Dr. Creepen's Dungeon - S6 Ep291: Episode 291: Vatican Horror Stories

Episode Date: November 12, 2025

Today’s phenomenal tale of terror is ‘The Horror Beyond the Wall: The Complete Story’, an epic work by Taxi Dancer, kindly shared directly with me via my sub-reddit and narrated here for you all with the author’s express permission. https://www.reddit.com/user/Taxi_Dancer/

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Horror stories set in or around the Vatican captivate us because they blend the sacred with the profane. The ultimate symbol of divine authority with the darkest whispers of the supernatural. The Vatican is a place shrouded in ritual, secrecy and centuries of hidden knowledge, making it the perfect breeding ground for unsettling questions. What if faith conceals something monstrous? What ancient text relics or forbidden truths lie buried beneath its marble halls? These stories strike at the tension between belief and doubt,

light and shadow, drawing us into a world where even holiness might hide, horror, as we shall see in tonight's feature-length story. Now as ever before we begin a word of caution, tonight's tale may contain strong language as well as descriptions of violence and horrific imagery. That sounds like your kind of thing. Then let's begin. A young Vatican scholar discovers the terrifying secret behind the building of Hadrian and Antonine's wall. The horror behind the wall by taxi dancer the first scroll the vatican rome my name is giuseppe barbieri and as i'm writing this i'm under the employ of his holiness pope pious the 10th as a librarian's assistant under monseigneur matteo fierentino who serves his holiness as among his many duties the caretaker for the library

It's the 1st November, 2003, and the chilly winds which whip about this holy city are rustling the red and yellow leaves which are now beginning to fall. I am alone now in the lower levels of the library. The corridors and halls now empty since the doors have closed for the evening. Because of his many responsibilities, Monseigneur Fioreorentino oftentimes must leave the duties of librarian to me, which I consider both an honour and a most holy duty, considering that it will be six months until I see my 20th birthday. I've been taught to read and write and even learn mathematics and astronomy at an early age, the gift of constantly wanting

to expand my knowledge of the world and heavens upon which we exist coming from my father, who taught science and astronomy as I grew up in Paris. As such, by age 10, I could speak many different languages, from Latin to German, and of course French and Italian. My acceptance by the Vatican to work as an assistant to Monseigneur Fiorentino was not very well received by my father, who instead wanted me to follow in his footsteps to be an educator and astronomer, and, in truth, that was my ultimate goal when my time working here at the Vatican Library eventually came to a close. However, first I felt that my place was here, surrounded by the ancient manuscripts, texts, and scrolls, learning as much as I could and soaking up all the wisdom of the great scholars, thinkers, writers,

and poets of their time. I felt that before I could teach the younger generations about the wonders which most certainly await them in the future, I must learn about the past. It took much convincing before my father relented and allowed me to journey back to my home country and to begin work at the Vatican, on the condition that on my 20th birthday,

I would leave the employee of His Holiness Pope Pius and begin my studies at university. That was two years ago, two years in which every day I awoke feeling blessed by God to be able to work here and be surrounded by the vast spiritual, scientific and cultural wisdom of the ages. Oftentimes, like tonight, I found myself awake deep into the twilight hours, reading a dusty manuscript under candlelight or electric light until the Monsignor admonishes me to go to sleep.

It reminds me a bit of my own father, intelligent, kindly, but also very strict in carrying out his duties. It doesn't mind that I often spend my free time perusing these ancient texts, but when it's time for the lights to dim and nightly devotionals to begin, he's neither shy nor slow to correct my lapse of focus. Ten days ago, the Monseigneur came to me with a particular task which, he said, would be dreary to anyone else except for someone like me, and, as usual, he was absolutely cracked. The library was home to thousands of manuscripts and collections of manuscripts,

and, as of the past few decades, the cataloguing and organizing of the texts and collections of manuscripts had fallen into neglect. His Holiness, Pope Pius X, had requested that the entirety of the Vatican Library be organized and categorized by time the manuscript was written, the subject matter, and by author, if known. Because this was a request by the Pope, which would take several months to properly complete, the Monsignor informing that the library would be taking on three other people to concur. conduct the day-to-day activities. My job for the next few months would be to organise and categorise the entire Vatican Library, the Monsignor consenting to allow me to work as late in the

evening as I'd like, my duties being counted as my nightly devotionals to our Lord. I could not have been happier, spending my last six months at the Vatican lost amongst the most secret and rarest of ancient texts, texts which haven't been seen or touched for hundreds of years. I thank monseigne your fearing, to you know, over and over again, promising that I'd have the monumental task completed, and completed accurately, by the time my duties in the Vatican come to a close. For the past nine days, I was indeed the happiest I've been in my life, cataloging and organizing collections of texts according to the exacting instructions given down from Pope Pius himself, while making notes for myself of the text I wanted to peruse further later in the

evening when the work day is over. That joy, however, came crashing down today, reducing me to what I am now, a shivering, trembling boy. I had been happily cataloging the mountains of manuscripts this morning, a rather extensive collection of ancient scrolls and texts from the collection of Pope Leo when I spied something rather peculiar with the library. All of the shells were filling up, albeit very slowly, with newly organized and categorized manuscripts, I noticed that there was one section of the library archives in which the shelves were completely empty. On the shelves which I had labelled between the years 120 AD to 140 AD, there were almost no manuscripts, as if there were absolutely no written records of that time period,

or perhaps, that those manuscripts had been destroyed. Monseigneur Fiorentino came to visit me as I was sitting at a desk, staring at a desk, staring at the empty spaces on the shelves and contemplating the cause of this peculiar oddity. The Monseigneur informed me that he'd be travelling for about two weeks to accompany his holiness the Pope as he toured the churches in Austria and Hungary, but we'll be back before the end of the month. I inquired of the Monseigneur about the curious lack of writings and manuscripts collected in the library from 120 to 140 AD, and his face turned dower and unsettling. The Monseigneur exhaled heavily, before saying,

The years between 87 AD and 120 AD are the years in which Titus Caesar Fespasanius was emperor of Rome. It was the time after Neus Julius Agricola, the Roman governor of Britain, had extended the boundaries of the Roman Empire to the north shore of Caledonia, which today is now called Scotland. During Agricola's reign, the Roman Empire ruled all of Britain. However, under Emperor Pius, the decades following that era saw great turmoil on northern Britain, resulting in the Roman legions being thrown back beyond the boundaries of Caledonia. These defeats were such that a planned Roman invasion of Ireland was cancelled, and the previous Roman fortifications built north of the Staingate Road

were either abandoned or torn down. Once Signor Fierentino took his leave, again admonishing me not to work too late into the evenings, and not to forget my nightly devotionals. I wished him fair travels and fine weather, before I turned and eagerly set about my task of organising the vast collection of scrolls and manuscripts. I was still puzzled as to why such a large span of time, over twenty years, was oddly bereft of any type of recorded history, especially during a time of such great upheaval in Britain. While I understood that wars did bring a certain amount of destruction, chaos, and ultimately a loss

manuscripts. The fact that no written documents seemed to exist from Rome's retreats from the British Isles was baffling me to no end. I was clearing out a curtain of cobwebs at a forgotten set of shelves far back in the archives before I was to take my lunch break. I was looking forward to eating my meal out by the Fontaine de Piazza, San Pietro, under the bright afternoon sun. It was rather dank and dreary in this part of the archives, as the electrical lights barely shone down here, and I wasn't foolish enough to supplement that light with candles, not with so many ancient and brittle texts surrounding me. It was on the top shelf that I found her most curious object. There was a wooden box reinforced with bands of iron. Though ancient looking,

the wood was sturdy, and there was a heavy, rusted lock which kept the box firmly shut for what seemed like eons. The box was about 60 centimetre square and exceedingly heavy. It took quite a bit strength for me to carry it in one hand while I used the other to steady myself as I descended the shaky ladder to the floor. Placing the box gently on a sturdy push-carts, I wheeled it squeakily to the open reading area, where blessed sunlight shone through the thick, dusty window panes down to the three long reading tables arranged on the glossy white and gold-tiled floor. Transferring the box to one of the reading tables made of heavy African blackwoods, I blew and wipe the thick coating of dust off it.

