LUCIUS

Battle of the Teutoburg, 9 CE

Hopeful or hopeless?

Perhaps on the first day, when Lucius feared nothing and no one, he was hopeful, and maybe on the second day, even though unease had settled in his stomach, and hope died a little, there was still a bit left. But today, on day three, when he and the others made their way through the unfamiliar Teutoburg forest ground—his heart in his throat, and confidence stripped bare from his bones—hopelessness consumed him.

Arminius tricked them, those were the words that echoed in his ears during these three days. Traitor. He doomed us all.

He had not had the pleasure of meeting this barbarian-turned-Roman, but he listened to the others speak of Arminius, and his blood boiled as if he was betrayed by his own flesh and blood. But alas, he had no time to ponder—no one did.

The air was thick with the scent of pine. The path into the forest was narrow with dense and tall oak, pine, and beech trees towering above, blocking the September sunlight. They were unable to form their battle formation. Their leader, Publius, had thought nothing of it, he believed Arminius words. Now it made sense as they walked in a straight line—one that resembled a snake—as they were ordered to leave the forest as quickly as their feet could carry them without disrupting the line when a fearful soldier from Legio XVII approached them with the dreadful happenings.

He wondered how many of his countrymen had perished to the barbarians that had made them forced to return. Perhaps not too many, he hoped.

Lucius' feet ached as he gripped his sword, his feet sinking into the muddy path, and he swallowed thickly, a feeling of dread surged through his body with every step he took. Every time his eyes glanced elsewhere, he noticed how afraid the soldiers were; their disciplined composure had crumbled during the last two days, and he wondered if he, too, looked as pathetic as them.

Suddenly, a strange noise came from within the denser part of the forest, and the line came to a halt. Lucius' eyes darted towards the trees—searching for something—for barbarians. But his sight deceived him, and all he saw was thick trees and nothing else. They were quiet now—almost too quiet, and he could hear faint breathing coming from his countrymen.

But then, another sound bristled from within the forest.

Lucius' eyes widened.

The barbarians who emerged from within the forest ground were like giants—built like the statues in Rome. It was like the forest itself came to life when they appeared. They were rugged and untamed like wild beasts in fur garments. Their battle yells were savage, piercing the air with a barbaric sound that sent chills down Lucius' spine. Some wielded axes and swords in both hands, while others carried a circle shield. Their faces were painted—colors of the forest: black, blue, green, and more. Each was a representation of their tribe.

He lifted his shield and sword and took a stance moments before the first barbarian attacked.

Swords collided, glinting and clashing like thunder and lightning. All around him, fighting took place—all around him men screamed and dropped to the ground with wide gashes, and they were mostly Romans. Each time he took down a barbarian another one replaced them. The barbarians' strengths were nothing like he had witnessed, and it seemed like they had no fears in their hearts. The fighting seemed neverending. Blood soiled Lucius' face and teeth in splashes of red. He had fought in many battles, he had been victorious in every one of them, yet every time his eyes flickered elsewhere, his countrymen were being defeated. They were losing.

Time passed and the battle raged on.

Lucius' fingers tightened around the halt of his sword; a single moment to gather himself before another barbarian pounced on him. He yelled and fought back—screaming with madness and rage and fear. An emotion like fear had never been in his heart before, but he feared now. He could taste the blood in his mouth, and his feet had been soiled with mud. A single cut—possibly the tip of an axe—had pierced his arm, but he felt nothing when it had happened.

When two more more barbarians stepped up to him, Lucius slaughtered them both—striking into one's neck, and the other's chest. He took a deep breath and bit back a grunt. He had fought for a long time. His arms grew weary, sweat caked his flesh from beneath his armor, and each breath he took drew a piercing ache in his chest. He had just enough time to take in his surroundings. From his view, there were only a few Romans left—maybe thirty or less. However, when he caught sight of his Senior Officer, Gaius Julius Valerianus, not far away, Lucius' heart spiked. Gaius placed his sword down and sank his neck into it.

Lucius' eyes widened and he took a shuddering breath. It was then that he truly realized that there would be no victor for Rome.

He screamed and killed several more barbarians as they came after him.

The fight continued.

Soon, he staggered in his steps after he slaughtered another barbarian, his fingers had turned red, his wrist ached—barely able to wield his sword. He heaved and a strangled sound left his mouth. He would die in this forsaken forest in a land of the barbarians. He should've stayed in Rome. But he had no choice, he reminded himself. They were told that it was just a few hundred barbarians. Lies. He blamed Publius for trusting the traitor Arminius, who led them down this path.

He gasped when another barbarian pushed into him, wielding a sword and shield. Blood dripped from his weapon, and rage overtook his eyes. By now, all of the Romans in Lucius' point of view had died.

He was left alone.

He would die, too.

He should allow death to take him. But he could not—he could not cower.

When the barbarian swung at him, he fought with a frustrated yell.

He showed no signs of defeat, but his will to keep going was beginning to slip.

When he staggered for the tenth time since the battle, the barbarian laughed, and then he stopped fighting to look at him. He had enough time, as Lucius was alone, heaving.

"This one refuses to die," the man said with laughter in his voice.

