Lucius and Marcus stood on the edge of the training grounds, the sun bearing down on the dusty field where the rebels drilled. A group of peasants, their clothes patched and worn, clutched spears with unsteady hands, stepping forward in staggered lines as they thrust clumsily into the air. The wooden shafts wobbled with every jab, their grips uneven, their stances weak. Further away, a ragged circle of slingers spun stones over their heads before letting them fly toward makeshift targets—scraps of bay and tattered cloth tied to wooden poles. The stones clattered harmlessly off or missed entirely, thudding into the dirt. The air was filled with the sound of labored grunts, the dull snap of wood hitting earth and the steps of two bored man walking around as if they were outside of it.
Lucius crossed his arms, his sharp gaze scanning the disorderly display. "How do you see it?" he asked quietly, his voice barely above the breeze that stirred the dust around them.
