"Alright, that's about enough, Tiberius."
Vito stood on the low platform, arms folded, looking down at the hundred-and-fifty-odd men who finally had a little color back in their faces.
"You can start your… uh… grand training career now. Just a friendly reminder: your job today isn't to make them march like pros—it's to keep them from crying like babies." Vito smirked. "These sorry bastards only just learned how to stand in something that vaguely resembles a line!"
"Fine. I'm starting, Vito. You and the sergeants grab the whips and soft rods. Wave them around once in a while—help the boys 'wake up.'"
Tiberius turned his gaze to the mob of slaves scattered across the field. They were a complete mess—tall and short, fat and skinny, some slouching, some staring at the sky, some scratching their balls. The formation looked like three drunk herds of sheep had collided.
He'd seen the White Company drill. Uncle Jules could take raw recruits and turn them into a living wall in weeks. Tiberius had watched it all. Now it was his turn.
As a guy who'd survived university military training back on Earth, he knew exactly how to hammer a bunch of clueless civilians into something that at least looked like soldiers.
These slaves might not have modern education, but they were used to obeying orders on pain of the lash—and here, nobody was going to file a complaint if he got creative.
Vito frowned at the sloppy crowd. "Seriously, kid, we can still back out. We haven't spent that much coin yet…"
"Heh. Just watch me." Tiberius grinned. "I'm about to put on a show."
"Tch…" Vito spat out the blade of grass he'd been chewing.
You'd better actually produce something useful, or I'm dragging a few old buddies out of retirement for a quick side gig.
Tiberius scratched a few lines in the dirt with a stick.
"What the hell is that?" Vito asked.
"Basic goals." Tiberius tossed the stick aside. "Take a look—anything I should change?"
Vito squinted at the words in the sand:
- Squat and stand
- March and halt
- Ten-man squad formations
- Left and right face
- Advance and retreat
- Form up and disperse
- Assemble and dismiss
Vito stared up at the sky for a long moment.
"Hey, Vito, why are you looking at the clouds?" Tiberius asked, puzzled.
"I'm wondering why the Seven Gods gave a little shit like you such a big brain." Vito shook his head. "Nobody taught you this crap, yet you just wrote down every basic drill like it's nothing. Still…" He grinned wickedly.
"Knowing it and doing it are two different things. I'm dying to see how you turn these brain-dead sheep into real soldiers!"
---
To Vito's genuine surprise, Tiberius moved fast.
He split the hundred and fifty men into three companies of fifty each. Simple method: first he made them shut up and stand still on the platform. Anyone who moved got a whip or rod across the back.
Then Tiberius walked among them himself, sorting them into groups and handing out black, gray, and earthy-yellow tunics so each company had its own color. Inside each company he broke them into five ten-man squads.
At first it was pure chaos—pushing, shouting, arguing. Tiberius just watched with cold eyes. After two minutes of noise he spoke one sentence and the whole mess snapped into order.
"In three minutes I'm coming back to inspect. Anyone who hasn't found his ten-man squad goes hungry tonight!"
After two weeks of real food—meat, oil, bread, rice—the fear of hunger hit them harder than any whip.
They scrambled like their lives depended on it.
Every evening Tiberius gathered them for "story time," painting the mercenary life in bright colors. He used Vito as living proof.
Vito, under orders, had to hype it up: mountains of gold and silver, meat and wine every meal, maybe even a house and land if you got lucky.
Vito had wanted to add the fun parts—raiding, pleasure houses, rich widows—but Tiberius shut that down immediately.
He didn't need soldiers dreaming of loot and women. He needed soldiers who obeyed him without question.
"Attention!" Tiberius roared from the platform.
"Very good! I'm extremely satisfied with your performance!"
Vito muttered under his breath, "You mean three blobs that can kinda wiggle in the same direction…"
Still… first step, complete.
Next came the real work: getting them to stand in proper formation.
Tiberius made it brutally simple.
"Arm's length sideways! Arm's length front to back!"
He walked the lines, correcting posture with his stick.
"Feet together, toes out—fix that pigeon-toe stance!"
"You! Legs straight, stomach in, chest out, shoulders level! Stop slouching like a sack of potatoes!"
"Arms at your sides, fingers together and slightly curled. Good."
"Head up, neck straight, mouth closed. Speak without permission and you get two strokes—then your whole ten-man squad starves tonight!"
To Tiberius's satisfaction, the slaves obeyed instantly. They were used to being dominated. The only challenge was making them understand the movements in language they could grasp.
"Fuck me…" Vito muttered from the platform, watching the ragged lines slowly straighten. "The kid really does have a system."
At least now they looked like something resembling soldiers.
And Tiberius had only just begun.