Rome. The brightest jewel of civilization. Home. Mother. Empire. If there was ever a place that was it's antithesis, it was this freezing, damp, bog filled Hell they called Caledonia. Quintus Aelius Corax was born a slave. Though he only wore that title for a day his father's master, a very successful merchant from Augusta Taurinorum freed him and his family on the day of his birth. Fifth born son, third to survive boyhood, to a freed slave, Quintus turned to the legions as a way to advance in life. The military suited him perfectly. He was strong, smart, and a disciplined fighter. He received the cognomen Corax for both his coal black hair and for having been the sole survivor of a cohort that had held their position against unbelievable odds. When the siege was finally broken after five days, the only living things left to be found were gravely wounded Quintus and the ravens feasting upon the dead. Since that day he had moved steadily through the ranks until he had found himself appointed primus pilus of the Ninth Legion, the Bulls of Eboracum.
Today, the Bulls would once again be tested in the North. As the rain fell onto the muddy ground, he looked back over the precise and disciplined ranks aligned behind him then towards the mass of barbarians that rushed towards them, eager to meet their death.
He hated this miserable, ungrateful place. Londinium at least had some comforts, even though it was still being rebuilt after Boadicea's rampages of 10 years ago. As a Roman he found it difficult to admire any woman, though there were exceptions to every rule and he did admire anyone who could rout a Roman Legion and in no small way. He owed his name to her. These Caledonians were certainly the exception on this island. Every other people had laid down their arms and accepted the Pax Romana and all the luxuries and wealth that came with it. Though as barbarous and stubbourn as they were, they were good fighters. Much like the other Gauls, they delighted in battle and much like the other Gaul's they were undisciplined and as likely to fight each other as the Legions. Though unlike other Gaul's they would simply not yield. It was foolish, it was stubborn, and though he did not like to admit it, he admired them for it even though it meant he had to stay here admiring them.
The clash was deafening. It always was. The only way to defeat the legion was to break the tortoise. The only way the Caledonians had found to do so, was to crush it beneath the weight of their dead. Once it was no longer able to move, it would be vulnerable, or at least as vulnerable as a wounded, angry bull ever became.
There was only one thing more stubborn and willful than all the warring tribes of Caledonia, only one thing he dreaded more than yet another march to meet those ungrateful savages in battle: that damned Hibernian girl. The worst part of it all was that she had been a gift! His valour, his courage and his discipline had earned him the rank of primus pilus. Though many believed saving the life of an Imperial Senator and retrieving the Aquila may have had something to do with it as well. He had been brought to Rome on furlough with the Senator to be presented to the Emperor himself. The wonders of that city were beyond count. The buildings, the press of people, the food, the circus all were wonders the Senator showed him. These, he thought, were gifts richer than he deserved but upon his return he was presented with a gift, a servant to cater to his every whim. She had been the slave of a Caledonian noble, or at least as noble as these savages could be. He still remembered the day he walked into his room to find her there. She had taken his breath away. Long hair, as black as midnight, falling past her waist in an intricate braid. Her skin was radiant. But it was her eyes. He had never seen eyes such as hers. Bright, shining, and green as emerald. The only thing marring those eyes was the raging storm of hatred he saw reflecting from them.
The tortoise survived the first assault. Quintus screamed the orders over the crack of thunder and the formation moved forward, trampling the dead beneath their sandled feet. Looking out over his shield he saw them massing again. He knew his men were exhausted but they must not yield.
"You see that boys, Zeus himself has come to this battle to see us fight. Let's give him a show!"
The men of his cohort shouted defiance as they moved forward in perfect unison.
She had stood before him, defiant, head held high, angry eyes daring him to meet her gaze. He dared, he met them and he knew the battle would never be won and that it would cost him dearly. Still, Quintus was not a man who backed away from a fight. He asked for her name.
"Brannagh."
She never answered him with more than a single word, when she deigned to speak to him, preferring to simply nod. She also flatly refused to speak Latin though it was clear she understood everything he said to her. She did exactly as he asked but always, those eyes would never yield her hatred of him. He took that hatred as a challenge. He would soften those eyes if it took him a lifetime. Of course a lifetime of soldiery did not make it an easy task. His knowledge of women extended to washer women and brothel whores. He did not know what else to do, other than to try to make her more comfortable. Very few comforts were to be found in this place, but he made any he could lay his hands on available to her. Every attempt was met with disdain and those eyes, like daggers of green ice. But like every other challenge in his life he would never yield until he tasted victory. No matter how frustrating she became he never raised his voice let alone his hand to her. Yet still the hatred remained in her eyes. Of course he knew what he must give her.
