The rebels had been routed before the Romans executed their first passage-of-lines. Sacrovir’s gladiators had made a brief surge forward, but they were outclassed by the discipline and cohesion of the legions. As he wrenched his gladius from underneath the ribcage of a slain enemy, Proculus watched as the remaining rebels turned and fled en mass.
“Cohort stand fast!” he ordered as he men ceased any attempts at a pursuit. “Gather up any prisoners, as well as our dead and wounded.” He then stopped and rested, leaning on his shield with his free hand on his knee.
“I’m getting too old for this,” he said in a low voice.
“Oh, come now, you are only too old if you allow yourself to be.”
He heard a reply in front of him. He looked up to see Calvinus standing over him. The master centurion’s face and armor were saturated with blood and gore. His own breathing was heavy, though he still stood erect and strong.
“Calvinus,” Proculus replied with a slight nod.
The master centurion gave him a friendly smack on the shoulder.
“Your lads did well,” he remarked, “particularly those who routed the van. Silius has ordered us to start laying out the rebel dead. He wants the families of the slain to be able to identify them.”
“What of the live ones?” Proculus asked.
Calvinus gave a wicked smirk at that. “We have plans for them. Suffice it to say, the dead have paid the price for their warmongering. On the other hand, the living still has a debt to settle with Rome.”
Chapter X VI: A Generation Lost
Kiana clutched Lennox’s hand as they walked past the rows of Gallic dead. A search of the prisoner stockades had left them with no sign of Farquhar. The Roman General Silius had posted a decree directing all citizens of Augustodunum to come and claim their dead. Many were paralyzed with fear; fear of being implicated in the rebellion, and the even greater fear of finding out the worst had happened to their loved ones. Still, many came in hope of finding the lost husband or son that might be alive and able to return home.
“Perhaps he has escaped,” the young lass said in a near whisper.
Lennox could only shake his head. He feared the worst for his son, and his heart was near breaking with the sense and dread of the unknown. They gazed in horror and sadness at the sight of thousands of slain Gauls, all laid out in long rows. Roman soldiers were pacing back and forth around the outside of the mass, driving off dogs and other wild animals as grieving families carried away the bodies. The air was filled with the sounds of weeping and mourning. Kiana watched a mother overcome with grief, wailing loudly as she clutched the body of her son. The woman violently resisted any efforts by her husband to pry her away. The father soon broke down and joined his wife in heart-wrenching sorrow.
Kiana put her hand over her mouth at the sight of the corpses. In all her life she had never witnessed such carnage. She felt herself getting sick, but quickly composed herself. She could not let Lennox face the possibility of Farquhar’s death alone. She shuddered as she gazed upon each of the bodies in turn. All bore fearful wounds, begotten by the pickaxe, javelin, or gladius. Others were completely mangled from where they had been trampled by Roman chargers. Every last body was saturated in blood. Flies were already gathering around the corpses, adding to the pestilent nature of the spectacle. Kiana winced as she passed a young woman, scarcely older than she, arguing vehemently with the mother of her slain lover; the girl insisting that the body could not belong to the boy she loved. Kiana gagged as she caught sight of the corpse they argued over; the face completely crushed like a gourd smashed with a sledge.
She stopped. A startling realization came over her as she felt Lennox release her hand. At a slow and almost limping gait, with tears flowing freely, he staggered over to the body of his son. Farquhar’s eyes were still open; the Romans had done nothing more than move the bodies to a central location once they had been stripped of their weapons and armor. Lennox fell to his knees, placed his hands over his face, and quietly wept.
Kiana kneeled beside him, placed one arm around the grieving father, and clutched the son’s cold hand. She laid her head on Lennox’s shoulder as he reached down and closed his son’s eyes. Kiana’s grief was mind-numbing. She struggled to cry and felt guilty when the tears did not flow as freely as they should have. She wondered if she was in denial, or if her beloved’s death had broken her ability to emit feelings of any kind. They stayed like that for some time, the Romans respectfully keeping their distance.
Kiana marveled at how none of the legionaries came to gloat over their fallen enemies. She had heard stories of the atrocities committed by victorious legions after battle. Instead, there was a certain air of sadness about them. These were not foreign barbarians they had slain. Gaul or no, the majority of the dead were Roman citizens, many from the nobler classes; most of the slaves, beggars, and thieves having fled once the battle was fully engaged. Kiana surmised that with Gaul having been a Roman province for so many years, many of these legionaries were probably of Gallic ancestry themselves. How many of them had slain a cousin, a friend, a brother?
As Lennox and Kiana sat mourning the brutal death of Farquhar, they were approached by a pair of legionaries. Each had removed his helmet and grounded his shield. It was the first time Kiana had been able to look upon the faces of the Romans who had killed so many of her friends, and the boy she had known in her heart she would spend her life with. Of course, she had seen Roman soldiers before but had never paid them any mind. Oddly enough, she did not feel anger towards these men, nor was she intimidated. In a way she pitied them, though she could not fully understand why.
Both men were of average height, though noticeably bigger and more muscular than their companions. The larger of the two looked to be of Latin origin, the other had blonde hair and fair skin. Kiana guessed by his facial features that he was a Norseman; of a people yet to be eclipsed by the Roman Empire.
Lennox noticed the legionaries approach as well. His voice was full of emotion as he tried to speak. “He fought for what he believed in,” he stammered, his hand clutching his son’s shoulder.
At length, the bigger of the two legionaries spoke.
“He fought because Sacrovir filled his head with vain dreams of martial glory. It is a shadow that does not exist. What a pity the price of that lesson was his life.”
Artorius gazed at the body of the young man. The wounds to his side and head were deep, rendered by someone of considerable power. Artorius swallowed hard as he recognized the face of the young man.
Lennox’s eyes fell on the sword strapped to Artorius’ hip; the sword of his ancestors, that his father and grandfather had carried in battle before him. Artorius folded his arms and followed Lennox’s gaze.
“You know this weapon,” he stated, eyes now on the Gaul.
Lennox nodded his head slightly.
“I do,” he answered, his voice weak and cracking. “It was my father’s sword and his father’s before him. I gave it to my son just yesterday, in hopes it would protect him.”