...The world itself is really like a huge mess hall, isn't it. A big housing of people, of all colors and cultures, scrambling to consume their morsels of food and drink. Sure, they might be traipsing round the place, working on writings or art or praying in their solitude. But, in the end, it's all about food, isn't it? The driving force of mankind, hm? I'd bet Jupiter'd agree with me. Well, if it is, isn't that the greatest rating of glory? To bunch up the most amount of food for yourself? To have the highest quality of it, to make others salivate at your luxury? And, at quite the pretty penny in both blood and coin, too? Of course, maybe some will even fight for it. That's the most satisfying way to do it, after all.

The year is 483 A.U.C., the Ides of March, springtime is only a way's off. The perfect time to capitalize on gaining that glory, I'll say. Which, is done by capturing land, as one would expect. If food is the catalyst of glory, then land is food's catalyst in the long, long chain of ecstasy and accomplishment. Simple, you get more land, you gain more glory. Even more for acquisitions of territory at such a great cost, too. The gods must have their entertainment, right? Watching the heroisms of their worshippers in the heat of swordplay must be a great outlet for that. Ever still, more the reason to jump out and capture the gods' greenery in full! Some traversal of their precious water is necessary too, at times.

But, if I am to embark on such a journey for glory, whom are to be my obstacles? Well, there'll be numerous ones.

North, the barbarians who roam the uncleansed stretches of Europe, fluctuating with uncivilized masses of animals, cooped up in vile stockades and bushes and crude cabins. They fill up space like grapes in a bowl. Although, they'd probably taste far nastier than grapes. A hard aftertaste after any tongue-based negotiation, a bitter texture. Festering in your mouth for minutes on end. Making you spit it out, stomp on it, crush it without hesitation. They'll probably be three or four more to take the stain's place, so it'd be best to engage in some widespread solving of the problem. Some extra work going into righting them, fixing them, corralling them, then, and only then, will they be sweet.

East, the oh-so gaudy Greeks, smirking and smiling at their reflections and body parts as everything around them falls into the abyss. They don't even act on the bowl of grapes, they just stand there, musing about their comrades, gossiping, gorging. Don't forget remissing about the so-called 'greatness' of their pretty one Alexander, that estranged man. Sending hugs and kisses to those not of his own, marrying them, giving them a sense of false hope, then dying and leaving them with nothing but ashes and separation. The Greeks are lulled into a state of satisfaction when they know their good days have long past them, so tone-deaf and oblivious you could mistake them for having olives crammed in their ears. Though, they need not much manipulation or dressing-up, just some hearty beating and bashing will knock them out of it, surely.

South, finally, lays possibly my most-hated, Carthage. Oh, how much of a pain you are. Sons of Phoenicians, the Carthaginians bring over the folly, petty merchant culture of their fathers, awkwardly proud, showing off their putrid scraps that smell of dung to the whole mess hall. Being so scrawny and stubble as to be forced to peddle off the hard work of others to even afford bodyguards, having little of their own to defend the scraps. Oh, the elephants, they tout, mere testaments to their unjustified arrogance. Their killings of babies for the sake of their false deities extensions of their carelessness. They're just waiting to be rightfully subjugated efficiently and effectively via the collision of cold steel. They'll be most satisfying to destroy.

...While, yes, all these foes and adversaries will be decent challenges by themselves, there is one grander, larger, fuller tall order that will be truly my life's work out of everything I'll do.

Senato Delenda Est!

The Senate is the encapsulation of what makes humans pitiful and daft. It's the one thing holding Rome back from conquering the Mediterranean centuries ago, why we aren't venturing out of the world into lands unknown. Such a vile pulsating, throbbing, threading mass of arrogant nitwits who think just as much of their excrement as they do the Roman populace in its entirety. They talk such bountiful, bejeweling rhetoric, bending over backward to their own egos in order to supposedly 'forward the progress of Rome and her allies.' And, well, both the plebeians and patricians, the pair of placation and pride, have acted as lapdogs for the Senate now two and a half centuries and counting. Rome's people is supposedly to act complacent to this incompetence? To let her fall further down the pit of despair on the inside, while she is extolled on end on the outside? To come so far, and yet crumble at the very end? The greatest act of suffering, no doubt. As an esteemed Senator myself of this corrupt political body, I will not let this great nation fizzle out.

A member of the hard-fought Scipio family, one that has spent its time idly biding its time carefully and cleverly, waiting for the right time to strike, I shall act as the battering ram, the executioner for a new Roman age. To spite those Greek copycats in the Julii, the unabashed marauders in the Brutii, both rival families and soon-to-be victims. To make Rome AND my forefathers, my brothers and sisters proud.

I am Flavius Julianus Scipio, the 'Golden One,' the Senate's bane.

The world at large is a ferocious one, indeed. One day, I plan to own every single bit of it, drop by drop, tablet by tablet.