“And this is how you want to receive your commission as an officer?”
“Yes, Consul. If you and the rest of the Colors deem me worthy.”
“There is none worthier. But by the gods I need another officer like I need an arrow to the chest. Between all their complaining and lecturing, I barely have enough time to eat and sleep!” He laughed, as did the officers. “I am only joking. But, unfortunately, military tribunes are never given their position in this way.”
“That’s fine, Consul. I have no desire to be a military tribune. I want to be a centurion,” I struggled to say as my throat dried and my voice quavered.
“A centurion?” His eyes grew wide. “See how tough he is? I told you!” he said to one of the legates. “We can make that happen, Sertorius. I’ll make sure that you are in position to scale the walls first, and if you make it out alive, I will make you a centurion before the men.”
“Thank you, Consul.” Such sweet relief overcame me, although I knew I would still have to reckon with Titus.
“Anything for you, friend.” I saluted and spun on my heels. It was time to shine my gear and prepare to move out.
TO SAY THE LEAST, the march to Burdigala gave me ample time to regret my decision. I didn’t feel comfortable discussing this with any of my companions, and Titus never did come to argue with me about it. He must’ve understood that I’d made up my mind and wouldn’t be swayed—though I am not altogether sure that is true—but I never mistook this for complicity.
After our conversation the night before, my decision to put myself at risk must have been a blow to him. Titus never talked much, and I had difficulty expressing myself to him, more so perhaps than with anyone else. But I think my decision to scale the walls first, despite the danger it would surely bring me, was my way of telling him how I felt.
I was always the second plan. Second eldest, I was the reinforcement, the backup plan in the event of the unknown. It was Titus who went to Rome first; I only took his place when he left. It was Titus who had the wife and child, the one who would lead our family and continue the Sertorii name.
I do not want you to misunderstand me; I did not resent him for this. It was simply how I viewed life. He needed to be sent back home, to those he protected and cared for.
I was only vital should Titus die first.
This was the way of my world, and I did not curse my lot. There was nothing that forbade me from doing all the things he had already done, or doing new things entirely, but I’d resigned myself to being my brother’s subordinate. He was, and still is in my mind, a giant among men. In some ways, I was honored to be nothing more than his younger brother.
Of course, we couldn’t speak of these things. We had an unspoken agreement not to divulge such sentiments, so rather I simply decided to scale the wall first. If one of us were to die in Burdigala, it would have to be me—the man who’d left nothing behind. Perhaps my mind has become jaded over the years; perhaps I don’t remember why I made the decision I did. Perhaps I am simply trying to reconstruct the forgotten thoughts that lay behind such an extraordinarily dangerous decision. I did not want to die; honestly, I had never wanted to live more than I did as I resigned myself over to the Fates.
We crossed a vast geography of territory, leaving Narbo, entering Celtica, briefly crossing through Aquitania—the province bordering Spain—only to reenter Celtica and head toward our destination.
I don’t remember the journey at all.
The jokes and the geography have faded from my mind, and all I am left with is the sick, hollow, pitiless feeling that echoed in my gut. I was always on the verge of vomiting. My knees were so weak and my head so light that I felt I would collapse beneath the combined weight of my gear and my fear, but somehow my feet continued to propel me forward.
I must have seemed distant to the rest of the Mules at that time. I imagined they were whispering that I was too green for battle—that I had grown cold from fear before our first bloodshed. If they did think this, then they were right to a degree, but I suppose they didn’t know the full extent of the situation until we arrived.
Fortunately, I wasn’t the only one showing my nerves. I discovered this when we were released for food the evening before battle. Those short meals were often where the Mules bonded the most; even animals that eat together form a bond, and so it was for us.
We stood in line for what felt like hours, only to receive some hot soup with far less meat and fewer vegetables than expected. While we ate, it became clear that the other men shared my fears.
