862 Ab Urbe Condita, The Consulship of Aulus Cornelius Palma Frontonianus and Publius Calvisius Tullus Ruso
The biting wind whipped across the exposed parade ground of Eboracum, carrying the scent of damp earth, woodsmoke, and the metallic tang of honed steel. It was a familiar perfume to the men of the Legio IX Hispana, the Ninth Spanish Legion, veterans hardened by campaigns from Germania to Dacia, now garrisoned in this northernmost provincial capital of Britannia. Below the imposing timber and earth ramparts of the fortress, the River Ouse flowed sluggishly, a grey ribbon reflecting the perpetually overcast sky. Winter was loosening its grip, but spring in these northern lands was a fickle promise, often rescinded by sudden frosts and chilling rains.
Today, however, held a different kind of chill – the cold anticipation of departure. For weeks, preparations had been underway. Smiths had hammered late into the night, sharpening gladii, repairing lorica segmentata, and shoeing the endless procession of mules and horses. Quartermasters had haggled, cursed, and counted, ensuring adequate supplies of grain, dried meat, leather, tools, and the thousand other necessities required to keep a legion operational in hostile territory. Scribaes had meticulously updated muster rolls, their styluses scratching across wax tablets under the flickering lamplight of the principia. Now, nearly five thousand men stood assembled, their disciplined ranks a sea of polished iron, burnished bronze, and scarlet cloaks, a testament to Roman order imposed upon a wild frontier.
Their destination lay to the north-northwest, deep within the misty, rugged expanse called Caledonia. Whispers had filtered down through the ranks, garbled reports brought by exhausted scouts and mud-spattered couriers. Brigantum territory was becoming restless again, stirred perhaps by rumours from further north, but the true concern lay far to the Northwest. An isolated outpost, one of the lonely teeth in Rome's attempt to chew into the unconquered highlands, had sent increasingly desperate pleas for reinforcement. Supplies were low, the local tribes, disparate groups collectively, called Caledonians, were growing bolder, their raids more frequent and ferocious. Silence had fallen a month prior. Presumed overrun, but hope, however faint, persisted. Now, the Ninth was tasked with marching north, re-establishing contact, relieving the garrison if it still held, or avenging it if it had fallen, and reinforcing Roman presence in the volatile region.
At the head of the assembled legion sat Legatus Legionis Marcus Valerius Rufus, astride a powerful bay charger. A man in his late forties, his face was a map of campaigns fought under sun and snow, etched with lines of command and responsibility. His dark eyes scanned the ranks, missing nothing. He was a stern commander, demanding but fair, respected by his men for his tactical acumen and his willingness to share their hardships. Though the prospect of a protracted campaign in the Caledonian wilds was daunting, Rufus exuded a calm confidence that steadied the nerves of even the newest recruits.
Beside him, younger and radiating an aristocratic assurance, was the Tribunus Laticlavius, Publius Cornelius Dolabella. From a powerful senatorial family, Dolabella was serving his obligatory term to gain military experience before pursuing a political career in Rome. While intelligent and eager, his practical experience was limited, a fact not lost on the grizzled veterans around him. He represented the political heart of the Legion, a direct link to the Senate and the Emperor Trajan himself.
Flanking them were the Tribuni Angusticlavii, career equestrian officers who formed the senior staff. Among them, Quintus Antonius Pollio stood out, ambitious, sharp-featured, known for his meticulous attention to logistical detail. Others, like Lucius Vettius Gratus and Gaius Sentius Agricola, were seasoned campaigners, their presence a reassuring sign of experienced leadership within the command structure.
Further down the hierarchy, the sixty Centurions stood before their respective Centuries, the backbone of the Legion. Men like Cassius Longinus of the First Cohort's Primus Pilus, the senior centurion, a formidable figure whose scarred face and unwavering gaze spoke of countless battles, or the stern Decimus Junius Brutus, commanding a Century in the Seventh Cohort, known for his brutal training regimen but fiercely loyal to his men. Each Centurion was a nexus of discipline and experience, the vital link between high command and the rank-and-file legionary.
