The Last Legionary
A Story of Romano-British Resistance.
The Road of Broken Stones
The road had forgotten its name. Once, it had been the Iter VII—a vein of empire, straight as a spear-shaft, stitching Londinium to the northern garrisons. Now it lay like a cracked spine, its flagstones choked by nettles and the roots of ash trees that split the mortar with slow, green indifference. Marcus Antonius Virilus stood knee-deep in that ruin, a rusted pilum head in his hand, and wondered if his father had died for this.
Not that Drusus had ever claimed him. The late tribune’s bastard son wore his lineage in the cut of his jaw and the nightmares that woke him sweating: visions of a tower of mirrors, of a slave boy’s throat slit over sour wine. But the men who followed him—a rabble of pig farmers, runaway monks, and one-armed veterans—didn’t care about bloodlines. They called him dux bellorum. Warlord. A title that tasted of mud and mead, not marble.
“Still praying to your road, Roman?”
Eadric the Saxon leaned against a lichen-stained milestone, picking his teeth with a bone needle. The deserter wore a patchwork of spoils: a Roman cloak (threadbare), a Celtic torque (tarnished), and a grin that showed three missing molars. “It’s dead. Like your gods.”
Marcus ignored him. The pilum head fit snug into a cleft of oak—a makeshift arrow tip, lashed with nettle cord. Around him, boys no older than fourteen fletched shafts with goose feathers plucked from a plundered village. Farmers, not soldiers. But farmers could dig ditches. Could bend a bow. Could die.
“The Saxons don’t fight on roads,” Eadric said. “They burn. They take. Roads are… civilized.” He spat the word like a curse.
Marcus straightened, the old wound in his thigh throbbing. “Then we’ll make them uncivilized.”
He’d fortified the road’s corpse where it bridged the River Veru—a choke point between rotting villas. The bridge’s stones still held, though its parapets bore the scars of a hundred raids. To the west, monks from Saint Alban’s grubbed up turnips in what had been the garrison’s granary. To the east, the horizon bristled with smoke.
“They’ll come at dusk,” Marcus said.
Eadric snorted. “They’ll come when they’re drunk. Which is always.”
The deserter was right. By the time the Saxon longships ground onto the riverbank, the sky was the color of a fresh bruise, and the war horns sounded slurred. Marcus counted thirty raiders—thick-bearded, eyes glazed with ale and greed. They laughed when they saw the bridge’s defenders: a boy with a spear twice his height, a monk clutching a crucifix like a knife, Marcus in his father’s corroded lorica.
The first Saxon died with a goose-feathered arrow in his throat. The second tripped into a ditch spiked with fire-hardened stakes. The rest charged.
Farmers loosed arrows. Monks hurled stones. Marcus swung the pilum like a scythe, its rusted edge tearing through a raider’s cheek. For a heartbeat, it almost felt like Rome.
Then Eadric was there—not fighting, but watching. “You think this matters?” he shouted over the clangor. “You’re a ghost haunting older ghosts!”
A Saxon axeman lunged. Marcus parried, the impact shuddering up his arm. The raider stank of rancid butter and ambition. Behind him, the bridge’s stones trembled as the monk’s crucifix found a ribcage.
They held. Barely.
At moonrise, the Saxons retreated, dragging their dead. The farmers cheered. The monks prayed. Marcus slumped against the milestone, his lorica slick with other men’s blood.
Eadric tossed him a wineskin. “To civilization,” he sneered.
The wine was vinegar. The road, still broken. Somewhere to the north, a wolf howled—or maybe a Saxon.
Marcus drank.
Part 2: The Ghosts in the Grain
The wheat was rotting.
It stood waist-high in the fields beyond the bridge, blackened at the roots, stalks bloated with a rust-colored mold that stank of drowned rats. Marcus knelt, crushing a head between his fingers. The grains oozed gray slime.
“Blighted,” said Brother Cedd, the monk who’d traded his quill for a spear. His tonsure had grown out into a moth-eaten halo, his hands still ink-stained from copying psalms. “God’s punishment.”
Eadric kicked a clump of fetid soil. “Or your God’s a prick. My people say it’s the nithing—a curse from unburied bones.” He jerked his chin toward the river, where Saxon bodies had been left to bloat.
Marcus said nothing. Hunger was a sharper strategist than any god. The granary at Saint Alban’s held only mildewed barley, and the villagers had begun boiling nettles and shoe leather. Even the rats had fled.
That night, he dreamed of his father’s tower. Not as it was in its ruin, but as Drusus had described it in rare, wine-loosened moments: the monoturium ablaze with reflected fire, every mirror a lie polished to glory. When he woke, the smell of rot still clung to him.
