The marble gleamed white in the moonlight as the messenger ran up the steps of Caecilius Sextus’ Palatine Villa. The powerful Patrician, one of the most respected senators in Rome. And now, in this late hour of the night, the messenger’s tired, worn sandals beat out a tattoo of urgency on the hard, polished floor.
Caecilius was pacing his narrow chamber, sweating in anticipation when the man was ordered in. He strode over to him and took the scroll without a word. He sat on the hard bed and read quickly. The servant could feel the tension as his master’s eyes scanned the papyrus. Caecilius looked up, slowly letting the letter fall, then drop to the floor without a sound. His eyes were glazed and full of tears. He barely managed to give a horse croak from his now sore throat…
“How did it all go wrong…?”
Caecilius Gallus stabbed the attacking man of Pontus, and his lungs punctured, throwing forth a pink, frothy fluid that shadowed the man’s dying screams in a rush of gurgling. Gallus wheeled his body over, hitting an infantryman with the edge of his hexagonal Praetorian’s shield. The man’s helmet split, but he was not killed. Gallus urged the horse’s body round, closely avoiding a swipe of the man’s spear. The clumsy fool did not even have time to realise his mistake before Gallus’ sword put him to rest.
“CAECILIUS!” … Caecilius turned, effortlessly making his horse obey him as he turned to hear his friend. But the companion hesitated in attacking an Eastern foe, and the man took his chance, slashing at the Samnite horse with his scimitar. The horse fell and a gruesome crunch of bones showed that the man was clearly lost to this world.
The enemy was decapitated before he could even pull his sword back to try and attack Gallus, but he now saw that the formation was riding out to attack another set of infantry. Caecilius Gallus looked around him. To the east, the enemy chariots were slicing the Roman infantry’ discipline to pieces with their scythes as the Pikemen, those cursed Eastern descendants of Alexanderos, kept the Legionnaires at arm’s - or should that be sarissa’s - length. The battle was hopelessly lost, but as true Romans they all fought to the last, never thinking of giving up.
Gallus felt exposed, and he rode to the formation. His commander’s white crest flashed in the sun before him, and he lowered his spear as the enemy hid behind the carcasses of crashed chariots. The scum threw spears, hiding behind the steel-tipped wall as the last Praetorian cavalry left made a last charge.
Gallus roared, jumping from his horse to slide his sharp dagger through the weak throat of an enemy. The man lay dead as Gallus knelt, truly exhausted. He cried as the sun set, a sun that could be seen on Rome … “Forgive me, father, for I have failed you!” He sobbed…
Bards do your thing. - Tale of The Week 37
