Had they marched six months earlier, they would've been graced with all the wonderful sensations of spring: orchards curling in bloom, trees alive with a million pink-laced flowers, grapes trimming the vineyards, the first mouths of a new harvest creeping from dormant soil then awakening. The air would've been tinged with a miraculous energy, not distant from the feeling one gets when waking in paradise. The children would've been playing in the rolling hills laced with a myriad of wildflowers, dogs trailing close on their heels. Now the fields were dark and empty, the trees barren, wounded skeletons charred by the erroneous sighs of time; no children ran upon the winter-scorched hills, nor played in the icy creeks. The Army's morale fell, the chants thinned into nothing. The cheers that had been their companion through the eternal city of the seven hills, and even upon the road snaking through nearby towns and colonies, had ended. Now they were left with the searing cold, howling wind, and starry night. The last colony they'd passed through now rested several days back, and scouts reported they had truly entered the frontier. Antonius half-expected marauding Gallic bands to spring from the barren woodlands, to assault his forces with savage rage. But none came. The only life they had seen were a few deer and an abandoned homestead, long charred to the ground. Antonius ordered the camp to be built at sunset, and watches manned the ramparts throughout the night; in the morning, the legion would assemble, and continue to march towards Segesta, their path of travel being many miles from the shoreline so as to avoid any fishermen and fishing colonies who could report their movements.
A cold and wet land it was; no snow fell, only thick rain, covering everything and freezing the flesh solid blue. Antonius' breath fogged, crystallized, and fell before his eyes. His lungs burnt with a brash agony, the pain immense with every breath. He rode upon his horse before the troops, and could only try to sympathize with the infantry, knowing their own struggles so superseded his own.
He could not help but feel mercy for them when he looked into their distant and haggard eyes. The marching continued to wear them down. Every day he sent scouts out, and every day the news was the same: no Segesta had been spotted and no enemies were roaming the hills. It could be a good thing, the absence of Gauls
– they didn't know the Romans were coming. But Antonius felt discouraged by the absence of Segesta. "Have we bypassed it?" "No, sir." "It didn't look this far on the maps." "Maps can be deceiving, sir."
Helonius did not leave Antonius' side. Helonius would ask, "How long, sir?" and Antonius would reply: "Soon enough, Friend. Soon enough."
The day finally came – riders returned, eager and panting, eyes alive with fire. "General! We have seen Segesta! It is but a two day's march from here." Antonius demanded details. The scout could hardly contain himself: "Most of the women and children are gone. The homesteads surrounding the town are all but abandoned. I suppose they knew we were coming? A couple hundred men await us, sir, but not to worry about them: a few peasants with pitchforks. The Gallic tribes, I believe, have no clue we are coming."
Antonius scolded, "Do not underestimate the power of a man defending his home. One 'peasant with a pitchfork' has been known to take out ten hired soldiers. But in case the Gauls are using Segesta as a spotting point to register our numbers, we must be careful. Comb the woodlands, Scout, make sure no Gauls are watching us. And be quiet about it." He spoke slow and eloquently, but could feel the fire he'd seen inside the scout's eyes rising within his own gut, starting as a small flicker, then a flame, and building to its marvelous crescendo: an inferno. He finally understood what the soldier felt as he marched towards his destiny. He looked over to Helonius on horseback: "Gather the best infantry. I want two cohorts of hastati, two cohorts of principes, two cohorts of triarii, and bring Spurius, the leader of the second cavalry group, to me. He shall join us."
Helonius licked his parched lips, ignoring the cold. "Are we not throwing ourselves against them? We have the brute firepower to crush them all, sir!"
"Yes. But if the Gauls are using Segesta as a 'lookout' to measure our numbers, we want to mislead them. This is why I use only a little over half of our firepower. Manias will be in charge of the rest of the legion as we take Segesta. Are my orders clear?"
Helonius grinned under his helmet. "Yes, sir." He kicked his horse in the side and scattered away.
Antonius looked up the gray skies, the naked limbs of ancient trees forming a loose canopy above the winding forest road. He said a quick little prayer to the gods and continued the march. No more waiting. In two days' time, Segesta would be Rome's. His father would be honored. And the House of Julii would have their fame.
II
Antonius the First had been forced to kill his own conscience in order to get his work done amongst the Senate. His wife had convinced him that it did neither him nor his son any good to constantly worry; instead, she said, appeal to the gods every morning, at every meal, and every night. Mars Himself aligned with the blood of Rome, and he would keep such a fine General and worthy Roman out of harm's way. Somehow he believed her – perhaps the sincerity in her voice, the tranquility in her eyes, or the way she touched his shaking hands. He managed to go about his daily routine, jiving with the politicians, walking amongst the courtyards, giving candy to the children running Rome's streets. The news came in a haggard flow: in the west, the armies of Scipii were engaged with Dacia, and Dacia was falling apart, due not only to Rome's brute thrust across her borders and towards her heart, but also due to vicious rivalries and calls-to-power within Dacia herself; the nation had all but collapsed into civil war before Rome knocked at the doorstep and simply barged in. Triremes came once in a while across the sea, sailing north from the coast of Africa, with grim news on the war with the Carthaginians: Carthage had not yet fallen into Roman hands, and the Brutii were still camped outside the city, forced to retaliate against a smorgasbord of guerilla fighting and two massive Carthaginian armies.