The Saxons returned at dawn. Not with drunken raids, but in a shieldwall—a bristling, sober line of oak and iron. Their new leader wore a Roman helmet, the cheek guards pried off to accommodate a beard braided with human hair.
“That’s Ulfric,” Eadric muttered, crouched beside Marcus in the nettle-choked ditch. “He’s no river-thief. He takes land.”
Marcus counted sixty men. Farmers shifted uneasily behind the bridge’s crumbling barricade. A boy dropped his spear, vomited, picked it up again.
“You should run,” Eadric said.
“You first,” Marcus replied.
The Saxon’s laugh died as Ulfric’s horn sounded. The shieldwall advanced, boots stamping a rhythm that shook loose stones from the bridge.
“Testudo!” Marcus roared—a reflex, a prayer.
Farmers raised their shields, overlapping them like scales. The monks hesitated, then joined, their crucifixes tucked under arms. The Saxon line hit them like a tide.
For a moment, the testudo held. Then a spear lanced through a gap, gutting Brother Cedd. The monk fell, clutching his psalter to the wound. The formation buckled.
Eadric wasn’t fighting. He stood atop the milestone, arms spread, shouting in Saxon. Ulfric paused, his helm tilted in recognition.
“Traitor!” a farmer screamed, hurling a rock. It struck Eadric’s shoulder.
Marcus didn’t see the ax coming.
It bit into his lorica, shearing through rusted iron links. He staggered, the world blurring. Ulfric’s face loomed—a snarling mosaic of scars and stolen Roman steel.
Then Eadric was between them, his own axe swinging. Not at Marcus. At Ulfric.
The clash of iron rang like a broken bell. The Saxons froze, confused.
“Go!” Eadric snarled, parrying Ulfric’s strike. “Your road’s dead. Your war’s dead. Go!”
Marcus ran.
They regrouped in the granary, its roof holed by Saxon fire. The farmers numbered twelve now. Brother Cedd’s psalter lay open on his corpse, the blood-soaked page showing Psalm 137: By the rivers of Babylon, we sat and wept…
Eadric found Marcus binding his ribs with moldy linen. “Ulfric thinks I’m yours now,” he said, tossing the Roman helm at Marcus’ feet. The dent where Eadric’s axe had struck it gleamed fresh. “So do your sheep.”
Marcus touched the helm’s crest, snapped off long ago. “Why?”
The Saxon shrugged. “I like roads. Even dead ones.”
Outside, the first raindrops hissed on blighted wheat. Somewhere, a crow feasted on Brother Cedd’s eyes.
“We need food,” Marcus said.
Eadric grinned. “I know a place.”
The Harvest of Iron
They found the food in a tomb.
Not a Christian crypt or a Saxon barrow, but a Roman mausoleum half-sunk into the fens, its marble veined with moss and the teeth-marks of wolves. Eadric pried open the sealed door with his axe, releasing a sigh of stale air that smelled of old wine and older bones. Inside, stacked to the flaking frescoes, were amphorae. Olive oil. Garum. Wheat, still sealed in lead-lined caskets, untouched by blight or time.
“Annona,” Marcus whispered. The imperial grain supply, lost decades ago, buried by some bureaucrat’s last act of defiance. Or spite.
The farmers crossed themselves. The monks wept. Eadric smashed an amphora with his boot, licking fish sauce from his blade. “Eat your fill, Romans. Your ghosts won’t mind.”
They ate. They drank. They didn’t speak of the corpse slumped in the corner—a skeleton in a tribune’s cloak, a rusted key still clutched in its fingers. Marcus took the man’s spatha, its blade pitted but serviceable. The grip fit his hand like a memory.
Ulfric came at noon.
He’d brought more than Saxons. Villagers marched with him, their faces hollow, their chains forged from melted-down lorica segments. Collaborators. Or survivors. Marcus wondered if the difference mattered anymore.
The shieldwall formed on the road, their chants shaking loose crows from the ash trees. Eadric spat. “He’s offering them a share of the grain. Clever bastard.”
Marcus stood atop the mausoleum steps, the tribune’s spatha in hand. Behind him, farmers clutched spears tipped with pilum heads. Monks hefted amphorae of garum like grenades. Brother Cedd’s psalter burned in a brazier, its smoke coiling into the sky.
“Hold the line,” Marcus said.
“What line?” Eadric grinned. “There is no line.”
He was right. The road, the tomb, the blighted fields—none of it was a line. It was a scar.
Ulfric’s horn blew.
The battle was not a battle. It was a harvest. Farmers hurled garum pots, the rancid fish sauce blinding Saxons who’d never tasted the sea. Monks swung olive oil amphorae like censers, slippery chaos on the road’s broken stones. Eadric fought like a man unmoored, his axe finding Saxon throats with the ease of a scythe through wheat.
