Tánatos the Somber

His own men called him Tánatos. Not for being cruel. Because those who stood in front of his spear never lived to tell it.

He was born in Tarentum, in the south of Italy, where people still prayed in Greek and obeyed in Latin. A Greek mother, a father who was a veteran of the legions. He learned both languages, and neither taught him how to laugh.

Hence "the Somber".

By thirty he already commanded an allied cohort of Rome. Six hundred men who moved as one and had never lost a line.

Until the mountains of Bruttium.

An ambush in a gorge. A rain of stones, arrows from above, the cohort split in two. Tánatos did the math and knew nobody was getting out alive that night.

Then the mercenaries came.

A band with no banner, paid by whoever paid that month. At its head, a young Greek with a shield locked the way nobody locked shields anymore. They planted their line in the middle of the pass and held everything thrown at them until dawn.

That Greek's name was Asterion.

The next day, Rome ordered Tánatos to punish the village that had fed the mercenaries. Tánatos looked at the order. He looked at the village. He drove his spear into the ground and walked away.

Ever since, he walks behind Asterion. One step to the left, always. The place of the shield that covers you.

He followed him toward where the sun sets. They reached Salduie together, on the banks of the Iber. Twelve years there. Asterion taught the young ones to lock their shields. Tánatos taught them what to do with the spear while the shield holds.

On the night of the year 128 he saw the eagles coming up the valley. He knew those eagles. He had marched beneath them.

He fought anyway.

When it was all over, he was the second to kneel among the ashes and paint his face. The first was Asterion. It always is.

He does not talk much. He never smiles. But when the Legion closes ranks, it is his voice that sets the pace.

Rome trained him to command.

Asterion taught him what for.