'Saccus Argenti' or 'The Bag of Silver'

Like a thousand-thousand tortured spirits crying out in rage and fear and agony was the sound I had heard before the treeline erupted in an explosion of nude, woad-covered madmen, innumerable and ravenous for the violence about to be committed upon good Roman men. Their primal yawps and deafening horns communicated one thing – there would be no prisoners today. My heart was gripped by an ancient, primordial terror; suddenly all of the drills, the sparring, the training, it all meant nothing in the face of this… this ruinous tide of flesh and hate. I ran then, fearing more what these barbarians may do to me than any punishment the centurions could concoct. I had not been the only one, and that gave me no small comfort. Flavius, the signifer, had also cowed before the horde and ran, but not before dropping his standard and pissing his braccae. Flavius was the most senior man in the maniple, not to mention the most well paid. I was both disgusted with his cowardice and glad for his company. Now, we fled together, a pair of pathetic deserters separated from the strong and safe arms of the legion, lost in the lush and foreboding woodlands of Gaul.

We spent the first two days avoiding the relentless pursuit of the barbarians. Deep into the night, the horrid wails of my fellow countrymen reverberated throughout the stygian darkness of the forest as Gallic war hounds tore limbs and groins, all while their masters looked on and laughed. They scalped, gored, and sang praises to their foreign gods, reveling in our bloodshed. Sprinting blindly through the blackness, we tripped and tumbled down a thorny berm, losing our helmets and much of our kit as we fell. Slowed, and with our presence loudly betrayed by our segmentata, we abandoned it and shuffled onward. Searching desperately for somewhere to hide, we eventually found and squeezed into a crevice in a steep, rooty rockface, where we wept silently, fearing that any moment a painted, monstrous arm may reach in and rip us from our pathetic hole. It is difficult to surmise how long we cowered in that place — at least twice the sun had come and gone. Fear seemed to simultaneously speed and slow our perception of the passage of time, twisting it until the only thing we could count was the slow drip-drop of piss onto our feet…

The thinnest sliver of the moon has risen and all is quiet, the thick silence cut through only occasionally by the small hoot of an owl or the whisper-rustle of a mouse. I attempt to peer at Flavius, knowing he is only but a cubit away, and see nothing but the slightest shine of his small eyes in the canopy-broken moonlight. I reach out and touch him, signaling to him that it was time to move. Slowly, we clamber from the crevice, careful not to trip or rap the one blade we still have between us against a rock. I take a few tentative steps forward, trying to adjust my eyes when-

Clink-clink, clink-clink

I whip my head towards the noise, towards Flavius. He freezes, knowing all too well what the noise had been. Silently, I stride in his direction, brandishing the point of the sword at his neck.

“Abandon the coin, you greedy fool!” I whisper through harsh teeth. “Or I’ll gut you myself!"

“I abandoned my standard, my armor, and my courage, Crispus. I will not be abandoning my pay! Besides,” he spat, more than said, “this money is meant to buy my summer estate back from that impudent Marcus Licinius Crassus when we get back to Rome-”

“If we get back to Rome, you avaricious worm!” I was officially more disgusted with this man than I was glad to have a fellow coward with me. “Follow me with that jingling bag of death and I’ll-”

Baying hounds echoed in the distance. Slowly, lowly at first, began the terrible scream-trumpeting of their ungodly instrument of war-sound – the bronze thing the wildmen called a carnyx. Almost all at once, unseen voices of brutish men somewhere in the wood sing out in a cacophonic doom herald of whooping and trumpeting. The light of many torches emerges from far away, pouring through the night and creating pillars of shadow against the giant oaks. Flavius and I run in a mad dash, ever deeper into the hellish forest, ever deeper into darkness, fleeing the warm light that carries with it only violence.

Clink-clink-clink, clink-clink-clink

Every heavy footfall is followed by the incessant jingling of silver coins in the purse at Flavius’s hip. I have told Flavius before that his greed may one day be the death of him. I never thought that it may be the death of me as well. Looking back, I swing the blade in my hand towards him, unsure if I am aiming for his fleshy, unarmored stomach, or the braided cord that secures his fat purse to his waist. The result, ultimately, would likely be the same. Thankfully, for Flavius, the iron cuts seamlessly through the cord, severing it and uncinching the drawstring of the bag. Coins spill out, scattering across the forest floor. Flavius cries out with a pathetic “Oh!”. I turn again, seeing only his golden locks fall about his head as he stoops to collect the few denarii he can. I continue to flee. I will not pray for the fool.

There are hot coals in my lungs and foam in my mouth. I stop in a clearing in the forest, unable to run any further. My sandals are slick with the blood from my blistered soles, and thin rivulets of scarlet run down the length of my arms. The color forces to the front of my mind thoughts of home, of the wine made plentiful by the vineyards of Lilybaeum. The thorns that rake the walls of my throat compel me to imbibe the wine, the sweet vitae of my own body, and I partake. I begin to cough and heave, struggling to catch my breath, then vomit the little bit of substance left in me. Reciting a small prayer, I hope that the stench of my expulsion doesn’t aid the hounds in finding me. Stumbling, almost limping, I slowly make my way through the clearing, not wanting to be in the open any longer than is necessary. I imagine the eyes of dogs and men alike watching me from the treeline, shining in the sparse moonlight. I fight the tears that ride the shoulders of my terror and hopelessness and painfully force myself to move faster. I collapse near a fallen tree, trying to make myself small, hoping that if I never get to see glorious Rome again, that the gods would at least grant me the small mercy of dying in my sleep before morning. The ground is cold, sapping the heat from my body, and I begin to shiver, each twitch of muscle accompanied by a hundred little agonies. I have lost all concept of time, but eventually my consciousness fades, taking with it the pain in my limbs.

