In a time long ago, in a land foreign to own, war was waged. It was an engagement between men, fought honorably on the field of battle, for glory and prestige. Great kings raise armies, do battle, and then the men return to their fields.

Times have changed.

The republic is young but strong. Enemies surround her, and many young men are called to fight on battlefields far from home, for causes they do not understand. Many will never see their homes, and those who do, find that things can never be the same.

These are the tales of Gaius Decimus, called Ultor the Avenger; exiled by his people, doomed to wander the earth, leading his men across the world, forever in search of a home they could not return to, seeking revenge against the man who condemned him…

I

The Land of the Barbarians

Rain fell from a silver sky onto the plains of southern Gaul. A crack of thunder echoed, drowning out the sound of marching and war cries. Gaius Decimus crouched down behind his shield, and set down his pilum. The young man, barely out of his teenage years, rubbed the foreign soil into his hands. He took a deep breath, then stood up, grabbed his pilum, and once more made sure his gladius was secure. Decimus glanced to his left at the man wearing a wolf’s skin, holding the mighty standard of Rome in his hands.
The golden eagle stood tall over the other men in the formation, the very embodiment of Jupiter looking down upon the soldiers of Rome. Lighting struck, and thunder cracked. Decimus turned his eyes forward again.

“My men!” General Amulius Cornelius rode in front of the line. Decimus barely heard the general’s words over the plink of rain upon his helmet. “Across this plain stand the barbarian rebels! They have attacked our allies, they have butchered women and children, and have spat upon Roman order. We have tried to reason with them, as you know, but barbarians are a foolish lot, not fit to negotiate with.

“And so, once again, for the honor of Rome, the gods ask you to raise arms. You have fought bravely in this campaign, and Jupiter shows his respect for you by this display of his awesome power!” Cornelius raised his hand up to the stormy sky. His words started to fade as he moved back towards the center, away from Decimus’ position on the left column near the cavalry.

“The enemy will once again fall under our might! Battle hard, give no quarter, and crush these barbarians under your heels! Drive them into the forests! Remind them that we are truly the Sons of Mars!”

The army cheered, and Decimus joined in, beating his pilum upon his shield. It was mostly a courtesy gesture. Cornelius was an inept leader, only in charge of a legion because he happened to be a second cousin in the prominent Cornelian family. Cornelius started this so called campaign by instigating a mostly agreeable tribe along the Gallic border, and now sought to gain personal glory and a triumph at his men’s expense.Two years he had already given to this man. Two years of fighting, hand to hand, with a seemingly endless amount of Gauls. Decimus had seen countless friends die right next to him, cut down by barbarians, or sacrificed by flawed tactics. Most of him, the reasonable portion, wanted to go home, take over his father’s farm with his brothers, and marry that short girl with the long hair, Julia.

Decimus was drawn out of his reverie by the cry for velites. He squinted, and saw a line of Gauls charging towards the Romans. The javelin throwing velites two lines in front of him were reading their weapons, waiting for the order to unleash hell.

Decimus’ own group of hastati seemed to shudder at the impending combat. They formed the front line of infantry behind the velites. Once they had expended their weaponry, they would retreat behind the hastati, and the mostly young and inexperienced soldiers would bring the fight to the Gauls.

The princeps, the heavy infantry made up of the older veterans, stood behind the hastati, ready to charge at the crucial moment. And finally, in the rear, the triarii, the spearmen, the last resort if all else failed. The general’s cavalry was practically useless against the Gauls. Hopefully this time, Decimus prayed, the general wouldn’t charge into his own men again.

“Velites! Fire!” The officer cried. Instantly, the men forming the first line of attack unleashed a wave of javelins into the air. The sky was darkened by the weapons, the silver rain clouds eclipsed by flying javelins.

Decimus took a deep breath as he heard the death knells of the enemy, cut down by the attack. He grasped his own pilum, and prepared for the order to fire. The velites turned and fell back between the lines of the hastati, and Decimus dug in.

Suddenly, the barbarians halted, stopping dead only a hundred meters from the Roman line. Uncertainty rushed over Decimus as he waited for an order. The Gallic tribesmen began to scream and chant in foreign tongues, and Decimus saw several of the other men in his group waver under the loud taunts.

The trumpet sounded. The order to charge had been given. At first, no one moved. The centurion in command of his group began to run at the enemy, preparing to throw his pilum, “Charge, you women! There is much killing to be done! Charge!”

The hastati began their charge, a light jog now, reading the ranged weapons. The princeps in reserve advanced behind them. The general’s cavalry cut across to the right now, a move Decimus noted as odd. He was leaving the left flank open. His unit was on their own now, with no protection from the cavalry.

“Attack them! Cut them down and bring honor to your families!” Cornelius screamed as he rode behind the front line of infantry. “Slaughter them in the name of immortal Rome!”

The distance closed.

“Release pila!” The centurion screamed, and the men behind him, without stopping their run, launched their weapons into the heart of the Gallic line.

Decimus let out a cry as he threw his pilum, and watched as it sunk into the throat of a long haired Gaul. The shaft bent as it impaled him, a jet of thick crimson shooting from the wound. Decimus now drew his gladius, the steel of the sword raised up into the air as he began to sprint.

Closer still.

Gaius Decimus spoke a quiet mantra to Mars and the spirits of his ancestors, braced his shield, and took a deep breath.

The collision of men echoed like thunder.

Decimus crushed the first man in the charge. He stabbed his gladius into the downed Gaul’s chest to make sure. An axe was swung at him, and Decimus countered with his shield, letting the weapon crash upon his defense. He forced the axeman’s arm back up, and while he was caught off guard, pushed at him, exposing the unarmored barbarian. Decimus let out a roar as he slashed, cutting the Gaul’s belly, and spilling his insides on the battlefield. He swung his sword again, and Decimus’ arm shuddered as his sword impacted onto the Gaul’s neck, hacking deep into his flesh, nearly severing his head.

A wooden club connected with the back of Decimus’ helmet, and knocked him to the ground. Fighting through the momentary daze, he rolled onto his back and tried to raise his shield to protect himself. The Gaul lifted his club up again, ready to strike the coup de grace. Decimus kicked at the barbarian’s knee as hard as he could, a desperation attack. The Gaul staggered a little bit, unable to deliver the final blow. Decimus kicked again and again, refusing to let up on his assault, until he finally felt the man’s leg give way with a sickening crack. The barbarian let out a scream of agony as his leg bent in the opposite way. He collapsed and his hands went to his leg, clenching at the crippled limb.

Decimus made his way to his feet, lifted his shield up, and brought the bottom edge of the shield onto the throat of his enemy. He closed his eyes and turned his head as the barbarian’s throat was crushed. Blood splattered Decimus’ face. With a quick drag of his forearm, he wiped it from his eyes, and returned to the fray.

The battle raged on, and many Gauls were slain. Though the fighting was hard, Decimus felt something amiss. It was too easy. As he paused to think for a moment, pair of Gauls assaulted him with swings from their swords. Decimus countered with his shield, and the two iron weapons stuck deep into the wooden shield. He gritted his teeth and tried to force them back with all of his strength, but the two tall barbarians were starting to pull their heavy swords
loose.

There was a scream, and Decimus felt his burden suddenly halved. He shoved once more, and broke away from the Gauls. He looked and saw one of the attackers trembling, blood spilling from his mouth. His eyes went down and saw the point of a rusty gladius jutting from his chest. The sword was immediately withdrawn, leaving a gaping wound, and the gladius was then stabbed deep into the remaining barbarian. “Figured you would appreciate that, Decimus!”