Coughing from the clouds of dust, I grabbed the large ancient lock and gave it a light tug. The lock held firm, as I'd expected, but the nails which held the clasp in place had turned brittle with rust and came apart from the box. Normally at this point I would have run to Monsignor Fiorentino, excitedly, I might add, to inform him of my discovery. But with the Monsignor away for a few weeks and, forgive me,

my patience being far from what was required to wait for his return, I tugged again on the lock, harder this time. By the third booming thud that echoed across the room, the clasp finally came off the box. Gulping nervously, feeling as if I'd somehow committed a sin, I lifted the heavy lid off the box. The musty scent of mould and time assailed me as I looked inside. I gagged for a moment as another smell hit me. It was the unmistakable scent of death. The inside of the box was nearly pristine, the grey cushions holding the three scrolls

hardly having deteriorated. Placing on gloves, I carefully retrieved the top scroll, gently unrolling the top portion. The words at the heading on the yellowing parchment were written in Latin. To His Highness, Emperor Pius, from Lucius Latinemus Masser, chief centorian and camp prefect. Legio 9, Hispania.

I shudder deeply, placing my hand over my mouth. Emperor Pius had ruled from 138 AD to 161 AD, Lucius Latinus Marseer. I'd never read of him before, but he was a high-ranking officer in the Roman Legion, Legiorese. nine, Hispania. Camp Prefect would make him third in command of a legion of about 5,000 soldiers. Why would he be the one writing to the Emperor of Rome instead of the Legion legate? These questions swirled in my mind as I gently replaced the scroll into the box and dutifully carried it to the great archival shelves, placing it on the near empty spaces, denoting the time periods between 120 AD to 140 AD. I'd have to wait until the moment. I'd have to wait until the

Monsignor returned to see what he had to say about such a historic find, and I prayed to God for patience and to calm my anxious heart that beat in anticipation to learn what was written on those thousand-year-old scrolls. I continued diligently doing my duties, having forgotten to take my lunch as I continued staring at the box every time I passed that shelf. After an eternity, six o'clock in the evening finally came, and the three library workers came down into the archives, asking permission to finally close the library for the evening. When I inquired as to why they would need to ask my permission to close the library for the day, they replied that the Monseigneur had told them that I was now in charge of the library until his return.

Monseigneur Fierintino said that until his duties with the Holy Pope have concluded, said Dominic, the eldest of the three boys, you are to be his representative and your word is his word. Shocked, I replied. Yes, yes, of course. I'll see you boys early tomorrow morning. Closing the great archive doors made of Brazilian walnut. I raced towards the shelf on which I'd placed the wooden box earlier.

My heart beat wildly inside me at the realization that the Monseigneur had left me with the authority over the library. Grabbing the box again, I placed it on the cart and pushed it to the reading tables. Turning on the lights and positioning three oil lamps on the table. I made my secluded area unusually bright, something which the Monsignor would have surely scolded me for, using excessive amounts of electricity and oil. Hardly able to contain my excitement, I pulled out all three scrolls. To my surprise, it was not three separate letters written to the Emperor, but actually one long account written on three different scrolls.

Oh, Holy Father, please forgive me for my curiosity. Had I known the horrors contained within those accursed scrolls, I would have left them locked in that box, forgotten forever until the Son of God returned to wipe away the evil that hangs over us all. Perhaps after you hear what Lucius Latinimus Massa had written, you'll understand why I did what I did. So here is the entire account of what the chief Centurion and Camp Prefect of Legio 9, Hispania, has written nearly 2,000 years ago. And may God have mercy on us all. Hey, it's Moka, and we are in the thick of it.

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BetMGM operates pursuant to an operating agreement with Eye Gaming Ontario. To His Highness, Emperor Pius, from Lucius Latinemus Massa, Chief Centurian and Camp Prefect, Legio 9, Hispaniard. Hail, great emperor, ruler of the war. world. I bring you tidings of loyalty as well as news of our campaign against the savage Caledonians and the building of the Antonine Wall north of Hadrian's Wall. Yesterday morning I rode my horse south from Antonine's Wall through the port gate in Hadrian's wall and continued south to the city of Corbridge, the town from which our legio nine

Hispania launched our campaign from the fort of Vindolanda only a few weeks passed. Though a rather squalid and pathetic place, it did boast a rather large library with manuscripts and texts of the peoples and cultures of the northern lands, as well as the mythologies on legend as to which the savage northerners described. This library was easily the most well-constructed and grandiose structure in the region, and was warded over by supposedly holy men, but whom Legion Legati Titus considered shellotons and phony sorceress, surrounded by a high school. stone wall, the library was also rumoured to hold tomes of ancient magical spells. Our young Tribune, Quintus, suggested that we tarry a while to learn what we could of the library's secrets. But because our second-in-command was not a military man, Legat Titus, told Quintus that he could bury his head in as many of the savages fairy tales as he lied after

the Caledonians had finally been subjugated. As I said, this occurred weeks past. Before our northern march towards Caledonia, and before I eventually returned to Corbridge with Tribune Quintus and only seven other soldiers. Forgive me, my lord, as my account seems to jump back and forth. By the events of the past weeks still haunt my soul, and I am in a race against time to raise that legion before those accursic Caledonian sorcerers can reach them first. I shall start on the day Ligio 9 left Fort Vindalander, near Hadrian's wall, to journey north to the Glasgow Bridge Tower. Tribune Silvius had just completed construction

of the Glasgow Bridge Tower on Antonine's Wall, which overlooks the flowing River Kelvin to the north. 32 leagues separate Hadrian's Wall from where Antonine's Wall was being constructed, and under normal conditions, the ride to Antonine's Wall would have only taken four days. However, our Legion consisted of 5,000 soldiers, along with a logistical train of 8,000, consisting of the porters, pioneers, herdsmen, and labourers. Combined with the foul, stinking weather, which the fitful gods of the Britons constantly hammered us with, our movement to Antonine's wall took well over 12 days,

legateitis being forced to stop the Legion's progress to await the passing of storms which turn the ground into a sea of mud and rivers to overflow their banks. When the Legion finally reached the Glasgow Bridge Tower, Legart Titus turned over the pioneers and labourers, which he'd conscripted from the far southern territories, to Tribune Silvius to add to his manpower since, as you well know, the local conscripts have been abandoning their duties, citing their fear of some mythological local legends, which have frightened them away. I sought out Tribute Silvius to inquire about my younger brother, Albus Messer, a centurricor

who commanded the 120 riders of a cavalry cohort of the legio six victrix, the legion that was charged with protecting the building of Antonine's wall. Silvius informed me that Albus and his men had been sent on a scouting mission north of the wall, to look for quarry sites and good timber. Albus and his cohort left from here, the Glasgow Bridge Tower about eight days ago, said Tribute Silvius. Albus's commander instructed him to be gone no longer them four days, as enemy tribes roam the lands north of the River Kelvin. Eight days, I said. Why has no one gone to search for them? All EGO6 is stretched far and thin as it is, answered Silvius, deeply apologetically,

and the rains had flooded the river. It's only receded two days ago, and we'd hoped that once your legion arrived, you could perhaps solve the mystery of our missing scouts. who is the commander that abandons an entire cohort to the blasted grey mist of this cursed lands. But hearing my outburst, Legate Titus stopped overseeing the establishment of the Legion's temporary containment

and approached. His commander is Centurion Fulgenico, said Silvius nervously, as Lagarte Titus neared us. He's many leagues to the east overseeing the construction of rough castle tower. We were getting quite nervously, as we have had no security since the cohort had left.

Turning, I explained to my Legion commander the dire situation at the missing scout cohort of Leggio six victrix. The heavy grimace covered Lagarty Titus's face, made more grim as heavy grey clouds covered the already grey skies, promising more days of rain. I shall order two cohorts of Carrowy to take up the search north of the wall, said Titus finally. My lord, I answered, my brother is the cohort leader. Titus stared at me with cold grey eyes for several seconds, weighing the wisdom of allowing the Legion's third in command to rescue his younger brother

as the reins began to fall. Take command of the two cohorts, Prefect Messer, he said. But I want you back within three days' time. I do not want you trapped on the other side of the Kelvin should the gods cause a river to rise above its banks. I will need your expertise and planning skills as we prepare for our full campaign to push north from the wall, and we know little about what the mists hide in the land before us. May the gods be with you, Lucius.

