Decimus Maternus stood on one of the towers, inspecting his precious artillery, his only company the young master. The legions were in battle formation, ready to fight. The legionaries would take the initial enemy charge on their shields, much like the ancient Spartans had. What differed was the weapon of choice. Each legionary would use his gladius to stab toward vital organs or precious groins, not to slash chaotically and waste energy. The design of the battle lines would allow every line to be rotated, so that each man would not be required to fight more than he could safely handle. Given the numbers they were facing, it was still possible they would be overwhelmed. For that reason his uncle was down on ground level with his bodyguard, ready to react with the cavalry wherever it was most needed. The horde was becoming clearer with every passing moment. Should anything go wrong, however, he was to take the horses that were still within camp, grab the young heir, and flee.

"It's a good day to fight," Maternus said, sighting his scorpion as two of his soldiers loaded a bolt.

"It may not even come to fighting," Marcellus replied, eyes intent.

Maternus looked over at his young master, surprised. A client of the Julii, he knew where his loyalties lay, but he was still surprised by the young master's comment. "But your uncle is intent on a fight and a triumph!"

"What my uncle wants is irrelevant. What matters is what most benefits the House of the Julii. Make sure to prepare an escort."

Maternus shook his head. "Fabius, Cornelius, go get twenty men ready."

The two men saluted, slid down the ladder to get the horses. Maternus turned from his scorpion and looked out across the field to the coming horde, and shivered. It was a huge horde of people, more than he had ever seen in one place in his entire life. From up here, Maternus could see oxen, cattle, wagons, hundreds of hundreds of them.

And the people! So many people! They numbered more than the stars, the long line of them reaching all the way to the horizon. There were thousands of thousands of them, enough people to populate a city as large as Patavium. A horde of barbarians more than capable of overwhelming their position, butchering them, seizing everything they had.

"As I expected," Marcellus commented abruptly.

"Eh?" Materunus asked, confused. What did the young master expect?

"Look out there, Maternus," Marcellus said, heading toward the ladder.

"I see the same thing I've been looking at for the past day! A horde of barbarians moving toward us!"

Marcellus had reached the ladder. Even as he stretched himself to reach each rung, the boy replied, "That's just it. They stopped moving."

Maternus looked away from the young lord, and turned his gaze to the horizon, genuinely looking at the horde, rather than regarding it as part of the scenery. Wonder of wonders, the horde had stopped. Not only that, the young lord had expected it, planned for it, and even taken measures to react to it. "How did you know?"

"I just did."

Marcellus scampered down easily enough, striding toward his horse and his escort. He declined help up the horse, and rode out toward where his uncle had assumed a clear vantage point of the possible battlefield. A battlefield that would fail to serve its purpose, if he had his way.

"All ready, imperatula. Do you wish to see your uncle?" Fabius asked.

Marcellus nodded as he climbed up to his horse. Astris was a white stallion that his father had bought from Sertius Gallus, the best horse breeder in all of Italia. A showy battle horse that had been meant as a gift for Oppius Junius Brutus, the head of the Junii had declined it, still mortally offended that Triarius had refused to permit a Junian legion to march through Ariminum on its way to Segestica. Since the original recipient had declined it, Father had elected to give it to him. Too showy and ostentatious for his taste, but it would do until he could get his own. "Hyah!"

Marcellus rode toward the gates of the camp as they swung open. His twenty-man bodyguard struggled to keep up. For longer than he could remember, he had been able to outsmart and outride everyone he knew. Now he had to prevent Uncle from committing an error.

Even as he rode toward his uncle's position, it was obvious he was anticipated. His uncle did not even turn to look at him once he arrived. "I told you to stay inside the camp."

"There will be no battle today."

"Don't be a fool, boy. What do you call that incoming horde? They've only stopped because they've finally seen us. Once they recognize our banners, they'll see us as a threat, and attack."

"As Mamaea said yesterday, we have treaties of non-aggression and trade with the Dacians. They already have war against the Senate and the Junii. They don't need war against us. I will wager Astris that we shall receive an envoy from them soon enough."

Uncle looked at him, a derisive glance. "You will, eh? Then I'll wager you a black horse even better than Astris."

Marcellus laughed happily. Just what he wanted! "It's a deal, Uncle! And here comes the envoy now!"

Uncle turned his gaze and stared off into the distance, noting the large man carrying a white flag racing toward them in a heedless gallop. A small bodyguard of twenty men followed, all at the same reckless pace. Uncle shot Marcellus a look, raised himself in his stirrups, bellowed, "Hold your fire! Allow them through the lines! Cause them no harm!"

At his words, the military tribunes he had kept near him raced off to confirm the orders to the various cohorts. It never hurt to take an extra precaution to prevent a misunderstanding. Uncle shook his head, then said, almost completely off the point, "I don't speak Dacian."

"Greek is the universal language anyway," Marcellus replied.

Uncle fell silent for a moment, then muttered, "I hate Greek."

Marcellus sat his horse patiently, well aware that it had been a struggle to pound Greek into his uncle's skull. Not that he himself suffered any such issues. He had mastered Avernian and Aeduan Gallic, Greek, and even the peculiar polygot the Spanish tribes spoke. Like most things, languages came easily to him. But he did not intend to waste his talents in the West. The East, however, was untapped. Pontus, Egypt, the remnants of the Seleucid Empire…enough glory to be won to overshadow the conquests of Gaul and Spain.

