We had reached the white walls, the cliff edge. Magnificently elegant and clean; polished by the Gods.
We stared out to the sea and saw 70 ships approaching at a steady speed. Two legions were spread on them with their red sandaled king in the midst of their greed.
We waited for them. Coldly staring at their fleet. The archers sat, legs hanging off the edge of the world, as the wind started to pick up. The chill caused the men to wrap themselves in their cloaks as they shielded from the cold breath of the heavens.
These distant imperials were coming. These Hellenic people.... They pride themselves as being "better than all" but they are just ignorant Greeks for all I care. Forced to learn their tongue and now forced to face their might!
Rage circled round our Celtic brothers.
We marched away from the cliff edge and formed a war footing at the beach. We were standing, quietly and peacefully staring at the approaching evils. Each ship carried 200 of the most equipped and professional fighters we had ever seen. Black spots on the deck, covered in chainmail. Plumed helmets and ironically skimpy sandals.
The ships finally got to the beach, but they could only go to shallow water. In unison, the Roman army jumped out seemingly unimpeded by their armour. They shone as these men clad in heavy armour seemed to somehow treat them as if they were light woolen clothes; so heavy how could it not weigh them down? These midgets with their armour and well-crafted swords, yet so disciplined, or that's what we all thought until...
Taking two javelins each as they jumped off one by one, they landed in the sea. Their once weightless armour must have been an illusion and their discipline a joke!
Our bows were loosened. A soft patter of evil heads splashing into Lir's ocean.
There was no formation in the water, the imperials scattered and divided. Wading through, yet being pushed back by every pound of the waves bouncing off the beach. A rip current knocking the men over. Refusing to go shallower than knee level the soldiers looked at their caped lord and then to the imposing cliffs to their right and their left, then they looked at the Celts.
That was until... Their "bearer" came. Leaping from his ship he gracefully landed into the sea's grip and as he cut through the waves in his path and splashed everyone around him; he cheered.
When I set eyes on him, I swear, he glowed. Absorbing the rays of the dying sun behind his back, shining through the calm mist.
He had the skin of a wolf, a mythical looking creature. "Leap Fellow soldiers!", he screamed. You do not want to betray your eagle!". He held a staff, golden in the Gods' light, balanced by a bulky imperial eagle. He drew his gladius and kept running through the water headlong at our advancing army. Staggered units fought our warriors one by one. Felled by our axes, spinning blades, a searing heat drove all who fought these imperials into a blood rage. These invaders will be vanquished. We ran into the water, weapons raised, our shields left at the shore, our armour ripped from our chests, the Gods decide if the tip of the enemy's blade has your name on it.
Our almighty God of the sea - Lir - pushed these bumbling broken spirits to our bloody blades. The waves hurled themselves against the soldiers, they fell in heaps over each other. We screamed in ear bleeding frequencies as we impaled the clumsy soldiers of the Republic. Bloody puddles were revealed from where they once stood, handles and shafts were sticking out of the water.
We screamed in ecstasy slaughtering the struggling chain-laden invaders. So tunnel visioned, our blades even slew some of our own men.
We fought with every man we had. At times we would hear our weapons snap from clashing swords and we would push them over, their armour pulling them down under the waves. Struggling up the imperial would be slammed by his enemy and military cunning and skill would be lost as we brawled under Lir's ocean with our foes.
We started to swing low and softly, our voices started to croak and we started to get drifted off our feet by the currents. Staggering and moaning we crawled our way to the sandy part of the beach.
The Romans just kept coming. No arrows came from the cliffs any more and no javelins came from the beach, our wounds were many and our weapons blunted.
We ran back, away from the beach, back to the forest.
The gasping soldiers were crawling out of sea, pulling on the sand that just gave way, so their hands dug deeper and deeper into the ground struggling for grip.
