The sun stood high over Seigmer's Hold when the tribe gathered once more.
The captured Roman castra had already begun to change. Roman tents had been torn down and replaced with Suebi-style shelters of hide and timber. The central square now flew a black banner with the white spiral — the mark Seigmer had chosen for the new way. Warriors moved with purpose: hauling stones to repair gaps in the walls, digging deeper ditches outside the ramparts, driving sharpened stakes into the bottoms of the trenches in dense, star-shaped patterns that would shred any Roman charge foolish enough to reach them.
Seigmer walked the eastern wall, inspecting the work.
The Roman scorpio ballistae — four of them, captured intact — had been dragged up onto the ramparts. His men were already familiarizing themselves with the torsion springs and windlass mechanisms. The weapons could throw heavy bolts farther and harder than any bow; with practice, they would turn the approach road into a killing field.
He paused at the northern corner and looked down into the ditch. The stakes were thick, fire-hardened, angled outward like the spines of a hedgehog. Star-shaped bastions had been started at each corner — low earthen platforms that would allow crossbowmen to enfilade attackers from multiple angles. It was not yet a true fortress, but it was no longer a marching camp. It was becoming something Rome had never seen east of the Rhine: a permanent base held by barbarians who thought like engineers.
A horn sounded from the main gate.
Reik Hans had arrived with the rest of the war-band.
The tribe poured into the square — warriors, women, children, elders. They filled the space until the walls themselves seemed to lean inward to listen.
Hans climbed the steps to the praetorium platform — the old Roman headquarters now draped with boar hides and shields. He raised one massive hand for silence.
The crowd stilled.
"My people," Hans began, voice rolling like thunder across the stone. "We have taken a Roman fort without losing a single man in open battle. We have turned their walls against them. We have made the eagle kneel. And we did it because my son — the one the Romans call 'the boy,' the one we now call the Reborn — saw what we could not see."
He turned to Seigmer, who stood at the edge of the platform, arms folded, expression calm.
"Seigmer," Hans said, loud enough for every ear in the fort to hear. "Step forward."
Seigmer walked to the center.
Hans laid a heavy hand on his shoulder — not the grip of a father, but of a king acknowledging a prince.
"You have proven yourself in blood and shadow. You have given us this place. You have given us hope that the Suebi need not die as our fathers died. Therefore I name you Blade of the Reik. You will command the new forces — two hundred and fifty men of your choosing. They will answer to you alone in war. They will train as you command. They will fight as you command. And when the new Roman legion comes, they will break under your hand."
A roar erupted — louder than any cheer before it.
The young warriors surged forward, pounding shields, shouting Seigmer's name until it echoed off the walls. Women lifted children so they could see. Even many of the older men joined the cry — some out of genuine respect, others because the tide had turned too far to resist.
Seigmer waited until the sound began to die.
Then he spoke — not loudly, but clearly.
"I accept this command. Not for myself. For all of us. Two hundred and fifty men will become the core of something greater. They will learn discipline, they will learn machines, they will learn to think before they strike. And when Rome comes — and they will come — we will not meet them as our fathers met them. We will meet them as men who have already won."
He turned to the crowd.
"The fort must be stronger. The ditches deeper. The stakes sharper. The scorpio ready. Every man, woman, and child who can lift a shovel will help. We do not hold this place for glory. We hold it for survival."
Another roar — this one of purpose.
Hans stepped back, giving Seigmer the platform.
Seigmer looked across the sea of faces.
At fourteen, his body was no longer a boy's.
Months of relentless training — push-ups until his arms shook, pull-ups until his grip bled, runs with full gear until his lungs burned — had rebuilt him. Shoulders broad, arms corded, legs thick with muscle. He was as strong now as Colonel Marcus Davis had been in his prime — perhaps stronger, because this body had never known cigarettes, cheap rations, or years of accumulated wear.
He felt it in every movement: power without waste, speed without hesitation.
He was ready.
And the fort would be ready.
That night, while the celebration continued in the square, Seigmer walked the walls alone.
In his mind he sketched the next weapon: a bronze cannon.
Not the massive siege pieces of later centuries — something smaller, mobile, cast from captured Roman bronze melted down with local tin. A smoothbore tube, touch-hole, wooden carriage. Black powder for propellant, iron balls for shot. Range perhaps two hundred paces, enough to shatter a Roman testudo from cover.
He had the knowledge. He had the powder. He had the captured metal.
He only needed time — and men who would follow him without question.
Two hundred and fifty would be a start.
Behind him, the celebration roared on.
But Seigmer was already planning tomorrow.
The new legion was coming.
And when they arrived, they would find not a barbarian camp — but a fortress held by a people who had learned to think like Rome… and fight like something more.