The Last Battle.
The tightly coiled spatial dimension burst from its subatomic cave at the speed of light and expanded exponentially to form a Roman amphitheatre the size of a small planet.
The arena was a featureless sandy desert, and the combatants faced each other in silence. Around them, the only sound was the stirring of the horses and the creaking of the banners and flags held aloft in the wind.
The rebel army stared stonily ahead. Having sworn unquestioning loyalty to their leader, whose word was law, they awaited his orders. The wild-eyed warhorses, sensing the battle to come, pawed the ground, their flaring nostrils exhaling steaming jets of hot breath to form grey wreaths above their armoured heads.
But the riders were master horsemen and quickly took control, expertly twisting their supple bodies to counter the lunges of the excited horses, making cruel use of the whip.
From behind their ranks, a single trumpet blast sounded, and the lines parted to allow through a mounted soldier in full battle armour riding a red horse. Bronze-helmeted and sitting erect in the saddle, he was meant to resemble a cavalry officer of the ancient Roman Empire, but on closer inspection, he was only a legionary, a foot soldier.
The serial impostor wore no insignia of rank, and strapped to his saddle was a scutum, or shield, bearing the image of a red circle with an arrow pointing out to the upper right. This was the sign of Mars, the pagan god of war. In a harness on the flank of his horse was the pilum, or spear, of the type carried by a legionary.
His tunic was of heavy red cloth that reached down to his knees, and around his waist were the pteruges, a skirt of studded leather strips to protect his upper legs. From his balteus, or sword belt, hung a fearsome broadsword, the gladius maior, and a lethal-looking dagger with a large leaf-shaped blade called a pugio.
Metal greaves, or ocrea, guarded his lower legs, and his feet were clad in the distinctive Roman caligae, laced up to the centre of the foot and onto the top of the ankle.
Sitting bolt upright and motionless, he demanded attention; his presence alone was enough to cow his army into submissive silence.
A trumpet blast from the praetorian guard of loyal demons at his rear signalled a formidable display of power as the Arch Deceiver unfolded the huge, ribbed wings hanging by his side and spread them wide in the fashion of a black heraldic eagle.
He had bedecked his chest in lorica plumata, metal armour scaled like an array of feathers. Foreshadowing the dark plumage of his ribbed wings, their horny shafts exuded an oily black secretion coated with the metallic blue sheen seen on swarming blowflies, which served here to prevent the dark feathers of the wings from burning up in the light.
His arms were bare and perfectly proportioned, and his skin was as smooth and flawless as the alabaster ornaments that adorned the pagan statues of ancient Rome.
His face was not visible, but behind the slit in the bronze helmet, his hooded eyes radiated menace but concealed an inner self eaten away by pride and ambition.
The opposing army was led by the warrior archangel St. Michael, representative of The Good.
The flag holders tightened their grip on wayward poles caught by the wind, and the crimson helmet plumes of the rebel soldiers formed a waving sea of red poppies as a flotilla of broken grey clouds scudded rapidly across the sun. In a portent of what was to come, this intermittent blocking of the sun's rays released a hail of narrow-bladed beams of light that decimated the ranks of the rebel army.
A long night passed as both armies, lost to each other in the darkness, had only their thoughts for company, but as dawn approached, they watched in dread as out of the gloom appeared first the head and then the body of a white warhorse saddled in gold livery.
Outlined against the morning light, the silhouette of the white horse and its hooded rider appeared to be a three-dimensional image. The pale rider gently nudged the gleaming flanks of his horse and sent it on.
At a point halfway between the opposing forces, the horse stopped, with its flanks heaving rhythmically in the freezing air, but it took no breath in this world, and a ball of white steam from a single exhalation hung motionless on its muzzle.
The stranger scanned the front ranks of the rebel army, and his gaze lingered on the figure of Satan, who shifted uneasily in his saddle. The light suddenly dimmed, and there were shouts of fear and bewilderment from both sides, but the darkness lasted for only a moment, and from a reddening sky, the new dawn broke in all its glory.
Like the returning Odysseus, the stranger gained both stature and bearing, and his horse drank deeply of the fresh air for the first time.
Now fully arrived in this dimension with his enhanced powers, the rider looked at the enemy leader with such naked hatred that he fell back in his saddle with the reins held tight in his hands.
Satan clamped his legs hard against the flanks of his horse, but unable to stay upright, he fell forward, clasping the horse's neck for support, and slid under its belly with his feet still in the stirrups.
His ignominy was complete, and the first groans of dismay from his troops turned to shouts of derision as he finally managed to pull himself back into the saddle.
In his original exalted self, Satan had a reputation for great courage, but in his present incarnation, he was nothing more than a cornered rat forced to fight.
He knew he must redeem himself, and dipping his shoulder, he reached down and withdrew his pilum from its harness. The spear was fully five feet long, and he hurled it with all his strength at the horseman opposite.
The weapon flew like an arrow, but the reactions of the rider were even faster.
In a blur of movement, he pulled up the iron-framed parma from the pommel of his saddle, and the spear struck the metal shield with a mighty thwack.
The designers of the iron shank of the pilum intended that it bend on impact and prevent the enemy from throwing it back, but its iron tip had so deeply embedded itself in the shield that it was now useless, and the rider hurled it away.
Satan had now regained control over his men and sat high in his saddle, holding his sword aloft.
From behind him came the massed voices of his soldiers in a war chant, urging Satan to attack. The words were belligerent, but they lacked any true fire; the rebels felt the burden of doubt weighing them down and crouched low in the saddle. They had no stomach for the battle to come, but their fear of Satan was greater, and when they felt his eyes upon them, they sang out their words of hate ever louder.
Satan cursed his delay in attacking the enemy earlier and now looked to engage St. Michael himself in single combat.
He rode his horse to a point halfway between the two forces and savagely reined in his mount by merciless application of bit and spurs. The unfortunate horse bellowed out in pain, but his rider held fast, and after making a further half-turn, he came to an abrupt halt in a cloud of sand.
The hooded and armoured Satan, with his huge black wings outstretched, was an intimidating foe, and with a screech of fury that was more beast than man, he raised his sword in a personal challenge to St. Michael.
His troops bellowed out their approval.
Each hammered his shield with the hilt of his sword so that the air reverberated with the sound of metal clashing against metal.
The army led by St. Michael responded, and their battle chants rang out in retaliation; the cumulative din echoed through the sky in a call to arms that St. Michael could not ignore.
Drawing his sword and pulling down the visor of his helmet over his hood, the warrior Saint adjusted the leather thong of the shield that rested on his arm and took up the reins of his seasoned charger.
The horse reared up in excitement as it sensed the forthcoming battle.
Sitting tall in the saddle, St. Michael rode forward to meet his arch-enemy, and his troops cheered loudly, with banners and flags held proudly aloft.