Half a year of harsh travel had brought Zierlus across more of the world than he ever imagined existed. Evading roaming armies had proved easy enough; the Romans preferred to stay out of wooded areas, which made the forests his highways southward. Provisions were plentiful to come by as well, with a variety of flora and fauna providing for his meals.
Nonetheless, it had been a tiring journey; only his passion drove him on. His nightly bouts of sleep had been plagued by replaying images of the destruction of his village: the smug ambassador, the arrows aflame arching down to the settlement below, the cavalry running through the women and children. His days were consumed by travel, and Zierlus neared where the forest met the plains riding up to a pass through the mountain range leading to Rome.
Across the field, a handful of Roman soldiers guarded the road that would provide the safest and fastest passage. Zierlus saw no bowmen, but Roman infantry were nothing to trifle with, well-versed in close combat through years of exhaustive training. Zierlus retreated back into the woods to wait for the cover of darkness.
He hadn’t been careful enough. A blazing horn sounded as the small gate-keeping battalion marched towards the woods. They moved slowly, keeping a tight, three-by-three formation, each armed with a gladius in their right hands with their shields borne upon their left arms.
As the group made the last few steps to the edge of the tree line, Zierlus dropped from an upper branch of one of the outlying trees. He landed just left of their form, on the shielded side, and with a broad and forceful swing his staff made a thunderous crack into the six shins of the front line of the Roman offensive. The men fell seconds after, screaming in anguish, their legs shattered by the impact of the larch weapon.
The guards’ phalanx had lost its coherency and the remaining six soldiers turned their efforts on the sole culprit. Their disarray lent further advantage to Zierlus. As comprehension of the arrival of their assailant from above penetrated into their helmeted skulls, Zierlus rolled back and swung his staff again, this time at the exposed ankles of the left flank. Once more wretched yelps echoed through the trees as the trauma of shattered ankles brought two more men to the ground.
Four men remained, their swords drawn and their confusion replaced with conviction. The two nearest Zierlus lunged forward, hoping to pierce him before he could evade. Zierlus swung the staff perpendicular in front of him, blocking their swings at his head. With a sweeping kick he knocked them to the ground and slammed the stave across their armored chests, rendering them harmless. The two remaining men fled back to the gate, leaving Zierlus free to retreat back into the foliage.
After the fall of night, Zierlus slipped out across the plain. The only light cast on the moonless night came from the torches at the guard post. He gave the fort plenty of berth and slipped into the mountains beyond. The passage through the Alps was an exhaustive one, the days spent sleeping in alcoves in the terrain off the thoroughfare. He traveled at night, preferring the frigid cold nights to the possibility of capture or imbalanced combat with a full Roman detachment.
Zierlus emerged onto the Italian peninsula after nearly two weeks of this routine. Again, he passed the guard post at night, returning to the road several miles past the checkpoint as the sun returned to the sky. Within an hour, a uniformed messenger on horseback traveled towards him.
Zierlus placed his hand at the tip of the staff slung across his back. As the rider passed, he forced it up, across his back and into the windpipe of the unsuspecting equestrian, knocking him from his horse and the life from his body. Zierlus retrieved his correspondence and his regalia. Many subjugated people had been put into military service and, carrying a message, he could easily pass as a messenger from a Gallic settlement. Mounting his captured steed, he embarked on the road, realizing he did not know the location of Rome.
At the end of his third day of travel, he saw on the horizon a large Roman force. He dismounted from the steed, releasing it back along the road. He tracked their movements from a distance, following them south. They broke for the evening, giving Zierlus an opportunity to consult the spirits.
Removing the makeshift packet that carried the runes he had carved following the destruction of his village, he prepared to cast lots. The divination revealed to him the rune of knowledge, the sun rune, and the god rune, which he took to mean the gods shined upon him. He spent the night confident that following the army would lead him to the emperor.
Zierlus continued this for several more days, hiding in brush, forests, and along hillcrests, observing the force from a distance. Finally, they approached, on the tenth day of travel, the walls of a great city. They had arrived at the gates of Rome.
He watched from his hilltop position as the soldiers began to make camp outside the city. A man astride a horse approached the gates, dropping his shield and armaments at the gate. The Roman general, freshly returned from campaign in the north, entered the city to request the tribute he was due for his efforts. Zierlus had never witnessed such a strange practice, and watched in curiosity, envisioning how he could breach the walls unarmed.
A day passed, which was all the time necessary for the solution to his problem to be revealed. At midday, the army camp began to stir as the soldiers formed their ranks and files unarmed, preparing for their victorious march through the city. Zierlus left his cherished stave lying in the grass and rushed down the hill as stealthily as he could, working his way into the back of one of the more disorganized units of enslaved soldiers. No one noticed a difference; either from his mystical aura or the sheer disarray of the group, the warrior-priest blended in as they marched through the gate.
Once inside, Zierlus kept with the formation. He needed to find the emperor, and surely this march would lead them past the imperial residence. The procession eventually led past a building where a stately figure dressed in purple robes stood on a balcony overlooking the street. A block later, Zierlus broke from the unit and made his way onto the crowded streets.
Forcing his way through the crowds like a fish swimming upstream, Zierlus approached the regal estate. He could see six men guarding the entrance, though he knew he could count on many more inside the palace. Gazing around for an alternative means of entry proved unsuccessful. No buildings lay near enough to jump onto the roof, and the brick of the wall provided no grips for climbing. He decided to try using the stolen tablet to pass as a messenger. If it provided unsuccessful, the unarmed Zierlus would fight his way through what would undoubtedly be dire straits.
