The Last Stand

The beat of the drums pounded, vibrating through the dense woodland. A throng of hairy, unkept warriors flowed steadily between the trees and shrubbery like water streaming over a rocky streambed. The barbarians’ long, untamed hair and thick facial hair were signs that they had been away from civilization for sometime. The tattered and worn clothing on their strong, muscular backs displayed that they were hardened soldiers, well adapted to their warring lifestyle. There was little expression of emotion amongst the battle-hardened warriors, the fatigue of war instilling in the men a feeling of despair and melancholy.

The war had been going on now for nearly a decade. Many men have died, their families being left to mourn the loss of a husband, or father. Nonetheless, despite their fading numbers, the drive and determination imbued within their spirits had not waned.

Amongst the battle-hardened army, a young adolescent mingled confidently among seasoned warriors. His name was Helmut. It was a significant day for the young lad, because on this very day a year ago Helmut had become assimilated into the Goth army. His “recruitment” into the ranks, though not entirely involuntarily, was not as appealing to him as remaining in the village of his birth. Helmut had settled comfortably into the farming lifestyle, finding much reward in providing for his mother and two younger brothers, Broderick and Magnus. However, the culture of the Goths demanded that any able bodied male partake in the militaristic way of life, especially at this pivotal point in history. And so like his father before him, the most ruthless army the known world may ever create was now the beholder of Helmut’s destiny. Such a destiny wills from a man only one thing, lust for blood.

Hundreds of miles away the war seemed to be in full bloom. The snowy mountain tops of the Southern Alps cast its shadow over the fields of battle. It appeared as though God himself was trying to block the horrific scene from his vision. The once flowery and lush pastures that met with the base of the magnificent mountains had been trampled and stained with the blood of countless victims. The war now was at the foot of Caesar’s doorstep. Only time could tell when that door, once thought invulnerable, would come crashing down.

A bugle horn sounded as the sun crept slowly over the horizon. It was a new day, something every man in the camp dreaded. The tent flap flew open tumultuously as Prometheus emerged, a confident smile playing on his lips. He let in a deep breath through his nostrils, smelling the fresh sweetness of the dewy grass. A young squire rushed before him, “Good morning, sire,” he said as he held out a scroll with the wax mark of the Roman Empire, “a messenger has relayed you a missive from Caesar, my liege.” Prometheus’ smile faded, as his eyes glaringly leveled with that of the squire’s, his hand snapping the scroll from him. He impatiently unrolled the scroll and scanned over it quickly, his brow furrowing as his eyes passed over the text. Letting out a sigh he rolled the scroll back up tucking it behind his golden breastplate. “Have my officers organized in the war tent immediately,” Prometheus said, “and pack my personal effects. It’s time to move.”


The light from the sun came down in singular shafts, broken from the dense canopy that hung over Helmut’s head. He had been working diligently from sunup, some three hours ago. His strong hands and arms swung the heavy axe into the jagged wedge at the base of the giant oak tree. The chopping of his axe was all that he heard for over an hour, stopping only to wipe the streams of sweat that seemed to pour from his dark, black locks.

“Timmmberrrrr!” Helmut yelled as the tree began to buckle over, causing men working around him to clear away – and fast.
The thunderous boom of the giant tree shook the whole encampment as it smacked hard onto the forest floor. “Well done, Helmut,” a hairy, rugged man nearby said, “I’m sure the cap’n’ll be pleased with that one. Who knows how many arrows, or bows, or spears we can make from that beast of a tree… real good work.” Helmut grinned to him, “Thanks, Bjorn. I just hope its enough to keep me alive for at least a few more battles.” Bjorn let out a short chuckle and turned his back to Helmut to continue sharpening his halberd.

As soon as Helmut thought he would be able to get a short stint of rest after felling the great oak, an eerie silence fell across the forest. The horn of the Goths suddenly broke the silence and bellowed through the trees. Helmut let out a disgruntled grumble, the sound of the horn implying that it was time to go. “Don’t worry, lad,” Bjorn said to Helmut with a smile, “that tree isn’t going anywhere. We’ll be able to get it on the way back.” Helmut shrugged and made no reply, his sapphire eyes had a look of defeat as he picked up his axe. Slinging the axe over his shoulder, Helmut meandered steadily back to his small encampment. Once there he packed up what few belongings and food supplies he had into a rough sack, doused the embers that had been smoldering since breakfast, and made his way to the main camp where he had been instructed to go by the echo of the great horn.

