Chapter Text
The relief watch was five minutes late.
That was, technically, a flogging offense. But—and she yawned involuntarily at the thought—honestly? It was cold, it was dark, and it was 6am on a Saturday. In the grand scheme of things, four minutes and forty-five seconds of sluggishness probably wouldn’t spell the downfall of Rome.
On the other hand, the on-duty fourth-watch sentries had been here exactly on time at three in the morning…and it was cold, dark, and 6am on a Saturday.
They managed to be civil; both relief sentries had shown up in a dead sprint, panting apologies, and everyone was too tired to care much.
So Nick Simons saluted her tardy relief. Then she bid her watch partner goodnight, fumbled a pen for a solid thirty seconds, gave up, tugged one battle mitten free with her teeth, picked up the pen again, signed the shift-change clipboard, hung it back on its peg, and went home.
It was a pleasant walk—quiet, private. The base of her javelin rang softly off the mosaic tunnel with every step, a reassuring echo. Fourth watch was the best shift, if you had to be on night-sentry duty; you got most of a night’s rest, then didn’t have to try to fall back asleep only to be jolted awake a few minutes later by the breakfast summons. Nick usually took second or third night watch; this was a rare treat, and she intended to enjoy it.
The sky was starting to turn pale over the hills, but only just; it wouldn’t be sunrise proper for an hour or so yet. The river steamed gently against the deep lavender clouds. Smoke rose from the kitchen fires; everything else was still and quiet. Nick took a moment to lean against her pilum, breathe deep. Enjoy the edge of morning.
Sighed. Rolled her shoulders. Tapped the pilum once off the stone, for good luck, then started hiking north along the Little Tiber.
Objectively good defensive design, that there was no immediately accessible bridge at the Caldecott entryway. An invading force couldn’t rush the fortifications; they would have to hook either north or south, in full view of the camp, tiring their forces while the legion was free to form ranks at leisure. The entire maneuver would also expose a breaching force to artillery fire the whole time, pinning them against the wolves in either the Berkeley or Oakland hills, forcing a bottleneck—and either way, the entire Twelfth Legion could form up on open field between the enemy and the city proper.
Or, of course, you could attempt to ford a hostile Tiber. Personally Nick would take her chances with the artillery.
All impeccable logic, none of which made the hike any less irritating when you’d been on sentry duty since three in the morning. Plenty of retuning sentries just waded—the Little Tiber was gentle, to her own, which made it a choice between a longer walk and wet socks. But Nick had just pulled her war mittens back on and it wasn’t like she was going back to bed anyway, so…longer walk it was.
Wading wasn’t worth it; taking her time, from tunnel exit to the Decumanian Gate, the detour over the north bridge added maybe twenty minutes all told. And her socks were dry.
She shouldered the gate open, wincing at the creak in the empty mess; the closest barracks was the Fifth, and the Fifth Cohort had slept through worse, but still. The hovering lares bustled in to close it for her; she thanked them, stifling another yawn, and ducked left.
The Twelfth Legion Logistics/Provisioning/Requisitions Field Warehouse was tucked securely inside the secondary fortification line, behind the principia. Nick unclipped her keys from her belt loop, fumbling in the dark and trying to identify…by touch… there. Her dad’s suggestion of marking her keys with 3D craft paint had been genius. The key turned easily— this door had been oiled within an inch of its life, opened without a sound—and she was finally home.
The air spirits were regular as clockwork. It was now exactly 6:30am, which Nick knew because the light was on; a single lamp with a warm yellow bulb but not the harsh overheads, letting her find her way across the antechamber without concussing herself but without going blind, either. The smell of brewing coffee was already starting to fill the room; a space heater had been switched to standby mode but not activated.
That had been the right call—Rome feared nothing more than fire—but since it wasn’t unsupervised anymore, Nick twitched the knob to its lowest setting and unlocked the mudroom.
Out of the wind of the Caldecott tunnel her winter gear was excessive. She sighed gratefully as she was finally able to set down her spear and shield, then hung her plumed centurion’s helmet on the hook helpfully labelled Annike Simons - CENTURION. The purple SPQR beanie, scarf, and war mittens with their Imperial Gold scale backs were hung in the cubbyhole underneath it.
The matching sweater she kept. Octavian could complain about uniform regulations and sumptuary law all he wanted; one of them would be technically correct, and the other would be warm.
Nick locked up behind herself, hit the switch on a wall-mounted power strip with her foot, scritched a drowsy tabby behind the ears, and started pulling mugs from the cabinets.
Right on cue, there was a soft rush behind her—the sound of sock feet sliding down a polished wooden ladder—and then a cheerful thud.
“Morning, Barncat,” she yawned without looking up.
“Morning, Nicky.” By the time she handed a mug over her shoulder he was already reaching out to take it. “Hey, is it true we’re bringing back Lupercalia?”
Nick blinked and finally turned to look at him. “We’re what?”
