Part 2 – The Castra

Cassius (I)

Cassius Lartius Mucianus, Legatus of the Legio Nona Hispana, calmly looked up from the collapsible writing table in the center of the command tent at the Miles sent as a messenger by the Optio at the southern gate. Or at least what he guessed was the south in this mixed up land.

"And how many others accompany this local Rex?" he asked.

"Five sir!"

"Thank you, Marcus Philippus. Return to your duties. Dismissed."

The Legionnaire saluted smartly and spun out of the tent. The lean, middle aged, middle heighted man sitting on a camp chair smiled to himself; it was always smart to know the names of even the least of your men and now, now things were perhaps finally starting to move forward.

"Servilius, please find the Tribunus and ask him to attend me. We are about to have guests."

"Yes sir," responded his Actarius, ink stained hand placing down a plume on an even smaller writing table tucked in to a corner of the tent, before standing and exiting out the back.

"Hermann?"

"Yes Legatus?" came the familiar accented voice.

"See about refreshments. Watered wine, a few small meats. And get someone to bring five more camp stools."

His personal slave nodded, then rushed his large Germanic bulk off to fulfill his master's wishes.

'Perhaps,' he thought, 'we will now receive an answer as to where the trickster Mercury has sent us, or maybe we are in Dispater's underworld and don't even know it.' He briefly shook his head that such flights of childhood fancy as the Gods should enter his mind at this time. He bravely admitted to himself that 'The Change' had impacted him more than he'd allowed himself to admit. The Legion depended on him to lead them. He must maintain his wits and not just his courage.

Lucius Pomponius Bassus, taller, handsomer, prettier of tongue, and nobler of birth than himself, entered the tent and sketched a brief salute.

"Legatus."

"Tribunus."

"So we receive a local delegation?"

Cassius nodded. "And one is supposedly some native Rex."

"By Jove, answers at last, I hope, even if all he rules is a dung heap and a herd of goats," responded the tall, dark haired man enthusiastically.

"Quite. How's your Homer by the way Lucius Pomponius?"

"Excellent, Cassius Lartius. Why?" he asked a bit perplexed.

"Well apparently our visitors speak no language any of our escort could understand, but one did have a smattering of Greek. One of the Rhodusian slingers is accompanying them here, but your skills as a translator and a diplomat may be necessary to smooth our way forward. Hmmmn?"

The Tribunus nodded his head in understanding, till the look on his face shifted slightly. "A bit of Greek, that's promising at least. Perhaps we are in Scythia?" he pondered aloud. "No, no, foolish to guess that. Herodotus never mentioned the existence of such a forest as this in Scythia."

The edge of the tent flap turned back and one of the guard's called in, "They're here sir. All on horses, and right giant ones at that."

Cassius stood up from behind his desk. "Let us go greet them in the light of day. Hopefully Hermann will have arranged the appearance of refreshments here by the time we're done. After you Tribunus."


Barristan (II)

Two dignified, vigorous appearing men wearing shirts and skirts of scaled armor stepped out of the large tent in the center of the strictly arranged, but apparently still under construction, earthen fortress. They gave a small start looking up at the King and all his horsed companions, though they recovered quickly before starting to speak. Suddenly Ser Barristan realized these Romans had little experience with horses, they were not surprised at the appearance of the riders, but by the size of our mounts. The horses of theirs he had seen were puny in comparison to his own and those had lacked even rudimentary stirrups. Who were these people? Where did they come from they knew so little of what made a knight? For by the encampment, they certainly understood war.

Polites nervously cleared his throat. "Ser Barristan, they welcome you all, but by your armor, my commanders believe you to be the Basileus."

"What's the problem?" rumbled the King.

Expecting a royal explosion at the slight, he replied in a neutral sounding voice, "These sirs think I am King."

"What? You? No!" hooted Robert Baratheon with humor instead of anger, and then he started to heartily guffaw.

"Polites, what is their word for King?"

"Rex."

Ser Barristan nodded agreeably to the leaders of the Romans and then carefully pointed at the portly, laughing man in hunting gear and uttered the word, "Rex." Two sets of eyebrows raised slightly, then very smoothly the two Romans both turned subtly to more fully face the Stag of House Baratheon and sketched him half bows.

The 'Rex' smiled widely back at them and gave a bob of the head in acknowledgement of them. "Lets hope they've got something to eat and drink, I'm starved," he announced, right before shifting the mass of his bulk off the saddle to a stirrup and dismounting. Now a foot, the King took several steps to stand in front of the two officers, a head taller than one and positively towering over the other. He smacked his chest hard with a fist and proclaimed, "Robert Baratheon, Rex of the Seven bloody Kingdoms."

