The Rubicon, a river whose name eludes most of the men standing in formation, is not one with much significance to the locals, nor is it one that is crucial to the surrounding terrain. But, this river is one that divides land where Julius Caesar can...
"I wouldn't say it was Caesar who saved us then. It was Labienus, in command of the Tenth, that marched straight to the Belgic camp and crushed the Nervii from behind. Caesar's plan was to hold the line until it broke and we would all lay dead on the field." Marcus coolly retorts.
"Not so! As we reached the battle lines, I saw him in the midst of a melee with the Seventh! Caesar was just as prepared to die there as we were!" I argue.
"You are correct, Publius, yet Marcus is right about Labienus saving the day. Truly a shame that he denounced Caesar and stormed from his camp once he heard of our actions, but I can't say that it isn't understandable, if not justified." Granius states, seeking to cool the embers before a fire erupts from them.
The other recruit glances between myself and Marcus, confusion emanating from him, "While the merits of both of those commanders are without question, how does reveling in the past calm my nerves in the present?"
"Because if we've seen Dis' domain and returned, then you can be sure that we'll carry you both back with us!" Junius rises to rub the heads of the recruits, "This'll go over easier than canoodling your wife on the Nones!"
They both force a smile, but the fear clings to them and refuses to release. The best that any of us old-timers can do is hold the line for them and hope they gain their sea legs soon.
A horn slices through the camp, followed by the sound of thousands of men rising to tear down the camp and advance. Forming our battle lines at the base of the hill, I notice that not a single man stands opposite us. I nudge one of the recruits behind me and point this out.
"Look," I say, "we were right. They are too scared to raise a single sword in their defense!"
This appears to calm him slightly, but there isn't much that I can do to stop the first-battle-jitters. In fact, I, myself, feel Thantos' hands slip across my chest.
Another horn sounds, ordering the advance. The ground rumbles with the footfalls of our half-strength legion, our presence augmented by our unwaivering will to see Caesar's orders through to the death or victory. Even Neptune the Earth-Shaker trembles from our advance! Yet still, the seconds drag into hours and the enemy camp stretches further and further from our grasp.
We reach the outside of missile range, with three blasts of the horn signalling a halt. Our Centurion, along with every other, fall out of formation and meet behind the lines. I barely have time to scan the surroundings for myself before they come sprinting back to their centuries. With a gesture, our Centurion calls forward our Decani to pass down specific orders. With this accomplished, he turns and leads us to our designated position. Our whole line obliques the camp, then fractures into pieces to surround it. We stop at a point in the north east of the camp, between the Sixth and First cohorts. Before our baggage train mounts the hill, half of the cohort melt into the woods to gather wood, while our half are told to begin digging in.
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