Act 2 Chapter 3

Longish chapter. I'll be breaking down the rest of this act into four different perspectives, with two per chapter. Valencia and Cassius get this chapter, and Caligula and Augustus will have the next.

Chapter 3

The sounds of war were beginning to ring. Shovels dug in the earth, officers shouted out orders, and the grunts followed them with precision. The alert had been sounded: a Carthaginian force was making a move on the eastern wall. Speculatores, or scouts, had been sent out as seen as Cicerus gave the shout. Armed with high-powered scoped rifle, hunting knives, and field radios, these men could track a snowflake in a blizzard and be right on top of it when it landed. Their duty was to report back the movements of the enemy forces. From what they were saying a small, but well-equipped force was making its way against the Romans.

Outside the wall, the rubble from the previous assault as being cleared away. The trench line closest to the wall was being rebuilt. It was nothing fancy, since the legionaries had little time to make it so; perhaps half an hour. The flattened land of Dakar allowed for far sighting, and the eyes of Cicerus increased it several-fold. The trench would cover several hundred yards around the perimeter of the wall, in order to disperse the Carthaginian's narrow attack line. Like always, they would rush in on horses or camel, only to be stopped by barbed-wire and landmines. The defenders located off to the sides of the charge would be able to turn their guns into the flanks of the enemy, butchering many before their feet hit the ground. It was always this way: outnumbered ten-to-one, the Romans would obliterate the Carthaginians, yet never have the manpower to launch a counterattack. Any attempt at leaving their defensive lines would result in encirclement and imminent death. A vicious circle, to say the least.

As the soldiers made their way out the hole in the wall, in smart rows of five abreast, Valencia's eyes went wide with fright. A battle, here? She can't fight, or so she though. Her killing of the gunner on the war elephant was a fluke, a lucky shot; Valencia told herself such assurances. As the men filed past her, she felt a hand rest on her shoulder. Staring at it, and then following its arm up, she saw Archimedes standing next to her.

“Dear girl, this is a tremendous moment. Don't sully it with such frivolous thoughts of panic and death! You'll get to see first hand what we're fighting here, and the glorious machine of war that is the Imperial Legion. Come now, let us join the young man standing watch. I bet he has an excellent view!”

He offered her his hand and she took it. Pulling her up, he helped to dust her off, smiled, and pointed the way to the wall. They walked up next to the hole, and waited for several hundred legionaries to march past at a brisk pace, each one immaculate in their determination. A steady beat of boots stamping resonated through the hallway, and Valencia heard not a word of disdain or disgruntlement. Each soldier here had volunteered for their occupation, raised their hand when asked for shipments to Fort Scipio, and when given the option to retreat from the Bastion not a single one accepted. The fort emptied in this manner, so that only a few men could be seen still inside. Men were still climbing up ladders attached to the intact portions of the wall, moving to man their field guns. Caligula stood with the two majors as well as two newcomers. They were talking a bit, but they were too far from Valencia for her to hear them.

The scientist tugged upon her hand. “Come then lass, in and up we go! Such a sight to see from above. A giant wall is almost as good a view to watch the chaos fight against order as an Airiot.”

They entered the massive hallway and checked around. With a shout of victory, Archimedes spotted Cicerus' ladder and gestured over to it with a nod of his head. Walking the short distance to it, he bowed a bit and said, “Ladies first, my dear.” Valencia smiled a thank you and almost ran up the ladder. She thought this might shock Archimedes, maybe convince him that she wasn't absolutely terrified of the events about to unfold. Instead, he merely chuckled and clambered up just as fast beneath her feet. As they pulled themselves through the hatch at the top of the ladder and forward into a compartment in the wall, a gunshot rang out. It seemed that Cicerus was hard at work.

“Howdy there lass! Welcome to me humble lil' abode! Fetch yerself a spot on that seat over yonder. I oughta be a far more pleasant host once I nab that mean sucker out there.”

Cicerus shouted out from his perch, “Come on now! Poke yer damned head up so I can nails it!”

