Vox Meditantis

11th June, 173 AD – The Rain-Soaked Battlefields of Moravia (modern day Czech Republic)

The mud beneath my sandals tells the story of empire better than any historian’s scroll. Each squelching step through this Moravian marsh speaks of Rome’s reach—how far we have stretched our fingers from the seven hills, and at what cost. I am Marcus Aurelius, Caesar and Augustus, yet today I am simply a man watching the sky darken with the promise of deliverance or doom.

The Quadi encircle us like wolves around a dying stag. Their war-painted faces gleam with the anticipation of Roman blood, and I cannot fault their hunger. We came to their lands speaking of peace whilst sharpening our swords, and they have answered our duplicity with their own. The treaty we signed last winter—that blessed, honest winter—lies as broken as the bodies scattered across this accursed field.

My legions stand in formation behind me, their shields locked in testudo, but I sense their desperation. We have been three days without proper water, surrounded by an enemy that knows these marshlands as intimately as a lover knows flesh. The irony is not lost upon me that we perish of thirst whilst standing ankle-deep in bog water unfit for horses.

A rumble of thunder rolls across the leaden sky, and I find myself thinking of seasons.

It is a peculiar meditation for a man facing his potential doom, yet the mind seeks familiar harbours when the storm of mortality approaches. My officers often ask me which season I favour—a question born of idle curiosity during long winter campaigns or the languid evenings of spring marches. They expect me to speak of autumn’s harvest glory or summer’s golden abundance, seasons that mirror the supposed triumph of empire.

But I have always loved winter best.

Not for its beauty—though there is stark magnificence in bare branches etched against grey sky—but for its honesty. Winter strips away pretence as surely as it strips leaves from trees. In winter, a man discovers what he truly is when comfort falls away like shed garments. The cold reveals character as surely as heat reveals metal’s true strength.

Another thunderclap, closer now. The Quadi shift uneasily in their positions. They too sense the approaching storm.

I think of the winter we spent at Carnuntum, when the snows came early and deep. My beloved Faustina had written to me of Rome’s mild weather, of gardens still blooming in December’s embrace. But here, beyond the frontier, winter showed us no such mercy. Men died of cold despite our braziers and woollen cloaks. Yet those who survived—ah, those men emerged harder than iron, their souls tempered by necessity.

That winter taught me more of leadership than all my tutors’ wisdom. When the centurions came to me, their breath frosting in the frigid air, asking how we might endure another month of such hardship, I could not offer them philosophy alone. I shared their watches, walked their rounds, felt the bite of wind that cut through even imperial purple. In winter’s democracy of suffering, emperor and legionary stand equal before the indifferent sky.

The first fat raindrops strike my face like tears of the gods.

My mind drifts to another winter, years past, when I was merely heir and not yet weighted with the burden of empire. I had been reading Epictetus in my chambers whilst snow fell beyond the windows, each flake a tiny lesson in impermanence. “It’s not the things that happen to you, but how you react to them that matters,” the old Stoic had written. How simple those words seemed then, before I learned the true weight of reaction when ten thousand lives hang upon your choices.

Winter, I realised that night, is philosophy made manifest. It cares nothing for our desires, our comfort, our carefully laid plans. It simply is, as unchanging and impartial as virtue itself. In winter’s grip, we discover whether our character is genuine oak or mere painted wood.

The rain begins in earnest now, each drop a small explosion in the dust of battle. The Quadi warriors pull their cloaks tighter, their formation loosening slightly as they seek shelter that does not exist. Even barbarians feel the touch of discomfort.

But see how my legions stand! Disciplined as iron, they hold formation despite the rain that turns their red cloaks dark as dried blood. This is what winter taught them—that comfort is luxury, but duty is eternal. In the frozen camps of the frontier, they learned that a Roman endures not because he feels no cold, but because he chooses honour over ease.

Lightning splits the sky like Jupiter’s spear, and in its brief illumination, I see something that stirs my heart. The Quadi line wavers. These warriors, fierce as summer storms, find themselves disconcerted by this greater tempest. They have been waiting for the killing moment when thirst would make us weak as children, but now the sky offers its own intervention.

The philosophical irony strikes me with the force of thunder: here, in summer’s height, winter’s lessons prove their worth.

I raise my voice above the storm’s roar, calling to my men not in the grand periods of rhetoric, but in the simple words that winter taught me. “Citizens of Rome!” I cry, and my voice carries despite the wind. “The sky offers us what the enemy would deny—water for our throats and confusion for theirs! Hold fast your shields and remember your training!”

