Thrashia
18-08-2007, 08:46
Fear was near palpable. Sweaty hands, covered in days old dirt and grime, heated by the same fear that sped like a brush fire through their bodies. The mist didn't help either. Their eyes playing tricks upon the mind. Shadows and ghosts, luminescent figures forming then dissolving like morning dew. The sun's slanted light helped little to pierce the gloom as its fiery lances fell upon the earth. The fog would not lift and so their ears played the part of eyes. And great and terrible are the eyes of ears.
Crump, crump, crump. The sound of thousands of booted feet marching in trained step. Surely the footsteps of titans about to fall upon mortals.
Crash, crash, crash. The sound of swords being beat upon broad iron-wood shields. Thunder of some ancient god risen to reap vengeance.
Hacin-hetu! Mark ranks! The sound of a foreign language, fair yet terrible as a man caught in the wilderness by storm and foes. The roar of a war god, let loose the dogs of hell.
As the ears listen and create within the minds eye these images a weakness stretches through the limbs. My sword is heavy, much more than my arm's muscles remember. Should I not discard it? My shield, it balks at my shoulder, bruises my arm. Surely I should let loose it's straps and let it fall in peace upon the earth? My helmet, its tall iron peak weighs heavily upon my brow. I should take it off and feel the cool air upon my face, undo my cropped hair. The image of a war-like god and its approach with its fellows brings forth these thoughts and feelings.
Then the mist parts like the spreading of a sea before the prow of a ship. A wall of shields, tall, covering a man from knee to chin. Fierce looking javelins pointed forward at the ready. Fiery, warlike eyes stare from beneath the brim of iron helmets decorated with brass. Warriors of great stature march beside them in even more ornate armor and weapons, a great plume standing above their heads. They fear nothing, for a simple vine stick is all that they hold ready in hand.
The enemy is at hand.
The line of Gothes stood waiting for the approaching maniples of the Thrashian legionnaires. So foreign in appearance and standing to Thrashian eyes, with their fair skin and dark hair. Near naked, without shirts, and bearing swords the length of a man's arm. Their shields small and fit to their forearms like gladiators. Beards and mustaches droop with stylized pins and ornaments. Torques of gold and silver hang from necks or wrap around muscled arms. Unearthly war cries echo from amongst their mass. Barbarians. Fierce and tall as the reports indicated.
Gaius Flavius Titus rode high atop his white war steed, walking her gently forward behind the first line of maniples of the 7th Legion, a line 3,000 strong. Centurions, marked by their helmets and vine stick of office, march up and down the line, keeping order and insuring that no legionnaire breaks ranks. The sound of the thousands of boots hitting the earth in cadence is like a sweet and dear melody to Titus' ears. Here, amongst the beginning of death and battle, he is home.
"Lines. Form up!" Tribune Marcellus walks behind the ranks of men as the organized maniples, each 300 strong in ranks of 5 men deep, come to a full stop. Centurions draw their swords and small shields, putting their vine sticks away. Standard bearers, wearing the skin of wolves, raise their symbols, the fearsome falcon and eagle, above their heads. A cheer rises from the throats of the first line, and is echoed by the voices of 3,000 other legionnaires in two other maniple lines behind the first.
Marcellus Cassius nods in approval and looks up as his imperator and general rides past. "We shall bear forth a victory for you today my lord!" Cassius yells.
Titus, his weathered face grim, breaks into a small smile at his subordinate. "Bear in mind then, that we have not finished the day. For it is still but the morning!"
"Then we will bring the sun down with our enemies," cries on centurion. The men raise their pilum and roar their approval. If their general demands the sun be brought down from its high place then they would see it done.
"Bear up Atius! Keep your men in line Casca! I want to see you win glory and honor today Andromicus!" Titus says aloud, naming off individual men of different ranks. As he does so the legionnaires become taller, their swords a bit sharper, and their resolve turned from stone to marble.
