The Battle of Maeander, 84 B.C.
You crash to the ground, head throbbing in pain as you fall to your hands and knees. Above you stands a Greek, as large as Herakleo and nearly as strong, tossing aside the axe handle he had broken over your helmet. You had been mid-lunge when the blow connected, which is why the wooden shaft had broken over your head and the iron blade didn't go through it.
"Atellus!" You see Cassianus at the edge of your vision, charging toward you with a handful of legionnaires at his side, "Get up!"
You already know he won't make it in time, with the Greek already drawing his sword.
'I can't do it,' You sigh, eyes closing in acceptance, 'It's too hard. He's just too strong.'
Cingulatus Estate, 89 B.C.
"Get up Quintus," Your father commanded, "Again."
Lucius Cingulatus Atellus, former legate of the Legio X Hispania Invicta, stood over his son, wooden training sword outstretched.
"I can't fight you Father," You groaned, "It's not fair. You're too strong for me."
It is not a far fight by any comparison. Your father was the
primus pilus of the Tenth, the best soldier of a legion that was so formidable as to be named "Unconquerable". You are a fourteen year old boy, untested in any combat and still a child by any standard.
You hear your father sigh as he walks over to squat next to you.
"You are a Roman Quintus," He said, "We have always fought foes too strong for us."
That got your attention, "But Rome is master of the world, conqueror of a hundred kingdoms and destroyer of dozens more. There are none stronger than us."
"There are none stronger than us now, my son," He chastised, "But that was not always the case."
Lucius stood back up and started pacing, something he often did when giving a lecture.
"The Sabines were more established, and the Latins more numerous. Etruria was greater and the Samnites were more stubborn. The Celts of Hispania and Gaul were more ferocious, and the Greeks ruled the mightiest kingdoms in the world. Under Hannibal, Carthage ran circles around Rome in Italia, our own backyard, destroying armies and humiliating the greatest statesmen and generals Rome could produce. Rome has always faced enemies who were mightier, but none who were better than us."
Seeing his son still pouting on the ground, Lucius decided to change tactics.
"Do you know how it is that our ancestor, the first Atellus, came to be Romulus' bodyguard?"
You shake your head, having never heard the story.
"Answer me with your words Quintus, it is unbecoming of a future Roman statesman to respond in such a way."
"No Father."
"I would have figured your mother would have told you, she always did love telling you and your sister the family history," He sighed, his gaze shifting far away for just a moment before refocusing, "Centuries ago, when Rome was just a handful of men following Romulus and Remus across Italia, Atellus was just the son of a merchant, who had chosen to follow the brothers in hopes of furthering his lot in life.
"When the brothers first split when choosing the hill to build their city, he chose to follow Romulus, the more charismatic and martial of the two brothers. When the brothers came into dispute, and Romulus struck down Remus, most of his followers fled for fear of repercussions from the dead man's followers. All except Atellus, who stood with Romulus.
"Atellus was no warrior, and had never been in a fight in his life, but he was not about to forsake the man he had sworn his loyalty to. Together, the two of them stood against Remus' men, and they fought long enough for those who fled to be overcome by shame, and so they returned, and Romulus won the first battle in Rome's history. For his loyalty, Romulus chose to have Atellus at his side at all times, and so he became Romulus' bodyguard.
"The Cingulatii have always fought on in the face of overwhelming odds. We do not fear death, for we know that to dishonor our ancestors and the trust Romulus put into them, would be far worse."
"But why must we still fight Father?" You ask, curiosity and grouchiness getting the better of you, "Have we not already won? Who else is there in the Mediterranean that can match us?"
"That is not the point Quintus," Your father continued, exasperation clear in his voice as he pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to think of how to explain further.
"My friend, Quintus Sertorius, who I served with in Hispania and whom you are named for, once told me something that I believe explains it rather nicely," Your father said as he finished pacing and turned to look at you, "He said that 'To be Roman is to fight, so to not fight is to not be Roman.' It is our lot in life Quintus. When the gods gave mankind their gifts, they all chose cities in Greece or Etruria to give them to. All except for mighty Mars, who saw our little town and gave it the mightiest yet most unassuming gift of all.
"The will to fight on. A will so powerful that even after defeat, we can still stand up, dust ourselves off, and then prepare for the next fight, and the fight after that, and the fight after that. If we do not fight, then how can we be Romans? And if we are not Romans, then what is the point of anything we do."
Once again, your father stands up and moves across from you, holding the training sword up again.
"Now," He orders, "Get up Quintus."
The Battle of Maeander, 84 B.C.
Your eyes fly open as a memory of your father rushes to the forefront of your mind, and you grit your teeth. You pick up a legionnaire's fallen gladius next to you, and rising to one knee, thrust it forward with all of your strength as the Greek's blade begins to descend.
The blade drives straight through the man's knee, and he falls with a roar of anger and pain as his sword falls from his hands. Acting quickly, you grab your own sword that had fallen next to you, and sink it into his side before pulling it out and gripping his head.
"I am Quintus Cingulatus Atellus, Tribune of the Sixth Legion, Blessed by Mars," You hiss at him in Greek, lining your blade up with his throat, "Remember that, and when they ask you in the Underworld who sent you, tell them that name."
You slide your sword into his neck, and stare him in the eyes, "And tell them to expect many more from me."