The Great Revolt

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The ‘plain of mud and blood’. Summer 52BC.

The Gallic warrior clutched his stolen Roman blade tightly, moving stealthily between two particularly tall clumps of wormwood — very little flora had survived on the plain, between the seemingly-endless fighting, the Roman siege works and general plant clearance. The legionary on guard duty was far from his camp and his officers, and barely within sight of his nearest compatriot. He leaned on the top of his shield, which rested on the ground, his pilum jabbed into the rich earth and standing free. He was clearly fighting off the reaching arms of Morpheus.

The Gaul frowned at his own audacity. He didn’t really want to kill the lad. There had been enough killing to last a thousand lifetimes — enough blood shed to drown the thirstiest of battle Gods. And the poor lad was young. He’d been through enough. But the Gaul had only the one free hand, and that held his sword… the other fist gripped so tightly his knuckles shone white in the night.

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