Gods and Legions

I

We arrived several days later, shortly after the noon hour, after talking our way past Barbatio's guard outposts and across the river on a rickety supply ferry. Even this far toward the Rhine's source, and in the low waters of summer, the river was wide and sluggish. Trotting north along the well-traveled road, signs of Barbatio's camp became evident miles before we actually arrived. For yards on either side of the road the land had been laid bare — clear-cut of its enormous, centuries-old fir and pine trees, the terrain shorn and denuded of all but the slenderest of saplings. Limbs and brush had been dragged into mounds and burned to charred heaps. Skid roads and wagon ruts crossed the land at all angles where the huge logs were still being bucked and dragged away by Gallic drovers using enormous teams of oxen — twenty-four, sometimes thirty-six or more, enough muscle power and raw materials to build an entire city.

Upon rounding the final bend before Barbatio's camp, I drew up my horse in astonishment. There before me lay not the small, temporary trading post and river docks I had been led to believe would be the site of the Roman encampment, but a veritable fortress city, constructed entirely of wood. For months Barbatio's army had been here, and the general had spared no effort or expense in securing the comfort and safety of his troops. Wharves extended far out into the river, braced sturdily on pillars of the same straight, heavy trunks I had seen dragged on sledges from the forests upstream; broad storehouses and depots were built directly on the piers, with others lining the riverbank for a hundred yards, all sided with sawed planks nailed on sturdy posts and beams; and the troops' barracks, hundreds of identical, flat-topped log huts neatly arrayed on carefully measured quadrants, each capable of sleeping eight or ten soldiers. The blocks of houses extended up the slope for a quarter mile, with the officers' quarters nearest the river somewhat larger and more luxuriously appointed. Surrounding the whole was a high palisade, the tips of the logs hewn to rough points, the walls fronted by a deep and broad ditch.

There was clearly no fear of attack at the moment, however, and the guard posts were minimal. The few men in the city itself were calmly going about their daily tasks, the sick and injured were recuperating on their litters by the street in the warm sun. The entire population, it seemed, both legionaries and hired hands, was swarming over the quays and docks, for it was here that the most amazing structure of all was to be found.

At this point the river was some five hundred yards across, at first glance a placid stream. But beneath its smooth surface, it bore a rapid current capable of carrying even the heaviest boats downstream at a man's jogging pace — in fact, the heavier the vessel, the faster. A deeper keel reached currents that would whisk the ship along at a speed that far surpassed that of lighter rafts and dinghies bobbing at the calm surface. Here Barbatio was constructing his bridge, one capable of sustaining the march of five Roman legions with their wagons and supplies, and their subsequent return loaded with barbarian plunder.

Pairs of huge pilings had been laboriously driven into the river a hundred feet apart across the entire expanse of the water, while across each such span heavy hempen ropes were stretched securely, forming the solid bracing for what was to follow. Stretched in a gently curving train from the right bank was an enormous line of barges and rafts — not of uniform length or width, but a motley assortment of craft, including grain and supply barges seized from the Alemanni and rude pontoons assembled locally by the soldiers. These were lined up end to end, the bow of each vessel securely lashed to the stern of the next, with the entire column passing between each pair of pillars. The sturdy ropes stretched between these pilings prevented the lateral movement that would have caused the entire line to shift downstream from the pull of the current.

The bridge was complete but for a short space in the middle, with room for perhaps two or three vessels, which were being poled along the existing portions of the bridge, readied for insertion into their places. Along the entire length hundreds of soldier-carpenters labored like ants, carrying flat-planed boards laboriously cut by teams of naked troops along the bank, working in pairs at crosscut saws. The planks too were laid end to end and nailed securely along the line of craft, lending rigidity to the entire structure at the joints between vessels, and forming two parallel tracks precisely the width of wagon wheels. This would provide a uniform surface on which the troops could march during the crossing the next day and, more important, stability for the hundreds of supply wagons to follow, drawn by skittish horses and oxen that would rebel at any more than a gentle swaying of the craft beneath their feet.

I stood on the low ridge above the encampment for an hour watching the unhurried but relentless labor below, one of the greatest examples of Roman military engineering I had seen. Finally, feeling the fatigue of my journey, I urged my horse into a slow trot and made my way along the hardpacked street to the general staff building, a two-story, framesided structure with legion pennants fluttering at the door.

This I was not even permitted to enter, for when the sentry was informed that I came from Julian, he curtly called into the doorway, summoning his cohort commander.

