Analysis: Transitus: 'Transition'

Transitus (Transition)
The summer air hummed restlessly, alive and heavy. Clear and blue with not a cloud in sight, the sky shimmered in the intense heat. John’s eyes were trained on it from his position on his back, a bead of sweat rolling ignored down his jawline to find its way under his bronze torque. He swept his hand through the tall grass and flowers in idle repetition, some of the blades and blooms catching his wide bronze bracelets and then releasing with a torrent of fresh scent. Mind adrift, he started when his sister’s face blocked his view, the shade of her cooling his sun-warmed face.
“You’ll not get out of it, you know, hiding out here.” Harry raised an eyebrow, which, even upside-down, looked amused. “I don’t know what you’re
The Roman grunted when John slammed into his solar plexus, the air rushing out of his lungs. They were too close for the sword to be of any use, but the Roman didn’t drop it. Instead, he pushed John back enough to toss it and pull out a knife instead. The Roman feinted and swiped, and the knife sliced over John’s upper thigh, gouging deep. John staggered back to absorb the blow, and he winced against the pain. He grunted as a fist still holding a blade made contact with his temple, cutting there too, and his vision momentarily went grey. Twisting with the momentum of the blow, he shook it off as best he could, next pivoting sharply and shoving the heel of his palm in the Roman’s nose. Crushed bone and cartilage made a distinct crunching sound, and dark blood exploded on the Roman’s weathered face. He hissed as he threw all of his weight against John, nearly knocking him to the
That tone was reserved for a commanding officer, and demanded attention. John straightened slowly and turned while the Roman he fought staggered away. Eight heavily armed Roman centurions stood behind one man, obviously a high ranking one, based on the difference in uniform. His simply glittered, and he held himself as if were used to his orders being followed. Older than John, he had more the coloring of the local people than what he imagined Romans had, though his face was horribly disfigured along one side. John supposed at one point in his life he’d been a handsome man, but no longer. The Roman cocked his head and looked at John from head to toe.
“You are outnumbered. You can either submit or you can end up like those who didn’t.” The Roman swept his arm around the still smoking village. “Your choice.”
Harry was kneeling off to one side, her head hanging, as one of the centurions held his sword to the back of her neck. The message was clear: he’d not get out of this alive, and neither would Harry if he didn’t go peacefully. He lifted his chin and narrowed his eyes, refusing to cow down to this man, the anger over the slaughter of his people raw and biting. “Where are you taking us?”
Triumph gleamed in the officer’s eyes. “What is your name?” One of the centurions looked at the officer with curiosity. Asking a prisoner’s name obviously wasn’t