Centurion

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My name is Quintus Dias.

I'm a soldier of Rome.

And this is neither the beginning

nor the end of my story.

Two years on the frontier.

This place is the arsehole of the world.

Even the land wants us dead.

Centurion Dias, it's too damn cold

to be standing watch.

It's not my watch.

I'm just wondering what's out there.

The patrol returns at dawn.

You should get some sleep.

The longer we stay, the deeper the cold

and damp soaks into our bones.

And the rain makes way only

for the stinging bite of the north wind.

While we lose brave men

to foot rot and frostbite,

the Pict king Gorlacon

sends his war parties

to raid along the frontier at will.

- Gentlemen.

- Evening, sir.

A cold night on the front.

My father believed

that to truly defeat an enemy,

you must know him better than yourself.

I know this enemy well.

They play only to their strengths,

and will not be drawn into open combat.

Instead, they pick at the scab

until we bleed,

hiding in the shadows like animals,

striking hard and fast

then falling back into the night.

Come the dawn, we count our losses

and sow the earth with our dead.

This is a new kind of war,

a war without honour, without end.

Come on! Come on!

Marcus, ride to Agricola!

Gate. Move!

Move, soldier!

- Gratus.

- Save yourself.

Virilus! Virilus!

The winner.

- That's the way!

- Yes!

Again!

Enough!

You put up a good fight,

now you drink with me.

Septus, more ale.

Again, Virilus.

You're a drunk. An ugly drunk.

And not too bright.

Isn't ten times enough

to know when you're beaten?

Damn you! Again!

Once more!

Septus, your ruling.

And watch my flank.

Come on!

Come on!

- Virilus! Virilus! Virilus!

- You beat him.

Virilus. Virilus.

Sore loser.

Septus?

What are you waiting for, an order?

Get stuck in there!

Damn, that'll sober a man up quick!

When will people learn

not to f*** with the Ninth?

Some say it's irregular for you to be

seen drinking with the men of the Legion.

Septus, my old friend, they forget.

I am a man of the Legion.

- Soldier, have you been fighting?

- Fighting is my job.

I have a message for your general.

Now, point me in his direction

before I have you flogged.

Who are you?

I'm the personal envoy

of Governor Agricola.

I suggest you get down off that horse

and give me your message

before I have you flogged!

General, sir!

It would be my pleasure.

All leave is cancelled.

Agricola is mobilising the Ninth.

We're going to war, Septus.

Alert the senior legates to break camp

and prepare the men.

- Sorry, General, sir...

- Return to Agricola at once.

- Tell him we rode out within the hour.

- Yes, General.

Bastard!

Aeron.

Gorlacon. He was a farmer

until his wife was killed.

Then he put down the plough

and took up the sword.

He changed the way the Picts fought.

It worked.

He turned the tide,

so they made him king.

What does Agricola intend

for my people?

- Damn you, Pict!

- When will he send his armies north?

I am a soldier of Rome! I will not yield!

Rome will make you bleed for this.

You first, Centurion.

I don't care how you do it

but wipe them out.

And bring Gorlacon before me in chains.

Governor, you're the politician,

I'm just a simple soldier.

But I'm not so simple that I can't see

you're looking for a way back to Rome.

My bones ache for Rome.

This place is the graveyard of ambition.

And men.

And I won't sacrifice mine

to be pawns in your game.

I see.

Let us be frank, General.

The conquest of Britain is a lost cause.

With one bold stroke,

we could change all that.

With the Ninth Legion at your command,

we can crush this enemy.

You and your men could retire

with wealth and honour.

My men have honour enough.

Enough to disobey a direct order?

Well...

To kill the snake,

you have to cut off its head.

I need to find Gorlacon.

For that, I have someone special in mind.

General Virilus, meet Etain,

my Brigantes tracker.

Can't speak a word, but she can hunt

anything over any terrain.

I swear she's part wolf.

I apologise for the theatrics,

but I wanted to prove a point.

Slaves cost nothing.

Trust is priceless.

I don't know whether to fight her or...

She's mute, not deaf!

- I have my own scouts.

- Not like her!

She knows the Picts. Knows their ways,

knows their hideaways.

She will guide you into the mountains.

What's she sitting over there for?

- She's been looking at you all night.

- I've spotted it.

Can't take her eyes off you.

Come on, you.

She's speechless, you daft bastard.

She's got no tongue in her head, you fool.

I wouldn't get too close.

No tongue, that's perfect,

she'll have... more room for this.

- You be careful.

- Oh!

I think that's Pict for "f*** off".

She must be a good scout

if she can find your cock.

I think it's love.

I'll have a go with the mutt this time.

Report.

Three Pict riders and another,

a prisoner, on foot.

I think he might be Roman.

Centurion Remus,

take the column!

Stay down! Stay down!

Stay down!

We'll get nothing out of him.

We can't take prisoners on the march.

You know what to do.

Head or ship?

Head.

I win.

Sorry, mate. Orders are orders.

Hey?

Thank the gods you found me.

Not the gods you should thank. It's her.

Etain, our Pict scout. She found you.

What's your name, soldier?

I'm Quintus Dias.

Second in Command.

Inch-tuth-il frontier garrison.

Well, sorry we couldn't get here sooner.

- Are you the relief column?

- Not quite.

I'm Titus Flavius Virilus,

Commander of the Ninth Legion.

We've come here looking for a fight.

Then you'll get one.

- General.

- Centurion Dias.

Ha! Now you look like a Roman.

How do you feel?

Cuts and bruises, sir.

Nothing that won't heal in time.

Well, sometimes there are scars

that cannot be seen.

You escaped the clutches of Gorlacon,

but I must ask you to return with us

into the lion's den.

Best to get back into the fight, General.

- Spoken like a soldier.

- Gladiator.

My father was Scipio Dias.

I saw him win the fight

that earned him his freedom.

He was magnificent.

He taught me how to fight,

when to choose my battles.

Come meet the men.

- Septus.

- Sir?

Get this man a drink.

I think he deserves it.

Come and join us. Be warm.

Have a well-earned drink.

Thank you.

Tomorrow you ride by my side.

Perhaps you can teach me something

about Pict hospitality.

- Thax. Bothos.

- Sir.

- Septus, I'll be doing my rounds.

- Sir.

- Evening, General.

- I can't understand a word of these Picts.

If they ever catch me, I'm f***ed!

I've never seen a general

so beloved of his men.

Well, in training he is our scholar,

at the feast he is our father,

in the ranks he is our brother.

And in battle he is the god we pray

to save our souls.

- Where did you read that?

- It's written on the shithouse wall, sir.

- Probably wrote it himself.

- He's a ruthless, reckless bastard.

And I'd die for him without hesitation.

It's a trap!

Column! Form up! Form up!

Quickly! Come on!

Dismount! Get the horses to the rear!

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