Alnus Hill sat at the northern end of a broad stretch of lowlands between two mountain ranges that traveled, roughly, east-west. To the north was the Empire's beating heart, to the south, her loyal vassal kingdoms. In essence, it was a region quite unused to conflict, at least in recent memory. As the Empire spread further west, the region grew into a reliable breadbasket, whose produce poured into the sea to be brought up to the capital or sold wherever.

To have the enemy suddenly appear on Alnus was a violent shock to the people's systems, the closest American comparison probably being the threat of ICBMs shattering the security of inland cities like Chicago and Denver. This sentiment wasn't helped by the very fair chance that your lord and his retinue all got themselves butchered on Alnus. Some returned, limping and traumatized, to their stations, but for every one returning, there were many more brigands.

Suddenly, the Empire's breadbasket was desperately lacking in authority and military power, a vacuum that the Americans simply weren't filling as quickly as some of their number wished. You could spin it any number of ways. They needed land to feed themselves. There was the land, and farmers to go with it! These people needed to be civilized. They had a moral obligation to peacekeep in the region they destabilized. Slaves needed to be liberated.

You could slice it any number of ways, and probably come up with some more cynical possibilities. The filibusters wanted their own little piece of land. Was that so bad, really? All they had ever known had been taken away from them. Their country, the land where their forefathers had eked out a living, had survived, had died and been buried…

Now, they weren't total idiots. They took stock of their situation well in advance, scouted out targets, and planned. Several of them expressed interest in aiding the army and pioneers, and started picking up skills with explosives. Artillery would have been a bit more flashy, but you couldn't exactly run away with a cannon. (Well, maybe a pack mortar, but not a proper cannon.)

The first leg of the trip was a grueling march. Now, they had practiced with some exercise outside of the camp and such, but these weren't really soldiers. Sure, they didn't go out without knowing how to fire a gun or anything like that, but they met with some snags.

Still, you didn't plan a heist of the base's armory without really meaning what you set out to do. The march was no small distance- the hill demanded a strange sort of respect from the local peoples- but they would see it through.

The world seemed to be changing. Or perhaps it always was and this was just the first time he truly noticed.

His name was Felix- his station in life wasn't really sufficient for a qualifier, other than perhaps a simple 'of the Valles'- and his role in life was farming. It was what he had been raised to do, as the second son of a farmer. And as a second son of a farmer, he had inherited precisely nothing.

So he set out to make his living as a worker on one of the great farms that seemed to be swallowing up the rich volcanic soil of the southern Valles. He got a plot of land, took loans from the landlord to get his tools, and settled into toil.

It wasn't his own little piece of land, but it was a profession that kept him from starving. He supposed there were other options, even for a largely talentless man like himself. Mining, farming, and that famous refuge of the desperate: soldiering. He didn't necessarily disagree with the concept of soldiery, but fighting for the Empire? He wasn't so sure, and his doubts had their roots before the Alnus disaster.

Sometimes, while in the fields, he'd be approached by one of the boss's slaves. That a slave knew more of accounting and business than Felix was a bit annoying, but he supposed it made a sort of sense to use a bureaucrat as a bureaucrat.

Over cups of posca, he learned the whole miserable tale. Eppilus had been born to relative wealth and learned good husbandry, tending to the business of a profitable farm… before Sadera obliterated his country. His previous master- who did not own Eppilus as chattel- had been slain and his lands given to legionnaires. (Sometimes, the lands were farmed by the very same men as before- they just did so as chattel now.)

Eppilus got to live because he had a use, but the rest of his homeland? It was subjected to rapine and slaughter, the descriptions of which led to Felix vomiting up his posca. (Not recommended. It did not go down easy, it did not come up easy.)

There were other, less sickening topics, though. Eppilus had a keen understanding of economics- at least when compared to Felix's own vague understanding that his farmed goods were sold downriver to pay a debt that seemed to grow each and every year- and even warned Felix before the Alnus disaster.

"When the imperial armies conquer the other world-" because why would they ever think otherwise, "-you may be out of a job, Felix. There will be a glut of slaves who can do the same work you can, for a one-time payment."

That was a grim thought. Felix worked extra hard to build up some security for himself, almost making him wonder if it was all some sort of complex scheme by Eppilus. He confronted the man on the matter.

"No, that wasn't my intent! Not at all! But I suppose this is the benefit of a free laborer. He works harder for his own money than for any boss."

For what it was worth, Eppilus swore to plead Felix's case before the master of the property. He never needed to, of course. The catastrophe at Alnus had saved Felix's job, although Felix would have much preferred security-security over job security. Banditry and brigandry made the prospect of going out into the fields less pleasant, but what could he do about it, really? He needed to eat and pay his dues.

It wasn't healthy, looking around the fields and expecting a brigand to come sneaking from any direction, but he did so anyway. The last thing he wanted was to become fertilizer for his crops.

