General Antonius takes his father's chair and recommences the attacks on Gaul. He appoints as commander a noble Roman soldier named Decimus, and the war with Gaul intensifies. Scouts report that a massive Gallic Army is being raised. Decimus is sent in a vicious stab north towards the heart of Gaul, on a mission to bring the King to surrender Gaul over as a Roman protectorate.
Through the many bloody and harrowing battles, one poor soldier's heroism and bravery stand out, and he is awarded the nickname, the Son of Mars. But this nickname does not come easily; he will have to prove himself worthy of such a title.
In a twisted accident of failed reconnaissance, Gallic tribes ambush and all but slaughter the Roman Army. Fearing a repeat of the last Gallic wars, the young soldier arouses the eyes of all those around him when he turns the ambush around and sends the enemy routing into the forest.
Yet Decimus has been taken by the Gallic soldiers and all the inferior officers are in chaos. The young soldier offers an idea: rescue Decimus from the hands of the enemy. The officers laugh him down, so the young man takes a band of his closest, loyal friends and sets out to do just that – and solidifies his name forever: the true Son of Mars.
nineteen years earlier
I
They knew they were coming as the first stragglers broke through the forest and stumbled into the village. The night before, women had placed the children in bed, the fathers had wrestled the animals into their stalls, locked up the barns and retreated into the safety of their homes. The night before the stars had shone bright and thick upon the night sky, as if the gods were smiling upon them. In the middle of the night, in several homes, young children awoke, crawling to the windows, listening. They had dragged their parents from their beds and asked what was going on; the parents heard nothing and told the children to return to bed. The children crept to their rooms, shut the doors, and huddled at the windows, peering into the thick woods surrounding the colony. Their tiny ears picked up what the adults had missed: the distant sound of shouting, the echoes of woodlands being torn apart, followed by brief periods of silence until the noises returned. Eventually the noises ended and the children were drawn by exhaustion to their beds, where they quickly fell asleep.
The next morning, just as the sun shed its brilliant light through the dense forest canopy, the road passing through the village evolved into the harbinger of bad news: Roman soldiers, broken and bloodied, parched and hungry, many wounded, marched through the town, stopping to ask for food or drink. Many collapsed upon the house's doorsteps, to be taken in by caring women. The children clung to the windows, watching in amazement as blood-soaked men and boys, many missing helmets, shields and swords, staggered through their town, through their playgrounds, eyes vacant and empty, hopelessly lost.
More and more weary soldiers came through, the road choked with their passing. Many were carrying friends over their arms, or laid their friends upon shields and carried them horizontal to the ground. Horses, hides streaked in blood, carried Roman officers who just looked at the villagers with sympathy. The women offered to help, empathetic; the older women retreated inside the hidden
rooms of their homes, fearing the worst. The truth came to light as a Roman cavalry soldier, when asked if he wanted to stay for a night so he and his horse could eat and rest, told the beautiful young woman, "No. The Gauls are no doubt on our tails, hoping to kill as many of us as they can. There is no time to lose." He had leaned closer, and whispered into her ear, "I beg you to leave this place. Gather your family, forget your belongings. Come with us. We are a sorry lot, but your fate will be much worse when the Gauls come through." He turned and continued to push his tired horse; the woman entered the home and begged her husband to leave, but he feared she would be taken advantage of by desperate Roman soldiers, and told her they would be perfectly safe indoors. The Gauls would not bother them if they themselves didn't harbor the enemy or make any attempt to rile them up; "We'll lay low," he told her, "and everything will be fine. The Gauls have passed through here before. We keep the kids inside, we mind our own business. Their war is with Rome's politicians, not its farmers."
The soldiers passing heard his words and shook their heads. The woman turned from her husband and looked upon the soldiers, the twisted limbs, the bloodied flesh, the hollow eyes. Men who had been robbed of themselves because of the war, men dropped into the maw of hell and forced to either fight and live with nightmares or die and descend into the unknown. She saw the bloodshed and the mutilation, the dirt road caked with blood, and she realized that this time the Gauls would not be so nice; the Gauls were on a rampage, and after gathering their strength, would pursue the Romans all the way to the city gates, wreaking as much mayhem as they could along the way – and the village lie at the epicenter of their path. She opened her mouth and called for her children, voice shaky; she prayed her father's stories about the Gauls, the stories he told before he fell upon their spears, were exaggerated. She wouldn't let her hopes up.
II
A few sympathetic villagers had taken critically-ill soldiers into their homes, cleaning up their wounds and serving them hot soup and goat's milk. The soldiers were thankful, and although they insisted on leaving, were not allowed; they were too weary, too hurt to follow the rest of the Army on foot. The soldiers protested, and as the sun dipped lower and lower until shadows flickered about the thick Gallic forests bordering the narrow road and tinny Roman colony, something could be seen in their eyes, something new, something that hadn't been there
when they were carried through the front doors, stripped of their heavy armor, shields and equipment, and lain upon the beds. This was undeniably fear; they pleaded to be allowed to leave, pleaded for a horse to bear them to the rest of the routing Army, but the villagers shook their head. One soldier kept shouting, "You don't understand! You don't understand!" but his cries vanished as the exertion, mixed with the wounds he'd received nearly twenty-four hours earlier, knocked him out. Children crowded at the doors to the rooms where the soldier now slept, the mother angrily shooing them away, telling them to return to their rooms. The mother and father exchanged nervous glances, and the mother determined to keep watch on their household guest. This was a familiar scene throughout the scattered few-dozen wood-and-clay cottages strewn about the village.
The woman who had spoken with the pummeled cavalry soldier could not sleep; her husband slept beside her, and the kids slept on the floor with the dog. Canvas had been spread over the window and the lone candle had burnt down to nothing, then went out completely, shrouding them in the dark. The kids occasionally spoke in their sleep, and her husband rolled over, stealing the blankets. For once she did not protest.
She lay in bed, straining her ears, trying to pick up any morsel of noise; yes, she was able to follow it: the slow sound of foliage underfoot, snapping twigs and bushes. The sounds drew closer and she understood they were coming from the woods, approaching the village, not taking the road. They crept in from the shadows of the forest, crossing the fields ripe with wheat; soon she heard voices, thick in a wiry accent and a language she could not comprehend.
The noises drew closer; she squeezed her husband's arm and he awoke with a start, gurgling in his mouth. She slapped a hand over his mouth and put a finger to her lips; she pointed to the canvas over the window. He cocked his head as if to ask, What?, and then he heard it as well. He stared at the canvas for eternity before sliding off the bed, walking around the room; he knelt down beside a wooden chest, glanced at the window, the sounds of movement and voices; he unlatched the lid. She looked to the kids softly sleeping, and caught light against her face; the canvas illumined for just a moment, torches being carried in front of it. A ball of spit rose in her throat and she looked to her husband; his eyes met hers and he raised the chest lid, the ancient wood creaking open with a loud wail. The kids awoke at the sound; one jumped up, asked loudly, "Mommy, what-"
She reached for him, shaking her head.
The door to the bedroom shattered open, splinters flying all over the walls and all over the children. Bright light flooded the room and she covered her eyes; the little children shrieked at the twin figures standing in the doorway, half-naked, smeared with green paint, eyes wild, sneers captivating. They swung torches in front of their faces, illuminating toothy grins and messed hair. Sweat covered their brows and in their other hands they held scythe blades, the blades glinting in the torch-light. The children writhed away; the woman felt her long hair flow behind her as she lurched over the bed, raising her hands to protect her children. The men in the doorway had not seen her husband, who stood at the side of the room; masked in shadows from the door ajar, he quickly reached into the chest and withdrew a carpentry axe.