Marcus Quintus, a soldier who had been with Decimus
since the beginning of his term, grinned, his weapon and body splattered with the blood of barbarians. “Couldn’t have you die on such a foolish battlefield. Carthage maybe, but not Gaul!” He laughed and raised his weapons once more. “Now come, back to our bloody business!”

It was then that it hit him. As Decimus looked at Quintus, he saw the forests beyond him. He saw the Gallic cavalry waiting in the shadows. “My God… Reform the line! Reform the line!” He cried out, screaming to his fellow soldiers.

Quintus turned to him, “What are you talking about?”

“It’s a trap!”

As the thunder crackled overhead, the horses of Gaul charged from their forest ambush; hundreds, possibly a thousand Gallic horsemen, emerging in full sprint, only a few hundred meters from the Roman troops. Cornelius had led them into a trap.

The chaos was too great, the hastati too far committed to reform. The centurion heard the cries to reform, but could not draw his men back and brace them.

Decimus scrambled as the horses approached, only a few seconds away now. He dug his shield into the dirt, braced himself. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a one handed axe lying on the ground. He immediately grabbed the weapon, and pulled it in. Quintus shielded himself, looked to his friend, and laughed. “See you on the other side, Decimus!”

The Gallic cavalry struck like a tidal wave. Decimus swung out with his axe, and felt the blade connect with the front leg of a barbarian horse. The animal let out a cry, and collapsed, the limb severed completely. The rider was thrown, and trampled by the charge. Other horses soon piled upon the crippled mount, nearly burying Decimus under the corpses.

He forced his way out, and found the battlefield in anarchy. The entire Roman army was engaged with the Gallic cavalry now, and the barbarian reserves had charged. He frantically searched for Quintus, but could not find him. Knowing that the worst must be true, he resolved that he would follow his friend… but not without spilling the blood of as many barbarians as he could.

Pulling a spear free of an impaled Roman, Decimus brought it back, and then threw it at a Gaul as he raised his axe to slay a downed soldier. The javelin stuck deep into the chest of the Gaul, and he fell to the ground. Decimus reached for his shield, only to have it snap when he pulled it out of the mud, having already been crushed by the cavalry charge.

Fair enough, he reasoned, the young soldier reached for the axe he used to cleave the charging Gallic horse’s leg. He charged into the fray, his gladius in his right hand, the axe in his left, and started to assault any Gaul who still moved. The axe cut down barbarian after barbarian, the gladius stabbing over and over again.

Decimus heard the cry of a horse, and barely moved out of the way in time to avoid being speared by the rider. He brought his axe crashed down upon the spear that jabbed at him, and splintered the wooden shaft.

As he prepared to finish off the rider with his gladius, Decimus felt his legs give out as something struck him in the ribs. He screamed in pain, looking back to see a Gaul’s axe stuck into his armor. He thanked the gods that his armor hadn’t broken, and swung his left arm backwards with a wide arc, cleaving the head of the barbarian who almost killed him completely free from his neck. As the decapitated body collapsed, a thick jet of crimson shot out and splattered onto Decimus.

He panted heavily, and continued his random attacks. He caught the attention of another Roman, a princeps, fighting for his life. The Roman nodded, and the two battled towards each other, and soon put their backs to one another to protect the other.

“And so this is how the mighty sons of Mars will fall, eh, friend?” The princeps spoke.

“What of the others?” Decimus replied.

“The ambush cut through the lines with ease. You are one of the few hastati still alive. A few packets of princeps are fighting still along with the triarii at the rear. Our cavalry has either routed or been cut down.”

Decimus gritted his teeth as he stabbed into a Gaul, “The general?”

“Either dead or running like a coward.”

Decimus spat, “If he isn’t dead already, he will be when I run him through myself!”

The princeps laughed, “Then we had best survive this day, friend! To Sextus Valerius and his warrior comrade!”

“To Gaius Decimus and to surviving long enough to avenge the dead!”

The two men continued to fight, giving themselves just enough room to breathe before what seemed like ten more Gauls would appear in the gap. Decimus’ axe was lost, and his gladius seemed ready to finally give way.

He lifted it and struck against the long sword of a barbarian. Decimus’ gladius broke upon the impact, and both the Gaul and Decimus recoiled backwards. Reacting instantly, Decimus reached for his pugio, and stabbed the dagger deep into the Gaul’s throat.

Another man attacked him before he could draw out the knife, and it was lost when the dead Gaul fell. The new attacker was using just a stick, but the club continued to pummel him over and over. Decimus pulled off his helmet, and swung it with all his might at the Gaul’s skull. The helm connected with the man’s temple, and the barbarian was killed instantly.

Gaius Decimus smiled with bloodlust, covered in the splattered crimson of both enemies and friends, clenching onto his helmet, his only remaining weapon. “It looks as if today is truly the day we die, Sextus Valerius.”

“Indeed, Gaius Decimus.”

A horseman charged, and swung his club, hitting Decimus in the back of the head. He fell forward onto the bloody dirt, and consciousness left him.

***

A splash of cold water woke Gaius Decimus. He shook out his head, and spat out the dirty liquid. His eyes slowly opened, and he found himself looking into the eyes of a red haired barbarian with a long mane and scraggy beard.

“Good day, Roman! It is good to see that some of your kind is hearty!”

Decimus was still in a daze, barely hearing the mangled Latin from the Gaul. “What… where…”

“Questions later!”

Decimus felt a fist like a brick connect with his jaw moments before he lost consciousness again.

Once more, he was awoken with a splash of cold water. This time, there was no Gaul standing directly in front of him. His jaw still ached. Decimus opened his eyes slowly, and tried to move. His hands were bound, and he was tied to a wooden post. His armor had been stripped away, and he stood only in his tunic and sandals.

“You are now property of the warlord Cadwaladur,” a Gaul spoke as he marched in front of Decimus. Decimus looked around and saw several others similarly restrained to wooden stakes. “Your old master is servile to me.”

Decimus saw what appeared to be Amulius Cornelius on his knees next to man speaking, who he assumed to be Cadwaladur. The general had been beaten savagely, his eyes swollen nearly shut, and his lip split. The Gallic chieftain was a tall man, with long black hair and a thick beard. He carried a large axe in his hand.

“See the one who lead you! See the one who fled at my might! But none can escape Cadwaladur. See what power I command!” Cadwaladur stood behind Cornelius, and lifted up his axe. He brought the bladed weapon down and struck Amulius Cornelius, severing his head from his neck. The decapitated body slumped forward, and the dead patrician’s head rolled to Decimus’ feet. “As easily as I killed your best, so may I kill you! Do not defy me, and you will be treated justly. Defy me, and I will make your end so terrifying that even your ancestors will feel your agony!”

Decimus felt his bonds being loosened, and soon the prisoners were led off from Cornelius’ execution site. Their guards took them outside of whatever village they were and brought them to a small quarry nearby a tiny stream. “Mine iron,” was the command, and some rusted equipment was tossed onto the ground.

Decimus picked up a tool, only to feel a pat upon the back, “Looks like we need to find you another battlefield, Decimus.” He looked up to see Marcus Quintus, smiling grimly. “It is good to see you alive.”

“It is good to see you alive as well, Quintus. I thought you were dead.”

“And I you. But when they brought your near lifeless body into the village, I was rather relieved. Admittedly, not as relieved as I would’ve been if you showed up with another legion behind you, but at least I won’t be lonely in slavery.”

