The Garden
Flash Fiction
The early morning sun spread fingers of light across the beautiful garden, offering its life giving warmth, like a smile from Ceres herself.
Marcus stood in the garden already feeling the warmth of the sun across his broad back, as he tended the land that he worked so hard to gain.
The heady scent of Rosemary, Thyme and Oregano drifted on the light winds as Marcus tended to the various plants and vegetation of the garden.
For nine long summers he had toiled this earth, replacing the sword and shield for plough and sickle.
For more years than he could remember he had fought hard in far flung countries, many leagues from his beloved family and home, killing, enslaving and conquering in the name and glory of Rome.
The great standard of the eagle stood above the many fields of slaughter as the mighty Roman war machine marched across the newly conquered lands, like a plague. The smell of spilled blood and rotting flesh strong in the charred air.
For his years of service he’d been rewarded this garden and modest villa.
His hands once drenched in blood now were covered in the life giving earth. Tending this garden had more or less stilled the ghosts and memories of battle and blood shed. Nightmares of warfare still vexed him but not as frequent as once it did. Nature and the earth had a calming effect on him, that he was grateful for.
But like the budding shoots of corn that can sense the sun as it lays in the earth, Marcus knew war was coming.
Like the distant drums of battle the signs were already there.
His dear friend the Emperor had died two years past and the new one was younger, less patient and quick tempered.
He had made more foes than allies and he was losing his grip on the senate.
The new Emperor needed another successful campaign and memorable victory to silence his critics that whispered daily treacherous comments behind his back.
So far all the generals had failed in taking the land they called Britannia. Rumours had reached Rome that this land was filled with demons and mad men, that drank the blood and ate the flesh of Romans.
Voices once a whisper, that spoke of these lands as unconquerable, became a rallying cry of defiance.
In the north another contender for the throne of Rome had emerged and rumours were strong that his armies were growing and would march upon the city walls before the end of summer.
Although Marcus disliked the new Emperor he would obey, like all loyal servants of Rome.
He slowly stood up, the muscles in his back and legs protesting at the effort. No longer a young man but still he could hold his own in battle, Marcus would wager, if ever he was called upon again.
As if in answer, Marcus saw a lone rider charge over the far hill, the sunlight gleaming off breast plate and plumed helm. Marcus squinted to see more detail of the rider, finding it difficult with his aging eyes. Yes, the rider was indeed a soldier of Rome, dressed in the garb of a centurion and heading his way.
The rider charged towards him, as swift as Mercury himself and Marcus calculated he only had a few minutes to wash and than greet the centurion.
After a hasty wash and change of toga, Marcus greeted the centurion in the shade of the villa’s atrium. After a rushed greeting the centurion handed a sealed scroll to the old General.
The centurion looked on as Marcus broke the seal and began to read. As he read the words on the parchment Marcus smiled but there was no joy to it. He was being ordered back to his previous life of war and chaos. With grim acceptance he stiffly nodded to the centurion, knowing it would be years, if at all, that he would see his family and tend to his beloved garden once more.
Jason Duck 2026.
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Marcus only thought he could escape his old life. I feel for him since he has earned the right to live in peace but sometimes life doesn't care. Ha. Good story, Jason.