'General Barbatio is occupied with final preparations for tomorrow's crossing,' the man stated in a matter-of-fact tone. 'He cannot see you now.'

'May I at least make an appointment to see him later?' I inquired wearily.

The officer looked at me more closely. 'Are you an army officer?' he asked suspiciously.

'No, sir — the Caesar's personal physician and his envoy. I have an important request for your commander. I need a few moments of his time.'

The man paused and stroked his chin thoughtfully. 'Come by this evening,' he said. 'I'll see what I can do. In the meantime, take your rest in the officers' barracks behind us. There are several empty cots. You can eat with us in the staff commissary while you're here.'

I nodded gratefully, and leaving my horse I walked slowly to the barracks, the weariness now weighing on me like a leaden blanket. Seeing that the first cot at the door had no baggage and appeared not to have been slept in, I dropped my bag at the foot, collapsed onto it, and immediately fell asleep.

I awoke with a start. The hut in which I lay was still empty, but from the darkness I judged I had slept for hours, and the night was now well advanced. Standing hurriedly, I strode to the doorway and stepped into the street, dismayed to see by the height of the moon that the time must have been near midnight. Still, the sawing and hammering continued at the same steady pace I had heard at midday. Dodging shifts of soldiers carrying long planks through the street, this time by the light of torches and camp lanterns, I walked over to the staff headquarters. There I found the cohort commander standing outside, chatting with the sentry.

He looked at me with a wry smile. 'And so the dead have risen.'

I returned his gaze with a surly expression. 'You could have awakened me so I wouldn't miss my interview with the general.'

'Wouldn't have done any good. The general hasn't been in his quarters all evening. Even now he's inspecting the bridge and conferring with his engineers. You did well by sleeping.'

I shrugged. 'I'll wander over to the bridge myself. Maybe I can corner him there.'

Stepping back into the street I followed the sounds of the heaviest activity and made my way to the foot of the bridge, which consisted of a massive wheat barge, fifty feet wide and two hundred feet long. A soldier told me the Alemanni had scuttled it in a swamp nearby, but Barbatio had ordered it raised and patched. Lashed securely fore and aft to two pairs of gigantic pilings, it formed the rocklike base for the entire right-bank side of the bridge, with room to spare for warehouse structures and toolsheds along its sides, sheltering the narrow plank road that had been constructed in the middle. A similar massive craft had been installed on the left bank.

The bridge, I saw in the moonlight, had been completed while I slept. The train of craft swept in an unbroken line the entire width of the river, the linked vessels swaying downstream slightly in gentle arcs between each set of pilings, like festive ribbons draped over an archway. In the middle, carpenters were completing construction of the plank road and further securing the crucial joints between the last craft that had been inserted.

The full moon shone bright and peaceful, rising high south of the bridge and casting beautiful shadows and glimmers the length of the river, a pale, liquid light that reflected almost effervescent on the water, illuminating its course for miles in either direction.

It was while peering at the moon's reflected gleam, its long white tail rippling playfully in the gently swaying surface, that I saw them.

Far upstream, they appeared almost as waves or shadows, perhaps merely the strange diversions of currents caused by the underwater shifting of sandbars or the remains of a bevy of stumps. I stared at them absentmindedly for a time, until I noticed that they were not stationary, but rather drifting steadily closer. A flotilla of boats perhaps? No, not boats, for they rode too low in the water. I strode out onto the bridge and trotted along the grain barge to the next vessel, which was not encumbered by the large warehouses obstructing my view upstream. Arriving at the end of the structures, I looked again.

They were closer now, not more than a half mile distant. Something more than ripples but less than ships, bearing down on the bridge with the relentless speed of the river's current. I looked around somewhat nervously, and seized the arm of a nearby centurion. He looked at me with irritation, but I merely pointed to the middle of the river upstream of the bridge. He followed the direction of my finger, and his expression changed from annoyance, to questioning, and finally to complete understanding — and fear. Suddenly he whirled, stepping onto the plank road and racing along the boards to the middle of the bridge.

'Logs!' he cried. This produced no response from anyone, as the city and bridge were surrounded by logs. 'Bearing down from upstream!' he shouted. 'Clear the bridge! Clear the bridge!'

