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A Walk in the Woods

Gnaeus's hobnail-studded caligae sunk deeply into the soft ground, making his feet moist. It didn't seem to matter how far he marched through this muck, each step seemed to make his feet even more wet, and he wasn't acclimating to it in the least. It was just one more thing that he hated about this place.

Gnaeus swiveled his head to look at his surroundings, but there wasn't much to see. It had looked the same since they had started marching down this narrow, muddy, wooded path. As a tribune, he was an experienced and combat-seasoned officer, and every ounce of that experience was protesting their chosen path. Marching in close columns with full campaign gear was dangerous in such a place, made even more dangerous by the fact that they had no other choice on this narrow path. Interspersed with hundreds of civilian camp-followers as they were, combined with their own thousands of legionnaires, their columns stretched for miles. If they were attacked, it would be difficult and time consuming to get into combat formation in order to defend themselves. As narrow as the path was, it might even be impossible. A sufficiently determined enemy could easily separate the lines into more manageable groupings and slaughter them.

General Quinctilius Varus was no doubt counting on fear to keep the enemy at bay if there were indeed any barbarians hiding in these woods. But these Germans were different. They did not fear the legions even in battle, and they stubbornly refused to fight on open ground. Still, there was no other choice but to march through the Teutoburg Forest if they were to aid their "ally" Arminius.

Arminius was a barbarian, regardless of his Equestrian rank. Even if there was an uprising, it was a job better left to the local auxiliaries, not three of Rome's finest legions, who were nonetheless unused to this kind of combat. He doubted that Arminius was even to be trusted. The man's own father-in-law had warned them that Arminius was leading them into an ambush. Varus had ignored the old man entirely, dismissing his warning as nothing more than a continuation of the feud Segestes was having over the marriage of his daughter to Arminius. But then, Varus trusted Arminius because he was supposed to be a Romanised German and commander of an auxiliary cavalry unit. He was still a barbarian, and Gnaeus did not trust him.

Gnaeus raised his leather water pouch to his mouth, filling his mouth with stale water. He listened to the wet sloshing of his men marching behind him, and lamented being in these cursed woods.

There was shouting ahead. To the side! German and Latin formed an indecipherable melee of words. Metal met metal, ringing among the trees along with what could only be the screams of the dying. They were under attack!

Gnaeus dropped his water and drew his gladius.

"Drop your equipment!" he ordered his men, "prepare for attack from the sides!"

It was too late. Even as his men clamored with their gear and readied their weapons, vile Germanic words began to bombard them from both sides. Gnaeus could make out their fur-covered shapes coming at them from among the trees. Quickly turning, he saw more coming from the other side.

Varus had killed them all.

Early Hours

She came to me in the early hours
Buried her face into my chest and began to cry
And told me what you stole from her

In the early hours
You knocked on the door
She recognized you from class and let you in

In the early hours
You pretended to ask her for help
Then abused her trust and her good nature

In the early hours
You tried to kiss her and put your hands on her
But she pushed you away and rejected you

In the early hours
You wouldn't take no for an answer
And forced her to the floor

In the early hours
You tore the clothing from her body
And left her skin bare

In the early hours
Your rough hands explored, pulled, invaded
And your disgusting hardness penetrated her warmth

In the early hours
You left her broken and weeping
And went back into the darkness you came from

In the early hours
She tried to clean herself in the shower
But soap and warm water will never wash away what you did

In the early hours
She put on new clothes to replace her tattered rags
And sought out the only one she knew would keep her safe

In the early hours
My friend is trembling in my arms
And I try to decide what I'll do

Technology

Technology marches on
Not necessarily for the better
Sometimes just to make a quick buck
And to royally screw the consumer

Still, technology marches on
New computers often don't work as well
As their older, more functional predecessors
And reverse compatibility is a day dream, soon forgotten

Yet, technology marches on
Software becomes more irritating
Applications become a little more useless with each "upgrade"
And I lose a little more of my grip on sanity