Call to greatness

 

“He lived in fear of only one thing – getting blindsided, having the enemy onslaught burst on him in full fury before he was primed.”  ----- from “Gladiator” the novel by Dewy Gram.

 

 

Londonium, Britannia.  922 A.U.C.*

 

            A high-pitched, blood-curling scream shattered the dark night, bouncing off the monumental wall that the camp was backed up against before abruptly gurgling and cutting off.  Thus, the once peaceful and humid night became full of the quiet but natural motion of twigs snapping, pack animals stomping, horses whinnying and tired soldiers shifting positions in their racks.  Then, suddenly the air grew still and heavy, broken only by the occasional snort of a nervous animal whose senses told them that all was not right.  Almost mystically, a cloud floated over the full moon, darkening the sleeping Roman camp so that no one would ever see the dead picket man lying half-covered in the rumbling waters of the stream leading into the camp he once guarded vigilantly.  Quiet footfalls in the water passed him by, ignoring not only his body, but also the blood still seeping from his cut throat.

            The wolf’s head rose slowly from the warm dirt, his yellow eyes watching dispassionately as dark and crouching forms drifted steadily into the once secure campsite.  One shaggy ear flopped lazily to the side as his mangy head cocked with sleep curiosity.  Amongst the intruders, a man glanced nervously in the canine’s direction, but was dissuaded by an innocent look and a wagging tale.  Reassured, the soldier moved on.

            The moment he was out of sight, the wolf rose and trotted off into the shadows, threading his way through the straight and uniform lines of white tents with experience.  It was not long before he reached his ultimate destination, and was nosing the hand that dangled of the bed.

            Then the screams began.

 

            Skelton’s bark was hardly necessary; instinct drove Maximus out of bed before his sleepy brain had even realized he was in motion.  But he did not need to think – his ears told him all he needed to know.  Quickly, his brain categorized: screams, fresh blood in the air, the class of steel on steel… For a moment, though, his mind cried: How did they sneak up on us?  Where are the pickets, the scouts?  Panic, however, did not trail his concern; his hands flew, lacing and buckling his armor on faster than he’d ever moved before, thankful for the fact that he’d fallen asleep half-dressed the night before.  Never having stopped moving, Maximus flew from his tent, his young wolf hard on his heels.

            In his immediate surroundings, all was still quiet.  The cavalry section of the camp had remained undisturbed, and its commander was greeted by an absolute and utter stillness of the type that always preceded a disaster.

            “Festus!” he bellowed.

            Almost by magic – which’s silent spell, though, was broken by the clatter of a falling wheelbarrow and subsequent cursing of the unit’s senior enlisted man as he fell over it – his friend appeared before him, the usually casual and joking demeanor gone.  “Sir?”

            Their eyes locked for a split second, and Maximus was grateful to see nothing but professionalism in his subordinate’s eyes.  Ten years his senior, Festus had seen far more battle than his commander could ever hope, or dread, to see, and also more than most of the Felix Regiment combined.  If he’d have feared this, the nineteen-year-old colonel knew they’d all be dead.

            Fortunately, they were two of a kind, and the screams ensured that there was no need for explanations.  “Two minutes.”

            Two minutes was a lifetime to wait on any battlefield, yet now a necessary evil – even Maximus’ well-trained cavalry unit could only array so quickly; to have anything less than an organized front facing the Britons would quickly become an invitation to sup at death’s table come breakfast time.  Two minutes, then, though bought an inevitably high price, would save many lives later, and increase the damage that the Felix would wreck tenfold.  Therefore, the sense of urgency Maximus felt had to be stilled in favor of his tactical mind.  One thousand times, he’d run full-scale battles in his mind, now, his brain screamed for him to act.  Game face, Maximus, the cavalry commander thought with coldness that surprised even himself.  These people are desperate for a savior, and you can’t afford to fail.

            “Two minutes!” Festus roared, rushing off and buckling armor as he ran, not even bothering to acknowledge the command.

            Nor, however, did Maximus pause to care.  He, too, was in motion, sprinting to his roan stallion, Apollo, as Cicero led him forward.  Nodding once in wordless thanks to his servant and accepting his plumed cavalry helmet from the younger man’s hands, the young man gathered up the reins and urged his mount forward amongst those of his men.  “Let’s go, boys!” he shouted.  “I don’t have all night!”

