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Chapter 37: Death and Taxes
🕑 Added 2025-03-02 03:26:39 +0000 UTCChapter 37: Death and Taxes
Quintus had always found himself rather ambivalent toward marching. It had simply been a fact of life, one of those inevitabilities that was neither good nor bad. He had long ago mastered the soldier's mindset of being able to think of nothing during the long treks, existing outside the pain his body felt as he put one foot in front of the other.
Now, though, it was different. With how high his [Marching] skill level had grown, the act had actually become enjoyable. He even might have ventured to say that it was fun.
As the Legion's strides ate up the leagues like the maw of a hungry beast, he found himself paying closer attention to the movements of his body. It was simple enough to simply retreat into that almost meditative marching state and make progress—even then, Quintus was certain that he could outpace nearly any man, even one who was sprinting outright. And that was while he continued to stay in formation. But if he made a few small adjustments, correcting his posture ever so slightly, shortening his steps just a touch, and adjusting the swing of his arms, he felt a satisfying kind of feedback that made his travel even easier. While he was still keeping time with the rest of the men, the march took even less energy than before.
What force led him to make these adjustments remained somewhat unclear. This level of detail was not something that even the Legion tended to emphasize in training. But he had a suspicion that it was the [Marching] skill itself leading him on and teaching him how better to execute the task at hand. By following its prompting and combining it with his experience, he felt that he could continue for days, weeks, or even months, without stopping.
Then again, perhaps that was an exaggeration. Every man needed to stop for food, water, and sleep. But the fact remained—Quintus felt good. Compared to every other march he'd undertaken in his long career, this one felt almost like a game.
He glanced around at his brethren to see how they were holding up. Most of them wore the blank, impassive expressions that he'd come to expect from men on the march, not betraying any trace of the same enjoyment he was feeling. That was only to be expected. Not only was he a centurion—responsible for setting an example and therefore held to a higher standard—but he was the first centurion of the entire Legion. He set the example for the examples. That kind of mentality and the increased workload that accompanied it meant that he probably outleveled his men in [Marching] by quite a significant margin.
His gaze picked out a few of the newer recruits from the column. While they were managing to keep up with the hard pace that Tiberius had ordered, many of them were still struggling. The Legion was quite good at maintaining a speed that walked the line between demanding and sustainable. But since coming to this world, that balance had been completely thrown off. Perhaps this experience would provide the motivation his men needed to focus further on leveling their skills.
Those struggling the most, though, were still the officers. Not all of them had come on this march, obviously, something which he was certain had those stationed in Habersville sighing in relief. Even though every man in the Legion shared the marching skill, the extent to which each had leveled it varied greatly. Apparently, the skill didn't magically increase based on one's actual proficiency in the action. Quintus's [Marching] hadn't immediately jumped to such heights when he'd first picked it up, after all. But that wasn't to say that previous experience and knowledge didn't help. All he'd had to do was practice the action a little for the skill levels to pour in like rain.
The officers, on the other hand, weren't so lucky. Though they obviously knew how to march, it was not a skill they'd regularly exercised even before coming to this world. That meant they'd not only had little opportunity to level up their skill, but they also seemed to have more difficulty doing so.
It couldn't be helped. Quintus figured that by the time they'd finished this campaign and returned to Habersville, they would have likely improved it significantly. But in the meantime… well, those men would be in for quite a long march indeed.
A stream of smoke rose on the horizon as they crested the next hill. Quintus held up a fist to signal his men. Around eighty of the men in the first century of his cohort broke off from the column as it continued to move forward. These were some of the best in the entire Legion and, correspondingly, had a rather high [Marching] skill to match. It meant they'd be able to accomplish their task and return to the main force without falling behind.
Quintus increased his pace, almost tripling it as they veered off the beaten path and headed toward the next farm. He didn't have to personally lead the men like this. However, he did want to set an example. That, and well… as enjoyable as the march had been, it was still marching. That kind of thing got quite boring after a while. He would take every change in scenery he could get.
