jeune posted:

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Do you guys think people are actually stupid enough to stand and fight against someone who is way more advanced?

The modern day army cannot even win the war against terrorism... because people hid in caves/sneak attack... yet you expect them to be able to take down the largest empire the world has known?

My guess is that they had their own catapults and crap that would take out a tank... that none of the equipment would even be able to cross a river and they would probably have to abandon them way early since there is no bridges/they would most likely knock them down.

You guys are acting like Romans are a different species. They are just like us without technology... they have atheist/different religions they are not like animals who you can predict.

I am guessing that the military leaders of the day are going to vastly out wit the leading Marine commander who was teleported back... they know the terrain. Also soldiers at this time were much more disciplined... they pretty much swore their life to their commanders... that is why you had so many civil wars the people would follow their leaders over the Nation.

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Sith_Mauler posted:

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any fighting force that sees a couple legions worth of men annihilated with no causalities to the enemy is going to have their morale shattered.

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Day 8 posted:

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It is just after midnight. The camp still hums with activity. The water purification units thrum, filtering the brackish water of the swampy Tiber. Generators buzz everywhere. Warning flags flutter where engineers are planning channels to drain off marsh water without subsiding the already fragile concrete under Wonderland. Many of the broken slabs on Wonderland's borders have been pushed on their edges, forming a jagged maze. Marine snipers wait patiently in the labyrinth, scanning the darkness with night-vision goggles. If they curse the mosquitoes, they do it silently. Delacroix has not heard anyone complain about the bugs, although he himself seethes with hatred about them.

But then, Frank Delacroix doesn’t talk much.

It’s a short walk to the latrines, which have already been placed behind an arc of concrete on the southwestern edge of the camp. A small stream tumbles merrily under them, carrying the camp’s waste down to the Mediterranean. There’s a pile of scrap metal, moved here earlier in the day. It allows Delacroix to make a quick turn, unobserved by the sentries he knows are out there, toward the maintenance shed which has become an improvised brig. Two men are in there – a Marine who was hoarding stolen cigarettes, and Sixtus Murena.

There are two Marines on duty. Delacroix silently hands them a slip of paper. They take it and read it, professionally. Their posture is perfect. They are polite and unruffled as they get on the radio to confirm what it says. They are courteous as they usher the hoarder quietly to the latrines, and he is grateful enough for the break to stay quiet himself. They hate Delacroix. He doesn’t fit. In a world that doesn’t make sense, he’s the target of ugly and increasingly bizarre rumors. He’s fine with that.

Sixtus Murena is sitting on his bunk when Delacroix comes in. He is alert but stony. Delacroix likes the kid.

“I understand you’re learning Spanish.” Delacroix’s accent is clipped, Castilian, unlike Menendez’s Mexican accent, but Murena nods. Delacroix muses for a second. Even our minority languages have dialects. That’s intel to them, too.

“I have a proposition.”

When the Roman ambassador arrives six hours later, Sixtus Murena is gone. The guards are debriefed and sworn to secrecy, as is Menendez. The hoarder is shown a bloody pillowcase, with two neat holes punched through it. He remains quiet as well.

Delacroix sits down behind Colonel Nelson as the meeting gets underway. The two men say nothing to each other.

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