The Wrath of the Centuri

Jerome came down from the high moors knackered and as muddy as a sheepdog.

"Cuppa Tea wouldn't go amiss Glenda!"

The cafe was chock full of walkers and climbers all wanting hot drinks and sandwiches.

"Good ramble Jerome?" Asked Russ the old hiker

"Ay, I went up the top fen first thing, over the grand moor to the scar road."

"My, that's a fair trek and then some. Never been that far up missen. Not many folk have. Scary place. See anything up there?"

"Ay,  I did. There's a strange iron cone on the side of the high road, all rusted up, as big as man."

"My, that is odd. A rusty cone and that big. Wonder what that is like!"

A man sitting at the next table leant forward and spoke with a Continental accent.

" Excuse me, I couldn't help overhearing. Did you say you've seen a rusted cone as big as a man?"

Jerome stared at the stranger and took a massive swig of his tea.

"Ay, I did. What's it to you mister?"

"Ah, well, you see, I'm originally from Italy, a bit of a history buff you might say and I've been researching a old wives tale, which has brought me here to these parts you see."

"What kind of old wives tale?"

"Oh, just a rumour among scholars like myself really, a whiff of ancient skullduggery up there in these hills".

"Such as what," persisted Russ.

"Well, an atrocity really. A Roman atrocity."

"Roman!" scoffed Jerome.

"Yes, Roman of all things. It's been a long held theory of mine, one I developed myself I might add whilst studying lost scrolls in Italy, that a centuri of Roman soldiers were slaughtered on the high fen on what you call the Scar road."

"Romans! Bollocks! There were no romans here mister. Its a well-known fact they missed us out!" Countered Jerome.

"Ay, on account of us being so damn good-looking!" Howled Russ, Jerome laughing too.

"I understand your resistance to the idea of Romans here gentlemen, all the literature points to their absence I agree, but it has been my long-held view, borne out of years of scholarly research in archaic libraries, that a single centuri of one hundred men crossed the high track for whatever reason and there met a sudden and terrible death."

"What kind of death!" Asked Jerome.

"The fatal kind!" Roared Russ but this time Jerome didn't laugh quite so loudly, his curiosity piqued by this awkward Italian egghead sat opposite.

"Go on mister, please," asked Jerome.

"Ah, well, according to ancient texts and tomes that I have risked much to access over the years, the centuri got as far as the scar, stopped and on that path there suffered total and absolute immolation."

"Immo-what?"

"Immolation. Demise. End." Explained the man.

"But what I do not know to this day, despite every effort to ascertain it," he continued, " is exactly where the massacre occured. I think what you saw earlier today is a clue ."

"What did I see?" responded Jerome trying desperately to keep up 

"The tall rusted cone of course!" Exclaimed the man.

"And just what's your angle in all this then Mister?" Asked Russ guardedly. 

"Nothing more than research for a possible history book. I happen to believe that the truth does indeed lie up there somewhere on the moors. More to the point I would pay handsomely for a local guide to take me to the top."

"How much? How much would you pay?"

" One hundred pounds to the top path, another hundred pounds to bring me back down."

"Two hundred quid all in eh. OK. I'll do it for that, sure," beamed Jerome, smelling a fast buck. He'd get them lost and up the price en route.

"And settle the bill for our breakfasts too eh, Italian fella." Said Russ, pointing to his empty plate.

"Of course. My pleasure!" Agreed the man.

"You OK in the morning mister?"

"Yes, that would be fine. Say 8am?"

"Yep, no worries. Oh, and what's your name?"

"Vindicta. Just Vindicta."

"OK, Vindicta, see you in the morning, 8 sharp.I don't like being kept waiting." Grouched Jerome, now bored with the Italian.

The following day Jerome met up with Vindicta and having moodily checked provisions and waterproofs set off on the long hike to the high path.

It was a hard slog and the Italian historian Vindicta wasn't the fittest. He stopped many times to both take some water but also check his notes regarding the rumoured location of the Centuri massacre.

Resting for the tenth time Vindicta looked at Jerome.

"Do you think you can recall the exact spot of the rusted pile Mr. Jerome?"

"Pretty sure. Let's just get up there shall we. You didn't tell me you were a complete wuss! What's with all the rests! You not had spaghetti?" Chuckled the local man, anxious for the Italian's cash and more where that came from.

"It is true, I am tiresome, but will be forever in your debt if you get me to the path and the rusted mound Mr. Jerome. And you're spaghetti gag is a most humorous jibe," replied Vindicta.

