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Ad Majórem Dei Glóriam
by Tom Kratman

Mogontiacum, December, 407 AD

The night air was cold and crisp. From somewhere to the north came the sound of a group of men singing in unison. The town was festively bedecked, with garlands fronting houses and spanning streets. Walking from near the Rhine to the legionary fort, west of the town, were two men, one in priestly robes and the other in barbarian trousers and a heavy wool cloak, a sagum, stinking still of lanolin. Frozen evergreens appeared at the speakers’ mouths with every word and breath.

“And the simple fact is,” said Father Alban to his friend, former Roman haruspex and recent Christian convert, the printer, Appius Calvus, “that we just don’t know why the church decided on the twenty-fifth of December as the date of Christ’s birth.

“There is a theory,” continued Alban, “that it was so that we could hide our own revels amidst the general festivities of the Saturnalia, the better to escape persecution.”

The pair walked through the darkened and frozen streets of the town, their stockinged and booted feet crunching on the earlier afternoon’s fresh snow. To either side, oil lamps burned in front of houses, and faint glows escaped from houses through shutters and through the oiled animal skins, or cloth, or treated linen, or thin-sliced animal horn that sealed off the windows of the poor and working classes from the weather, even as genuine candles—or, at least, tapers—burned through the rare and costly glass of the homes of some of the wealthy. The imperfect glass diffused the light of candle and lamp into the streets.

“Do you believe that?” asked Calvus.

“No,” the priest replied. “For one thing, there isn’t a shred of evidence that we ever even did celebrate at any time during the Saturnalia, prior to Constantine the Great becoming a Christian. And after that, there was no danger of our being persecuted, so we could have celebrated openly.”

“Absence of evidence is not evidence of absence,” countered Calvus, moving one hand from inside of his sagum, and wagging a finger.

“That’s all true,” said Alban. “And, to be fair, our Christian Christmas does seem to have picked up certain features of the Saturnalia, from decorating our houses with trees and green garlands, to burning candles, and to giving gifts. But that also doesn’t actually prove anything.

“Now me, me, personally,” Alban continued, “I think that we set Christmas at Saturnalia to compete with the pagans, and stole their customs—well, all that were meet for us to steal—for the same reason. But I have no evidence of that, either.

“There are two things, though, friend Calvus, about which I am certain.”

“And what is that?” asked the printer.

“I am certain that Christmas, right date or wrong date, is almost here. And to God, living in the eternal present, dates really don’t matter.”

Calvus didn’t answer, but stretched out one arm to stop Alban from stepping out onto the cobblestoned street, to prevent him from being trodden to the stones by a passing group of wheezing, heaving, in some cases puking legionaries, in full kit, being trotted through the town by a man he recognized as the camp prefect, Marcus Caelius.

The troops sang—or perhaps just gasped—an old legionary pagan hymn, “Sons of Mars,” as they passed. That is to say that the ones singing were the ones not puking, and that even those who were not barely had a breath to use to sing.

Startled, Alban almost lost his footing.

“They’d run either or both of us over in a heartbeat, without a second thought,” said Calvus, “rather than risk falling behind or getting out of step where Caelius might see.”

***

Praefectus Castrorum Marcus Caelius led the third class of the legions’ centurion and optio school on the tail end of a road march designed to weed out those with insufficient desire, insufficient toughness, or who were incapable of being as ruthless with themselves as they were expected to be with the men of a century or maniple.

This is to say that it had been a road march. Once through the gate of the town of Mogontiacum, Caelius had given the command—to the accompaniment of much groaning—of, “Listen up, you pussies: Double time. . . . MARCH.”

Accompanying Caelius’ long, mile-eating strides, an underling called the cadence, the two between them setting a literally blistering pace. That underling was Junior Centurion Lucius Pullo, great-grandson of both Lucius Vorenus and Titus Pullo, mentioned by Caesar in De Bello Gallico. Pullo had been temporarily detached for this from his command of what was now known as “Pullo’s Fort,” on the other side of the Rhine, largely because, as Caelius had said, “You’re getting fat and lazy in that comfortable fort with your comfortable wife, young centurion. A little field and road work is just what you need.”

The bodies in column now, straining to keep up with Caelius and Pullo, were thinner than they had once been. Not only was the sheer physical exertion of centurion training wearing them out, but their rations were mainly barley, on which men lost weight, and not enough of that, in order to ensure they lost still more.

Each of Caelius’ classes had started with one-hundred-and-sixty literate men. One class had graduated eighty-two. The next had managed only seventy-eight. Of the hundred-and-sixty who had begun this third class, just over a third, sixty-eight men, had already dropped out or been dropped.

Fifty-eight centurions left, of what came with us from Germany four centuries ago. Of those, three—myself, Faustus Metilius, and Quintus Silvanus—have been or will be elevated to the rank of camp prefect. And we need one hundred and seventy-seven centurions of all grades, plus a like number of optios. And that’s just for the legions alone. Since we’re also trebling what we once called “the auxilia,” we need still more for that. And we only have time for maybe two more classes before we march east. I foresee problems . . .

***

In ranks, furca—the pole and frame to which a legionary attached his pack and sundry other equipment—not so much balanced on his shoulder as his shoulder being tenderized by the banging of the pole and the weight hanging from the end of it, young Tesserarius Mucius Tursidius struggled to keep up with Caelius’ exhausting pace.

Or, rather: it’s not the pace, so much, as the pace combined with the weight of equipment and being beaten half to death by that equipment. Why, oh, why, did I ever sign up for centurion training?

Tursidius knew the answer to that one already though. It came through to him in a single phrase, a single thought: Anima mea.