I looked back upstream. Logs, enormous specimens, seven, eight, and nine feet across, were riding low and menacingly in the water like huge marauding sea creatures, bearing down upon the very center of the bridge with all the speed the irrepressible river could offer. Thirty of them, no, fifty, a hundred in all, on a front a hundred yards wide, in perfect true to the current, pointed like arrows at the heart of Barbatio's structure. Now the din rose as men saw them coming, and as they realized the consequences of being on the bridge when the massive missiles struck. Soldiers and carpenters dropped their tools where they stood, tossing planks to the side or into the water, rushing forward or back, some on the far end losing their heads and running back to the near side so as not to be stranded away from the Roman encampment. Men pushed and jostled, tripping over one another and bottlenecking at unfinished sections of the planking, all eyes fixed upstream at the silent black shadows bearing down on them.

The initial impact caused a sickening crunch, and a shudder snaked through the structure from center to ends, like a rope that has been sharply snapped. Timbers groaned and creaked as the huge logs smashed ponderously into the vertical pilings, loosening them like tent stakes kicked from the ground. As the logs hit, the force of the current rotated them sideways, and their rear ends swung around, slamming their full length and weight against the slender ties of the bridge.

But that was all. After the shudder and groan — silence. The bridge had held, barely, although it was bowing out dangerously where several of the support pilings had been uprooted. Yet still the bridge held! The men on both ends broke into a spontaneous cheer of relief, echoing across the silent river — yet their jubilation was short-lived.

At first I thought it could only be shadows, the trick plays of moonlight on overwrought eyes. But pushing my way through the crowds of men to the front closest to the center, I soon realized I was mistaken.

'Barbarians!' someone shouted. 'It's the Alemanni!'

It was pandemonium. I stood rooted to the spot as the unarmed men behind me rushed again to the ends of the bridge for safety. First dozens, then hundreds of dark, shadowy figures, their naked bodies painted black with grease, clambered over the logs under which they had been hiding, some still clutching the hollow reeds through which they had been breathing as they had floated beneath and beside the missiles they had aimed at the bridge. Working rapidly and nimbly, they drew long knives and swords from their belts, and with trained strokes began hacking at the support ropes strung between the pilings, sawing at the lashings linking together the rafts and barges, using sticks and levers to pry up the planks that had been so painstakingly smoothed, fitted, and installed.

Within moments the middle of the bridge had been broken, and the first loosened vessel began floating away down the stream. With the structural tension released, the two ragged ends in the middle also began bowing out, and as the surface current began rushing through the breach, the jam of logs too began exerting inexorable pressure on the weak spot that had been opened.

Another cry rose up from Barbatio's men, this one of outrage at seeing their work destroyed by a handful of greased apes. With a roar that was echoed by their counterparts on the left bank, men seized tools lying about — axes and adzes, pry bars, boards, even the occasional sword or bow, and rushed in an angry mob toward the middle of the bridge, which was now swaying ominously, the ragged ends drifting steadily away from the linear into a curve down the stream.

'Don't let them get away!' I heard someone cry, and looking up I saw an officer in full dress armor bearing a crimson cloak — General Barbatio. 'Seize those criminals!'

But the Alemanni had seen us coming. With white smiles glowing eerily in the moonlight from their blackened faces, they pried and slashed at the ropes until just before the lead Roman carpenters, wielding woodcutting tools, had reached their position. Then, each one pausing only long enough to seize a loosened plank, they leaped back into the water — this time downstream of the bridge — lay with their bellies flat on the broad boards beneath them, and serenely paddled off with the current, the moonlight reflecting for a long while on their glistening backs, as the Romans raged impotently on their now broken and wandering bridge.

Those who receive a second chance at life are often far tougher for it. Yet the first failure still rankles.

Although not a man had been killed or even injured on either side, the bridge had been utterly destroyed but for a few sad-looking vessels on either end. The planed planks that hung off their bows to link with the craft ahead of them in line now protruded forlornly like the tumescent tongues of the dead, and soldiers and engineers took turns standing on the end to stare with melancholy down the river whence the bridge's middle sections had disappeared. On the far side, across the immense distance now remaining to be spanned again, equal numbers of frustrated soldiers gathered. Barbatio was furious. Plans for the crossing had been set back weeks, for the timber required to build new rafts and road planks now had to be hauled considerably farther across the denuded slopes surrounding the encampment.

In the end, the army swallowed hard and did what Roman armies do best: cinched its belt, flexed its muscles, and hunkered down for more.

