Short Story - Our Eyes Are With Your God

Our Eyes Are With Your God  

Finished on 21 June 2025

 

              As the rising sun peeked above the horizon, its golden rays eagerly stretched across the flat stones of the veranda. The light advanced slowly, casting a warm glow until it reached two bruised kneecaps resting in stillness. It caressed a pair of crossed, powerful legs, marked with scars and sparsely covered in fine hair. Hands, poised in a gentle clap, contrasted strikingly with the battered, sun-kissed skin around them. The sun continued its gradual ascent, illuminating the forearms and thighs, then moving to the midsection and biceps, and finally resting upon the stout chest of a man seated in quiet meditation. Just then, the rhythmic sound of footsteps disrupted the serene moment.

              "Optio?" came a voice, not yet tempered by rank or time. A boy - young, not green, but not far from it - stood just inside the entrance of the estate. The awkwardness in his voice could have come from his youth, or the burden of the task he had been assigned.

              The Optio’s eyelids split, giving him a view of the infinite, blue sky from their position right at the end of the shade. "Salve, Legionary."

              Hearing his title made the boy stand up straighter, even though nobody watched him. “It is time, sir.”

              A breeze slid through the gaps in the stone railing. “I’ll be out in a moment,” went the Optio.

              The boy nodded and sputtered, “Sir.” He then turned to leave, but hesitated just long enough to add, “Apologies, sir. No armour. Especially shield or helmet. Senior Centurion’s orders.”

              First with a controlled inhale, the Optio exhaled, and then answered, “Aye,” before the boy scurried out the door.

              The Optio remained seated a moment longer, seeming to look for something amongst the endless blue as though the warmth of the sun might etch itself into him before the day took it away. Before its rays could reach his face, he stood and made his way inside.

              In his quarters stood a tribute to the goddess Fortuna painted on plaster. He stared at her long, wavy hair. Her arms, whimsically waving around without a care in the world. Her feet, crossed in playful amusement. But mostly, he eyed her blindfold, as if she could still somehow see him straight through it.

              “Oh, Fortuna,” he whispered, striking a match to the last unlit candle on the ledge beneath her, “Fickle goddess, prove that my cause is just. See me, and accept my sacrifice.”

              Beside the shrine stood his armour, adorned with the markings it had earned with him through his years of service. The chainmail hung polished and ready, despite its long history with the Optio. His helmet bore etchings against regulation, marked with the title of the position he had once earned and carried without shame. His short cloak, clipped for his role, was pinned with his Cohort’s brooch. The gladius and its accompanying dagger hung clean at the belt. But it was the shield - his old, square scutum - that held him in place.

              The crest of the First Cohort had been painted on its outside, just like every other Legionary from his unit. Though the shield had its markings from use, the crest had been meticulously maintained and remained perfectly clear. He touched it, quietly, as if to invigorate him with the energy that it possessed.

              The Optio’s lips tightened, as did a closed fist by his side. Anguished over not having his trusty equipment, he begrudgingly withdrew his hand and departed toward the door. The time had come.

              Outside his quarters now and merely wearing his tunic, the Optio met the boy standing outside his door with two other familiar Legionaries. The boy’s helmet sat askew, grime left on deliberately on it, trying to wear experience it hadn’t earned.

              “You sure you’re ready for this duty?” the Optio asked his escort, not unkindly.

              The boy’s chin lifted a hair. “Aye. We wanted this one.” The Legionnaires behind him nodded in agreement.

              That made the Optio pause. Not to question the boy, but to recognise him. Not as a younger version of himself, but something adjacent. Same roots, different soil.

              “Well,” the Optio said, “Then I’m in good hands.”

              The boy nodded.

              They walked in silence through the narrow streets, where old merchants' houses had become military quarters, their wooden façades splintered from years of conflict. The scent of grilled bread and oils mingled with the earthy aroma of recent rain. Laundry lines stretched above them like faded standards, colourful fabrics flapping in the breeze. A fountain burbled beside a cracked milestone, its water shimmering in the dim light. The cobblestones beneath their feet were slick and uneven, bearing witness to countless stories of the withered city. The distant clanking of armour echoed through the alleys, and the remnants of a once-grand mosaic peeked through the grime, hinting at a proud heritage now overshadowed by military presence.

              Then, they passed a statue of Fortuna near a small civic shrine. The Optio slowed by it. A cloth had been affixed to her normally unadorned eyes. Probably just some offering from the church of Fortuna, he thought, glancing at it absently as he moved on. Little things like that happened all the time.

