The morning sun was high against the far hills, a cool wind blowing from the south. The valley was green with spring, an occasional patch of wildflowers dotting the hillside. A few dark clouds lingered to the west, a distant reminder of the passing storm. The scent of death hung heavy in the air. The valley floor was littered with signs of a passing war. A broken javelin lodged in the back of a dead centurion, a few wagons of the Roman baggage train lay shattered, a century of legionaires having been slaughtered protecting them, ridden down by a contingent of heavy horse. Scattered across the ground were the bodies of those who had died here. A few peasants picked through the litter, stripping the dead and caring for the wounded. The place was called Pharsallus, and its name would ring down the ages, a haunting of countryman against countryman, triumvir against triumvir.

The boy was a tall one, with a lean face and dark eyes. His jet black hair was long and tied back, matted with blood from a wound near his ear. He held a sword in one hand and a rusted helmet under his arm. Blood had soaked his jerkin only days ago but now was covered with dirt and baked from the sun, leaving its smell and stain. The war between Caesar and Pompey was now far from this place. Caesar had won, and Pompey had fled for Egypt.

He had been at Pharsallus to witness Pompey’s defeat, he had seen his countryman slaughtered for the glory of their generals, he had tasted blood with the Tenth Legion, and he had been one of the first to enter Pompey’s camp. He was not a legionnaire, but one of Caesar’s Gaullic auxiliaries, a skilled horseman. He was given a discharge from duty when his horse, rearing in the high sun, was shot from under him. He was no longer of use to his general. He had won personal honor that day, killing fourteen enemy and fighting on after receiving a head wound himself. His glory was his own.

Left for dead, he lay alone on these green hills for almost two days, unconscious.

He picked slowly through the bodies of men and horses, looking for a face to recognize. Looking for a friend. His feet were tender with blisters and his head throbbed, a dull ache. He had been looking for almost four hours, looking for someone he knew he might never find. He sought Achilles. Some called him a hero, some a monster, but all knew his fame. Perhaps the greatest soldier of all. He had died again, on this field, with these men.

Bending down, he grasped the shaft of a javelin and pulled it from the chest of a dead centurion. The mans eyes were wide to the heavens and his mouth was open. He had commanded a cohort Gaullic cavalry, one which lost most of its men in the second charge. He was one of Caesar’s. He was an officer, one who had served with Caesar in his campaign against the Helvetians. He was brutal to those under his command and gave beatings for any violation of code, however trivial. They were harsh beatings, ones that left long scars. His fate was deserved.

Looking away from the face of his former commander, his memory flashed with the pain of those beatings. Any trivial thing was punished. Turning his head, he began to slowly move down the hillside to the killing fields below. It was there he would find Achilles. It was there he lay.

The sun peaked from behind the clouds, dappling the hills in its light. He felt its warmth against his cheek, and brushed the dirt from his face, turning to look to the sky. It was a moment of serene beauty. The sun, like a lazy god, stretched from behind far distant clouds to warm mankind with his light once more, not caring for the glory of men, or their cowardice. The long grass blew in a slight breeze, and the wildflowers were bright against the green hills.

It was then he heard in the distance, a name. Crastinus. Someone was calling for Crastinus. “I am Crastinus.” The voice was not in the distance but was a mere whisper, a whisper at his feet. Looking down, he saw an old man lying on his back with a large open gash on his shoulder and an arrow buried in his thigh.

“I am Crastinus,” he repeated. “And I am dying.” For a moment, their eyes met and the gaze was held. The boy slowly crouched and laid his sword on the grass.

“I am known to Latins as Alexander,” he said. “And you are dying.” He paused. “Is there anything I can do to ease your pain? Many have asked to taste the sword and to end their life. Three friends have died by my hand, only today. I would wish no more.”

“My young friend,” he coughed, “I am an old man and have long been accompanied by death. I do not wish to meet with her before my time. So put away your sword.” Slowly, he reached up to take the young mans hand. “I only wish your company in my final hour.”

“Then you shall have it.”

The old mans head fell back and he looked to the sky, squinting back the light. It was a long time before he spoke again. “I have fought hard in my time, I have bled the ground red on many occasions with many friends. I have even buried a few with my own hands.

“I was a poor man but a happy one. This was some years ago, of course. I had a child, a beautiful girl and bright eyes. I loved her. I had a wife, not a beautiful woman, but lovely in my eyes and hard working. It was in my thirty-fourth year that they were taken from me, and I could do nothing. Death visited my house then and pestilence took my family. I grieved for some months, but continued on my small farm. I was so alone and my friends were few. I believed I was a broken man, I believed I had no reason to live.

“I joined the Romans with a promise of gold and glory. These seemed good enough reasons for a broken man to fight and so I did. I fought.

“Then Caesar came to Gaul and brought with him war. It was then that I was joined into the ranks of the Tenth Legion. My brothers in arms. We fought all throughout Gaul and across the Rhine. We killed and we fought. We ate and we slept. The taste of battle was our reward for long miles walked. We loved Caesar. He was our general, and we his men. Most of us would fight for no one else. Most would only bleed for Caesar. And bleed we did.

“With the wars, we always fought and always moved. We thirsted for combat. We were hard men, men made strong by nature and her endless cold winters and hot summers, her harsh winds and her driving rains. We were not happy men, but each wanted something more than he had, each wanted something he had possessed before war took him in his grasp, before the wars had robbed him of his life. Each had a memory of a beautiful place, a small stream, a hidden waterfall, a grove of sycamore nestled deep in the mountains. Each talked of his place, each spoke of it lovingly, always with affection. But each only died in the service of his general. We never found glory, we never looked fortune in her eye and grasped her hand. We only did what we had to, we fought.