“Didn’t you know? I let myself be captured just so you would have some companionship.”

Quintus laughed, “Always such a good friend, Decimus.”

“And a mighty warrior!” A booming voice came from behind them. Sextus Valerius, with a fresh scar across the right side of his face, approached them, and put his hands upon each of the young men. “Decimus slew many a barbarian that day!”

Quintus nodded, “You do your family honor. Pity you won’t be able to tell them that you turned out all right after all, Decimus.”

Gaius Decimus smiled only a bit, his face barely moving. “I will go home, Quintus. We all are going to go home, and very soon. You have my word.”

***

Days became weeks, weeks became months, and the prisoners were hardened. They mined and farmed, worked with the smiths, and learned much from the Gauls. The men agreed to be agreeable until the time was right, knowing that any strength gained would be thwarted if they acted too early. An older veteran, a centurion of triarii, became their leader, and it was he who was responsible for organizing them. His name was Cassius Numerius Falco.

It was the second week of the fourth month of slavery when the prisoners were called to war.

Cadwaladur stood in front of them once more, his face painted, and his battle axe in hand. He paced in front of the nearly a hundred prisoners, his breath like smoke in the cold Gallic winter. At his back, the warband of his tribe, likewise dressed for battle. “You were once soldiers, slaves. And now you are being called back to battle.”

Decimus stood wearing the same beaten tunic he had worn for what seemed to be as long as he could remember. His hair had grown wild, no longer the clean cut he maintained as a member of the army. His beard he tried to keep shaved, but a permanent shadow remained upon his face.

Falco was at his side. The Roman veteran was much taller than Decimus, and the harsh conditions of Gallic slavery had seemingly made the man even broader than he was in the army. Across the bridge of his nose was a deep scar, a constant reminder of Falco’s violent existence. He grunted as Cadwaladur continued.

“German marauders approach from the north. My brother Gorteyrn’s village has been burnt and his family taken. He will be killed two dawns from now unless I submit my own people to the Germans. None of this is acceptable!” Cadwaladur roared and stomped upon the ground. “The German camp will be taken, the bandits slaughtered, and my family restored to me!” The Gaul waved his hand over the Roman prisoners. “You want to prove your worth to me? Then you shall fight at my side! You shall see what it is to serve under a true leader, not the woman you called your general! Prepare yourselves, for we march within the hour!”

The Gauls behind Cadwaladur began to cheer and let out war cries, soon singing songs of victory as the women approached the slaves carrying weapons. As Decimus was given a round wooden shield and a spear made in a similar fashion to the Greeks, he looked at Falco, raising an eyebrow. This seemed to be the perfect time to revolt. The Gauls were actually giving the prisoners weaponry. Certainly they could be overcome with the element of surprise.

“No,” was the simple response, a sharp glare from Falco accompanying his single word. Falco lifted up a large broadsword, and slung it over his shoulder, quickly accompanying it by putting two small one handed axes in his belt. “It is not time.”

Decimus nodded, and spoke no more of the matter. He took a short sword, and a curved dagger for himself, then prepared for the journey.

***

It rained the entire first day of the march. Several thousand Gallic warriors accompanied the hundred Roman prisoners, and Decimus understood why Falco had been reluctant to revolt.

For his part, Falco kept the Romans marching, walking from the front of the column to the back, talking up the men. The Gallic cavalry who rode alongside the prisoners to keep watch over them seemed to drift away when Falco would approach. It was clear that respect for Cassius Numerius Falco extended even to the barbarians.

Decimus marched with Valerius and Quintus, the three forming a rather tight camaraderie as the months in slavery went on. The two young men and the veteran shared a hut in the Gallic village, and labored in the same work group.

“It rains too much in Gaul,” Quintus muttered.

“It could be worse,” Decimus replied.

“Right,” Valerius continued. “Much worse.”

“How is that?” Quintus said.

“I could be at home with my wife right now,” Valerius spoke. “The Gauls are far easier company than she.”

Quintus nodded, “Then I agree. It could be worse.”

Falco approached them, and put his hand upon Valerius’ shoulder, “Sextus, I am organizing the men for the upcoming battle into small groups of ten each. You will command group six. Choose ten to accompany you.”

Valerius nodded, “Decimus and Quintus shall be the first I select - -“

“Quintus you may have. Decimus will be in my unit,” Falco spoke.

“Understood, sir.”

“Gaius,” Falco now turned to Decimus, “Move to the front of the column to join my men.”

Decimus complied and left his friends, jogging to the front, “Sir.”

“Valerius,” Falco said, “I will not let Cadwaladur use Romans foolishly. Listen to my orders, and follow them without hesitation.” Cassius Falco now left the two companions, and went to another commander of his small army, preparing him for the upcoming battle.

The rain stopped by nightfall. Decimus spent over an hour trying to ring out his blanket, then gave up and decided to simply sleep on the ground itself. He had barely drifted off when he was awoken. Cassius Falco crouched near him, whispering to his ear. “Wake, Gaius Decimus, and come with me.”

Decimus reached for his weapons, thinking that this was the beginning of the revolt, but Falco waved him off. “No, boy. Follow, move with silence.”

He followed the centurion into the woods, and was led to an area where several of the prisoners were gathered. He recognized them as the nine other commanders of Falco’s small units, and the men of Falco’s own personal squadron.

“Tiberius,” Falco spoke in a hushed whisper, “tell them.”

“That foolish barbarian only brought a thousand with him,” one of the unit commanders said.

Tiberius nodded, “We are vastly outnumbered. The Germans have far greater archers than the Gauls, but Cadwaladur has stronger cavalry.”

“He does have powerful horsemen,” another said, “as we have seen.”

Falco shook his head, “We cannot count on the German general to be as foolish as Cornelius.”

“Then what do you propose, Falco?” It was Valerius this time.

“I have befriended the Gaul who acts as our commander, Brycham. Through Brycham, I have gained audience with Cadwaladur before, and I shall again. I will convince him that the prisoners should be positioned in reserve, letting the true Gauls have the honor of fighting the Germans.

“If the outcome of the battle goes against our Gallic captors, I will order a retreat back into the woods. We shall feign a rout, and escape. You commanders will be responsible for getting your men twenty miles to the southwest of here. According to Tiberius, who has been through this region before, there is a large Gallic village there, friendly to Rome. We shall regroup, acquire supplies, and begin the march home.”

“And what if we should win the battle?” A soldier asked.

“Then it is far easier, Calventius,” Falco said, “We shall gain Cadwaladur’s favor, and earn our freedom. It is the custom of this tribe, according to Brycham and Tiberius here, that those slaves who prove themselves as worthy as Gauls are to be freed.”

The men began to speak amongst themselves, truly believing that liberty, through escape or through honor in battle, would soon be theirs. “Now go to your blankets and sleep. Rest well, and may the eagle watch over us.”

They stood up now to leave, but Falco stopped the men of his own unit. “Wait, I have some words for you.”

Decimus and the others remained, listening to the centurion.

“I have chosen you for your skill and your valor. Tomorrow, if we must escape, the most dangerous task is ours,” Falco crouched low and his voice was hushed to a whisper. “Cadwaladur has the standard. I will not leave without it. Say what you want about the Senate or the leaders of Rome, but I swore an oath to the gods that I would honor Roma herself. I will not leave her standard in the clutches of barbarians. I will not disgrace Jupiter by abandoning his eagle.

