The Noise of War Read online

  “They let you live?” one of the mules asked.

  “Aye. They let me live so that I could tell everyone that this will be the fate of all Romans if we do not submit.” A single tear slid down his cheek and through the screen of muck that covered his face, but he didn’t seem to notice it. After a brief pause, he raised his mutilated hands. “Cut my thumbs off, though,” he said as if unconcerned. “They don’t want me holding a sword anymore.”

  We decided to stay in our camp for an extra night, to give Centurion Scrofa some time to heal and rest. He slept for most of it, kicking and moaning as he did so, but I’m sure whatever dreams he was having were preferable to his present reality.

  When the camp had been properly broken down the next day, and Scrofa had risen at first light, we set off. We headed east toward whatever the gods had planned for us.

  As it turns out, what Fate had planned for us was unpleasant.

  We move more like a funeral procession than a marching column of soldiers. Those of us who had maintained our armor wore it; those of us who did not, like Scrofa, wore whatever tunics and capes we could find.

  The movement was arduous, not because of the heat or the terrain, but because many of us were weak and injured, and we were forced to stop every few hours and rest. My old, grizzled Centurion Scrofa never once asked to stop. He simply followed behind the majority of us, taking each step slowly and deliberately, and kept his eyes on the horizon in the distance.

  We passed through areas Rome’s finest might have traveled to for a vacation, if they were willing to make the journey. The autumn sun glowed orange and shimmered off the pond marsh waters and the marigolds and orchids that danced atop it. Roving herds of deer would come almost close enough to touch, anxious to store up on the water lilies before winter arrived. Such things had always had a profound impact on me, it was the sights and smells that often reminded me of my father and our walks together. Now I distrusted it. The same world that produced this beauty produced the brutality of Arausio. If I had to take both or none, I was unsure what I would choose.

  Along our path, merchants and other travelers passed us by. They tried to keep their eyes away from us, but most were unsuccessful in doing so.

  “What news from Italy?” Lucius asked each time they passed. Most of them simply increased their speed and continued on. One heavily bearded rider finally tightened the reins on his horse and pulled to a halt before us.

  “Romans?” he asked in Latin with a harsh Gallic accent. He pulled the straw hat from his head and dabbed away the sweat of his brow. The pelts of recently skinned animals were draped over the horse’s haunches, and the Gaul peered over his shoulder to ensure they were still hanging on.

  “Yes, sir. Survivors of the battle of Arausio,” I replied.

  The man seemed shocked, but not overly so.

  “Tales have spread about your lot.”

  “Oh?” I asked, not so interested in hearing what they might be.

  “That’s right. They say an entire Roman army was annihilated.” He paused and scanned the faces of our twenty-odd men. “But at least a few of you escaped the barbarians,” he said.

  It was strange to us to hear a Gaul referring to anyone as a barbarian, but it was true. The Gauls were a civilized and advanced society compared to those demonic hordes that had defeated us at Arausio.

  “Do you have any news from Rome?” Lucius asked again. “We’re headed for the camp of General Marius.”

  The man nodded and tugged at the end of his long beard.

  “I’ve word, yes. The Roman force is situated near the Rhône.” He nodded to the east. “I did some trading at the baggage camp there a few days ago.”

  “Are there any more Roman camps along the way?” I asked. “We need a place to rest.”

  He spit some kind of seed from his mouth and nodded. “One, not seven leagues that way. You can make it by nightfall if you don’t stop.”

  “Thank you,” I said, and gave the half-hearted signal to my men to continue, taking Arrea’s hand and leading the way myself.

  “Roman,” the Gaul addressed me, “you’re lucky that the Cimbri moved on. I’ve a friend coming from the Pyrenees who said they’re back in Spain and wreaking havoc. But they’ll be back. Let your general know that.” He narrowed his eyes, searching to ensure that his words were received.

  “No more stops for the remainder of the day, men. We need to make it to that post,” I said. The men didn’t groan as mules are accustomed to do. Their lot had already been so arduous, how much worse could a few hours be?

