by Cody W Urban
“‘Tis an ill fate, to choose to serve the Empire and be called upon to slay men,” Nicholas sighed. His words, spoken without forethought, revealed his innermost conundrum; he was not a coward. It wasn’t his own death he feared, but the killing of others. With the death of everyone dear to him, he had learned that life was such a priceless gift. As an ornament made of thin glass so easily shattered, life was so very precious. His heart sank lower as he truly understood for the first time that the death he feared was the death of fellow human beings.
“Be of good cheer, Nicholas,” Lysander said as he patted his friend’s shoulder and began to walk him toward the storage tents. “By the setting of the sun, all that matters is how you have fought for right.”
This confidence builder might have cheered Nicholas, but in his heart of hearts, where the religious child still lived, Lysander was a heathen. What was right to him may not be truly appropriate. Yes, he had felt the strength and courage that came from fighting for the right.
When he was still young, he saw an adult man wickedly take a loaf of bread from a little girl. He begged his father all day for a loaf of bread, and finally when he succumbed to the nagging, Nicholas ran back into the square and searched until he found the little girl. She clutched her mother’s skirt as she wove a tapestry, pale, dirty faced, and clearly malnourished. When young Nicholas gave the bread to the little girl and undid the wicked man’s heinous act, he felt that he triumphed over evil. He fought for what was good. Later, when he saw the same little girl steal a loaf from that same wicked man, he took it away from her violently and returned it to its owner. Little Nicholas learned that the man probably took it from her the first time because she stole it from him in the first place. So what was right? What was the “right” he would fight for that would fill him with courage and strength?
2
A song, a song, high above the trees
With a voice as deep as the seas.
After passing out the armaments: swords, knives, arrows and other gear to a plethora of grim-faced Roman soldiers, it was time to make himself battle-ready. No matter what he deeply wanted, the inevitable could not be postponed. He fitted himself with a fresh pair of braccae, woolen trousers worn under his apron of leather strips, and fastened his military belt about his waist. He sheathed dagger and sword, grabbed a shield, strapped on his helmet, and tied his Roman red cloak to his shoulders. Though he now looked the part of the gallant hero, he would need to muster up the spirit to properly feign the part of a warrior. Despite ardent attempts to focus on the coming battle, his mind relentlessly strayed to recall his last parting from Nysa on a day that seemed an eternity ago.
******
Nicholas had just returned from a six-month excursion to Syria and was perfectly ready for some free time with his beloved. When they embraced at the foot of the gangway, Nysa whispered in his ear, “God knows how I have missed you, my love.” Time seemed to stop in that moment—or did it speed up and make them like chronically still marble statues? Fishermen and sailors pushed around them to attend to their business, but Nicholas and Nysa paid them no mind. This was their moment.
“And only God knows how much I have missed you, my Nysa,” Nicholas whispered in reply and pulled her in for a deep kiss.
This was Nysa: A Mediterranean flower that blossoms bright, beautiful, and fragrant in the warmth and light, but is easily wilted with just the slightest cold or darkness. She owns the sad tale of a young girl with an abusive father. Her mother died at a young age, and with no sibling support, Nysa was expected to carry on the household duties for her father. He succumbed to depression and if he wasn’t working the docks, he was working his way through pitchers of wine.
One day, after her father had given her a scant amount of money, she used it all to buy what little goat cheese she could afford. After her father stayed out late drinking through the night and into the morning, her hunger talked her into consuming the entire supply of cheese. Her fight against starvation resulted in a black eye and bruised limbs as her drunkard father took his rage against the world out on her.
Nysa opted to end her life and would have done so if Nicholas had not arrived to save her. He was, and has always been, her hero, the champion of her heart, her personal Achilles. She knew he didn’t think much of himself but she loved his genuine modesty as much as she liked to poke fun at it. In her eyes, Nicholas abandoned all for her. She knew he would die for her. He was the first and only man she could trust. Although the years had been kind to her physique, a quality that many men lustfully noticed, she could trust that Nicholas truly loved her for who she was. She would wait for him, always.
