........IN THE GRIM DARKNESS OF THE FAR FUTURE TEHRE IS ONLY WAR*......
My memory is slowly decaying, but I remember the passage Clarissimus,.....and to be honest, I have to say that I suspected the final outcome!...Probably it is this damn Avatar, the Emperor* (WH40k), I tought it was a gift, instead it is a cursed artifact! The fact is that now I can see the Future, but this is not always a good thing!
Or probably it is only my age and the number of books I read....anyway, I will be never disappointed by your work, because you are one of my preferred authors! So being 'Pius and Fidelis' to SBH, I'll be with your great novel until the end, and I can assuere that what Felix will do, will not change my feelings toward this magnificent work!
Actually no, I just extrapolated that from your various posts.
Originally Posted by SeniorBatavianHorse
I ask only that you trust me as a writer and know nothing that I write is not already prefigured in the text . . .
I've noticed many hints along the way, one of them in particular (regarding a foreshadowing moment back at Nasranum) is why I crafted that theory. The problem with my theory is that it makes the whole ever faithful bit a tad awkward.
All said, I'm sure your version will be better than mine and I trust you to end this as well as you've written it to this point.
Legacy and Fate Whisper Such Sweet Words That Betrayal Must Always Follow . . .
I stood alone and felt the soldiers fall apart from me as they moved to face Julian, his sword high, the eagle of the legion above him. My head was whirling with strange thoughts - elation at his appearance, foreboding at his acclamation from the men, and dark fear at what I knew he was going to do next - and all those golden symbols of honour seemed bitter to my eyes now. I stood alone as that drumming rose up and up and knew that part of that beat came from within my own heart also.
This was a dark adventus; a shadow of the arrival of an emperor. This was the return of a lost augustus; a man dead to the world and now returning only at the last and no matter what triumph lay in this act it would only end in blood and death. Those shouts I heard and the upright arms of the men seemed to me nothing but dust and vanity even as the smoke roiled about us all in a black and ragged curtain - or at least so I thought as I stood there apart from it all watching Julian bask in those shouts and eager cries.
He nodded then and lowered that spatha. What he said next confirmed all my fears. ‘Shall Rome hesitate behind a ruined wall now? Shall Her legionaries tremble at the onset of Her enemies again? Is that what we Romans do?’ Rough shouts rose up to deny that accusation. ‘What shall we do then, Romans? This is the Quinta, eight times faithful and eight times loyal - tell me, what will you do now that your emperor is here?’ Defiant words were flung at him even as he laughed back into them. ‘Shall we show these Persian barbarians what it means to be Roman soldiers? Are you not my milites nobilissimi? Tell me, what shall I do now as your emperor here in this sacred ruin?’ And the shouts of anger and vengeance fell about him like a balm to his ears. He smiled at them all then even as they pledged themselves to his will and I saw that old easy face of his emerge again; the face of a man once plucked from obscurity and raised to the highest plane and who found in that fortune a certain whimsical humour. He laughed with them as they shouted out for battle then and all the drums of the Persians and that awful beat rising within me could not erase his joy and exultation at their loyalty to him.
‘Shall we drive these Persians back into the Nefud, my commilliatones?’ he shouted out, grinning from ear to ear.
And all the men of the Fifth fell in behind him, bracing their shields for one last charge, gripping their spathas in sweat-streaked hands, crouching low, feet poised, the standards rising up around that golden eagle like a forest of spars. I saw Octavio marshal the survivors of the Second close to the figure of Julian - almost as his guard, moving in behind him in a wide caput porcinum, bristling with weapons. Barko moved down his own men grinning in that reptilian way of his that made him look unbearably old. Arbuto also was marshalling the men of his Maniple, pushing and shoving them into line with a rough eagerness typical of his Frankish blood. All around this emperor, the remaining legionaries of the Quinta assembled in order facing him, looking beyond to that ruined gateway and whatever fate remained on the other side of it. I looked on them all however and saw only distant faces that seemed to be those of strangers now.
