I was there.
There, at the battle of Splonum - the crimson hubris of Roman youth stacked rank after rank as far as the eyes could see. We didn't stand a chance, we thought, but Gods damn them, we'll fight for our lands; Rome would come for us in the end.
Macedonian blood poured onto the rocky plains of Splonum, as the very land itself wept scarlet tears for we sons of Hellas. Yet we did not break. Fifty thousand died, all told - fifty thousand whose fathers raged at the gods; cursing the shadow of this bitter evil, commanded by a council of old fools arrayed in pomp and splendour many leagues hence. Ne'er a battle so bloody since the bright star of Macedon shook the earth with the marching of his armies.
I was there; in the last rank - all semblance of order lost, no proud generals left - but by the Gods we held the line. Held the line for just long enough.
I shall remember the ululating cries of the Getae ascending from below, for as long as I yet draw breath. Like a tide, they crashed over the ranks of Rome as if Poseidon himself had heard our lament, and summoned the very ocean in our defence.
I was there at Splonum, when the fifty thousand fell, and I shall be there when the gates of Rome are rent asunder by the fifty thousand more who shall rise to avenge their brothers.