Antigoon’s last toll: how Antwerp was freed
The Schelde River lay shrouded in a thick, suffocating mist, a gray veil that seemed to choke not just the light of dawn but the very hope of Antwerp’s people. Each ripple of the water carried whispers of despair, the echoes of cries from sailors who had paid Antigoon’s merciless tolls with gold—or worse, with their severed hands. The river, once a lifeline of trade and prosperity, had become a realm of fear under the shadow of the tyrannical giant.
Antigoon’s name was spoken only in hushed tones, a curse that hung heavy in the air. His monstrous figure, towering as a nightmare come to life, haunted the banks of the Schelde. He was a beast of brutal simplicity: gold for passage or a hand for defiance. None dared challenge him. His strength was unrelenting, his fury unmatched, and his dominion absolute.
Enter Silvius Brabo
Among the beaten and broken emerged a man unlike the rest—a Roman soldier named Silvius Brabo. The stories of Antigoon had reached Silvius long before his arrival in Antwerp, yet where others saw an immortal foe, he saw opportunity. Trained in the unforgiving discipline of Rome’s legions, Silvius carried with him the art of strategy, the precision of a gladius strike, and the cunning of a predator that strikes not in rage but with cold calculation.
To Silvius, Antigoon was not invincible. He was a tyrant—a flesh-and-blood problem to be solved, a monster whose reign could, and must, be ended. Where the people saw a godlike terror, Silvius saw something far simpler: a creature that could bleed, and therefore, could die.
Silvius, a decorated veteran of the Roman legions, had marched into Antwerp with the calculated confidence of a soldier who had faced death and emerged victorious time and time again. He had heard the whispers in the outer provinces, tales of a giant terrorizing the Schelde, bleeding the region dry through fear and tyranny. Yet nothing had prepared him for the desolation he encountered upon his arrival.
A City in Ruins
The city, once a thriving hub of trade and culture, was a ghost of its former self. The bustling markets were silent, the docks deserted save for the skeletons of abandoned ships. Merchants huddled in shadows, muttering of ruined trade routes and the toll Antigoon had exacted in gold and flesh. Sailors, their faces weathered by years of hardship, spoke in hushed, broken voices of comrades who had paid the ultimate price: their hands severed and tossed into the river as grim trophies.
But what struck Silvius most wasn’t the silence, nor the broken commerce. It was the people—their eyes hollow, their movements sluggish, their faces etched with despair. The fire of hope had been extinguished, leaving only embers of fear and resignation. This was a city not just oppressed but utterly cowed, its spirit crushed beneath the weight of Antigoon’s reign.
Silvius, however, was not a man given to despair. In the heart of the town square, surrounded by the weary eyes of merchants and fishermen, he climbed atop a wooden cart and addressed the people with a voice that rang out like the blast of a Roman war horn.
The Roman Promise
“I will end this,” he declared, his tone cutting through the murmur of disbelief. His eyes swept over the crowd, his commanding presence silencing even the most skeptical. “The Romans have felled greater foes than this Antigoon. The rivers of Gaul, the mountains of Germania—they have all bent to our will. This river will be no different. We will free it.”
The crowd murmured in response, their voices tinged with both hope and doubt. “How can one man face a giant?” a merchant muttered, his voice barely audible. “We’ve sent others before. None returned.”
Silvius heard the doubt but paid it no mind. “I will not face him alone,” he said, his voice firm, his words deliberate. “Antigoon’s strength is great, but he is not invincible. I will use the tools that have made Rome unstoppable: tactics, discipline, and cunning. Where he is brute force, I will be precision. Where he is chaos, I will be order.”
For the first time in months—perhaps years—the people of Antwerp looked at one another with glimmers of something more than despair. It wasn’t full hope, not yet. But it was the start of belief. Silvius had lit a spark, and now it was time to fan the flame.
The Giant’s Habits Revealed
Silvius was a soldier, but more than that, he was a tactician. Victory, he had learned, did not belong to those who fought hardest but to those who fought smartest. Over the course of several days, he moved like a shadow along the Schelde’s banks, carefully studying the river and its tyrant.
Antigoon was not a mindless beast, Silvius realized, but he was predictable. The giant only emerged when tolls were demanded, his immense form materializing from the mist like a nightmare given flesh. He would linger near the riverbanks, his colossal stature casting an oppressive shadow over trembling sailors. When enraged, he retreated to his lair—a crude, towering structure of stone and earth carved into the cliffs overlooking the river. Silvius committed every detail to memory: Antigoon’s movements, his reactions, even the way his massive feet pressed into the mud.
