For the Glory of Rome: Chronicles of an Isekai'd Legion

The first golden rays of dawn had just begun to stream through the trees by the time everything had settled down. The battle and ensuing manhunt for other threats had occupied much of the Legion's attention that night, followed by a redoubling of defenses around the camp and town.

Tiberius hadn't personally gone out to the battlefield until several hours after it was secured, despite his desire to be on the front lines with his men. The reports of the pair's skills had made it quite clear that his presence would make him too vulnerable, something that his officers and aides weren't willing to risk. He had to agree. It was regrettable, but a situation like this called for him to step back as a leader—step back and carry out his other responsibilities.

His men were competent enough to handle themselves. Besides, this was no battlefield like he was used to, where army clashed against army. This was a hunt.

As the sun began to rise, however, the men returned to the camp to regroup and rest. Those who had spent the night on the move were granted a brief respite as they switched with fresh soldiers. A subdued air hung over them all as preparations began to be made—preparations for a burial.

Tiberius watched over the digging impassively. Death was simply a part of life for a Legionnaire. From the realities of war to ambushes to the simple consequences of an extended march, he'd seen more than his fair share of it over the decades. It was something he'd gotten used to, at least partially. Though that was not to say it was ever easy.

This death in particular hit him harder than most. Ever since they had come to this new, hostile, and unfamiliar land, they had managed to avoid losing a single man. Through all the battles and life-threatening injuries, they had been spared that by some miracle of Mars. Sure, they had nearly a score of wounded, including some with more permanent disabilities. A few wore eye patches now or walked with a limp, if they could walk at all. But given the strange magics of this land, Tiberius was no longer confident in saying that those injuries were even permanent.

This man was the first to fall. Not only that, but his death had taken something with him. It was as though his loss had carved a small hole in his soul, an empty space in the ironclad bond he shared with his fellow Legionnaires. A small hole, to be certain. But a hole nonetheless.

It wasn't just him, either—many of the men seemed to share the same sentiment. He saw it written plain across their faces as they dug and made preparations. Each one of his men had reacted with the same visceral sense of loss immediately after his death. And while some had recovered quickly enough, more seemed to hold on to that feeling with a grip of iron.

Luckily, they only had to dig one grave. It was something that they hadn't been certain about, initially. Though everyone had felt that first Legionnaire die, there was no telling whether that phenomenon would be repeated for subsequent deaths. Regardless, whether it was a blessing or a curse to blame, Tiberius felt that it was only fitting to give the man a proper funeral. For his sake and the men's.

He cleared his throat and stepped forward onto a hastily erected stage. Silence spread across the lines of Legionnaires as he did. Once the last of them had quieted, Tiberius began to speak. His voice carried across the men without issue thanks to [Voice of Command]. It made it so that he no longer had to shout his speeches in order to be heard. Small mercies.

"Men. Brothers!" Titus spoke, and everyone snapped to attention. "We gather today to honor the memory of the fallen—of Sextus, who gave his life in battle for the sake of his comrades. A man whose spirit and actions have brought glory to Rome and her ideals."

Tiberius spoke briefly about the man. He did not know him well on a personal level, as he regrettably lacked the time to build relationships with each and every one of his men. However, Sextus had been spoken well of by his contubernium and centurion as a dependable soldier. One that served with pride.

After a brief eulogy, Tiberius gestured towards where the body lay. "Sextus gave his life for his comrades, opposing an enemy with skills beyond our understanding for their sakes. But he was not the only one to show courage. Quatenus, step forward!"

The man stepped out of formation as Tiberius continued. "Quatenus. You displayed excellent decision-making and decisive action on the battlefield. Moreover, you managed to wound the enemy from over a hundred paces with your sling—all while they leapt about like a gazelle." He tossed the man a bag of coins. "You have done well."

Quatenus saluted the Legatus. "Sir!"

Tiberius nodded in approval, his attention turning to the next man. "Octavius!"

