Creative Writing Assignement. Woo.

I still don't know what grade I got on this. But hopefully it was a good one. I just enjoyed writing it. And a major thank you to my dear friend Kelsey for helping me a lot by editing. And Jeremiah's input was spectacular as well.

The disastrous Battle of Cannae has recently been concluded, the Carthaginians victorious, leaving the Romans soldiers either dead, wounded, or awaiting imminent doom in their camps. One such roman infantryman sits in his camp weighed down by fears as he writes.

            All at once I awoke from an uneasy sleep. For a moment, I had lapsed into a separate world, one in which there was no Rome. Despite the lack of my homeland, I found myself in a strangely hopeful scene. Though in an unknown land with unfamiliar surroundings and people, everywhere I looked I found things that reminded me of home. “Where am I?” was the question on my lips as I turned to all those about me, but no one answered, if I had even made a sound at all. I might never know, but it gave me inexplicable hope. If Rome was still present in memory could it ever fade?

            But how could Rome live? I am one of the few soldiers, last ones left defending the camp from the Carthaginians at the end of this battle, and in the midst of the terrible night of clashes and watching, anticipating the ultimate crushing blow coming in the morning. With the foolhardy consuls and tribunes fallen by their own folly in the fray, all the useless maps and letters and ink and pens of theirs in their now doomed tents are left for dead, like all the rest of Italy. I thought to use whatever paper, ink, and time I could find to chronicle these final moments of Roman life so that we would not be dropped from all memory. There is no hope to be seen. Ye gods! Would that I had perished suddenly from a stray arrow or dart in the midst of the battle! Any fate would better than this, waiting in the dank darkness, wondering if I take the right course. My shaking hands start at every sound, goring holes in my paper with my pen, ink gushing, as assuredly my body will be written upon with an African pen in blood. These thoughts come. Death seems to leer from every shadow. Even the light seems like a betrayal of the gods. Who asked for this? 

            Now there is a commotion. Everyone is moving, startled from their various positions of exhaustion and dread. I am hearing the name, “Sempronius! Sempronius!” shouted in varying tones of anger, relief, and even hate. I now realize who they mean. It is the military tribune, Publius Sempronius Tuditanus, a weathered man like an oak, well known as one who holds the most stoic devotion to Rome of all our officers. We believe him to value Rome itself as the most worthy of all things, even willing to kill all its citizens and destroy the land if only for the sake of the city’s walls. He was one never to marry, or make merry that anyone has seen. Many times we have wished that he would throw himself into the river’s depths or into the enemy’s hands as a newly thought action of zeal and maladjusted nationalism, but as of yet, he has only ever survived and prevailed. Those who do not associate with him, but only know of him, hold him in high esteem. As I ask my fellow in the crowd, he tells me that Sempronius has somehow convinced a band of some new troops to make an attack to force their way out of the ring of the enemy and run. I notice they are mainly comprised of the sentries and watchmen who guarded the camp while the battle commenced. They are fresh, young troops, pliable with fear and hope. Cowards, I call them. They never saw the hordes of hungry usurpers, thirsting for blood, with contempt and hatred for us oozing from every pore. Is true cowardice knowing true hopelessness and resolving oneself to it anyway, or is it in fact acting on naivety and fear without the true knowledge of the situation? It is better to stay and stand, to receive the spears in our front, with sword in hand, knowing what we face and the true use of our lives than to be unsure, looking for a way to bury our heads in the sand. Even quaking knees are better than wasted ones. But could they escape? Is it possible? Is Rome’s honor or my life worth more? Running would give me a chance of life, if my legs could support my drooping spirit.

            No. My resolve is restored. The men of our group who survived the battle are unanimously surging, as such worn bodies can, towards Sempronius’ group in a fury. Against the self righteousness and bright stupid optimism of the young troops, and the stoicism of the veterans, there are no bounds to which even friends can turn upon friends. It appears that the main group of those in the camp are forming a front to forcibly restrain the runners from leaving. I must stand with my brothers. We are staying to fight to the end. They have no right to desert us for a so-called better hope, but if they must, I say to let them act as they will. We are better off without such deserters and there is no call to turn against our own in this time. To see those I fought with today, understanding the cost and odds of our plight, staying strong in our course gives me heart. Rome is here, in the hearts of those who die defending it. Perhaps that is how we who are left can live through the night, knowing Rome lived strong until its final breath. Every country must die. Not all can die as well as they lived.

The End.