Metrius was sitting high on a ledge. From here, he felt like an eagle, looking down on the fields below. It was the same patch work of fields he had fought on several weeks ago; before he had been a patient of Romulus’ private doctors and before Romulus had confronted the senators. Today would not be settled in a simple one-on-one fight.

With his arm in a sling, and a splint strengthening the lower arm that had become swollen and blackened, this would not be his fight. Instead, he was a spectator and this brought a mixture of emotions to him. He felt disappointed; he would miss the song of the warriors ringing out their challenge; the clash of the phalanxes as one; the victory of breaking the opponent’s line. Yet he felt thankful. In this old, rickety body he would not be able to survive another fight like the one he had barely survived.

In the first week after the battle it hadn’t really registered with him. It seemed to be a bad dream, one that he thought he would wake up from. The doctors had tended his wounds as best he could and he had lain in bed, the pain numbing his thoughts. Agathon had described Metrius’ past to him; a tale of courage and honor, bravery showing through time and time again. At first the boy had been unsure of himself, struggling to understand his master’s needs, but then he had become lost in the story, caught up in his own words and awe of Metrius’ endeavors.

And Metrius had remembered nothing of it.

Below, the battle hymn of the hoplites was being sung and the valley rang out with the deep, melodic tone. Voice that were ready to fight. Voices that were ready to die. Spread out over the battle field, the organized packets of miniature soldiers faced each other off; to kill or be killed.

Turning to Agathon, Metrius gestured to the battlefield, “Have you ever fought in such a battle?” Even the smile he gave felt weary.

The youngster shook his head, “I have served you since I was taken from my tribe.”

Another failed memory to taunt him. His eyes glazed over as he remembered fighting through the gates of Rome, “Never expect glory in battle. There’s only bloodshed and death.” The words came from his mouth, a warning he would give anyone whose eagerness carried them into the fray but he knew they weren’t fully true. After the battle, viewing the mutilated bodies and hearing the moans of disappear and pain; yes, it was sickening to the soul. But when you fought alongside your brothers, it was as if the gods themselves were with you.

Hearing the singing stop, he looked down to see the hoplite phalanxes had broken into a trot: a slow steady run that would keep them in order but allow them momentum. On the right, Romulus and his bodyguard fought. They were the cream of the army, the veterans, and they held the weakest end of the line. There the most killing would be and there the battle would be decided.

Two waves sped across the field, driven towards each other by energy that filled the air. Closer and close, on a path of collision, till the walls of adrenalin hit home. The clash of steel on steel was more audible from high up, as were the screams of pain.

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http://www.xomba.com/short_story_list_metrius_and_others