"but most historians declare that it was Eucles who ran in full armour, hot from the battle, and, bursting in at the doors of the first men of the State, could only say, "Hail! we are victorious!" and straightway expired. Yet this man came as a self-sent messenger regarding a battle in which he himself had fought;"
p505, De Gloria Athenisium, Plutarch; Of the first marathon runner Eucles, who ran from Marathon to Athens to bring news of the battle against the Persians

The arrival at the war academy was an anticlimactic affair. While our journey had taken us near Ater, the capital of the Empire and the home of the Tower, we had bypassed the city by a wide margin. It was probably a wise decision.
Foreigners were rumored to end up on the very literal flesh markets, cut up and braised. It was a shame though, I had heard excellent things about Ateri spider silk and the Rus front had taught me you could always use high-quality socks.

When we arrived at the dorms I had expected the Callowan cadets to be split up. It was far easier to convert them into loyal citizens if their comrades were ones after all. Then again, the marshal might have just assumed that two decades of service would take care of any lingering disloyal sentiments. Still, for such a strategy to work, we would need to be smoothly integrated into our legion. Our assigned lieutenant made me doubt that that would happen.

"Welcome, Callow scum to the rat company. I am lieutenant Kilian and you newbies will form the second tenth of my line with the other three newbies I am saddled with. Your bunks are on the third floor, behind the door with the rat skull.
Sort out who is your sergeant so I don't have to talk to the rest of you. Drills will be in two months when you novices can actually cast a fireball."

Our lieutenant then just walked past us, without actually dismissing us. I wanted to grind my teeth at the unprofessional attitude but instead chose to focus on my fellow cadets who were looking quite poleaxed.

"You heard our officer. Get moving," I bellowed at them in the same tone I had used as a senior student instructing new cadets. I started walking even as my compatriots shook themselves out of their stupors. My past life had thought me that the army always started early.

"So, is anybody getting anything out of this?" asked Andre in Lower Miezan, the racist idiot that he was.

"While I too would appreciate a more in-depth explanation of how we should 'draw on the classical element of fire', doing so not in the official language of the Legion will prevent any capable mages from even knowing of your need," I replied in Mthethwa. Turning my gaze to one of the three Soninke who had filled out our tenth, and who also was pointedly ignoring Andre's plight, I ordered: "If you will, Kansoleh."

Sighing, but unwilling to gainsay my order even if she still was not looking in Andre's direction, she explained: "You see, you need to access the Aorist, and then you can simply…" Seeing the looks of confusion from her Callowan comrades she tailed off.
Groaning, Kansoleh muttered something along the line of 'ignorant Callowan horse fuckers' in Kharasum. I let it slide, considering the rest of my squadron hadn't yet bothered to learn the orc language despite half the Legions being natives, and because she actually started explaining.

"So, for Trismegistan magic to work you need to do the numbers right and then access the Gift while converting the magical energies to the right element corresponding to your spell. So imagine a big fire when casting a fireball, it's what I do." Turning to Andre she added: "Even if you flop the formula, you should still end up with an almost uncontrollable fire that might burn that pasty mug of yours into a more acceptable charcoal."

Only after she finished bickering did she seem to remember that her superior officer stood at her side. I fixed her with a cold glare. Over my years leading the 203ed I had grown used to trading barbs and even joking around, but blatant racism made for poor humor. I was singularly displeased with my new subordinates. Deep ethnic tensions were at the source of it, something which never was an issue in the empire of my second life. There, from Russy-born Visha to Rommel's black-skinned secretary all were just Imperials.
In this life, unit cohesion was low, which could reflect badly on me! I saw no obvious solution besides getting them more used to working with each other.

"Those who have managed a fireball are allowed back to their dorms after a fifteen mile run, the rest of you will accompany me to the target range."

"Yes, mam'." After a crisp salute, seven of them swiftly fell into a jog. Konsohle at the forefront, seemingly eager to escape squirming under my gaze. That would not do: "Cadet Konsohle, with me. We will need our instructor after all."