And overseeing the vital logistical and administrative heart of the legion, the man responsible for the camp, supplies, and equipment, was the Praefectus Castrorum, Titus Flavius Valens. A man risen from the ranks through decades of unwavering service, Valens was nearing sixty. His hair was iron-grey, his face weathered like ancient rock, his eyes holding the quiet wisdom of one who had seen empires shift and commanders rise and fall. He had served with the Ninth for nearly thirty years, starting as a simple miles gregarius, a foot soldier, and climbing the ladder through sheer competence and resilience. He knew the Legion's pulse, its strengths, its weaknesses, better perhaps than the Legatus himself. He was not a man of noble birth like Dolabella, nor a strategist like Rufus, but the Legion could not function without his steady, experienced hand managing its intricate workings. He sat his horse slightly behind the senior command, his expression impassive, observing the final preparations.
The Aquilifer of the First Cohort, Gaius Pompeius Aquila, stood ramrod straight, the Legion's sacred Eagle standard clutched firmly in his grasp. The polished silver eagle, wings outstretched, perched atop its pole, the lightning bolts clutched in its talons gleaming even under the dull sky. It was the soul of the Legion, its honour incarnate. To lose the Aquila was unthinkable, a disgrace from which a legion might never recover. Every man felt its symbolic weight, a reminder of their loyalty to Rome and the Emperor.
With a final adjustment of his helmet, Legatus Rufus raised his arm. The command staff spurred their horses forward. Cornicens lifted their brass horns, the strident call echoing off the fortress walls, cutting through the murmuring ranks. "Signa Inferre! Ad Agmen!" The order rippled down the lines. Standards were raised – the vexilla of the cohorts, the signa of the maniples, topped with their distinctive emblems. The Legionaries hefted their heavy scuta, adjusted the hang of their gladii, and gripped their pila. With the rhythmic tramp of thousands of caligae on packed earth, the Legio IX Hispana began to move.
They marched out from Eboracum, crossing the timber bridge over the Ouse, a scarlet and steel serpent winding its way north-northwest. They followed the solid Roman road for the first few days, the engineered surface a comfort beneath their feet. Auxiliary cavalry units, recruited from allied tribes, fanned out ahead and on the flanks, their lighter armour and nimble ponies ideal for scouting the rolling hills and wooded valleys. The initial days were marked by the familiar routine of the march: wake before dawn, a simple meal of hardtack and water or weak wine, break camp, march fifteen Roman miles, fortify a new marching camp with ditch and rampart before dusk, eat, sleep, repeat. Discipline was paramount. The Legion moved not as individuals, but as a single, articulated entity, its cohorts and centuries maintaining precise intervals, ready to form battle lines at a moment's notice.
Valens, riding near the middle of the column with the baggage train, oversaw the relentless logistics. He monitored the distribution of rations, the condition of the mules, the repair of wagons that inevitably broke down on the rougher tracks. He conferred with Centurions, listened to the reports from the Tribunes responsible for supply and reconnaissance, his mind a constant ledger of resources and potential problems. He watched the landscape change, the familiar, somewhat tamed lands around Eboracum giving way to rougher pastures, denser woodlands, and increasingly bleak moorlands. The Roman roads became less reliable, eventually petering out into rough tracks used by the native Britons, forcing the engineers at the head of the column to work harder, clearing paths and reinforcing boggy ground.
The further north they pushed, the wilder the land became. Rolling hills grew into craggy tors, forests darkened, and the ubiquitous mist seemed to cling longer each morning, shrouding the landscape in an ethereal, unsettling silence. The air grew colder, the wind carrying the scent of pine and damp peat. Encounters with locals became infrequent, fleeting glimpses of figures watching from distant hilltops before melting back into the wilderness. These were not the relatively Romanized Brigantes of the south, but tribes who had fiercely resisted Roman expansion for generations. Their lands were a patchwork of small kingdoms and tribal territories, fiercely independent and deeply hostile to the invaders.