The shorter man returned the smile cautiously and said, "Caissus Lartius Mucianus, Legatus, Legio Nona Hispana."

The taller, and somewhat younger of the two, declared, "Lucius Pomponius Bassus, Legio Tribunus, Senator, Roma."

Opening his fat mouth even wider, The Stag said, "That's a damned mouthful. Welcome to my lands!" And the big oaf proceeded to simultaneously pick both men up and pull them into a hug and shake them like they were his drinking sycophants at some low tavern.

Ser Barristan twitched not at all from the mindless ox's stupid display, but mentally he immediately prepared to pull steel and whirl his mount in defense of his sovereign should the score of Roman guards standing around them take offense. For a second the Roman soldiers tensed, anger flared on the face of the taller one named Lucius, but then the smaller one broke out in laughter, and the moment of danger passed.

"Please have the Basileus put the Legatus down," whispered Polites in deadly earnest.

Ser Barristan cleared his throat loudly. Twice.

"All right, all right, ya nag," responded the Stag, with an aggrieved tone usually reserved for Queen Cersei. The King released his prisoners. The taller one adjusted his scaled shirt, keeping his head down to give himself time to set his face. The Legatus, Caissus, immediately reached a hand up and pounded it playfully on the King's chest, all the while laughing as if it was all a big jest. Robert returned the laughter, and smacked the man solidly on the shoulder, which surprisingly did not send him tumbling. As the laughter continued between the two, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard could tell no humor lay in the eyes of the Legatus.

Finally the Roman officer stepped back from the slapping and in a loud voice called out, "Amicitiae, vinum, consecutus," and then gestured with an arm towards the wide open flap of the tent.

Polites spoke, "He names you friends and bids you enter for wine."

"Wine, your Grace."

"About bloody time. Come on then."

"Ronquin, Harrion, stay with the horses. Let them examine the saddles and stirrups if they show interest, which I suspect they will." Words which earned a grunt of agreement from the Stag. "And the rest of you, be sure to stay out of the way and quiet in the tent."

Entering the tent, Ser Barristan noted it to be spare of luxury, and as well organized as the rest of the camp.


Cassius (II)

Cassius observed as the large Rex, with an enormous stag's head embroidered on the leather jerkin covering his massive chest and belly, authoritatively stomped his way into the Command Tent. The giant of a man snaked a chair away from the now refreshment-laden table with his boot, plunked down his considerable bulk without a worry that the seat would collapse under his girth, and proceeded to pour himself a large goblet of wine.

As the Tribunus passed the Legatus, Cassius whispered in his ear, "Lucius Pomponius, do not reveal your Greek, it may gain us an edge if the slinger did not remember to tell them some among us likely speak his tongue." His second in command gave a sharp nod and casually stationed himself near the table in the middle of the tent.

Cassius' worry that his brief sotto voce communiqué might have been overheard and misinterpreted somehow by the ignorant locals was quickly allayed as the barbarian Rex starting braying about something in a loud voice. He turned to look at the Greek auxiliary and wait for the translation process to occur. The Miles face showed discomfort as the older, dignified man in the white cloak relayed the words to him in bastardized Greek.

"Worry not soldier, I will not hold you responsible for whatever the man says. We need as straight a rendering of his words as you can make. From them, perhaps, we will find a way back to the Mare Nostrum."

The Greek nodded nervously at him.

"So?"

"Uhm, sir, he says the wine tastes like horse piss, but he's had worse on his way to battle."

Cassius laughed. "Tell him I agree, and that we were on campaign when we suddenly found ourselves here."

As the words were translated, the Rex turned in his seat, still sucking down wine, one hand blindly reaching for the drumsticks on the table, to stare up at the Legatus of the Ninth Spanish Legion, and continued to speak.

"He asks how we arrived here. His lands are large and word of an army's coming would have reached him at his city of Rex seum Urbis."

Cassius raised his arms and shoulders to give an exaggerated shrug of bewilderment. "We marched north from Eboracum in Britannia for many days, looking to bring the wild Picts to battle and burn their villages in revenge for their raiding. We made a fortified camp every night. Two mornings ago we awoke, and found ourselves in this forest. All the night's guards were gone; four Centuria - three hundred men - and half our horses too. T'was as if the Gods moved only those of us which slept."

Robert Baratheon grunted as their tale spun out before him. He sucked all the meat off one drumstick and carelessly dropped the remaining bone to the floor before he responded.

"He says we must have powerful magic in our land of Britannia. Magic ended in Westeros over one hundred and fifty years ago with … with … uhm, the 'death of the last dragon.'"

