A man clad in gleaming bronze armor Marches alongside the front of a legion of roman soldiers.

He wears a Helmet with a deep red battered plume, his visor and Helmet cast shadows over his eyes, obscuring his steely gaze from view. A deep blood red tattered and worn cloak fringed at the edges trails behind him. His legion stands motionless outside the walled city of Athens, It’s been under siege from his army for days. His army is ready to penetrate the Mycenaean Cyclopean fortifications, but they're restless though, his battle-scarred troops blood lust is insatiable. They’re impatiently waiting for their Praetors command, ready to tear into their enemies and slaughter them. The sky is stormy and gray, Lightning illuminating  patches of cloud with brilliant light, thunder booming overhead like a cannon. One of his soldiers walked  up to him, looking rather young. 

Now their commander is impatient, “there's no point standing around, we’ll only get showered with ballista, ready your weapons on the double,” he says, “be honest, are all of us…. Just, marching to our deaths” the boy stutters, “yes we are” his commander replies grim faced, “but since we’re dying anyway, you’re saying, it’s better to just die fighting?” The young soldier stammers, “yes I am”, the commander states, “but wait, if we’ll die anyway, then who cares what we do? We can just disobey your orders, and it wouldn’t mean a thing would it?”the boy asks, weakly, on the verge of tears, “you’re precisely right, everything you thought had meaning, every hope, dream or moment of happiness, none of it matters as you lie bleeding out on the battlefield, none of it changes what a speeding ballistae does to a body, we all die, but does that mean that our lives are meaningless? Does that mean that there is no point in our being born? Would you say that of our slain comrades, What