I lay against the bark, the cool spring air hanging breezeless in the late morning, and all is still. All is still… except… nearby, the faint, unmistakable sound of gently flowing water. I sit up, and the sudden movement is met with aches and stinging. Quickly as I can manage, I force myself to stand.

Thank you, gods, for not punishing my weakness… and please, protect Flavius. I cannot bear to be a murderer and a coward both.

I throw myself into motion towards the blessed noise. It is not long before I am standing at the banks of a gentle stream. I plunge ahead, submersing myself in the crisp water, drinking deeply. I break the surface, renewed, almost reborn. I scrub my limbs and rub my feet, washing away the dried blood. Beneath the water, the silver scales of fish glimmer in the bright sunlight. Filled with fresh hope, I leave the water to search for a concealed place, somewhere to make camp for the night and fish, and to prepare for the long march back to the nearest Roman encampment. I walk along the bank, well into the afternoon before finding what I seek; a bend in the stream, forming a deeper pond and set beautifully against a grassy clearing. The trees nearby form a covering low enough that I should be almost invisible from the opposite bank. Using my sword, I sharpen a branch for spearing fish, and start the beginnings of a small, smokeless fire using the abundant flint from the stream.

I allow my mind to wander while I work, dreaming of the new life I would no doubt need to carve out for myself once I made it back safely within the proper Roman borders.

Perhaps I could travel to Hispania, find work at a vineyard or maybe aboard a trading vessel.

I spear the first fish and watch as it struggles for several moments, then stills.

Or I could book a passage to Judea. I hear there is much work to be found in guarding tax collectors or subduing uprisings, though that may require reenlisting…

“Certainly not,” I morbidly chuckle aloud. I’d be arrested on the spot, maybe even crucified. I spear another fish as it dashes between my ankles. Two should be enough to satiate me, but a third would do me wonders! I peer across the sparkling waters and spot my target – a fish twice as large as the first two, with scales reminiscent of Iris’s very own rainbow! I move towards it, slowly, carefully. Once I am within reach, I take careful aim, then thrust the spear down. The fish is clever and nimble, darting away from me in the blink of an eye. It takes several more attempts before I am finally successful in spearing its many-hued body. I stare down at it as it flails helplessly, refusing to die. I take it to the bank and rest its head on the rocky bank, then strike it with a nearby stone. After the second hit, it finally relinquishes its life. A bird cries, and I look up from my work, horrified at what I see. The sun is setting, the night desperately rushing to revisit me. I have taken too long and now mutter curses at my rapacity. I need to cook these quickly, lest the campfire give me away in the darkness. I stoke the embers with the point of my sword, awakening the flame, then thrust the fish in. I am done with my meal within the hour and stand up to begin covering the fire and breaking camp, just as the last shreds of precious light are extinguishing themselves from the sky.

Clink-clink, clink-clink

I freeze. Surely it could not be. Flavius should be dead. It would be better that he were. But if he escaped, we could survive together. I could explain myself; I could tell him the money would have gotten us killed, that I only did what I had to!...

No. He is dead, his coins no doubt decorating the chest of some Gallic chief’s concubine by now. I am paranoid, filled with needless guilt and so hear the clinking coins of a dead fool. I put at least ten miles between myself and him. Even if he had survived, he certainly could not have found me.

Clink-clink, clink-clink

He is here! I relax, more relieved than I thought I would be at his return. I sit against a tree trunk, closing my eyes and waiting for him to make himself comfortable. My paranoia has given way to gratitude and hope, yet the guilt burns all the same. We would make it back to Rome together, but first, I needed to tell him how sorry I am, and beg his forgiveness.

Clink-clink.

“Flavius,” I start, unsure of how to proceed, “you really should have left the damned purse.” Poor attempt at humor. ”...I hope that you can forgive me. I am a coward, but one that will sing your praises when we return. Together.”

Nothing.

“Flavius?” I open my eyes and turn to look at him. His face is level with mine. His small eyes are gone, ripped out, the remnants of nerves dangling, black tears carving valleys through caked mud on his cheeks. His jaw is slack, mouth hanging open in a permanent expression of sickening, moaning despair. At the bottom of his neck, there is no trunk, only hanging bits of meat and spine. His golden locks reach upward, gathering beneath the giant fist of the man that holds Flavius’s head aloft. The warm glow of the flames lends an incandescent radiance to the aureate strands of hair, giving the held mane the appearance of Jupiter's very own bolts.

Clink. Clink. Clink.

The barbarian tosses that bag of silver death into the air, over and over in his other hand, grinning down at me, his face a twisted picture of blue spirals and a mustache so large, the dancing light of the fire casts a myriad of horrific shadows across his features. His eyes burn bright with glee and satisfaction at having caught his prey. My eyes dart to the sword near the fire, but before I can even twitch, the long, low trumpeting of that monstrous bronze boar head begins to wail out. Silently, all around, as if birthed from the forest itself, the wildmen and their hounds appear. Nude, covered in nothing but woad and viscera, some holding the occasional Roman trophy, head, or limb, they surround me. I cry out, lunging for the sword, but massive hands are upon me first. I catch a glimpse of the man holding Flavius’s mutilated head. He is staring down at me, watching me struggle, holding his bloody prize in front of him and forcing the eyeless gaze to look upon my slow execution. Like a thousand-thousand tortured spirits, the last of my futile wails and pleadings coalesce with the vicious blood-song of the barbarian menace.