Their small force sped across the hills. Their goal was simple. All he needed to do was visit the nearby farms and inform them that their grain and crops would no longer be purchased by Novara, but rather by the Legion. That, and requisition some food stores—no more than ten percent of anyone's given supplies. He would even pay them fairly. After all, the Legion didn't need more enemies. Even if they could take such things by force, their job was to settle and civilize this land, not turn the people against Rome. They couldn't give the impression of a band of barbarians that would burn and take what they wanted. They would, of course—but only if the farmers didn't learn how to act civilized.
The farmers had all agreed quite easily to their terms so far. Naturally, that's what any reasonable person would do with an army at their door, one that was completely capable of burning down homes and crops if one didn't comply. So far, nothing had come to violence though. They hadn't had any reason to follow through on that implied threat, something Quintus was quite pleased about.
Of course, whether the farmers would actually follow through when the time came was questionable. He doubted they'd try to resist when the Legion showed up to take them and pay them fairly. But if Novara's collectors came first, the farmers wouldn't have much choice. That would be unfortunate. But it was the Legion's job to protect its civilians, so they would obviously do their best to intercede one way or the other.
As his band of Legionnaires made it over the last hill, he realized that this particular location was not exactly a farm. Rather, it was a small hamlet—though certainly nothing big enough to be officially recognized on any map. It boasted maybe four or so houses, clustered together at the spot where the corners of their farms met to form a little community. In the distance, he spotted a shared well and a small river that cut through the settlement and turned a waterwheel. A dirt path led off to where he assumed the nearest road was.
Their approach caused a bit of a stir among the locals—as could be expected. The sound of nearly a hundred men marching tended to do that. Quintus heard a few faraway shouts as they began descending toward the settlement. Tiny figures in the distance scurried about like a swarm of panicked ants as they began running into houses—or running out. Based on their varied sizes, he was fairly certain that there were at least some children among their number, ducking behind buildings and into hiding.
Quintus took note of the movements. Likely, those who were running to hide would do so in some sort of cellar—possibly the same ones where the farmers stashed some extra food or supplies. Every farmer knew to hide some food in case the powers that be came to collect more than was reasonable.
He signaled for the men to slow, then stop just outside of the little hamlet. Then he strode forward several paces himself before standing at parade rest, his hand on the pommel of his sword, and waited for whoever was in charge to make themselves known. It only took a few minutes for an old man to come tottering out of one of the houses, his back so hunched as to be nearly parallel with the ground. A gnarled cane grasped in one wrinkly hand stabbed into the ground as he walked. To Quintus's eye, it looked to be the only think preventing the man from falling the rest of the way in half and smashing his nose into his knees.
Quintus waited patiently as the man hobbled toward them, cracking his neck to look Quintus in the eye. If the man had been able to stand straight, he would have towered over the Primus Pilus and far too tall for a shield wall. But it seemed that age had humbled him, as it did all brutes of his size. Truly, a compact form weathered the years better.
"What can I do for you, sir?" the elderly man's voice quavered slightly as he spoke.
"I bring news," Quintus responded. "This area is no longer under the jurisdiction of the Kingdom of Novara. It henceforth is part of the Roman Empire by decree of Emperor Tiberius Rufius Maro, long may he reign."
The Primus Pilus received the same befuddled look that he had received in every other place he had stopped. He sighed, relaxing slightly. "I wouldn't be too concerned, old man. It just means that someone else will be collecting your taxes from here on."
The man's eyebrows raised for a half second before he groaned. "Goodness. And I thought that this war business was a problem for the folks in the west… Well, it can't be helped. And I suppose that you're right. Who takes our crops is no big deal to folks like us, scratching out a living in the dirt." The old man scratched a bit of wispy stubble on his chin. "What about the tax rates? They're the same, I hope?"
Quintus peered at the elder, observing his reaction. "They remain unchanged. So long as your community was paying the standard rate for the farms in this area."
"Bah." He waved a hand, shaking his head. "Not quite. You see, the crops we grow here mean we've been granted a bit of… leeway, shall we say, in our taxes. Not to mention the amount we produce. Why, between us all, we're one of the best farms in the Eastern Marches—and proud of it!"
The man preened, attempting to straighten slightly. Internally, Quintus sighed. He had become used to this song and dance. Nearly every farm along their path had tried haggling in a similar manner. "While I don't doubt the quality of your produce, sir, I do have trouble believing that you are afforded any leeway because of it. Your tax rates will remain the same as anyone else's…"
The pair bickered back and forth for a bit, with the old man trying to weasel out of paying as much as he could while Quintus tried to call him out on the ruse. Eventually, Quintus had to put his foot down about the final rate the hamlet would have to pay.
