The enemy soldier put another lead ball into his sling, but Sertorius got him before he could fire it. He was the last of the enemy to contest the ground, a boy clad in scant armour, no older than fourteen. Judging by his garments, he was a soldier of the Samnite Confederation and belonged to the Hirpinus tribe. His comrades had already given up, and were retreating towards their camp. It seemed we were to have the sheep after all.

“Fine throw!” I remarked to Sertorius. He just shrugged, then went to retrieve his javelin and to loot the corpse of the enemy.

“Poor bugger had more courage than sense,” said one of my other men, the old Marcus. “Three of them, none of us, and we even get to dine on sheep. A fine day, it is. Get me a pot boys, and I will show you how real mutton stew is made!”

“Or take the sheep and get back to the camp before the cavalry shows up and fucks up our oh-so-fine day!” I snorted. Thinking wasn't old Marcus' strong suit. To be fair, neither was cooking, fighting, or anything else besides drinking himself into a dreamless stupor. In that, he was unbeatable.

Anyways, the Samnites have run now. We outnumbered them three to one after all. But the enemy's camp was close, the terrain rugged, and behind the next hill or grove there might have been a hundred other foragers, or even cavalry. I did not want to press our luck.

I stayed on the summit of the hill, keeping watch while my boys herded the sheep together, then back towards our camp. When they were at the foot of the hill, and still no enemy was in sight, I ran and caught up with them.

We were a fine company. Most free Romans despised the velites, because they were poor or young, or often both. Generally, my countrymen wanted to serve with the heavier troops.

But I liked being a veles, and I was proud of my men and boys. True, they were a ragtag group as any, and would not stand in a melee, but they were quick on their feet, even quicker in their mind. Well, except for old Marcus. Either way, we earned our share of victories together.

I was called to arms four years ago for the first time. It happened after the catastrophic defeat of Metellus Denter at Arretium, where almost a whole consular army perished. First, I took part in the campaign against the Etruscans and Senones, then against the Boii. This year there was no army campaigning in the northern theatre, so my merry company and I came South to fight against Samnites, Lucanians and Pyrrhus’ Greeks.

Young men of my status were usually expected to serve as cavalrymen, since only the rich could afford the horse and the armour. But I was not any noble; I was Publius Decius Mus. One of my ancestors was a leader of the Secessio Plebis in the year of Caelimontanus and Cicurinus.

That revolution met with success: the Senate relented in the end, and fulfilled most of the people’s demands. Ever since that bloodless victory my family prided itself on its friendship with the common folk. True, we were now one of the most opulent families of the Republic. We had even given Rome three consuls in three generations. Still, we did not forget whence we came.

My thoughts were interrupted by a group of cavalrymen. They broke out of the cover of a grove between us and the river, and started to gallop towards us. The tips of their spears glinted in the sunshine.

“Are they ours?” asked one of my boys.

“Yes they are, and it seems that they worked up an appetite for mutton,” spat Sertorius.

“I will talk to them,” I said, walking forward. “That is my friend, Quintus, if I am not mistaken.”

Sertorius spat again, but he did not say anything. This tall, somber soldier did not like nobles at all. He tolerated me, barely, because I was of Sabine stock just like him. Now there are Sabines and Sabines, of course. Appius Claudius, the old censor, and his sizeable clan were also descended from a Sabine warlord, Attus Clausus. Despite their origins they did not speak a word of any Oscan language though. We, Decii Mures, on the other hand, still spoke the old language between ourselves.

“Gurges!” I shouted when they came close enough. “These sheep are not for your sorry lot! If you are hungry, eat your horses, the damned beasts are useless anyway!”

“Publius!” he shouted back. “It's time to stop playing with children!” He led a riderless horse to me.

“Get on!” he said. “The consul wishes to speak to you.”

Well, it's not like I wanted to suffer through old Marcus' mutton stew anyway.

I got into the saddle and turned back towards my men. “We will sleep in the camp tonight! Don't wait for me with the dinner! And if anyone gets drunk, I will break his bones!”

The boys grinned, and I rode away with Quintus Fabius Maximus Gurges and his group of young knights.

“Why is my father calling?” I asked.

