“Move into the city! March until resistance is met, crush it, and move forward!” The orders sprang from officers on all sides. We scrambled to the designated areas and climbed back down into the fray. The pain pulsed in my arm, throbbed with every heartbeat, with every shallow breath. But I was carried forward by the movement of the men—no stopping.
I found my descent down the ladder into Burdigala no more pleasant than my ascent onto its walls, my trembling hands and weak knees threatening to drop me every few steps.
When I reached the Burdigalan soil, the enemy had broken even further. Their resistance shattered, they scrambled in every direction.
“Loose ranks! Hunt the bastards down!” The soldiers around me reveled in the excitement of our orders, offering a few chants before quickly pursuing our defeated foe. I looked in all directions, not a familiar face among that endless swarm of Roman soldiers.
I glanced at my leg wound. My eyes rolled back at the sight of it.
I moved forward with the rest of the men, but with different intentions. I would be content if I didn’t end the life of another Burdigalan, but I needed to find help. Fast. And there was none in sight.
We poured through the narrow city streets like a flood let loose. All around me the piercing sound of steel and human cries echoed along the corridors; banners, and century flags sped past me in blurs. Smoke rose from the torches launched through hut windows.
A haze overcame me. I’m not sure exactly what happened, but I found myself separated from our men. My entire body ached, the breath in my lungs stung like poisonous fumes. My head throbbed. Keeping my eyes open called for a war with myself, and steaming blood still oozed from the open wound on my leg, dressing my foot like a boot.
A shout sounded from behind me.
It was no fierce war cry, but the desperate wail of cornered prey.
I turned just in time to meet my assailant.
Before I had fully diagnosed the threat, his club smashed against my shield, forcing it from my feeble grip. My body spiraled backwards. I swung back to face the Burdigalan, my sword balanced before me. In my daze, I saw several of the same man standing there.
I stepped toward him only to be met with a fierce blow to the ribs, sending me into the mud hut behind me. My gladius flew from my hand; my helmet cracked against the wall. My vision flashed for a moment, and then he was on top of me. He pinned my right arm with his knee and clutched my throat with a mud-caked hand. He brought his club up again, blotting out the sun.
A roar ripped from me as I cast the man aside before he could crush me. I scrambled to mount him and slammed his head into the ground.
I fumbled for the dagger on my thigh and in one swift movement brought it up to him. Again and again, I pierced him between his ribs. The breath was driven from him and the strength of his grip on my throat loosened.
His arms went limp, as did mine.
Again I looked into a dying man’s eyes. There was something peculiar about this moment. This man was about my age, and neither of us looked away. I said nothing, nor him, although it seemed as though he wanted to. I never heard the boy say a word, but it was as if he was desperate to tell me something, everything. His eyes were venomous but wet, his lips suddenly covered with scarlet, nearly black, lifeblood that poured from him in waves. His throat gargled; his fingers quaked to plug the holes in his ribs.
I grabbed his head and slammed it again into the ground. Not out of violence, not out of hate. It was desperation; it was pain. He made me do this, I told myself. He could have run; he could have hidden. Why did he attack me?
He lay still and I fell off of him. I slid myself away from him and began to sob. Let me be clear, I did not cry. There were no tears. Something deep within me wept, my nature itself. I bit my tongue, blinked fervently the sweat from my eyes. Only a soldier knows this experience, and he knows it intimately.
In time I propped myself up on the wall and made my way to the sword and shield that lay scattered along the road, blood pooling in the cracks of the stone path all around.
BEFORE ME WAS a door blockaded by wooden boards. I stumbled my way to it and used the hilt of my gladius to hammer the wood away; it had been only hastily barricaded. Within, I believed, might be some form of aid. A blanket, a shirt, a rope to cut off the blood flow. Anything was better than waiting until the skirmish had concluded and I could receive care from the medicus. My only hope was that there would be no more angry Burdigalans within.
