through the hole in the wall, the optio could see a few natives chasing him, but something else caught his eye. The granary’s new temporary doorway had been sealed and men with burning torches surrounded the building. Already smoke was drifting from the rafters. He tried not to think on what was going to happen to anyone trapped in there, and it couldn’t be empty with the amount of effort the enemy were expending. The bleak look on Rigonorix’s face confirmed the unpleasant truth of it.

‘Get back into the courtyard.’

Valens piled back into the courtyard, swearing, as Rigonorix dived after him. Those figures the optio had seen in pursuit were already close behind and howling their triumph at seemingly having beaten them and gained access. As Rigonorix hit the courtyard running, the optio turned, struggling back to his feet, and slammed against the door, throwing his shoulder to it. A heartbeat later something started to thump on the far side, shaking it, accompanied by angry calls.

The door bulged and shook and Valens held his back to it, praying that the enemy were armed with spears and swords that would spend an hour battering at it and not an axe that could hack straight through the timbers and into anyone standing against them in a single blow. As he struggled, eyes wide, the fugitive was there suddenly, throwing his own back against it and holding it fast against the banging, side by side with Valens.

‘Funny old world, isn’t it, Optio?’

The two soldiers with the hammers and nails were suddenly next to them, lifting a beam and securing it into place. Once the men had it under control, Valens stepped away, breathing heavily. Looking up at Rigonorix, his face bore a dark expression. ‘Your optio from Alauna is ready to take control, and I’ve half a mind to let him. We are too few. The enemy are coming over the roof. There’s no help coming in time, and you know what’s going to happen when we retreat to the basilica?’

Rigonorix nodded. ‘They have the choice of trying to dismantle the roof to get to us or just roasting us alive inside.’

Valens grunted an agreement. ‘No way for a soldier to go.’

Rigonorix fumbled at his belt and somehow, miraculously, produced a small flask. Uncorking it, he took a swig and passed it over to Valens. ‘Burning’s never been my favourite way to go, but my old ma, who was Carvetii by the way, used to say something to me that stuck in the mind.’

‘What was that?’ Valens said, taking the flask and sniffing it dubiously.

‘There’s always hope while you walk and talk.’

‘She must have been a fucking riot at parties.’

Rigonorix grinned and Valens took a sip of the flask. Wincing, he gritted his teeth against the horrifying taste. ‘One sip of that,’ he breathed, ‘and death loses its sting.’

‘It’s something they make up in Caledonian lands. They call it the water of life. It grows on you.’

‘So does mould.’

‘The fact is that as long as someone lives, we’re not done. Now come on. Let’s make them sorry they ever crossed that pass.’

‘You are a mad bastard, aren’t you?’ Valens said, but his face split into a weird grin, nonetheless. ‘Alright. Let’s set up our Thermopylae.’

Valens moved into position ten paces in front of the door to the basilica and gestured to the others. ‘Alright, this is going to be short and nasty. This is our last chance to thin them out before we pull back and seal up. Everyone gets to kill as many as they can. Don’t be fancy or careful, just kill a lot. Fulvius, leave the wounded for now. You’re my eyes. Stand in the doorway with the scorpion. You’ve seen enough fights to recognise when it turns. The moment it starts to break, give the call.’

Fulvius looked less than happy, but he nodded nonetheless.

‘The rest of you, anyone in fighting shape, draw your sword and form on me as a wedge surrounding the door. As soon as Fulvius gives the shout we contract, pulling in and back through the door, rear-most men first.’

He looked at the soldiers awaiting orders. ‘I want Rigonorix on my left and Secundus on my right. Then Pollio left and the other Alauna man, Dentio, right. Then…’ His eyes fell on Rubellius with relief. ‘I thought you’d fallen out there. Rubellius left and Laurentius right. Then the fighting wounded back to the walls. Fulvius? As well as watching, you need to warn us if anyone drops from the roof behind us, or better still, spear the bastard. Are we all clear?’

The men nodded wearily. Eleven soldiers to hold the door, with Fulvius and one other soldier there, Elia, a badly wounded man and the old hunchbacked woman inside. A pitiful showing, considering, but gods be blessed they’d done all any man could. Silence fell, aided by the blanket of white still drifting down into the courtyard. All they could hear now was the cacophony of thuds and crashes at each of the three doors holding the enemy back and the scrape and clatter of the natives scrambling up onto the roof.

‘Here they come,’ he said, as a dark figure appeared over the roofline opposite, silhouetted against the white. Behind him others now came, shapes swarming over the roof. Valens found himself swallowing nervously. He’d not quite realised how many there must still be.

‘Get ready to step left, sir,’ Fulvius said behind him. Valens frowned for a moment, then realised that the medic, as well as being the man on watch, was manning the scorpion in the doorway. He gestured his understanding.