One by one, he went down the list of men that had been picked out by their superiors for meritorious actions. The exception was Quintus. Though he had performed valiantly indeed, he would receive awards in private amongst the officers later. Each received recognition and a bag of denarii—which, though foreign to this land, still seemed to suffice for trade among the locals. Gold was gold, after all. Replenishing their supply of currency was yet another item on Tiberius's list of necessary actions, though saying so to the men would certainly do more harm than good.

"And so, we find ourselves at a crossroads," he continued after handing out the last of the awards. "This night, we were attacked. Our patrol was ambushed, and one of our own slain. This act of aggression leaves us with two choices. To defend. To stay, protect that which we have gained and built, and call it our empire, meager though it may be. Such a path forward would be simple, to eke out a living and be satisfied with that which we have claimed for ourselves. It would offer safety and security. And it would ensure fewer gatherings such as this," he gestured toward the grave.

Tiberius paused for a moment as his words sank in. "However… even that is not guaranteed. One of our enemies escaped. They surely flee to their master as we speak, carrying word of our existence and our capabilities. I have no doubt that they will return, and in greater numbers than before.

"Which leads me to our other path," Tiberius clasped his hands behind his back. "To press onward. To fight back, grow our strength until we march unopposed. To face our foes head-on and take the battle to them, before it inevitably comes to our own doorstep.

"This, my brothers, is our choice. To hide, or to fight. To allow these barbarians their victory, or to show them the true might of Rome, that they may be brought to heel and know their proper place. I will not lie. This path will be long and difficult—and we shall see many more graves before it is done. But I have no doubt that we shall find victory at its end.

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"So, men, I ask you now." Tiberius's voice rose as he drew towards the end of his speech. "Will you live out the rest of your meager lives seeking safety? Or will you stand and press on? Will you allow our brother's sacrifice to be in vain? Or will you fight for the ideals he died to preserve—the ideals of Rome and her glory?"

A shout rose up from the gathered soldiers. "For Rome!"

Tiberius nodded in approval, then turned toward Sextus's body and took a knee. Gingerly, he uncovered the man's face, the pallid skin cleaned of the blood and grime that once covered it. His eyes were closed, a coin already placed beneath his tongue to ensure safe passage across the Styx. Fishing around his neckline, Tiberius found the small leather pouch tied around his neck, the one that contained a lead signaculum to identify him. He retrieved it and stood again.

"Primus Pilus," he called Quintus forward. "I charge you to care for the names of the dead until they can be presented to their families. When we return to Rome, let Sextus's name be entered in the ledger of honor."

The centurion nodded solemnly as he accepted the pouch. Tiberius himself couldn't be certain when they would return to their homeland, if ever. It was entirely possible that they would live out the rest of their lives in this place. But it was better to give the men hope.

With that, Tiberius stepped back and saluted. The entire Legion present saluted as the body was lowered into the grave and slowly covered with fresh dirt. Their faces remained stony, many held in tight control as the hole filled in.

Tiberius allowed himself to glance to one side. Of all the people present, there was only one who was not a member of the Legion. Marcus stood unobtrusively off to the side, his expression somber. The bard had remained uncharacteristically silent for the entire ceremony.

The Legatus considered him for a long moment. There had been a bit of contention amongst a few of the officers about Marcus's presence. However, the matter had been quietly resolved with the input of a few of the soldiers. He had marched with the Legion when Sextus had died. That meant something. That, and he'd apparently known the man, at least well enough to elicit a response like this. And so, he'd been allowed to attend his friend's funeral, so long as he didn't cause too much of a fuss.

Tiberius's fist clenched. He hid it behind his back, ensuring that the men didn't see his reaction as he stared at the burial. The escape of that enemy provided one more reason to march, to accelerate their timelines and start on the warpath. Not like he needed any more. The Legion's need for food and supplies would soon become pressing. Hunting had supplemented their rations and stretched them out much longer than they would have lasted otherwise, but reports indicated they would soon run the risk of picking this area clean. That was on top of the need for ore and raw materials and a bevy of other things.