              They eventually reached the Forum. The Praeco, the arena’s herald, boomed above the noise, reading from a scroll.

              “Behold! The disgraced Legionary! Once a leader - now a lesson!”

              “Traitor!” another voice cried out, slicing through the haze of his thoughts. The word cut deeper than any blade, echoing in his heart. Jeers continued to rain down. One called him a coward. Another, a fool.

His chest tightened for a breath, though not from fear - from grief. Memories flooded his mind, images of glistening armour and the fervour of the pride his career had once brought him.

              But now, those very stars seemed to mock him from the heavens above. The shame weighed heavy, like the chains that bound him to this very moment. With each accusation, he felt the stinging blow of betrayal, not just from the crowd, but from the choices he had made, as if it attacked the foundation of his cause.

              “They don't understand,” he whispered, though he knew it wouldn’t reach the ears that needed to hear it. In that moment, the laughter and camaraderie that once defined his legacy felt like distant echoes, swallowed by the tide of judgment that swept over him. The path of redemption loomed in the shadows, and he wondered if he’d ever be able to reclaim the honour he had lost.

              The Optio and his escort then turned toward the amphitheatre. Vendors called out, selling figs and wine. Children mimicked animal roars and wooden swords clacked against stalls. The fight loomed ahead.

              The stone insides swallowed them as they went through the gates. He was led to a holding cell. A tired guard grunted as he opened it up and let him in.

              The boy and the other Legionnaires lingered before the cell door shut. Then, quickly, like he’d held it in too long, he said, “It's not the same anymore. Everybody hates him, but half the guys just nod and go along with it. Like none of it ever mattered.”

              The words hung there. The other men in the room looked towards the ground, silent.

              “It still matters,” the Optio stated. “What it meant to be a part of this Cohort can still be what it means to be.”

              The boy’s eyes met his. He said nothing, but the Optio knew what he thought.

              The Optio smiled, tired but certain. “Besides, someone had to say it first.”

              The boy’s lips tightened. He still lingered, as if they had nowhere more important to be. The Optio stalled their departure by asking, “Might you have any chalk?”

              “Aye.” The boy pulled some from his belt. He looked at the guard before he handed it to him. The guard gave him a slow nod, and the boy handed it to the Optio. “Keep it.”

              “My gratitude is yours,” thanked the Optio. “And if I don’t make it out, keep my helmet. Yours tries too hard.”

              The boy looked off to the side, admitting a smile. “Yes, sir.”

              The Optio let out a reassuring simper. “It was an honour,” he declared, with a salute. “With your gods, Legionnaires.”

              The boy raised his arm, with the others following suit. “With your god.”

              With that, the men dropped their salute, the guard locked him in his holding cell, and the Legionnaires departed.

              The Optio stared at the dark walls of the windowless room that contained him. The rumbles of the crowd outside gathering outside could be heard echoing through the halls. On a wall hung a simple wooden sword and a meagre, round, wooden shield. The Optio took the shield down and began etching on it with the chalk. Though not as big as his trusty rectangular scutum back in his quarters, he would have to make do.

              On the front, he etched out the First Cohort’s crest across - rough, but right. For his men. On the back, with a slower hand, he chalked the figure of Fortuna. Arm raised and blindfold firm. For him.

              After some time as the cheering and applause continued to leak in, the cell door flew open. The Optio turned his head and let out a faint gasp.

              “Senior Centur- ” he began, rising to attention and snapping up a salute. Then, he corrected himself. “Primus Pilus, sir.”

              The older man that approached him in a perfect, white tunic smiled faintly. “I haven’t been your Centurion in some time,” he stated, raising and dropping a salute.

              The Optio lowered his arm. “Respectfully, sir, you’ll always be our Senior Centurion.”

              The Primus Pilus tilted his head, weighing the words. “Maybe that’s why you’re in this position now.”

              The Optio shuffled side-to-side, glancing at the ground. “You understand my gripes with the new Senior Centurion.”

              “I’ve told you before,” the Primus Pilus countered, “Vengeance gets you nowhere.”

              The Optio’s eyes looked back at the Primus Pilus, searching for understanding. “I’m not here because of vengeance. I’m here for our Cohort.”

              “Perhaps,” said the old man, pacing softly. “But the line between principle and defiance gets thinner the longer you stand on it.”

              The Optio carefully chose his words. “I didn’t cross it to spite anyone,” he declared. “I crossed it so the line wouldn’t disappear entirely.”

              With a dry chuckle, the Primus Pilus concurred, “You always did speak like a man who thought he could outlast the tide.”

