Antony had gotten word that Hannibal’s horsemen; his Carthaginian and Numidian riders struck the rear, completely enveloping the whole formation — trapping a hundred thousand men like cattle.

As the Roman frontlines, which were too tightly packed, were encircled, no one could retreat, no less form a proper defense. What orders might have reached Antony’s own men, was lost, its messengers killed, or the officers who would have issued them already deceased. Now, after five hours, those that were left were being sucked into a pool of men and metal, grinned to blood and bone until the ground was littered with Roman dead.

Antony knew that fleeing was no longer an option. That time came and past. Now, he, like his portion of the army was trapped on the far-right flank. He was thankful to not be stuck in the center. At least here his men could stand and die on their feet, with sword in hand, like true Romans, and not wait till their turn to fall.

Antony knew he was not the best swordsmen, despite what training he had received, but he did his best, standing before his men, trying to give them encouragement. He wondered if Gaius would have done any differently.

At times, it was difficult for Antony to determine friend from foe. Not only had the dust blocked his view, but many of Hannibal’s men were equipped with Roman gear and armor, stolen from the previous won battles. They used these tools to their fullest affect as they drove through the Roman formations man-by-man.

And then, out from the thick cloud of dust Antony thought he saw a face that was strangely familiar. The barbarian, bare chested was massive. He was older than his father, but was built like a mountain, shaped by decades of killing. Antony watched as this man, in single combat struck down Roman after Roman as if they were children: their heads flying from their shoulders, or bodies cut in two as the man had the strength of a titan.

Antony wondered if this man wasn’t a demon, called forth from Hades. Did Hannibal have such powers?He wondered as the man murdered soldiers in droves, never tiring as he slowly worked his way over towards him. It was then that Antony suddenly realized that the monster was coming towards him. He had been distingue by his black-brimmed helmet and long red cape, indicating that he was an officer, and one of wealth as his armor was adorned with ivory and gold.

Antony called to his bodyguards, but they were already dead, or engaged in their own battle for survival.

He gripped his sword firmly in his hands, while raising his shield, hoping that the wood between, he and the barbarian would be enough to save him.

His eyes were locked on the giant as he slowly came towards him. He carried two swords, both caked with the blood and bits of flesh, which dangled from the edges of the blades.

The barbarian grinned widened as he stood ready. Antony could do nothing but shiver as he decided against his better judgment to attack first.

He charged forward, roaring as loud as his lungs could bear, but what fear, he hoped it might have struck in the heart of his opponent had done nothing.

His single thrust with his sword was easily deflected by the barbarian, who then slammed his second sword down against Antony’s shield.

His arm felt like wax as his shield was torn from his grip and cast aside like a piece of useless plywood.

The barbarian did not counterattack. He stood before Antony, looming over him as he stared down at him, his teeth grinning with delight.

Antony tried to attack again, but his effort was stopped as the man grabbed his sword arm and squeezed.

Antony screamed as his wrist was being crushed under the man’s impossibly powerful grip, until his sword dropped from his fingers. And then, the barbarian twisted, snapping Antony’s hand, at the wrist before he let him go.

Quickly, even before the pain set in, the barbarian rammed his fist into Antony’s face, shattering his nose as blood gushed, splashing out across the barbarian’s chest.

Before Antony could comprehend what was happening, the barbarian continued to beat him, slamming his closed fists across his face time and time again. Upon the fourth strike, Antony fell from his feet — his vision blurred as his faced was layered in blood and grit. He did not think he could ever stand again, but, with all his strength, Antony struggled to his feet. However, as hurriedly as he tried, he fell back down on his backside as the world was fast becoming one big haze, where no single sound could be sorted from another.

It was in this haze that Antony suddenly remembered where he had seen this man before: the imagine of Calfax, the gladiator that had haunted him for years after he had seen what he was capable of in the arena, filled him with panicked fear.

“Calfax?” Antony whispered as he looked up at the man who stood over him.

Calfax smiled.

Calfax grabbed Antony by his hair, lifting him up effortlessly. He was like a limp doll in the powerful gladiator’s grip. He didn’t even bother to struggle against him, nor could he, even if he still had the strength.

Calfax dropped his lengthy sword to the ground and with his freed hand, he reached around Antony’s neck and grabbed the broken half of the clay medallion that was now hanging freely outside of his armor. He seemly admired what he was seeing, perhaps even wondering where the top-half was.

With one easy yank, the chain that had secured it around Antony’s neck broke, even as he fought against him trying to take back the medallion, his last act.

Calfax let Antony go.

Antony wanted to reach out and take back the medallion. If he was going to die, he wanted to die with it around his neck, but his feeble efforts were in vain.

Calfax closed his fists around the medallion, holding it as he obviously decided to keep the memento of the easily won victory on the plains of Cannae. And next, without a care or even a second’s thought, he grabbed his sword and pulled it out from the ground, and as carelessly as a farmer slitting the throat of a pig, he brought the tip of his blade to Antony’s neck, and drew the full five feet of the iron across the young Roman’s throat, slowly.

There was so little force behind the cutting that, Antony, as he bled, arms and hands down by his side, knelt on two knees, stared straight ahead, taking his last struggled breaths, fighting for one more moment to stay alive, Calfax stepped around him and continued on with his killing. In those terminal few moments, Antony’s mind returned to his childhood — his time with Gaius and his sister. His last thoughts of happier times — how he wished he could live in them forever.

Before his last breath escaped his lungs, he hoped he had made the right choice in sending Gaius away. He prayed with his last gasp that the gods would protect his sister from the very real monsters who now would be free to strike at Rome.

A moment later, as the world around him grew silent, his eyes closed as the last drop of his blood flowed out from his neck. He was gone, spared having to see the slaughter that would continue for hours more.

Varro stood within the ranks of his army. He was surrounded by hundreds of his men, yet, never before in all of his life had he felt as alone as he did at the moment. Dozens of officers ran up to him, each one relaying reports from the battle, which was taking place on all sides. His army, all eighty thousand plus men were totally surrounded with nowhere to run. He couldn’t fathom how this could have happened. The battle was going so well. He had every advantage, and most of all, strength in numbers.

This was impossible, or so the thought ran through his mind repeatedly.

His men eagerly demanded to know what to do — what they could do, but Varro had shut himself off. He simply didn’t know what he could do. He wasn’t a soldier; he had no brilliant tactics or strategies that would save the day. He could hardly think straight; barely comprehend what had happened to his army — all the books he had read about famed heroes of the past: Alexander, Leonius, Romulus, Agamemnon and what strategies they might have used to salvage this defeat, escaped him.