For the Glory of Rome: Chronicles of an Isekai'd Legion

Fires dotted the camp in the early hours of the day as the men gathered together in celebration of their fallen brother. The mourning celebration had been going on for some time, though not everyone was able to partake in its entirety. Many groups rotated in shifts to go about their regular duties, but only the essential work was being done for the moment.

Marcus meandered from campfire to campfire, strumming his lute. Occasionally, he shared a song when one was requested of him or when he spotted a particularly morose group. Not all of the men were as successfully stoic as Tiberius, after all—though [Critical Reception] helped him to pick out even the ones who were putting on such a face. Either way, the general mood had swung from solemn contemplation over to something more jovial, especially with the aid of some alcohol.

The tradition of drinking and celebration after a funeral, at least, was one custom shared by their disparate cultures. Usually such a thing would be done in a tavern or a pub, of course, but with the Legion's size… Marcus doubted that any city but the capital would have room for all of them. That was even without considering the fact that the men had long since run the town dry of its liquor, despite Marcus's rather pointed suggestions to the locals. Even the ones who had begun brewing huge quantities of their most potent stock before this still had some ways to go—even the quickest brews took at least a week to prepare for all but a high-level [Brewmaster]. And Marcus was sure that one of those wouldn't be caught dead this far from civilization.

No, for the moment, the Legion was left to build camaraderie by passing around the last few flasks they had carried with them. It wasn't too surprising. There were always some secret stashes when veteran soldiers were involved.

He stopped at one group that appeared particularly glum. It wasn't Sextus's contubernium—he'd already paid them a visit to offer his condolences. Instead, he spotted a few of the man's other friends gathered around a fire, including the aspiring performer Cassius. He'd considered more than once teaching the man some fundamental skills for performance, or at least advising him on which to take. However, given his current career as a soldier, such selections would likely be seen as wastes of space. Regardless, now wasn't the time for such things.

Marcus flared out his cloak and plopped down on a piece of firewood beside the man, clapping him on the shoulder with a sympathetic smile. "Cassius, friend. How are you holding up?

The Legionnaire shot him a forced half-smile before letting it drop with a sigh. The rest of the circle didn't look much better. Marcus recognized several of them as men who often pulled guard duty and likely interacted with Sextus more than most. It only made sense that they would be hit harder by the loss.

He found himself almost surprised to realize how many of them he knew. Marcus had a knack for not forgetting faces, both as an inborn talent and a benefit of his class. But that still didn't explain the sheer quantity of Legionnaires that he could easily identify. If he'd heard a name once, he remembered it, and recalling past interactions was not as tricky as it perhaps should have been. It seemed as though his abilities were enhanced when it came to them, perhaps amplified through that strange connection that still persisted after the summoning.

"...I've been a Legionnaire for nearly a decade at this point," Cassius finally spoke. "Joined as soon as I turned fourteen. It's not the first time I've seen a man die, and it won't be the last. You get used to it. But it's never easy."

The bard shook his head sadly. "Nor should it be. It is one thing to wake each day and walk alongside Zabit—the god of death in these parts," Marcus clarified at a few questioning looks. "Yet it is another to become inured to death entirely. The fact that you still feel for a fallen friend is no weakness."

"Not until it distracts you," one of the other soldiers grumbled. "Thoughts like that are liable to get a man. Especially in battle. I suppose we should count ourselves lucky that his brothers kept their heads through whatever witchcraft afflicted us all."

Cassius shuddered. "Agreed. It sounds like that rage affected them more than most. Though the way they tell it, perhaps it helped in some measure."

Marcus frowned, making a note to ask for more details. He'd noticed one of the groups of Legionnaires acting oddly during the fight, striking with more speed and power than the rest. However, he'd dismissed it as his imagination. The topic would have to wait for some other time, though.

"Have you ever lost someone close to you, bard? A brother, perhaps?" Cassius asked.

Marcus thought about it. "Not to this level. I've certainly survived friends though. Being around court, such things are inevitable—a proper court, not just that empty show of dandies you sometimes see."

A few of the men snorted at Marcus's mention of court, but others nodded along, listening. He continued. "There's a decent amount of intrigue, and the military commanders aren't spared a part. Some fall in combat. Other to less… obvious plots. Sometimes they're your friend. As I said, however, it's nowhere near as personal.

