‘Ave, Flavius,’ said Quintus, climbing the plasti-wooden stairs. ‘How goes your watch?’
‘Ave, Quintus, glad you’re here, you are a good relief, I’m freezing my bollocks off. Nothing happened until just now - there, see them? Two riders are approaching.’
‘Wind’s picking, too. Stay a moment, might need a runner. They’re Equites. They don’t usually hurry.’
‘Might disarray their hair,’ agreed Flavius, huddling in his red cloak. ‘Or chip their fingernails. Oh, by all the Gods, this is bad. Focus the telescope. You see them?’
‘Pantheres caeruleis, I’ve never seen one in the flesh, what brings the Pancae to us? With riders? They’re not hunting them, they’re running with them.’
‘You know they can’t eat earth protein,’ Flavius reproved. ‘Yes, they resemble huge blue leopards, but they worked that out early and since the Medicus cured that cub of the vitamin deficiency, they haven’t laid a tooth on us. Sentient but aloof, that’s the Pancae. They trade meat and skins, we trade salt and catmint. If they’re coming with the Equites, something very nasty is about to happen.’
‘And, it’s going to happen to us,’ sighed his friend. ‘As usual.’
‘You volunteered for this,’ Flavius said. ‘You could have stayed home in Colonia, eating honeycomb and communing with the cerapidae.’
‘By Hercules’ Balls!’ swore Quintus. ‘Beacon fire on Secundum! Sound the alarm!’
Flavius hauled on a cord and a klaxon blared, ear-shatteringly harsh. Shouts and stamping sounded below as the Optio turned out the guard. On the next hill Tertia, the third of the trimontium, Quintus saw the red fire flare. That beacon would alert Colonia, and they would alert the other watchtowers. Cerapids would wing out as soon as the Legion commander received reports from those two riders, their horses floundering, and the accompanying pancae, delivered the bad news.
Flavius heard the gate open and crash shut. He left Quintus on watch and ran down the steps. Horsemen were gently leading the trembling mounts away, to soothe and water them. Horses were precious. Only two generations ago, when the Colonia had crashed on this planet, the machines had been working, and as the colonists were defrosted, the gene banks had engaged and produced those animals which could thrive on the grassy, rolling hills of Trimontium. Horses, goats, sheep but not cows: bees: dogs and cats, for company and other duties, donkeys for arid areas. A variety of birds, which throve. One generation ago, as the machines died for lack of replacement parts, they had produced the next generation: an infant for every four people. These children were carefully selected across a wide variety of genes, so that the colony would not interbreed. They, too, were precious, since few women conceived on Trimontium. The Medicae had failed to locate the missing enzyme or vitamin. Then their machines, too, had failed.
But Trimonitium already had sentient races. The pancae, of course, leopard-shaped and blue as a summer sky in the Aegean; sarcastic, intelligent, and not particularly interested in humans. Until they had taken a whiff of the catmint which a certain Domina grew for her own feline companion. That established a base for trade. Then the Medicus had cured the cub, and the pancae decided that they could tolerate the colonists. Only they could bring down the bos, eyeless, brainless, slow moving mountains of flesh which grazed across the plains, and when they did, they always had plenty of leftovers which could be swapped for catmint and various delicacies.
Trimontium did not have birds until chickens and ducks were produced by the ship, but it did have cerapids, flying creatures who adored honey to such an extent that they could be trained to take messages just by assuring them that honey would be offered at the other end. They were fast and had stings, and none of the other flying things bothered them.
Scientists had despaired of communicating with the Cloud Beasts, masses of opaque material who wafted around the sky, until the settlers completed their bathhouse and steam rose into the aether. A nebula, a small cloud, wandered over, and then rolled and bathed in the released warm steam. A shower of red things fell off it. Apparently, they were parasites. Boiled in steam, they were delicious. The other clouds drifted over to watch the young one wriggling in delight. Then the Nubulae had spoken, telepathically, ‘If we have some skill you can use, may we, too, bathe in your {irritation removing, louse destroying, altogether delightful} hot wet air?’