Rallying the Broken
But Silvius knew observation alone was not enough. To face Antigoon, he needed help. He sought out men who had once served Rome as auxiliaries—veterans who had stood shoulder to shoulder with legionaries in distant campaigns. These men, though hardened by battle, had been broken by Antigoon’s reign. Their swords and shields had rusted, their spirits dulled by years of fear.
Silvius brought them together in a dimly lit tavern, his voice cutting through their reluctance. “You are soldiers,” he told them, his tone commanding. “You were trained in the ways of Rome, in discipline and courage. The fear you feel now is nothing compared to the fear Antigoon will feel when we act as one. Will you fight with me to free your people?”
Slowly, the men nodded. One by one, they found the strength to grip the hilts of their swords once more. Together, they began to prepare for the ambush.
Building the Trap
The plan was simple, yet precise. First, Silvius ordered the construction of a pitfall trap near the riverbank, a hole deep enough and wide enough to ensnare Antigoon’s massive feet. The townspeople, driven by a flicker of hope, worked tirelessly. Their hands were blistered from shovels, their backs sore from hauling logs and brush to conceal the trap. But they labored without complaint, knowing their freedom depended on it.
Next, Silvius had his men craft iron caltrops, spiked devices designed to pierce even the thick, leathery soles of the giant’s feet. These were scattered strategically around the pitfall, hidden beneath layers of mud and leaves. Finally, Silvius sharpened his gladius, the short, brutal blade that had carved through the ranks of Rome’s enemies for centuries. In his hands, the weapon was not merely a tool but an extension of his will—a precise instrument of death.
As they worked, Silvius reminded his men and the townspeople of the key to victory. “Brute force will not bring him down,” he said, his voice steady and assured. “Antigoon believes himself invincible, untouchable. His arrogance blinds him. And that will be his undoing. A beast who sees himself as a god will never see the trap until it’s too late.”
When the preparations were complete, Silvius and his allies waited, the air thick with tension. Every step had been carefully planned, every detail executed with military precision. Now, all that remained was to bait the trap—and to prove that even the mightiest tyrants could be brought low by the cunning of men.
The Challenge at Dawn
At the break of dawn, the mists of the Schelde began to thin, revealing the still, dark waters beneath. Silvius Brabo stood at the riverbank, his figure silhouetted against the pale morning light. Dressed in his Roman tunic and armor, he carried only his gladius at his side, a lone figure standing against the vastness of the fog-shrouded river. Behind him, hidden among the trees and underbrush, the townsfolk and his recruited auxiliaries waited with bated breath.
The air was heavy with tension, each heartbeat seemingly louder than the lapping of the water. Silvius cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, his voice ringing out like a clarion call, breaking the stillness.
“Antigoon! I am Silvius Brabo, soldier of Rome, and I challenge you to single combat! Or will you cower in your lair like a dog, afraid to face a mere mortal?”
For a moment, silence reigned. The river itself seemed to still, the birds and insects falling quiet as if the very land was holding its breath. Then, from deep within the fog, came the sound of something immense stirring. First, the faint tremor of the earth beneath Silvius’ feet, then the rhythmic, thunderous boom of colossal footsteps.
The Giant Appears
Out of the mist emerged the terrifying figure of Antigoon, his massive form blotting out the rising sun like a dark cloud. He was a monstrous sight to behold—his pale, scarred skin gleamed like weathered stone, thick and unyielding. His hulking body rippled with sinewy muscle, each movement a display of sheer, brutal power. His black beard, streaked with the grime of years, bristled like the mane of a wild beast, and his molten eyes burned with fury. In his massive hand, he gripped a crude but devastating club, a tree trunk studded with jagged rocks and splinters.
Antigoon’s booming laughter rolled across the river like thunder, shaking the very ground beneath Silvius. “You,” he bellowed, his deep voice reverberating like the toll of a great bell, “a mere mortal, dare challenge me? I have crushed warriors greater than you! Sailors, merchants, kings—they all paid my toll in blood! And you shall fare no better!”
Antigoon advanced a step closer, his club resting heavily on his shoulder. The ground trembled under his weight, and the onlookers hiding in the woods shrank back in fear. But Silvius did not flinch. He stood tall, his piercing gaze locked on the giant.
With a sneer, Antigoon raised his club and pointed it at Silvius, as though already marking his claim. “I will take not only your hand, Roman, but your head! I will mount it on the banks of this river for all to see!”
Silvius took a deep breath, steadying himself. He knew the power Antigoon wielded, but he also knew the trap was ready. His voice was calm, unshaken, as he replied with cold defiance, “Come and take it, then.”