***

Princess Leimeie inspected all four of her charges. These were made up of one brother, one sister, and one each boy and girl of no particular degree of blood relation but for whom she had taken responsibility, since there was no one else who would have. Though not all blood relations, all five had been orphaned together, in the disastrous battle with the Romans, back in Scythia.

If asked why she’d taken them in, indeed, taken them in when she had not a bite of food or spare clothing for anybody, Leimeie would have answered, “Well, someone had to.”

The children were all dressed well now, courtesy of her prince. All, too, were well-fed, a marked difference from the early days of their captivity, when the survivors of the disaster had held the princess responsible for the failures of her father, the late king. This largesse, likewise, came from her prince. At first her prince had used no words but only gestures, bearing, and sheer force of character to inform those who had stood between her and food to leave her be. Later, on a repeat of the harassment, he had been more forceful. Leimeie hadn’t had the language, at the time, to understand what her prince had told the crowd of harridans who had massed to deprive her and the children of food. Only later had she understood his words: “Stand between them and food again and I’ll cut your tits off.”

If she hadn’t understood the words, exactly, she’d understood the tone full well. So had the harridans.

She’d been not quite sixteen then, though looking more like a twelve year old. Decent food—and her prince had not only ensured that she and the kids received full captive’s rations, commensurate with age, sex, and workload, but also bought them better food from the...Now what was that word again? Oh, I remember, the Quartermaster . . . to ensure they filled out. The skinny fifteen-year-old who had looked like a skinny twelve-year-old was now a voluptuous seventeen.

He‘d called her beautiful, too, her prince had. She hadn’t believed him until he presented her with a silvered bronze mirror, purchased locally, in a little shop in the town. She still didn’t think she was beautiful, though her blond hair had recovered well and her teeth were still good, a brilliant white and quite straight. Likewise straight and, she supposed, not too large, was her nose. What were large were her two blue eyes.

And those, too, I suppose, she admitted, looking down at her chest.

***

In his own quarters, Lucius Pullo’s wife, Zaya, undid the laces holding his lorica in place across his chest, then helped him out of the freezing steel and sweat-soaked subarmalis, the padded, sleeveless jacket that protected the skin from pinching and chafing from the metal armor, helped reduce blunt trauma and provided some standoff in the case of a shallow penetration. Though no Roman– indeed, her short stature and epicanthic folds marked her as coming from a people who were closer to Asian horse nomads than anyone else– still she was very neat, clean, and tidy. Thus, she wrinkled her nose at the stench from the subarmalis.

No matter how I try, she mourned, this thing still stinks like a week-old corpse. I’ve washed it two dozen times and dried it near a fire to keep mold from growing and, no matter, the stench never goes away. Thank God above that I’ve decorated the apartment with pine boughs and a tree; the pine scent combats the sheer funk of the padding.

Zaya was a recent convert to Christianity, recent enough that she thoroughly approved of the en masse filching of pagan customs like pine boughs, to decorate for Saturnalia, being used to decorate for Christmas.

She thought, Saint Paul says that, even though he’s still a pagan, my Christianity, as his wife, will see him to Heaven. And he’ll come around eventually; I know he will.

Pullo caught the wrinkled nose and the expression of disgust. As soon as she had him out of the padded jacket he took it from her and carried it to place outside, a blast of cold air entering their quarters as he opened the door.

Zaya started to pull her mate toward their bedroom but he stopped her. “You deserve better than a sweat-soaked, stinky ragamuffin,” Pullo told her. “Let me go do a quick tour of the fort baths and, when I return, we can make a night of it. Why don’t you feed baby Titus so he doesn’t interrupt?”

Happily she nodded and began to slip her stola off of one shoulder to bare a smallish and yet very full breast. Her child would sleep the more soundly for a full meal, though changing would not be all that far behind.

***

Marcus Caelius slipped into his quarters quietly, and stealthily snuck up behind his wife, Tabiti, no mean trick when hobnailed caligae were involved. But Caelius had a lot of time in caligae and no little experience of sneaking up on people.

Tabiti—her name meant “the flaming one”—sensed, rather than heard, her Marcus behind her and, rather than spinning about, leaned backwards into him. It wasn’t enough to cause his enveloping hands to miss her breasts. These, like Zaya’s, were full, and for exactly the same reason though, in Tabiti’s case, she being a Scythian, much larger. She felt the coldness of his lorica hamata right through the material of her stola and the shawl over it.

“Flaming?” Yes, though her hair was now shot with gray, what wasn’t gray was mostly a bright blonde with an admixture of coppery red.

Straightening herself and detaching Marcus’ hands, she turned around. A tall Scythian, she more than matched her husband in height. A quick kiss, though by no means chaste, followed.

“A hot bath awaits,” she said, after breaking contact, “courtesy of your man, Privatus, and a clean tunic is laid out on the bed along with fresh udones.”

“And after that?” he inquired, innocently.

“Stupid question,” she replied, “and you don’t get your dinner until after the question is answered.”

***

“So,” asked Calvus, “what do you think of the legionaries, including the Christian ones, singing old pagan hymns like Sons of Mars?”

“I have thought upon it,” Father Alban admitted. “And finally decided that it doesn’t bother me.”

“Why not?”

“Because,” said the priest, “the pagan ones can sing what they like; there’s no literal heresy involved, while for the Christian ones, Mars has ceased to be a god altogether, and merely represents a warrior ideal. So it isn’t a hymn to them, but just a song of an ideal to which they aspire.

“That, and I doubt I could do anything to dissuade them from it.”

“Truth,” admitted Calvus. “Their first devotion was always to the legion, anyway.”

