Title: Strength & Honor, Prompt 9 - Daring Enterprise, Gladiator, FRM
Title: The Gods Must Have a Sense of Humor - Part 1: Strength & Honor
Fandom: Sylum/Gladiator
Characters: Maximus/Quintus
Prompt: 9 - Daring Enterprise
Word Count: 2886
Rating: FRM
Warning: Bad language, violence, bloodshed, death all the typical Ancient Roman type stuff.
Disclaimer: Don’t own the characters, really wish I did. ‘Gladiator’ belongs to Universal and to Dreamworks and a lot of other people with more lawyers than I can count so I’m not making any money in this (more’s the pity) just exercising my creative muses. Sylum Clan and the Sylumverse belongs to Bj Jones and I am honored to be playing in her universe.
Beta: Janet (Sylum’s Dr. Frasier)
Author’s Notes: While this may at first appear to be nothing more than a novelisation of the film, it will soon look different.
THIS IS SYLUM CANON AS APPROVED BY BJ JONES.
THIS IS ALSO THE FIRST FIC IN ‘THE PROTECTOR OF ROME’ SERIES.
Notes #2: Quintus does not have a family name in the film so for the purposes of this fic and for Sylum Canon he will be known as Quintus Fabius Tacitus, a Patrician of the family Tacitii. Also Maximus has a wife and son who are not named so for the purpose of this fic and for Sylum Canon his wife will known as Elena, and his son as Alejandro Aurelius. This fic also introduces the patriarch of the Meridii, father of Maximus - Vitus Crescentius Meridius.
AT THE HEIGHT OF ITS POWER, THE ROMAN EMPIRE WAS VAST, STRETCHING FROM THE DESERTS OF AFRICA TO THE BORDERS OF NORTHERN ENGLAND.
OVER ONE QUARTER OF THE WORLD’S POPULATION LIVED AND DIED UNDER THE RULE OF THE CAESARS.
IN THE WINTER OF 180 A.D. EMPEROR MARCUS AURELIUS’ TWELVE-YEAR CAMPAIGN AGAINST THE BARBARIAN TRIBES IN GERMANIA WAS DRAWING TO AN END.
ONE FINAL STRONGHOLD STANDS IN THE WAY OF ROMAN VICTORY AND THE PROMISE OF PEACE THROUGHOUT THE EMPIRE.
* * * * * * * *
Maximus walked amongst the wheat. He ran his hand over the ears, breathing in the rich, inviting smell of home. It was almost time. The wheat stood tall. Another month perhaps, maybe less, and the harvest would be gathered. Somewhere in the distance he could hear his son laughing and so inviting was the sound, so warm the sun upon his face, he felt the peace that comes only from truly being where the soul belongs.
His family was waiting to welcome him. Up ahead on the path he could see Elena shielding her eyes, and Alejandro at her side, eager to race on ahead and meet him. His father would have killed the finest calf to roast in celebration at his safe return, and soon the Villa would ring to the sound of music and feasting.
It would be no ordinary day when General Meridius came home...
But the vision did not last and in a moment’s passing he left the pleasant comfort of Spain for the cold, dark dampness of Germania.
Amidst the mud and charred remains of what had once been lush green forest, the armor-suited General stood cloaked in a heavy wolf-fur cape that kept him passably warm against the winter chill. He had been contemplating the battle that would soon take place and imagining where he would be when it was done. He had one last duty to perform and maybe then, when the glory of the Empire was secure, he could at last go to his family.
Turning to join his troops, a small robin caught his eye; the bright redness of its breast a brilliant contrast to the blackened land around him. It seemed to gaze upon him curiously before flying away from the bare and lifeless twig on which it had found perch and Maximus smiled at that tiny glimmer of life as it soared up across the sky. He would bring death to the enemies of Rome this day, but it had not always been so. His life had been peaceful and innocent once; as innocent as the unknowing robin who graced this battlefield with its presence.
Remembrance of time past was but a fleeing thing. The reality of this new dawn was for a cold, hard day, and the soldiers awaiting his orders.