He grinned.
‘Barncat’ Freeman held the distinction of having once caused the ghost of Cato to physically de-manifest from raw indignation just by walking into the Senate house. First thing in the morning and he was already wearing an easy grin, purple socks, a belt of pteruges over a pair of dark cargo pants, and a battered denim jacket. Rich, springy coils of ink-black hair brushed his shoulders. Under the open jacket, surgical scars stood out pale against the dark skin of his bare chest.
That battle jacket was a work of art; the back piece alone was breathtaking. A rising phoenix, wreathed in flame—painstakingly embroidered, in white and pale pink, directly into the faded denim, impossible to remove. Framing it on embroidered scrolls was a Latin phrase: A POSSE AD ESSE.
From possibility to actuality.
Octavian had thrown a fit, of course. So after the first few disciplinary trials, Barncat had pored over the exact words of the uniform regs, added his military honors and a single “SPQR” patch to the right breast pocket, and made himself untouchable. The tiny amethyst uniform patch was dwarfed by the significantly more interesting ones crowding it out for space, but it was technically there.
He had a bronze lapel pin of the Capitoline wolf, across from the Mural Crown and Crown of the Preserver medals. The rest of the jacket was littered with patches: CAPITALISM DELENDA EST , T4T, #CRIPPLEPUNK, a cartoon fox snatching at grapes. One that clearly labelled him as LP&R had been overlaid with a much less official patch that just said “REM” in block letters; a faux-cursive pin on one shoulder read MY PRONOUNS ARE STANDING RIGHT BEHIND YOU. One more on his left sleeve bore the symbol of his mother—Libertas, the Roman goddess of freedom.
(This tended to answer a lot of people’s remaining questions about Barncat.)
“Don’t look at me!” He laughed, bracing his weight on a metal cane and making no move to drink the coffee he’d been handed. “That’s the rumor in the mess.”
“We can’t be,” said Nick without thinking. “Well—don’t quote me on that? But—I mean—No, come on, we can’t be. There’s no way we’re bringing back—ask me again when I haven’t been up since three in the morning. And gods of Olympus, Barncat, put on a shirt, how are you not freezing?"
“Nicky, we live in San Francisco.”
Nick was perfectly prepared to defend her honor with the argument that the Romans were a thin-blooded and pathetic Mediterranean people and 47 degrees was more than cold enough when the official camp uniform was a cotton t-shirt. Thankfully, she was saved by the rest of her division.
“Por favor,” groaned a voice from the loft. “Dioses de Roma, tell me you are not having the beanie argument at 6:30 in the morning.”
Nick glanced at the clock and said, carefully, “We are not having the beanie argument at 6:30 in the morning.”
A long pause. Finally, bleary-eyed and irritated, Luciana de la Torre poked her head over the edge of the ladder.
“Very funny,” she said, voice flat. “What time is it.”
“6:34 exactly,” said Barncat with his unflappable cheer. “You know we would never lie to a lady.”
“Nice use of the singular,” Luci drawled. “I absolutely believe there’s a lady you would never lie to.”
“You have a paranoid and suspicious mind when you’re right.” Barncat hooked his cane over his elbow and shifted his weight fully onto his good leg, giving Luci space to clamber down the ladder after him and allowing him to offer a gallant arm to hop the last few rungs. She accepted with a smile and a kiss, and took the untouched coffee mug from his other hand without needing to ask.
“No idea how you drink that stuff black,” he admitted, and held out a hand without glancing in Nick’s direction to accept a second mug. Heavy milk, two sugars, teaspoon of cocoa powder, which he sipped without needing to check. “So. Busy night?”
Nick, who’d been watching them with fondness she couldn’t even try to hide, felt her smile curdle. “Dead silent. Every watch.”
Luci took a long drag of coffee. Unlike her partner, she was still wearing the military-issue scarlet pajamas under a worn yellow bathrobe, hair frizzing wildly out of a loose braid; but her dark eyes were all too intelligent when she came up for air. “None of Lupa’s recruits have shown up yet? How many days late is that?”
Nick tried not to wince. “Three.” She swallowed. “A week, now, for the little girl.”
There was silence for a long time. There was nothing anyone could say to that.
After too many minutes, Barncat reached out and squeezed her shoulder.
“We’ll hold down the fort,” he told her. “Get some food in you.”
Officially, the mess hall at Camp Jupiter opened when the lights-on whistle blew at 7:30, and remained open for 90 minutes. That time was to be used for equipment prep, cabin cleanup, barracks inspection, breakfast, morning showers if that was your thing, and being armed, dressed within regulations, and reporting present for your first activity at 9am exactly.
In reality, rank had its privileges. Or…something.
Nick tried not to groan as she slumped into a couch. Logistics already had an offset schedule; they woke earlier than the legion, so they could be on call from the moment the official day began. Showing up 45 minutes early, for a breakfast that was already an hour before everyone else’s, was nobody’s idea of a fantastic time. There was a reason her trio usually waited, and ate with the legion regardless of the schedule mismatch. The loneliness would drive you mad before the sleep deprivation got a chance.
