Symbol of Conquest
"How far will you go for Roam?"
Stay in formation.
That's what we were told to do, what we were trained to do, each and every day of our 25-year service. Whether we were on the attack or on the defensive, mounting fortifications or charging the front, we held formation. It was paramount, it was a symbol of discipline and zeal. It made us Roamans, and Roamans brought with them the ideals of a perfect society wherever they went -- not a perfect society based on the standards of egalitarianism, nor of socialism or capitalism. Ours was a society where each and every able-bodied person took up arms against their enemies. We discussed, we talked, we negotiated, yes; but the truth was that diplomacy was only a tool meant to delay conflict. Conflict was inevitable, even with the closest of friends. It always was. It always will be.
So what did we bring with us, then? The nobler side of what a person could be, that's what. Duty. Honor. Sacrifice. Ambition. To the frozen north or the scorching south, the mystical east and the familiar west; to all of them, in fact. We laid the foundations for the world, and it does right to bend heel to us. Yet some people rebel. Yet some people resist what cannot be resisted:
Supremacy through power.
*** Roama Victrix ***
Those were the words my father taught me. And they were also the words his father taught him. Of course both of them were soldiers, so such talk was expected. And they were more than just soldiers; they were Roaman legionaries, the finest troops in the world. And I, Thanus Meridius Decimus, was one such soldier. Even better: I was a legate, a commander of several thousand of such troops.
Now, soldiers marched on their own feet. But as a legate I had a privilege. I had a mount.
"Legatus, sir!" the centurion gasped, galloping up to my cerati -- an animal of robust make, plated in thick hide that did well as armor and was also a beast of reliability. That's not to say its smell benefited from its kind's many good qualities. "The cohorts are delayed by the terrain, and the rising sun is beating down on the soldiers. Shall I call for a halt first?" he asked, gasping. I looked over him, eyeing the details of his uniform carefully. A centurion of the 10th cohort, the last in the column. He must have galloped very far and very fast.
"Make it so, then," I replied. Legionaries, like any other living thing, needed rest. As a commander I had to be astutely aware of that reality, not get lost in my authority. That kind of carelessness could be reserved for the non-citizen auxiliaries, if anything. For what can a legionary do who charges when out of breath?
"But keep the legion in formation,” I ordered. “Don't compromise the column. Tell the primus pilus this."
"Yes sir!" he gasped. “Hail Caesar!”
“Hail Caesar,” I replied. And so he galloped off, as fast as his struggling heart and gasping lungs could take him. As he went, I checked the 10th cohort's centurionate for his name. He was Arcadius Velerius. Taking note of his resolve to gallop to me -- it must have been a little over a half-kilometer from the 10th cohort to where I was -- I decided to prioritize him for a pay raise. Roamans are a practical people. We acknowledge the limitations of the environment and work accordingly. As it was, money did wonders in strengthening an individual's resolve. Money meant a greater share in the world’s bounty. What more could one want?
With the primus pilus' orders, the legion stopped. At my further instructions, we made no camp -- we were close enough to our destination for us to go without. But for the sake of formalities, I let the praetorians get to constructing my tent. I entered it even as the cohorts rested on the blasted concrete road. I sat down on the small chair inside, and laid back, relaxing for a while.
Now, as nothing happened in the half-hour or so I rested, I dedicated that time to though -- for I am Thanus Meridius Decimus, legate of Legion IV Valere Victrix Equestrius, and I am charged with great purpose. I am of the Imperial Roaman Legion, the surviving military branch of the Roaman Empire's military that survived in an underground shelter beneath the Forum. Large enough to house many thousands of inhabitants, Roama fittingly became our underground capital. Yet even its size and wealth could not contain us forever. That is why the Legion left for the desolate, radioactive surface. We were to reconquer Roam, to restore it. Such was our destiny.
