Belenus seethed as he watched their army collapsing underneath the Roman assault. As their casualties mounted, the gladiators had turned and fled with the rest of Sacrovir’s force. They had held the longest, but their numbers were too few.
“It is over,” he heard Sacrovir say, his voice surprisingly calm. “I guess they win this one.”
“Our entire army is routed!” Belenus protested. “What are we to do?”
“What can we do?” Heracles asked, his own voice matching Sacrovir’s sense of calm.
Belenus was exasperated with the situation.
“Surely we had more than enough men to overwhelm the Romans,” he said, his voice chalked full of emotion.
Their dreams of liberation from Rome were disappearing as they watched groups of their men stumble in their flight, only to be slaughtered by the oncoming legions.
“That we did,” Sacrovir replied. “And we still do, if we could get some order restored. Come, let us leave this place. We will reform our army and not make the mistake of facing the Romans in the open again.”
The Second and Third Centuries raced back to where they had grounded their shields and gear. Quickly they dropped their pickaxes, hefted their shields.
“Form it up! Second Century on me!” Macro shouted.
With drilled precision, legionaries fell into line to the left of their centurion. Camillus sheathed his gladius and retrieved the century’s standard. Macro pointed towards Flaccus at the end of the line with his gladius. The optio mimicked his gesture, signaling the century was set.
“Let’s go!” Macro ordered, waving his gladius forward. The century started at a run back to where the battle still raged. They merged with the Third Century; Vitruvius and his men falling in behind them. Other units could be seen doing the same up and down the line. Silius was riding up on his horse, signaling for them to cease their attack.
“The rebels are routing,” Artorius heard him say to Macro and Vitruvius. “Have your men start rounding up prisoners, as well as our wounded.”
“Yes, sir,” Macro and Vitruvius said together.
Shields were once again grounded, gladii sheathed, and rapidly they jogged back to the site of their battle with Sacrovir’s armored minions. There were many dead amongst the rebel ranks, along with a significant number of wounded that were trying to crawl away from the battle. Their injuries, as well as their armor, prevented this. Still others were alive and unscathed, and were simply knocked senseless by the Roman onslaught.
Artorius and his section was tasked with checking the defeated rebels for survivors while others rounded up wounded and dead legionaries. The battle had been decisive, but no side ever survives unscathed. Solemn were the legionaries who carried their fallen brothers from the battlefield. Wounded soldiers made every effort to mask their pain as their friends tended to them. Artorius was glad that he only had to deal with enemy casualties; it hurt too much when he had to deal with one of his brothers suffering or dying.
“What do we do if we find a live one?” Valens asked.
“We disarm them and take them prisoner,” Artorius replied. “We will also check them for wounds and send them to the surgeons as needed.”
“Just be careful. Some may be lying in wait to try and kill one of us,” Magnus added.
“Any treachery and I’ll cut their balls off,” Carbo replied icily.
As they started stripping the enemy dead of their armor, they came to a morbid understanding.
“These are bloody kids,” Decimus
“They were the sons of Gallic nobles,” Artorius observed. “Sacrovir sent them to fight in order to keep their fathers in line.”
“The true sign of a brave and noble man!” Decimus spat with macabre sarcasm. “I guess the barbarians east of the Rhine are not the only ones who use children to fight their wars for them!”
“Here is a live one!” Valens called out.
It was Alasdair, who was gripped with terror as the legionary removed his helmet. He had been knocked over during the battle and struck his head on a rock, knocking him senseless. He awoke to find himself surrounded by Roman soldiers. He was panting and unaware that he had soiled himself.
“Oh gods please don’t kill me! Please don’t kill me! Please don’t kill me!” his voiced was a constant heaving sob.
Valens slapped him hard across the face. “Knock it off!” he barked. “If we were going to kill you we would have done so already.” “Easy there,” Magnus said calmly as he helped the lad to sit upright.
Valens knelt behind him and started to unbuckle his armor. Alasdair was paralyzed with fear and shock. He could not believe he was still alive. He was certain the Romans would slay any that survived the battle and was, therefore, baffled by their behavior. His mind raced out of control, unable to focus…except on one thing.
When he was struck down by a legionary’s shield he caught a glimpse of another soldier swinging his pickaxe at Farquhar. An icy chill went up his spine.
“What’s your name, son?” Magnus asked, his voice surprisingly calm.
Alasdair jolted, suddenly brought back to the present. The Roman kneeling in front of him was a big, intimidating man; and yet his manner was surprisingly soothing.
“Alasdair, son of Kavan,” the lad replied, as he caught his breath. “Oh gods, what have we done?” He shook his head, trying to release the shame and sorrow within. His thoughts then turned to his friend. “Please, I need to know, where is Farquhar?”
“Who?” Magnus asked.
“He is my friend,” Alasdair replied. “We stood next to each other during the battle. Please, he is like my brother; I must know that he is alright.”
“Is this him?” Carbo asked, removing the helm of a slain rebel.
Alasdair’s eyes filled with tears. The side of Farquhar’s head had been rendered by a pickaxe, brain matter and bits of bone were splattered on his face. His eyes were open and lifeless, a trickle of congealed blood running from his mouth down his cheek. Alasdair placed his head in his hands, his emotions overtaking him.
“No, it cannot be. . oh Farquhar, I am so sorry I led you to this. I have become your death!” His speech became inaudible as he sobbed.
“Get him out of here,” Artorius said in a low voice as Magnus and Valens helped the lad to his feet.
The legionaries then bound his hands behind his back and guided him away from the scene of carnage and death. To their rear, Statorius was marshaling prisoners into a holding area that other soldiers were hastily building barricades around.
“Noble lads, sacrificed like sheep at the slaughter,” Decimus said in a low voice.
“Sheep at the slaughter die with more dignity,” Gavius scoffed. “At least their heads are not filled with foolish notions of glory and victory.”
Artorius scowled at the thought and was about to turn away when something caught his eye. He noticed the sword that lay in Farquhar’s outstretched fingers. It was longer than the blades carried by the other young men they had fought. He leaned down and examined the weapon. It was old; not something hastily crafted in mass numbers. Someone had put a lot of work into this weapon. The blade was well-worn from countless blows; the leather straps of the handle faded. He then saw the scabbard on the slain lad’s hip. It was leather and wood, adorned with embossed metal engravings. Small images of men hunting a stag and of wild horses abounded. Artorius unbuckled the scabbard and sheathed the sword. The weapon was a fine prize born of the Gallic nobility during a different age. Gaul had, at one time, been a land of valiant warriors, but those days were long since gone; Julius Caesar having broken their fighting spirit. Now the only warriors that Gaul produced wore the uniform of either the Roman legions or auxilia. The young boys they had massacred were no warriors. Artorius considered them victims of Sacrovir’s brain-washing. He let out a sigh of resignation as he strapped the sword to his belt.