Unnamed Journal Volume 2 Issue 6 - Page 21

Let us, then, begin. I was born divine. You may laugh - many have laughed, to their suffering - but it is true. My father's soldiers recognized it. It is my earliest memory, tramping up and down in my little boots, my caligae, with the legions on the Rhine. I was their special totem, their good luck charm. I marched in my little uniform and they loved it. How absurd! I was no soldier; I could barely walk. Yet these men believed that I bestowed good fortune on them, merely by my presence. How can that be explained? Either all those men were fools, which is possible, or they perceived my august status and acted accordingly. Which, you must admit, is also possible. I say I was no soldier, and I never became one, but I know something of soldiers from my youth. I understand them as a species. I know them better than most Romans, especially Senators, who see only the rabble they fear given something useful to do, by which they stand to profit. These are the dolts, and their poet sons, who thinks soldiers are mere brutes, faceless killers and automata. These are the swine among whom I am currently caged. Then again, perhaps they are the ones caged. I digress. In any case, only imbeciles say all soldiers are alike. They are fooled by the uniform, failing to understand that the uniform is necessary because the soldiers are not uniform. It equalizes and organizes a mass of different men into a collective body. But the men who wear the uniform differ as all men do.