Sample Chapters 2

Marco ran as fast as his legs could carry him, unconcerned for the undergrowth. Within minutes, he found running uphill carrying a heavy sword and hammer sucked out his strength. He slowed to a fast climb-walk, glancing backward. There was just enough moonlight to show him that no one was chasing him. He stopped and sheathed his sword, keeping the hammer in one hand. He then began slowly walking backward up the hill, observing his back trail. Instead of returning to the forge, Marco decided to take the back road down the other side and follow it around the hill to the main road on the north side.

             He was still filled with tension, but he wanted to be part of whatever happened. Will the Romans go on the attack? The rebels fled into the woods. Are the Romans ignorant enough to chase armed men who obviously know how to fight in a forest?

            Marco began angling to the old forge road, senses on full alert, careful to keep from making noise. He saw the narrow clearing down through the trees ahead of him and stopped just short of the road to listen for danger.

            The scent of sweet laurel was particularly fragrant in his nose. Within moments, the cicadas about him had resumed their chatter, like guardians constantly on watch for signs of intruders. The twisted road's age-old wheel ruts had cut deeply into the red soil.

            It would take half an hour to circle back around to the center of town. He could get there in minutes if he returned the way he had come. He would have to move carefully.

            A twig snapped somewhere nearby. Immediately, he sank deeper into the shadow around him, his hammer flat but ready against his side. He made himself relax by slowing his breathing, and then began to smile as his friends Silvio and Filo appeared, walking down the road seemingly without a care in the world. For a brief moment Marco envied them, but he stayed motionless as a hare.

As his boyhood companions moved past, Marco whispered in a phantasmal voice, "Dead you'd be, if I was not a kind spirit of the night."

Both youths jumped as if stung by bees, then quickly recognized who the spirit of the night had to be, and looked around to see where Marco was hiding. Marco stepped out from among the trees. He slid the hammer into his rope belt and spread both arms.

"Welcome mortals, the gods bid you peace and have sent this humble servant as their messenger." The two youths grabbed Marco and hugged him between them, pushing and shoving at each other, pleading with Marco to tell them what had occurred since he left them. He recounted the events as a storyteller might tell a harrowing tale, while his friends hung on every detail and gaped at him with both fascination and astonishment.

            "Well, what do we do now?" asked Silvio, as if he had been Marco's partner all along in the adventure.

            "We go back, of course," said Marco.

            Filo looked at Marco and then at Silvio, not sure what "going back" entailed.

            "You have your grandfather's sword," said Filo. "We are unarmed."

            "We'll find something for you both," said Marco, smiling and picking up the hammer. "A rebel spear ought to fit you. What do you say?" said Marco, jabbing the handle of his hammer playfully at Filo.

            "What weapon will I get?" asked Silvio.

            "What would you prefer, mouse?" asked Marco. Silvio was not a fighter, but Marco would never say that to him. Silvio blushed but stood his ground.

            Marco could sense that neither Silvio nor Filo really wanted to come along. Their backyard bravado had stretched into speculation and then ceased. He looked down the hillside through thin slices of light between the gauntlet of laurels. The movement of men massing near the main road caught his attention, the colorful yellow-plumed helmets of the Roman officers forming a focal point.

            The excitement of participating in or at least watching a real battle was too much to ignore. Marco stepped off the road and back into the land of shadows, angling downhill. His friends would come or they would not.

***

As the Roman garrison force at Castello massed on the main road below the town, it prepared to go on the offensive by forming into two wings of skirmishers. After the initial attack, the rebels had retreated across the road, into a lightly wooded copse where local inhabitants had been cutting trees for construction timber.  The plan was to pursue the fleeing enemy into the clearing, but to halt and reform before the forest became too thick for safety.  Timber cutting had opened the forest for a kilometer in either direction along the road.  There would be little room for the retreating rebels to hide.  Speed in pursuit was the main strategy.

            Each wing of the Roman force was commanded from its center by a centurion. A third centurion, the pilus, or most experienced, had overall command of the pursuit. The pilus had positioned himself, along with his message runners, between the wings. He had set the mission objective: pursue the enemy, kill as many as possible, and penetrate the woods no more than an hour's slow march or until the light began to fail. When the light failed, they would return to their camp, and start out again fresh the next day.

