Do You Still Believe in Rome?

A Vignette

You march into the city to the sound of keening women, rose petals strewn before your feet, and the Eternal City opens before you.

You go to temple of Mars Ultor where your victorious arms will be laid, the heavy tramp of boots marks your progress to that great altar.

When you began your campaign, you were a youth, but well-trained in the disciplines of war.

The training-ground had taught you the skills of spear shield and sword, how many men can strike and defend and let loose a storm of javelins with one will, and advance to finish it with blades. This is sweat-work, blood-work, the grim work of the Legion, which you learned well.

On the eve of departure the Aquilifer gathered you by flaring torchlight for secret rites.

"I am proud of you. Rome is proud of you. Now you are truly the sons of Mars. Go! and be victorious."

Together with your squad-mates, you danced skillfully to drum and lute before the fires in the nights before you took to the long ships that lay at harbor below.

One maiden with bare feet danced for you in turn, and later that night you found yourselves together in the dewing fields beyond, beneath the full moon.

Now as you return you wonder if she has preserved your memory. For you are old now, weary in the joints and scarred from battle.

Nevertheless, after the passage through the triumphal gate, and the sacrifices, the crowd presses around you and crowns you with laurel, fills your helmet with wine.

She appears before you, eyes bright, arms full of flowers, and the memory of dust and blood of so many campaigns in foreign lands slips away like tears washed with cool water.

She whispers now, "You're home."

"Do you still believe in Rome?"