#cingerix

Talius. The same strong legs, the calloused hands, his toned arms, his taut chest. His jaw, his nose, his bright green eyes, bored into Cingerix. If he’d walked over, Cingerix would’ve been able to place his hand on his chest, feel his heartbeat, kiss his lips.

But Cingerix knew that wouldn’t be real. He’d seen those same legs grow fatigued from battle. He’d seen those same hands drop their weapons in anguish, those same arms grab him in desperation, that same chest struggle to keep breathing. That same jaw slackened in death. That same nose broken in two places and leaking blood. Those same eyes gazing up at him and seeing nothing. Cingerix blinks and Talius is gone. He’s died a second time. Cingerix followed his sister when she pulled him further into the forest. He didn’t tell her what he saw.

Cingerix stopped seeing Talius after the triumph. He liked to think that Talius saw no point in continuing to watch him. They’d soon be together again. Cingerix was sure he’d be sent away to a latifundia or perhaps the mines. He wouldn’t have to wait long to join Talius if he was sold to the mines. Instead, his family was snatched from him, and the Romans broke him piece by piece.

He was sold to the legions, enslaved to an officer. Cingerix did as he was ordered, told himself he was being treated fairly, and kept his head down. He was given the opportunity to enlist. He once told his sister that he’d rather die than be a slave and now he would fight to enslave others. He walked out of the tent a newly minted soldier, and his father stood before him.

Victus looked tired. Their two years in the woods had taken its toll. His back, once unbowed and unbent, had slackened with the weight of the slaughter of the Verbigeni. His dark angry eyes pierced into Cingerix. They felt like daggers stabbing into his chest.

Cingerix wanted to say he did what he needed to survive. He wanted to say that Victus had no idea what they had done to him. Victus was dead; his family was dead. How was he supposed to go on without them? His words died on his tongue.

Cingerix tried to move, to push his father out of the way, but Victus was gone. And Cingerix was alone again.

He saw his mother by the river. The legion had finished setting up camp for the night and he had snuck away to wash himself. He thought of the cleansing ritual Delphinia had taught him and wondered how tainted a person could be before the ritual stopped working.

As he bent down to scoop up the water, he saw her in the reflection. He knew that if he turned around, she wouldn’t be there. He looked anyway. Only the forest greeted him. He turned back to the water, and she was still there.

Delphinia looked worried. There was that crease between her brows that she had always gotten when Cingerix and his sister did something reckless. When they were fighting the Romans, it never seemed to leave her face. The kohl around her eyes made them stand out and it felt as if Isis herself was judging Cingerix through her. He slapped the water, and his mother was dead again.

He thought about performing the ritual but doesn’t attempt to. Cingerix knew he was tainted. He didn’t need a ritual to tell him. He settled for washing his hands and feet. Baths were a rare luxury on a march.

He spent most of his time with the rest of the Gallic auxiliary units, but occasionally he’d hear the Roman soldiers talk about how they missed the bath houses. It sounded appealing. He’d like to see Rome again one day. His family’s triumph had faded to a corner of his mind, an old shame he was glad none of his fellow soldiers knew about. Perhaps it was time to look to the future.

Cingerix did see Rome again. After Gaul submitted to Caesar’s will, many triumphs were held. Cingerix marched with his fellow soldiers as they displayed the spoils of Gaul. At the front of the procession was Caesar himself dressed in the toga picta and wearing a laurel crown. His soldiers lovingly mocked him with lewd songs as they wound through the streets towards the Temple of Jupiter.

As much as he tried not to, Cingerix’s focus was riveted to the centerpiece of the triumph, the Gallic chief Vercingetorix. The man who banded the remaining tribes together to defeat Caesar. Cingerix remembered the Battle of Alesia. There the chieftain was tall and shining. He galvanized his forces. Even in defeat, he laid down his arms and surrendered with the utmost calm and deliberation.

This was not the man who stood before Cingerix now. Six years in the Tullianum does much to a person. Vercingetorix was hunched over, barely able to keep himself upright. His bones jutted out at odd angles. His once lustrous hair hung limp and matted. Cingerix couldn’t bear to look him in the eye. He turned to the crowds.

All of Rome had come to see them. The teeming masses of the city surrounded their procession route, eager to take part in the games and parties that came along with triumphs. Ten years ago, he wanted to rip out the throats of the Romans who were celebrating the slaughter of his people. Now he was celebrating along with them.

Then he saw her. His sister Andarta. She was standing in the middle of a group of women. Cingerix stumbled for a moment. A fellow soldier steadied him and kept up his bawdy ballad, unaware of the change in his comrade.

Time slowed. Cingerix should surely have passed her by now, but the moment stretched on into eternity. Andarta wasn’t even looking at him. Her eyes were fixed to Caesar at the head of the procession. Cingerix could feel the heat of her gaze, as if the war goddess she was named for had descended from the sky. It brought him back to the forest, to dodging Roman legionnaires, to his own past rage. He had to do something. She couldn’t be that bold in public. If Caesar saw—

Cingerix cleared his head. Caesar wouldn’t see. His mind was playing tricks on him again. Andarta wasn’t here. She was dead. She wouldn’t have survived. His sister was many things, but she was not subtle. She was not quiet. Cingerix would be shocked if she had lived even a few days after they were all separated. She wouldn’t compromise herself. Not like he did.

This was the gods mocking him. Perhaps it really was the goddess Andraste in the crowd. He had turned from the gods even before the triumph and this was how they punished him. These visions, these shades were a reminder of his failures.