I would be lying if I said I did not wish to join them; to walk up and take my place at his side, this dead man who was my friend and my emperor. It would be an untruth to say that I had no feelings in my heart as I watched those dusty and wounded men form up behind him, girding up their weapons, fixing their shields, plunging the blades of the swords into the red sand to wipe away the gore. I did - of course I did. In my heart I ached to join that growing band of legionaries - to stand beside my brothers at the shoulder of this last Augustus of Rome, as his friend and as the commander of the Quinta. I burned with a fever that almost broke my heart - but another duty beat within me and that duty was far, far, stronger . . .
It was why I stood forward then and spoke a single word. ‘No.’
I spoke that word into the heat and tumult of angry impassioned men; against their courage and their determination to stand and fall with an emperor back from the dead - this adventus which was also an excursus into Hades - an excursus paved with the bodies of the Persians and their Saraceni allies, all forming a grisly bridge down into that dark realm. He had goaded them into a hot rage and now even as he was about to turn and command that last final charge, I stood apart and denied it all.
‘No.’
I think Julian alone heard that word for it was he who hesitated then and turned to face me even as I stood apart. He turned and with him came the faces and bruised eyes of all those men determined to die. That word fell on him as he alone lay in my sight and it felt as if all the world had vanished. I saw a flicker of unease in his eyes then - a cloud of uncertainty - and I knew whatever happened next between us would seal the fate of the Quinta. Not the lives of the men below me nor their souls even but instead the soul of the legion itself - for these were just men passing a flicker of a life in the long litany of this ancient legion. They had come and they would go - down into that shade we all pass into - but the legion would live on as it had always done and as it would always do. I stood apart, a single word falling from my lips, Julian himself turning to face me, and in both our hands rested that single fragile flower of this most precious of all legions. A flower so tremulous that one act of betrayal could tear it asunder for all time.
I walked apart from them all and found myself mounting the vallum, pulling up onto its rubble and loose sand, the sun hot on my eyes, that drumming reaching deep into me and finding its echo in the dark crannies of my soul. Above us all, the black gauze of the smoke wavered and simmered as if alive. I looked down at Julian and all the men of the legion and I knew that what I said next would change everything.
‘This man is not your emperor.’ I shouted out, my words were cold and hard. ‘This man is not who you owe your allegiance to. There is only one Augustus and this legion is pledged to honour and obey him no matter what.’
And I saw Julian look at me and I heard him mouth his words as if he stood beside my very shoulders though he were distant from me: ‘Felix, do not do this . . .’ And such a wrench of pain filled his eyes that I almost obeyed him. Almost. ‘Felix . . .’
I looked out over the upturned faces and even now it pains me to remember that sight for even as I had uttered those words it was as if a spell had been broken. Men were blinking now and frowning in unease. Others were turning to gaze back on Julian, an unspoken question on their lips. Some, a rare few, shook their heads and I saw a grim look come into their eyes - a look one has when a man stumbles over his lover to find her in the arms of another. And there, in all that sea of men, I found the weather-beaten face of the little Umbrian, his dark tattoo above his eyes, and I looked upon him alone though my words were for all . . .
‘Who is the legion pledged to?’ I asked him, my voice like iron now. ‘Who?’
Octavio glanced suddenly towards where Julian stood in his bronzen armour and then faced me again. He frowned uncertainly and I saw such a war of emotion in that little walnut-brown face that I regretted my words - but regret was a luxury I could not afford now.
‘Who?’ I asked again.
‘ . . . Valens -' he began slowly, and the look he gave me was one that wished me dead.
A voice shouted out from the seas of faces: ‘A heretic!’
Another chimed in: ‘An impious man!’
‘A mocker of the gods!’
I saw Octavio take in a deep breath then, as if letting something go, something that he would never gain again, and then that loud voice of his filled the whole encampment. ‘Our emperor is Flavius Julius Valens Augustus, you jackals! We are sworn to uphold his rule! Are we to break that vow? Is that what you want?!’
‘Curse Valens, he is nothing but a Illyrian peasant -'
Octavio spun then and landed a blow on a young legionary near him, a tiro, knocking him to the ground. For a moment, I saw the Ducenarius rub the knuckles on his hand and then look about him at all the men watching him now. The pain in his face was plain to all but as with myself and with all the legionaries still standing a deeper bond was emerging now - and it was my words which had evoked it.