Tribune Marcellus stares at the Gothes, their massed warriors barely 30 yards away, frightened by the sudden appearance of the Thrashians from the mist, standing idle and unable to act as one coherent unit. Marcellus smiles. It is like the slaughter of lambs for a sacrifice.
The young tribune raises his sword. "Pilum, ready!" All along the line the men space out by a foot and raise high their javelin-like spears. "Pilum, launch!" shouts Marcellus. The cry is taken upon along the line by successive centurions.
Like a low flying flock of black ravens, the spears fly forward, hurled by well trained soldiers. With a cry of fear the Gothe warriors raise their shields, only to have them pierced through by the long iron neck of the spear. Many cannot use their shields, the spear thrust into it unable to be removed, so they shed them onto the ground. More than a few are pierce through shield and flesh. First blood.
"Draw swords!"
Thousands of gleaming short gladius' sing out of their sheathes as the legionnaires pull them out. Shields are rocked forward and the soldiers lean forward, thrusting the shield out and have the shining point of their swords hang threateningly out the right side of their shield.
"Charge!"
With a roar of thousands of throats the line moves forward inexorably. Like two magnets drawn to each other, the lines of enemies meet. The Gothes, though a proud and warlike people, are not ready to face such marshaled and regimented power. Warriors fling themselves forwards, screaming as they run, only to be cast down by raised tower shields the color of blood. Then upon the ground they are reduced to cadavers as the trained arms bearing swords flash out and lung, burying many inches of cold steel into their bodies.
The mass of Gothe warriors crash upon the line of the legion. The men of the 7th fight back, though some are slain for their efforts. A few maniples are forced apart, so fierce is the onrush of Gothe warriors, spurred on to insane acts of berzerk rage by a captain or leader amongst them...only to be met by the lowered blades of the second maniple line of legionnaires.
Other companies rush forward to fill the gaps in the first line. Men press forward, shouting encouragement to their comrades and curses upon the Gothes. Around the flanks of the army ride the auxiliary cavalry, mounted Equites, bearing lengthened spear and light shield. With the thunder of a rouchous ocean storm the hooves ride down upon the exposed sides of the Gothe army, tearing into them.
First one, then many begin to turn and run. The Gothe line cannot take the pressure and collapses. Warriors turn to run and are cut down in flight. Droves of men are massacred. The Thrashian cavalry ride down the running Gothe, long cavalry swords arcing down to remove the weight of a head from burdened shoulders.
The fight lasts but an hour.
Marcellus stumbles over the carved remains of a Thrashian soldier, his corpsified hand holding tight to a sword that is plunged deep into the chest of a Gothe warrior. Their lifeless eyes stare accusingly at the young tribune. Though covered in blood from head to foot, not a blades scratch is marked upon his skin. Luck has turned its face to him.
"Watch your step my lord tribune," a voice calls out over the field of the slain. "Wouldn't want to lose you to a wounded Gothe."
A centurion, his markings bearing him as a 1st Centurion and therefore of the most senior rank, walks towards Marcellus, occasionally stopping to stick his already gore covered sword into the body of a lying Gothe. Marcellus feels sick at the sight, at the apparent ease and lack of apathy the centurion shows.
"I-I'll try not to," replied Marcellus. "Dost thou know where my lord our general is?"
The centurion turns and points with his sword to the hill behind them where their camp is. He turned back and looked the young man over. "He is starting a ceremony to honor the brave. I think your fellow tribune Sulla won the civica julius for saving the life of a centurion."
Marcellus smiled at the thought of pompous Sulla with his good looks and haughty amused airs receiving the golden collar of the civica julius from their beloved general. It was the other man's dream. No greater glory other than the win its favor before Titus and the gods. For Thrashia as well, Marcellus reminds himself.
"Fair thee well then Centurion, and bid your soldiers help in your task. Make sure our dead are separated from theirs, and throw their corpses into a bon fire while we prepare ours for burial," Marcellus said, turning away from the older soldier and his grim task.