One Senator, having talked with one of the wounded allowed to return home (in exchange for a hundred-man load of some of Brutii's newest, freshest recruits), said of the battles able to be seen from Carthage's walls, "Their soldiers are brutal and treacherous, paralleling if not excelling the skill of the Romans. For every Carthaginian killed, a Roman falls; except we do not have such reinforcements, and the Carthaginians can put two men in for every one felled." The Senator's voice grew low, and he said, "And they have these creatures. They are called elephants. Enormous beasts, titans; ten men can fit upon their backs, and great horns stick out from their faces. Their feet are pillars of bronze and they trample the Romans as they rampage into our lines." Antonius had heard of elephants before; his father would tell him stories of the mighty Carthaginians when Antonius was only a small boy.
This night his son held to the forefront of his mind. He looked up to the stars, two thousand shimmering dots plastered to the black sphere. The moon shone close enough to be touched with a breath of air; he imagined reaching out to touch
it, but felt foolish. Grown men don't do such things. He wondered if his son could be looking at the very same stars. Unbeknownst to him, the skies above his son's head were dark and gray, strewn with burningly-cold rain; his son was preparing to go to battle the next morning, to take Segesta by the afternoon. Antonius the First had know way of knowing this as he entered the building housing his family's manor.
He did not see the guards, but thought nothing of it. Perhaps out getting drunk again. He climbed the stairs to the front door, and pushed open the door. His wife usually waited up for him, burning candles bright, but she was not there. The candles had burnt down into smoldering wads of melted wax, casting short burst of dim light over the Greek pillars, the draping cloth hanging from the walls, several vases of winter flowers. Antonius the First entered, and paused before his door. His eyebrows furrowed as he felt it – something heavy and close, murky and shadowy – breathing down his neck. He looked into the corners of the parlor, searching for his wife, but saw no movement. He took off his royal sash and threw it upon a bust of Romulus, the Founder of Rome. In quiet movements he entered the bedroom: the bed sheets had been twisted about and were half-lying on the floor. She happened to pride in her neatness, and that was when he knew something very terrible was going on. A cold breeze washed over him and he snapped his eyes to the balcony – the doors were open, revealing the deck and the dry hanging pots, the railing; beyond it the city all but slept, handfuls of Roman soldiers – inexperienced town watch – roaming the streets, kicking teenagers in the rears to get home, wondering when their shift would end.
Something sharp bit into his neck, as if an insect had sunk its teeth into his flesh. He spun around and found himself staring into the point of a short Roman thrusting sword. Beyond it stood an unfamiliar face, masked in the shadows, but apparently grinning. Antonius' muscles screamed for him to react, his heart ran a marathon, but he just let his eyes flicker to the far corner of the bedroom: he could see a pale figure, and two figures beyond it. The dull light from the mellow candles afforded little more. Antonius swallowed, Adam's apple bobbing, and looked back to the man holding the sword to his throat. He raised his arms, opened his palms, revealing an unconditional surrender.
"Coward."
That voice he recognized. He turned his head to the right, saw a figure emerging from the shadows. A broiling anger welled within him and he spoke: "Let her go. Do what you want with me, but the woman: let her go."
The man smiled, dimples glaring. "Let her go? No. We have had much too fun with her to let her go now. Haven't we, boys?" The men in the shadows nodded. He snapped to them, "Throw her down!"
The two men holding the woman threw her onto the bed. Antonius drew a ragged breath: her naked body dripped with blood, saturated with deep bruises and ghastly wounds. Her eyes were bloodshot, one swollen shut, and blood streamed from her nose and mouth. She looked up at Antonius with one feeble eye and collapsed upon bleeding arms. She vomited all over the bed, soiling the sheets, and rolled over, gasping for breath. Her pubic hair matted down in a mass of torn flesh and rank blood; flies buzzed about it. The insides of her upper legs were rubbed raw. She reached for him, mumbling something unintelligent. He tried to go to her but felt the tip of the sword push him back.
"You were late," the leader said, "and we thought we would have a little fun. It's boring to just sit and wait for such an exciting moment as this. We needed an equally exciting activity to keep us company." He moved towards him, around him. Antonius' eyes glared at the man before him; the one behind him leaned forward, whispered into his ear: "Do you know what it is like to feel such a beauty beneath you, struggling and crying out? Truly, Antonius, I tell you: there is nothing like it."
A voice rang in Antonius' head: Kill him! And another: You will only die. Just wait. Be calm. Patient. Do not be brash. Your brashness will only get you killed. His eyes did not hold such a calm countenance; they swam in a sea of rage.
His wife reached to him with mangled fingers, and her voice: "Antonius… Do not…"
He closed his eyes, wanted to completely shut down. He could not bear to hear her voice like that – beaten, abused, alone.
The man now stood to his left. "I expect you to have many questions, my brother. Such as, where have I been? I know what Father told you: 'Your brother died in the early Gallic wars.' He is a liar. I did fight in the Gallic wars. I fought heroically. Bravely. And yet our loving, compassionate, caring father betrayed me. I was forced to go underground, to work as a butcher's assistant until the time
– this time – presented itself. You are the younger brother, Antonius, and therefore I am the true heir to the chair of Julii. It is I who am called by the gods to sit upon the chair, not you."
He finally spoke, fearing not the sword before him. "You are jealous. Do you not know that Father named me his heir because he saw you unfit to take the
throne? He said your loyalties were twisted, your values broken, your morals completely demoralized. He feared the worst for Rome with you at the helm." "Our father was a fool. He did not know what he was doing. He did not know what power rested within the ruling houses of Rome. He put too much faith in the Senate, and the Senate was his downfall. The Senate kept him at bay. He could not make his own decisions; the Senate ruled his house for him! And you do not break his sad legacy – everything is political with you. You send your boys off to a war you do not want to fight, and why? Because the Senate commands it. You are a degenerate, corrupt soul, Antonius. You are weak-minded and gullible. Such a man is not fit to lead Rome."
