Click! Click! Click! Click! It was a sharp slope that they climbed, slowly trudging up the hill on a dark muddy day. The air was silent, save for the rhythmic sound of mud over leather. The ground was sticky with slush and as the earliest drops of rain precipitated around them, the men marched on, wordless in their exhaustion. Today was a good day. A great raid, a grand victory. To the middle of the troop train rode the commander himself, surrounded by his guard, the finest of his men. He was in a good mood today. The double envelopment maneuver was a success. It was the lynchpin of his grander plans. He could feel the smile form up on his face, uncontrollable. The commander was a passionate man. Given the right army and a clear mandate, he would have sailed out to conquer the world. Alas, he was stuck to the sticky forests of Iberia. He could feel his heart pulse with excitement, this one was long awaited. The air was cold, smelling of oncoming rain and storm. The wind gaining turbulence. The troops moved in a single file, trudging up the hill as they hulked their food stacks and gold reserves. It was the day's plunder. Another village burnt, another people evicted. It was not to his taste, the destruction. But it was necessary. The leaves rustled slightly as the wind moved against their march, tunneling through the tight forest path, the smell of wildflowers and berries in the air. The commander stared out over the distance, as he trotted along upon his horse. He was tempted to celebrate. His first great victory. A boy of mere sixteen. But he won't, not today. His father's words run through his head, over and over. "Remember this day, my son. Remember this day on the date of you're finest victory" He prayed it was not this day he spoke of. This was too early.
It was a strange day, a half-decade before when he heard those words. He grimaced slightly at the memory. The cut still fresh across his face. The gash still sharp across his chest, a cut upon his shoulder. A gift from his father. The commander rode along on his massive stallion. A horse of dark brown, he cast a majestic shadow upon the ground in the evening sun. All seemed to be going well, if a little painful. He couldn't help but reminisce. All those nights training, fighting at the bottom of the legions. Rising up the ranks. The fear, real. No bodyguard to protect him. Perhaps it was all to pay off. He could see it still, his father standing over him, blade in hand, swinging away at him as he parried the strokes with ever increasing franticity. All up until the first strike cut through. A cut upon his shoulder. The chamber was a stone structure, dimly lit by the flame of a single urn set in the center. It set ghostly shadows upon the wall as the boy fell to the ground. It was the first time he asked his father for a place on the Iberian campaign. His father had looked down upon him a moment, not a word escaping his mouth. "Only when you are worthy" he had said. And when he protested, claiming he was ready, his father had looked seemingly hurt a moment, then taken him by by the hand and led him down to the temple. There he had taken off his armor, staring down at the kid. He had raised his blade in challenge and struck down upon his own son. He said nothing as the boy parried the blow barely, the blade glancing off his shoulder. The boy was skilled. But even the most skilled fighter must bend to the rules of reach and strength. His father was a taller man of great strength. A monster of a beast before the child, and he showed little mercy. As the ghostly shadows of the flame danced around the cove, the men joined in the dance, striking away at each other with ever-increasing ferocity until the boy was left merely defending against the fury of his father's blows. Blocking and deflecting with rapidity. A strike, a parry, then one to the legs parried, all at an increasing lag, and then the man struck. Drawing blood from the boys shoulder. In the dim red light of the fire the wound was barely visible, but the pain was real. Ripping though boy's body as he stepped back, only to be thrown back by a kick from his father. The boy chaffed at the unfairness of it, the size of his opponent. He hoped to hide it, but the father understood all "Do you think it will be fair, when you send your men off to die against the legions?" He smirked, looking down at the kid. "Do you think it will be easy, to have your men face down an army twice their size? To have them stand their ground, let alone fight." He smirked. "Why would they do that for you?" He muttered. "This fear you feel is merely awe at the strength of your opponent. You have not been afraid in your life. Not until you have been stabbed through the neck, stomped down upon by a metal boot thinking to yourself that not a thing in the world would change if you were to die lying there upon that ground." The boy rose charging at his father only to be kicked back onto the wall. "You fight because you want something. You fight for a purpose of your own. But why must your men fight? Answer that question for yourself" He swung his blade, opening up a gash in the boy's chest. He collapses, the pain intense. A tear runs down his cheek. "Feel that pain, my son" The father held his son against the wall. "On the greatest day of your life, in your finest victory, remember this day. This is what you led your men into" He mutters. He presses the blade into the kids skin, drawing a line across the skin of his face. Up close, all of his scars are laid bare. All the cuts, bruises and burns from his many campaigns. The artillery scalds, the arrow cuts, the bones broken upon maces. Shadows of light fly over the marks as the fire flickers in the background. "This scar will remind you, my son. Every time you feel powerful, every time vanity threatens your mind, remember where your strength comes from. Remember the source of it all. The day you forget that, is the day of your final victory" The commander placed his finger across the scar, tracing the line down his cheek. His finger comes back wet. The rain is now a torrent. He smirks. He hasn't forgotten. He never will, or so he hopes.
