Disappear: Into Shadow

- CHAPTER TWENTY NINE -

Back in the days when the Druids ruled what would become Britain, warriors from virtually every tribe of the known corners of the British Isles had assembled on the island of Yns Mon. Gripping their swords, spears and shields with expectant, nervous hands they marched down the side the island's sacred mountain. At a ridge overlooking the sea they surveyed the ranks of their enemies. On a low hillside near the shore, Rome's Legions were waiting. Formed in their phalanxes and shield walls, they were arrayed in a perfect defensive position and held the advantage on the field.

After disembarking from their galleons the primary Roman force had formed into three main squares. Each square's face was a perfectly interlocking series of shields and spears. Held aloft in the middle of each square were the golden eagle standards of the legion, bearing the emblazoned stamps of 'SPQR'. The red flags hanging below the eagles flapped as the sea breeze caught them.

Between the squares, three smaller formations were prepared to charge any advance by the waiting Celts. Known as Tortoises, these smaller rectangles were virtually impenetrable to harm. They could smash through any shield wall erected by the tattered and disorganized opposition. Behind the squares and tortoises, protected by a long wall of linked shields were Rome's archers, commanders and reinforcements. Just off the sandy shoreline, the galleons waited at the ready.

The ships had loaded their catapults with boulders and pulled back the heavy ropes of their ballistas, which looked and worked much like a large crossbow. The Roman Legion, accustomed to fighting such hordes, had come prepared. They had no intention of losing this battle.

Walking outside of one square, the Centurion Decimus barked orders, readying his legionnaires for the fight. His broad shoulders carried his heavy armour with ease. A wicked short sword hung in the scabbard by his side. He carried a long spear, its tip sharpened to a deadly edge with long practised precision. The sea breeze ruffled the green plume of his helmet and the short red cape hanging off his armoured shoulders. While other Centurions carried a smaller, round shield as was the custom and status of their rank, this Centurion chose to carry the heavier rectangular shield of the legionary.

Respected and feared by the men, Decimus had bloodied his sword on more battlefields than most had years in their lives. Hard on discipline and brutal in battle, he was still fair to every man under his command. He demanded the world of them and returned the world when they were victorious. Knowing he would ravage their enemies and lead them safely through to the other side, each man in the Century that Decimus led would follow him into the darkest battles against the mightiest foes.

Decimus came to the isle of Yns Mon because he had been ordered there. He was a soldier first and foremost and had answered every call to duty. Yet, there had been something else that compelled him to come and do battle. On the eve before sailing to the island he had dreamt the strangest, most lucid dream.

He was in the middle of a battle. This was not the first time he had dreamt of war. In some dreams he fought and fought, driving back his enemies with the might of a god. In others, the bad ones, he would be overcome, dragged down and ripped to shreds. On those nights he would wake sweating, panting, afraid and unable to sleep again. This dream was more of a memory.

Many years before, he had fought the barbarian hordes in Gaul. One fateful day, his Century had marched deep into the countryside. They were hunting a warband that had raided Roman settlements along the frontier. Unfortunately, those raiders were supported by a horde of Goth warriors. Laying in wait for the legionaries, the barbarians descended in a dark, avenging flood of men and swords.