As the Cavalry rode past him, the legions were lining up in ranks. He walked amongst them, letting the men see their General; letting them see he was not afraid, that he stood tall and strong and worthy of the Eagle. Each man rose as he approached, looking on him with respectful admiration, and he in turn would stop to offer a strong hand, a firm smile and a nod of encouragement to all who needed it.
At the top of the hill overlooking the entire field, sat Marcus Aurelius, Caesar, Emperor of Rome, attired in the regal blue of his most auspicious standing; accompanied by two trusted Senators and safely surrounded by the Praetorian Guard. His horse stomped a hoof against the hard packed soil as if in anticipation of the coming storm.
Maximus approached his most trusted officers.
Quintus Fabius Tacitus, Legate of the Felix Legion, was his closest and oldest friend. A veteran who bore the scars of many battles long since past, and a cold hard eye when it came to the precision of his troops; his five years in command were at least a decade over, and he ought since then to have used the power of his Patrician bloodline and the victories he had accrued, to further the typical political ambitions and expectations of his father. He had made his name and done his family great honor, and yet he stayed at the side of the one soldier he most respected, and chose to serve the man whose own career he had watched develop from a scrawny boy in the lowest ranks, to that of Rome’s greatest General.
Despite fate intervening eight years before, Maximus had never wavered in his duty of service to Rome and to Caesar.
Beside Quintus stood the Camp Prefect. Valerius was a grizzled soldier with a fierce and steady heart. He had been Chief Centurion of the Legion for many years, and now was at the summit of a soldier’s career. His integrity and vast experience were unquestioned. To him would fall command of the Legion should the Legate be injured or killed.
Neither of which Maximus would ever wish for his old comrade in arms. And yet war was a bloody business. Each man knew it; as they knew and trusted each other in what was to come.
Quintus was quiet, grim and stony of face.
“Lean and hungry,” Maximus said firmly, proud of his men. “Still nothing?”
“Not a sign.” Quintus had stood watching the front lines in person rather than risk the delay of a messenger on foot.
“How long as he been gone?”
“Nearly two hours.”
A rider had gone out to offer terms. It was the custom of Marcus Aurelius to give those who stood against him a chance to avoid spilling blood and do so in honorable circumstances.
It took a brave man to ride into the Barbarian stronghold they now faced.
“Will they fight sir?” Valerius asked. He too had stared long and hard into the dark, forbidding forest where the enemy was camped.
“We shall know soon enough,” Maximus replied.
The Legate glared over his General’s shoulder, sharp eyes watching the preparations. “Soldier! I ordered you to move those catapults forward, they’re out of range.”
“Range is good,” the General assured him.
Quintus wasn’t so sure. “The danger to the cavalry...”
“...is acceptable. Agreed?”
But before Quintus could say another word, the distant screams and curses of the Barbarians reached them on the still, cold air.
“Ihr seid hunde!”
A white horse galloped out toward them; a headless rider on its back, arms bound behind him, tied onto the saddle.
Maximus took a deep breath. “They say no.”
Eyes wild with terror and the stench of death, the bloodied beast galloped headlong into the Roman ranks, desperate to be rid of its awful rider.
The Master of Horse quickly lunged for its reins.
A bearded giant, seeming to the Romans more animal than man, dressed in the dark furs typical of his people, stepped out to the forefront of the Barbarian throng, waving the horseman’s crudely severed head in one hand, and a long handled axe in the other.
“Ihr seid verfluchte hunde!” he cried, tossing his prize down into the mud as the cry was taken up by his brothers and they emerged as one from the forest, waving spears and banging on their shields in defiance.
They were ready to fight. They were willing to die.
“People should know when they’re conquered,” the Legate muttered sourly.
Maximus looked keenly at his friend. “Would you, Quintus? Would I?”
He bent down, placing the fingers of one hand on the soil before picking up a handful of dirt, rubbing it into his palm and inhaling the smell of the earth on which he would shed blood, on which he might himself die. It settled his spirit, calmed his heart, focused his mind.
