The terrain gradually flattened as they marched, and Nerithon neared. He grew accustomed to the many watchful eyes around camp, until they melded with the crows and the campfire's shadows at night; they were the arcanus, priests and superiors such as his tonnage's Octio. Kinder, were the faces of legionnaires. Word had spread, and stories were told, of his magia outburst upon the riverbank, which stunned three-hundred of the enemy Ürkün, making it an easy fight for his cohort. A few who had witnessed it saluted him as though he was a superior, but Skippii returned each of their salutes with a genuine smile. Fewer still approached him with a greeting. Amongst them were veterans and recruits, the young and old, hailing from all across the free lands of Auctaritas.

"Hail Erymenes' hammer." Many attributed his magia to one God or another, and he hadn't the heart to rebuke them.

"Glory to the Pantheon," he replied each time. But that was as much socialising as he had time for. Quite suddenly, all of his hours were occupied with tasks. He awoke before the trumpet's call and sat outside in the morning gloom, meditating on the sensations of his magia while the slaves worked around him. During the day, he marched in line, same as any legionnaire. On the night performed the duties of camp: digging ditches, unloading supplies and gathering firewood. Then, after a hurried meal, he ventured out with Cliae to train. The most he saw of his companeight was their sleeping bodies when he returned to their tent late each night, taking his usual spot by the flap. Each night, Tenoris awoke and quizzed him on his advancements that day.

"Much the same," Skippii reported on the tenth night of marching. "I'm getting it under control. It's starting to feel second nature to me. But I don't dare try our Seismic Quake while the arcanus is watching."

"Why? Would she stop you?" Tenoris asked.

"I don't think so. I don't really want them knowing what I can do, if I can help it."

"Are they hostile?"

"They've been quiet," Skippii said. "But they're watching. Maybe planning something. I know they don't like me. But while I've got the Imperator's grace, they can't act on it."

The big legionnaire yawned. "Does it make you hungry?"

"Erm, no," Skippii answered, a little taken aback by his change in tone. "A little thirsty if I stretch myself too thin."

"How does it feel? Does it itch? Is it like growing pains?"

"Shut up," Cur growled from across the tent.

"Like stretching, but never painful," Skippii whispered.

"Do you see any of the Gods? Any of them at all?"

Even in the dark, he could sense Tenoris' hopefulness. He was a man of the Pantheon, and although he spared no judgement for Skippii's latent abilities, he had yet to accept that the likelihood was, they were not a gift of the Gods, but something else entirely.

"Not yet," Skippii sighed.

"What about Summitor? I could have sworn-" Tenoris blurted.

"Shut up!" Cur snapped, and put a stop to their conversation.

On the eleventh night, almost thirty legionnaires from the adjacent companeights accompanied Drussilla back to their camp. The men had been engaged in a large gamble of some sort, but when talk of the game had turned to their tonnage's most notorious legionnaire, they had abandoned their wager and descended on Companeight IV's campfire. Some of them had already introduced themselves to Skippii, though he was unclear of their names, there being too many to remember. More so had remained in the shadows, preferring to whisper and stare. However, on that night, they came forth one at a time with hands extended.

"Summitor's Hammer," one greeted with the nickname that was going around.

"Glory Imperium Auctoritas," Skippii said. It was a formal military greeting, but he used it deliberately so that there was no question where his allegiances lay.

Soon, the whole of Tonnage VI was gathered around their single campfire, huddled around the adjacent tents, attracting more from the cohort at large. It was as though some mass invocation of hesitancy had broken, and all their misgivings washed away. In the dark, he could not tell how many had come, but he greeted each with sincerity, hearing their names, trying futilely to commit them to memory.

"Skippii," someone familiar said. Skippii turned to see the same legionnaire who had approached him on the hilltop overlooking the plains the day before the battle of river Erithas. His companions were with him too, including the legionnaire who had been bitter towards him, taking the rescue of his companion a knock to his pride. The tall man caught Skippii's eye and drew his fist to his temple in salute. Nodding, he returned the gesture.

"My good friend," the first legionnaire said, throwing his arm over Skippii's shoulder, more companionably than was merited. "How are you?"

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He hadn't the heart to admit that he didn't remember the legionnaire's name, so instead smiled and greeted him formally. Also present were Custos Maritor and the Octio, but each kept their distance, allowing the informal proceeding to continue under their supervision.

Most of the legionnaires were young like him. Many hailed from the capital city of Vestia, or its sister mountainous realm Summitus. However, there wasn't a corner of the Auctoritas that wasn't represented by at least one son amongst the Cohort II. Those from Clidus had darkened skin, the colour of sun-ripened olives; the hands of Virelius's sons were softer, their hair fairer; the fast-flowing accents of the Lacustrians sounded at times like running water–but they all spoke the same language. They were all his half-brothers, his distant blood and countrymen.

An older legionnaire with grizzled stubble and a crooked eye shook his hand firmly. "Well met, Earth Hammer. I witnessed your deed from the front of the phalanx. Felt the tremors in my feet. Truly, the Gods have blessed you."

"When you figure out which God exactly, tell me. I'm not sure."