But it meant that at least the aurae wouldn’t ignore her until the whistle, like they would with a regular legionnaire. And a natural Roman deference to officers—even Annike “Nicky” Simons, Centurion On Paper Only—meant none of them would steal her half-full mug of coffee out of territorial pique and refuse to replace it, which happened to Luci at least once a week.
They just topped her off, then set down a little pot of honey and a plate. It was piled high with heavy slices of bread; an inch thick with a perfect, dense, crackling crust, so fresh it was still steaming. This done, they left her in peace.
“Actually—!”
One of the aurae paused, which Nick appreciated; it was their least favorite activity. For a split second the spirit was nearly visible, a young man with pointed ears and wild hair.
Nick picked up the biggest slice of bread, letting the warmth soak into her bones—she’d been hungrier than she realized. “Sorry,” she told the wind spirit. “Listen, I had a night watch—it’s still June, right?”
The spirit gave a tinkling laugh and nodded, flashing her an enthusiastic double-thumbs-up before speeding away. Nick called her thanks after him, or tried—it came out more like a wheeze, but with the aurae it was usually the thought that counted.
Date confirmed, she leaned over as far as she dared and tossed the bread onto the nearest brazier. “Vesta.”
The brazier flickered for a moment, a brighter gold, then faded.
It was…a bit of a foolish tradition. Old-fashioned, certainly. But it was more precious to her than it should have been. Logistics didn’t have dedicated lares because they were technically a warehouse, not a home; her own ancestral altar was in her fathers’ condo in New Rome, not her responsibility; and the communal, ancestral lares of Rome as a whole had their rites and veneration performed by Octavian in his role as pontifex.
Certainly the gods themselves should have been outside of Nick’s purview; if it were any other Olympian she chose to honor, she would absolutely have been told to knock it off by now. Private worship was for private gods; major deities expected things done properly, in temples. Anything less was an insult.
Vesta, however, was—different. Better. More. Keeper of hearth and home and thresholds, the burning core of all Roman religion. The only goddess you could say was greater and more important than Jupiter himself without risking retribution; even the king of the gods knew it was true. In “old Rome”, Vesta had—look, Nick had done a lot of reading at the Berkeley library about this when she was thirteen in order to shut Octavian up, she wasn’t about to back down now that she’d won the right—in ancient Rome, Vesta had been invoked in every prayer, and every sacrifice went partly to her.
Most of the legion—the demigods especially, but even the legacies—had a dedicated patron, or even a handful. Nick Simons was what polite society called a fourth-generation legacy and impolite society called a mutt. There were at least a dozen major or minor gods who technically had a claim to her. Way too distant relatives to care about her on a personal level, but just likely enough to get offended if she picked one of them over another. But nobody could resent Vesta.
It…let Nick keep some part of public Roman life, since she couldn’t bear to accept a discharge from the legion but also had a lifetime combat ban after that time she almost died from a skinned knee. She’d be grateful to the goddess for that alone, but that wasn’t why she kept doing it.
There were a lot of gods the Romans worshipped. It was…rarer, to find one who seemed to deserve it.
She still had to check the date, though. On the calends—the first of every month—she changed the dedication. Years ago, high on her success with the Vesta-worship, she’d started symbolically sacrificing to Juno as well—another goddess so central to Roman life, yet so unrepresented by demigod offspring or legacies, that no one had the gall to say Nick couldn’t do it. Juno was a harsh figure, demanding, spiteful, frequently wrong; but the gods were embodiments of an idea, at the end of the day. Rome was, to put it lightly, not perfect either.
But Nick still loved her home for the ideals it tried to have. She still felt that the queen of Olympus deserved her respect.
Nick was just also extremely aware that, having started honoring Juno on the calends, she could now absolutely never stop. The number one lesson any sensible person took from a month in the Berkeley library’s greco-roman mythology section was—well, the number one lesson was probably “never have sex with anyone, they might be Zeus.” After that, though, it was to never, ever expect the gods to take a slight with grace.
None of the gods had killed her yet, so. She was probably doing fine. And this morning, at least, she was being left in peace. Until the next crisis, Nick had nothing better to do than nurse a perpetually-full mocha, spread honey on her warm bread, and try not to think.
As if summoned by the invocation of putting active effort into not generating original thought—okay, that wasn’t entirely fair, but it wasn’t entirely wrong, either—the Second and Third Cohorts began to trickle into the mess.
Nick gave a reflexive half-wave, which was returned by one or two half-asleep legionnaires. Their centurion, plumed helmet tucked under one arm, crossed the hall and flopped onto a couch across from her.
“Morning, Nicky.” An aura deposited steaming coffee into his hand and a massive stack of pancakes onto the low table in front of him. “You all right? You look sick.”