He made his way through the field of the slain, seeing ten Gothes for every one Thrashian, and walked through the open gates to their camp. Rows of neat tents and billowing standards pass him by as Marcellus walks to the center of the camp from where a loud roar of approval rises. As he enters the empty area there in the center, a large stage has been set up and Titus is standing on it. Kneeling before him is Sulla, a golden collar being tide around his neck.
Once done Titus turns to the masses of his brave and loyal soldiers.
"Men! Legionnaires! Sons! You have fought bravely today. The Gothe are defeated as they never have been before. More than 12,000 bodies litter the ground outside our camp, and no less than 12,000 of them are Gothe! You have bled for me, as you have now for so long, and done your work well. The gods raise you in their sight as I do! For this victory shall each man be given a hundred more talents of gold! Land and women for all!" The cheering rises to such a pitch that Marcellus fears his ears will burst.
The happy, cheering crowd of soldiers laugh and shout for joy at the promise of even more booty and wealth to be given to them by their general. Marcellus makes his way to the other five tribunes of the legion and takes his place beside Sulla.
"Where have you been? Wooing some Gothe woman?" asked Sulla.
"No, simply making sure I got my sword back. I lost it when a Gothe warrior threw himself onto my sword and I lost my grip. Found it still in the man's belly," replied Marcellus. "I see you got what you wanted."
Sulla grinned big. "I've been waiting 7 years for this! We've been on campaign here in Ivoria for so long that I feared it might never come. That some other bloke from another of the legions might steal my place!"
"Woe to the man that would do so!" joked Marcellus.
The two men laughed together and embraced in a brotherly hug, glad to see the other alive and unharmed. The mirth and cheer of the celebrating soldiers around them is infectious. That is until the purple robed rider and his six retainers thunders into the midst of mob and come to a halt before the stage. Marcellus recognizes the purple robed rider as Crassus Indomitus, a minor senator and page of the Senate.
"What is this sudden appearance?" asked Titus. "You are like Hermes, but lack the winged boots."
"I bear you a message of the Senate, o' Titus," declared Crassus. "You are under arrest by order of the Senate of the Republic of Thrashia. You are to disband your legions. You are to return to Rome as a private citizen and stand trial to charges of treason against the state and embezzelment of state funds."
An outcry rose from the ranks of soldiers. The senatorial messenger must have just noticed the soldiers, for he suddenly turned a paler shade of white. His six retainers let their hands fall to the hilts of their swords. All turned to stare at Titus, his aged face betraying his only 35 odd years of age.
No emotion plays upon his face. He looks hard at the older man and messenger. "The senate accuses me of treason and embezzelment...or do they fear me for simply gaining more glory for Thrashia and Rome?"
"We won't let you be taken!" cried out a soldier.
"You can't let us sheathe our swords for these pigs!" cried another.
"We're with you general!"
Marcellus was the one who cried this. He leaped up onto the stage and drew his sword, still bloody from battle, and faced Crassus. Other soldiers all around the seven riders drew swords or brought forth the points of pilum.
Titus looked at Crassus and the other man thought he saw tears forming on the general's eyes. "I have no wish but to serve Thrashia and Rome Crassus...why then do you so dishonor me?"
"It is the Senate's ruling."
"Then I refuse the senate," replied Titus.
The soldiers cheered and roared their approval. They were loyal to their general first, their state second. No mob of old greedy men would rob them of their beloved leader.
"Then your decision is made?" asked Crassus, a pleading note entered his voice.
"It is. I shall not return to Rome as a private citizen," finished Titus.
"So be it," whispered Crassus. "I will inform the senate then," he said aloud. He turned to leave with his men but was barred by the soldiers, their weapons still drawn and pointing.
"Let them pass," ordered Titus. "I shall not have Thrashian spilling Thrashian blood this day, when enough has been spilt already." Without another word the soldiers passed and the senatorial group rode off out of camp, back to Rome.
