Gaul, 37 AD
Seasoned imperial officer Marcus Sempronius Gracchus leads the 9th Roman Legion into bloody battle against a fierce barbarian rival. It’s a battle he won’t survive.
When he awakens three days later, clawing his way from a hastily dug grave, Marcus realizes he cannot be killed—but that won’t stop him from dying time and again over the next 2,000 years.
Burdened with a debt he cannot pay, is he cursed to walk the Earth without end?
Meanwhile, others like Marcus plan to bring the world crashing to its knees. Can he prevent the inevitable and find redemption?
The Last Roman lies somewhere between fantasy, historical drama, and a techno-thriller. Don’t miss the debut novel from B.K. Greenwood, and part one of an exciting new trilogy that will have fans of Highlander and Jason Bourne on the edge of their seats.
Gaul, 37 AD
Seasoned imperial officer Marcus Sempronius Gracchus leads the 9th Roman Legion into bloody battle against a fierce barbarian rival. It’s a battle he won’t survive.
When he awakens three days later, clawing his way from a hastily dug grave, Marcus realizes he cannot be killed—but that won’t stop him from dying time and again over the next 2,000 years.
Burdened with a debt he cannot pay, is he cursed to walk the Earth without end?
Meanwhile, others like Marcus plan to bring the world crashing to its knees. Can he prevent the inevitable and find redemption?
The Last Roman lies somewhere between fantasy, historical drama, and a techno-thriller. Don’t miss the debut novel from B.K. Greenwood, and part one of an exciting new trilogy that will have fans of Highlander and Jason Bourne on the edge of their seats.
For if the trumpet give an uncertain sound, who
shall prepare himself to the battle?
—1 Corinthians 14:8
Thump. Thump.
Each strike of the mallet further aggravated the hangover that had plagued Marcus all morning. Worse than the sound of the mallet were the cries of anguish, but he knew from experience that those cries would become whimpers. The sooner that happened, the better, Marcus thought. Honestly, the sooner he finished this assignment and left this godforsaken city, the better.
By his count, this was the ninth crucifixion Marcus had administered since arriving in Jerusalem. He was a combat veteran and had witnessed firsthand the unadulterated violence of war. But he had never understood the brutality of the crucifixion. To kill a man in battle was one thing but nailing him to a cross was cruel by any measure. Several days of suffocating punishment before dying of exposure might be appropriate for those guilty of the most heinous of crimes. But, when applied to thieves and would-be kings, the practice seemed gratuitous—even for Romans. Marcus pushed the thought from his mind and watched as they lifted the prisoner and attached the crossbeam to the post.
Thump. Thump.
Marcus winced, closing his eyes and rubbing his temples. When the soldier finished hammering, he opened them and looked up at the figure nailed to the cross. He was naked, except for a cloth wrapped around his legs and waist. His head, ordained with a crown of thorns, slumped forward, blood dripping from his hair and down his shoulders and chest. The prisoner lifted his head and looked at Marcus. He would never forget those eyes. Where was the pain or hatred? Why were they were perfect displays of compassion and pity? Those eyes burned directly into Marcus's soul.
***
Fall 37 A.D.
Gaul
Eyes fluttering open, Marcus stared at the canvas ceiling. He closed them again, but all he could see was the image of the Galilean. After a few minutes, Marcus decided his restless night of sleep was over. It had been four years, yet he was still having the dreams. He wondered if they would ever stop. He sat up and stretched his arms, his aching joints reminding him it was time to give up this army life. The blanket fell away as his feet swung to the dirt floor.
Marcus stood and groped for his nearby tunic, dressing in the darkness. He was tall for a Roman, with broad shoulders and a narrow waist, both of which he inherited from his father. From his mother, he had received his aquiline nose, a set of piercing, dark-brown eyes, and a sturdy, sharp jawline. From the pair, he had gained his fanatical sense of determination. Perhaps that was why he still campaigned. He sat on the cot to put on his sandals, then stood and stepped into the next room. A candle was burning next to a platter of fruits, cheese, and dried meats on a small wooden table.