“I completed my service more than a year ago and was promised a farm. I never received my land, but did receive my pay. I remained in Southern Gaul for several months, with other legionaires. We talked a little, we lied a little, and we drank a lot. Word came to us, one cold morning, that Caesar was calling for his ‘fellow soldiers’ to return to his side and fight with him for our very liberty. There was no question. We went to him.

Crastinus paused and smiled. “Now, I am here, lying on this soft grass, my blood drying in the sun, my life leaving with each breath. I have refused care for my wounds, food, or drink, as I wish death to come. I wish to meet her alone and unafraid. She will be as a warm bed companion in my final breath.

“Alexander, I am an old man, but not very wise in age. Ask what you will of me. Let me tell my final story.” He looked deeply into Alexander’s eyes and squeezed his hand.

“I know of you,” Alexander said, finally. “The name Crastinus is much respected. You are a great soldier and much loved by Caesar. You will be remembered down the years, the glory of your sword shall not be forgotten. You must not lie here and let death come as she will. You must-”

“I must lie here and let death come as she will,” Crastinus broke in. “You see, my boy, I regret it all. Every battle I won, every man I killed, every breath I took in these past years. Every thing. I should have let death come to me long ago, when with my family. I was happy then. Had I even moved on after their deaths and married again, to raise another family, I would have been happy. I am a simple man, I have but simple desires.

“I do not regret, however, the friends of those years, for they are all that kept me sane. None of us were good men, but we each had a dream and a friend to share it with. Perhaps it would be best now, if I could share a bottle with them and talk of those years past. Perhaps that would make me happy. But I must die now. Perhaps the gods shall smile on me and I shall go to the bright fields of Elysium. Perhaps not.”

“I wish to die well, in battle, sword in hand. I would fight death to my final breath, and I would win. I would win as Achilles did, I would gain glory. All would remember my name!” Alexander said, looking out across the valley.

“And what would it gain you? In death, all men are equal. What then, Alexander, will it gain you?”

A smile crossed Alexander’s face. “I will die knowing that I will be remembered, that my name will be glorious!”

Crastinus spoke in a low tone. “But you will be dead? Dead men care for nothing. Least of all glory. Look at me, I have nothing. I am lying here, dying, talking to a mere boy who knows nothing of life. Life does not care for you and nor does anyone else. You are alone in this world, as I am.

“My family is dead and Crastinus died with them.” His eyes closed and, softly, he sighed. “But you must follow your heart, do as she bids you.”

The silence hung for a time and Alexander stared out across the fields into nothing. “So,” Crastinus said, “You are a Gaul, yes? I have known many of your kind in my time. Fine horsemen, fierce soldiers.” He smiled. “But drunkards, they were, every one!” He tried to laugh, but the pain overcame him, as he began to cough blood.

“I knew a girl once. It was some time ago, before this war.” Alexander slowly picked at blades of grass, his tone heavy with sentiment. “I suppose I didn’t really know her, but I would have liked to. She was beautiful enough, and she was kind, gentle.”

“And you did not go to her?” Alexander shook his head.

“I understand, my boy. Women are never an easy thing for any man. But you must try, some day, or you will never be happy. You will never have even the momentary happiness that I did, unless you pursue, unless you take the chance.

“But what know I of it? I am but an old man, and dying. I should give advice to no one, it would do me better.”

For a long time they simply sat together on that hillside. As the sun reached its heights, Crastinus sighed deeply and his breath began to falter. He closed his eyes and laid back, one of his hands resting on his chest, the other gripping Alexander's. His face tightened with pain as the breath came slowly, and a tears began to roll down his face. “Achilles,” he whispered, “Achilles…” His breath was gone then, like the wind. Crastinus was dead.

For hours, Alexander remained at his side, his hand still holding the old man’s. The sun continued his path across the sky and once more to his nightly grave. It was then, with the sun setting and a stillness lingering, that he found Achilles.

His tone was low as he spoke. “Crastinus lost his life for his passions, he lived in the moment, not caring for any others, not even caring for himself. He paid no heed to his heart, but answered only his to lust. Lust for the sword. Perhaps he died with honor, but he did not live with it.

“Is the glory of man so important? Is one man’s quest for power, for dignitas, enough to justify his brutality? Do the crashing waves care for the glory of a man? Does the sun on its path through the heavens even notice him? Does he notice the mere dust of the earth? Does the falling rain care for our lives? I have found Achilles. He is in each of us. He ruled Crastinus, his lust for glory clouded the heart of a good man. Even in his own time, Achilles questioned his passions. If for only a moment, he was not given over to them.

“For all time, the memory of Achilles shall inspire men on to personal glory, to the fame of a hero. Some shall fall victim to their passions, as both he and Crastinus did, some shall fall in love and live happily in insignificance. One will be remembered long after death, the other will be happy in life. One will be hailed as a slayer of enemies, the other will be hailed lover and father. One will groan with pain as a sword is buried to the hilt in his belly, the other will die warm in his bed. In the end, they shall both be committed to the dust and the only thing that will matter was how they lived, not how they died.

He paused. “Ah, but I am young, and patience has yet to work her magic. So, I shall go to Caesar. Perhaps I will win glory, perhaps not. It might be that time brings wisdom to me, it might be that I die on the field, where I have lived. Crastinus was right, though, I must follow my heart and today, she does not lead me home, hut for the horizon and another day of glory.”
 

Such are the ways of men. The voice of wisdom whispers softly in his ear, the cry for battle echoes down the ages. He will follow whom he must. Some will find love, some glory. Many neither. Such are the ways of men.

This is a work of historical short fiction. It is taken, rather loosely I might add, from Julius Caesar’s The Civil Wars, Book 3, 91.