Golgotha

Calvariae Locus in Latin, (Kraniou Topos) in Greek, and Gûlgaltâ in Aramaic all denote "place of [the] skull".

 

The crimson sky that hung above us, just a tone lighter than the blood that covered the earth beneath my feet, forebode the impending doom that lingered in the air. The earth, a dark crimson, was a bit moist under my footsteps, perhaps from all the blood that had been spilled on it through centuries of countless battles. Stones, in a pale white that clashed with the land around it, gave the whole landscape an eerie aspect, for in our minds they took the shape of human skulls. The air felt dense in the nose and bitter in the mouth, and a soft red mist lingered just knee high above the ground.

The men around me, all the bravest of the court and sworn templar in service of our king, kept quiet, drawing fear in every inhale and letting go despair with every exhale. Silence took a ruling position amongst our ranks, with only the clatter of armor to defy it, for such was the anguish in the field that made three hundred of the toughest knights to shiver as flames on a windy night. Panic in their eyes and terror in their minds, these brave warriors prepared to die.

I too shared their terror, their anguish and their pain, for I too shared their fate. A fate cast upon us in the same fashion as a lord chooses his stallion; a lord that having lust for power in mind and greed in the eyes sees nothing more than a beast that will stand as a symbol. Not humans, but dispensable beasts we were, and as such we felt; equal to dogs that have no more value than the meal they ingest every day. I trembled, both in fear and from the cold, for despite it being mid-summer, death’s caress is one that chills even the marrow of the bravest and most seasoned gladiator.

Here they come. Their black ranks breaking the dark red horizon and their war horns blowing a challenge, making the atmosphere even more lugubrious than before, even worse than the ill-fated silence that had sliced our conscious. Here they come, ready to kill and die. A sword rises in defiance and as a signal from the hand of our general being followed by others. A horse gallops across our ranks, and as it passes by, our banners rise high and our own horns respond to theirs thus issuing the command to engage. Battle cries echoing from our mouths, now, we too march and run. March to kill, and run to die.

Author's Note

This is a recurrent writing for me. I always revise it and rewrite it, so expect to see many incarnations of it. As always, any usable feedback is highly appreciated.