His Wolf of Rome sat watching, eagerly awaiting his master.
Their gaze met, each communicating silently with the other until Maximus rose and his horse was brought forward. With a boost onto the animal’s back from his groom, the General turned to Quintus and Valerius.
“Strength and honor.”
“Strength and honor,” they intoned, the familiar invocation as much a comfort to their own souls and to each other’s.
“At my signal, unleash hell,” and with that Maximus rode away to where his Mounted Contingent were waiting for their commander.
The Wolf broke free of its handler and charged after the General, running alongside his horse, eager for the battle and the thrill of the fight.
Quintus watched them go and turned to the Chief Centurion, Commander of the First Cohort. “Load the catapults; infantry form up for advance, archers ready.”
His orders were repeated swiftly through the ranks and he could hear the Chief Archer and his Centurions.
“Archers!”
“Nock!”
“Nock!”
How well he knew those voices and the men behind them.
Maximus rode up into the forest where his Calvary was ready; one hundred and twenty men divided into four squadrons.
All the while his faithful Wolf ran closely at his side, never straying.
“Fratres!” He called to his brothers and the horsemen gathered around him.
“Maximus! Maximus!” They cried his name in adoration and as a mark of their very great respect for the man who would lead them into battle.
“Three weeks from now, I will be harvesting my crops. Imagine where you will be and it will be so. Hold the line, stay with me. If you find yourself alone, riding in green fields with the sun on your face, do not be troubled! For you are in Elysium, and you’re already dead!!”
They laughed and cheered in agreement with his words as they listened to his rallying cry, each one of them willing to follow him into death if that was what it took for the glory of Rome.
“Brothers,” the General continued, “what we do in life, echoes in eternity.”
The Decurion at his side handed Maximus his helmet.
It was time.
He drew his sword and signaled the Contingent.
With a single nod to the waiting archer, a flaming arrow was carefully lit.
It soared high into the dull gray skies.
Unleash hell.
“Cohorts ready sir!” the Chief Centurion told the Legate.
And still the Barbarians roared their defiance and spat their hatred for the Romans.
“Pull! Pull!” The Centurion commanding Onager urged his men to greater effort.
Quintus slipped his helmet on, pulling it down tight around his ears. He was watching, waiting.
The moment had come.
Flames were lit in the tar soaked trenches that had been dug just in front of the archers.
Their Chief took his lead from Quintus. “Archers, ignite!”
“Ignite!” And arrows licked up the fire, each nocked and set to fly.
“Archers,” their Chief held his hand up to signal the bowsmen, his eyes never leaving the Legate. “Draw!”
The Centurion commanding Onager also took his cue without hesitation. “Loose!”
Scorpoins fired, Onagers sprang back in recoil, flaming arrows swept a carpet of fire over the Roman Legions.
“Archers, draw!”
And a second wave of arrows let fly.
The Barbarians roared.
Some fell amidst the raining fire, hot tar licking through the trees, sticking to everything it touched. Still others were run through and fell in tangled masses, their bodies riddled with arrows and spears thrown by mighty Roman siege engines.
Maximus led the thundering Cavalry down on them through the trees. “Hold the line!”
“Make ready.” Valerius kept one eye on his men on and one on the enemy.
The Felix Legion advanced.
Their enemy let loose a hail of arrows and as one the Roman soldiers were stooping into tortoise formation, their shields locked above and around them. Each missile launched at them did no more than thud loudly against the power of the advancing War Machine.
The Barbarians charged.
“Stay with me! Stay with me!” Maximus cried above the din of the horses and the crash of frontline meeting frontline as men went hand to hand in battle.
He saw his Wolf leap bravely through a wall of advancing flames.
The Cavalry reached the Barbarian horde.
“Roma Victa!” Maximus spurred his horse into the fight, as his men took up the shout.
The attack was fast and vicious.
And for Maximus the world suddenly shrank to no more than the next man in front of him.