“If we must escape, you will go with me to the village. We shall take the standard, and bring it to the rendezvous. The standard must be saved, is that understood?”

In unison the men responded in affirmation.

“Now rest. Tomorrow will be a bloody day.”

***

The Gauls and Germans did battle at midmorning. They skirmished for over an hour, Cadwaladur not wanting to bring his warbands within the range of the German archers. The German warlord had shown himself the more restrained of the two generals, and the superior strategist. He forced Cadwaladur to fight on low, broken ground, where his cavalry would find difficulty in charging, and the Germans lined up on the east, forcing the Gauls to look into the sun. The forests were to the backs of the Gauls, providing the Roman prisoners with an easy escape should the situation dictate.

The Romans were at the rear left, near Cadwaldur’s cavalry unit, closest to the forest, just as Falco had promised. His meeting with the warlord had been a success.

Gallic and Germanic infantry now engaged each other at the center, where the Gauls were losing ground significantly to the heavy troops of the Germans. The archers kept up a steady harassment of those Gauls who had not yet engaged, and even the Romans were watching the skies and steadying their shields.

It was clear that Cadwaladur was perturbed. “Damn these accursed Germans! Do they think that sheer numbers will win them this battle? Each of my soldiers is worth a hundred of them! Gah!” He cursed in his foreign tongue, damning the German marauders by gods unknown
to Rome.

A messenger now rode up to meet Cadwaladur, “The scouts have spotted at least four hundred heavy infantry marching through the forests at the rear. The Germans have encircled us, lord!”

“Damn!” Cadwaladur cursed, and swung his fist at the messenger, striking him across the face and knocking him off his horse. “I will not allow myself to be disgraced by these animals!”

Brycham approached Cadwaladur, with Falco sitting behind him on his horse, “My lord, the prisoner wishes to speak with you!”

“I have no time to speak to slaves, Brycham!”

“My lord,” Falco called out, “I know that the Germans encircle us. My men can defeat them, I guarantee it.”

“Just as you defeated me, I am sure, slave!”

“My men are strong. They were led poorly. Under your guidance, they are guaranteed victory.”

Cadwaladur now paused. The Roman’s flattery seemed to affect his disposition. “Fine. Brycham, lead your slaves against the marauders at the rear.” He now kicked his horse, “Cavalry, advance! We charge the attackers on my command!”

Brycham and Falco now rode back to the prisoners, and Falco hopped off. “Romans, prepare yourselves! We have been surrounded by Germans, and Cadwaladur calls upon us to fight off the attackers. We are outnumbered four to one by heavy infantry.” The centurion now let out a hearty laugh and pulled his broadsword off his shoulder, taking his shield in his other hand. “May the gods have mercy on the Germans with odds as poor as that!”

The Romans let out a cheer, and began to chant, beating their weapons upon their shields. Falco immediately started to reorganize the Romans into fighting groups based upon their weaponry. At the front, he stationed those armed with spears, with swordsmen on the flanks, and javelin throwers at the rear. “Spearmen, phalanx formation!”

Decimus locked with the men next to him, and raised his spear at an angle. Falco continued to bark out orders, “Engage them at their center, and hold the line! Swordsmen, stagger yourselves behind the spearmen, and when the Germans have committed themselves, charge and cut them down! Velites, launch your missiles as soon as the Germans move to engage the phalanx!”

The German heavy infantry now began to charge out of the woods, screaming and
chanting to heathen gods, raising their weapons.

“Now to arms! To arms! To the glory of Jupiter above, to vengeance for brothers fallen, and to freedom for brothers on earth!” Falco cried out, taking his position in the line of swordsmen.

Decimus marched four from the left of the phalanx, in the front line. Their unit was only four deep, not the eight as Greeks march. As the Germans closed, he lowered his spear, and began to chant with the men next to him, marching in unison, advancing to the barbarian horde.

The javelins were thrown. The long haired Germans continued to charge, held in some type of berserker fury. “Halt!” Acilius, commander of the phalanx, called out. “Stand fast! Steel yourselves!”

Decimus lowered his spear, and dug in, gritting his teeth. Only a few feet away now, Gaius Decimus let out a battle cry, and the men around him joined in. The German swordsmen broke like water upon rock on the Roman phalanx.

Decimus stabbed forward with his spear, and drove the weapon through the face of a charging barbarian. The man’s corpse collapsed against Decimus shield, and with a loud grunt, he forced the dead man off, jabbing his spear forward again, stabbing into another German, and skewering his chest.

A barbarian threw himself at the phalanx, swinging his sword. The men caught him upon their spears, running him through with four different weapons. As he slid down on their shafts, he continued to slash at the Romans. His blade struck the man to Decimus’ left, splitting his skull. Gore splattered onto Decimus’ face, and he quickly tried to wipe at it with his shoulder. The Roman’s mutilated body fell to the ground, and caused a break in the solid phalanx line.

The Germans collapsed in on the break, trying to cause the formation to crumble. Another Roman forced his way to the front, stabbing with his spear to drive back the Germans. Decimus swung his left arm, attacking with his shield, and attempting to hold the line until the leak could be dammed. The edge of the wooden shield connected with the bridge of a German’s nose. His face collapsed underneath the attack, and was killed instantly.

Finally the hole was filled. The German swordsmen were attacking en masse now, and what seemed like all four hundred were piling on top of the phalanx, trying to flank the formation and break through on the sides.

“Charge!”

Out of the corner of his eye, Decimus saw Cassius Numerius Falco charging at the German attackers, swinging his massive broadsword with two hands. The blade came crashing down upon the neck of a German warrior, and cut the man in half. Falco then raised his giant weapon up into the air and screamed with the rage of Mars himself. The Romans joining the charge added their war cries to Falco’s, and the carnage began.

The Roman swords spilt the blood of barbarians with reckless abandon. The dirt was stained crimson that day as the prisoners unleashed four months of hatred and resentment.

The phalanx continued to push towards the German rear, but clearly Fortune did not hold good will for the spearmen that day. A Germanic warrior, standing near seven feet tall, threw himself and his sword at the shield wall. Acilius stabbed at him with his spear, and the tip of his weapon caught the warrior in the chest. Again and again Acilius struck, but the beast would not fall. Finally starting to weaken, blood streaming out of his mouth and from open wounds all over his body, the German raised his broadsword up and drove it forward and down, stabbing deep into Acilius, sinking the sword into his chest. He cried out, and coughed blood. The blow caused Acilius’ strength to leave him, and he fell, wounded but still living.

The phalanx was almost broken there, as without the direction of the former triarii commander, the men, mostly ex-hastati, were lost. As the spearmen started to waver, the formation nearly broken, Gaius Decimus started to bark out orders.

“To the left, damn it! Surround Acilius and force back the Germans! All front lines expand out into a circle! Move, now!” The others listened to Decimus’ sudden commands, and soon formed a protective circle around their fallen leader. “Do we have a surgeon?!”

One of the men replied yes, and Decimus immediately commanded, “Tend to Acilius now! Rear line, start to branch out, we need to get him out of the fray!” The surgeon went to Acilius, and tore at his tunic, trying to make a bandage for the wound. As soon as he put the cloth over the bleeding gash, he tied it down, and started to drag Acilius towards the rear. The phalanx moved with the surgeon, protecting him from the onslaught of Germanic barbarians.

