The Man With Two Names

by Vincent B Davis II

  I handed her the bag and paused to hold her soft hands. Her dark curls fell over her shoulders in a waterfall. In that thin, simple gown, she was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. Her hands trembled but her eyes were brave. I had never been so in love. “Go!” I said again and she finally turned, holding on to me until distance separated us.

  As she saddled the bag and departed, the bugles of war sounded in the distance. A full assembly.

  SCROLL XXIII

  I can only imagine the look on Caepio’s face when his scouts returned from Maximus’s camp with the news that Maximus was in the middle of negotiations with the Cimbri elders. I bet he flew into a rage, cursing and howling. He probably called his colleague a coward and a traitor. He most assuredly shouted that Maximus was trying to take all the glory for himself. By the end of his fit, he would have attempted to say that the fool was walking into a trap, that he would get himself and all his men killed.

  Caepio always did like to think of himself as a hero. He’d lost his chance for glory when the Tolosan gold was absconded with, and yet here he had a second opportunity. He could save Maximus from the “trap” set for him and become the savior of Rome in the process. So he ordered all his legions to form up, and we set out without hesitation.

  The journey was not long, but as things tend to go in moments like these, a lot happened in a short time.

  LUCIUS HIRTULEIUS

  I simply waited in the background. There was a gentleman’s agreement that only officers would be present at the meeting, so Maximus had decided a few contubernales like myself should be with him as glorified bodyguards.

  I can’t tell you how tense the negotiations were. It was impossible for us to look at the Cimbri elders without imagining the blood of our countrymen on their hands, and perhaps they felt the same way about us. Both parties feigned cordiality—rather poorly in my opinion—but tried to smile and display amicability.

  The Cimbri and Teutone leaders were unlike any men I had ever seen. They all had striking blue eyes, long beards, and thick manes of fire-red hair. All of them wore mismatched gold armor, each telling a story of personal bravery—as the pieces had obviously been collected from fallen enemies. One of them wore gauntlets that looked awfully Roman. The shortest among them was larger than our tallest, and I remember thinking that if their men resembled their leaders at all, then Rome was in trouble. There were five of them, if I recall correctly. Four of them claimed to be Cimbri chiefs, the other the king of the Teutones. The four chiefs all interacted like equals, but they did defer most important comments to one man in particular, who introduced himself as Boiorix. He did most of the questioning and answering, although he spoke sparingly.

  They seemed removed, unaffected. Their decision to show up without so much as a single bodyguard was the greatest display of arrogance I had ever seen, but there were other ways too that they revealed their lack of fear. Maximus tried to speak of peace, of abstaining from war and more needless deaths, and yet they seemed unmoved.

  “Are you translating me correctly? I don’t think he is understanding me,” Maximus asked their translator. The more Maximus talked, the more unconcerned the others appeared, and indeed, we began to wonder why they had bothered to come. The only ready answer was the way in which they passed around our wine, as if they were already celebrating our defeat. They seemed to prefer it to the ale they’d brought with them; in an act of kindness, we partook of what they had brought, and I can attest to its putrid nature.

  It seemed to me that negotiations were hopeless. I believe we had all come to the same conclusion and were about to depart peacefully but to prepare for war, when we heard bugles in the distance. The Cimbri leaders glared at us.

  “What is that?” Boiorix asked through the translator.

  “I don’t know. Truly, I don’t know,” Maximus said, turning to us to find nothing but blank stares. Word arrived. Riders from both parties informed us that a Roman force had arrived in full array on the other side of the Cimbri camp. Both parties drew their swords and stepped up to protect their most important members, all of us no doubt calculating what might happen with their men against ours.

  “Have you done this?” Boiorix asked from behind his men.

  “No. I had nothing to do with this,” Maximus replied honestly, sympathy and shame apparent on his face. Our parties watched each other for a moment, before seeming to decide that we had reached an impasse.

  “We will let you live for now, then. You had better start running. I will be coming for your head as soon I destroy your men,” Boiorix said as he sheathed his weapon and turned to depart with no further concern to the threat we posed. They left for their camp, confident of their final victory. We stayed in ours, not quite as certain.

  SCROLL XXIV

  The Cimbri army had lined up in full array prior to our arrival. They’d received word of our advance and were clearly anxious to meet us. We marched in silence, the Fourth Legion on the right flank of the formation. Our instructions were to remain silent, to appear as ghosts approaching the enemy. No war chants, no battle cries, no enraging speeches. The Cimbri, on the other hand, beat their chests with their fists, a rhythmic thud that seemed to pull us toward them like a powerful cosmic force.

  Their forces began to split apart and a Cimbri woman proceeded to the front of the ranks. She was draped in all black and wore large feathers in a tangled mess of hair. Her eyes were covered in dark soot. She turned to the army and began to lead a chant. Though we didn’t understand the Cimbri language, the words haunted us. Her piercing cries echoed throughout the valley, followed by the earth-shattering response of the men.

