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In Arcadia Ego

I was deer hunting in the Blue Mountains on the heels of a 12 point buck. I followed him through creeks, over rock scrambles, under watching trees for miles, until the sun began to sat. I knew I was lost after the first hour, but he called to me, urged me on, and I couldn’t bring myself to turn back.

It was only when the lip of the sun passed below the horizon that he stopped, exhausted. He stood beside a species of tree I did not recognize. The air was dryer than it had been, the dirt a slightly different color. But I hardly noticed, I had eyes only for him.

I raised my rifle, took my aim, and fired. Down he went, his breast a crimson stain. I walked to him to be sure he was dead, and so he was. It was hotter than it should be, so I set to field dress him. That was how they found me, bedecked in their purple armor. A Praetorian cohort. They’d heard the shot and come.

I found out later that the sight of me – my arms awash in blood inside the dead, foreign beast – the warning shot I fired into the air – that vision of me convinced those soldiers I was Mars himself.

JC was an altogether more practical man. I was held for several weeks before he arrived, called to my tent from the failing battlefields of Celtic Britannia to witness for himself the strange being sent by the Gods with a spear of fire.

He arrived on the full moon and stepped into my tent as though I were a stray dog rather than an inadvertent time traveler with a super weapon.

When he spoke, I understood, and could respond, though all in a language I had no right to comprehend.

“My men swear you have been sent by the Gods.” JC was fond of fortified wine. He poured himself a glass. “But my men are peasants and fools. Who are you?”

I explained. No point in hiding the truth, as I figured it. When he inevitably doubted me, I used the rifle as my proof. The rifle, and my flashlight, and my camping gear.

We spent a week talking, JC and I, before I was certain I was safe and he was certain I was more use to him alive than dead. Alive and befriended.

So began my rise.

Julius was losing Gaul when I arrived. Another year, maybe two, he estimated before his men gave out to the Celtic hordes.

“Unless,” Caeser said, “you make more of those.” With his wine cup he pointed toward the gun.

This was not a request. Of course, I could not provide him with modern rifles. But gunpowder; Iron; Cannon; Even rudimentary muskets. All of that was quite possible.

JC brought the might of empire to bear upon the task. He decided to retreat from Gaul, to buy himself time and lull the Celts into a false security. Meanwhile every corner of the world that was Rome set to collecting the resources I demanded.

In quantities unheard of they brought supplies, 10,000 talents each of yellow, pungent rock, white acrid sands scraped from the Sicilian desert, and the charcoal of ten thousand hectares of Germanian forests.

Iron ores were brought in caravans miles long, rolled across a continent on the grand network of roads, the spider web of Rome’s greatness. Thousands of horses dragged endless blocks of lead in the summer heat.

I became the teacher of alchemists and blacksmiths. From me they learned the dark arts of ballistic chemistry, iron smelting, and bullet pouring. The Roman craftsmen took to it all quickly and experimented freely until an entire legion was armed with powder weapons.

With this grand army Julius returned to Gaul. They came to him at Alesia, the Celts, in numbers never before seen, and surrounded his armies entirely. But as a wall of screaming Britons and raging chariots pressed their advantage, Julius Caeser ordered the first barrage, and the ungodly roar alone stopped the Celts in their tracks.

It was as though an entity beyond imagining had popped into existence from a fourth dimension.

Then the rout began, and it did not end until the field was strewn with Gaulish blood. Ceaser won the greatest victory of his career at Alesia, and cut off each head of the Hydra Gaul in one fell swoop.

I rued my role in the slaughter. The human cost of my assistance surrounded us. But, I thought, such is war, and now it is done, and quickly.

Julius had me honored. Gave me a fortune and bountiful lands nearest to Rome. He paid me a tithe from the coffers of the Empire and bestowed a title upon me .

As the night of celebration drew to an end, Julius and I sat together, drunk and giddy with victory. I asked him how he felt having conquered Gaul.

“Gaul is not conquered yet, my traveler. The Celts shall come to see what it is to be conquered by Rome.”

I asked what more there was to do? Their army was destroyed, their spirits broken. Simply demand fealty and Caeser would have it.

But Julius only laughed. “My friend, a people are not conquered until their cities and towns are decimated, and the lust of Roman legions sated with blood and bounty. Until such a day, I am threatened from within and without.”

I protest. Tens of thousands will die. Civilians, women, children.

“So they shall.” JC gave me a hard stare and drank deep.

It was then i knew for certain, although I was 95% sure already. It was just hard to believe at first, because Julius was quite likable. Perhaps most genocidal maniacs are.

But now, I no longer had any doubts.

JC finished his glass and slammed it down on the wooden table, then he asked his guards to leave. When they’d gone he turned to me, as he’d done so many times before, and asked again his favorite question. The one he knew I would never answer.

“Now,” he began, calling me by my honorary Roman name, “you must tell me Brutus. On your honor, how will I die?”

I just smiled and drank my own tall glass of wine.

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