The woman saw him and screeched, "NO!", but he leapt before the men, axe coming down hard; one of the men in the doorway shouted, stumbling back, shoulder erupting with blood; the torch fell to the floor, the flames catching the wood; the man ripped the axe from the Gaul's shoulder just as the other Gaul brought his scythe blade right across his throat; the husband flew backwards, blood spraying all over the wall; he dropped the axe into the wood and careened back into the flames crawling over the doorframe. The woman fell off the bed, world a daze; the wounded Gaul groped at his shoulder, cursing in his native language; the other Gaul stared at his friend lying on the floor, blood seeping from a shattered shoulder blade.
The children ran to their father, ignoring the flames; the woman curled into a fetal position, sobbing; the Gaul on the floor said something hideous to his partner, and the other Gaul turned and approached the children. The woman looked up, tears blurring her vision; she made out the little girls grabbing at their father's pant legs, oblivious to the gaping slit gouging his throat and turning his chest dark red. She then saw the other soldier raise his bloodied scythe blade and she yelled, "No! Please!" But he ignored her, bringing the blade down upon one of the girls; the little girl screamed and collapsed atop of her father; the man continued to strike her, tearing her back into ribbons, flinging blood all over the room; the woman sobbed harder, unable to breathe, so hopeless and destitute.
The second girl clawed at the soldier, yelling at him to stop. He smacked her away, hurling her to the ground; she lay on her back, began to get up, but he stomped his shoe into her neck, breaking her esophagus. She crawled upon the floor, choking to death, world graying all around her. The woman summoned courage and jumped over the bed, grabbing at her choking daughter; the soldier
laughed, and the fallen one in the other room joined. The woman locked eyes with her suffocating six-year-old daughter, the eyes paling, face turning blue; she gripped her mother, making choking noises, and the woman sobbed, screamed into her hair. The soldiers were laughing, the one wiping his bloodied blade upon his green pants.
The little girl went limp, then stiff, and rage filled the woman's eyes; she laid her girl upon the ground, climbed to her feet, using the side of the bed as a stool. The flames were slowly taking over the corner of the room, the heat sweltering, smoke gathering at the ceiling. She lurched at the standing soldier, but he just bodily shoved her into the wall. She slid down, and noticed the axe handle resting at her finger-tips; she picked it up, swinging madly at the soldier; he easily dodged her blow and threw her to the bed.
She landed hard on her back, and when she looked up, she saw him above her, then he was on top of her, breathing hard down her neck, his sweat dropping onto her skin. She screamed and hollered but nothing came out; she felt him moving on top of her; he was inside her, and it hurt worse than anything she'd ever felt before, and she tried to forget it all, tried to leave, but all she knew for an eternity was the murderer of her family ravaging her again and again as her beloveds' corpses lay about the room and fire engulfed the house of her childhood.
III
eight years later
The memories continue to haunt her. Any claim she had on innocence became nothing that night; bits and pieces, the memories were, but she could fuse them together into a horrific masterpiece of the night that forever altered the course of her life. These were not just memories that came when she closed her eyes; an ungodly scent, a certain sound, shades of light upon the window-sill. The memories came, triggered by an uncanny flood. One moment she could be smiling, and the next she could see herself embracing her suffocating child; one moment she would be eating with her family, and the next she would see the blood on the walls; one moment she would be working out in the garden, engulfed in flowers, and then her head would hurt, she'd feel hot, and the current world would be forgotten for one where she was thrown outside of her house, bleeding
from her vagina, watching her house with her family burn to the ground. She did not live in the same town, but whenever she looked upon the cottages aligned on the village streets, she could still hear the cries of the men and women and children slain because they took care of fleeing Roman soldiers. The Gauls had torn through like a cyclone, ripping the roofs off everyone's lives. No day would be bright for her; never again. The worst memories came when her husband tried to pleasure her, tried to hold her and kiss her; then his sweetness would be transformed into that abominable creature who had kissed and sucked and bruised and cut her so many times that night. She would pull away from her husband and cry in the corner; he would try to comfort her, but he didn't understand. All he knew what that she had been taken advantage of long ago, and that in the next room over the boy slept.
She pitied herself for being unable to fully love her son. For whenever she looked at him, the memories and feelings flooded. She loved him deep down, this she knew; but sometimes it was hard for her to kiss him goodnight or sit across the table from him. She would look into his sparkling young eyes and see the eyes of the animal who had abused her; sometimes she would have to leave the table, torn apart by her own dislike for the child, and she'd tell herself how she was such a horrible, dirty person; but her thoughts spelled out, "He is the bastard-child: he is not your own." These thoughts nearly drove her off the edge, to insanity and suicide; somehow she was able to keep a tight grip on herself, and smiled and put on a charming persona as he grew up. Her new husband did not resent her, and he loved the child even more than she. This made her glad – the child now had a parent who truly loved him. This comfort drove her to the brink of suicide again, and if not her the love of her son and husband, she would've probably driven the knife into her stomach.
When he was just eight years old, the boy's father, the one whom he loved so much, suddenly disappeared. He asked his mom where Daddy had gone off to, and she told him that he had to go serve Rome. He knew what this meant. Many of the men in the colony had gone; he learned riders from the distant city had come to the frontier to round up men to serve in the armies. When he was nine years old, working the land as his father had, the Roman Army passed through. He did not know it at the time, but he was witnessing a famous advance of Roman manpower into the heart of Gaul for yet another offensive – one to eventually be known as a tragedy. A month passed before the Army marched in the other direction, the numbers greatly reduced. The woman prepared to flee, but was told
there was nothing to worry about; the Gauls were entrenched in their city, the King at their head, and they were not foolish enough to pursue. She went against her judgment and remained, asking for word of her husband. All she received were shaking heads. After an hour of marching through town, the Roman Army disappeared from the village, and for several weeks she was alone.
One night she was awakened by her son tugging at the bed sheets, saying, "Someone's at the door, Mommy!" Her heart crawled into her throat and she lunged through the small cottage, groping at the door, imagining his smiling face, lavender eyes, the beautiful laughter. Yet she opened it not to her husband, but three Roman soldiers standing in the rain, helmets crooked on their heads. One of them stepped forward, knelt before her; she looked beyond them, saw three horses tied to the fence-posts, manes and hides dripping with rainwater. Lightning traced the sky and thunder shook the cottage as the man handed her something large; she accepted it, her son hiding behind her, looking at the strange men in interesting clothing. She took it, a ball threading her throat, and when she turned, the boy saw she held a Roman shield, the calfskin over the plywood torn in places with deep groove marks, the edges of the tears stained a crimson red. The three men before the door retreated to their horses, mounted, and disappeared in a rolling suave of thunder.
The boy stood in the shadows, watching as his mother fell into a chair beside the kitchen, gripping the shield against her chest. She breathed deeply, the shield moving up and down atop of her, and then she bowed her head, long hair falling around her; her chest heaved harder and tears speckled the calfskin, mixing with the raindrops that had soaked it on its passage to its true home. She ran her hands over the calfskin and let the shield slide to her feet, hitting the floor, and falling over. The young boy stared at it, disbelieving, knowing what it meant. His mother looked at the shield and cried in a hoarse whisper, "I told you to come home with this shield or upon it… And yet you are nowhere to be found." She imagined him lying amidst a pile of burnt bones covered with dirt, or as a bare skeleton lost amidst the towering trees of the Gallic forests. The thought of never seeing him again sent her to the floor, where she lay the rest of the night, crying; and the boy never made a sound.
