"Not bad. These bastards are finally starting to look like soldiers!"
Vito stood on the low platform, arms crossed, staring down at the hundred-and-fifty-odd men lined up below.
"Two weeks. Two fucking weeks and you've already got these lambs marching left, right, down, and up like they've got half a brain. You some kind of genius, kid?"
"Not enough," Tiberius muttered. He raised the iron whistle hanging around his neck and blew a sharp blast.
"First Spear Company—front and center!"
The leftmost fifty-man block stepped forward in perfect unison, then advanced toward the platform at a steady march. From above, they looked like a single living machine rolling across the dirt. Tiberius flicked his small command flag. The formation pivoted cleanly.
"Left face!" he barked.
Every man snapped left without a single mistake.
"Damn," Vito whistled under his breath. "That one-shoe trick of yours is pure gold. One foot shod, one foot bare—they finally figured out left from right. Clumsy as hell, but it works. I'm stealing that for the next batch of White Company recruits."
Tiberius had introduced simple squad numbering—each fifty-man company numbered one through fifty. It made roll calls, commands, and punishment lightning-fast. The slaves had grumbled at first, but once they realized food distribution, work details, and blame all ran smoother with numbers instead of confused shouting and finger-pointing, they shut up.
Especially once he introduced collective punishment: one man fucks up, the whole squad pays. Suddenly remembering your number—and your squadmates' numbers—became a matter of full bellies and unbroken bones.
"Number Five! What the hell are you doing?" Tiberius roared at the man who'd tripped over a rock. "Your mistake gets your brothers killed! Fifty squats—now!"
Without waiting for the man to start, Tiberius turned back to Vito.
"They can only march at walking pace so far. Nowhere near the speed the White Company hits position and forms line." Tiberius frowned. "Uncle Jules's men move like lightning once the order drops."
"They don't believe yet," Vito said quietly. "They obey, but their hearts are still numb. Right now they look sharp, but throw them into real slaughter and they'll fold like fresh conscripts."
"Exactly. Because deep down they don't believe this training will actually give them a better life." Tiberius's face darkened. "I need a way to prove that following me means good days ahead."
---
The next morning, the assembly horn sounded. The new recruits formed up, uneasy, and immediately noticed something strange in the center of the training field: a rough log, over a meter long and as thick as a man's thigh, standing upright like a challenge. Tiberius stood beside it with Vito and a few veteran sergeants.
Every eye locked on that log. No one had any idea what the young "Lightning General" was up to now.
These past two weeks the food had been unreal—plenty of oil, meat, fresh vegetables, even cheese. The only complaint was the bread and rice still had husks and grit, but even that was ten times better than the slop they used to get.
Tiberius swept his gaze across the ranks, voice calm but loud enough for every man to hear.
"Listen up! New order: Whoever can carry this log by himself from the center of the field all the way to the base of the new watchtower on the north side—"
He paused, letting the confusion and skepticism build, then dropped the bomb:
"—gets one full bag of rice!"
A stunned buzz swept the formation.
Carry one log and get a whole bag of rice?
Impossible. Had to be a joke. Or some cruel trap.
Men exchanged doubtful, mocking glances.
The young master's gone soft in the head. Or he's just fucking with us.
Vito elbowed Tiberius. "You sure about this? It's just moving a damn log."
"Watch," Tiberius replied.
He repeated it, stone-faced: "One bag of rice. Who's first?"
Dead silence. No one moved. Years of broken promises had taught them that generous offers from masters always ended in pain.
Tiberius waited. One minute. Two.
Then he raised the stakes.
"Ten bags! Fine white rice!" he shouted. "Move the log, get the rice!"
Finally, from the back row, a massive debt-slave who used to work the quarries—always half-starved because of his huge appetite—licked his cracked lips. His eyes flickered with desperate hope.
One bag of rice meant full bellies for his family for days. Ten bags? A small fortune.
And this young commander had been harsh but fair. He didn't torment people for sport like the old overseers.
"Five, don't!" his squadmate hissed. "What if it's a trap? You'll be the example and the whole squad starves!"
The big man ignored him. Head down, teeth clenched, he stepped out of formation.
Under every watching eye he walked to the log, wrapped his thick arms around it, heaved with a grunt, and lifted it onto his shoulder. Then he started the long walk north.
[It's… light,] he thought in surprise.
The entire field went dead quiet. Everyone tracked him, waiting for the punchline—for the laughter, the whipping, the humiliation.
He reached the watchtower base, dropped the log with a heavy thud that kicked up dust, and stood there panting, head bowed, not daring to look at Tiberius.
Tiberius said nothing. He simply nodded to Vito.
Though clearly puzzled, Vito followed orders. Two carts rolled forward piled high with ten sacks of gleaming white rice. Vito's voice rang out:
"By order of Lord Tiberius—reward granted! Ten bags of fine rice, paid in full right now!"
The sight hit the big slave like lightning. He stared at the carts, then up at Tiberius, lips trembling. Overwhelming joy and disbelief nearly knocked him off his feet. He dropped to his knees—not in fear, but in raw, shaking gratitude.
"Thank… thank you, my lord! Thank you, Lord Tiberius!"
"Stand up," Tiberius said calmly, voice carrying iron weight. "You earned it. I, Tiberius Mord, keep my word."
He turned to the stunned, murmuring ranks and raised his voice like a drawn sword:
"You all saw it! That is my rule! When I promise a reward—even if it's only for moving a log—I deliver! From today forward, every order I give, every promise I make, will be as solid as these ten sacks of rice. No delay, no tricks!"
"The same goes for punishment. Merit is rewarded. Fault is punished. That is the iron law of the Lightning Company!"
"Does anyone still doubt my word?!"
"NO!!!"
The roar exploded from a hundred and fifty throats for the first time—not fearful obedience, but raw, blazing belief. Their eyes burned as they looked at Tiberius: fear and suspicion had been burned away, replaced by fierce loyalty and hope.
Vito watched the transformation—watched one log and ten bags of rice set a fire in these numb souls—and could only shake his head in awe.
"Fuck me… the kid really understands how to work men's hearts…"
Tiberius thought with quiet satisfaction:
Moving the wood to establish trust—our ancestors really knew their shit.