Only a short time after arriving in port, Nicholas and Nysa found themselves in the office of Vasilis, the Governor of Lycia. Speaking in an ingratiating voice, he said, “Nicholas! Nicholas, m’boy!” He found Vasilis to be an odd fellow. He walked as one with high esteem, coifed regal clothing, smart speech, and yet lacked that intangible quality of royalty.
He had long dark hair and his natural facial expression was a scowl, though he knew how to cover it with a smile when it would benefit him. As he approached Nicholas and Nysa, this was one of those times he feigned amusement. He had somehow taken notice of Nicholas, the son of the wealthy parents, who turned priest-in-training and later turned again to Roman soldier. Nicholas was to Vasilis, as he was to himself, an enigma, a man whose inner compass seldom pointed north, or even where one expected it to point.
He saw Nicholas as a simpleton trying to find his way in a chaotic world. What had initially attracted his eye was not the man himself, but the one who held his arm, Nysa. Oh, how he wanted her. Just to be near her, he would repeat feigning to be a fatherly-figure to Nicholas—an act becoming all too frequent.
“Not a moment’s peace, for pity’s sake,” Nysa sighed heavily into Nicholas’s ear. It wasn’t that she disliked Vasilis, though he did find a way to make her a bit ill at ease, she wanted time unaccompanied with her soldier.
“Nicholas, how comes it that ye are here?” asked Vasilis.
In proprietary wont, Nicholas struck a fist to his chest and bowed to Vasilis before he could truly perceive the lingering question directed at him. “My-er-m’lord,” stuttered Nicholas, “how is it the Governor of Lycia takes such consideration of his servant? My captain granted me leave and I only just arrived.”
“Oh, dear me,” Vasilis replied putting his hand to his chin to express a charitable grief. “There has been a lapse in communication of late. Alas, it is my burden to have to bring this news to your ears. Your leave has been repealed, as with the others of your legion.”
“Repealed? He only just arrived!” Nysa protested clutching Nicholas’s hand tightly like the string of a kite in blustery weather. It was her intention to convince Nicholas during his stay to abscond the service. Despite his sworn oath and promotion to quartermaster, she desperately needed him near, like fire needing fuel to survive.
“His company is beckoned up north. The frontier has been plagued with enemies to the Empire for far too long, and their threat surmounts in futile defiance, adverse to the glory of Rome,” Vasilis explained. Now, putting his hand on Nicholas’s shoulder, he feigned the father figure once more. “You are called to valor and victory. It is the demand upon all citizens to carry their burden for the good of society. If one should not do as they are called upon, the fragile framework of our culture would collapse. Your country counts on your devotion and fealty.”
“Such a grand government cannot even supply adequate post to those who risk their lives for it,” Nysa groaningly mocked.
“I am sorry,” Vasilis sighed again. “I fear the messenger to your legion may have fallen to an ill fate. There is a fell enemy that dwells up north, yet your Empire has summoned you. Your vessel departs tomorrow.”
“This is not fair,” Nysa pouted.
“Life seldom is,” Nicholas replied trying to muster his optimism. “Fear not, my love. Soon, I will return and retire the soldier’
s life, and then we shall wed.”
Nicholas lifted up Nysa’s hand and kissed her knuckles. Frowning at the tender moment, Vasilis couldn’t wait a beat without interrupting. “Aye, fear not,” he blurted. “We shall watch over Nysa in your stead. She, I guarantee, will be in good hands.” Nicholas nodded with a dark disappointment and looked intently into Nysa’s eyes. Neither noticed that under Vasilis’ beguiling smile lurked a shadow.
But Nicholas wasn’t back in Myra anymore, as his last memory of Nysa faded from forethought. Nicholas sighed, donning his soldier’s apparel, and attempted to assemble inner courage. Yet, it seemed that he could still smell the fragrance of Nysa’s perfume.
