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  Primus Pilus: Titus Aelius Maximus

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  I awoke not to the familiar blare of the buccina signaling the dawn watch, but to a gentle warmth seeping through the leather flap of my tent and the unfamiliar, rhythmic sigh of waves upon sand. My first conscious thought was one of surprise – I felt… good. Remarkably good. The dull ache that usually resided in my lower back, a constant companion earned through twenty-five years of legionary service, marching untold miles under heavy loads, was simply… gone. The throbbing headache that had lingered behind my eyes after the inexplicable events of the previous day had vanished completely. Even the soreness in my muscles, expected after the brutal fighting in Caledonia followed by hours of frantic fort construction in this oppressive heat, was absent. It was disconcerting. I felt rested, truly rested, in a way I hadn't since my youth.

  Pushing aside the wool blanket – surprisingly unnecessary in the warm night air – I sat up on my simple camp cot. I stretched, cautiously at first, then more deliberately. No twinges, no stiffness. It was as if the very air of this strange place possessed some restorative quality, some subtle magic that had knitted weary flesh and eased old pains while we slept. Or perhaps, I mused grimly, the shock of our arrival had simply overridden lesser discomforts, only now allowing this strange sense of well-being to surface.

  Curiosity piqued, I stood and moved to the entrance of my tent. Pushing aside the flap, I stepped out onto the cool sand just as the first rays of sunlight crested the vast, shimmering horizon of the ocean. The sky was ablaze with colour – streaks of fiery orange, soft pink, and pale gold painted across the deep blue canvas. The sun itself was a brilliant disk rising from the sea, its light scattering diamonds across the gently moving water. It was a sunrise of breathtaking beauty, reminding me sharply, unexpectedly, of my childhood home on the coast of Italia, near Ostia. Watching the fishing boats return with the dawn, the smell of salt and nets, the warmth of the morning sun on the docks… A wave of nostalgia washed over me, potent and bittersweet. For a fleeting moment, detached from the impossible reality of our situation, I found myself thinking, *"I could get used to this."*

  The thought was immediately chased away by pragmatism. This wasn't Italia. This wasn't home. This was an unknown shore, potentially hostile, where beauty likely concealed dangers we couldn't yet fathom. My duty lay not in appreciating sunrises, but in ensuring the survival of the men under my command, the remnants of the once-mighty Ninth Legion.

  My Optio, Marcus Licinius Clemens, was already awake, sitting on an upturned supply crate near the First Century's designated area, methodically chewing on a piece of hard biscuit. Clemens was a solid man, reliable and efficient, his presence a calming influence on the men. He looked up as I approached, his expression reflecting a similar sense of rested surprise.

  "Primus Pilus," he greeted me, rising respectfully. "A good morning, considering."

  "Indeed, Clemens," I replied, accepting the piece of hardtack he offered. We ate in companionable silence for a few moments, the salty air mixing with the dry taste of the biscuit. "Did you sleep well? You look less weary than yesterday."

  He nodded, chewing thoughtfully. "Surprisingly so, sir. Like a stone. Woke up feeling… lighter. The aches are gone. Strange, isn't it? After everything."

  "Strange, yes," I agreed, my gaze sweeping over our nascent camp. The basic palisade stood complete, a rough wooden circle against the backdrop of the dense jungle. Men were beginning to stir, emerging from their tents, the usual morning routines slowly starting. The air hummed with low voices, the clink of gear, the distant bleating of one of the few surviving pack mules. "Perhaps this air agrees with us more than the damp chill of Britannia. Or perhaps the gods decided to grant us a mercy after testing us so severely."

  Clemens grunted, unconvinced by divine explanations but accepting the physical relief. "Whatever the cause, I won't complain. Gives us more strength for the day's work."

  "Precisely," I said, finishing my biscuit. "And there is much work to be done. We need to understand this place. The scouting parties yesterday gave us little beyond the immediate vicinity and a water source. Today, we need to range further. I want two strong reconnaissance units prepared. Mounted, if possible – check with the Decurion of the remaining turma what condition the horses are in. They'll need provisions for a full day, perhaps longer if they find something significant. One north, one south along the coast, pushing further than yesterday. I want detailed reports – terrain, vegetation, any signs of native life, animal or intelligent. Stress caution, always caution. And they must attempt to return by nightfall unless circumstances make it impossible."