The Clash of Mortal and Monster
The two stared each other down, mortal and monster, as the mists swirled around them. The battle was about to begin, but Silvius knew the real victory would not come from this clash of wills—it would come from the precise execution of the plan he had so carefully laid.
Antigoon let out a roar that shook the very heavens and charged forward, his massive feet pounding the earth with the force of an earthquake. The ground trembled beneath him, each step sending ripples through the river and shaking the courage of the hidden onlookers. He swung his jagged club with brutal fury, carving through the air like a falling tree, determined to crush Silvius in one swift blow.
But Silvius stood firm, his gladius resting calmly at his side. His heart raced, but his mind remained sharp and focused. Timing was everything. He waited, the giant’s thunderous approach closing the distance between them in heartbeats. Then, at the very last moment, with the precision of a trained legionary, Silvius pivoted sharply to his right, narrowly evading the massive swing of Antigoon’s club. The weapon smashed into the ground where he had stood, sending shards of stone flying in all directions.
The maneuver had done more than save Silvius—it had drawn Antigoon exactly where he wanted him. The giant’s massive foot came down heavily on the concealed trap, and with a deafening crash, the logs and brush collapsed beneath him. Antigoon let out a roar of shock and fury as his foot plunged into the deep pitfall, the jagged walls of the hole gripping him like the jaws of a trap.
“What trickery is this?!” Antigoon bellowed, his molten eyes blazing with rage. He thrashed and pulled, trying to free himself, but the more he struggled, the deeper his foot became wedged in the pit. The earth around him trembled under his immense weight, but the trap held fast.
The Auxiliary Strike
Silvius wasted no time. Signaling his men with a sharp cry, the auxiliaries hidden in the brush sprang into action. They emerged with iron caltrops in hand—spiked devices designed to pierce even the toughest flesh. With precise coordination, they hurled the caltrops at Antigoon’s exposed legs and feet. The spikes bit deep into the giant’s thick skin, drawing blood and forcing him to stumble. Each step he attempted was met with searing pain, and his movements grew sluggish and erratic.
Antigoon roared again, his voice now tinged with desperation. He swung his massive club wildly, trying to swat away his attackers, but his range was limited by his trapped foot. The once-unstoppable force was now a flailing, wounded beast.
Silvius Delivers the Blows
Seizing the opening, Silvius charged forward, his gladius glinting in the morning light. The Roman soldier moved with the precision of a predator, his eyes locked on the giant’s vulnerable leg. With a swift, calculated strike, he drove his blade into the back of Antigoon’s knee, severing the tendons with a sickening slice. The giant howled in agony, collapsing to one knee as blood poured from the wound, staining the earth beneath him.
But Silvius was relentless. He struck again, aiming for the other leg, slicing through muscle and sinew with methodical efficiency. The towering Antigoon, who had once seemed invincible, was now crippled and bleeding, his massive frame shaking as his strength began to wane.
The Battle Turns
The people watching from the shadows could hardly believe their eyes. For the first time, the monstrous tyrant who had ruled the Schelde with an iron grip was brought low, his roars of fury turning into guttural cries of pain. Silvius, standing firm amid the chaos, looked upon the beast with cold determination. The battle was far from over, but the tides had turned, and victory was within reach.
Despite his grievous wounds, Antigoon’s sheer will to survive pushed him onward. With a final, desperate roar, the giant wrenched his foot free from the pitfall, the ground trembling under his massive weight. Blood poured from the deep gashes in his legs, painting the earth red as he staggered toward the river. His eyes burned with fury and desperation, and his massive club swung erratically, smashing the surrounding trees into splinters.
But Silvius was unrelenting. He saw the beast’s retreat for what it was—not a victory, but a final gamble for survival. Seizing the moment, the Roman soldier sprinted forward, his gladius gleaming in the blood-soaked light. With the speed and agility born of countless battles, Silvius leapt onto the giant’s back, gripping Antigoon’s matted hair to steady himself.
The Giant Falls
Antigoon let out a deafening bellow, his massive hands flailing wildly to grab the human clinging to him like an insect. But Silvius was too quick. He drove his gladius deep into the giant’s shoulder, the blade sinking into flesh and sinew with a sickening crunch. Antigoon howled in pain, his massive body twisting as he struggled to dislodge his attacker. His giant hands swatted at Silvius, each swing a deadly threat, but the Roman soldier moved with precision, narrowly dodging the giant’s grasp.
