This is a little something I wrote during schoolin some fee time (heh, yeah, all the nonexistant free time...). I was studying up on some Roman history at the time, delving into a book of compiled letters sent from captains and generalsback to Rome when out on expeditions, and also letters from soldiers to civilians, mostly loved ones, that also resided in powerful Roman cities. This is also influenced a bit by Gladiator too (which is where I take most of the emotion - it's hard to pull a lot of emotion out of writing when translating it from latin...). Enjoy! And please review to tell me what you thought of it!
A Roman Soldier
I am lost. Where do I belong in the aftermath? To fight the battle, to kill and watch others be killed is hard to bear. But ever more so is what comes after: the products of warfare. I walk the fields, careful with my feet so as not to tread upon the dying and the dead. They litter the landscape. There is nary a space that is not awash with blood or covered with the bodies of the deceased. I watch with empty eyes and a stoic face as my comrades wander the field, bending here to grasp a companion's hand as it flails about in his last throes of death, bending there to collect discarded weapons – no longer needed by their master's motionless hands, and kneeling beside the broken men who weep for the lives lost and innocence shattered – they comfort them. But I cannot follow. I understand battle; the makings of war. I am a soldier; I know how to wield a sword and how to drive it into the warm flesh of my enemies, this takes only a well trained arm; it is a mindless action. But I do not understand why it must be so. I have never understood the reason behind such masses of death and destruction. If such reckless hate exists, why must we take heed to it? put action to it? Why must so many men die? For what is this great sacrifice justified? I growl and suddenly I am filled with rage. A burning, blistering wrath that seizes the whole of me. It turns the blood of my body into smoldering lava, sizzling as it sears a path from the wound in my thigh. It is a wrath so hot, that it freezes itself within me. I am motionless, I cannot take a step or turn my head or scream at the top of my lungs. I am angry at them. At the men – for being so helpless, so weak, for dying so easily. And I am angry with myself, for caring. I am stone. I cannot think, I cannot breathe. Yet I can watch the goings on before me. A man, no a boy, is weeping against a body that is as cold and still as mine. The boy can not be more that fourteen years – he has been made a man much too soon. But I can not comfort him. I can not comfort myself. I do not understand why we are even here – so how can I say to the boy, "You fought bravely, honorably, valiantly. You fought for the honor and glory of Rome." How can I say such a thing when I don't even know? I can tell myself, through all this carnage, through all this pain and despair – we have tasted victory. We have won the battle, and in the end that is all that matters. But then I look about myself. I am standing in pools of blood; beneath my boot there is a severed finger that will cause dilemma to no man, for he no longer has need for it. So, how can I look upon this graveyard and not wonder what the victory was for? Was it really worth all this? I cannot take my place in this morbid ceremony; I do not have one. I am lost.
Then I see, I have indeed one comfort. I have been given the task of burying the casualties. It does not require empathy, an iron will or an understanding in any sense. I can take comfort in the dead. They are safe in Elysia; I have no duty to protect them or take heart to them; I need not even look at them. All I must do is dig; I must give them a final resting place, below the earth where their spirits will not be disturbed. I thrust my shovel into the rock hard earth, frozen and bitter in the winter months of Germania. It does not sink deep, but as I strike the ground again, the tip of my shovel slips lower into the soil. I begin to attack the earth relentlessly, tirelessly. I dig, and dig, my arms moving mechanically as my mind shuts off. I do not know how many hours pass, but I simply fall into the mindless rhythm of up, down, up, down – lay in a body – and cover. It is not until Daedalus, my shield-arm, approaches me and stops my arm that I pause in my task. I glance up at the young man numbly.
"Come, you must eat and rest." He said to me.
"Not at this time. Food is the last thing my body desires. I cannot eat."
"Come, you must. It is near sun down and you have not rested since midday. You must take some food."
"I do not wish it." Daedalus stares hard at me.
"The General commands that all soldiers eat and take rest. We leave at dawn on the 'morrow. You must."
I sigh and look down at my hands. They are twitching, refusing to stop the motion I had continued for so long, itching to hold the shovel after coming to know it so well. I glanced back up at the man.
"I shall follow you then. By the General's orders."
Daedalus turns away from the grim scene and I fall into step behind him.
I follow Daedalus as the dead would follow Dis to begin his new life behind the Elysian Gates. But as we pass the other hills of dirt, similar to the one I had dug up, and as we pass the mound of bodies, layered one atop another, I stop. The mound thirty hands away from me is a mixture of Roman soldiers and barbarians alike. I stare at it numbly. I recognize the face of the man atop all the others. He is Servius, my brother. I gape at the pile of carcasses; I cannot tear my gaze away though with all my might I wish to. And finally, I break. Through all that I have seen this day I was stoic, emotionless. But now, all that I had been burying as I had been burying the bodies of my comrades breaks loose. I suddenly hear a startling howl erupt from the silence that had been death. It is as a wounded animal would howl in the night, pained and alone. It is heart-wrenching and mind-shattering. I do not know it, but the voice is mine. I can feel myself run to the mound crying out my sorrow, wailing in rage. My vision burns red and I can not control or stop it. Perhaps this is what it is to go mad. I reach the pile of bodies and begin to tear at them frantically. The barbarians are large and hard to move, but somehow I do. I push and scratch and slash at them desperately. I pull them away from my comrades, kicking them, ripping at them. I hear voices far off, calling my name, but I do not heed them. They are but wisps of smoke in the air – easily ignored. My energy is spent but my rage fuels me as I howl and tear the filth of the barbarians away from my brother and all my kind. Suddenly, I feel hands on me, grabbing me, pulling at me. They latch onto my clothes, around my arms and legs and waist. They have to drag me a way struggling with all my strength, kicking, punching and screaming angrily – mournfully. They are able to drag me a sufficient distance away before they throw me to the ground and pin me there. But I do not give up, I can not. My anger unleashed is devastating to those holding me. I can feel as my fists make contact with flesh, and my legs pound against armor. Then, suddenly, I feel a great weight press down upon my chest and all my breath is expelled from my body. I can feel my heart beating strenuously, racing within my chest. I can feel the blood pounding in my ears, drowning out the voices above me crying that I have gone mad. My breathing comes in labored gasps, and then, all my energy leaves me. I fall back heavily against the cold, lifeless ground. It embraces me and a white aura begins to invade the corners of my vision. And the weight is lifted from my chest. I close my eyes and breath deeply, trying to still my arduous panting. As I open them again my vision is clear and it is as though I have woken from a horrid dream. I come back to myself slowly, groggily. I look above me and see the face of faithful Daedalus. He was the one who had sat down upon my chest, knocking the air from my lungs. His face is distressed, no, sympathetic – perhaps both – and he says to me, "We will give them a proper burial, Lethe." I read his lips as I cannot hear his voice. The pounding in my ears and behind my eyes has not yet receded. But I take great comfort in his words and smile grimly. It is good that they will be honored – my brother's spirit should not have to battle the barbarians in the afterlife as well. My eyes close tiredly. My spirit will meet his one day – that is my last thought as I let my self fall into the pleasure of darkness.
A.N. Hey, I really hope you enjoyed this, or at least that it made you think.. even a little. Please review and tell me what you think! Mother Nature