Sword in hand, he cut a swathe through the enemy, charging at a Barbarian, slicing his head clean off as his blade was itself impaled in a tree.
But he was prepared. He carried another. And he reached for it one swift lunge, seeming to the glancing eye as though he had not lost the first, so much did the blade fit snugly in his hand.
A lance thrust out, tangling in his mount’s pounding hooves, and the horse stumbled forward sending him headlong into the mud amongst the foot soldiers. He blinked. Helmet gone, he was stunned by the fall but as a Barbarian came at him with an axe poised to strike, he fought back and parried each thrust, lashing out, cutting his enemy’s legs from under him. The bastard collapsed and yet another charged the General before he could stand.
Maximus rolled away from the oncoming sword that sought to gut him like a fish. He punched and kicked at the Barbarian, finally stabbing him, slicing through him with one blow.
Climbing to his feet, still stabbing at his wounded foe, he ran on into the thick of it, colliding with a startled Legionary. Thinking him another Barbarian he turned and the Legionary stood, jaw agape in shock at the sight of his General, sword raised, face contorted in a feral scream.
Just in time, Maximus recognized one of his own men and the scream became a fierce, determined smile.
The giant Warlord who led the Barbarian tribesmen in this final stand against the invaders, lashed out at all who came near, his mace cracking bones, breaking ribs, shattering skulls. He finished off a Legionary who got too close, but before he could recover another rushed him and then another, each stabbing at him as though bringing down a huge bear that stood ready to split them in two.
The mighty giant stumbled forward but would not fall. Another solider struck him from the opposite side and another from behind. Yet still he would not fall until a vicious thrust from above swept downward through his neck and finally felled him as he was buried under a pile of surging bodies.
The Romans swept onward.
Horses fell and screamed in pain as they were struck, or shied back from the flames and were cut down as they charged.
Maximus punched at an ugly Barbarian who got in his way, before slashing him across the chest. Another one screamed just behind him. Startled, he turned to see a wild man, clothes and chain mail ablaze, charging down on him with an axe. Maximus parried the first swing but was knocked down. The Barbarian raised his weapon again for the killing blow and a charging Cavalryman galloped by with a well met and timely swing of his sword. The Barbarian fell. Maximus let out the breath he had been holding.
Another Barbarian, seeing the General saved, thought to take his chances, but was stopped in midswing by the Wolf of Rome who gave a nasty growl and leapt at him, biting his hand; powerful jaws ripped at his skin, clamping firmly into the bone.
Beast snarled at beast.
All seemed as chaos. Soldiers ran. They wrestled with their enemy. The Wolf still growled and fed itself on fresh Barbarian meat.
The fever of battle was all that Maximus heard and felt. Blood surged through his veins. His heart pounded in ears. There was neither the will nor the space for fear. At times such as this he was truly alive, his darker spirits set free upon the world; his vision startlingly clear, his blade deadly and strong.
The Standards of the Felix Legion, each thrust firmly into Barbarian soil seemed to watch over the men who fought within their shadow.
Dead and unhelmed, a Cavalryman fell from his horse. A Legionary bent to stab at a fallen tribesman but was himself cut down. Wounded men screamed as they bled into the dark, Germanian earth.
Maximus stabbed at the last man who had failed to best him and looked around for the next man to take on. He gasped for breath. But there were no more left to fight.
Standing with a fellow soldier they gathered themselves, shoulder to shoulder, there between the Standards.
The battle was over.
Legionaries wandered the bloody field, slaying those wounded amongst their foe, tending their own, calling for the surgeons and for water.
The day was won.
Maximus took a deep breath, tasting blood, still smelling fire in his nostrils and smoke in his throat.
He raised his sword. “Roma Victa!”
The soldiers too, all raised their own swords to cheer the day, rallying to their General.
Standing there amongst the dead and dying, surrounded by his men, bloodied, worn, exhausted, Maximus cried out again so all should hear.
“Roma Victa!!”
