Lucius Junius Brutus reached the camp near Velitrae the same day he had left Veii. Entering the camp, he mustered the legions legates and the military tribunes on the command tent built specifically in case the Senior Consul visited them. Sitting confidently on the Consul’s chair, Brutus addressed the officers, giving them seats of equal worth so that his gesture seemed to be casual rather than intended.

“Gentlemen, I am here under strict mandate from the Senior Consul Caius Sennius Zosimus himself. I am to lead you the day after tomorrow to Ameria. Any questions?”

“None, sir.”

“Very good. We begin at dawn; have the men pack the camp up during the first hours of day and to be ready to march north as soon as possible after that” Brutus said dismissing the legates and tribunes. Staying on the command tent for the night, Brutus fell fast asleep.

….

It’s the crack of dawn. High mountains form in front of the Roman army, the tops covered in snow. To their left, a small river, running slowly – more ice than water. A small forest of pine trees can be seen not far from the Roman battle array; the whole valley is covered in deep snow, the soldier’s calligae covered. The four legions entrusted to his command are ready for the duty, awaiting the slaughter to come.

“Steady, men!” The Roman said on horseback, galloping up and down inside his leather cuirass and attic helmet. It was freezing cold and he could feel his nose, his arms and feet going numb. In front of the formation, the endless Germanic hordes awaited in a mock-battle array, more a mob of fighting men than a proper army.

A horn blows. Then another. Soon, several horns are heard throughout the valley. A war cry from the barbaric side and then the full barbarian host is running through the snow upon the Romans.

“So it begins.” The Roman says in a familiar voice, unsheathing his sword.

A blur of scenes. Shields up, pila away. The cries of the dead. A gladius flying in mid air after an unsuccessful blow upon a shield. The snow covered in blood, blood so hot that the snow melts on spots – some little grass is visible beneath the pilling dead. Then him. A tall, well built German, looking like some Warrior God, his skin the fairest white, his hair golden and long. On his hands lays a warhammer, bloodied all over by crushing it on the skulls of the dead. On his torso there’s a silver cuirass. On his neck rests a golden torque depicting a dragon head consuming his tail in a perfect round circle. And then the Roman. Dismounting from his war horse, wearing a leather cuirass with a head upon a golden circle in the chest, an attic helmet worn out from the harsh campaign, wielding a sword. He speaks. The German takes notice of him and approaches. They fight for some time, a circle opening between the two warriors. Finally, the Roman injures the German on the belly; he raises his hands in celebration. Then the sound, the most hideous sound imaginable. The Roman lowers his hands and turns in curiosity. The German stands still. The Roman only notices the warhammer approaching from the side. A cracking sound and then… then darkness…

…

Brutus opened his eyes. He laid still on the command tent, only he had fallen from the bed to the floor. His head ached very much, feeling dizzy and confused. He got up to realize it was the first hours of day. Moments later, the senior Legatus entered the tent to announce that the army was ready to depart. Brutus suited hastily his armor. He wore the leather cuirass with the head of Brutus, the Founder of the Republic, crafted upon a golden circle on his cuirass. He then wore his helmet, an attic helmet worn out since the campaigning in Asia. He left the tent.

Many hours later, Brutus was riding in front of the column. There was no other sound than the marching of the legions and a dirge-like horn blows from the cornicers to keep the march right.

“I’ll see you on the mountains, German.” Brutus said aloud under his breath. “I’ll see you on the mountains.”