            Each wing of the Roman unit contained a front line of twenty-four men across, with three similar ranks deep, and one more in reserve. Ranks were offset like checkered pieces on a game board. Each soldier was an arm's length from the man to either side, and a step or two separated the depth of the ranks. Offsetting the ranks allowed soldiers from one line to step into the gap of the next for increased power or for fallback protection if met by unmovable resistance. Discipline in holding the rank line was the Roman legion's greatest asset.

             As the Romans started into the woods, rebels in small groups or separate individuals retreated slowly, using what trees were left as partial cover and keeping up constant taunting. The Romans moved as a group through this open space, maintaining strict alignment. With each step, they gained more confidence.

***

Marco reached the main road just in time to watch the final ranks of Roman soldiers enter the wooded clearing. He waited until he thought it was safe and crossed the road to the west of the clearing where the thicker forest would hide his movement. Marco wanted to keep out of sight of the Roman left wing, but still be close enough to follow the progress of the troops by the sounds of their movement.

            The forestland sloped upward to Marco's left. Overhead, the canopy of treetops restricted moonlight penetrating directly to the ground. Dust motes performed a flickering dance in thin shafts of white light. A thick layer of decaying pine needles padded his footsteps as Marco walked quietly across the forest floor.

            As he moved, Marco scanned the ground for anything that would make a sound, while keeping his eyes and ears tuned for telltale signs of danger. It was while concentrating on where to put a foot safely down across a fallen tree stump without taking his eyes away from his surroundings that he first thought he saw the tree move. Marco froze. Trees did not move.

             Without turning his head, Marco focused on the shadows to his right where he thought he had seen movement. All he could see now was an ordinary tree. Setting his gaze just to the side of the tree, Marco began looking within the deep shadow for anything out of place.

The outline of a round object about eye level wrapped in what looked like cloth showed against the tree. Keeping his gaze slightly off center, he saw that the round thing was attached to something reaching to the ground. The lines formed themselves into the figure of a man dressed in shapeless clothing. A bluish haze of light glowed ever so softly around the man's head.  Marco stared for a moment at the glow.  He recognized the shape of the glow was that of a scarf.  Based on its thickness and color, Marco guessed that he was looking at a Numidian warrior-one of the legendary African desert fighters from across the sea, renowned for their famous blue headwear.  Interesting, The man was not part of the fighting, but was staying hidden.

            Marco moved to his left up the forest hillside and away from the hidden warrior.  Having uncovered one of these spectral Africans, Marco was soon able to spy more of the scarf-wrapped figures blending into the shadows of the trees below. Far down below he could hear the crunch and clangs of the Roman soldiers moving deeper through the woods, in a line more or less parallel to him.

             Marco felt no impulse to warn the Roman soldiers of the danger of the hidden warriors. This was not his fight. Admittedly, he had killed two rebels, but they had attacked him. Now, he chose to be involved only as an observer. Rome exploited his homeland for its own benefit. The rebels caused their own trouble. Family and clan were what mattered to Marco. The Romans called his people the Tudetani. The Tudetani were a mixture of many tribes and hundreds of clans. His family, however, was only one clan and took care of its own. So he would watch, to take care of his own.

***

"Tell the horn men to blow the reform signal," said the pilus to one of his messengers.  "Let the bastards keep running. They are free to attack someone else for all I care.  Just as long as they don't camp on our doorstep.  We've chased these motherless sons enough.  It's time to march our rear ends back to camp."

            As experienced a fighter as the pilus was, he never saw the spear that hit him in the neck. He went flying off his horse into the ranks of the troops to his side. The soldiers of the first rank of the right wing also never saw the javelins that plunged into their ranks. In the front row of the right wing, four soldiers were dead in seconds and another five were disabled.

            Commanded by Centurion Gaius Suetonius, the confused right wing continued marching forward, veering left, hesitant of danger only to their right flank, but not stopping to reform. By the time Suetonius got them halted and tied into the left wing with a right-facing defense, a new danger had arisen.

            Centurion Flavius Maximus, the unit's junior officer and commander of the detachment's left wing, was too far away to see the first flight of rebel spears that hit the right wing from its right side. He heard the commotion and immediately halted his units, closed down into close order defense, and started hooking into the disoriented remainder of the right wing.