Saluting my commander, I gathered up the two cohorts of 240 cavalry riders, and exited the Glasgow Bridge Tower, crossing north over the River Kelvin very low stone bridge, and soon we were swallowed by the rising mist. A path led directly into the forest beyond, one that was wide enough for us to follow, even through the prevailing fog. Earily, there seemed to be no noise, no insects, no birds, nothing outside of the knickering of our horses, the mushings out of their hooves on the muddy trail, and the dull clanking of weapons and armour. We're vulnerable in this position, whispered Evander, a centurion who commanded one of the cavalry cohorts, as he brought his horse next to mine. Our visibility is limited, and an enemy can easily come upon us through the mist. Then we should hasten our pace, I answered, thinking only of finding my brother and nothing else.

I picked up our pace to a steady gallop as we continued following the trail along the forest floor. Many well-worn tracks branched left and right, disappearing into the woods around us, but I kept us on the main path as the sun rose higher into the sky. by afternoon the sun had burned away the misty morning fog and the rains finally subsided revealing more of the haunted forest which surrounded us insects began to chatter and chirp and we could hear birds as the sounds of small forest animals echoed all around us keep your eyes to the trees and forest admonished avander and the senior ranking centurions to the rest of the cavalabias be aware of arches and ambush if we can see them they can see them they can see see us, and we're in lands that the savages know well. Though the sun was now up and shining, the rays of light which passed down through the treetop canopy did little to extinguish the dreariness of the forest. Worse, clouds of biting flies and insects assailed our ears, eyes and noses at every chance

they could, as the humidity rose and boiled us in sweat. I pushed the two cohorts onwards as the trail descended down a low foothill, which led to a relatively open area at the base of a shallow valley. The trees thinned out here, and, blessedly, as we finally emerged from the forest, we were greeted with a breeze of fresh air. The valley in which we emerged was a green expanse of tall grass and wildflowers, in which islands of small trees and bushes clustered. Far to our left, near where the line of trees ended,

were the remnants of a small dilapidated farming community, long abandoned now. The main path which we'd taken through the forest now seemed to disappear into several smaller trails which criss-crossed the valley. Realising that it was well into the afternoon and the men hadn't eaten or the horses watered, I ordered a brief halt so that the men could tend to their hunger and personal needs and water their horses. I summoned the two cohort commanders, Evander and Rufus, to me, and together we investigated the trails which led deeper into the valley, hoping to discover which one my brother had taken. The rains had washed away many of the signs, and we concluded that most of the trails were game trails used by wild animals or long-forgotten wagon trails, which the inhabitants once used to transport their livestock and crops.

However, Rufus soon discovered a relatively fresh trail of several dozen hoofprints, which had cut a path through the tall grass northeastward, leading up to a forested hill. We spent the rest of the day following the trail through the valley until we reached the base of the hill. Apollo had begun his slow descent to the west, and the light of his passing would be gone soon. A large clearing had been cut out next to the trail, and we discovered evidence of a large camp, with fire pits dug and small pieces of discarded legion kit lying about. They camped here, said Rufus, an excellent tracker and hunter. I would say that this camp is no older than five or six days. Elated, I would have pressed the search further,

But both the men and horses were tired after a long day's ride. The skies were darkening again, with a promise of evening showers. I knew that pressing on after dark in these foreboding, enemy-infested woods, would be an unwise risk. Still knowing that I only had one day left to search for my brother's missing cohort, maybe less, I reluctantly ordered the men to make camp here and erect their shelters before the rains came again. I also gave them permission to make fires to warm themselves,

and to heat their meals, the rain's allowing, and instructed each cohort to have one of every three soldiers on century duty until we left in the morning. In my personal tent, I shared a meal of bread, bacon, mutton, and wine with my two cohort commanders, as we plan the next day's movements. Though I was confident that we were skilled and disciplined enough to defeat any of the savage tribes who may try to attack us, and fleet-footed enough to escape if we were not.

Our biggest problems would be the rain, the mist, and our general unfamiliarity of the land on which we would be campaigning. Satisfied that my men were rested but alert, and the security of the camp had been set. I bid commanders Evander and Rufus Good Evening, and settled down for the night. The rains, thankfully, were light, and their pattering upon the roof of my tent conspired to put my restless mind to sleep. I awoke, after the mid of night, with absolutely no sound coming from the oppressive blackness around me.

I tried to recall the dream which I just had, remembering only my brother staring down at me. Staring down. Staring down. There was something wrong with his face. I pulled back the flap of my tent and stepped outside, grateful for the clear skies and the cool air. The rain had stopped. Is there something wrong, my liege? said the senior ranking of the two guards standing at my tent's entrance.

no i said stay alert as i lay back down on my blanket wondering what had woken me up the wind had picked up driving down from the north and a faint scent hit my nose it wasn't overwhelming and seemed to drift in and out at the very borders of my perception it was barely imperceptible but it was there i'd smelled that scent many times in the past usually after a slaughter of warrens of is lit at the battlefield it was the smell of rot at this point the manuscript of chief centurion and camp prefect lucius latinimus mesa came to an end but it was picked up in the second scroll more intrigued and horrified a continued reading as this seemed more the beginning of a fairy tale adventure than the apocalyptic calamity which it ended up becoming the young vatican scholar discovers the terrifying secret behind the building of hadrian and antonine's wall the horror behind the wall by taxi-dancer tonight we read the second scroll the night passed without instant and we continued our search in the pre-dawn hours the next day, leaving the open valley and descending up the misty slopes of the low foothills. The men broke their fast as they rode,

chewing on hard-tack bread soaked in brine and washing it down with water. There was a poor morning meal for the men, but our time for searching was rapidly coming to an end. The smell of rock which plagued my dreams was gone, however that may have been because there was no wind to carry the foul scent. With a growing apprehension and dread in my heart, an affliction which I could scarcely explain, I led the cavalry further up into the hills, still following the trail left by my brother's cohort

who had gone before me. Though I could hardly see the path ahead, I could sense that we'd rounded the top of the hill and were now headed down. The view from the hilltop only gave me a picture of trees poking from a top nearby hilltops, their base swallowed by the thick mist, even though I knew that hidden somewhere in those clouds

were the enemy which had caused my brother's disappearance I knew also that my brother was somewhere in those mists too shall I send some scouts ahead to flush out any ambushes said Evander The enemy has eyes in the damned trees and fogser added Rufus If they spied upon our travels yesterday It would be a sure bet that they know we're taking the path

Of our brethren who came before us If I were to plan our attack it would be here as we descend into the mists. Well, of course, Evander and Rufus were right, but I hated to wait any longer for a scouting party to return. I was about to turn and give the order to have a scouting party from each cohort descend into the veil when I felt the wind's direction change.

The sickening smell of death and decay assail my nose from somewhere down in the mists. My men smelled the odor as well, as I kicked my heels and spurred my horse into a quick, gallop down the path shrouded in clouds of fog my man followed me without question i was in the lead following the trail of hoof prints left by my brother's cohort looking for any trace that perhaps some of the hoof prints led back in the direction in which they came indicating that some may have survived a retreat sadly all i saw were hoof prints going in one direction northeast towards yet

another hilltop we splashed through an ice-cold stream before bounding up the shallow hill on the the other side, the senior ranks ordering the archers to notch arrows and the rest to draw swords. The smell of death and decay surrounded us as we fanned out, vengeance pumping in our blood as we were sure that this was where the enemy would strike. With a roar, we rushed up the hill towards where the savages had surely set another trap. But we would not be caught unawares as our steeds charged up that slope, the steel of spear and swords slicing through the mists. As if in response to our charge, the winds picked up, blowing the mist into a white whirlwind which gradually removed our fog blindness as the smell of death increased and consumed us.