  I gestured towards the partially completed fort. "The rest of the men, those not on watch or essential duties, will continue strengthening the fortifications. We need higher walls, reinforced gates, cleared fields of fire extending further into that jungle. We also need proper latrines dug away from the water source, and perhaps a more organized system for fetching water now that we know where it is." I looked Clemens squarely in the eye. "Yesterday was about survival. Today is about establishing ourselves, however temporarily. We need maps, information, and security."

  Clemens absorbed the orders, his gaze sharp. "Understood, Primus Pilus. Mounted scouts, full day provisions, cautious reconnaissance north and south. Fortification improvements continue. I'll see to the Tesserarius immediately to get the duty rosters adjusted and the scouting units organized." He gave a crisp salute, his earlier ease replaced by focused professionalism. "Is there anything else, sir?"

  "No, Clemens. See it done."

  He saluted again and strode off towards the cluster of tents housing the century's administrative staff, his voice already rising as he began issuing orders. I watched him go, satisfied. Order was being maintained. The gears of the legionary machine, though battered, were still turning.

  My next task was to report to the Praefectus Castrorum, Titus Flavius Valens. As acting commander, he needed to be apprised of the morning's plans and the general state of readiness. I turned, intending to walk towards the slightly larger tent designated as the temporary command post, located near the center of the encampment where the Aquila stood sentinel.

  I had taken only a few steps when it happened.

  A sudden, intense flash of light erupted, far in the distance, painting the northeastern sky with an unnatural, searing brilliance. It wasn't the warm gold of the rising sun, but the fierce, electric blue-white we had witnessed in the cave – the colour of captured lightning, impossibly bright even miles away. It pulsed, a silent detonation of energy against the clear morning sky, seeming to emanate from somewhere deep within the jungle, beyond the immediate coastal plain.

  A collective gasp went through the camp. Every man froze, heads snapping towards the source of the light. Fear, cold and immediate, banished the morning's strange sense of well-being. That light… we knew that light. It was the harbinger of the impossible, the force that had thrown us only gods know where, the architect of our current predicament.

  "The light! Look!" Someone shouted, pointing.

  "Gods preserve us, it's back!"

  "What is it doing?"

  Panic rippled through the ranks. Men scrambled from tents, fumbling for helmets and shields they hadn't yet donned. Centurions bellowed commands, trying to restore order amidst the sudden fear. The sharp, urgent notes of the cornu cut through the air – *Ad Arma! Enemy sighted!* – the sound echoing strangely against the backdrop of the placid ocean and alien jungle. Legionaries instinctively formed rough lines, shields raised, pila gripped tightly, eyes fixed on the distant, terrifying light. The camp, moments before slowly waking, was now a scene of tense, fearful readiness.

  I stood rooted to the spot, my hand resting on the hilt of my gladius, my heart pounding against my ribs. I watched the light, expecting… something. Another shift? An attack? Would it swallow us again? Would creatures emerge from that distant brilliance?

  But then, as abruptly as it had appeared, the light simply… vanished. One moment it was there, a terrifying beacon in the jungle's depths; the next, it was gone, leaving only the normal colours of the morning sky and the lingering image burned onto our retinas. Silence descended, thick with tension and unanswered questions. Nothing happened. No explosion followed, no host marched forth. The jungle remained still, the sky clear.

  The men remained poised, uncertain, glancing at each other, then towards their officers, towards me, towards Valens who had now emerged from his tent, his face grim. What did it mean? Had it brought something else? Someone else? Or was it merely an echo, a discharge of whatever force had brought us here?

  My mind raced. The scouts were preparing to head north and south. But that light… it demanded investigation. Whatever it was, whatever it had done, we needed to know. It originated from the northeast, inland. Ignoring it felt like ignoring a scorpion discovered in one’s bedding. My carefully laid plans for the day dissolved in the face of this new, urgent mystery.

