Dial-Up Dead / Season 1, Episode 2
The Sortie
EPISODE 2: THE SORTIE
CHAPTER 1: BEHIND ENEMY LINES
The ravine was slick with ice and blood.
Marcus descended hand over hand, finding purchase on frozen rocks while the battle raged above. His gladius hung at his side. A pugio dagger rode his hip. No shield—too heavy, too obvious. Speed and stealth were his only allies now.
Below, the ravine opened into a narrow valley the Picts were using as a staging area. Wounded warriors rested around fires. Fresh troops assembled for the next assault. Supply trains from distant clans deposited food and weapons.
And there, on the hilltop at the valley's far end, the red serpent banner.
Marcus landed softly, pressing himself against the rock face. In his legionary armor, he was unmistakably Roman—a target in a sea of enemies. He'd brought a cloak, dark wool that might pass for Brigantes wear in poor light, but it was thin camouflage at best.
Move fast. Stay low. Die if you have to, but not before reaching Drest.
He slipped into the chaos.
CHAPTER 2: THE CAMP
The Pictish camp was larger than Marcus had expected.
Thousands of warriors from dozens of clans, their different markings and banners creating a patchwork of tribal identity. Some wore the blue spirals of the northern Caledonii. Others bore the animal totems of coastal tribes. Still others—taller, fiercer, speaking a tongue Marcus didn't recognize—must be the Scots from Hibernia.
He moved among them like a ghost, using shadow and confusion as cover. No one expected a Roman behind their lines. No one was looking for one.
The wounded were everywhere. The morning's assault had been costly—far more costly than Marcus had realized from the wall. Bodies were being collected. Healers worked frantically. The moans of the dying filled the valley.
Good, a tactical part of his mind noted. They've paid for every foot.
But another part—the part that remembered he was not just a soldier but a man—felt the weight of all that death. These were his enemies, but they were also sons and fathers and brothers. They died for their cause as surely as Roman soldiers died for theirs.
War, his father had told him once, is the art of making your grief smaller than your enemy's.
He pressed on.
CHAPTER 3: THE CHALLENGE
The red serpent banner grew closer.
Drest's command post was a fortified position atop the tallest hill, surrounded by his best warriors. Getting close unseen would be impossible. Marcus would have to fight.
He was considering his approach when a voice cut through the noise.
"Roman."
Marcus froze.
A young Pict stood ten feet away, sword drawn. His face was painted in black and white spirals, marking him as one of the Verturiones. Recognition flickered in his eyes.
Bran mac Talorgan's brother. The resemblance was unmistakable.
"You're the one who has my brother."
"He's alive." Marcus's hand rested on his gladius. "A guest, not a prisoner."
"Liar. The Romans take no guests."
"I'm not the Romans. I'm one man, trying to save what's left."
The young warrior's grip tightened on his sword. "My father mourns Bran as dead. If you have truly kept him alive—"
"I have. And if you kill me now, he remains alive. I sent orders that he's to be treated well regardless of what happens to me."
"Why would you do that?"
"Because we're not animals." Marcus met the warrior's eyes. "I'm trying to reach Drest. To end this before more people die."
"To kill him?"
"If I must. Or to talk. Whatever stops this war."
A long silence stretched between them. Battle sounds continued in the distance, but here, in this small space between enemies, time seemed suspended.
"My name is Galan mac Talorgan," the warrior finally said. "If you've truly kept my brother alive, I owe you a debt."
"Then let me pass."
"I cannot help you reach Drest. That would be treason."
"I'm not asking for help. Just... don't raise the alarm."
Galan studied him for another long moment. Then, slowly, he sheathed his sword.
"The eastern approach is least guarded. His best warriors are preparing for the next assault." He turned away. "If anyone asks, I never saw you."
"Thank you."
"Don't thank me. Just save my brother."
He vanished into the camp.
Marcus continued toward the red serpent banner.
CHAPTER 4: THE WAR-CHIEF
The eastern approach was indeed less guarded.
Marcus counted eight warriors between himself and the command post—too many for stealth, but manageable with surprise. He loosened his gladius, steadied his breathing, and moved.
The first warrior died before he knew he was attacked. The second managed a cry that was cut short. The third drew his sword but caught Marcus's blade in his throat. The fourth and fifth came together—Marcus parried, ducked, struck, spun—and both fell.
The remaining three formed a defensive line, calling for reinforcements.
Marcus didn't wait for backup. He charged.
It was stupid, reckless, the kind of action that got soldiers killed. But somewhere on that bloody hillside, Marcus stopped being a centurion and became something more elemental—a force of will made flesh, refusing to be stopped.
He cut through the line like a scythe through wheat.
And then he was there, standing before the red serpent banner, and Drest mac Erp was rising from his command seat with a look of stunned disbelief.
"Roman." The word was almost admiring. "Either you're the bravest man in Britain, or the most foolish."
"Probably both." Marcus's sword was red to the hilt. His chest heaved. "We need to talk."
"Talk?" Drest laughed. "You've just killed eight of my warriors to reach me. What could we possibly discuss?"
"The future. Whether your people live or die. Whether mine do."
"My people are dying already. For freedom. For glory."
"They're dying for nothing." Marcus gestured toward the wall, visible in the distance. "You think destroying that wall matters? Rome has already abandoned it. The empire is collapsing. In a generation, no one will remember what the eagles stood for."
"Then why do you defend it?"