As the spearmen were about to leave the battle, the Gallic trumpet sounded. Decimus watched as Cadwaladur’s cavalry now charged. The barbarian horsemen ran down the remaining of the German assault band. As the German infantry started to rout, Cadwaladur’s cavalry turned and began to charge towards the front of the battle, the warlord leading the attack, “Come now! To the front! To the front! Rout them all!”

The phalanx had to break formation as Cadwaladur’s horses rode through them. The Gallic warlord waved his arms at the Romans, “To the front!”

Falco now approached, spattered in crimson and gore, his tunic torn, “Follow Cadwaladur! Form up into your original units, split into the ten, and fight with honor!”

Decimus now left the phalanx and followed after Falco. When he saw the front, it was a near disaster. The Germans had almost completely encircled the Gallic infantry, leaving them no escape. It would turn into a slaughter soon. Cadwaladur’s cavalry could turn the tide of the battle, as the German infantry was fully committed to annihilating the Gauls, leaving themselves vulnerable to the horsemen, but Decimus was troubled by the fact that the Germanic cavalry, and most likely, the marauder chief, had yet to engage, and was waiting on the fringe of the battle.

“Throw yourselves into the fighting just after Cadwaladur’s horses, cut down those they trample, and push towards the Gauls in the center!” Falco ordered as his unit formed up near him, running alongside the centurion.

The Gallic cavalry broke through the rear of the German lines with ease, bringing death and destruction as they rode. Falco’s men, Decimus included, poured into the gap, and expanded outwards, slashing and stabbing as they moved forward.

Soon, the cavalry had driven straight through the Germans to the trapped Gauls, and the Roman prisoners followed afterwards, remaining in the fighting with the German infantry now almost in a full rout from the blitzkrieg attack.

It was then that the Germanic cavalry charged. The marauder chieftain rode with them, Decimus could now see, as the leader of the German horsemen wore a barbarian crown upon his head. Cadwaladur, seeing the man who vexed him so, immediately broke off his charge, and went right into a cavalry versus cavalry battle.

“That fool!” Falco cried out as he killed another German. “Damn him! Men, to Gallic warlord! To him now!”

Decimus followed after Falco as he ran to the cavalry battle, “Falco, we’ll be killed, we have no horses!”

“Damn it, I know that! But if that fool dies we shall not have our freedom!”

“But the escape, the plan!” Decimus said.

“We are too far in boy! There is no escape now! Cadwaladur’s folly has allowed the Germans to circle us again! We either are victorious or die on this barbarous land!”

“Then there is much killing to do,” Decimus cried, “for will not die on this forsaken plain!”

“Amen, my brother! Let Mars be pleased by us this bloody day!” Falco replied as the two men threw themselves into the battle of horses, swinging their weapons at the animals’ legs.

Decimus drove his spear deep into the torso of a German horse, and the beast was slain. The rider fell forward, and Decimus crushed the man’s skull with his shield.

Ahead of them, Cadwaladur spotted his foe. He charged at the Germanic chieftain, raising his mighty battle axe. “I shall drink from your skull tonight, Germanic dog, for I am Cadwaladur of Isara, conqueror of men, and all who defy me shall die at my hands!”

The German hefted his large sword, and rode at Cadwaladur. “I am Hrodgar the Bandit King! Fall before me, mouse of Isara, as your brother did before you!”

Hrodgar and Cadwaladur charged each other, their weapons ready, the two chieftains intent on slaying the other. Cadwaladur swung his axe, and Hrodgar heaved his sword. The broadsword struck the axe’s handle, and the giant weapon was splintered. Cadwaladur was thrown from his horse, and knocked to the ground.

Decimus raised his shield as a horseman slashed down at him. The round wooden shield caught the blow, and nearly broke under the attack. Both the German and Decimus reeled, and for a moment, Decimus flashed back to the battle between Romans and Gauls. Grinning widely, Decimus regained his composure, and thrust forward his pike. The German was speared in the chest, and fell from his horse.

Cadwaladur scrambled to his feet, dazed from the fall. He cursed loudly again, and went for the sword at his belt. As soon as he drew it, it was immediately used to block an attack from Hrodgar. The Gallic warlord let out a cry of rage and held his ground against the tall German. Again and again, Hrodgar swung his sword, and it crashed upon Cadwaladur’s.

Gaius Decimus now saw the savage attack upon the Gaul. Remembering Falco’s words, Decimus was stirred to action. “I will not let that German take away my only chance at going home!” Decimus cried out, and immediately grabbed onto the horse that had just lost its ride. He pulled himself up, and kicked the animal, “Move, beast and I swear I shall give you the best fodder you have ever eaten if we both live through this!”

Hrodgar attacked and Cadwaladur parried, but the Gallic warlord’s strength was
fading. Hrodgar kicked at Cadwaladur, and his blow landed upon the Gaul’s knee. The bone gave way, and Cadwaladur collapsed, cursing profanely and yelling in pain.

Decimus closed now as Hrodgar raised his sword with both hands, preparing to deliver the killing blow to Cadwaladur. With a cry of rage, Decimus brought his spear up, and threw it with all his might at the German chieftain.

The spear drove deep into Hrodgar’s chest, the weapon impaling the German through the heart. His eyes went wide and he coughed thick crimson. His legs give way, and fell to his knees, his life quickly leaving him.

Decimus leapt from the horse, drawing his sword and dropping his shield. With a roar, Gaius Decimus approached the dying Hrodgar. Decimus stripped him of his barbarian’s crown, and grabbed his head by his long dark hair. Decimus raised his sword up into the air, “Die, marauder.” He brought his blade down, and took Hrodgar the Bandit King’s head.

The bloody decapitated corpse remained motionless on its knees, still impaled with the spear, and shooting thick, dark jets of crimson from its neck.

Decimus went to his horse now, still holding the German’s head. Grabbing onto the animal, he kicked it again, and began to ride, raising Hrodgar’s severed head high into the air. “This is your king, barbarians! Your king is slain! His skull is my prize! Fall before me and despair for I shall rain hellfire down upon each and every man who resists me! Death to the man who opposes Gaius Decimus, son of Mars!”

The Germans saw this Roman slave riding a German horse, brandishing the decapitated head of their leader, and fear ran through them. The Gauls, seeing this same terrible sight, were motivated by it, and their confidence was restored. They fought fiercer than ever before, and soon began to rout the Germanic warriors.

The Gauls and their Roman prisoners rallied, and pushed back the Germans, driving them into the forests, slaughtering many as they fled.

That night, as the victors liberated the city of their kinsmen, the sky was lit with thunder and lightning, the gods themselves giving glory to the bloody victory.

***

And so Gaius Decimus became the greatest of the Romans in the land of the barbarians. Nearly a year had passed since the defeat of Cornelius’ legion. Winter approached once more, and the Romans were no nearer to freedom. The plan of Falco to secure liberty through valor had failed. Cadwaladur, shamed by Decimus’ timely intervention, was now a cripple, forced to walk with a stick. He loathed the Romans, Decimus in particular, and treated them harshly. They were worked to the bone, even in the bitter cold when the Gauls themselves returned to their homes.

Cassius Numerius Falco, the veteran centurion who once led the prisoners, now fell out of favor with them. Following the battle with the bandits, Gaius Decimus became a hero to the men, and overtime, quietly usurped the old warrior. He did not take this well.

As the snows ceased to fall, but before the ground had melted, Cadwaladur continued his hunt for bandits and brigands. On one bitter day, before the winter broke, he led the army, the Romans included, off to battle, hoping to annihilate the small band of raiders encamped ten miles outside the village. Decimus was left behind with the women and children.

