“We march tomorrow for Hispania,” Fabius announced once we were all quiet.
Despite knowing what was coming, a ripple of excitement still passed through the group of hard-bitten veterans. Fabius waited for the buzz of conversation to die down before continuing, but we only listened with passing attention, since it was the normal drivel that officers tell men in the ranks about glory, honor, duty and the like, and we were much too veteran a group to be taken in by such nonsense. Fortunately, Fabius was a good officer and knew to keep such blather to a minimum, understanding that we were more concerned with the practical considerations of getting our respective Cohorts prepared for movement than anything he could say. Therefore, quickly enough we were dismissed to go about our business.
There is one event that happened before our orders to move out that I feel important to relate, and that was the retirement of the group of men who had formed the backbone of the 10th when we first enlisted. Included in this group was none other than the Primus Pilus Gaius Crastinus, their decision prompting the resulting shuffle in the ranks as men were promoted. I for one was sorry to see Crastinus go, and frankly was a bit surprised that he opted to retire, but when I talked to him, he was adamant.
“I’ve had enough Pullus,” he insisted. “I’m ready for a little peace and quiet. Besides, I don't feel like fighting our own.”
I laughed at the idea, but he was serious. Still, when we parted I predicted that our paths would cross again, and I was right.
So this was the situation in those hectic days, just before the storm descended that would wrack the Republic and all its citizens for the next several years. We were marching into an uncertain future, but most of us were resigned to the idea that there would be no solution to Caesar's dilemma without blood being shed. Where some of us differed was how much of it would soak into the soil before matters were resolved, one way or the other. Men that I respected a great deal, Scribonius chiefly among them, were optimistic that perhaps after one or two battles, where the great men saw the terrible cost their ambitions would incur on the Republic and the Legions, some sort of accommodation would be reached. But as much as I respected Scribonius, I was not so inclined; I believed that only after rivers of blood were shed would either side acquiesce, and my only real hope was that it would be Caesar who prevailed. Because now it was not just myself I had to worry about; I had a family who looked to me to protect and provide for them, and it was a worrying feeling that twisted my stomach. Even as we marched away, I could feel that burden with every step I took, moving us farther away from my new family, and down a road with too many twists and turns ahead for me to easily see the end of the journey.
Now I must stop to rest, for which poor Diocles is favoring me with a look of almost pathetic gratefulness. There is still much to relate; more marching, fighting, killing and dying to be done, and more history to be made. However, I am now an old man whose energy fades and I need my sleep so I beg your indulgence, gentle reader. Once refreshed, I will pick up my tale again, for old I may be, but I am still Titus Pullus, Legionary of Rome, and I still have a duty to perform.