"Degenerate?" Antonius growled. "Corrupt? Is it I who take other man's wives and rape them?"
"She stabbed one of my men. She needed to be punished."
He looked down to his wife upon the bed. "I commend her for it."
The soldier with the sword pressed the tip against Antonius' throat; his eyes frosted with ice.
"Antonius, brother," the other man said. "It is heart-warming to spend time together, it truly is. But I am afraid I am running out of time. Soon the guards will awake from the narcotics we drugged them with, and they will come up here. It was be a sad, sad story to be sure: my friends and I, having been invited to a party with you to celebrate your son's marvelous march on Segesta, open the door to find you sexually and physically abusing your wife. She screams but we cannot stop you. You stab her in the chest several times, and as she lies bleeding upon the bed, we take ourselves upon you and slay you, driven by an unrepentant passion – a passion for justice. Your name shall be put to shame, Antonius. I will regretfully take the position left vacant. And as for your wife? My close friends, who run high within social circles, will discover that she is married to another man, voiding your marriage with her, making her an adulteress."
"Lucius, you shall never succeed."
"A sword is pressed to your throat and you speak so? Brash, you are."
Kill him. Kill them. Kill them all. He did nothing. Wait. The sword is still to your throat.
"Your secret ways will never succeed. The gods are not on the side of rapists and murderers."
Lucius leaned so close as to kiss his brother. He said, "Do you want to talk about the favor of the gods? Do you want to talk about secrets?" He whispered into Antonius' ear, speaking hurriedly, filled with exotic adrenaline.
Antonius' eyes went wide, and if one were to peer deep into them, may have seen streaks of pure lightning flashing over the corneas. The little, sane voice inside his head drowned in a sea of madness, and the adrenaline he had held back soaked his very being. The soldier with the sword had leaned back to scratch his calf, and Antonius leapt forward, smashing him in the face with his fist; Antonius' other hand grabbed the hilt of the sword, the soldier's limp fingers releasing it in an instant. As the soldier stumbled back, Antonius kicked him in the crotch, twisted the sword around so the blade pointed downward, and yelled, "Viviana! Run! Get the guards!"
Lucius stood behind him, completely stunned; the soldier who had lost his sword raised his hands to protect him but it offered no shield: Antonius drove the blade down into his face, piercing the flesh just beside the nose, crushing the bone, and driving it deep into the skull. He twisted the blade, gave the corpse a kick, and yanked it out: the metal was slick with blood. Viviana jumped up, spewing vomit everywhere, and sprinted for the door; Lucius sprinted after her, hollering, "Seize Antonius!" The other two guards rushed Antonius; Antonius tossed the blood-soaked thrusting sword between his hands; the soldiers drew their own swords.
Lucius grabbed Viviana's bludgeoned shoulders and twisted her to the side; she fell upon the table, her twisting body knocking over several smoldering candles, her skin burning with hot wax. He spun around the table to grab her; she kicked to her feet with a shout, leaving bloodstains on the floor, and staggered threw the open balcony doors, amidst the plotted pants; she turned to see Lucius' fist swinging into her, and she collapsed into several hanging pots, losing her balance; her arms flailed, smacking against the pots, cold soil dripping from the sides, and suddenly she felt something cold on the back of her legs, saw the stars reeling above her, and then she felt weightless, only the wind roaring. Lucius careened against the balcony, eyes agape as the woman's nude body spun through the air before hitting on the marble steps below, sides rupturing, spilling blood and organs all over the steps. A pool of blood formed and rivers streamed down the marble staircase. Lucius' face went ashen and he shook all over, trying to gain composure.
Antonius leapt upon one of the guards, the thrusting sword driving through the soldier's calf, drawing a well of blood. The soldier fumbled back, cursing, dropping his sword; he collapsed, blood gushing from a broken artery. The other soldier struck at Antonius, but Antonius blocked the attack with his sword and elbowed the man in the face.
The man fell to the ground and Antonius raised the sword to bring it down upon him – his muscles suddenly went limp and the sword fell from his hands. Bile crept up his throat and his feet crossed one another and he fell to his knees, leaning against the bed. Lucius loomed over him, his thrusting sword darkened with Antonius' blood. A searing gash had been delivered through Antonius' ribs, into the heart of his existence. Now the world faded from color into black and white and a fishtailing sea of confusion and dizziness overtook. Blood dripped from his mouth, riddled with saliva.
The one soldier was cursing, hand draped over his leg; the other pulled himself against a wall, breathing deep, shaking.
Lucius towered above the famous warrior who had pitched to his knees. "You are a fool for rising against me. The story has changed, brother: we entered to see you bodily throw your wife off the balcony, and we chased you into the bedroom, where you slew one of our friends and mortally harmed another." The man whose leg was bleeding felt his eyes pop wide with shock. Lucius did not care. "Now your name shall be put to shame even more. She lies broken upon the steps of your home. All of Rome shall hear of your wicked deeds, and be satisfied at the justice I shall bring." He raised his thrusting sword to deliver the killing blow into Antonius' neck. "Our family is one marked by tragedy, don't you agree? But we always seem to overcome. And overcome we must."