Marcellus sheathed his sword and turned to face his general. "What shall we do now my lord? Will the senate send an army against us? Where shall we go?"
"I know but one thing my son," said Titus. "Alea iacta est. The die is cast."
Crump, crump, crump. The sound of thousands of booted feet marching in trained step. Surely the footsteps of titans about to fall upon mortals.
Crash, crash, crash. The sound of swords being beat upon broad iron-wood shields. Thunder of some ancient god risen to reap vengeance.
Hacin-hetu! Mark ranks! The sound of a foreign language, fair yet terrible as a man caught in the wilderness by storm and foes. The roar of a war god, let loose the dogs of hell.
As the ears listen and create within the minds eye these images a weakness stretches through the limbs. My sword is heavy, much more than my arm's muscles remember. Should I not discard it? My shield, it balks at my shoulder, bruises my arm. Surely I should let loose it's straps and let it fall in peace upon the earth? My helmet, its tall iron peak weighs heavily upon my brow. I should take it off and feel the cool air upon my face, undo my cropped hair. The image of a war-like god and its approach with its fellows brings forth these thoughts and feelings.
Then the mist parts like the spreading of a sea before the prow of a ship. A wall of shields, tall, covering a man from knee to chin. Fierce looking javelins pointed forward at the ready. Fiery, warlike eyes stare from beneath the brim of iron helmets decorated with brass. Warriors of great stature march beside them in even more ornate armor and weapons, a great plume standing above their heads. They fear nothing, for a simple vine stick is all that they hold ready in hand.
The enemy is at hand.
The line of Gothes stood waiting for the approaching maniples of the Thrashian legionnaires. So foreign in appearance and standing to Thrashian eyes, with their fair skin and dark hair. Near naked, without shirts, and bearing swords the length of a man's arm. Their shields small and fit to their forearms like gladiators. Beards and mustaches droop with stylized pins and ornaments. Torques of gold and silver hang from necks or wrap around muscled arms. Unearthly war cries echo from amongst their mass. Barbarians. Fierce and tall as the reports indicated.
Gaius Flavius Titus rode high atop his white war steed, walking her gently forward behind the first line of maniples of the 7th Legion, a line 3,000 strong. Centurions, marked by their helmets and vine stick of office, march up and down the line, keeping order and insuring that no legionnaire breaks ranks. The sound of the thousands of boots hitting the earth in cadence is like a sweet and dear melody to Titus' ears. Here, amongst the beginning of death and battle, he is home.
"Lines. Form up!" Tribune Marcellus walks behind the ranks of men as the organized maniples, each 300 strong in ranks of 5 men deep, come to a full stop. Centurions draw their swords and small shields, putting their vine sticks away. Standard bearers, wearing the skin of wolves, raise their symbols, the fearsome falcon and eagle, above their heads. A cheer rises from the throats of the first line, and is echoed by the voices of 3,000 other legionnaires in two other maniple lines behind the first.
Marcellus Cassius nods in approval and looks up as his imperator and general rides past. "We shall bear forth a victory for you today my lord!" Cassius yells.
Titus, his weathered face grim, breaks into a small smile at his subordinate. "Bear in mind then, that we have not finished the day. For it is still but the morning!"
"Then we will bring the sun down with our enemies," cries on centurion. The men raise their pilum and roar their approval. If their general demands the sun be brought down from its high place then they would see it done.
"Bear up Atius! Keep your men in line Casca! I want to see you win glory and honor today Andromicus!" Titus says aloud, naming off individual men of different ranks. As he does so the legionnaires become taller, their swords a bit sharper, and their resolve turned from stone to marble.
Tribune Marcellus stares at the Gothes, their massed warriors barely 30 yards away, frightened by the sudden appearance of the Thrashians from the mist, standing idle and unable to act as one coherent unit. Marcellus smiles. It is like the slaughter of lambs for a sacrifice.
