A long free verse poem about a battle and its aftermath, set in Roman times. |
The morning dawns frigid and gray. We all know this day will see the end to the army of the barbarians and that our victory will extend Roman law and Roman peace to this primitive place, plus bring added glory to Rome and Caesar. Victory means our return to Rome! I am a Centurion. I have fought in four campaigns in all corners of the Empire. I wear many battle scars won in service to the greater glory of Rome. Never have I encountered more ferocious fighters than these Celtic tribesmen, brave warriors each, but an undisciplined rabble. In formation my cohort is taking the field when from the woods pours a yelling horde of Celts, sworn by blood oath to fight to the death. We form a turtle swiftly, break and repel their wild charge, then begin our orderly advance. The air is filled with the stamping of hundreds of feet marching in step -- trampling noxious weed and scented beauty alike, the clang of metal against metal, the thud of metal against hide, the screams of men and horses ... the din of battle is disorienting to the uninitiated. The air we breathe in carries the smell of dust, sweat, fear, urine, and blood. The battle rages for hours … attack and counterattack, flank and be flanked, but steadily, inexorably, the battle turns to our advantage. There is no army in the world to match the superiority of Roman legions! Their army of vertical warriors is becoming a field of prone casualties – the dead and the maimed. The brown earth wears a red paint. Bodies, severed heads and limbs, appendages litter the battleground. Groans of misery reverberate. I have witnessed this scene too many times to care about the carnage. I am leading my cohort forward when an arrow pierces my left knee – an inconvenient wound. Then a spear penetrates my right side. Falling to the ground, I hear myself exhort, “Fight on, my brave legionnaires, for honor and glory!” I lie among the dead and the dying. Pain clouds my mind. My life’s blood flows into the ground. I press against my side wound to dampen the hemorrhaging. The early afternoon sun is overhead, warming my body as it lies still among the forest of felled fighters. All is quiet now, save for the sporadic moans of agony from unrelenting pain. The battle has moved into the far distance, where the remnants of the courageous Celtic force are being converted into an army of martyrs. Vultures, come to feast on the foolishness of Man, circle overhead cautiously, deliberately as they select a likely tasty corpse. A large bird, bolder than his peers, lands nearby, hops hungrily over to my body, jumps upon my chest, and pecks with ardent vigor at my bloody wounded side, ripping away flesh. Searing pain arouses me. I lash out at the fiend, launching him into frantic flight. I summon the strength to yell, “Not today, old friend. This Centurion shall live to see Rome, to see home and wife once again.” And I do. Please check out my ten books: http://www.amazon.com/Jr.-Harry-E.-Gilleland/e/B004SVLY02/ref=ntt_dp_epwbk_0 |