And at the top of the hill, Caesar slowly closed his eyes, offering a silent prayer to Mars, the God of War as his noble head fell back in relief at the sound of victory. Challenge Chart
Fandom: Sylum/Gladiator
Characters: Maximus/Quintus
Prompt: 9 - Daring Enterprise
Word Count: 2886
Rating: FRM
Warning: Bad language, violence, bloodshed, death all the typical Ancient Roman type stuff.
Disclaimer: Don’t own the characters, really wish I did. ‘Gladiator’ belongs to Universal and to Dreamworks and a lot of other people with more lawyers than I can count so I’m not making any money in this (more’s the pity) just exercising my creative muses. Sylum Clan and the Sylumverse belongs to Bj Jones and I am honored to be playing in her universe.
Beta: Janet (Sylum’s Dr. Frasier)
Author’s Notes: While this may at first appear to be nothing more than a novelisation of the film, it will soon look different.
THIS IS SYLUM CANON AS APPROVED BY BJ JONES.
THIS IS ALSO THE FIRST FIC IN ‘THE PROTECTOR OF ROME’ SERIES.
Notes #2: Quintus does not have a family name in the film so for the purposes of this fic and for Sylum Canon he will be known as Quintus Fabius Tacitus, a Patrician of the family Tacitii. Also Maximus has a wife and son who are not named so for the purpose of this fic and for Sylum Canon his wife will known as Elena, and his son as Alejandro Aurelius. This fic also introduces the patriarch of the Meridii, father of Maximus - Vitus Crescentius Meridius.
AT THE HEIGHT OF ITS POWER, THE ROMAN EMPIRE WAS VAST, STRETCHING FROM THE DESERTS OF AFRICA TO THE BORDERS OF NORTHERN ENGLAND.
OVER ONE QUARTER OF THE WORLD’S POPULATION LIVED AND DIED UNDER THE RULE OF THE CAESARS.
IN THE WINTER OF 180 A.D. EMPEROR MARCUS AURELIUS’ TWELVE-YEAR CAMPAIGN AGAINST THE BARBARIAN TRIBES IN GERMANIA WAS DRAWING TO AN END.
ONE FINAL STRONGHOLD STANDS IN THE WAY OF ROMAN VICTORY AND THE PROMISE OF PEACE THROUGHOUT THE EMPIRE.
* * * * * * * *
Maximus walked amongst the wheat. He ran his hand over the ears, breathing in the rich, inviting smell of home. It was almost time. The wheat stood tall. Another month perhaps, maybe less, and the harvest would be gathered. Somewhere in the distance he could hear his son laughing and so inviting was the sound, so warm the sun upon his face, he felt the peace that comes only from truly being where the soul belongs.
His family was waiting to welcome him. Up ahead on the path he could see Elena shielding her eyes, and Alejandro at her side, eager to race on ahead and meet him. His father would have killed the finest calf to roast in celebration at his safe return, and soon the Villa would ring to the sound of music and feasting.
It would be no ordinary day when General Meridius came home...
But the vision did not last and in a moment’s passing he left the pleasant comfort of Spain for the cold, dark dampness of Germania.
Amidst the mud and charred remains of what had once been lush green forest, the armor-suited General stood cloaked in a heavy wolf-fur cape that kept him passably warm against the winter chill. He had been contemplating the battle that would soon take place and imagining where he would be when it was done. He had one last duty to perform and maybe then, when the glory of the Empire was secure, he could at last go to his family.
Turning to join his troops, a small robin caught his eye; the bright redness of its breast a brilliant contrast to the blackened land around him. It seemed to gaze upon him curiously before flying away from the bare and lifeless twig on which it had found perch and Maximus smiled at that tiny glimmer of life as it soared up across the sky. He would bring death to the enemies of Rome this day, but it had not always been so. His life had been peaceful and innocent once; as innocent as the unknowing robin who graced this battlefield with its presence.
Remembrance of time past was but a fleeing thing. The reality of this new dawn was for a cold, hard day, and the soldiers awaiting his orders.