The eagle standard was impaled into the ground. The reason for this push. The bulky golden eagle covered in sand and seaweed. Spots of blood and chipped, the under grey metallic colour showing. The flag was ripped and the medals scratched. The owner lay next to the eagle, lying on a spear soaked with his own life.
But the ocean was a sight of unspeakable brutality:
A sea of blood and shields floated with the dead, the bodies bumping each other. Slowly the mortuis were given a natural farewell into the mist, their cold corpses going beyond the edge. The normally upright Romans bent over in rage and despair. Jupiter had given these Britons the strength of a thousand bulls. They shall perish under the Roman foot!
In the following days the soldiers marched forwards. Their fort was built and for the Gods' sake towering over the beach. The red sandled king had his first piece of land. Oh the Senate will love him!
The weather started to chill and our friendly mist lay over the south of our borders, as well as theirs! If you looked closely you could see them crawling infesting the villages! Under the cover of the mist, moving in unison, silently moving to the entrance of the villages in full kit. With the wave of a sword these brutes fire their arrows, these arrows...
They flare and spit at the buildings they hit. Brigit decided to bring them to life, in full hiss and after their painful recoil from the lighter springing forwards and leaf shaped light forming at the arrowhead. Smoking and hungry for life the fire sits waiting to be shot.
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A few nights later after these killings of our people and our homes the chiefs finally met.
Fists on tables, beer slopped over floors, the rambling leaders of the Celtic world discussed their next move. I was not there for only the well-known and respected were allowed, much to the dismay of the more obscure tribes from the mountains and hills.
Though I can tell one thing. As these men and women left they nodded in satisfaction to each other. Hands on scabbards and faces screwed with blunt aggression. Rallying their men they moved onwards to these people who scorch the earth and murder us in our sleep.
For days we waited and our revenge became less and less likely.
Fellow Celts were rounded up and taken to the Romans, a peace deal they said. We all knew it was never going to last!
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In the Roman camp a winter wind came. Snow started to drift slowly and rest on the armoured shoulders of the strong. Crushing the shivering life out of them, forcing them into their tents. Shaking against the Gods' wrath, their time here was ending. The soft breeze of summer replaced by a deathly breath. The harsh air biting on their soft olive oil drenched skin sent the cowards home.
In desperation the imperials clambered onto the boats. Throwing themselves upwards, wrapped in their blood cloaks around them, looking like Caesar himself! The shaking mob curled up and thought of better times.
The remaining men in the sea pushed the boats out under the cover of fellow shields. Finally the boats were out the last drenched men onboard they drifted out of the beach.
The red cloaked leader gathered his men, he huddled with them and uttered words of sorrow and anger, tears fell, his strong features sagged and he mourned with his men.
When the broken spirits finally arrived in Roman Gaul they began to feel something primal, feral, destructive. Hands quick to sword and heads always hot, these men could not cope with the dead.
At once they set to work, saw on wood, hammer on nail, sword in scabbard; for now... Their arms straining under their inner rage, the soldiers could not let their ships fail them, they would be beached on the land. Old ships torn down, new ships built; a quick consultation with the locals.
Before that there was one thing Julius had to do. Hurriedly packing his belongings he took a fast chariot to rome, appearing before the senate days later in his fine red clothing. He forgot his inner rage. Holding himself high he boomed his wise words. A foreign land rich in tin and slaves, if only they could go again and take it!
With awe the senators listened, they could hardly believe that this virgin land so close to Roman borders, so lawless and full of primitive peoples could somehow be of use to them. The brave yet exaggerated words of Caesar made them shiver in wonder, Caesar had once again discovered something impressive; he came and he saw, now he must conquer! A 20 day celebration was held in his honor. Wine, food and circuses.
Stomping on the Roman roads to the edge of Gaul; they prepared for the journey
Their glorious fleet was built, Neptune was obviously pleased, anyone who set eyes on it said the ships shone under the sun's glare. Five legions and two thousand horsemen boarded, along with the red cloak himself.