Repulsae Nescia

Chapter One

It was more than just another place on the map, it was where it all happened. The atmosphere was dark, covered in stars and endless gray smoke emitted from dying, yet blazing fires. Men's limbs were coated in ashes, and festering wounds. Many laid on the ground, silently, looking up toward the sky as they slowly faded away. Everything was silent. Everything was calm.

The few who had survived the battle, attempted to reorganize, and march back to the safety of their camp. People called back and forth, for friends and companions, who may have been lost, or may have still lived. Vibius, who, fortunately had survived the battle, marched alongside his legion. The troops were increasingly exhausted. Some had been covered and marked with wounds, from which blood still flowed. Many men's armor had dents and cuts from ruthless spears, swords, and other treacherous weapons that were used to slay the troops.

They had lost the battle; no one could deny them this.

As men marched, the defeat settled into their souls, stabbing them like a knife.

The troops eventually made it back to their camp, although disheveled, it was just as they had left it. The sturdy, cloth, tents were still lined in meticulous and precise rows. The men leading the march back, ran to one of the general's quarters to state the events of the defeat. Most rushed to the doctor's tents for assistance. Those who had left mostly unscathed, either retired to their tents, or washed their faces and ate. Vibius decided to join those who took care of themselves, understandably.

The unusual calmness of the battle had been replaced by the busy whirring of anxious speech amongst the still living troops. Vibius headed to a worn water trough, which had a small line in front of it. Vibius, taking note of the men, waited patiently until they had all washed their blood-stained faces. Soon, he did the same. Vibius cupped his calloused hands and splashed the water they collected towards his, rather angular, visage.

Vibius could be described as a man of few words, which, in this case means he never really knew how to say what he felt. It wasn't lack of thought that caused his silence. It was lack of vocabulary. Vibius had joined the army at about seventeen. It had been only three years since Rome took up arms, when the red flag was raised in the capital. Understandably, he didn't really have much of an education.

True to his disposition, Vibius began to walk off quietly to his tent, lackadaisically grabbing at the bag of rations tied around his armor. His now torn sandals trudged against the flat, dessert like sand that covered the entirety of the camp. He soon saw the tents, lined in neat rows. However, there was still a disorder in the camp, as is with situations like this. Vibius heard hushed whispers, sharing news of an address tomorrow morning. He took note of this, and began to move faster, so that he may get as decent sleep as possible. Vibius' defeat hadn't struck him yet, he was rather uncaring and apathetic to the battle in general. He knew this event would deeply affect him and his future, but he didn't want to think of it now. Vibius finally entered his tent, and stared at the beds. There were eight of them, and each one was neatly made. Some men were already fast asleep in their beds, but most were outside, panicking, or something of the sort. Vibius headed immediately to his bed, after changing out of the armor he had worn all day. The air was cold in the tent, almost frozen. Vibius' tired body shook as the winds howled over and through the exterior cloth of the shelter. Small patches of dried blood still marked his aching limbs. Oddly, everything seemed quite normal to him, just louder, and tenser. Vibius didn't do much fighting himself, as he ended spending most of his time aiding injured soldiers, many of whom had died in battle. As hard as Vibius tried to shut his eyes, he could not drift into sleep. Vibius turned his body up toward the top of the tent, and gazed out of a small tear in the tent. This was the first time Vibius had seen stars in what feels like forever. The stars shined brightly, as they softly illuminated the tent's interior. Getting bored of the view, he turned to his side, and did this throughout the night, until his cold eyelids shut, and he drifted into slumber.

The next morning, the abrupt sound of a horn woke Vibius. He jolted awake, and scrambled to exit the bed. As soon as he stood on his feet steadily, he wiped the night's cold sweat from his forehead, and tied back his coiled, dark brown hair into a sturdy and practical pony-tail he wore throughout the day. Vibius rushed out of the tent, as some of his room-mates still left their bed. Vibius knew it would be a special day, a loud and nearly surreal one. His army had lost sieges and even battles before, but never quite like this. Countless men had died on the field; no one could even look to the horizon without seeing desecrated cadavers lying about, even from the camp. Vibius, thinking of this, followed the steady line of people heading to train. His body still ached, from the day before, and the events of yesterday had just begun to settle in.

When Vibius arrived at the training area, people were busily speaking and gossiping, as people took wooden swords, and battled with each other until they began to march. The sky was still fairly dark, with the sun only just beginning to blend into the night sky. Today, there were not nearly as many men training as the last time they had. Men were slow in their fighting. Some cried, some wore infuriated faces, that stared at their opponent intently. Many men had lost their closest friends and companions yesterday. Some men were still being treated, leaving their loved ones in suspense and agony. Those who had not died literally, were in a sense dying all the same. Still, crowds awoke in the morning, and began whatever normal day they could.