When the Dacian envoy arrived, Marcellus was moved to blink. The man was huge! Easily six and a half Roman feet tall, he towered over his Uncle, who was not a short man. Big, bulky, a man in his early middle years, his body wrapped in furs and covered in strange, exotic tattoos, his brown hair spiky and his mustache bristly, a warrior born. Marcellus looked from his uncle to the envoy and back. Deadly, dangerous men, warriors born. A battle between the two would not be settled by skill, but by Fortuna. Pray to all the Gods there was no battle, and make sure there was not!

"Imperator res publia? Iunius Imperator?" the Dacian demanded in slow Latin.

Marcellus and his uncle stared. What in the world?

"I am the general of these legions," his Uncle replied slowly, enunciating each syllable. "My name is Herennius Julius, son of Quintus Julius, son of Flavius Julius, brother of Amulius Julius Victor. I am of the Julii. When did you learn Latin? Who are you?"

The big Dacian looked over his Uncle, clearly surprised. Then he looked at the legions, seemingly studying what he saw. "Speak truth. Red banners, not green. Not look like Junii." The strange visitor growled. "Io Burubista Rex Minimis."

Marcellus looked at his uncle in utter confusion. Not just an envoy! A king of the Dacians! Or perhaps a prince? His Latin was mangled, as he had declared himself to be a trivial king, but it was clear he was not just any normal man. Uncle spoke once more. "Why are you here? Where are you going? Where did you learn Latin?"

Burubista grunted. "We flee from home. Gather many chieftains surviving tribes, declared we flee. Junian legions destroying our people, our home. Five of them march on lands, no warning. They attack us, defeat many great armies. I destroy one legion, they wish revenge. Learn Latin from men we enslaved. Junii and Cornelii want us gone. Want return of Aquila. We flee. Maybe Julii show mercy. We done nothing. They attack first. Julii help defeat Junii?"

That last was said with so much hope that Marcellus shook his head. Impossible. Unthinkable. The very idea of a attacking four veteran Roman legions was absurd. Especially since the Junii were allies. Rivals, but allies nonetheless. But the curious thing was that Burubista hoped for Julian assistance. Perhaps, whoever had negotiated those treaties of trade and non-aggression had not been as clear as he should have been. But it was a help.

"We cannot attack the Junii. They are our allies," Uncle declared harshly.

Burubista's eyes narrowed. He reached for his sword. "You help Junii?" he demanded, ready to fight—and die—at the wrong answer.

"No," Marcellus said clearly. A boyish voice, but a cool one.

All eyes turned in his direction, his uncle angry, Burubista's confused.

"Who you?"

"I am Marcellus Julius, son of Amulius Julius Victor, son of Quintus Julius. I am the son of the leader of the Julii," Marcellus replied proudly. He might be a third of the size of the big brute, but he was descended from Venus and Mars, whereas the Dacian could not claim ancestors so prestigious.

"You…son of Amulius Victor? You king?"

Marcellus' eyes narrowed. Yes, to a Dacian struggling with Latin, primus inter pares would be a foreign concept. Perhaps using a concept he was more familiar with was indeed the wiser course to take. "Io filius rex."

Burubista relaxed, nodded, smiled. Now that he was on more familiar ground, many of his worries seemed to be gone. "Julii help? Save us?"

Marcellus looked at his uncle, who was still fuming. His uncle would not be pleased at being denied such an opportunity for a triumph, but the needs of the family came first. Especially in Gaul. While all of Gaul had been, theoretically, conquered, the tribes on the Oceanus Atlanticus like the Redones still fumed. As he had told his uncle, twenty five thousand people could be very useful. "The Kingdom of Dacia is lost. We cannot save it. We can, however, save your people."

Burubista looked suspicious. "How save us if can't save lands?"

"We can give you new lands to live in. But you must live under our rule."

Burubista looked displeased. "I am king! I rule!"

"Not if you wish your people to continue existing. If you want that, you yield your kingship to me. Once you do, I will settle you in Condate Redonum."

Burubista's confusion returned. "Where that? Why no Patavium?"

Marcellus shook his head, as much in surprise as a gesture of denial. "Not Patavium. Your people are proud warriors, and they would be unhappy there. I am sending you to the other end of the world. Far from the Junii. There, you will fight Gauls, and teach them to submit to Rome. In exchange, you get to live there comfortably. You learn to be Roman."

Burubista mulled this over in his head, then asked dangerously, "What about me?"

Before Marcellus could even begin to formulate a reply, a voice called out in Gallic. He turned his head, pale. "Uncle, we have trouble."

Herennius scowled. "Trouble of what kind? You know I don't speak Gallic!"

"I'll let our friend report it himself." Switching to Avernian Gallic as the panicked scout from the Eighth galloped in, he called, "Speak Latin! The General needs to know!"

The Gaul was the same one who had reported the arrival of the Dacian horde. "General! Roman legions! Four of them! Fully up to strength and veteran!"

Uncle did not need to know more. "Coming from the same direction as the horde came in from, I take it?"

"Yes, General! They're at full marching speed. They'll be here in an hour, if that!"

Burubista was pale as he looked from Marcellus to Herennius and back. "What we do?"

"Yes, what do we do, boy?" Herennius growled in Greek. "I can't defeat four veteran legions with one veteran legion and a raw legion of Gauls!"

Marcellus smiled at both his uncle and at Burubista. "I have a plan. You'll both like it very much."