Making mockery

 

My Dearest Fausta,

The sand on this parchment feels like broken glass, a constant reminder of this cursed place. He called it a "victory," Fausta. A true triumph! Gaius stood there, bold as a god, shouting that we had conquered Neptune himself, the mighty god of the sea, brought to heel by Roman might!

But there was no foe, Fausta, only the unending sea. We were ordered to strike the waves. Can you fathom it? My legionaries, who stand firm against barbarian charges, ordered to thrust their pila into harmless water. Their swords, sharpened for the enemies of Rome, slashing at the indifferent foam! The waves merely broke, and roared, and mocked us with their spray. It was no battle, my love. It was a degrading spectacle. A profanity, I tell you, against the very spirit of Rome. My arms, hardened by honest combat, now feel tainted by this pointless act.

And the reward for such a "conquest"? By Hercules, you will think me mad for saying it: seashells. He ordered us to fill our very helmets – the pride of a Roman soldier – with these worthless bits of shell. The same trifling things our son will find on the seashore. I held one in my hand, fragile and empty, and felt a coldness spread through my veins. This is my share of the conquest, Fausta. This is the glory I bring home.

I had pictured gold, Fausta, enough to elevate our standing, to ensure comfort for our son. I dreamt of a true triumphus, of the people shouting my name, of the Senate’s solemn thanks. Instead, I stood there, a hardened Centurion, with a helmet full of broken shells and the acid taste of humiliation. What honor is there in conquering a seashell? What glory in fighting the water? He has taken the sacred word "victor" and twisted it into a cruel mockery. All the effort, the years away, the blood and sweat for Rome... for this? To be shamed, to be made a fool in the eyes of all.

I feel empty, Fausta. Emptier than a wine amphora on a feast day.

I enclose a small bag, filled with these... "spoils." Keep them hidden. Tell no one. Perhaps one day I will pay tax with these cursed riches.

I also send a folded prayer. Please, my love, take it to the local shrine of Mars, our war god. Place it before his altar. Do it for me, Fausta. My spirit is too shamed for such a task. Pray for me, Fausta. Pray that I can find a way to endure this, to reclaim the honor that was stripped from us, not by a worthy foe, but by the very man who should embody Rome's greatness. Tell our child I love him. I swear to you, when I return, there will be more than this.

I yearn for home.

Forever yours,

Marcus