"When were you at court?" One of the men—whose name Marcus had yet to learn—asked. He appeared to be in his early twenties at first glance, which given Cassius's actual age might've meant he was even younger.

"Oh, some time ago. I've been around more than my fair share." Marcus winked.

"That certainly explains why you dress like one of those fops," one of the other men goaded him.

"Surely you jest," Marcus retorted with an affronted look. "I wouldn't be caught dead wearing what the nobles call 'high fashion' nowadays. Far too many gemstones for my taste. You all would think me full of myself if I walked around in that."

"Says the man who struts around in a purple cloak every day.

"What's wrong with purple? It's a fine color!"

"It's also the imperial color," one of the soldiers informed him. "Very expensive and difficult to produce. In Rome, only the emperor is permitted to wear it."

Marcus blinked at that. "Really? Wait, is that why I've received so many strange looks?"

"Well, that's not the only reason," Cassius cocked a smile. "You've done plenty of other things to deserve that. But it certainly doesn't help.”

Well, that was certainly useful to know. Marcus swept a glance across the circle of Legionnaires again. "I don't suppose there's any other colors that hold particular significance to you? Is red a color reserved for military, perhaps?"

Cassius shook his head. "Not really. But there are some more highly prized than others. None so much as purple, though. In that getup, you might as well be running about proclaiming yourself king of the jesters."

The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

Chuckles rose up from around the campfire. Marcus smiled, sensing the mood lift ever so slightly. It was a start.

He swept to his feet with an exaggerated flourish. "A toast, then! From the king of the jesters to Sextus, warrior of the Legionnaires. May his soul find rest."

The men lifted their flasks in assent and drank. Marcus did the same. His own was filled with only water. He'd long since bartered away the last of his own booze to some of the other men—at quite a hefty price. His foresight in that regard had paid off.

Cassius elbowed him in the side as he took a seat once more. "Well, as long as you're here, perhaps you can grace us with a story, oh grand entertainer. What's a court jester such as yourself doing all the way out here?"

Marcus rubbed his chin in thought, considering how to answer. He'd done fairly well at keeping the story under wraps so far. He'd had to, in order to avoid the consequences of his actions. But it wasn't like these men would turn on him. They were already at war with Novara, after all. Besides, it was quite the story.

Nodding to himself, he lowered his voice to a conspiratorial stage whisper. "Well, you see, the king has these beautiful daughters…"

***

Aides rushed in and out of the command tent as Tiberius sent out orders, fetching centurions and organizing them for the march to come. It sat apart from the revelry outside its fabric walls as though in a separate camp altogether.

They'd managed to make it for this long without attracting any attention, despite the System's apparent notification about Habersville's conquest. But with the escape of what was likely an enemy scout, Tiberius figured it was only a matter of time before opposing forces descended upon them. They finally had confirmation that the powers that be were taking action. That meant that every hour counted. A day would be too long of a wait—they needed to march as soon as possible and secure resources before positions were reinforced or assaults were made against them. It was a race against time.

Thankfully, the lack of alcohol would leave most of the men able to march with at least some level of efficiency—even if they weren't completely sober. That would earn them a solid head start of maybe a half day's march. A full six cohorts would accompany him to the mines. Among them was the first cohort, whose extra size meant they'd be taking well over half of their fighting strength into the field. Almost four thousand men, not including the auxiliaries that they would bring along for field experience.

Some might have considered it overkill, especially considering the reported size of the forces holding the mines. But Tiberius wasn't one of them. It wasn't just because the recent encounter had him on edge, either. The more detailed maps he had acquired from the scouts had identified numerous ranches, farms, and small hamlets between Habersville and their destination. Most were too small to even be generously called a town or village. They reportedly were nothing more than groupings of a few farmhouses here and there. But they represented yet another valuable resource to be secured.

On their march, he would make sure to pay them each a visit. Each one of those farms would soon know that, come harvest—which was not that far away—they would be sending their grain here. In fact, he would be getting their harvest times and sending out men to collect it if necessary. He wasn't sure if the System would notify others about the conquering of these places as well. But he doubted it. Habersville had apparently already been on the small side for a System-recognized location. That meant these farms were likely too small to warrant a similar response.

