The Noise of War

by Vincent B Davis II

  As the Romans writhed on the floor, struggling in vain to pat out the flames, one man stood with his hands gripped on the wicker bars of the cage.

  “My name is Marcus Aurelius Scaurus, a legate under Consul Gnaeus Mallius Maximus,” he shouted as the flesh of his feet and shins began to char. “Turn back now! You bring only your doom. The Romans will kill you all.”

  His strength bid me to look up, and gaze upon what these barbarians had wrought. The charred bodies of the Roman captives thrashed on the smoldering floor of the wicker cage. Aurelius alone stood in silence, inhaling the toxic fumes as the flesh of his legs melted beneath him.

  “We burn the rest tomorrow. Then war,” Carverix said with a victorious smile, slapping my back. I forced a grin and nodded as if it weren’t soon enough, but a more perceptive people would have noticed the trembling of my hands. Whatever respect or admiration I had once held for this savage people had dissolving with the smoke. I was resolved to do what I must. Nothing could have served as a better reminder.

  The fires continued for some time. Their death was a slow one.

  I cannot bear to continue the description.

  18

  Scroll XVIII

  One day before the ides of January 652 ab urbe condita

  I’ve spoke of nightmares previously, but nothing rivaled the ones I endured that night. My mind’s eye never left that wicker cage, where I saw the faces of my brother and comrades smoldering like a roasted chicken. I saw myself inside the cage too, but rather than burn, I remained alive but unable to do anything to help those around me.

  I woke early, fitfully, only to find reality was worse than the dreams. It had all really happened. Dozens of Roman lives vanquished in an instant.

  I was drenched in sweat, and I dreaded pulling back my blankets and revealing the wetness to the frigid morning air.

  To my surprise, Father was sitting over me, sharpening the tip of his spear on a stone and staring at me with a piercing gaze.

  “Morning,” I said, stretching, pretending I was just roused from an adequate night’s rest.

  “You sleep badly?” he asked.

  I shook my head. “I don’t believe so.”

  “You spoke in your sleep.” He put the spear aside and leaned in closer, as if attempting to smell for prey.

  “Did I say anything interesting?” I asked, feigning a chuckle.

  “You spoke in a strange tongue.” His eyes never left mine as I shook my head and pretended it was a joke.

  “I can’t imagine what it must have been. Wasn’t just grumbling, was it?” I asked.

  “They were words I’ve heard before.”

  We both fell silent as the jests of our Tigurini clansmen filled our ears.

  “You going to tell me what it was?” I asked, still smiling.

  “You give me signs that grieve me, boy.” He stood, his fingers twisting the wood of his spear.

  I quickly rolled from bed but slowed so that I didn’t seem suspicious. I threw the deerskin hide over my shoulders and shrugged.

  “I’m just ready to fight,” I said, and walked away.

  He followed me for a few steps but eventually allowed me to proceed and intermingle with my clan. I felt his gaze on me the rest of the day.

  The Carverix told me there was to be a feast, but I had no idea what to expect. The festivities began no later than what the Romans would have called second hour. The ale flowed freely, and the finest of local Gallic livestock were slaughtered for consumption. They couldn’t take it all with them on the move, so they were determined to drink and eat as much as possible.

  The Tigurini joined in gratefully, and I drank among my clansmen as I always did, but I tried to pour out as much as possible when no one was looking. This was difficult, as Father hardly looked away. But this was a time for sober thoughts only, despite how badly I desired to escape them. With Father’s suspicions growing and the Cimbri set to depart the following day, I knew my time was short. My mind was already set on leaving.

  But somehow I remained frozen beside the fire along with my clansmen. I feared that they already knew my schemes and that their acts of cordiality and attempts at humor were contrived, only to lull me into a false sense of security. Then they might kill me in my sleep or, worse yet, hand me over to the Cimbri to be burned alive alongside today’s sacrifices.

  But as the day continued, they became more drunk and I became more resolved. Even Father seemed to momentarily forget his suspicions as he sang along with his clansmen some ballads they had been taught in their youth.

  By the time the sun began to set, the real feast began. They beat war drums as the Cimbri priestesses swayed rhythmically along with it. Great fires were lit to illuminate the camp, and the smoke hovered around us so thick as to almost block out the man beside you.

  I still didn’t know what I was to do. I waited anxiously for a moment where my comrades were distracted, but when the times came, I found myself paralyzed.

  But after the sun had faded and the men had picked the bones clean, a mass orgy ensued. The priestesses and womenfolk of the Cimbri pleasured their warriors openly in the night air. Such a display made the Roman Saturnalia look like an innocent dinner with the family.

  The unwed ladies among them searched hungrily for a warrior of their own, stumbling throughout the camp intoxicated on the ale and whatever inhalants the Cimbri had confiscated from the Spaniards. More than a few times, a woman fell to her knees before me and tried to push up my tunic, determined to perform her service with or without my consent. I stood, too, and moved away as they shrugged and sauntered on to find a more willing participant.

  I peered around the camp, and I now found that nearly every man was engulfed in a drunken ecstasy, even if he had to share with a friend. Now was my time.

