The Author’s Preface:

His Holy and Most Exalted Highness, Imperator of Gaul and Sovereign of
Alesia, bid me scribe a most complete History of the War in Britannia in order that
he might better understand the sufferings of his People on that barbarous island. In
order that I, Alexander Tout, fulfill his Excellency’s wish to the fullest I have scribed
the tales reported here as to both entertain and educate the general populace in as
well as His Majestic Eminence. Though he be but twelve winters in our mortal coil, I
debase the exalted language of my craft to the vernacular not only to better suit
the needs of the masses, but to fulfill my obligations to my Exalted Sovereign.

The first tale I shall pen is that of the once traitorous General Corvinus, who
now resides in honor at Gergovia for his exploits in the frozen wastes of Britannia.
His actions in the beginning of the war proved invaluable to the Classis, or “Fleet”,
and to their victories in the North Sea.

The musket of General Corvinus now resides in perpetuity in the sitting room
in His Majesty’s personal residence in Alesia. His Eminence and General Corvinus
have graciously permitted me to illustrate many of the artifacts brought back from
Britannia.

Though these words are not verbatim, these tales are authentic, taken down
from those who lived through the events and from personal journals and diaries
with minimal embellishments now compiled in this my Chronicle of the Britannia
War.
 Beneath the Winter Snows
“Verum et factum convertuntur”

The cold wind whipped through the evergreens. Snow, like sheaths on green
blades, wrapped completely around the towering monoliths. The icy chill broke
through the tender lining of the woven mesh. The bitter fate and endless blackness
moved in. An animal moved through the darkness. It stumbled through the
crystalline floor of the forest. Eyes were closed against the breeze, and all the while
shivering hands reached out to grasp the mighty arms of nearby trees. Its steady
walk faltered in delirium as the forest floor came up to meet it.

Its eyes opened on the bed and a familiar aroma rose from a point in front of
its nose. “Wake up!” spoke a feminine voice, dressed in the warmth of woolens.
Only then did its nakedness become apparent. “Not again.” It mumbled to itself
with a wry grin that never touched its face. Then he awoke. Normally he would have
taken some time to note the room, the layout of the windows, doors, and cabinets.
Today another thing threatened to cross his mind. The barrel of an absolutely
spotless bolt action rifle took his attention. As his mind cleared, he saw more than
the voice. The girl was short, but taller than most he had seen. Raven hair fell as
she turned, to cover a heart-shaped face with thin lips. Her eyes were wooden
doors, chestnut. Pressure increased on his head as the barrel insisted he stand,
commanded by the chestnut eyes. His bare feet would have felt sensitive on the
wooden boards if they hadn’t been worn raw from some unremembered trudging.
And down he fell into a heap as his legs gave way to weakness. Two thuds followed
his.

He awoke, hazy light drifted in from cracks in the oak paneled windows. Long
horizontal strips of wood comprised the walls of the house, and the familiar smell of
blood wafted up from beneath the rough-hewn floorboards. The frost that had
formed on the window’s sill reflected patterns onto a ceiling that mimicked the rest
of the room. She lay there as well, his rifle out of reach of her unconscious grasp.
Her skin was light, an unhealthy shade of gray, and she breathed shallowly. He
rolled, grunting with effort, placing his ear on her chest. The slow thumping was
testament enough for his conscience. She had held a gun to his head after all.

He rose, steadying himself on the chair that had been out of his vision until
now. The world shook in his eyes. A writing desk burrowed into the wall for support.
He was hungry. Famished. Starved. His mind raced. Staggering into a new room,
through the open frame, a kitchen opened before him. Cabinets lined the ceiling
above a jar-crowded counter. Tinwork utensils jutting from a carved column were a
stark contrast to the dull walls. Chairs sat around a simple table and a stained
cleaver near the small oven. He spoke a word that no man should ever utter, and
then proceeded to stagger toward the icebox. “An icebox in an icebox,” he
muttered sullenly as he swung the lid ajar. Unfortunately, the stained cleaver spoke
for itself. True hunger set in as he pillaged the farthest reaches of the frozen
depths. Nothing.
 He smashed at the jars, breaking the lids and spilling the contents over the
well used counter. Molded bread, remnants of horseradish, and what seemed to be
a pepper lay before him, and so he gorged. He choked down the food, and for the
first time in weeks his stomach was sated. Unfortunately, his war with hunger had
left his stomach tender. He retched, attempting to keep the food down. The tomato,
which he had believed to be a pepper, riled in his stomach. “Foul muck.” He spit.