IV
nine years later
She put the shield in a closet and locked it tight, sliding a chair against the door; the boy had seen her put it in, and saw something else, but wasn't able to see it completely before the door shut. She did not speak to her son for many days, but lay in bed, just staring out the window, listening to the birds in the trees and letting weeds overtake the garden. Her son summoned the courage and crept into his mother's room, discovering her bed-laden; he was hungry, eating food out of the garden but not knowing how to go into the town square and barter for food. He asked her, "What happened to Daddy?" She looked at him with blood-shot eyes, and seeing his tender face, she resolved to never let him become like her: torn apart, stripped of everything beautiful, left as waste on the fringes of the Roman Republic. He may have been a bastard-child, but he was still hers; she determined he would become someone some day, not condemned to be a farmer under the threat of war for all of his life. He noticed alien laughter in her eyes as she said, "Your father died a heroic death fighting the Gauls. The barbarians raid our villages and taunt Rome's borders. He was called to defend not Rome, but us, and he did it bravely. We must honor him." She decided she would honor him not by constantly mourning yet another lover falling to the enemy's blade, but by raising their son – and she was convinced it was his son as much as it was hers – to become someone known, someone respected, even – dare she say it? – someone admired. She pulled herself from that bed that day and got on with her life, raising him for nine more years, allowing him to grow into a wonderful seventeen-year-old boy who worked the farm without complaining, fixed meals when his mother was sick, and played with the village children when he had nothing else to do.
The mother even knelt before the idols of her ancestors and prayed every morning and every night, "Avenge what has happened to me. Bring joy into my life. Make my son become someone whom the world looks up to. Make him become someone great, someone important. Don't let him waste his life here; I cannot offer him anything. He may be the son of a barbaric sadist, but he is my son as well, he is your descendant. Show the enemy that not even they can put a hold on him." She feared the ancestors would not grant her request because her son's blood had been stained with Gallic ancestry as well. Every now and then she wondered what would've happened had the tables been turned; what would've happened had he been born into a Gallic family and raised in a Gallic
tribe to become a Gallic warrior. She imagined him raiding the Roman colonies, settlements, villages and towns, and it sent shivers running through her.
The boy could not ignore the closet covered by a chair. Every morning he awoke and every night he crept back to sleep, the closet stared at him on his way to his bedroom, drawing him, speaking to him; yes, even whispering his name. The temptation grew stronger and stronger, and eventually his dreams filled with its opening. He imagined swinging it wide and discovering wonderful treasures, or even finding a horrific corpse; the corpse of his father his mother spoke of only every once in a while. A frightening nightmare it was, moving that closet, opening that door, and seeing a pile of pale bones, rotted flesh and tattered clothes leaning against the wall, empty eye sockets and gaping mouth looking straight at him. He awoke with sweat pouring down his face, only the bare morning light and sounds of the birds comforting him. That moment he knew he had to open the closet, had to discover what lurked inside; and his hours spent toiling in the fields and helping his mother around the house filled with his mind's contemplations, scheming a plan to open that closet when his mother would not discover him. He expressed this unworldly draw to his girlfriend, who said, "Some things aren't meant to be messed with. Everyone knows your mother has had a rough life, coming into this town all broken down as she was with you in her belly. Your father was the only one who sustained her, and now it is you. She is a fragile woman. Don't go screwing things up." He promised her he would not, and they kissed in an orchard surrounded by flowers blown by the spring breeze.
The time came; his mother went off to the town square to barter for goods they needed around the house, goods they weren't able to make themselves: eggs and milk and a pastry desert one of the town's women supposedly concocted the night before. He watched her disappear around a bend in the road, left the harvesting scythe in the ground, and entered the house. He stood before the closet for what seemed a thousand centuries, his heart pounding. He felt cold all over despite the warm spring heat, and he kept trying to make himself start opening the closet. He felt bad for himself – he'd come all this way and now here he stood, unable to move. His arms suddenly worked and he was sliding the chair across the floor, out of the way of the closet. A group of spiders scattered amidst a sheet of dust, and he grabbed the cold doorknob, twisting. It creaked and groaned. He looked to the outside to make sure his mother was not coming, and seeing that the road was clear except for birds landing and pecking at insects, he opened the door wide, stepping back.
His father's shield lay propped against the wall. The rest of the closet was bare. And something else hid behind the shield.
He took the shield, felt the worn calfskin; he had never touched his father's shield, and it sent electricity through him. My father's shield. The shield he carried into battle and the shield he held close to him as he died. He imagined it lying across his father somewhere in the outback of Gaul, his father slowly dying, thinking of his one and only son. The boy took several short breaths and moved the shield out of the way, propping it against the opposite wall. He looked down. The chest was scorched black, as dark as night. He thought it was a peculiar wood, then realized it was burnt wood. He knelt down beside it, ran his hand over its side, turned his palm over; charcoal streaks covered his skin. He wiped it on his pants and opened the lid; dust blew into his eyes. He blinked it away and peered into the dark recesses of the chest. Only two items lay inside: a knife with a crooked blade and a wood-chopping axe. He didn't know whether he felt elated or depressed; no treasure and no corpse. He picked up the axe, spying it out, and felt something indescribable birth within him; just at the touch of an axe! He then noticed the edge of the axe blade had been speckled with dried blood. A million questions surged through him and he just stared at the axe. Why had his mother hid these away? What memories would they deduce? What horrors lie entangled in their web of secrets?
The sound of feet at the front of the house writhed him around. He jumped to his own feet, the axe handle dangling from his hands. He stepped around the closet door, nearly knocking over the chair he'd scooted out of the way. His mother stood in the doorway, her baskets of market-place goods dropped to the floor. All the color drained from her face; he walked around the door, and her eyes fell to his hands, the axe.
He didn't know what to think when she abruptly turned and stormed out of the house, running to the road; he threw the axe down onto the kitchen table and sprinted after her, blowing into the warm spring air. Grasshoppers grazed his leg as he ran; his mother ran in a zigzag pattern; she collapsed onto the road, landing in a cloud of dust, tears streaming down her face. He fell down next to her, bruising his legs. He wrapped his arms around her and embraced her, squeezing her close to him. She sobbed into his shoulder and he stared down the road, the town square in the center. Birds took off from the trees, flying overhead; a man driving two cattle and riding in a wagon rolled past, eyeing the son and mother suspiciously, but saying nothing.
She pulled away, looking at him through blood-stained eyes, dark lines drawn over her face. "He is not your father," she croaked, swallowing hard. She gripped his arms so tight that her fingers left red marks, fingernails digging into the skin. "He is not your father-"
The boy asked, "Who is not my father?"
Dust clung to her tears, masking her face. "He is not your father-" "Mother," he said, voice desperate, "what are you saying?"
She looked down between her knees. "I am so sorry for the way I've treated you. All these years, treating you like you're second rate. When you picked up that axe, I saw the fire in your eyes. That axe was meant for you." She stared at him. His eyes spoke of mystery. She said, "You are my bastard-child. You were not conceived by a man who loved me and left me. You were conceived by…" She closed her eyes, seeing it all again, that horrendous night. Her face began to warm as if the flames were close. Eyes still closed, she said, mustering all her strength, "You are the son to a Gallic tribesman who raped me and killed my first family – killed my husband, my two daughters, and burned down our home." She looked up at him; he fell back, landing hard in the dust, feeling weightless and yet deadweight at the same time. "Do not think I do not love you. I never thought I could, not until now-" Now she embraced him, squeezing him to her breast. She whispered in his ear, "You picked up that axe, and I knew you could never be a savage. I know now what is in your heart: you do not belong to those who killed the man you've always called your father. You belong to the gods. I dare say you have even been conceived by the gods, brought up to bring life to people everywhere."