Marcus sought Ulfric. The Saxon lord stood apart, his Roman helm gleaming. They clashed in the mausoleum’s shadow, iron ringing against iron. Ulfric fought with a legionary’s discipline, his strikes measured, relentless. Marcus fought like a man with nothing to inherit but ghosts.
The spatha shattered on Ulfric’s shield.
Marcus fell, the tribune’s cloak tangling his legs. Ulfric raised his axe, barking a laugh that echoed Drusus’ wine-soaked sneers.
Then Eadric was there.
Not saving him. Joining him.
The Saxon’s axe took Ulfric in the back, a farmer’s blow—crude, final. The lord crumpled, his stolen helm rolling toward the tomb. Eadric spat on the corpse. “For the road.”
They burned the grain. Not all of it. Just enough to send a pillar of smoke coiling over the fens—a beacon. To whom, Marcus didn’t know. Let the Saxons see it. Let the villagers. Let Rome, if any of it still breathed.
Eadric left at dusk, Ulfric’s axe on his shoulder. “Going north,” he said. “Heard there’s a king there who hates roads and Saxons. Might be my kind of fool.”
Marcus watched him go. The farmers dispersed, sacks of wheat on their backs. The monks returned to Saint Alban’s, garum-stained and silent.
Only the road remained, its stones still cracked, its name still lost.
Marcus sheathed the broken spatha. He’d rebuild the bridge. Dig ditches. Plant wheat in the blighted fields.
Or not.
In the tomb, the tribune’s skeleton kept its vigil, key rusting in the dark.
Outside, the crows feasted.
End.
Epilogue
History forgets the roads that led nowhere. But stand on the Veru’s banks today, and you’ll find nettles still grow tallest where the Iter VII once ran. Dig down, and the ash tree roots cradle pilum heads, Saxon teeth, a monk’s quill. No plaques mark this place. No ballads sing of Marcus or Eadric. Only the crows remain—still laughing, still hungry, still wise.
Thank you!
This short story was generated using DeepSeek R1. (~98% AI)
Prompt: Think of a good sequel to yesterday's story, giving five options. The sequel takes place maybe a generation later. Make it historically accurate, realistic and internally consistent. Most of all, it should focus on intricate details, while giving an excellent portrayal of real-world developments and changes circa 450 AD.Okay, I need to come up with five sequel ideas for the story "The Feast of Shadows." The user wants the sequels to take place a generation later, around 450 AD, and they need to be historically accurate, realistic, and consistent with the original story. They also want intricate details and a focus on real-world developments of that time.
First, I should recall the original story's setting and themes. The original is set in 410 AD in Britannia, focusing on the decline of Roman power, the use of deception (monoturium), and the interactions between Romans and local tribes like the Brigantes. The main characters were Tribune Drusus, Centurion Lucius, and the Brigantes characters Rhiannon, Cynwrig, and Owain.
Now, a generation later would be around 440-450 AD. By this time, Roman authority in Britain has collapsed, and the island is facing invasions from Saxons, Angles, and Jutes. The native Britons (Celts) are trying to maintain their culture and resist the invaders, possibly leading to the rise of figures like Ambrosius Aurelianus, a historical figure associated with King Arthur legends.
I need to ensure the sequels are grounded in real historical events and developments. Let's brainstorm possible angles:
1. **The Saxon Settlement**: After the Romans leave, Saxon mercenaries invited by the Britons start to settle in large numbers, leading to conflicts. This could involve descendants of the original characters dealing with the new Saxon presence.
2. **Romano-British Resistance**: The Britons try to organize defense against Saxon incursions. Maybe a character inspired by Ambrosius Aurelianus leads this resistance, using old Roman tactics and infrastructure.
3. **Cultural Fusion**: The blending of Roman, Celtic, and Saxon cultures. Perhaps a mixed-community village where tensions and alliances form.
4. **Religious Shifts**: The spread of Christianity vs. pagan Saxon beliefs. A conflict between old Celtic/Roman religions and the new Christian missionaries or incoming pagan Saxons.
5. **Economic Collapse**: The breakdown of Roman infrastructure leads to a return to subsistence farming and local warlords. Trade routes collapse, leading to scarcity and conflict over resources.
Now, I need to tie these historical elements into the original story's characters and themes. The sequels should feature descendants or legacy characters. For example, Rhiannon's children or grandchildren dealing with the new threats. The monoturium could be a ruin that still holds symbolic value.
Each sequel option should include specific historical details from 450 AD:
- End of Roman rule in Britain (officially around 410 AD, but the process continued).
- Saxon settlements in eastern Britain (Saxons, Angles, Jutes).
- The emergence of the High King concept among the Britons.