"Because it's not about Rome anymore. It's about the people who live there. Families. Children. People who've built lives on that frontier for centuries." Marcus lowered his sword slightly—not a surrender, but a gesture. "Kill me if you want. But first, listen."
Drest studied him. The war-chief was older than Marcus had expected, his face lined with decades of conflict. Behind the warpaint and the braids and the savage reputation, there was intelligence. Cunning.
"Speak," Drest said. "But speak quickly. My warriors are coming."
CHAPTER 5: THE PROPOSAL
"You want to destroy the wall," Marcus said. "I understand. It's been a symbol of Roman dominance for three hundred years."
"It's been a wound in our land."
"Yes. But destroying it won't heal that wound. It will just create new ones." Marcus took a breath. "What happens after you take the wall? Your confederation falls apart. The clans go back to fighting each other. And in a decade, some other power—the Saxons, maybe, or whoever rises from Rome's ashes—will build a new wall. Maybe one you can't break."
"You don't know that."
"I know history. I know that empires fall and others rise. I know that the only people who survive are the ones who adapt." Marcus met Drest's eyes. "There's another way. A better way."
"What way?"
"Alliance. Not Roman dominance—real alliance. The wall becomes a meeting point, not a barrier. Trade flows. Ideas flow. Your people and mine build something together instead of dying separately."
Drest was silent for a long moment. Behind him, Marcus could hear reinforcements gathering. Time was running out.
"You're asking me to betray everything I've fought for."
"I'm asking you to choose a future where your grandchildren live." Marcus's voice was urgent. "The Picts are brave warriors. The bravest I've ever faced. But bravery alone won't feed your people through winter. Won't protect them from the Saxons who are already raiding the eastern shores. Won't build the roads and walls and systems that keep civilizations alive."
"We don't want Roman civilization."
"Fine. Build your own. Take what works, change what doesn't. I don't care what you call it, as long as people stop dying." Marcus lowered his sword completely. "I'm not asking you to surrender. I'm asking you to win—in a way that doesn't require destroying everything."
The reinforcements burst through. Twenty warriors, surrounding Marcus with drawn weapons.
Drest raised his hand.
They stopped.
"You would risk your life for this? For peace?"
"I would risk my life for my family. For my people. And maybe, for yours." Marcus smiled grimly. "Besides, I'm probably dead either way. Might as well die trying to end the war instead of just fighting it."
Drest stared at him for what felt like hours.
Then he laughed—a genuine, surprised sound.
"You Romans are insane."
"We prefer 'determined.'"
"Same thing." The war-chief's expression shifted, became thoughtful. "I cannot simply stop the war. The clans came for blood. If I deny them, they'll turn on me."
"Then give them a victory. A symbolic one."
"What do you mean?"
Marcus thought quickly. "Single combat. You and me. In front of both armies. If you win, the wall opens its gates and we negotiate a peace as equals. If I win, you withdraw to consider the alliance proposal."
"You would fight me?"
"I would."
"I've never lost a duel."
"There's a first time for everything."
Another long silence. Then Drest nodded slowly.
"Tomorrow. Dawn. Before the wall."
"Agreed."
Marcus was seized by the surrounding warriors, but Drest waved them back.
"Guest rules apply. This man has shown more courage than any Roman I've ever met. He will be treated with honor until our duel." The war-chief's smile was predatory. "After I kill him, his body will be returned to his people with full respect."
"And if I kill you?"
"Then I suppose you'll have earned the right to make your mad proposal."
They clasped arms—the gesture of warriors who had agreed to honorable conflict.
Tomorrow, one of them would die.
CHAPTER 6: THE NIGHT BEFORE
They gave Marcus a tent near Drest's command post.
Not a prison—a genuine guest tent, with food and drink and guards who protected rather than confined. The Picts, whatever their savagery in battle, took hospitality seriously.
He couldn't sleep.
Instead, he thought about Aelia, about Lucia, about the sixty-three soldiers who depended on him. He thought about his father's sword, which had survived so many battles only to face this final test. He thought about everything he'd fought for and everything he might lose.
Near midnight, the tent flap opened.
Bran mac Talorgan stepped inside.
"My brother told me you were here," the young Pict said. "That you came to stop the war."
"I came to try."
"And now you're going to duel Drest." Bran shook his head. "He's killed seventeen men in single combat. Warriors twice your size."
"I know."
"Then why?"
Marcus considered the question. "Because I'm tired of watching people die for things that don't matter. Your people, my people—we're not that different. We want the same things. Security. Prosperity. A future for our children."
"The war-chief wants glory."
"The war-chief wants to be remembered. To matter. To leave something behind when he's gone." Marcus met the young man's eyes. "I've spent weeks talking to you about Rome and Britain and all the things that divide us. But I never asked what you wanted, Bran."
Bran was quiet for a moment. "I wanted to prove myself. To earn my place among my people."
"And now?"
"Now I don't know." He sat on the edge of Marcus's cot. "Living with your people... it wasn't what I expected. You're not monsters. You're not the demons the stories describe."
"Neither are your people."
"No." Bran's voice was soft. "We're just people. Fighting over lines on a map."
"That's all anyone has ever been." Marcus put his hand on the young Pict's shoulder. "Whatever happens tomorrow, you have a choice. You can go back to your people and tell them what you've learned. Or you can help build something new."
"What if I can't choose?"
"Then you're human. And that's enough."
They sat together in the darkness, enemies who had become something else.
Outside, the Pictish camp prepared for what might be their greatest victory.
Or their most unexpected defeat.
To be continued...