***

II

Gaius Decimus Exsul

Verica, the youngest daughter of the warlord Gallic Cadwaladur, dipped her clothes into the river just outside of town. The morning air was frigid, but for the first time in months, the water had thawed, so the young woman took advantage of Gaia’s mercy.

She knelt upon the rocks, her long red hair flowing down her back. As she washed the laundry, she likewise washed her face in the icy river. The crisp blue water woke her completely, and she shivered at the refreshing sensation. When her eyes opened, and she saw the horizon, the girl immediately washed her face again, not believing what she had seen.

Horsemen rode up, but not the same who had left a day earlier. These men rode upon black steeds, and dressed in foreign clothes. She squinted as the horsemen approached the village. One of the women ran out to meet the head of the riders. She did not have a chance to scream before the man drew his sword and ran her through.

As her blood stained the snow, Verica found herself unable to move. The wooden buildings of the village soon started to burn as the raiders threw torches into doorways. Women and children ran from the onslaught, but the black riders chased them, hunting them down, showing no clemency to the defenseless.

Verica’s knees quivered, and she felt weak. A rider brought his horse to a halt, and looked out towards the river. She saw a smile appear on his dirty face, and he dismounted from his beast. Raising his sword, he started to run at her, screaming foreign curses and threats, laughing hysterically.

Cadwaladur’s daughter turned and started to run. She fell down into the stream, the water nearly freezing her to death as she scrambled to her feet, trying to escape into the forest. She ran and ran, looking back to see the man from the north gaining on her rapidly. Her breath became short and frantic, trying to remember back to the days when she played games in the woods with her brother and sisters, hiding from each other.

Verica’s legs gave out under her as she tripped over a stone. She hit the snow covered earth and the air was forced out of her. She clawed at the ground trying to get back to her feet, when she was suddenly tackled by her pursuer.

The bandit forced her onto her back, and ripped at her clothing, tearing it, and exposing her body to the winter air. He grunted, loosening his own pants, using his massive arms to pin her to the ground, “Quiet, girl, and be thankful you can taste Alaric the Mighty!”

Verica screamed and cried as he began to violate her, kicking at the man, praying to her gods to be saved. The bandit struck her across the face, and her head fell backwards, her will to fight gone. She sobbed, wishing her father were here.

“Go home, dog.”

Suddenly, the bandit stood up, and Verica was freed for a moment. Alaric grabbed his sword, his pants still around his ankles. “Who the hell do you think you are, boy! I will spill your belly for your disrespect!”

The man was crouched on top of a fallen tree trunk. A cloak of wolf’s skin was wrapped around his body, his dark hair unkempt and long, his chin and jaw bearded. The man’s gray eyes cut through anything they looked upon, and the bandit stepped backwards, almost tripping over his pants. “Have some dignity before death himself comes for you.”

The bandit pulled his pants up, barely getting them past his waist. Alaric grabbed
the hand of his sword with both hands, and charged at the man who wore the skin of a wolf. He swung the large broadsword high, hoping to cut his head in one swipe.

The man sprung forward like an animal, dodging the attack, and struck. He punched Alaric, and felt his nose collapse underneath his fist. Another strike, and teeth were knocked free. Alaric staggered backwards, dropping the sword, and the wolf sprung at his prey. He grabbed onto Alaric’s jaw, stood behind him, and snapped the bandit’s neck. Alaric’s legs gave out beneath him, and his eyes went blank, cold and dead. The wolf dropped the corpse, letting the dead man fall to the snow.

Gaius Decimus extended his hand to Verica, and pulled her to her feet. The young girl with the red hair was still sobbing. Decimus took off his wolf’s skin cloak, and wrapped her in it.

“They… they’re burning the village…” Verica cried, wiping at her eyes.

Decimus nodded slowly, and stooped down to pick up Alaric’s sword. He drew his finger across the sharp edge of the blade, testing it. “Return when the screaming stops.”

Just as quickly as he had appeared, Decimus vanished back into the forest.

***

Tudrus never saw the sword that cut his head from his neck. Oza could not scream before his throat was cut and a blade driven through his heart. Gundahar at least tried to draw his weapon before he was killed.

Left and right, the bandits from the north fell to Decimus’ blade. There were still twenty men left for killing, and he planned to make sure each was struck down. The village that had been his home for the past year burned, homes that his labor helped build reduced to ashes. Women and children he had come to know and care about murdered like animals.

No quarter was given, no mercy shown. Decimus stalked behind a man as he lifted a giant battle axe to strike down one of the townswomen. His arms flew up around the bandit’s neck, and with a sharp tug, his spine snapped free from his skull. Decimus took the battle axe in his free hand, his sword in the other, and continued his path of vengeance through the village.

A horseman rode by, his spear aimed low to strike at anyone in his path. Decimus turned, the rider pulling his horse to a stop, and then now charging at the Roman, his weapon leveled. Decimus grinned sadistically, the blood of other fallen enemies spattered over his face, and heaved his battleaxe up. With all of his strength, he threw the weapon, and it spun end upon end, the blade striking deep into the raider’s skull, splitting it in two.

The horse kept sprinting, and Decimus grabbed onto the beast’s mane, pulling himself up onto the animal, and kicking the dead rider off. Decimus charged, sword in hand, and rode at one of the bandits who was wielding a torch. Not recognizing that the rider was not one of his partners, he did not try to defend himself.

Decimus took the man’s torch, and continued the hunt. He charged into a pack of bandits, dropping a few simply by the horse’s charge. He swung both his sword and his torch at men, burning them and cutting the bandits down.

As his sword stabbed straight through the heart of one of the attackers, it was clear that his slaughter had gained the attention of the raiders’ leader. He was a giant of a man, standing nearly seven feet tall, with a wild beard, and long black hair. His eyes burned with barbaric ferocity, and Decimus matched him.

“Ha!” the reaver bellowed, and tightened his grip around the axe. A child, no more than ten years old, lay dead at his feet, nearly carved in half by the barbarian’s axe. “So you are the one who stays with the women and children, eh, coward? And you think you accomplish something by killing a few of my men? Bah! Mere weaklings. You did me a favor, boy!”

“I am Gaius Decimus Filius Martis, the Son of Mars, and the man who will split your skull today, bandit.” He tossed the torch at the ground before the barbarian’s leader. Then he stepped forward and raised his sword above his head, grasping the handle with both hands.

The barbarian’s eyes went wide. “You? You are the one who killed Hrodgar?” He then began to laugh, “You are a funny one, child. You barely have hair on your chin and yet you expect me to believe you killed Hrodgar?”

Decimus snarled, “I don’t kill dogs. I put them down.”
The raider stomped his foot upon the frozen ground, “I would have let you live, weakling, for this is a blood feud between my people, Hrodgar’s people, and Cadwaladur’s pathetic little tribe. You are not involved.”

Decimus stepped forward, his sword ready, “Blood feud? I overestimated you then. What cowards fight a blood feud against women and children?” Decimus threw his sword, end over end at the axe-wielding German.

In a frantic attempt to defend himself, the German raider swung his axe and knocked the weapon down. As soon as he looked up again, Decimus was on him.

One swing of his left fist, and the bandit fell, his temple crushed in. Decimus did not cease his attack, tackling the dead man, and continued to pummel him, fist smacking upon flesh sounding not like a contest between two men but more a butcher tenderizing meat.