I entered, straining my eyes in the darkness, the brightness from the sun still burning in my eyes. I could make out shapes, but nothing definite. I bumped through the hut, into table and chairs, looking frantically for any piece of cloth. Suddenly, I heard feet shuffling behind me, and I could hear quick, shallow breaths. I turned and steadied myself, preparing for another attacker, but none met me. I focused my stare but only imaginary figures came to me. Fortunately, a breeze pushed the door open, sending a gentle beam of light along the floor into the corner where the sound had originated.
A girl. A woman, rather, was crouched there, a dagger poised in one hand and the other propping her up against the wall. We locked eyes for a moment, perhaps longer than I remember, for in my haze I was unsure if she was real or not. If someone was watching unaware, they might have thought we were having a contest to see who could tremble more. Despite her obvious fear, the girl never failed to meet my eyes.
I looked away. I let my shield slip again from my grasp, falling to a knee and resting my sword against the dirt floor. With my blood-soaked fingers I unbuckled my helmet and slid it from my head.
“Please, I need help,” I said, holding my hands up in surrender. I nodded to my wound. She did not lower the dagger. I assumed she couldn’t understand my Latin, so I searched frantically through my head for the Gallic terms that now escaped me. “Wounded,” I said in Gallic, or so I believed. I moved my hand to the wound and revealed to her the blood oozing from me.
Suddenly a burst of light nearly blinded me—and the girl too, from the look of her. The door had swung open with a fury, two Mules striding in, swords in hand. They stopped when they saw the girl and leered.
“Tasty piece there,” one of them said.
“It’s hard to find cunny like her on campaign. Do you mind if we share?” the other said, a quiet laughter coming from his chest.
I grimaced. “No. Go away.”
“What? Why? Every ass in Burdigala now belongs to the Colors, right?”
“Leave,” I said. “Now.”
“Greedy one, aren’t you?” They laughed but shrugged their shoulders, leaving to pursue more prey.
I turned back to the girl. “Please, I won’t hurt you.” I managed to recollect some of my Gallic vocabulary. I could see the dagger shaking in her delicate hand, but her eyes remained alert, wary. I prostrated myself on the ground, like a slave before a queen. She could kill me if she liked, and she knew it. Slowly, she shimmied up the wall to her feet, her slender figure that of a goddess in my haze.
“On your back.” Her voice was soft but forceful. I rolled over, struggling against the weight of my armor and lying my head against the back plate of my armor. I watched intently as she untied the leather belt around her waist. She knelt at my side and fixed it around my leg, just beneath my hip. “This will hurt,” her words hoarse and barely audible.
I rolled my head away and gritted my teeth. “What’s your name?” I asked as she twisted the belt tighter and tighter, biting it in her teeth to hold it in place. She did not answer me, but worked diligently on my leg. “I am sorry,” I managed to say between grunts. Exactly what for, I did not know. She stood and went to retrieve my gladius. She knelt to grab it and balanced it in her hands for some time. She seemed to test its weight, pondering intently. I watched her every move. I was transfixed, fascinated. She could have killed me then and there, but I was unafraid. I was as at peace in that moment as perhaps I have ever been.
At length, she moved across the hut toward a small candelab
rum in the corner, one I had not noticed before. She balanced the sword over the flame for some time, rotating it back and forth. She returned and placed the burning steel across my wound. I did all that I could to maintain my Roman composure, but the excruciating heat caused every bone in my body to cry out for mercy. She placed a delicate hand over my mouth and held it shut.
Perhaps she had simply heard enough bloodcurdling cries for one day.
She tore the sleeve off her tunic and wrapped up the wound itself. I was left with the feeling that my leg had withered, all the blood sucked out with leeches. But I was safe.
“Thank you,” I whispered. “I know that you did not have to help me.” She gave me a look I could not discern and moved away, back to the wall where she again crouched. Her clothes were humble, even compared to those of her kinsmen. Even before she’d removed her belt and her sleeve, she’d been wearing little more than rags, the soles of her sandals ripped and frayed.