“Halt! Only those with official business are permitted,” spoke one of the Roman guards.
“I have a message from the north for the emperor,” replied Zierlus, holding out the cloth holding the inscribed piece of wax covered wood. The guard eyed him, sizing up him and his story before stepping aside, allowing Zierlus to pass into the extravagance of the imperial residence.
Zierlus was ten paces into the lobby before his good luck ended. Looking back over his shoulder, he saw a commotion at the door. He hastened his steps, ducking out of the entry chamber into an adjoining vestibule.
“Stop that barbarian!” commanded the booming voice of one of the guards. Approaching footfalls cued Zierlus further to impending trouble. He flattened himself along the wall to the right of the entryway.
The first two through the doorway suffered the worst. Zierlus snatched the closer man’s blade and slashed it into his soft, unarmored side. The guard reeled from the wound, dropping his shield as his hands clutched at the hole his life force drained from. Zierlus dove between the legs of the remaining entrant, cutting the ankle tendons named for legendary Achilles. Unable to support himself further, he twisted as he fell, slicing at air while Zierlus rolled to safety.
More guards filled the doorway, impeded by the bleeding bodies of their compatriots. Zierlus bolted for the stairs, having last seen his target on the upper levels. Doorways lined the second floor hallway, each seemingly the same as the next. He dashed to the end of the hall where another passageway intersected and orientated himself by the view from the window. If his sense of direction was right, he emperor should be somewhere along the connecting hallway.
Zierlus passed down the hallway, checking rooms for his target. The footsteps of his pursuers were getting louder the closer they got. He flung open the final door and quietly shut it behind him, hoping to evade detection. However, the imperator and his concubine immediately noticed his presence.
The emperor was a middle-aged man, scarred and bronzed from decades of service in the Roman military. His purple robe lay on the floor, where it had been thrown in the heat of the moment. The two of them grabbed for their clothes; the sudden arrival of Zierlus, his sword bloodied and his gaze fierce, gave them plenty of cause for concern. Zierlus unleashed a furious cry as he lunged across the bedchamber towards the formerly copulating emperor.
“Guards!” cried the emperor, as Zierlus crossed the last few yards to the bed. With the swiftness for which they had been recruited, the Praetorian Guardsmen emerged from a secret passageway, weapons drawn. Zierlus’ blade was held in front of him, meaning to run through the deplorable leader of the murderers of his brethren. A step from exacting his revenge, he was disarmed, as the Praetorian blade severed his threatening appendage.
Zierlus stumbled back, away from the bed and his detached right arm, which lay motionless on the floor still clutching the Roman gladius. He clutched at the bleeding nub, trying to retain consciousness as blood poured from the gaping wound. One of the guards approached, ready to finish the job. He jabbed at Zierlus, who deflected the blow with an upward motion of his remaining arm. His vision began to blur, and he teetered back as the Praetorian thrust the sword deep into his right shoulder. More crimson blood seeped forth as Zierlus forced his muscles to throw his weight at the soldier. He fell on the floor, short of his target.
The imperator retrieved his garment from the floor, draping his regal robe across his shoulders. With slow, deliberate steps he walked to stand before the dying warror-priest. “What did you hope to achieve by coming here, fool? The empire has resisted hoards of barbarians. What makes you different?” exclaimed the emperor.
Zierlus craned his head to look into the eyes of the man he had blindly pursued across the continent. Behind where he stood, an alcove in the wall held a statue of the first emperor, Caesar, his lifeless eyes gazing straight into Zierlus’ soul. He clutched at the imperator’s violet hued garment, smearing gore across the formerly pristine robe.
“Your men destroyed my village, my brethren. You killed innocent women and children. You took my life from me and I came to take yours in exchange,” replied Zierlus, his normally booming voice subdued by his shortness of breath. He thought about the situation, how brazen and rash it was for him to attempt this foolhardy venture. A single man, fueled by his desire for justice for his slain people, now taking his last breaths—his mission failed, his vows unfulfilled.
The leader of the Roman people bent down next to the dying warrior who had come so far to fail. “Valiant effort,” he whispered into Zierlus’ ear, “but in times of war, the law falls silent.” The imperator rose and pried Zierlus’ stolen blade from his detached hand and pierced it through the warrior-priest’s back. Only a gasp of air escaped his lips.
Zierlus lay dead, his blood collecting in a crimson pool around him. The Praetorians dragged his decimated form from the room, drawing a smeared line across the stone floor. The emperor returned to his paramour, completing the relations interrupted by the vengeful Zierlus, whose body lay heaped in the hall awaiting removal.
The souls lost in his village would have no retribution, but Zierlus’ efforts had not been entirely in vein. The Teiwaz rune, glyph of the sky-god and of honor, justice, and self-sacrifice, remained upon the floor stained in Zierlus’ blood. The sanguine mark of Zierlus’ efforts, perfectly drawn and resistant to all attempts to remove it. The emperor was soon driven to select a new room of the palace to reside in, being inexplicably unable to sleep in the room any longer. He found his nights haunted by relentless dreams filled with the screams of dying barbarian women and children, visions of a village aflame and the burning gaze of the resolute and vengeful Zierlus piercing through to his soul.
