March 02, 2019

Pullo's Tower


Roman Phallus carved on a wall at Hadrian's Wall quarry

March 1, 207 A.D.
(Now) Gelt Forest, (Then) Britannia Territory

“The Consul will not be pleased!” Jupiter hissed.

“Oh, I don’t know. His pride will get touched by more dew here than it ever would in his palace,” Severus answered with a devilish gleam in his eye.

“We’ll all get lashed if the ‘Sir’ sees,” protested Jupiter further.

“Come now. Everyone knows your mother named you with such a great title because you are the littlest member of your family, but you don’t have to ruin a little fun by invoking your new mom in this, milk-drinker,” answered Olafsen in his harsh Germanic dialect.

“Besides, we’ve pulled enough stone from this muck hole to please that old cockatrice and his demands for today,” Severus chided.

“It’s the Sir’s lack of stones that pains him,” Olafsen countered.

“Maybe he found some in that bone heap we uncovered three night’s ago,” Severus added with a snicker. “The gods know those Northmen must have some mighty stones to live in this pissing rain all winter.”

Pullo, who had not ceased his own contribution to the carvings, stepped back just then and looked at his handiwork. The fresh white etchings contrasted brightly on the blue stone despite the grey, drizzling day. The ancient stone seemed to grant his image life, which made him laugh all the harder. The others heard him and turned to see what had beset the cohort’s resident ‘chief carver.’

“By the gods, Pullo, you’re piss drunk!” cried Severus between howls.

 “It’s glorious!” added Olafsen.

“It is indeed, glorious,” Pullo answered. “They’ll cease calling it Hadrian’s Wall and give it a proper name—Pullo’s Tower!”

The motley auxiliaries bowled with laughter, save Jupiter. The older soldier paled and shook with silent rage. He had the finer qualities of responsibility, but the curse of no humor. It had earned him the other nickname, ‘Doomsinger.’ The gravity of the name made it all the more fun to call him that, though the Dane preferred reminding the boneless sod that he still preferred the teat. Jupiter did not fail to disappoint even now as he gazed at the perfect image of a phallus and its twin, globed escorts.

“We’ll be skinned alive and fed to the Northmen!” He shrieked. “You can’t put that icon next to the Consuls’ names! It’s treason!”

“If anything, ‘Singer, it’s an exaggeration—much like its maker’s own “tower.” Hut, more like,” Severus gibed.

“So says the man who can’t even raise a hut,” Pullo roared back.

“You two sound like fish wives haggling over who has the most warts,” Olafsen interjected. None had ceased to laugh. “Pullo has carved enough luck for all of us. We’ll all be satisfied when we come back from the Wall.”

“—Tower,” Pullo corrected.

A shadow fell over the lot, silencing the cackling. The feathered plume on the shadow’s helmet warned them of their danger. Only Jupiter stood with his back to the Wall and could see the newcomer truly. All color drained from Jupiter’s face. His eyes went white and he shook as he began to scream like an animal in pain. The others turned to see their commander in his armor; however, a blue pall colored his cheeks and his eyes held a pink sheen. He spoke, but the growling words came out in a feral tongue none of the soldiers knew.

The sword in one hand and the Pictish burial charm in the other told them their phallic luck would not hold.