The men grew quieter, their usual marching songs and barracks humour replaced by a more watchful tension. They had heard the stories – of legionaries ambushed in dense forests, of small patrols vanishing without a trace, of warriors who fought with suicidal ferocity, their bodies painted with terrifying blue woad. Caledonia was a land that swallowed legions whole, a graveyard of Roman ambition. The memory of past campaigns, both successful and disastrous, hung heavy in the air.
After twelve days of relentless marching, covering nearly two hundred miles, they were deep into territory marked on their maps with warnings and uncertainties. The weather turned foul, a persistent, soaking rain driven by a gusting wind that chilled men to the bone despite their woollen cloaks and tunics. Mud caked their caligae, making each step a laborious effort. Tempers frayed, and the usual grumbling intensified. Scouts reported increasing signs of recent passage – tracks, discarded remnants of food, the faint smoke of distant fires carefully concealed. The enemy was shadowing them, waiting, watching. Legatus Rufus ordered double watches, increased cavalry patrols, and mandated that every soldier sleep with his weapons within arm's reach.
On the fourteenth day, under a sky the colour of lead, the forward scouts reported sighting the hills that marked the approximate location of the targeted outpost, perhaps another day's march ahead. The land here was particularly unforgiving – steep-sided valleys choked with ancient forests, treacherous bogs disguised by heather, and bare, wind-scoured ridges offering little shelter. Rufus chose a campsite on relatively open ground, a slight plateau offering decent visibility, bordered on one side by a dense wood and on the other by a fast-flowing stream. As dusk gathered, the familiar process of constructing the marching camp began, but there was an urgency tonight, a palpable sense of unease that transcended the usual fatigue. The rain had eased to a persistent drizzle, and mist curled up from the stream and clung to the edges of the woods like ghostly fingers.
Valens supervised the placement of the baggage wagons, ensuring the defensive perimeter was sound. He exchanged a few words with Cassius Longinus, the Primus Pilus, whose usual stoicism seemed overlaid with a deeper watchfulness. "The air feels wrong tonight, Prefect," Longinus muttered, his gaze sweeping the darkening woods.
"It often does in this cursed land, Cassius," Valens replied, though he felt it too. A stillness that was too profound, a silence broken only by the squawk of a distant bird and the gurgle of the stream. "See that the sentries are alert. Double the pickets near the forest edge."
Longinus nodded grimly. "Already done, sir. No man sleeps easy tonight."
Dinner was a somber affair. The usual camaraderie was muted. Men ate quickly, huddled around small, smoky fires, their eyes constantly drifting towards the perimeter wall and the encroaching darkness beyond. Legatus Rufus held a brief council with his Tribunes and senior Centurions in his command tent. Maps were consulted, scouting reports reviewed again. Dolabella, perhaps trying to project confidence, spoke of the relief effort reaching its conclusion. Pollio meticulously outlined the planned approach for the final day's march. Rufus listened intently, his expression unreadable in the lamplight. Valens, present as always, focused on the practicalities – the state of readiness, the deployment of sentries.
"They know we're here," Rufus stated flatly, cutting through Dolabella's optimistic assessment. "They've shadowed us for days. Why haven't they struck? They're waiting for the right moment, the right ground." He tapped the map. "Or they're drawing us towards the outpost, perhaps into a larger trap." His eyes met Valens'. "Titus, ensure the camp is as secure as possible. I don't like this stillness."
Valens nodded. "Every man is on alert, Legatus. The sentries are doubled, patrols are frequent."
The council broke up, officers returning to their sections, disseminating the Legatus's orders. The camp settled into an uneasy quiet. The drizzle continued, pattering softly on tent leather and armour. Mist thickened, swirling around the flickering torches that marked the ramparts, reducing visibility to mere yards. The night deepened, black and oppressive.
It was perhaps three hours past midnight, in the depths of the 'silent watch', when hell erupted.
It began not with a war cry, but with a sudden, coordinated hail of missiles from the darkness of the woods. Stones flung from slingshots, heavy darts, and crudely fashioned arrows rained down on the tents nearest the forest edge. Simultaneously, hideous, ululating cries burst from the mist-shrouded darkness on multiple sides of the camp, a terrifying cacophony designed to sow panic.