              The Optio tilted his head ever so slightly to the side. “And you taught me to brace against it.”

              A soft grin found its way on the older man’s face as his eyes drifted over the cracked walls of the cell. “Old traditions die hard.”

              “Especially when they’re worth dying for.” The same soft grin had found its way on the Optio’s face.

              The Primus Pilus slowly nodded as he scanned the barren room, finally fixing his gaze on the outside of the wooden shield. “Ah, the goddess of luck,” he identified, gesturing towards the shield with an open palm facing up. “Did I not tell you to pray to the gods of skill?”

              The Optio nodded. “Minerva has served me well, sir. But she isn’t the reason I found my way to your Cohort.”

              “No, I suppose she wasn’t,” he conceded. “But she may be the reason you stayed my assistant at the first Century.”

              The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was shared. Heavy, and earned.

              A cheer echoed along the walls from outside the arena above, distinguished by its loudness in comparison to the previous ones, signalling the beginning of the first fight.

              “Well, my time has come to depart. But I trust you'll find what you're looking for up there.” The Primus Pilus stepped forward, reached out, and grasped the Optio's forearm in a firm, brotherly handshake. “And never forget - our eyes are with your god.” 

              The Optio straightened, a look of determination overtaking his face for the moment. “Our god, sir.”

              With that, the Primus Pilus departed and the Optio was again left to his own devices.

 

              A while later, the door opened once more.

              The guard beckoned the Optio forward. He grabbed his wooden shield and sword off the ground.

              “No, no equipment,” went the guard with a tired wave.

              “These are part of my offering to Fortuna.” The Optio pushed the shield toward the guard with his drawing of her facing outwards. “I am allowed these during all proceedings,” tried the Optio, uncertain if it would work.

              The guard eyed him over. A young man, up early on a weekend, just to sit by a cell most of the day. “This is an official offering?”

              The Optio knew he probably meant if it had been cleared, but he chose to interpret the question as if it was official to Fortuna. “Yes, it is.”

              With a shrug, the guard beckoned him out of his cell and in a line amongst the other fighters. They were led back up the corridor, not to the arena gates yet, but behind a raised platform just inside the outer wall. Not where men fought, but where they were framed.

              The Praeco stood at its centre, scroll in hand, voice already rising with the cadence of ceremony. As he detailed the day’s schedule, the Editor of the games began going down the line of the fighters, giving them a brief inspection while going over his own scroll before they were sent in front of the people. The Optio began to sweat, knowing he could be subject to punishment if he was caught carrying his wooden sword and shield when he wasn’t supposed to. But a couple of fighters before the Editor reached him, somebody called the Editor from afar, leaving the Optio clear.

              One by one, the men in front of the Optio were directed to the raised platform and announced by the Praeco. Finally, it was the Optio’s turn, and he took his place in front of the ravenous, bloodthirsty crowd.

              The Praeco began. “Citizens of Rome! Before you stands a Legionnaire! Once honoured, once trusted, now condemned!”

              Boos, jeers, and laughter tore through the crowd. Encouraged just enough by the Primus Pilus, the Optio retained enough strength to simply soften his gaze and look at nobody in particular.

              “He defied command! He raised the standard of a previous regime in the field - an unsanctioned relic of a rebranded Cohort! An act not of honour, but of insubordination! Not of loyalty, but of vanity!”

              The crowd roared. Somewhere, someone threw a piece of fruit. The Optio didn’t flinch. But instinctively, he did tighten. Not with fear, but with memory.

              Something drove him to look towards the balcony where the nobles and senior Legionnaires were. Then through the crowd, he caught the Senior Centurion. Balding with blondish-red hair, with pale blue eyes that took in everything and connected with nothing. He stood upright, hands clasped behind his back like he was at an inspection. His armour gleamed, perfectly polished, to put up with his act. The rehearsed smile he wore wasn’t for anyone - it was simply part of the uniform.

              A deadpan scowl overtook the Optio’s face, and without thinking twice, he ripped his shield off his arm and raised it above his head, its outside facing towards his persecutor. The crowd burst into cheers at the spectacle, but the Optio paid them no mind. His eyes were solely glued on the Senior Centurion, who noticed the crest of the unit he commanded drawn in defiance on a shield that the Optio shouldn’t have. The First Cohort, drawn proud, drawn public.

              Then, the Senior Centurion’s face cracked. Not in anger - in embarrassment. The smile faltered, just for a moment. A hairline fracture. The Optio didn’t look away, because this was the moment. Because for the man who had orchestrated the punishment, who had turned memory into spectacle, it was now his illusion that had been interrupted.

