The whispers no longer hid in corners.
By the third day after the trebuchet demonstration, Gundahar and Wulfric had stopped pretending to whisper.
They gathered openly in the old men's tent near the horse lines — a low, smoke-blackened structure where veterans had always met to drink, remember battles, and decide which young fool needed a lesson in humility. Now the tent was fuller than usual. A dozen warriors sat on logs and hides, passing a horn of mead, their faces hard in the firelight.
Gundahar spoke first, voice low but carrying the weight of years.
"The boy has the Reik's ear now. He builds machines that throw stones like the gods themselves. He keeps a Roman officer like a pet. He trains men to fight like Romans — silent, hidden, without honor. And Hans laughs and calls it victory."
Wulfric leaned forward, elbows on knees.
"He was a child who could not lift a shield without falling over. Now he gives orders to fifty of our best and they salute him like he is Caesar reborn. If we do not act, the tribe will forget what it means to be Suebi. We will become Rome's shadow — clever, but without soul."
A scarred warrior named Berthold grunted.
"The elders should speak. Call a thing. Let the tribe decide if this… change… is Wodan's gift or a curse."
Gundahar nodded slowly.
"The thing will be called soon enough — when Hans announces the spring campaign. We will speak then. Not with blades. With words. Let the warriors remember the old ways before the boy's machines drown them out."
Wulfric's eyes narrowed.
"And if words fail?"
Gundahar's hand rested on the hilt of his seax.
"Then we remind him that even gods can bleed."
The tent fell quiet except for the crackle of the fire.
Outside, the camp moved on — oblivious for now. But the seed was planted, and seeds in fertile soil grow fast.
In the guarded tent at the edge of the Forge, Seigmer sat across from Marcus Flavius Severus once more.
The tribune looked different now.
The bruises from the water and the log had faded to yellow. The constant fear in his eyes had dulled into something colder — resignation, perhaps, or calculation. He ate when food was brought. He slept when the guards allowed. He had not tried to escape. Not once.
Seigmer placed a fresh clay tablet between them.
"You have given me facts," he said. "Troops. Distances. Names. Now I want something more."
The Roman lifted his head slowly.
"You already have everything."
"No." Seigmer's voice was quiet, almost gentle. "I want your mind."
He leaned forward.
"You are a professional soldier. You understand logistics, discipline, the value of intelligence. Rome will send more legions in spring. When they come, they will not find scattered tribes. They will find an army. And that army will need officers who understand Roman tactics — from the inside."
Marcus Flavius Severus stared at him.
"You want me to betray Rome."
"I want you to survive," Seigmer corrected. "Rome left you to die in the forest. Your cohort was sacrificed to punish 'barbarians.' Your legatus will write you off as dead or captured and useless. You have no future there."
He paused.
"With me, you live. You eat. You keep your rank — in a different army. Teach my men how Romans fight. How they march. How they signal. In return, you keep your life and your dignity. Refuse… and you become another body in a ditch."
The tribune laughed — a short, bitter sound.
"You think I will turn coat so easily?"
Seigmer did not smile.
"I think you are a realist. And realists understand when the game has changed."
He stood and walked to the tent flap, then turned back.
"Tomorrow I will bring maps. You will mark every Roman supply cache between here and Mogontiacum. You will explain their patrol patterns. You will tell me how a Roman vexillatio reacts when ambushed from trees."
He met the Roman's eyes.
"And if you lie… I will know. Because I have already checked your first answers against our scouts."
Marcus Flavius Severus looked down at his manacled wrists.
After a long silence he spoke, voice low.
"Give me parchment. Ink. And a promise."
Seigmer waited.
"If I help you," the tribune said, "when this war ends — win or lose — you let me live. Somewhere far from Rome. Somewhere I can disappear."
Seigmer considered it.
Then he nodded once.
"You have my word."
He stepped outside.
Ingvar was waiting, arms crossed.
"He will break?" Ingvar asked.
"He already has," Seigmer said. "He just needs time to admit it to himself."
He looked toward the main camp, where torchlight still flickered and distant laughter carried on the wind.
Gundahar and Wulfric were plotting. He knew it. The whispers had grown too loud to ignore.
But Seigmer did not fear plots.
He feared only wasted time.
And time, he intended to spend wisely — turning enemies into assets, boys into men, and a scattered tribe into something Rome would one day fear to name.
He turned back to the tent.
"Bring the maps," he told Ingvar. "Let us see how far one broken Roman can take us."
The night deepened.
In one tent, men plotted against a boy who had become more than a boy.
In another, a Roman officer began to draw lines on parchment that would one day lead his own people to ruin.
And in the shadows between, Seigmer walked — silent, calculating, already three moves ahead.