Week 30 - The Message Carrier

The Message Carrier

Matthew Ryan Fischer

Someone had set the forest ablaze. Who? He could not tell. Smoke was all around. There were men screaming, some from pain, some from their battle rage. Ranks were broken and formations left behind. Men were running towards each other and the sounds of combat, while others turned and fled in what they assumed was the other way. Bodies crashed either way. No one could tell which way was which and violence ensued.

It seemed as though it were mere moments ago – there had been order and the sounds of the slow march of soldiers’ feet. Hardened men of discipline had so easily descended into the uncontrollable flow of battle. He could hear swords and shields crashing against one another. He wondered if the men were even aware of whom they were attacking. The smoke was so thick now. He couldn’t see the enemy. He was sure the frontrunners would be blinded as well. Perhaps each side was simply killing their own men by mistake. Slaughtered bodies on the ground would never know the difference. Once the smoke cleared there would only be the remains of battle and the disfigured and dismembered left behind. No accounts would tell the real tale.

It didn’t matter. There was no time to contemplate what would happen during the next light of day. There was no time to contemplate whether his orders had come too late or if they would still be in time. He had to deliver them either way. He ran harder. He had his orders. He had to see them through. Let the other soldiers fight amongst themselves.  He had his job, and that was what he intended to do.

The forest was a deathtrap. Men swung swords and battle axes. Bodies fell and pushed into one another.  Archers were still firing their arrows, although he was fairly certain none of them could know what they were firing at. Arrows fell down, some lit, some not. Men fell down, some alive, some not.

He ran harder. He pushed past people. When swung at, he dodged and ducked. When knocked down, he got up and ran again. His life didn’t matter. The message he carried was what mattered. He had to get out of the melee. He had to get free from the chaos and get his message through. Perhaps the fight had begun too soon. Or perhaps he had been given his orders too late. It didn’t matter. There was still time and crucial decisions were yet to be made.

He had always hated the wars. He had never wanted to line up and charge. He had never wanted to learn how to hack a man’s limbs from his body or hear the death-curdling screams of pain on the battlefield. He had always preferred walls and moats. If he couldn’t get that, he preferred the shield wall and spears of the Macedonian style. If he couldn’t get that, he preferred being well behind the archers. Not out in front. Never out in front.

In truth, he wanted none of it at all. But that wasn’t an option. Service was mandatory and the wars were endless. He had dreamed and prayed for an easy position, for one of the peaceful border limites, but the fates were not so kind. He had seen far too much war and far too many killings. He had hoped beyond hope that peace would have been met before today’s battle begun. He was too close to the front today. He was too near. He was no fighter and everyone knew it. All he was good for was carrying messages. Not that that mattered now. He held out hope that he would get his message through, that somehow it would bring about an end to hostilities. But he knew that was just foolish hope. The battle fully raged on; nothing was going to stop that now.

Still, he pushed himself and ran with all his might.

He became aware that he had stopped, tripped and had fallen at some point. There was an arrow in his back and another in his leg. Who had shot him? He wasn’t sure. Arrows fell all over the place. Archers fired blindly into the smoke and fog, just hoping to hit someone, anyone. Someone had hit him. His companions? His enemy? He’d never know. It didn’t matter. He had a message to deliver. He crawled. He struggled. He strove to pick himself back up. They had their missions and he had his. In his own way, he was just as much a hero as any of the soldiers slashing each other apart for the fate of the empire.

What did it say? He didn’t read it. It wasn’t his place. Was it new intelligence? Had one general seen something the others had missed? Had there been a change of heart? Was he supposed to call off the war? Offer peace? The legionnaires had already marched, but perhaps someone had thought there was still time. He should have opened it. He should have read it. He could have told someone. Anyone. Someone else who could carry the message on.

Who was he? What was his name? It didn’t matter. He had been weighed and measured and now Morta had come and called for him. He was going to bleed to death, the message undelivered. Time would continue without him and no one would remember he had even been here. No one would know what he had come today to do. The war would continue on however it would continue and history would care nothing for him, just another faceless dead body, lost to time and the fates, forgotten.