The main Suebi camp burned bright that night.
Bonfires roared at every corner, casting long shadows across the faces of warriors who had expected death at dawn and instead received victory without drawing a blade in open battle. Cattle roasted on spits, mead horns passed hand to hand, and the air thrummed with song and laughter. The captured Romans—eighty survivors, stripped of armor and bound at wrists and ankles—were herded into a roped enclosure near the central fire. They sat in stunned silence while the tribe feasted around them.
In a smaller tent at the camp's edge, away from the revelry, Seigmer prepared for a different kind of celebration.
The tribune, Marcus Flavius Severus, had been moved here under heavy guard. His hands were unbound now, but four of Seigmer's men stood at the tent poles, crossbows lowered but ready. A low table had been set before the Roman: roasted venison, fresh bread, cheese, apples, and a clay cup of watered wine. The smell was rich, deliberate.
Seigmer sat across from him, still in his soot-streaked tunic, the shallow cut on his forearm freshly bandaged.
"Eat," he said in flawless Latin. "You will need your strength."
The tribune stared at the food as if it might be poisoned.
Seigmer took a piece of venison himself, chewed slowly, swallowed.
"No tricks. You are more valuable alive and talking than dead and silent."
Marcus Flavius Severus hesitated only a moment longer. Hunger won. He tore into the meat with the ferocity of a man who had marched all day and fought for his life all night. Seigmer let him eat in silence, refilling the wine cup twice.
When the plate was clean and the cup empty, Seigmer leaned forward.
"Now we speak."
The tribune wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
"I am an officer of Rome. I will give you nothing but my name, rank, and—"
Seigmer raised a hand.
"I know your name. I know your rank. I want the rest."
He nodded to Ingvar.
Two warriors stepped forward, lifted the tribune by the arms, and dragged him to the far side of the tent where a shallow pit had been dug earlier that afternoon—lined with oiled hides to hold water.
They forced him to his knees, tied his wrists behind his back, and laid him flat on his back with his head lower than his feet, draped over the edge of the pit. A strip of cloth was placed over his face.
Seigmer poured the first slow stream of water from a bucket.
Marcus Flavius Severus bucked, choked, thrashed against the ropes. The cloth clung wetly to his mouth and nose. Air became impossible. Panic set in.
Seigmer stopped the pour after ten seconds.
The cloth was lifted. The tribune gasped, coughed, vomited water.
"Troops," Seigmer said calmly. "Numbers. Composition. Where are your auxiliaries stationed? How many cavalry remain?"
The Roman glared up at him, eyes red and streaming.
Seigmer nodded again.
Another pour. Longer this time—fifteen seconds. The tribune's body arched, heels drumming the dirt, muffled screams bubbling through the cloth.
When the water stopped, he was gasping, shaking.
"Speak," Seigmer said.
Marcus Flavius Severus broke on the third round.
He spoke in a hoarse, broken rush.
The vexillatio was drawn from Legio XXII Primigenia, understrength at four hundred seventy before the ambush. Two hundred sixty heavy infantry, one hundred twenty archers and slingers, ninety cavalry auxiliaries—mostly Batavians. The nearest reinforcements were a cohort from Mogontiacum, two days' march west, under the command of Legatus Flavius Aelius. The provincial governor in Augusta Treverorum had ordered punitive raids to secure the Rhine crossing before winter; this force was meant to burn three Suebi villages and withdraw.
Seigmer listened without expression, nodding once for each detail. Ingvar stood beside him, scratching notes on a clay tablet in the new German letters—troop numbers, distances, names.
When the tribune faltered, Seigmer gestured again.
This time they shifted him to a different position: forced to kneel with arms bound behind his back and tied to a stake driven into the ground. A heavy log was laid across the back of his thighs, forcing his knees into an unnatural bend. Weight was added slowly—first stones, then another warrior sitting on the log. The pain built steadily, joints screaming, circulation fading.
After twenty minutes the tribune was weeping openly.
"Enough," he gasped. "The governor… Aelius Marcellinus… he plans to bring two more legions from the interior next spring if the frontier does not stabilize. The Batavians are camped five miles south of the ford. Their prefect is Decimus Rufus. He has orders to burn anything that moves if we do not return by the third day."
Seigmer let the pressure ease.
The tribune sagged, breathing in ragged sobs.
Six hours after the feast began, the interrogation ended.
Seigmer stood, wiped his hands on a cloth, and looked down at the broken man.
"You have given me everything I need."
Marcus Flavius Severus lifted his head, voice cracked.
"Kill me quickly."
Seigmer considered him for a long moment.
"No," he said. "You will live. You will be useful."
He turned to Ingvar.
"Clean him up. Feed him again. Keep him under guard. No one outside this tent speaks of what was said."
Ingvar nodded, saluted crisply.
Outside, the celebration roared on—drums, laughter, the clash of horns.
Seigmer stepped into the night air, the sounds of victory washing over him.
He had not joined the feasting.
He had spent the night carving information from a man's will like meat from bone.
And now he knew:
The Romans were wounded, but not finished.
Spring would bring more legions.
But spring was months away.
And by then, Seigmer intended to have an army—not a war-band—that could meet them on equal terms.
He looked toward the central fire where Reik Hans sat surrounded by cheering warriors, accepting toasts in his name.
Seigmer's lips curved—just slightly.
The celebration is yours tonight, Father.
But the war… the war is already mine.