Seeing the broad grins of the leftover cadets I added: "Our fifteen-mile run will only happen after we all manage to cast a fireball, even if it takes all night."
After all, it was important to have my tenth get used to exhaustion. While bodily training did nothing to increase magical capacity, it very much helped with getting used to the physical fatigue that came with heavy spellcasting.
And for them to still be able to run afterward was essential! I knew from the memories of my past life that the deadliest part of medieval battles was an unorganized retreat. While mages, as glorified artillery, could hide behind shield walls during actual combat should our frontline break we would be easy pickings during the pursuit. Exhausted as we would be, even regulars and heavies in their bulkier armor should be able to overtake us during the flight. And as a sergeant, I could be court-martialed if I left my tenth behind as cavalry bait.

When morning came I was still in the target range. Alone, as it was since even Andre had managed to cast his first fireball shortly before midnight. I had decided to send the rest of my squad to bed without forcing them to continue training with me. It had become blindingly obvious over the last fourteen hours that there would be no benefit in keeping them locked at my pace.

Unlike them, I had not managed even a tiny flicker of flame. Whenever I created a tirsmagian formula my mind barely managed to hold the working for a few moments before it just slipped away. I did manage to access my mana, or 'magical energies' as they called it in this world like the instructors had shown us during the last month. Though energies helped me little since I could simply not use them. I even started modifying the fireball formula in accordance with the latter chapters of the textbook, which nobody from my cadre had even started to study. Though to be fair I had a lot more time on my hands considering I had breezed through tactics and already spoke Mthethwa, albite this last advantage was shared by the other imperial wards and the Soninke.

Regardless, my modification did not help. Even when I simplified the formula into what amounted to an uncontrollable explosion, it kept slipping away. I tried to push mana into the working as fast as possible before my spell just disappeared, but the mana was simply not accepted. Konsohle theorized that this was because I did not manage to convert my 'magical energies' to the classical element of fire. Thrice I then failed to use the version of the fireball that was made out of pure kinetic force, which for some reason was not an element. My mana still refused to be used in that damn illogical formula.

Really, for all that trismagian sorcery supposedly worked according to universal magical laws the formulas often just ignored universal mathematical and physical laws! Unlike my last life, where mana moved according to arithmetic proofs and magic happened in accordance with atomic science, here most 'formulas' seemed to emphasize getting multitudes of sevens and threes at whatever cost, even seemingly inserting false results. Hells, the fireball spell required multiple divisions by zero that always resulted in seven plus one. Fuming over bad arithmetic, I dragged myself sweat-soaked, tiered body to my first lecture, advanced tactics. At least my other studies were going well.

Now that two months had passed I assembled my tenth at rat company's drill ground at the crack of dawn. I hadn't actually been able to find lieutenant Kilian in our dorm, supposedly missing because of unspecified 'magical issues', but a cadet or her tenth had helpfully informed me that we would be starting at sunrise. Surprisingly the rest of our line had not yet arrived.

The only other soldiers on the grounds were rat company's heavies, orc soldiers armoured in full plate and equipped with reinforced scutums. They were an impressive sight, having split up into two tenths who were currently pushing their shield walls against each other. Far more interesting for my purposes however was that one of the sergeants and the lieutenant were a few dozen feet removed from the melee. Years of corporate brownnosing and a decade of living with a military schedule taught me that now would be a rare opportunity for networking!

As I walked over to the pair I noticed that the lieutenant was a dark-skinned orc, almost black in colour. He was conversing with his sergeant, a tall Soninke who still only reached the massive orc's shoulder height. They were speaking in Kharasum, so I greeted them in the same language: "Morning, sir." I snapped a crisp salute for the higher-ranking officer and gave a nod to the sergeant.

"And what kind of greenhorn would you be?" snarled out the orc, though my childhood in a city next to a legion camp had taught me quite a bit about orc body language. That he did not show his teeth meant that he was more amused than annoyed.