As the Cavalry rode past him, the legions were lining up in ranks. He walked amongst them, letting the men see their General; letting them see he was not afraid, that he stood tall and strong and worthy of the Eagle. Each man rose as he approached, looking on him with respectful admiration, and he in turn would stop to offer a strong hand, a firm smile and a nod of encouragement to all who needed it.
At the top of the hill overlooking the entire field, sat Marcus Aurelius, Caesar, Emperor of Rome, attired in the regal blue of his most auspicious standing; accompanied by two trusted Senators and safely surrounded by the Praetorian Guard. His horse stomped a hoof against the hard packed soil as if in anticipation of the coming storm.
Maximus approached his most trusted officers.
Quintus Fabius Tacitus, Legate of the Felix Legion, was his closest and oldest friend. A veteran who bore the scars of many battles long since past, and a cold hard eye when it came to the precision of his troops; his five years in command were at least a decade over, and he ought since then to have used the power of his Patrician bloodline and the victories he had accrued, to further the typical political ambitions and expectations of his father. He had made his name and done his family great honor, and yet he stayed at the side of the one soldier he most respected, and chose to serve the man whose own career he had watched develop from a scrawny boy in the lowest ranks, to that of Rome’s greatest General.
Despite fate intervening eight years before, Maximus had never wavered in his duty of service to Rome and to Caesar.
Beside Quintus stood the Camp Prefect. Valerius was a grizzled soldier with a fierce and steady heart. He had been Chief Centurion of the Legion for many years, and now was at the summit of a soldier’s career. His integrity and vast experience were unquestioned. To him would fall command of the Legion should the Legate be injured or killed.
Neither of which Maximus would ever wish for his old comrade in arms. And yet war was a bloody business. Each man knew it; as they knew and trusted each other in what was to come.
Quintus was quiet, grim and stony of face.
“Lean and hungry,” Maximus said firmly, proud of his men. “Still nothing?”
“Not a sign.” Quintus had stood watching the front lines in person rather than risk the delay of a messenger on foot.
“How long as he been gone?”
“Nearly two hours.”
A rider had gone out to offer terms. It was the custom of Marcus Aurelius to give those who stood against him a chance to avoid spilling blood and do so in honorable circumstances.
It took a brave man to ride into the Barbarian stronghold they now faced.
“Will they fight sir?” Valerius asked. He too had stared long and hard into the dark, forbidding forest where the enemy was camped.
“We shall know soon enough,” Maximus replied.
The Legate glared over his General’s shoulder, sharp eyes watching the preparations. “Soldier! I ordered you to move those catapults forward, they’re out of range.”
“Range is good,” the General assured him.
Quintus wasn’t so sure. “The danger to the cavalry...”
“...is acceptable. Agreed?”
But before Quintus could say another word, the distant screams and curses of the Barbarians reached them on the still, cold air.
“Ihr seid hunde!”
A white horse galloped out toward them; a headless rider on its back, arms bound behind him, tied onto the saddle.
Maximus took a deep breath. “They say no.”
Eyes wild with terror and the stench of death, the bloodied beast galloped headlong into the Roman ranks, desperate to be rid of its awful rider.
The Master of Horse quickly lunged for its reins.
A bearded giant, seeming to the Romans more animal than man, dressed in the dark furs typical of his people, stepped out to the forefront of the Barbarian throng, waving the horseman’s crudely severed head in one hand, and a long handled axe in the other.
“Ihr seid verfluchte hunde!” he cried, tossing his prize down into the mud as the cry was taken up by his brothers and they emerged as one from the forest, waving spears and banging on their shields in defiance.
They were ready to fight. They were willing to die.
“People should know when they’re conquered,” the Legate muttered sourly.
Maximus looked keenly at his friend. “Would you, Quintus? Would I?”
He bent down, placing the fingers of one hand on the soil before picking up a handful of dirt, rubbing it into his palm and inhaling the smell of the earth on which he would shed blood, on which he might himself die. It settled his spirit, calmed his heart, focused his mind.
