As he stood trembling in the water, his breathing started to slow down. The rain had stopped, and a cool gentle breeze seemed to rip into his very soul. Suddenly, he was filled with something stronger than fear. He was filled with utter shame. He had committed the ultimate sin; he had run away from a battle. He had left his comrades to their doom. He placed his head in his hands as he fought back tears of despair.
He looked around and saw he was alone. He could not see the battle, though in the remote distance he could still hear the clash of arms and the hellish screams that accompanied it. Nothing like this had ever happened. He had never been on his own in a battle. His unit had always fought together, working as one had made them invincible. To fight on one’s own was unthinkable. Now he was alone.
Suddenly he found his resolve. There was only one thing he could do to find redemption. He had to find his companions. Surely somebody from his century was still alive. Metellus found it impossible to comprehend they might all have been wiped out. He started wading through the swamp, slowly making his way towards the sounds of the battle. It was so dark that he tripped and fell face first against a gnarled tree, catching the nub of a branch, gouging his cheek. He swore quietly as he tasted the blood that was seeping from the wound. Reaching up, he ripped off a piece of skin that was hanging from his face. This, in turn, caused him to swear even more as he continued to struggle to find his way out of the swamp.
Once he reached a bank, he lay on his stomach and found some stray branches with which to pull himself out. He found that the mud and slime had plastered itself to his sandals and legs, weighing him down. At this rate, the battle will be over before I even get back to it, he thought.
Once he was out, he pulled himself upright and sat back against a tree, catching his breath. He leaned over as he heard the sounds of many running feet heading towards him. Not knowing whether they were friend or foe, he laid flat alongside the tree. In the gloom of the thick forest, he could not see a soul, but soon he heard voices, voices that were not speaking in Latin. Their tone was excited, and their unholy war cries caused him to shiver.
He closed his eyes and tensed up as he heard the excited voices of numerous Germanic warriors running by. Slowly, he unsheathed his gladius and braced himself against the ground, ready to spring. Soon the sounds moved past him, and he started to breathe easier. Then he heard a loud crash and splash as someone fell into the swamp from which he had just crawled. He heard the sounds of cursing, unlike anything he had ever heard before. He listened intently as the irate individual slogged through the water, heading directly towards where he hid. Metellus held his breath as he caught the form of a man pulling himself out of the water. He could just make out the long club the barbarian carried, and he could also see the unkempt mop of hair on his head.
It would have been easy to just lie there and wait for the man to pass him by, but he felt that he had to do something to atone for his earlier cowardice. As the German struggled to pull himself up, Metellus lunged forward, smashing his helmeted head into the barbarian’s, knocking the man senseless. He then fell on top of the German, and with one hand over his victim’s mouth, he rammed his gladius into the side of his neck. The barbarian thrashed about in his death throes, blood spurting over Metellus’ hand. He worked his gladius in a rough sawing motion, trying to hasten his enemy’s death. So violent were the barbarian’s convulsions that Metellus was almost thrown off. Once death had finally claimed the man, he slowly staggered to his feet and starting moving in the direction the barbarians had gone. For where they went, surely his friends would be.
Had it been hours that passed or days? Metellus was not sure. Though the rain had long since stopped, the sky was still black. He heard the sound of crying, as if from a young child, and instinctively ran towards it. He saw that it was a toddler, standing next to the bodies of his murdered father and mother. A burly German was laughing over the corpses and was preparing to stab the child with his spear. Metellus rushed forward; however, he was not fast enough. The warrior ran his spear through the wailing child. He then hefted his spear with the child hanging off it, laughing as if he had skewered a wild boar. In a blinding fury, Metellus grabbed the barbarian, spun him around and drove his gladius into his guts, ripping up to the heart. As the man fell dead, Metellus bent down to console the child whose cries had subsided, still alive but coughing up blood and convulsing violently. Metellus’ heart was filled with anger and sorrow at the same time. It was not the child’s fault. Damn his parents! Damn all who had condemned their children this way! How could anyone have thought that a campaign was the appropriate place to bring one’s family, especially young children? He looked up to see a group of Germans pointing at him through the trees. They turned and started running in his direction. He realized that he could not hope to save the child. In spite of the guilt that burned inside him, he turned and ran.
“Please, forgive me,” he said as much to himself as to the child, whom he knew was to soon be murdered. As he ran, he turned back and watched, unable to avert his gaze as one of the barbarians hacked the child’s head off with an axe, laughing all the while. Metellus vomited, sobbed quietly, and turned away wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. As he crashed through a thicket, he came to a small clearing where he saw a sight that gave him cause for relief. There stood Centurion Calvinus, Commander of the Fourth Century. Metellus had hoped to see the rest of the century with Calvinus. However, there were only two legionaries with him.
This can’t be right, Metellus thought. Where in the name of Jupiter and Mars is everyone else? As he ran into the clearing, Metellus saw that there were, indeed, only the two legionaries with Calvinus, and that all three were engaged in mortal combat with five Germanic warriors. Three of these were attacking Calvinus. Seeing his distinctive armor and the crest on his helm, they had recognized him as an officer, a centurion no less. Killing a Roman centurion would bring much prestige and glory to the warrior responsible.
Metellus gave a loud cry and rushed forward to save his centurion and friends. He lunged forward, plunging his gladius into the nearest barbarian’s chest. The man tried to scream as his lungs quickly filled with blood. As he collapsed to the ground, Metellus’ gladius became stuck in the ribcage of his stricken foe and was ripped from his hand. Ignoring this, Metellus attacked another German with his bare hands. He quickly got inside the warrior’s shield and spear. An elbow to the wrist knocked the spear away; one to the face dazed his adversary long enough for Metellus to grapple him to the ground where he hammered his fist into the man’s face and head. He tried to choke the barbarian, but the German was incredibly strong and not so easily dispatched. He bucked violently, nearly throwing Metellus off. His left hand came loose and banged against the dagger on his belt. His dagger…of course! With a flick of the wrist, Metellus drew his dagger and plunged it as hard as he could into the man’s eye. Warm blood and brains spurted all over Metellus’ hand and wrist. He rolled off the German, who was thrashing on the ground as his body convulsed. Metellus grabbed his gladius and with a violent jerk pulled it free from the other barbarian’s chest. Blood dripped from the blade. He then looked up to see Calvinus thrust his gladius under his remaining assailant’s jaw. The two legionaries had dispatched their attackers and were looking to their centurion for answers to their dilemma.