Antonius closed his eyes, breathing deep, and with his last breath, spoke: "My son is going to kill you."
"No. You are a fool. Your son will meet you in the afterlife."
The shadow upon the wall captured the blade stabbing into the knelt figure; a moment passed and the figure collapsed to the floor. The sword was thrown to the bedside, and the shadow standing left the room. Shouts could be heard in the stairwell. The guards had awakened and were returning – Antonius had knocked them out. But now Antonius lay upon the floor, and Viviana was avenged.
They burst into the room, meeting Lucius Silvanus, covered with blood and panting hard. He pointed to the bedroom with a shaking hand: "My brother." And he collapsed to the floor; one of the two guards raced into the bedroom and theother attained to Silvanus, demanding to know what had happened. Silvanus bore his eyes deep into the guard and said, "The unimaginable."
III
Antonius and a handful of cavalry stood upon the rise overlooking the small fishing town of Segesta. The sunlight cast long shadows over the barbaric huts and cottages and an icy mist clung to the boles of the trees and swept in long gray sheets over the dry and crackling fields spread around the town. The coastline a quarter a mile away glimmered with a thousand cerulean diamonds, heated by the sun's laughter. No fishing boats were out this day, despite the few clouds – the gray skies had departed. Antonius felt proud of the scouts, they had done their work well: most of the buildings were uninhabited, the residents fleeing west, deeper into Gallic territories. Antonius gazed north, to his right, and saw the snow-capped mountains thrusting from the dry forest slopes. Clouds rung the tops, shrouding them in haze. Antonius strained to look into the town, and saw several thick shapes, knew they were throngs of the enemy, the Gallic peasants awaiting their arrival. Hundreds, the scouts had said. "An estimate," Antonius had demanded. "Three hundred," had been the reply.
Antonius drew his horse around, looked at the men around him. "We will strike in an hour. Have the infantry prepare and march over this hill – slowly. The Gauls will see them coming down in marching formation and think the attack is coming from the front. Three hundred of our cavalry, my group and Spurius' group, will quietly move through the woods, and as the infantry assault the Gallic peasants, we will strike from the rear, cutting them down from behind." He noticed his voice shook, the adrenaline taking charge, a syrupy energy. He turned his horse and strode down the hill, the others behind him.
Those soldiers Helonius had selected, led by the best of the legion's centurions, spread through the trees at the base of the hill. Antonius rode down to them, pulled his horse up close to them and spread his eyes across them. These were his men, his boys, and he knew they would do well. Yet he knew many would fall; young boys, Roman soldiers, to be forgotten in the stains of time. No one, he was afraid, would remember their names – no one except the gods, who would continue throughout time even when all those standing with Antonius – and Antonius himself – traversed the great divide between life and death and entered
the paradise of Elysium. He held his own oblong shield against him, felt his father's spatha sword at his side, and he admired those standing before him. "Soldiers of Rome," he said in a loud voice, commanding attention. "We have ridden long and hard, marched many, many miles. We are all tired and worn, but yet we are filled with an excitement and a longing. We have come here, we have taken up sword and shield, to finish the wars our grandfathers and fathers started. The Gauls thought they had us defeated. They thought wrong! For here we are, at their gates, with one intent and one intent alone: to seize Gaul and make it a harvest of Roman glory! I want to know, I demand to know, of you sons of Mars: will you fight? And if needs be, will you die?"
The infantry banged their shields and thrust their javelins upwards. The joy washed over Antonius and he spun his horse around; Helonius beside him was grinning. Antonius said, "Cavalry! Ride with me! Infantry, march!" He kicked his horse and ran parallel with the front lines; the infantry cheered him on, shouting for their General, Antonius the Fearless, who did not hold back to watch the battle but immersed himself in the fray. Much blood would be spilled, and Antonius would not send his boys in to the danger without engaging it himself. Six hundred cavalry poured behind him and they galloped through the trees, riding low upon their horses, Segesta out of sight as they flew between the giant oaks and asps. Antonius' horse panted hard; his hand brushed the hilt of his father's sword. He looked up to the twisted, snaking maze of bleak tree limbs tearing the sky above them, and he prayed, "Bless us, grandfather. God of Mars, smile upon us today…"
The infantry marched, led by its centurions. The first line of the assault contained the youngest soldiers, most mere teenagers who had enlisted last summer. They had not imagined they would be marching through the trees to invade and take a Gallic town; they just needed something to do, but here they were, handling sword and shield, eager and ready. They had been trained. The test was a rite of passage. The youngest soldiers were called hastati: they were the simplest soldiers, armed with two pila, or throwing spears, to throw into the enemy before the charge; they carried a short thrusting sword, the gladius, upon their right thigh, and held the four-foot-long, two-feet-wide shield against the front of their bodies as they marched; the shield had been constructed in the armories of Rome, dyed calfskin spread over plywood. The armor kept them warm, if their swimming blood would not; their breath fogged before the bronze helmets sitting
upon them. The soldiers had to pay for their own armor, so for some, a simple bronze chest plate worked; the wealthier soldiers, those from high-ranking families, wore mail or scale cuirasses. The hastati's job in the war was simple and straightforward: take the first clash of battle and blunt the enemy attack before the second line could move in. Seven hundred twenty hastati mounted the hill and began the climb down, the mist-soaked fields and the sleepy town before them; seven hundred hastati comprised of two cohorts, each cohort carrying three hundred sixty men, not including the standard bearers – the soldiers carrying the cohort's insignia, to inspire allegiance and devotion – and the centurions, the leaders of the maniples. Each cohort contained three maniples, each maniple made up of one hundred twenty soldiers: again, excluding the centurions and standard bearers.
