Taeren of Teutoberg: 36 pages, 10164 words. $0.99

Taeren of Teutoberg:

The Inner Discourse of a Doomed Barbarian in the Capital of the Roman Empire

Michael J. Wyant Jr.

It is hard to recount a story of one’s own downfall.  As I sit here on the stone floor, contracted from the light of the world and drowned in the flitting stillness of dirt-drenched darkness, I cannot help but try and remember the better times.  I wait for the thoughts of home – running wildly after the escaped cattle, wooing that young woman who gave herself to most of the boys in the town (we called her ‘Dark Tara,’ but I do not think that was really her name).  We cared naught but for the attentions of her legs and lips.  Strangely, I do not remember the day that my wife bore my first child – I do not even recall my children’s names.  I still know mine, Taeren; I know this because Augustus knew this, but I only remember from the boat.  I can only recall the look of the citizen beating the unworthy slave, the look of pain that flashed across his face as the cudgel struck home, viciously, and without mercy.  I know of the events leading to my incarceration and I have been told of the reasons for this unjust treatment.  However, I can only try to recount this for the betterment of all – though who ‘all’ is or why they would care what happened to a worthless barbarian in the land of the great ‘Romans’ is unimportant.

I think that I do this mostly to keep my mind clear – to keep a grasp on reality.  The shadows do much to a man’s mind – they can help the recollection of events, but they can also produce fantasy.  Memory begets falsity.  Without the cooperation of others we lose focus; without another perspective, my reality becomes yours.  So who is to say that what I write is not what truly happened?  Perhaps I could, indeed, be freed from the shackles that bind me to the floor of this cell; perhaps I will be given more than one sheet of paper a year and enough ink to pen my words.  They starve me here, bringing nothing but a slice of the hardest bread once a month.  A man can hope, but a man cannot be freed.  Here lies my story, to be believed or denied is up to your discretion; this is how I remember and create it.

*

The barge lumbered its way up through the river mouth and into the heart of Italy.  A light mist had gathered before the dawn and was beginning to dissipate with the coming fires of the Sun.  The sienna-green hills on either side of the river spread like a cloth laid out for the coming of a new age.  Water lapped against the hull as the burnt-skinned slaves poled the barge onwards.

These were nothing like the sailors who made way from Massalia to the mouth of the river.  The slaves resembled those that had rowed the ship and tended to my needs on the large sea-going vessel before this, but there was a lack of the seasoned sailors who had been the core of order on the boat.  They had been soldiers, simple, yet effective.  Here, my life was in the hands of a haphazard assemblage of slaves and some citizen workers who appeared more afraid of me than any self-respecting Roman should.  I made sure that the long, dirty blond hair which signified my proud heritage was secured tightly under the heavy cloak, but it was much harder to conceal the blue eyes and height that were also bequeathed to me by my ancestors.

Despite my insecurity while traveling, the melody of the land seemed to sing out at me.  The disarrayed earth shouted of a long history of ancient and noble peoples who had inhabited this place and made their mark on the world through their hands and backs.  It was moments like this that made the long trip difficult to grasp.  Despite the raiders on the sea, or the bandits who had waylaid the party on the road from Germania to Massalia, this land still had the feeling of home even though its inhabitants were small, dark, furtive people who shied away as if I was a giant of myth.  The hills looked like the ones that I had known growing up or places where I had fought.  The only parts lacking were the deep groves that had served well in the hunt throughout life.

And the snow.

How this place kept the green of spring when the ices had fallen upon the lands of my birth baffled and astonished me at the time.  How far had I traveled?  There was indeed a number for measuring the distance, but it meant little when placed against those things that made memories.  This was a strange place, full of awkward, suspicious people who kept me alert, like on the eve of a fierce battle.  Always were the senses acute… my jaw ached from the tension.

The barge heaved to the side, throwing me to the deck.  Cursing, the light sounding language of the Italians filled the air as the ship was pushed away from the obstruction in the river.  Orders were barked, and the slaves scurried to the side, forcing the boat away from whatever had been encountered.

The danger averted, the beating began.  I was fortunate enough to look up and see the middle aged slave fall to the ground, his face a shower of blood from the cudgel that his owner had grabbed from somewhere.  He was beat around the thighs and buttocks, nowhere that would hinder his further performance on this trek or on further adventures.  Slaves were too valuable to kill outright; the first blow had been unthinking by the citizen, an involuntary lash for disobedience and laziness.  The slave sobbed on the deck, crying out each time the cudgel struck home; he never looked up, his eyes stayed shut… he knew his place.  I pulled myself to my feet and caught the glance from the torturer… the slave knew his place.

Sighing, I turned away and peered into the dark water waiting for another danger in the journey and imagined what Ostia would be like.

Taeren of Teutoberg: 36 pages, 10164 words. $0.99