Strength and Honor

The barbarian was huge. His long, muscular build covered by an overabundance of thick black hair. He was clothed in a loose leather tunic and shod in light sandals. He wielded a scimitar-shaped broadsword at least two meters long. This he held in his right hand, with both thumbs gripping tightly to it’s pommel. In his left held a small metal shield, round and by all appearance, flimsy. The barbarian’s face was bare of body hair, but the diagonal nasal flaps below his two wide, black eyes gave the appearance of a fearsome mouth. The actual mouth was but a slender line below the slits, lip-less but entirely capable. This became obvious to anyone within a mile of the creature, as he bellowed a throaty howl to those of his clan that could still hear him.
He stood atop a small hill, in front of an earthen dike. On the other side of a fifteen meter wide canal was a forest of extremely thick trees and undergrowth. The small opening of a trail into the forest was near the dike. This trail wound into the dense thicket for miles and miles and spread into a labyrinth of covered trails that would take years to map. Into these trails the barbarian’s family and what remained of his entire village had escaped, on foot, just mere minutes ago. They were like the hairy beast, but women, children and aged. He was the last warrior among them. He howled in his guttural native tongue for them to flee, to save themselves. He howled also for them to remember this day. To someday return, and avenge him. The barbarian was their rearguard, their only insurance for survival. He knew he would not live to fight another day. He knew the aliens would soon be here to kill him. The aliens that he’d seen as black armored beasts, who fly through the air, killing his people and livestock at will. Aliens who wielded sword and sun alike to great destruction. He knew they were not gods, because he’d killed one himself in battle. They could bleed, and die, just like he could. It had taken all of his strength and will. It had been one on one fight to the death. He’d won, but he had no illusions that he’d ever survive another encounter like that one again. He knew he had one advantage over the black aliens. His goal wasn’t to survive…it was to buy time
His only regret was that he didn’t know what the aliens called themselves. In his race, a tribe’s honor was only as great as the enemy they fought. An enemy’s name was respected, honored as belonging to the whole tribe. He had no way to know that his enemy was…the Legion.
The recon scouts of the 1st Cohort of the 19th Legion (1st of the 19th) were six legionnaires, armored with the typical black kevlar body armor, and armed with both Scorpion Multi-Functional Assault Rifles and the ever-present Gladius. Their helmets bore the unique vision blocks in front of their visors, which hid the grim faces of the troopers completely. Behind them, about five kilometers, was the famed First Cohort of the 19th Legion. The planet Gracea knew this Legion well by now. In the past six months, the Legion had “pacified” over 90 percent of the small planet and the home agencies on Roma were already preparing mining and other vital resource teams to examine the rich planet. The elimination of barbarian resistance was to be “dispatched with haste”. Those were the orders from Roma. The Legate of the 19th had passed the urgency down to the troops thus: “Destroy the barbarian’s warriors within a ten-day and we’ll see Utopius on the next R and R. Any later and we’ll set up a gymnasium on the third moon of Gracia and stay here!” His humor was…unique.
The six recon troopers reached the summit of the small ridge line and halted. The “corn field” they were in negated vision to a couple of feet, and they were spread out, line abreast, about ten meters apart. Their squad leader, located roughly in the center of the line, checked his visor map. The soft green glowing lines to his lower left showed the terrain. There was a canal to their front and thick forest beyond that. The 19th was still at least thirty minutes behind them. Aerial cavalry was busy elsewhere, as usual, so it was up to recon to fix the barbarians. The leader turned on his thermal imaging and glanced right and left of him. Kneeling just below the crest were his troopers. They awaited his orders and caught their breath. Time to earn our pay, he thought. Antonio Balarus, Squad Leader-Recon, eased up to the crest and slowly raised his helmeted head. The howl came through his enhanced headphones at the same time. Hideous, but familiar, he tried to locate it. Not a problem. The big beast stood right in front of the canal bridge. A quick scan, both thermal and infra-red, told him there were no signatures nearby. Just this big, howling barbarian.
“Squad advance to within ten meters of the canal. Weapons hold…no firing unless defensive.”
Antonio stood and raised his visor. The cold wind on his face felt wonderful. He checked his troopers, all with weapons ready and alert. The howl grew louder as they approached the hairy beast.
Antonio smiled as they emerged from the field. The banks of the canal were clear for about fifteen meters on either side, and the squad emerged to form a semi-circle around the alien. The unfathomable language of the barbarian needed no translator as he pointed his huge scimitar at Antonio and his mates. The ridiculously small round shield in his other hand clashed loudly against the pommel of his sword in between gestures of pointing and howling. Obviously a challenge.
“Bella, drop back to the crest and inform the 19th that the barbarians have entered the forest. We’ll wait here until they get here. Tell them we may have a live prisoner to interrogate, and to have special services ready to receive him.”
“Aye, Antonio.” The troopers backed slowly away, and the remaining troopers spread out the circle to keep the barbarian from escaping. That, Antonio thought, was unlikely. This fellow was the doorman. Antonio had seen it a couple of times already. A sacrificial rear guard to buy the rest of the clan time to escape. An admirable quality in any race, he thought. Futile, but admirable.
Antonio gave orders and gestured to his squad to keep the barbarian at bay, but not to fire unless he charged or took offensive action. The Gracian watched this, even as he continued his own gestures. He understood the significance. He pointed his sword directly at Antonio, and held it there. He began a low, growling sound. It was almost a conversational tone. Occasionally he would softly touch his shield to the pommel, but now he was completely focused on Antonio.