He watched, then, as the first three Carvetii slid down the tiles towards the drop into the courtyard. Others were coming across the roofs to the left and right of the courtyard now, too. At least they wouldn’t be likely to come behind as the basilica was a good ten feet higher than the other three sides. The enemies on the roof reached the edge and paused, looking down, preparing. Despite everything, no one seemed keen to be the first man into the courtyard.

Finally, steeling himself, one of the men opposite leapt from the roof. He didn’t land well, and sprawled for a moment in the two-inch-thick blanket of snow, his sword falling from momentarily numb fingers. Still he gave a grimace of persistence, retrieved his sword, and rose from the ground. As he started to unfold, Fulvius murmured ‘now.’

Valens took a tiny step left and in half a breath a scorpion bolt thrummed past his arm, taking the native in the chest, hurling him back and pinning him to the door that was still shaking from the blows of the ram on the far side.

Valens stepped back into position as the other natives started to drop from the roof.

‘Say your prayers, lads.’

Written by SJAT

June 5, 2020 at 10:00 am

Posted in Roman Military

Vengeance – Chapter Ten

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An hour had passed since Valens had returned. An hour of planning, of assigning and continually reassigning people to tasks, of answering endless questions, of confirming things and of checking stores and sending them out, distributing them to defensive positions.

‘Are we ready?’

The optio turned to see Secundus, his expression bitter and bleak, covered in dust from the building works. ‘As we’ll ever be.’

‘Look, I know you don’t like me, but we’ve both come up from being fighting men, both chosen by a centurion because we have what it takes. You have seniority and this is your fort. Belliacus is a good choice, and I know why you chose Rigonorix. He’s a fucking disaster waiting to happen and you can’t trust him, but he’s likeable and dangerous. We thought that for a while. But I’m an optio too and I’m your second in command. I need to know everything for when you get a sword up your sphincter and I have to take over.’

Valens paused, then nodded and pulled the man aside into the chapel of the standards. ‘Alright. We haven’t a chance, as I expect you know. My job is to hold as long as I can and make sure the standards don’t fall to the enemy. Our standards will be buried out of their reach under the floor in the granary. It’s being done even now.’

‘Why not put them in the strong room?’

‘Because they’ll be found there. And because Elia and her boy will be hiding down there. I want the place to look empty and uninteresting, so no one feels moved to search it.’

‘You want the whore to survive. The boy’s yours?’

‘No. It’s nothing like that. But she’s the most innocent soul here. She survives.’

Secundus nodded. ‘I see that. Alright. So they come. What happens?’

‘We draw as much attention as possible to the main door and the half-moon redoubt, to try and save the flanks as long as possible. Both Belliacus and Rigonorix should know how long to hold and when to pull back. Each will have a good share of men and two scorpions. Each piece of artillery now has twelve shots thanks to the work of the smith, Lugracus. That’s more than they’ll have time to use, I’m sure. The last two scorpions will be set up in the headquarters facing the doorways out. That’s our last stand. Once the granaries and the commander’s house are overwhelmed, they pull back here. This building is our last chance. We fight to the end here. Spartans at Thermopylae, yes? “Oh stranger, tell the Lacedaemonians that we lie here, obedient to their words”.’

‘I haven’t a pissing clue what you’re talking about, but I get the drift. We stand and fight as long as we can, kill as many as we can and try to save the girl and the standards. Alright, you take control of the door and I’ll take the inside and the final defences.’


Both men paused at the sound of approaching footsteps. Rubellius came to a halt. ‘It’s started.’ He held up Hermod’s arrow.

‘Here we go,’ breathed Valens. ‘Prepare yourself. As soon as anywhere becomes indefensible, we’ll be pulling back. You need to have the second line of defence ready.

Secundus nodded gruffly and returned to the basilica of the headquarters building. Valens ducked back into the apsidal defence outside the main door. His heart began to pulse as he realised that the entire defence of this approach consisted of himself and three men. It was all well and good trying to draw attention and keep as many of the enemy as possible from assaulting the peripheral buildings, but right now, alongside three men and with the clear memory of the horde outside, it was starting to look really stupid. His eyes slid to his three stalwart companions and lit on Pollio.

Really stupid.

He could have blockaded the door and waited. Perhaps he still should? He shook his head resolutely. They could hold this door. They had the grain bag redoubt and then, when they had to withdraw, a narrow, easily defensible doorway. And then, when the doorway fell, the door to the principia was the thickest and strongest to be found anywhere inside the fort. And as long as this looked viable, the enemy should concentrate on it, taking the pressure off the less defensible areas of the granary and the commander’s house.

A roar arose from somewhere to the east, up the slope.

Valens looked to the other three. ‘Make a lot of noise. Bring them here.

