entrance. The whole placed seemed daunting, impossibly huge to Gaius’ young eyes. Thousands of men, most much older, stronger and more skilled than he lived there, it was literally a whole new world, which he knew nothing about that he was frightened to move another step forward and cross the threshold.
“Gaius,” Valerius begun, his voice firm, his eyes fixed. “What favor I may have shown you over the past few days has to end right here. I loved your father, and I promised him that I would take care of you, but you have to understand that once we go through those gates, I am your legate and your teacher, and nothing more. I will treat you no different than I would any of my other men, regardless of whose blood flows through your veins. Do you understand, Gaius?”
He didn’t answer right away as he took one long look around, absorbing his surroundings, watching the people, listening to the wind, and thinking back to everything he left behind. Honestly, he did not know if he was ready for this.
But then the faces of Antony and Julia flashed across his mind. He remembered the promise that he made to her, and the brotherhood that he and Antony had formed. He recalled his father’s words to him before they left the house, retelling in his mind the importance of the armor plate that was strapped to Gaius’ horse, and the legacy that it carried. He knew his childhood was over. He understood that much was going to be asked of him. He too knew it was his choice to ride through those gates.
With a heavy sigh, Gaius answered. “Yes. I am ready.”
Valerius nodded as he turned his horse back and continued towards the barracks of the Sixth Legion.
Gaius glanced over his shoulder, staring for a long while to the north. A part of him was saying his good-byes to where he came from. He wondered at this moment when he might return, if he ever would.
When the time was right, Gaius whispered, “goodbye' to his old life and kicked his horse, urging it forward to his new home.
CHAPTER NINE
“Ten years, brother, ten long years and there it is,” Mago said to his brother Hannibal as they stood shoulder-to-shoulder on horseback.
It was cold, more so than Hannibal had thought possible. Before him stood the peak of the Alps, which loomed like a monolithic wall that blocked him from his destiny. On the other side lied his bitter enemy, who for ten years since his sacking of Saguntum has stood beyond his reach, beckoning him with their arrogance and contempt for the rest of the world, to be vanquished. However, his Senate at home had nearly hampered Hannibal’s plans to carry out his father’s dream of seeing Rome kneeling before Carthage. They, when Rome had sent its emissaries to Carthage, a decade ago, broke under their threats. Since then, at a constant state of war with Rome, they had not turned Hannibal over to the Republic as demanded, but neither did the home-country support his efforts to start a war with Rome. As such, Hannibal had to build on his individual successes — form alliances on his own from captured or mined gold from Spain, and forge new friendships through victory over the Gallic barbarians that stood in his way. Now, all that stood before him was the mountains — a natural barrier that had kept the Italian peninsula protected for generations from invading armies by land.
Further in the rear both Hannibal and Mago’s attention was diverted by the noise from his war-elephants, which, despite their fearsome sizes and bravery were not adept for the cold climate of Europe. The creatures seemed to be in constant agony, four having already died as the army climbed higher — and yet, they hadn’t even begun the march into the actual Alps as of yet.
“How many do you think will make it?” Mago asked.
“Not enough,” Hannibal answered.
“I was referring to the men, not the beasts.”
Hannibal starred at his brother for a long moment before he answered. Already, he had begun this journey from Spain in the spring with fifty-five thousand men, and due to barbarian attacks and disease, he had lost eight thousand. Even so, he knew there would be many more to come. The bitter, relentless cold, the brutal environment, and those Gallic tribes that call the Alps their home would make sure that tens of thousands of Hannibal’s men would not live through the crossing.
“It does not matter, brother. Those that die are weak. I want only the strongest men for this campaign,” Hannibal answered sharply.
“And if I am among the dead, brother?” Mago asked seriously.
Hannibal leered at Mago for a moment. He knew that Mago knew best not to try to draw sympathy from Hannibal. He loved his brother as much as he should, but he loved his dream of a conquered Rome with more passion than any thousand siblings.
“Do not test me, brother. We will need the strongest to challenge Rome’s legions — not weak men who can’t survive cold. That pertains to my family as well, Mago. Now, signal for the march to begin. I will wait no longer — rain or snow,” Hannibal remarked as he kicked his horse, which galloped down the long formation of Carthaginian allied soldiers who had joined Hannibal’s endeavor.
“As you command, brother.”
* * *
Muscle and flesh collided with a loud
Neither man showed the slightest hint of weakness. Back and forth, they fought — breaking and colliding and countering the other’s moves and locks, until finally, one gave in to the other’s overwhelming strength.
One competitor was a giant of a man. He had short black hair that was cut close to his skull. His muscles, nearly as large as melons, were covered in sweat, which rolled in between the rippling folds of his arms, back and shoulders. His legs seemed as if they had been forged in fire, crafted from the finest iron, impossible to break.
The second man was shorter by a good eight inches. With short close-cropped blonde hair, this man’s body was no less defined then the larger of the two. The height, however, was something the shorter man was having difficulties overcoming. He continually struggled to position his body in the stance that would allow him to overpower the larger man.
His youthful face was covered in sweat and showed the agony he was in as he began to lose any advantage he might have had when the two first locked together.
With an angry grunt of frustration, his grip slipped, just slightly. That, unfortunately, was all the large man needed as he grabbed hold of his opponent’s wrist; twisting it until he broke the smaller man’s hold entirely.
In one painful pull, the taller man lifted his opponent up and over his head before slamming him squarely onto his back.
Sand kicked up into the musty air as the defeated man lay still on his back, eyes closed his entire body racked with pain. This had been the fourth time this afternoon he was put down so hard.
Opening his eyes, the sun glaring down, the defeated man lifted himself back to his feet as the victorious opponent laughed at his sorry and tired state. He wasn’t alone as half a dozen men too joined the jubilation.
“Gods be damned!' Yelled the defeated man as he wiped sand off of his bare-chested body.
