Gladiators of Rome:Short Stories

VIII

Pushed back and forth in the throng of a battle Diomed found his sword burying itself in the gut of a barbarian, their blood streaming down the flat side of his blade, as their hand which had been holding a dagger above his head fell back to their side. Placing the heel of his foot against their chest he pulled his sword from its fleshy home and felt a spray of warm blood across his face. The barbarian fell to the ground on top of their comrades with their intestines frothing out of their wound like a soup. 

Looking at the ground he realized that it was littered with the body parts of the Celts, the mud turning red from blood. He clenched his eyes shut for a moment, pushing away troubling thoughts. 

No, this isn't right. Is it? Diomed looked down at what he was wearing and felt his mind begin to fracture and fight against itself. I'm not a solider anymore, Diomed tried to tell himself, I'm not- am I?

"Aaargh!" 

The guttural rough cry of a man tore Diomed from his thoughts and he looked behind him to see a young man with dirt covering his face running at him with his sword held over the top of his head. Diomed's mind and body seemed to disconnect from each other. Diomed could have sworn he was screaming "NO!" even as he raised his blade and ran the boy through, catching his wrist that held the sword with his other hand. 

What is happening? Diomed cried as he gently led the boy down withdrawing his blade. Crouching down Diomed pressed his bloodied hands against his bald head and let out a cry as battles that weren't this one began to tear through his mind, images where he was marching behind other Romans, battles where they pillaged and burnt towns.  

Diomed shakily opened his eyes and saw the uniform he was wearing. His tired, fractured mind took this as confirmation of what he was. How could he not be a Roman solider if he was in their uniform, his mind rationalised. Diomed could feel some small part of him at the back of his mind trying to fight back at something, trying to tell him something, but it was washed away with the memories and certainty of being a Roman soldier. 

Standing back up, Diomed wiped his hand and the grip of his sword dry in his cotton tunic and then pushed back into the putrid mess that was war, firm in the belief that he was a Roman soldier. 

* * * 

No, Eoghan cursed as he found himself on his back, the cold liquid mud seeping beneath his collar, No it can't end like this. Not with him on the ground and a Roman above him. 

Puffing from exertion Eoghan glanced at how close the tip of the Roman's blade was to his chest, sp close that it was scraping his clothes, and he stamped his foot against the ground in anger. Come on!  

Eoghan cried out as he could feel his arms reaching their limit but he knew if he let go then he was dead. The Roman knew it too as they pushed harder down, their sandals sliding in the mud beside him. Pushing with all his might Eoghan watched the sword tip begin to go upwards, the gap between him and the blade increasing, when, all of a sudden, it was gone and his arms collapsed to the ground next to him in relief. 

Looking to his side he saw someone had tackled the soldier off of him but he couldn't see who as they grappled in the mud. Sitting himself up Eoghan searched for his blade and found it a few feet away. Grabbing it Eoghan felt instantly better until he looked up and saw the carnage that was laid before him.

Using his sword to help him stand up, Eoghan rested against it as he caught his breath back and looked out at the mass of red which was seeming to cut them down like weeds. Swallowing around a lump in his throat Eoghan felt himself grow weak. He had been so confident that they would win but now they were all split off into little pockets of fighting.