Homecoming
“The entire legion is falling back behind the Wall. That’s it, this war is over, at least for us.”
The Centurion smiled at his men. The grim realities of the conquest of Caledonia, or as the men themselves called it, the Hopeless War, has come to its fruition. Ambition abroad was finally checked by prudence at home. By daybreak the first column of men would begin the journey home, it was a day decades in the coming. Many of the men were born in the very legion camps. Some had never even heard of a world south of the Wall. But the men whom the Centurion commanded were not such men. They had enlisted willingly, had abandoned the comfortable lives of the interior and headed to the frontier. They had wives, children, and parents behind the Wall whom they protected. They had farmlands, taverns, and a myriad of other professions that many in the legion did not understand. They were true citizens, and the Centurion was neither better nor worse than them in civilian life.
When the sun had set for the last time over the ramparts of the Wall, the camp erupted in gossip. Who was going first, who would be left to cover the retreat. But gradually the talk turned southward, towards home. Whose children have grown up? Whose parents have passed on? Whose wives had been faithful, and whose have not been? More importantly, what will each man do with the land promised to him and to what ordinary trades will they return to?
A baker, in southern Deva, and you can all come for bread. The dole-eyed Marcus smiled over the fire. A boy when he first enlisted, now a battle-hardened veteran with more scars than fingers. The others laughed with him. He seemed more at ease with a sword in hand than kneading dough. But they’ll visit, they said, and they’ll each bring him a copper coin for payment of all the money he lost to them in dice games.
Farmer, always a farmer. My son’ll be six years old now. Haven’t even seen the runt yet. I’ll teach him to grow wheat, to grow barley, and plough the fields like a man. Publius said from behind his beard. His one good eye was almost opaque from the constant wind. You can hardly see, they said, how will you know he’s even your son? He punched two men square in the face
and said. Still could see you couldn’t I?
Long road for me. All the way home to Bibracte. Saved up enough money to buy my parents a nice country house now in addition to my land grant. No more living like barbarians in a hut. They’ll live like proper Romans. Aventinus stoked the fire and a piece of ember snapped in the air, landing on his snow-white skin. The rest nodded in respect. Now there was a good lad,
some said. Others patted him on the back.
The talk of home stretched into the night until Hesperus dangled above the eastern ramparts and Dawn had painted the sky a rosy hue. The Centurion listened to all of his men talk and he smiled at the thought of his home. A bride waited for him, and from that union would come several children who would bear his name and serve the country just as he has. No point sleeping now, they all muttered in agreement, new day’s dawned and we’re going home. Home, thought the Centurion as he looked at his men. Brothers all. Eighty strong when they first joined, now whittled down to thirty-five. He would miss them all. But more so missed were the ones who did not celebrate this final night on the frontier. The muster trumpet never sounded so sweet, so alluring. Like a Siren it called them to the square and they gathered like boys on the eve of the Lupercalia, eagerly awaiting their fellow celebrants. Each centurion stepped forward and numbered the men under his command. He listened with a heavy heart as the numbers were read out. Twelve men in the first century, twenty in the second, and so on and so forth. By the end of muster, he found himself with the most men under his command.
Centurion. The legate touched his shoulder. He felt a chill in his heart. The legate always touched someone’s shoulder when giving bad news. Are you ready to go home?
“Yes sir.”
The legate nodded and said nothing. The Centurion knew what he was about to ask and he could not refuse. He turned his apologetic eyes to his men and saw nothing but obedience. Good boys, he fought back the tears. All of them heroes. We’ll go home yet.
We’re with you sir. They said. He nodded, wishing that they had cursed him instead.
Cover the legion’s back, wait for the trumpet’s call to retreat. We’ll call for you when it’s all over.
He nodded with his men. They returned to their tents. Some sharpened swords, others prayed to their gods, still others ambled about, their talks turning back to home. Each one’s story was the same, yet each one’s story was different. The sun climbed higher in the sky. The Centurion wondered how many would see it rise the next day.
The trumpet wailed. The call for defense. They knew the music and they knew their steps. Like dancers who practiced their entire lives, the thirty-five and the Centurion stepped out of their tents and watched their companions walk the opposite way. The retreating men were smiling and laughing, but some watched those who stayed behind and nodded gravely. Some uttered words of thanks.
Nothing to it, brother, they said. We’ll see you behind the Wall and we’ll all go home.