The commander was shaken out of his reverie by the sound of a single spear. The silence of the forest broken by the felling of a single man. Thwip! a spear flew through the air hitting a man on guard. It was as if the air itself were charged. In an instant the forest was alive. The bodyguard was the first to react. They moved with rapidity prodding the general's horse to push him out of harm's way. A spear flew out of nowhere, killing the man to his right. The commander stared out, not quite sure how to react. The bodyguard though, was a professional force. Within a moment another man was in the space, completing the cordon. The commander must be protected. They charged up the hill as the men fall apart around them in disarray. Bogged down by their supply packs, the troops were slow to react, struggling to form up battle lines. Thousands seemed to fall within an instant, not a chance to fight. Looking down from the hill it became clear, the masterful maneuver. The barbarians awaited the passing of the front, to isolate the back of the troop train. Then set themselves upon the enemy with savage abandon. As the front half of the troop train moved past the hill, the rear was ravaged and surrounded by the savage foe, hitting them from all sides. Blocking them off from the frontal troops. The commander scanned the battlefield, unable to comprehend the disaster that he faced. A full half of his men lay in the maelstrom. "Rally the troop" he commanded the lieutenant "We must face this enemy" The frontal forces had gathered behind him by this time. Rapid action was required. The lieutenant though, was a wise man, a veteran of many a war. Known for his keen advice to the man in command. He stared at the commander "We must retreat" he muttered. His voice solid as wood "We must cut our losses, commander, pull back and return with reinforcements. We are outnumbered" The commander grips his sword tight. He can see it yet. The image of his father diving into the flames. The last he saw of him. He would not leave. Never to abandon his men. But he could also see the foolishness of a charge. The lower forces were spent for force. The upper troops that he carried on the other hand did not have the might to batter the barbarian force. He would have probably struggled to face them in open battle leave alone an ambush. He wanted to call out for aid, a strange impulse pulsing through him. Call the commander. As a soldier, you learn to trust the chain of command. You hope and pray, the commander you follow is a man to trust. Where's the commander? And then he realizes something. He is the commander. "The last man to leave the field." His father had once said. The last man to leave the field. He nodded at the lieutenant slightly. Feeling his chest balloon up with courage. "Pull back the troops" He muttered, and before the old man could respond he turned his horse about, turning to face the enemy. He raised a prayer to the high heavens... and he charged.
"For Carthage!" the cry echoed off the valley hills, as the lone man charged into the throng. The commander would die with his men. But it was not to be, for without even a moment of silence, the commander's cry was met with another. The entire Carthaginian force rallied down the hill, charging down to hell and all else, no orders given, no exhortations need. The entire force charging as one. But as they charged down the hill, it was not Carthage that they called out for. It was not the the nation that they fought for, tears streaming, blades swinging. That was not what this army was built on. And so it was with his name echoing off the walls of the valley, his arms spread in a charge to the death, that the man was forged....
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