"Good morning, sir."
Marcus had not seen Nicodemus sitting on a stool in the darkened corner of the room. The older man stood as Marcus moved to the table.
"Good morning," Marcus replied.
"Did you sleep well?"
"Not really." He pulled out the chair and sat down. "But that's not unusual."
"You didn't eat at all last night—" Nicodemus pushed the platter toward Marcus. "You'll need your strength. It sounds like there will be a fight today."
"Most likely." Marcus picked a dried date from the platter and popped it into his mouth.
"We're not waiting for Caligula?" Nicodemus poured Marcus a cup of spiced wine.
"No. Quintus thinks this is our best chance to 'fix' the barbarian problem." He took a long swig from the cup. "I'm not sure he shares my sense of caution when dealing with the emperor. But then again, it's been several years since Quintus was in Rome."
"Ignoring the emperor…" Nicodemus frowned. "That hasn't worked out so well for others."
"No, it hasn't." Marcus grabbed a piece of cheese and changed the subject. "I need to write a letter."
"Of course." Nicodemus moved to a nearby trunk and pulled out parchment, reed, and vial. He placed them next to Marcus. "Let me know if you need anything else, sir."
Nodding, Marcus unrolled a piece of parchment and, pulling the cork from the vial, dipped the reed into the ink. He paused, his mind drifting for a while. After a few moments, he wrote.
To my wife and love Natalia,
I hope you are in good health! And things are well for the children. Has Cato returned from the academy? Be sure he stays on top of his studies while away from school. And Julia? Tell her I still have the drawing she made for me and carry it at all times.
I'm so happy you joined me here in Gaul. I know it was an arduous journey for you and the children but having you here will negate this land's dreariness.
We have been chasing this raiding party for a month now. Our scouts say they have stopped running, and hopefully, this will mark the end of the campaign. If so, I will meet you in Lutetia, two weeks from now. Do not worry; Quintus is an excellent general, and the men are well-trained and ready for a fight.
My love, I miss the comfort of your company and the tenderness of your touch. The longer we are apart, the more I realize how much I need you by my side. Though the words I am now writing will be cold by the time they reach you, please remember that they once burned with the passion of my heart.
I have thought long and hard about my station in the army. Although I wish to serve my empire, each assignment I accept carries me farther from you. With this in mind, I have decided that this will be my last appointment. My father has confirmed that he can find me a position in the Senate. Once secured, I shall never again leave your side, for the thought of a life without you is unbearable and represents a future that I have no desire to face.
All my love,
Marcus
Marcus set down the reed and took another sip from his cup as he waited for the ink to dry. He looked to the tent's entrance and the faint sunlight seeping in from beyond. He rolled up the parchment, tied it with a rawhide strip, then took the candle and poured hot liquid wax onto the knot.
"Nicodemus?"
The servant reentered the room as Marcus stood up from the table.
"Sir?"
"Make sure this letter goes out this morning."
"Of course, sir."
Marcus lifted his cup, and before taking a swig, looked down into its dark contents. His mind drifted back to his dream and the prisoner with the crown of thorns.
"Is there something…wrong, sir?"
Marcus looked up. "No. My wife and children are in Letutia."
"That's outstanding, sir. I'm sure you're excited to see them."
"Yes, I am." Marcus set down his cup and looked back at Nicodemus. "Do you believe in the gods?"
"No, I'm Jewish. I believe in the one true God."
"One god?" Marcus grinned. "He must be busy."
"I believe he manages." Nicodemus smiled, but it faded. "Why do you ask?"
"I sometimes wonder what they have in store for me." He shrugged. "My family has never been so close when I've gone into battle. I guess it puts things into perspective."
"Hmmm." Nicodemus looked down at the table.
"What?" Marcus studied the older man. "We've been together long enough. You can speak your mind with me."
"Sir, it's a natural feeling. We all struggle with our mortality and what might happen when we die." His expression hardened. "But you need to forget about all of that. Those thoughts are dangerous. That's how men lose battles, and that's how men die. You need to be the soldier that has stayed alive all these years."