The third room of the house was similar to the first, a larger bed stood in the
center of the room. Rifling through the draws of a dresser, he found clothes that
roughly fit his description. Crying with joy, he cradled the homespun socks. While
dressing he noticed that over the dresser stood the shard of a mirror, near two
paces in height, a massive remnant. Dried blood painted his neck, his eyes thinned.
“It’s no wonder she took my rifle.” Dressed in all but his standard issue boots, he
stood, and then fell.

Limping into the first bedroom he had dubbed the study, though it had a bed,
he examined the books that were on the writing desk. Strange symbols scrawled
out made no sense to him. He mouthed the symbols, slowly, “The… Gra... t…
Awak… unnin..” The Great Awakening. Reading hadn’t ever done him any good. He
took his friend from the floor and rubbed the stock. He contemplated her. Her hair
trailed off onto the floor, lips parted slightly, though gray in this light. Slipping his
arms beneath her, he gasped. She weighed not much more in his arms than a child
half her age. Laying her on the study’s bed he placed his friend beside her,
removing the cartridge, emblazoned with the imperial insignia, from the rifle.

Tearing pages from The Great Awakening he stuffed them into his boots
before bundling against the cold. He stopped and turned. Sighing heavily he walked
back toward her, taking his service coat off he began wrapping her in the sheets. He
grimaced as he felt the cool breeze across the snow. The drifts were high and he
stumbled down the hill to beneath the house. The scent of blood beneath the
floorboards was still in his memory. He opened the wide doors to a still sight. The
feed bins and stalls were quiet, though the smell was stronger. He walked back
through the old hay to the corner and found it.

Some winters were difficult in the wilds of Umbria. This one had been burned
into memory. Even as the sheep lay frozen in the barn, the attempted butchering
had had very little result except the wafting smell. “A bloody frozen sheep. Too
weak to swing the cleaver was she.” He stumbled back up the slope. He’d try his
luck and, hopefully, they’d both have enough to eat.

His friend greeted him as he walked in the door. The cold muzzle pressed
against his chest and those chestnut eyes, wrapped in the service black of the
Empire, stared with menace. “What did you do to me?!” she yelled. Though he was
more shocked at seeing her actually holding a weapon, the recoil would have
broken her arms. His patience thinned.

“What makes you think I did anything to you!?” he yelled back.

“You’re a soldier. We know what you’ve done in the valley. Rapists and murderers,
the lot of you.” Her grip steadied.
“Look! You’re fully dressed. I gave you my coat.” Her fingers ran over the blackened
wool.

“Why?” She demanded.

“You were frigid.” He looked away, a bit of color returned to her cheeks. “I saw the
sheep. I can help you with it.” The color drained again. Her mind ticked into place.

“There isn’t enough for the both of us,” she pulled the trigger. He sighed. The
hammer slammed down and clicked. Click. Click. Click. Panic spread over her face.
Dropping her hands to the butt, she swung his friend at him. He caught it casually.

“Look, I’m not going to rape or kill you. Get that through your gormless skull.”

She shook her head in a frightful acceptance.

“Why did you save me, anyway, if you thought I was so horrible?” Tears began
streaming and a low bawl resonated from her. He rubbed his head. Cannot bear this
sound, he thought to himself.

Getting down to one knee he looked into her eyes, “Why?” he whispered. A
breathless word came from her. He strained to hear.

“What?”

“I…” she sniffled, “I was hungry.”

That was how they met.

The old oaken walls of the cottage creaked in the chilly blasts of mountain
air. With the onset of night the cold had deepened and the foundations of the house
threatened to break under the extreme cold. The cold had sunken into his bones
long ago, the cold of a mind deadened to death. Now the chill was in his flesh and
the unfelt cold was a sweet dullness in his mind. She lay beside him, huddled for
warmth. The blankets were heavy, but the winter still snuck in through every crack.
It was an arrangement of necessity, nothing more. Her breathing was the only thing
that kept him awake, kept him alive. He knew if he went silently to sleep, it wouldn’t
be the sleep his body so desperately needed. So he stayed awake, staring into the
tall shard of glass situated across the room.

She’d already burned the expendable furniture, but whenever he eyed her books as
a source of fuel she had slapped him. Even wrapped in the covers she was cold, but
she slept. Only sleeping. Her soft breathing was a testament to that.

