Ruin and Rebirth

by Michael Whitehead

  Chapter Twenty Eight

  Men died in droves, and the Risen came across the plain in their thousands. Having stood waiting while forming their ranks, they now attacked like wild animals. Savage and without mercy, they destroyed rank after rank of the legions.

  Garic was standing shoulder to shoulder with Hakor and they fought with total abandon, the Roman's sword and most of his arm covered in thick, black gore. He had wiped his face, trying to rub sweat out of his eyes, and now wore a mask of undead blood. Anyone who saw him might be excused for thinking that he was one of the enemy.

  He stabbed and punched against anything that came his way. Each thrust of his blade found a home, stabbing into dead flesh and breaking the bones of the monsters. So thick were the Risen that he could not fail to drive his sword home.

  Death had ceased to concern him a long time ago. When the Risen had attacked, noiseless and without warning, men had cried out in fear. Hundreds had fallen in those first minutes, and the undead had overwhelmed them with their numbers and raw hunger. Now those that were left fought knowing they would die with only time and the gods keeping them alive, and that was a liberating feeling.

  Hakor fought like a man possessed and Garic watched as he decapitated an opponent with a wild swing, his blade cutting through a throat that was almost rotted through already. Suddenly a great wash of black stinking sludge slopped across their faces.

  The smell was horrendous. Men who were trapped in the crowd were helpless and unable to move in the press of bodies, lost control of their bowels from the horror surrounding them. The rotting flesh of the Risen was worse, and thousands of undead bodies crushed against each other was enough to make the gorge of the men who tried to kill them rise. Just as Garic thought he had become used to the miasma, another wave of the evil smell hit him and he felt his stomach turn again.

  Above all was the sickly, metallic smell of blood. The ground had turned to mud where men had been torn apart and their lifeblood had soaked the turf. Garic had felt his feet slip more than once, and he had only been saved from falling over by the crush of men all around him. He knew that before long there would be too few men left to fill the space and he would go down and stay there.

  While he breathed he swore he would fight yet his arm felt like lead, each blow draining what energy he had left. He found that remembering his father helped, as did thinking of his life back in Rome and working at his butcher's stall. This wasn’t a sword in his hand, these weren’t dying men and undead creatures around him; he held a cleaver and the people were just looking for their evening meal. Each cut and thrust into undead flesh was the chop of his butchers knife into a joint of meat.

  What would his father think of him now? Would he be proud of his son, fighting not just for the city he loved, but for all the cities in the Roman world? He was one of the last men in the empire and he would survive just one minute at a time.

  A face appeared before him, no older than his son Tulius, just a toddler. It snapped its teeth at Hakor next to him, and only the crush of bodies meant that the child could not reach its intended victim. Garic lanced out his arm and drove his blade into the child’s head, but his friend did not even see it happen.

  Garic felt warm rain on the back of his neck and he looked up, hoping for a glance of blue sky, but the rain was blood and the heavens above him were filled with the dark shadow of a Risen. It was dead and its body had nowhere to fall in the pressing chaos of men and monsters, so it was carried out of sight, riding the battle like a twig carried by a stream.

  More Risen came in to kill, and more came to die. A cry of pain close by made him turn to see blood running from a wound in Hakor’s upper arm, but the big man continued to fight, what else was there to do?

  From somewhere behind them a horn blew a series of notes that were lost to him in the pounding, claustrophobic nightmare, and he felt hands drag him backwards. He had begun to think that the battle was over, that the Risen had overwhelmed the legions and he was being rushed from behind. Still, he did not resist whoever was pulling him away, but simply allowed himself to be taken. The will to fight had left him completely.

  But the hands were not undead, and he realised he was being pulled out of the fight in order for fresh men to replace him. He turned to see Hakor being hauled out of the crowd and a new man stepping into his place. They moved through a mass of frightened and exhausted men waiting for his chance to fight and die. Among the sea of faces Garic now saw women readying themselves to fight beside the men of the empire, and why should they not? Did they not also have arms to wield swords, strong backs and brave hearts?

  The crowd parted as they passed, each watching them for a reaction, looking to see men who had faced the Risen and still lived. Garic tried to raise his chin, to give these people some hope, and to give them a reason to raise their swords once more when their bodies told them it could not be done.

  Then all too soon they too were at the back of the ranks. It did not seem right - there should be more men. This wasn’t all of them, was it? Garic felt the little hope that remained in him die. He had marched through Italy in a army of men so large that it couldn’t possibly be beaten, and now it was reduced to such a small force. The end would not be far away.

  A man handed him a skin half full of liquid, and mimed taking a drink. Garic cleared the fog of his mind enough to raise the skin to his mouth, and he tasted water mixed with a little wine. He hadn’t realised how dry his mouth and throat were until he had to force them to open, to allow the drink down. It washed through the dust and dirt of battle, and waking his stomach to the fact that he hadn’t eaten in hours. He turned to see if there was anything he might take a bite of when he saw Hakor.

  The big Egyptian was down on one knee, looking grey and grave. Garic knelt next to him, placing his hand on his friend’s shoulder, the look in Hakor’s eyes told him everything he needed to know.