Lucius understood him. He knew of their language, Quintus Claudius Marcellus, his dear friend back in Rome who had spent a great deal in the barbarian land had taught him. He didn't bother to respond, though. Instead, he screamed in rage and surged forward.

He struck the neck of the barbarian—the man falling to the ground with shocked eyes.

Suddenly, something in the air stirred, and when he steadied himself, another barbarian approached, but by now he could barely stand upright. He watched the man—stared into his face for a simple moment. Like the others, this barbarian had his face painted; black, red, and a hint of yellow that was starting to fade. A leather armor was strapped to his chest, and the fur of a wolf was wrapped around his shoulder. His hair was shaved down from both sides of his head, except the top where it grew long and yellow, tied and braided. Hair grew on his face and around his mouth. He appeared wild and intimidating with an axe in one hand and a short sword in another—almost animal-like with a towering stance that rivaled Lucius by at least a foot.

Lucius instinctively took a step back, but he wielded his sword with pride, ready to face this beast. If he was meant to die in this forsaken forest, he would die with honor.

The yellow-haired barbarian stared him down for a moment, observing him with eyes that showed interest before a sinister smile curled his lips. Lucius swallowed thickly, his throat ached with dryness. As he was ready to strike, the barbarian moved. His steps were swift and calculated—like a true warrior, and although Lucius reacted—sword clashed against axe—his movements were not as swift as before.

They fought.

The barbarian swung with might, his mighty weight took to his weapon, and Lucius' stance trembled every time he blocked a blow. He was not as strong as this man, this much he knew. A small crowd had gathered, watching the fight. The barbarians had already won, why was he still fighting? No more Romans were left in the path he stood. The thought that others were still alive was also doubtful as his, Legio XIX, was the last to stay behind.

The yellow-haired barbarian swung with his axe at his neck and he quickly deflected the near-fateful blow with his sword. The barbarian used this opportunity to close in on him—their weapons pressed up to each other. Lucius gritted his teeth when the weight of the barbarian came down on him, and he slid off the mud from the ground.

As he stared into the barbarian's eyes—bright blue from up close—his own eyes turned hard and he cursed in their language and pushed with all his might.

The barbarian staggered three steps backward, but he smiled nonetheless when Lucius' legs wavered from exhaustion.

"You fought bravely, Roman," said the yellow-haired barbarian, and then he pointed his bloodied axe in Lucius' direction and added, "But you will kneel before me."

The barbarian stuck again—faster than before.

Lucius lifted his sword, but his balance was no longer what it once was, neither was his aim. Within a blink of an eye, the barbarian's axe came down, and although he dodged it, his moment of relief was swept off his feet when the barbarian's sword followed after. His eyes widened, expecting to meet the end of the blade, but the barbarian had aimed for his sword, which flung from his tired hand, landing several feet onto the ground.

Loud cheers echoed from the small gathered crowd.

Lucius watched where his sword landed. A quick thought to rush for his weapon and challenge the beast echoed at the back of his mind. He was not afraid of death, he knew it would come one day... but he didn't want to die, either—especially not in a foreign land. However, before his attention could flicker elsewhere. The barbarian yanked the shield from his grasp and sent a powerful kick to the back of his knee.

He yelled in pain as he fell to his knees like the barbarian's promised word.

Disarmed and defeated.

He looked up, breathless. His eyes met the yellow-haired barbarian, who looked back at him; his blue eyes were filled with curiousness and contemplativeness. An unexpected distressed sound left Lucius' lips before he lifted his head and closed his weary eyes, readied for the final blow.

It didn't come, though. Not yet.

When he opened his eyes again, the barbarian lowered his weapons—his gaze unrelenting with interest. "Why do you look at me so?" he asked in a whispered tone and creases between his eyes.

Lucius frowned slightly. He didn't understand what the barbarian meant by those words. Someone from the gathered crowd shouted: "The Gods will have better use of him." And then another agreed, "He's a good fighter—we'll slit his throat with the rest to appease Tiwaz."

The yellow-haired barbarian frowned as if in disagreement, but he said nothing as he stepped away.

It gave him a couple of splitting seconds to glance around him, and his stomach twisted with a deep ache when he caught sight of his surroundings. As far as his eyes could see, all of his countrymen were dead—their bodies piled on top of each other caked with enough blood to form a river. The barbarians seemed unsatisfied; they stepped over the dead Romans and stabbed the few who were alive with their swords. Lucius looked away. He—

Suddenly, his hands were grabbed from behind by another barbarian, and he was yanked to his feet by his shoulders. He screamed in rage then, kicking and trashing with force. The barbarian laughed behind him, and his grip became biting. Still, Lucius would not stop—not even when he was dragged away toward the crowd.

The barbarians had spread out—they were everywhere; loud men in animal fur. A few who noticed Lucius when he was dragged past them, took their knives and swords and threatened to slice him open for his screaming. This shut him up quickly and they laughed at his easy compliance. One yanked his helmet off and grabbed his locks of curly brown hair, added a knife to his neck, and spoke sneering words, none of which he heard through his thunderous heartbeats.

He was dragged away again—away from the crowd where he staggered over the dead bodies of his fallen countrymen until his eyes flickered to the far-off distance down the forest path at a few Roman soldiers who had also survived—all about fifty or less in his position, and tears clouded his eyes, and his heart lay heavy in his chest.