“My name is Arrea,” she said in Latin. Her voice the softest, sweetest sound I had ever heard. Something about battle, I supposed. I hadn’t imagined I would hear a woman’s voice again. It graced my ears like a swift stream in the desert.
“You know Latin?”
“A little. You know Gallic?”
“A little.” I sat up. “I am sorry for the lot of your people.” These words were uncomfortable coming from my lips. It was a strange reality in warfare, one you find more often then you’d think.
“These are not my people. I am a slave,” she said. I was surprised, for her eyes were full of dignity, the skin of her face still radiating youth, but this explained her attire.
THE BUGLES SOUNDED in the distance. The battle was won. Time for formation. I struggled to my feet, barely able to muster the strength. I picked up my gladius, still warm from the flames, and slid it into my scabbard. I donned my helmet and grabbed my shield. Yet I was hesitant to leave. Something had been left unsaid. Arrea watched quietly, devoid of emotion.
“Thank you, Arrea,” I said, and exited the hut. On the stone pathway, I tried to ignore the corpse of the man I’d killed. I followed the bugles’ call toward the gates, but turned when I heard shuffling behind me. Arrea.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“Coming with you.”
“What?” I was perplexed.
“It is Gallic custom. You killed my master, so you are my master now,” she said. Even speaking the words of a slave, her eyes shone with the dignity of a free woman.
“Arrea, that no longer applies. You are free now. You can do as you like.” I turned again and moved off. I heard her shuffling behind me, and she grabbed my arm. She fell to her knees before me.
“Please! Don’t leave me. I have nowhere to go. My home is destroyed—I have no family. Please.” She held my hand to her face.
“Stand. Please, stand.” I helped her to her feet. “You can come with me. But I don’t need a slave.”
“All right.” Her Latin was distinctly Gallic, especially in her tears. She stood and helped bear my weight. We moved forward to the gathering legions, leaving the corpses and the blood and the devastation in our wake.
SCROLL XVII
I struggled to the line, my knees weak and hands trembling. The formation before me was a blur. Though Arrea had stopped the blood loss, I’d already lost a great deal.
I stumbled around until I spotted the Fourth Legion standard and made my way to the Second Century. The men smiled when they saw me and sighed with relief. We couldn’t help but glance over our shoulders, silently counting the faces of our companions. Ax broke the line to pat me on the shoulder, and Pilate gave me a curt nod. Both had tears in their eyes.
Maximus took his place at the head of the army, watching us in silence for some time. “Men, I am proud of you.” He repeated this a few times. “This was our first engagement of the war season, and you have all conducted yourself as only Roman soldiers can. When you first donned the colors, you became a member of the world’s greatest fighting force, but after what you have done today, you have joined the halls of heroes that extend back through time to the founding of Rome itself. Your ancestors smile upon you today. Not only that, but your brothers who died at the hands of these Burdigalans can now rest. You have served admirably and courageously. This war is not over yet, but if you continue to conduct yourself the way you did today, it soon will be…” He paused. “If you continue to conduct yourselves the way you did today, those Red bastards don’t stand a chance!” The legions cheered, and Maximus smiled, genuinely, looking at his legates with a mixture of pride and admiration.
“Where is Legionary Quintus Sertorius?” he asked as the applause died down. My mind was swimming too much to register the words. Flamen had to nudge me. “Legionary Quintus Sertorius, post!” I fell out of formation and began to make my way to Maximus. Ax followed shortly behind to steady me.
“Sertorius, are you all right?” Maximus asked under his breath when I arrived.
“Yes, sir. Just a scratch. I’ll be fine by tomorrow.” He nodded and returned his attention to the formation.
