My grandfather, Ventus,
fought on the winning side
at the battle of Philippi,
was rewarded by the victors
with a plot of land in Spain.
To his misfortune
he wasn’t a farmer,
just a poor town boy
who had joined the legions
rather than go hungry,
then loyally served
Marcus Antoninus.
He followed Marcus to Egypt,
leaving my father and his wife
to try to eke out existence
in a hospitable land,
but he also wasn’t a farmer.
With news of his father’s death
at the battle of Actium,
my father gave up the soil,
joined Octavian’s legions,
leaving his wife and young son
to manage as best we could.
At least he sent some of his pay,
until he died in a skirmish
somewhere in Germania.
The soil wasn’t kinder to me
than to father or grandfather,
so one bright morning
I kissed mother goodbye,
promised to send my pay
and joined the legions.
I was lucky early on
and met some old timers
who were friends of my father
and claimed they heard of grandfather.
They were probably telling soldier’s tales,
but I didn’t care. They adopted me,
protecting me from the usual abusers
who tormented all recruits.
I guess the legion was in my blood
because I took to the soldier’s life
as if I was born to it.
I became a good soldier,
made good friends who’d stand by me,
as I would stand by them.
One day a rumor spread like wildfire.
Our cohort was ordered to Rome
to join with the border legions.
When preparations started
excitement raced through the ranks.
We really were moving out.
Even the usual cynics,
claiming we were off to Britannia,
couldn’t stop our enthusiasm.
None of us had ever seen Rome
and we babbled endlessly
about what we’d do there.
The Games at the Circus Maximus
were the choice of most of us.
We marched with Roman efficiency,
so eager to see the legendary Rome
there was no grumbling in the ranks.
When we got near
we camped far from the city,
only the many lights at night
convinced us Rome was nearby.
It became clear we wouldn’t get leave
and angry voices were raised in camp,
with muttered talk of mutiny.
But before things erupted
our new commander, Varus,
sent orders to join his legions
somewhere in Germania.
Of course we marched around Rome.
By the third day with the legion
even the greenest recruit
knew Varus was a bad general.
We stopped early and often,
didn’t palisade the camp,
officers drank the night away,
and the lax discipline
made all of us careless.
When we came to Teutoburg Forest
we hadn’t even posted scouts.
When the Germans fell on us,
howling and screaming war cries,
we didn’t have time to form ranks.
They did great slaughter that day
and only a handful of us
managed to flee through the forest
and evade the blood-mad Germans.
We headed for the nearest outpost
and some of us swore a great oath
that if we escaped with out lives
and if Varus survived,
we would murder him
in the name of the good soldiers
who died by the thousands
because of a bad commander.