A thousand obsidian eyes shone in the void. All were turned on a single realm–a blinding stain upon his perfect black. Many other cosmic souls had taken to the realm. He cared not for their company. He would rule absolute.

His many hands stretched before the sun, casting a cloak of oppressive shadow. There, his subjects dwelt. They brought about their own demise. But one had fallen to a peculiar spirit. Older than him. Yet feeble. It drifted ever closer to his exalted champion–a burning comet drawn to a black hole. Soon, the strength of his disciples would be restored. Their devastation was unmatched. The end was nearing.

His thousand eyes were seared by the blinding realm. But he would not blink. Blissful desolation.

***

The forest was alive with morning birdsong by the time they set eyes on their camp again. Trumpets blazed as they trudged down the hillside, summoning the cohort for morning parade and inspection. Panting with exertion, Skippii led his horse towards the perimeter. The guards awaited them–dark-skinned archers from Clidus–eying their approach curiously.

"Late night?" one jested.

"Fuck yourself," Drusilla responded, unwilling to engage with pleasantries.

The archers smirked as their companeight passed over the trench and filtered into the camp. Skippii led the way towards the centre of camp where their superior's tents were pitched and found a physician's tent, hitching his horse outside.

"Scribe," he called tiredly. "Slave. Somebody… Anybody with hands."

Two teenage boys wearing plain white tunics came running out.

"These four are our own," he instructed as the others hitched their horses. "And those two are prisoners."

The boys nodded eagerly, helping the injured down and into the surgeon's tent, while his companions slung the prisoners down in their bounds. The Ürkün man clenched his teeth and bore the fall, but the Nodreos tribesman let out a yelp.

"Traitor, I am not," he spat in a thick Philoxenian accent. "Land is Nodreos, hills are Nodreos. In land his own, can traitor be?"

Kaesii kicked the Nodreos tribesman in his ribs, and it looked like Drusila was going to have a go when Orsin held them back.

"We don't have time for this," he said over the bellow of trumpets, and herded the young legionnaires towards the parade ground.

The Nodreos man wheezed and spat up blood, glowering up at Skippii. "Once you see black magia with your eyes, your faith… is questions. Many questions. Their dark God comes like night. Are you blind? Fools, walking in dark."

A shiver ran through Skippii as he remembered the black vortex summoned by the Ürkün magus he had fought some days ago. "What magia? What dark god?"

"Skip," Orsin yelled, a ways down the path. "Parade, now."

Shaking himself from a stupor, Skippii addressed the doctor's assistant. "Tie them up with the horses. Give them water, and nothing else."

As he departed, the Nodreos man yelled after him, voice high and maniac. "Cosmipox comes. Can legions kill gods? Men with spears. Boys-" His voice tumbled into a wracking cough, and was drowned out. Skippii joined the rear of rallying legionnaires, then behind him, one shrill word screeched above the camp like a dying eagle's cry.

"Cosmipox!"

Some two thousand and five hundred fighting men arrived on the parade ground wearing their full arms and armour, gleaming in the morning sun. Skippii searched for the standard of his tonnage. Fulmin was standing alone at the far end of the second rank, nervously awaiting their arrival. When he spotted them, he closed his eyes and raised his head to the heavens, uttering a prayer.

"How did it go?" he asked eagerly as they fell into file.

"All good," Skippii said, blinking tiredly.

"Four rescued, two captured," Orsin detailed, straightening his shoulders and taking a deep breath.

"And a great many more dead," Tenoris croaked, his voice lathered with fatigue.

Skippii glanced down the ranks of Tonnage VI, counting their heads. Since the ambush yesterday, it seemed that, of the eighty legionnaires in the unit, ten percent were missing. Most of the casualties had come from Companeight X, who had been at the rearmost position. Just three of their members remained. Whether their companions were injured or dead, he couldn't know, only that they weren't fit to make the morning parade.

"Gods guide them," Skippii prayed, and faced the front.

Standing before their tonnage's formation was Vexillum, standard in hand. His expression was plain; he paid no special attention to the companeight who he had witnessed–and arguably encouraged–breaking camp the previous night to embark on a rescue mission. Beside him was their tonnage's Octio, Spurius Altivus, the second in command to the Primus. The tight-lipped senior glared at their companeight disapprovingly, his hand drifting towards the disciplinary cane at his side.

"He doesn't look too happy," Skippii muttered to Tenoris.

"When ever has he?"

Custos Maritor tread down the ranks of their formation, pulling the legionnaires in reduced companeights forward and combining them with others, rearranging the line so that it was once again dense. As he passed by Companeight VI, he did a double-take, scanning their blood-splattered uniforms and gaunt expressions. Skippii cringed, expecting a verbal blow, but the Primus carried on without missing a step, marching to his position beside the Octio and Vexillum at the front of their tonnage.

