"Si vis pacem, para bellum."
"If you want peace, prepare for war."
~ Vegetius
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The smell of smoke and blood carried on the cold morning as Marcus surveyed the battlefield from the shallow ridge. Below, the river Alutus (modern-day Olt river) snaked lazily through the valley, its icy waters reflecting the grim faces of the thousands of men gathering on its banks.
On the far side, Goths, Sarmatians and freed slaves had formed a chaotic line, their chants and war cries echoing across the plain.
To Marcus's left, General Caelinus, his direct superior, barked incoherent orders from atop a nervous brown horse. The man's gilded armor gleamed, a stark contrast to the mud-streaked shields and worn-out sandals of the Roman Soldiers arrayed behind him.
Marcus could see the fear in their eyes. They were veterans, yes, but veterans of too many defeats. Rome's banners no longer inspired awe. They were tattered relics of a fading empire.
The damned barbarians began to advance, their makeshift shields and axes glinting in the morning sun.
Marcus tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword. He could feel the tension among his men, the younger ones glancing nervously at him for reassurance.
Marcus was a Centurion. But he ate with his subordinates. He suffered, weeped and cared about the soldiers in his command.
Marcus understood them. He was of humble background and had rosen through the ranks on ability and courage alone.
He understood their needs, their fears, their suffrage.
He was the sole pillar of light these men saw on this whole dark campaign...
"Hold the line!" Marcus barked, his voice cutting through the din. "They're flesh and blood. Fight for each other, if not for Rome!"
But the enemy kept charging forward like a tide, their warriors screaming as they crashed into the Roman frontlines. Shields slammed with each other, spears thrust into unarmored flesh, and the world became a cacophony of roars, clanging metals and dying men.
Marcus fought at the centre of the formation, his sword rising and falling with brutal efficiency. A barbarian lunged at him, swinging a crude axe. Marcus ducked, slamming his shield into the man's face before driving his blade into his exposed throat.
All around him, the Roman line wavered. The barbarian numbers were overwhelming, pushing them back step by bloody step.
Then, to Marcus's horror, General Caelinus turned his horse and fled the battlefield. His horse kicked up clods of earth as he disappeared over the hill.
The soldiers noticed, too. Panic spread among the frontline like wildfire.
"The General has abandoned us!" a soldier cried out, dropping his spear.
Marcus acted on instict. He leaped onto a fallen comrade's shield, raising himself above the melee.
"Look at me!" he roared, his voice thunderous. "Caelinus may have fled, but us Romans have not! Do you want to die running, or die with honor?!?!"
The soldiers hesitated, and Marcus grabbed hold of that moment of hesitation, screaming even louder:
"SOLDIERS OF ROME! Look around you! Look at the land you defend! These fields, these hills. THEY ARE OURS!
THEY ARE ROME'S!!!
Will you let these savages take them from us? Will you let them cross the Danube and trample our families under their boots?
A murmur rippled throufh the ranks.
"I will not!" Marcus continued, his voice like iron. "We are outnumbered, yes.
BUT WE ARE ROMANS!
And tonight, we remind these barbarians what that means. TONIGHT, we fight not for the Senate, not for the Emperor, but for each other and our families.
FOR ROME!!!"
A roar erupted from the legionnaires, their shields and swords crashing together in defiance.
The enemy surged forward, their war cries echoing through the battlefield. Marcus raised his sword high up in the air.
"Hold the line!" he screamed.
The impact came like a thunderclap. The front row buckled under the force of the barbarian charge, but they held, their shields locked together like the scales of a dragon.
Marcus moved through the chaos, his blade a blur of steel as he cut down one enemy after the other. His men followed his lead, their fear giving way to fury.
Driven by his presence, the Roman ranks reformed and charged into the enemy.
Marcus led this damned charge, his armor stained with blood, his sword an extension of his rage.
The river ran red with blood as the Romans fought their way to the water's edge. Dead horses and bromen chariots littered the field, while vultures circled overhead. Men screamed for their mothers as they bled out, their entrails steaming in the frosty air.
Marcus waded into the shallows, striking down a barbarian chief whose fur cloack was soaked with blood.
His men followed, cutting down the remaining foes as they tried to flee. The once mighty horde was broken, their bodies strewn across the banks like discarded dolls.
Even tho outnumbered, the Roman tenacity and discipline had once again triumphed over their enemies.
Marcus was tired... he was so, so tired, having fought for hours. His whole body was hurting and he just wanted to lay down and sleep. But he didn't. Instead, he screamed:
"Soldiers! Today, you have shown the world the might of our empire! With your blood, sweat and courage, you have crushed your enemies and proven that no one can stand against the power of Rome. The Gods have smiled upon us. Your names will be remembered in history.
YOU are Rome's greatest weapon, and through you, Rome will rise to even greater heights.
ROMA INVICTA!!!"
The soldiers roared and shed tears of happiness.
Under the full moon, Marcus looked like a God to his own soldiers, like a beacon of hope who would lead them to better times...
What everyone in this legion didn't know is that this battle would be remembered in the annals of history as the first great battle of the great Marcus Domitius Valerianus' rise.