“A legate came from the king. It kind of stirred up the old folks.” He glanced at me sideways. “But seriously! How long are you planning on staying with that bunch of drunks and kids? It's time you at least got decent armour.”

“I do have decent armour at the camp, as you very well know. It's just way too heavy if I have to run around all day.”

“Then don't run around all day. Put on your armour, and fight with with us tomorrow, like a proper little aristocrat. Or at least join up the heavy infantry. The Hastatii, who fight in the first line can always use one more sword. You remember your promise?”

“I will run for the consulship with you in twenty years. Like our grandfathers did. Of course, I remember.”

“Well, then start acting like you remember. These friends of yours are all great lads, I am sure, but in which class are they exactly?”

“Fifth class and capite censi,” I growled.

Capite censi, which means ‘those counted by head’. Albeit free Romans, these citizens had not possessed enough wealth to get into one of the higher classes on the census. They had one vote altogether in the centuriate assembly, thus their opinion did not hold much weight during the elections. The citizens of the fifth class had more centuries, but elections were usually long decided before their turn came, so they were rarely called to cast their votes.

“If you want to win you must become popular amongst the knights and the first class,” lectured me my friend.

“Do you take me for some kind of fool?” I gnarled, annoyed by the patronising tone. “Of course I know my men can't win me an election. But in case you hadn't noticed, there is a war going on, and someone needs to win that too! If we still want to have elections in twenty years, that is.”

“Are you saying you are winning the war?” he inquired.

“Well we sure as hell are getting more stuff done than you fancy boys, parading on your fancy horses.”

“Oh yes, snatching sheep from Lucanian bandits, truly you are a master of warfare. Pyrrhos must be terrified of your boys by now.”

“I will let you know; these were Samnites. Moreover, that is how you chip away the enemy's strength and weaken him before the battle. And that is also what cavalry is supposed to be good at, but for some reason you lot are content sitting on your backsides doing nothing.”

Gurges drew a deep breath. “Let's assume this isn't just you having delusions of grandeur. Let's assume you are right, and this is how you truly win the war. But for the consular elections, it does not matter who won the war. The only thing matters is who the electors think won the war. There were now how many, maybe thousand skirmishes between our velites and Pyrrhos' Lucanians or Samnites or Bruttians? No one will remember those in a year. The battle tomorrow? Everyone will remember that in hundred years even. Especially those who fought in the first line, and secured the victory.”

“Alright, alright,” I laughed. “And I am the one having delusions of grandeur...”

We forded the river, brown waves licking the belly of our horses. The beasts dripped water as we rode towards our camp. At the gate, a guard with plumed helmet stopped us, but after he received the password, he ordered his men to let us through.

I dismounted.

“Where is my father now?” I asked.

“I left the consul in his tent. You know the way?” he asked innocently.

“Of course, I know the bloody way!” I snapped back. “Now make yourself scarce, and harass someone else with your politicking!”

My father sat together with Publius Sulpicius Saverrio, the other consul, and a few of their senior officers.

“Publius,” he greeted me when he saw me entering the tent. I bowed to them and took off my helmet.

“Consul, you have summoned me.”

“The king has sent a legate with threats and demands,” said Saverrio gloomily. “He threatened to capture and torture your father if he devotes himself.”

Both my grandfather and great-grandfather were famous for turning the tide of their last battle. They devoted themselves to the gods, and rode into the thick of the enemy. They died, but their example rallied the crumbling Roman line while it dispirited the enemy troops.

“Were you already planning to devote yourself?” I asked bemused.

“It will not come to that. Otherwise, it seems the reputation of our family has reached Epirus as well,” said my father with no little satisfaction. “But the message didn't only concern me. Pyrrhus gave an order to his whole army to capture alive anyone wearing the garments of the gens Decia.”

“Good thing then that I am dressed as a landless veles,” I answered.

“See that you stay that way,” said my father seriously, then smiled. “Of course you will want to eat with your boys instead of us boring, old men?”

“I told them to get on without me, consul,” I smiled back, then added, “Truth to be told, we captured a few sheep, and I do not fancy to try old Marcus' famous mutton stew.”

My father shuddered. “That, I can understand.” He then turned to his colleague “Publius Sulpicius, shouldn't we invite your sons as well, then?”