Barbatio was determined that a handful of Alemanni lumberjacks and suicide swimmers would not get the best of his legions, and in this regard he had become much wiser: Before commencing the rebuilding of the bridge, he posted detachments of soldiers every mile upstream for five miles, each outpost supplied with a quantity of small rafts and dinghies. These were assigned the duty of intercepting any further flurries of floating log missiles the barbarians might send down. In fact, Barbatio's instincts were correct on this score, for on three separate occasions, all in the dead of night, we were awakened by breathless runners reporting that flotillas of logs had been sighted upstream and that the Roman interceptors were at that very moment paddling furiously into the current with their pikes and ropes to seize the logs and guide them ashore before further damage could be wreaked.

On all three occasions, Barbatio sent additional troops from the camp racing into the water with their own rafts to head off any logs that might have slipped past their brethren upstream. For this very reason, a narrow gap the width of perhaps two or three vessels was left in the middle of the newly constructed bridge until the last moment, as an opening through which any rogue logs that might have escaped could be guided without damaging the existing span. But the men upstream performed their tasks efficiently, indeed magnificently. No log made its way through to the bridge.

Strangely enough, however, not a single black-greased, reed-breathing barbarian was ever caught; unlike the first destructive volley, the three subsequent releases of logs from upstream were all unmanned, as if the Alemanni were actually expecting us to counter their efforts on these occasions. I had my suspicions as to their motives, but I held my tongue in the midst of the general exuberance and backslapping that reigned in the camp after each attempt had been successfully turned back. Why spoil the party? Besides, Barbatio had refused all my requests for an interview, though he had no objection to my lodging in the barracks and even taking meals in the staff headquarters with his officers. I lingered in camp to witness the final crossing before reporting back to Julian.

Two weeks later the bridge was finally readied again, except for the last link in the middle, the safety gap. The three vessels to be inserted in that position had already been planked for wagons, and their length carefully measured so that at the appropriate time they could be quickly placed into position, readying the bridge for use within no more than two hours after the order was given.

The middle link was to be lashed into place at dawn, and the first supply wagons had already lumbered across the near half of the bridge and up to the gap, awaiting the final signal to cross. That moonless night the entire army spent awake by the light of ten thousand torches, breaking camp and consolidating their provisions in the enormous warehouses at the foot of the bridge on the right bank, readied to be loaded onto the oxcarts and trundled across to the western side as soon as the first rays of sun appeared.

On the second watch, an upstream runner burst noisily and breathlessly into the staff commissary, where Barbatio and his officers were busily wolfing down a meal and agreeing on last-minute instructions for the crossing on the morrow. I set down my plate and edged closer to the center of the room to listen to the commotion.

'Sir!' he gasped. 'The barbarians have made another attempt!'

The officers in the room leaped up in alarm, but Barbatio simply smiled confidently.

'Another load of logs, soldier?' he said quietly. 'I trust that since you are not bellowing for assistance, this one, too, has been intercepted?'

'Not logs this time, sir,' the man panted, now regaining his breath. 'A fire ship.'

Now Barbatio slowly stood up, his face darkening in anger. This was a tactic he had not anticipated. Fire ships were said to have been used occasionally by the Greeks in antiquity, as a desperate weapon to break naval blockades or destroy closely massed squads of transport vessels. They were older craft, deteriorated from dry rot and ready to be scuttled, that were soaked with a flammable substance, fired, and set adrift in the direction of the target. With luck, they would collide with a group of enemy vessels and set them afire as well, or at least cause them to scatter in chaos. Such a tactic, however, had never been used by the barbarians.

The courier hastily continued. 'Our detachment five miles up was patrolling even farther upstream, anticipating that the Alemanni might plan a ruse. Three miles beyond our camp, we sighted a transport scow — a huge one, sir — heading downstream without lights. One of those deep-bottomed craft the Alemanni use for the ice trade.'

At this, the men looked questioningly at one another until one of Barbatio's northern veterans explained: 'Aye, sir, the barbarians collect ice in blocks from the Belgicae up north during the winter months, pack it tightly in sawdust, and pole it upstream during the summer when the water is lower. Must be one of the vessels they use for that.'

The courier nodded. 'The men caught it, sir. Boarded it without incident while the barbarians dove off the other side. It's riding high, no ice in the hold from the looks of it. The decks were stacked with barrels of turpentine and pitch. The Alemanni didn't even have a chance to pour it over the vessel, sir, before we captured it.'

Barbatio stroked his chin thoughtfully and began to relax. 'Seaworthy, is it? And empty you say?'

'Yes, sir — practically new. The barbarians must be desperate to be sending expensive vessels like that to be fired. The men are floating it downstream now.'