As the hastati descended the hill, the mist wrapping about their legs and massaging with a cool vapor any flesh not hidden under armor, seven hundred twenty principes crested the rise and began the descent. The principes, like the hastati, carried the same equipment: two pila, the famous gladius, and a long semi-cylindrical body shield. These were the soldiers who were twenty or thirty years old, and when the hastati had taken the sting out of the enemy, they would take their place, re-supplying the fight with a fresh dose of vigor, strength, zeal and courage. The hastati would retreat between the principes, reform the group, and take several moments to get their breath back. The lines would be much smaller, as several Roman soldiers would be felled in the original assault. The centurions would boost the morale with their own eagerness to get back into the battle, and the very sight of the standard would speak of the gods being with them. When – or rather, if – the principes needed help, the hastati would join the battle once more.
The principes were not the end of the line. Several of the soldiers under Antonius' command had walked the fields and forests of Gaul before; many had been only fourteen, fifteen, sixteen or seventeen back then, and now returned to the land of their nightmares, forty or fifty years old. The dreams that haunted their sleep did not repel them, but drew them forward – they would make the Gauls pay for their atrocities. Of all the soldiers, even of Antonius himself, these veteran soldiers desired the fight as if it were air, essential to survival. They were addicted, and developed the shakes if deprived of nourishment. These veterans were the triarii – the third and final line of the legion; their numbers were smaller, with each maniple being only sixty men, not including the standard bearers and
centurions. The triarii carried a different load than the hastati and principes: instead of the pila, they were armed with long hoplite spears as used by the Greek cities and Macedon. They did carry a gladius thrusting sword and the body shield. Their helmets were not simple bronze like the other soldiers, either, nor like the praetorian cavalry led by Antonius, whose Corinthian helmets were draught with fantastic red horsehair plumes. The triarii wore a pair of long feathers sticking out of tops of their helmets, a sign of superiority and skill.
They would spend most of their time patiently waiting behind the hastati and principes, watching the battle, kneeling behind their shields. If the hastati and principes were defeated or routed, the triarii would enter combat; the very sight of the triarii marching into a battle was a signet sign of crisis. Of all the soldiers, the triarii prided the most discipline: while they burned with passion for the field of blood, they were able to calmly and patiently kneel behind their shields, awaiting one of three things: defeat and rout of the younger soldiers, or victory.
The triarii mounted the hill and began the trek downward; their numbers were only three hundred sixty with two cohorts, but they had enough skill to overpower even the greatest enemy soldiers. The mist spread between the one thousand eight hundred pairs of legs as the Romans marched over the dry fields, crushing twisted corn stalks underfoot, muddy soil staining their boots. The peasants, upon seeing it, would've felt crushed: the very sight of so many soldiers with their blood-red shields coming through the mist like some god-forsaken fallen deity would not deny any chokes of anguish. The Romans did not move quickly, but steadily, in no hurry: let the peasants think twice about what they were doing and give them a chance to repent and run for the hills. There would be no denying it: the Romans would have Segesta by nightfall, with or without Gallic blood dripping from their swords and javelins. They continued their march across the field, the town growing ever nearer. The local ragtag band of three hundred men and boys tightened their grips on spears, axes, swords, clubs and pitchforks. Some began to think twice. But the closer the Romans got, their chances of successful flight waned – until it was too late.
Antonius led point through the forest devastated by winter, the stallion beneath him panting and sweating, leaping fallen logs and dodging massive trees. The cavalry snaked through the trees, sunlight sparkling down upon their spears, swords and shields, dancing over the bronze helmets, running through the horsehair plumes. Sweat cascaded down Antonius' face; he yanked the horse to
the left and drove through the decayed foliage. He could hear the harrowing war cries of the enemy now, floating over the fields and to the woods; he ordered the halt, and the cavalry skidded to a stop, spread throughout the forest. The horses panted and the soldiers leaned forward, straining ears to hear. Antonius dismounted, kissed his horse, told her to remain there, and beckoned Helonius. Helonius did the same and followed his friend through the trees, to the edge of the woods; they knelt beside a fallen log covered with shriveled mushrooms. "They're going to see us," Helonius breathed. "There's no vegetation. The trees are bare."
"No," Antonius said, "they will not. Do you know why? Because they are not expecting us."
"If they look back-"
"They won't realize we are here. They are quite well focused on the front, where the infantry has nearly reached them." He explored the town across the mist-cloaked fields with his eyes: several scattered huts with thatched roofs and wooden sidings. There was an assortment of barrels and crates, abandoned wagons, contents spilt on the ground from the fleeting women and children. The huts surrounded a courtyard in the center of the town: the town square. The peasants filled the town square, most of them pressing for a better look at the approaching Roman soldiers. Antonius smiled, tugged Helonius by the shoulder, and they returned to the horses.
Spurius leaned forward on his horse as Antonius mounted; he asked, "What're they doing?"
"They look confused," Antonius answered. "And scared. Spurius, take your two hundred men to the far corner of the woods. We'll sweep in from the northeast and northwest of the town, a pincer movement. Bring your cavalry on the far right out first, and charge hard, so it looks like there are a lot more of us than there really are. There will be a gap between our groups, but it will look like we're one sole mass. You will charge upon the sound of the horn. Understood?"
Spurius nodded. "Yes, sir." He kicked his horse into the woods; half the cavalry followed.
