The Fifth Legion is on the march.

They move at a fast trot beneath a beggar’s moon, gladius swords in hand, their armor rattling in ragged chorus. They are also quite drunk.

A half hour earlier their commander, an equally drunk Mark Antony, had charged through their camp atop his stallion, yelling about some brilliant plan he’d just cooked up while drinking in his tent. It was well past midnight and the legionnaires of the Fifth were huddled around their campfires, finishing off their daily ration of wine.

Not the usual three-liter ration of acetum. These particular men didn’t think much of that watery vinegar wine issued to the other legions. It was hard to guzzle the sour potation, and even harder to get loaded on the stuff. No, their daily ration consisted of five liters each of strong, locally-looted Greek vino.

Ever eager for battle, they heeded their commander’s call. Hastily donning their armor and gathering their weapons, they lurched into the night.

Worth reading, bloody nutters!