R. Cooke - Rome - Sword of the Legion

“We can’t remain here!” Lucius shouted to the dozen men still standing with him.

They all knew full well that nothing could survive in front of well-packed ranks of pikemen, but the instinct was to stay in the circle. Lucius had to break them out. He had to get them into the rear of the enemy again, where the pikes could not be turned so readily.

“Follow me, now!”

Lucius threw his shield back-handed at the rank of Alexandrians in front of him, sending the disc into the faces of two pikemen and forcing them to recoil. In that instant he separated their sarissas and drove between them, narrowly dodging another pike thrust at him from one of the rear ranks. The legionaries followed him, and soon they were killing again, slaying the enemy who were reluctant to drop their pikes, but who could not hang onto the fourteen-foot-long weapons and avoid getting stabbed by the slicing gladii. Lucius maimed and killed until his arm was red from hilt to shoulder. He counted only five of his men on their feet, including the signifer, jabbing and killing beside him. The wolf's head atop the signifer's helmet had been mangled so badly from the repeated jabs of the pikes that it no longer resembled a creature of this earth. One jab had left a long gash above the signifer's eyebrows. It had bled heavily, leaving a solid mask of red on his face broken only by his white eyes and gritted teeth. Lucius knew that he himself had been wounded several times. He could feel blood trickling down his leg, but the battle delirium was upon him, and he did not stop to think. He just kept killing.

He saw a bright white tunic in the crowd, several of them, and had the momentary sanity to consider that these were the same men he had encountered on Pharos. He stabbed one of these through the throat, and the white tunic turned crimson in a waterfall of blood. Eventually, the white tunics disappeared in the maelstrom of human suffering and slaughter. He quickly forgot about them and continued to kill. He killed and killed, knowing full well that it was only a matter of time before he and his men were overpowered by the sheer weight of the enemy numbers.

But, at that moment, when the sword was growing heavier in his hand, and his arms felt as though he could not raise them again, the press of Alexandrians suddenly stopped. An authoritative voice shouted from the enemy rear, and the pikes receded, backing out of reach but still enclosing the handful of Romans, whom did not resemble anything human at all, covered from head to foot in blood with Alexandrian corpses piled two and three deep around them. Lucius saw dozens of enemy faces glaring at him over the dripping spear points. They muttered curses at him, but did not advance. They held back.

“What are you waiting for, you sons of whores?” Lucius spat at them. “Come and finish the job!”

“All in good time, Centurion,” a voice said from the enemy ranks. It took Lucius several moments to pick out which of the faces staring back at him the voice belonged to. But he finally found the face in the crowd – the face that was wearing the same small, thin smile outlined by the same well-groomed beard he had seen before.

It was the dark-eyed Alexandrian officer, the same officer he had encountered on Pharos, once again resplendent in bronze breastplate and ornate headdress. He stood out from the others, and Lucius could only conclude that he was royalty of some kind. But the smug, curled-lipped smile half-prompted Lucius to hurl his sword at the bastard.

“You are beaten, Centurion,” the officer said evenly. It was an elegant voice with an articulation that could only have come from years of formal education. “Order your men to drop their swords.”

“Stand fast!” Lucius said to the five out of breath legionaries. “We will die with swords in our hands, and take a few more of these whore-spawn to Hades with us!”

“There is no reason for that, Centurion,” the officer said. “You will not be harmed in any way. You have my word.”

Beside Lucius, the tired signifer glanced at him with uncertainty, as did the others. They knew their stand could only last for so long. Eventually, they would be overcome. By surrendering they at least had a chance.

“Stand fast!” Lucius demanded as the five legionaries looked at one another, and then looked at him, and then let the swords fall from their hands.

“Sorry, Centurion,” the signifer said with a pained expression. “But he is right. We are beaten. Jupiter have mercy on us.”

“Stand fast, damn you!”

But the soldiers were already filing through an opening in the sarissas. Once through the front ranks, Lucius lost sight of them, and the spear points closed in once again. Lucius now stood alone, one man against hundreds. He could no longer see the dark-eyed officer, and he assumed the end would soon come. He saved his strength for the final onrush, finding solace only in the certainty that he would at least kill a few before his body was run through.

Then he heard voices raised on the other side of the enemy ranks, but he could not make out what was happening. A man screamed, and then another. He saw swords slice high in the air, and then all was silent once again. He did not know what had caused the commotion, but his suspicions were confirmed an instant later, when five bloody heads were lobbed over the ranks to land at his feet. The signifer’s blood-caked face looked back at him with a gnarled expression, frozen there from the moment the Alexandrian blade had cleaved his neck in two. The dead man's eyes seemed to carry a look of guilt and shame.

“You whelp of a whore!” Lucius said to the Alexandrian officer who was peering at him over the ranks.

“It is on your head, Centurion!” the officer said curtly. “I gave you a chance to drop your sword. You alone have chosen this path of foolishness! But it does not have to be so with you. Now, drop your sword.”

Lucius laughed. “You think me mad? I will not. Finish your work, but know that I will send some of these curs to the afterlife before it is done!”

The officer appeared extremely annoyed by the remark. “I said drop your sword!”

“Why should he yield his sword, Demetrius? Let him keep it.” This was said by another, someone Lucius could not see. The high-pitched, nasally voice had come from the other side of the ranks.

“Remove them that I may see this Roman,” the voice commanded. It had a tone of condescension to it.

The officer – evidently his name was Demetrius – nodded resentfully, and then gave an order. The line of pikes opened before Lucius to reveal an unarmed man, slightly built and bald-headed. The unimpressive figure exuded anything but the deportment of a warrior. He looked more like an administrator, but the Alexandrian troops lowered their heads as he passed by. His immaculate white tunic, trimmed with glimmering gold and jewels, bulged slightly at the belly. Like the officer, his eyes were painted in the Egyptian style, but they did not change shape in the slightest measure when he smiled at Lucius. They seemed never to blink.

As the man approached, he was flanked by the officer and another Alexandrian both with swords drawn, clearly to protect the unarmed administrator should the crazed Roman suddenly attack. Stopping several paces away, the administrator smiled cordially at Lucius, waving a hand in the air. After an awkward silence, the administrator finally shot an irritated glance at the officer.

“Ahem. Presenting His Excellency, Ganymedes, Chancellor of Egypt, Royal Council to the Queen Arsinoe, the one and rightful ruler of the Two Lands,” the officer recited dryly.

Lucius said nothing but silently considered whether he had the strength to kill all three of them in a single leaping sweep of his blade.

After realizing that the Roman was not about to bow, the bald man said, “And who are you, Roman?”