Christopher Buckner - Swords of Rome

Further in the rear both Hannibal and Mago’s attention was diverted by the noise from his war-elephants, which, despite their fearsome sizes and bravery were not adept for the cold climate of Europe. The creatures seemed to be in constant agony, four having already died as the army climbed higher — and yet, they hadn’t even begun the march into the actual Alps as of yet.

“How many do you think will make it?” Mago asked.

“Not enough,” Hannibal answered.

“I was referring to the men, not the beasts.”

Hannibal starred at his brother for a long moment before he answered. Already, he had begun this journey from Spain in the spring with fifty-five thousand men, and due to barbarian attacks and disease, he had lost eight thousand. Even so, he knew there would be many more to come. The bitter, relentless cold, the brutal environment, and those Gallic tribes that call the Alps their home would make sure that tens of thousands of Hannibal’s men would not live through the crossing.

“It does not matter, brother. Those that die are weak. I want only the strongest men for this campaign,” Hannibal answered sharply.

“And if I am among the dead, brother?” Mago asked seriously.

Hannibal leered at Mago for a moment. He knew that Mago knew best not to try to draw sympathy from Hannibal. He loved his brother as much as he should, but he loved his dream of a conquered Rome with more passion than any thousand siblings.

“Do not test me, brother. We will need the strongest to challenge Rome’s legions — not weak men who can’t survive cold. That pertains to my family as well, Mago. Now, signal for the march to begin. I will wait no longer — rain or snow,” Hannibal remarked as he kicked his horse, which galloped down the long formation of Carthaginian allied soldiers who had joined Hannibal’s endeavor.

“As you command, brother.”

* * *

Muscle and flesh collided with a loud thump as dust and sand was kicked up, mixing with the sweat that poured off of the two men who battled one another in a grueling match for dominance. Grunting, they fought for the best position to gain the advantage over the other. These two had fought like mountain goats as their sizeable arms and equally great bodies locked tightly before each man broke, staring intensely at each other as they breathed heavily. And then with a powerful yell, the two collided once again with so much force that it that they found it difficult to maintain their footing in the white sand.

Neither man showed the slightest hint of weakness. Back and forth, they fought — breaking and colliding and countering the other’s moves and locks, until finally, one gave in to the other’s overwhelming strength.

One competitor was a giant of a man. He had short black hair that was cut close to his skull. His muscles, nearly as large as melons, were covered in sweat, which rolled in between the rippling folds of his arms, back and shoulders. His legs seemed as if they had been forged in fire, crafted from the finest iron, impossible to break.

The second man was shorter by a good eight inches. With short close-cropped blonde hair, this man’s body was no less defined then the larger of the two. The height, however, was something the shorter man was having difficulties overcoming. He continually struggled to position his body in the stance that would allow him to overpower the larger man.

His youthful face was covered in sweat and showed the agony he was in as he began to lose any advantage he might have had when the two first locked together.

With an angry grunt of frustration, his grip slipped, just slightly. That, unfortunately, was all the large man needed as he grabbed hold of his opponent’s wrist; twisting it until he broke the smaller man’s hold entirely.

In one painful pull, the taller man lifted his opponent up and over his head before slamming him squarely onto his back.

Sand kicked up into the musty air as the defeated man lay still on his back, eyes closed his entire body racked with pain. This had been the fourth time this afternoon he was put down so hard.

Opening his eyes, the sun glaring down, the defeated man lifted himself back to his feet as the victorious opponent laughed at his sorry and tired state. He wasn’t alone as half a dozen men too joined the jubilation.

“Gods be damned!" Yelled the defeated man as he wiped sand off of his bare-chested body.

“You don’t give yourself enough time to find the right moment to strike. You act too fast, Maurus,” Gaius stated with a grin as he tried not to join his comrades in their amusement of his friend’s continuous defeat.

“It isn’t fair; Agrippa is the size of a horse,” Maurus complained, which was nearly true.

“Since when does size matter?” Gaius replied.

“Oh, this coming from someone who is six-foot two. I, on the other hand, am only good for chasing rats under the kitchen table,” Maurus joked at his own expense as he again took to the center of the sand-cover arena, squaring off against Agrippa once more.

“You are pretty good at chasing rats, Maurus,” Agrippa said with a humorous grin.

Once again, the two young soldiers faced one another.

Gaius stood off to the side — his arms crossed as he watched the two with careful eyes.

This day, like most, Gaius was overseeing the practice of his century. Two dozen other legionnaires, most of whom the same age as he, pitted against one another as they wrestled inside the large rectangular pit.

Each man fought in the nude, as they trained for three hours without rest. Already, as the day was just beginning, they still had another hour to go before they moved to another exercise.

Gaius did not join them this day as, he, a senior officer and already most skilled among the group, watched and passed along his advice in order to help improve the soldiers' skills, many of them new, having joined the Sixth Legion less than a year ago.

Most of his attention was, however, kept on Maurus and Agrippa.

Gaius raised his fist into the air and held it there for a few moments, before he quickly dropped it towards the mat.

Once he had given the indication for Maurus and Agrippa to begin, he stood back and careful studied Maurus, who rushed in and tried to overpower the larger man.

With a thunderous clap of naked flesh, the two Romans collided. Each man’s hand and arms violently fought as they reached for the best position to gain the early advantage. The sweat coming off their skin made their grip that much more difficult.

Maurus was considerable faster, and a damn good fighter. He normally took the first step in the battle, outpacing the slower and more cumbersome Agrippa. The problem was Maurus tried too hard. Instead of using his strengths and natural gifts to bring the larger man down, he fought tooth and nail to muscle Agrippa onto his back.

While Maurus could defeat most men easily, he could not understand the concept of fighting a larger opponent. In his mind, he had already lost before the bout had begun.

For over three minutes, the two fought. As before, Maurus would make the wrong move as he continued to attempt to overpower Agrippa.

Taking advantage of his size and strength, Agrippa allowed Maurus to make a fatal mistake, and then counter the error, always resulting in him flipping the young Roman onto his back, ending the bout.

With another loud thump , Maurus was thrown down, losing yet again where he was breathing heavily and refusing to get up.

“Are you dead?” Gaius asked as he stood over his downed friend.

“Yes, now leave me be and let the vultures have my flesh and bones,” Maurus replied as he stared up at the slow-moving clouds.

“Good. Now get up and start again.” Gaius grabbed Maurus’ wrist, lifting him back to his feet.