“To believe in the gods and all the possibilities unseen or unspoken,” Gaius added.
Paullus smiled as he glanced over towards Gaius.
“Yes, exactly. When I’m around her, I feel that I can fly, or scale the tallest mountains — that I can be a better man. I don’t know how to properly express it. I wish I was born a poet. Oh, how I envy you Gaius. I would have loved to have known her as long as you have, to share as much as you two. I’ve seen the way she is around you, how comfortable you make her feel. If only I could make her feel the same.” Paullus sighed heavily. “I know that she does not love me the same as, I do her, but how I wish to just have the chance to be with her longer, to build her a better world. However, I know she doesn’t love me. She will marry me, of course, as is demanded of her, and maybe in time she may come to care deeply for me, but love…” Paullus shook his head, fearful of his own words.
“Could you live as I, Gaius?” Paullus asked as he turned to him.
“No, I could not, sir,” Gaius answered honestly.
“You are a good man, sir,” Gaius spoke honestly. “She knows that, and will love and admire that man, as long as you stay truthful to yourself, and do everything in your power to make her happy, beyond material wealth. I understand her enough to know that she values certain qualities, such as honor and truthfulness more than anything you could ever buy her. She will love a man who embodies these things.”
Paullus smiled as he let his mind drift for a moment, thinking long on Gaius’ words. He then turned and looked over at him before he placed his hand down onto Gaius’ shoulder.
“Thank you, my friend.” With those words, Paullus turned and headed back down the stairs, before he disappeared into the camp.
Gaius remained where he was for a moment longer as he stared up into the heavens and again watched the flickering stars high above him — his mind a hundred miles away, back in Rome, with Julia.
He reached back into his tunic and pulled out the letter she sent him. He read it again. He needed to remember her, to see her in his mind’s eye. Her word, which expressed her true feelings for him was all he had left.
CHAPTER THIRTY
The dust obstructed Antony’s view as much as it choked his throat. He could barely see more than a dozen feet in front of him. His men, who had formed along the right flanks, had already faltered, as had the entire army. Carthaginian soldiers were now mixed with his own troops, as discipline had failed. He tried as best he could to keep order; to try to reform his men but his words were drowned out by the screams and fighting of men all around him as his men were being cut to pieces.
The battle had started promising he had to admit. The mass of Roman bodies hit the smaller forces of Hannibal, while the Carthaginian general had sacrificed his Celtic soldiers in the center, which began to falter when the superior Roman formations advanced on them. However, Hannibal’s s cavalry overwhelmed the Roman counterparts, as the center continued to advance once the Celts had begun to withdraw. Unknown, the Romans fell into a trap as Hannibal’s center had created a gully, which the legions were trapped.
It was impossible. There was no way that Hannibal could have tricked his enemy for a third time, not when Rome had poured all its resources, and had finally gotten a pitched-battle. However, Antony soon learned that Hannibal’s forces, with years more experience and dozens of victories, while outnumbered, equaled any thousand Roman soldiers.
Antony had gotten word that Hannibal’s horsemen; his Carthaginian and Numidian riders struck the rear, completely enveloping the whole formation — trapping a hundred thousand men like cattle.
As the Roman frontlines, which were too tightly packed, were encircled, no one could retreat, no less form a proper defense. What orders might have reached Antony’s own men, was lost, its messengers killed, or the officers who would have issued them already deceased. Now, after five hours, those that were left were being sucked into a pool of men and metal, grinned to blood and bone until the ground was littered with Roman dead.
Antony knew that fleeing was no longer an option. That time came and past. Now, he, like his portion of the army was trapped on the far-right flank. He was thankful to not be stuck in the center. At least here his men could stand and die on their feet, with sword in hand, like true Romans, and not wait till their turn to fall.
Antony knew he was not the best swordsmen, despite what training he had received, but he did his best, standing before his men, trying to give them encouragement. He wondered if Gaius would have done any differently.
At times, it was difficult for Antony to determine friend from foe. Not only had the dust blocked his view, but many of Hannibal’s men were equipped with Roman gear and armor, stolen from the previous won battles. They used these tools to their fullest affect as they drove through the Roman formations man-by-man.
And then, out from the thick cloud of dust Antony thought he saw a face that was strangely familiar. The barbarian, bare chested was massive. He was older than his father, but was built like a mountain, shaped by decades of killing. Antony watched as this man, in single combat struck down Roman after Roman as if they were children: their heads flying from their shoulders, or bodies cut in two as the man had the strength of a titan.
Antony wondered if this man wasn’t a demon, called forth from Hades. Did Hannibal have such powers? He wondered as the man murdered soldiers in droves, never tiring as he slowly worked his way over towards him. It was then that Antony suddenly realized that the monster was coming towards him. He had been distingue by his black-brimmed helmet and long red cape, indicating that he was an officer, and one of wealth as his armor was adorned with ivory and gold.
Antony called to his bodyguards, but they were already dead, or engaged in their own battle for survival.
He gripped his sword firmly in his hands, while raising his shield, hoping that the wood between, he and the barbarian would be enough to save him.
His eyes were locked on the giant as he slowly came towards him. He carried two swords, both caked with the blood and bits of flesh, which dangled from the edges of the blades.
The barbarian grinned widened as he stood ready. Antony could do nothing but shiver as he decided against his better judgment to attack first.
He charged forward, roaring as loud as his lungs could bear, but what fear, he hoped it might have struck in the heart of his opponent had done nothing.
His single thrust with his sword was easily deflected by the barbarian, who then slammed his second sword down against Antony’s shield.
His arm felt like wax as his shield was torn from his grip and cast aside like a piece of useless plywood.
The barbarian did not counterattack. He stood before Antony, looming over him as he stared down at him, his teeth grinning with delight.
Antony tried to attack again, but his effort was stopped as the man grabbed his sword arm and squeezed.
Antony screamed as his wrist was being crushed under the man’s impossibly powerful grip, until his sword dropped from his fingers. And then, the barbarian twisted, snapping Antony’s hand, at the wrist before he let him go.
Quickly, even before the pain set in, the barbarian rammed his fist into Antony’s face, shattering his nose as blood gushed, splashing out across the barbarian’s chest.
Before Antony could comprehend what was happening, the barbarian continued to beat him, slamming his closed fists across his face time and time again. Upon the fourth strike, Antony fell from his feet — his vision blurred as his faced was layered in blood and grit. He did not think he could ever stand again, but, with all his strength, Antony struggled to his feet. However, as hurriedly as he tried, he fell back down on his backside as the world was fast becoming one big haze, where no single sound could be sorted from another.