Barbatio clapped his hands together and cracked his knuckles, grinning broadly. 'Excellent, excellent. A bit of luck, wouldn't you say, gentlemen? A large vessel like that could speed our crossing. As it is, the weight of full oxcarts means we can't have more than six or eight vehicles on the bridge at any one time. If we ship our supplies over, however, we can send the carts and wagons across empty, and line them up nose to tailgate — it'll speed the crossing. When this vessel arrives, moor it at the warehouse and open the hold. We can load the grain and provisions in there. Save the flammables — perhaps we can offer our friend Chonodomarius a warm gift in return for his hospitality.'

The men guffawed at the poor joke, and the group broke up, all to attend to their separate tasks. I myself wandered down to the main pier to witness the vessel's arrival.

I didn't have long to wait, for even in the blackness of the moonless night the ship could be spied far up the placid river. The triumphant Roman squad that had captured it had festooned its mast and spars with lanterns and candles. As it slowly pulled up to the pier, the men on the dock cheered, not only at their good fortune at averting another disaster, but at having acquired such an aid to conveyance. Dozens of hands reached to seize the vessel's ropes and tie it hard by the dock, while others began hastily cutting a large hole through the rough-hewn planks of the warehouse wall on the water side, under which the vessel's hatches could be positioned for the bulk grain to be more easily shoveled in. Other dozens of hands reached down to assist the grinning crew in climbing up onto the pier, and marching songs broke out spontaneously to celebrate the good fortune.

I peered over the side. Indeed, all available space on the deck had been loaded with barrels and crates of tinder, turpentine, pitch, naphtha — any flammable material the barbarians could lay their hands on. Had the Roman detachment arrived just a few moments later, after the ship had been fired, it would have been impossible to divert — indeed, no boarding party would have been able to approach within a hundred feet and it would have drifted unimpeded into the bridge downstream — a terrible, and this time fatal, disaster.

Several smiths were brought up, bearing mallets, chisels, and saws, and were soon well on their way to cutting through the heavy bars on the hatches. As on all such vessels, its three oaken hatch ports had been fitted snugly to withstand swelling or shrinkage, maintaining an airtight seal and protecting the ice they covered. The workers, preparing to shovel the grain into the holds, crowded closer as the smiths' saws broke through the thick iron bolts.

'Stand back,' called out a burly officer from one of the Germanic auxiliary divisions. Barbatio normally posted his allied Germanic cohorts with the construction and road-building crews, away from the front lines, out of his suspicions as to their loyalty in combat. The fellow was tall and commanding, and he strode across the deck on top of barrels, shouting in his harsh and heavily accented Latin, 'Give 'em room to work! Here's a lantern. Clear out whatever's in the hold, make sure it's dry inside, and start shoveling that grain. You men — start carting these barrels off of here.'

With some effort, the smiths slid the enormous bolts through the loops and seized the stout wooden handles. As the three ports were pried open, the officer approached the middle one with his lantern to peer inside, and a sudden thought came to me as I recalled my days in Athens, packing cadavers in sawdust for their protection, the smell like rotten eggs, the composting shavings steaming from heat, actually hot to the touch. I paused for a moment, thinking, sniffing the air venting from the hatches, and then…

'No!' I shouted, and leaped back a half dozen steps to the other side of the dock. A hundred men went suddenly silent as all eyes turned to me with expressions of surprise and amusement, like a crowd watching an epileptic.

'No!' I repeated. 'It's sawdust from the ice! Back away! Put out your lanterns!

The hundred pairs of uncomprehending eyes filled with confusion. The smith crouched as if frozen, holding the hatch door open, while men edged away from the deck, not understanding my words, but sensing something was terribly amiss. I too turned, and began walking swiftly toward the foot of the bridge, but kept my eyes fixed on the hold, when I witnessed the bravest and perhaps most terrible act in my life.

The Germanic auxiliary, like everyone else, had stopped short just at the opening, holding high aloft his flaming lantern as his eyes flashed between me and the dark opening of the hatch. His face, and his alone, was calm and lacking fear — rather, he wore a fixed expression of dead determination. Pausing only a moment, he looked at the smith still squatting motionless at the hatch opening, and then with a loud cry of 'Long live Chonodomarius!' he brandished his torch, took one step forward, and dropped feet-first into the inky darkness of the hold.