Stepping outside, Nicholas stuck his sword into the frozen soil and knelt before the image of a cross formed by the blade and hilt. Yes, his faith was still very much a part of him. While he had rebelliously escaped the vocation his Uncle designed for him, he never intended to depart from the beliefs he had held since a small child. Now called upon to fight for his country, he needed God’s support. In fact, it was the words of his Lord: “render unto Caesar that which is Caesar’s,” that planted the thought-seed of joining the Roman legions.
“Dear Lord,” he prayed in a hushed melancholy tone, “would that I be in the company of my beloved, yet I have made my decision and find myself on the brink of battle. I humbly ask that I may find my way home again.”
And just then, stifling his petitions to the Almighty, his ears tuned into an almost inaudible, yet distinctly astonishing melody, a song that seemed to float on the air like an autumn leaf drifting on a gentle breeze. He stood and began slowly moving toward the epicenter of the song, drawn as if by the lure of the sirens. As he came closer, it grew louder and clearer, though as much as he tried, he could not understand the words. Either it was in an unknown language or the distance and natural echo made it indiscernible. But it wasn’t the lyrics that attracted him, it was the source.
The tales he had heard of those who lived in the north spoke of a backwards, uncivilized, hairy lot, who could never be capable of producing a melody so sweet to his ears. Soon, he was so enthralled by the music no other sound could be heard and it didn’t matter anymore from whence the music came. All that mattered now was being in the present moment and enjoying the music. Nicholas could only describe it as a perfect harmony between male and female voices of people who had fully mastered their vocal cords as instruments.
During a lull in the song he noticed that beside him stood a reindeer. The two turned and looked at each other at the same time and together they shared, as comrades, a cosmic moment. The beast’s shoulders were about six feet high and its antlers were easily four feet across. Peering into the creature’s small black glassy eyes, Nicholas felt as if he were gazing into a crystal ball portending his innermost voice. Chills ran down his spine and his skin rumpled with goose bumps during a moment that seemed to last a hundred years but may have been only seconds. Their rapport suddenly broke as the shout of his commander tore through the serenity.
“Romans!” Flavius shouted. “Draw hither!”
3
Said the King to his people everywhere,
“Listen to what I say.”
“What have ye learned?” asked a captain in his deep demanding voice. He typically used this rallying call to evoke the soldiers to shout in response: “No fear! No mercy! Victory for Rome!”
As the captain called his questions and the soldiers would bark back their inculcate response, Nicholas remained silent. “No fear,” he thought would be wonderful, but “no mercy”? He looked at the other soldiers who seemed to be reacting involuntarily and saw Cordus, responding in sync with the others like a mindless drone. He couldn’t find Lysander, he too was probably chanting along with the masculine choir until the captain nodded his approval at their ardor and Flavius leaned forward to gaze down piercingly at his army.
“Destiny has come nigh,” Flavius declared to the ranks before him as he sat mounted on his steed. His senior officers flanked him on either side, also upon their horses gazing upon their commanders with a look of confidence they hoped would impart courage. “Today is solely a step toward tomorrow, a brighter future for the glory of Rome.”
Nicholas, standing far in the rear, could hardly hear Flavius’ words. He wondered if those behind him could even make out any of the distant rhetoric. It seemed to Nicholas that inspirational speeches were best suited for those up front and center, those following would have to stir themselves up when they charged the enemy. “Yesterday some of you were merely shepherds, craftsmen, or men of the sea, yet Romans. And today, as you stand before me, you are soldiers in the finest army the world has ever known!”
The soldiers cheered a fierce approval that stirred up their adrenaline and bravery. But for Nicholas it had the opposite affect; instead of the warrior within coming forth, he retreated into his natural tendency to observe and evaluate, still as a statue, he watched the others. He lamented while they cheered. He seemed to be the only one burdened with despair at the thought of killing another person.