The forest opened up into a vast clearing where the majority of the Goth barbarians congregated. They stood patiently in a semi-circle looking inward to what appeared to be the commander of the formidable army; his massive horned helmet a symbol of rank amongst the Goth people. “On this day, we begin our voyage to Rome,” the nearly seven-foot commander said proudly, “the time has come to end the tyrannical rule of Caesar. We have already maimed the beast of the Roman Empire, now it is time to cut off her head!” The warriors burst into uproarious cheers, a sea of swords, spears, and axes stabbing violently up at the sky. The commander raised his hands high to quell the excitement for a moment, “Today we go! The Gods have mandated our glory on this day, and it is solely up to us to behold the fruits of victory!” Another earth quaking cheer vibrated through the lush and dense woodland, echoing beyond flowery meadows to the steppes of the Alps, sending a clear message to all that stood between the Goths and the fateful bloody battle that was inevitably upon them.


A lingering mist acted as a mask for the advancing Romans. The usually vibrant gold and red colors of the uniformed soldiers appeared dull and lifeless under the guise of the fog. Prometheus sat proudly atop his noble steed, trotting along steadily with the rest of the troops. The only sound that could be heard was the marching of armored men, their steel and iron wear clanking steadily with the pounding of stomping feet and hooves. The army was a formidable size, ten thousand men in its entirety, fully armored and well-rested. Prometheus rode with his officers in the central focal point of the army, surrounded by legions of battle-hardened infantrymen, archers, cavalry and the notorious phalanx. The phalanx of the Roman Empire had become quite reputable throughout the lands conquered by the Romans. Essential in defensive formations, the phalanx were key to the overwhelming power that the Empire exerted on its foes. They were able to stop the advance of even the strongest cavalry with their barrage of sharp spears and the protection of their massive shields. To some, the phalanx was solely the reason behind the militaristically dominant Roman Empire.

Prometheus grew anxious as his troops marched deeper into the fog, not being able to see more than ten feet in front of him, restricting his sight to only the mounted officers that rode steadily at his side. “The fog grows thicker by the moment, my liege,” a middle-aged lieutenant said to his captain, “I hope it clears by the morrow.” Prometheus held his clean shaven head high as he rode, honoring the lieutenant with a reply, “I often relinquish in the peacefulness of the fog of war, Cassius. The element of surprise is a powerful weapon, and if the fog remains by the morrow, it will be those Goth savages who will feel the cold steel of my blade in their backs.” Prometheus grinned brightly at the sound of his words, knowing full well there was nothing to stop him from being recorded in the history books as the great protector and savior of Rome. Cassius looked to his captain with uncertain eyes, thinking his ego may be leading him into madness.


The surf from the roaring Mediterranean pulsed heavily, sloshing back and forth against the rocky coastline. Further inland the coastal plain had not lifted its foggy shroud. The plan was to follow the smooth coastline and flank the Goth forces from a southerly direction. Prometheus had hoped to catch them off guard, making the predetermination that the uncivilized, inept Goth commander would lead his forces through the mountain pass between the Italian Alps.

Prometheus led his army proudly across the sandy plains. The troops had been marching for nearly a full day now, the exhaustion starting to set in just as the sun was going down. The pleas for rest from his officers did not faze Prometheus. He was determined to cover as much ground as humanly possible; he was not going to make camp just yet.


The rumble of pounding feet quaked the surrounding landscape, the fresh, unscathed vegetation trampled under the boots of the advancing Goths. Helmut ran hard alongside his brethren, wielding his shimmering broadsword. The vapors from his breath plumed like smoke from the barbarous fire burning within his vessel. He could look to either side of him, as he surged ahead, and see his brothers in arms, Bjorn among them. Helmut’s expression became one mixed with signs of happiness and adrenaline-induced rage.

“Ahhhhhh!” Helmut let out an emotionally charged scream as he ran, his brothers joined him. They thrust there weapons high as they ran through the soupy fog. As Helmut ran as he saw that a few men had stopped and equipped bows or spears they have been carrying. He smirked and continued to surge forward with his brothers.

Helmut knew they were close. Helmut knew that the moment of truth was near its climax. The Romans will be upon him and his brothers soon. Helmut did not falter at the thought of death; he confidently rushed toward the uncertainty of war. Though the only thing that was consciously in Helmut’s mind at that peak of lucid, adrenaline-cleansed thought was just how giant the tree he cut down earlier was.


