THE LAST MARCH
The legion marched north—not in chains, but in silence. Villagers still came out to watch them pass. Some knelt. Some pressed bread and wine into their hands.
At the edge of the empire, where the land blurred into wilderness and Rome’s roads ended in mud, Vincit gathered his officers.
“They will scatter us,” he said. “Break our bond. That is the emperor’s design.”
“What will you do?” they asked.
He looked toward the horizon—toward lands unconquered.
“I will leave.”
Gasps rippled through them.
“I have given Rome my blood, my youth, my victories,” he continued. “If my presence endangers her, then I will remove it. Not in rebellion—but in exile.”
The night before departure, the legion assembled one final time. No standards flew. No trumpets sounded.
Vincit walked among his men, clasping forearms, speaking quietly.
“You are Rome,” he told them. “Not marble. Not crowns. You.”
At dawn, without escort or ceremony, he crossed beyond the empire’s border with only a sword, a cloak, and the scars of a lifetime.