They were very near Alban’s church now. While the main part would be bitterly cold—it was too great a space to keep heated continuously—the priest’s own quarters would be welcomingly warm. Even so, Calvus mentioned that the Catholic Church had paid him for the last shipment of New Testaments.

“So I’m pretty flush,” Calvus said, before asking, “What say we veer off a bit and hit that tavern near your church for some wine? Maybe a bite to eat?”

“I won’t say no,” replied Alban, “provided you mean the taberna and not the ganea.”

That latter was the name for a brothel, hence no place for a priest to be found, except perhaps to curse from outside the entrance.

“Aren’t several of your parishioners working girls from the ganea?”

With a scowl that went a lot deeper than just to his face, Alban answered, “They are, poor things. Almost every girl in the place. Slaves, most of them, or maybe all of them, so it’s not like they have a lot of choice. The sin, if any, is on the masters who put them to that vile occupation. Most of those masters even have the effrontery to call themselves ‘Christians,’ too. One or two of the girls may be working the taberna, but at least it’s not the primary function of the place.”

***

From close to the large fire that, along with body heat, kept the tavern warm, Centurion Gratianus Claudius Taurinus waved hello to the priest and the haruspex. “Ave!” he called, having to shout to be heard over the noise of the place. “Welcome priest and welcome man of the legion.” The former aquilifer and now centurion was seated with his optio, plus a couple of other centurions and their optios, at a table over a jug of wine.

Claudius waved the new visitors over to join them.

There was a girl there, not one of the waitstaff but a denizen of the ganea, plying her trade. Though slender, she didn’t actually appear very pretty. But, who knew, under the dirt she may have been comely enough. Her youth—So very young, thought Calvus; I don’t even want to think about how young—was likely her primary feature for attracting customers of a certain taste. On the other hand her brown eyes were simply enormous. She took one look at Alban, crossed herself hurriedly, then turned as if to leave the place.

The priest recognized her by name. He held up a restraining hand and said, “Hold, Serena. You can leave now and I wouldn’t blame you. Indeed, I’d praise you. But what happens if you go back to your master empty-handed?”

“A beating,” was her simple answer. She then added, “Since I’ve made nothing this evening, probably a bad one.”

Calvus, the new Christian, asked of Alban, “This is the season of giving, as God gave us His Son, it is not?”

“It is,” answered the priest, raising an inquisitorial eyebrow.

“Serena,” Calvus continued, addressing the girl, “how much would your master reasonably expect you to have earned, working this tavern?”

“Reasonably, sir?” the girl asked, then added, “The next time he is reasonable will be the first. But maybe fifty nummi, a stripe for each five nummi coin less than that.”

“How much silver in a nummus,” Calvus asked of the priest, “or, failing that, how many nummi could I get in trade for a single old fashioned silver denarius?”

Since the priest’s church was supported with donations, he had an answer ready to hand. “Maybe one half of one of your denarii. You should be able to get about a hundred nummi for a whole denarius. Expect to be cheated a little and get a few less.”

“Serena,” said Calvus, “come with us. We’ll feed you, give you a little wine, and then send you home with enough money in hand to keep your master’s lash away from your back.”

The girl’s eyes opened wide with horror. She glanced in panic between her would-be benefactor and the priest.

“He didn’t mean it the way you’re taking it, girl,” said Alban. The priest sighed, “Not that I can blame you for taking it that way. But, no, neither of us wants to engage your services. He means to give you a gift so you do not get a beating. He also means to feed you something.”

“Oh,” said the girl, clearly embarrassed and hanging her head at her misunderstanding. “Thank you, sir.”

Gratianus still hadn’t converted, though his optio had. The legion remained his religion and probably always would. Even so, he respected men of faith, even of this faith that was new to him and to the legion. He elbowed his optio, lightly, to get him to slide over on the bench to make room for Calvus and the girl. A glance at the centurion on the other side of the table sent this one to shifting down to give the priest a place to sit.

Introductions were made all around. From their reaction to Father Alban, it wasn’t hard to tell who among the crew had already converted, and who were thinking about it. It was also a little warming that, although every man there obviously knew Serena, by name, not one gave any indication that they’d ever made use of her.

Could be decency, thought the priest, or could just be tact. I’ll be charitable and assume decency.

Another girl–she announced herself as “Paula, the tavern keeper’s daughter”–came over, recited the fare, and took orders. Paula gave a pitying look to Serena, shaking her head in sympathy.

Wine arrived before dinner. Serena had asked for a cup of sweet white, while the rest of the congregation took an almost dry red. With the wine came epityrum, a kind of olive-based relish, olive oil with herbs, and a platter of sliced breads, both dark and white.

Serena dug into the bread, oil, and relish with more gusto than simple hunger would account for. Leaning over, she began to shovel it in with both hands. Calvus glanced at her back and saw linear stains, old and dull red.

She wasn’t joking about the beatings, now, was she? And both her appetite, clothing, and build suggest that her master is not merely vicious, but cheap, as well. Maybe worse, he’s stupid, because nobody wants a girl who looks ready to die of hunger, or is dirty, or is oozing blood.

Calvus elbowed Gratianus lightly, pointing at the girl’s back with his chin.

“I know,” said the centurion, softly. “Hell of a world, ain’t it?”

The place was noisy enough that Serena heard none of it.

“What would it cost,” asked Calvus, “for you and your mates to go and have a little chat with her master? You know; to explain the realities of business—or this kind of business—to him? With Christian love and charity? And not too many bruises and broken bones?”

“I think another jug of wine would just about cover it. And it needn’t be of the best.”