“Basilus,” Bear said, looking up from his soup. “What is battle like? What is it really like?” Basilus swirled his soup around and stared at it for some time.
“The rocks are grayer afterward.”
Bear looked at me in confusion. “What?” we all asked, and Basilus began to chuckle.
“The rocks. They get grayer, the trees greener. Look around you right now.” He pointed across the vast expanse of Gallic farmland beyond our camp and to the forest full of trees that looked older than Rome itself. “You’ll notice things after battle that you didn’t see before. The entire world becomes alive. It’s like everything is breathing.”
“What else?” Pilate asked, shuffling closer and perching himself on his gear.
“You value certain things more. Like the things that you would have lost if you had died, or the things the world would have lost in you. You start dreaming about the great things you mean to accomplish when you get home, the things you want to tell others.”
“But what about battle? During it, when you’re right in the thick of things?” Bear asked anxiously.
Basilus looked back at his soup. “Well, words can’t really describe that.” We all looked at each other, wordless.
“I’ll tell you this,” Centurion Scrofa walked up behind us, helmet held tightly under his arm. “You do strange things after battle. Even after all these years, I tremble, laugh for no reason. It’s a strange thing.” He found a seat beside us. “I promise you this, lads: you won’t ever come back from it. Not the same, anyways. I tried to go back, you know, but couldn’t. Watching people go about their lives … so misinformed. Misinformed about the war, or virtue, about what really matters. They were misinformed about how much they would value their lives if they were inches away from losing it.”
“Proximity to death brings along with it the proximity to life,” I said looking up. It was a quote my father had taught me. It was probably from Zeno or some other old Stoic philosopher, but he said it was true of his own experience in war.
“Yes, it does,” the centurion said, nodding. “So get ready to live, boys. For tomorrow, we will either live as kings here or in Elysium.” He slapped us each on the back and we stood to salute.
No one said anything further, and one by one we fell asleep, the thoughts rumbling in our heads. I tried to imagine what the next day would be like, but couldn’t form anything solid in my mind. I was not comforted by the fact that I would soon find out.
FROM A GREAT DISTANCE I saw it: Burdigala. Our enemy. The city was not large, but the walls were enough to scare off most potential invaders. They stood nearly fifty feet tall, to my recollection, and were wide enough to host three men abreast on the ramparts. I now realized why everyone had warned me against this decision. Seeing the walls that I would ascend, it all became real.
Somewhere within, there were men I would kill, or the man that would kill me.
A sobering thought.
The Mules let out a collective gasp—filled, like myself, with both a strange brand of excitement and a numbing fear. We all bounced on our feet and tried to keep hold of our senses. This was the first time I’d experienced those pre-battle conditions that still occur in me to this day: loss of feeling in the hands and feet, breath catching in the lungs and refusing to come out, the chill of profuse sweating over every inch of the body, the profound feeling of being completely withdrawn into oneself, alone and scared—even surrounded by all those
men.
For this reason, I believe, Centurion Scrofa began to talk to us quietly. Between the thunderous stomping of Mules and the century of buglers, I could barely hear him.
“Whatever happens, men … don’t you ever forget … and your brothers beside you …” He spoke not in the motivating war cry you might expect, but rather a calming tone that reminded me of my father when he comforted skittish colts. We came to a halt just in time for Bear and a few other men to empty their stomachs on the Gallic soil. “Watering the fields and we haven’t won the battle yet?” Terence said, and for once everyone was too preoccupied to even chuckle.
Ax was muttering something to himself, staring forward.
Basilus, directly to my right, was open-eyed and unmoving save for the flexing of his jaw.
Grumble whistled a famous ballad of the Colors, about a dying general’s last words to his men.
Warfare is nothing like it is imagined or told of in tales. Most of the time there is no beginning, middle, or end. No climax. For that reason, I have learned, most generals or legates never address their men before battle and instead let it begin as if it were the next step in the evolution of a march. But like his father-in-law, Maximus was no ordinary leader, and they both always addressed their men. Maximus, along with his horseman guard, wheeled around the formation and approached the center.