As I reached the peak of the hill, I halted my horse abruptly. It winnieed in surprise as I yanked back on his reins and jumped from my saddle, my gladius in one hand. I yank my spear from my sleeve on my horse's flank and charged scree. streaming with rage the rest of the distance up to the top of the hill. They were there. They were there. Stacked one on top of the other, by the dozens on four piles, was our missing cavalry cohort. The fires which had been used to create their funeral pires must have been great indeed, as the bodies of our men had been blackened to a crisp.

I walked on the burned ground in between the pires of the corpses of our black, hard men, yelling for my brother. Albus, Albus, I will still hope that he was still alive, as someone must have been alive to have honoured our fallen dead in this way. Albus, brother, where are you? Their heads, where are their heads? Evander and Rufus came up behind me, swords drawn, after they ordered their men to form a defensive perimeter around the hilltop.

"'Why would those savages behead our men before burning them?' grunted Rufus angrily. "'This is something that they've never done in the past. "'His men have been defiled.' "'I looked again at the bodies of the dead and curse myself for my careless blindness. "'Beheading our men before burning them was a dishonor to them, "'cursing their spirits to search forever for their missing heads "'and robbing them of the ability to travel to the afterlife. "'This was something that my brother would never have all.

and my heart sank at that. Indeed, his charred headless body was lightly among those in the stacks, and still the smell of rot permeated the air. My liege, I fear that I have found the answer to the mystery. I raced to where the horrified soldier was standing at the misty edge of the clearing. The slowly lifting fog had initially hidden the dread from me which the soldier had stumbled upon. The mists parted to reveal a large,

of the missing, rotting heads of our fallen comrades. Filled with unrestrained grief, I fell upon the pile, picking through the heads with tears of my eyes like a madman as I searched for my brother's head. There was something off with the severed heads, which didn't seem right in a situation in which nothing seemed right. These men died at least eight days ago, at the rate of decomposition seemed far too advanced, as if the men had been decapitated mum.

after they died. To their credit, several of the men with strong constitutions began pulling the putrid, maggot-covered heads from the pile, and reverently lined them up on the ground. In total, there were one hundred and six heads in the pile. "'My liege,' said Evander, solemnly, "'is your brother among the fallen?' "'No,' I said, the flame of hope sputtering alive again. He is not among these honoured dead. I had examined every head lined upon the ground, and even in their advanced state of decay, I could tell that none of these men was my brother. What happened to your hand, Evander?

Evander looked down at his bleeding palm, now wrapped in a white cloth stained with blood. It's nothing, my liege. One of the heads took a bite out of my hand, a spasm that lingers after death. Well, have one of the medicus apply medicine and paltuses to your wound, I advise. just in case. I shall have this tended to later, my liege, Evander replied. Fourteen of our men yet remain unaccounted for, and I'll not let a small scratch hamper our mission any further. We had gathered the heads together again,

careful to avoid the occasional post-mortem spasmodic gnashing of teeth, which eerily made them seem both alive and hungry. We set another funeral pyre, burning all over the heads amidst prayers that their spirits could now go in peace to the afterlife. By this time the sun was almost at the mid of day, the morning mists having long since burned away. We were in a wide clearing atop that hill, and we could see hoof prints which led down into another wide valley of green rolling plains,

the clear skies revealing black ravens circling overhead. Death Sanders recently cursed that place, said Rufus. A battle took place there. Our time is short, I replied. Before nightfall, we must be on our way back to the wall. The terrain allows us to deploy our forces more advantageously here. Let's see if we cannot solve this mystery before our time runs out. The path we took weaved around the hilltop before dipping down into the valley.

A giant, ancient elm tree greeted us as we rounded the bend, great branches completely overhanging the entire path. I stopped and garied. In shockers, hanging from the branches of the tree were fourteen bodies. Ignoring Evander and Rufus' offer to ride ahead and investigate the bodies, I galloped towards the tree, my heart now grieving as I suspected that my search from my brother had come to an end. He stared down at me, with dead eyes, a sad expression on his wounded face, the rope creaking in the wind. why albus you survived why did you and the others who survived have to do this why did you behead your honoured dead before sending their spirits on their way why did you leave so many mysteries who attacked you albus the parchment was still gripped in my brother's gloved hands and i gingerly slipped it from his dead grasp unrolling the parchment i read the words written a

upon it in my brother's handwriting. May my horn had fallen forgive me for taking their heads before burning their bodies. It was the only way to be sure that the cohort does not rise again. Those of us who'd survived the attack cannot be sure that we were not infected by the demonic sorcery of the Caledonians.

We dare not return to the war bringing the pestilence of the Caledonians with us. So we have decided to end the curse here at this tree. May we be forgiven, but no other choice was left. Beware the sorcerers, for they control of the dead. God, what madness had taken over you and the thirteen others who survived that caused you to write this witchery. The ambush which had taken the lives of your cohort had obviously driven sanity from you. But at least we know for sure who committed this travest.

and when our campaign begins in earnest, I promise you, my brother, that the Caledonians will pay a hundredfold for every man we lost. I turned my horse to the tree, no longer able to stand the heartbreak welling up inside me. My leash, whispered Rufus, as he sauntered his horse next to mine. Cut them down, Rufus, I said. Cut them down, and render them the proper honours which they deserve.

"'Of course, my liege,' he answered, calling a work-detail forward to complete this grisly task. Evander attempted to call a work-party of his own cohorts, but began coughing instead. I turned to see that he had grown somewhat pale and was sweating. "'I am, my leagher, are you okay?' "'I am, my liege,' he answered, clearing his throat. "'Curse the damn dreary weather here in Britain. "'I cannot wait until we subjugate these savages so that we can returns at the warmer climes of Hispania.

As the last fourteen of the fallen cohort were placed on the funeral pyre, I sat upon my steed, staring down into the valley where they fought their last battle. Evander and Rufus sat silently at my side on their horses. Silently, I cursed the ungodly savages who'd done this. Come out! Come out, damn you! I know you're out there. I have twice the number of cavalry here.

Come out that I may fertilize the valley with your entrails. My heart was a fire with a desire of vengeance. To hell with the coming main campaign, I wanted to begin the attack now, starting from this hill. My liege, said Rufus. I looked into the direction where the cohort commander was pointing. emerging from the trees which surrounded the valley was a pale, decrepit-looking figure. The thin man, dressed only in ragged furs, which only covered his waist, shambled out into the field as if drunk.

In his withered hand was a rusted axe. "'Ah!' grunted Evander in disgust. "'That one looks rough even for a savage. He is also someone who may lead us to who committed this atrocity.' I grabbed up my spear and made to spur my steed forwards down into the valley, but Rufus stayed my hand. My leech, wait, look. Behind the figure came dozens more savages, dressed similarly to the first with ragged clothing and fur. And just like the first, they had a shambling gait, as if unused to walking on their bony legs.

They were deathly pale, some even missing limbs, those without legs dragging them, themselves across the ground. Many of them held makeshift weapons, pitchforks, spears, butcher knives and short swords, all in various states of rust and disrepair. Haunted, howling and mowing and bellowed out from their abdomens, their skin so taunt that we could clearly see their ribcages. A lone figure and horseback emerged from the woods, hidden under a large robe, coloured a dark, mottled green. The figure held a gnarled wooden staff in the air in one hand and was waving his other hand in such a way is that of a magician casting a spell as the black smoke of the funeral pyre behind me swirled around my face the sickening smell of flesh slowly cooking in the fires i raised my spear and ordered

lances to the fore fall upon the foe with vengeance and no mercy a mighty roar echoed across the hilltop and the ground trembled as the two hundred cavalrymen of my two cohorts thundered down the hillside every man eager for revenge and bloodshed. Yet strangely, there was very little bloodshed as the distance rapidly closed, and the first line of lances struck the foe. As we neared the foe, the stink of rotten decay assailed our senses,

and I had to spur my horse onwards through the putrid stench as my lance crashed into the skeletal man who first emerged from the trees. My spear punched him through the chest, ripping the man in half, then pierced another through the side. The savage, though skewered on my lance,

continued to grasp at me, using my own lance to pull himself towards me. The sharp iron head of my spear struck yet another savage, easily taking his arm off before it finally snapped after punching a fourth savage through the head. I dropped my now useless weapon and drew my gladius, realizing that something was horrifyingly wrong with the foe. The man whom I'd ripped in half was still alive, crawling towards me with his entrails dragging behind him, hands grabbing and mouth snapping in hunger.