Finding another opening, Silvius raised his gladius high and plunged it into the base of Antigoon’s neck. The giant’s roar turned into a guttural groan as his immense body trembled under the weight of his injuries. Blood sprayed from the wound, soaking Silvius as he clung tightly to the giant’s back. Antigoon’s strength began to fail him, his knees buckling as he collapsed onto the riverbank with a thunderous crash.
But Silvius knew there could be no half-measures with a monster like Antigoon. Victory would only come with finality. Sliding down the giant’s back, he landed on the ground and turned his attention to Antigoon’s massive hand—the instrument of his tyranny.
The Final Blow
With his gladius gripped tightly in both hands, Silvius let out a battle cry and brought the blade down with all his strength. The edge bit deep into the giant’s thick wrist, severing muscle and bone in a single, brutal stroke. Antigoon let out one last, agonized roar, his voice echoing across the river and fading into silence. The monstrous tyrant collapsed fully onto the ground, his lifeless body sprawling across the blood-soaked riverbank.
Breathing heavily, Silvius staggered to his feet, his chest heaving as he surveyed the fallen beast. In his hand, he held the severed hand of Antigoon, its immense size and weight a grotesque reminder of the giant’s reign of terror. Raising the bloodied trophy high above his head, Silvius turned to face the hidden onlookers who had dared to hope.
“This is the price of tyranny!” he shouted, his voice carrying over the river and into the hearts of the townsfolk. His words were a declaration, a promise that freedom had been won by the will of man.
With one final act, Silvius heaved the monstrous hand toward the river. It flew through the air, its shadow cutting across the blood-red dawn, before splashing into the Schelde. The severed hand sent ripples across the once-feared waters, its weight dragging it into the depths. The river seemed to sigh in relief, its surface shimmering as if liberated from the giant’s oppressive rule.
A Trophy of Liberation
For a moment, silence fell over the riverbank, broken only by the sound of water lapping at the shores. Then, slowly, the townsfolk emerged from their hiding places, their eyes wide with disbelief and awe. They looked at Silvius, battered but unbroken, standing over the fallen tyrant, and a great cheer erupted. The sound was raw and jubilant, a celebration not just of Antigoon’s death but of their own liberation.
Word of Antigoon’s death spread like wildfire through Antwerp and beyond. The news swept through the towns and villages, carried by merchants, sailors, and farmers who had long lived under the giant’s shadow. What had once been a community paralyzed by fear was now electrified with joy. The bells of the churches rang out, echoing across the liberated Schelde, their jubilant tones proclaiming the end of tyranny.
The people who had once cowered at the river’s edge now stood tall, their spirits rekindled. Merchants dusted off their goods and reopened their stalls, and ships laden with cargo returned to the docks. The Schelde, which had long borne witness to blood and sorrow, now flowed freely once more, its waters shimmering under the bright sun of a new era.
The severed hand of Antigoon, hurled into the river by Silvius, became a lasting symbol of Antwerp’s liberation. Fishermen whispered that they could still feel the tremor of its impact in the currents. It was said that the river carried the hand far out to sea, its ripples reaching every corner of the known world, as if the Schelde itself rejoiced in its newfound freedom.
The Legend of Silvius Brabo
Silvius Brabo, the Roman soldier who had dared to challenge a giant, became a name spoken with reverence and pride. He was not celebrated for raw strength or divine favor, but for his disciplined mind, unyielding courage, and the cunning that had outwitted a seemingly invincible foe. Statues were erected in his honor, his likeness immortalized in bronze and stone. In Antwerp’s grand square, one such statue stood tall—a depiction of Silvius holding Antigoon’s severed hand aloft, a defiant declaration of the triumph of mortal will over monstrous tyranny.
Songs were sung and stories told of the Roman who came to Antwerp as a stranger and left as a legend. Children grew up hearing the tale, their imaginations sparked by the bravery of a lone soldier who faced impossible odds. The story spread far and wide, from the bustling markets of Rome to the distant shores of Britannia, carried by travelers who marveled at the tale of Silvius Brabo and the giant Antigoon.
As the Schelde carried Antigoon’s severed hand out to sea, it seemed to whisper of freedom. The river, once choked with fear, now flowed unimpeded, its waters a testament to what could be achieved when courage met cunning and a people stood united. This was no victory of brute force, but one born of strategy, unity, and the unshakable resolve of a Roman who refused to let tyranny rule.
And so, the legend of Silvius Brabo lived on, a reminder that even the mightiest oppressors could fall when faced with the unwavering will of the oppressed. Antwerp thrived in the light of its liberation, and the Schelde River, its dark past behind it, carried not just trade but the hope of a people reborn.