Torches were instantly extinguished by the projectiles or the attackers who surged from the gloom. Sentries cried out in alarm or agony before being silenced. The carefully constructed Roman order dissolved into primal chaos in heartbeats. Caledonian warriors, faces smeared with woad, seemingly materialized from the swirling mist, pouring over the hastily erected earthworks before the defenders could fully react. They wielded long swords, spears, axes, and wicked-looking clubs, moving with a terrifying speed and agility born of their native terrain.
"Ad Arma! Ad Arma!" The cry went up throughout the camp, desperate shouts swallowed by the din of battle and the attackers' howls. Men scrambled from their tents, fumbling for helmets and shields, grabbing gladii, their senses overwhelmed by the sudden onslaught. Centurions roared orders, trying to rally their centuries, their voices strained against the cacophony.
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The fighting was brutal, intimate, and terrifyingly confused. In the flickering, uncertain light of hastily relit torches and burning tents, Roman discipline struggled against savage ferocity. The Caledonians seemed numberless, pressing their attack with reckless abandon, targeting officers and standard bearers. The disciplined shield wall formations, so effective on open ground, were difficult to form quickly in the confines of the crowded, panicked camp. Legionaries fought back-to-back, desperately trying to hold small pockets of resistance. The clang of steel on steel, the wet thud of blades finding flesh, screams of pain, guttural roars of exertion, and the chilling war cries of the attackers filled the night air.
Valens, roused instantly, buckled on his own sword belt and grabbed his helmet. His tent, situated near the camp's administrative center, was slightly removed from the initial point of attack, but the sounds of slaughter were unmistakable. He emerged into a nightmare. Figures struggled in the gloom, illuminated by the spreading fires. Wounded men staggered back from the perimeter, clutching at terrible injuries. He saw a standard waver and fall, its bearer cut down. He drew his gladius, his aged muscles remembering decades of combat drills. He barked orders at nearby clerks and aides, arming them with whatever weapons came to hand, forming a small defensive knot around the vital records and legionary treasury chest stored near his tent.
He saw Quintus Antonius Pollio, one of the Tribuni Angusticlavii, rally a group of legionaries near the eastern gate, trying to stem the tide pouring in from that direction. Pollio fought bravely, his officer's sword flashing, but he was quickly surrounded by a swarm of howling warriors. Valens watched, helpless from his position, as the Tribune went down under a flurry of blows.
News, fragmented and dire, reached him through runners or wounded men. The main assault seemed focused on the command tents near the center and the northern perimeter facing the woods. Legatus Rufus and Tribunus Laticlavius Dolabella had rushed towards the sounds of the heaviest fighting. A cohort near the stream was being flanked. The cavalry, caught unprepared, were struggling to mount and form up within the chaotic camp.
Valens pushed towards the principia, the headquarters area, his small group cutting down several attackers who had penetrated deep into the camp. He found the area around the Legatus's tent a scene of utter carnage. The Praetorium Guard, elite soldiers tasked with protecting the commander, lay dead or dying amidst overturned furniture and burning canvas. In the muddy ground near the tent entrance lay the body of Marcus Valerius Rufus, the Legatus, his armour hacked, his eyes staring blankly at the drizzling sky. Not far away lay Publius Cornelius Dolabella, the young Tribunus Laticlavius, his aristocratic features frozen in a mask of shock and pain, a crude spear pinning him to the earth. The heart of the Legion's command had been decapitated in the initial, ferocious rush.
The sight struck Valens with the force of a physical blow, but years of ingrained discipline asserted themselves over shock and grief. With Rufus and Dolabella dead, command devolved. The remaining Tribuni Angusticlavii were scattered, possibly dead. As Praefectus Castrorum, the Camp Prefect, the highest-ranking officer demonstrably alive and present, the crushing weight of the Legio IX Hispana now rested squarely on his shoulders.
