Chapter 1 Reincarnation

Within the city of New York, near the University of Columbia, sat a young man of Italian-American descent in his mid-twenties. This man’s name was Frank Caruso, who was sitting at his desk staring towards his computer screen as he played a competitive match of a popular strategy game based on Classical Antiquity.

He quickly executed his commands as he played as the Romans against another player who utilized the armies of Hannibal against him. With the click of a button, his troops swiftly marched in formation against the other player. Before long, the legions of Rome clashed with the Sacred Band of Carthage.

Unbeknownst to his rival, Frank had set his Auxilia forces to encircle the Carthaginians in a classic double-envelopment. On this virtual battlefield, tens of thousands of computer-generated soldiers shed each other’s blood as a familiar scene displayed itself.

Inspired by the Carthaginian General Hannibal, Frank expertly transitioned his forces into a double envelopment. Which was the same tactic Carthage had famously used against the Romans at Cannae, resulting in one of the worst military defeats the Roman Republic had ever suffered.

Before long, the other player’s soldiers were trapped in a square surrounded by the Romans, stabbing away at the Carthaginians’ virtual flesh with their gladii. Eventually, the overwhelming victory display appeared on Frank’s screen, where the screeching of the other player could be read behind an anonymous wall of text.

“Kill yourself, loser! You must be some kind of virgin NEET! I hope you die a miserable death!”

By now, Frank was too mature to take the bait and get upset over such childish taunts. Instead, he replied with a snarky comment of his own.

“Git gud”

After leaving this disparaging message, Frank shut off his game and reached over to grab his coat. As he did so, he knocked over a few textbooks on his desk related to his schoolwork. In particular, they revolved around the final days of the Western Roman Empire and what was commonly referred to as the Dark Ages.

Having completed his undergrad, Frank was now working on his Ph.D. in history. Though he knew quite a lot about all eras of European history, he had always been drawn to the Ancient Romans, especially the final days of their once-mighty Empire. However, he had no such concerns at the moment, for there was a far more critical task to be had, and that was going to the store to pick up an energy drink.

These books weren’t going to read themselves, and it was already well past midnight. If he were to get his schoolwork done in time for the following day, he would need to pull another all-nighter. By now, that was something he was well accustomed to. As such, he draped his coat over his shoulders and walked out of his apartment into the cold winter’s night.

Frank made sure to lock his door behind him before treading across the snowy streets of New York. After a short while, he reached the nearest gas station, where he noticed an impoverished vagrant leaning against the exterior of the little building. The man had a bottle of whiskey in his hand and was clearly intoxicated. Thinking nothing of it, Frank pressed forward into the shop where he selected his favorite brand and flavor of energy drink, as well as a bag of chips. He commonly referred to these items as “gamer fuel.”

The young man approached the cash register with his goods, where the clerk placed them inside a small bag after ringing him up. Having paid for the food, Frank exited the building, where he noticed the Vagrant was no longer loitering. He merely shrugged his shoulders before returning to his apartment upon seeing this.

However, as he approached the edge of the parking lot, he noticed the Vagrant bump into him. However, this was no accident. As soon as Frank turned around to apologize to the man, he saw that the vagrant was holding onto a knife, which he quickly pressed against Frank’s throat.

Frank immediately dropped his belongings and raised his hands in panic, signaling that he was not a threat as he began to speak to the man who was mugging him with a cautious tone in his frightened voice.

“Take whatever you want. I don’t have much, but it is yours!”

As soon as Frank said this, the vagrant began to search his body, looking for his wallet; as he did so, the blade slipped by and cut through one of the arteries in Frank’s neck. Blood began to gush out of his neck like a fountain as he stared at the sanguine coated blade in disbelief before collapsing to the floor in a pool of his own blood.

The Vagrant began to panic, seeing how he accidentally cut the young man’s throat and swiftly picked up the bags left behind by his victim before running off, leaving Frank alone, bleeding out in the snowy street; as this occurred, a single thought passed through his mind.

“Is this really how it ends?”

Before long, utter darkness prevailed, leaving Frank well and truly dead.

—

Titus Claudius Marcellus shook with a start as his mind regained clarity. He did not know why, but after a severe impact to his skull from the club of a Suebi warrior, he had a flash of inspiration, or quite possibly a vision from the gods about an alien world far more advanced than anything he had ever seen before.

In this alien world, he was a student of history by a different name who had attended a prestigious institution of higher learning. However, he had met an untimely demise at the hands of a common criminal within the streets of a vibrant metropolis.

He could hardly believe that his battered mind had conjured such a strange vision. Had he entered the realm of the gods, or had he seen a glimpse of the future? Whatever had occurred, it was indeed a sight to behold.

However, now was not the time to dwell on such concerns; instead, he was faced with a potentially lethal situation as he lay on the ground with a barbarian warrior bringing his weapon down upon him in an attempt to finish the job. Marcellus grasped hold of his spatha, which lie by his side before rolling out of the way of the oncoming club.