They were now mired in a bog. The assaults had not been to soften them up but to move them into the bog. He saw now, far too late, the planks the barbarians had used to keep themselves out of the mire. He had underestimated their tactics and it would cost him dearly. The planks were too far apart for his own men to use and stay in formation. They would have to break the tortoise and fight on the barbarians terms or die.
He brought her a gown from Londinium, a vibrant green to match her eyes. She wore it willingly and she looked every bit a Roman Lady but still the eyes were full of hate for him. He bought her perfumes, jewels and everything a woman might desire and he still managed to make no headway. Still she attended to him in silence and hatred. He tried to learn her language but this was greeted with scorn and contempt. At least now he could understand exactly what she was saying to him, though this only added to his misery as he waited for the latest reply from Rome.
They needed to time the break in formation perfectly. Only half his men were truly mired. Would that be enough? He knew his men would not fail him. The barbarians hit the tortoise hard, unable to maneuver, it began to buckle. The panicked shouts of the Romans seemed to lend strength to their enemy's assault.
And so he kept up his efforts for over a year, taking out his frustrations on his men and his enemies. His valour became legendary as he returned from every battle victorious and lauded by his men and commanders. He would return to Brannagh after every battle dirty, bloodied, scared. She would remove his armour. She would draw his bath, tend to his wounds. Her touch on his skin was never gentle nor did she try to cause him undue pain but the hatred was always there. He was certain every grunt of pain she caused him did give her some satisfaction. He longed to hold her, to smell the perfume in her hair but he would not take what was not freely given. And then it came. His last hope. He held it in his trembling hand looking down at the Imperial seal. A minute later, his face lit by the burning parchment, he realized what he would need to do.
The Formation broke in the middle. The barbarians surged into the ranks with screams of triumph swords drawn, ready to drink Roman blood. But their swords were long and the space within the Roman formation was limited. They realized too late that they had not broken the formation, it had swallowed them. Quintus smiled, the gambit had paid off. The Roman gladius was short and within these confines it made short work. The tortoise reformed under Quintus' orders, however more than a dozen legionnaires lay dead and many more were wounded. Quintus felt the blood trickling down his side as he saw another wave of screaming men barreling down upon him. He smiled.
At sunset Brannagh heard the cheers, the roar, the trumpets. Victory. She took the water off the fire and began to draw the bath. She placed her needles and thread on a cloth next to it and sat down and waited. She did not have to wait long. She rose as the door opened but it was not the familiar face of her master that greeted her, it was the Legate. He removed his helmet and looked at her with eyes overwhelmed with suppressed grief. Quintus was not expected to live through the night. He held out a piece of parchment, his will. He read it to her when she made sign that she could not read. She stood, stunned as he read it to her. Roman manumission laws would not allow a man to free his slaves other than in his will, just as Quintus himself had been freed at his master's death. Of course exceptions could be made. After every victory, after every act of unprecedented valour he had asked for dispensation to free her. With each military success he became more renowned and this allowed him to push his case for her manumission further, to more influential Senators. He had pushed himself to the breaking point and had managed to get a letter all the way to the Emperor himself, but to no avail. This time, he had pushed beyond his breaking point.
"He is in the infirmary if you wish to speak with him, though you might wish to hurry."
He had held them together long enough for reinforcements to arrive. Only 15 of his men had died to the hundreds heaped at their feet. Amongst the cheers a cry rang out, the Corax has fallen. He heard those words and wondered what they meant as the blackness overtook him. He awoke to intense pain. The leather strap between his teeth was not unfamiliar to him and he bit deeply into it as the surgeons worked. He now lay on his back, stripped to his tunic, the surgeons had done what they could and from their expressions he knew what would come. He smiled. He turned his head just as she entered. She was radiant, a goddess come to claim him. He had always found her so beautiful in that gown, as she moved closer he could smell the perfume and his smile broadened. He looked up into her green eyes freed from slavery and found they were also freed of their hate. A tear rolled from the corner of his eye.
"I have paid for your freedom with my life, Brannagh. I would have done so sooner, but I was too much a coward."