"Form up! Seal the principia!" Valens roared, his voice cutting through the din. He grabbed the nearest Centurion, a blood-splattered man whose name he vaguely recalled as Macro from the Third Cohort. "Macro! Gather every man you can find! We hold this position! Protect the Aquila!"
The Aquilifer, Gaius Pompeius Aquila, was nearby, backed against the partially collapsed frame of the command tent, the sacred Eagle held high. He fought with the ferocity of a cornered wolf, his gladius a blur, several fallen Caledonians at his feet. Legionaries rallied around him, instinctively drawn to the Legion's symbol, forming a desperate island of resistance.
Valens knew they couldn't hold out like this indefinitely. The attackers were too numerous, the confusion too great. He needed to impose order, consolidate their forces, and break contact if possible. He dispatched runners – those who could navigate the chaos – searching for the surviving Tribunes and Centurions. "Find Vettius! Find Agricola! Report to me here! Centurions, rally your men! Form Cohort remnants! Fall back towards the principia! We consolidate here!"
Slowly, agonizingly, through sheer force of will and the ingrained discipline of the survivors, pockets of resistance began to coalesce. Centurions bellowed commands, Optios shoved men into formation, Signifers raised their standards as rallying points. The fighting continued, fierce and bloody, but the Romans were beginning to form cohesive units again, pushing back the attackers who had penetrated the camp's core.
The battle raged for what felt like an eternity, but was likely no more than two hours. The Caledonians, having achieved surprise and inflicted devastating losses, seemed reluctant to press their attack against the reforming Roman lines, especially as the first hints of grey began to lighten the eastern sky. Their strength lay in ambush and ferocious charges, not sustained, grinding combat against organized legionaries. As dawn approached, their piercing cries changed timbre, becoming signals for withdrawal. As swiftly and silently as they had appeared, they began to melt back into the mist-shrouded woods and hills, leaving behind a scene of utter devastation.
The silence that descended was almost as terrifying as the preceding chaos. It was broken only by the crackle of lingering fires, the groans of the wounded, and the ragged breathing of the exhausted survivors. The air hung thick with the smell of blood, smoke, and death.
The faint light of dawn revealed the true horror. The camp was a wreck. Tents were slashed or burned, supplies scattered and looted, the ground churned into a muddy morass littered with bodies – Roman and Caledonian alike. Valens stood near the ruined command tent, the weight of ages pressing down on him. His face was grim, streaked with soot and gore, his knuckles white where he gripped the hilt of his gladius. Around him, the survivors gathered, their faces etched with shock, exhaustion, and grief.
He saw Tribunes Lucius Vettius Gratus and Gaius Sentius Agricola approaching, their armour dented, their expressions mirroring his own grim understanding. "Pollio is dead," Vettius reported curtly, his voice hoarse. "Saw him fall near the east gate."
"The Legatus and Dolabella are lost," Valens stated, his voice flat, devoid of emotion he couldn't afford to show. "Confirmative reports?"
Agricola nodded numbly. "Their bodies are secured. Near the Praetorium."
Valens drew a deep breath, the cold, damp air burning his lungs. "By right of rank and survival, command falls to me." It wasn't a question. It was a statement of harsh reality. He looked at the two surviving Tribunes, men he had known for years, competent officers now thrust into critical roles under the worst possible circumstances. "Vettius, Agricola. We need an immediate assessment. Status of all surviving Centurions. A count of the living, the wounded, and the dead. An inventory of what supplies remain – weapons, food, medical necessities. Everything."
He turned to the Centurions who had gathered, their faces grim. "Centurions! Reorganize your men. Combine depleted centuries. Form provisional cohorts based on who is left standing. Tend to the wounded as best you can. Secure the perimeter – they may return. I want section reports within the hour."
The machine of the Roman army, battered and broken but not entirely destroyed, slowly began to function again. Under the direction of the surviving officers, legionaries began the grim tasks. The dead were separated from the wounded. Makeshift litters were fashioned. Men mechanically checked their equipment, cleaned blood from their blades, salvaged usable gear from the fallen. A rough count began, passing through the Optios to the Centurions, then to the Tribunes.