He wrenched away, weak. "No. No, it's impossible. I can't-" He waved north towards the Gallic territories many, many miles away. "No."
"Your heritage is Rome. You have been conceived in the womb of a virgin."
He stood, ran a hand through his hair, looked down at her upon the ground. "What am I to do?"
She wiped dust-laden tears from her face. "I cannot dictate your destiny." "Mother," he demanded, "what would you have me do?"
She bit her lip, and something new thrived within her, a glow emanating from her entire being that washed over him. "You know what you have to do. I can see it in your eyes. When you picked up that axe, you felt – complete. The gods and our ancestors have designed you and brought you up. The moment you touched that axe, you knew what you had to do." She glared at him. "Now do it."
V
Hours had passed. Part of him did not want to believe it; another part knew it had been true all along. He had never felt completely right about claiming Roman heritage, and part of him had sympathized with the Gauls. Now, however, he absolutely hated the Gauls. He hated them for what they had done to his mother. He hated them for what they had done to his adopted father. He wished his father had killed the savage who had impregnated his mother. This thought consoled him. His mother told you, "The moment you touched that axe, you knew what you had to do." But the simple truth was that, No, he hadn't. He'd looked at her and nodded his head but he hadn't the faintest clue of what he was to do. So he kissed his mother, entered the house, picked the axe up off the floor, and balanced it between his hands. He spied the blood again and dared to ask: "Where did it come from?"
His mother behind him replied, "With that axe my first husband struck one of the barbarians who entered our home. It is perhaps this axe that conceived you – for if my first husband had not struck the tribesman, perhaps I would not have been raped. Perhaps my children…" Her eyes watered, for a mother never forgets her children, no matter the years that pass. Time heals no wounds. "Perhaps my children would still be alive. It is simply remarkable that anything good came from it – you, Son, are the Good."
He ran his hand over the axe blade; it was dull, not sharp at all. Blood flaked on his fingers; a chill rippled through him. The day of his conception blood stained this axe. He looked away from his mother, out the window, across the wheat fields and to the dense forest to the north. The Gauls lay that way. "I'm sorry… I have to leave…" She excused him, completely understanding, and he left the house, taking the axe with him.
The sun was warm upon his back and he let his legs carry him, his mind elsewhere; first he passed through the town, ignoring making eye contact; the fields went by, his free hand brushing the heads of wheat; he stepped over brambles and entered the thick Gallic forest, maneuvering thorn traps and giant trees. He had traveled this land a lot, especially as a younger kid, with his adopted father. He knew it by heart. He stumbled into a clearing, a quiet brook running at his feet. The water spun around polished rocks and broke in small waterfalls;
sunlight poured through the broken tree-tops and sparkled like stained glass upon the rolling water.
He knelt down, placing the axe in the water. He grimaced, let the frigid water ran over his hand, turning his fingers to ice. Minnows scattered between the rocks and a crayfish tail appeared for a moment before completely disappearing. He pulled the axe out of the water; the blood was beginning to come off. He dunked it within again, scrubbing the flat edges of the blade with his thumb; the blood flaked off in the water and vanished. He raised the axe before him, freezing water dripping into the brook. The blade was clean, the rugged iron tasting water for the first time in many years over a decade. He sat against a tree and closed his eyes, holding the axe in his hand, listening to the brook, the birds above. The sunlight grew dimmer and dimmer, masking the forest. He did not care. Questions bombarded him from every conceivable direction, but none so potent as one that rang over and over: What am I to do?
Shadows clung to the forest when his eyes opened. The axe had fallen to the ground; sunlight no longer danced off the gurgling brook. He grabbed the axe and stood, feeling so cold. He looked up to the sky, saw the stars shining so bold and bright. He turned and began walking through the forest, retracing his steps. The birds were silent; the only noise was that of his own footfalls and the questions regurgitating in the night: What am I to do? As he walked, he became aware of another sound; at first he thought it was just his imagination, but he told himself to stop, free his mind, and listen. The noise did not diminish. He walked faster; the noise grew louder. The sound was clear and unmistakable: mourning. He gripped the axe handle hard and raced through the forest, spinning past trees and leaping fall logs. More than once he nearly tripped over thick foliage; as he neared the edge of the forest, the mourning grew more varied and extreme; it was not a single incident: it sounded as if the entire town were mourning. The trees peeled back and he was hit with a bright light: he stumbled out into the field, axe dangling from his hand; his young eyes scaled the town before him.
Half the buildings were engulfed in flames, the street crowded with men and women and children. Dark shapes were being carried onto the street from houses burning and treasured possessions were being pulled from the houses. His throat knotted and he sprinted across the field; the heat illumined the fields and the edges of the forest. Some people saw him and pointed; some men ran towards him; they were carrying harvesting scythes. He called out, "What happened?"
The men relaxed and slowed before him. Their faces were stained dark charcoal. "They came this evening. A whole band of them. Maybe fifty, sixty-" "Who?" the boy demanded, looking between them.
One of them, a quiet fellow who owned a winery, mused, "Who do you think?" The boy tore between them and raced into the town. A building collapsed, blowing embers into the street; dust caked everything from the implosion. The boy coughed, eyes burning from the dust. Embers landed in his hair and upon his skin, singeing. He did not care. He looked between all the familiar faces. Everyone in the colony knew one another; most frontier settlements were close- knit. Women huddled with their children, crying hard; the kids wiped their eyes and cried or just looked around, not understanding. Men moved about in confusion, trying to figure out what they should do. "Get out of the street," was the most upstanding advice. Through the blinding dust, the boy could see that the dark shapes were bodies; most had been slashed at the throat, others stabbed repeatedly. He even witnessed one woman whose head had been banged in. He turned away from the carnage and grabbed someone, anyone, demanding to know why these people had been killed. It looked so random.
A woman said, holding her two little boys close, "They went through all the homes… Anyone who had anything on their person or in their home sporting patriotism for Rome was killed on the spot… They didn't care whose it belonged to… All the members of the household were killed… The fathers and mothers, even the children, down to the dogs and slaves…" One of her kids started crying and she knelt down, whispering, stroking his hair.
The boy moved away through the town, looking at the hollow faces, the empty stares; he saw the dark bodies, most overturned to hide the faces. The heat from the burning buildings roasted him. He looked down at the axe in his hand. If he hadn't fallen asleep… Anger welled within him.
Then fear. He took off down the road, erupting from the smog of the burning town. The firelight reached for nearly a quarter of a mile until it evaporated completely. He continued to run, legs burning, passing the thick wheat fields, the heads swaying back and forth in a cool spring breeze. He rounded a corner and was hit with a burst of light; the homestead was completely ablaze, crimson flames reaching to the high, offering a thick column of smoke as heavenly incense. His legs turned to rubber and he nearly collapsed as he ran. The axe slid from his fingers, landing on the dirt road. He reached the wooden fence and ran around it; flames gutted the front door, coughing – no, roaring – outward. He
could not enter. He fell to his knees, staring at the house, let the tears cascade down his face, an unending torrent of untouchable grief.