Before I could answer him, the sergeant interjected: "Wait, are you Callowan?"

I grimaced. My blue eyes probably made it obvious that I was not a Duni, the only white-skinned minority in Praes proper. "I prefer to think of myself as an Imperial first. Anyways, Sergeant Tanya Foundling at your service," I replied.

"The Slavedriver?," interrupted the Soninke again. Would it hurt the man to stop connecting me with groups orcs hated in front of an orc I was trying to build a repour with?

I needed to dispel this connotation immediately so I let heat creep into my voice: "I despise the institution of slavery!"
More so on economic grounds than any humanitarian ones, but neither would know. Slavery stifled innovation and increased the competitiveness of unsustainable business models like machinery-free tobacco farming, though I would wager that the lieutenant disliked slavery more for the century-long oppression of his people suffered under the ancient Miezans than any rational, economic reason.

"Fine, fine. Sorry for that," said the sergeant as he waved his hands appeasingly. "Still, rumour has it that you chase your tenth to the Tower and back."

"There is a perfectly serviceable circular running track next to our barracks," then I added defensively: "A bit of resistance training is also quite useful to deal with spell exhaustion."

This, at last, drew the lieutenant into the conversation. He introduced himself as Nauk and his uppity companion as Nilin and then we exchanged tips on useful training exercises while we had my tenth perform them for demonstration purposes. It turned out Nilin was quite an educated young man, while Nauk shared a few interesting titbits about orcish warrior training. Hot coals were actually fairly available since Praes's wasteland was quite hostile to forests. Burning soles would serve as a strong enough motivator to keep my tenth marching after the daily half marathon.

After a few candlesticks worth of time, when the heavies' shield wall training had passed and the conversation ebbed I noticed an important detail: Lieutenant Kilian and the rest of our line were still not here.

So I turned to my new acquaintances: "Before you go, do you know when my Lieutenant will arrive? Cadet Kamo informed me that our line was to gather here at dawn."

Nilin looked at Nauk for a moment before both broke out in laughter. Well, for Nauk it was more of a happy bellowing, but my childhood with Laure's legionaries had me made quite good at reading the expression of the unofficial enforcers of public order. Politely I waited for their amusement to die down.

Nilin got himself under control first, and then, noticing my expectant expression started explaining: "Uhm, so Kamo is a bit of a prankster. Probably hangs out too often with the goblins, you know how these Farman folks are."

Seeing my pointed stare, he chuckled again and then continued: "As far as I know Kilian trains her lads at sundown. In approximately nine hours."

I took a deep breath and let out a long sigh. Then I did a quick headcount. What a waste of time. Regardless, duty must: "Could your line stay here for three more candlesticks?"

Surprisingly Nauk answered. I had noticed in our early conversation that he often seemed content to let his Sergeant do his talking.

"Sure, but what do you need us for? Want to have your mages fail to blow our shield wall apart?"

That was a fairly good idea actually, and I started telling him as much: "No, though I will get back to you about that offer. Legion guidelines just demand that at least a quarter of the company is present for a public flogging. Lying to a superior is just fifteen strikes so we should get to our classes soon enough."

AN (optional skip as always):
How Tanya became the sergeant will be revealed later (probably through a pov change) since I didn't find any good opportunity for Show instead of Tell in this chapter. This chapter is also significantly shorter than my draft ended up being and so was split, since I felt the flogging was a good point to end the chapter and it might feel a bit bloated/disconnected otherwise.

Why Tanya no magic yo?
Not spoiling this, but it is very much in line with Cannon APGtE

Because Eucles might come up:
No, the first marathon runner was not Pheidippides, who was a courier between Athens and Sparta and not a soldier but is often confused with Eucles. The professional courier also didn't run 26 miles (the actual distance between Athens and Marathon) with bronze armour after a daylong battle. In fact, the whole story of Eucles is iffy. It is entirely possible that Plutarch just invented/exaggerated the story for more drama, which he so often does to the frustration of many a historian. Damn you Plutarch you Athenian simp!