POV of Todd
The meat was damn good. Better than I expected. Juicy, cooked just right, seasoned with something that wasn't quite salt, but close enough to do the trick. I cut another piece while the host talked, listenin' just enough to be polite—like you do when someone thinks they're preachin'.
"Life in service to the Son of Mars is one of trials, but its fruits are sweet. I still remember those glorious days marching under his command, slaughtering degenerates and profligates. I have been richly rewarded by the generosity of a god. Land and slaves, as have my brothers-in-arms. I am fortunate that three of my sons now serve Caesar. And recently, once again, Caesar showed his magnanimity by granting me cows, pigs, chickens, and seeds to sustain my home—guaranteed free of radiation," he said, wearin' that smile like it was painted on.
"So you done sent three o' your boys off to fight for Caesar? Hell of a day, I bet," I said with a polite smile, while the rest of the folks around the table ate in quiet order, not a word outta place.
"I never had the fortune of knowing them well. I conceived them while still in service. They are property of Lord Caesar, and thus must follow him in his great campaign to purify and rebuild the wasteland," the man said, full of pride, not even a flicker of pain in his voice.
I kept smilin', but truth be told, it twisted my gut a little.
"I see… guess that explains these new crops then," I said, tappin' the fork against that soft, white creamy stuff on my plate.
"Precisely. Lord Caesar has decreed it part of our diet. The potato is a gift from Mars to feed warriors. Nutritious, easy to store, harvested in abundance. It is a symbol of his foresight."
I gave it a try. Wasn't bad at all. Simple, sure—but well made.
The meal went on while the old legionary calmly told tales of how he'd torn apart a tribal, gutted an Arizona ranger, and even helped take down a deathclaw. All in the same tone most folks use to talk about the weather. The others just ate, silent, like it was part of the whole ritual.
Eventually, he leaned forward.
"Forgive the intrusion, Governor Todd, but we have received little news from the fronts of Lord Caesar. The couriers bring goods, take our tribute… but rarely do I get the chance to ask how the campaign against the degenerates progresses," Secundus asked, his voice lowered, like he was speakin' in front of a holy figure.
"We're doin' just fine. In fact—take a look," I said, noddin' to one of my boys.
He opened a small leather case in front of the host. Inside, gleamin' under the lightbulb, were some of the newest Legion aureus coins. Shiny. A brand-new face stamped on them.
The old vet picked one up slow-like, but I saw the change hit him fast. Eyes glassy, hands shakin' just a bit.
"Lord… Lord Caesar is dead?" he asked, voice tight. Fear ran through the room like a jolt of lightning. The women stiffened. The kids froze mid-bite.
"If he has fallen… my sons may serve. I too will serve again, under the bull," he said, halfway rising from his seat, like he was ready for orders right then and there.
The women bit their lips. One of them looked down, clearly not thrilled at the idea of sendin' more sons off to die.
I raised my hand calmly, eyes still on my plate.
"Relax, friend… that there's Gaius, Caesar's heir. His son. He's the one who sent you those gifts—the animals, the seeds, all of it. He does it all in Caesar's name. The old man? He's still alive. He's out in Utah right now, with Legate Malpais… reckon you've heard of him."
Secundus exhaled, shoulders droppin'. Sat back down slowly.
"Of course… Legate Malpais. A hard man," he said, much calmer now, graspin' his cup with both hands.
Silence settled in again. Not awkward. Just thick, like everyone was caught up in their own thinkin'.
The rest of the meal went on without much else. And finally, I got to rest. No damn guards snorin', no fan buzzin' inside the convoy. The bed? Real nice. Spring mattress, solid frame, soft padding. You don't see that much out here in the wasteland. Either they built it themselves, or bought it off some caravan on the trade routes. Wouldn't surprise me—Secundus' farm sat right off one of the main Legion highways, and those routes are hummin' more than people realize.
I slept like a king.
And that don't happen often when you're carryin' half a million caps in unsigned contracts. But credit where it's due: thanks to that damn Gaius, most Legion homes have air conditionin'. Electricity's so cheap, they're practically givin' it away. That bastard figured out how to generate it simply, steadily, and in bulk.
I didn't wake up from the sun or some escort bangin' on the door.
It was the smell.
Fried bacon.
One of my many weaknesses.
I got up slow and strolled to the dining room thinkin' about crispy fat and strong coffee. But what I found wasn't breakfast.