There is something moving to his left. He turns his head and sees her. She is lying in the grass, the firelight dancing over her face; he instantly crawled over to her, leaning over her. He looks her in the eyes first, then looks down; blood covers her stomach in several places where she'd been repeatedly stabbed. She raised a feeble hand, muscles in her arm quivering; he took her hand, didn't say anything. She just looked at him, eyes filling with emptiness, and he knew why this had happened. He knew he'd opened the closet, he knew they'd found the shield; they did not hesitate to throw his mother from the house and stab her over and over, leave her for dead, then go on their way. Now she opened her mouth as if to speak, but nothing came out. Her mouth did not close. He leaned over her, kissed her cold cheek, and wept.
VII
His arms moved without the consent of his mind; his mind had departed, disappeared, secluded itself in a hole and become an infantile recluse. He did not think, didn't even become aware of his own movements. He was completely cut- off, altogether numb. No more did the birds singing in the trees bring him joy, and no more did the sunlight upon his face draw laughter from the depths of his soul. All he knew was dark, bitter darkness. He grabbed a shovel from the woodshed and dug a hole, dug till noon, the sun beating high overhead, sending sweat in great goblets poking from his skin. He did not drink or eat, yet unattached from all senses, he found a way to go on. He picked his mother up, having wrapped her in a canvas from the shed, and lay her inside the pit. He sat on the edge of the grave, legs dangling, staring north into the sinister forests. How long he looked upon those dense woods and colossal trees, he couldn't know.
He looked down at his mother wrapped in the sheet, drew a grave breath, said, "I just don't know what to do. I don't know anything. You're right – I did feel something when I picked up that axe, but the emotion didn't light up the path I am meant to take. There are no revelations, no bright flashes of forethought. I don't have any idea what I am here for – except I know I cannot stay here. No." He eyed the charred remnants of his home. "I don't have anything here for me."
He said nothing more, crawled up from the edge of the grave, filled it with the rest of the dirt. His arms shook in exhaustion, and he went into the field, stripping
wheat off the stems and shoving it down his mouth, swallowing it fast. He made his way back to the grave, setting a rock at the head of the fresh dirt; he left the axe on the ground and began his walk into town, driven by a hunger slowly taking over his bones.
The town had been abandoned. Smoke continued to rise from charred-out homes, but the bodies that had littered the street and all those who had survived disappeared. He poked his head inside the remaining buildings, looking for life, but was noticed only by a dog walking around with its tail between its legs. He entered the town square, eyeing the carts laden with vegetables and fruits, olives and lamb. The lamb was covered with flies and much of the vegetables and fruit were rotting to the core. These things had lost importance.
He walked through the town square, and though he did see anything, he heard it. He followed the sound, walking between several huts and crossing two alleys before he arrived at the gated field. He stood at the wooden fence and just watched as several dozen villagers gathered together, holding hands; some stood off to the side, quiet, contemplating. Two little girls rocked on their hindquarters, sobbing with no one to comfort them. The throngs dissolved and people started walking past, quiet and sullen, not looking him in the eye. He went against them, and came upon the seventeen fresh graves. At the head of each was a piece of jewelry or a lock of hair, some memory of the lost, held down by smooth stones fished from a nearby stream.
He looked at the graves, trying to discover who they were, when his blood went colder than parched ice. He did not believe it, could not believe it; at one of the graves in the middle, held underneath a rock, was a single necklace. He had seen that necklace a thousand times. He had kissed the neck whom it adorned; he had held it in his hands as she laughed, his breath tickling her chest. He fell down beside it, running his hand over the silver-coated bronze, disbelieving. He looked at the mound of soil, and imagined her beneath it-
A hand touched his shoulder. He spun around, saw an older gentleman standing there. The man said, "Her father fought against them in the first Gallic war. They still had his sword."
He looked into the man's placid eyes, looked away, unable to bear it. "She had nothing to do-"
"Nothing to do with them, I know. Remember, they do not care. They are brutal creatures."
He wrapped his hand around the necklace. "She was the most beautiful woman to ever set her feet in this cursed land. What kind of men can take such… beauty? What kind of men can-" He froze. "Oh no…"
The man gripped his shoulder tight. "They did not. They didn't have time. Be thankful for that."
He closed his eyes, then ripped the necklace out from under the rock, the chain dangling between his fingers. "I cannot be thankful. I can never be thankful for… this." He stood, shadow falling over the grace. He felt the cold necklace scorching his sweat-drenched palm. "If only I would've been here, if only I wouldn't have been foolish enough to open that closet, if only I wouldn't have run off from the farm, if only I wouldn't have fallen asleep in the woods."
The wise old man spoke: "Don't blame yourself. You did not do this to them. You are not the kind of man who does this to innocent people. And tell me, what good would you have done if you were here? In your quick thinking – or lack thereof – you would've gotten yourself and maybe even others killed. There is nothing you could have done."
He turned, faced the man, his eyes alight. "You are wrong. If I would've been here, she would've lived. Mother would've lived. All these people would've lived."
"You aren't thinking straight. There were nearly fifty of them. Go home and get some sleep-"
"I have no home," he snarled. "I have nothing left for me here."
The sun was setting as he walked down the road, the charred farmhouse coming into view. A single sack hung from his shoulder, laden with all kinds of spoiled fruit and vegetables. Had the merchants not been giving out free food in remorse, he would've turned up empty-handed, for all he had were the clothes on his back, a necklace around his neck, a single hatchet and a beat-up ancient shield. He sat the sack beside his mother's grave, looked at that mound, turned away, retreated into the shadows. He drew up again, this time carrying something with him. He set the shield beside the grave and grabbed the axe; sitting down beside the shield, he used the last remnants of the spring light to examine the axe and examine his soul. He withdrew some potatoes, peeled one open with a small knife, and began to eat. The food went through him like hot soup and he could've sworn it was just as good. The nutrients saturated his stomach. He finished off the potato, licked his fingers, and stood.
"I know what I have to do now," he said to the grave. "If I don't do this… What kind of man am I? Who is a man but one who makes the world a better place? I don't know if I can make the world a better place, Mother. Such things are left to the politicians and the lucky. I am just a poor farm-boy. But I can try, Mother. My grandfather died against the Gauls, my father died against the Gauls, and now you and my girlfriend have died against the Gauls. They have destroyed everything that meant anything to me. How can I just try to get on with my life without doing something? What haunts me the most is what they did to you and your first family. It has invaded my memories, and I've been unable to dispel it. I believe the gods are weighing it upon my heart, the revelation and direction I've been seeking. Look what the Gauls did to you; they thought they got away with it. But they bred something much worse than they've ever fathomed. They might've gotten away with it with you, but I swear on my own family's blood that they're going to pay for what they've done to me."
The old man who had spoken the cryptic words to the boy at the cemetery heard the sound of horse's hooves and walked out the front door, fearing the worst. Others popped their heads out of their homes, still teary-eyed and splotched- cheeked from crying. Out of the shadows, in the pitch darkness – as the stars were blocked by gathering storm clouds – a single horseman appeared down the street; he carried a single Roman shield, and underneath the belt around his tunic rested a single wood-chopping axe. He carried a satchel around his front, resting it upon the horse's neck. He looked at the villagers as he passed; something unseen and hideous melted in his gaze.
The old man stepped out onto the road. "Boy, you can't do this."
The boy stopped the horse right in front of him. He said nothing, just looked at the man.
The man protested, "You aren't acting sensibly. Just get off this horse, come inside, get something to eat. You're just going to get yourself killed. You're just an eighteen year-old kid! You are not a warrior, even if you carry your father's shield!" The boy made no movement; the old man cursed under his breath, said, "You're just running off your emotions, and you're running off the edge of a cliff. Don't be blinded by your anger. Do not let it control you."
The boy spoke: "You are controlled more than I; controlled by fear. You are contemptuous."