  I turned, scanning the ranks until I spotted Clemens again, who was trying to calm the men of our century. "Clemens!" I shouted, my voice cutting through the lingering tension. He looked towards me immediately. "Change of plans! Forget the coastal reconnaissance for now! We investigate that light!"

  He hurried over, his expression questioning but obedient. "Sir?"

  "That light appeared inland, northeast," I explained quickly, pointing in the direction it had been. "Whatever caused it, I want eyes on it. Ready the First Century. Full marching order. Extra water, axes and dolabrae for clearing brush. We leave within the hour."

  Clemens didn't hesitate. "Understood, Primus Pilus! First Century, prepare to march!"

  The order rippled outwards. The men of the First, initially scrambling for defensive positions, now shifted focus, checking gear, filling waterskins, ensuring their pila were secure. There was a new energy now – fear replaced by the grim purpose of a specific mission, even one into the unknown heart of this jungle. The Signifer, a sturdy veteran named Decimus, hefted the century's standard, its silvered medallions glinting. The Cornicen checked his horn. Within the allotted hour, nearly eighty men stood assembled in disciplined columns behind the standard, ready to face whatever lay ahead. Praefectus Valens gave his curt approval, his own face etched with worry but understanding the necessity of the mission. "Find out what that was, Maximus. Be cautious. Report back."

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  We marched out of the relative safety of our crude fort, leaving the familiar sounds of the waves behind, and plunged into the suffocating embrace of the jungle. The air grew thick, heavy with humidity and the scent of damp earth and unknown blossoms. Sunlight struggled to penetrate the dense canopy far above, casting the jungle floor in a perpetual twilight. Progress was arduous. The vegetation was thicker here than near the immediate coast. Vines like thick ropes snared our feet, massive roots buckled the ground, and the undergrowth formed tangled walls that had to be hacked through step by agonizing step. The men in the vanguard swung their axes and heavy billhooks, sweat pouring down their faces, the rhythmic thudding and slashing echoing in the enclosed space. Insects buzzed relentlessly, biting flies drew blood, and strange bird calls echoed from unseen heights. We moved with weapons ready, flankers attempting to scout slightly ahead and to the sides, though visibility was often limited to a few paces.

  The heat was intense, far worse than on the open beach. Armour became a sweltering burden, mail shirts clinging damply to tunics, helmets trapping sweat. We paused frequently for water, the men breathing heavily, their faces flushed. Yet, discipline held. There was little talking, only the sounds of our passage and the incessant noise of the jungle itself. We pushed northeast, following the approximate bearing where the light had appeared, navigating by the sun's position glimpsed occasionally through breaks in the canopy, and by the instincts of experienced legionaries.

  After what felt like several hours of exhausting travel, covering perhaps only three or four miles, the character of the jungle began to change subtly. The trees seemed slightly less dense, the undergrowth less tangled. Then, the men at the very front stopped, holding up their hands. A low murmur passed back along the column. I pushed my way forward, joining the vanguard.

  Parting the final screen of broad, waxy leaves, I looked out upon a scene so unexpected, so utterly incongruous, that I blinked, certain my eyes deceived me. Before us lay a large clearing, several iugera in size, clearly worked land. Not Roman fields, but something simpler, rougher. And scattered across this clearing, amidst pens holding various animals, near a simple dwelling constructed of mud bricks and rough-hewn timber, lay people. Dozens of them. Men, women, children, all sprawled on the ground as if felled by a sudden sleep. Animals too – cows with lyre-shaped horns, shaggy goats, robust-looking horses, chickens scratching aimlessly – many lay unconscious beside their owners.

  It was a farmstead. A complete, functioning farmstead, plucked from some other place and dropped carelessly into the heart of this alien jungle. And its inhabitants, along with their livestock – perhaps thirty people in all, and easily a hundred animals – were all deeply, unnervingly unconscious. Just as we had been.

  My men stared, silent with shock and awe. This… this was what the light had brought. Not destruction, not monsters, but… farmers. I scanned the scene quickly. The people were dressed simply, in tunics of coarse cloth, some barefoot, others in simple sandals. Their features were unfamiliar – dark hair, tanned skin that spoke of long hours under a different sun. Near the center of the group lay an old woman, her face a roadmap of wrinkles, looking impossibly ancient even in repose. Not far from her, a young mother lay with an infant clutched tightly to her breast, both lost in the same unnatural slumber.

