A Legionnaire’s Lament

I’ve walked battlefields from the forests of Gaul to the banks of the Nile, and I would have never imagined that a soldier of Rome could find himself in such a sorry state. Octavian has prevailed, and it is now clear who will sit on the imperial throne of Rome. With Antony’s defeat on the battlefield, the queen poisoned herself with an asp, Charmion bid her priests carry her body off to someplace called the “Field of Reeds”—a ridiculous superstition. As her praetorian guard, it’s my duty to see to it she reaches that destination safely. Safe, I imagine, is a relative term for a doomed woman, but as it guarantees me a place aboard the imperial barge, under the circumstances, I’m happy to oblige. Given that I doubt I’ll be returning to Egypt anytime soon, consider this my last will and testament. Whoever finds it, I bequeath my lands in Rana and its olive groves to my wife Jamal, and later our son. My dear love, forgive me for leaving—it is the only way I know to protect you and our son. Centurion Quintus Publicus Praetorian Guard to Marcus Antonius, 19th Legion