David Sakmyster: The Cydonia Objective

But one horseman raises a hand and the entire force comes to a stop. Garbed in a purple cloak, with a crown of gold on his head, he leads his horse ahead, directly into the path of the approaching Theban legionary.

The commander of the Theban Legion removes his helmet, revealing a dark-skinned face, a bald head, and shining eyes. He holds a spear in his left hand, sets its base into the cold earth, and then lowers his head and bows.

“My Lord Maximian. You grace us with this unexpected visit. We have just come from Gaul, and have put down the revolt with all speed and success. And minimal loss of life. All glory to Rome.”

Maximian nods indifferently. Glances around at the men, at the state of their armor, their bandaged wounds. “I hear stories, Maurice. Stories, stories. Always stories, all the way across the empire they come, flying like diseased crows, bearing ill news.”

Maurice lowers his eyes. “What news, my lord?”

“Don’t play games, commander. You know why I’ve come. Why I’ve had to personally make this trip…” He waves his arm around the mountainous land. “…to deal with a wayward commander and a legion that refuses orders.”

The centurions at the emperor’s back jitter nervously, hands tightening on their weapons. Tense, eyes scanning the legionnaires with a mix of fear and respect.

The legionnaires make no move, but only return the stares.

“My Lord,” says Maurice. “There is but one order I have had my men refuse.”

“And why is that, might I ask?” Maximian fixes him with a dull stare, then punctuates it with a yawn. “Wait, don’t tell me. You and most of your men have already shifted your beliefs to that of this new cult. This ‘Christianity’. And so, when I tell you to visit violence on any who refuse my divine right of rule, to these… cultists who bend a knee only to their martyred savior, you refuse. You side with them over your emperor. You call yourself loyal, yet you feel it is your right to disobey.”

“My Lord, never. We have always succeeded in our missions. We have found… other ways of enforcing your rule. Without resorting to violence upon your otherwise loyal subjects.”

Maximian rears his horse, and it stomps its forelegs down around Maurice. “Loyal!? Tell me how they are loyal when they bow to another? Tell me too, commander, how are you loyal when you likewise refuse? If I tell you now, march back into Gaul and slaughter every one of these defiant Christians, what will your answer be?”

“My Lord, please. We are your strongest legion, your most able fighters. Feared among your enemies. Even…” He looks beyond the Emperor, at the trembling centurions. “Even among your own private armies.”

Maximian waves his hand as if shooing off a cloud of bugs. “Yes, yes. And that is the only reason I haven’t slaughtered you on the spot. But I must ask, what good is a commander, an entire legion, no matter their battle prowess, if they cannot follow orders?”

“Lord Maximian, please.” Maurice takes his hand off the lance—and for just a moment the spear point catches in a sudden shaft of brilliance as a break forms in the dense clouds and the sun bursts through. An incredibly smooth silver surface, ringed in gold, with a thin sliver of wood set in an indentation in the center of the spear-point.

Maximian shields his eyes. And Maurice stares directly into the fierce glow—and lets his hand drop away. He lowers his head. “If that is what you ask, then I refuse.” He faces his men. “I cannot order you, my soldiers to do the same. I will bear responsibility alone for disobedience.” He turns back to Maximian. “And I alone will suffer the consequences.”

Maximian, still squinting against the glare, has nothing to say. He seems to be agonizing over the intensity of the light.

But then Maurice steps back, out of arm’s reach of the spear, and drops to his knees.

And the sun disappears, hungrily devoured once more by the churning dark clouds. The light goes out, and the spear point shimmers another moment with a residual brightness, then dulls.

Maximian blinks, then leans forward on his horse, composing himself. He raises his voice, and addresses the standing legion. “If your commander refuses my order, who will follow it?”

No one speaks. The snow continues to fall, collecting on their bare heads, on their bloodied, scarred shoulders.

“The penalty for disobedience is death.” Maximian moves his horse around Maurice, riding in front of the first line of legionnaires. Studying each one’s face. He rides down the line, then back. “And the sentence will be carried out here. On this rock, today! Who will step forward and command the legion? Who will march back into Gaul and do as I ask?”

Maurice lifts his eyes to the spear, and it’s as if he still stares into the brilliance of the sun. Tears collect, roll down his cheeks.

And as one unit, the legionnaires set down their weapons.

Drop to their knees.

Lower their heads and clasp their hands together in prayer.

Maximian stops pacing. Stares at them, at the entire force. Rides back to Maurice. “We have determined their loyalty.” He glowers at the commander, fury rising in his blood. “Very well.” He raises a fist, rushes back and grasps the spear, yanking it from the earth and setting it across his lap. He rides into the midst of his centurions. And yells:

“Kill them all!”

He continues riding against the onrushing force, galloping away as fast as his steed can carry him over the rocky terrain. Far into the hills and rocky trails, far enough to escape the sounds of slaughter.

Until he hears the sound of returning hoof beats, Emperor Maximian stares at his prize, the lance and the spear point that seem to pull at his thoughts, influence his emotions and stir up even greater dreams of power, dominance and subjugation.

Caleb interrupts thevision. Tries to peer back further. Willing his mind to track the spear. Where was it before Maurice…?

A series ofglimpses, fast and appearing intercut with the darkness, lightning-quick:

A figure on a hilltop before a series of thatch shacks, brandishing a scintillating spear point atop a different-looking staff, thicker, whiter, made of Birch wood. He yells out a command in Spanish, and descends upon a force of invading Roman warriors.

Irish moors, low fog over an ice-packed shore. And an assembly of warriors in fur cloaks and wooden shields. Men of huge stature, led by a hulking brute of scarred man with a misshapen head, and but one eye… Facing him and this immense force is a loose confederation of young men and even women, barely armored, woefully under matched—yet surging with confidence, following a blond youth with a spear held high—its point seething with reflected brilliance, bathing the leader with a fiery aura and causing ripples of panic in the mass of giants ahead.

Further back:

Something brilliant streaks from the night sky, dashing against the barren cliff side, startling the inhabitants of mud and clay huts, who rush into the desert. One man races to the glowing impact site, tools in his hands, shouting to his brothers. They gather around the crater, looking down to the glowing, spherical rock, tinged with cracks of emerald, pulsing and giving off intense heat.

The man’s eyes widen. They all drop to their knees and bow their heads.

“When it cools,” he says. “Bring it up to my workshop. God has spoken to me in my dreams. Told me this was coming. Given me instructions. Shown me what I must create.”