The young tribune raises his sword. "Pilum, ready!" All along the line the men space out by a foot and raise high their javelin-like spears. "Pilum, launch!" shouts Marcellus. The cry is taken upon along the line by successive centurions.
Like a low flying flock of black ravens, the spears fly forward, hurled by well trained soldiers. With a cry of fear the Gothe warriors raise their shields, only to have them pierced through by the long iron neck of the spear. Many cannot use their shields, the spear thrust into it unable to be removed, so they shed them onto the ground. More than a few are pierce through shield and flesh. First blood.
"Draw swords!"
Thousands of gleaming short gladius' sing out of their sheathes as the legionnaires pull them out. Shields are rocked forward and the soldiers lean forward, thrusting the shield out and have the shining point of their swords hang threateningly out the right side of their shield.
"Charge!"
With a roar of thousands of throats the line moves forward inexorably. Like two magnets drawn to each other, the lines of enemies meet. The Gothes, though a proud and warlike people, are not ready to face such marshaled and regimented power. Warriors fling themselves forwards, screaming as they run, only to be cast down by raised tower shields the color of blood. Then upon the ground they are reduced to cadavers as the trained arms bearing swords flash out and lung, burying many inches of cold steel into their bodies.
The mass of Gothe warriors crash upon the line of the legion. The men of the 7th fight back, though some are slain for their efforts. A few maniples are forced apart, so fierce is the onrush of Gothe warriors, spurred on to insane acts of berzerk rage by a captain or leader amongst them...only to be met by the lowered blades of the second maniple line of legionnaires.
Other companies rush forward to fill the gaps in the first line. Men press forward, shouting encouragement to their comrades and curses upon the Gothes. Around the flanks of the army ride the auxiliary cavalry, mounted Equites, bearing lengthened spear and light shield. With the thunder of a rouchous ocean storm the hooves ride down upon the exposed sides of the Gothe army, tearing into them.
First one, then many begin to turn and run. The Gothe line cannot take the pressure and collapses. Warriors turn to run and are cut down in flight. Droves of men are massacred. The Thrashian cavalry ride down the running Gothe, long cavalry swords arcing down to remove the weight of a head from burdened shoulders.
The fight lasts but an hour.
Marcellus stumbles over the carved remains of a Thrashian soldier, his corpsified hand holding tight to a sword that is plunged deep into the chest of a Gothe warrior. Their lifeless eyes stare accusingly at the young tribune. Though covered in blood from head to foot, not a blades scratch is marked upon his skin. Luck has turned its face to him.
"Watch your step my lord tribune," a voice calls out over the field of the slain. "Wouldn't want to lose you to a wounded Gothe."
A centurion, his markings bearing him as a 1st Centurion and therefore of the most senior rank, walks towards Marcellus, occasionally stopping to stick his already gore covered sword into the body of a lying Gothe. Marcellus feels sick at the sight, at the apparent ease and lack of apathy the centurion shows.
"I-I'll try not to," replied Marcellus. "Dost thou know where my lord our general is?"
The centurion turns and points with his sword to the hill behind them where their camp is. He turned back and looked the young man over. "He is starting a ceremony to honor the brave. I think your fellow tribune Sulla won the civica julius for saving the life of a centurion."
Marcellus smiled at the thought of pompous Sulla with his good looks and haughty amused airs receiving the golden collar of the civica julius from their beloved general. It was the other man's dream. No greater glory other than the win its favor before Titus and the gods. For Thrashia as well, Marcellus reminds himself.
"Fair thee well then Centurion, and bid your soldiers help in your task. Make sure our dead are separated from theirs, and throw their corpses into a bon fire while we prepare ours for burial," Marcellus said, turning away from the older soldier and his grim task.
He made his way through the field of the slain, seeing ten Gothes for every one Thrashian, and walked through the open gates to their camp. Rows of neat tents and billowing standards pass him by as Marcellus walks to the center of the camp from where a loud roar of approval rises. As he enters the empty area there in the center, a large stage has been set up and Titus is standing on it. Kneeling before him is Sulla, a golden collar being tide around his neck.
