The legionaries watched Usem talking with the whirlwind, heard her talking back to him, whispers carried on the breeze, pouring into their ears and eyes. The snake sorcerer rode beside the emperor, protecting him from unknown enemies, and the Romans, in spite of themselves, feared him.

With Usem and Augustus rode the emperor’s historian, his armor rattling and ill-fitting. The soldiers had expected Nicolaus to perform the role of a poet, reciting words of war at night, singing songs of courage by day. Instead, the Damascene was silent, and this made the Romans even more nervous than they already were.

Their commander, Marcus Agrippa, wore bandages around his calf, and his face showed pain as he rode. Those who served nearest him saw him unwinding his bandages and redressing his wound, and they reported that it festered, hot and red, unhealing. He would not let servants touch it.

Only Augustus seemed himself, though his eyes were bright with fever. He rode ferociously up and down the lines of marching men, shouting encouragements to the army, asserting that they would best an enemy they could not imagine.

At night, roaring could be heard, but it came from no clear location. The earth shook and then was stable again. The soldiers looked to the heavens, thinking of Zeus and wondering which side he was on, that of the emperor of Rome or that of the dead queen of Egypt.

The purses of old women and of augurs filled with coins as they interpreted omens for the marching armies. Overhead, eagles wheeled, and vultures, too, following the leavings of the army.

Agrippa and Augustus, Nicolaus riding beside them, arrived in Alba only to find that the legion that had been garrisoned there had already marched south. Augustus was delighted to see that the army had received their orders and traveled responsively, but Agrippa was uneasy. Perhaps it was the pain of his leg. Perhaps it was something more.

Their next station, Formiae, was similarly emptied of men. Agrippa had sent the orders ahead himself, had written the letters, and yet he mistrusted the quiet. The legion had traveled too quickly. Their dust should still be in sight. Augustus, on the other hand, was exuberant, sweating in the heat of the sun, singing in the cool of the night, reminded once more of his boyhood beside Agrippa, beside Julius Caesar, of the glorious times before he’d become truly Glorious.

At night, the sky filled with stars, and Augustus looked up at them, imagining himself stationed amongst the constellations. He imagined his own gods looking down upon his deeds, approving.

He would win this time. He would win. He had an army behind him and Hercules’ bow upon his back. Who knew what Rome would be when this battle was over?

Who knew what worlds existed to be conquered once Rome had beaten such an enemy?

Selene, in her litter, rocked down the dusty Appian behind the army, her eyes closed, her skin chilled. The seiðkona traveled with her, trying to draw her own strength together. She had so little now. Her time was nearly done.