They stood outside of the walls of the camp and saw the unwashed horde gathering towards them. A little over two hundred, no more. They laughed at the number. They had faced far worse and survived to speak of it. This will be easy, they reassured the Centurion. We’ll go home yet.
The first of the barbarians approached. A monster of a man, standing at least a head taller than the rest. He held a head whose blood still steamed in the cold. His words were lost amidst the jeers and cries, but the soldiers knew the contents of his speech. They had heard the same threat again and again over the years.
“Pila ready!” Thirty-five spears will crash against the unwashed masses, then thirty-five more. But it would not halt the hundreds. The fire in their eyes did not dim but grew brighter and the prospect of triumphing over the enemy.
“Draw swords!” Pressed against the wall, nowhere else to go now. Where was the retreating trumpet? Could it have been drowned out by the sound of the battle? His men still fought on, a mountain of corpses soon piled before them. But they soon grew wearied and tired. Their movements became languid and their reaction dulled by fatigue. Then Aventinus was cut down, and with him his hopes of a country home for his parents. Then fell Publius and his son would never know his father. Marcus plunged headfirst, biting bloody clods of dirt, his bakery would remain empty. And so fell many others until only sixteen remained by the Centurion.
Have we missed it? They cried as swords clanged against shields. Have they called for us? They shouted amongst shrieks. The Centurion couldn’t answer.
I hear it! I hear it! said Pisenius, who bore his family’s fortunes solely on his broad shoulders. But there was dissent even then. Some said no while others nodded yes. Tears welled up in the Centurion’s eyes. Had they all agreed, they could leave now. But fortune would not favor these bold men, the Fates would not lead them to salvation. The barbarians retreated and the soldiers stood arguing.
Centurion! I heard it! By the gods of Olympus, by the black Acheron itself, I heard it! Rufus shook his shoulder, face wet with tears and blood. Please, I heard it. We have to go now. Think of your bride! If not her then think of our families and us. Think of our mothers who stay up endless nights weeping, our fathers whose hair grows white from worry! I heard it!
“Manius.” The Centurion called to his second-in-command. “Did you hear it? Your word will be as good as mine.”
The man paused and thought. All eyes were upon him and he knew he held the lives of the sixteen remaining men in his hands.
You heard it too, Manius! Rufus cried. I know you heard it.
You heard it, thought the Centurion, silently urging the man. In the distance he saw the enemy amassing. They swarmed over the land like ants disturbed from their hill.
No. I didn’t hear anything.
You fool! You might as well have killed us all! Tears ran down Rufus’ face. No man disagreed with him. But the order had been given, and they were still soldiers before anything else. They would continue to fight, even unto death.
Maybe we should say our last words. They said. Maybe we should save the bodies of our brothers. A murmur of agreement rose. The enemy swarmed ever closer.
They worked quickly despite their tiredness. Hands rough from combat gingerly tended to the fallen bodies and placed them in the ditch around camp. They placed coins in the corpses’ mouths and threw dirt over the bodies.
Hail and farewell brothers. They said. We’ll meet again on the fields of Elysium. When no more coins were left, the Centurion ripped the medals from his chest and placed them in the hands of the fallen.
“The gods will understand,” he said to his men. Their tired hands pushed earth upon the bodies and the enemy swarmed closer still. He took his final medal and broke it into pieces. “Keep this in your mouths. The ferryman will accept this toll.”
Centurion. They said. But he would not hear their arguments and forced each to place the piece in their mouths. He ripped the plumes from his helmet so that he looked no different from them. He saw their tears and reprimanded them.
“Dry your tears. The battle is not yet won. Fight with me, men, fight on to death.”
And so they fought and so they fell. He was the last among them standing, his back pressed against the wall of the camp as the barbarians swarmed to and fro. He still have not heard the retreat call from the trumpet. When he fell, it was not from wounds but from fatigue. But he was spared by the barbarians, who previously seemed to know not such mercy. He awoke to the stench of death, to the bloated bodies and the carrion birds that have grown fat from feeding. The camp was destroyed and the barbarians have left. He found his soldiers and each one of them was left where they died, their dignity still intact. And so he labored, digging one grave after another. When his sword grew dull from digging, he dug with his hands until blood seeped from under his nails. He buried them with honors, placing their broken swords upon the bodies. He knew not if the ferryman would truly accept these as payment, but he would not cease his work. Many times he fainted from exhaustion, and many time he woke thinking he had heard the trumpet call.