Helonius looked over to Antonius. "Sir? What do we do now?"
"Wait," Antonius answered. He caught the hesitant fear in Helonius' eye. "You are a great man, Helonius. I can taste the courage within you. I would willingly go up against a million Greeks with you alone by my side."
Helonius smiled, and Antonius' eyes licked flames.
"Halt!" the lead hastati centurion ordered. Behind him, the hundreds of hastati came to a halt. The principes did the same, and the triarii behind them. All the soldiers stared forward; only two hundred meters away was the first hut, and beyond it several hundred meters were the peasants. They could see the whites of the enemy's eyes. The hastati commander yelled, "Hastati! March with me!" He stepped forward and seven hundred twenty hastati followed suit along with their centurions and standard bearers. The standard's flags flapped in the stale wintry breeze as they marched, each breath saturated with water from the milky fog. The principes in the back stood rigid as statues, staring forward, holding their shields close. The triarii knelt down besides their shields, staring forward, knowing they would not fight this day. But they would have their chance again, this they knew. But today's fight would be swift and the Gallic 'heroes' would be slain outside their homes, and their mothers, daughters and sisters would never see them again. The peasants held their weapons close, breathing hard, having no shields to protect them. Most of them were simple farmers; hardly any had fought before, aside from drunken brawls. They tried to remember better times, crunched together for protection. They had awakened a few mornings ago as a few teenagers came running into the town, shouting about 'men with red shields and horses' marching towards Segesta. The boys were thought to be crazy – they had escaped the night before and returned with lots of wine on their breath. The town's tribesman sent out some horses to see if the rumors were true, and there was no unearthing of adolescent lies: an Army truly was marching right towards them. Panic had ensued; some of the men left, but only under tight ridicule; most remained, whether they wanted to or not, taking up swords and knives, axes and hunting bows, pitchforks and harvesting scythes. They clumped together, feeling safer, as the Roman hastati came towards them, past the lone hut. The peasants flinched every second, expectant of a charge, but nothing came. Then the hastati came to a stop, and the commander yelled out an order the peasants could not translate. The peasants looked at one another, wondering what was happening. Would they try to make a deal to surrender? Some hoped so; others would have nothing to do with such a horrible act.
The Roman soldiers raised something in their hands, sleek and black, long with a point on the end. Some of the hardened peasants who had seen battle with the Romans before knew what came: they shouted for everyone to spread out, to find cover, but everyone just stared at them. Some of the elders ducked between
cottages, kneeling against the cold, wet wood. Most of the peasants did not move, so misunderstanding. One of the elders who had dove for cover looked to the trees in the distance and thought he saw something move in their gray mid-morning shadows. He forgot it as the sound of cutting air shook the town.
Hundreds of javelin careened into the town, peppering the town square and the soldiers within. Shouts went out; peasants dropped their weapons and pitched onto one another, groping at pain, revealing hands slick with blood. Stomachs were ripped open, limbs sheared apart, faces impaled. Bodies fell into the dirt, blood forming puddles and rivers in the sloshed mud. The peasants who had not fallen stared at the dead around them, the massive throwing spears protruding from their bodies, the glazed eyes. A son knelt beside his father, took his hand, and wept. The older soldiers ran from their cover, screaming for the survivors to spread out and move. The survivors did not listen, just stared at the carnage; a third of them had been slain, and half of those now lie writhing at their feet, shrieking as blood gushed from their wounds.
The Romans raised the last of their pila into the air. The elders ducked away again.
The volley careened through the sky, a hundred black parasites, and they fell upon the town again. Dozens more peasants took the blow and fainted beneath it. The other peasants jumped to and fro, in a daze, their weapons limp in their hands. They were reduced to half strength, standing amidst a sea of bloodied friends and family. A young boy of five walked around with his arm missing, blood gushing all over the ground; a seventeen-year-old grunted as he pulled a javelin from his flesh, sheared muscle and splintered bone dredged from his calf; and a father fell against a cottage, gasping for breath, only sucking in blood, neck awash with red; his two young kids, only nine and ten, watched helplessly, screaming for someone to help. They tripped and stumbled over the bodies; some entered the huts to fall to the floor and weep.
The hastati commander saw the disorder and massacre, gave the order, "Advance!"
The Romans let out a hurrah and moved forward in step with one another. A great column of red shields and drawn thrusting swords moving towards the town. Groups of villagers gathered together, standing amidst the bodies, their weapons at the ready. Some were covered with blood from the men beside them – or blood of their own – but their eyes burned with a mystical fury. The centurion
commanding the hastati admired their courage, and found it regretful that such bravado would be wasted on such a fine and beautiful winter day.
Helonius and Antonius had returned to the edge of the woods. They watched as a few peasants dropped their weapons and ran for the trees, fleeing. Helonius grinned: "They are routing."
"Not all of them," Antonius said. "I cannot see-"
"The hastati are marching. A few of the troops are gathering together for a defense. It is so foolish – how can they expect to beat us?"
"They know they will lose. But there is more to life than simply averting death." The two of them returned to the horses, mounting. Antonius looked behind him at the near-two hundred horses and their riders. "Today, men of Rome, we ride! Hold your spear tight and your shield at the ready!" He kicked his horse and the woods fell away, the trees thinning; the roar of the hooves behind him thundered. The horse's muscles coursed with impenetrable malice. The woods dissolved to nothing, and suddenly the mist broke at the horse's legs and the sunlight fell upon them, gleaming off the swords and spears and shields.