The soldiers began to slam their pilum hafts against the bronze edging of their shields, beginning a rhythmic thumping, providing a beat against which they bellowed out an ancient paean to Mars and Minerva, a soldier’s hopeful song of praise. Valens looked along the street pensively, then back at his men. Each had pilum in hand, and the men who’d designed this small redoubt had thoughtfully provided a floor two grain sacks thick, which gave everyone a two foot advantage in height against those outside. Each man had also drawn his sword and jammed it into a gap in the redoubt for swift retrieval when the pilum inevitably bent, broke or was lost.

Then they came.

A flow of tribesmen and women, whooping and brandishing a variety of weapons, cornered at the granary and began to hurtle down the street towards them. A second cry came from the south where, directly along the other street, Valens could see them crossing the wall at the gate and dropping into the fort to run at them from a second direction. He couldn’t see the other two gates, but doubtless the same was happening everywhere.

Three hundred or so, he remembered from a previous estimate. All they had to do was kill ten each…

The crowd surged towards the small half-moon of sacks with a cry of triumph, falling easily for the clearly most ready access. Valens felt vindication of his plan as he saw along the street tribesmen beginning to climb the walls at the granary, only to be waved on to the doorway by their companions.

‘Stab, don’t throw,’ he reminded his men somewhat unnecessarily. ‘We need every weapon.’

And then they were under attack once more.

It was hard to see the effects the scattered caltrops were having as the crowd surged down the street, especially with the increasing snowfall, but as they came closer to the redoubt entrance, it became clearer. Every four or five paces one of the natives would stop dead, howling and dropping their weapon to clutch at their ruined foot, only to be driven to the ground by the surging mob behind and trampled in their lust for battle. It had to be thinning the numbers, Valens figured, though it was hard to tell.

‘Ready,’ he said, preparing himself, lifting a pilum of shabby construction ready to strike.

The enemy hit the grain-bag wall like a tidal wave, hard enough that the whole construction shuddered and leaned slightly inwards despite its immense weight. The four defenders remained a pace back from the wall, placing them in less danger from spears thrust up from outside, but allowing them still the advantage of stabbing back with their own.

It irritated the optio no end that the first spear to come up and over, seeking his life in the hands of a humble Carvetii peasant, was much better quality than his own military-manufactured one. He ducked out of the way of the gleaming point and stabbed back through the falling blanket of white. The pilum point slammed into the man’s face, ruining it in an instant, and the native, bellowing in agony, fell back. Instinct and more than a decade’s experience in putting down tribal risings took over. As he fell away, Valens grabbed the man’s spear below the head and plucked it from his hands.

The pilum was already bent near the point as he pulled it back, though still usable. They would only be good for two or three strikes, and it was worth having something a bit more robust. Dropping the purloined spear behind him, he stepped forward toward the wall and lunged with the pilum. It was impossible to miss, the enemy like a living carpet, and as he pulled the pilum back, something caused resistance and a sucking sound when it came free. He stabbed again and this time when he pulled it back, the metal shaft was bent beyond hope. Grunting, he cast it down into the enemy and stepped back to pick up that spear.

As he rose, he saw the first of his men fall, blood jetting from a lucky wound to his neck. As the man collapsed, Valens was pleased to see the other two close up to narrow the gaps. Leaping back into the fray he stabbed down with the native spear. Its length and weight was unfamiliar, but he adjusted his grip and perceptions swiftly and was impressed at its reach. When he pulled it back the leaf-shaped blade had already been bloodied.

The mechanics of battle took over, stabbing and pulling back, stabbing and pulling back, ducking this way and that at thrusts over the top. Secundus had made himself worthwhile and a man had arrived from inside the principia to bolster the numbers, though barely had he started to fight than another man fell, dropping them to three once more.

‘Ah shit,’ said Pollio next to him.

Valens frowned. ‘What?’

‘Listen, sir.’

He did. Oddly a strange, slithering roar had begun, starting as an undercurrent but becoming gradually louder until he buried the lesser sounds of battle. Valens fretted for a moment, wondering what was happening.

Then the wall of grain sacks shifted very slightly, the top leaning half a foot outwards. Realisation dawned on him with a sense of dread.

‘They’re slitting the lower grain sacks. The wall’s going to collapse!’

The redoubt was going to last for three dozen heartbeats at most. Valens cursed under his breath. It should have lasted so much longer but he’d not counted on native ingenuity. With every blink of the eye, the apse of sacks was leaning further and further out.

‘Back to the doorway,’ he yelled. Stabbing at one last poor bastard with his stolen spear, he began to back away. Pollio beside him did much the same. The soldier to Valens’s right, however, tried to pull back, but someone had grabbed hold of his spear and suddenly the man was yanked forward against the wall, knocking the breath from him. Before the optio could do anything to help him, a dozen hands grabbed the man and pulled him, screaming, over the wall. Valens caught the fear in his eye for a moment, and flinched at it.