  We continued on with no more pauses, halting only to allow the weaker among us to shift some of their gear and lean onto the abler-bodied men alongside them. Arrea walked among us like a soldier herself, and offered to carry some of the gear, to which all of the men respectfully declined.

  It was a few hours before nightfall when we spotted the walled fortress of our most forward operating post. The sight was as welcomed as an oasis in Egypt.

  “Thank the gods,” Lucius said with a smile.

  “Don’t thank them yet. Perhaps it’s only an illusion, and they’re playing tricks on us,” one of the men said.

  “Come on, now. Even the Furies couldn’t be so cruel,” Lucius replied, taking the front and increasing the pace. For once, my friend was wrong, but not about the camp.

  When we arrived, the legionaries stationed there lined the walls. They whispered to one another, perhaps wondering whether they should open the gates or if we were bandits who had absconded with Roman armor.

  We halted before the gate and stood in silence for a few moments.

  “I am Centurion Quintus Sertorius,” I shouted, my voice hoarse.

  “And where do you hail from?” one of them replied at length.

  “I come from Nursia in Italy. But that isn’t what you ask, is it?” I answered.

  “No”—the soldier shook his head—“it is not.”

  “We come from Arelate. We few who survived the Battle at Arausio reconvened there.” When I said this, their expressions contorted in a strange way. They did not reply but talked among themselves.

  At length, the gates opened.

  As we sighed in relief and began to move forward, the post’s commander stepped out, followed by a handful of his men.

  “Tribune,” I said, giving a salute.

  He saluted in return but did not make eye contact.

  “You came from Arausio, you say?” His Latin was polished and refined, and I could tell from the condition of his shiny bronze breastplate that he had not been in the Colors long. A senator’s son, perhaps.

  “I do. We survived the battle.”

  The tribune turned to his men, and nodded to pacify them.

  “You survived a battle in which thousands of good soldiers died?”

  “Tens of thousands, Tribune,” Lucius said firmly, his eyes fixed on the tribune’s crest.

  “And why, then, did you not stay and die with your countrymen?” he asked.

  We were all too taken aback to formulate a response.

  “And you, a centurion? You let the men of your century die around you, and you yet lived?” He shook his head. I lowered my gaze in shame. “You’re a disgrace to the legion. You should have stayed and died or fallen on your sword.”

  Lucius began to step forward, but I held him back. There was desperation, fear, and anger in his eyes. It was one of the few times I can remember seeing it. He clinched his eyes shut and ran his fingers through the fair mane atop his head, which was far longer than he liked it. I tightened my grip around his grimy forearm, and he stilled.

  “I cannot reject what you say. I have wished that I died at Arausio every day since I realized I hadn’t. But many of these men awoke on the field of battle, terribly injured. And they need rest. Will you refuse us entry?” I asked, trying to maintain my composure, but failing to do so adequately.

  “You are not welcome here,” the tribune said without remorse.

  “Please
.” I held out my hands to him. “I beg you to reconsider. One of our men, this man”—I gestured to Scrofa, who remained silent at the back—“was captive to the Cimbri and endured horrible tortures before he was released. We need your help.”

  “Released? By the Cimbri? Released so that he can be set to spy on us!” one of the tribune’s men said.

  “Go, cowards. Return to whatever shadows you crept from. The Republic has no use for men like you.” The tribune turned, his cape fluttering behind him. As the gates began to close, I rushed forward in desperation.

  “I beg you!” I shouted. The men on the walls collected what they could—rocks, sticks, horse shit from the stables—and began assaulting us with them.

  “Cowards!”

  “You’re traitors to your men!” some shouted.

  “On your way!”

  “Curses, curses on all of you!” others cried.

  The projectiles pelted us, but the words cut far deeper. We retreated slowly, hoping that they would change their minds, or that they were only jesting and perhaps fate wasn’t so cruel.

  When it became clear that all they would give us were jeers, stones, and horse shit, we turned to leave.