  “Medicus!,” Garic shouted over his shoulder. “Where do I find the medicus?” He looked around him but everyone was occupied with something else. There were injured men lying on the ground, unattended, and the medic was nowhere to be seen.

  Garic found a discarded tunic among someone's abandoned kit, and he took out his knife and started cutting the garment into strips.

  “I’ll be as quick as I can,” he said to his friend, but the big man was looking up and past Garic’s shoulder. A centurion was looking down at Hakor.

  “All men with bite wounds are to report to the area, over there,” the officer said, pointing behind him.

  “This isn’t a bite. I think he tore the skin on a piece of armour,” Garic said through gritted teeth.

  “Looks like a bite to me,” the centurion said, kneeling down next to Hakor. He placed a finger and thumb each side of the wound and opened it, and a fresh gout of blood flowed down Hakor’s arm as he swayed back from the officer.

  “I can’t take any chances. My orders are that any man who is bitten is to be put to death.” The centurion straightened up and stared down his nose at Hakor.

  “It’s not a bite wound,” Garic said, stepping between his friend and this intimidating officer.

  “Step out of the way, now,” the centurion growled at him. “My orders are to report him for execution, or if you’d prefer I could simply order that one of my men carry out the job right here?”

  Garic felt panic rise in him. This man was simply trying to follow orders and trying to keep the men safe from possible attack if a bitten man turned. He could, however, not just let him take his friend to be executed.

  “Sir, this man has not been bitten, I saw him injured,” Garic lied. He hadn’t seen the injury happen to Hakor, he had only heard him cry out, but he would not let this man kill his friend.

  The centurion looked behind him to where two legionaries, who hadn’t been there a moment before had now appeared.

  “Escort this man to the medicus,” he said, nodding at Hakor.

  Garic sent up a silent prayer to the gods, as he watc
hed his friend led away. Maybe for the last time.

  Ursus watched the battle unfold in front of him and smiled. The fight was lost, there was no doubt of that. The enemy had sustained massive losses but they still outnumbered the living by three or four times? In the end it didn't matter, the result was still the same. The empire was lost, and so was humanity.

  The sky was beginning to darken, and ominous black clouds gathered over the battlefield. How many times over the years had he fought soaked to the skin? It seemed like every battle he had ever fought had been one fought in pouring rain as if the gods were looking down and laughing at man’s puny endeavours, and proving to both the powerful and lowly alike that nothing they did could compare with the power of the gods. Men could fight battles, but the gods controlled the world.

  But where were the gods now?

  “Why the smile?” Numarius asked as he reined in his horse along side Ursus.

  “Do you not see how the men fight? Have you ever seen a finer sight than men who are willing to die, but still make sure they take as many of the enemy down before they do?” Ursus held his arms out to encompass the whole field.

  “It makes a man proud to Roman,” Numarius nodded.

  “It makes a man proud to be a man,” the prefect added, “there will be nothing after us. We are the last, think about that! Great men have worried about how the world will remember them. We won’t have that problem, my friend,” he reached over and gripped the other man’s shoulder. It felt a little odd because Numarius wore armour, but the sentiment was still there.

  “Where is he? Do you know?” Numarius asked. He didn’t look at Ursus, knowing that the commander knew who he was referring to. They were both concentrating on the battle in front of them when the prefect chuckled, shaking his head.

  “The last I saw, he had commandeered an eight-man squad and was heading north again. It would seem our emperor has abdicated the throne.”

  Numarius sighed, “I hope the gods forgive him. I wonder where he thinks he’s going.”

  “I don’t think he even knows himself,” Ursus replied.

  “There isn’t much time before we are overwhelmed,” Numarius pointed out over the battle. The Roman line was stretched as thin as it could possibly be and the main strength of the undead force was concentrated on the centre. Whatever or whoever had changed in the behaviour of the Risen, it had not given them any more imagination when it came to fighting. They still moved toward the nearest prey, just following the creature in front. Now however, the sheer numbers the undead commanded, meant that they were able to flank the Roman lines and the men on both wings were fighting for their lives, but it simply would not be enough.

  “It’s been a long time since I was in a really good fight,” Ursus grinned boyishly and Numarius laughed. It was a hearty and genuine expression.

  “You read my mind,” said to the prefect. “You know it’s a shame we couldn’t have known each other before all this. I think we could have been good friends.”

  “Maybe we can have a drink or three in the Elysium,” Ursus smiled.

  Ursus looked around him one more time, drinking in this world, this life. He felt the breeze on his face and the cold air bit at his eyes, making them water. The clouds above rolled in, darkening the day further and even the smell of the men before him, living and dead, made his heart ache for one more day, one more meal, one more breath. The gods granted a life to each of us and demanded a death in return - now these men would pay the final debt, here in this place.

  Across the space between himself and the battle, a man stood watching two legionaries carry an injured friend to receive care from a medicus. He was streaked with the blood of the undead, it mixed on his skin with the blood of the living, black on red. He wore little armour and carried his sword like it weighed more than his soul. The man looked lost, alone, but unafraid. In that moment he was Rome.