“Paula!” shouted Calvus. “Paula! Please bring another couple of jugs of the best wine for my comrades of the Eighteenth Legion!”

***

Gratianus and the others had departed, as if on some urgent errand.

“My mother died,” Serena explained around a spoon full of thick stew. “My father adored my mom. After she died he lost all purpose, crawled into an amphora of wine, and never came out again, not that I saw. Eventually some slavers caught him when he was drunk and convinced him to sell me. Yes, he was really drunk. If he ever sobered up he might have noticed I was gone. But I don’t know that he ever did.”

“Where are you from?” Calvus asked. “And how did you get here?”

“Cartago Novo, in Hispania,” she answered. “I was put in a slave coffle. We followed the Via Augusta to Illici, Valentia, Saguntum, and then Tarraco. From Tarraco we followed the Via Augusta, and then the Via Domitia, to Narbonensis . . .”

“How do you know this?” Alban asked.

“Well, I could read the signs, sir, couldn’t I?”

“You can read?” exclaimed Calvus.

“Yes,” the girl answered. “My mother taught me before she died. Fat lot of good it’s done me since.”

Calvus pointed at a sign over the bar. “Read that,” he commanded.

“It’s just a list of wine prices,” Serena said. “Sixty nummi for a pint of local . . .”

“Where is your ganea?” Calvus asked.

Serena gave very competent directions, including street names and landmarks. “Why?”

“Oh, our former comrades of the table were heading that way and I’d like to join them,” Calvus answered. He dug several coins from a fold in his tunic, passed them to Alban, and said, “For anything else you or Serena might need. I’ll be back shortly. Would you stay here and keep the young lady company?”

“I’m no lady,” Serena corrected, huge brown eyes downcast. “I’m not any kind of a lady at all.”

“Hush,” said Calvus. Turning back to Alban he said, “I don’t think this will take long. Not with the powers of persuasion I can bring to bear.”

***

When Calvus arrived at the bordello, he found two door guards, laid out side by side, sleeping peacefully in the foyer. Both sported bruises and rather large knots on their heads. Blood had dribbled out from the nose of the larger of the two. Meanwhile, farther inside, Gratianus had a tight hold of some man’s hair, with one hand, his victim’s arm twisted behind his back with the other. The centurion was holding the man’s head in a tub of cold water. He waited until the bubbles stopped coming up before pulling the gasping, choking, half-drowned brothelkeeper out.

“Ah, Calvus,” said the centurion. “Glad you could join us. I was just explaining to this person”—Gratianus spat the word—“how very uneconomical it is to cause the merchandise to bleed.”

“You . . . don’t . . . underst–”

Whatever the proprietor was going to say was lost as he went, face down, once again into the tub. Gratianus calmly watched for the disappearance of the tell-tale bubbles, then pulled him out once again.

Calvus held up a restraining finger. He waited for the proprietor to finish gasping and gagging, then said, “There’s a girl you own, one Serena, by name.”

“Yes . . . I . . . own . . . her,” the brothelkeeper gasped out.

“I’d like to buy her from you, in a very real and legally binding sense.”

“Five nummi . . . and you can . . . use her . . . as you like.”

“I don’t think you understand,” said Calvus. Normally, Calvus was a very peaceful and peaceable man. He could, however, be provoked. “Centurion Gratianus.”

Once again, in went the glorified pimp’s head into the water. He hadn’t really had a chance to draw much breath so the bubbles stopped relatively quickly.

When the brothelkeeper’s head reemerged, Calvus said, his voice the very soul of calm reason, “I don’t think you understood me. I said ‘buy,’ not rent. How much to buy the girl from you? Don’t be greedy or we can negotiate this with your head in the water.”

“Ten solidi!” the man shouted.

“Too high,” observed Calvus. “Centurion?”

Gratianus’ grip on the man’s hair tightened as he began, once again, to force the head down. Just before another plunge, the man shouted, “Wait! Wait! I misspoke. Two solidi. Two! God, just two!!!”

Again, Calvus held up a restraining finger. “That seems very fair,” he mentally translating that to be a couple of dozen old style legionary denarii. “Centurion, if you might lead this man to his office, where he can write out a bill of sale. Why, you fine fellows can witness it.”

***

When Calvus returned to the tavern—at Calvus’ sincere suggestion, Centurion Gratianus and his party had been gifted, if that was quite the right word, the use of any girls in the house . . . rather than the proprietor face another near drowning—he placed the bill of sale in front of Serena. She read it without any difficulty that couldn’t be explained by the brothelkeeper’s so-so penmanship.

“You own me?” she asked, wonderingly. “But why? I’m nobody and you’re not the kind of man who likes girls as young as me. Trust me, I’ve learned how to tell the difference.”

“Because,” Calvus replied, “I am a printer and you can read. If you can read you can learn to proofread. And with a little training you can probably set type.” And I also hate seeing anybody abused, let alone young girls.

“By the way, though you can read, I haven’t asked; do you like to read?”

“God, yes,” the now-former prostitute answered. The dreamy look in her eyes told Calvus she was telling the truth. “There was a library in Cartago Novo my mother would take me to when we could afford the admission. I was working my way through De Bello Gallico when my mom took sick. And–”

“Girl,” Calvus interrupted, “your life has just taken an amazing turn for the better. Do you have a cloak?”

She shook her head.

“You mean that swine sent you out into the streets in only a thin . . .”

“There were reasons,” Serena said, “why I tried to ply my trade –”

“Former trade,” Calvus corrected.

“—inside the tavern.”

