Chapter Text
There was something marvelous about seeing the Roman army at work.
Not in battle, though Aziraphale had also had plenty of chances to observe that during the long march to the northern edges of the empire, subduing humans who had their own ideas about whether they owed taxes or fealty to some emperor a million paces to the south.
But at work, now that was a sight to behold. To see them come upon an unknown river, wide and wild with the spring flood, and within an hour have it neatly spanned by a bridge that hardly shifted under the weight of five thousand armed men. Or to watch them transform a narrow path through the hills into a broad avenue paved with stones.
Often, there was little conversation. Each soldier knew his task and performed it, confident in the overall plan.
This evening, as with every evening, the army constructed its camp. The commander called a halt shortly after the rod was planted marking the day’s ten-thousandth step; the measurers surveyed the land and marked the location for the commander’s tent; then, moving as one, five thousand soldiers, two thousand mules, and three hundred slaves created a city in the middle of the wilderness.
Before Aziraphale’s eyes, hundreds of tents rose along neatly ordered roads; wider areas marked the supply depot, the hospital, the stables, and the training ground; a deep ditch encircled the camp, lined with a steep embankment and a tall wooden wall, with four sturdy gates barred against unwanted visitors.
A marvel, and a pity. The legion would move on in a day or two, constructing an identical camp ten miles to the north.
This would be a nice place to stay, Aziraphale thought idly, sitting on a stump some distance away. It was a lovely spot, nestled by a bend in the river. The camp itself was beaten to dust by thousands of footsteps, but back here there was still plenty of tall grass, laced with daisies and sorrel attended by the last few bees, preparing to return to their hives. Perfect for a picnic, if he only had the right company.
But if they did stay, it wouldn’t be for pleasant meals and light music. It would be because the humans had found someone to fight.
Then he would see the army in battle once more.
The image was never far from his mind, lately. Tall red shields and glistening helmets, five thousand spears raised… then lowered… and the army moved forward.
They didn’t run; simply advanced at a steady pace, letting the enemy come to them.
The enemy.
Vastly outnumbered, poorly armed, screaming as they charged. Men and women alike, armed with swords or bows or even stones from the riverbank. Desperate to defend their home, to drive off the army that would force them to submit, to fall in line, to become another part of the faceless machine of the empire.
They charged forward, and the army ground them up like grain in a mill. Blood staining the grass, redder than sorrel.
Aziraphale wasn’t there to fight. He was to observe, and report back to Heaven… something. Gabriel had assured him he’d know it when he saw it. Ten years of observing, and all he’d learned was that the army was ruthlessly efficient, whether they were building or destroying.
But sometimes, the heat of battle would… do things to his mind.
For a moment, he would be fighting, marching in a legion larger and more terrifying than any from Rome. The enemy, wide-eyed and desperate, charging towards them, screaming in defiance, dark wings wide. While the army advanced, relentless, flaming swords rising to meet—
Aziraphale didn’t remember killing anyone, back during the War. He just remembered the marching, the screaming, and the blood. So much blood, covering his clothes, his sword, his hands…
No, not now. He clenched his fists, fighting the chill, the field around growing indistinct as the distant screams rose again—
“Angel?”
His head jerked up, a few tears escaping, as he searched for the source of the voice.
A dark figure stood before him, golden eyes barely hidden by black lenses, wide smile rapidly vanishing. “Aziraphale? What’s wrong?”