“I’m fine. Morning, Larry.” What he meant was that watching someone stare blankly into the middle distance eating nothing but honey on untoasted bread was a little concerning, which would be fair if they hadn’t had this conversation every few months since she was twelve. Nick just had a sensitive stomach early in the morning; apparently, her mom had been the same way. “I don’t burn as many calories as you do, remember? Don’t worry about it. Listen, have you seen Reyna?”
“Uh…I mean, not this morning.” He shrugged. “Hopefully she’s sleeping.”
Extremely unlikely. There were already lights on in the principia—not even the praetor’s residence, her office. Gods willing, Reyna had at least gone home last night.
“Do you know if there’ve been any messengers since yesterday?” There shouldn’t have been. That kind of thing would have been reported at the shift change. But there were plenty of ways into New Rome without taking the Caldecott tunnel, and not every arrival would attract as much attention as a new recruit. “Word from Lupa, maybe? Wolves?”
“Not that I know of,” shrugged Larry. “But I just woke up. Why? Wait, is this about the Lupercalia thing? We’re bringing that back, right?”
“Wait, are we really?” Gwen, from the Fifth Cohort, did a double-take in passing and then slid onto one of the empty couches. “I thought that was a joke!”
“We’re not,” Nick said hastily.”I mean, I don’t know we’re not, but—it’s not important. This is something else.”
“Hey Gwen,” said Larry. “A joke is saying I’ll bet you ten denarii the Fifth gets the Mural Crown next week—”
“Can you focus , please?” Nick snapped. Gwen shot her a grateful look. Inter-Cohort rivalry was one thing, and Larry wasn’t the worst; but with Jason missing, the legion had started getting nasty.
“Fine, sorry.” Larry didn’t look particularly sorry, but he held his hands up before taking a massive bite of pancake. After a swallow, he mumbled, “Nicky’s look’n f’r Reyna.”
“I don’t want to bother her,” Nick hedged. “Just…wondering if we’d gotten any messengers last night. Lupa, an overland courier? Wind spirits?”
“Well, she hasn’t said anything to me about it,” said Gwen thoughtfully. “None of the lares said anything about wolves, either. But honestly, she’d probably tell you before us; Logistics can’t be in the dark if something’s wrong. She wouldn’t brief the combat centurions unless we needed to know. You could ask Octavian?”
“I could drown myself,” Nick countered. “I’d learn just as much and I wouldn’t have to talk to Octavian.”
Larry laughed louder than the barely-a-joke was really worth.
“Better go,” he said. “I wanted to ask Hank about setting a schedule for the next chariot races. See you guys tonight!”
Gwen raised a hand in a friendly farewell while Nick tried not to groan out loud. Fuck. She’d managed to forget. Right. Of course. She forced a smile and waved him off. “Not if I see you first.”
She’d known about the officers’ meeting, when she slotted herself into this week’s 3am shift to let one of Mercury’s kids recover from a bad cold. She normally enjoyed them. Unfortunately, they tended to run late.
The worst part was—she could bow out. It would be easy and painless. Mitigating circumstances, unrealistic demands—Reyna would back her to the hilt. None of the others would even judge her for it except Octavian, and if Octavian ever started approving of her Nick would have no choice but to immediately kill herself.
But she was a centurion. She’d earned her rank. Three-person division or no, combat ban or no. She had a right to be in that room, which meant she had a responsibility to be in that room.
“Hey.” Gwen seemed distracted—the Fifth usually was, these days—but her smile was genuine. “I meant to thank you. Callie’s really needed the sleep, this week, and I know you pulled some strings on the sentry roster to cover her. If there’s anything I can do to—”
“Don’t. Come on.” Nick half-reached over the table. The protest was instinctive, Gwen’s gratitude was awful. Only the Fifth Cohort would think common decency was a big deal. “She’s what, nine? This is my job.”
Gwen didn’t look at all convinced, but she shook her head. “Fine. Listen, I have to go, if we fail another cabin inspection the Fifth lares are going to tear my head off and shove it up my podex, but if you really need to talk to the praetor about something, I just saw her a minute—Reyna!”
“Don’t get up.” Reyna dropped onto a low bench, but didn’t recline. “I can’t stay.”
Gwen settled; Nick, who had also started to sit up at the sight of the purple cape, followed suit but lifted her mocha respectfully. “Ave, praetor.”
“Centurion,” Reyna greeted her, almost a sigh. She looked…awful. There were dark bags under her eyes; she moved just stiffly enough that if you knew her, you could tell the difference. The concerning thing was that you would have to know her. Aurum and Argentum, taking up station at her flanks, were inscrutable as statues. Her braided hair was immaculate; her white tunic was pristine.
Reyna was putting serious effort into looking like she was okay.