  A man was led to her. A prisoner. To my eyes he appeared to be Roman, bearing the scarlet tunic of a soldier, but he also wore a beard, which may have been a result of captivity. The woman turned to our force and spat, fire and malice in her eyes as she hoisted both a staff and a dagger into the sky. The Cimbri chanted louder still, gnashing their teeth and stomping their feet. She turned to the prisoner and cut his throat so deep that his head nearly ripped off. When he hit the dirt, she promptly mounted him, and labored to cut him from sternum to groin, pulling back his rib cage and revealing the entrails. She clutched the intestines in her trembling hands and held them in the air, ignoring the copious amounts of blood that fell freely upon her face. The Cimbri ignited in a rage and began a charge toward us.

  Most of us threw up, but eventually controlled our stomachs so that we could steady ourselves before their assault.

  “Launch pila!” The order was given.

  “Throw your pila, men!” I echoed, stumbling to do so myself. The first ranks let loose a volley of the spears, followed by those of the men behind us. Several Reds crumpled to the dirt, but the rest remained undeterred, moving faster still.

  “Shields, shields!” I shouted. The men moved closer together and the front line linked their shields. We felt less safe now than at Tolosa or Burdigala. These men were huge, and our shields seemed little more than wooden discs before their might. Our allied cavalry wheeled around from beside us, exposing our flanks but assaulting the enemy nearest us. And the tumult began, a sound that echoes in my head even to this day.

  Just as we had volleyed our pila at them, they catapulted themselves into our line. With no concern for their own lives, they cast themselves onto our swords, shimmying to the hilt so they could slaughter the man who gripped it. Others brought their great swords down on the shields of the first rank, easily smashing through some and breaking the arms of others. The men cried out and terror ensued. We tried to set our feet and gain our balance, but I could feel the ranks slowly moving backward. They were like the force of a flood let loose, and we were pushed back in its current.

  “Steady, steady!” I shouted. I turned to see the fear in their eyes. I’m sure I wore the same expression. I saw Ax’s face covered in the blood of a fallen foe, his eyes wild. We had all lost our senses.

  The right flank, where I was stationed, began to fi
nd its footing, but the left and center were faltering and falling back. We heard foreign war horns in the distance. Another full force, the Teutones, arrived and assaulted the left flank, trapping us completely and blocking any means of retreat. It is often said that a battle is won before it is ever fought, and Caepio had done nothing to secure our victory. We had not scouted the enemy camp and so had walked into a trap.

  The left and center pushed back further still, and we were forced to wheel about with them, finding ourselves pinned by two forces and the swift Rhone River at our backs.

  They advanced more furiously still. Our men were already exhausted from the march and the short battle. I could see from their sluggish sword thrusts that my comrades were weak, and I had difficulty finding power myself. I tried to maintain proper form and my composure, but the shoulder of my sword arm was losing strength, the joint was tight and weak.

  To my left, Terence hit the dirt. He crumpled over himself, but I couldn’t see what caused it.

  “Grumble, secure him!” I shouted. From the first rank, Grumble moved forward and pulled our friend from the fray.

  A piercing whistle shot through the morning air. I looked for it, only spotting the arrow at the last second before it struck Ax in the sternum. My comrade dropped his shield and grabbed the arrow. He gritted his teeth and trembled with anger. He let out a roar to match that of the Cimbri, and broke off the arrow where it entered him. He picked up the sword of a fallen soldier beside him and rushed further into the fray, wielding both.

  “Ax! Ax! Get back in line!” I struggled against an assailant, hollering his name. “Ax!”

  Before I knew what had happened, I hit the dirt, lost of all my senses. For a moment, I was at peace. This is what Bear felt, I thought. Then, one by one, my senses returned to me. First it was the noise, the booming chants and blood being spilled, the thud of bodies on the ground. I had no idea what had happened. My hands instinctively moved to my face, but I could feel nothing. Everything was numb.

  Suddenly I was hoisted into the air. I felt my soul was ascending into the afterlife.

  “The centurion! The centurion has fallen!” was the shout.

  Suddenly the noise of the front line drifted slightly away and the sound of an angry river entered my ears.

  “What? What happened?” My voice was thinner than a whisper and whoever had saved me was no longer present.

  I felt my face again, suddenly noticing the bloody mess of flesh that now covered my eye and the hard foreign element lodged within. A slinger’s stone had taken the place of my left eye. I struggled to roll over to empty my stomach on the earth.

  It’s all right, I thought. I’m still alive. I can keep fighting. But I couldn’t move. The adrenaline could no longer make up for the pain. I felt like my head had split in half and one side was twice the size of the other. I tried to stand but fell back over. I tried to pick up my sword but had no grip.

  I managed to steal a glance at the men, and they were faltering. Everywhere I could see men I knew being hacked to pieces. I spotted a man running toward me. I squinted my only good eye to make him out, but I wasn’t certain he was real. Finally, when he reached me, I could see that it was Flamen. He put his hands on my shoulders, and my body, in shock, struggled violently against him.

  “Stallion, Stallion! It’s me. It’s me! The line is broken, the men are in full rout. Caepio has fled.”

  “Damned coward!” my voice, hoarse and weak, rose from me.

  “I’m going to get you out of here, come on!” He began to lift me.