The numbers, when they finally reached Valens, were staggering. Of the nearly five thousand men who had marched from Eboracum, preliminary counts suggested barely two thousand remained capable of fighting. Over half the Legion, including the Legatus, the Tribunus Laticlavius, one Tribunus Angusticlavius, and more than thirty Centurions, were dead or grievously wounded and unlikely to survive. The losses were catastrophic. Supplies were also severely depleted; much of the grain had been scattered or burned, medical supplies looted, and a significant number of pack animals killed or driven off. They were deep in hostile territory, drastically undermanned, undersupplied, and with their senior leadership decimated.
As the count proceeded and the initial reorganization began, the sky in the southeast showed the pale, watery light of dawn breaking through the thinning mist. But even as the sun tried to assert its presence, a cold, brutal wind began to pick up from the northwest – the direction of their intended destination, the direction from which the attack had implicitly originated. Dark, heavy clouds, pregnant with rain or sleet, scudded across the sky, rapidly swallowing the fragile light. The temperature plummeted.
Valens looked northwest, then southeast towards the long road back to Eboracum. He conferred quickly with Vettius and Agricola. The mission was impossible now. Reinforcing the outpost was unthinkable. Their only priority was survival. "We cannot stay here," Valens declared, his voice raspy but firm. "This position is compromised, and that storm..." He gestured towards the ominous northwestern sky. "The winter storms in Caledonia can be as lethal as any painted warriors. We need shelter, and we need to move away from whoever waits for us in those hills."
The decision was clear, though bitter. Retreat. "We move southeast," Valens ordered. "Back the way we came. We travel light – abandon anything non-essential. The wounded who can walk will march. Those who cannot..." He paused, the unspoken implication hanging heavy in the air. Litters would slow them fatally. Some tough choices would need to be made, triage in its most brutal form. "Every man carries extra rations if possible. Maintain tight formation. Scouts out, flank guards alert. We move now."
The exhausted Legion, a shadow of its former self, began the arduous process of breaking the ruined camp and preparing for retreat. Essential supplies were loaded onto the remaining mules. The dead were gathered for a hasty cremation, a necessary measure to prevent disease and deny trophies to the enemy, though the lack of adequate fuel would make it a grim, partial affair. The wounded were assessed, the walking wounded helped along by their comrades, the most severely injured left with a waterskin and the cold comfort of a quick end promised by an Optio's dagger should the enemy return before exposure claimed them. It was the harsh calculus of survival on the frontier.
They hadn't marched more than a few miles southeast, stumbling over the rough terrain, when the storm hit. It came not as rain, but as a blinding squall of sleet and wind howling down from the Caledonian highlands. Visibility dropped to near zero. The wind tore at cloaks, drove ice particles into exposed faces like needles, and numbed fingers gripping shields and weapons. The temperature plunged further, dangerously low. Men shivered uncontrollably, their movements becoming sluggish. The hastily reorganized formations threatened to break apart in the whiteout.
"Shelter!" Valens roared over the wind's shriek. "Find shelter! Anything!"
Scouts, barely able to see, fanned out, desperately searching the bleak landscape. It was Centurion Macro who found it, his shout barely audible but carrying a note of desperate hope. He had stumbled upon the mouth of a large cave, set into the base of a low, rocky escarpment that offered some meagre protection from the wind's direct fury.
"This way! To the rocks!" The order relayed down the struggling column. Men turned gratefully towards the promise of refuge, huddling together, pushing against the wind towards the dark opening Macro indicated. The cave mouth was wide, easily ten men abreast, and surprisingly tall, disappearing into blackness.
Valens stood near the entrance, urging the men inside, his face encased in ice, his cloak stiff with frozen sleet. Cohort by cohort, century by century, the remnants of the Ninth Legion shuffled into the dark embrace of the cave. The relief from the biting wind was immediate and profound. They crowded in, filling the large outer chamber, the sounds of coughing, shivering, and muttered curses echoing off the unseen rock walls. The air inside was cold but still, smelling of damp stone and something else… an odd, almost metallic tang, barely perceptible beneath the scent of wet wool and men.