The legionnaire laughed. "It is not of my ilk to know such things. But you've not been visited?"

Skippii was suddenly aware of the thin quiet that had spread from their conversation as the surrounding legionnaires listened intently.

"No, not exactly. But it changes nothing. I'm still a legionnaire." Skippii raised his chin to meet the veteran's keen eye. "My power is in the hands of the Imperator."

The veteran nodded slowly. "Glory Imperium Auctoritas."

Traditionally, the response was 'Dominatus et Pantheonos'. However, Skippii opted for something less religious. "Victory to the Ninth."

"Quickly now," somebody barked. The Octio strode into the centre of their procession, disciplinary rod in hand. "Say your greetings and be done. Return to your camps. I shan't have you lagging on the march tomorrow."

Many grumbled and departed. A few lagged behind to shake his hand, but before long, only his companeight and their Octio remained. His superior glowered at him as though he was going to say something, but remained silent.

Skippii hailed him nervously. "Glory Auctoritas."

The Octio's eyes narrowed, then their gaze flickered towards their tent where Orsin stood statuesque. The two veterans glared at one another like stags across a field. The Octio's lips twitched, as though they would say something, but only snarled. Then his eyes returned to Skippii.

"Dominatus et Pantheonos." He spoke the words like a threat. "Custos Maritor requires your presence."

"Yes Octio," Skippii replied, but his superior had already turned and had begun walking away.

"What is his problem?" Tenoris said.

"Everything," Orsin said. "I don't think he's a fan of our champion here."

"Why?" Skippii asked.

"He's got a problem with everything. Don't worry about it."

"It's his job to be a nob," Cur added.

"And he's excellent at it," Orsin said.

"Best see what the Primus wants," said Skippii, departing after the Octio for their tonnage's command tents. Upon entering, he found his Primus alone, washing his hands in a basin beneath a shrine. He wore a simple tunic. His bronze armour and brushed-clean cloak hung from pegs nearby. The veteran looked naked without his attire–vulnerable–but as he turned to Skippii, his eyes were as sharp as ever.

"Sit," he said. "I mean to talk to you about something I mentioned the other day–about me performing a rite of initiation for you."

"Oh." Skippii heard the apprehension in his own utterance, and failed to mask it with any further statement.

Drying his hands, Custos Maritor came to sit at his side, pouring a small cup of wine for them each. "It's your choice, of course. I could admit you to Maricorus' care, if you pledge to worship the Swantide."

He motioned towards a rustic tabletop shrine. Three candles were lit in a trident-shaped holder, lighting a slab of splintered wood, upon which the symbol of Maricorus was painted a white swan whose wings formed waves. Decorated about it were vials of sands from different shores, sea shells and a small band of pearls.

"It may dispel some of the animosity, if you were to be made astral."

"What does it involve?" Skippii asked. "To be initiated?"

"I will take you to the ocean and declare your presence to Maricorus. You should feel something. For me, it was a rush in my feet, and a feeling of being dragged out of my body. But it passed quickly. Sometimes I can feel it now when I pray." Custos Maritor creased his lips. "But other than that, nothing much. You can call yourself astral, as long as you perform some basic prayers. You get out of it as much as you put in. If you pray daily, your connection with him will grow. You may commune with him. I do sometimes. I receive some answers… sometimes not. It depends on the questions you ask. Maricorus is more concerned with the oceans, you see."

Skippii lowered his gaze, hiding his reservations. He had never been given the chance to become astral as did most other legionnaires–who were raised in the cites amongst priests and temples. However, of late, he had come to declare such a fact with pride. It defined him, warts and all, and he felt reluctant to give it up on a whim.

"No?" Custos Maritor asked, reading his mood. "Not a good idea?"

"It's a great idea," he said. "Thank you for offering. But… if I am to be initiated into the Pantheon, I want it to be for a good reason–because I have a connection with one of the Gods, not because I feel coerced into doing so. Not for politics."

Custos Maritor sat back in his chair, considering him. "Good response. I don't think you should do it just because the Coven…" he trailed off. "Well, they don't like you really, do they?"

Skippii laughed at his bluntness. "I don't think being astral would make a difference. It still wouldn't explain my magia. And they think that I'm… you know…"

"Perhaps not," he said. "But perhaps it would bring you peace to know you did not walk the mortal plain alone and unguided."

"Not alone," Skippii whispered to himself, then raised his voice. "The Imperator gave me leave. And, I should tell you, I have been training my magia away from camp each night."

"The arcanus informs me so," his Primus said, expression unflinching. "As long as it does not interrupt your legionnaire's duties."

"It won't," he said, raising his chin. "Thank you for the offer, superior, but I think I will decline for now."

"As you wish," Maritor shrugged. "I won't keep you any longer. I'm just as tired from today's march as you."

That night, as Skippii turned in sleep, his dreams were filled with the anxious faces of legionnaires surrounding and standing above him. But as morning dawned, the faces softened–their suspicions drained away and they were friendly once more. He dreamed of the children he had grown up around, each of them now an adult like him, and spoke to each one about his life. They were all amazed, and Skippii was filled with a sense of pride. Then the morning came and he opened his eyes.

It was early dawn, and he had work to do.

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