"You're right." Marcus met his gaze. "I think it's time for my armor."
***
The trumpet blast shattered the peaceful dawn and had the men scrambling from their tents. Marcus stood at his tent's opening and watched as the centurions assembled the men. Satisfied, he turned to a nearby horse, which anxiously sniffed at the gentle breeze. The mount's ears twitched, a natural reaction to the tension that had settled upon the army like the heavy morning fog.
Marcus ran one hand down the horse's chin, then took the reins from a grubby-faced stable boy. He swung into the saddle and glanced down at the child, who smiled back at him with a toothy grin. The youngster was the product of the legion's brothel, a permanent reminder of a fleeting relationship. None of the legionnaires could claim him as their own, yet they would collectively see to his upbringing. Someday he would gain his citizenship by serving in this very legion, but for now, he performed whatever tasks were required.
Another short blast from the trumpet sent the boy scurrying away. Silence settled upon the men—then a familiar voice echoed across the camp.
"Legionnaires, are you ready for war?"
A loud cheer erupted from the ranks as the soldiers thrust their swords high into the air. Marcus scanned the crowd, finding the man responsible for this question. It was General Quintus Ligarius Melus, mounted on a giant white stallion.
Twice more, Quintus bellowed, "Legionnaires, are you ready for war?"
The cheer grew louder each time the men responded.
Quintus nudged his horse through the frenzied troops, stopping next to Marcus.
The general was a close friend of Marcus's father, despite their differences in temperament. Quintus had lived in the shadow of the Imperial banner, meeting his enemies with the blunt force of a Roman legion. Marcus's father roamed the equally dangerous Senate floor and met his enemies with cunning and intuition. Marcus detested the latter's politics, so here he was in the middle of Gaul.
"Impressive speech," Marcus said.
"I thought so." Quintus crossed his hands over the horse's neck.
"Up all night writing it?"
Quintus chuckled.
"How are you feeling?" Marcus asked.
"I've been better." A troubled expression gripped the general's rugged features. "I just spoke with our scouts; this is not the raiding party we've been chasing. It's now an army."
Marcus nodded. It looked like these barbarians wanted to be chased. "How many?"
"Good question." Quintus turned his head toward the forest beyond the camp walls. "Forty, maybe fifty thousand."
Marcus frowned and did a quick calculation; they were outnumbered three to one.
"That's a lot of fucking barbarians."
"Yeah, it is." Quintus shrugged. "But what else can we do? The nearest legion is ten days march."
"Desperate soldiers are dangerous soldiers."
"Yes, they are." Quintus agreed. "I'm glad they stopped running. I'm sick of these fucking woods. Too many trees."
"And I miss the sun." Marcus looked up at the dull gray sky. "Even when it shines, it's still cold."
"Then let's get it over with. Marcus, keep in close contact with the Fifteenth. The boys will be eager—too eager. Discipline is the only advantage we have."
"I know."
"I'm sure you do. But it may not matter; these barbarians may kill us all." Quintus smiled and guided his mount away, calling back over his shoulder. "Then again, who wants to live forever?"
Marcus nodded to his lead centurion, Gaius, who motioned to the other centurions. The order swept down the line, and the column lumbered forward, the squeak of leather and the clang of iron filling the morning air. Marcus spurred his horse forward and overtook the soldier that bore the legion's eagle, then galloped past their sister legion, which had assembled on the far side of the palisade opening. Quintus watched the procession from a slight rise, surrounded by his advisors. Marcus passed through the wooden gate and onto the open field beyond. Turning to his left, he galloped along the freshly cut logs that served as their hasty battlements. Catapults loomed above the barricade, poised to wreak havoc on the enemy.
Marcus halted his horse about a hundred yards short of a narrow stream, twisting back to watch the progress of his legion. The men were quiet as they plodded along the broken field. Many of them would not see nightfall; still, they marched on. Marcus had a deep respect for the common legionnaire. They would spend twenty-five years of their life fighting, bleeding, and dying for the empire. They built roads, walls, and bridges, endured extreme weather, long marches, and isolated assignments. The discipline was harsh but fair. If they survived their enlistment, they would receive a small parcel of land or its equivalent in gold. That reward would prove elusive for many of these men. As he watched the familiar faces pass by, he felt more than a little guilty with his decision to leave the army.