  My own experience from the previous day flooded back – the disorientation, the headache, the confusion. These poor souls were about to endure the same. "Quietly," I whispered, turning to Clemens and the nearby Centurions. "Deploy the men. Form a perimeter around the clearing, facing outwards. Maintain silence." I looked back at the sleeping figures. "We offer these people no threat. They are victims, same as us. Provide security while they sleep. Let them wake on their own." I remembered the splitting headache that had followed my own awakening. "Waking them early would be no kindness."

  The legionaries moved with practiced stealth, fanning out, securing the edges of the clearing, their shields ready, their eyes scanning the jungle treeline. A cordon was established, silent Roman sentinels guarding a sleeping Middle-Eastern farmstead mysteriously transplanted to a tropical world. We waited. The sun climbed higher, its heat intensifying in the clearing. The only sounds were the buzzing of insects, the occasional lowing or bleating from a waking animal, and the soft breathing of the unconscious people.

  It was perhaps half an hour later when the first person stirred. A young boy, lying near a powerfully built man who I guessed was his father, groaned softly. He couldn't have been more than twelve years old, maybe thirteen. He had a thick mop of dark brown hair that fell across his forehead, skin tanned the colour of polished copper, and when he sat up slowly, rubbing his eyes, he opened them to reveal startlingly bright green eyes – unusual for the complexion. He blinked, his gaze unfocused for a moment, then sharpening as he took in the impossible sight of dozens of armoured soldiers surrounding his family.

  He shot to his feet with a speed and agility that surprised me, far quicker than any of us had recovered the day before. His eyes darted around wildly, taking in the Roman soldiers, the unfamiliar jungle bordering his family's fields, the sheer wrongness of it all. Panic flashed across his face, but it was quickly replaced by concern. He looked down frantically, locating the man beside him – his father – still unconscious. He knelt quickly, shaking the man's shoulder. "Abba? Abba!" His voice was high-pitched with fear.

  "Strong lad," I thought to myself, observing from a short distance. "Reacts quickly. Perhaps being so young makes the transition, the waking, a little easier too. Or maybe his people are simply hardier."

  The boy's shaking roused the father. The man groaned loudly, clutching his head with both hands, his face contorted in pain. He forced his eyes open, squinting against the bright sunlight filtering into the clearing. His gaze swept around, taking in the Roman soldiers, the strange jungle pressing in on familiar fields, the rest of his family still unconscious. His expression shifted from pain to utter confusion and fear. He pushed himself into a sitting position, still holding his head, and spoke, his voice rough, laced with bewildered anguish.

  "Mākān Anā Mah Yākīn Hatqīyātā Hākān?"

  The words were guttural, unfamiliar to my ears. Definitely not Latin, Greek, or any Celtic dialect I'd ever encountered. It sounded vaguely like the tongues spoken in the far eastern provinces – Syria, perhaps, or Judaea.

  I turned to Clemens, who stood nearby. "What language is that, Optio? Do you recognize it? Aramaic, perhaps?"

  Clemens frowned, listening intently as the man continued to mutter, questioning his son who could only shake his head in confusion. "It sounds like it could be, sir. Similar to what some of the traders spoke in Antioch when I served there with the Third Gallica. I'll check if any of the men have a better ear for it."

  He moved off quickly, speaking quietly to the legionaries nearby. Many of our recruits came from the eastern provinces, drawn by the promise of citizenship and steady pay. After a few minutes, Clemens returned, accompanied by a young legionary from the second manipulus of my century. He was slender, dark-featured, looking nervous but alert.

  "Primus Pilus, this is Gaius Claudius Longinus, from the Seventh Cohort originally, transferred to us after the losses. He hails from Antioch. Says he believes the language is indeed Aramaic, or a dialect very close to it."

  I looked the young soldier over. "Longinus, you understand this man?"