The surviving bandits watched in awe, frozen, not knowing what to do as Decimus crushed in the face of their leader. He had killed Hrodgar, and now he had taken another of their war chiefs. Blood splattered onto Decimus, his face dripping with thick crimson. Soon he was doing nothing but beating wet pieces of flesh and bone into the frozen earth. When his fists were covered more with dirt than gore, Decimus stopped himself, bloodlust still consuming him. He breathed heavily, eyes aflame.

The Germans watched but did nothing.

“Come at me, you dogs! Come at me, curs! I swear I shall murder every one of you! I shall send every last one of you to Hell! Fight me, cowards!”

Suddenly, the war trumpet sounded, and the thunder of horses could be heard. The bandits began to run, “Hurry! Away! Cadwaladur returns!”

Decimus did not move as the horses approached and the men of Cadalwadur’s war band leapt from their steeds in horror, running to put out the flames, to tend to the wounded, to morn the dead.

Cadwaladur himself dismounted from his beast, and looked at Decimus. The Gallic king was silent, his eyes steel. He turned away from the gore covered man, and went to aid in saving what could be saved, his crippled leg dragging behind him.

Falco rode with Cadwaladur, and now approached Decimus. He looked at his old comrade, and shook his head. Falco kicked the horse, and hurried to help.

His breath shallow, the blood matted into his hair, and the cold chilling him to the bone, Decimus remained motionless. His heart was empty, and he felt nothing now.

Off in the distance, wrapped in a cloak made of wolf’s skin, Verica, Cadwaladur’s daughter, the young woman rescued by Decimus, stood staring at her savior. She trembled at the sight of the Roman, and looked away.

* * *

The back of Cadwaladur’s hand struck Decimus’ face with enough force to draw blood. The hand came back around and struck him once more, the echo of the slap causing several of the on-lookers to shudder. “What did you think you were doing?!”

Decimus stood in silence, his face grim and stern.

The Gallic warlord punched the Roman in the gut, and Gaius Decimus let out a gasp as his wind was taken from him. Cadwaladur now lifted his cane and struck Decimus in the back, casting him into the dirt. “You let those damned bandits run rampant over my town! Killing my people! Burning my property! Do you know how many are dead? Do you know how many men’s wives were lost?! How many children?! How many innocent children who will never reach their prime because of your recklessness and disobedience?!”

Decimus climbed up to his feet. “I acted as I saw fit. There was no time to find you. If I were not there, how many more would be dead? I cut down twenty of those bandits. Twenty who would’ve killed another twenty or more! I am the only reason this village still stands!”

Cadwaladur paced in front of him, breathing heavy, his rage boiling, ready to explode. “As sentinel, you were to guard the town, and sound the alarm in case of attack! You were to ride to me and let me deal with this!”

“You were ten miles out. Even with the fastest wretched horse you left me, it still would’ve taken hours to get to you, and even longer to bring every one back. It is not my fault you fell for the raiders’ tricks and left only me to defend your property. You should be kissing my feet for once again, I am the one who has saved you, barbarian!”

For a cripple, Cadwaladur was still quick with his cane. The wooden stick moved like lightning, and Decimus collapsed to the ground, unconscious.

* * *

Freezing water splashed in his face, and Decimus was awoken. His head hurt, and his shoulders were on fire. He tried to walk, only to find that his feet were barely touching the ground. He attempted to move his arms, but failed. They were tied together above his head, and he hung by his wrists. Slowly, his vision focused, and he could see again. It was night, and it was cold. He still was without his wolf’s skin cloak, and he sorely wished he had it right now.

Cassius Numerius Falco stood before him, his arms crossing his chest. The old centurion stared at Decimus, a smirk upon his face. “You have a mouth on you, boy.”

“Falco…” Talking still hurt. He rolled his tongue around in his mouth, and tasted a bit of blood. Apparently Cadwaladur had some fun after he was knocked unconscious. “Cut me down already.”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me, Falco. Cut me down. This is the last straw. We’re leaving tonight. Gather the men, gather the weapons, I will not wait any longer. He puts me in shackles and hangs me when I save his city?! He’s gone mad. We’ll all be dead soon if we don’t leave now.”

Falco slowly paced in front of Decimus, then approached him, leaning in close. “Get one thing straight, boy, you will not give me orders. You will speak to me with respect or I swear to God I will spill your belly right now.” He slapped Decimus with the back of his hand. “Now you listen. For once, keep your mouth quiet. Understand?”

“Good,” Falco smiled when no response was given. “You think you run this place now? You think that stupid stunt with the German’s head earned you respect here? You are a fool. Cadwaladur hates you with all the he is. You took away his glory, and you took away his dignity by saving him. He is a cripple now because of you. If he died, at least he would have gone with honor.”

“Then let me kill him now and let him have his honorable death!” Decimus snarled.

“I have spent months convincing him not to outright execute you because of the reaction it would have with the slaves. I have worked too hard, and gained too much favor with these animals to let a child like you ruin it all! You have been a thorn in my side since that very day! You think that the men will accept you as a leader?” He laughed now, a quiet, sinister cackle. “Never. These are Falco’s men. And you will not take that away from me.” He paused now, shaking his head. “You should thank me. I saved your life for another day.”

Falco now got close enough that Decimus could feel his hot breath, “Look around, for this is the last time you will ever see this village. At dawn, you’ll be brought out to the middle of the wastelands and if you’re lucky, they’ll kill you out of pity. If not, you’ll starve or freeze to death.” He stepped back, and turned away. “Gods have mercy on you. You had potential as a soldier. Very sad it had to turn out this way. Maybe in the next life you’ll learn not to toy with me, dog.”

“You bastard… you oath-breaking cur! You sell out the life of your own countryman?! Have you no honor?! I swear upon every god of the heavens, upon Jupiter and Apollo and bloody Mars himself that I will kill you, Falco! I swear that I will kill you! I swear a thousand oaths that I will send you to Hell!”

Decimus thrashed at that which bound him. He screamed out for Quintus and Sextus. He called for a hundred other men, called them by name. He begged for them, calling on them in the names of parents, wives, brothers, sisters, and children. For hours he pleaded. No one came to aid him.

Finally, in the bitter cold of the frozen winter night, Decimus surrendered. He hung his head, and longed for home; for the grasp of his father’s hand, for the taste of his mother’s cooking, for the laughter of his brother, for the warmth of Julia’s embrace. Gaius Decimus sobbed in the darkness.

* * *

At some hour of the night, Decimus was stirred again. It was a soft sound, gentle steps cracking twigs. “Who’s there?” Silence. He called out again, “Who’s there?” Once more he went unanswered. He sighed, “Cowards. Just stare at the dead man. May the gods damn you worse than they have damned me.”

“I… I just wanted to return this…”

Decimus looked up and saw the daughter of Cadwaladur holding his wolf’s skin cloak. Verica’s icy blue eyes pierced through the darkness, and her long red hair was not dimmed by the shadows. She approached him, hesitating as she got close to him. “Thank you for saving me.”

He laughed, and shook his head, “A lot of good it did me. Save the chieftain’s daughter, be sent off to die. This is what I had in mind when I set out from home…”

Verica wrapped the cloak around her savior, and clasped it around his neck. She embraced the battered man, and put her lips upon his. “Thank you.” She kissed him softly, barely touching him. The red haired girl then leaned closer, and kissed him deeply, fully. She held him for what seemed like eternity, and Decimus gave in completely. He pressed back against her, and prayed dawn would never come.