He pushed the feeling aside and directed his horse to a nearby cluster of officers. One man, Lucius Sentius Tantalus, the eldest son of a powerful senator, stepped forward as Marcus dismounted. Appointed by the emperor, the tribunus laticlavius was technically the senior tribune. A new arrival to the legion, he was wise enough to yield to the veteran officers. Based on his plump, childish face, Marcus judged him to be in his early twenties. The other officers, tribunus angusticlavius, were veterans, having risen through the ranks over several years.
"Good morning, gentlemen. Sleep well?"
"Sir, how could we?" Lucius pointed toward the barbarian camp. "Those bastards were up all-night yelling and screaming. When do they sleep?"
"They don't," Faustus, the older tribunes, replied. "They're like wolves, always on the hunt…craving human flesh."
The color drained from Lucius' face as the others nodded in agreement.
"Well," Marcus interjected, knowing the veterans would have the young man pissing in his sandals. "There'll be no human flesh consumed today."
If they were disappointed that Marcus had interrupted their fun, they hid it well.
"Have you walked the field?" Marcus looked around the circle.
They all nodded in unison.
"Questions?"
"No sir," Faustus spoke for them all.
"Good. Lucius, you'll be part of the reserves. Take your cohort to the staging area near the general."
"Yes, sir." He started to walk away but stopped. "I've heard there are a hundred thousand barbarians—"
"Probably, but don't worry…they rarely cook the officers," Marcus said.
"You're right," Septimus agreed. "They eat them raw!"
The officers chuckled. The mouth of the young tribune moved, but no words came.
"Get going." Marcus patted him on the shoulder. "Find Titus—he'll issue the orders."
The young man turned away but stopped to execute a hasty salute. Nodding in return, Marcus looked back to the others and shook his head.
"Let's pray to the gods that we don't need our reserves."
The men grinned, but the smiles faded as they looked at one another. It was clear they faced a much larger force.
"You've done this a hundred times. Keep the formations tight. I want crisp execution. And most of all, discipline. Understood?"
They nodded in unison.
"Good." He looked around the small group. "I do not know why the emperor wants this godforsaken land, but we're going to get it for him."
They all snickered, but the rumble of distant war drums recalled their somber mood.
Tullus echoed the sentiment of the others. "Don't worry, Marcus, we'll teach these fucking bastards a lesson in warfare."
"I'm sure you will. May the Gods be with us."
***
The yellow orb that promised to be the morning sun slowly devoured the heavy fog, and it revealed the faint outlines of the surrounding forest. To the left lay a stream, its sparkling current hidden beneath a mass of reeds that clung to the steep embankment. It emerged from the trees near a boulder in a far corner of the field, meandering toward their camp before cutting back and disappearing into the dense foliage.
The ground was clear for the thirty yards that led up to the fortifications behind them. In front, the wildflowers and golden grass swayed in the morning breeze, a peaceful setting that was a stark contrast to the impending slaughter. A dark forest loomed in the distance, concealing the enemy who was sure to be watching them as well. Fields like this were uncommon in Gaul, and it surprised Marcus the barbarians had agreed to meet them on such favorable ground.
From his jittery steed, Marcus watched the centurions organize the cohorts. They adjusted the spacing between the rows and columns, ensuring each man was three feet from his companion in all directions. This spacing allowed each man ample room to maneuver while still providing support to his neighbor. He swiveled in his saddle to check the status of their auxiliaries.
The cavalry troop was stationed near the end of the formation. The troopers, like their commander Octavius, waited for the battle to begin. Archers, deployed behind the legion, performed last-minute checks on their equipment. Each bowman had stuck an allotment of arrows into the soft ground before him, allowing for easy access once the battle had begun. Beyond the archers and within the palisade walls, Marcus could see the various crews working to prepare the war machines.