As he did so, he could hear the primitive weapon thud against the ground, yet he paid no attention to this; instead, he stood up from the grass beneath his feet and readjusted his gilded iron helmet as he prepared to engage in mortal combat.

The pale Germanic warrior noticed that his prey had escaped his grasp and turned around with a wicked grin on his face, shouting something in a language that Marcellus did not understand before charging at him like a wild boar.

Marcellus raised his oval-shaped scutum in defense as the club clanged against it before pushing the man aside with his shield and thrusting his spatha through the barbarian’s riveted mail armor. As the cold steel pierced through his gut, blood poured from the long-haired barbarian’s mouth while he forced his torso through the length of the blade in an attempt to get in reach of Marcellus’ skull.

However, as the inches of noric steel pierced even further through the barbarian’s torso, the man soon found the strength leaving his body before falling to his knees. Marcellus quickly withdrew his sword and raised it in the air for a decapitating blow; before launching the final stroke of his blade, he cursed the man who had so thoroughly ringed his bell before taking his life.

“Filthy barbarian!”

After saying this, he unleashed his spatha onto the man’s neck, severing his head in the process. After withdrawing his sword, Marcellus shouted to the troops under his command as he attempted to rally them in the thick of battle.

“Reform the line! Hold strong!”

Upon hearing their General’s command, the nearby soldiers of the Roman Army regrouped and entered the formation, pressing their thick scutums together as they held the line against the rampaging Suebi warriors. With every clash against their shields, the Roman soldiers moved in sync like a well-oiled machine as they pushed the enemy aside and thrust their blades into the enemy’s bodies.

Seeing how these men were Suebi, few of them had any form of body armor, and those who did were generally considered veteran warriors of the highest caliber. Before long, the Romans began to push back the wave of barbarians as they cut the enemy into ribbons.

As the tides of war shifted, the Suebi began to route, however as they did so, the Roman cavalry appeared from within the forest and chased them down, spearing the barbarian warriors in the back as they attempted to flee the field of battle; for the Suebi, there would be no mercy on this day.

As the battle came to an end, Marcellus wiped the blood which coated his blade onto the wool tunic of a nearby slain barbarian before sheathing it within its brown leather scabbard, which was attached to a baldric across his torso. Blood was splattered across his bronze scale armor, and even his handsome face was marred with the gore of his enemies.

Marcellus took off his dented gilden iron helmet whose red plume was arrogantly displayed upon its crest, revealing his brown hair as he gazed with his olive green eyes upon one of his commanders who rushed towards his position with an ecstatic expression on his face.

“General! We have achieved a great victory against the Suebi here today; if the Supreme Commander were here, he would surely reward you for your efforts!”

Marcellus merely chuckled as he placed his bloodstained hand upon the commander’s shoulder before expressing his thoughts on the matter.

“Just another day in service to the Empire, my friend!”

Titus Claudius Marcellus came from a renowned family and held the position of General in the Western Roman Army. At the moment, he was serving under the Supreme Commander of the Western Roman Army, Flavius Stilicho.

Though he was only in his mid-twenties, he had proven himself as a capable military leader from a young age, especially during the previous Gothic invasion. During these desperate times, he had risen to his current status after a string of overwhelming victories against the Empire’s many enemies. However, one could also claim that his rapid ascent through the ranks was in no small part due to his close relationship with the Supreme Commander.

Currently, Marcellus and his army were campaigning in Gaul as they attempted to end the reign of the usurper Flavius Claudius Constantinus and drive back the rampaging Germanic Tribes who had recently crossed over the Rhine. This was the first significant battle they encountered after entering the chaotic province.

As the Roman soldiers began to clean up the battlefield and bury their dead, many of the men started to kneel in the direction of Rome and pray. When the commander saw that Marcellus remained standing, he questioned his actions.

“Do you not intend to give thanks to the Lord God Almighty for this victory? Without him, none of this could have been achieved!”

There was a hint of disdain in Marcellus’ eyes as he gazed upon the commander before shaking his head while responding to the question.

“No, Lucan, I do not believe I will. I have other matters to attend to, but you have my permission to pray in my stead….”

The commander, known as Lucan, smiled, and nodded before breaking out into prayer; as for Marcellus, he walked away from the scene, not wanting to have any part in the Christian rights. Instead, he reached underneath his Lorica Squamata vest and pulled out a small pendant in the form of a gold coin that hung around his neck. This coin contained the visage of Sol Invictus, one of the old gods of Rome.

The moment he was out of sight, he began to pray to the god of his ancestors, thanking him for the great victory that Rome had achieved on this day. For if he had done so in public, he was sure to be persecuted by the Christians who now dominated the Empire.

As Marcellus finished his prayer, he gazed into the setting sun, wondering what the vision he had seen in his rattled state could have possibly meant; perhaps it was an omen for what was to come. Regardless, he chose not to dwell on such a foreboding subject any longer; whatever may come to pass, he would meet it with steel in his hand, and the troops beneath his command, for the Glory of Rome, was eternal!