Chapter 1
Sweat and blood filled the air. How many hours has it been? His arms were heavy from holding his shield up, but he could not rest, for his and his brothers’ sake. The desert heat is bad enough by itself, but combined with the heat that comes from being in close formation, it felt like hell itself had descended on them. He positioned his head away from the sunlight, in the shadow of the shields. While normally he didn’t mind the harsh sun, today sunlight meant death. The enemy’s arrows would find their way through the gaps of sunlight in the tesitudo and find their target. Then there was the sand to contend with. Sudden gusts of wind would pick up and drop waves upon waves of sand on them, getting everywhere and flooding their armor. It irritated every inch of him. Filling his eyes, ears, and sinking into his armor. More and more sand came down on them. He glanced down to hide his face from any arrow that may find its way through the gaps. The sand had risen, past his ankles and half way up his calves. He turned to his brother on his right. “Gaius we have to get out of here and break the encirclement before it’s too late. They’ll slaughter us like lambs.” Gaius turned his head. “They already have, and you’ve abandoned us.” Two arrows had found Gaius’s eyes. Blood dripped from where his eyes had been down his cheeks. Terrified he threw down his shield and leaped out of the formation and fell down face first into a small mound of sand. He crawled backwards away from Gaius, the sand had blinded his eyes and filled his mouth. But everything had gone silent. No sounds of horses in the distance, nor sounds of arrows whistling through the air and hitting shields. No cries from wounded brothers, just complete deadly silence. He shook his head, spit out the sand, and looked back at his brothers. There was nothing but death. All his brothers had fallen. Arrows stuck up from their corpses and the sand had gone red with blood. Panic and shock took hold of him. He scurried to his feet, and was about to flee, when he backed up into a horse. “Crassus” he murmured to himself in fear. Crassus said nothing and stared at his cowardly solider. To his terror molten gold oozed down Crassus’ head, burning his flesh. His unflinching golden eyes would not let him escape. He found himself frozen with fear, unable to breathe, unable to move a muscle. Crassus slowly unsheathed his golden sword and raised it above his head. This was the end. Death had come for him. Jupiter himself could not save him. The sword fell upon him.
“Marcus, forgive me, but we have visitors.” Marcus awoke in a sweat, coming back to the present that faced him. Crassus was dead, and so was most who had been his Roman brethren. But he was alive. He had survived the long trek east that killed half of the survivors, and endured the humiliation of seeing being the defeated enemy on display. Five years had passed, yet he still dreams of that day. It had been ten years and they were hundreds if not thousands of leagues away from where the battle was, yet Crassus and the dead had followed him to haunt him. “They’ve come with a bag of gold and have asked to see you.” Flavius said smiling. “I’ll be with them shortly.” Flavius left the tent to allow his superior to prepare himself. If truth be told, the Gods had blessed Marcus with the second in command in a world far away from home. His tongue takes to new languages as easy as it takes to wine, though good wine has been impossible to find out here. He knew a score of tongues and acted as the legion’s translator for all negotiations. Sometimes though Marcus wondered how much better off they would be if he Flavius had learned to occasionally hold his tongue rather than insult those who paid them.
He wore his armor that had accompanied him for years, but had darkened from wear. His helm was that of another centurion who had died from disease or fatigue on the mark east. His then captors had made him pick it up and wear it himself so all of Pathia could see how the magnificent Romans were defeated. At first he was not too keen on wearing it, but Flavius explained that the warlords and minor kings were highly amused by the exotic helms of the Westermen and tended to pay more. It also reminded Marcus that he was still a Roman Centurion. He left his tent to greet the three men on horseback, one of whom had fairer skin than the rest. He spoke looking Marcus in the eye. His language was different from the locals he had encountered. It sounded more civilized, more refined, more… Greek?
Sweat and blood filled the air. How many hours has it been? His arms were heavy from holding his shield up, but he could not rest, for his and his brothers’ sake. The desert heat is bad enough by itself, but combined with the heat that comes from being in close formation, it felt like hell itself had descended on them. He positioned his head away from the sunlight, in the shadow of the shields. While normally he didn’t mind the harsh sun, today sunlight meant death. The enemy’s arrows would find their way through the gaps of sunlight in the tesitudo and find their target. Then there was the sand to contend with. Sudden gusts of wind would pick up and drop waves upon waves of sand on them, getting everywhere and flooding their armor. It irritated every inch of him. Filling his eyes, ears, and sinking into his armor. More and more sand came down on them. He glanced down to hide his face from any arrow that may find its way through the gaps. The sand had risen, past his ankles and half way up his calves. He turned to his brother on his right. “Gaius we have to get out of here and break the encirclement before it’s too late. They’ll slaughter us like lambs.” Gaius turned his head. “They already have, and you’ve abandoned us.” Two arrows had found Gaius’s eyes. Blood dripped from where his eyes had been down his cheeks. Terrified he threw down his shield and leaped out of the formation and fell down face first into a small mound of sand. He crawled backwards away from Gaius, the sand had blinded his eyes and filled his mouth. But everything had gone silent. No sounds of horses in the distance, nor sounds of arrows whistling through the air and hitting shields. No cries from wounded brothers, just complete deadly silence. He shook his head, spit out the sand, and looked back at his brothers. There was nothing but death. All his brothers had fallen. Arrows stuck up from their corpses and the sand had gone red with blood. Panic and shock took hold of him. He scurried to his feet, and was about to flee, when he backed up into a horse. “Crassus” he murmured to himself in fear. Crassus said nothing and stared at his cowardly solider. To his terror molten gold oozed down Crassus’ head, burning his flesh. His unflinching golden eyes would not let him escape. He found himself frozen with fear, unable to breathe, unable to move a muscle. Crassus slowly unsheathed his golden sword and raised it above his head. This was the end. Death had come for him. Jupiter himself could not save him. The sword fell upon him.
“Marcus, forgive me, but we have visitors.” Marcus awoke in a sweat, coming back to the present that faced him. Crassus was dead, and so was most who had been his Roman brethren. But he was alive. He had survived the long trek east that killed half of the survivors, and endured the humiliation of seeing being the defeated enemy on display. Five years had passed, yet he still dreams of that day. It had been ten years and they were hundreds if not thousands of leagues away from where the battle was, yet Crassus and the dead had followed him to haunt him. “They’ve come with a bag of gold and have asked to see you.” Flavius said smiling. “I’ll be with them shortly.” Flavius left the tent to allow his superior to prepare himself. If truth be told, the Gods had blessed Marcus with the second in command in a world far away from home. His tongue takes to new languages as easy as it takes to wine, though good wine has been impossible to find out here. He knew a score of tongues and acted as the legion’s translator for all negotiations. Sometimes though Marcus wondered how much better off they would be if he Flavius had learned to occasionally hold his tongue rather than insult those who paid them.
He wore his armor that had accompanied him for years, but had darkened from wear. His helm was that of another centurion who had died from disease or fatigue on the mark east. His then captors had made him pick it up and wear it himself so all of Pathia could see how the magnificent Romans were defeated. At first he was not too keen on wearing it, but Flavius explained that the warlords and minor kings were highly amused by the exotic helms of the Westermen and tended to pay more. It also reminded Marcus that he was still a Roman Centurion. He left his tent to greet the three men on horseback, one of whom had fairer skin than the rest. He spoke looking Marcus in the eye. His language was different from the locals he had encountered. It sounded more civilized, more refined, more… Greek?