She was so obviously exhausted that Nick, for a moment, hesitated. Much as she didn’t want to add to Reyna’s burdens…no. Unfortunately, Reyna was a worthy praetor. Neither of them would forgive themselves for dereliction of duty. She opened her mouth to ask—
“Nicky.” Reyna rubbed her temple with one hand, like she was fighting off a headache. An invisible attendant hovered some french toast in her direction; she waved it off, not rudely, and it vanished. “Is there anything to report from last night? Recruits, couriers, deliveries, word from Lupa?”
Gwen winced. Nick barely managed not to.
“I was going to ask you the same question,” she said. Reyna closed her eyes, visibly fighting back a curse.
“If anything had happened, she’d have reported it right away,” said Gwen loyally.
Reyna, eyes still screwed shut, gave a sharp twitch of the head. “I’ve been busy,” she said curtly. Then, taking a deep breath, “Forgive me. I don’t doubt it. I was just hoping I’d missed a report, or…”
“I know. It’s okay.” Nick picked one last slice of hot bread from her plate and pushed the rest firmly in front of her praetor. “Reyna, this isn’t—eat something, please—this isn’t normal.”
Reyna went, if possible, even stiffer. “I’m working on it. Without word from Lupa—I’m working on it. Thank you, I’m fine.”
“I’m your provisioning officer,” Nick countered. Reyna rolled her eyes, but picked up a slice of bread and took a bite to humor her. “And if I hear anything, I’ll find you.”
Reyna didn’t answer immediately because, thank the gods, she was mechanically devouring the rest of the bread and reaching for another. She tore the second piece in half with her teeth and swallowed almost without chewing; she didn’t quite gasp for air, but it looked close.
“I know,” she said, finally. “Listen. I was hoping…but we can’t wait any longer. There’s a boy in the city, a legacy. He petitioned to join the legion a month ago, and Octavian confirmed his auguries. I was hoping to have a proper orientation group, but delaying was improper to begin with; I sent for him this morning, he’ll report to the Praetorian Gate at first bell. Nick, I know you just got off watch—”
“I’ll give him the tour,” she said.
Reyna’s shoulders relaxed. She stood, brushing imaginary dust off her tunic. “Thank you. He can act as your runner until evening muster…” She paused, lips twitching faintly. “And please put on a uniform first.”
“I’m off-duty,” Nick reminded her.
That earned a wry but genuine smile. “A true Roman is never off-duty,” said Reyna. “I have to go; I’ll see you both at dinner. If we’re lucky…” Her smile faltered, but she plastered it back on bravely. “If we’re lucky, we’ll be able to add a late arrival before then.”
Nick toasted the sentiment—but Reyna was already gone.
After a short silence, Gwen sighed.
“Well,” she said, getting up to leave. “You got her to eat something, at least."
“...and dinner bell is immediately after that, so you’ll never miss it. You’ll be on your own for lunch, though, after today.” Nick paused. “You with me so far, Austin?”
Austin Clarke did not look like he was with her at all, but he was doing his best. The pale redhead jumped and stood up straight. “Yes, ma’am!”
“Don’t salute yet,” she told him casually. “You haven’t been mustered in. Anyway. We usually buy lunch on the via principalis, but we’re noncombatants. Once you’re in a cohort, the centurions will decide your lunch hour. Some days you’ll get a furlough to pick something up, but most of the time they’ll expect you to put a meal together yourself. Mess isn’t open midday.”
“Why?” asked the nervous Austin. Nick shrugged.
“Field practice,” she explained. “Every Roman soldier should be able to feed themselves; no mess hall on campaign. We’ll issue you lunch rations every week, and it’s up to you to plan appropriately to make them last. So, lunch comes out of your pack supplies.”
Austin gave a serious, determined nod. After a moment, Nick took pity on him.
“Your cohort will give you advice,” she promised. “You’re on probatio. They know you’re still learning.”
“Right.” He hesitated. “Um. I don’t have a pack yet.”
“Well!” Nick gave the kid a warm smile. “Let’s fix that.”
She shouldered open the warehouse door.
Luci glanced up from her desk. She was basically unrecognizable from the dishevelled pile of blankets Nick had left that morning. She’d found her glasses, for one; rimless gold that she pushed unconsciously higher on her nose as her centurion entered. Her hair was glossy, perfect, pulled into an elegant chignon twist under a red-plaid flat cap. She wore the variant uniform normally used for wargames—standard SPQR t-shirt, plain cotton, in scarlet rather than purple—and an armored skirt over red leggings.
Her eyes widened as Austin followed Nick inside. “Is that—did someone get—?”
“Not yet.” Nick tried to pitch her voice down. “Austin here is from New Rome. Age twelve, we should have his letters on file.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Austin.” Luci tapped a few keys at one of the only computers in Camp Jupiter. In New Rome itself, with Terminus carefully controlling energy surges both mortal and divine, you could get decently powerful technology and even high-speed internet, as long as you were running an Olympian firewall. Outside the Pomerian Line, however, you got the normal problems. Simple tablets could usually survive; display screens and single-purpose electronic word processors were fairly reliable. Anything more complicated than that…
The Logistics desktop ran a completely proprietary Minervasoft OS and also had to be kept completely disconnected from the internet, with only a single subterranean hard-wire connection to a dispatch center in New Rome, which they physically unplugged whenever they weren’t using it. But it worked.