I stood higher up on the vallum, aware that the Persian drums were growing nearer now, that out of that dust and haze on the other side, dark shapes were beginning to emerge and that in moments, the blind flight of arrows would cover us all. Below me stood a mob of men, looking, questioning, their faces upturned, and now it was Julian who stood alone and apart from them. I pointed down to him and not one jot of mercy or acceptance lay in my voice.
‘It is your choice - him or your emperor. But remember this - if you choose that man, you betray the legion and all those shades who remain under her standards. You break that bond which is the life blood of the Quinta. All the shades of the past emperors will turn away from you in shame. All the ancient dead of the legion will curse you. This is the Quinta - what are we?’ I shouted out, feeling, sensing, the wall of the enemy building behind me amid the ruins of Akkad.
A voice threw back the old motto: ‘Ever faithful, ever pious . . .’ and I knew the voice of the ‘wolf’ though I could not see him. I saw a dozen and then a score of heads nod at those words.
‘And where do we go from here?’
There was no answer. How could there be? It was the one question which I knew would break this sacramental mood which Julian had spun about them. I let that question hang in the air daring anyone to refuse it, to mock it, and not one legionary did. Instead, slowly, and as if in a dream, they turned and began to mount the vallum. One by one, the men below ascended up that rough and broken parapet, moving up into the face of an imminent attack, the sound of drums increasing with every beat. They moved slowly in groups and ranks, clambering up, helping each other, propping up weapons and spare shields along that parapet, clumping about the vexilla standards, forming what was left of the Centuries and the Maniples so that the long thin line of the legion filled up that vallum. And as they did so, they passed by Julian without a word, not daring to look at him, leaving him alone, bereft, all gilded in his armour, as if he did not exist, until he stood like a statue in a world of dust and shadow, the smoke wreathing him like the incense of the dead. He gazed up at me then and I thought I saw him shrug lightly as if conceding a point but I could not be sure. As that last legionary drifted past him, Julian paused for a moment, looking out, and then dropped the shield slowly onto the ground. He reached up and began unclasping the buckles on the side of his bronze cuirass. Was there a shade of a smile on his face? Or was the shifting light mocking my eyes? I could not tell.
‘Here they come!’
The shout was urgent and took me away from him in an instant.
They emerged from a drift of smoke and dust, bulging through it, brushing it all aside, the drums urging them on, and the ground shaking at their approach, even as their great trunks rose up and bewailed the air like the shrieks of the damned lost on the shores of Lethe itself. The smoke shivered apart at their coming, these dark and monstrous behemoths, now bristling with spears and spiked discs on their flanks, their splayed feet splashing imperiously through the red sand, and to my eyes it seemed as if the Nefud itself fled from them. In a heartbeat, I counted almost a dozen of these brutish elephants pounding towards us, their turrets swaying on their backs, their riders urging them on with whips and hook-tipped poles. Behind them, deep in the smoke and the swirling dust, a thousand shadows grew up, thickening and forming as if conjured up by all the magi of the deserts. Around me, men fell back in awe, their faces blanching in shock at the sheer horror of what was coming towards them. A few began praying then while others gripped their spears and javelins in hands which whitened into bony grips. Not a few men about me, the old veterans of this legion, found themselves grinning but it was a rictus grin, I noted, all sick and pallid.
‘Sagittariae!’
The arrows fell on us from high up, hissing down in wave after wave, even as we ducked and fell under our shields and what little cover that parapet provided. The trajectory was sharp so that we had little chance to evade them. In an instant, the shields were covered in a pin-cushion of arrows while those less fortunate or too slow cried out sharply in pain or anger. I felt two arrows slam hard into my own shield, both cracking through the boards and one scrapping past my wrist. Next to me, a Biarchus swore savagely as a single arrow glanced from a nearby shield and raked his thigh in a shallow furrow. I glanced along the parapet and all I saw were men huddled and crouched down as best they could. Arrow shafts were sprouting up all about us like some obscene carpet of plants quivering with anticipation at our imminent demise. Cursing, I pulled back and raised myself up into that arrow-storm as best I could, the shield up high over me.
‘Magnus, I need that vallum now!’ I shouted out, not seeing him amid all the crouched bodies. ‘Silvanus, take the sagittarii and help them! We will hold this vallum as long as we can but by all the gods move fast!’