  Centurion Scrofa alone stood before the gates, staring on and saying nothing. The stones collided into him, but he seemed not to notice.

  A vestige. A stain. The echo, the shadow of human life, but the essence of a man, no more. The centurion, who was once the proudest legionnaire I had ever known, was now totally, irreversibly broken.

  3

  Scroll III

  Nones of September 650 ab urbe condita

  So we moved on. With nowhere to go, and nowhere to rest our heads, we moved onward around the fort. We continued our trek east toward Marius’s camp, but I’m sure I wasn’t the only one who wondered whether our arrival would be welcomed just the same.

  The same fears compelled us to stay off the road. We didn’t march in a column but staggered on like hungry nomads through the forests and wadded through the swamps. The wildlife didn’t seem to mind us. This solidified in us the idea that we were merely shades of Hades now, already gone. We were walking with no real destination except one that might refuse us.

  “Centurion, I’ve got to rest my feet. I swear to Dis it’s like my ankles are about to rip out of my skin,” one of our men said, panting.

  I didn’t mean to ignore him, but I didn’t know what to say. Frogs croaked all around us, filling the silence as I looked into the vast abyss of woodland on either side of our path and the darkness that covered the distance from one tree to the next. I wondered what Gorgons awaited us if we stopped.

  “I don’t think Galbus will make it much longer,” one of the mules in the back said, bearing the weight of his comrade.

  “What do you think we should do?” I asked Lucius and Arrea, both of whom I treated as my chief advisors.

  “Exhaustion can kill like a sword, my love,” Arrea said. It was clear by the pale and clammy texture of her skin that she, too, was exhausted, but I knew she spoke for the men.

  “We can construct a hasty camp. Something to cover our flanks,” Lucius suggested, but he looked to me to make the final decision. At any other time, I would have deferred to the senior centurion, Scrofa, but he was clearly unable and unwilling to acquiesce on such matters. It was a wonder that he was still keeping pace.

  “Alright.” I stopped the forward advance and scanned my surroundings. “There’s a clearing up ahead. We’ll make camp there. I want wood gathered and a shallow trench dug. We’ll have guard shifts of four, two patrolling and two by the walls, rotating every other hour,” I said. The men nodded but said nothing in response. Such measures were necessary to ensure their survival, but I’m not sure if they prioritized their lives any longer. Perhaps the first objective was just some rest and a momentary lapse from the burden that consciousness had become.

  We all gathered wood and helped dig the trenches, officers and enlisted men alike. The trenches were only a foot wide and another foot deep, and the walls were only six feet high. Regardless, with only twenty-seven men in our company, the construction of this little camp resulted in several hours of backbreaking labor for each of us. The one man who could not assist was Centurion Scrofa, who stood by with his thumbless hands, helpless. He did volunteer to roll out our cots while we worked. It was clear that he was ashamed, but he took the job seriously, ensuring that each cot was placed equidistant to the next, as he had once arranged his soldiers.

  When our camp had the semblance of protection, Lucius called out the guard schedules, and those of us who weren’t on first shift lay down on the moist earth for some rest. Arrea nestled up next to me, but I turned away from her. If I wept, I did not want her to see it.

  I woke a bit early for my shift, which came a few hours before sunrise. I knew it wouldn’t make much difference, but I put on my full kit, my body groaning under its weight. When I neared the barricade, Centurion Scrofa was already present.

  “You’re relieved, Centurion,” I said, giving him a salute. He waved it off.

  “This is my shift,” Scrofa said as the other soldier hurried to find somewhere to sleep.

  “You must have arrived early,” I said. He remained silent for a moment, staring through the gaps in our defenses to the wood line in the valley beyond us.

  “I’ve taken as many shifts as I can.” He rubbed the back of his grimy neck with a thumbless hand.

  I approached and plopped down on a log beside him. “You need rest, Centurion. More than any of us.”

