To my dearest Vesta,
May the gods keep you safe and warm in Rome, where the sun shines and the streets do not turn to endless rivers of mud. I would give anything to feel dry again. The rain here in Britannia does not fall in showers but in a never-ending, miserable drizzle that seeps into everything. My cloak is damp before I put it on, my boots squelch with every step, and my very bones feel as though they are made of sodden wool.
It is always cold. Not the crisp chill of a Roman winter morning, but a damp, creeping cold that no fire can banish. I swear, even the air resents us. The wind howls through the camp at night, rattling our tents and making the torches flicker like frightened spirits. And when the wind dies, the silence is even worse—broken only by the groans of the men and the endless dripping of water from the tent seams.
Ah, the tents. Vesta, I know you will laugh, but I would rather sleep in a ditch than share another night breathing in the unholy stench of Cato’s feet. Even the wet wool that hangs about our camp like a curse is preferable to the ripe, eye-watering fumes that emanate from him. We have marched through rivers, waded through swamps, and still, his feet manage to outmatch the worst Britannia can throw at us. I have considered offering a sacrifice to the gods in the hopes they will smite him with divine hygiene.
And the food, Vesta. By all the gods, the food! I never thought I would long for the stale bread we used to grumble about in the barracks back in Rome. Here, we choke down half-rancid bacon, hard biscuits, and some vile concoction the cook calls stew but which resembles battlefield mud with lumps in it. Every bite is a gamble—sometimes you win, and it merely tastes like despair. Other times, you lose, and your stomach declares war against you.
Still, we endure. The Britons lurk in the forests, watching, waiting. They fight like wild beasts, striking from the shadows before vanishing into the trees. They do not fight like us, with ranks and discipline, but like the storm that batters our tents at night—sudden, violent, and merciless. Every patrol we send out returns with fewer men. I tell myself we are winning, that Rome will break them as we have broken so many before. But here, on the edge of the world, with the rain clawing at my skin and the wind whispering in a tongue I do not understand, I wonder if this land will swallow us whole.
Think of me, Vesta. Keep the lamps burning in our home, and tell me of our children and Rome—the warmth of the sun on the stones, the taste of honeyed wine, the scent of the baker’s stall at dawn. Tell me that, one day, I will walk those streets again.
Until then, I remain ever yours,
Festus
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