Lucius paddled furiously to avoid being spotted by the monks and brothers when they rose for Prime. Putting aside thoughts of finding his own kin, now he thought of nothing but Aurelia and her family. He felt personally responsible for the disaster at the Giamonios festival.

Where had she said they lived? He would walk the peninsula until he found them, no matter how long, at whatever cost. What he would do once he found them, he didn’t know, but he had to see that they were safe.

He paddled the little leather craft as close to shore as he was able, then climbed out and pulled it onto the shingle. He found a cluster of scrub and hid the boat and paddles deep inside, covered with leafy branches and seaweed, and climbed a sandy hill in hopes of a better view and more solid footing closer inland. Nearing the crest of a large dune, he dropped to a crawl so as not to be seen and peered over the other side, disbelieving.

Romani covered the area. An entire centuria swarmed over the landscape; worse, local Galli sat in desolate clusters on the ground, hands on their heads, soldiers standing over them with swords drawn. Bronze helmets and bronze-trimmed shields shone in the morning sunlight, and he easily picked out the red-cloaked centurion, with his silver chain mail blazing in the early morning light, his helmet topped by blood-red feathers.

Horrified and confused, Lucius froze. His thoughts scrambled for a foothold. What to do? Posing as a Christian brother was probably his best chance, since the Christians were now in good stead with the legions. The emperor had recently switched allegiance from Sol Invictus to the Christian God.

He scrabbled back down the side of the dune and found a knob of flint, from which he knapped a sharp shard. He searched out and cut two flat sections of driftwood, lashing them together with tough reeds to form a rough cross. He plaited grasses into a rope and hung the cross around his neck, hoping the Romani would take him for a wild hermit from a nearby island. He bundled his few clothes into the blanket, tied it with another hastily plaited reed rope, slung it over his shoulders, and started down the dune towards the troops.

“Hoy! You there! Stop!” the burly signifier called out. He called to the cornicer to sound the alarm.

Swallowing terror, Lucius composed his face into a mask of serenity and calmly walked towards the signifier. Milites and tirones ran at him from every direction, and he soon stood within a circle of soldiers, swords drawn.

“I am a brother from that island.” Lucius pointed towards a tiny outcrop towards the west.

“What business do you have here?” the signifier asked.

His lorica musculata gave his torso bulk. He looked larger than life, a kind of walking god. While Lucius reasoned that it was just a bronze chest piece, a more primitive part of his brain felt nothing but dread.

“I am making my way inland, on a … p-p-pilgrimage to the East,” Lucius squeaked.

“He’s nothing but a lowly Christian. You can see that by the symbol he wears,” said one of the milites, spitting on the ground to show his opinion.

The milite was a proud follower of Mithras, the soldier’s god of light and truth. As far as he was concerned, Christianity was the religion of slaves, even if the emperor had taken a fancy to the exotic new cult. In his mind, this sudden conversion was just another eccentricity of the rich and the powerful.

“Well, we still need men for the auxilia,” said another.

“He’s nothing but a boy!” said the cornicer.

“Boy, what skills do you have?”

“I c-c-can work wood and leather,” Lucius offered. He thought of himself and Teilo making the little curach with their own hands.

“Put him to work in the boatyard,” barked the signifier, already losing interest in the scrawny young Christian.

“But I am—” Lucius fought to explain.

“You are nothing, and you are nobody.” The signifier turned his back and walked off to attend to more pressing matters.

Lucius was led back towards the shoreline. Escape was impossible; he was hemmed in on all sides by armed milites. They walked towards the sea, passing a cluster of captive Galli with their hands bound by ropes, sitting forlornly in the sand. One of them looked up at Lucius as he neared the group. He gasped. It was Aurelia.

Lucius tried to edge towards her, but she shook her head silently, saying no. It was too dangerous to speak and hopeless to acknowledge each other.

“What will happen to those poor souls?” Lucius asked one of the milites.

“Oh, they will be transported somewhere. That’s what they get for ruining the peace. This was a nice, calm province until recently; we had everything under control. Now this! Keeping control of the Galli is like holding a wolf by the ears!” He waved his arm expressively towards the trampled and muddy tents.

“They have embarrassed us and our centurion, Gaius Quintus Aurelius. To save face, we are rounding them all up and sending them to the governor of Hispania Tarraconensis. He always needs slaves for his plantations.”

Lucius glanced back once more and saw a line of bound captives being forced onto a ship. Aurelia’s group were being pulled to their feet and prepared for transport as well. His knees buckled, but there was nothing he could do. He felt the cold knob of a sword pommel against his spine, herding him forward like a dumb beast.