3. Momentum

Crouching behind the thickets on the east bank of the Aztak River, Marius Ectorius surveyed the riparian umbrage for unusual movements. 

Leaves rustled behind him as men shifted about. He withdrew his eyes and mused on the swath of rocks rising to the north. 

A fortnight ago, when he offered himself stoutly to lead the suicide cohorts made up of rookie soldiers, Xeator turned him down point blank, and that he cared was enough of a reason for Marius to want to fight and die. He volunteered again. Only this time, he did not accept no for an answer. Life is temporary, whereas death permanent. What do all mortals live for, after all, if it isn't a glorious death on which the meaning of this life depends?

A wistful smile tilted his mouth. 

Squinting at the magnificent spires that spiked into thick clouds white and gray, he wondered how his second life beyond death would fare and wished for those clouds for a bed. 

That wouldn't be too bad. 

The scout he had sent out earlier just returned. Saluting Marius, the stripling reported, "The Exonian cavalry, Sir, they're examining the encampment we left two nights ago." 

Marius nodded as he swiveled to the lad, with crooked teeth and a face agonized with acne. "Good job," he said, tapping the boy's shoulder. "Now, go back to your position, and once you spot where the Exonians camp for the night, go to the east flank in the north and inform the Primus Xeator." 

The boy made another salute and left. 

Between the Exonian cavalry and where they encamped, Marius had led his men dissimulating a rout, which suggested they would attempt to flee by crossing the Aztak River. By Xeator's calculation, this should give the Exonians a false sense of security, with which they would camp and rest for the night on the higher ground. Convinced that they had gained a territorial advantage, they would march down the next day, comfortable in the knowledge that they could drive Marius and his suicide cohorts to the end of the canyon where sheer rock met the turbulent Aztak. 

Where they could choose to either drown like a craven or fight like a martyr. 

Marius heaved; white breath unfurled like mist upon the morning sea. Xeator's voice came to his head. 

"Secrecy is everything," said the blond man before they parted ways. "And I'm sorry I can't tell you more than that you need to know. But please find it in your heart to trust that I will not let you die." His almond eye glinted next to the ebon hue of the eyepatch; his ash blond hair sketched his diamond-cut face in silhouette. 

Marius pursed his lips. Just like Xeator who kept from him the intention of his plan, Marius kept from the blond man that he did not fear death, only a life devoid of meaning. He feared that all the years he had spent would be a complete waste. If death could aggrandize a life that yielded so little importance, perhaps he shall brave such a death, welcome it with his open arms and a solemn aye. 

Watching the scout disappear into the depth of undergrowth, Marius shook his head and spun to his men around the hissing fire, levies of peasants, slaves, ex-cons, and debtors, of weather-beaten men and boys thin as a rake. His breath hitched. He drew out his dagger, a prize he won from Consul Claudius for having shot his first boar fifteen years ago, and which he had kept with him ever since. Swaying flames caught on the steel. He turned to the vast wall of sandstone behind him and carved upon it his name with the blade that looked aflame. 

"Renanians!" he boomed, wheeling around to the men. "Tonight, we leave our names on these rocks. We tell Nemesis who we are, and let Horus carry our names through these steep gorges, where our names shall resound from this day and all the days to come!" 

Metal clinked as men drew their steel. Following Marius, they chiseled their own names on the rock. Flames flared, illuminating the faces mudded and stern, then slowly reduced to embers and fizzled out as the night lifted. 

When the clopping hooves of Exonian cavalry approached, men most apt to fight mounted to fall in a front line while those too young or weak gathered chariots and wagons. 

Marius unsheathed his sword, raising it over his head. "Archers!" Cantering along the front line, he commanded, and when the bugle sounded as the Exonians reached their shooting range, "Fire!" 

Arrows clattered shields like pellets of hails. Steels shrieked unsheathed. Metals clashed amidst men's cries of their honor and gods. 

They fought as they fell back and dropped their cargo and weaponry in the pandemonium of rout. 

"Discard everything!" Marius roared. "Make a run to cross the river!" 

At the fall of his voice, a javelin hurled at his head. He dove, flattening himself on his back upon the horse, and pulled the dagger girded to his belt. With a swing of the wrist, the dagger droned, sweeping across the air, and cleaved the face of an Exonian right between his eyes. The body flailed, jiggling on the galloping horse, then slumped off. 

Marius glimpsed the haft of the dagger jutting out of the gawking face as he calculated the time it would require him to retrieve it. An arrow swooshed over his head, followed by the glint of a blade motioning at his flank. A soldier whose name he hadn't yet learned galloped before him and jabbed his sword. He missed, unfortunately, and the attempt enraged their foe, who wheeled his mount back toward them and launched. Marius took the chance, leveling his sword, and slashed off the Exonian's head from behind. 

"Thank you," he said to the soldier with a quick nod, then scanned the men at large. "Discard everything and fall back!" booming out his command, he darted one last glance at his dagger that had accompanied him all these years, and with which he had carved his name in the rock. Putting spurs to his horse, he turned south and routed with the rest of the men. 

Behind them, the Exonians cavorted, celebrating their early victory. They broke ranks, collecting booties intentionally scattered, while they drove Marius' men to the end of the trail before a steep mountain wall, with the relentless waters of the Aztak rushing on their left. 

Marius gulped, clutching his sword. He turned to the soldiers. "We can't choose how we're born," he pronounced, his voice solemn and full of sorrow. "But we can choose how we shall die! If death shall come, die as how you'd like to be remembered! Renanians! My brothers! May we meet again in the second life and rejoice!" 

Gold beams of the sun punctured a roof of clouds, caught on the whistling blades, and blunted by gore. They charged, cutting and missing and cutting again with such bravery that seemed to shock the enemy. The last time Marius saw men fight as if their next breath would be the last was when they tried to break free from Pethens almost thirteen years ago. A warm feeling of relief rose from his chest. Knowing that even the slaves, the debtors, and the ex-cons could manifest the best in men, that to die among them, he shall have no regret. 

Blood spilled as they pushed back the Exonians trying to hold on to the booties they had collected. Bugles sounded from the west. The west flank led by Lorenzo ambushed from the depth of the foothills. Seeking higher ground for defense, the Exonians didn't clash swords but fell back to their encampment. But as they saw the Legidus' leaping panther on flapping pennons and the banners of the Praetor's sigil fly high from their own camp, panic broke free. The east flank led by Xeator rode down from the north to meet them, hemming in the enemy. 

Of all eight thousand Rennians soldiers, they lost thirty-one lives on that day. When Marius reported the death toll, he scowled in disbelief as the number escaped from his lips.