Valens was one of the last to enter, turning only when Tribune Agricola confirmed the rearguard was inside. As the final legionary, a young, scared-looking recruit from the Fifth Cohort, stumbled through the entrance, collapsing just inside, a strange phenomenon began.
At the very centre of the cave mouth, a tiny pinprick of light appeared. It was intensely bright, unnatural, the colour of raw lightning – a fierce, electric blue-white that hurt the eyes. It pulsed slightly, hovering in mid-air against the backdrop of the raging storm outside.
A collective gasp went through the assembled soldiers. Fear, cold and primal, replaced the exhaustion on their faces. Men instinctively backed away, pressing themselves against the cold, damp rock of the cave's rear walls. Weapons were gripped tighter, shields raised uncertainly. What fresh hell was this? Some new form of Caledonian magic? A trick of the storm?
The pinprick of light did not fade. Instead, it began to expand. Slowly at first, then with increasing speed, it grew into a perfect sphere, a bubble of incandescent energy that filled the cave entrance from floor to ceiling, side to side. It pulsed with contained power, arcs of brighter energy, like miniature lightning bolts, skittering across its surface. The light it cast was blinding, bathing the cave interior in its stark, blue-white glare, throwing the terrified faces of the legionaries into sharp relief.
And then came the sound. A low hum at first, it rapidly intensified into a complex, unnerving hiss, like the sound of a thousand angry vipers trapped in a giant wineskin, or perhaps the crackle of a massive forge fire combined with the dry rustle of countless scales. It vibrated in the air, in the rock beneath their feet, in the very marrow of their bones. Accompanying the sound, a strange wind began to pour forth from the bubble, into the cave. It wasn't the frigid wind of the storm outside; this wind was warm, almost balmy, carrying unfamiliar scents – salt, vegetation, something vaguely floral and exotic.
The men were utterly terrified now. Some whimpered prayers to Jupiter, Mars, or their own native gods. Others simply stared, paralyzed by fear and disbelief. They huddled together, a mass of shivering, wide-eyed soldiers pressed against the unyielding rock at the back of the cave, seeking solace in numbers against the impossible thing that blocked their only exit.
Valens, standing slightly forward of the main group alongside Vettius and Agricola, forced himself to observe, his mind racing, trying to process the inexplicable. He shielded his eyes against the glare. Through the shimmering, translucent surface of the energy bubble, he thought he could see… something else. Not the swirling sleet and grey rocks of Caledonia, but a different scene entirely. It was distorted, like looking through moving water, but he glimpsed colours – brilliant blue, dazzling white, vibrant green. It looked… impossibly… like a sun-drenched beach, small waves crashing onto white sand, trees swaying under a clear sky. An ocean? Here? It made no sense. His rational mind, trained in the harsh realities of logistics and warfare, rebelled against the evidence of his own eyes.
As he stared, transfixed and bewildered, the bubble of light began to move. Not rapidly, but with a slow, inexorable drift inwards, away from the cave entrance and towards the huddled mass of soldiers. The hissing intensified, the warm wind grew stronger. The impossible vista glimpsed within its depths seemed to ripple and shift.
Panic threatened to consume the legionaries. A few screamed. Some tried to scramble sideways along the cave walls, seeking non-existent exits. But there was nowhere to go.
The bubble drifted closer... five paces... three... one...
Then, in an instant, with a sensation less of movement and more of reality itself shifting, the bubble surged forward. It didn't collide with them; it swept over them, engulfing Valens, his officers, and every remaining soldier of the Legio IX Hispana in its blinding, hissing embrace. There was a disorienting flash, a roar that drowned out all other sound, a sensation of intense heat and impossible pressure – and then, silence.
The light vanished. The hissing stopped. The warm wind ceased.
The cave returned to normal. Cold, damp, and utterly empty.
Outside, the Caledonian storm raged on, sleet lashing against the rocks. Inside the cave, the only evidence that nearly two thousand Roman soldiers had sought refuge there moments before were the countless overlapping footprints stamped into the muddy floor, leading from the entrance to the back wall.