Anger flared inside the man. "Tell me, Boy: what do you expect to do? Do you even know?"
The boy nodded. "Of course I know." He smiled, a smile that sent chills sprinting through the man. "I am going to kill every one of them."
VIII
All night he traveled, the horse panting; he did not run, only walked, knowing that the horse would falter under a run. He knew the Gauls were marching on foot, and would wind down, turn back – and run into him. He was not an arrogant boy; having nothing to live for, he had nothing to lose. He was certain that before the sun rose upon the thick trees drenching either side of the road, he would enter Elysium, walking into the hands of his mother and girlfriend. These thoughts met him and he slid asleep, dreaming nothing; and when he awoke the sun was high and the horse was dipping its head into a stream, lapping up water. He made sure he still held the shield; though his arm was numb, it was there; and the axe lay against his side. He ate some vegetables and pulled the horse away from the stream, gauged the time by the sun, and continued the journey.
Midmorning came and went; noon approached, and he smelt the scent of burned flesh and caught wisps of smoke in the air. The road turned, arching through a settlement where several buildings lay smothered and bodies were being lined up against the houses. Some men were arguing amongst themselves, some saying, "Let us take after them!" and others saying, "No! You are a fool for proposing such a suicidal plan!" As he rode through, he looked all those men in the eyes; some were strengthened, but the cowards were ashamed. They looked away, unable to meet his gaze, and he passed through the town, eyes scourging the orphaned and widowed. He did not experience the sorrow he had felt at home, only an inescapable, climbing hatred, an unfathomable gulf existing between any concept of love and the emotions burning within his heart. The settlement passed and once again he was alone.
The horse rested for a short time and he took a walk through the woods, admiring the flowers, wishing he had the heart so bend over, sniff them, remember better times. No; instead of enjoying the fruits of nature he returned to the horse, mounted, and ate as they made progress. Another settlement clasped in mourning drew nigh; he stopped the horse, asked an older woman, "How long ago did this happen?"
She wiped tears from her eyes. "Hours ago. They came through this morning…" He peered down the road. "They cannot be far."
"Please," the gentle woman pleaded, "do not pursue them. You will lose everything."
"Woman," he said slowly, "I already have." He kicked the horse in the side and they were off.
The woman watched him go, looked up to the gray skies, and prayed, Watch over him.
A steady rain fell that night. The dirt road turned to mud and he was forced to abandon the course; he tied the horse to a tree in the woods, raindrops plinking down around them. The thick canopy half-shielded them, and for this the boy was thankful. He kissed the horse, stroked its mane. "Sorry to get you into this," he whispered into its ear. One of its eyes rolled in the socket; the ear flinched as if a fly had landed upon it. "I don't know what will happen tomorrow." He felt a little foolish talking to the horse, but needed the company. "Whatever happens though, just know that I'm proud you were with me through it all." He wondered if he weren't going insane; pursuing a Gallic war-band of nearly fifty to one hundred soldiers and talking to a horse. He shook his head. No, he was not crazy. He knew exactly what he was doing. "A crazy man," he said to himself, "would be filled with the illusion that he would live through it all." He fingered the axe, leaned against a tree, listened to the rain and thunder and watched the forest illuminate under sparse flashes of lightning, and awaited the morning.
Mud covered the horse's hooves, making loud noises as they walked. The cloud still crawled with dark clouds, and once or twice they passed through low drizzles. Light filtered between the clouds, but only enough to turn the world into a dark and dreary place. He crested a hill, looked across a wide valley thick with trees; he stroked the horse's mane, staring at the rolling foothills spreading before him. He looked down and then looked up, his eyes drawn; in the distance there was a bright flash of light, followed by a ball of fire rising into the sky, choking smoke. He squinted, trying to make it out. Moments later, the muffled echoes of an explosion reached him, rippling through his chest, carving a hole; the horse shuddered, stomping its feet in the mud and shaking its head. The boy's heart spun within him. He whispered to the horse, "Today we die," and kicked it hard in
the hide. The trees of the valley immersed them and they disappeared under the thick-wooded canopies.
The road twisted and turned, and it felt like eons until they came upon the first sign of wicked destruction. A broken wagon lay to the side of the road, the cargo containers ripped open and gutted; the spokes on the wheels were snapped and one of the wheels had broken off; a man lay twisted upon the top of the wagon, eyes staring upwards; a giant red slash covered his abdomen, and flies spun webs around blood-soaked hands. A pair of oxen lay upon the road, guts split open and innards wrenched out. The horse recoiled, nearly throwing the boy off; he stared at the net of insects covering the corpses and kicked the horse harder. Blood had stopped flowing from the carcasses, and he feared his time was vanishing as quickly as the sun went down.
A gentle rain began to fall, sprinkling through the trees, splashing upon the muddied road. All was silent, except for the screaming. A single farmhouse stood alone against a quiet field, the barn going up in flames. The light danced through the trees, sawdust igniting as if it were crimson gunpowder. The three men looked on, helpless, held back by a spear and sword; another barbarian placed his spear against the wall of the house and grabbed the woman, throwing her down amidst several bales of wheat. Her shoulder-blades hit the ground and her arms stuck up between the bales; she cried out, tears choking her face, wet hair pressed down upon her scalp; the fetid creature pushed her down harder, grinning, sulfurous eyes shrieking an evil sonnet. His arms pinioned her to the ground and he licked her face, becoming hard over her struggles beneath him. The rain grew harder, a stiff mist seeming to raise from the ground, enshrouding the surrounding trees in a mystic white haze. The three men eyed each other, but knew they would do better to remain put. One of them stepped forward and caught a spear inches from his face; he stepped back, eyes smoldering, swearing vengeance – in this life or the next.
The Gaul upon the woman did not know he was there until the very last moments. A sound ruffled through the air, blasting his ears; he looked over his shoulder to see the horse lunging from the mist, a single rider carrying a shield in his right arm and an axe in the left. The Gaul lurched upwards to snatch his spear just as the horse rushed past; he screamed as an axe blade smashed into his back, piercing his spinal column and its accompanying cord; he pitched forward as the
rider ripped the axe from the back of his back, bringing out shreds of pulsating muscle and shattered bone. The man fell atop the hay bales, bleeding all over the place; the woman shrieked, frantically stood, and dove over the other hay bales, trying to hide herself from the sight.
The two guards heard their companion holler and turned; one of the prisoners shouted, "Amandus! Run!" She took off into the field, vanishing into the mist; the guards cursed; the rider rode towards them, bloodied axe tight in his hand. The Gauls glanced at one another; suddenly the prisoners jumped onto one of the men, knocking him down; the Gaul slashed his sword, the blade smearing a bloody streak over one of the man's legs; the man fell to the side, groping at his leg, blood pulsing between his fingers. The other Gaul turned, facing his spear at the men; he charged, driving the spear between the ribs of one of the commoners; the commoner spun around, and the downed Gaul leapt to his feet.
The horseman had wheeled around the lawn and was coming towards them; the Gauls shouted at one another; the one with the sword ran towards the horse, intent on bringing the rider down; the man with the bloodied leg lay sprawled in the grass, and the one with the impaled ribs gasped for breath, faltering against a lone tree. The spearman ignored the prisoners and chased after the horse as well.