The elderly man sighed, defeated. "Fine, fine. Well, I suppose we'll be able to survive off of that, but only just barely."
The Legionnaire nodded, relieved to have the conversation over with. He reached for a bag of coins at his belt. "Good. Now, for today, we will also be purchasing a percentage of your grain from you. At a fair price, of course. Take us to your stores so that we can see what you have available."
The old man froze. Only for a moment. But it was enough to give Quintus pause. Something was wrong.
"I don't think that's necessary," the man started. "I can simply tell you how much we can sell you."
"No." Quintus told him flatly. "We may discuss that once I have seen your stores myself. With all due respect."
"Well, you see… with how this year's crop has turned out…"
Quintus raised an eyebrow. "Did you not claim to be the most productive farm in the Eastern Marches?"
The man's grip on his cane tightened. "Perhaps we can speak about this when you return for the next harvest. For now, I must insist you leave."
If he hadn't known before, that confirmed it—there was something different about this hamlet. He squared his shoulders defiantly, his hand moving to his sword. The entire century shifted behind him.
They stayed like that for a long moment, the Legionnaires silently staring down the old man. His knobby knuckles had gone white, a dard expression written plain across his wrinkled face. Just as Quintus opened his mouth to speak, another voice shouted from the nearby fields.
"You’ll never take us alive!”
That saying had always struck Quintus as overly presumptuous.
Four figures appeared in windows and doorways, filling the air with twangs as their crossbows loosed several bolts at the Romans. Quintus drew his sword in one fluid motion and shocked himself by managing to swat one of the projectiles out of the air before it hit him in the chest. Behind him, he heard shields spring up with astonishing speed to intercept the rest.
The old man turned, trying to run, but Quintus kicked the cane out from underneath him. The geezer squeaked as he fell, sprawling in the dirt as the centurion sprinted toward their attackers.
Quintus's shield slipped onto his arm as he ran, shouting orders to the rest of his men. He slid forward on his knees, leaning backward as another bolt whizzed over his head and popping right back to his feet with [Sure Footing]. His sword whipped around as he used his momentum to cleave through a man's crossbow and into his face.
He was already moving again by the time the body dropped. The rest of his men were right behind him. By the time he took down the second of the four crossbow wielders hiding behind the other corner of the same house, the other two had already been handled. Quintus and some of his men circled around the house, checking for other hidden attackers, while the rest charged inside to clear it. It didn't take long before the sounds of struggle inside to subside and its inhabitants to be pulled into the open.
Several other men—all of military age—were pushed to their knees in the dirt in front of the house. They, along with the old man, were quickly searched and disarmed before being bound. Most of them bore basic weapons like swords and daggers. What's more, their hands didn't bear the distinctive calluses of farmers. Their hands looked like those of soldiers, though perhaps mercenaries may have been more accurate considering their surly demeanors.
"Search the vicinity," Quintus ordered a few contuberniums as he eyed the group before him. "Keep an eye out for any escapees or other threats."
They nodded, quickly moving between the rest of the houses. Quintus and the rest of his men kept watch over the subdued "farmers" as more were rooted out. A few women were also brought out to join them.
He turned to look over the assembled group. One of the hard-eyed men sitting before him was older, with just a hint of grey at his temples, and held himself straight even despite his captivity. Quintus pegged him as the one most likely in charge—not the tottering sacrificial lamb they had put out at first.
"Now," he folded his arms, keeping his voice level. "What exactly is going on here?"
Comments
Brudog2
(Waiting faster)
Beeees!
Oooh, somethings up for sure. Wonder if they had a run in with the runaway Rouge 🤔
Moses Lambert
it looked to be the only think [thing] preventing the man a dard [dark] expression written plain across his wrinkled face. The geezer squeaked [squealed] as he fell,
Dave_S
Thanks for the chapter!
Gabriel Melnik
I wish the marching skill gets so high leveled that levels 50 and horses can't keep up with these mfs
Brudog2
This felt way to short