Cassius fought to keep the amusement off his face at the ignorance of the barbarians. "Let them know we have little in the way of magic other than praying to the Gods and trying to read portents. Also tell them the name of Westeros is as unknown to us as the constellations we now see in the night's sky. Ask if they have heard of Britannia, Gallia, Hispania, Africanum, Parthicum, Sarmatae, or Scythia."

The older man looked at his four companions in the tent while he rattled off the names of places known by the Romans. No. Only dull looks were exchanged, before the man responded to the Greek.

"Ser Barristan asks if we have a map of Britannia or the other places. Perhaps they know them by another name."

Impressed by the insight, Cassius called out, "Servilius, what maps did you tote along with us?"

"Nothing of the Empire in toto, Legatus, but I should have one of Britannia." The slight Actarius put down his quill and notes, and began to sort through a number of scrolls, produced from the compartments atop one side of the small desk.

Servillas let slip a satisfied sound. "I believe this should suffice, Legatus," he said, hurrying a partially unrolled volumen to the table. Quickly, platters, goblets, and ewers were pushed aside and the map spread out fully atop the central table. Almost immediately both the Rex and his general spoke the word "Westeros", but with a questioning tone. They pointed at the map, and made gestures as if rearranging parts of the map to point in opposite directions, such as "Dorne" for Dumnonia; or to sit in a completely different place as "The Vale" for the lands of the Silures, Demetae, and Ordovices. Southern Caledonia was called "The North", by the natives, though by hand gestures they implied it was much larger than the map indicated.

The Greek spoke up. "They find this map interesting Legatus, like a distorted reflection in a badly crafted mirror, but Britannia is not Westeros. And the shape of the lands of the Frisii, Belgica, Lugdunensis, and Hibernii that bound the edges of the map are unknown to them. They fear we must have come from the other side of the world."

A sad but resolute expression pushed itself through Cassius' normal mask for all to see. The oddness of the past two days had already prepared him for this possibility. But now, even the dim hope of a long march home, one worthy of Xenophon, seemed impossible.

The Rhodusian slinger interrupted his musings, "Begging your pardon, Legatus, they apologize that their news is not better, but they respectfully wonder what the Legion's intentions might now be since an easy return to our lands does not avail itself."

'To the heart of the matter,' thought Cassius Lartius Mucianus. With his life gone topsy-truvy, he still remembered his duty; he must somehow find a safe haven for his fellow Romans and their loyal allies. "To return home, if possible, but if not, to live as men, in freedom and safety. With food in our stomachs and women at our sides. "

The barbarian Rex nodded as the words were translated to him, and then he replied. "The Rex asks how much food do we have," said the Greek.

"More than a fortnight, but less than a month, barring forage."

The large man's face revealed he obviously did not like that idea. "He wonders whether we have coin to buy food," said Polites.

"Some," answered Cassius. "Ask him whether his lands are large enough to feed all seven thousand of us, or if we need march elsewhere."

The barbarian leader laughed, pointed down at the map of Britannnia, and said in his own harsh language, "Rex, bloody ALL of Westeros," and then other incomprehensible words.

The Greek translated, "He claims to be Rex over the whole island, Legatus."

"So I gather, Miles. Tell me true, you have spent time with the man. Is he a braggart?"

"Undoubtedly Legatus, he is a barbarian. But I do not think there is much of the liar to him."

"Yes, I suspect you're right. Ask him whether he has a need for swords."

"Cassius Lartius," whispered the Tribunus. "You can't think to have us become mercenaries to this ... man."

"Lucius Pomponius, the thought turns my stomach, but what other reasonable choice do we have? Alone, without supplies, by Jove knows where? Besides, if he proves to only be the lordling of a circle of squalid huts, we can simply crucify him."

"The Rex asks how many soldiers of foot and horse we have, and whether any of them have skills beyond fighting, drinking, and whoring."

Cassius chuckled, then proudly responded, "Tell him we have near seventy five hundred men: nine cohorts of heavy infantry with artillery, four hundred horse archers, six hundred cavalry, four hundred slingers, seven hundred archers, and over a thousand two hundred light infantry. And while each and every one excels at fighting, drinking, and whoring; at least half bring skills at farming, smithing, engineering, shepherding, and most-any other skill he could happen to think of. The Legion meets its own needs."

The large man snorted when the Legatus' words were translated to him, but he exchanged a long look with his general, which hardly hid the fact that the offer had at least some appeal.

"Legatus, the Rex asks to look at the troops he might want to buy."

"We're not damned slaves," muttered the Tribunus.

Cassius turned to a guard stationed at the tent flap, "Junius, find the Tesserarius. I'd like him to give our guests a tour of the castra."