“Let me see,” Luci murmured. “Austin, Austin…Clarke! There you are! Did you bring your own copy of your introductory letters?”
“Yes!” he said hurriedly. “Um, yes ma’am.” He relaxed his grip on the manilla folder clutched to his chest like a lifeline, then had to scramble to catch the papers inside before they slipped free.
“Good,” said Luci. “Keep those; it’ll improve your first impression to make it clear that you remembered and planned ahead. If anything happens to them, though, I can print you a new copy.” She tipped him a wink. “We won’t tell anyone.”
“I knew that,” he said quickly.
Voice light, Luci replied, “Lie.”
While Austin protested weakly that he’d never doubted them at all, Nick reached out and ruffled his hair. “Don’t bother, kid.” She said it warmly enough to take any sting out of it. “Austin, this is Luciana de la Torre, goes by Luci, and her mother is Veritas. Goddess of truth.”
“Fuck,” said Austin. Then, immediately. “Uh. I mean—”
“If it helps,” Luci told him kindly. “It’s not much fun for me either. So, Nicky! Who’s our new friend?”
“Just shadowing. He’s already cleared, just can’t muster in until tonight. So, praetor’s orders, he spends the day with us to learn how the legion works. I thought we might outfit our new friend directly.”
Luci quirked an eyebrow. “Praetor’s orders? Sure.” She didn’t call out the white lie, but there was a distinctive edge to her voice as she kicked her rolling chair across the room and stuck her head through the staff-only door. “Barncat! …Do you have a minute? …Take a break, cariño. We’re babysitting for Reyna again.”
The response wasn’t entirely audible, but Nick was fairly certain she managed to pick out the phrase ‘radicalizing the probatios’.
Luci wheeled back to her desk, looking smug. “He’s on his way.”
“...don’t need a babysitter,” muttered Austin.
Nick and Luci exchanged looks but didn’t dignify that with a response. Thankfully, they didn’t have to wait long; the tap of Barncat’s cane ringing off the concrete floor of the warehouse wasn’t fast, but he had long legs.
He flung the door wide, catching it by reflex before it could rebound and hit the enormous Maine Coon at his heels. He was wearing a wide, enthusiastic grin, halfway through a greeting; then, clocking Austin’s presence, he visibly stopped himself and started again.
“Ave, centurion!” The greeting was still friendly and casual, still delivered over his shoulder as he braced on his cane and leaned down to kiss his girlfriend; but it was just formal enough. Upholding her authority, in front of a stranger. “Are you the new kid?”
“Yes, sir,” said Austin, who was briefly too entranced to be nervous.
Barncat flung out an arm. “Welcome to the beating heart of the legion, new kid.”
“Awesome,” whispered Austin. Then, “What do you do.”
Luci cleared her throat. “We’re the—”
“Rear-echelon motherfuckers,” Barncat interjected, flashing an enthusiastic peace sign over his chest.
“The polite term is logistics division,” said Luci drily.
“Barncat, this is Austin.” Nick gestured vaguely between them. “Austin—Barncat Freeman, son of—”
“Lie,” sang Luci.
Nick groaned. “Oh, for—do we have to do this every time—”
Barncat shook his head in despair. “You gotta say my name right, Nicky.”
“I did! I say your name right every time!”
Luci hummed. “Mmm…lie.”
Barncat cleared his throat. “Ahem. Austin, my name is ‘Barncat’ Freeman. The airquotes are part of it.”
He had one hand on his cane and the other resting across the back of Luci’s desk chair. He had not made any gesture that even looked like airquotes.
Luci’s eyes sparkled with loving malice. “You have to pronounce the airquotes right, centurion. Enunciate.”
“You can’t enunciate airquotes—!”
“Prrrrrr-ow?”
Barncat didn’t blink. “And this is Randolph.”
Nick rolled her eyes. “This,” she said pointedly, before the fifteen minutes of Randolph backstory exposition could get started, “is the field warehouse of the Logistics, Provisioning, and Requisitions Division of the Twelfth Legion. If the cohorts need something from outside camp, they submit the request through us. We also coordinate watch shifts across cohorts, arrange repeat supply deliveries, double-check inventory, maintain the legion’s records, provide guidance for city planning and expansion, finalize timetables for wargames…”
“But other than that,” said Barncat, “We mostly sort the mail.”
Austin giggled nervously. “How many of you are there?”
Luci threw up her hands. “Take a shot.”
“Little man,” said Barncat drily, “You are looking at the division.”