Time slowed as he passed the time until the call of sleep was too strong and he
went willingly into the dark night.
The sharp crack of a shot woke him. He would have jumped up if he could have, but
the weakness in his limbs only allowed him the urgency to rise from bed slowly. She
was gone from beside him. The floor was like ice on his feet and the smell of powder
mixed with the morning air. He hesitated to call out by chance that would give the
intruder an advantage. His arms, though strong, shook with the cold as he peered
into the kitchen. Both her and his friend lay on the floor. Carefully surveying the
remainder of the house he hobbled to her side. Her breathing was still warm.

Checking for wounds he ran his hands up her right arm, she winced as he brushed
her shoulder. Pulling off her sleeve he found a growing bruise about the size of the
butt of his rifle. “She fired it.” He mumbled, “She lucky she didn’t dislocate her
arm.” The smoking remains of a bullet hole were embedded into the ceiling.
Sighing, he once again carried her back to a bed and set her down. The creaking of
the building grew stronger as the wind rose.

He brushed a stray hair from her sleeping face. As his finger left her forehead, her
chestnut eyes opened. “What are you doing?” She asked with a look of
consternation.

“Ahh.. I was… just carrying you from the kitchen.” He stuttered.

“No, with the hand on my face. The last time I checked it would be difficult to carry
me my forelocks.”

“I was just brushing the hair off your face.” She eyed him considering.

“Okay.” She answered with a sense of finality.

He recovered from her question enough to ask one of his own, “What were you
doing with my rifle?” She blushed furiously, “I wanted to see if it even worked. I’ve
shot rifles before, but that one has an incredible kickback.” He frowned slightly, “I’m
well aware.” Another strong wind hit the house and the ceiling began to creak and
splinter.

He turned into the kitchen, “Deus Vomica!” his imprecation rang through the house.
Her hand touched his back, she was white. “Forgive me.” He looked down in shame,
“We need to leave. The roof won’t last long. And we barely made it through last
night.” With fear in her eyes, she nodded and, while carefully avoiding the enlarging
hole in the ceiling, made her way to her room.

Wrapping the imperial cloak around himself, he took the cleaver from the counter. It
still had traces of the frozen blood. It was a good piece though, still sharp. Wiping it
on his cloak he wrapped it with a rag and tucked it into his pack. “Spoils of war.” He
murmured. As she reentered the room she had a rucksack filled to the brim. “What
all are you bringing? We need to travel light.” He asked.

“Just stuff I don’t want to lose.” She returned.

He walked over and took the bag from her with little protest. Clothes. Books. Paper
and a pen with a wax covered inkwell. “These books won’t make for light travel.
You’ll be back later.” He lied. This place wouldn’t last much longer, he thought to
himself. A storm was brewing in the distance.

Her stern look sealed the argument, “They are essential.” He was taken aback, but
shrugged. “I’m not carrying them.” She nodded. “Where is the nearest town?”

“About a league from here.”

“I’m not familiar with leagues.” He scratched his chin apologetically.

“A bit over three imperial miles.”

“Not far, but in this weather it might take most of the day. It would be foolish to
take a regiment through here, but the two of us might make fairly good time.”

She smiled. “I’ve got an idea how we can make our trip faster.”

“How?” he questioned apprehensively.

“You’ll see.” She took her rucksack and gestured for him to follow. He looked
around the room, taking a glimpse at the shard of mirror once more. They struggled
with the door for some time before he took the cleaver to the hinges of the door.
Snow poured in as they climbed out into a world of white. The trees were a few feet
shorter and as they made their way down the drift to the stable under the house,
they sunk into the snow with each step. As she opened the doors, she choked on
tears. She removed a large and curved piece of wood from one of the stalls.

“What is it?”

“A sled, you don’t have them in Gaul?”

Fingering his rifle, “I’ve never had much time for play. The Capitol is a harsh place.”

A moment of silence passed between them before he asked, “So what is a sled?”

“What is a sled? Well… You sit on it. And slide on the snow.”

“How do you steer?”

She giggled, “You really don’t. You just lean the direction you want to go.”

“And that works?”

“Most of the time.” She said smiling innocently.

He wasn’t thrilled, “I’m not thrilled about this.”

“How unfortunate, you can trudge if you’d like.”

He sighed, noting the coming storm, “Ok, we can try it.”

She laughed. After struggling to sit on the sled, she sat between his legs and the
packs were tied behind them in a haphazard fashion. “Deus, help me.” He swore
under his breath. They began to slide.

