The Foreign Empress

A Life Taken

Thessalonica falls away, the people, the buildings, the entire port fading away before my very eyes. All but Valeria. That sick smile of hers has faded, a momentary possession by a cruel god. The two of us stand opposite each other, floating yet not floating in a void of black. We stare at each other for what seems like an eternity.

Just as I'm getting used to it, a guttural neigh breaks the peace. And just like that, the void begins to peel away. My feet are wet, submerged in water. The water is strangely warm, strangely thick. I look down. My feet are not submerged in water, but in blood, a stream of it. I look around frantically, the blackness slowly receding. I trace the tributaries of this river of red until the blackness recedes enough for me to see the first source. A corpse, face down in the sandy dirt. In an instant, the black is banished, radiant light blinding me. Hundreds, thousands of sounds and smells, a veritable tidal wave, drown my senses all at once. The clash of steel as swords violently collide, the bloodcurdling screech of weapons scraping off armor, the grunts of men struggling their final struggles, the slicing whoosh of arrows soaring through the sky, and the screams. The screams of men, sons, brothers, fathers, husbands, dying in their thousands. And the most deafening sound of all? The final sigh, that final breath of life that heralds the end of an existence.

I force my eyelids back, desperate to regain my sight so that I may defend myself. I'm not a moment too soon, a Parthian spearman tries to skewer me. I stumble backward desperately, parrying wildly as I try and buy more time for my eyes to adjust. Another thrust. It grazes my cuirass. Sight now returning, I charge forward, aiming to close the distance and throw my foe off balance. In the heat of the moment, still half-blind, I misjudge the distance. I crash right into the spearman. The collision causes both of us to lose our weapons and we crash to the ground. A fight that, just a second ago, was skill and technique, instantly devolves into a primal struggle. The Parthian lands a square right hook on my jaw, my helmet absorbs most of the shock but it still hurts like hell. Red clouds my vision and I slam the flat of my palm down into his face. A crack. Head spinning, my fingers traverse his face. I feel a soft spot. I press. A piercing scream. I ignore it, left hand scrambling for the dagger on my waist. I feel the reassuring leather grip of my weapon and in one swift motion, draw the dagger and slam it into the spearman's throat. Warm, red liquid gushes forth. A life desperately taken.

I stand up, grabbing the dead man's spear, its reach will serve me better than my gladius. The scale of the carnage around me begins to seep in. An ever-shrinking thin red line is being pressed against the steep face of a wadi. A man, a boy, runs past me, armor bouncing. An arrow pierces his throat, and he collapses. Blood bubbles from the wound as he tries to speak, to understand that he is going to die. He looks at me, eyes confused, painfully hopeful. I plunge the spear into his chest, a quick death. A life mercifully taken.

I leave the spear in the dead boy's chest; it's too difficult to remove. Grabbing a nearby pilum instead, a wander aimlessly forward. At this point the battle, if it could even be called that, is finished. A legionnaire a few meters in front of me throws down his scutum and gladius before putting his hands up in surrender. A Parthian soldier steps forward to take him prisoner. A silver flash. The legionnaire collapses, throat slit. The Parthian laughs as if he was watching a street performer conduct some mystical trick. With naught but a single thought, I take two galloping steps forward and hurl the pilum and the laughing soldier. It flies true, easily piercing the man's leather gambeson, then the man. He stumbles backward, hand clutching the pilum's shaft. Eventually, he collapses, his corpse grotesquely propped up by the pilum for a split second before swaying to the left and hitting the ground. A life joyously taken.

I watch the Parthian die, relishing hissuffering. In but a blink, I'm suddenly surrounded by Parthian soldiers.There is no escape. Grinding, gut-wrenching pain consumes me as a spear isrammed clear through my left knee. My leg gives out instantly: muscles, nerves, and tendons brutally severed. My throat rebels as a scream, borne of animalinstinct, escapes my lips. My vision floods, my mind desperately trying to handlethe sensory overload. A burning thunderbolt pierces my right shoulder,collapsing me into the dirt. A fresh wave of agony wracks my body. My breathcomes in ragged bursts, half air and half dirt, while my tears cut whitestreaks across my dust-caked face. And the screams. Are they of man or ofbeast?