Once done Titus turns to the masses of his brave and loyal soldiers.
"Men! Legionnaires! Sons! You have fought bravely today. The Gothe are defeated as they never have been before. More than 12,000 bodies litter the ground outside our camp, and no less than 12,000 of them are Gothe! You have bled for me, as you have now for so long, and done your work well. The gods raise you in their sight as I do! For this victory shall each man be given a hundred more talents of gold! Land and women for all!" The cheering rises to such a pitch that Marcellus fears his ears will burst.
The happy, cheering crowd of soldiers laugh and shout for joy at the promise of even more booty and wealth to be given to them by their general. Marcellus makes his way to the other five tribunes of the legion and takes his place beside Sulla.
"Where have you been? Wooing some Gothe woman?" asked Sulla.
"No, simply making sure I got my sword back. I lost it when a Gothe warrior threw himself onto my sword and I lost my grip. Found it still in the man's belly," replied Marcellus. "I see you got what you wanted."
Sulla grinned big. "I've been waiting 7 years for this! We've been on campaign here in Ivoria for so long that I feared it might never come. That some other bloke from another of the legions might steal my place!"
"Woe to the man that would do so!" joked Marcellus.
The two men laughed together and embraced in a brotherly hug, glad to see the other alive and unharmed. The mirth and cheer of the celebrating soldiers around them is infectious. That is until the purple robed rider and his six retainers thunders into the midst of mob and come to a halt before the stage. Marcellus recognizes the purple robed rider as Crassus Indomitus, a minor senator and page of the Senate.
"What is this sudden appearance?" asked Titus. "You are like Hermes, but lack the winged boots."
"I bear you a message of the Senate, o' Titus," declared Crassus. "You are under arrest by order of the Senate of the Republic of Thrashia. You are to disband your legions. You are to return to Rome as a private citizen and stand trial to charges of treason against the state and embezzelment of state funds."
An outcry rose from the ranks of soldiers. The senatorial messenger must have just noticed the soldiers, for he suddenly turned a paler shade of white. His six retainers let their hands fall to the hilts of their swords. All turned to stare at Titus, his aged face betraying his only 35 odd years of age.
No emotion plays upon his face. He looks hard at the older man and messenger. "The senate accuses me of treason and embezzelment...or do they fear me for simply gaining more glory for Thrashia and Rome?"
"We won't let you be taken!" cried out a soldier.
"You can't let us sheathe our swords for these pigs!" cried another.
"We're with you general!"
Marcellus was the one who cried this. He leaped up onto the stage and drew his sword, still bloody from battle, and faced Crassus. Other soldiers all around the seven riders drew swords or brought forth the points of pilum.
Titus looked at Crassus and the other man thought he saw tears forming on the general's eyes. "I have no wish but to serve Thrashia and Rome Crassus...why then do you so dishonor me?"
"It is the Senate's ruling."
"Then I refuse the senate," replied Titus.
The soldiers cheered and roared their approval. They were loyal to their general first, their state second. No mob of old greedy men would rob them of their beloved leader.
"Then your decision is made?" asked Crassus, a pleading note entered his voice.
"It is. I shall not return to Rome as a private citizen," finished Titus.
"So be it," whispered Crassus. "I will inform the senate then," he said aloud. He turned to leave with his men but was barred by the soldiers, their weapons still drawn and pointing.
"Let them pass," ordered Titus. "I shall not have Thrashian spilling Thrashian blood this day, when enough has been spilt already." Without another word the soldiers passed and the senatorial group rode off out of camp, back to Rome.
Marcellus sheathed his sword and turned to face his general. "What shall we do now my lord? Will the senate send an army against us? Where shall we go?"
"I know but one thing my son," said Titus. "Alea iacta est. The die is cast."