The soft wind and the frozen water that flew before them chilled him, but the
exhilaration of the ride calmed his anxieties. “You’ve done this before, right?” He
asked anxiously into her ear. “You could say that.” He left the question alone, afraid
of the answer. Trees flew past, and with some slight nudging they steered the sled
down the virgin hill. The exhilaration passed into worry as the number of fallen trees
increased. “What are…” He was cut off as the sled flew off a log that had been
buried in the landscape. The landing was rough, but they held on to each other for
support as their speed increased. She spoke up, “This is a bit too fast.” He cringed.
He should have never cursed the Emperor like that.

Another log appeared before them, less covered by the snow. As they careened
towards it, he held her tighter. The sled disintegrated in a shower of shards as the
front of it caught the log. Snow and darkness were all he felt as she slipped from his
arms. Darkness and pain, steam rising from blood-hot snow.

__

His mouth tasted of tin, familiar after a fight. Blood tastes of tin, he thought, Snow
was never this warm though. I’ve finally died. Well, I hope that girl finds safety,
without having to eat me. I suppose I can’t be too attached to the old flesh though.
Not much use to me now. He wiggled his hands. Ah, not through with this body yet.

His eyes opened to a warm room. Unlike the cabin this was build with Imperial
stucco, an old building in this area. The empire hadn’t come to this region for
generations, even if it had rich mines. The price hadn’t matched the need. Even his
regiment had only come for an inspection of the northern wall, a wall lost for
decades to the barbarous north.

Sheets falling from his bandages, he sat up. His friend leaned in the corner and
there she was, sleeping with mouth ajar near the bed. The floor was of the empire’s
design as well, tiled. It was cold to his toes, but reminiscent of home. He wrapped
the heavy wool blanket around her, exchanging it for his coat. The insignia of the
ninth battalion had been torn off, but it made little difference. His uniform that had
been in his pack was gone, with all but a second pair of pants he had scavenged
from the cabin’s bedroom. He fastened the shoulder belt on his cloak as a
temporary shirt before leaving the room. From the window to his back peered little
green eyes.

The room he stepped into was an attempt to turn an imperial villa into a tavern,
pillars were decked with animal skins and the Lord’s table had been turned into a
makeshift bar. The place was empty except for a young woman, sweeping around a
table that would have stood in a shallow pool in earlier times. She looked up with
concern, “You should be in bed, you know that? That girl near killed herself before
finding someone to help and now that you’re all bandaged up you think you can just
go?” She prodded him with the end of the broom.

“I didn’t think I needed permission, no matter who save my life. Where did my
clothing go?”

“We brought everything that was with you, name is Mara by the way.” She looked
expectant.

He smiled, realizing she wanted to know his name. “Thank you, Mara, but I need to
be on my way. Where can I buy some clothes and provisions?”

“I reckon you could ask for just about anything, with what you being a war hero and
all.” He froze his face, he was no hero, but he did need supplies.

“I reckon I could. Can you point me to a store or somewhere I can get things?”

She smiled shyly, “Come with me.” Mara lead him back to the corridor adjacent to
the main room. What he would have called a storeroom, she called a bedroom.
Reaching into a surprisingly well-made dresser she pulled a crumpled shirt and
handed it to him. “Here this used to belong to my husband.” He took it and stepped
around her, so her back was to him, before unfastening the buckle to his cloak.

Mara chimed, “Sadly, my husband is dead. The war took him from me several years
ago.” He winced before responding, fiddling with the laces, “That truly is sad. I’m
sure his name is well honored in this house.” He pulled his head though the shirt
and found she was looking at him. He gave a respectful smile with a welling sense
of inner dread.

“I need to go check on my friend. She may have woken up.”

She placed a hand on his shoulder, somewhat forcefully, “I’m sure she’s fine.”

He removed her hand. “Excellent, now I need to go check. As you said, she went
through a lot for me. I’d hate to see her panicked to find me gone.” She slumped
back and waved him off. He sighed openly with relief once he reentered the
common room.

The walls of the tavern, once decorated with floral designs, now seemed drab. His
dreaming broke once he heard Mara’s footsteps behind him. Sliding a finger down
his upper arm, “Are you sure you need to check on her? I can guarantee her
health.” He quickly reached for the latch in the door, “It would be for the best for
me to check on her.”

She smiled, “Oh well.”

The room was as he left it. Both her and his friend hadn’t moved, though the

loudness of her snoring had increased.