His Wolf of Rome sat watching, eagerly awaiting his master.
Their gaze met, each communicating silently with the other until Maximus rose and his horse was brought forward. With a boost onto the animal’s back from his groom, the General turned to Quintus and Valerius.
“Strength and honor.”
“Strength and honor,” they intoned, the familiar invocation as much a comfort to their own souls and to each other’s.
“At my signal, unleash hell,” and with that Maximus rode away to where his Mounted Contingent were waiting for their commander.
The Wolf broke free of its handler and charged after the General, running alongside his horse, eager for the battle and the thrill of the fight.
Quintus watched them go and turned to the Chief Centurion, Commander of the First Cohort. “Load the catapults; infantry form up for advance, archers ready.”
His orders were repeated swiftly through the ranks and he could hear the Chief Archer and his Centurions.
“Archers!”
“Nock!”
“Nock!”
How well he knew those voices and the men behind them.
Maximus rode up into the forest where his Calvary was ready; one hundred and twenty men divided into four squadrons.
All the while his faithful Wolf ran closely at his side, never straying.
“Fratres!” He called to his brothers and the horsemen gathered around him.
“Maximus! Maximus!” They cried his name in adoration and as a mark of their very great respect for the man who would lead them into battle.
“Three weeks from now, I will be harvesting my crops. Imagine where you will be and it will be so. Hold the line, stay with me. If you find yourself alone, riding in green fields with the sun on your face, do not be troubled! For you are in Elysium, and you’re already dead!!”
They laughed and cheered in agreement with his words as they listened to his rallying cry, each one of them willing to follow him into death if that was what it took for the glory of Rome.
“Brothers,” the General continued, “what we do in life, echoes in eternity.”
The Decurion at his side handed Maximus his helmet.
It was time.
He drew his sword and signaled the Contingent.
With a single nod to the waiting archer, a flaming arrow was carefully lit.
It soared high into the dull gray skies.
Unleash hell.
“Cohorts ready sir!” the Chief Centurion told the Legate.
And still the Barbarians roared their defiance and spat their hatred for the Romans.
“Pull! Pull!” The Centurion commanding Onager urged his men to greater effort.
Quintus slipped his helmet on, pulling it down tight around his ears. He was watching, waiting.
The moment had come.
Flames were lit in the tar soaked trenches that had been dug just in front of the archers.
Their Chief took his lead from Quintus. “Archers, ignite!”
“Ignite!” And arrows licked up the fire, each nocked and set to fly.
“Archers,” their Chief held his hand up to signal the bowsmen, his eyes never leaving the Legate. “Draw!”
The Centurion commanding Onager also took his cue without hesitation. “Loose!”
Scorpoins fired, Onagers sprang back in recoil, flaming arrows swept a carpet of fire over the Roman Legions.
“Archers, draw!”
And a second wave of arrows let fly.
The Barbarians roared.
Some fell amidst the raining fire, hot tar licking through the trees, sticking to everything it touched. Still others were run through and fell in tangled masses, their bodies riddled with arrows and spears thrown by mighty Roman siege engines.
Maximus led the thundering Cavalry down on them through the trees. “Hold the line!”
“Make ready.” Valerius kept one eye on his men on and one on the enemy.
The Felix Legion advanced.
Their enemy let loose a hail of arrows and as one the Roman soldiers were stooping into tortoise formation, their shields locked above and around them. Each missile launched at them did no more than thud loudly against the power of the advancing War Machine.
The Barbarians charged.
“Stay with me! Stay with me!” Maximus cried above the din of the horses and the crash of frontline meeting frontline as men went hand to hand in battle.
He saw his Wolf leap bravely through a wall of advancing flames.
The Cavalry reached the Barbarian horde.
“Roma Victa!” Maximus spurred his horse into the fight, as his men took up the shout.
The attack was fast and vicious.
And for Maximus the world suddenly shrank to no more than the next man in front of him.
Sword in hand, he cut a swathe through the enemy, charging at a Barbarian, slicing his head clean off as his blade was itself impaled in a tree.
