The Warrior

Roman Britain AD 112

Marcus Octavius Flavius clenched his teeth as he rubbed his thigh through his chain mail. He could tell just from the touch that it would be a long time before his saddle sore went away. He heard a low chuckle as his superior rode up beside him. Marcus stopped rubbing his leg and quickly took hold of the reins again. His superior, Brutus, clicked his teeth.

"It only hurts for a few days." he said. Marcus looked straight ahead, watching his men march before him, their exhaustion more evident with every step they took. "If I were you, I would be a lot more worried about my hands." Brutus said, looking at Marcus's bound fingers. Marcus clenched his reins tighter in his hands and kept his eyes forward. He knew that his fingers were turning blue from the cold.

"I'm fine." he replied in a harsh voice. "But the men will need to rest soon. We can't ask them to wield a sword when they can't even pick up their feet." Brutus leaned his head back and stared at Marcus. Marcus dared a glance to the side and quickly added, "if you would give the order, Commander." Brutus studied Marcus for a moment, and Marcus watched as small snowflakes fell upon his stallion's mane.

Brutus raised his voice. "We will camp here for the night!" he shouted. The message quickly carried through the hundred men that they commanded and their formation scattered as they went to work finding firewood and putting together their supplies. Marcus however, knew that it would be difficult to find good firewood here. Everything was covered with a thin blanket of snow, even the tall tree's overhead. Though, they gave the soldiers some shelter at least.

Marcus dismounted his horse and handed the reins to a soldier. He reached into his saddle bag and produced a jug of water. After taking a long swig of it, he walked over to a tree and carefully shoveled snow from the branches into it until it was full. Then, he walked back to his saddle and placed the jug back into his bag. Hopefully by morning he would have fresh water to drink.

The walk from Hadrian's Wall had been arduous to say the least. So far they had only encountered rogue warriors and rough terrain. Thankfully they were only a few days away from the nearest Roman fortress, where they had all been stationed to serve for the next 4 years. Marcus touched the pin on his chest with his right hand, and closed his eyes. His father would have been proud of him, Marcus was sure of it.

"Sir?" a voice called. Marcus opened his eyes and saw his friend Lucius watching him with wide eyes. Lucius was a tall man with thick blond hair and a strong jawline. He had a scar beside his left eye that made him older than his years. Marcus smiled at him and put an arm on his shoulder.

"Lucius, I'm glad to see you my friend." he said, guiding him away from the horses. "How is the journey treating you?" Lucius lifted his leg.

"Well sir, aside from my boots cutting into my leg, I'm great. I'm not complaining though." Lucius said with a smirk. Marcus shook his head. He felt guilty riding a horse while his men had to walk the mountains, but he was glad that Lucius still treated him like an old friend.

"I am sorry to hear that Lucius." Marcus said, "If there is anything you need-"

"I don't want your pity you arse," Lucius interrupted with a scowl, "just get me a drink when we get there and we can be square. Deal?" Lucius held out his right arm and Marcus grabbed his forearm with his right hand.

"Deal." he said. Lucius grinned and let go of Marcus's arm. "So, whats for dinner then?" Suddenly, the scream of a young boy filled the air, and Marcus and Lucius both froze in their tracks. The soldiers around them were suddenly hurrying toward the opposite side of camp, so Marcus and Lucius quickly followed them.

The soldiers stood around a a thick area of trees, so Marcus pushed his way forward, ordering them to stand aside. When he made it to the front of the group, his eyes widened in surprise.

Brutus stood with his back to a tree, wearing only half of his armor and no helmet. In his left arm was a skinny, frightened little boy. In his right hand, and pressed against the boy's throat, was his knife. The boy looked to be around seven years old, and was covered in dirt. He breathed heavily, his wide eyes searching the soldier's faces for a savior.

"What is the meaning of this?" Marcus yelled. The boy struggled to get away but Brutus held him tighter.

"This savage was spying on us! He was going to tell his tribe that we are here!" Brutus replied.

"How do you know that?" Marcus asked, taking a step forward. Brutus looked at the soldiers.

"Clear out! The lot of you!" He bellowed, and the soldiers qucikly went back to their work, leaving Marcus and Brutus. Brutus looked at Marcus, his face was red and his veins could be seen on his forehead.

"How do I know it? Look at this." he said. He grabbed the boy's right arm and forced it forward, palm up. On the boy's forearm, just above his wrist, was a blue tatoo in the shape of a spiral. The boy couldn't understand their language, but his face told Marcus that he knew the tatoo could mean the end of him.

"What is that?" Marcus asked. Brutus yanked the boy's arm back.

"That is the mark of the Brigantes. He's a Pict, Marcus." Brutus said. Marcus looked at the scared little boy and furrowed his eyebrows. Marcus had heard that the Picts were ruthless barbarians, who took their enemies heads as trophies, and cut the feet off of the slain so that they could not walk in the afterlife. But this boy didn't match the description. It was hard to imagine this scared little thing could ever cause harm. Brutus pushed the boy down to his knees and pulled his sword from his sheath.

"Are you mad?!" Marcus asked, stepping forward to the boy.

"Its for Rome, Marcus." Brutus said, not looking into Marcus's eyes.

"There is no honor in this." Marcus said. "He is a child!"

"He is a Pict! Trained from birth to hate us and kill us if he has the chance."

"A child!" Marcus repeated. Brutus ignored him and stepped forward with his sword. Marcus knew now that he was preaching to deaf ears.

"He will be a warning to the other Brigantes who try to cross our path." Brutus said. Brutus pressed the boy's head against a rock and murmured a quiet prayer. Marcus clenched his fists and stormed away, his breath visible in the cold air. He was almost back to his men when he heard the sound of a sword being brought down on human flesh.

A deathly silence filled the camp for a moment, and a chill crept up Marcus's spine. Then as quickly as is happened, the camp was back into its usual routine.

Later, as some soldiers mounted the boy's bloodied, terrified face unto a pole, Marcus couldn't shake the feeling that if the Picts were as barbaric as they said, the boy's head wouldn't serve as a warning.

It would be an invitation.