When they went to take the mines, they would need to either seize provisions or take extra territory that produced food. It was their best chance to sustain themselves into the future. But they would need to move quickly, before their enemies had a chance to prepare or return in larger numbers. And though they couldn't be certain what faction their aggressors had belonged to, it wasn't hard to make an educated guess.

Of course, the savage in him wanted to take his whole Legion, leave Habersville, and march deep into the enemy kingdom, putting everything to the torch. It wasn't a wise or particularly tactical decision. But would impress upon them respect. No, instead, Tiberius would play the long game and ensure that their funerals were as infrequent as he could make them. Not by hiding or remaining defensive, but by ensuring that they were a force to be reckoned with. He would lead his men to victory.

Tiberius was pulled from his musings as Marcus sidled up alongside him. The colorfully-dressed bard spoke in low tones pitched not to carry. "Legatus, I have a small request. Might I be permitted to perform funeral rites of my own? After yours are completed, of course. Though you have your own customs, our people also have ours."

He thought for a second and then nodded. "I'll allow it. So long as you remain respectful and wait until we have finished. Though I will not press the men to stay if they are not willing."

Marcus nodded solemnly and backed off. They both watched on silently as the grave continued to fill.

***

It took a while for the digging to complete. After a few more brief words from other Legionnaires, Marcus stepped forward and cleared his throat.

"Soldiers," Marcus said simply. "If you would allow me to bend your ears for a moment… I would like to make an offering of my own on this occasion. I considered Sextus to be a friend—a new friend, mind you—but I..." He hesitated. "We've spent no few nights around the fire together, speaking of battles long past and his home. He was a good man."

Marcus clasped his hands behind his back. "Here, we honor the fallen, especially those who defend their comrades, in many different ways. Oftentimes, far away from civilization a burial and a song is sometimes all they ever receive. And so, I thought it would be fitting to offer him that at least."

Marcus bowed his head for a second—then he began to sing.

Who shall sing me,

Guide my soul through shadowed seas,

When I tread the path beyond,

And the stars grow dim

So dim, so cold.

It was less of a song and more of a chant, high and haunting. As the words flowed out of the bard, Tiberius could swear he heard the man's voice echo and redouble as though he were just one of many. His very heartbeat resonated with the words like a bassy drum pounding in the background.

When you stand before the gates of fate,

And the silver chains must break,

Follow you, I shall,

Across the bridge of souls,

With my call.

The chant filled the air like a physical weight. Unlike the jaunty tunes and stories Tiberius had heard from the bard before, this one felt… significant. Not just because of the words and somber delivery, either. It lent an air of importance to the funeral itself, transforming it into an event worthy of an epic in and of itself. All around him, the Legion remained spellbound by the performance, undoubtedly feeling much the same.

When Marcus had finished singing, the eerie echoes of music faded. He opened his eyes, gaze lifting toward the sky, and spoke once more—this time, in his normal voice.

Steel may rust, and banners burn,

Kings shall fall, and towers turn,

Yet the deeds of heroes ever shine,

And your name shall never fade.

Gold shall dull, and halls shall fall,

Stone will crack, and time takes all,

Yet one thing shall never die,

The memory of those who dared.

As the last note faded into distant echoes, the whole Legion was quiet for several moments. Marcus simply nodded to himself, retreating back to the sidelines without another word.

Tiberius looked at the man with a hint of newfound respect. Marcus was clearly not a soldier, not by any means. But the sheer sorrow in his song was not something that could be easily faked. Nor was it something understood by fops or the rich, pampered sons of the elite. No, this spoke to something more. Beneath the surface, Tiberius suspected that Marcus had known hardship. Perhaps he, too, had seen men die—more than just Sextus. Enough to understand how to truly honor a fallen friend.

Inwardly, Tiberius allowed himself a grudging smile. Perhaps he'd been wrong about the bard. If so, he would honestly be glad. It would mean he was a better man.