They trudged through moorland and bog for the next four hours, stopping many times, until at last the horizon supplied a vista of the high path.

Jerome was furious as the constant delays had prevented him from getting purposefully lost and conning the Italian into handing over more cash.

"We're here Vindicta and we would have been at least two bastard hours ago if you hadn't been such a wimp and stopped a million times!" 

"I do apologise Mr.Jerome. Perhaps the sight of the one hundred pounds in cash for the return trip will give you cause for amiability. I would be grateful if you could show me the rusted mound."

Recieving the cash with a recalcitrant grunt, the guide took the historian around a rocky bluff and there on a small plateau was a rusty cone of metal about five feet tall, so completely fused together that it was impossible to say what they were.

"Ah, splendid, truly splendid Jerome, thank you so very much. I can tell you what they are if you're interested?"

"Yeah,well, I fuckin found them didn't I. If there's money to be made then I get the lions share!" Fumed Jerome showing his true colours here at the peak.

"Of course, of course, you will get what's coming to you for certain. Now if I may," replied Vindicta, who touched the top of the pile with his hand.

Immediately it began to become clearer and the rust dissolved in seconds, leaving a gleaming tower of small but robust swords stacked in tapered layers and ending in a single one.

"This is of the noble Gladus Mr. Jerome, the preferred blade of the Roman soldier, ideal for cutting and incredibly strong."

"How the fuck did you do that? Clean 'em all up like that? That's just weird that is!"

"Yes but you see I am if you will returning these Gladii to their rightful owners, the poor Centuri who were slaughtered whilst they slept on this very spot by Hades himself, for the Centuri were hunting his hound you see, the dreadful Cerberus the two headed beast, the bloody scourge of Rome who lair is on this moor."

"What the fuck do you mean returning them?" Shouted Jerome.

"Well, I am the direct descendant of the Centurion who lead the one hundred soldiers. His name was Aurelius Vindictus, a noble leader of great stature, who had entrusted the work of guiding his troops up to the high path to a man local to the area for a considerable sum, equivalent to two hundred pounds of your money.....

.... The local guide's task was simple, to show the Centuri the way, which he succeeded in doing and then, more importantly, watch over the Centuri, whilst they slept for one night's rest before the battle here by the bluff. This part of his labours he failed completely to do as, born of weakness, he himself slept whilst on watch, the most heinous of all crimes within the Roman military ......

....... As such, the troop was caught off-guard that night by the baleful Hades, God of the Underworld, who through cover of darkness on the stygian moor, smote them all with his terrible Bident and threw their violated limbs to his faithful hound Cerberus to loudly feast on, all the while the local guide cowardly hiding behind an outcrop, whimpering, unseen by the devil ....

..... I have long held the belief that it was cowardice that drove that guide to stack the Centuri's Gladii in a pile, a cairn to assuage himself and his descendents of any guilt for his unforgivable neglect of duty".

"You, Mr. Jerome, are a direct descendant of that weak and treacherous local guide and for his terrible weakness it is you who must pay in the ancient way."

" And.. and what.. what is that?" Stuttered Jerome.

"Death by Centuri and their hundred swords!"

"Wh .... what?"

"Turn around Mr. Jerome."

The hapless local man turned and to his absolute terror stood facing a troop of one hundred Roman soldiers, grimacing and holding their Gladii tightly, bent on hellish revenge.

At the head of the soldiers stood the proud centurion Aurelius Vindictus. He turned to Vindicta.

"We salute you noble Historian!"

He stepped forward toward Jerome and roared.

"For Wrath! For Honour! For Rome!"

Without hesitation he raised his solid blade, swung with supernatural force and hacked off the arm of the astonished Jerome.

The man looked at his shoulder stump, blood gushing in gouts out like Roman wine and screamed for his very life, the signal for the whole Centuri to reduce him to mere bloody shreds of meat, bone and sinew. 

He continued screaming, a pitiful torso, until the Centurion Vindictus himself severed Jerome's lolling head.

"Vengeance is ours!" Yelled the Centuri and bowing to Vindicta the ghosts of the Roman hundred marched away into the mist of the moors and to the eternal slumber of the vanquished.

Vindicta gazed as they receded from his view and slowly set off back down the scar road on the hillside to return to Italy.

The cairn of swords was gone and as he walked away he was certain he heard Cerberus growling and gnashing, as it hungrily devoured the remains of the traitor's kin in its moorland lair, the bloody wrath of the Centuri.