One of the cavalrymen behind Antonius raised a horn to his lips and gave of three chilling blasts. Spurius' group charged as well, and four hundred cavalry swarmed from the trees, the empty field breaking under their charge. Antonius' father's sword vibrated in his hand as he led the assault. He could feel pure energy rushing through him and suddenly understood why there would never be an end to wars.
The hastati were only a few dozen meters away when the earth seemed to split apart. The bodies on the ground vibrated and both the Romans and Gallic peasants felt the earth rupturing in spastic tremors beneath. Only the hastati knew the truth, and soon the truth passed on to the enemy; they turned and saw hundreds of horses laden with battle armor and weaponry tearing helter-skelter for the town. The fleeing peasants turned on their heels and ran back for the town, the cavalry gaining. The peasants were all turned around, surrounded by enemies on both fronts.
The centurion commander raised his sword high: "Charge!"
A fiendish war cry exploded from the Romans' mouths; holding shields tight and gripping swords even tighter, they raced up the slope to the awaiting peasants. The peasants held their weapons before them, echoing the Romans' war cry, and
they charged towards the Roman line. The Roman infantry and Gallic peasants gushed across the mist-choked soil, the distance between them closing fast. The Romans prepared to take the hits on the shields and readied to thrust their swords into living flesh.
A Gallic peasant gaped up at Antonius, and then fell to the ground, back exploding with white-hot pain. Antonius' sword sparkled with blood; the Gallic peasant was crushed under the hooves of the horses on Antonius' tail. The Gallic peasants who had routed were slain by the rushing cavalry, bodies trampled into the earth, broken and ruptured and crushed. The cavalry spread into the city; a huddle of fifty-odd peasants stood ready for the cavalry, bunched tightly together. Antonius kicked his heels hard into the horse, hard enough to draw blood, and raised his sword. He screamed, "Rome!"
The two lines clashed. The Romans did not think; they simply reacted. The peasants tried to think, but found there to be no time for such. The peasants wielded swords and axes, scythe blades and pitchforks; they jumped upon the Romans, sending their weapons between the shields as they could; the Romans hid behind their shields, protecting their vital organs; the peasants fell against the shields, the bosses on the shields pushing them back; the Romans moved forward as one, thrusting their swords into the enemy; blood gushed all over the shields and armor and covered the swords. Peasants fell, shrieking; several Romans felt their own blood pouring down their face and arms as the enemy attacked. A peasant shattered a shield with his axe, and the peasant behind him cut the cheek and throat of the very same Roman, allowing a spray of blood to go heavenward. The Roman collapsed, drowning in his own blood, and as the peasant with the axe raised his weapon to bring it down again, he caught a sword in his side, piercing vital organs; the axe tumbled to the earth and he fell to his knees alongside it; his companion with the harvesting scythe struck at the Roman, but the shield caught the sword, the blade embedding deep. The Roman struck with his sword, tearing open an artery in the peasant's arm; the peasant turned and he struck again, this time sending the blade into the small of his back; the tip protruded from the peasant's abdomen, and it drew out with a sickening growl. Blood trailed at the peasant's mouth as he stumbled through the daze of bodies and fighting.
Such were the ways of the fighting that day, heroes lying amidst the slain, names forgotten in history's books. Yet some did not go down fighting; wounded
and bleeding, fatigued and torn, both Romans and peasants continued to fight. The Roman lines were shuddering, the ground littered with the bodies of the peasants and the bodies of the Roman soldiers, shields arrayed like tombstones.
It was the cry of the Roman General that caused the hearts of the Gallic villagers to falter, and then the hastati charged once again, legs burning with ferocity, and the remaining peasants routed.
Antonius' horse leapt into the air, flying above the Gallic peasants, and fell upon them, crushing two underneath its hooves. Antonius stabbed and swung the sword to his left and right, splitting open Gallic flesh and parrying axes and war- hammers. The other cavalry slammed into the Gallic lines, breaking through; peasants twisted with the breaking charge, bodies crushed by the horse's gallop; Romans grunted as the enemy lashed out with swords, cutting open legs and piercing sides. A Roman soldier fell off his horse, impaled by a spear.
Antonius stabbed a man in the face, right through the eye, and with a flick of the sword, sent the body tumbling backwards, blood arching into the air in a continual stream. Blood soaked his horse's hide; there was a flash as of lightning and his horse screamed; a spear sliced through the creature's neck, protruding from the other side; the horse wretched to the side and Antonius was flung to the ground, losing his shield but keeping his sword.
He lay upon the ground, seeing stars; peasants lashed out at him, and lying on the ground, he blocked their blows with his sword; he kicked the feet out from under one, and after blocking an assault, sent his sword into the heart of another. Antonius rolled over the ground to avoid being sliced with an axe; the axe embedded in the cold soil. A peasant by his head raised a war-hammer – a hammer covered with spikes – to impale the General's face; the sound of a horse's cry burst the earth at Antonius' head, and suddenly the man pitched forward, knocked over by horse's hooves; Antonius twisted his sword upright and the man fell upon his sword, the tip stabbing from the man's back.
Helonius struck at the soldiers trying to get to the General, sent them tumbling back; "General! Stand!"
Antonius pushed the soldier off of him and stood, trying to get his sword. It was wedged under the body. A shadow danced over him as a peasant came at him with a spear; Antonius abandoned the sword, grabbed the fallen man's war-hammer, and side-stepped the spear; he used both hands to swing the heavy club in a wide arch, smashing the assailant in the chest; the ribs splintered all throughout the
body and the peasant fell, coughing up blood as his body bled within. Antonius swung the hammer around, connecting it with a young boy of about twelve; the pre-teen's head was soaked in blood, the skull crushed into the brain, as he fell over a latticework of corpses.
