Looking up into the night, Kotys continued.
"It has been 861 years since the founding of Rome. Over time, Rome's thirst for conquest has proven boundless. Though beaten more than once, she always rises—scarred, but never bowed. Now her banners stretch from the misty isles of Britannia to the sun-burnt sands of Africa, from the wild forests of Germania to the jewel cities of the East—"
He paused, the light in his eyes dimming.
"Last year Dacia was taken—and I aided them."
Rainer raised a surprised brow.
"This is your homeland, then?"
Kotys drew a slow breath and nodded.
"I am Thracian. My father serves as librarii to the cohort… my mother died in that war." He stiffened, willing the ache away.
"But this story is not about me."
"Sure," Rainer said, half-smiling. "I asked about Rome."
Kotys inclined his head, steadying himself.
"The dominion of Roma, under Emperor Trajan, thrives through law and order. Her roads and aqueducts—veins of stone—carry trade and word alike across a thousand leagues. In the Forum and in provincial agoras, merchants barter the world's spoils: Egyptian grain, Gallic wine, Iberian silver, Eastern spice. Every road leads to the same heart, and every heart beats for Rome."
Rainer's smile broadened. "You speak well."
Kotys almost smiled back.
"My father taught me. The Romans insist even their slaves learn their tongue—an education bought with chains."
"Efficient tyrants," Rainer mused. "I approve."
He dusted his hands and leaned forward.
"Right! Why are we in this wilderness?"
Kotys collected his thoughts. "We are an elite auxiliary cohort attached to the Legion—" He hesitated.
"You know what a legion is?"
"Sure do. Ten cohorts, banners, shouting, lots of marching in unison. I've died in a few."
Kotys blinked at the remark but pressed on.
"Our unit is Cohors I Milliaria Equitata Gemina Martia Victrix Tigris Fidelis, attached to Legio XIV Gemina Martia Victrix. We were ordered to guard the legion's flank as it advanced toward the Carpathian mounts. We fought raids, burned rebel camps, and kept the gold roads clear. Then came the order: a fort seized by Dacian and Thracian rebels. We were closest, so the task was ours—retake it, allow no escape, leave no prisoners."
He exhaled, feeling the fatigue of past battles in his bones.
"We attacked twice and failed twice."
Rainer nodded slowly. "So if the fort stands by sunset, your prefect's head will decorate a wall?"
Kotys said nothing, and Rainer grinned.
"That old man's desperate enough to bet on miracles." He tilted his head skyward, smirking. "Good thing I make excellent miracles."
A heartbeat of quiet—then he jumped to his feet with a comic grunt. "Huup! Now then—give me your weapons, soldier. This miracle needs muscle memory before dawn."
Kotys frowned. "What?"
"Training, my friend! Warm-up, rehearsal, divine practice—call it what you like." Rainer stretched his arms grandly. "Or, at least, let me hold something sharp so I feel heroi—"
*Gurrrl*
His stomach suddenly interrupted with a loud growl, and he winced, looking pitiful.
"Also…food. Before I collapse and ruin tomorrow's victory."
He rubbed his abdomen mournfully.
"I'm hungrier than a corpse—which is ironic, considering."
Kotys blinked, caught between disbelief and pity.
"You truly are strange."
"I try my best," Rainer said with a bow.
The soldier exhaled, half-smiling despite himself, and stood. "Wait here."
Rainer watched him run toward the camp, muttering, "As if I have anywhere else to be."
He flopped back on the dirt, staring at the stars. The cold bit through his tunic; the scent of pine and far-off smoke filled the air. The camp's faint clamor—armor clinking, voices murmuring—drifted like the lullaby of war.
Above him, constellations wheeled in
ancient silence, and he whispered, almost fondly, "Same sky, different empire."
–✺–
Inside a nearby tent, a lone terracotta lamp burned low, its light trembling against the canvas. Hoplite sat hunched on a straw mat, arms around his knees. The air was thick with the musk of sweat and oiled leather; and the quiet, with malice.
"He gave a denarius to the dead."
"The slave had one friend."
"If he were noble, no daemon would possess him."
Each whisper landed like a lash. Hoplite pressed his forehead to his arms, eyes burning.
'I only need a friend. I don't want enemies.'
"He thinks himself special."
"He is not."
"Where did he get the denarius?"
"Perhaps he warms the officers' beds."
A ripple of snickers.
Hoplite bit his tongue until the taste of iron filled his mouth.
'Lies…all of it!'
"Too bad his friend is gone," Another voice murmured. "The fool would have defended him by now."
"Maybe that's why he died."
The words broke him.
He surged up and fled the tent, the flap snapping behind him.
However, he immediately crashed straight into someone—broad and immovable.
Commius.
The Optio's eyes gleamed with barely bridled rage.
" I-I'm sorry. Please don't hurt m—"
*Pah!*
The slap cracked across Hoplite's face, and he staggered back, falling.
"A god?!" Commius hissed, looming over him.
"You stupid slave. Don't think your daemon scares me. I'll kill him again—and you with him if you keep running your mouth!"
He spat, turned, and vanished down the dim pathway.
Hoplite stayed sitting in the dust, cheek stinging as tears traced the dirt down his face.
Amidst this, the winds blew softly. Perhaps it was the wind of change.