Morning, I.

Finally, being on throt with his retinue and formation after formation of his legions on the march, Marcus was feeling much better. As if the air itself was flowing easier to his chest. This was a welcomed change, for he already made sure that the order to “seek” a widespread confrontation and to take advantage of any and every sign of fragility from the enemy was sent down until every Decanus. He would not be the one to disappoint Mars today, nor would he sully his great name. As he cast his cape to the rear of his horse, he noticed his primus housecarl was riding within earshot.

– I have a very good feeling about today, ere …?

+ Your loyal servant, domine, my name is of insignificance now. You should know that I fully share your spirit.

It was unusual for a General of his magnitude and nobility to accommodate such closure with a housecarl, even if the subject was down-to-earth Marcus Crassus. Donning a faint smirk, he went on:

– Once we get a breakthrough, a single puncture through their lines, those Parthian banners of theirs will turn just as crimson as ours, washed with their own blood!

+ They sure will, your highness. Cannot wait to cast them all into the flames.

At that moment, Marcus could not tell if his housecarl was being too smart for his own good or becoming a Yes Man, for he was getting on in years. It did not matter either way, he was now busy with calming his horse down and scanning the horizon for he knew the beast was feeling something. It was also getting hotter a lot faster than the recent days he spent in this desert as if the weather itself was heating up from the battle that was about to brew. Mere moments later he saw it, it was not even necessary for his scouts to sound the horns anymore. As piercing as the sun was getting by every minute, so were the dust clouds on the horizon enlargening: The enemy was approaching.

Late Afternoon, III.

When he finally caught his breath enough to erect his torso, he immediately realized that the damage was far worse than he initially feared. Now he knew for sure that he suffered a concussion, and judging by how battered his left leg was looking, he was not sure whether he should even attempt to stand up.

This brought him no comfort, however; he needed to move if his desire was anything else than becoming a slow-roasted chunk of vulture food. He was never the man of inaction anyways, just like now; when all the pain he was in was shouting at him to just lie there and die. He did not need to scan his surroundings much to find an intact pilum, as the bladed side of the javelin was more than halfway through the chest of one of his comrades who was laying on his back.

Having reached the grip of the thing, the weapon slid right off the body of the man it was lodged in; leaving a nasty fleshy hole of a star shape, vaguely. The good news was his arms and right leg were functional. The bad news was pretty much anything and everything else, starting with his left leg resembled more of a basked of mushed plums than a limb, spread remotely in a cylindric fashion. Using every muscle he possibly could, he slammed the javelin into the crimson sand and rose up.

Strangely enough, the world that was proper turned swiftly upside down as he stood up. And with a strong contraction, he began to puke right where he stood, so strong that he was unsure whether he was throwing his organs up or not. All this was adding to the decimated carnage laying around his feet, with no way of telling if he puked blood or if it mixed with the natural flora of the recent slaughter. Nor did it matter, he was now barely standing, shakingly, with his eyes closed.

Not knowing how long he stood right there, leaning on a bloodied javelin, almost looking like a snoozing castle guard on duty, except he was not. What he needed to know struck him as lightning then, causing him to open his eyes like a menaced animal: Marcus! Whatever hellhole he was in with Marcus and his army, he had to find his master and save him if it was not too late already. Kissing his necklace with a deep breath, he prepared himself to look into the faces of the dead around him. As he took a step and wiggled like weed in a wind, so did his uncanny necklace; the grim likeness of a crux.