A gift from the Gods.
"It will be a good day to depart," exclaimed Amalric.
Adelmar did not respond, looking outside of the cage. The sun would be rising soon from behind the eastern hills. He saw the light rain fall delicately over the meadow, as a gentle breeze from the mountains refreshed the prisoners, bringing them the scent of the wet dirt and flowers of the field. The scene made him long his home in the North.
"A good day indeed," he replied, finally.
The peaceful moment became interrupted by the sound of a horn. Soon, a detachment of soldiers approached to the cells. A deformed smile grew in their leader’s scared face and the men around him began to laugh as well, making sickening grins. Two of them opened the doors and dragged the chained men outside. Disgusted, Amalric and the rest stood up and carried their chains, pressed by their guardians to stride out of the fort.
The barbaric invaders had formed their lines of red shields on the grassland. Their leader was mounted on a dark horse, plated from head to toe, the coward, and wearing a red mane on his helm. Bastard had burnt down villages and murdered thousands, men, women and children alike.
They had to give him credit for his originality, though. After all, who wants to see yet an other boring crucifixion? "You ambushed us throwing spears and arrows to us, now we shall do the same to you," was what said the translator after their capture.
"Quite a spectacle for his brutes,” exclaimed Amalric, "he has summoned them all."
The line of prisoners moved in front of the first rank of the army, before the javelinmen. Upon reaching the correct position, they were ordered to stop and turn to face the army. The sun now rose over the mountains, shining from behind the fog and clouds on the sky. The rain drops fell on their faces, providing the condemned with the tears their eyes could not produce in that sour moment. Their precious land, their cold forests and whispering grooves; their green plains and rainy days, conquered by the steel of graceless bigots from the South. Adelmar imagined his grandchildren, speaking the weak tongue of the conquerors and worshiping foreign gods in temples made by men.
The foreign commander on the horse stared at his eyes. He looked amused. The prisoner turned to him, challenging. Raising his hand, the rider turned to one of his subordinates and, nodding, the man began to yell orders.
The condemned faced the enemy. The brutes chuckled and betted on who would get the best hit.
The sun got higher, but stayed hidden in the clouds, as if it did not want to see.
An officer rose his sword, and his men got ready to shoot their javelins. Rain continued to fall, more heavily.
Adelmar looked to the Sun, as it cried rain drops over them.
"Fire!" was the last sound they heard, and then went to sleep...
Later that day, when the Romans were gone to their camp, leaving the dead on the field, a celestial line of colors was drawn across the sky, falling gently over the fallen heroes.
A gift from their gods.
The Gaul
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