Austin’s eyes blew wide. “That’s…like, so much…”
Luci’s jaw worked, and Nick shifted her weight slightly. It was…a sore point. Back before…well, before Nick…Logistics had been where careers went to die. A dumping ground for incompetent patricians, abusive morons with rich family, and anyone else the legion didn’t want to keep but couldn’t afford to dismiss in disgrace. Her genuine love for the place had lifted much of that stigma, had infected the other two as well, but—
They didn’t get a lot of eager volunteers. And Nick refused to accept would-be transfers who, like Frank Zhang, were only asking for it because they thought they weren’t good enough for the cohorts. She wouldn’t let her division become a place people were punished with, not again.
Before the mood could drop too badly, she cleared her throat.
“Hey Austin,” she said. “You want to know my favorite Aesop’s fable? The Lioness’ Child.”
It worked. Luci laughed, but it was a deeply affectionate sound. Barncat just smiled, all tension dropping off his face, and leaned back to sit on the loft ladder. “There we go. How long was that? Two minutes?”
“Huh?” Then Austin frowned. “Hey, isn’t Aesop a graecus?”
“The Greeks have all the good stories,” Nick admitted.
“Nicky!” said Barncat, indignant. “They do not!”
Luci sucked air through her teeth, waggling a hand in midair before pointing in Nick’s direction.
“Luci! Love of my life, light in a storm—”
“When she’s right she’s right, mi amor.”
“The story goes,” said Nick, loudly, because she had lived with these two for years and knew better than to let them get going. “That in ancient times there was a great competition among the animals over which of them could produce the largest litter. The birds and wolves and pigs were very happy to have produced four or six in a litter, the rabbit and the mouse boasted of having a dozen, the deer and the horse and the sheep hung their heads and admitted to only having twins. You get the idea.”
“Uh-huh,” said Austin slowly.
Barncat smiled. “She’ll get there. Shh.”
Nick winked at the kid, but continued uninterrupted. “So, finally, the animals reached the lioness’ den. They said, ‘You look very proud of yourself! You must think you’ve broken the record; so, how many cubs have you produced?’ And she looked down her nose at them, and do you know what she said?”
Austin glanced at Barncat for help and got a ‘go on’ gesture in return. “Uh…what?”
Nick looked at her division—who had heard this story a thousand times, and were watching her with just as much affectionate patience as always.
“‘One,'" said Nick. "'But that one is a lion'.”
Luci and Barncat, gods bless them, let the moment hold. After a few seconds, Nick coughed and brushed imaginary flyaway strands under the beanie she was absolutely still wearing.
“...Anyway,” she said, feeling as silly as she always did after getting fired up like that. “I’d rather have these two and no one else than the entire First Cohort.”
“Austin? This is our centurion.” Luci’s delivery was matter-of-fact; but she was smiling. “Nick Simons. No one could ask for better.”
“We’ve met,” said Austin, then blanched. “Um—sorry. Nick? Because the sentry said—should I not have been calling you ma’am? I didn’t mean—”
Softly, Luci murmured, “Right question.”
“Good man,” echoed Barncat.
Nick completely understood where Austin was coming from. She’d watched him do the rapid re-calculations—the men’s t-shirt, grey fatigues, every key in Camp Jupiter strung onto a purple carabiner at her hip, the close-cropped roman-standard haircut. Luci and Barncat, both claiming her as their own. Combined with the name—
“I’m so sorry, the sentry called you Nikki so I just assumed—”
“You’re fine, Austin.” Nick pulled him in for a quick, grateful side-hug. “Nick or Nicky, they’re both fine. It’s just short for Annike. But thank you. Have you got any questions about Logistics?”
“Um…” He stumbled over his words, frazzled. The Aesop speech tended to do that to people. “Sorry, so—you said, you order supplies for the cohorts? Is that just official stuff, or do normal people go through you guys too?”
“The general rule of thumb is that you should go through Logistics for anything that benefits Rome at least as much as it benefits you,” said Luci, folding her hands on her desk. “Personal purchases, the expectation is that you’ll wait until you have a day pass to New Rome or Berkeley to handle it yourself. We make exceptions if there are extenuating circumstances, but, not to be a complete cliche, a lack of planning on your part doesn’t constitute an emergency on mine.”
“Yes ma’am,” said Austin quickly. “What does count? Miss Luci? Ma’am?”
“If you’ll need something before you’re able to get it yourself, and you’ve explored other options, of course we’ll order it for you,” she answered kindly. “Things too heavy to carry, magical items you have the denarii to pay cash for but don’t know how to order yourself. Medications, or…any other kind of care items, that you…want to keep private, for any reason.”
She glanced at Barncat. He reached out and squeezed her fingers, lifted them delicately, dropped a soft kiss to her knuckles.
Nick let them have their moment. The old Logistics—under the old centurion, before Jason threw his support behind Nicky and gained enough influence to make that mean something—it had been a bad time. Bad enough for Nicky; ten times worse for Barncat, for all that he’d dealt with it by loudly refusing to care.
