Colosseum Read Free Page B

clatter of iron-shod hooves, words of damned Latin rending the air. They organize themselves in a few moments, Calgacos watches them in shock as his house and entire life go up in flames.
    In his left hand he is still grasping the sack with his training sword in. His master’s face is gone, horribly burned away by the tar on the flaming arrow.
    But there is no time for things on fire, whether huts or unlucky people; the warriors of the village are already on a war footing and march straight past Calgacos, throwing themselves into the attack.
    The impact is deafening, the vanguard of the XX Legion Valeria Victrix is merciless; the boar standard flutters in the night’s reddish glow. The troops under the command of Sextus Julius Frontinus are hungry for victory, a desperate desire to get this over with. The conquest of the Island has dragged on for too long: how many of these soldiers left home before their children were born? Now those kids have grown up, and within a couple of years at the most they will be demanding their own place in the army ranks. It is not supposed to be like this. In the name of Hercules, why do these stubborn barbarians go on resisting the all-conquering Eagle? Ordovician blood fights with honor, with rage doing the rest. A Roman officer is unhorsed before he even has time to say a word. The Briton he is fighting hammers his skull to pieces. His brothers take care of the rest of the vanguard: a dozen or so heavily-armed men receive a heavy lesson, while the women of the village gather to put out the fire.
    The puddles are sprayed with mud and brain matter, the barbarian swords gorge on the blood of the She-wolf.
    Triumph.
    But it is only the beginning, the village chieftain knows that very well. He gathers men, women and whimpering children. At his signal there is silence, the wind drops. Even the legionaries’ dead bodies look like pillars of salt, mummified remains.
    â€œYou must leave! The dogs will be back, this was just a taster.”
    The Lord of Hammers does not mince his words, intended for the women and children. They do not argue, rushing into their huts to grab the leftovers of bread. Even before first light, the road is crowded with refugees in flight. The chieftain watches the womenfolk as they slip away towards the woods, wishing good luck for them and a glorious death for himself.
    The invaders do not make them wait: as the sky takes on a pinkish hue, the fire of Rome is at the gates once more. Calgacos has grown up with the idea of war. He has spent nights training himself against make-believe enemies, imagined centurions, creatures of the wood whose heads he has taken clean off.
    But the truth is that nobody can really be ready for war.
    He had thought he would wield his sword fearlessly. He had thought he would hurl himself at the enemy, invoking the names of the gods at the top of his lungs.
    In search of a good death.
    But instead he is trembling uncontrollably behind the well in the middle of the village.
    When he notices someone caressing his shoulder, his heart almost bursts. He wheels around and sees her: Adraste, eyes wet with tears, sleeves of her dress muddied, that same, absurd smile as always on her lips.
    â€œWhat are you doing here? Run! Get away with the other women! Go!” The boy is beside himself.
    The girl strokes his face, kisses him again: “I’m not leaving without you…”
    â€œI can’t…I’ve got to…protect the village.”
    Adraste laughs, thin lips brushing against his hair: “Oh, I know…You’re doing a great job! Nobody will dare touch this poor well now that you’re here to defend it!”
    â€œYou know what I mean…”
    She cannot stop kissing him: “I know, I know…but you have to trust me. My father is strong, it will all be alright. We’ll stay hidden here until it’s all over. Then, when they’ve been chased off, I’ll go to the chieftain and tell