It was in this haze that Antony suddenly remembered where he had seen this man before: the imagine of Calfax, the gladiator that had haunted him for years after he had seen what he was capable of in the arena, filled him with panicked fear.
“Calfax?” Antony whispered as he looked up at the man who stood over him.
Calfax smiled.
Calfax grabbed Antony by his hair, lifting him up effortlessly. He was like a limp doll in the powerful gladiator’s grip. He didn’t even bother to struggle against him, nor could he, even if he still had the strength.
Calfax dropped his lengthy sword to the ground and with his freed hand, he reached around Antony’s neck and grabbed the broken half of the clay medallion that was now hanging freely outside of his armor. He seemly admired what he was seeing, perhaps even wondering where the top-half was.
With one easy yank, the chain that had secured it around Antony’s neck broke, even as he fought against him trying to take back the medallion, his last act.
Calfax let Antony go.
Antony wanted to reach out and take back the medallion. If he was going to die, he wanted to die with it around his neck, but his feeble efforts were in vain.
Calfax closed his fists around the medallion, holding it as he obviously decided to keep the memento of the easily won victory on the plains of Cannae. And next, without a care or even a second’s thought, he grabbed his sword and pulled it out from the ground, and as carelessly as a farmer slitting the throat of a pig, he brought the tip of his blade to Antony’s neck, and drew the full five feet of the iron across the young Roman’s throat, slowly.
There was so little force behind the cutting that, Antony, as he bled, arms and hands down by his side, knelt on two knees, stared straight ahead, taking his last struggled breaths, fighting for one more moment to stay alive, Calfax stepped around him and continued on with his killing. In those terminal few moments, Antony’s mind returned to his childhood — his time with Gaius and his sister. His last thoughts of happier times — how he wished he could live in them forever.
Before his last breath escaped his lungs, he hoped he had made the right choice in sending Gaius away. He prayed with his last gasp that the gods would protect his sister from the very real monsters who now would be free to strike at Rome.
A moment later, as the world around him grew silent, his eyes closed as the last drop of his blood flowed out from his neck. He was gone, spared having to see the slaughter that would continue for hours more.
Varro stood within the ranks of his army. He was surrounded by hundreds of his men, yet, never before in all of his life had he felt as alone as he did at the moment. Dozens of officers ran up to him, each one relaying reports from the battle, which was taking place on all sides. His army, all eighty thousand plus men were totally surrounded with nowhere to run. He couldn’t fathom how this could have happened. The battle was going so well. He had every advantage, and most of all, strength in numbers.
This was impossible, or so the thought ran through his mind repeatedly.
His men eagerly demanded to know what to do — what they could do, but Varro had shut himself off. He simply didn’t know what he could do. He wasn’t a soldier; he had no brilliant tactics or strategies that would save the day. He could hardly think straight; barely comprehend what had happened to his army — all the books he had read about famed heroes of the past: Alexander, Leonius, Romulus, Agamemnon and what strategies they might have used to salvage this defeat, escaped him.
“Console Paullus, where is he?” Varro called to the nearest officer.
“Sir, as I said already, we don’t know. You’re the only ranking officer on the field that we can find, or know that is still alive,” the man cried out.
“Dammit Paullus, dammit, where are you?!" Varro couldn’t help but cry out to himself. He suddenly wished he had listened to the man the night before.
“We…We have to reform ranks. We have to push against…” He was a loss for words. He couldn’t think straight and no matter what he said, it wouldn’t have made a difference. He could barely tolerate the screaming of his men any longer as he watched the distant line of marching enemy soldiers draw nearer to him.
Varro’ eyes opened wide as he watched one of his own men slit his throat, killing himself, over waiting for the approaching Carthaginian army. That man was not the only one to do so either as Varro saw panicked men fall on their swords, or ask that their friends to kill them where they stood. Other men held stronger, pissing and shitting in their pants, waiting endless minutes to die, but still determined to meet their end on their feet. A few of the braver, older veterans called out, saying prayers and demanding that they stand and fight — take a few of the bastards with them so that Rome will have fewer barbarians to deal with tomorrow!
“My son, where is my son?” Varro called as loudly as he could. “Antony!” However, no one had an answer for him, at least one that he wanted to hear.
“Sir, we can still try to get you out of here if we act now,” the officer said as he tried to bring Varro out of his stupor.
“My son, where is he? Tell me Flavius, where is he?”
“Sir, we’ve already reported, he is dead…Now we have to act before it is too late.”
“No, Antony…my dear boy. No…”
As he watched the Carthaginian army near to his position, he knew what he had to do.
“May all of you forgive me,” Varro said more to himself than to any man near to him, as he drew his dagger out from behind his back, and raised it quickly up to his throat.
“Sir — No!” Flavius tried to stop him, but even before he could reach out, Varro rammed the knife through his own neck.
He slumped off of his horse, falling to the ground, still alive, but not for much longer.
No one came to him as he fell. He just lied there, bleeding as he stared up at his men who were all around him. Their fate was already decided. It would only be a few more minutes before they were all dead as well.
Then too, Varro’ eyes closed to the world; to the failure that he created. Only history could judge him now.
Across the plains of Cannae, much of the fighting had stopped as Hannibal stood on top his horse, on one of the far hills surveyed the battlefield. Just a few pockets of survivors continued to challenge his men, who were now superior in numbers, and bloodlust. He had only the faintest smile. He did not enjoy seeing so many brave souls dead at his feet; more bodies then he had ever seen gathered into one place that, the birds circled overhead by the hundreds, would certainly eat to bursting, for weeks to come. However, he couldn’t help but feel a sense of accomplishment and pride. He had won a victory that would forever be remembered in the chronicles of warfare, which by each new day was closer to not being written by a Roman’s hand.
“The Republic is broken!” Hasdrubal cried out with joy as he rode up and stood beside his general.
“Are they?” Hannibal asked as he refused the offer of wine that his officer attempted to pass over to him, as the two stood looking out over the battlefield.
“Do not be so doubtful, general. You have won a great victory! How proud your father would be of you. Now, there is no force of man or nature that stands between us and the gates of Rome. And when we arrive, we will make the Senate eat our shit as they lick our asses. They will give you their kingdom, and the entire world shall know that Carthage is again the sole power in existence.”
Hannibal glanced over at his friend, not rebuking or agreeing with his statement. It was true. He knew that there was nothing left standing between he and Rome. What men had escaped would not be enough to mount an effective defense of the city. He could have the capital in a matter of days. However, still, as he turned his head back towards the battlefield, the sense of joy and excitement that his men showed was not evident on his face.