While he held no illusions that this would deprive his enemy of a significant amount of food, it would provide for his own men into the future. And that was far more important. An army marched on its stomach, after all. And Tiberius wanted to prioritize long-term stability for his men. Everything he knew about armies that only subsisted off what they conquered indicated that they would quickly sputter out. Logistics and supply lines were essential for any sustainable operation.

Tiberius glanced one more time at the latest ration reports where they lay before him. Of course, they also had to consider their more immediate needs. Unless there was a great deal of grain stockpiled at the mines, they may have to continue on and take some city to keep his men better supplied. It wouldn't be the worst outcome, but he was wary of hyperextending. Especially before they'd had time to set up better infrastructure. The roads needed to be improved, wagons needed to be built, and cattle and other beasts of burden needed to be seized. He had long and detailed contingency plans drafted up, but this initial strike should help fix a lot of looming problems.

The flap opened, admitting a stream of sunlight along with the plumed figure of one of his centurions. Looking up, Tiberius found Quintus saluting where he stood. The Legatus returned the gesture before waving the man to be at ease.

"Legatus Tiberius. The first cohort is ready to march at noon," Quintus reported.

"Good," Tiberius nodded with approval. "I want you to work with the third, sixth, eighth, and ninth to make sure that patrols of both the city and the surrounding area are kept up while we're gone. Ensure that they are on the lookout for more scouts and ambushes. Expect to be gone for at least five days, seven for the majority of the force."

"Understood." Quintus saluted again. Instead of immediately turning to leave, however, he hesitated. "Question, sir."

"Yes?" Tiberius asked.

"Will we keep our base of operations here, or will command be moving out into the field?"

Tiberius tapped his chin. It was something he had thought about. Keeping their leaders here, in a safe location away from front lines, might be a smart move. This was the only official town they had laid claim to so far. But such a move would also stretch their logistics further than necessary at the moment.

"What do you think, Primus Pilus?"

Quintus blinked, not having expected the question to be turned back on him. "In my opinion, sir… I think we need a seat of power. If we are to establish a new Roman Empire, we will need a capital. Our men have already put significant effort into rebuilding this place and solidifying our presence. Though it remains relatively humble, I consider it as good a place as any, for now."

Tiberius hummed. That was not the approach he had expected the man to take. He expected the centurion to be primarily concerned with the battle implications of command's location, but thinking like this showed a more political mind than he had realized. Clearly, the man was being underutilized at the moment. The politics of Rome were undoubtedly to blame for keeping someone with no connections out of proper command for longer than it should have.

Tiberius hid a smile. Once they'd more firmly established the new territories and his role as Emperor, he'd be able to promote Quintus earlier than expected. It would be a real boon to have someone as competent as his Primus Pilus entrusted with more responsibilities.

"I agree that building a capital here would be a good place to start," Tiberius said. "Although perhaps we will relocate it later. Regarding command, however, we will set up a mobile command center as I travel with you."

Quintus gave a nod of understanding at the explanation. After giving the man a moment to voice any other questions, Tiberius turned back toward his maps. "Alright. Dismissed."

The Primus Pilus saluted one more time, then turned on his heel and left.

The rest of the morning passed in a blur as orders were given and a litany of minor decisions were finalized. Supplies were gathered and accounted for, troops and equipment tabulated, and final preparations made. The first cohort began their march right as the sun hit its zenith—just like Quintus had promised—with the other cohorts making their final preparations as the columns of men moved out.

Internally, Tiberius couldn't help but dread the coming march. His status as an officer meant that he was usually afforded the luxury of a mount. He hadn't actually needed to travel on foot for such a long distance in who knew how many years. That wasn't to say that he couldn't march, of course—but he knew better than anyone that he was no longer a young man.

Still, it had to be done. He would not let it be said that the Legatus had gone soft. But with any luck, they might be able to requisition some mounts on the way.

The Legion began to march, the studded soles of their caligae thudding in time along the newly paved road toward the river. Tiberius bellowed an order as they began to move.

"Legionnaires! March!"

His meaning was clear. The men activated their [Marching] skills. In an instant, their already impressive synchronicity became almost supernatural, their movements becoming faster and more precise than any group Tiberius had ever seen. He even felt his own steps lighten as though wings had sprouted from his ankles.

The men thundered down the road, racing toward the promise of battle and victory. Finally, the Legion was on the warpath once more.