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Gloria
Written by: James Zhu
Gloria
Pontus stood beside the Circus Maximus, gazing into the bustling streets without any particular purpose.
A tribune addressed the assembled crowd, proclaiming the conquest of Carthage.
“Citizens of Rome, today is a glorious day! Our greatest enemy, once led by the mighty Hannibal, has been reduced to ashes and wandering spectres searching for a home.”
The people erupted in celebration.
Some wore patched tunics.
Others stood barefoot, their thin bodies clothed only by weathered skin stretched over bone.
Yet the spectacle stirred nothing within Pontus.
He continued walking, searching for something to entertain him, though the growing hunger in his stomach soon occupied his thoughts.
On his way back toward the palace atop the Palatine Hill, he passed through a crowded marketplace.
People stood in respectful silence.
The gentle melody of a lyre drifted through the air, captivating everyone who listened.
A Greek minstrel, as though blessed by the Muses themselves, began to sing.
Pontus stopped.
The tale of Achilles immediately captured his imagination.
“…Before the mighty gates of Ilium, Achilles, consumed by grief over the death of Patroclus, sought glory upon the battlefield and bathed his spear in the blood of noble Hector.
Then Paris, guided by Apollo, drew his bow.
The greatest of the Achaeans, who had slain kings and shattered armies, was brought low not by spear nor sword, but by a single arrow guided by the will of the gods.
It struck the only vulnerable part of the invincible warrior—his heel.
Thus Achilles descended into the halls of Hades, leaving behind both immortal glory and eternal sorrow.”
Without pause, the minstrel continued.
“Daedalus and his son Icarus were commissioned by King Minos of Crete to construct the great Labyrinth, built to imprison the monstrous Minotaur.
Fearing they would reveal its secrets, Minos imprisoned them as well.
To escape, Daedalus fashioned two pairs of wings from feathers and wax.
Before taking flight, he warned his son:
‘Do not fly too low, lest the sea dampen your wings.
Do not fly too high, lest the sun melt the wax.’
At first, Icarus obeyed.
But intoxicated by the freedom of flight, he climbed ever higher toward the heavens.
The sun melted the wax.
His wings fell apart.
The sea embraced him forever.”
The final note faded.
For a heartbeat, silence lingered.
Then the marketplace erupted in applause.
Pontus smiled faintly before continuing on his journey.
Soon he came upon a construction site where raised voices echoed through unfinished stone walls.
Curiosity drew him closer.
A wealthy merchant named Probus stood arguing with a dark-haired architect whose eastern accent marked him as a foreigner.
“This building will stand five stories high!” Probus barked.
“The quarry has already delivered the stone, and the timber from Bedriacum has been ordered.”
He stepped closer.
“And now you dare refuse me again?”
His face reddened.
“I warn you. Defy me once more, and you will find yourself in chains, sold in the slave markets of Egypt.”
The architect remained calm.
“My lord,” he replied, “I am an architect.”
“The foundation can safely support only four stories.”
“I could build five… even eight if you wished.”
“But the building would never survive the first great storm.”
Probus scoffed.
“I am not asking.”
“I am ordering.”
“You will build it.”
“You will be paid.”
Without another word, the merchant turned and strode confidently toward the Palatine Hill.
Pontus quietly followed.
As evening settled over Rome, Probus sat outside his magnificent palace beneath amber-inlaid gates.
The smoke rising from the Aventine drifted toward a crimson sunset.
A wagon loaded with freshly cut timber rolled slowly toward the city.
Pontus watched the peaceful scene until fatigue overcame him.
Then footsteps approached.
“Pontus.”
He turned.
“Father!”
His father smiled proudly.
“Tomorrow will be a glorious day.”
“We shall celebrate.”
Pontus frowned.
“What is tomorrow?”
“You are nearly a man now.”
“Tomorrow you ride with me to Corinth.”
“You shall witness the triumph of Rome.”
“You shall share in her glory.”
The following morning dawned rosy-fingered, bathing the fountains in golden light.
Pontus rubbed the sleep from his eyes as servants prepared the horses.
Passing through the courtyard, he snatched a handful of peeled grapes from a silver platter, enjoying their sweet, tart flavor before reluctantly mounting his horse.
Together they rode toward the waiting legions.
After days upon the sea, the Roman army assembled in Greece.
The columns marched with relentless discipline through Boeotia, across Megaris, and toward the Isthmus of Corinth.
Pontus admired the rolling hills.
Olive groves stretched toward the horizon.
Vineyards shimmered beneath the Mediterranean sun.
Fields of grain swayed gently in the breeze.
Unable to resist their beauty, he guided his horse away from formation.
His father’s furious voice quickly called him back.
Near Corinth, the two armies finally met.
The Greeks stood firm.
The Roman legions advanced in perfect order.
Trumpets sounded.
Standards rose.
The earth trembled beneath thousands of marching feet.
Then steel met steel.
The battlefield exploded into chaos.
Roman soldiers drove forward with terrifying discipline.
Shields locked.
Spears thrust.
Swords flashed.
Blood soaked the earth.
The olive groves burned.
Streams that had nourished vineyards ran crimson.
Smoke climbed toward the heavens, as though the gods themselves had gathered to witness mankind’s madness.
A frightened farmhand hiding inside a barn was dragged into the open.
He begged for mercy.
None was given.
Pontus watched in horror as his father raised the severed head of a Greek prince and ordered the advance to continue.
Then the sky darkened.
A storm of flaming arrows descended.
Warriors who had marched proudly only moments before collapsed beneath the fire.
The triumphant became the dying.
Terrified, Pontus fled.
He stumbled into a nearby pigsty and hid among the frightened animals.
But the flames spread relentlessly.
Burning beams crashed around him.
Smoke poured through every opening.
The terrified swine panicked.
One massive animal slammed into Pontus.
A sickening crack echoed through the inferno.
His leg broke beneath the animal’s weight.
Agony overwhelmed him.
The fire closed in from every side.
The barn became an oven.
Pontus screamed for help.
The flames lashed at him like living whips.
Smoke filled his lungs until every breath became torture.
Outside, Rome marched onward toward another glorious victory.
Inside the burning barn, glory meant nothing.
Only fire remained.
And Pontus, beneath the endless glory of Rome…
was consumed.