A murmur from the nearby troops interrupted his inspection. Marcus sat up in his saddle and peered toward the distant tree line, where a group of shadowy figures had emerged from the woods.
The Suebi were huge; even the average barbarian towered above most Romans. Their extraordinary stature was matched only by their tenacity in battle. And they did not take well to subjugation.
A smile crept across his lips; if Marcus was fighting for his freedom, he wouldn't give up either.
The mob of warriors moved from the safety of the woods and began their trek across the open field, pale sunlight glittering off their shields and weapons. One command from the centurions prompted the men to ready their javelin. From behind, Marcus heard the archer's commander order his men to notch their missiles. He dismounted and handed the reins to the young boy that had followed from the camp. Marcus drew his sword as he stepped toward the line, but Gaius grabbed his wrist and frowned.
"I don't think you'll be needing that." He spat on the ground. "And if you do, then we're fucked."
Without waiting for a reply, the centurion moved off to reposition a young soldier who had strayed out of line. Marcus grinned, slid his sword back into its sheath, and watched the enemy advance. The barbarians were scattered across the field, but not as many as he had expected. A nagging feeling crept over him, but it vanished with the sudden appearance of enemy cavalry. Marcus turned in time to see the Roman cavalry commander, Octavius, waving his sword above his head and leading his troops forward. The two groups met forty yards from the line, crashing together in a tangle of man and horse. A Roman cavalryman slew their leader, and soon, the Suebi warriors were galloping for the safety of the distant woods. Caught up in the heat of battle, the victorious horsemen followed hot on their heels. The legionnaires thrust their swords into the air as they cheered the victors.
"Not too far, Octavius."
The whisper escaped his lips as Marcus watched their cavalry disappear into the trees. He shook his head and shifted his attention back to the field where the enemy infantry had advanced to within a hundred paces of their line. They were now close enough to distinguish the fearsome war paint that covered their upper bodies.
A series of muffled thumps signaled the catapults had joined the day. Goat-sized boulders sailed through the air, smashing into their loose formations. Groups of men disappeared as the stones tumbled across the meadow, leaving clouds of bloody mist in their wake. The ballistae were next to join the fight. These machines launched giant darts that sliced through flesh and bone, often pinning their unfortunate victims to the ground. One such missile skewered two men, who struggled to free themselves from the thick wooden shaft.
The Suebi pressed on, knowing the barrage would ease if they could get close enough to the Roman line. But the carnage had just begun. Marcus heard the order, followed by the twang, as hundreds of archers released their bows in unison. The arrows streaked overhead, raining down among the advancing men as they hunkered beneath round wooden shields. Shrieks of dying men punctuated the air as the lethal missiles repeatedly found their targets.
Still, they advanced. The hair on the back of Marcus's neck stood up as the barbarians let out a blood-curdling scream and closed the distance between the lines. On the centurion's command, the front ranks of soldiers launched their pilums toward the advancing enemy. Hurled with deadly accuracy, the six-foot javelins pierced through shield, flesh, and bone. Finally, the Romans unsheathed their swords and met the exhausted attackers. Marcus realized the initial attack would fail and looked across the bloody field to the woods beyond.
Where was the second wave? He peered toward the distant woods to see if Octavius had returned, but saw no sign of the cavalrymen. Marcus ran toward Gaius, who was urging the men forward.
"Gaius, order a halt!"
"Sir? We've broken the bastards!"
"Did we? You think that was the main attack?"
"You're right." He shook his head. "I'll try to hold 'em back, but it won't be easy."
Just as he finished speaking, the attackers spun around and ran—many of the Romans in steady pursuit.
"Order the stand down!" Gaius called to the drummer as he rushed toward the nearest soldiers. "Get in line!"
"We're not peasants—we're legionnaires!" Another centurion grabbed a nearby trooper and thrust him back toward the formation. "You'll get back in line, or I'll cane each one of your lousy hides!"
Confident that the veterans would halt the advance, Marcus scanned the dense forest across the field. Turning to the left, he looked beyond the stream, focusing on the pasture. The grass moved in a circular motion, not back and forth as one would expect from the slight breeze. Then it dawned on Marcus what was happening.