Men in their scores fell back then from the parapet, tumbling over each other to back away from the falling arrows, even as the Centenarii under Magnus and Silvanus began barking out orders. In moments, a long line of men were in the middle of the encampment, out of range of those Persian arrows, piling up sand and rubble, packing in what impedimenta remained, shaping what I knew would be our last stand; the final battle of the Quinta. I desperately hoped that they would have enough time to erect that barrier or we would fall back to nothing but a line in the desert. The drumming overwhelmed me then and I turned to see those great dark beasts rise up onto us - and even as I saw that wave of brutal flesh closing on us, something else caught my eye and it stopped every thought of what was coming in me.
There, in that empty place before the ruined gateway, I saw a lonely figure divest himself of the last of his bronze armour, dumping it all in the dust at his feet, turn slowly, a naked spatha in his hand, and walk towards the maw of that gateway. He had stripped himself and was nothing but a solitary man adrift now in the world. It was then, as he faded into the smoke and ruin of that broken place, that he looked suddenly up at me - and there he was again, that familiar man whom I loved and missed; that officer of ragged men whom Rome spurned and despised. He looked at me and smiled, shrugging, a sudden shaft of light glancing from his face - and then he was gone as if he never existed.
I don’t remember what happened next, of how I dashed away from the parapet, flinging aside my shield, leaping down into that empty space beside the abandoned armour, its bronze sheen dazzling my eyes, or even why the rain of arrows never found me, but then I was on that ground below the vallum, moving after him, an urgent shout tumbling out of me, that cry of his name ringing out, despite the fact that I could see nothing - that he was already gone, vanished as if he had never existed. I shouted out his name to nothing, to dust and ruin, to the arch of the fallen, and I may as well have been shouting out to those shades all rowed away under the stern gaze of Charon himself . . .
‘Aemilianus!’
I felt an iron grip on my arm and spun round to see that copper mask of Delos looking emptily at me. He grabbed me and halted me, such was the strength of that grip on me. He looked past me into the smoke and rubble of that gateway and then he smiled.
‘Let him go, Quintani. Let him go.’
‘No -'
I pulled free and stumbled about, seeing a curtain of arrows fall between me and that mass of debris, the smoke obscuring everything. I shook that numeri from me and ignored him, moving to follow my friend, to find him, to bring him back into us all - determined to save him from himself -
And then a sharp blow, like a block of wood, rammed into the back of my head, and darkness and pain flared up in me, and I fell forwards, even as I heard mocking words crowd about me -
‘Let him go, fool!’
And I fell into a blackness replete with drums and shrieks and the cries of the fallen . . .
Last edited by SeniorBatavianHorse; July 07, 2012 at 07:34 AM.
I trust you as a writer, as a man, as a friend but even as an elective Brother Space Marine of the Iron Hands, and, being the Iron Hands my Space Marines' Chapter, this is the Max that I can say you!
I trust you,
Brother and Ironfather SBH!
But let me say that my quote from the Inferno of Dante Alighieri was very, very, very appropriate!...
INFERNO (Canto III)
"Per me si va ne la città dolente,
per me si va ne l'etterno dolore,
per me si va tra la perduta gente.
..........
Lasciate ogni speranza voi ch'intrate."
"THROUGH ME THE WAY INTO THE SUFFERING CITY,
THROUGH ME THE WAY TO THE ETERNAL PAIN,
THROUGH ME THE WAY THAT RUNS AMONG THE LOST
............
ABANDON EVERY HOPE, WHO ENTER HERE. "
..........(If I tell you that I had understood all, It would be a lie, but I felt something terrible in the future......at some point my problem has been to understand 'who' among them......Anyway, probably...it is the Damnation of the Warp! ......The Space behind the Physical Space! It enlights my Old Imperial Brain through the Avatar, this Cursed Artifact, and it gives me a chance to view trought Space and Time! As I said it is a real damnation! ....and Jbbon knows well the feeling!! )
Now the Truth: I'm a defence strategist. I like all the difense strategists of history, I find always some epicness in a good difensive strategy: we are here and we will defend this ground at all costs! I already quoted Wallenstain battle plan, for Lutzen, it was almost perfect!...and it worked! A good defensive strategy needs ability to forecast of the enemy moves, strong nerves, good troops and a great understanding of the terrain.