  He nodded but did not stand. “It’s the only use I am to anyone now—to let a few other men get rest. The men who can still fight.” At last, he turned to me, and in his eyes I saw a brief glimpse of the noble centurion who had protected me in battle after battle, teaching me with his quiet strength and comforting me with kind words when I was too afraid to carry on.

  “You’re no use to anyone if you’re falling asleep.” I patted his shoulder. “Go get some rest. I can cover the walls by myself,” I said. The patrol shift passed us by with a nod.

  “I’m not going to sleep, Sertorius. I slept enough in those cages. It was all there was to do.” He rubbed at the poorly healed wounds where his thumbs had once been.

  We sat in silence for a while, listening to the buzzing of insects, the howling of wolves, the croaking of frogs.

  “How did they do that?” I asked after a moment. It was a rather rude question, I must admit, but my weariness had gotten the best of me.

  “Do what?”

  “Your thumbs…”

  He held out his hands into the moonlight and rotated them for me to see. “A ceremonial knife. A curved blade. Took them both off as easily as a cook chopping up carrots.” He seemed fairly detached as he analyzed the wound, more curious than anything. “They poured some kind of black powder over the wounds and touched it with a torch. The powder ignited and the wounds sealed. Still feels like it’s burning, on the inside. Beneath the scars.” He returned his hands to his lap.

  “I’m sorry for your lot, Centurion,” I said, my manner much more like a civilian than a soldier.

  “Don’t ever pity me,” he said. “Feel sorry for the men we lost. Feel sorry for the families who lost them. Not me.”

  The trees in the distance shimmied with the wind, and a light rain pattered down on the ground around us.

  “My brother died well,” I said half honestly.

  “I’m glad to hear it.”

  “I tried to carry him off, but he wouldn’t let me. He wanted to die there.”

  “Then he died like a true Roman,” Scrofa said with a tinge of jealousy.

  “He would be pleased to know that you’re still here. He thought very highly of you,” I said, to which centurion Scrofa did not reply. “I need to use the privy. I’ll go by the trees over there. Hold the guard down for me.” I stood and stretched my leg. Before I stepped off, Scrofa stopped me.

  “Leave your sword,” he said.

&nb
sp; “Why?” I asked.

  “To protect the walls, of course,” he said. Rather uncomfortably, I shrugged. We both knew he couldn’t use it. “Well, if I can’t use it to fight, then what good am I? Eh, Centurion? What good am I to the legion? To Rome? If it’s just to alert the others at some intrusion, we can find a mangy dog to do the same.”

  “Centurion—”

  “Save that for the others, Sertorius.” He shook his head.

  I met his eyes, and in the moonlight I could see a glimmer in them that I didn’t understand.

  “Then what is the sword for?” I asked.

  “Don’t be a fool, Centurion.” He kept his gazed fixed, like he once had when I stood in his formation.

  “You shouldn’t be a fool either,” I said.

  “I’m going to do the only good thing I’ve done since Arausio, perhaps since long before it.”

  “My brother would tell you—”

  “Your brother would understand. I cannot fight, ever again. I cannot serve my Colors, and what else is there for me? I tried civilian life before, and it doesn’t suit me. This is who I am, Centurion Sertorius.”

  “Have you no family?” I was grasping for something.

  A sad smile touched his lips.

  “I’ve served for twenty-odd years, in some foreign corner of the Republic or another. They would barely know me by now.”

  “I won’t believe it, Scrofa. I won’t let you do it. You can still serve. You can train the men, you can teach them the way you once taught me. You can raise up a crop of legionaries who can defeat these bastards, once and for all.” I was begging, pleading with him as I had with the tribune at the fort.

  He stood and approached me, placing a hand on my shoulder.

  “No, I can’t,” he said. “I cannot look a young man in the eye and tell him this is all worth it…because I’m not sure that it is anymore.” He was sad but had resigned himself to his decision. I wasn’t going to persuade him. “Sertorius, that is why we need men like you. Men who still have a bit of courage left. You are Rome’s last hope now.” His eyes were wet, but he did not weep. “Now go. And please, leave your sword.”