Worse still for Luci, who’d come to camp with more secrets than allies and could not lie.
“Logistics serves the legion,” Nick said quietly, because making him understand this was important—an ethical obligation. “We can’t always promise total confidentiality. But there are lines we don’t cross.”
Austin nodded silently.
“All right, then.” She clapped him on the shoulder. “Let’s get you kitted out.”
It was a quick process—nothing new under the sun when it came to legionnaire gear. The kid got a camping backpack weighed down with a sheathed hatchet for building fortifications; a trowel for digging latrines; a week’s worth of shelf-stable rations; a bowl, tin cup, and roasting skewer; water purification tablets; compass and binoculars; bug spray; bear spray; a promotional Vulcan Basics cigarette lighter; deodorant; three sets of socks and underwear; a shock blanket; and a first-aid kit containing gauze, a roll of soft-splint, five packets of powdered unicorn horn, a cake of ambrosia, and a four-ounce bottle of nectar with a medicine dosing cap.
On the outside of this was strapped a single-man tent and stakes, a sleeping bag and wool cloak, a cooking pot, and the largest water bottle they could find that didn’t physically tip Austin over backward.
Then, to counterbalance, Nick and Barncat tag-teamed digging through the storage armory to find leather armor that mostly fit, ten Camp Jupiter t-shirts, a sword belt, and the standard-issue pajamas, bathrobe, dagger, gladius, swim trunks for the bath, and a set of cleats having determined that they didn’t have combat boots in his size yet. The clothes were set aside, to be delivered once he was officially part of the legion. The weapons he kept; Nick also issued him a shield, and Barncat spent the better part of a quarter-hour measuring the kid up and down, dragging pila back and forth to the woodworking desk in the corner, before finally pronouncing himself satisfied with the height and weight match.
The spear was one of the sacred symbols of Libertas; Austin would probably never realize how lucky he was.
It was a much slower Austin Clarke who stumbled back into the antechamber. Luci, who was back to working her spreadsheets, managed not to laugh.
“Looks like that’s everything,” said Nick. “Actually, you’ve got time to go swimming if you like; we’ve got a few hours before evening muster call. I warned you about scheduling plenty of time before muster, right?”
“Yup.” Austin looked himself over. “Um—do I need a bracelet?”
Nick blinked. “Sorry?”
“One of those?” He pointed at her right wrist. “You and Luci have them. Is it, like, only for girls?”
“Ha.” Luci’s laugh wasn’t quite bitter, but it was closer than usual. “I wish. No, sweetheart. I’ve got your medical file. You don’t need one of these unless you’ve been diagnosed with something since January.”
“Medical alert,” Nick explained, holding her wrist out to the kid. Hers was silver to Luci’s gold; otherwise they were identical. A slim, medical-scarlet rectangle bearing the metallic staff of Asclepius on one side, essential medical warnings on the other.
Barncat gave a faux-careless half-wave. “I don’t need one,” he explained, tapping the handle of his cane. “No mysteries here.”
Austin made a face. “What happened?”
“Kind of a personal question, kid,” Nick murmured.
Barncat did not like telling the story—but he waved off her censure. “It’s fine. Titan war,” he offered, by way of explanation. “Acid, crush injury, medical supply shortage…bad day. Better ones now, though.”
“Epilepsy,” said Luci, and didn’t elaborate.
“Actually…you should know this, too.” Nick held out her wrist to the kid and flipped the medical alert tile. On the backside, in clear unmissable enamel, were the letters LCL.
“Low-content legacy,” she translated. “It means—you’re first-generation, right?”
Austin nodded. “Yes, ma’am. Both parents demigods, ma’am.”
“You can call me Nicky, it’s fine—you’ve got nothing to worry about for yourself, is my point. But if you see ‘LCL’ on a bracelet or a medical card or something like this, it means you cannot give them nectar or ambrosia. Unicorn horn is fine. But nothing that wouldn’t be safe to use on a mortal, understand?”
Low-content legacy. It was a polite way of saying “functionally mortal”.
Nick knew she was horribly, absurdly lucky—if she hadn’t been raised in New Rome, if her adoptive fathers weren’t both demigods, she would never have been allowed through the gates. Lupa wouldn’t have bothered seeking her out; Nick was too far removed from the gods to be worth it. She had no inherited powers, any godly blood diluted beyond recognition—she’d learned Latin the hard way, and she had no divinely heightened strength, senses, or reaction time.
She could see through the Mist. Not touch it, not manipulate it. A touch of truesight—and that was it.
Annike Simons had mustered into the Second Cohort at age twelve. Six days later, she’d taken a bad fall during wargames and torn open her knee on the bedrock. A well-meaning healer had splashed a measure of nectar over it and started to walk away.
Her blood had boiled on contact.
“...Go hit the pool,” she said, instead of voicing any of the thousand memories pounding on the inside of her skull. “I’ll come get you an hour before muster.”