Caesar said that he preferred to move first, he thought that the men need to move, if not, they start losing cohesion and morale, so he won at Farsalus. But Caesar great victories were also defensive battles, like Alesia and Bibracte.......and maybe even behind Farsalus is hidden a defensive strategy....on the right wing and in the 'Quadruplex Acies'......
I have always thought that Rome conquered the world defending! They won epic battles attacking in defense! As to say that they pushed their enemies to do the first and wrong move, then started the Roman meat grinder! Iulianus at Argentoratae won a defensive battle.
Hannibal at Cannae built the 'Perfect Battle', and Cannae has been nothing else than the perfect difensive battle. Wellington at Waterloo won a really great defensive battle. But all love Bonaparte and his incredible strategic inventions, he was the symbol of the Offensive Strategy, he won many epic battles using attck columns and anticipating the enemy's moves, he was a military genius, but....how many lives he was forced to sacrifice for his Offensive Startegies? One million (Am I wrong?...I don't remember exactly), one million of Europeans died to follow this great Attacker? Results?....We all know the results: a Nation exhausted and humiliated, but an incredible amount of Glory!
Then arrived WW2 and all has fallen in love with the aggressive stright forward strategy of the Germans Panzer Divisions, the Spearhead, the great breakthrough, the great and powerful offensive.....yes, spectacular! but in the end: Great losses of men and materials, strategic lines too streched, and the army which slowly lose its momentum and find himself deeply in enemy territory with seriuous difficulties to advance but even to retreat. The end is well known.
So, good plan Felix, it was only the Fortuna, notoriously blind, who betrayed you!
So I payed my small tribute to Felix before reading what he will do! It is better in this way, after.......well, after I might have some small problem with Felix.....
"Siehst du in des Waldes Grün feindlicher Gewehrmaschin?"
- Peronje
"Der NKWD in Russland, der SD im Deutschland des Dritten Reiches und alle anderen Geheimpolizeiorganisationen ähnlicher Art sind Spielwiesen für Psychopathen, für Usurpatoren illegaler Macht über Millionen.
Dort liegen die Krebsherde der modernen Gesellschaft."
aus "Holt Hartmann vom Himmel" Motorbuch Verlag Spezial 2007
Amazing. Personally, I hope we never see or hear from Julian again. A good exit, and a fitting end to one who was "betrayed" by his legion.
While I understand your reasons for choosing these turn of events, personally if I were Felix, I would have allowed Julian to do his thing. On balance, I think his appearance this late in the battle would have completely moralised the men once again, giving them a real reason to continue fighting (and win) not to mention I think the charge and the reinvigorated Romans would have taken the Persians completely by surprise and perhaps before they even had time to form up properly. Not to mention it is definitely NOT what they would be expecting.
As it is, I think realistically in a way perhaps the Legion has been split, and rather than fighting in certainty and unity, they will fight in doubt and fear, which isn't what you want in a fighting unit.
In any case, a very tense update, and one I am very much eager to see the repercussions of!
Curse you SBH! Why do you have to make things so damned tense. I know its a writing tactic, but daym!
I love to tease - what can I say?!
Originally Posted by Luxchamp
uh...wait, what?
Indeed!
Originally Posted by Knonfoda
Amazing. Personally, I hope we never see or hear from Julian again. A good exit, and a fitting end to one who was "betrayed" by his legion.
While I understand your reasons for choosing these turn of events, personally if I were Felix, I would have allowed Julian to do his thing. On balance, I think his appearance this late in the battle would have completely moralised the men once again, giving them a real reason to continue fighting (and win) not to mention I think the charge and the reinvigorated Romans would have taken the Persians completely by surprise and perhaps before they even had time to form up properly. Not to mention it is definitely NOT what they would be expecting.
As it is, I think realistically in a way perhaps the Legion has been split, and rather than fighting in certainty and unity, they will fight in doubt and fear, which isn't what you want in a fighting unit.
In any case, a very tense update, and one I am very much eager to see the repercussions of!