After dinner, I got back to my men. Under my ragtag surcoat, I wore my chainmail this time, and I had replaced my smaller round shield with the bigger, heftier one.

“Deserting us for the Hastati, boss?” sneered Sertorius as he saw me.

“I will fight with you tomorrow,” I said, annoyed by the assumption. “But it may come to melee, so I prepared for it.”

He shrugged, and without apologizing, went back to playing dice with himself. He never played with others, but he still carried a fine set. Took it off a Lucanian corpse a few months back. As I watched him rolling and rerolling, I was seized by the desire to grab the sardonic bastard, and feed his bloody dice to him. Even though I have been leading him for almost a year now, and should have earnt his respect many times over, he still assumed I was deserting them before the battle.

But, there is a time and a place to beat your men into knowing their place, and this was neither. I made small talk with some of my other boys, but then a young veles came over from another company, and he reminded me too much of Lucius. So I went to sleep instead. My feet towards our campfire, my body, tucked into two surcoats, and under my head two of my folded tunics.

I remember hoping that I wouldn't have any dreams. My father was an augur, so he did teach me how to interpret most of the signs, but he also warned me about the treacherous nature of omens in dreams.

“The gods speak to us through dreams, that is true, but it's never so clear as the flight of the birds, or the entrails of the sacrifice. Omens in dreams are muddy, confusing, hard to interpret, and there are no general rules which can be applied. With dreams, everything depends on the context.”

In hindsight, it was strange that he of all people thought so. After all, his grandfather, my great-grandfather, the first in the family who sacrificed himself to secure the victory for his army, received his instructions from a deity in a dream. And that night, when a god came to speak with me in my slumber, it was as clear a conversation as any I ever had.

“Quirinus!” I cried when I recognized the man who was facing me; then I remembered my manners. “Ward of the Roman People, are you here to warn me of a danger threatening the army? Or do you want to show me a sign of our victory?”

“I came to you in your sleep, to speak about your future,” he said. His voice was surprisingly gentle and sad for some reason. “But it is your future only.”

“Am I going to earn a famous victory in the battle tomorrow?” I asked eagerly.

“You won't fight in the battle tomorrow. You won't be here, at Asculum anymore.”

“Where will I be then?” said I baffled.

“I can't say. I don't know. I only sense, that a force, that is bigger than mine has latched onto you, and now pulling you away from this world. All of you, Quirites, are my children, and you among them are especially dear to my heart, Publius. If I could avert the fate waiting for you, I would. But I cannot, so I came here, to give you counsel, and a parting gift.”

“Are there gods more powerful than yourself?” I asked, confused. “The Roman People are the most powerful people in the world, so surely our gods must be as powerful, as ourselves?”

“The Quirites, my children, are mighty indeed, but everything that lives will die eventually. It is foolish to think there is no one more powerful than yourself; at least Death is always stronger. However, this time it is not Death who is calling you, and I still cannot match the strength which is pulling you away from me.”

I was shaken. However, I pulled myself together quickly and asked: “Will I be able to find my way back here?”

“That depends on you, and you only, Publius Decius Mus. Now hear my advice: the place where you are going might be more alien to you than you can now imagine. But you must not show your surprise and your ignorance. You must not let anyone know that you are not from that world. Powerful enemies might be waiting for your appearance, thus, guard your true name well. Find companions, but examine them carefully before you trust them with your secret.”

“And here, at last, is my parting gift. Seven berries of the myrtle, my and Venus' sacred plant. The flower of love and war, and seven to match the number of the hills Rome was built on. We worked powerful magic on them, the most powerful we had, but I cannot say what effect, if any, that will have in the other world you are going to. When you judge that the time is right, plant these seeds. They may help you to find your way back here, or to build a new home for yourself. Or, if all else fails, these myrtles may still please your eye.”

And with that, before I could have asked anything else, I woke, clutching on seven berries of myrtle. My feet were towards the campfire, my body tucked into two surcoats, and under my head, two of my folded tunics. The sun hang barely above the horizon. And I was totally, utterly alone. The great army of Pyrrhos, the King of Epirus, and the even greater army of the Roman People have vanished without a trace.

In my hazy, half-dreaming state an unexpected and unwelcome thought formulated in my head. Sertorius was right to be suspicious of me. I deserted my men before the fight, after all.