Where do you run to now, Quintus?
 by Sarah Buehler, 2007

Chapter Twelve

„I have killed Cotta!”
Quintus was running like mad through the bulky Macchia, he was thirsty beyond any means and his feet were bleeding because of the thorny bushes.
“This can’t be true! I have killed Cotta.”
He was still in his chain mail, his face was dirty and unshaven. The soldier and historian left the battle fleeing. He and his group were chased by a dozen heavy riders after the battle when they reached a small wood with thin trees where Quintus tripped, fell down from the edge of a cliff.
And then there was blackness.

“I have killed Appius Aurelius Cotta!” was the first thing when Quintus opened his eyes, regaining conciseness. It was late afternoon; Quintus got up and realized that he had led Cotta to certain death. “I could have said no back then” he mumbled to himself. He started to remember that it was some years back in Rome where this whole disaster started, when Cotta asked him to help him repeat history – simple and easy as he said to Quintus.

But now Cotta was dead. And with him thousand of Romans and their Italian allies. Quintus didn’t realise that he had a mental break down.
“…killed Cotta” he was repeating it over and over again.

While Quintus was moving through the lands of Carthage he started to dehydrate under the hot African summer sun. Being out of his mind, he didn’t realise the circumstance that his mouth and lips started to dry terribly. Being out of air he couldn’t run anymore, though his mind seemed to focus for a short moment and he thought if this would be the end of him.
He walked up a rise and noticed that he had reached the coastline. By the gods! There was a small village of eight houses too.
The Roman soldier thought he was running towards the village though in reality he was limping like a wounded man. Someone was shouting something and at first Quintus did not understand anything. He thought that some Carthaginian peasant was insulting him, but then he became aware that the voice was speaking in Greek. He stopped and looked up, a young man was standing a short distance away, with a thin beard that still had blank spots on the face. For a moment he wondered what Greeks did in the lands of Carthage, but then he remembered that these people use to flee from their homes because their women are so ugly and the food so horrible.

For a moment Quintus smiled. In this moment he remembered that he was still alive. Then he passed out. “So thirsty…”

Loosing consciousness had become quite the habit for Quintus. When he woke up from his dreamless slumber he heard several people talking, becoming aware that he was in one of the houses. They all spoke Greek with each other, guessing that a Roman soldier would not be able to understand them. But Quintus was a historian educated in Greek, enabling him to follow the conversation. They were arguing what to do with him. Roman slaves pay well on the bazaar of Carthage. On the other hand this man had not done any harm to the Greeks. For a moment Quintus became focused. His chain mail was gone, but his Gladius was on the table close to him. Then it struck him again: “Cotta. Dead. 20.000 mean. Dead. Why? Because of me. Because I promised to lead Cotta to Carthage. Because I promised to lead three legions to victory. Dead. All dead.”
His heartbeat increased.
He became terribly nervous.
His clear thoughts were overtaken by devils of madness again.
He was loosing control.

„I have killed Appius Aurelius Cotta!” Quintus screamed, leaping upwards from the bed, grabbing his Gladius. The Greeks, some five men and two women were arguing too much to react quickly on the furry of the Roman. Before they could overwhelm him by their sheer number Quintus had the blade in his hand. This short sword was excellent to thrust quickly at multiple enemies.
Quintus stabbed the first man in the shoulder.
The next men, an elderly man with a bushy beard got a very deep cut in his arm.
With the same swing he hit a dark haired woman in the stomach.
She went down screaming in terrible agony while her husband ducked down to cover her body trying to cover her from further harm.
The man with the thin beard that found Quintus quickly grabbed him by the wrist, blocking any further attacks with the Gladius. But a roman soldier was skilled in close combat.
Quintus used his whole weight to ram the young Greek against the wall with his bare shoulder. This move surprised the opponent who tumbled while his ribs broke with an unpleasant sound.

“You can’t stop me you Carthaginian pigs.” Quintus screamed, triumphing over his captors. No one tried to oppose him anymore.
Having lost any sense of reality, Quintus ran out of the house where a few Greeks where staring at him without taking action. The Roman was running to the dock, entering a small fishing boat.
He turned his head back to the crowd where the Greeks gathered to look at the madman. “I have killed them. It was me! Don’t you understand? I didn’t mean to!”
They didn’t understand. He spoke in Latin. But they were too scared to approach an armed man.
He released the rope holding the small vessel, gave it a push and started to rudder with a paddle. Quintus left the village behind him. Turning his head westwards he saw the sun going down, the few clouds on the sky turned into a bright orange. He stopped paddling. The air smelled salty. “What point does it all make now?”
There he sat, in a small fishing boat without food or water. To Quintus it didn’t matter any more.
“I’m tired of running.”
Quintus closed his eyes.

End.