The hall stilled as everyone waited for Gorm’s response. Somewhere in a back room a child cried but was quickly hushed by a parent. The Ketcharch regarded the two of them with calculating eyes, running his hand along his jaw in a habitual gesture. From the look in his eyes he would have liked to have ordered them killed. He might well have done so if he had any assurance his thugs would be able to pull it off before he himself was shot. He stretched out a foot and kicked the coin back in Tiber’s general direction, the small sliver of metal bouncing and rattling to a halt somewhere in the rear of the hall.

“It would be illegal to ask tribute of any legionnaire,” Gorm replied in a studied sneer, “let no man say that I don’t understand my… obligations.”

“As for these… unfortunate incidents. I am certain they are merely acts of random misfortune. I’ll instruct my men more… thoroughly in future.” The words were bland enough on their face, but they dripped with menace. The air was positively charged with malice.

“Glad to hear it,” Sabatine replied and began to back out of the hall. Gorm arched an eyebrow.

“Where are my manners? Would you care to join us for dinner?” he asked, making a vague gesture to some low tables set against the walls.

“We would be honored to dine with such… stalwarts of our great Empire,” he mocked.

“I’m sure we would be more comfortable dining in less auspicious surroundings,” Sabatine replied dryly.

“Perhaps among the hogs on your farm?” Gorm sneered.

“The atmosphere and the smell are both an improvement,” Sabatine returned. A smatter of laughter died quickly as Gorm sat up white with fury. Several of the braver thugs fingered their weapons, but they knew better than to act without their principals consent.

“Safe travels,” he gritted between clenched teeth.


The street was deserted by the time they made it to the ATV. The occasional bang of a closing shutter could be heard as the citizens, aware that trouble was brewing by some communal instinct, closed themselves in their houses. Sabatine supposed that the townsfolk were familiar enough with Gorm and his thugs going on rampages that by now they had developed rituals to deal with it. Sabatine hoped onto the back of the ATV as Tiber started the engine. A few of Gorm’s toughs had slunk out of the hall behind them but they weren’t starting anything just yet. Dusk was falling and the heat of the day was giving way to the sultry warmth of the evening as they drove west out of town heading back towards the farm. 
The road rose up a small ridge in a series of long switchbacks, interspersed with bushy kayla shrubs and slender beech trees. The paving was ancient but solid in the manner of all Roman roads. The locals probably would have made to with a more direct dirt track, but roads were always built to a grade that would allow heavier vehicles than most colonists could afford to operate. There was a pleasant smell of hot stone, green plants and a subtle hint of petrochemicals.

“Headlights,” Tiber reported, noticing several sets of lights on the road behind them. Judging by the height they were probably cargo 8s. Light trucks capable of hauling people or produce. Sabatine was willing to bet they weren’t carrying lettuce. Gorm didn’t want them to make it back to their holdings it seemed, content to have them meet their end on a lonely road.

“We won’t get home before they catch up,” Sabatine opined.