The Crossing
written by: Nelly Shulman
The chicken, thrashing on a wooden table, gagged in fright, and strong hands, wielding the bronze knife, cut its belly wide open. The haruspex pulled a lump of entrails out of the bird, and scarlet blood sprinkled the dirty snow in the tent. The piercing January winds shook the rough walls, and the few gathered around the table stamped their frozen feet.
North of the Rubicon, in Cisalpine Gallia, the first snow hit the earth last November. Cohorts of the XIII Legion reached the river in the utmost secrecy, dressed in peasant rags and stuck knee-deep in snowdrifts.
“My legs also ache,” Caesar looked away from the table, “because the wind is blowing into the cart.”
Having passed his fiftieth birthday, he began to listen to the crunching in his knee, disfigured by an old scar, to the rumbling in his stomach, tired from the vile army food, and to his long-standing scourge – the moments when he froze, looking into the distance, unable to move, like one of the unfortunate paralytics with broken spines, whom his comrades finished off on the battlefield.
After a seizure, he always woke up sitting in a chair or stretched out on a camp bed. Caesar believed his comrades were taking care of him out of fear because seizures were considered a sacred disease, a gift from the gods.
“This is also a gift from the gods,” he took a dissected liver from the table, “or rather, a trace of the gods’ steps, as the haruspex will now explain to us.”
The priest, as if on cue, shouted.
“Sinister signs! Sinister signs! The liver is enlarged, and the gallbladder is displaced to the side.”
Foul-smelling bile spilled across the table, mixing with chicken blood, and Caesar swallowed the lump in his throat. The yellow and scarlet reminded him of the toga he wore in his youth, chosen to serve as a flamen, a priest of Jupiter.
Returning the liver to the table, he wiped his stained fingers on the edge of a simple woolen toga.
“It turns out that I still dressed in purple, or rather in blood,” Caesar chuckled, “which means there is no other way ahead.”
“Return to Ravenna, proconsul,” the haruspex raised the bloody liver, “the gods do not give their blessing to…”
Kicking the corpse of the damned chicken from under his feet, Caesar said over his shoulder, “I don’t care about the omens. Let’s move, guys,” he threw back the tent flap, “Time is of the essence.”
The amber sparks of the campfires illuminated the north bank of the Rubicon. Pushing the snow with his army boots, Caesar moved down.
“Return to Ravenna,” he spat into the icy mud, “listen to flattery at banquets during the day and wait for hired killers from Rome at night?”
Stopping by the water, he turned around. The soldiers surrounding the nearby bonfire rose, and Caesar ordered, “Give me these bones.”
“You,” he pointed to a stocky man with a scar on his cheek, “I remember you from the British campaign. How many years are you in the army?”
“Fifteen, proconsul,” the soldier bowed his short-cropped head. “Where do we go next?”
A dice fell into his palm, and Caesar threw it into the dark river.
“Only forward,” he responded. “Raise the cohorts because we are crossing the Rubicon.”
- Soaring - September 20, 2024
- The Crossing - July 19, 2024
- Spotlight On Writers – Nelly Shulman - July 13, 2024