His fear began to abate as he trundled home after a long day of work, at least. There was safety in numbers, in his fellow farmers eking out a living on tiny plots on another man's land. They lived together, even if their plots were separate.

The blood drained from his face when he heard shouting and conversation, when he saw the ground trampled down with the boots of what must have been an army.

He crept towards the bundle of houses where he and his fellow farmers worked, expecting the worse depredations imaginable, but instead, he was presented with a group of strangely armed men arranged in lines as one stood at their head and shouted.

The accent was thick, but Felix could get the gist of it. They were from Alnus, and they were here to overthrow their landlord. They swore lower tributes, equality under the law, and plunder from manor houses for any who joined their band… and some were accepting. Felix made mental notes of who would be mad enough to abandon their fields for this insanity.

(Not only was it insanity, it was well-accepted insanity.)

It was a hard sell, but they were eventually accepted, settling into the village temporarily and setting up watches. Felix didn't like their presence, not one bit, but he would not refuse a watchman.

Before going to sleep, Felix watched some of the foreign invaders teach a bumbling group of farmers, mainly second sons who were wearing out their welcomes, or men working even more meager plots of land than Felix. It was some strange operation involving their long staves and narrow sticks. Bizarre.

Their strangeness continued into the morning, when they formed ranks and began to march in the direction of the lord's house. Felix did not join them, but he watched with a sort of fascinated horror as they went.

Some of them sang a strange song as they marched, their confidence positively infectious. The new recruits attempted to mimic it, to limited effect.

"John Brown was John the Baptist, of the Christ we are to see!

The Christ who of the bondmen shall the liberator be!

And soon throughout the sunny south, the slaves shall all be free,

For his soul is marching on!"

He couldn't divine any sort of meaning from the song, but it was sung with a zeal that crossed language barriers. Whatever it was about, these invaders loved it.

"Ye soldiers of freedom, then strike while strike ye may,

The deathblow of oppression, in a better time and way,

The dawn of old John Brown has brightened into day,

And his soul is marching on!"

They were brave, but they weren't necessarily stupid. At least, not completely. Jumping straight into taking a castle might be a little far. It'd be better to cut their teeth, to get an idea of what manor houses might be like. These were a far more frequent quarry.

(Not to mention that years without any nearby threat had seen many a fortification fall into decay.)

Some among their number were familiar with history, and they warned of the terrible, absolute danger of massed cavalry- a threat that had never appeared unless you counted small squads of bandits with pilfered horses.

Fighting off brigands meant that some of them were blooded, but the majority had not really known combat.

Their attack started at range, with American sharpshooters taking out guards before creeping in closer. Around and inside the manor, their fighting was different- mostly just sticking together in clumps and waving bayonets at the enemy until someone got a shot in.

A few minor injuries here and there from pikes that outranged their bayonets, but otherwise, the sheer mass of Americans and discontent laborers doomed the defenders, who usually picked staying alive over increasingly poor chances of gathering pay.

And so, a small villa, girdled by farms and gardens in all directions, became American.

In true American fashion, they almost immediately began disputing about spoils. No one disagreed that the lands and the villa should be 'liberated', but the Americans had different ideas about how the owner and his family should be treated.

They had caught a ride on the tiger, and now they had to keep it from going wild. The Americans weren't the biggest fans of nobility, but the way Saderans treated prisoners… ugh.

Unfortunately, they also saw some attrition at this point, as the farmers began to think of their fields, deciding that all they really needed from this misadventure were some fancy trinkets or fine wine. They had no boss over their heads anymore, did they need any more?

They could go, on one condition: they had to return their arms to the Americans.

Yeah, sure, right to bear arms and everything, but the Americans weren't so dumb as to give the weapons away. Sure, it'd be pretty damned useless without powder and ball production, but ideally all guns should be in American or American-aligned hands.

Rifles- even the comparatively primitive specimens they had now- were part of the bait for their… well, they weren't entirely sure what to call it. Foreign Legion might have sounded good, but it sounded a bit strange when facing honest to goodness legions. Auxilaries? Should they just be part of the army?

A few Americans would stay behind, just to make sure that the villa wasn't totally undefended, and ot make sure that the Saderans could properly govern themselves. They'd be facing exciting prospects like facing bandits… and less exciting prospects like land reform. Yipee!

Others might have thought of Evan's job as playing second fiddle to Doe, but really, that ignored the man's other responsibilities. Doe was the leader of an army, had to preoccupy himself with the grand strategic concerns of the foe. Evans, his vice president, was naturally left with a bit more responsibility in the administration.

Well, his executive power was rather kneecapped by the independence of the army, but still… he handled laws, and had some minor sway over the garrison left to keep order. Perhaps more importantly, he was the man people felt the need to check in with.