Elsewhere, superiors were performing similar duties, inspecting their men and re-organising their groupings. As they waited to be addressed, the pain in Skippii's feet grew until it was almost unbearable. He shifted left and right to re-balance his weight, leaning heavily on his spear's shaft–a fresh spear he had salvaged from the roadside that morning. It was the cleanest part of his whole attire. Their companeight stood out like a sore thumb, slouching and bleary eyed. Their tunics were filthy, their weapons and armour dull, their feet black with muck. Just when he thought the Octio would break file and discipline them in front of the whole cohort, Custos Maritor stepped forward. Resting his hand atop his short-sword's pommel, he addressed his legionnaires. "I'm sure you will be pleased to learn that we shall march no further today."

The legionnaire's all murmured in approval, but Skippii almost collapsed with delight.

"Some more pleased than others," the Primus went on, eyeballing their companeight on the second rank. "The First Cohort has drawn the short straw; they will be heading back down the road to retrieve the wagons we left behind, and salvage what we can. If you dropped your personal packs on the roadside, drop a coin or two in the hands of one of the First, and they might keep a special lookout for your provisions, assuming they're worth that much."

Their tonnage laughed, a little louder than the joke merited, as they were all in high spirits.

"Our task is to make the camp more defensible, rest and recover. Likely, we will be departing again tomorrow. I hear The Gris is feeling extra generous today with rations, as there's still plenty of the Ürkün pig left from the ambush which needs eating, and the First Cohort have promised to collect some more."

"A full hog?" Somebody shouted from behind–the good mood going to his head.

"Quiet!" yelled the Octio shrilly. "No interruptions."

Silence befell them; even the legionnaires in adjacent tonnages–which were filed up on their flanks–took head of their Octio's admonishment.

Custos Maritor's expression was neutral, neither angered nor perturbed. Generally speaking, it was the Primus' job to give orders, and the Octio's job to enforce them. After a time, when the shock of Spurius Altivus's threat had passed, and still no man wanted to speak out to break the silence, Maritor continued.

"Yesterday, I witnessed many deeds of decency and merit amongst you, my legionnaires. Your tutors did well. I witnessed fearlessness and determination, and an excellent defence in an uncertain moment. Very easily, the Ürkün ambush could have been a success. We could have become overrun, and we may have suffered many more casualties than we did. But not only that… Not only did you form a strong phalanx, and hold it, but some of you improvised when the situation changed."

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Maritor's eyes flickered to Skippii, then upon each of the legionnaires in his companeight. "We did not know that the enemy had Aperatrox–the beast which you all saw and faced–but we do now. Those of you who were instrumental in its defeat shall be rewarded, when the time is right. The Gods bore witness, and no heroic deed such as that shall go unrewarded. But for now, your companion's gratitude, and lives, will have to do."

Custos Maritor gave a moment's pause to let his words sink in. "Now, return to your tents. Further orders shall be issued soon. Be prepared to do some digging, but only if your wounds allow it. Three from each companeight, that's all I need. The rest of you, relax. Heal your wounds, and stay off the drink. We're marching again tomorrow."

Custos Maritor nodded to the Octio, and he stepped forward.

"Salute your betters," the Octio yelled.

Skippii raised his spear as his companions did the same, chanting, "Auctoritas' finest salute you. Hail the Imperator. Dominitas et Pantheonos."

"Dismissed," the Octio ordered, marching towards them without a moment's pause. "You lot, Companeight Four. Primus' tent, ten minutes. Do not arrive filthy or you shall be flogged."

"Yes, Octio."

Hurrying back to their camp, Skippii and his companeight slung their cloaks over the mule's wagon and unlatched their thorax armour–layers of white leather strapped firmly around their chest and gut. Keeping his bronze greaves, helmet, and leather vambraces on, Skippii shed his tarnished tunic and loincloth. His clothes practically came apart as he undressed, tearing and crumpling where the fires which he had summoned had eaten their threads. Tossing the tunic into a heap by the fire, he dug in their cart's supplies for a spare. Bare chested in the morning sun, their companeight hurriedly dressed in whatever clothes they had packed, or could scavenge.

"I was worried when you did not return before the morning call," Fulmin said, handing a spare clean tunic to Kaesii. "I feared the worst."

"We pulled a little trick on them," Orsin said. The veteran's body was lean, though the skin of his belly and underarms sagged, betraying that he had once likely weighed a lot more than he did now.

"What trick?"

