Not This Tide

by Eric Neher

Table of Contents

Table of Contents
parts 1, 2, 3

conclusion

“We’re being sent to hell,” said Phillips. “We are all murderers.”

Stripling realized at that moment that he didn’t care much for Phillips. His hopelessness was like a disease, a contagion that, once caught, would never go away. That didn’t mean he was wrong. Were they all not violators of the Commandment? Did they not commit these atrocities out of loyalty to the King and Country, trading morality for duty?

The three men fell into a surrendered silence, waiting to see who would be next. The flame burned tirelessly, its waving tongues begging for attention. Stripling looked at Denton and Phillips. They gazed into the fire, witnessing a future that no longer included them. Maybe they weren’t being sent to hell. Perhaps this was hell. How else could you explain the giant rats that contained them and the lure of seeing a world you would never be a part of? Was this to be their eternity? But why? Their only sin was that they answered a call. Maybe that was enough.

A sudden blast split through the darkness, a blaring sound that sent hooks scraping down Stripling’s spine.

“What was that?” said Phillips.

“It sounded like a trumpet,” said Denton.

The three men turned their backs to the flame, gazing into the nothingness. Stripling considered using the torchlight but thought better of it. He wasn’t sure that whatever blew that horn was something he wanted to meet.

“Stay quiet, lads,” said Denton.

They became statues, each with his head slightly tilted. The shadow-land they now found themselves in seemed to grow heavier, snuffing out what little breeze remained. The familiar sound of frying eggs suddenly caused the men to jump. Phillips had just enough time to cry out and try to grab Denton’s arm before he vanished.

“And then there were two,” whispered Denton.

“Not quite,” said a voice.

The two men rose to their feet, unconsciously stepping closer to each other. From out of the darkness stepped a man, and on any other night, Stripling might have laughed. He wore a bronzed breastplate, and under it was a tunic that hung down to his knees. In one hand was a long spear, and in his other was a crimson-plumed helmet. His face contained deep lines, like a weathered map.

“Two of you left?” he said, approaching the fire. “I must be early.”

“Who are you?” said Stripling.

The man sat, placing his spear across his lap, and gazed into the dancing flame. Stripling thought he had fallen under its spell and considered shaking him. The man sighed and then turned, giving them a sad look. “You never get used to it,” he said.

“You didn’t answer his question,” said Denton.

The stranger sat for a moment, looking at Denton, rolling the shaft of his spear back and forth across his thighs.

“Are you educated men?” he said at last.

“I went to Cambridge,” said Denton.

“I’ll assume that means yes,” said the man. “How’s your knowledge of history? More specifically, Roman history?”

“Not as good as it could be,” said Denton.

“I took a course in Manchester,” said Stripling.

“Good enough,” said the man. “But what I’m about to tell you will test your beliefs, so be prepared.”

Here, the man leaned back on one elbow as if he hadn’t a care in the world.

“My name is Tiberius Antony, and I served in the Third Legion under the bastard Marcus Crassus. Do you know that name?”

“Never heard of him,” said Denton.

“I know the name,” said Stripling doubtfully. “And what you’re saying is simply not possible.”

“And so the test begins,” said Tiberius. “For now, it doesn’t matter if you believe me; I only ask that you listen; we can argue about authenticity after, agreed?”

“We’re listening,” said Denton.

“Crassus was a greedy man, an old man, and a fool, but he was rich. And he wanted power. You must know that this was during the rise of Julius Caesar and Pompeii, two more power-hungry bastards.”

“Caesar I’ve heard of,” said Denton.

“Well, that’s a start,” said Tiberius. “The three of them had an arrangement, you see. But the pact was weak, almost like an agreement not to kill each other until they were ready. It was for this reason that Crassus decided to conquer the Parthian empire. Such was the state of our Republic that asking for the Senate’s permission was a formality easily overlooked. By then, what these three men desired most had become clear.”

“They wanted Rome for themselves,” said Stripling, enthralled by the story despite his doubt.

“Precisely,” said Tiberius, looking up into the starless sky. “I will not tell you that his greed didn’t affect us. I know it did me, and the prospect of slaughter for profit was exciting. The Kingdom of Partha was known for wealth, and Crassus paid well.”

“But it didn’t go so well,” said Stripling.

Tiberius looked at the Lieutenant, nodded, and said, “You do know the story.”

“What happened?” said Denton.

“We arrived outside of the city Carrhae with fifty thousand men. The enemy met us, most of them on horseback. There were only nine or ten thousand of them, and it seemed like a joke to me. We would have them dead and fleeing before the midday sun. We would then raid their city and women; such was our way.

“We formed our ranks and started forward. That was when they let loose the first volley of arrows. Five thousand missiles sailing toward our ranks, dropping half that many men. They then began riding like the gates of Hades had been flung open, shooting as they came and then sending a shot as they went by.”

“What did you do?” said Denton.

“I managed to survive the first volley, but I think it was when they fired both high and low, knowing that we couldn’t shield ourselves at both angles, that one found my throat. I remember gagging as I fell and then nothing.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” said Stripling, “but I find this hard to believe.”

“As I knew you would,” said Tiberius. “But who can blame you? You need proof, which I can provide, but before I do, let me ask you something.”