"Gaius!" Marcus peered into the mass of soldiers. "Gaius!"
Marcus spun around and frantically motioned for his horse just as the centurion appeared by his side.
"The boys are reforming," Gaius panted.
"Good." Marcus pointed to the formation. "Find as many centurions as you can—quickly!"
Years of taking orders had set the habit, and Gaius sprinted away as Marcus turned toward the boy who held his horse.
"Can you ride?"
"Yes, sir! Very well."
"Good." He lifted him into the saddle. "Do something for me; it's very important."
"Will I be a legionnaire?"
"What?" Marcus grinned, despite the dire circumstances. "Of course! But you must find the general. He'll be surrounded by a lot of men on horses. I need you to say these exact words: 'Marcus says the left flank is under attack.' Do you understand?"
The boy nodded.
"Repeat it to me."
"Marcus says the left flank is under attack." He trembled with excitement or fear, probably both. "You can trust me."
"I don't have any other choice." Marcus slapped the rump of the horse, and it bolted toward the center of the line.
When he turned back, he saw several centurions sprinting toward him. They gathered around as Marcus fell to one knee.
"Listen to me…do not question or hesitate." Marcus drew a line in the soil with a twig. "Here's our line. I want the second row of cohorts to execute an about-face. They will swing out, pivoting on the third, which will anchor on the First. That new line will advance until it is perpendicular to the rest of the formation, almost like two walls coming together. This will leave the ninth positioned—" He stood and pointed to a mound of rocks. "There. Do you understand?"
They all nodded in unison.
"Go!"
They left, bellowing orders as they reached their men. Thanks to years of drilling, the men executed the order with Roman precision—and not a moment too soon. As Marcus reached the newly formed line, the grass stopped moving. There was a moment of surreal silence before the meadow disappeared, replaced by a thousand men covered in long stalks of grass. They glared at the Romans and let out the same spine-chilling scream that had ushered the previous charge. His men could barely unleash their pilums before the two sides collided in a tangled mass. The struggle grew desperate as wave after wave of warriors emerged from the woods beyond the stream. They now faced the bulk of the barbarian army, and Marcus watched in horror as his weakened line buckled under the weight of the onslaught. Knowing that it may crumble at any moment, Marcus ordered the archers into the melee. Despite their lack of armor, the brave souls threw down their bows and joined the fray.
Marcus moved along the faltering line and soon encountered the largest man he had ever seen, hacking his way through the thinning ranks. A legionnaire tried to bar his path, but the ogre swung his massive blade, catching the soldier just below his jaw. A crimson arc of blood sprayed from the fatal wound, much of it splattering across Marcus' face and chest. Behind the giant, more barbarians advanced to exploit the breach.
Marcus grabbed the shield of a fallen soldier and rushed the behemoth, who welcomed the attack with a vicious blow. The force drove Marcus to one knee and nearly knocked him unconscious. Marcus raised the shield to protect his head and shoulders and thrust his sword upward. The point struck metal, so he shoved it harder until he felt the blade dig into the soft underside of a trunk-like arm. Marcus could hear the giant's howl above the din of the battle and knew that retribution was near. Another thunderous blast crashed into the shield, the metal and banded leather splintering from the attack. The next blow would rip Marcus asunder.
Desperate, Marcus hastily covered his head with the remains of his ruined shield. He mustered all his strength and drove forward into the beast. The shield thudded against his waist, eliciting an angry grunt. Marcus reached around the barbarian's leg with the blade of his sword, finding the naked thigh. Thought never meant as a weapon for slashing, the edge of his sword was still razor-sharp. He drew it across the giant's hamstring, cutting through flesh and sinew as Marcus pushed forward. The Suebi screamed in agony as the two men crumpled to the ground. The barbarian smashed the hilt of his sword into Marcus's head, knocking off his helmet. The world spun as Marcus stood and staggered away. Blood flowed down his face, blurring his vision. His opponent, writhing in pain, screamed at him.