The Gaul with the sword slashed at the boy, but his blade struck the side of the horse, drawing a bloody line; he had come onto the horse's right flank, so as to avoid being struck by the boy's sword, since his shield was on his right; but the boy just whipped the axe around, smashing the blunt end into the Gaul's face; the barbarian's nose smashed in and the front of the skull imploded; he fell into the grass, barely breathing. The spearman loomed before the horse; the boy gripped the axe, eyes afire and unthinking; the spearman stepped out of the way, thrusting the spear into the horse's neck; it pierced the flesh and stabbed out around the horse's mane, spewing blood all over the boy's front; the horse buckled over, throwing its rider; the boy lost his shield and axe and tumbled into the grass, rolling. The spearman yanked the spear out of the suffocating horse and ran towards the boy.
The boy leaned up on his elbows; the axe was at his fingertips; he grabbed it just as the man was upon him; the spear came down; the boy twisted his neck to the side, let the spearhead splash into the muddy earth beside his face. He spun the axe blade into the wooden spear shaft, snapping it in two; the Gaul fell forward, and the boy rammed his forehead into the Gaul's nose, breaking it open; the Gaul cursed in a foreign language, blood crawling down his chin; he stumbled
back, groping for the axe; the boy lurched to his feet, raised the axe. The Gaul with the bloodied face stared up at him, shaking empty hands, pleading in a language he did not understand; he made eye contact, and the Gaul knew then and there no hope would be found; he shrieked as the axe came upon his face, piercing the bone and impacting the brain. The boy fell away from the corpse, blood dripping from the axe.
Mother.
He hollered and unleashed, hurling the axe into the corpse over and over, until he was completely drenched in blood; he thought of nothing else, felt nothing else, experienced nothing else, save for a radical and unquenchable hate. Eventually he felt the eyes of a million souls upon him, and he looked up to see the winded commoners staring him down in disbelief. Their eyes drove through him; the blood-soaked axe fell from his hand and he collapsed onto the ground, eyes swimming; he just breathed, felt the rain upon him, blending with the blood. He listened to the birds, closed his eyes.
Mother.
She would never leave him.
One of the men croaked, "What have you done?"
The boy looked at the mutilated body at his feet. He felt no remorse – neither did he feel satisfaction.
The man who had remained uninjured approached. "What have you done-" He looked over at the man. "What you should have done."
He marched over to the boy, ripped him up, pointed to the man pierced in the ribs: he was wheezing against a tree, color fading; blood covered his side. "Because of what you've done, that man is going to die."
"Because of what I've done," the boy snarled, "one woman will be able to live." The man turned away, grabbing at his hair, staring at the three bodies and the body of the horse. "I can't believe this, I can't believe this." He turned and looked at the boy standing. "You know that when they don't show up with the rest of them, they're going to come around, find us, and kill us all!"
"No they won't," the boy promised. "Where did they go?" "South," he said. "Towards Aquae Sulis."
"How long ago?"
The man swore. "You're just going to get more people killed-"
"How long ago? My father was stationed at Aquae Sulis. There may still be a military regiment there. By the looks of it no one is hurrying ahead to warn them,
so I guess I'll do it. Let me tell you what will happen: the Gauls will strike any military at Aquae Sulis in the dead of night, slaughtering them all. They are not strategists, they are not mercenaries, they are blood-hungry sadists. They will march deeper and deeper into Rome until they are all killed. So we either do it here and now or we let more innocent men, women and children fall because of our cowardice. I must ride ahead to Aquae Sulis and warn the militia stationed there – and if there is none, I shall warn all the residents to flee with haste deeper into Rome." He looked at the man. "I am sorry for those who fell here. They will be remembered, I swear it. But I ask of you not only forgiveness, but for your help: ride with me. We will go to Aquae Sulis together."
The man paused. "My sons are hurt, and my wife is missing. I cannot go."
Cowards. "My horse has fallen," the boy said. "May I borrow one of yours?" IX
Evening doused the town in pallid light; torches burned on the corners, and the aroma of the butchery pervaded the entire settlement. Aquae Sulis was a larger town; the town square was constantly the place for discussion on politics, the most in-style gossip, a place to find someone fresh, young and willing, and a bartering quarter for finding anything you needed. Over forty homes ringed the town square; children played in the surrounding fields, drawn into their homes by mothers calling their names. Several older men tossed dice under the torch-light. A great wooden building housed one hundred sixty Roman soldiers, mostly young boys handed a semi-rectangular shield, a spear, and told to guard the frontier. Any illusions of heroism were quickly smashed to pieces: the soldier's life was one of monotonously walking the streets, sweating under the heavy armor, counting the days until they were allowed to return to Rome, toss in their arms, and get on with life. As dusk grew deeper, the guard shift changed; some soldiers went to eat, others crawled into bed, others decided to play some games in the fields, and the guards patrolled the nearby roads and paced through the town streets.
Upon one of the roads, several soldiers heard the quick approach of a horse. They stepped into the middle of the street, torches lowered; the horse came to a stop before them. The soldiers looked up under their round helmets, saw the haggard boy covered in desiccated blood, an axe hanging from his belt, a Roman shield on his arm. The soldiers looked at one another, searching for an explanation; before any words were said, the boy spoke: "Is this Aquae Sulis?"
His voice dripped with fatigue, and he barely held on to the reigns; his muscles shivered in the cold sprinkle of spring rain.
"Yes," one of the soldiers said. "Who are you? Why do you carry one of our shields?"
He ignored him. "I need to speak with the commanding officer. Can you take me to him?"
"No," a youthful-looking boy said. "Tell us who you are." He gave them his name. "Can I pass now? It is urgent." "Are you a Roman soldier?"
"No." Then, "But my father was."
"Then we can't let you talk to the commander. He is asleep. In the morning-" "In the morning," the boy hissed, "we will all be dead!"
One of the soldiers lowered his spear, pointing it at the boy's throat. "What are you saying?"
"Do you not see the blood upon me? I swear it to you: the Gauls are coming!"
The commander awoke groggily, rubbing his eyes. A soldier stood above him. His eyes groped in the darkness; he muttered, "It'd better be important."
"There is a man here to see you, sir," the soldier said. "He needs to talk with you immediately."
He laid his head back on the pillow, closing his eyes. It felt so good… "In the morning-"
"He says there is no time. It is urgent, sir."
The commander rolled over on his bed. "It can wait. You are dismissed."
The soldier did not move. He swallowed hard, the tension causing sweat to crease his brow. "Commander," he said, "the boy who is here, he is from a village a several day's ride north of here. He has ridden hard to come to us, and I don't think it is professional to leave him waiting. He has some very important news for you, sir. He is adamant that it cannot wait; and if I thought he were just some impatient fool, sir, I would tell him to shut up and sleep in the barracks, wait till morning – like you said. But sir, there is something about him… Something that just-"
"Why are you still talking?" the commander growled, getting up. "Get out of here. I'll be with him shortly. And I swear you will be pulling double-shifts for screwing up my sleep like this. It is simply unacceptable, and I don't care what he has to say."
The commander's jaw had dropped. He felt all potency leave him. "How many?" "Maybe a hundred," the boy said. "Maybe fifty. Who knows?"
"And they are coming here?"
"They were headed this direction last I saw them," the boy said. He didn't say that he hadn't actually seen them, but was simply acting on tips. He stepped forward, face illuminating in the brilliant torch-light in the wooden building whose walls creaked in the wind and rain. "They have been killing anyone with ties of devotion to Rome. If you have a Roman insignia on your shirt, or a journal describing your times with the Roman Army, or even just a relic sword or shield…" He paused. "Then they will kill you and your entire household. And they burn the buildings down." His voice doused. "They killed my mother and my girlfriend. If they had not hurt me so, I would not have ridden so hard. But deep emotions can drive a man to unbelievable acts."