  "Roughly, sir," Longinus acknowledged, his eyes flicking towards the farmer who was now trying to rouse his wife. "It's the common tongue of the villages outside Antioch. I grew up hearing it daily, though my own family spoke Greek mostly."

  "Roughly will have to suffice," I said. "Listen carefully. Approach this man. Explain who we are – soldiers of Rome. Explain that we arrived here unexpectedly, just as they have. Tell him we mean no harm. We have established a fortified camp nearby. Invite him and his family to join us there for mutual protection and shelter. Emphasize that it is an offer, not a command. We will not force them if they wish to remain here or go elsewhere, though I cannot imagine where else they could go." My gaze swept the impassable jungle. "Make sure he understands we offer safety in numbers."

  Longinus nodded, steeling himself. "Yes, Primus Pilus. I will try my best."

  He walked slowly towards the farmer, holding his hands out, palms open, in a gesture of peace. He began speaking in the guttural tones of Aramaic. The farmer, whose name we would later learn was Shimon, looked up sharply, suspicion etched on his face. He clutched his son protectively. Longinus spoke calmly, gesturing towards us, towards the jungle, then back towards the direction of our camp. I couldn't understand the words, but I watched the farmer's face intently. Suspicion slowly gave way to wary consideration. He asked questions, his voice sharp. Longinus answered, patiently repeating himself, occasionally stumbling over a word but getting his meaning across. Other members of the family were waking now, groaning, clutching their heads, adding their voices to the confused murmur. Shimon conferred with his wife, a sturdy woman with worried eyes, and several older men who appeared to be his brothers or cousins. After several minutes of intense discussion, Shimon looked back at Longinus and gave a slow, deliberate nod. He then began speaking to his family, his tone becoming one of decision. They would come with us.

  The next hour was spent organizing the departure. The farmers gathered their essential belongings, calmed their frightened children, and rounded up their disoriented livestock. My men helped where they could, offering water, assisting with the animals. It was a strange procession that finally set off back towards our camp – a Roman century, acting as escort for a displaced Aramaic farming community, complete with cattle, goats, horses, and chickens, marching through a jungle that belonged on no map known to Rome. The return journey was significantly faster, thanks to the path we had already cleared.

  As we approached our camp, the sounds of hammering and chopping told us that work on the fortifications had continued unabated. The sentries on the rampart hailed our return, their expressions shifting from relief to astonishment as they saw our strange company. We marched through the newly constructed gateway, drawing stares from every legionary nearby.

  I directed Clemens to help Shimon and his family settle in a designated corner of the camp, ensuring they had space, access to water, and an area nearby where their animals could graze under guard. Shimon, though clearly exhausted and still bewildered, offered gruff thanks via Longinus. Establishing goodwill with these people felt important; they were the first sign of intelligent life we'd encountered, albeit fellow castaways.

  As Clemens saw to the farmers, my gaze drifted across the bustling camp. And then I saw them. Another group of strangers. They stood clustered near the Praefectus's tent, speaking with Valens himself, who was attended by Tribune Vettius and several Centurions. This group was strikingly different from Shimon's family. They were tall, almost uniformly so, with skin so pale it seemed almost luminous even in the shade. Their hair ranged from white-blond to bright gold, and their eyes were predominantly a startling shade of blue. There were only a handful of them – perhaps six or seven men and two women – dressed in simple, well-made clothing of leather and wool that looked suited to a colder climate. They carried no obvious weapons but stood with a quiet, watchful dignity. One of the women, younger than the other, possessed a beauty so striking it momentarily stopped my breath – fair skin, hair like spun moonlight, eyes the colour of a winter sky. She looked utterly out of place, yet strangely serene.

  The light had appeared again while my century was away, bringing this new group of unwilling travelers to this impossible shore. From where had they come? Scandinavians? Germans from the far north? Their appearance suggested such origins. Two groups, arriving within hours of each other, brought by the same inexplicable phenomenon, from vastly different corners of the world.

  My mind swirled with new questions, new variables. I left Clemens to finish settling Shimon's family and manage our century's return. I needed to report everything – the farmstead, Shimon's people, their language, their agreement to join us – to Praefectus Valens.