Ah but better a legion dying being true to itself and its manes than surviving but in doing so betraying all its past glories and honours - or so at least thinks Felix - and if you read closely, all the legionaries walk past 'Julian' (if it IS Julian) without looking at him which speaks to their unity in this issue at least . . .
I do not find words to comment what I read, so I'll post this song, I find this Ancient Templar song well suited to express the sadness of the moment and the devotion to the Imperator Iulianus (Sadly, I have to disagree with Felix, when we speak about honour and oaths, we are not speaking about law but about honour and sacred acts, in this case it is not the last oath which counts but the first! And being Iulianus alive the sacred oath to him is the first and the only oath that the V must respect, but this is only my personal opinion nothing else o.c.)
So for Iulianus this magnificent song! the Dominus of the text for the Templars was the Nazarenus, but if I was a man of the V my only Dominus would be my Imperator, that is, Iulianus Caesar Semper Augustus, as was written on the Legionary Vexilla on which the men of the V swore their sacred vows of loyalty.
Not nobis domine, non nobis domine
sed nomini tuo da gloriam.
Not to us lord, not to us lord,
but to your name give glory.
Beautiful, just beautiful, and very sad. Thank you for sharing that, Diocle. It is really very moving.
As for Felix and the oath, it could be argued that if Julian 'abdicated' via the sacrifice of Aemilianus then by definition he had voided the sacrmentum of service. Coming back as he did in his adventus would mean the Quintani betraying their current oath to Valens . . .
I do not know how long I lay stunned from that blow. I heard as if in a dream shouts and the pounding of those drums crashing over me as if I lay on a distant shore and it felt both as though I had been lying there for an eternity and also that no time had passed at all. It was with an effort that I raised my head, shards of light and pain crashing in behind my eyes, and struggled to get upright. I felt an urge to vomit pass through me and leaned in over the sand but nothing happened. I was on my knees and saw blood dripping in long slow drops into the dust below. It fell like the moments of a water-clock and it seemed to my dazed eyes as if time itself was slipping away from me. There below me on one side lay my helmet, the cheek-cords snapped apart, and part of me wondered then on the force of that blow - that it had struck my helmet from my head. Gingerly, I reached up and felt the back of my skull. A great tender welt lay there all covered in hot sticky blood. Pain throbbed through me again and slowly I stood up, trying to focus into the dust and the shouts about me, pushing that pain away as I did so.
The ground trembled under me. Mad hectic shouts overwhelmed me. A body, all blurry and dark, ran past me as if it were a shade escaping into the past. Soft plocking noises fell all about me and a small part of me knew that that sound presaged death. I willed my feet forwards then and another wave of nausea swept through me. Without realising, I kicked the helmet away. A tuba cried out nearby and was answered then by the chthonic chorus of those elephants. I realised that my shield was no longer on my arm and that all I had was the sword. Slowly, almost too slowly, my vision cleared and I looked about me.
The elephants were at the vallum. For one endless moment I looked not on a frantic desperate battle but instead on a single frieze all carved from crimson marble and shot through with veins of scarlet, gold and obsidian. Elephant after elephant had beached all along the vallum in a great wave of fury, their heads crashing through the rubble and debris, their trunks high and victorious. One alone was up on its hind legs, pawing at the Romans scrambling to fall back from it, its rider pointing down in triumph. The rest of that dark line of beasts had all bludgeoned their way into the parapet, knocking it down and tumbling the men behind it backwards in panic and despair. Waves of arrows were falling on us all from high up and now those few spearmen and archers ensconced in the turrets on the elephants were adding to that deadly fire. Smoke writhed over everything and it seemed to my dazed eyes as if this long scene of battle and death lay not in this world but instead in that underworld where dark gods and daemons aped and mocked all our vanities and boasts.
I turned about almost in slow motion, glancing back to the inner line I had ordered, seeing the men of Magnus and Silvanus heaving up piles of sand and rubble, packing in the remaining baggage and supplies, all in a loose vallum along the centre of the encampment. It was barely waist-high and desperately insecure - but there was no more time now.
I stumbled a few steps closer to the outer vallum and saw Octavio reeling backwards, pulling Suetonius away with him, shouting out to him to get back to where Magnus and Silvanus were. The latter, his youthful face wide with horror, was nodding dumbly in return but he remained frozen to the spot, unable to move.