“There it is, soldiers.” He unsheathed his gladius and used it to point at the city before us. “Burdigala: the city that killed thousands of your comrades, took three consuls away from Rome, and made the survivors march under the yoke to their deaths. We cannot let their crimes go unpunished—we cannot allow our brothers’ deaths to be in vain.” His scarlet cape fluttered behind him, cracking with every burst of wind. “When the battle begins, stay together, hold the line. Remember your training, and never fail to protect your brothers first. If we do this, victory will be ours this day!” In the distance we could hear the haunting echo of a battle horn, rallying our enemies to their arms and to the city walls.
“Where is Legionary Quintus Sertorius?” Maximus called, just as I had entered into a daze, staring at the city we were about to breach. “Legionary Sertorius?” he cried again, as I jolted from my thoughts and fell out of formation, my heart beating violently in my chest. As I arrived at attention directly beside the consul, Maximus swept from his steed and put his hand on my shoulder. “Legionary Sertorius has offered to draw first blood. He has volunteered to be the first to scale the enemy walls. Will you let him go alone?” Maximus asked and all four legions shouted their willingness to follow.
My fear, my weakness remained as powerful in my chest, but a certain pride overwhelmed me too. Maximus thrust his sword in the air and let out a lion’s roar, taken up by the twenty thousand men before me. I was afraid, but I would certainly rather be the first Roman to scale a Burdigalan wall than any Burdigalan facing twenty thousand Romans.
“Remain at the front and you’ll be led to the first ladder,” Maximus said directly to me as the legates began issuing orders. He brought me in close for a moment. “The gods blessed me when they gave me a soldier like you. Keep your head and I have no doubt that this blessing will continue.” He patted my back firmly and saluted, doing all he could to reassure me before turning away.
“Quintus!” I turned to see Titus approaching behind me, his scarlet plume nearly a foot above the guards on either side of him.
“Brother.” I grabbed his arm.
“You’ll be all right. Just remember that you are not going in alone. You’re going in first. I’ll be with you. Your men will be with you.” He clasped my neck and looked me in the eyes.
“And father watches over us.”
“And father watches over us,” he repeated, pulling me in and patting my back as only an older brother can. “Be safe, little brother,” he whispered in my ear before returning to his position. An optio then appeared at my side and instructed me where to go. I was hardly available, barely present, but I followed instructions. This was it. As the enemy began to appear on the walls before us, spears and axes in hand, I knew that the battle had begun. The war had begun.
SCROLL XVI
“Tecombre!”
The command was given. I broke from under the wall of shields, and a centurion helped me onto the ladder. I tested the grip of my sandals and grabbed as high as I could reach. I couldn’t tell if it was the ladder or myself that was shaking.
Above me, the Burdigalans roared, already the tips of their spears danced and swayed above me, begging me to meet them.
“Move! Move! Move!” The shouts came from beneath me as the soldiers began to clamor up in close order, other ladders reaching the wall simultaneously. I whispered a quick prayer, to whom I don’t know, but I asked for nothing more than for our lives to be preserved. I tried to keep my eyes fixed on the stone walls before me, becoming even more shaken whenever I looked down at the ground below or the enemy above. The plume of the soldier beneath me brushed my foot and I knew I had to move faster.
Left foot, right hand. Right foot, left hand.
As I reached the top, my callused fingers fumbled to find a hold on the ledge. A rock the size of a man’s fist collided against my helmet, the noise deafening me, the pain nearly forcing my eyes shut.
I reached for my gladius, struggling to maintain my balance while defending myself with my shield. I fell awkwardly from the ledge to the wall and at once enemy warriors surrounded me. Spears jammed incessantly against my shield, pushing me back toward the ledge and the men coming up behind me. I held that shield as close to my body as a second set of armor, suddenly forgetting my training, attempting only to protect myself.
