The Lost Legion
I remember when I was young I used to watch the soldiers march in the fort we could overlook from one of the hills outside Rome with my friends. Always imagining myself in their shoes I thought it would be great. Since I was the first son of one of Rome’s most successful generals in battle; I was destined to become a soldier.
Ten years have passed since then and now it was summer, the morning birds were chirping, and the warm sun was gleaming downwards upon us. I could feel the sun beginning to burn the skin not covered by my armor, and it was only a few hours into daylight. Another long day of extensive training exercises was ahead of us, I tried not to think about how much pain was ahead of me for the sake of my own sanity. Just this march alone was not even half way completed, and the other fifteen roman miles ahead of us did not even register in my head. Marching was a form of art, it taught discipline and endurance as well as the formations giving us a strategic advantage in battle; or so we were told. I didn’t believe any of it, all I wanted was to simply be able to say I was a soldier of our great army, I wanted to be a famous and strong honorable warrior, imagining it in my head it sounded all so great. I imagined myself as being invincible.
Fast forward about thirteen years and I don’t think the word invincible should have ever been put into human language. At this point in time through all of my training I have not only seen death, but been pushed very close to it, perhaps too close. I can recall breaking bones in training exercises, becoming so hungry I have fainted numerous times, only to get back up and continue marching or fighting. But none of that mattered now, it’s done and over with. Right now I lay sleepless in a half ran-sacked camp in a pile of mud a few hours before daylight; somewhere in southern Scotland. My name was Augustus Arminas Caesar III, several relatives from the great Julius Caesar but it was probably too...
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