At that moment, a scout, sweating and out of breath, scrambled out from the bushes to shout, “My liege!” He then paused to catch his breath and swallowed heavily, looking almost about to vomit. He evidently had run a very long way in a short amount of time. “My liege, I bring news!”
“I will have it,” Flavius replied, eager for the news and yet understanding of his scout’s exhaustion.
“The enemy approaches! They spied our scouts and began a swift advance to catch us unaware. They approach just over yonder hills!”
“Aye, son, you have done well. Take your leave.” The scout stiffly bowed and staggered back as Flavius gathered his composure, wheeled his mount about and addressed his men. “You have heard it. On this auspicious hour, as we assemble, the enemy draws nigh to us!” Raising his voice to point of nearly breaking, he cried out, “Men! Romans! We march! For glory! For honor! FOR ROME!”
The battalions wheeled about and marched in stride for the next half hour. Behind the small cavalry came the infantry, among whom Nicholas strode. As they pressed northwest, parallel to the Danube, they neared the summit of the Danube Valley. The legion hiked swiftly through the trees, climbed the hills, and finally stood atop a butte to peer down into the haze of the golden forest. With a silent hand gesture, Flavius signaled a halt that his commanders emulated. His keen eyes pierced the distance, searching for any sign of the enemy.
Lysander gripped his spear tightly while standing in his close arrayed body of troops known as a phalanx, mentally visualizing his victory. He was ready. Nicholas on the contrary did all he could to keep his mind off the forthcoming melee. He had been through Roman legionnaire training—swam laps upon laps in pools and the sea to build his muscles, hiked long hours carrying sixty pounds of gear to build his endurance, and sparred endlessly with wooden weapons to build his intuition and dexterity. However, sparring with Lysander had given him the best understanding of actual combat. Physically and mentally, he should have been ready, but he wasn’t. He just didn’t have it in him to kill another human being. Nicholas simply did not have the warrior’s spirit.
The earth began to tremble ever so slightly. All Nicholas felt were vibrations; all he heard was a hushed roar of thousands of men. On the peak of the adjacent hill, through the autumn leaves, rose the regiments of their enemies. Because they donned colors that blended with their surroundings, they seemed to appear magically all at once. Then, without notice, an arrow pierced the sky and landed just before the hooves of Flavius’s horse, which hopped back and whinnied in alarm. The missile was apparently a challenge from the spirited Northerners.
Flavius turned and gave another brief encouraging speech to his troops, but Nicholas was too far away to hear a word of it. The only word he heard was the last word of the speech. That single utterance which seemed to linger in the air put a stone in his gut and a spur in his rear—“CHARGE!”—and the fight was on.
The Roma
n infantry and cavalry charged as their archers, located behind, rained an arrow bombardment upon the barbarians ahead. Nicholas found it exhilarating to run together with so many brave and valiant warriors and for the first time, he even felt a prick of courage like a hot shard of metal on his braccae driving him ever forward.
The Roman Legions stormed down the hill and just as they moved up another incline toward the Barbarians, they collided on predominantly level ground. The forces clashed heavily with the Barbarian army. The northern warriors were dressed in fur and leather and most wielded massive battle-axes. Pieces of armor and limbs began to fly in the blur of carnage. On every side now, Nicholas’s companions were either hacking or being hacked and his vision narrowed. He looked left and right at combat all around until his eyes met those of a savage warrior with the intent to kill who was running straight for him.
At last, his training kicked in and he began working his shield, not only as a defense, but also as a nuisance and aggravation to his opponent until the moment came when he could jab his spear into the flesh of the burly brute who eagerly tried to take Nicholas’s life. When the opportunity came, a second enemy slashing at him distracted him from his target. The battle-axe plucked his spear from his grip; disarmed, Nicholas had to switch from confrontation to evasion. He dodged one blow and blocked another, but the brute force of the Barbarian’s strike slammed his back into a tree.