Their group paused, hesitant to reveal Skippii's secret on his behalf, even to a comrade.

"We'll tell you about it later," Skippii said, finding the second of spare tunics which he'd packed; he hadn't expected to need to replenish it so soon on their journey. He would have to figure out a way to summon his power without ruining his possessions in the future, if that was at all possible.

"These are my only clothes," Tenoris panicked. The sleeves and underskirt of his white tunic were stained black and grey with mud. "Have you one for me, Kaesii? Drusilla?"

Either's clothes would just about fit the hulking farmhand, but they shook their heads solemnly. Kaesii's body was broad and well-rounded, a little plump, as was normal for citizens of the wealthy city of Vestia. Drusilla was toned like a bull, his biceps bulged like the cast iron dumbbells of famed Summitus gymnasiums. The wound on his shoulder was red and swollen, but not fettered.

"Oionos?" Tenoris summoned their second slave. "Your toga, please."

Cur scoffed. "You'd appear before your superior in a slave's greys?"

"In a toga?" Kaesii sneered.

"Oh, never mind it," Tenoris waved the boy away.

"I don't mind swapping," Fulmin said, undressing companionably. He was almost three handspan shorter than Tenoris, and not as toned as Drusilla, but his musculature bore the compactness and well-rounded physique of hard labour. Many black and yellow bruises spotted his ribs where the Aperatrox had sought to gore him, but his leather thorax had saved his life.

"Please," he said. "Take it. I'm ashamed to have not been there last night."

"No," Tenoris said solemnly. "Then what would you wear?"

"I will wear yours."

"It will go down to your ankles," Cur snickered. A patchwork of ugly scars crossed his chest, matted together with coarse grey hairs. He appeared like an old, scraggly bear that had hibernated one too many winters.

"Mine too. You would tear it," Arius said. His darkened-olive skin forearms were knotted with ropes of muscle like the branches of a formidable tree which dug its roots into rocks.

Tenoris tipped his waterskin, brushing himself with the mule's brush, much to the animal's curiosity. Skippii had never seen him so flustered–much more so than when he faced the enemy in battle.

"Take it off first," Skippii said. "Lay it over the cart."

One by one, their unit re-dressed and brushed the worst of the dirt off their white thorax armour. Before long, they set off for the Primus' tent, except for Skippii, Fulmin and Tenoris, who remained behind. Together, they cleaned his armour, wetting and wringing his tunic–anything they could to clean it for the Octio's inspection. Tenoris' hands worked clumsily, unused to fine work. He possessed the muscular bulk of Drusilla with the well-roundedness of Fulmin, and bigger thighs than them both put together. Even his fingers were muscular.

Dropping the brush in his haste, he knelt to pick it up then suddenly collapsed to the ground with a yelp.

"Cramp," he winced, clutching his leg.

Skippii bit his lip. Another moment of this, and they'd be late. Grabbing the sodden tunic, he pulled it over Tenoris' head while Fulmin threw the big man's armour over his shoulders.

"Quickly now."

Hobbling together through camp, Skippii brushed his companion down like a show pony while on the move, drawing the eyes of the other companeights around their morning fires. Some called after them whatever jests they could improvise, but Skippii paid them no heed, rushing as fast as he could towards the Octio's quarters, and his disciplinary fate.

A flock of flags were raised above the district of command tents, each bearing the mark of a tonnage, cohort or commander. Finding theirs–a bolt of lightning and storm clouds, depicting the wrath of the storm god Kylin–Skippii rushed towards its base and lined up beside his companeight outside. The entrance flap was drawn, but the muffled voices of his superiors penetrated the barrier, churning his guts with nerves. Somebody exited wearing a dark green archer's cloak and sped off before the angry eyes of his companeight; no doubt, the camp-watch had ratted on them.

Finally, a slave dressed in grey pulled back the partition and tied it to the posts, revealing Custos Maritor's quarters. A foldable table stood to one side, atop which were wax tablets and candles, a bundle of legionnaire's knives, wooden bowls and a shrine to Maricorus. Decorated with sea shells and tattered rope, with three candles forming a trident at its centre, the shrine had been forced to surrender some of its divine sovereignty to the desk's clutter.

At the rear, a silk curtain partitioned his small bedchamber, beside which, a standing rack bore his armour and officer's uniform. A red plumed helmet stood proudly atop the stand; the immaculate gleam of his bronze breastplate revealed its several dents and scratches, yet the leather straps seemed fresh and lacquered.

Custos Maritor sat at the table with his right-hand man, the Octio, at his side. After a time, he raised his head and inspected them.

"Rough sleep?"

