The rain fell over the broken hills as the Roman camp stirred awake.
Tents made from torn cloaks and wagon sheets flapped in the cold wind. The few remaining legionaries gathered around small fires, polishing armor that had lost its shine long ago.
Marcus Varro stood before the largest tent — his eyes fixed on the horizon.
The storm clouds above reminded him of home — of battles fought in Germania, of comrades buried under cold soil. But this was not Rome. This was somewhere else. A world that did not know the eagle, nor the legions.
"Tribune," said a voice. It was Lucius, his loyal optio. "The village envoy has returned. The lord wishes to see you at once."
Marcus nodded. "Then we will go. Prepare ten men — disciplined ones. No drunk talk, no foolish moves."
---
The road to the lord's castle was narrow and muddy. Peasants watched them from behind fences, whispering about the men in red and bronze who marched in perfect step. When they reached the gate, guards hesitated before opening it. The foreign soldiers' cold discipline made them uneasy.
Inside, the castle was rough but strong — stone walls, smoke from torches, and a large wooden table where the local lord sat. He was a middle-aged man with a trimmed beard and chainmail armor. Beside him, a robed advisor studied Marcus curiously.
"You are the commander of these… 'legions'?" the lord asked, his tone respectful but cautious.
"I am Marcus Varro, Centurion of the Twelfth Legion — or what remains of it," Marcus said firmly. "We fight for peace and order."
The lord's brow lifted. "Then perhaps your order can serve this land. Bandits roam the forests. The King's men are weak. And your soldiers—" he paused, eyeing the Romans' formation, "—your soldiers could change that."
Marcus said nothing for a moment. Then:
"Rome once stood as the light of the world. Here, I see only darkness and fear. If you wish for peace, you must build strength. Not just swords — but discipline."
The lord smiled faintly. "Then perhaps we share the same dream, Centurion. I will give you land — a fort near the old ruins north of here. In return, your men will serve this realm."
Marcus's eyes narrowed. "A fair offer. But I serve no king. My men will defend the land… until Rome rises again — here."
The lord's smile faded. The hall fell silent, only the crackle of fire between them.
Finally, the advisor spoke. "Then we have an understanding. May your Rome rise again, Commander."
---
That night, Marcus stood outside under the stars.
The rain had stopped, and the sky was clear. In the distance, his men sang quietly around a fire — old songs of the Tiber, songs of home.
He raised the broken eagle standard they had saved from the battlefield — its wings shattered, but its spirit still strong.
"Legion," he whispered. "We are not lost. We are reborn."
The wind blew across the hills, carrying the sound of iron and hope.