              “Let the condemned be prepared,” barked the Praeco. The crowd roared again. The guards beckoned the Optio off the platform and back toward the inner corridor.

 

              Hours later, the gates stood ready. Poised behind them, the Optio awaited his calling into the arena, armed with his meagre weapon and shield.

              Finally, with stone and metal grinding together, slow and final, the gates groaned open like the belly of some slouching beast. The light that flooded the corridor was neither golden nor warm, yet still blinded the jailed Optio.

              His barren feet touched the arena’s sand as he stepped forward. The crowd erupted, a wave of noise washing over him – cheers, shouts, calls for blood, but also something quieter beneath it all, waiting, watching.

              He embarked further into the light with his meagre shield on his arm, the First Cohort’s crest in full view. On the back, hidden from the world, Fortuna looked back at him - her arms free, her blindfold drawn with care. The guards did not enter as the gate closed behind him. This was his alone.

              Squinting against the bright sun, he lowered his wooden sword, his gaze sweeping across the arena with unwavering determination.

              Finally, a gate opposite opened. The crowd hushed. The beast emerged. Four-legged and hungry, with a tail whipping back and forth. It padded onto the sand with deliberate grace, muscles coiled beneath its fur, hungry eyes fixed.

              The Optio stepped forward with a casual confidence, his eyes fixed solely on his foe. He moved deliberately, savouring each moment as he took in the challenge before him. The tension in the air was thick, but he maintained an air of calm control, his focus unwavering as he assessed the opponent with keen intensity. The surroundings blurred into the background, his attention locked on the confrontation ahead.

              The beast circled. He mirrored it. Not a stance of combat, but of devotion. This was not just a duel - it was prayer.

              Finally, the beast lowered its hulking shoulders, and its tail stopped flailing around. The Optio lowered his stance. They paced around for only a moment longer before it made a dastardly lunge. Excitement thundered amongst the crowd.

              He turned with it and ducked low, but the speed of the beast was too much. His meagre shield caught the beast's flank with a clash of wood and bone. The wooden sword swept wide and missed its mark. However, unaccustomed to the smaller shield he had been given, he miscalculated its coverage, and an outstretched paw swung past where the Optio was used to, clipping his side painfully. The absence of his larger shield, left behind at home, left him momentarily vulnerable.

              The duo separated. The Optio staggered, but didn’t fall. His gut rang, and he instinctively put the fist clasped around the sword onto it. It went in where the flesh should have been, his hands now wet with his own blood.

              The beast turned again. It charged the underequipped Legionary with the same ferocity. Another roar erupted. From the crowd. From the animal. From somewhere inside himself.

              But this time, the Optio didn’t dodge it. Instead, he leaned into the attack, raising his shield to absorb the tide of the beast. The mass of muscle and bone crashed against the crest of the shield like a wave, but the Optio held with everything he had. Then, with his cheap, splintered gladius in hand, he found a soft spot. With all his might, the Optio drew back the weapon and thrust it forward.

              The beast squealed, and the Optio shoved it off as it instinctively jumped away. They both went down. Silence overtook the crowd.

              He rolled onto his belly, wincing as he pulled his feet beneath him. Then, using his shield, he hoisted himself up. Blood indiscriminately poured from his side, drenching his tunic a bright crimson.

              He turned his head upward, sun-adjusted eyes finally finding the crowd. Then, he saw them. Three, maybe four that he noticed, scattered amongst the seating. Cloth tied across their brows, peeking up through the bottom to still witness the spectacle. He stood taller, ignoring the pain from his wound as a young voice rose above it all: 

              “With your god!” 

              He lifted his shield above his head and let out a defiant roar. Not because he had won. Not because his life was guaranteed. But because they saw him. Every single one of them. His Legionnaires, the Primus Pilus, the Senior Centurion, and all of the onlookers witnessing the moment. They understood his cause now. Because they remembered. Because, in the end, when everything else was taken, this was the path he had chosen. 

              His gaze snapped towards the livid beast bellowing from across the arena, but for just an instant, his mind wandered back to the statue he had come across earlier, the one adorned with cloth tied over Fortuna's eyes. Only now did it make sense. Perhaps it was meant for this very moment, a reminder that even in blindness, the goddess had chosen to see him, just as he now sought her.

Drawing strength from the thought, he looked once more to the sky. He pulled his shield into his chest, with the drawing of Fortuna as close to his heart as it could go. 

              “I see you, goddess,” he whispered. “Now see me.”