Now, the surface became a wasteland 200 years ago, when the Imperial Roaman Government came to blows with the Equestrian government. Our lands were annihilated, our peoples burned to ash. But some of us survived, and that was us. The Legion. The best of the best, deserving of sacrifice. It was our mission to go out to the wasteland and knock on the doors of our far-flung and isolated fellow survivors. My Legion’s goal, in particular, was the 50th of these Roaman Stables -- huge shelters, just like mine. This one was named Marediolanon.
Before long, my praetorian tribune came to me and informed me of the legion's eagerness to continue. I had them disassemble my tent, and we marched on. For a few more hours, the sun beat down on us. Even I wasn't spared, though I wasted no energy on trotting. I couldn't imagine where the soldiers got their endurance -- surely the weight of all their gear weighed them down.
Ah, but I did know where they obtained the will to go on. It was there, gleaming in the morning sun, the gold of its shape seeming to be its own star.
The Roaman Aquila. The eagle standard, the heart and soul of a legion. The troops followed it because it was karus: precious. They followed it, though it was at the head of the legion, because it was a symbol of what they fought for. Within its golden wings and head, in its talons and feathers, was engraved the ideals of Roaman civilization. They followed me, yes, as the leader of the 4th legion, but it was the eagle that kept them going. If it were lost... so were we.
They would die for it. They would go to hell and back for it. They would move the earth for it. And most of all, no matter what they faced, they would stay in formation for it. Because they were Roamans, and they knew their place.
"There it is, legionaries!" I bellowed, nearly suffocating on the hot air. Gods, curse the Roaman province's mixed climate! "There's the mountain those Marediolanians are at... now, first cohort, move up!"
So they went. 500 zebras, all armed and armored, galloped up the slope. It was not very steep, but nonetheless the effort they exerted must have been substantial. Yet they did not tire, yet they did not falter or hesitate in their orders. They followed the aquilifer, the eagle-bearer, up that slope. I followed as well. I don't know why I did; I could very well have stayed down the mountain, in my tent, and waited it all out. They had their orders and knew the procedure of these operations.
But perhaps my soul desired it. Perhaps my soul wanted to follow what was precious to me. I wasn't needed up there, but I needed to be up there to be with it. The Aquila. And so my attention was fixed on it even as the siege engine busted into the heavy steel door that protected Marediolanon, and remained on it even as the great machine yanked, and yanked, and yanked…
"Door is almost down, sir!" a legionary yelled.
After a few more yanks the door was pulled down. Dust flew into the air. The first century's centurion and his own selected troops went in first. To our shock, there was a scuffle, and sounds of death. The aquilifer almost charged in, but I halted him.
It wasn't until a few moments later that all resistance seemed pacified. It took a stun grenade and minigun fire to subdue the situation. Sparing what was precious to us from the risk of danger, I entered the steel walls of the 50th Stable. It was a mess, with blood trailing the floor and the stunned local guard limp and bleeding on the ground.
There was one pony there, in particular, that caught my attention. He was crimson-coated, though not by blood. I don't know why I looked at him with such interest. There was just something about him.
"Take one more step into Marediolanon and you're minced meat!" someone threatened. There was a guard, on a balcony of glass. He had a gun pointed at me as I entered. "Now identify, and prepare to pay reparations! Your operation is over."
I shook my head. "Oh, it's only just begun," I said. "For you see, my dear garrison... this copycat Equestrian Stable, this 'Marediolanon'... it belongs to us. And it always has. The blood unfortunately spilled today was a cause of your foolery and ignorance."
The pony looked over at me. I quickly glanced his way. There it was again, that... feeling. There was something about him, I couldn't tell what it was. I took a quick look back outside, and caught a glimpse of the eagle's glimmer. It seemed... felt like there was something in the eagle that was beckoning to the pony, almost as if it wished something to do with him...
"I said identify!" the guard barked back.
I directed my attjention to the guard again, putting aside all other thoughts. "I am Thanus Meridius Decimus, legatus de legio IV Valere Victrix Equestrius," I replied calmly, with a smile. Then my smile tensed. "We are of the Imperial Roaman Legion. And your leader and I... we have much to discuss."