Secundus was already awake.
He was kneelin', real quiet, in front of a statue—one carved with such precision that, by the face and that military posture, it could only be Lord Caesar.
He was kissing the statue's feet, solemnly, whispering thanks for his land, for the food, for his children, for the animals—for everything he had. I watched in silence while he mumbled like he was in church. He only raised his head when he noticed me standing there.
He looked at me without shame, calm like a man who truly believed every grain of wheat he harvested was a gift from God. I just gave him a small nod. Didn't say a word.
It was more of the same over breakfast. While we ate, Secundus once again went on about his glory days. Talked about how they wiped out a tribe up north, how they laid ambushes under the old Caesar's orders, and how thanks to his strategies—so he said, inspired by Mars—they crushed forces better armed and outnumbering them. Every tale came with details, names of centurions, Latin phrases he repeated like scripture. I didn't interrupt. Sometimes it's best to let true believers talk.
Once we were done eating, Secundus insisted on showing me something else. He took me to meet the freedmen of the village.
There weren't many of them. A group of maybe ten, men and women who now worked the land for a wage. He explained, proudly, that by decree of Lord Caesar, any slave who served faithfully for a set number of years had to be freed. And of course, he'd followed the decree to the letter.
Now they lived as citizens. Working the same land they once toiled over, but this time for pay. Supposedly, they'd also been given homes. Though I couldn't tell if they truly owned them, or if they were just renting them as part of their new job contract. The structures were plain, but sturdy. They had running water, electricity.
I watched them work. Some were tilling soil, others hauling goods. They moved with rhythm, with purpose. No visible resentment, no laziness. But no smiles, either.
Then came the moment that said it all.
From one of the nearby buildings, a whip cracked—just a sharp snap through the air, not even striking anyone. Just a call from a foreman to get some slaves' attention farther off.
But the freedmen all froze.
A few reached for their backs instinctively. Others jerked around fast, eyes wide, looking for where the sound came from, like they were bracing for a hit.
I said goodbye to the retired legionary with a firm handshake and the kind of manners you save for useful men. We topped off our fuel and got moving again. Took the northern route, no trouble, and half an hour later we rolled into Castra Sol Robrum.
One of the Legion's biggest logistical hubs.
It was from here the first columns marched into Nuevo Mexicanorum, then on into Mexicanorum, Colorado, Texas, and Oklahoma. I knew the place well. Not from being there myself, but from merchant reports and partner briefings. I'd always kept an eye on it for what it meant in the postwar trade scene.
Like most Legion cities, folks lived there long before the banners showed up. People scraped by in the ruins, selling whatever they could—parts, dry goods, slaves. When Caesar came, the slave trade didn't vanish. It just changed shape. Became regulated, structured, controlled. And with that, new markets opened up. These days, the big business was weapons. My business.
The city had changed a lot since my last report. My traders hadn't been exaggerating. The architecture kept that same Legate style, but scaled up big. Tall buildings. Functional. Solid. Admin offices on every block.
The garrison here was massive. I saw squads training, formations moving like clockwork through the streets, transport trucks hauling materials stamped with the Legion's logistics marks.
Castra Sol Robrum was a machine.
You could tell they had way more tech than what we had back in Texas. It wasn't just size or layout. It was real investment. The farms had modern tractors running nonstop. The drier zones were lined with solar panels standing tall like metal pillars under the sun, powering irrigation, surveillance, and processing without a drop of fuel.
The industrial zone was big, busy, and—as I already knew—under the control of one man: Gaius. It wasn't a secret. Even if nobody said it out loud, almost every factory and maintenance contract here passed through his people.
On the hills to the north stood a huge ammo plant. Looked like it supplied most of the eastern campaigns. Caravans rolled out daily, crates marked with his seal, headed to depots in Oklahoma and farther.
And a few kilometers out, more quietly, sat an electric vehicle plant. That one wasn't on many maps, but my contacts had warned me—one of Gaius' pet projects.
That caught my interest fast.
Didn't take long to drop some of the Legion coin I'd brought. I wasn't about to keep relying on fuel with the risk of it evaporating under that damn desert sun. Already happened once—wasn't gonna let it happen again.
So I started the process of ordering a new rig. Something close to what I had, but electric. Long-range, armored, space for escorts. The deal was quick. No middlemen. Of course, the vehicle wasn't ready to roll yet. They said it'd take a few days.