Skippii pressed his lips firmly together. Running his mouth would only make it worse.

The Octio rounded the table and approached their file. "You insult the legion to arrive on parade looking so filthy."

Drusilla drew a breath to contend, but the Octio raised his voice, not to be interrupted. "Of course, I know there is more to this story than that you simply forgot to clean yourselves before the night. Perhaps, the skirmish yesterday could explain some of this dirt, however…" He stopped before Tenoris and wrinkled his nose. "Not all of it."

"It was-" Kaesii started.

"Furthermore," the Octio announced. "I have been made aware of your early morning adventures. If I knew that you were so eager to be up early before the trumpets, I would have you doing chores before sunrise. We employ slaves to tend the mules and dig the latrines, but perhaps you would perform those duties more diligently than they. In fact, I think that's precisely what I'll do."

The Octio paused, judging their reactions. Skippii held his expression as neutral as possible, but beside him, he felt Kaesii's ire leaking from him like a hot mist.

"Care to explain yourselves?" Custos Maritor said. "Or is there a secret within my tonnage that I am not privy to?"

Skippii closed his eyes and bit his tongue, but he could no longer hold himself back. Stepping forward, he drew a painful breath and spoke. "It was my idea, Primus. We conducted a sortie at night to recover a captured comrade of ours."

"You what?" the Octio said incredulously.

"We departed at dusk and arrived for the morning trumpets, and our mission was a success. We-"

"Your mission?" the Octio hissed. "Who authorised this sorte? You, legio?"

"Yes, sir."

With a flash, the Octio's cane struck Skippii in the temple. For such a thin stick, it stung like a lance. Shrinking away, Skippii raised his hand to defend himself, fearing another.

"Are you not afraid to admit such things to me?" the Octio spat in his face. "Have you no will to live, boy? Have you no self-preservation? You admit you abandoned camp, disobeyed orders for what… some campaign of vendetta?"

Turning, he swung his cane before the faces of Skippii's companeight. "How do I know you are telling the truth? How do I know that your endeavours were not more malicious?"

"I swear," Skippii stammered. "We were out to rescue our comrade."

"There have been many traitors of late," the Octio pressed. "Many secrets revealed, sold or stolen. And here, I have eight men conspiring to abandon their posts in the dead of night, by their own admission, to visit the enemy's camp."

"And slay them," Tenoris added. The cane cracked before he'd finished closing his mouth, splitting the big legionnaire across his brow. Tenoris growled, fists clenched.

"How am I to trust the words of legionnaires who cannot follow routine instructions?" The Octio's face shone red with anger. "Explain to me why I should not have you flogged and interrogated so that the truth may be revealed for certain?"

"You have my oath," Skippii said. "I am not lying."

"You have already broken your oath once today," the Octio said sinisterly. "What value has it now? And you." He turned on Orsin. "What sort of influence are you having on these boys? Once a trouble maker, aye? I knew I would have some problem with whatever velvets were put in your companeight, but I didn't expect it to happen this soon. I don't care whose idea it was to leave your post, I blame you for not stopping them."

Orsin's jaw was tight, his eyes firm as he withstood the Octio's tirade. For a time, locked in their intense stare, Skippii sensed a history of conflict tighten the air. "Blame away," he said. "While you're at it, why don't you hit me with that stick?"

"Oh really?" the Octio said, gripping his lash.

"Do it," Orsin growled, then leaned closer to whisper. "I'll pay you back twice, like before."

"Orsin," Cur cautioned. "Relax."

Clearing his throat, Custos Maritor gained their attention like a rider steers a stallion, but Orsin and the Octio were locked in a disdainful stare. Their Primus ignored the two, dragging a parchment across his desk to inspect it.

"Skippii Altay," he said, measured and with a touch of levity. "This mission you speak of, was it a success?"

"Yes," Skippii said, grateful for the Legious' interruption. "We rescued four, one was a legionnaire. They are in the surgeon's tent now."

"And we took two captives," Tenoris added.

"One legionnaire?" the Octio mused, swishing his cane back and forth. "Which one of you? This one?" His cane landed on Tenoris. Blood trickled from the cane's gash above his eye.

"No," Skippii hesitated. "Our slave, Clidensis."

The Octio froze, cane held aloft beneath Tenoris' chin, and scowled at him in silence. Slowly, he lowered the cane and turned to Custos Maritor with a confused expression on his face. The Primus seemed unphased, eyes flickering over their group.

"And this was your idea?"

"Yes, Primus."

"Orsinus Brentius," Maritor said. "You and the recruit stay behind. The rest of you are dismissed."

"Good luck," Tenoris whispered as he departed, wiping the blood from his brow.

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