‘Iacta ālea est.’ The die is cast. The storm would follow.
Marcisus trooped with his legion over the Rubicon river, following their leader who had gone before them.
Within days they would be in Rome. Pompey would be forced to flee. Rome would be torn apart.
Marcisus saw it all unfolding. He had hoped his warring days were over. He had served Rome and her army all his adult life. His wife and children awaited him at home. All he wished was to spend his remaining days in retirement and watch his family grow up.
Now it was civil war – Roman against Roman, Caesar against Pompey. Marcisus would follow his commander through whatever battles lay ahead. He had no choice, but if he did, he would do the same. His loyalty was not bought or forced, but given willingly for a cause and a man that he believed in.
The fight would come. Winter storm clouds gathered overhead, an ominous portent. The storm that would break over Rome in a few days would decide the fate of the Roman world.
For now, they marched.
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