Doe was not lacking in ambition, Evans would give him that, and he had a helping of actual sense to go along with it. The canal's progress was, admittedly, painfully slow, but river commerce was already exploding, food flowing up as quickly as it could be hauled.

Carefully, he balanced himself on top of his horse- it was an acquired skill- and overlooked the river. It was a fair distance from Alnus, which might have been nice if they needed to fear river-borne raiders, but now the disconnect from potential lucre was making people antsy. Evans had to oversee construction, largely for safety's sake.

The water-propelled mills fuelled their growing industry. In addition to serving as the old-fashioned alternative to steam engines for early industrialization, they also worked as parts of sawmills… and their sawmills fed an even more interesting project.

Sometimes, you had to stretch your talents a bit. Modern skillsets didn't fit perfectly into this new world, after all, but the pair in charge of this project were particularly strange. They were both teachers, of woodshop and history, and between them, they were attempting to make caravels. Evans had been informed this was the sort of shallow-drafted boat that Christopher Columbus had sailed the ocean blue in.

How they planned to scrape together a crew for these ships, he wasn't sure, but sometimes he doubted if they'd even get that far. They were essentially teaching themselves the art, after all, even if they had an understanding of the value of naval stores. Meanwhile, their students were following them eagerly, having traded in pencils and tests for pitch and turpentine.

This project was horrifically voracious for wood, what with all the testing they had to do, but the potential was obvious. Beyond the information pried from prisoners, they did not know this world- they would have to explore it. Perhaps that was why so many students were so on board. The prospect was frighteningly Romantic.

(In the capital R, inspired individuals marveling at the world around them sense.)

Evans didn't imagine that becoming a shipwright was terribly enjoyable, but the prospect of exploring the world… well, it certainly sounded nice, although he had a suspicion their first sailing adventures would be quite localized. At best, some minor coastal adventures at the mouth of the river. Trade was far more important, in the short term.

The fortune in wyvern scales they had… acquired had given America a sudden influx of cash. The state- although not the people- had a surprising amount of liquid assets, at least by the standard of the medieval period. Something told Evans that they'd have trouble pitching something like the fractional reserve to medieval people, much less fiat currency.

People were seriously, unironically debating things like bimetallism and the gold standard, as if they had gone back in time before the turn of the twentieth century…

Strange times. Strange times.

If the Countess Myui looked out of her window just right, she could see the militia drilling away. Really, her staff said, the formation of a strong miltia was long overdue, and the Americans just gave them a new model to base it on.

The style was, if she remembered her lessons, called pike and shot. The pike were, of course, spears. Great, heavy spears to break a charge, while the box of pike was surrounded by muskets. It wasn't how the Americans fought. Sure, she hadn't seen the battle- her maids had kept her safely tucked away- but this was a different style of war.

Her maids were a bit more attentive than the Americans liked to think. Apparently, this style of warfare had never actually been practiced by Americans, at least in the history of their country. Before their country had existed, it was popular, and now they brought it back… it wasn't a major leap to assume this was the Americans rigging the game, to speak. Make Italica strong, but not too strong.

It wasn't a pleasant thing to think about, but she had been forced to. She had to think about a lot of things like that. What would have happened had Pina failed to hold the city? She didn't know, and almost didn't want to know.

There were, clearly, things the Americans didn't want her to know. Mrs. Doe was nice, the Americans were helpful, and Connor was fun, but… she knew they weren't here just to be friends. She'd like to imagine they were, but they weren't.

"You're telling me I'm on jury duty?"

"Seems like it."

"Of all the things to bring with us…"

Of course, jury duty in this new world was perhaps a bit different from back home. The right to a trial with a jury of peers had to respected, as did fair proceedings, but the schedule was… being adjusted.

After all, their government was small for very good reason. Having a dozen or even more legislators who just sat around all day, not doing productive work, would be terribly wasteful, considering their circumstances….

They'd try to be as fair as they could, with what time they had. They were going to set a precedent- it wasn't a murder trial, or anything, but an assault between a Saderan and an American… well, it would be critical.

Without even leaving its infancy or entering the 'courtroom' the trial was already controversial. The issue was one that had already been brought up: what were they to do about the Saderans that had gathered around Alnus? The case involved one of their own people- should they be included in a jury of peers?

Oh, they don't have a proper understanding of American civic duty and law, some said. They'll never learn if they aren't invited, others said. They have no familiarity with the common law, with the great precedents of American history. Oh, so you do, apparently?

(For forward-thinking folks, there was something else to worry about: what would happen when crime in Italica impacted them? When a soldier got drunk or rowdy, or when a merchant violated some law? Whose jurisprudence would take precedence?)

Posca was a sort of water and vinegar drink common among the Roman lower class. Felix's situation was supposed to be a sort of bastard child of sharecropping and latifundia.

More broadly, the cracks begin to show.