The second, still with a spear shaft through his chest, was shambling after me, waving a rusted sword crazily as if he did not know how to use his arms. The savage whose arm I'd torn off was also standing as if unhurt by the grievous wound. He'd been slashed a number of times by my riders as they charged past, but the foe still remained afoot, clumsily grabbing at my men as if to pull them from their mounts. Only the fourth enemy, one whom I decapitated with my spear, lay unmoving on the ground. Though the foe was taking mortal injuries from my men, injuries which should have bathed the ground crimson with their blood, there was very little bleeding. We were stabbing and hacking limbs and gouging guts from the enemy, but there was very little bloodshed,

as if the blood of the savages had congealed a long time ago. Even though many of the savages were armed with rudimentary weapons, they seemed to know how to use them even less than their own arms, preferring instead to grab a rider to bring him down and to attack by biting. In this way, a number of our riders were pulled from their mounts and immediately set upon by the savages. But the gods were with many of them as they were able to fend off the enemy and regain their mounts. Still, others were not so fortunate. Their screams turning to chokes, their quivering arms and legs spasming as the damned savages tore chunks of flesh from their

throats. Two of the foe cornered my steed, but he reared up, kicking one of the savages' head into mush with a powerful kick. The second foe reached desperately towards my arm, a hiss coming from his lungs, as his mouth opened and closed hungrily. I struck him with a blow across the chest, which would have shattered his ribcage and destroyed his lungs and hearts, but the savage continued forwards. With his arms outstretched, I brought my sword down again, severing both. The enemy fell backwards, seemingly unconcerned, as he struggled to get back up, rage filling his dead-looking eyes.

they are virtually unkillable growled rufus as he fought his way to my side what demons possess these savages hunger bordering on cannibalism i yelled and potions which have caused them not to feel pain but have also driven them mad as the armless savage lunged at my horse mouth agape i swung my sword downwards sundering his head from his shoulder the enemy finally collapsed on moving on the battlefield. Likewise, Rufus swept his sword in a wide arc, lopping off the heads of the two savages which were threatening him. We both yelled out to the men to sever the heads from their shoulders. But most of those that had survived thus far had already learned the secret of killing these seemingly unkillable savages. Though the enemy seemed to act as one, like ants, individually they were weak and against the discipline of Roman training and sharpened steel. The savages fell headless in droves.

As the threat to my men lessened, I began to wonder about this enemy. Their numbers were roughly equal to ours, so the end result of this battle was hardly in doubt. But still, my brother's cohort should have been able to solve the riddle of slaying these savages and easily dispatch them. My angry gaze once again turned to the mysterious figure on horseback. The rider's hood was poor back revealing a withered face, whips and strands of long grey hair sprouting from a liver-spotted head. He was smiling, revealing a mouth of yellow, ragged teeth. Four other robed riders emerged from the woods,

each one also carrying a gnarled wooden star aloft, and each waving the other hand as if evoking some kind of barbaric incantation. In an instant of horrific realisation, I knew how my brother's cohort had been defeated. This wasn't the ambush. This was the bait which sprung the true ambush. The smell of putrid rotten decay increased tenfold, as a thousand more of the cannibalistic Caledonian savages

shambled from the woods from the north, west and east. My liege, yelled Rufus. It was an ambush. I know, Rufus, I yelled, glaring at the four Caledonian riders who were obviously the commanders and masterminds behind this ambush. trumpeters sound the withdrawal the piercing peals of my signal as trumpets rang out across the battlefield and in disciplined and uniform order my men turned their steeds to the south and swiftly retired from the battlefield rufus evander and i rode last observing to ensure that the units retired in good order the ground was littered with hundreds of the enemy but i counted at least twenty of our fallen amongst the dead

among our cavalry I also saw that a few had suffered bite marks of varying degree inflicted by those savages driven mad by hunger Evander coughed again his head hanging down he was deathly pale

Evander I said Are you well It's nothing my liege He coughed Damned weather here Hot and rainy Cold and rainy dreary and rainy

No wonder all Britons look pale and moldy and smell of swamp. Can you ride? Yes, my liege, Evander said, unsteadily, never looking up. Let us away. I looked at the wrapping, covering his hand,

and we startled to see that the red blood had turned a deep purple. I looked over to Rufus, whose look of concern mirrored my own. With the encroaching enemy horde only a few paces behind us, we spurred our horses on to join the gear guard of the cavalry,

Rufus and I taking up positions on either side of Evander in case he should fall from his saddle. We gallop back up the hill which he'd charged down earlier, passing the still-burning funeral pyre which we had created for my brother and his men, past the smouldering fire over the heads which we'd set ablaze earlier, and finally past the charred remains of the bodies of my brother's fallen co-holt. We followed our own tracks down the other side of the hill, and back across the wide valley which we'd ridden through the day before. the foe was less than two leagues behind us when they ordered the paster slow shortly thereafter

evander fell from his horse he was by now almost white his breathing shallow and he was burning with fever the medicus removed the wrapping from his hands and the smell of rot exuded from his black gangrenous wound they put more healing herbs and poultices on the festering wounds but sadly the Medicus said that, in order to save his life, we would have to take his arm when we made camp. Not knowing how much of a lead we had ahead of the foe, I ordered that Evander be made as comfortable as possible and strapped down to his mount. Rufus offered to lead Evander's mount himself, as Evander's second-in-command took control of his cohort. As we crossed the valley, I kept the pace slow as both horses and men were tired.

As night approached, I halted the column about half a league from the forest at the base of the foothills, beyond which lay Antonine's wall and the safety of the Glasgow Bridge Tower. I ordered the men to make camp and allowed for fires to be set, along with torches to be placed around the camp perimeter. Since the savages already knew we were here, there was no need to try and hide our presence. Thankfully, the skies were clear, so for once the men could rest without the rains to dampen their spirits. As camp was being constructed, I raced to the medicus to check on the condition of Evander. Regretfully, the medicus informed me that our brave cavalry cohort commander's spirit had left his body sometime during the journey.

Deeply saddened at his passing, I decided to bring his body with us back to Antonine's wall, for a proper honouring of his passing instead of burning his corpse here. It's a decision which I would later regret. By now the full moon and stars were illuminating the black, cloudless skies. I scarcely had time to mourn the loss of Evander when the rearguard which I'd ordered to keep watch from the hilltop we'd abandoned came galloping into the camp. Their anxious commander reported that the enemy was on the march

and had been joined by two more barbaric tribes, these men seeming much more fit and whole compared to the savages we'd encountered today, wearing primitive armour and brandishing better weaponry and shepherds, shields. Curiously, these new tribesmen seemed very fearful of the savages we'd fought earlier and kept a good distance from them. Separating the two groups were more of the mysterious cloaked riders, now numbering

about twenty, and these riders seemed to be just as disdained as the foul-smelling cannibals which the riders commanded. Still the only men on horse were these strange cloaked riders, and their force of about 3,000 were advancing at a walking pace towards our positions. At that pace it would take them about a day to reach us, at which time I planned to be long gone. Still, I ordered that a small picket of rearguard scouts remain at least a league behind us, just in case. However, no sooner had I heard this than I was also informed by the medicus that at least 30 more of my cavalrymen had fallen ill, each having been bidden by those savages. They were

wounds severe enough to have drawn blood, and were showing the same signs of advanced putridity as Evander. In the ensuing three hours all of them fell into delirium, then coma, then death. The medicum had no answer to this mystery, and I ordered the bodies to be wrapped in cloth, to be taken back to the wall, as we needed to know what kinds of poisons the savages were using to cause such horrific afflictions on our men. It was only later on the blackness of the after midnight, that I learned the horrific reason why my brother decapitated the men who died under his command. No sooner had I fallen into a fitful sleep, and I was awoken to the terrified screams

of men coming from outside my tent. I emerged, sword in hand, to see that the sentries who guarded my tent were gone. Looking to my right, where I'd previously had the bodies of the fallen wrapped in their cloaks and lying on the ground, I saw that their cloaks had been tossed aside, the body's missing. Initially, I thought that the savages had entered the camp and was somehow attempting to steal the bodies. However, in the silhouette of the fires, I could see shadows of my men bending over, as if feasting on the struggling bodies of my other living men, their screams of terror echoing through the darkness. Something hit me hard out of the darkness to my right, and I tumbled to the ground, my sword leaving my hands.

