Chapter 62: The Birth of a Martyr
Bruno stood in the snow filled streets of Saint Petersburg. The gunfire that had previously echoed across the region had come to a silent halt. The battle was won, and so quickly at that. 80,000 reds lie dead in a sea of their own blood.
The snow itself being stained with the overwhelming volume of the liquid which poured across it as a result of the hundreds of thousands of rounds that had been fired down range in the span of ten minutes.
Bodies lie blast apart by the artillery shells, which impacted on their positions, as they foolishly charged against an entrenched and fortified position. One that had far more heavy weapons than they realized.
And yet Bruno's hands were as still as the dead. The shakes he frequently gained were nowhere to be found. Why was this? Because it was not the sound of artillery and gunfire which haunted him on a subconscious level.
Nor was it the sea of corpses whose lives were taken by men acting on his orders. These things, they were calm, soothing even as the man had long sensed grown accustomed to them. Rather, it was the peaceful silence, the silence when the gunfire ends that terrified Bruno. He could not find a way to live with it.
And because of this, here and now on the battlefield, or what remained of it he was as calm as could be. Callously counting the dead of those who followed him into battle. There was no silent prayer for the souls departed, nor a thought of the humanity lost. To him they were simply numbers.
It was while Bruno was counting the losses which they had suffered in the charge, which was far less than the enemy. That his soldiers approached him with a prisoner in tow. As Bruno had ordered, the officers who cowardly hid behind their own fortifications while sending their men to their deaths were executed upon capture.
Only one man was permitted to live. The commander of the Red Army, or at least the field army which had surrounded and besieged saint Petersburg for the last few months. Bruno was surprised to find that the man who had so brazenly attacked such a significant city was none other than Leon Trotsky, a man he held great resentment for.
The Red Army's commander was forced onto his knees in front of Bruno who simply pulled out a cigarette and began to smoke as he gazed upon the hated face of his enemy. A man whose actions and ideals had caused the deaths of countless innocent souls in his past life. Leon was never a physically imposing or intimidating man. But he was more pathetic than history had depicted him. Especially now, as he was crying, his eyes red and puffy from the overwhelming tears he had let loose since the moment he realized his army was destroyed.
All the while his nose was dripping with snot, while his body trembled uncontrollably. He was bound by ropes with his arms behind his back. And when Bruno gazed upon the man, he was surprised to find that there was no anger, nor hatred in his heart towards one of the founders of the Bolshevik revolution.