- The role of the Church in preserving Roman knowledge.
- The decay of Roman infrastructure (roads, villas, aqueducts).
Possible historical figures or analogues:
- Vortigern: A British ruler who allegedly invited Saxons to settle as mercenaries.
- Hengist and Horsa: Legendary Saxon leaders.
- Ambrosius Aurelianus: Romano-British leader resisting Saxons.
- Saint Patrick: Active around this time, though in Ireland.
Each sequel pitch should have a central conflict, historical grounding, and connection to the original story's themes of illusion vs. reality, cultural clash, and decline.
I need to ensure each option is unique, covers different aspects of the period, and ties back to the original's elements. Also, the user wants intricate details, so each pitch should mention specific settings, cultural practices, and historical events.
Let me draft five options.
Sequel Pitches: The Feast of Shadows Legacy (450 AD)
1. The Stone of Broken Oaths
Focus: Saxon settlement and betrayal
Plot: Aela, Rhiannon’s granddaughter, marries a Saxon chieftain’s son to broker peace in eastern Britannia—only to discover his clan is carving runes into the ruins of the monoturium, repurposing its stones for a pagan altar.
Details:
Romano-British villages adopt Saxon farming tools but bury Roman coins as curses.
Historical anchor: Vortigern’s alleged invitation to Hengist and Horsa, reframed as a doomed intermarriage.
Climax: Aela burns the half-built altar, invoking Brigantia and Christ in one breath, while Saxon longships crest the horizon.
2. The Last Legionary
Focus: Romano-British resistance
Plot: Marcus, Drusus’ bastard son (now a grizzled dux bellorum), rallies farmers and monks to defend a crumbling Roman road against Saxon raiders. His only ally is a disillusioned Saxon deserter who mocks his “Latin prayers to empty gods.”
Details:
Tactics: Reusing rusted pilum heads as arrow tips; repurposing villas as fortresses.
Historical anchor: Ambrosius Aurelianus’ campaigns, blending Testudo formations with Celtic guerrilla strikes.
Symbol: The road itself—cracked and overgrown—as a metaphor for fractured identity.
3. The Gospel and the Grave
Focus: Religious upheaval
Plot: A Christian priest (a former slave from the monoturium) and a druidess debate over the soul of Owain’s grandson, a boy who claims to speak to both the Saxon god Woden and the ghost of Lucius.
Details:
Setting: A syncretic shrine where the monoturium once stood, now adorned with crosses and oak leaves.
Artifacts: A rotting Georgics scroll used to kindle a Paschal fire.
Conflict: The priest’s crucifix vs. the druidess’s sickle-moon blade—both forged from melted Roman bronze.
4. The Amber Road
Focus: Economic collapse and smuggling
Plot: Drusus’ granddaughter, Julia, traffics Frankish amber through Saxon-blockaded ports, bribing chieftains with “Roman” wine (watered-down vinegar dyed purple). Her rival? A Brigantes trader selling Saxon loot as “holy relics of Saint Alban.”
Details:
Decaying infrastructure: Roman aqueducts repurposed as smuggling routes.
Historical anchor: The collapse of the annona grain supply, leading to black markets in Londinium.
Twist: Julia’s “amber” is just polished Britannic shale—a mirror of Rome’s old illusions.
5. The Crowning of Ashes
Focus: Rise of warlords and mythmaking
Plot: A half-Saxon warlord named Cynddylan seeks the monoturium’s rubble to stage his coronation as “High King,” using Rhiannon’s dagger to draw blood-oaths. His poet spins him as “Arthuros”—but his wife, a Frankish envoy, knows his kingdom is built on Saxon silver.
Details:
Ritual: A fake spatha sword (reforged plowshares) dubbed “Excalibur.”
Historical anchor: The blurry line between historical Ambrosius and the Arthur myth.
Ending: Cynddylan dies in a Saxon ambush, his crown melted into coinage stamped with dragon motifs.
Why These Work:
Historical Texture: Each story weaves verified 450 AD elements (Saxon expansion, Christianization, economic decay) with intimate, original character struggles.
Legacy Ties: Descendants grapple with the consequences of the monoturium’s fall—bronze repurposed, bloodlines mixed, lies repackaged.
Modern Parallels: Themes of cultural hybridity, propaganda, and resource scarcity mirror contemporary anxieties without breaking immersion.
Final Line for All Sequels:
The crows still circle the tower. But now, they speak in Latin, Brythonic, and Saxon—and no one agrees on what they mean.
Prompt: Write out idea 2 into a 1500-word story of 3 parts. Make it historically accurate, realistic, and awesome! Again, long flowing paragraphs, like a good novelist would. Write part [1,2,3] now.
I'm going to stick with horror. It's not as scary as this... 😯