Antonius twirled around, the war-hammer prepared to strike; an older man raised his hands, yelling in a foreign tongue. Antonius flicked his eyes about; all the Gauls had thrown down their weapons, hand raised in surrender. They realized resistance was futile. Antonius stared the man in the face; Helonius raced over upon his horse.
Helonius' arm shook, drenched with blood, and his horse's eyes fogged in and out. "General, are you okay?"
Antonius nodded, licking his lips. His heart screamed. "Yes. You don't look so hot."
"It is but a flesh wound," Helonius said, grinning.
Antonius spied the man who had surrendered. "Round them up." He dropped the war-hammer, rolled over the former owner's body, and drew his father's sword from the man's chest. He was unharmed. His mother had been wise: "It would be wise to carry it with you." It saved his life. And they even had prisoners. "Helonius?" he called.
The bodyguard's horse galloped up. "Sir?"
"Treat the wounded – both the Gauls and us. We are not savages like them; we will not execute the prisoners and we will not deny treatment to their wounds. Just make sure our soldiers get the first and finest care. And be sure to get your arm looked at. I want all the Gallic bodies piled up and burned, and graves will be dug for those who honorably fell for Rome. Do not worry this day, Helonius. We have taken Segesta. Rome shall be proud! I will ride to the rest of the legion and bring them here; then scouts will be sent out to relay the news to my father. We shall celebrate this victory with feasting and partying!"
IV
All of Rome had been devastated – and sickened – with the news. The secret life of Antonius the First came to light as his loving and caring brother, with a host of friends, came upon the villa to celebrate the might of Rome and discovered Antonius the First beating his wife; when Silvanus courageously confronted his brother and tried to reason with him, Antonius threw his wife over the edge;
Silvanus tried to apprehend Antonius, but Antonius, crazed beyond all imagination, took up his sword and struck one of Silvanus' friends dead and mortally wounded another; Antonius turned on Silvanus' last remaining friend, and Silvanus wept before the Senate as he discoursed on what happened next: "Time will never heal the wounds I was delivered that night. While I remained physically unstained, my conscience has been forever marred; I loved my brother and continue to love him, despite his horrible deeds, but there was no choice in those last few moments. Quick decisions had to be made, and despite my course of action bearing grief upon my soul, I knew what had to be done. Who can describe what it is like to slay your own brother? My sword thrust into him, laden with tears. At first, I simply wanted to disable him, as I did not wish his death. We were brothers. But he came at me, locked in a rage, and I responded. He fell in his own bedroom." He broke apart before the Senate, and the Senate granted him the temporary chair, as Antonius the Second was out of earshot to hear the terrible news and receive the call to take his father's place. Silvanus told the Senate and all of Rome, "I will take the chair unwillingly. I am not worthy of such a high position. I will do my best job and patiently yet eagerly await the arrival of my nephew from Gaul." Antonius the First was given a commoner's burial, and just as the funeral for Viviana commenced, the news came: "She is an adulterer!" Silvanus collapsed, broken by the news, and many tried to comfort him, but he had to retire. The royal funeral ceased and she was laid in a common grave.
Silvanus inhabited his brother's manor, and stood upon the balcony, looking over Rome. A smile crept over his face; his co-conspirator behind him sat at the table, eating broiled lamb, drinking a goblet of wine. Silvanus looked into the sun setting beyond the farming communities, at the great buildings of the magnificent city, and said, "We cannot simply sit idle and eat, Friend. We have much work to do. Thank the gods they have blessed us thus far. My brother has been laid to rest a wicked criminal, and his wife a condemned whore." He laughed. "What punishment is greater than a black mark on the reputation? I can imagine none. Not even death parallels it."
The co-conspirator pushed the plate away, the feeble lamb bones splintered. He took a wild drink from the goblet and asked, "What is your bidding?"
Silvanus drew a deep breath of cold wintry air, the chill burning the inside of his nose. He smiled at the feeling and returned to the dining hall. "My bidding? My bidding is Rome, Gaias. I have no illusions; I will have to deal with Carthage and Greece, and even the houses of Brutii and Scipii. They must be eliminated."
"Sir, the Senate-"
"The Senate will fall in a week. They are politicians, not warriors. Put a sword to their throat and they will fall. The Senate is no problem to us. Six weeks from now we will have the manpower to demand the Roman Republic be made an Empire, with me as Emperor. There is only one thing – one man – standing in my way. We must liquidate Antonius' heir, who will be receiving the call to return home as his father has fallen to the sword. He will be deeply grieved, and he will take the position. We will have to step down, and so many lives will be wasted for nothing. If we take him while he sits in his father's chair, all of Rome will be suspicious, and we will be crucified outside the city walls. That cannot happen. We must eliminate Antonius' son before we can make a move to control Rome. Gaias, I am putting you in command of Antonius' army. Eliminate Antonius and do my bidding."
Gaias grinned. "It shall be done, sir." He stood. "Strength and honor." Silvanus returned, "Strength and honor."
Gaias left, leaving Silvanus alone. Silvanus walked to the balcony and leaned over the railing, the city spread below him, a quilt of many fabrics and colors and textiles. "He who controls Rome," he mused, looking upon the glorious city, "controls the world."