The fog began to thin as the night sky showed itself to Roman soldiers when suddenly a dull roar echoed from beyond the dark soupy haze. It was too late. Prometheus’ expression displayed to his men the terrible truth they all feared. Almost as fast as the feeling of perdition set in, a hail of spears and arrows came cascading down on the off-guard Romans. There was no time for the soldiers to act, the Goths were upon them. Men dropped lifelessly from the hail of missiles. Sharply carved arrows struck with amazing precision.

Those who had survived the first wave struggled to rapidly create some sort of defensive formation, knowing the Goths were to advance at any moment. The remaining fog had maintained the low visibility factor, the troops not being able to see more than fifty feet around them in any direction.

Prometheus had survived the first barrage of piercing death, his officers encircling him with their nervous steeds. “They are upon on us, sire! They have caught us by complete surprise! How could this happen, sire?!” Cassius yelled to Prometheus as he fought to keep his horse steady. Prometheus maintained his pride and rode his horse hard toward Cassius, striking him down blindly with his cold blade. “How dare you challenge me?!” Prometheus yelled, his eyes burning with furious madness. “Ride you bastards! Ride!” With that his officers scattered and left Prometheus to ride hard into the mysterious dark.


Helmut charged fast through the misty plains, adrenaline coursing through his vessel. He ran side by side with his brothers in arms, all yelling cries of battle, holding their weapons high – and ready. As the fog cleared the Romans shiny plate mail glistened under the fractured moonlight, Helmut and his warriors swarming down upon them. The clanging of metal against metal rang through the darkness. Dark blood sprayed over the battlefield like black paint from a heavenly paintbrush, the earth posing as some kind of ungodly canvas.

Helmut was breathing heavily, his bearded face smeared with blood from victims he and his brethren had slain. The unexpectant Romans were felled mercilessly. They didn’t have a chance against the Goths. Even the phalanxes were unable to use their lethal formation against the onslaught. Helmut ran through jumbled bunches of men, slashing his broadsword back and forth through exposed flesh. Each wound dealt was lethal; Helmut let every blow fly with tremendous power. The Roman soldiers were dwindling in number fast, in only a few moments the fields of battle were stained with the proud blood of the Roman Empire.


Prometheus fought through the Goth horde, striking down on his foes from atop his unsteady mount. He was battling alone amongst a pack of Goth soldiers when Helmut saw him. Prometheus’ officers had left his side, leaving him unassisted and outnumbered. His closest allies had abandoned him. There was nothing left for him to do but survive.

The fierce Goth warriors charged at Prometheus, but to no avail. He was not the commander of Caesar’s army without reason. His power and skill was no match for the barbarians. Helmut watched through the dark mist as his brethren were slain by the proud Prometheus. A new hatred grew inside Helmut as the blood of his countrymen dyed the gray mist with a red haze.

Helmut let loose a furious roar and charged toward Prometheus. He held his sword tightly with both hands as he ran hard toward his horse. When Helmut was close he leveled the blade, sending it deep into Prometheus’ steed. Prometheus did not see Helmut coming; he was distracted fending off another attacker when his horse was stabbed. The horse collapsed and sent Prometheus rolling to the ground, his gold hilted longsword flying from his hand.

Prometheus shook his head as he fought to get to his knees, only to meet the point of Helmut’s blade at eye level. “You’ve won, savage. You’ve defeated Rome’s last. May the good lord reap his vengeance upon you!” Prometheus yelled loudly at Helmut, Helmut’s gaze piercing through his proud eyes looking into his soul to reveal Prometheus’ truly authoritarian self. Helmut roared back at Prometheus, “You will pay for the blood of my brethren, and those who were innocent victims of Caesar’s tyranny! The raping and pillaging of my people’s villages by you Roman devils will end now! And your head will be the trophy marking the end of Caesar and his Empire!” With that Helmut cocked back his lethal blade and slashed home, bringing a quick, violent end to Prometheus.


Soon after Prometheus’ death the remaining Romans either fled into the surrounding terrain, journeying into new lands, or were finished off by the victorious Goths. Those Romans who were able to flee eventually assimilated into the local culture, risking death if they should attempt a return to their homelands.

For the road from Milan to Rome was now devastated from the spoils of war. There was no turning back, Rome had fallen. It is the end of a dynasty mandated by God. A great hero must now rise up through the ashes and bring to fruition a new order. An order that will maintain freedom, bring peace, and preserve justice. That hero, of course, has been found in a young farm boy turned liberator of tyranny, his name is Helmut.