  As the watchful eyes of Father turned toward the young Cimbri girl who had joined him, I hurried away toward the opening of the walls, careful to follow the cover of the smoke. Even the guards were partaking in the revelry and didn’t seem to notice.

  As I stood within a handful of yards from the gate, I paused. My legs seemed unwilling to move another step. The memory of the roasting prisoners flashed before my eye in rapid succession: the charred limbs that flickered away in cooling ash, the smell of human flesh that lingered still, the screams and choking coughs of the dying.

  I turned on my feet. My mind was at war with itself. Part of me was angry, very angry at myself for what I was about to do. The foolishness, the recklessness. The part of myself I admired most, the part of me that emulated my father and wanted to become the kind of man my brother said I could be as he lay dying in my arms, this side was determined to do the right thing. And this was the side I was determined to listen to.

  I hurried through the camp, sticking to the shadows as much as I could. I didn’t know where the prisoners were kept, but I remembered clearly where the wicker cage had been brought forth from, so I started my search there.

  Thankfully, the Cimbri felt no need to hide their prisoners. It was a wonder I had not seen them before, save that they were in a part of the camp that was designated for Cimbri only and far from our Tigurini tents.

  Two guards were standing beside the cages, but just as you might expect, they didn’t allow their responsibilities to keep them from enjoying themselves on a night of celebration.

  I waited for an opportune time, and while the guardsmen were distracted as they shared a girl, I made my way to the gate of the cage.

  I was met with the most foul stench imaginable. The emaciated Romans within were naked and covered in urine and excrement. There was no evidence that they had been fed recently, so one must only wonder how they had stayed alive.

  I knelt beside the cage and looked over my shoulder to ensure no one had seen me. The guards were so entrenched in their activities, I’m not sure they would have cared even if they had spotted me.

  “My name is Quintus Sertorius,” I said in a hushed tone, and by the gods, it felt good to say m
y own name.

  Most of the men didn’t move or even look up. They were strewn across the cage atop one another. I thought for a moment that they were already dead but strained my eye in the darkness to make out several heaving chests.

  “My name is Quintus Sertorius,” I said again, “and I am here to help you. Is there any man among you who can walk?” I asked.

  “I,” came one voice. The man slowly pulled himself to his knees, then to his feet. He approached the edge of the gate. His cheeks were shallow and his ribs gaunt, but his eyes still shone with a hint of life. A few more of them stood, struggling to do so. “My name is Marcus Marcellus, legate of the Fifth Legion,” the first man said, cognizant of the fact that he needed to keep his voice low.

  “Well, Legate Marcellus, it’s time to get you out of here,” I said as a few more men joined him at the edge.

  I brandished my spear and began to cut through the ropes binding the exit, looking over my shoulder to ensure I wasn’t being too loud as I did so.

  At last, the final thread of the rope was severed, and the gates opened. I feared the creak of the wicker would alert the guards, but they didn’t seem to hear.

  Marcellus and a few others rushed past me as best they could.

  “If there is any man among you who may yet still live, pick him up and carry him.”

  Marcellus and the others reluctantly reentered the cage and helped a few men onto their backs.

  “Leave us, go now,” someone said.

  “It’s useless,” one of them said.

  Dozens of them were still attached to the earth, unable to move, and a few of them were already dead. As fear began to overcome my adrenaline, and I contemplated what I should do, I noticed a man at my feet. Even with sunken cheeks, atrophied limbs, and a dozen infected scars, I recognized him.

  It was my friend Ax.

  “Ax, it’s me,” I said, kneeling beside my old comrade. He looked up at me, but it didn’t seem to register. His breath was shallow and wheezy.

  “Stallion,” he said at last.

  “Yes. Yes, it’s me. I thought you were dead,” I said.

  “It was actually the Cimbri who nursed me back to health. Just so they could keep me here to rot.”

  “We need to hurry,” Marcellus said as the freed prisoners crouched behind me.

  “Come on.” I lifted Ax up and onto my shoulders, the protruding bone of his hip digging into my shoulder.

  “Now—now,” Marcellus whispered.

  “We need to separate. We’ll be caught if we’re too close,” I said, keeping my eye on the guards, who were no more than a hundred feet away.

  “We need swords,” Marcellus replied.

  “No use. We can’t fight them. You’re all naked, scarred, and hairy, just like our captors. If you can manage to sway like you’re drunk and get an erection, it will help,” I said. “Escape is that way.”

  We spread out from one another like we were given a centurion’s order for a wedge formation. We stuck to the shadows and moved carefully.

  “Hold on, old friend. Almost home,” I said, fearing that Ax’s shallow breaths might cease at any moment.

  I tried to make a good pace but didn’t want to raise any suspicion. The Cimbri were distracted, but even belligerent and in the midst of an orgy, they could be attentive enough to notice us.

  As I rounded past the king’s hut, I saw the edge of the Cimbri walls in the distance. Only a few minutes’ walk but still so far away.

  I tried to increase my speed, not venturing to look over my shoulders to see if the others were doing the same.

  I continued to churn forward, but the gate never seemed any closer.

  When at last the exit was within reach, I heard a Cimbri man bark behind me.