Calvus stood, picking up his own sagum from the bench where he’d been sitting on it. “Put this on. Your new home is a long cold walk.”

“Could we go by the church first?” Serena asked. “If I’m not going to have to sin anymore, I’d like to confess my sins now and be clean for a change.”

“How old are you?” Calvus asked.

“Fourteen. Yes, I know I look younger but my master—my former master—didn’t feed us very well.”

Alban piped in, “Yes, I can hear a confession now. No problem at all. More glad to do it than I can recall anytime lately. But, Serena?”

“Yes, Father?”

“You have less to confess than you might think. The sins were not yours. But if it will make you feel as pure as your spirit is . . . let’s go.”

***

The bright morning sun cast long shadows across the street, painting the buildings on the other side of Father Alban’s church in shadow. Leimeie waited in front of Father Alban’s church. Her prince had said he would meet her here and she never doubted him. From the north came the sound of running men, all hobnails slapping cobblestones, jingling armor, and “left-right-left-right-left-right-left.”

A young girl, wearing a somewhat oversized cloak, a clean wool tunic, and barbarian trousers but cut for a girl, ran up, a large sheaf of paper under one arm. With barely a nod at Leimeie, she plunged through the door into the darkness inside.

From inside the church came the sound of muted conversation, men’s and women’s voices mingling. All sounded rather happy, really.

One man emerged from the church, old, grizzled, and scarred, wearing a sagum over a bright white tunic.

“Lady,” he said, thus greeting Leimeie. “Correction, Princess.”

“Centurion Gabinius,” she answered. “Are you ready?”

“No one ever had an easier job,” Gabinius replied. “Besides, I have certain debts . . . in any case, let’s get you in out of the cold. Bad luck for you to be seen just yet.”

“But . . . but I wanted to see . . .”

“You can watch from the door. Nothing in tradition says a word about you not seeing.”

Once inside, Leimeie glanced around the church. Though it could normally hold over two hundred souls, it seemed full to bursting.

Must be the number of women who came with their men, she thought.

Two of those women, Zaranaia, the legate’s wife, and Tabiti, the camp prefect’s woman, left their pews as soon as they caught sight of Leimeie. Both went to their knees before her, as if they were her subjects, then stood up and wrapped her in their arms.

“Nervous, Princess?” asked Tabiti.

“A little,” she admitted.

“Don’t be. You are going to just love being married,” said Tabiti.

“Oh, yeah,” added Zaranaia, dreamily. “The benefits . . .” She let the thought drift off.

Outside, the chorus of “left-right-left” and the sound of running feet grew to a crescendo then stopped completely at the command, “Maniple . . . HALT.” More commands followed.

Tabiti, Zaranaia, and the centurion hustled Leimeie into an unlit alcove.

As they did they heard Marcus Caelius ordering, “Tesserarius Mucius Tursidius, front and center. The rest of you turds . . . single file from the right . . .” “Forward . . . standandand fastastast . . .” “MARCH! Pullo, take charge!”

As another ninety-four men, not all of them Christians, filed into the church, matters went from crowded to barely standing room only.

Should warm things up nicely, thought Father Alban, standing in front of the altar.

***

“Have you got the ring, Tursidius?” asked Marcus Caelius. “Assuming so, pass it over.”

Mucius had it grasped in his left hand, which on any other day might hold the grip for his scutum. “Here, sir.”

Briefly, Marcus Caelius examined it. “‘Anima mea’? Appropriate enough. You nervous?”

“Terrified, sir.”

“Takes a brave man to admit it,” Caelius said. From inside his own tunic, Caelius drew a corona civica, a civic crown, Rome’s second highest award for valor. Mucius Tursidius had earned it for saving the life of his centurion, one Caius Gabinius, a couple of years earlier, in the defense of their camp from assaulting Scythians.

“Yes, I took the liberty,” Marcus Caelius said. “Now put this on your head and let’s go.”

Uniquely, Marcus Caelius held the door for Tursidius. The latter stopped just inside to accustom his eyes to the reduced light inside the church. This, despite the fact that the priest had a number of candles and literally dozens of oil lamps burning.

Caelius joined him, likewise having to wait several minutes for his eyes to adjust.

“We don’t need to march here,” said the camp prefect “and, even though I outrank the shit out of you, you walk on the right side.”

A couple of dozen steps and Mucius found himself standing in front of Father Alban, and just slightly off to one side, Marcus Caelius standing to his left. At a nod from the priest, two celebrants began pumping the small water organ, or hydraulis, standing to one side of the main door.

Pressure—hydraulic pressure—built up inside the instrument. The organist began playing the tune of an ancient hymn, originally to Hymen, god of marriage ceremonies, now, much like the aspects of the Saturnalia, syncretically co-opted by the Church:

Glancing down at the sheets passed out moments before, the celebrants began to sing:

“Let the torches blaze, let the bride’s veil shine,

“United in love under heaven’s divine.”

“That’s our cue, Princess,” said Gabinius, offering the girl his arm. “Now take it slow and easy. No need to hurry. Give the crowd what they want to see . . . and let’s make young Tursidius wait for his reward.”

“The Lord be with you,” began Alban.

***

She wore his ring now. Her veil was lifted and a crown placed on her head. Alban intoned, “May the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob be with you, and may He fulfill His blessing upon you, that you may see your children’s children to the third and fourth generation, and have eternal life in Christ our Lord.

“You may kiss the bride.”

It wasn’t particularly seemly, but the entire church, Christian majority and pagan minority, alike, burst into cheering. Alban shot a glance at Marcus Caelius, who gave two commands at the top of his lungs. “Be quiet. And Tursidius, though it pains me deeply to grant this, you have a two-day pass. Report to the course barracks by first light, two days hence. What? You’re still here? Take your bride, boy, and go!”

