Crossing the Rubicon

My Dear Adeline,

I write with a renewed vigour and energy that I never expected to acquire. Our general is about to make an inconceivable decision, something unimaginable! I stand by the banks of the Rubicon, many legions, including mine, stand alongside me, although I barely notice the scuffling of caligae and the snuffling of anxious horses. Anxiety and anticipation is thick in the air. Our general rides with his head held high, garnished in his armour and his gladius, his steed trotting elegantly about the banks.

As I write to you, I recall with a sense of awe at how it all began for me. At the promise of wealth and prestige, I volunteered my services to the army of Gual, and you very well remember. As of being approved, I began my training under a centurion– a hard faced, jagged man– along with many other volunteer soon-to-be soldiers. Our centurion watched us with a stern eye; his very glance made my palms sweat and my legs weaken.

We drilled, oh how we drilled! My body was beaten beyond what I thought physically possible, shaping me slowly, slowly to the soldier they expected. We swam in swift rivers and smashed practice forts; we built bridges and crossed streams in boats. We battled with gladius and scutum, we threw javelins and shot arrows. By the end of the day, my sore body would collapse in my tent, only to be awoken to repeat the previous days’ drills.

It was several months after I joined my legion, and I already began to hear things. Low murmurs, anxious twitching. Rumors sprung like wildfire, hearsay passed along the tents. Our legion may begin a march to the Rubicon. Some rumors claimed we were going to cross the border. My thoughts turned to our leadership. General Caesar couldn’t have been thinking of such an idea? Merely stepping onto the opposite side with an army would destroy the very order of the Republic. The officials would execute him for treason if he did so.

And what of his men? If it was in General Caesar’s mind to overthrow the Republic, harsh fighting would be involved. What could become of my legion? Were we all doomed to die? The very thought of stepping into the lapping waters of the Rubicon with a general at our head seemed altogether treasonous.

And yet, at that moment, I had a forbidden thought. What of the prestige I longed for? What of the glory and laurels that one feels with justice and victory served? If he says cross in the name of power and honor, would I cross? The splendor seemed too good to be true at the Republic’s expense.

I would lie awake at night, allowing myself to think of the sweet thought of victory over a powerful Republic. Though it was somewhat expected, I still couldn’t restrain my surprise when our centurion ordered our legion to pack up camp and march. Anticipation was high as we left Gual, though I felt a strange fear in my bones for Rome, and possibly the world.

Shifting feet and the prickle of cold water droplets against my legs brings me back to reality. I glance at our General, who is now paused in front of the Rubicon, his back facing us. Silence hangs around us, wrapping its invisible fingers around our throats, ceasing any noise except the babbling river and the horse sighs. Blood pounds in my head, a noise I am sure others can hear. My forehead sweats from the heat; it takes great willpower not to wipe away the perspiration with my already sticky hands.

After some deep thinking, our general turns to us and says, “Still we can retreat. But once let us pass this little bridge– and nothing is left but to fight it out with arms.” He appears to hesitate momentarily before a graceful mien approaches and plays on a small pipe. I shiver with dread and excitement as the General grabs a trumpet, and with a piercing sound advances to the river. We march after him, some more hesitant than others as the water splashes our bare leg arms.

I stare at the General in awe, and in fear, as he shouts, “Alea iacta est! The die is cast!”