The rain falls harder now, transforming the battlefield into a churning sea of mud. I watch as discipline and chaos war against each other in living demonstration. My legions, trained in winter’s harsh school, adapt their formation to the treacherous footing. The Quadi, warriors though they may be, find their painted shields growing heavy with water, their footing uncertain on ground that shifts like quicksand.

This is winter’s gift in summer’s disguise—the great leveller that cares nothing for painted faces or gilded armour. In this deluge, only character matters, only the deep-rooted virtues that endure when surface things wash away.

Thunder crashes again, and I see the Quadi chief—a massive brute with arms like tree trunks—slip in the mud as he gestures to his men. His fall sends ripples of uncertainty through his ranks. Barbarians fight with passion, but passion burns unsteadily when fuel grows wet.

My own feet find purchase on ground that should be treacherous, and I realise why. These sandals have walked winter camps, crossed frozen rivers, stood watch on snow-covered battlements. They know the feel of uncertain ground, the slight adjustments needed to maintain balance when the world itself seems unstable.

The rain becomes torrential now, a curtain of water that reduces the world to arm’s length. I can barely see my own standards through the downpour, yet I hear the steady sound of Roman discipline—the rhythmic clank of mail, the measured tread of feet that know their business regardless of weather.

In this moment, I understand something profound about seasons and character alike. We think we love spring for its promise, summer for its fulfillment, autumn for its achievement. But these are seasons of the surface, beautiful perhaps, yet dependent upon conditions beyond our control. Winter—honest, unforgiving winter—asks nothing of circumstances and everything of character.

The storm reaches its crescendo, and through the silver curtain of rain, I watch an enemy formation simply dissolve. Not retreat—dissolution. Men who moments before howled for Roman blood now seek only shelter from heaven’s fury. Their painted shields become burdens, their bronze ornaments weights that drag them down.

But listen—through the thunder’s voice, I hear something that gladdens my heart. The deep-throated chanting of my legions, voices raised not in fear but in grim satisfaction. “Roma Invicta!” they cry, and the sound cuts through wind and rain like a blade through silk.

This is what winter taught them, what it taught me. That victory belongs not to those who prosper in fair weather, but to those who endure when storms arise. Character, like a tree that has weathered many winters, grows strongest where conditions are harshest.

The Quadi retreat begins as chaos, becomes rout. I watch them flee through sheets of rain that have transformed familiar ground into alien landscape. Their knowledge of these marshlands becomes useless when the marshlands themselves change character. But my men—ah, my winter-tested men—advance with the patience of those who have learned that weather, like fortune, is temporary, but discipline endures.

As the storm begins to abate, leaving only the steady patter of diminishing rain, I find myself laughing. Not with the hysteria of survival, but with the deep satisfaction of understanding. Today has been a perfect demonstration of winter’s philosophy applied to summer’s challenges.

The enemy sought to use our thirst against us, counting on our physical weakness to deliver victory. They failed to account for the spiritual strength that winter’s hardships had forged in us. When the sky offered its intervention, only those prepared by adversity could seize the advantage.

I walk among my men as the rain gentles to mere drizzle, watching them shake water from their kit with the practised efficiency of veterans. They do not celebrate yet—that will come later, in proper Roman fashion. For now, they simply continue their duty, as steady as winter stars in their courses.

“Caesar,” calls my aide, approaching with news of the enemy’s flight. “The Quadi have withdrawn beyond the ridge. Shall we pursue?”

I consider this, watching the last heavy clouds roll eastward. “No,” I decide. “We have achieved what we came for—survival and the lesson it provides. Let them carry word of Roman steadiness to their people. Sometimes the greatest victory is simply enduring when others cannot.”

As evening approaches and we make camp on ground still sodden from heaven’s intervention, I return to my meditation on seasons. Tomorrow will bring summer heat again, and with it new challenges requiring different virtues. But today has proven that winter’s lessons—patience, endurance, the strength found in hardship—remain relevant when storms arise.

I am Marcus Aurelius, and winter is indeed my favourite season, not for any comfort it provides, but for the uncomfortable truths it teaches about what endures when everything else falls away.

In the end, that is all any of us can hope to discover—what remains when the storms pass and the facades wash clean.

The End

Bob Lynn | © 2025 Vox Meditantis. All rights reserved.

Photo by Alexander Fastovets on Unsplash