The answer, of course, was yes, though no one had thought of a skill they had which anyone could use. But the sight of a grave, elderly cloud beast rubbing its length along the bathhouse roof, making a bare whisper of sound, and the shower of crustaciae rattling down to waiting plates, was one of Trimontium’s pleasures.
‘C..c...classis,’ gasped the Eques, leaning on his friend. ‘A warship is coming!’
‘After all this time? Are you sure?’
‘Nubulae are sure,’ he gained some voice. ‘They warned us. There’s a hot spot at thirty degrees. Something is coming down.’
The cerapid sitting on the Legion commander’s shoulder nodded, pecked at his check affectionately, then winged off towards Colonia. It would repeat the message and lick up its rightful honey. The settlement had grown up around the remains of the ship, most of which was still complete. Lately the Trimontium-born had decided to build their own houses. They seemed uncomfortable in the white corridors, painted with images of various gods.
‘Muster!’ shouted the Legion Commander, a child of the ship. ‘Rangers!’
Flavius shucked his helmet and armour, put down his spear, grabbed his ration bag and his flask and donned his loose fitting woven garment, all shades of green and brown, made by his father, a notable weaver. He and four others walked out the wicket gate and slid away into the grass.
He had travelled too far! The classis had come down with a dreadful roaring crash, the grass about it all afire, and was now tipped over almost onto its side. It did not look like a healthy ship. The name was on its side: Classis Andromeda. The fire had died down. The legion from the colonia had come out and was ranged between the watchtower and the ship. A legion had exited the ship and was lined up before the colonists. It looked bad; the soldiers had modern weapons, the colonists had spears. Their leader was nose to nose with the colony leader, Consul Atticus. They were both shouting.
And Flavius could not get around the army and join his own people. He could not hear what anyone was saying, but it looked bad. He ground his teeth in frustration.
He was lying in a natural gully, made by water a long age ago, when he heard someone breathing, drew his knife, and then had a human body dropped on him by a large blue furred creature. The panca spat, and swiped at his muzzle with a clawed paw.
‘He smells wrong, but he’s yours. You eat him,’ he said, and stalked off. Flavius unwrapped himself from the other human, and grabbed both his arms as he struggled.
‘I am not going to hurt you,’ he said, clearly. ‘Can you understand me?’
‘I can,’ replied the soldier. ‘I was just scouting, as always, and this blue leopard picked me up as though I was a kitten!’
‘He says you smell wrong,’ Flavius informed him. ‘But they don’t eat people. I’m Flavius,’ he said. ‘You came from the warship?’
‘I’d stand up and salute, friend, but I’m a bit unnerved. Blue leopards! What a place! Ave,’ he said, recalling his manners. ‘I am Sixtus Caesureus Athenaeus of the Lost Legion.’
‘The lost legion?’ asked Flavius. ‘Want a drink and a bite? I’ve only got bosmeat sausage and olives and bread, and some wine.’
Sixtus’s pleasant face was transformed by greed. He was a handsome young man with dark hair and eyes and a Hellenic cast of countenance. Sixtus handed him the bag, and watched as the legionary ate precisely three of the twelve olives, two bites of the sausage, and a quarter of the bread. Then he took a gulp of wine and handed it all back to Flavius. And he smiled.
Flavius saw such pain and deprivation and loneliness in that smile that he enveloped his enemy in an embrace that was at least partly one of pure compassion. He saw a depth of suffering in Sixtus’s eyes which defied belief. Those dark brown eyes had seen far too many horrors that no one should have to see.
‘Oh, my honey,’ said Flavius. ‘It’s all right. You’re safe here. No one has troubled us for more than eighty years.’
The young man’s body was meagre under his hands. Flavius could feel every rib, the hollow of the belly, the salt-cellar collarbones of malnutrition. This could be remedied. Ask the pancae for another bos, and they could feed everyone on roast beast.
‘The empire has fallen,’ whispered Sixtus into Flavius’s neck. ‘Commodus, the last emperor, ordered us away. Keep going, he said, never stop. So we obeyed. Mithras, we obeyed. And we fled and we died and we fought and now, here, we have come to an end of our journey. We can’t get away this time. That ship will never rise again.’