            Scrambling madly through their own preparations, his men spared the split second to exchanged grins among themselves; they knew their commander meant well, despite the harsh tone of voice.  To a man, they traded deliriously happy glances, glad that, for once, the infantry would owe their younger, mounted, brothers their lives.  Let the brick heads taunt us about this, they thought.  Time we showed them that a cavalry unit is every bit as Roman as a plain old legionnaire, even if we’re not as totally ingrained in tradition and history.  Smiling, for that was the way that warriors dealt with fear, they threw their gear on, readying their mounts and each other, delighted at the turn in events.  Not a one of them, however, truly paused to consider the gravity of their present situation.  A shout split the chaotic stillness.

            “Move, boys!” Maximus’ eyes were filled with cold preparation, and his heart was strangely still in his chest.  “Those are our brothers roasting in the fire! Their lives depend on us!”

            Heads snapped up and eyes widened; their normally jovial commander was now frighteningly intense in a way they’d never dreamed of seeing.  He was depending upon them, their infantry brethren were desperate for them, and the Felix Regiment never failed.  Cold certainty quickened their strides, and mere seconds later, the entire unit was mounted and ready.  Men loosened swords in their scabbards, adjusted their shield arms and soothed anxious mounts, their eyes all glued to their commander.

            Maximus did not disappoint.  “Caput porci!”  He ordered the wedge formation without hesitation.  “Close battle interval!”

            As his men moved into place with hurried but practiced ease, the colonel turned to Festus once more.  Calmly, he outlined the plan rapidly forming in his mind as he mentally examined the camp’s layout.  “We will charge straight down the middle and split when we reach the back of the barbarians’ lines.  You take the right wing, Matius the left; I will try to find General Vellius and get further orders.  Until then, targets of opportunity.  Pick their rear apart.”

            The centurion nodded curtly.  If surprised or worried, Festus gave no sign; professionalism and respect monopolized the older man’s features.  Maximus made a mental note to later ask what he was thinking, but now was clearly not the time.  Festus glanced over his shoulder once, as company commanders’ voices rang out, reporting status and readiness.  “Regiment formed, sir.”

            “Sound charge.”  Showtime.  Maximus was surprised to find no quake in his own voice.  It was time.  He was read – and could not fail.  Three legions were depending upon him, and failure was not an option.

            Hooves thundering and weapons at the ready, the Felix Regiment burst forward, quickly crossing the ground separating the infantry and cavalry camps.  As the distance closed rapidly, Maximus ran through one last mental checklist.  He knew not exactly what he was getting into, but trusted instinct and experience to guide him.  Failure was not an option, couldn’t be.  Too many lives were at stake.  Too many people were suddenly depending upon him… He had to keep the faith.  His duty was to these men, and they needed a savior.  They needed a savior…

            Like a massive torrent of spring floodwaters, the Regiment burst into the infantry camp at a full gallop, howling and screeching to draw attention.  Many an enemy turned to face them upon hearing such, but few spun quickly enough – most were cut down by flashing swords or trampled under heavy hooves.  In the lead, Maximus found himself not fighting on pure instinct as he might have expected, but instead seeing with an astonishing clarity of vision.  Every movement around him was catalogued, dissected, analyzed.  The surrounding chaos suddenly made absolute and complete sense. 

Out of the corner of his eye, the cavalry commander spotted exactly what he was looking for.  A scant few yards away, there was the army’s Tubicen Princeps, or chief trumpeter.  He stood at the side of their senior tribune, Arvalis – Arvalis!  What is he doing?  Watching?  Without thinking, Maximus urged Apollo forward and through the ranks, jumping to the ground upon reaching his superior’s side.  Arvalis hardly seemed to notice him, though, and didn’t move a muscle…he just stood staring blankly at the field.

A thought entered Maximus’ mind immediately, but there was no time to ask; they were facing a disaster if the tribune realized it or not.  But where is General Vellius?  Aloud, though, he asked, “Orders, sir?”

Arvalis turned slowly to face him, eyes glassy and empty, but no words emerged from the older man’s mouth.  He just stood and stared.

“Sir?” Maximus repeated, surprised at how calm he was and at how accurately his mind was reporting the facts.  Act! it screamed to him.  The cavalry offensive has rattled them and broken their lines, but it’s not enough!

Arvalis did not move.

Without hesitation, the young officer strode over to the tubicen, whose eyes fastened on Maximus even as the young ranker’s white knuckles gripped his trumpet nervously.  “Sound the reform order,” Maximus said levelly.  “Cavalry to the front.”