As the remaining three men pulled back towards the doorway behind them, the man to the left made a fatal error. The Carvetii were clambering up and over the redoubt wall now, and he took two steps towards them, mid-retreat, to plant his pilum in a man’s gut. Before he could return to their line he was mobbed by howling men and women dropping down into the redoubt.

There was no time. Attempting to do anything but run risked allowing them access to the principia. Bellowing Latin defiance, Valens and the diminutive Pollio backed away at a speed that matched the quick march, into the doorway. There, some helpful soul pushed another spear into Pollio’s hands. A third man – and gods knew there were precious few now – joined them, spear point gleaming as it pointed forward. The three men formed a line in the door. Valens glanced left for just a moment to see that the hunchbacked old woman had positioned herself behind the door, ready to heave it closed at a call. That it could come to this. Survival hinging on the muscle tone of a misshapen septuagenarian…

It was a good killing zone, Valens decided. The enemy could only come at them in small numbers. ‘Remember the Macedonian drill,’ he said to his companions. As the front-runners closed on them and howled, jabbing out with their own spears, Valens prepared to put into action a manoeuvre they’d called the Macedonian Drill after the famous length advantage of the spears of that nation.

The three of them watched the advancing Carvetii carefully, and waited until they took a shuffling extra step to bring them into line with the doorway. In that moment, as the spears were less important than the manoeuvre, all three soldiers stepped quickly forward and rammed out with their spears and pila, using the step to give them the advantage of reach. All three weapons sank into the enemy and the Romans pulled the spears back out and took two quick steps back as they fell.

More of them came, but it was clear that the Carvetii were slow to learn the lesson of planning before reaching their objective. At the door their eyes left their Roman enemy long enough to pull into the doorway, and the three soldiers stepped forward and stabbed again, stepping back and letting the bodies fall.

On it went with the Macedonian drill, waiting for the moment the natives stumbled in their advance in order to negotiate the narrow doorway, stepping forward and spearing the bastards and then stepping back out of reach of the next ones. Better still, with each iteration the bodies were starting to pile up, presenting more of an impediment for the next group, making it easier to prepare for their advance.

By the sixth lunge, Valens was starting to think they might just survive this. Three men had taken down eighteen since withdrawing to the door and without a single wound. If they could achieve that sort of success across the redoubt then they might just pull through.

Hubris is a dangerous thing. Just as the optio was congratulating himself for what seemed like the possibility of success, things suddenly came undone. Stumbling up over the pile of bodies, one of the next wave of attackers tripped and fell forward. By evil chance, his spear slammed into the thigh of the soldier to the left of Valens. The man cried out and fell back through the doorway. As he knocked Valens, the optio’s spear also went astray and his lunge missed the next man, whose counterstrike would have sent the optio across the final river had he not leaned desperately out of the way.

The disaster had ended their lucky streak, for now Carvetii warriors were managing to get into the doorway without presenting themselves to the Roman spears. Valens prepared himself to fight a desperate last struggle, and cursed as Pollio vanished backwards, legging it in the face of death. The reason for the rodent-like soldier’s disappearance became clear a moment later as arrows thudded into the door frame around him, one thrumming past his head, making Valens look up sharply. Just beyond the next wave of attackers three natives with bows were nocking and loosing with horrible speed. An arrow dinged off Valens’s helmet and the untenable nature of his defence became horribly apparent.

‘Are you going to get out of the fucking way, Valens?’ called a voice from behind.

The optio’s head whipped round, to find himself face to face with three scorpions, each loaded and pointed at the door.


In half a heartbeat the spear he held was gone as he threw himself to the ground. With a tripartite thud the three engines released their foot-long bolts and the doorway cleared of bodies, figures thrown back with screams, taking the men behind along with them. Before Valens could do anything Secundus, who had been the man behind the three weapons, threw his arm out to the bent old crone.

‘Get that door shut, woman.’

‘No,’ bellowed Valens, struggling to his feet. Their tactic had been working. If they could only get people into the door before the enemy recovered…

‘Shut up, Valens. Get the door shut, crone.’

The old woman was dithering, uncertain as to whether she should be closing the door or not. Her decision was made for her as Pollio hit the door next to her and heaved it shut. By the time he was halfway there, the woman was helping. Valens continued to argue, though Secundus urged them to force it closed faster.

The door closed with a click.

‘What do you think you’re doing?’ snarled Valens, launching to his feet angrily.

‘Saving your pretty Dalmatian arse. You’d never have blocked it in time and the arrows would have done for you. Now it’s closed and that avenue of attack is sealed off for a while. Time to set up your Thermopylae, Valens, and what I wouldn’t give for three hundred Spartans right now.’

Written by SJAT

May 29, 2020 at 8:48 am

Posted in Roman Military