Centurion

---

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,

Rate this script:0.0 / 0 votes