One quick look sufficed; the tubicen’s eyes traveled from Maximus to Arvalis and back again; his decision, however, was made, and unhesitatingly, he raised the instrument to his lips.

The tribune snapped out of the blackness as the musical notes echoed off Londonium’s walls and faded into the mist-covered dawn crossing the countryside.  Even then, though, Maximus was turning, remounting Apollo, and moving away.  “What are you doing?” Arvalis gasped.  “You can’t fall back!”

The cavalry commander kept riding.

Quickly, Maximus reached his men.  Grim and bloody faces stared back at him, watching him, waiting for his next move.  It was then that he knew the entire battle was in his young and naïve hands.  But their eyes were on him, trusting him, thinking that he’d do the right thing… Enough of that! the hard side of his heart exclaimed.  You have no time for doubts!  Even if your actions must doom some of your men to die, it must be done! 

“Brothers!” he bellowed, the words pouring forth without conscious thought.  “I need you to buy me time to get these ground-pounders moving!  Are you with me?”

Their answering roar surprised him with its enthusiasm and intensity.  Scanning their suddenly bright faces, Maximus found unhidden and unabashed hope.  Inside, it almost frightened him, yet he also felt an undeniable excitement.  He’d often wondered if he had what it takes…And now it was time to find out.  Utere felix, he thought to himself.[i]

As if by magic, Festus again appeared by his side, but the colonel didn’t wait for him to ask.  “Engage their front lines,” he ordered.  “Push them back, no matter what it takes.  I need time.”

The centurion nodded curtly.  “You will have it.”  Then Festus spun to the regiment.  “You heard the colonel, boys!  Prepare to charge the front!”

Although he so desperately wanted to go with them – Maximus was a true warrior at heart and felt terrible asking another to do what he would not – he knew that he was leaving his men in the best of hands.  He had a bigger picture to be concerned with now… Without looking back, he galloped away once more.

The three legions’ infantry formations were shaping up loosely, now – the men were relatively calm, all things considered, professionals and Romans both, well trained and experienced, and now with a safety blanket in place as the Felix Regiment stormed the barbarian front lines, creating a wall between their infantry comrades and the opposing force.  Pulling Apollo up, the colonel turned to address the men with whom he’d served with as little as two years before.  Inwardly, he thanked fate that one of these legions had once been his own – Legio North I.  Those men, at least, would follow him, he thought.  He hoped.  Let them remember.

“Listen up, boys!” he roared to the tightly packed and now shorthanded legions.  “We’re going back in!”

His eyes scanned their tired faces briefly, but there was little fear, yet also little hope.  Still, he knew he had to dispel that small amount of trepidation immediately, else they’d never succeed – and never follow him with the heart necessary to win.  “Shallow U formation!  First Legion to the center!” he ordered, but not a soul moved.  Despair might have overtaken him, except that a voice from deep inside his soul responded first.  “I will leave this field victorious or die trying!  Who will follow?”

 

Slowly, the barbarian tide ebbed under the combined onslaught of the Felix Regiment and three Northern legions.  As the sun finally filled the sky, blood colored the grass red, and the screams of the dying and wounded stained the souls of all present.  At first, almost haunted, the Roman soldiers looked blankly at one another, mourning lost comrades and lost chances.  Slowly, though, as they stared at the mounds of barbarian bodies, which greatly outnumbered those of the Roman dead, the soldiers began to realize that they had accomplished the impossible.  Gradually, elation began to replace the pain; they were alive.  They had won.

Thus, their eyes turned to the man responsible for it all.

Moving throughout the wasted field, Maximus found himself accepting numerous backslaps, grins, and congratulations.  He smiled for all of them, equally grateful for their courage and willingness to trust.  Unashamed, he told them as much, surprised to see their shock at such praise.  Finally, he made his way to join the Felix Regiment’s chosen position, watching from afar as his men tended to their wounded comrades.  When several men saw him, they waved him over, smiling proudly.  He nodded slightly in return for their exuberant praise; oh, he knew pride… These men, his men, had taken the ultimate leap of faith upon mere words and plain trust.  They’d thrown themselves alone before the entire barbarian onslaught, borne the brunt of it, and come out on top.  All because he had asked.

A heavy hand landed on his shoulder, and the colonel turned to face Festus, letting out a sigh of relief to see his friend alive.  The centurion, though, was looking at him with different eyes.  “That was…amazing,” Festus said quietly.