That frieze unwound itself then and I felt the earth tremble below me, shivering away from the stamp of those great splayed feet, even as that drumming fell on us all, and one by one those elephants crashed through that vallum as if it were nothing but trash.
‘Octavio!’ I found myself shouting over the din. ‘Order the Quinta to fall back! Now!’
The effort to shout out those words caused me to stagger with pain and I fell forwards again, trying to use the spatha to break that fall. I landed on my knees but heard then a sudden crescendo of tuba cries and then behind me the dull oxen roar of the cornus in response and I knew that the little Umbrian had heard me. I sour wave of nausea washed over me and I vomited up violently into the sand and debris at my feet. I sensed more than saw men retreating away from all those breaches, falling back from the lost vallum, hurling the last of the javelins and darts, even as they turned to run. The throbbing in my head peaked and I plunged down into a blackness as deep as death itself while far away I thought I heard Octavio shouting out my name over and over again but that shout faded away as if I were falling down a deep long well . . .
It was the pounding which roused me at the last. A pounding from within - like a rallying cry, or a herald, and it rose up within me and without me, goading me out of the black cloak which covered me. I rose up on that beat even as it battered me and for a moment which seemed endless I did not know where I began and where it ended. It was as if my mind was both the sound and ear - that this drum which possessed me was also my own heart yet it came to me from without. It pulled me up even as I recognised it - this eternal tattoo which had plagued me ever since we made a home in Nasranum. I woke from a nightmare, its wings of sound embracing me, lifting me, and it was if I was waking up in a tomb built and maintained ages ago but for me alone. It was bringing me home and that home was death . . .
I stood alone at the limen of that ruined gateway, its landscape nothing but dust and dead things and broken weapons, smoke writhing above me, shafts of sickly light falling down, the Persian drums cascading over me even as the shouts of victorious men swept past me, ever on towards the last of the Quinta - and yet not one single figure stood before me. I was alone in this blasted landscape of death and all I could feel was that terrible nightmare which had roosted in my soul. I shook my head then as if to clear away this place but all that did was send a shard of pain flaring behind my eyes. The smoke about me seemed to pulse then as if alive, moving and boiling of its own accord - and for some reason I wondered on Aemilianus and peered about me as if expecting to see that easy face of his arrive to aid me. I peered and took a step forward - and it emerged then out of that smoke and ruin to bear straight down upon me.
It was dying and in enormous agony. A dozen javelins peppered its brute hide and the streaks of unnumbered wounds flailed at it. The turret on its back was empty, yawing to and fro, but there astride the dome of its skull lay the rider, dead, a single heavy javelin in his chest, impaling him back into that turret. He swayed back and forth, his eyes empty, blood streaming across his mouth like a crimson cobweb, and it seemed to my eyes as if death itself rode that mad beast, goading it on. It bore down upon me, emerging from that smoke, mad with pain, dying, its hide lacerated and torn, the spikes of javelins sticking up and out like a hide of horns, and there in those tiny eyes lay a hate, a fury lashed with pain, that I had never seen before. It saw me as if it already knew I was there even as it emerged from the pall of smoke and charged, that sightless rider lolling back and forth, and the squeal of its unearthly pain rose up and out and to the very heavens itself.
I think I smiled then even as it bore down on me, freighting that hideous cargo, the trunk lashing back and forth. I smiled for at last my nightmare was before me. It had come for me and a reckoning was to be had. Here, now, in this abandoned place. This gateway that was both dark and ephemeral. I think then in that lonely moment as we both understood each other that I knew this place as intimately as I knew all those other places where I had faced death - that in some strange way, those other places were merely echoes and portends of this last place. This shabby entrance in which lay the corpse of Cassianus bound up with his enemy, where the standards of fallen men were strewn, and where perhaps a lonely and forsaken man had finally found peace with whatever gods and fates had abandoned him. This gateway was my final destiny and all those other places - the broken line at the Seleucid Needle, the Black Gate - were nothing but rough sketches to this place.
I smiled and stepped into what was always coming for me, that pounding inside and outside me peaking, my blood rushing like a dark stream through my heart, even as that dying behemoth arched itself up above me, the trunk squealing in such a cacophony of agony that it brought tears to my eyes, those feet kicking down, blood and sweat raining from it - and those little black eyes looking for me, seeing me, below it - and yearning for an end to it all . . .
