Gladiators of Rome:Short Stories

Return to Britannica - I

"We are the last people on earth, and the last to be free: our very remoteness in a land known only to rumour has protected us up till this day. Today the furthest bounds of Britain lie open—and everything unknown is given an inflated worth. But now there is no people beyond us, nothing but tides and rocks and, more deadly than these, the Romans."
- Tacitus

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I

The path into her childhood village had become overgrown with grass from where there was a lack of people to walk upon it and keep it down. So the vegetation was allowed to grow into tall blades of untouched green grass that brushed against her brown leather trousers. Emerging from the woods Frieda shivered as she slowly walked through the fields, the morning dew lingering. The air was so crisp and clear compared to the pollution of Rome that every time she breathed in it felt as if she was freezing from the inside out, it was almost too painful.

She felt her fingers grow numb and when she looked down she realised that she had been gripping her sword handle without knowing it. Unclenching her grasp Frieda spread her hands out to the side and hesitatingly skimmed her fingers over the tips of the grass, afraid that at any moment it might all be snatched away from her once again but also unable to believe that she was truly there after all the years that had passed. As she walked along the path that now only existed in her memory, she found herself looking upwards towards the blue sky which seemed to have not aged a day. Even the clouds were the same as she remembered them being when she was younger. Her elation gave way to shame and sadness as she thought about how much had changed since that time, yes the sky might have remained the same but nothing else had. Everything had changed and would forever be changed.

Wiping her nose with the back of her hand to distract her from the thoughts which threatened to make her eyes water, Frieda suddenly became aware of a burning smell which drifted to her on the soft morning breeze. Looking in front of her Frieda came to an abrupt halt as she realised that she was stood at the edge of the field of long grass she had just walked through and, subsequently, at the end of the path. Her village should have been before her, alive and bustling with screaming children and conversing adults haggling over the best price for meat, but there was only a large expanse of black, charred ground and the silence of lost souls.
Was the smell of burning in her mind or could she still see small wisps of smoke coming off the beams of timber which lay scattered along the ground, untouched since that night?

The grass rustled behind her and Frieda's instincts overrode her senses. Unsheathing her sword in an instant she turned to face her attacker but paused as they raised their hands in surrender. Breathing heavy Frieda frowned when she saw Diomed's eyes peering out at her in confusion. His eyes were the colour of the ocean and she realised that she felt just as lost on land as they had been at sea, and yet he stayed with her. Lowering her sword Frieda looked back around whilst Diomed looked down at something in the grass, and as he did so Frieda glimpsed the white scars on the back of scalp which ran deep under the surface. Short, prickly tuffs of blonde hair had begun to grow back randomly across his head a few years ago but Diomed always shaved them off, often nicking the scars as he did so leaving little red scratches on his crown. He looked up at that moment and saw her watching him.
Turning around she faced the edge of the field and stepped over the invisible threshold that lay only in her mind. She could see in her mind where the huts had been; to her left a pile of broken logs and timber was all that remained of a family's home. The air no longer seemed clear as she heard the roaring crackle of fire around her as it burned the straw and wood, the flames hot against her skin and the smoke rising until it clung to her lungs and blocked the sky. Turning a corner, Frieda spotted a burnt, degraded basket on the ground, most likely thrown to the side as its owner ran from the stampeding horses and invading Romans.