Mentally cursing the worshipful looks he had been getting, Maximus just shrugged.  “It was just a battle,” he replied evenly.

His centurion’s eyes, which were usually shining with mirth, looked at him with a new admiration now, though.  “One that will win you the Grass Crown,” he replied quietly.

The colonels’ mouth dropped open in an uncharacteristic loss of control.  “The what?” he gaped.

“For saving an entire army single-handedly,” was the blunt reply.  “Arvalis froze, Maximus.  The general died in the first wave, and I found his body just outside his tent and full of arrows.  The field is yours.  Were we in the days of the Republic, this army would hail you ‘Imperator.’ Since that’s the past, we can only cheer.”

Only then did the enormity of what he had done strike him, but for some reason, he did not feel the type of elation he’d thought he might.  Maybe he was just tired, but the entire battle did not seem worth the price they’d paid for victory.  So many good men were dead, including Vellius, a general whom Maximus respected and cared for a great deal.  Thus, as his pride faded away, he found himself rejecting the idea of being the savior of the day.  For the first time in years, Maximus almost found himself at a loss for words, but instead, he replied quietly, “I am glad for that.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I am glad for that,” Maximus repeated, looking to his subordinate.  “I am not in this to be a hero, Festus…”

Again, his eyes drifted over the dead, the dying, and the wounded.  Was it worth such a price?  So many men, in the flower of their lives, destroyed… And what did they fight for?  The young colonel had joined the army not to serve his country, but to run away from an abusive home.  His motivation was the trust his men had in him – he fought for them.  But what did they fight for?  Was it really Rome?  The dream, as he had heard it called, was such a distant and elusive concept to Maximus…and he had to wonder if it wasn’t that way for them as well.

A nearby figure caught his attention, and the cavalry commander drifted away from Festus to kneel at the side of one of his wounded officers, vaguely aware of Skelton shadowing him, just as the wolf had during the entire battle.  Licinius, the wounded man, looked up at him tiredly.  “We won, sir?”

Smiling slightly despite himself, Maximus replied, “Yes.”

True to form for a member of the Felix, Licinius grinned in return.  “Glad to know I didn’t get my side all cut up for nothing, then, Colonel.”

Maximus chuckled.  “I bet,” he said lightly, then added, “You did well today, Licinius.  And now you’ll have a new scar to show off to the ladies.  They seem to like scars.”

“Hey, I’m married, Colonel,” the young officer said in mock outrage, forgetting his pain.

“That hasn’t stopped most of the boys,” the commander replied with a grin.  “Nor you, if I recall correctly.”

Licinius turned red.  “Remind me to never again work for someone who seems to find out everything about everyone,” he grumbled.

Slapping him on the shoulder, Maximus rose, suddenly finding himself in better humor than moments before.  The darkness was passing.  “Seem, hell!” he declared.  “Of course I know everything.”

The medic had to shush Licinius’ laughter to get a good look at his side.  This, Maximus reminded himself through the exhaustion still plaguing his body, is why I’m here.

Amid his realization, however, a voice came from behind him.

“Colonel Maximus.”

His heart leapt into his throat even as he turned; he knew the voice, although he’d only heard it twice before…and had altogether forgotten the most important presence in that camp.

Maximus bowed to the emperor, trying not to let his exhaustion and surprise show too much.  He’d been introduced to Marcus Aurelius once, over a month ago, along with the rest of the senior officers, but his presence in the cavalry portion of the camp had kept Maximus more removed from Caesar than most of the other officers.  It was slightly unnerving to be in the presence of the world’s most powerful man, but still, Maximus knew he should have expected it, given his earlier actions.  After all, he’d blatantly disobeyed a direct order from a superior officer only hours before, and who was to say that the battle might not have been won in Arvalis’ way…whatever that might have turned out to be, if anything at all… But the senior officer would surely use that as an excuse for his own incompetence.

But suddenly, the emperor’s question made his head snap up.  “How do I reward Londonium’s champion?”

What did he just say?  “Sire?”

“You saved the battle, Colonel,” Aurelius replied evenly.

Maximus was all too aware of the emperor’s gaze upon him; the older man was studying him curiously.  Uncharacteristically, the young man found apprehension flirting with his mind.  What was he searching for? 

“These men’s courage and effort pulled us through, Caesar,” Maximus responded truthfully, knowing that had they any less heart, he would have been lying dead beside them.  Still, though, he was uncomfortable being called a hero.  It was hard enough to stomach from his own men… Coming from the emperor of Rome, the words made him uneasy.  Unconsciously, he shifted lightly from one foot to the other as he waited for a response to his polite contradiction of the emperor.