“Take me to our home, my prince,” said Leimeie, princess of the Scythians.

The legate, Gaius Pompeius, and his lady, Zaranaia, accompanied by Tabiti, gathered in front of Caelius. The women were somewhat taller than their husbands.

“You couldn’t have given them three days?” asked Tabiti.

“What?” said Caelius,. He pointed at the legate, adding, “And have this one insisting again that I’m getting soft?”

“Well, Dad . . .”

And that is all that will be said about this matter; a newly married couple is entitled to a degree of privacy.

***

Later, in the print shop, Serena couldn’t control her tears. She leaned on the press, weeping uncontrollably. “It was so beautiful,” she said, more than once.

“Is that why you’re crying?” asked Calvus.

“No,” she replied. “I’m crying because it will never happen to me. Confession and absolution or not; I’m too unclean.”

Calvus, had seen something the girl had apparently missed, namely the slack-jawed, already conquered expression worn by the printer’s young male assistant, Exuperius, whom he’d hired away from a local merchant.

“You know,” Calvus said, “for a clever and literate girl you can be awfully stupid. And when no less a personage than Father Alban pronounces you clean and pure, just who do you think you are to gainsay it, hmmm?”

And she did clean up rather nicely. Hence young Exuperius’ continuous mooneyes.

There came a knock from the door.

“Dry your eyes and go answer that, would you, Serena?”

A few moments later the girl called out, “It’s the tree, the pine boughs, and the candles, oil, and lamps you ordered.”

“Exuperius,” Calvus called out.

“Yes, sir?”

“Help Serena carry in the decorations for Christmas.”

The boy couldn’t keep the enthusiasm out of his voice. “Yes, sir!”

***

Calvus had poured a cup of wine for each of them, then set himself to laying out the type for his next printing project, a compendium of the Gospels, for private purchase or for any of the huge number of tiny churches that dotted the countryside of Italy, Spain, Germany, Gaul, Britannia, and Africa. Matthew and Mark sat thickly on tables and benches around the shop. He was currently working on Luke and, expressly, the Christmas story.

As his eyes roved from the master copy to the composing stick, Calvus’ hands placed the metal letters upside down and backwards. Unaware of it, himself, he was humming a strange tune.

“What is that?” Serena asked, as she strung the pine boughs around the print room, placing them on short nails driven into the walls at regular intervals.

“What’s what?” Calvus asked, absently.

“What’s that song? The one you were humming?”

“Was I? Why, I didn’t know. And I don’t know. What did it sound like?”

Serena hummed a few notes back at him.

“I’ve heard that somewhere or somewhen,” Calvus said. “I mean, before this day. But . . . I never told you, did I? I suppose I didn’t. Exuperius knows the story, as does the entire Legio XIIX, by this point, I suppose. You see, when God sent the legion forward in time, for whatever reason of His own, my body and my spirit separated. My body, with not a lot more animation to it than a tree has, followed along with the legion. But my mind, or maybe my soul, passed through over a hundred places. I don’t even know how many. When I was in some place, it was always by sharing the mind of a denizen of that place. They thought in their own language and I understood it in mine. And vice versa.

“When my mind and body were reunited, I remembered things but dimly, as if in a dream I’d had early in sleep that I had a vague recollection of when I woke up next morning. Some things were clearer; some more dim. How to build and operate this printing press; that was somewhat clear. The attempted crossing of the Rhine by the barbarians, last New Years? I was there to see that and was able to warn the legion some time after I came back. But a thousand other details are either lost or too dimly remembered to use. That tune may be one of them.”

“Shame,” said Exuperius, “it was very pretty. Can you make yourself remember it, learned boss?”

“Sometimes I can,” answered Calvus. “Sometimes I can’t. Sometimes I can but not in any useful way.”

“Does anything help?” asked Serena.

“Sometimes wine; sometimes quiet. Also sometimes nothing helps.”

“Let me bring you some more wine,” said the girl. “And then Exuperius and I can go decorate some other part of the shop, some part where we won’t disturb you. Because I really think you need to remember that tune.”

***

Though he wasn’t sure exactly why, Calvus tried so hard to remember. He’d had Serena hum the tune, the bit she’d caught, repeatedly. He could consciously recite it now, but that was all. He was sure there were supposed to be words to go along with the music, but couldn’t remember any of them. This was odd, because he did remember the setting. It had been in a small church close to a river. He was sure of that because the walls of the church, lit by candles only, showed marks indicative of risen waters. His host of the time—a priest named Josef—had also told him of the flood risk.

More wine then. Maybe a lot more. He refilled his cup from a jug the girl had brought him.

Hmmm . . . no, not one jug, four. Well, needs must . . .

***

Calvus was awakened by morning sun diffusing into the shop through the oiled skins covering the windows. His head lay on the table at which he’d been seated while trying to remember. His hand knocked over the cup from which he’d been drinking. No matter; the cup was bone dry.

Just as dry were enough jugs of wine to float a small warship. All right, so I’m exaggerating. My head still feels as if I’d had that much to drink. Blech!

The printer realized his face had been resting on the closed covers of a cera, a waxen writing tablet. A stylus lay on the table next to it.

Reluctantly, Calvus opened the cera. Scratched into the wax on each leaf of the opened tablet were poems, in proper Latin. The meter said they were not the same poem at all.

Ah, but do I know the music. Let’s . . .