His rifle, a modified Severus with an extended barrel and scope, kicked as he fired off another shot. He yelled out again, and repeated the process. Aim, shoot, yell. Valencia discovered shortly that the “seat” he mentioned was instead a hunk of concrete with a piece of rug tossed over it. Another chunk sat near it, this one with a lamp, bottle of wine, and a pack of cigarettes. Cicerus himself stood on the other end of the small room leaning out a hole in the wall. The hole was apparently the source of the various debris in the room, reach to the roof a few feet above their heads and ending slightly higher than the waist of Cicerus. Laying about the cramped floor were the personal affects of Cicerus, such as his pack, a few clothing items, and a couple of letters. Archimedes gingerly moved the item off of the “table” and sat next to Valencia.

“Ha! Give him a bloody show, Cicerus boy!”

A bullet snapped into the room, colliding with the wall a scant few inches from Valencia's head. She ducked with the reaction of one not accustomed to combat; a life-threatening delayed pace. A small squeal burst from her lips and she dropped from the seat. Archimedes smiled at this and Cicerus gave a loud whoop. Apparently he nailed the sucker. Turning, he faced his “house guests” with a smile.

“Well now, a lovely sight you twos are. I've been stuck upon this here perch fer the past several days. Do yous know how boring it gets sitting up all night, jest waiting fer some barbaric jerk to scout out fer his buds?”

“Of course not, dear Cicerus. We're just an old man and an innocent young lady. Just enjoying the sights, as it were!”

The two burst out laughing, much to the confusion of Valencia. Perhaps she was intruding upon some inside joke that these two had formed in their obvious previous meetings. She felt awkward and invasive. How could she belong here, sitting high above the trenches as men killed each other below? She eased back onto her rubble and placed her hands in her lap, sighing as she did.

“Eh, what's wrong there lassie? Jest a bit o' sport! Nothing scary about war and all. Jest the uh...dying...”

Cicerus, failing in his attempt to ease her thoughts, mumbled what might have been an apology and returned to his watching of the battle. He shrugged and leaned out against the wall. His rifle was held up to his eye, the scope giving him a godly view of the carnage beneath. Standing so high above, he could witness the course of the fight, and yet partake where he felt fit. The thought of such power and divinity always consumed him, giving way to a feeling of euphoria he never experienced elsewhere. Cicerus was always distant from his battles, but still intimate all the same. He sighted another Carthaginian making himself conspicuous. He straightened out, took aim, slowly exhaled, and squeezed the trigger. The loud crack was followed by a quick cheer, signaling that he put the man to the ground.

Valencia felt ill. Here she was watching a young man -he could barely be older than herself- dealing out death to people he had never met. She felt helpless. Here this man was, dishing out the judgment reserved for the Gods themselves. She felt alarmed. How could he do this, with such ease and comfort? And yet, she felt like she understood. Valencia had killed someone earlier that day. She had not thought of finding an alternative to his death. And even before that, she had willingly signed on to the Imperial Navy, knowing full well that her nation had been at war for just about its entire existence. She was as much of a part of the killing as the man standing before her. She wondered how her two companions felt.

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Cassius stood next to the Centurion, arms crossed, watching the Legionaries file out of the fort towards their positions. The call had just gone out, and the Centurion cried out, “To your places, lads!” With vigor and rigid determination, the soldiers responded. All cares for the recent death-match were forgotten, and the body of Aquas was carefully set away from the paths to the wall. Soldiers ran about to find their gear, yet no chaos could be found. It was as if every step, every movement was choreographed and ingrained into their minds. A clock makes mistakes every now and then, failing to properly align with the seconds ticking by. These soldiers of Rome never made those mistakes. They couldn't afford to.

Rome was, according to not just themselves but everyone who came under their blades, the most militarily powerful nation ever to grace the Earth. They burned down Athens, bled into the sands the Parthians, and turned back the tide of the Mongol Horde time and time again. The Carthaginians fell closer to destruction every time they fought with renewed vigor against the Empire. The Aztecs, even with the resources and manpower of all of South America could not push the Romans and the Iroquois a permanent inch. All this was due to not just their soldiers, but their culture, their national focus: war.