Surprisingly, Caesar chuckled lightly at his self-effacing words.  “Come now,” he said, looking Maximus directly in the eye.  “You cannot say that your actions had nothing to do with our victory today.”

Someone had to, his mind screamed to retort, but he kept his peace in the face of his heart’s crazed beating.  Where was this going?  “Any one of the officers would have done the same,” Maximus replied quietly.

“Would they?” Aurelius asked, arching an all too knowledgeable eyebrow.   A sudden gesture, though, allowed Maximus’ modesty to pass.  “Walk with me, Colonel.”

Heart thundering in his ears, the young man bowed his consent, not trusting his voice to reply.  He knew how irregular this was, how the praetorians watched him suspiciously… Although he’d done an insane thing on the field that day, Maximus knew that he was still only a very reckless and junior officer, too young for the rank he held already. 

Silence reigned for a long moment, and Maximus found himself watching the older man.  Marcus Aurelius moved with a quite confidence that bespoke not of a warrior – for he was not one – but of a great man.  He was a great leader, too, the colonel knew.  His good friend and commander, General Vellius, had thought very highly of him, and had often spoken of Aurelius’ care for his people… Yet those remembrances only now saddened Maximus as he was once again recalled his commander’s death.  Too many good men had died that day…

The emperor interrupted his thoughts with a quiet truth.  “You did a great thing here today, Maximus.”

Startled, he began to object.  “Sire, I –”

A raised hand shut him up.  “You rallied an army that was outnumbered three to one and caught by surprise.  You personally led a cavalry charge into the middle of the enemy formation and tore apart their offensive.  And in the midst of all that, you managed to deploy the Northern Legions to the best advantage as if it were nothing.”  The emperor smiled.  “Is that so small a feat?”

Why must he make it sound like so much more than it is? Maximus’ mind cried.  My actions were a combination of guesswork and luck, and were only done because someone had to.  I don’t want this praise, nor do I deserve it.  Not in the way he means, anyway.  “Sire, these men made it possible,” he said quietly, careful to be respectful even as he disagreed, the taboo action around an emperor.

Surprisingly, the emperor smiled.  “Yet your leadership drove them.” 

Yet Maximus couldn’t let it rest.  “Caesar –”

“No,” the emperor cut him off.  “I will not have you discount yourself, Colonel.  You saved these men today through your actions.  You know that.”

Maximus studied the emperor for a long moment.  The situation was crazy; the old man seemed unwilling to let this go… And why was that?  Clearly, the emperor thought he had done something remarkable – just as his own men were insisting.  Although Maximus was fully aware of what he had done, as he’d told Festus, he had not joined the army to be a hero.  He’d only acted because someone had to… Finally, though, he nodded, knowing that he could not deny what he had truly done.

Again, the emperor smiled, having won his small victory.  “How old are you, Maximus?” he asked unexpectedly, stopping.

“Nineteen, sire,” Maximus responded warily, aware of the calculating gaze resting upon him.

“That is young for a cavalry commander,” the emperor said noncommittally, but something about his tone made the young man’s heart thunder in his chest.  When Aurelius went on, Maximus understood his premonition.  “And younger still for a general.”

Shocked, he could only manage, “Sire –”

Another raised hand silenced the objections before they could begin, but Maximus doubted he could have continued anyway, for his throat was suddenly as dry as his eyes were wide…This was not only unheard of, but unthinkable…

“Stop,” Caesar said forcefully.  “I will not have this.  You are more than deserving and capable, as evidenced by your actions in battle.  And there is also no better choice for a new commander of the Northern Army.”

He could not help but blink.  Aurelius did not only want to make him a general; he also wanted to make him the supreme commander of all the empire’s northern legions – one quarter of the entire army.  Unfortunately, Maximus knew he was not only inexperienced, but far from ready as well.  Perhaps someday, he might have even dreamed a dream such as this one – but not now, and not yet.

“Your Majesty, I am a very junior officer,” he said with a calmness that surprised even him, with his lifelong practice of self-control.  “I am inexperienced and not at all what you need in an army commander.”

“Aren’t you?” Aurelius challenged with a smile.  “You won today, didn’t you?”

“Sire, I won by relying on guesswork and luck, not experience or skill,” Maximus objected.

“And if you continue using those, I suspect Rome’s enemies will begin fleeing before you, General.”