I rolled over and looked up at my attacker, clearly expecting to see a savage, cannibalistic Caledonian staring back at me. Instead, the animalistic eyes which met my gaze belonged to dead Evander, his hungry moor chomping. I had no time to reach for my fallen sword as Evander fell upon me, but as I felt his jaws near my face, I also heard a violent yell, followed by a gust of wind. Evander's head fell away as his body suddenly dropped heavily upon me, putrid smelling congeal blood soaking my tunic. Above me, Rufus stood with sword in hand.

My liege, he gasped, how a dead walk, and they're attacking and eating the living. Pushing the body of Evander off me, I shuddered. Take the heads of the dead, and all those whom they've been. What follows is the most terrifying and tragic night of my life, as one hour later all of the risen dead were finally decapitated and burning in the fires, but leaving me with twenty of my men, kneeling before me, their hands and feet bound by rope, each of them were suffering bleeding bites caused by their dead comrades. Despite their piteous cries for mercy, I ordered that each have their heads be removed

from their bodies by the grieving comrades. Not wanting to spend one more second in this unholy land, I ordered our survivors to pack what they could as quickly as possible and retreat back to the wall. Here ends the second scroll of Chief Centurion and Camp Prefect Lucius Latinimus Masser. The last scroll of his writings concludes its account. And it is here that I pray that the last scroll will never be read, as what is written within

will reveal ancient and forbidden secrets that may plunge the world into hell. The Third Scroll Late the next day what remained of our force of cavalrymen finally returned to Antonine's Wall. Of the 240 of us who passed the Glasgow Bridge and crossed the River Kelvin,

less than 160 returned. Once again the rains began to fall, and amidst the thunder, which accompanied it, was the disbelieving anger of Lagartite Titus, who was furious that I had lost so many of his valuable cavalrymen, to such an outlandish account that the dead walk among the enemy's ranks. Thankfully, his anger was assuaged somewhat by the testimony of Rufus, and all of the other senior centurions that indeed the Caledonians had somehow found a way to resurrect the dead,

and it was the dead which had caused our losses. Though his anger was lessened somewhat, Legartite Titus stopped short of accusing us of being gossiping wives, believing in mystical fairy tales. He dismissed the senior ranking officers of the two cavalry cohorts, living only me and Tribune Quintus, standing with him in his tent. The savages must have been driven to madness by hunger, exclaimed Lagarty Titus, and in this state they have been reduced to none,

nothing more than cannibals. Cannibals who'd ingested strange potions that deadened their senses and reasoning, to the point where they no longer felt pain or humanity. We encountered the same foe during our campaigns in the dark continent of Africa. My leash, I insisted. I was with you during those campaigns, and at first I thought as well that the enemy had been afflicted with cannibalistic hunger, and were under the influence of the strange potions which rob the body of feeling pain, and which made one see vision. and colours which weren't really there. I beg your forgiveness, my legate.

But this was not the case. Somehow the Caledonians who wear the green robes, who might believe may have some sort of witchry within them, have somehow managed to raise their dead, and by biting and drawing blood from the living, that is how the plague spreads. My liege chimed in Tribune Quintus. There exists some forgotten legends in these parts of darked robe sorcerers.

druids, they're called, who possess powerful dark knowledge of raising the dead. Perhaps by studying the lot, enough, bellow Titus. As I said before, Quintus, you have all the time to drown yourself in your storybook fantasies after that Caledonians have been made to bend the knee to the empire. As for you, Mesa, Melaigati turned to me, his angry expression fading to one more sympathetic. I felt a sort of madness come over me when I learned that my own brother was lost during the campaigns in the Middle East, not by the sword of the enemy, but by sickness which struck his legion. So I will forgive your outburst this one time.

I shall give you three days to rest from your ordeal and to mourn the loss of your brother, Prefect Mesa, after which I will need you to aid in the planning of this campaign. I seek to ride north of the war within ten to twenty days. after we'd gathered enough supplies for our trains. The rains will have ended by then, and the period of good campaigning weather will have begun. I retreated to my tent after being dismissed, the bright sun shining down on me,

hardly dispelling the terrors which played my mind. I wanted nothing more than to sleep, but with sleep came dread dreams of gnashing and biting teeth. My age came to my tent with plates of food, which I left virtually untouched, as the thought of sinking my teeth into grilled mutton, somehow made me ill. I knew, however, that I must eat, and though without appetite, I forced myself to consume a bit of bread and boiled potatoes, and washed it down with some wine.

Restless and unable to sleep, I left my tent in the afternoon and sought out Rufus and his cavalry co-hold. Finding Rufus, he informed me that he and his men had been afforded two days to rest, but that his men are anxious and the desire for sleep escapes them as sleep brings nightmares. Those riders who'd returned were strictly forbidden to mention any fairy-tales of the dead returning to ambush and slay Roman units, and any soldier caught spreading such morale-killing lies shortly before the Legion marched would suffer the loss of his tongue. We talked in hushed whispers, knowing that the degrees of the Lagarty Titus pertain to all of his men, not just the lower ranks. And if anyone caught wind of what we were speaking about, it would cost Rufus and I Howard tongues. When we next cross the river, Calvin, it will be in far greater force, I said reassuringly.

Since Lagarde Titus believes that the enemy is imbibing in potions which allow them to feel no pain, it will be easy for me to suggest the order that, when we meet the enemy in combat, the killing blow should be one which separates the head from the shoulders. And what of our men who'll undoubtedly be bitten? replied Rufus. What of them? We must warn the man to avoid being bitten by every means necessary, I answered. But we shall tell them it is because the foulness on the enemies will cause sickness that may lead to death. And when those who are bitten die and then rise again, repeated Rufus,

then I fear Agathe Titus will have seen the truthfulness of our testament, I answered. We already know how to dispatch the dead. We must spread that knowledge throughout the Legion while keeping secret the truth. reason why their heads must be cleaved from the body until Legate Titus learns the terrible truth for himself. Until then, we must keep the number of our soldiers being bitten as low as possible. Rufus nodded in agreement and promised that he would have his man spread the word while leaving out the part that the reason for our new tactic of removing the enemy's head was because the enemy was already dead. Feeling somewhat better after my talk with Rufus

again retired to my tent. Later on, Legate Titus sent a medicus to me, concerned as he was that I was not eating or sleeping well. The medicus arrived with a tea made of herbs which would allow me to sleep without dreaming, as well as some wine which would increase the tea's effects. Somewhat hesitantly, I did as the medicus bade me to do, and was pleasantly surprised at the calmness and tranquility which overcame me. I woke the next morning late, with a sudden start, hearing the sounds of horses and units moving outside.

At first I thought that the campaign had started and that somehow I'd slept through the whole thing. I threw open my tent flap and stepped outside, seeing cohorts of cavalry and companies of foot soldiers and charioteers moving north towards the Glasgow Bridge Tower, leading to the bridge which spanned the River Kelvin. What's going on here? I demanded of the sentry guarding my tent. Sir, he replied.