  “Hey!” he shouted, but I didn’t slow or turn around. “You there!” he bellowed again, his voice closer this time. Knowing I couldn’t outrun him, I stopped.

  I exhaled and took time turning to meet him. I had failed. And now Rome would likely fail as well because of my stupidity.

  “What are you doing?” he asked in suspicion.

  “My friend is drunk. I’m taking him back to his tent,” I said, trying to force a smile.

  He stepped closer.

  “Tents are that way.” He gestured back to the center of the camp, brandishing an axe from his hip.

  Just as he prepared to lunge for me, a spear wedged through his belly. Behind him stood Marcellus, who hastily put a hand over the man’s mouth to smother the scream. Where, or from whom, he took that spear, I’ll never know.

  I nodded my thanks and turned back toward the gate.

  “Run!” I said behind gritted teeth.

  We sprinted like Zephyr past the exit, bursting out into the cold Alpine snow.

  Bodies of fleeing captives collapsed as we ran, unable to take another step.

  But I pressed on, with Ax on my shoulders and only a few men at my side, into the darkness, not venturing to look back.

  19

  Scroll XIX

  Ides of January 652 ab urbe condita

  Once we had made it a safe distance from the Cimbri camp, I reconvened with the survivors. There were nine of us, the carried and carrier all.

  “What are we to do?” one of them asked in sheer terror.

  “We have to hurry. As soon as they find those empty cages, they’ll send riders after us,” another said.

  “We have to make for the mountain passes. That’s the only place where their horses can’t move faster than us,” Marcellus said, breathing heavily.

  “We can’t. We’ll freeze to death.” I shook my head.

  “This is your command,” one of them said, looking to me. “What are we to do?”

  My eye darted between the men and the black horizon beyond which the Cimbri’s camp resided.

  “You have to make a decision,” another said.

  “I know, I know,” I said, closing my eye and pouring over every possibility. There was none that seemed adequate.

  “We need to do something.” Marcellus stepped toward me.

  “We go to one of the villages,” I said as soon as the thought reached my mind. “We have to go to one of the villages.”

  “What if they are allied with the Reds? They’ll turn us over in exchange for favor with the enemy!” Marcellus shook his head vehemently.

  “They might, they might,” I said, feeling more confident in my decision. “But we have no other choice. We need clothing and horses. Otherwise, we’ll never make it out of here alive.”

  “And they’ll just give them to us?” Marcellus laughed in derision at the foolish plan. But foolish plans had gotten me to this point, so I ignored the laugh and set off for the nearest village I had passed while marching with the Tigurini.

  We moved as quickly as possible but had to match the pace of our least healthy escapee.

  “Just a bit farther,” I said, catching my breath. “Marcellus, carry him. He can’t walk another step.” I pointed to the weakest among us, who had grown as pale as the snow beneath us.

  I kept imagining that I heard the clamoring hooves of a Cimbri scouting party behind us, but we hadn’t seen them yet.

  A village crept into view in the distance.

  There were no lamps burning in the windows, so it was nearly impossible to see. I thought perhaps my eye was playing a trick on me, but I stayed the course.

  When we reached the outskirts of the village, I halted the men and told them to catch their breaths. I knew that it was not air that they needed now but something to cover them. Their bodies were moving only on sheer terror and the blessing of the gods, so I knew they needed food and rest or they would likely die of exhaustion.

  The men fell to the snow, letting it engulf them.

  I approached the nearest hut. It was larger than the rest, and there was fenced in land behind it. I could see nothing but heard the snores of a few horses in the distance.

  What was I to say? Nothing clever came to mind. But it wa
s the only chance I had. The gods had led me this far. Perhaps the gods were protecting me, as Apollonius had suggested.

  I banged on the door as forcefully as I could, in total, utter desperation.

  I heard nothing stir within the house.

  I beat again.

  Over my shoulder, I heard some of the men begin to weep.

  “Come on, come on. Please,” I begged. I spoke to the gods, my ancestors, or anyone listening. “Please.”

  Finally, the door crept open, a pair of eyes shimmering in the moonlight behind it.

  “What do you want?” the gruff voice asked.

  “Please, we need help,” I said in Gallic.

  He inched the door back a bit farther and peered over my shoulder at the emaciated naked Romans behind me.

  “Are you Cimbri?” he asked.

  “No. No, we aren’t. Who we are isn’t relevant,” I said. “We just need help.”

  I noticed that he fingered the head of an axe on his hip.

  The man was silent for a moment until the crying of a babe echoed throughout the hut.

  A young mother, bobbing the sobbing infant on her hip, appeared behind him, her eyes wide with fear and perhaps anger.

  “What is the meaning of this?” she cried.

  “Please, lady, we need help,” I said.

  “We do not know you! Get out of here!” She stumbled over her words, but the righteous anger of an indignant mother was still apparent.

  “Sir, we need horses and clothing.”

  “Leave now!” the woman shouted, and then she began to scream wildly at her husband for even considering it. She stormed off into the house.

  “Please, sir. We will all die.” I gestured back to the survivors.

  “You need to leave,” he said quietly as he began to shut the door.

  I grabbed at the edge of it and stopped him.