  “You there!” Ursus shouted, and for a moment he thought the man either didn’t hear him or didn’t realise he was being spoken to, but eventually he turned to look at the prefect. There was a look of shocked determination on his face that made Ursus glad just to see it. “What’s your name?”

  “Garic, sir,” the man replied, walking a few steps toward Ursus and Numarius. The prefect climbed down off his horse, and behind him he heard the legate do the same.

  “What did you do before all this?” Ursus asked Garic.

  “I was a butcher in Rome,” he answered, and the prefect saw him stand a little taller, straightening his back.

  “I’m sorry we couldn’t give you that life again, Garic. We tried, but the battle is lost,” Ursus said, shocked to discover he was a little ashamed to say those words in front of this man - this ordinary man who had stood up and fought for the city and people.

  “I know, sir. I’ve known since those things appeared on that hill that we couldn’t win,” Garic replied, a hint of a smile curling his lips.

  “And you didn’t run?”

  Garic looked surprised to be asked such a question and that was all the answer Ursus needed. He placed a hand on the butcher's shoulder and thought that this was another man he hoped to drink with in Elysium.

  “Garic, how do you feel about dying with me today?” Ursus asked. It was a simple question asked in a casual manner, but it had the weight of the world behind it.

  Garic nodded but didn’t speak. The prefect turned to his staff, all the men who stood behind him ready to run errands, pass on messages, and generally hiding from the real work of the battle. These were the favoured sons of Rome. They came from rich families and lived comfortable lives, even in the legions. Now they would find out what the life of a soldier of Rome was really all about.

  “Men, gather round,” he shouted, climbing back on his horse so that they might both see and hear him more clearly. They stepped toward him eagerly, waiting for orders. “Now is our time to die,” he said simply.

  Not every face before him fell, but most did. These preening, pampered, educated boys who knew nothing of the hardship of life; had they expected to live forever? He looked back down at the butcher who was clearly exhausted but still he held on to his sword.

  “The enemy are on us and we have no reserve, we are the last. This is Garic, he is a true son of Rome. We asked him to follow us, we asked him to fight for us and we asked him to die for us, and he did not refuse. Now we follow him.”

  Garic looked up at Ursus and the prefect saw that confusion and exhaustion had taken the man from them, at least temporarily. The men stood before them - no more than two dozen - all of them young, clean, and well dressed. They stared at this nightmarish figure soaked in gore and battle weary and Ursus saw fear in their eyes.

  An idea came to him, and he called over one of the aides whispering something to the man who ran off and came back with a jug of wine - Otho’s finest, no less. Nothing that could match the cellars in the fine mansions and grand estates of Rome, but good enough. The emperor had been gifted it while on the road and had been saving it to drink when he next sat safely in Rome. Ursus pulled out the stopper and poured a decent measure of the drink into his mouth, next he passed the jug to Numarius who did the same.

  After the two men had drunk, the prefect motioned to Garic and the legate passed the amphora to the butcher who took a large swig of the rich liquid, life coming back to his eyes.

  “Now I want each of you to drink with us,” he said to the men before him. “Drink, then pick up a sword, and die with us.”

  For a moment the men said nothing, just looking back at him blankly. Then a young man stepped forward and took the jug from Garic, and he smiled as he put it to his lips. Each man followed until every man had drunk a share of the wine.

  The prefect turned to Garic as he climbed down off his horse. The man was smiling, his teeth bright against the drying black blood on his face and clothes. Ursus nodded to him and the butcher raised his sword, letting out a bellow that was half anger and half joy that stood for all the grief and all t
he loss but remaining defiant. It was the last cry of a dying world. He began to run, holding his sword high and charging straight at the enemy one last time. Ursus turned to Numarius and the two men grinned, following Garic's example.

  Chapter Twenty Nine.

  The temple was bigger than it had been in his visions. Regulus walked the halls listening to his own footsteps. The high ceiling swam with stars, and it seemed as if the whole universe rotated about his head, dwarfing the dreams of men. Regulus felt diminished under its gaze.

  He moved slowly. The humming power of the temple mixed with his own fear and felt like a crushing burden. Beneath his feet a tortured and screaming face appeared trapped under the black glass flagstone, and then suddenly gone from sight, sucked down into whatever realm held it captive.

  The pillars, how many times had he seen those in his dreams? Their dark interior was the prison for a thousand screaming souls. He was drawn to look despite the icy terror that gripped him at the very thought. They swam at him, crying out for release, begging him to free them. In his dreams they had been terrible but this was so much worse, he could actually feel their anguish. Their agony was his agony.

  Drawing himself away, Regulus moved on down the hall, the ugly feeling of corruption and degradation stronger with each step. At the end of the hall was the largest archway, wider than those that flanked the length. It looked like the opening to another room but darkness blocked Regulus’s sight of what was beyond.

  He moved, slowly and quietly toward the arch, terror seizing him. A feeling of doom and of something stronger, was it guilt? He was about to pass through the arch when a voice spoke behind him.