Legate Titus has ordered that the vanguard of the Legion be dispatched this morning. Both of the cavalry cohorts whom I had led across the river two days ago were at the head of the vanguard column, looks of dread and apprehension etched on Rufus's face, and the cavalrymen who rode with him. My liege, I said as I entered Legate Titus's tent, why was I not informed of this forward movement? Ah, Prefect Mesa, he said, looking up from a washing-bin of warmed water. You're looking much better and well arrested. Wiping his face and hands on a white towel, he poured a goblet of wine for himself and passed one to me. Smiling, he said, I gave you three days to rest and mourn, Lucius. I didn't

feel the need to burden you with details that we'd already discussed before we arrived here. Once the weather cleared, we'd send a vanguard of a thousand cavalry, chariots and foot soldiers north of the wall to scout the way ahead and destroy any ambushes in order to bray the will of the savages. Now, granted, this move comes much earlier than expected, but the forecasters have promised several days free from rain, so it is best to move them soon in order to take advantage of the unexpected clear weather. I see, my leech, I responded, nervously taking a sip of the wine, and the order that, when in combat with the enemy, the killing blow should be to sever the head. Rufus and Toleron, Yvander's second in command, who now commands his

cavalry cohort, explained to me how this was the swiftest way to deal with those savage barbarians you encountered, who fell under the influence of their nerve-numbing potions, replied Titus. As such, I agreed that when an enemy appears, the killing blow should come to the neck. Titus grinned as he took a sip of wine, and, feeling much relieved, I took a much bigger gulp of mine. However, the Lagarty's mood changed to one of suspicion. So, tell me, Lucius. he said you still believe that the savages that attacks you were some kind of walking corpses I am I no my liege I finally answered and I fear that discovering my murdered brother hanging from a tree may have taken me to the incorrect conclusions of our enemies

thank you for your patience and giving me the time to re-evaluate my opinion good answered Titus oh Tribune Quintus is technically my second in command. He is, after all, a civilian, and an annoyingly young one at that. His senatorial rag will not avail us in the slightest in the coming campaign, which is I will depend strongly on the clear-headed experience of my camp prefect. I shall not fail you, my liege, I answered. Go and enjoy the rest of your rest, Lucius, he replied. I fear that you shall not get much time for leisure once the campaign begins in earnest.

Be ready to join me and the other commanders in the morning. Once I get a report from the vanguard, we will begin the main advance. We have enough sundries to sustain us for some time, so I shall have the rearguards escort our supply trains to us once all of our wagons have been filled. And when do we expect the first report

from the vanguard, my leech? I asked. I taught Rufus and Toleron to send their first messenger back no later than seven days hence. That will ensure that our scouts will be not more than three or four days ride from us once we leave Antoni's war. I took my leave from our Legion commander,

satisfied that I'd done all that I could to ensure that we would not fall victim to the plague of the walking dead. The next day I returned to duty, and as we met with the commanders of the forward and rear spears, the forward and rear infantry, the chariots and the third in rear guards,

and once again emphasized that when we encountered the pale-skinned savages who smelled of rotten decay, a condition caused by the potions they drank, which caused them to feel no pain, but the killing blow must be to the neck. I ordered them to have their senior centurions refine and hone their men's skills in delivering this death blow with all of their weapons, as we awaited the return of the first messenger from our vancoat. As the days passed, I busy myself with overseeing the collection of foodstuffs

and barrier-making materials for our supply chains, though this was traditionally the task of Quintus, the Legion's Tribune. I especially insisted that our medicus double their supply of medicines and poultices and to hone their skills in amputations of infected limbs. As the day that the vanguard's messenger was supposed to arrive drew nearer, I was actually convincing myself that perhaps Lagarde Titus was right in that our attackers were actually under the influence of a powerful potion which deadened the senses.

My dreams were no longer haunted by visions of Evander's gnashing teeth, thanks to the herbs and wine which the medicus gave me prior to my slumber. However, my anxiety rose again after the eighth, ninth, and tenth day passed, and still there was no rider and no word of the Legion's vanguard. By the eve of the 11th day, Legate Titus would wait no longer. He called all of his commanders together and informed them to prepare their men to march in the morning. clouds were forming in the south which the forecasters predicted would bring more rains and the legion should be on the march before the rains turned the ground to mud that night my nightmares returned despite the medicines which had been given me to help me sleep Yvanda returned, holding me down and bending over to rend the flesh from my cheeks.

The smell of rancid death boiled out of his open moor, and I smelled the rot of decay. Screams and shouts of warning echoed in my head. Screams, shouts of warning. In a panic I leapt from my blankets and grabbed up my sword. My sentries threw open my tent flaps, but before they could say anything, I ordered, roused the men and tell them to prepare for battle. remember their first priority is the killing blow which cleaves the head from the neck nothing else will work as the sentries departed to carry out my orders i stepped out into the early light of dawn to my right i saw legate titus also emerge from his tent in front of me tribute sylvia's men who were constructing the wall were shouting about something beyond the wall to the north many were wailing in fear and by the smell drifting south I knew all too well what it was.

To arms, to arms, I yelled. The trumpeters call the Legion to arms, archers to the wall, quickly. I ran inside my tent and grabbed up my shield and pulled my helm upon my head before dashing out to make my way to the wall. Prefect Mesa, the old Legate Titus. What's the meaning of this? Why have you called the Legion to battle when you scarce know what the commotion is at the wall? Forgive me, my liege, I answered, but I fear that you are about to witness the truth of

my testimony. I raced the parapets of the Glasgow Bridge. The wall, though stretching many leagues to the east and west, was not completely built to its full height, and in places only rose four cubits high. The Glasgow Bridge Tower only stood four cubits higher than that, but afforded the best vantage point of the plain beyond the river. Tribute Silvius was standing. atop the tower along with several centuries all of whom stared with dread-filled eyes to the field across the river i too stared my heart sinking as the rising sun gradually revealed the growing horror which waited us from beyond the river before us stood row upon row and rank upon rank of the decaying festering dead at least eight thousand strong if not more and at the fore of this

army of demon-possessed horror was our own legion's vanguard. Rufus's dead eyes, seeming to stare right up at me. Prefect, Mesa, have you gone mad? How dare you call the league's arms on the morning of... And Lagarte Titus froze as he stormed up behind me, Tribune Quintus by his side. Guards, save us, shouted Quintus. The ancient legends are true. Is that the vanguard?

who walk with the dead. Quiet Tribune, reprimanded Lagartite Titus. He stood next to me without looking at me, his grim face staring at the Legion's vanguard, who were very obviously dead, yet still stood in their bloody ranks, weapons still grasped in decaying hands, and glaring at us with an evil hatred.

Hisses and moans echoed across the field, hitting us like an ocean wave. many of the soldiers lining the war below us wailed in despair and some of our battle-hardened veterans passed out in sheer terror only the shouts and threats from our stout-hearted senior centurions kept the men on the line from breaking either dead or under the influence of sorcerous potions the answer is still to cleave their heads from their shoulders

the old legate titus in a booming voice as he stood atop the ramparts he looked down at me and I nodded The savage Caledonians have made this campaign easy for us, he continued. Instead of the Legion having to search them out, they have instead gifted themselves to the Legion. Therefore, your orders are this. Take their heads. Yes, even the heads of our vanguard, who have fallen under the sway of the savagy's sorcery and potions.

Make sure that you do not suffer the same fate as they, but strike as mercilessly as you would the enemy. Then, raising his spear into the sky, Agarty Titus yelled, Archers to the fore. As he did this, the hissing and moans of the undead army rose, and they began to shamble forwards as if of one mind, towards the river Calvin and to the war beyond. As they did so, about fifty riders emerged from the forest behind them, all hidden under mottled dark green robes,

and all bearing wooden staffs, each waving their hands in the mystical, incantations of their dark sorcery. While they did this, more of the barbaric Caledonians, living men this time also emerged from the forest, though armed with weapons of varying types, though of somewhat dubious construction, they looked upon their dead with as much fear as they looked upon us with hatred. "'See, Mesa,' said Legate Titus. The savages know that they cannot hoped to defeat the empire, not without superior discipline, tactics, horse, and weaponry. So they use these as cannon fodder.

Then, turning to Tribune Quintus, he grunted. Tribune, the arches are positioned. Take charge of the bows. Nervously, the young Tribune climbed upon the ramparts and yelled, Arches, not arch arrows. Almost in unison, five hundred arrows were not. The disciplined arches gauging wind direction and distance to the slowly advancing army of the dead. Fire!