“You lead. Come to me. I lead. I will kill you, black man from the sky. Your blood will be mine, and I will rest in C’rombor with my father and brother. Come to me” were the words of Melokar the Gracian. Antonio would never know his name, nor Melokar Antonio’s. Here and now, however, Antonio understood the beast’s tone and intentions, and he smiled once again. A challenge. The legionnaire loved a challenge.
“The barbarian asks me for a fight, my friends.” Antonio informed his men. The troopers glanced sidelong at Antonio, incredulous. They knew what their leader was about to do.
“Antonio, don’t. Tacitus will have your head. If you damage your prisoner, he’ll have you cleaning out toilets shipboard indefinitely.”
“Rosca, this noble beast asks me for a noble death. Can I deny him?” Antonio clicked his Scorpion to his right thigh, in it’s holster. His eyes locked onto Melokar’s and he held his empty gloved palms in front of him for his enemy to see. Melokar held his sword rock-still, pointed still at Antonio, and grunted an accepting response. Antonio waited a second. He’d hoped the beast would charge his weaponless foe, but this fellow wasn’t stupid. So he reached slowly with his right hand to the pommel of his gladius, sheathed tightly on his left thigh.
“Don’t do this Antonio. You’ll get us all in trouble.” Rosca again.
Antonio ignored him as he drew his short sword in one swift, smooth motion. The small, thin-lipped smile under Melokar’s nasal slits went unnoticed by Antonio as the alien stepped one stride towards the trooper. For Antonio and Melokar, this was an exercise of honor and strength. They both accepted whatever the outcome. There was a difference, a major one, however. Melokar knew that his priorities were to buy time for his people and to inflict loss upon his enemies. For Antonio, this was a show of personal courage and strength…personal honor. The besting of this great beast would prove to himself that Antonio Belarus commanded the squad by strength and honor alone. Melokar didn’t care about Antonio’s honor, nor Antonio about Melokar’s. They each were satisfied with the knowledge that the other had possession of that spirit that drives a warrior on any world. Each for his own reasons. Antonio gave little thought to this as he edged slightly closer to Melokar, waiting for the challenger to spend the first blow. He didn’t have to wait long.
At Antonio’s first step, Melokar turned towards the bridge. For a split second the trooper thought he would make a run for it. He was about to command Rosca to take him down, but then the beast stopped and turned full circle. The scimitar blurring towards the soldier before him. It’s full length of two meters, plus the long arm of Melokar, put the blade at just inside a killing range blow, and instantly Antonio ducked and pulled his gadius back against his ear for a mid-section swing. The swirling Melokar, however, continued his turn and slung the small “shield” with surprising swiftness. Antonio sensed, rather than saw, the shiny round projectile fly past his head. The deadly frisbee made for it’s target up on the crest, fifteen meterrs away. Bella screamed over Antonio’s earphone as it smashed his visor, then sliced an enduring, if not fatal, scar deep into his right cheek, then splitting the bridge of his nose in two before it spent it’s energy.
Antonio took advantage of Melokar’s sweeping turn to lunge out with a right to left sweep with his gadius, trying to gut the beast. The shorter sword of the legionnaire wasn’t up to the task, and missed by about two inches. It took crude tunic and some hair from Melokar’s belly, but no flesh. Melokar finished his turn and lighted again on Antonio’s gaze. Their eyes met for a second. With a hideous howl on Melokar’s lips, the Gracian charged at Antonio, bringing his huge scimitar up above his head for a downward cleaving blow. Antonio, still in a defensive crouch, sprang forward, straight at Melokar. He brought his gladius up from waist level, point forward, both hands on the pommel, and plunged it into Melokar’s belly. Even as the short sword dealt the blow, Antonio rolled to his right, dodging the expected stab downwards of the alien scimitar. It did not come. Instead, Melokar slung his blade towards the trooper to his right. Bella took the middle of the blade full into his right bicep. It creased the composite armor and slashed through the muscle of Bella’s arm quite painfully.
Bella’s pain, though intense, was nothing compared to what Melokar now felt, as Antonio pulled the gadius out of his stomach with ruthless efficiency and not a little anger. Unarmed, but still standing, Melokar clutched his entrails as they escaped his midsection in a bloody mess and howled. Antonio stood fully before him and their eyes met one final time. Before Melokar the Gracian made his last step towards Antonio with outstretched hand. Andtonio had no desire to be throttled in the death grip of this ferocious alien. He slashed Melokar’s hand off at the forearm in one deft move, then reset himself into a striking stance. In an instance, Melokar’s still howling head was separated from it’s host in the familiar violence of the sword.
Antonio looked around him. He re-evaluated himself as an idiot instantly. Two men down and wounded, though thankfully not dead. Bella with a crippled arm and Rosca’s face pouring blood like a sieve. Antonio didn’t even have so much as a scratch. He’d violated every precept of command by allowing a desire for personal honor and recognition to supersede the safety of his men. The remaining three men of the squad looked at him for a second, neither in awe nor scorn. Then they began to give aide to their fellow soldiers. They ignored Antonio, and gave him a bit of room. The men of the Legion gave men of strength and honor respect and, at times, command over them. The one unbreakable, yet unwritten, rule of the Legion had been broken, however. The honor of the Legion is always first, and you don’t honor the Legion by being careless with it’s troopers. The squad would say nothing of it until their debrief with the Centurion. Among themselves, or to Antonio. Not one of the squad had any doubts that, after the debrief, Antonio Belarus would command no man of the 19th Legion ever again. Personal honor be damned.

 

P.S.

Tell me what you think of the Legionnaires of this alternate history, and their world conquering Legions…

K.S.