“Anything,” said Denton. “As long as you can tell us what the hell is happening here.”

“Have you found a common denominator between all of you?”

“I don’t understand,” said Denton.

“Anything missing?” said Tiberius.

“Our tags,” said Stripling. “None of us had our I.D. tags.”

“Very good,” said Tiberius. “I hope it’s you.”

“What does that have to do with anything?” said Denton.

“We’ll get to that,” said Tiberius. “But first, I promised you proof.” He held up the spear. The two men followed it with their gaze, watching as it landed between them. Stripling looked back at the man and felt his heart freeze. Tiberius had withered, his skin becoming like bleached parchment. His sharp eyes were gone, leaving empty sockets, and through his throat was a long, slender shaft.

“Oh my God!” cried Denton. “Your legs!”

Stripling snapped his face towards Denton and saw that the right side of his head was missing; dried blood caked his dirty shirt, and his one remaining eye stuck out like an infected marble.

Denton pointed and said, “Look at your legs.”

Stripling looked down and managed a weak moan. Two jagged nubs lay before him, barely covered by the roasted remainder of his uniform pants. A memory, like an invading dream, came to him. He was there, the place where the relentless flight of bullets ripped through his friends, some struggling to crawl while others never moved again. The air was filled with reddish dust created by incoming mortar shells. Stripling had charged ahead, blindly racing toward an enemy he couldn’t see. He heard a click as his boot touched the ground. An explosion catapulted his body ten yards. He could still remember seeing the camouflaged sky as he faded into darkness.

“Do you believe me now?” the skull of Tiberius said.

“Make it stop,” said Denton.

Within moments, the morbid scene was gone. They again sat, as they had been, circling the fire. Stripling reached out, touching his shins, trying to contain the scream that was begging to be released.

“Easy, lad,” said Denton. “This has to be a dream.”

“If it were only so,” said Tiberius.

“Why us?” Stripling muttered.

Tiberius leaned forward, grabbed the spear, and placed it back on his lap.

“I’m sorry this happened to you,” he said.

“What exactly has happened?” said Denton.

“This war you were a part of will be felt for hundreds of years. It will leave nasty scars that can never heal, bringing more atrocities. It is a legacy. Where once ten thousand dead in a day was considered extreme, there will soon be claims of ten times that.”

“You act like you can see the future,” said Stripling.

“The future I see is from the tally of the past,” said Tiberius. “We are a creature that refuses to learn, so we find new ways to obliterate. I remember the catapults punching through the city wall, but I never imagined weapons that could make a city disappear. And this as the warriors watch from a thousand miles away. Where is the honor in that?”

“But what does that have to do with us?” said Denton.

“A novelty term will soon be introduced, based on the countless dead of this new age. The Unknown Soldier and its number will be legion.”

“Is that what we are?” said Stripling. “Because of our lost tags?”

“Not quite, my friend,” said Tiberius. “Those are the bodies that have been found. You are not that lucky. Right now, what’s left of you is lying alone in some ravine or perhaps being ravaged by a pack of wild dogs.”

“Hold on,” said Denton. “You can’t be seriously telling us—”

The sizzling came, and Denton was gone.

“What did you do to him?” said Stripling.

“I did nothing; he was found. As were the others.”

“Bring him back,” said Stripling.

“I can’t,” said Tiberius. “And even if I could, do you think he’d want to return? He has been freed, claimed by something other than this.”

“What is this?” said Stripling.

“We are like waves,” said Tiberius. “We charge forward from an endless tide, crashing against the sand, before being recalled back to where we came from. But not all of us. A few tiny drops will sink into that sand, missed for a while but eventually forgotten. That is what we do. We collect those lost drops of water and teach them to gather the other forgotten.”

“Are you saying that I will be like you?”

“I’m saying you are like me,” said Tiberius.

Stripling dropped his face into his hands and said, “This a nightmare.”

Tiberius reached for his helmet and then rose, his spear held firmly in his right hand. A horn blared from the darkness, and another fire appeared. Its glow was faint, and it seemed so far away. Stripling looked up just as their fire began to dim. The rats stepped out of the darkness behind the lieutenant, a dozen eyes blazing in the dying light. They stopped just a few feet from where Stripling sat.

“We have to go,” said Tiberius. “A new batch is waiting.”

“And if I don’t?” said Stripling.

Tiberius pointed at the creatures and said, “Then they will have you, and you will spend the rest of eternity as a mindless beast of the gutter.”

Not waiting for a response, Tiberius turned and began walking towards the distant blaze. From behind Stripling, the rats crept closer. He could smell the rotted stench of their fur and feel their breath tickling the skin on the back of his neck. It was not warm but cold like a corpse, like his corpse lying out there lost and alone.

He jumped to his feet and began to back away. The rats continued to creep toward him, their hairless tails dragging behind. Hellish eyes locked onto the Lieutenant, and he saw the truth in what remained of the flame. The twitching snouts receded, their matted hair evaporating, revealing agonized sculptures of long-lost men frozen in a scream. Hollow moans spewed from their stricken mouths, garbled words of an invitation to despair.

Stripling turned and ran after the fallen Legionnaire. Oh, Father, what have we done?