There was a brief pause during which time seemed to stand still. I turned my head toward the shore and began to run. Men looked at me in puzzlement and fear, unsure themselves whether to turn and flee or to step forward in curiosity as to what had set off my fright, and I tried to call out to them to run for their lives, but no words came from my mouth. My legs felt leaden and unresponsive, and in the end, my body leaning forward in an attempt to move faster, I stumbled, my fingers grazing the rough, wooden planks, picking up jagged splinters in my knuckles as my feet left the decking. I flew headlong into a crowd of surprised carpenters running up to join in the commotion, my shoulder driving roughly into the face of one of them and stifling the oath he had just begun to shout at my clumsy fleeing.

As I landed I felt the ground beneath me, the solid ground, tremble and rumble noiselessly for a moment. I then was hit by a rushing blast of hot air from behind. I turned and was almost blinded as an enormous ball of flame welled up from the ship's hold, fed by the naphtha-impregnated sawdust inside. It engulfed what had been the ice vessel, and expanded to swallow everything around it for a hundred feet, a hundred and fifty feet, more. I scrambled up again and began running, and this time I found purchase on the solid ground and sprinted headlong through the paralyzed crowds of men, who stared as the fireball swelled, grew, and then rose upwards, and we were hit by the heat as if from the open door of a blast furnace, a heat that blinded and toppled men not even touched by the direct impact of the flames.

I continued running until I reached the street and was able to pause behind the solid wall of a long building, and found myself praising God for the shelter of those overhanging eaves. The air was thick with a rain of flaming planks and shards of wood, support beams and molten nails, in such density that it appeared solid with steel and flame. These were followed by grislier objects — arms and feet, open-mouthed heads with hair aflame like screaming Gorgons, torsos and entire, intact bodies. Moments after these had landed, the air thickened again with flaming pellets and droplets of pitch, a fiery, hellish rain that stuck to the skin and burned like branding irons, impossible to shake off, or to be plucked without sticking to the sensitive tips of one's fingers — an excruciating pain impossible to remedy short of scuffing dirt onto the droplets to extinguish their flame. Finally, a sound as if of hail — the light sprinkling of six months' supply of grain for five Roman legions, raining out of the sky whence it had been blown in the destruction of the warehouse.

I stepped cautiously around the corner where I had taken refuge to survey what was left of the bridge, and was faced with an unspeakable sight. The warehouse had been obliterated, as had been the bridge for a quarter of its distance into the river. The span beyond that, which had not yet been connected to the missing center section, had come unfastened from its moorings in the blast, and now drifted slowly down the river, spinning lazily in the current like a piece of driftwood tossed into a stream by an idle boy. Charred bodies lay everywhere amidst smoldering stacks of timbers and overturned oxcarts. Several of the hospital barracks and houses nearest the foot of the bridge had collapsed in the blast and were now burning fiercely, and invalid men crawled slowly out of the wreckage, moaning in pain, some with their clothing and hair aflame. Even my physician's instincts had deserted me for the moment, and I stood frozen at the sight.

From far across the river, where the still-intact bridge of the left bank stood, faint shouts came drifting over the nearby groans, and fearing the impact of another fire ship, I clambered atop a pile of smoldering wreckage to better see across the dark expanse of water. There, too, were fires, though no explosion, and no ship. The shouts grew louder and more distinct, however, and as the flames rose higher I could see that the entire far end of the bridge was now engulfed, and that men were leaping over the side of the structure into the dark waters to escape. How did the flames from the blast reach even that far? And then after a moment, I saw the answer.

At that end of the bridge, a full five hundred yards across, a small sister encampment had been constructed to feed and house the soldiers building the bridge from that end. There, I saw new flames shoot up, and in front of them the silhouettes of horses and riders — only a few at first, then dozens, then hundreds, lances raised, riding and shouting shrilly in triumph. Racing back and forth, they clubbed and struck down the unarmed men on foot whom I could see attempting to race into the darkness or leap into the water, until all the screams from the far side of the river had been silenced. An enormous steed then trotted calmly into the water by the light of the flaming barracks on the far side of the river, ridden by a man whose tremendous breadth of shoulder and waist-length hair tossing loosely in the fire-whipped breeze was visible even from where I stood. He raised his gigantic harpoon far above his head and slammed it point first into the surf beside him, where it stuck, its haft quivering like an arrow that has just found its bloody mark. His shrill, mocking cry came drifting over the groans of the dying: 'Death to the Romans! Death to Rome!'

The river continued its slow, implacable journey to the sea, washing clean its bloody banks, carrying away the detritus of men's vanity, its immortal movements unstilled and unaffected by the actions of the puny beings along its shores.