Even as the arrows flew towards their targets, the legion's archers already had another arrow in the bow. Commanders, yelled Quinters, take charge of your bows. Quinter stepped down from the ramparts, relieved at having fulfilled his duty as commander of the archer. and now having turned that responsibility over to the archer's co-walk commanders. Volley upon volley of arrows rained down upon the advancing corpses, and many struck their targets. Hundreds of the dead fell, only to rise again, as only those few who had been struck squarely in their head, practically between the eyes, failed to rise again. The Caledonian sorcerers followed on horseback behind their undead army, as while the living Caledonian warriors,

who were a little better than a peasant army of about 4,000, follow behind their unholy sorcerers. The stench of death grew stronger as the moaning undead reached the banks of the river Kelvin and began wading in as if it were not there, and even though the river came up to their necks and shoulders, the dead continued to advance. At this range, the archers were able to target individual foes,

and more of the dead fell, pierced through with arrows straight through dead eyes. But for everyone felled, four took its place, and arrows from the Caledonian arches began finding their targets amongst our own Roman arches. Front and rear spears to the fore, yelled Lagarte Titus. The trumpeters atop the Glasgow Bridge Tower peeled the signal, and our cohorts of spearmen leapt into the fray, creating two rows of spears which separated the dead from the wall. They charged the undead as they emerged on our side of the river,

aiming the iron tips of their spears at their heads of the undead as they emerged from the water, most of whom were their former comrades in the vanguard. But, as bold as their attack was, it was not enough as the undead were too many. Though they were not overwhelmed, they were being pushed back towards the wall, and the sound of the undead hissies and moaning were accompanied by the agonising screams of terror from those living soldiers who were being devoured by the dead. "'Lances, chariots, swords, to the fore,' yelled Legate Titus, and the trumpeters sounded his command. "'What do you plan to do, my liege?' I asked.

"'You take the swords, prefect. "'Secure the path to the bridge. "'I should take the lances and chariots.' "'Legart Titus cast a deadly gaze towards the Caledonian sorcerers. "'I mean to sever the head from the snake. "'If we kill the heads of the dead, then the dead will fall. fall. Unseathing my sword, I rushed down the tower, my muscles feeling infused with the might of Mars, as I took command of two cohorts of swords. We raced beyond the wall, hacking and

slashing and beheading our way through the shambling undead, to the bridge and beyond, until a temporary but secure path had been created. I was on the other side of the bridge, with about thirty men, as our cohorts chariots raced across, led by Ligarty Titus. His fifty chariots carved their way through the wall of undead and turned towards the filthy, disgusting Caledonian sorcerers. The Caledonian sorcerers stood no chance, as Legarty Titus and his chariots mercilessly cut them all down with spear and swords. We cheered in triumph as the living Caledonian warriors screamed in fear and desperation. Ah, cheers quickly faded as although the sorcerers had now been cut down, the dead did not fall as we'd

hoped. Instead, the dead became more savage and violent, as if a slaver's neck chain had been removed. The dead no longer acted as if on one accord, but instead acted individually, attacking and devouring all living things, including the Caledonian savages. The Caledonian sorcerers had been acting as a means to temper and control the dead, using them only as a weapon against us. With their masters slain The dead were now free to unleash Their unbridled hunger upon all who lived The gates of the zoo had been torn down

And the starving lions were free to feast Amidst this carnage and chaos By witness Lagartite Titus And his chariots become overwhelmed And taken under by an ocean of the undead Back! I yelled to the soldiers Back to the Glasgow Bridge Tower We retreated back to back

across the bridge, it was only the discipline of hard training that allowed us to cross the wall in good order, though many of our number fell screaming to hungry jaws, the battlefield now echoing with the gut-wrenching sounds of crunching and chewing, and the gargled screams of the devoured. Even the living Caledonian warriors were filled with terror, as their dead countrymen now stalked hungrily after them. By now the dead had sworn the walls, their hunger and savagery far worse than before. As bravely as our soldiers fought, it was obvious that the Legion

could not hold. I ordered what remained of the forward swords to reinforce the wall and then raced to the Glasgow Bridge Tower to get a better vantage point of the battlefield. With Legate Titus now gone, I was in overall command of Legio 9, Hispania. I found the stone steps to the ramparts

blocked by hundreds of the dead who were climbing up to make a meal of the unfortunate who'd been trapped at the top. By now the dead were in the Legion's campsite, and I raced to my tent to find my horse. Along the way, I tripped over Tribune Quintus. Quintus, I yelled. Where are you going? He was pale with shock, but unbitten by the dead. Prefect, we need to leave. We need to go back to Corbridge. The library there. The library must have the answers. You and your damned fairy tale. I yelled.

Is this a fairy tale? The skinny young tribune answered as the moans of the hungry dead mingled with the screams of the dying. I gritted my teeth as surrounded soldiers cried to the gods for salvation. The pleas of those once valiant

soldiers impaled me. I pulled him up and snarled. Come with me. Finding our horses I collected the seven soldiers who remained of my personal guard and we rode south, away from the battle

of Antonine's World wall and back to Hadrian's wall. We rode non-stop for four days until we passed through Portgate and into the squalid town of Corbridge, to the grounds where the library stands, and, indeed, Quintus found the tome which contained the ancient and mystical spells and incantations, which those demon-possessed Caledonians had used to raise the dead. Upon studying the tomb, which the caretakers of the library watched with utmost fear and trepidation, Quintus recited the spell and incantations which I now repeat here. At this point in the manuscript, Prefect Mesa annotates word for word the spells and incantations of the Caledonian sorcery,

which they supposedly used to bring the dead to life. And these are the spells and incantations upon which the dead can be brought to life, I asked. Yes, Prefect Mesa, he replied. I see, I answered. running Tribune Quintus through the heart with my Gladius. Well, for your sake, I hope it works. We lay the dead body of Tribune Quintus on a stone slab, and to the horror of the library caretakers,

I performed the incantations which I'd previously described. And to my complete joy, the eyes of Tribune Quintus flickered open. The horrified caretakers of the library screamed some nonsense about how cannot possibly control an entire Roman legion of undead, as it would require many druids to do so. They screamed this as we put their lives and their library to the torch. May their bodies and their accursed library burn in the eternal fires of Hades.

And so, my liege, Emperor Pius, your faithful and loyal servant, Lucius Latimus Masser, chief centurion and camp prefect, legion nine Hispania, I'm now riding back to Antonine's war. The Legion must be reborn. And here ends the manuscript of Lucius Latinimus Masser, Chief Centurian and Camp Prefect, Legionine, Hispania, to His Highness Emperor Pius. And so, officer, that is it.

That's the whole corrupted and evil account which Chief Centurion Masser, who had undoubtedly been driven mad by the loss of his legumes, had ridden to his emperor. Don't you see, officer, the demonic spells and incantations which were written on the last scroll must never be allowed to be read, much less published, or ever even see the light of day? The resurrection of the dead is a holy and blessed event, where we will join the Son of God in the sky's whole and pure.

What was written on those scrolls was an abomination, an attempt by Satan to blaspheme the will, of the Lord. You see, officer, who knows how many scrolls of such type lay undiscovered in the Vatican's archives. I had to do what I did. I pray that was enough. Italian newspaper I el massegero, volume 66, number 45, 7th November 1903. On the 1st of November 1903 at around 8.30 in the evening, there was a fire in the Vatican which, upon further investigation, was found to have originated in the basement of the Vatican Library. The chief of Rome's fire brigade coordinated the firefighting efforts, and by 11 o'clock in the evening the fire was under control. There was no loss of lives but the extent of the damage is still unknown, although an ancient wooden box is rumoured

to have been discovered miraculously spared from the heart of the flames. The event has caused his holiness the Pope to return to Vatican City from his trip to visit the church's in Austria and Hungary. A Mr. Giuseppe Barbieri, who is in the employer of the Vatican, is currently under police custody pending questioning. And so once again, we reach the end of tonight's podcast.

as always to the authors of those wonderful stories and to you for taking the time to listen. Now, I'd ask one small favor of you. Wherever you get your podcast wrong, please write a few nice words and leave a five-star review as it really helps the podcast. That's it for this week, but I'll be back again same time, same place, and I do so hope you'll join me once more. Until next time, sweet dreams and bye-bye. I don't know.