The Pax Romana: Broken Eagle

Chapter 3: The Roll Call

In comparison, the beachhead he had awoken on seemed rather tame in comparison to the one he and the swath of men following in his step arrived on. This beach, cut off from the other by hills and a slight forest, opened up in a bay of blood. There were no survivors here, not one. Only corpses of men who fought for the Republic they once knew and loved.

Faustus, lost in his thoughts, paused. He stared, his gaze stretching across this sandy beach, matted with the rotting dead, many still within in the confines of their armour. Some sank into the sand, some had hardly arrived on the shoreline, only visible due to the tide withdrawing outwards.

Sooner or later, the seagulls would get to them, likely crows and whatever else was wise enough to see a feast had been practically prepared and presented just for them, so that these soldiers could return back to whence they came in the embrace of Mother Earth's hold.

A clap on his armoured shoulder broke him from this trance-like state, and with a slight hop, skip, and jump, adrenaline momentarily burst through Faustus and subsided just as swiftly. "Do not do that, I am on edge as it is." He showed how his hand had rushed to the hilt of his sheathed sword.

Decimus chuckled lightly, voice gruff. "Lighten up. Some of those men down there in the sand could have fought for the enemy for all we know."

Faustus nodded, frowned, and moved on. He gestured for Decimus to follow him in tow. The man stepped beside him and matched his superior's rapid pacing, far too brisk for some of the injured men at their rear.

"What exactly happened to you, then? You washed ashore, met Lucius who was riding along the shoreline to pass the warning that Agrippa was searching for survivors, when what? You just happened to come across a whole contubernium? Eight unscathed legionaries?"

Decimus passed him a fleeting glance, and in his eyes shone concern. "What are you implying?"

"I am implying you got lucky, saved by eight soldiers who deserted, most likely." Faustus glanced at the eight men who followed nearby. They stuck together, as was to be expected of an assigned squad. You train together, live together, and die together often enough in a contubernium. Faustus no longer had such comradeship, being of a superior rank. He could not fully remember his own from the past. Some among him in his younger years, when he was just a fresh-faced, green soldier with everything to prove and nothing to show, were alive. Sextus, among them. Decimus, too. Lucius, likely leagues ahead of them by now, was also a good friend of his in their rookie days.

"Most likely," Decimus replied after a short while, swatting at a fly - the first of many to begin gorging themselves on the sea-filled corpses, bloated and overflowing with an growing, rotten stench.

"Did you not ask how these eight soldiers survived?" Faustus asked, when he heard a yelp, a pathetic one at that - one meant to have gotten his attention. Desperate, perhaps pleading, or not, it worked, and one among those eight men stepped up, saluted Faustus, and made clear he had kept close to the duo in order to listen in on their thoughts, feelings, and opinions. Faustus, in one mind, considered what the right reaction and repercussions could, or should be. Yet, during such a time as this, many among them weakened or otherwise, he found in his heart a sense of sentimental understanding. Perhaps, these eight men were green, called upon to fight in a civil war of which they did not understand. Worse, if it was their first naval engagement, then he understood doubly.

The young soldier stood before Faustus, holding his salute, but there was a noticeable disarray to his stance. His tunic was askew, armour hastily strapped, and his eyes flickered with what might have been something along the lines of anxiety and urgency. Which it was, he did not know. Yet, despite these noticeable signs of disarray, this young man was unscratched like the rest of them.