As it turned out, Calvus did remember the music now, two distinctly different pieces. He could also, more or less clearly, recall Josef’s singing in full. Josef had told him that the organ was badly out of condition, hence had accompanied the thing with an instrument something like a lyre, but deeper and far more resonant.

And I saw their way of writing music down, but I do not understand how it worked. Still, just knowing there’s a better way . . .

“Serena!” Calvus called out. “Exuperius! Attend me.”

***

All three of the print shop staff, most expressly to include Calvus, himself, busied themselves with putting letters into composing sticks and then transferring these to the galley, a kind of flat tray. Each took special care to reference Calvus’ cera, on which the poems had been hand-scratched via Calvus’ stylus. The lines of the poems were short so that at least eight copies could be laid out side by side. There was only enough room to list out both poems four times, top to bottom.

Once the galley was filled, Exuperius drove in little wedges along the sides, top, and bottom, to hold the letters in place. Calvus was pretty sure that he’d seen a better method in his spectral travels, but couldn’t quite remember what it had been. Meanwhile, Serena busied herself with dabbing two ink balls into the ink block, then beating the ink balls together, to spread the ink evenly. Finally, once Exuperius was out of the way, and all the little wedges driven into place, she began inking the letters.

“All right, Exuperius,” said Calvus, “one sheet of second-rate paper for a proof copy, moisten it and print it.”

***

“So far, so good,” Calvus announced. “Exuperius, print us off . . . oh . . . not that many people are literate and I don’t want the illiterate ones taking copies to clean themselves after going to the toilet . . . so, let’s say, a dozen sheets. That gives plenty for Alban to circulate around, too. Meanwhile, I need to go to take Serena to see the legate, who is also the military governor. Get your new cloak, child; no dawdling.”

***

The praetorium, headquarters for the legion and, for the time being, for the town, was heavily decorated for the coming Christmas. Not one but two small pines stood, framing either side of the main doorway. So, too, were pine boughs and wreaths liberally hung on all the walls. There were candles, as well, along with an unusually large number of lit oil lamps to supplement the light filtering in through the translucent windows.

In that praetorium Gaius Pompeius was enjoying a private lunch with his wife, Zaranaia. He was a normal enough Roman, a bit swarthy and with his hair cut short, square chin and brown eyes. She, conversely, was a great beauty, blonde and blue-eyed, with exquisitely feminine features and demeanor. She’d already born one child and was working on more.

Gaius had come to adore her.

Gisco knocked on door and stuck his head in. “Sorry to disturb you, sire, but the former haruspex, the printer, Calvus, would like to see you on a matter of . . . well, yes, I suppose it is of some urgency.”

“Shall I leave, husband?” asked Zaranaia.

Gisco interrupted, “Given the nature of the matter, my lady, I absolutely think you should stay. And, sir; Calvus is not alone. He has a young lady with him. A very young lady.”

“Send them in, by all means,” said the Legate, Gaius Pompeius.

Calvus came in alone, then whispered to Gaius what the matter was. The legate—already grinning because, well, with a girl like Zaranaia to wife, what was there not to grin about—gave a hearty laugh.

“Wonderful, Calvus. Yes, by all means bring her in. Gisco, you’re a citizen, too, so you stay. And bring in the orderly from the lobby. Calvus, have you the paperwork ready?”

The printer pulled out two folded sheets, hand-written in duplicate, from inside his tunic, laying the two copies on the table next to the legate. Atop those he also placed a rod, the vindicta, of about a foot and a half in length.

When all were assembled, to include the skinny little creature accompanying Calvus, Gaius Pompeius stood. He beckoned Gisco over and whispered in his ear. The secretary smiled broadly and said, “Most happily, sir.”

Gisco picked up the rod and walked to stand in front of Serena. “Bend your head, child,” he told her.

Thereupon, Gisco touched the girl gently on her head with the rod, and announced, “Hanc puellam liberam esse aio ex iure Quiritium.” I declare this girl free in accordance with the laws of the citizens of Rome.

“Does anyone present object?” asked Gaius, looking directly at Calvus. “If so, so state.”

Silence.

“Seeing that there are no objections,” said Gaius, “I adjudge her to be free. And, moreover, I shall pay the manumission tax from my own purse, just in case anyone might doubt it.

“Gisco, please sign the documents. And orderly, sign your name or make your mark as a witness.”

Serena, who really hadn’t a clue what had just transpired, looked up at Calvus for an explanation. He, for his part, took the first of the signed documents and handed it to her. “You are free, Serena, as you should always have been.”

“What? Free?” She paused, as if savoring the word. “Free? Really free? Free-free?”

“As free as any girl has ever been, I think,” said Zaranaia. She stood, walked over, and wrapped the girl in great, enveloping hug. “Free,” she whispered.

“Free . . . .free . . . .free . . . free . . . free . . . free!” exclaimed Serena, practically singing the word.

“Yes,” agreed Gaius, smiling broadly. “As free as all that.”

“Now take that document to Father Alban,” said Calvus. “Be sure you do not lose it. And ask him to register you in the church records as a free Christian girl of the town of Mogontiacum.”

“I’ll take care of registering her civilly,” said Gisco. “And, sir, I’ll take the money out of your petty cash box for the tax.”

“Free,” said Serena, once again. And yet again, “Free.”

“Off to the church with you, child,” Calvus reminded. “Ask Father Alban to get his musicians and chorus to attend. I’ll be along at a more sedate pace than I expect you to set.”

As Calvus left the praetorium, Gaius Pompeius whispered, “Digna factis recipimus.” We receive the due rewards of our deeds. “May it prove so.”

