Lucius let out a bark of laughter. “Fair enough. My father joined so he wouldn’t be forced to toil in the soil outside his village in Belgica.” Lucius smiled fondly, remembering his father and his stories. “He said he moved more dirt in the legions than he ever would have as a farmer… Anyway, what do you think of the Lugii?”
“They seem a fine people, sir.”
“Ah, politic answer. Certainly a safe option. Cautiously polite but interpretable as a small slight. Certainly a far cry from the people of Massilia.”
The city on the Gallicum Sea had been a colony of the Hellenes before hitching its star to the Roman Republic five hundred years ago when they joined forces with Hannibal Barca.
“Yes, sir. Have you been to Massilia?”
“I’ve passed through a few times over the years. It’s a whole other world than the forests of Germania.”
“Yes, sir. The forests…” He seemed to be formulating a thought. “They’re dark. Even in the full light of Sol. They’re almost sorrowful.”
The thoughtful and slightly poetic statement from the young soldier intrigued Lucius. Most of his men were there because they were the elite legionnaires of the empire, the best fighting men in the world. Lucius could understand why the young man’s centurion had singled him out for his first promotion.
“Sorry, sir, if I spoke out of turn.”
Lucius waved Martininius’s concern aside. “Don’t worry about it. Continue. Please.”
“It was just… When I could tune out the sound of the march, the wind sighed through the branches. They almost seemed weary at our passing.”
Lucius raised an eyebrow. “How much do you know about the history of this area?”
“Not much, sir.”
“We’re at a crossroads. These woods have known blood. The Getae, Dacians, Sarmatians, Macromannians, Vandals, Goths, Romans, Gauls, and probably hundreds of peoples I’ve never even heard of. We’ve all bled in these woods. All left the bones of our fallen in these woods. For centuries upon centuries. I’ve spilled my share of it over the years too, more than my share if truth be told.
“These woods know me. They’ve long stopped fearing my arrival, instead only greeting it with weariness for what I might do. They do feel sorrow. They’d prefer to drink of the spring rains. Instead, I feed them blood.”
They rode in silence for a while. The dark German woods always made Lucius feel maudlin. The tall pines were nothing like the trees of his youth in faraway Belgica where the leaves rustled with laughter, forgetting the long-gone wars of Caesar’s conquests of Gaul.
“Sir, why didn’t the Lugii accept protection in the empire like the rest of the Vandals?”
“Some men don’t want to bow to the Imperator. They’d rather take their chances and be free,” Lucius replied.
The hooves of their horses clattered over the stone bridge as they pulled in front of the column. At the far end of a bridge, a giant of a man stood, holding the reins of his horse. He removed his helmet shaped like a roaring lion’s head, revealing dark black skin and a shaved head. He raised a hand in greeting.
“Thank you for the conversation Decanus Martininius,” Lucius said. “You may return to your unit.”
The decanus banged his fist into his chest plate and extended a crisp salute to Lucius. “Yes, Centurio Ferrata.” He wheeled his horse around and returned to his commander. Lucius nudged his gelding into a trot. The horse snorted and shook its head.
“Quit your complaining, Cicero. It’s been easy duty this time around,” Lucius said to his pony.
Pisakar, seeing Lucius trotting toward him, mounted up and waved his detachment to fall in behind them as they passed. “Hamilcar, bring the rest of the men home. You’re in charge,” he yelled over his shoulder as he brought his stout pony up next to Lucius. “What’d the free Vandals have to say?”
Lucius was quiet for a bit. “Ariaric and his Tervingi are moving south…in numbers.”
“What does ‘in numbers’ mean?”
“Judging by the poorly contained panic of the Lugii? The whole damned tribe. Thousands upon thousands, Pisakar.”
Pisakar whistled his dismay. “What drives them? It’ll be soon winter in the mountains and steppes.”
“Benetrax wouldn’t say specifically, but that scared him most of all. Best I could surmise is ‘demons in the night.’”
Shaking his head, Pisakar let rip a steady stream of curses.
“That’s the job we accepted when we took our oath to the Black Legion.”
“It’s not that, Lucius. It’s just a poor time for the Imperator to be calling you off the border.”
Lucius perked up and turned his head to his friend and second-in-command. “What?”
“You didn’t think I came all the way up here just to welcome you across the bridge? Constantius has deigned to acknowledge your existence after nearly thirty years. There’s a messenger waiting for you at the castrum.”
“When?”
“He and his entourage arrived four days ago.”
“I guess we should go see what our Imperator wants.”
“You mean ‘Dominus Noster’?” Pisakar said, loading the title with sarcasm.
Lucius could hear his friend’s eye roll. Like Lucius, Pisakar didn’t care for the new stylings of the most recent breed of imperators. They’d shed the title of “Princeps,” first among Romans, and sought to elevate themselves to nearly divine status while living.
“Yes. Let’s go see what the servant of ‘Our Lord’ wants with the Black Legion.” Lucius kicked Cicero into a canter. The horse grunted and kicked out behind him before responding to his rider’s commands.
“Lucius, it’s time to put that old bastard out to pasture.”