I do not know if I killed it or it was already dead the moment it fell down upon me. There was a rush of flesh, black and stinking, about me, a momentary vision of pale tusks and a foul breath which seemed to hit me almost as a physical thing - and then I was up and forwards, my spatha ramming hard into the great knotty throat of the behemoth, pushing that blade in as deep as I could even as it sank down upon me. I remember feeling as if a wall had slammed into me, knocking me sideways into the sand, and a huge mass cascading down about me, almost endlessly, as if the universe itself were collapsing. I felt the spatha yanked out of my hand then. A sudden blow stunned me and then I was falling backwards, dust and smoke filling up my eyes and mouth, the ground impacting into my back and knocking the breath from me. A great sigh enveloped me then, a weary almost thankful sound that almost broke my heart - and I found myself pinned to the ground, that body of the elephant near me, its head alongside mine, and one swollen trunk and tusk across my legs. A veil of dust fell on us both then and the world of that gateway vanished.
I lay there alone and stared into its eyes. Streaks of blood masked the face of this elephant. A ragged gash cut across it. Gibbets of flesh hung here and there. I saw that across the forehead lay a rough word painted on in gold - and knew enough of Persian to read the word ‘Ahura’ or wisdom. I lay and gazed into the face of this ‘Ahura’ and saw those dark little beads of its eyes fade like an oil lamp going out. Its breath fell on me, hot and sweet, each wave becoming fainter and fainter - and I reached up a hand then and placed it on the cheek of that dying face.
‘Peace, Ahura, peace - leave this place now,’ I whispered. ‘Find your ancestors. Be at peace . . .’
Then all was still and quiet. The elephant was dead. The eyes blank and dull. Of the pounding there was no remnant. It was as if I lay in an empty place, alone and at peace and I realised then that I was still smiling even though tears lay on my cheek.
I attempted to shift a little but the weight of its trunk and tusk was too much in my weakened state and I fell back into the dust in exhaustion. I heard feet running behind me and craned around to see Octavio at the edges of the smoke. He was propping up a lank figure by his side and I saw that it was Suetonius - blood was bubbling up from the left side of his chest and the armour there was torn apart. His face was white with shock. Octavio hauled him up in a clumsy grasp even as he saw me deep in the gateway. In a heartbeat, he was struggling towards where I lay, dragging the draconarius with him -
‘Get back!’ I waved at him. ‘The Quinta is yours now!’
I saw him swear under his breath and hesitate, glancing quickly to the wounded youth at his side.
‘There isn’t time! Get back and hold that last line - understand?’ My voice was weak and I desperately prayed that he could hear me. About me, I saw that the smoke was drifting apart in slow lazy curves and that dark figures were moving, running, cautiously through the rubble and ruins. A horn blared out nearby and I could hear the shouts of Persians ordering their men into and over what was left of the vallum.
‘Get back, you Umbrian bastard!’ I shouted out again - and saw him nod once then, holding Suetonius at his hip, his face tipping slightly to one side as he gazed on me.
Then he was gone into the smoke and dust of battle and I lay alone in the wreckage of that magnificent animal. I lay alone and turned to face that grey mask painted with the word ‘Ahura’, my smile widening, as all about me the enemy arrived . . .
"Siehst du in des Waldes Grün feindlicher Gewehrmaschin?"
- Peronje
"Der NKWD in Russland, der SD im Deutschland des Dritten Reiches und alle anderen Geheimpolizeiorganisationen ähnlicher Art sind Spielwiesen für Psychopathen, für Usurpatoren illegaler Macht über Millionen.
Dort liegen die Krebsherde der modernen Gesellschaft."
aus "Holt Hartmann vom Himmel" Motorbuch Verlag Spezial 2007
The only reason I think he may survive this is that this is still technically a scroll being read by the Eunuch. In my experience, dead men don't write very much.
Re: IB SAI AAR - The Nowhere Legion
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Originally Posted by SeniorBatavianHorse
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Cooooooooooooooooooooooooool!!!!!..
....I...I...I like it more than RIITW!
