Caelus looked around. A young, incredibly nervous boy to his left timidly raised his hand.
Valerius snatched a wax tablet from the table and shoved it into the boy’s chest. "Read it."
The boy gulped, squinting at the Latin script. "’Inventory of raw hematite... sixty crates’."
"Congratulations," Valerius stated flatly. "You are hired as a logistics runner. Go wait in the supply shed."
The boy sprinted off, absolutely overjoyed, leaving the remaining nine men staring in shock.
Valerius turned his gaze back to the muscular brutes.
"Now for the rest of you. I am going to ask a question. Answer honestly." Valerius stopped pacing and crossed his arms. "You are guarding a wagon filled with valuable iron. Five armed bandits jump from the trees. Do you break your defensive formation to chase them into the woods, or do you hold your ground and let them loose arrows at you?"
A massive, bearded man beside Caelus pounded his chest. "I draw my sword and charge! I’ll gut all five of them before they can notch a second arrow!"
Valerius didn’t even blink. "You die in an ambush, and the wagon is stolen. Get out."
The bearded man opened his mouth to argue, but two armed guards stepped forward, and he quickly scurried away.
Valerius went down the line. Most of the men gave equally bloodthirsty, aggressive answers, desperate to prove their bravery. Valerius dismissed all of them.
Finally, the veteran stopped in front of Caelus. He looked the muddy, lean plebeian up and down.
"Well, boy? Do you charge?"
"No," Caelus said steadily, keeping his voice even. "I hold the line. I use the reinforced wagon as cover from the arrows and blow my signaling whistle. A dead guard protects nothing, and the iron isn’t going anywhere if I stay planted next to it."
Valerius’s face slowly broke into a vicious, approving smirk. He tossed a small wooden token at Caelus’s chest, which the boy barely managed to catch.
"You have a brain in your skull. You pass," Valerius declared. "Report to the barracks. You belong to the Custodes now."
Caelus stared at the token in his dirty hands. The bizarre riddle had been designed to filter out the reckless idiots and identify men capable of maintaining a disciplined shield-wall.
A profound sense of pride swelled in his chest. He had actually made it.
Day One — Castra Umbra
The interior of the newly built timber barracks was pitch black and filled with the snores of exhausted recruits. Caelus was deeply asleep on a woven cot, his body finally resting on something softer than the city streets.
A deafening sound of iron smashing against wood shattered the tranquility.
"Up! Get on your feet, you soft Roman dogs!"
Caelus jolted awake. He scrambled out of his cot in the darkness, knocking his shins against the wooden frame.
Torches flared to life at the end of the long hall. Standing there was a towering mountain of a man with a blonde beard, wielding a club that he was smashing against the barracks door.
It was Wulfric, the Germanic war-chief, recently elevated by Lucius to serve as the primary drill instructor for the Custodes.
"You think fifty denarii comes for free?" Wulfric roared, pacing down the center. "You think you are warriors because you survived a tavern fight? You are dirt! You are nothing! We will hammer you until you are steel, or we will break you and throw you away!"
The recruits, some wearing nothing but their tunics, scrambled to form a ragged line against the wall. The literate boy who had been hired as a runner was shaking.
Wulfric stopped right in front of Caelus. The giant barbarian leaned down, his face inches from the young plebeian’s.
"Grab your training logs from the yard!" Wulfric bellowed. "You will run to the river and back before the sun breaches the horizon! If you drop the log, you do not eat today! Move!"
Caelus didn’t hesitate. He sprinted for the door, the other terrified recruits surging right behind him.
As the morning air hit his face and he hoisted a brutally heavy oak log onto his shoulders, a single thought crossed his mind.
What by the gods have I gotten myself into?