The central square of Seigmer's Hold had become a parade ground worthy of the name.
Six hundred and thirty men stood in rigid, perfect lines under the pale winter sun. No one shifted. No one coughed. The only sound was the wind tugging at the black spiral banner above the praetorium and the faint creak of living-timber bastions settling deeper into their concrete beds.
Seigmer walked the front rank slowly, eyes scanning every face, every brigandine vest, every skull-cap. The uniform was now standard across the entire regiment: dark wool outer layer over riveted iron plates, skull-caps of the same construction, black feather on the left shoulder for every man. Sergeants wore additional stripes sewn on the upper arm — one, two, or three black bars according to their decuria rank. The Prussian Regiment no longer looked like a tribal levy. It looked like something Rome had never seen east of the frontier.
He stopped in the center and raised his voice — clear, unhurried, carrying to every ear.
"You are six hundred and thirty. Today you receive your final classification."
He gestured to the left flank.
"Artillery — one hundred and sixty men. You are the thunder. Light crossbows for self-defense, short swords for close work. You will crew the cannons, calculate ranges, load canister and explosive shells. You will be the ones who make the sky fall before the enemy sees our faces."
The one hundred and sixty stepped forward one pace. Their brigandine was identical to the rest, but each man carried a small wooden protractor and a clay tablet for calculations. They had spent weeks mastering trigonometry, geometry, windage, elevation — turning mathematics into murder.
Seigmer moved to the center block.
"Infantry — four hundred men. You are the wall. Heavy crossbows are your primary weapon. You kill at range. When the enemy closes, you draw swords, axes, spears — whatever is at hand. You hold the trenches. You hold the walls. You do not break."
The four hundred shifted slightly — proud, steady. Their heavy crossbows rested at their feet like obedient hounds.
He walked to the right flank — the smallest group.
"Special operators — fifty men. You are the blade in the dark. Grenadiers, saboteurs, terrorists behind enemy lines. You carry crossbows, stick grenades, tear-gas pots, and the one-pounder mobile cannon. You strike where no one expects. You disappear before they can answer. You are my fist when I need to reach deep."
The fifty men — the original Tier-1 plus the best of the volunteers — stood motionless. They wore the same brigandine and skull-cap, but each man had an extra pouch for grenades and a sling for the light one-pounder barrels. They did not cheer. They simply waited.
Seigmer stepped back so all six hundred and thirty could see him clearly.
"Look at yourselves. Brigandine on every chest. Skull-caps on every head. Stripes of rank sewn on every sergeant's arm. You are beginning to look like a modern military — because that is what you are becoming."
He let the words hang for a heartbeat.
"Discipline. Knowledge. Progress. That is our creed. That is why you stand here. That is why Rome will bleed again."
He raised his right fist.
"First Prussian Regiment — salute!"
Six hundred and thirty fists rose in perfect unison.
The sound — leather striking leather — rolled across the square like a single heartbeat.
Seigmer lowered his hand.
"Dismissed to duties. Sergeants, continue training. There are whispers and rumors that I will promote those who show promise in the next battles with the Romans. Prove them right."
The ranks broke with quiet efficiency.
Whispers spread instantly among the men as they marched off to their posts.
"He'll make sergeants into officers…"
"Captains, maybe…"
"Anyone who takes a Roman eagle in the next fight…"
Seigmer walked the rampart alone for a moment, letting the words settle.
He had planted the seed of meritocracy. The regiment would grow around it.
Far to the west, in Augusta Treverorum, the governor's palace had become a fortress of fear.
Aelius Marcellinus stood in the great audience hall before a map of the Rhine provinces. Flanking him were the surviving officers of Legio XIV Gemina, patrician landowners, and two Christian bishops who had come to offer prayers for the "demonic barbarian threat."
The doors opened.
Two new legates entered — one from the East, one from Valentinian's old field army near Rome.
The eastern legate — a tall, lean man named Flavius Arcadius — spoke first.
"I hear a child cost you two legions."
The hall went still.
Aelius Marcellinus's face darkened.
The legate from Rome — older, heavier, named Quintus Aelius — stepped forward.
"What's this I hear about a barbarian that puts Augustus's legions to shame?"
Aelius looked at both men.
"Legio XIV Gemina is gone. Destroyed in two nights. The boy — Seigmer — commands thunder from bronze tubes, fire from wagons, iron rain from walls. He fights from ditches that swallow our testudo. He has taken one of our own castra and turned it into a fortress. We lost over five thousand men. The eagle is broken."
Arcadius stared at the map.
"And you still hold the frontier?"
"Barely," Aelius said. "We have three legions now. Yours from the East, yours from Rome, and whatever Gratian can spare once the Greuthungi Goths are dealt with. We will crush this barbarian scum before spring."
Quintus Aelius laughed — short, bitter.
"A child. A barbarian. And he has done this?"
Aelius's voice was low.
"He is no ordinary child. He speaks Latin like a senator. He plans like a general. He fights like something we have never faced."
The bishops crossed themselves.
Arcadius looked at the broken aquila on the table.
"Then we end him. Quickly. Completely. No mercy. No prisoners. We burn his fortress to the ground and scatter his ashes on the Rhine."
Aelius nodded.
"We wait only for the eastern legion to join us fully. Then we march."
Outside the hall, the wind howled.
Inside, three legions prepared to march against a boy who had already rewritten the rules of war.
And in Seigmer's Hold, six hundred and thirty men trained under torchlight — brigandine gleaming, skull-caps low, black feathers fluttering.
The First Prussian Regiment was ready.
Rome was coming.
The war in his name had only just begun.