But he was prepared. He carried another. And he reached for it one swift lunge, seeming to the glancing eye as though he had not lost the first, so much did the blade fit snugly in his hand.
A lance thrust out, tangling in his mount’s pounding hooves, and the horse stumbled forward sending him headlong into the mud amongst the foot soldiers. He blinked. Helmet gone, he was stunned by the fall but as a Barbarian came at him with an axe poised to strike, he fought back and parried each thrust, lashing out, cutting his enemy’s legs from under him. The bastard collapsed and yet another charged the General before he could stand.
Maximus rolled away from the oncoming sword that sought to gut him like a fish. He punched and kicked at the Barbarian, finally stabbing him, slicing through him with one blow.
Climbing to his feet, still stabbing at his wounded foe, he ran on into the thick of it, colliding with a startled Legionary. Thinking him another Barbarian he turned and the Legionary stood, jaw agape in shock at the sight of his General, sword raised, face contorted in a feral scream.
Just in time, Maximus recognized one of his own men and the scream became a fierce, determined smile.
The giant Warlord who led the Barbarian tribesmen in this final stand against the invaders, lashed out at all who came near, his mace cracking bones, breaking ribs, shattering skulls. He finished off a Legionary who got too close, but before he could recover another rushed him and then another, each stabbing at him as though bringing down a huge bear that stood ready to split them in two.
The mighty giant stumbled forward but would not fall. Another solider struck him from the opposite side and another from behind. Yet still he would not fall until a vicious thrust from above swept downward through his neck and finally felled him as he was buried under a pile of surging bodies.
The Romans swept onward.
Horses fell and screamed in pain as they were struck, or shied back from the flames and were cut down as they charged.
Maximus punched at an ugly Barbarian who got in his way, before slashing him across the chest. Another one screamed just behind him. Startled, he turned to see a wild man, clothes and chain mail ablaze, charging down on him with an axe. Maximus parried the first swing but was knocked down. The Barbarian raised his weapon again for the killing blow and a charging Cavalryman galloped by with a well met and timely swing of his sword. The Barbarian fell. Maximus let out the breath he had been holding.
Another Barbarian, seeing the General saved, thought to take his chances, but was stopped in midswing by the Wolf of Rome who gave a nasty growl and leapt at him, biting his hand; powerful jaws ripped at his skin, clamping firmly into the bone.
Beast snarled at beast.
All seemed as chaos. Soldiers ran. They wrestled with their enemy. The Wolf still growled and fed itself on fresh Barbarian meat.
The fever of battle was all that Maximus heard and felt. Blood surged through his veins. His heart pounded in ears. There was neither the will nor the space for fear. At times such as this he was truly alive, his darker spirits set free upon the world; his vision startlingly clear, his blade deadly and strong.
The Standards of the Felix Legion, each thrust firmly into Barbarian soil seemed to watch over the men who fought within their shadow.
Dead and unhelmed, a Cavalryman fell from his horse. A Legionary bent to stab at a fallen tribesman but was himself cut down. Wounded men screamed as they bled into the dark, Germanian earth.
Maximus stabbed at the last man who had failed to best him and looked around for the next man to take on. He gasped for breath. But there were no more left to fight.
Standing with a fellow soldier they gathered themselves, shoulder to shoulder, there between the Standards.
The battle was over.
Legionaries wandered the bloody field, slaying those wounded amongst their foe, tending their own, calling for the surgeons and for water.
The day was won.
Maximus took a deep breath, tasting blood, still smelling fire in his nostrils and smoke in his throat.
He raised his sword. “Roma Victa!”
The soldiers too, all raised their own swords to cheer the day, rallying to their General.
Standing there amongst the dead and dying, surrounded by his men, bloodied, worn, exhausted, Maximus cried out again so all should hear.
“Roma Victa!!”
And at the top of the hill, Caesar slowly closed his eyes, offering a silent prayer to Mars, the God of War as his noble head fell back in relief at the sound of victory. Challenge Chart