Ghost Tales

Ghost Tales

218 BC; Running  footsteps, dripping water, cold, damp and ragged, strained breaths. We, the Romans, the elite force and blade of the army, Praetorians, are crouching like vermin through these damp tunnels when we should be fighting like men in the heat of battle. A burst of sunlight marks the end of the tunnels and the beginning of battle.

Already we see the signs of our west flank collapsing, but our east flank, the non-Roman auxiliaries, are still holding out. Well, enough for the barbaric Carthaginian hordes to send their defensive line to aid their eastern offensive.

Their defensive line; this is where we attack from vantage point up on the hills. Our soldiers are nervous, it is their first battle and many are green and fresh, as expected. But what worries us all is the sight of the Carthage leader, Hannibal, and his archers striding atop a magnificent beastly elephant with long shining ivory tusks, as they rain down wave after wave of arrows on our men below.

I turn around to consult Aetius, my second in command and lifetime friend, on the matter but find he's not there. "Soldier, where is the 2nd Centurio?" I bark, trying not to reveal my concern.

"I don't know, Commander, he was in the tunnels I didn't see him leaving them, sir." He stutters, terrified of phantom ideas of reprove.

"A deserter then, eh." My 3rd Centurio spits on the ground.

"Not everyone is filled with the kind of battle and bloodlust in you, Commander Cato." I remark.

He is about to say something further but stops when we hear the sound of hooves clattering on earth behind us.

"Stand to!" I order the soldier and they straighten up, grimacing some in anxiety. As the rider approached I saw it was Marius, part of a scout party I had sent. As he neared we saw that he had suffered burns and was bleeding extensively. His clothes where torn in rags and his armour had bloody dents.

When he was within speaking distance he started shouting, some form of panicked warning, but before he could finish, three arrows glided through the air piercing his body, the fatal one through his neck, angling down as he jerked back and slumped to the ground, his horse gently cantering to a stop.

We saw then the looming, dark mass gathering on the hill opposite. "Stand to, stand ready!" I yelled, trying to rally the awestruck soldiers back to some form of coherent formation. The dark mass was rapidly approaching, transforming from shapes into bodies, bodies of hundreds of archer cavalry and barbarian horsemen bearing down toward us.

We heard shouts from behind us and saw more cavalry archers charging at us. As they neared, four of our men removed their armour and revealed the cloth doused in oil and tar, before setting themselves to immolate and spread fire and havoc among the nearby soldiers. They were cut down, but not before spreading the flames to many screaming souls. Four more revealed themselves, destroying our ballistae and more men. It was a small amount in relative to our size, but it was enough to send the formation into array and terrify the men.

Then, just as swiftly, from beneath the low hanging shrubs we had grown accustomed to seeing in the terrain, sprang more attackers, hidden in strange plant garb. They cut a swathe through what was left of our formation, many killing six or seven men before succumbing to Roman steel.

And suddenly the archers were upon us, raining down death tipped with barbed steel heads, destroying us.

From out of the ranks of the back of our rapidly falling line, rose Aetius, my friend and soldier, dressed in regular Milites attire. I did not spare much time to face him for there was the pressing onslaught to face, but he crept up to me through our dwindling ranks. He whispered coldly in my ear, his voice filled with the sound of clinking gold, "This way is better, old boy." as he stabbed me, a cold feeling spreading from my chest toward my heart, and the realisation, too late.

The white space, empty, and filled with nothingness. It was a white completely devoid of light, and stunningly bright. Time, sound, and senses were unknown, only the thoughts could penetrate the stillness.

How long will I have to wait? I wonder. If it is waiting I am doing, I do not know. How long, how long until the next war I think, unsure if it is aloud or in my head. And it was me, it was always me, bound to forever fight, to know nothing of peace, or death, and to forever be betrayed, for in all the wars I have lived there is always a traitor, marked by an act of treachery and betrayal of trust so deep it scours the minds black. And I, I was that traitor, all those long years and wars ago.