Hermunduri region along the Rhine River, 131 AD
Lucius Latinius Macer, prefect of the camp, third in charge of Legion IX Hispana, calls out to the demon, “Do you speak Latin? Why are you doing this?”
He waits for a reply. None comes forth. Twenty-five years. Twenty-Five years in the Ninth. I finally became prefect of the camp, my year nearly done, and now this is how it ends, thinks Lucius as he grips his sword tighter and wishes he had a shield. He looks around at what remains of the First Cohort, at the fires blazing, and men wounded and screaming out, the many corpses, on this bloody field. He has no need of a reply. He knows why. That little prick! That spoiled little Broad Band Tribune. Rich, pampered prick.
Lucius almost spits towards the corpse of the Broad Band Tribune, and would’ve if it wasn’t so close to the corpses of the Legion Legate and Chief Centurion, both good men he respected. This was supposed to be the easy part. Just making way from Noviomagus to Troesmis. My time soon over, and I’d be heading back home before we even got to Singadunum. And glad to have my time over; Armenia would be rough duty. Now a gods cursed real-life demon attacks us.
Another scream of absolute terror sounds out, closer this time. The forlorn Lucius says, “Five cohorts follow behind us!”
Lucius is surprised when the demon yells back to him, “Good!”
“You stand no chance. Let us talk, demon. Your plan cannot be to fight a whole legion. Demon or not, that is suicide. You caught us on the move, ill prepared, just a quick stop to get supplies and stretch our legs after so long on the river. We have no support and no auxiliary with us. That won’t happen with the following cohorts. They’ll make fortified camps, send word ahead to the other cohorts and vanguard who’ll turn back and make way here in all haste. You have a big problem, even if you have not yet realized it. Let us talk this through and come to a mutually beneficial understanding.”
A scream comes from the opposite area, and Lucius swings around. He spies the demon holding a centurion from behind, the demon’s face pushed into the neck of the man, as if lovers. Lucius steadies his nerves and prepares to rally and approach, hopefully surrounding this monster with all men remaining, nullifying the demon’s many advantages. The centurion the demon holds slowly slides to the ground, dead. Lucius can now see the demon clearly, and is surprised it looks as a normal man does, as he was expecting to see something monstrous, such as a strix. Young. Dressed as the local savages, but the sharp features and darker hair and skin proving it isn’t of them. A sword held lightly in its hand as it stands casually. The normal and benign look of the demon is surprising. Even more surprising is Lucius clearly remembers this man from when he first joined the Ninth, and he looks the same age as he did twenty-six years ago, and it startles him greatly, and he stands shaken instead of calling the attack, as he should.
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The demon, looming tall and unworried, with blood dripping down its face, asks, “Mutually beneficial understanding? I like that! Well put, but I’ll have to decline. This is a matter of vengeance, and my goal in this differs greatly from yours. It is a simple goal. I win, you lose.”
With goal stated the demon immediately sets out to bring it to fruition. It moves so quickly towards the remainders of the First Cohort it can hardly be seen, and neither shield-wall nor spear impede its slaughter. By ones and twos, the soldiers fall, agonized shrieks filling the air. Few yet live as the demon approaches, and Lucius desperately cries out, “Stop! Stop! I know you! I forget your given and clan name but all called you Equus. You were a weapon and drill instructor when I was new in the legion, and later a front file centurion, and then a First File too. In Britannia!”
The demon stops, and turns his dark eyes to Lucius, and his reply to this is, “Yes. I remember. I’m saddened this must be done, but this tribe has taken me in and are helping me search for the people I was born to so long ago. No luck so far. This great river was within twenty leagues or so of my birthplace. Maybe it was a different river? We called it the Balahtu, I think, or something close to that. I’m sorry to say I don’t remember you. I am too old, and it is getting harder and harder to recall anything. But the matter is moot. I swore to protect these people while I live amongst them. You killed a young woman sworn to me. I was told she was killed casually, as if she were only an insect. Then a great slaughter was made of her family when they protested, and then also against many, many tribesmen.
“I’ve given you a doughtier foe to try your hand against. It’s not going well for you. My mind may be waning, but not my honor, and I swore vengeance against the whole of this legion upon it.”
Saying this, the demon renews his attack, saving the prefect of the camp for last, as he has some respect for the man, and drinks deep of him, savoring the essence of his life down to the last dregs.