* * *

“Gaius Decimus, for crimes of treason against the tribe, treason against the Senate and People of Rome, for disobedience to orders, and for negligence to duty, Cadwaladur, the greatest warrior and chieftain in all of Gaul, does hereby sentence you to exile into the wastelands. This judgment has been passed both by the wisdom of Cadwaladur, and the council of Roman warriors unanimously. May the gods have mercy on your soul.” Cassius Numerius Falco, standing in full battle dress of the Gallic tribe, finished reading the proclamation, and gestured to the men who held Decimus bound.

Cadwaladur stood next to the Roman centurion, and nodded. He leaned upon his cane, and tapped it on the ground. “Take him away.” He turned his head, and all others present at the sentencing did the same, following the tribe’s ritual.

Verica was on the fringes of the crowd. She did not look away. As Decimus was put onto the horse, and the sack lowered over his face, his eyes met hers. He saw her tears begin to fall, and then there was only darkness.

* * *

They rode for hours. His hands and his feet were bound, the cloth bag tied down tight over his head. Decimus lost track of time, constantly fading in and out of consciousness. So many blows to the head over the past few days were taking their toll, and the headaches kept getting worse.

The horses stopped, and he was pulled from the back of the animal, cast onto the ground. Snow and ice kicked up around Decimus, and the frozen crystals fell back onto his battered body. He was pulled up, and his bonds were cut. The bag was pulled off his head, and his eyes burned in the sunlight.

“Walk two hundred paces forward. Do not stop until you have made the final step. After that, you are on your own.”

Decimus looked back at the two men who escorted him to the wastelands of the dead forest. He recognized them as two of Cadwaladur’s best warriors, Amminos and Casticos. Amminos were betrothed to one of the warlord’s daughters, and Casticos was Cadwaladur’s cousin on his mother’s side. Clearly, the Gallic chief had something more than exile in mind.

He rubbed at his head, feeling the many knots. His brain was still spinning, and his balance was weak. Damn it, how can he be expected to save himself if he can barely concentrate? Decimus cursed himself and the gods.

Casticos went for something stored upon his horse. He withdrew a longbow and a quiver. Decimus took a deep breath, and further cursed his situation. He slowly started to walk forward, closing his eyes and trying hard to think.

The paces added, and his animalistic senses heard an arrow being strung, a bow being pulled taut. Time is running out.

Flashes of memory returned. His home, his family… faded images that he could barely recall anymore. Visions of battle filled his head: blood and gore splattered upon him, the ache in his arm as swords clashed, the rage and adrenaline in the heat of the moment. His comrades… the traitors. He shook his head out. Not now, he can’t think about that now… Cadwaladur. Falco. Quintus. Sextus. Verica. The farm at home. The peaceful life he led as a child… turned into a near animal in the forests of Gaul… a hunter. The wolf.

Now.

The thwip of an arrow shot sent Decimus diving to the right. He hit the frozen earth on his shoulder, rolling with it, and springing back to his feet. He darted behind a dead, barren tree, just instants before a second bolt cut through the place his head had been.

He was breathing fast now. His senses were on fire. Everything around him was burning with life and energy. I am the wolf.

Decimus sprinted at the assassins. His hand swooped down at the ground, snatching up a stone. Another arrow shot past him, impaling itself into a tree trunk. Every instinct, every skill that had been honed and trained over the last year came to full bloom. He was no longer the quiet boy on a small farm. He was no longer the inexperienced soldier blindly following a foolish general. He was war incarnate, he was blind, unrelenting fury. Gods have mercy on those who betrayed him.

Casticos’ eyes went wide as Decimus darted out from behind a tree, charging right at him now. He quickly tried to ready another arrow, and let it loose without aiming. Decimus leapt into the air, and threw his stone. The missile caught him in the shoulder, but he was unfazed. The stone struck Casticos’ in the face, blood exploding from behind the rock, hanging in the air for a split second as Casticos fell to the ground.

Amminos went for his dagger, but Decimus was on him too quickly. He knocked the blade from his hand, and threw a stiff elbow at the Gaul’s head. Amminos dropped low, and tried to tackle Decimus to the ground. Decimus sprawled back, and posted Amminos’ head. The barbarian let out a cry as Decimus began to punch him in the kidneys, over and over again. He tried to break free as Decimus drove his knee into his face, again and again. Decimus felt wetness upon his knee, but would not cease his assault.

Suddenly, Decimus screamed out in pain, as a hand pulled out the arrow embedded in his shoulder. Casticos was on his feet again, and trying to stab Decimus with the recycled missile.

He dropped the still twitching Amminos to the ground, and dodged Casticos’ attacks. He leapt to the left, moving out of the way of the makeshift weapon, only to be caught on the opposite side by Casticos’ fist. The punch slammed into his temple, and Decimus was dropped to the ground.

Casticos fell upon him, and stabbed the arrow deep into Decimus’ thigh. The Roman cried out in pain, then cried again as Casticos kicked him in the rib cage. As the Gallic assassin raised his boot again, Decimus grabbed him by the heel, and pushed him to the ground.

Instantly forcing himself to his feet, Decimus grabbed tight onto Casticos ankle, and then kicked at Casticos’ kneecap as hard as he possibly could. The leg snapped with a sickening crack, followed by a scream of utter agony.

Decimus immediately fell forward onto Casticos, making sure to bend his crippled leg in directions that the gods never intended it to bed. Casticos scrambled underneath him, clawing at the ground. His fingers grasped a rock, and his swung the stone with as much force as he could muster, striking Decimus in the head.

Decimus was dazed, and he waved slightly, giving Casticos just enough time to grab Amminos dropped dagger. Decimus came to his senses just as Casticos slashed at his face. The blade cut from his cheek up to his forehead, barely missing his eye. Blood dripped out of the wound, little beads of crimson spilling onto Casticos.

He slashed again. Decimus grabbed the man’s wrist, and pushed his fingers into his pressure point. He squeezed harder and harder until there was a pop, and the hand went limp.

Decimus raised his fist, and drove it down at Casticos’ throat. He felt his windpipe give way, and the Gallic assassin gasped for air.

Decimus collapsed and fell off of Casticos, the Roman’s consciousness quickly fading. Casticos clutched at his throat, trying to breathe, horrific sounds of a man trying to pull in air through a crushed windpipe filling the dead forest. He reached up at the heavens, as if to beg for mercy.

Casticos violently convulsed, and then went limp, his arms falling onto the frozen earth. His eyes were wide, glazed over with the horror of death upon them.

Gaius Decimus exerted every last bit of his willpower to get up to his feet. The arrow wound in his shoulder was bleeding badly, his leg was screaming out in agony, and the dagger scar across his face burned. His head howled and throbbed, ringing as if every bell in the world was within his skull.

His eyes could not focus, but he knew he needed to get away. He stumbled and staggered through the black forest, falling onto the snow and ice time and time again. He kept forcing himself up. If he stayed still, he knew he would die. Decimus needed to reach shelter. He could not survive out here for long.

He walked and walked for what seemed like forever, the concussion begging him to just surrender. He kept going out of spite; spite for those who betrayed him, for those who condemned him.

And off in the distance, there it was. A rock formation rising out of the forest… a small cave. He laughed at his fortune, thinking that for once, the goddess had decided to favor him. He approached the cave, the darkness welcoming him.

Decimus got two steps in before the ground gave out under him, and he plummeted into the abyss.

[This message has been edited by Vasta (edited 07-05-2005 @ 02:11 AM).]