I am a Roman soldier.
I choke on the dust and peer ahead.
There are only more soldiers and more marching.
The sun gleams from shields slung over the backs of my comrades
and our swords clank at our sides.
Only three weeks into the Germania campaign
and the Senate still favors the Brutii.
Still, General Augustus favors blood,
and so we march.
I am a Roman soldier and I fight for Rome and for glory.
My javelins tangle and I stop to adjust them.
Their one-use tips were digging in my back.
Feet continue to march past and I smell sweat and dirt.
There are murmurs of conversation
About the last town we sacked.
About the screams and the blood,
and how the Armenians would rather fight
then submit to Roman power.
I am a Roman soldier.
I grew up in Croton, a large town South of Rome.
My mother weaved cloth for the governor,
the white and green of the Brutii.
They claim they first settled Rome,
Their ancestor is Brutus, survivor of Troy
relation of the great Romulus.
My father was a proud Brutii
and his eyes sparkled at the name.
“Brutus, ” he said, “started this family with honor
and with honor died.”
Then two weeks passed,
and he died at Carthage.
I am a Roman soldier and I fight for Rome.
I pretend to inspect my shield as legions pass.
A Centurion calls for water and boasts
“It’s not to drink but to wipe off barbarian blood! ”
We Romans are tough and mighty
and will rule the world with Strength and Honor
There’s a problem with a leather strap
and I listen to the pounding feet.
I saw blood splattered on many.
Dried and brown.
I am a Roman soldier.
My mother’s voice rings in my head,
“Come back with your shield, or upon it.”
I wonder if my blood will be dried
and brown on someone’s feet some day.
I shake off the thought and raise my head.
The wind stirs my hair.
With it comes the rumble of cavalry.
The General will meet with us tonight.
Tomorrow we lay siege.
He had said we will do great things,
and that neither cities nor hordes could stop us.
We will live in glory and there will be songs about us
sung through the ages.
I am a Roman soldier and I am sick of fighting.
The army surges ahead and I watch it.
Shimmering and moving with a rhythm.
Thousands of blades of grass tossed by the wind.
The cavalry comes neatly alongside;
loud voices ring out in greeting.
I sigh and heft my shield,
Don my helmet and check my sword.
I fight because I have to,
I fight because the world would not have it otherwise,
The world could not stand to have one less of me,
I am a Roman soldier.