Shifting slightly in discomfort, he tried again.  Truly, he was complimented, yet there had to be some way to show the emperor that he was not what Aurelius thought he was.  “Sire, I am nineteen,” he pointed out again.  “I have been in the army for only five years –”

But Aurelius’ answer was not nearly so angry as he thought it could be.  After all, one generally did not contradict the emperor on anything…Foolish and foolhardy, though, were easy traits for Maximus to muster.  The emperor smiled gently.  “And your men love you.  You are a leader, Maximus, whether you like it or not.  You are the kind of leader that the Northern Army needs.”  The old man studied him once more, this time for a nearly unbearably long moment.  “Now, I need to know: can I depend upon you?”

Swallowing, Maximus found the courage to meet the emperor’s eyes.  In them, he saw a kind of hope and trust that he’d never touched before…And something within him longed for it.  The reply came, then, not from his mind, but from his soul, which knew he could succeed.  “Yes, Caesar,” he replied.  “You can.”

 

Tiredly threading his way through the hospital tent’s exit, Maximus rubbed his face with a grimy hand.  He needed to shave; of course, that was more than many of the men in that tent would ever be doing again; the cavalryman had been in the army long enough to know that a good number of these soldiers would not live to see another dawn, despite the medics’ best efforts.  So many had been lost that day, and his heart still bled for their memory, yet the enemy had fared far worse.  That, indeed, was his only consolation.  He might have possessed an injured and battle-worn army, but they were alive.  And it was over.

So, it was time to move on and discover his new responsibilities.  With one final glance at the patients, his men, Maximus strode from the hospital tent and into the midmorning sunlight.  Although it had been scarcely seven hours since he’d awoken to screams and a battle, the new general felt as if a lifetime had passed.  Exhaustion ebbed in on him, but there was still much to do.

Moving through his camp, Maximus noticed the eerie quiet handing upon his surroundings.  Few men were in sight, and those that he did see turned upon him with a new respect in their eyes, though they quickly disappeared. Frowning, Maximus continued with his travels, eventually making his way to the camp’s central parade ground, which was, for some bizarre reason or another, completely filled with men.  Actually, it seemed that the entire uninjured or mobile remnants of his three legions were assembled there.

A hush fell over them as their general made his way through the ranks.  Upon reaching the center of the legion’s “U” shaped formation, Maximus spotted Lucius Sejanus, the army’s most senior centurion, moving toward him, trailed by two other senior enlisted men.  The young general did not know Sejanus well; his reputation and the occasional staff meeting were all Maximus had to go on, but General Vellius had thought the world of the man, and that was recommendation enough.  Sejanus’ habit of having little tolerance for incompetent and arrogant officers did not hurt either, of course, for Maximus was neither incompetent nor arrogant; in fact, he shared the other’s opinions on the matter.  Therefore, unlike many of his “comrades,” the young general had no reason to fear the veteran centurion.

“General,” Sejanus greeted him stiffly, formally.

Note to self.  Get to know this man.  “Centurion.”

“Today you saved an army,” Sejanus began.  “And those men would like to present you with a sign of our gratitude.”

Maximus’ head snapped aside as a command echoed across the parade ground.  “Present!”

“Present!”

“Arms!”

Suddenly, the entire army was saluting him.  The new general stared, outwardly calm, but with a wildly beating heart inside.  Could this be…?  His eyes scanned his men’s faces, and upon seeing their pride, Maximus’ analytical mind could not be denied.  Still, though, he felt his breath grow short in shocked gratitude… of all times to realize this long-held dream of old, this was the one he’d least expected.  Warm pride filled his heart and mind.

Festus, he thought suddenly, had a big mouth.

But Sejanus was nodding to the centurion behind him, and as Maximus stood frozen – dictated to do so by tradition – the senior ranker reached out to place the newly-woven grass crown upon his superior’s head.  In that moment, the young general realized that he was a part of this army, and accepted by them as such… He was their general.

A rousing cheer burst forth from his men, and suddenly, the general found his throat constricted and voice lost in the face of such open adoration.  He had never felt such frightening exhilaration in his life, even when these same men had hailed him with exhausted cheers a few hours before at the battle’s end.  In their faces, too, as his eyes scanned them, Maximus saw trust and pride.  Taking a deep breath, and knowing he had to speak, he slowly raised a hand to silence them.

“Brothers!” he began…

 

 

And so it begins…

Let us always dream