            At the command of group leaders, the soldiers who had been moving through the woods in loose fashion owing to the broken terrain, quickly moved to their left forming a solid line, each man exactly an arm's length from the next.  When the files formed and closed down, each line, rank by rank turned right to face the danger that had attacked them.

            Both wings were united and now focused on the new front, when a second volley of javelins hit the unprotected left side of the of Flavius Maximus' left wing. After two javelin attacks at least two dozen Romans were dead or out of action, and not one rebel had yet shown his face. It was clear to Suetonius, now in overall command, that the rebels were not fleeing, but were content to remain out of sight and cut down his troops using missiles without endangering themselves.

Suetonius signaled to Maximus to form a square. From a single box shaped formation, with shields guarding front, rear and sides, his force could quickly turn to face danger in any direction.  Once the square was formed, however, Suetonius signaled face front and back step.   Rather than stay and fight an unseen enemy with limited moonlight, it was best to get the men back to the road as quickly as possible.

***

To skirt the Numidians hiding among the trees, Marco was forced up the hillside to his left where outcrops of boulders poked their way up through the ground like the bald heads of buried giants. Legend told that giants once roamed these lands and the boulders had been used to seal off entrances to their underworld. Huge, hand-hewn, monolithic columns with gigantic stone lintels were often found in the vicinity of boulder outcrops. Standing stones, his mother had called them. She knew much about tribal history and had told him how people had broken the rocks into smaller stones to build temple buildings, trying to take the power from one sacred place to increase that of another.

            A huge old ash tree grew out of one patch of boulders, and as Marco approached, he watched a bead of water trickling down the face of the rock. A discolored groove had worn into the rock's surface. He traced the source of the water back to a deep crevice. Somewhere inside the crevice it seemed as if the rock's life force was leaking out. The trickle of water running down the rock face fell onto another rock below, and, like a mortar in a pestle, had worn a pool filled with crystal clear liquid. Marco touched the water with his fingertips and brought the liquid to his lips. The water was icy cold. As the falling water pooled, it overflowed on one side, falling to the damp ground to be absorbed by the earth. Snowdrops bloomed in the surrounding dampness.

            The rock was not losing its life, thought Marco. Somewhere an underground stream had pushed its way upward and was now simply returning to its normal underground path. Like a mason fixing a broken pipe in a Roman bath, the spirits had found a way to send the water back on its way.

            Marco felt he had paused only for a moment to gaze in the lovely pool when he heard the clash of metal on metal ring out from down below. He started down the hillside to get a closer look. The slope was steeper. Marco slid a short way on loose soil. Squatting on his haunches, he used one hand for balance and the other to secure the hammer in his belt. He stood as the ground leveled and began walking warily with his knees slightly bent. A depression in the ground appeared. He slid down its short bank to the bottom. The sides would better conceal his progress. Small pebbles and sand in the bottom of the depression suggested it was a dry streambed, overgrown with sage, hollyhock and thistle. The sharp-needled thistle leaves stung his bare legs, but Marco ignored the irritation, concentrating on keeping his head below the lip of the bank and listening.

            The sounds of battle were becoming louder. He guessed he was lying no more than a stone's throw away from the fighting. He could hear swords clanging on metal shields; Romans swearing in Latin; screaming war cries in various Celtic dialects.

Permeating the din was the universal language of pain and suffering in the agonized cries of wounded and dying men.  Marco heard men cry out for help from friends.  He heard a plea for mercy from someone hoping perhaps that a sharp knife would not slit his throat.  Here and there came a parched voice crying out for a taste of water, but more often than not the sounds that came to Marco through the night air were the blusters of defiance, the struggles of hand-to-hand combat, soldier and the warrior battling to the bitter end.

***

Like a cornered, wounded animal, the Roman Square inched its way backward. The two remaining centurions had positioned themselves just behind the front rank each to one side.

             The bristling square had backstepped no more than a short distance when a third volley of javelins came at them, this time from the only unexpected direction: their rear. As the Romans turned instinctively to see what was happening, a wall of infantry dressed in the garb of Roman legionaries came running full tilt, striking the original front like a clash of thunder.

            No sooner had the front been struck, than the right side of the Romans was attacked by a screaming horde of long-haired native warriors while the left was pounded by swarthy, scarf-wrapped Numidians wielding long pikes, curved swords and spiked cudgels.