  “What about the others? Please! What about Bass? Pilate?”

  “Come on, we have to go.” He lifted me onto his shoulders. Suddenly, I felt his body stiffen and we both hit the dirt. I scrambled to my knees.

  A spear was lodged in his back. He was already dead. All around me, a haze of men were casting off their armor and running to the river.

  Everyone alive was fleeing. But there was one man I knew would never retreat without orders. Titus. The thought of his name sent strength to my limbs and I found my way to my feet. I had to find him. No matter what, I had to find him.

  SCROLL XXV

  LUCIUS HIRTULEIUS

  The Reds wasted no time in attacking us. As soon as their leaders returned to them, they began to move. By the time Maximus had formed us up, the Cimbri had surrounded our camp. They began to assault the walls, launching torches over the barricade. We could hear the wooden walls splintering around us.

  Maximus himself began a chant.

  “Jupiter!”

  “Optimus!” We shouted as loud as we could, trying to summon up courage in our own hearts.

  “Jupiter!”

  “Maximus!” We grew louder as the Reds’ assault continued.

  The walls crumbled far to my left and again at the gates. Then again somewhere behind me. The Cimbri began pouring in like a violent flood, clogging up the entryways they had made. The orders were given for us to stay in formation, but as the Cimbri hurried to surround us on all sides, the line broke and a brawl ensued. There was nothing conventional about this combat. We fought on their terms, hand to hand, man against man, sword against sword.

  There was no bird’s eye view for me. I could see nothing but the man before me. I couldn’t tell what was happening or who was winning, but I knew in my gut that we were fighting a losing battle. The Cimbri were too violent, too anxious to spill Roman blood. Our trembling men could barely hold their shields to meet the assault. I felt, correctly, that our men were being butchered.

  But they fought valiantly. They were afraid, yes—terrified, even. But they fought for their homes, for their lives. That was the first time I had witnessed courage in its truest form. Mule, centurion, tribune, consul … they fought wildly, with urgency and desire, for their own survival and that of their comrades. I still carry the image of a man standing face to face against a horde of Cimbri and meeting them still. When he fell, he took none of them with him, but he had defeated his own fear. This and other sights like it admonish me today. Courage: to stand and fight when others run, to do what you know you must even when you would rather do otherwise.

  Maximus himself fought without a horse, in the ranks of his men. I couldn’t spot him during the conflict, but he was there, being cut up with the rest of the men. Finally, his officers compelled him to leave with the Eagle, the symbol of Rome’s eternal glory. When the battle was truly lost, they cried out that they wouldn’t let the Reds steal another consul from Rome. But knowing Maximus, he was doubtlessly angry with himself to have left the field of battle.

  After he had taken to his horse, he spotted me.

  “Hirtuleius!” he shouted, his party moving toward me. “Come on, we have to go! The line is broken!” Blood spattered his face. “I won’t let our Eagle be taken by these barbarian bastards!”

  “I can’t, Consul. I have to stay.”

  “What?” He shook his head. “We have to go—now! Get on the damned horse! Rome doesn’t need any more martyrs today—she needs men who can continue the fight!”

  “I can’t leave.” I thought of my friend. I thought of what his mother would say if I lived and he didn’t. How could I return to Nursia and address the woman who had taken my little brother in when he had nowhere else to go, and tell her that I had left her son to die? “These bastards killed my father. I’ll be damned if I let them kill my friend, too.”

  “Hirtuleius, he is in another camp! You’ll never find him—alive or dead! You will both die!” I thought of all the men I had watched go to the afterlife. Courage.

  “The gods will decide that,” I said, the melee continuing all around me. Maximus shook his head. I thought I saw jealousy in his gaze. He wanted to stay, too, but he did what was right for Rome.

  “Then kill one more Red for me.” We saluted one another, and he and his party raced off.

  SCROLL XXVI

  I’m still not sure how I found him. I stumbled around for some time, the Reds ignoring me. Maybe they
thought me already a corpse. I could barely see and couldn’t make out any faces, but I heard his voice.

  “Fight me! Kill me, you cowards!” I heard his voice. I knew it was his. It could only be his. Fresh strength rushed through me as I angled my neck this way and that, finally spotting him on the ground, trying to prop himself up.

  “Titus!” I shouted and ran to him. Both his legs were missing at the knees, savagely hewn off and lying near him.

  He flailed violently, lashing the ground with his fists. “They won’t kill me!” He shouted, “Finish what you started, cowards!”

  “Titus! Titus, it’s me, it’s your brother!” When he finally looked at me, he cringed and began to weep.

  “Little brother … little brother … your eye.” He reached up and put a bloody hand to my cheek.

  “Come on, I’m going to get you out of here,” I said.

  Suddenly he straightened. His composure seemed to return to him. The noble strength of my father flooded his eyes. “No. Fate has made her choice. This is my resting place.”

  “Brother!”

  “Look at me. Look at me. I’m finished. Drained of what sustains me.” He looked at his bloodied stumps and closed his eyes. “You have to live, brother. You have to. Mother needs you. Volesa needs you … my boy needs you.”

  “But I need you.” I grabbed his hand between both of my own.