"Soldier"
by Arizhel

I never thought it would come to this.

I figured I'd be in for a light tour of duty, perhaps be stationed in one of the Emperor's garrisons. But this... this is madness.

I look at the horde of slavering barbarians, yowling at us from the other side of the river in their incomprehensible tongue, and I shudder. The enemy is truly at the gates of Ravenna, and I thank God now that the Emperor had the foresight to move us here from Milan.

A part of me wants to run away. I don't want to die, especially not to the filthy, matted foreigners. They thirst for our blood. I can hear them in the night, their foul language carrying on the now-tainted zephyr blowing from across the mighty river. The swamps surround us, and yet the horde presses on, seemingly unstoppable.

No! I cannot in good conscience run away. If I do, who will defend my wife, her pale beauty such a contrast to the harsh-faced and dirty Gothic women? Just the thought of her being defiled by the filthy Gothic men makes me want to weep. Who will defend my innocent children, prevent their flesh from feeding the mangy, skeletal dogs that follow the barbarian horde, eternally hungry?

Besides, deserters meet a fate worse than death.

I wonder if the savage heathens across the river would make my passing swift; an honorable doom in the service of my Emperor. With my bronze blade, I will send as many of the heathens to Hell as I possibly can before I go to a heroic death for Augustus -- no, for Rome, in all her glory.