The commander looked to some of the soldiers surrounding him. "If what this boy says is true, the Gallic war-band will be marching into our town to kill us in our sleep. Perhaps they plan on blocking the doors to the barracks and burning them down. Thank the gods this man has come to us. Forgive me, Aulus, for being so snappy with you. I am putting you in charge of setting the ambush. I will let these Gauls come to me – and we will slaughter all who refuse surrender. What is the time? Nearing midnight. They will be here soon. Aulus, set the trap – it's the plan Titus came up with. Tell him today is his night!" The commander's eyes sang. "Gallic blood shall drench our swords."
The soldiers scattered away. The boy stepped up to the commander. "Give me a sword."
The commander looked him in the eye. "Have you been trained?"
A pause. "No. But I killed three Gauls on my way here. They were about to rape a woman-"
"I am sorry. I am thankful for your warning, but I cannot give you a sword. I do not want your blood on my hands, especially after you have awarded me with this treasure of knowledge. I ask that you stay out of the way. Stay out of danger."
The boy protested. "These men took the life of my mother because my father served in the Second Gallic War. They took the life of my girlfriend because her father did the same. You have no vitality in human emotions if you think I am content to step this one out." His voice drew quick, pulsated with passion. "I want to be the first to strike them, I want to lead the charge."
The commander smiled. "Rome needs more boys like you. And for this reason, I must deny it."
The boy shook his head, bewildered.
"Instead you shall be given a place of honor. Ride beside me. You will be witness to a historical ambush. Titus designed it. The Gauls will either bow down to you – or be destroyed."
X
No stars shone, hidden by broad rain clouds sluggishly carving their path over the carpet of trees and snaking streams. A steady rain, so monotonous as to be forgotten until one ventured outside, trickled between the trees and bent the stalks of budding wheat in the plaid fields. If one were not looking for them, they would not be seen. After many days' marching, fueled by sacked food and pressed on by promises of glorious praise, the Gauls had managed to move without much noise, passing out of the forest and moving through the fields, spread out, eyes intent upon the quiet and quiescent town: Aquae Sulis. The darkness hid their numbers, but had one had the eyes to see, they would've been witness to ninety-eight barbarians making their way past the first houses on the fringe of the town: one- story, wood-and-mud huts. The windows were shut and doors locked. The Gauls did not stop, bore towards the center of town.
Most traveled without shirts, far more comfortable in the balmy and rainy weather being bare-chested rather than having itchy and rain-drenched clothes clinging to their skin. Their pants had all but woven into their legs; the pants looked black in the night, but were in truth a mottled green, some with scarlet stripes running down the side; they were held onto the waist by a single rawhide belt. Feral tresses fell across their faces, malicious eyes staring forward, glowing in the shadows; in one hand many held a crude spear or a rusted sword; some carried shields and others did not. Those who carried shields bore ones that looked like an elongated oval, green in the center with a metallic boss, painted crimson on the outside; others held close to them circular, knobbed shields painted olive to blend into the trees in which they lived. Most had inherited their shields from their fathers or grandfathers; others had made them days before the expedition, often resulting in them being undeveloped and fragile. Most did not carry shields with them; they had not met any real resistance, and the plan for the night was simple: burn down all the sleeping Romans and then ransack the
village, butchering everyone for allowing Roman troops to reside within the town walls.
None of the soldiers noticed there were no Roman guards on patrol, but it did not faze them. No Gallic warriors had crossed Rome's borders for years, not since the Second Gallic War. Why would there be any change this night? Vice sneers crossed their faces and their bodies felt frosty with acidic exhilaration. Muscles quivered and shook in expectation. Drool ran down their faces, blending with the rain, at the thought of the rape and murder. Had the clouds dissipated and the moon come out, the moon itself would've turned its radiant face from the murderous creatures sulking up the main road to the town square, shoulders hunched and eyes crazed with lust.
No one moved or breathed within the town. The only sound was that of the rain falling on the streets, on the timber fences, plinking off the edges of the simple woodland cottages. And the pitch darkness – their eyes tried to see, tried to make sense of it, but the shadows enveloped everything in a black mist. They continued their mystical trek up the central road snaking into the town square.
The ninety-eight soldiers jumped as the sides of the road exploded upwards in a towering wall of flame. Their eyes burned with the brilliant light; muscles went limp in surprise; a shield dropped to the ground. The cavernous flames coughed upwards to the inky sky, disintegrating the rain daring enough to touch its scourging flames. Their shocked faces illuminated in the light, and they all turned their backs to one another, staring into the shrieking fire. Two walls of parallel flames ran on either side of them, stretching the length of the entire road.
At the end of the road, splashed against the edge of the town square, three horses trotted into view. The nearest Gaul was twenty feet away; the riders upon the horses were dressed in armor and shield, spears in their hands; one carried an axe. Horsehair helmets rose upon the crests of their helmets, shadows draping over their blood-famished eyes. The Gauls looked up at them in astonishment; the soldier with the axe defiantly said, "Throw down your spears, swords and shields. Bow down before our horses and surrender yourself to Rome." He leaned forward on the horse, the firelight enlightening the boyish face. "Surrender – or die."
The Gauls exchanged looks with one another, then audacity ran through them. Three mere horsemen would not faze the bravery of the Gallic tribesmen. They gripped their lances and held their shields close, mocking the horsemen with their eyes. The nearest Gaul twenty feet away yelled something indistinguishable to his companions and charged, the fire flashing by on either side of him. The other
Gauls echoed the cry and pursued; one of the riders raised his sword into the air, the horse rearing back and screeching.
The fire at the sides exploded into the street, dozens upon dozens up Roman soldiers throwing themselves through the flames and into the streets, thrusting their spears into the frightened Gauls, blocking the Gauls' attacks with their rectangular shields. Gauls bordering the flames fell, impaled and losing blood, crying out; other Gauls tried to attack with their spears and swords; spears snapped upon the Roman shields, and the Romans used their shields to block the infantile sword hacks. The Roman spears often broke in the soft bare-chests of the Gauls, and the Romans drew diminutive daggers to thrust into the enemy's faces and hearts. Bodies collapsed to the ground, writhing and rolling in blood gushing from wrecked flesh.
The Gaul nearest the cavalry issued an epic battle cry and charged the horses with his spear. The horses did not falter nor did the Roman riders flinch; the sides of the horses awoke with dozens of Roman soldiers leaping before the cavalry, bearing their shields, thrusting spears into the body of the valiant Gaul. The Gaul screamed as his spear fell from his hand and his shield fell into the muddy earth; six or seven sword-tips pierced the wet skin, breaking and passing through ribs, shattering his internal organs. He coughed up blood and his eyes went ghostly white as the Romans withdrew their bloodied spears; the body fell into the mud, blood staining in the rain; some of the spears had even poked from his back, leaving holes gurgling blood.
Some Gauls tried to flee, but the end of the road was blocked off by nearly thirty Romans holding their shields ahead of them, spear tips pointed outwards, forming an impregnable wall. The Gauls twisted and turned as the Romans on the left and right stood over the bodies and formed their own walls with spears pointed at the twenty-odd remaining Gauls.
The Gauls looked in every direction, saw they were completely surrounded. Their hearts pounded in their chests, eyes going to their companions lying bleeding and dead on the street. The flames from tar-drenched pits continued to roar, turning the cold night into a sweltering inferno. The light from the flames danced off the tips of the Roman spears and sparkled the sweat upon the Gauls' chests.
The rider with the axe spoke from behind a wall of shields and spears: "Throw down your weapons and surrender. Do this or every one of you will die."