When his deed was done, he turned back south, to home. A day and a half of travel on foot and he found himself at the foot of the Wall. The lone sentry asked him for the password but he did not know it. How could he? And so he was spurned from home and left to wander the merciless Caledonian land. He traced his steps along the wall, feeling each familiar groove, remembering that this was built by his men and defended by his men. With each step he wept until he could weep no more. His beard grew and by the time he found a gap in the wall, he looked every bit a barbarian.
He had no money for a shave or new clothes. He had no medals to prove his rank, and even the plumes of his helmet had flitted away in the winds. He forgot his name, forgot his home, but remembered his rank and remembered his men. Others asked him where to go and he could only recall one place: Londinium, where he enlisted, where his men enlisted. He would fight for their payment for service. Aventinus’ parents will live in a country home, Publius’ son will have farmlands to plough, and Marcus’ bakery would have a field to harvest wheat from to make into bread.
It took him years to reach Londinium, and when he arrived he could hardly speak a word of civilized tongue.
We can’t help you. They said. That legion was disbanded years ago. Go to Rome and petition the Emperor directly. We can’t help you.
He would not give up. He could not give up. How else would those men be remembered? How else would their family be recompensed? He wandered the interior of the empire for years, riding on illegal caravans and traveling with bandits until he found himself at the city of Rome. But he found himself between one bureaucratic nightmare after another. He needed to show official documentation of him being centurion. A medal would do. They said. He needed the enlistment papers for the men he was trying to redeem. That legion was disbanded for desertion. The bureaucrats said matter-of-factly. No member of that legion would receive recompensation unless due proof was shown that they were part of the century that stayed behind and fought on as the rest ran. He wanted to cry. Those were my men! He shouted at them. But they dismissed him as a lunatic and set their slaves upon him with clubs. My men. They laughed. He doesn’t even remember his own name. Get out of here and don’t come back again!
He stood on the bridge looking over the Tiber and remembered the story of Horatius. How a man defended a retreating army and was honored as a hero of Rome. His men did the same did they not? Why were they considered traitors, deserters? What had earned them this black fate? He asked the raging river below him and received no answer. Days passed and he remained rooted at the spot, asking the same question over and over again. Passer-bys glanced at him with unease but he did not notice.
A new question emerged in his mind. Had he heard the retreat call? So many of his men had heard it, hadn’t they? What if he had simply missed it? What if Manius had missed it? Did he doom his men because of a single mistake?
His eyesight grew worse by the day from the weeping and he was nearly blind. But still he remained at the spot, torturing himself with questions.
Is something the matter? A voice asked him one day. Unsure if it was real or not, he poured out his story, of his men who died in the line of duty, of the unjust bureaucrats who refused to believe him, and of his own questions. A pair of hands picked him up and the voice assured him that his men’s family would be recompensed. He merely needed to list their names. He did and the voice listened.
Do you know who I am?
He did not answer.
I am Caesar, Emperor of the Roman people. Your tales have not gone unheard, Centurion-- The voice waited for a name, but the Centurion could not summon one.
“I’m just a Centurion, nothing more.”
So be it. And the voice left.
Days passed and he was led by rough hands before the voice that had reached out to him. They were going to Brittania, the voice said. They were going to find his men and recognize them as heroes of Rome as they deserved to be known.
He would’ve cried with joy if he had tears left.
He led them through the land that he had spent so long fighting over, over each hill and every defile. His blindness was of no consequence. He remembered the land and the land remembered him. He could hear the whispers of his soldier like guides telling him where to go.
“Right here.” He pointed at the ground. The dark mass around him was almost indistinguishable, but he could still recognize the distant mountain peaks. He knew he was exactly where he had stood all those years ago.
It’s been fifteen years, Centurion. Are you certain? The Emperor asked.
He nodded.
So be it.
And then he heard it. The sound of the retreat call. The sonorous note soared above the peaks, over the valleys, and through the trees that had grown upon the former battlefield. Its sweet melody filled the air and he trembled at the beauty of the note.
Centurion. They called. His soldiers had come back to him. He was himself again fifteen years ago, standing with his men, each one ready to go home. They smiled at him and held out their hands, beckoning him to join them. He smiled back.
“We’re going home, men. We’re going home.”
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love your noggin
The Critic's Quill: Issue 25
Decanus
Rogue Bodemloze
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I was honoured by the very gracious words of Juvenal about my article and am happy to see it received well here.
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Ordinarius
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...is my daddy!
Originally Posted by Rapax