Marcus heard several men shout, "The giant is down!"
A loud cheer erupted from the Romans, but that only encouraged the other barbarians. Marcus raised his sword in time to block another attack, but the force knocked him to the ground. The barbarian raised his sword to strike a death blow when Gaius appeared out of nowhere and ran him through. With great effort, Marcus regained his footing, lumbering forward to rejoin the melee. He lost his balance again and had to lean on his sword to keep from falling. As he stood watching the raging battle, a sharp pain shot through his side.
He looked down and saw the blade of the stricken giant sliding beneath his armor. The barbarian was sitting on his haunches, trying to stab him again. Marcus summoned his remaining strength and, swinging for the neck, felt the cold steel bite into flesh, then bone. A low gurgle escaped the laceration as the colossal body slumped forward, and the barbarian's head fell to the ground.
Marcus dropped the sword, trying in vain to reach his wound and stem the flow of blood. His breath grew labored, and he coughed, a coppery trace spilling into his mouth. He slumped to his knees as scores of legionnaires rushed past. Marcus watched the reinforcements plug holes in the line and stem the barbarian attack. More cohorts arrived, and the battle devolved into a desperate struggle. Even with both legions engaged, the outcome was uncertain.
Marcus watched as the ranks dwindled, the men stubbornly giving way to the onslaught. It looked like they may break at any moment when a commotion drew his attention to the right side of the battle. A cheer rose from the legionnaires as the forgotten Roman cavalry rejoined the fight and rolled up the exposed barbarian flank. Within minutes, the Suebi army was in full flight, and the mounted troopers were cutting down the stragglers. As the centurions rushed to put the men back in formation, Marcus slipped to the ground, his gaze fixed on the gray, sunless sky.
Moments later, Gaius knelt beside him. He tried to undo the bloody clasp of his armor, but Marcus pushed his hand away. Their eyes met.
"The men did good," Marcus said.
"Yes, they did."
Marcus continued, but it was inaudible.
Gaius leaned over, and Marcus whispered, "Tell my wife—" He coughed up specks of blood onto Gaius's soiled cheek. "I'm so sorry…" Marcus swallowed back the warm fluid rising in his throat, "sorry I left her."
"I will," he promised. "I will tell her myself."
Marcus nodded as a white horse arrived, the rider dismounting. Somewhere in the distance, he could hear the general's voice.
"Gaius?"
The old centurion did not reply, but the answer was written on his troubled face. Quintus knelt to the ground.
"Marcus, your actions have saved the day. I plan on submitting your name to the Senate…"
Quintus paused when their eyes met, then shifted to the pool of blood gathering around them. As the general spoke of honor rolls and victory marches, Marcus looked beyond him to the sky above. There was a shimmer in the cloud that resembled a bird. He tried to focus on the form as it grew closer, but he could not keep his eyes open. As he slipped into the darkness, he thought of his wife and the fact that he would never see her again.
This book goes back and forth from the time of Christ to present day. It is needed as the value of the past is not understand without seeing the present day scenes. The present is not valued without the past. The entire story is based on Christianity, but this is not a Christian book. It has violence and language that steers from that category. But it is based on the impact of Christ on those who followed him and came in physical contact with him.
The author does a great job of moving between time periods and giving the reader insight into the characters and the plot. The scenes are well described to a degree that I felt like I was in the midst of the battles and seeing history in the making. The characters are multi-faceted with a bit of humor that had me wanting to read more. I could see these scenes and characters as a show or movie.
Slight spoiler alert!
Where I didn't enjoy the story came in the development of Thomas. Coming from a Christian background, it was hard for me to see the path Thomas takes as the corruption of the Church is revealed. Doubting and straying I think I could accept, but the degree he turns away was very hard for me and actually had me pulling away as a reader from the story. It went against what I saw as the character of the man. Now, the author has developed a different character which is why I still gave this such a good star review. It was well done, but the path didn't "trip my trigger" as a reader. I struggled with the story at that point. What kept me going was the intensity of the plot and the desire to know what was happening next.