            Hit from all sides at once with perfect timing, the Romans were cut to pieces. Within minutes only pockets of resistance remained. Both centurions were frantically shouting, "Here! Here! Here!" for men to join them, but in the confusion those few left could neither see nor hear beyond the fighting all around them. The vaunted Roman discipline had broken. It was every man for himself.

***

Marco began edging his way slowly down the streambed as more clashes broke through the din. Someone kept yelling out "Here! Here! Here!" Leaning up against the bank in the direction of the sounds, Marco peeked over the edge only to duck back down as several Roman soldiers passed a short way off chased by the dark men wielding huge curved swords, their head scarves waving behind them. I must be closer to the fray than I thought, that or the battle is moving backward. For all I know, they could be all around me. He hugged the ground. Counting back from the first time he heard an attack, the last clash was the fourth or fifth. How many rebels were there? Did the Romans march into a trap? Are the Romans surrounded? Marco drew his sword and pulled the hammer from his belt. He began working his way back up the streambed. Perhaps it was better to be a little more careful and a little less close.        

            The Celtic sword in Marco's hand was comforting. Longer than the Roman short sword, the Gladius, the blade was better for fighting in open spaces. In the tight formation of a Roman phalanx, a short sword was thrust forward and stabbed into the enemy through openings in his defense. Fighting in the open where men were spaced farther apart, a longer sword meant its wielder could cut into an opponent from any angle, and could kill or wound the enemy before his shorter sword even made contact.

            Right now, Marco wasn't so sure he wanted to make contact with anyone. He certainly was not about to go striding into an unknown confrontation. His mouth felt dry; his hands were moist. He put the sword down and quickly dried his sword hand on his tunic. The leather wrapped around the hilt for a better grip was moist. A new coat of beeswax would make it impermeable. He picked up the sword again and leaned up the bank for another quick appraisal.

            A full disk high in the night sky behind Marco had replaced the faint light of early evening.  Down the hillside, glints of moonlight reflected off metal like small fires. Here and there, Marco could only hear the far away clank of metal on metal and the occasional yell and grunts of men fighting, fleeing or chasing one another crashing through the brush.  Nearby Marco all was silent. The wary cicadas were patiently and soundlessly waiting.

             Marco concealed himself next to a tree to wait, despite feeling a bit cramped, and make sure of his surroundings. Just as he felt comfortable and was about to step forward, a lone figure emerged from the brush below, moving steadily uphill and constantly looking back over one shoulder for signs of pursuit. Marco noticed the shadowy figure's bare head. From the shortness of the hair the man was probably a Roman soldier. Something about the man's gait was strikingly familiar.

Marco turned sideways to let the Roman pass him unseen. As he turned, he noticed another familiar form slide around the side of a huge tree directly in front of him. Moonlight glinted off of a curved sword held high in the air by a scarf-headed assailant. The assassin had not noticed the motionless Marco; his concentration was totally on the enemy below coming his way.

            Golden light also reflected from military campaign badges fastened into the straps of the Roman's chest armor. The centurion who had accosted Marco near the forge had worn such badges. Apparently, the officer had discarded his prominent, yellow-plumed helmet, but was not able detach the straps of his cuirass without shedding his armor. So why didn't he cover them with mud, thought Marco?  Maybe he is more attached to his glitter than his head, he mused.

            The ambush was set. One stroke and the Numidian would decapitate the helmetless Roman. As the centurion crossed in front of Marco, the African began his death stroke. Without thinking, Marco stepped across and into the death blow.

As he stepped, Marco raised his left arm, jamming the forge hammer into the African's blade at the hilt. He twisted the head of the hammer back and down, hooking the sword between the blade and the hilt and deflecting the direction of the stroke. Using the momentum of the sword swing, Marco levered the blade, pulled back on the hammer, and yanked the sword right out of the man's grip.

            Executing the sequence of swordsmanship movements was exactly how Marco had envisioned them.  Perhaps even easier.  Resistance was smoothly redirected enabling Marco to use the African's momentum against him. Even the pull of the sword felt right, as his heavy hammer became the ideal fulcrum for arm leverage.

The disarmed Numidian was so alarmed at Marco's sudden appearance and so stunned by the loss of his weapon as if by magic that he could only stare at his empty hand. After a moment, he came out of his daze, flailing his arms and stumbling backward.  As he ran, he was screaming in an ululating manner and yelling in dog Latin that the forest was alive with dangerous evil spirits.