Legionnaires are volunteer men who enter the service early on in their lives, usually at age twelve. Taking examples from conquered Sparta, the Romans train their warriors for life, their entire lives. These children take their secondary school courses at military academies where they learn the arts of death and liberty. After completing their four years of basic training, the legionnaires then move on to specialized school, where their learn the more specific roles that they can serve under, such as cavalrymen, infantrymen, marines and sailors, or support roles such as artillerymen and logistics. To determine their profession, they take tests that rate their ability to handle the certain roles. These tests are more than just written ones about theory and tactics. Prospective cavalrymen must be able to ride and shoot. Sailors must know the workings of all the ships under the Imperial Navy, as well as the ships of their allies and enemies. After two years of this, the soldiers are ready to enter the service. A leadership test is taken, and those who pass with the highest scores are able to apply for officer candidacy, where they will go to four more years of school. At the end, regular military personnel enter the service at age eighteen, and officers at twenty-two. People who enlist later, of course, enter at different ages.

Usually, service to the Empire's Legions are for life. Once a soldier enters, he serves for active duty for a minimum of ten years. Because their education was provided for by the military, there needs to be a guarantee of longtime service. After these ten years, soldiers can choose to reenlist, or leave the service. Leaving at that time provides no benefits, except the fact that applying for a job becomes much easier with a service record. They are, however, placed into the Legion Auxiliary until they reach the age of 50. The Auxiliary is a reserve force, activated only during times of emergency and crisis due to war. This means that instead of having to draft and quickly train raw recruits, the first waves of new soldiers are actually former ones, ensuring a higher quality of men to send to the front lines.

Those who choose to reenlist do so for another ten years. They are automatically promoted to the next tier, unless they had received a promotion in the past year already. Their pay rises, and they get their first pick of duty stations. Once they serve their term again they are able to retire with full benefits, including retirement pay and the option to stay in the Auxiliary or exit for good. Of course, they have the chance to make a life out of the military, and continue reenlisting until they are no longer fit to serve. The Centurion is one such legionnaire.

They waited side by side near the western “exit”, watching the rank and file march out. The Centurion was a full head taller than Cassius and much broader in shoulder. Thick black sideburns met near his chin with an even thicker goatee. He wore just his chest plate over his torso, allowing his well-defined arms to show off his strength. At his side his sword hung in its scabbard next to a holster, which held a Cato revolver. His helmet was tucked under one arm; its unique design helped to distinguish him on the battlefield to friend and foe alike. One his right bicep, a tattoo of a wolf head silhouette was stitched in black. Beneath it read “Ferrum Lupo”. The Iron Wolf. Tucked into his boots were his trousers, which lay underneath his armored skirt. Most commanders did away with such traditional armor, but the Centurion reveled in it. After all, he was named for both the founder of Rome, and one of its greatest generals.

“What are your orders, Centurion sir?” Cassius looked over and up at the Centurion, awaiting a response.

“Hell kid, that's awfully formal. You don't have to call me 'Centurion' all the time. I get enough of that already from my men. But at least they use my name.”

Cassius coughed, startled. “But sir, we're legionaries. Professionals.”

The Centurion looked over at the boy, and gave him a hard stare. “Hey. Kid. What’d I tell you?”

Sighing, Cassius responded “I mean, Centurion Nero, we're legionaries. Not some militia or auxiliary men. I just feel...awkward...to break protocol.”

The Centurion shook his head, giving a sad smile. “Cassius, you're not a legionary. No matter what the Emperor says, no matter what eagle you fight under, no matter what uniform you wear. You're a Celtic.”

He glanced back at Cassius, seeing a dejected face. He gripped him by the shoulder. “That's not a bad thing. You're more than a simple soldier like me. You're the heir of the Cassius family! A direct descendant of the man who changed Rome. Your Father was a great man, kid. He not only killed three experienced soldiers, but managed to escape the Legion for forty years. He was eighty damned years old when he died. And what was he doing for those forty years?

Cassius stood there, staring off at the last of the men walking through the hole in the wall. When he didn't answer, the Centurion continued talking. “That's right, he was just destroying every legion sent after him. He made Gaul a nation. He gave the world Cassius the Younger. He was the last pure Roman in your line. Come on kid. Our schools teach this. What do yours say about him?”

A sardonic look gripped Cassius' face. “Too much. He played a small part in our nation's history. Much important to the Gauls and Rome.”

Romulus Nero shook his head, smiling sadly. “Aye, fine. Have it your way. Let's be off to battle then, eh? I want to see you line these barbarians up and knock 'em down.”

Now, Cassius finally smiled.

“With pleasure.”

Reviews

[Wolfhilde]

I enjoyed it very much! very well written! I can't wait to read more.