A Coward's Punishment (Bad End)

A familiar green shoe knocks aside an empty beer bottle as its owner crosses into your room. Loki regards your sleeping, cum-spattered form with a dismissive sneer.

"Pathetic. If you were man enough, you could have lived the life of an emperor, a true conqueror. Instead, as punishment, you'll die as one of those you would have ruled over."

Unaware of the god's judgement, your head slumps, and you let out a mighty snore.

-

"By Jupiter, on your feet soldier, advance!" A hoarse voice jars you from... you're not quite sure what. Your dream? You shake your head, trying to clear the fog.

No doubt a symptom of the stresses of battle. You draw your gladius and continue on in lockstep with the rest of your contubernium. The sky is black, and all around you is acrid smoke, the undeniable aftermath of some great and terrible war.

"Rome is finished." One of your cohorts spits, as you beat your boots into the frigid earth beneath your feet. A discontented murmur goes through your fellow Legionaries.

"Once Cleopatra took Ostia, I knew it was over." another remarks. "They say they worship the Egyptian gods there now, as if they'd never been Roman!"

"What was Trajan thinking?" another now, an all-too-familiar refrain. Whether it was earning the ire of the far more powerful Polish civilisation, falling behind all their neighbours technologically, or not fielding a large enough army, the "Emperor" (you supposed one had to rule over more than one city for that title to mean anything) was widely seen as the world's poorest ruler, by any metric.

"A few more years, and we'll be going the way of the Greeks." another legionary says gruffly. "Not that any of us will live to see it."

"Enough of your grumbling, lads!" your sergeant snarls. "Look ahead, I see the enemy."

Sure enough, you see them parked upon a hill. Great beasts of iron and steel, a fearsome looking cannon atop each one, the red and white cross of the English emblazoned on their sides.

"Gods, the stories are true." One of your comrades sinks to his knees, praying for salvation from a whole host of gods.

"What are they, sarge?" Another asks, utterly perplexed by the other civ's more advanced military technology.

"The enemy boys, and that's all you need concern yourself with." He replies, strangely fearlessly. "We've orders to attack, and we're not about to refuse them. Any man who runs will lose his head as a traitor to Rome."

"ATTACK!" he roars. Without even the element of surprise, or terrain advantage, your squad, not even at it's full number due to wounded men,

"Make for the hatch on top boys! With a bit of luck, one of us will make it that far, get inside, and kill the crew!" your commander barks, barely audible over the thundering of Roman caligae.

The closet tank's first report takes care of a third of your number. One second your fellow Legionaries are running beside you, the next they're simply gone.

Fear grips your heart, to the point where you fear it might explode, but with no other option, you simply charge the metal devils, sword in your hand. As you hear the slow but assured swivelling of the tank's main gun as it moves towards you, part of you wonders if all of this couldn't have been avoided. With better leadership, a Trajan who would build a Rome to stand beside or even above any of the Five Queens, not lose a humiliating defeat to them.

And then the tank fires, and you have no more time to think on such things. Or, for that matter, of how much damage a direct hit from a 120mm cannon does to lorica segmentata.