“Legionary Quintus Sertorius was the first man to scale the walls here today. His bravery embodies the fighting spirit that all of you displayed today. The wounds that he has received embody the wounds that these barbarians have given to our mothers and our wives for too long … but we can rest assured, they will be healed in time.” A courier ran to Maximus’s side and knelt down before him, holding up a military crown hastily constructed from the contents of the battlefield. “It is an ancient custom to honor the bravery of the man to first scale the walls of an enemy fortification with a crown and a promotion. I am hereby naming Quintus Sertorius a centurion of the Fourth Legion. He will wear the helmet of a comrade who gave his life for Rome today, and he will carry on their legacy of glory and sacrifice.” He turned his attention back to me and extended his hand. “Congratulations, friend.” With the help of Ax, I made my way back to formation.
“I truly wish that I could give you all crowns and promotions today, for I am sure that there is no man among you unworthy of our respect and praise. I cannot do that, but what I can do is confer another gift. We will be setting up camp here in Burdigala for two weeks, for rest and recuperation. Each man will be given a pass to do as he pleases, as long as he conducts himself with military discipline.”
Maximus called the formation to attention, and we chanted Mars’s name for some time, grateful for our lives and perhaps even more thankful for a few days of rest.
AFTER THE FORMATION, I spoke briefly with Maximus, who was overjoyed with his first taste of victory in the north. I pleaded permission to stay with Second Century.
“That close to them already, huh?” He smiled and told me he would see what he could do. I told him that if I couldn’t remain with Second Century that I would rather remain a Mule with my men. He shook his head at my foolhardiness.
“I admire you, Sertorius. But Second Century already has a centurion—Gnaeus Tremellius Scrofa, if I’m not mistaken.”
“Yes, but we both know that Centurion Scrofa is past due for the rank of first-spear centurion.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” he said again.
It turned out that our first-spear had given his life in the Battle of Burdigala. Scrofa would take his place and I Scrofa’s. It was fortunate for all involved, save the man who’d lost his life. But such is life in the Colors.
I was taken to a tent where I received attention from the medicus. He re-dressed my wounds, Lucius and Titus clutching my hands as I struggled against the medicus’s needles. Arrea waited patiently for me outside.
ONCE I WAS PATCHED up to standard, I was ushered to my new tent—propped up by my new “slave,” Arrea. A centurion’s tent is double the size of a Mule’s and contains a real mattress rather than a cot. Arrea helped me into the bed and elevated my leg as the medicus had instructed her.
I rested my head and exhaled. I felt inextricably different than I had just a few
hours before. I felt hungover. I felt like I was dying slowly; though the blood loss had been stayed, something more vital to my life ebbed from me.
When next I opened my eyes, Arrea was standing beside my bed, her hand on my head, analyzing my fever.
“Hello there.” She didn’t reply. I searched for something to say. “How do you know Latin?”
She took her time answering. “My father was a trader. We moved from village to village throughout Gaul, and sometimes ended up in Roman settlements. He would always tell us, proudly, that we were Roman citizens. But I think he was lying.”
“How did you end up a slave, then?” As soon as the words left my mouth, I regretted them. “I’m sorry. It’s the fever talking.”
“My father had some problems.” She stepped away and lowered her eyes. “Whenever we landed in a new town he would disappear for a few days and return with less than half his money, losing it gambling or on strong wine. We’d become used to it—even his violence and anger upon his return. But one day he left and never came back.” She rubbed the tips of her fingers on the threads of her tunic. “My brother thought he’d simply run off and left us, but Mother believed he was killed for his gambling debts. For that reason, men came in the night and killed my brother, so that he couldn’t seek revenge. And then … they took me and my mother and prostituted us.” She choked on her words.
“It takes great courage to recall a story like that. I am sorry I summoned up such memories.”
She stepped to the bedside table and began fiddling with the medical supplies there. “It’s no matter. Not a day goes by that I don’t think about it. I’ve been a slave ever since. I was a little girl, no more than ten years old. And here I am, nearly ten years later … all thanks to my father.”
“And now you are free.”
“No. I am your slave now,” she replied quickly.
The Man With Two Names Page 20
