The Northern Frontier
The wind howls outside your command tent, rattling the heavy canvas. It is the winter of 179 AD. You are near Sirmium, far from the warmth of Rome. Your body aches—a constant companion these days—and the oil lamp flickers, threatening to leave you in darkness.
Here, on the edge of the known world, you command the mightiest legions of Rome against the Quadi and Marcomanni. But your true battle is written on the wax tablets before you. You write to steady your mind, to retreat into your Inner Citadel where no sword can pierce.
You reflect on the nature of wickedness and the repetition of history. "What is wickedness?" you write. "It is that which many time and often thou hast already seen... There is nothing that is new. All things that are, are both usual and of little continuance."
A pain sharpens in your chest. The cold is biting. You must decide how to focus your mind tonight.