Friends, Romans, Countrymen, Lend Me Your Army
Thursday, February 08, 2007

The entire century has been slaughtered except for myself and a grizzled old veteran. We wander through a bleak landscape, overwhelmed by exhaustion and shame in equal measure. Bestial cries announce the arrival of one of the enemy’s scouting parties: about a dozen filthy, fur-clad barbarians. They run right past us without attacking; somehow they believe we are part of their army, in spite of our Roman breastplates and gladii. Typical savage ignorance.

Alone again in this wasteland, my companion and I continue our aimless journey until we come to a wall made of dark stone. It stretches as far as I can see and has gaps at regular intervals. Passing through the closest of these openings, we see spread before us a wonderous sight: a mighty army, countless ranks of Roman warriors dressed in gleaming armor and plumed helmets.

We immediately receive food and water and are allowed to join the ranks. Still, I can tell the other soldiers feel only contempt for us because of our century’s failure. I don’t care what they think about me, just as I no longer care what I thought about myself before. As centurions shout orders and the wasteland resounds with the thunder of marching feet, all I feel is joy and anticipation for the coming battle.