Chapter 6

The crowd’s roar becomes stronger when the Red Wolf draws first blood by hitting the Iron Ram’s head, the Ram spits out blood but isn’t down yet so he strikes back at the Red Wolf’s side. The Wolf immediately blocks it and kicks the Iron Ram in the chest and hits his face again with the sword. Killing isn’t allowed in Gladiatorial games anymore, the weapons are blunted and hollow but the attacks still draw blood and blood is all the crowd really cares for. As for me all I care about is the rush of the crowd and the thrill of watching the Champion Of Capua defeat his opponent. But all of my hopes of seeing victory turns dim as the Iron Ram sweeps the Red Wolf’s feet and kicks his face as the Wolf’s body hits the ground. The crowd’s thunderous applause turns into loud cries of fear and worry as the Iron Ram raises his 2 swords to finish off the Champion of Capua.

I wake up to the smell of vomit and wine mixed together. I open my drapes and realize I just missed the victory celebrations last night. The large stain puddles that look like vomit and dozens of wine bottles, grain ale and Blueberry rum jugs strewn across the tent’s floor are clear evidence of it. Silhouettes of female figures are visible behind the drapes of my tent mates; I guess the Legions had some special company last night. As I step out of the tent the smell of burned meat and drink fills my nostrils, I look around and find the encampment in complete disaster. Bottles lying all over, soldiers sleeping on the ground, roasting meat left to burn in the bonfires and not to mention the smell of regurgitated celebratory food coming from the puddles left all over the camp. I seriously missed a true Remanian party

My stomach begins to rumble so I start looking for something to eat. I flip over some plates and pick up an untouched hunk of cow ribs out of a pile of bones, I then pick up some bread and begin to eat while walking around the encampment. I finish off the bread and ribs and wash it off with a bottle of Blueberry Rum I picked up on the way, I find some burned meat on a spit which tasted a bit like a fleshy chicken. It’s turkey, haven’t had one since Capua.

Home, I’ll be hitting it in a few days now. Maybe I’ll finally get that normal life Uncle Servo wanted for us from the start. I picture Lurti and Molag married to their wives and raising children. I’ve always wanted to be the story telling type of uncle, one who’d tell the little nieces and nephews about the old day. But I on the other hand, I never pictured myself settling down with a family, in fact I don’t think I’ve ever pictured my future at all. I spent 5 years adapting to this hell, even though I lived in constant fear all the time.

There was a thrill that battle gave you that you wouldn’t feel anywhere else. The battle cries, the roar of gunfire, the cranking of war machines and the clashing of steel. I loved it; even though I missed Capua it seemed that the battlefield was beginning to feel like my first home.

I look at my hands and begin to take notice of how scarred they are. The rough spots in my palms show clear marks from the sword hilts and shield handles. My fingers are filled with so many scars there isn’t any smooth skin left. They barely resemble the hands that were owned by the butcher’s assistant all those years back. I wonder if I can even go back to being that kind of person, my time here has been my reality; you spend enough time in a hell, you’ll begin to think it’s a paradise. Now that is a nightmare, and I’m not even asleep.

I immediately begin to down the bottle of rum but then I stop myself when I remember Varkii in his drunken states, he would always cry when drunk while he would scream Uncle Servo’s name. The cause for his drunkenness was because it was he who found Uncle Servo’s dead body in our home. He vomited on the floor out of sheer fear and despair and cleaned his mouth by finishing a bottle of wine. He was only 12 when he became addicted to drinking.

I shudder at the thought of me becoming a drunk but the thought of changing my life again completely bothers me. I drop the bottle and slap myself a bit. “Shut up you idiot.” I tell myself as I stand up and continue walking around the camp.

It’s basically the same all around the camp, soldiers sleeping on the ground, puddles of vomit, meat burning on the fires and inside the tents I see the silhouettes of a man and a woman clearly visible through the drapes. I walk near the side of camp where the Knights and some officer’s tents were placed; there was a tent that was brightly decorated with the various images of Knights riding out into battle, woven into the tapestry. I recognized it immediately, nearly every soldier despised the owners of the tent; The Dwyle Clan, an arrogant group of young noblemen who bragged about their achievements of slaying scores of peasant villages who they allegedly believed were supporters of some Persian division that cut deep into Remanian Territory. But everyone knew the Dwyle Clan mainly consisted of glory hounds and inexperienced squires pretending to be Knights. I give the customary spit at the side of the tent as I pass it by while I continue towards the center of the camp itself. At the center stood over 15 Golden Lions perched on wooden blocks positioned on top of large banners. They were the Legionary Lions of the armies of the Northern Border. The Lions symbolized importance of Remas itself, every major Legion was given a Legionary Lions it meant that Remas has seen fit to trust that Legion in continuing a long term military campaign. The number of Legionary Lions a single Legion possesses gives it priority in requisitioning supplies and special war machines. In short, only the most decorated Legions were given Lions, because Remas was sure that those specific Legions would never fall. So far the Bright Tigers had 4. One more and they could request a Company of Spartan Vanguards.

I read the words inscribed on the base of each of the Lions, “All for the Glory of Remas.” The words were carved on a metal plate sticking on a platform, I think about the all the battles I’ve been through and all the blood that has touched my hands. I remember Riiger’s blood soaked Crucifix. I remember each and every fellow soldier who died in front of me. I look at my right arm and feel the bloody bandages wrapped tightly around them. “For the Glory of Remas” I mutter and walk back towards my tent as the sun slowly begins to rise.