***

The church was as well lit as Calvus could remember ever having seen it. There were rare and expensive candles by the altar, true, but this was only normal. In addition to those, three dozen smaller candles lined the walls, in hung sconces, even as multi-wicked oil lamps hung from the ceiling, burning overhead.

It was light enough to read by.

At the front entrance, well-bundled against the biting cold, Serena and Exuperius passed out sheets of paper upon which were printed two poems. The first of these was labeled “Adeste Fidelis.”

The evening vigil mass before Christmas Day wasn’t exactly by invitation. However, the word of the mass had only gone out to certain persons. Four more open masses were scheduled for the morrow, while a service would also be held in the square, the forum, of the legionary base.

Among those who had been notified, literacy was, in the male half, almost universal. Since the female half was Scythian to a considerable degree, literacy among the women was rather more rare, though not unknown and still improving.

A healthy crowd, more than two hundred and fifty, including the women, filed in, packing the benches. All of these had already been received into the church or, in some cases, had married a Christian thus guaranteeing their own entrance into Heaven.

Among those in attendance was Calvus, standing by the hydraulis and the choir, in the back. He and his two assistants had spent most of the last two days working with the organist and the singers to get those two poems and the music for them down. With the last of the celebrants having passed through the door, Serena and Exuperius came into the church as well, each bearing but a few of the song sheets they’d been passing out.

One of the auxiliaries to Father Alban began to walk slowly up the church’s central aisle, or nave, swinging a censer, thus filling the church with the aroma of frankincense. As soon as the cross preceding Father Alban reached the nave, the organist began. The choir joined in shortly with:

“Adeste Fideles laeti triumphantes,
“Veníte, veníte in Bethlehem.
“Natum vidéte, Regem Angelorum:

“Veníte adoremus,
“Veníte adoremus,
“Veníte adoremus

“Dóminum.

“Deum de Deo, lumen de lúmine,
“Gestant puellae viscera.
“Deum verum, genitum non factum:

“Veníte adoremus,
“Veníte adoremus,
“Veníte adoremus

“Dóminum.”

By this point, the rest of the celebrants had gotten the idea and joined in with the choir:

“Cantet nunc io chorus Angelórum
“Cantet nunc aula caelestium.
“Gloria in excelsis Deo:

“Venite, adoremus,

“Venite . . .”

Alban, having reached the altar, turned about and saw that his parishioners seemed quite pleased with themselves at having picked up and joined in with the music.

As well they should. And I hope this is the start of some very good things.

“The Lord be with you,” Alban intoned.

“And with your spirit,” came the response.

***

Mass was done, most of the celebrants having taken communion.

“Before I dismiss you,” said Alban, “we have one more treat, brought to us by the same divine magic that sent the Eighteenth Legion to us in our hour of need and sent Brother Calvus all over the world and through many times to gather knowledge for our benefit. I ask you all to consult your song sheets and join us in this beautiful hymn of remembrance and praise . . .”

One again the organist began, but played one entire verse twice, without singing, so that everyone could grasp the music. Then Alban began to sing, the chorus following right along, along with the entire group. They sang:

“Silens nox, sancta nox,
“placida, lucida,
“virginem et puerum
“dulcem atque tenerum,
“somno opprime,
“somno opprime.
“Silens nox, sancta nox!
“Angeli nitidi
“‘Alleluia’ concinunt.
“Nunc pastores metuunt,
“Christus natus est,
“Christus natus est.”

Calvus, though singing along with the rest, looked down as Serena and Exuperius. They were singing, as well. Tears were pouring down the girl’s face, while the boy had to dab at his eyes with a bit of his cloak.

Looking around, Calvus saw that tears were fairly common, from both the women and even, much to his surprise, the men. Why even grizzled old Caelius seemed almost ready to join his wife, Tabiti, in tears.

Will wonders never cease? he mentally asked himself.

“Silens nox, sancta nox,
“candida, splendida!
“Fili Dei facies
“nobis praebet novas spes.
“Christus natus est,
“Christus natus est!”

Calvus took another look at his young assistants. They were holding hands.

The savior is born, thought Calvus, and a young girl freed, and perhaps a new beginning for her and the boy. They could both do a lot worse. And I am pleased I was able to recapture the song. “Stille nacht,” that priest, Josef, had called it. I think it is maybe more beautiful here even than it was in that church.

And Josef, do you mind that I stole it? I think not. I think you would be pleased that it serves us here in this earlier time . . . for the greater glory of God.

In 1974, at age seventeen, Tom Kratman became a political refugee and defector from the PRM (People’s Republic of Massachusetts) by virtue of joining the Regular Army. He stayed a Regular Army infantryman most of his adult life, returning to Massachusetts as an unofficial dissident while attending Boston College after his first hitch. Back in the Army, he managed to do just about everything there was to do at one time or another. After the Gulf War, with the bottom dropping completely out of the anti-communist market, Tom decided to become a lawyer. Every now and again, when the frustrations of legal life and having to deal with other lawyers got to be too much, Tom would rejoin the Army (or a somewhat similar group, say) for fun and frolic in other climes. His family, muttering darkly, put up with this for years. He no longer practices law, instead writing full-time for Baen. His novels for Baen include A State of Disobedience, Caliphate, and the series consisting of A Desert Called Peace, Carnifex, The Lotus Eaters, The Amazon Legion, Come and Take Them, The Rods and the Axe, and A Pillar of Fire by Night. With John Ringo, he has written the novels Watch on the Rhine, Yellow Eyes, and The Tuloriad. Also for Baen, he has written the first three volumes of the modern-day military fiction series Countdown. He’s recently co-authored the brilliant The Romanov Reign Series with Kacey Ezell and Justin Watson.

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Framed