I set my feet and managed to get my gladius into position. I rammed my shield into the closest combatant. With a cry he pitched over the ledge, back into the city he defended. There was no time to contemplate or celebrate, for more and more filled his place.
A man the size of a gladiator pushed others from his path to meet me, a wooden club clenched in his grip.
He bashed it against my shield, and the pain reverberated through my hand, down my arm, my wrist bending awkwardly. Before I could move, he attacked again. And again. He made no attempt to get behind my defenses and strike my body—he meant simply to beat the life force from me.
Just as he swung a final time, I too swung my shield to meet it. The resulting pain was greater even than before, and I felt I would lose my grip on my shield, but in this second, my enemy was defenseless. If I didn’t strike now, he and his companions might swallow me whole. Adrenaline, maybe even rage, pulsed through my limbs and gave me the power to thrust my gladius into his belly. It was met with resistance. I hadn’t known that it required so much effort to pierce a man’s flesh. I stepped into him, ducking beneath my shield as other assailants attacked from my left. I funneled all the bodyweight the gods had given to me into the hilt of my sword, driving it further and further into the man’s gut. He grimaced, squirmed. His feet fidgeted beneath him and his knees threatened to give way. His core moved back, away from my sword, his chest pushing outward as a result. In a final attempt to save himself, or perhaps to bring a Roman with him into the afterlife, he beat my helmet with his club again and again. But his blows had no power to them, the strength in his arms already going slack, but the metal beat on my forehead and left a nasty gash on my cheek that I wouldn’t feel until later.
I made the mistake of meeting his eyes.
Hate.
Hate filled them. I can only imagine what my own eyes revealed to him in that moment, as the light faded from his view. In one swift motion, his body collapsed in on itself. And then, he was immediately, ruthlessly, slung aside by another Burdigalan, the man’s body trampled and swallowed up by hordes of his countrymen longing to avenge his death.
Along and behind me, Romans flooded the wall. Centurion whistles blew and orders were shouted, scarcely audible above the tumult. I stood my ground, meeting whatever foe approached me. I held my shield before me like
a fortress, but the spears and clubs of the enemy were too many. They came from all sides. Nor were they trained attacks, but rather wild, savage jabs, attempting to perforate anything in their path. Some met my armor and were too dull to break it. But the blades sliced through the bare flesh of my arms in a volley. I don’t remember the feeling, but I remember the cry that leaped from my throat as I thrashed violently to defend myself. As I lost my stance, it happened. A spear found its mark on my leg, just above the knee. The steel pushed forcefully through my flesh until it met bone, pulling back only to give it another go. I could not see the man at the end of the spear, but I swung my shield to smack the spear away.
The Burdigalans closed in around me. I was close enough to taste their frantic breath, to feel the spit of their curses on the exposed flesh of my face.
I suppose I would have died right there. I would have been swallowed up by the enemy before me and my memory swallowed up by the sands of time. But I flew backwards at the right instant, as if a gust of wind or the force of the gods had pushed me forcefully into the ranks of my men. In reality, it was a Mule who grabbed my cuirass and tugged me back into the line that was hastily forming.
Unable to catch my breath or thank the gods, I did as ordered and linked my shield with those of the men around me, stepping forward only when they did. The countless enemy soldiers bashed up against our line with all the fury, the relentlessness, of an angry sea on a rock bed, but we each found strength in the next man’s shield.
Stones continued to pelt us like hail from the sentry towers above, finding their mark only occasionally but never failing to make their presence known.
“Push them back—push!” The shouts continued, as we lowered our shoulders and generated the power from our legs to send the enemy back to the ledge of the wall.
Realizing theirs was a losing battle, our enemy’s resistance crumbled. They clambered to their own ladders and retreated into the city for a final stand. Those that remained to face us received several gladius puncture wounds and tumbled over the edge to their fatherland anyhow.
The Man With Two Names Page 19