            Marco slid the handle of his hammer into his belt and picked up the African's discarded weapon. Instead of thinking, Marco realized he had let his training flow in the most effective direction-like the surface stream at the rock outcrop returning to its underground pathway. The act, like the water, followed the line of least resistance.

He offered the African's curved sword to the centurion.

***

Maximus stared at the gift and then at Marco. This is the boy from the town hillside; the one with the incredible tale about killing two rebel warriors. Perhaps there was some truth to the matter after all.

Maximus reached out, not to take the sword, but with a peace-offering legionnaire's arm clasp. This boy had saved his life. Maximus did not know why, but he blessed Jupiter that he was still breathing.

            "My name is Quintus Flavius Maximus," he said, holding Marco's arms in a friendly but formidable grip. "May the gods be with you."

            Maximus released his grip and lightly tapped the boy's shoulder in acceptance as he reached over to take the proffered sword. He held the sword hilt chin-high in front of his face, blade up in salute, then turned away to begin trotting up the hill. He had taken no more than a few steps when he suddenly stopped, turned, and walked back to where Marco still stood. Tucking the sword under his arm, he removed the ring from the first finger of his right hand and held it out to Marco.

            "You have given me another day of life. May this token of my appreciation do something similar someday for you."

            Marco accepted the ring. It was difficult to see it clearly even in the moonlight. Peering closely, he noticed a disk in the top was engraved with the head of a boar. Around the boar's head were Roman letters too small to read.. When Marco looked back up, Maximus was gone. He stood a moment longer, then tucked the ring into a small leather pouch held by a cord around his neck.

***

Like sentinels returning to guard duty, the cicadas resumed their presence in the guise of a paean to the fallen sun. Not only was Maximus gone, but so were the sounds of battle. Only the moans of the maimed persisted. Camp followers and hangers-on could be relied upon to dispatch the dying, pilfer the battlefield, and bring help to fortune's favorites. The rebel forces had melted like smoke after a fire, borne away on the breeze.

            Marco returned to the hilltop forge this time by a more direct route, but still consciously trying to avoid contact with Roman stragglers. When he reached the empty buildings, he hung his grandfather's sword back in its resting place and returned the forge hammer to its slot on the workbench. Removing the  chain mail he had also borrowed, Marco lay down on the hard earth where he usually slept. Tomorrow he would rise early and examine their condition.  He was totally exhausted.  For all he knew, his grandfather was still about the duties of the town council caring for the injured and directing repairs.  For a moment Marco became concerned about how the Elder Marco would react to his grandson borrowing his sword and chainmail without permission.  It did not occur to him that his grandfather might be more concerned about how he had endangered himself by his involvement in the entire episode.  Events of the night continued to flash in and out of his mind until at last the whirlwind of exotic sights and sounds tossed him into deep slumber.

            Somewhere near dawn, Marco came partially awake to remove a pebble lodged between one arm and the hard-packed dirt. Sleep quickly found him again, but this time he dreamed.

He found himself standing next to a newly dug hole, a grave perhaps. The earth smelled rich and fertile. Dirt was piled high on both sides of the opening. He had no idea who had dug the hole. Marco looked down into the hole but could see nothing but darkness. If this is a grave and no one is in it, is the grave for me? Marco took a few steps backward as if to reject the idea. As he did, his heel hit something behind, startling him and he heard himself yelp.

Turning around, Marco saw the body of his mother lying on the ground, dressed in a long white gown.  The material was embroidered with a variety of colorful designs depicting various Hispanic tribal motifs overlaid onto a Roman style matronly stola. . Around her neck hung a long necklace of seashells and enameled beads threaded onto thin strips of golden wires.  Simple leather sandals adorned her small feet and the nails of her toes like those of her fingers were covered in vermilion red. Marco's mother looked very much younger than when he had last seen her. Her hair was much darker and the skin of her face was smooth and unlined like a young girl. 

Marco knew it was his task to put his mother in the grave.  He was to cover her with the dirt piled to the sides.  Marco loved his mother dearly, but he felt no sense of sadness at her death. She was his mother and yet also some other woman he did not know.  It seemed strangely proper to bury this other woman, as well as the one who had borne him and reared him.  He should feel thankfulness rather than sorrow.