‘And you would be welcome here,’ soothed Flavius. ‘We need technicians and spare parts and your ship has them. Colonia is mostly intact, but we don’t know how to use most of the machines. We can always do with more legionaries, or settlers, we can build a house and cultivate bees if you like, or grow olives, or hunt the bos with the pancae.’
Sixtus kissed him, suddenly and fiercely, tears striping his grimy cheek. ‘Oh, yes,’ he said. ‘To stay in one place, to lie in the sun, though I observe that you have two, just to be a man again and not a soldier. But it won’t happen. Our commander is a stubborn old beast, and by the look of him your consul is about the same.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Flavius. ‘We’ll have to do something about that before they start shooting each other.’
‘The guns are for show,’ said Sixtus. ‘We haven’t had any ammunition since... oh, I can’t recall. That waterly planet with the dragons. What are you going to do?’
‘We two are going to do it,’ Flavius told him. ‘Come with me? Trust me?’
‘Yes, and yes,’ agreed Sixtus. ‘I’m so tired that if they kill me it will be something of a benefit. At least that way I get to lie down and rest.’
‘No one is going to kill anyone,’ said Flavius firmly, and rose out of the gully with Sixtus by the hand.
They walked unnoticed into the classis’ line, and through it to where the commanders stood. Still shouting, thought Flavius. You’d have thought that they would have run out of breath by now. Both sets of men looked anxious and were clutching weapons. This could turn extremely unpleasant really fast. Flavius hoped he knew what he was doing.
‘Consul,’ he said loudly. ‘Legate,’ he added. “There are things you both need to know. Will you let me speak?’
‘Flavius, how do you dare?’ demanded the Consul.
‘Because I am a free-born Roman citizen, Consul, and you are an elected official. Listen. Two things. This is a peaceful colony planet and we have no evil intentions towards you.’ The Legate lifted a scarred eyebrow. ‘Second, you are stranded, Legate. Your ship will not rise again. You need a home. This is it. It is called Trimontium. We’ve been here eighty years, we know a lot about it, we can help you settle, and we will always need guards.’
‘Sixtus, have you betrayed me?’ demanded the Legate, raising his pistol.
‘I, too, am a free-born Roman citizen, Legate,’ responded Sixtus wearily. ‘And anyone looking at the old Andromeda there can see she isn’t lifting again. I like this place; this man gave me olives and wine when he thought I was an enemy. We have things to offer them, too, Sir. Their machines have died for lack of spare parts and knowledge. We have the knowledge. We can trade for what we need.’
‘Cannabalise the ship?’ the Legate sounded horrified.
On cue, a cloud beast settled on the nose of the classis, and it gave a groan and fell over, not too hard because it was mostly buried in sand already.
‘You have technicians?’ asked the Consul, eagerly.
They were in close conference instantly. Flavius drew Sixtus away.
‘Come on,’ he said. ‘If we go now we can get to the bath house before all the equites. And if the cloud beasts have been basking, there will be crustaceae. With lemon juice, they are quite delicious.’
‘This must be the Elysian Fields,’ responded Sixtus.
‘No, you’re not dead yet,’ Flavius told him, and proved it with a kiss.
Warm season came in wet and hot, so the cloud beasts writhed with pleasure in the sky. The pancae had taken to some of the legionaries, now that they smelt like Trimontium, and took them hunting. Flavius came back to the small house he shared with his dominus, Sixtus, just as he was taking a honeycake out of the solar oven.
‘My grandmother’s recipe,’ he told his lord. ‘Pour me some wine, my light, and let’s sit outside under the vine. It’s too hot in here.’
‘A good idea, my jewel,’ replied Flavius, sitting down under the grape vine and handing a cup to his lover. ‘You know, I think this is working,’ he observed.
‘What, the honey cake? The wine? The cloud beasts cavorting over the bathhouse? The legionaries roasting chunks of bos over that fire? The new growth in the olive trees? Your sweet presence in our bed, your kisses, the endless delight of your love?’ asked Sixtus.
Flavius sipped wine.
‘All of those,’ he said lazily. ‘And that the Lost Legion is...’
‘No longer lost.’ Sixtus raised his cup in salute. ‘The Lost Legion has found a Forever Home.’