Chapter 1
Xena stopped Argo with a click of her tongue. She swung out of her saddle and dropped down to her haunches. Right in front of her was the faint but unmistakeable imprint of a hobnailed sole, the last thing Xena was expecting to find in this part of Greece. The print belonged to a Roman caliga, the standard footwear of the Roman legionary—the mainstay of the Roman army. Next to the print, slightly overlapping it, was another, similar yet different. The hobnails on this print were arranged in a rough diamond shape on both the ball and the heel of the sole, with a line of hobnails along the sides. There were more footprints stretching off to the right; enough that Xena was convinced there was a full strength Roman century in the area. Strangely enough, there were also a number of hoof prints scattered amongst the footprints.
Roman soldiers were rarely seen in these parts and there was a good reason for that. The nearest Roman fortress was a full eight or nine days march away. Since the legionaries stationed in these fortresses could be activated and deployed at any time, they rarely travelled more than a day or two away from their base.
This Roman century appeared to have come from Maroneia, a major city situated on the coastline of Eastern Macedonia or Western Thrace, depending on whom you asked. The bustling port city was well-known for its worship of Dionysus and its production of Ismarian wine. The latter was rumoured to so strong that a mere whiff of its nectar sweet scent could turn a teetotaller into a stumbling drunk.
Xena had tried this drink of Dionysus a couple of times before. It was sweet, as sweet as undiluted honey—which was too sweet for Xena’s taste. But it was undeniably potent. While most wines were watered down with three parts of water, Ismarian wine was usually mixed with twenty parts of water. Generally, Xena liked her wines neat but she made an exception for Ismarian wine, diluting it with at least five parts of water before imbibing; not because of how strong it was, though it did provide a powerful buzz, but because of its sheer sweetness. As Xena recalled, she’d lost a tooth and was left with the mother of all toothaches the one and only time she’d drank the wine straight from the amphora.
The wine, however, wasn’t why the legionaries had been sent to Maroneia. Nor had they been sent for any goods, for that matter. If they had, they would have needed wagons and carts for the transportation. Laden with wine or goods, the wheels would have left visible grooves in the ground, even in the packed dirt.
Xena hadn’t spotted any wheel tracks but the hoof prints made her believe the soldiers were transporting horses—or, at the very least, escorting them. Roman legionaries rarely travelled with horses. They used pack donkeys for their supplies. The hooves of a donkey were narrower while those of a horse were rounder and fuller. Xena knew her hoof prints and these definitely belonged to the latter. And while there were mounted officers within the legion, they were usually higher ranking officers from the Roman equestrian or senatorial class. Their horses were always shod with metal shoes. They would not have left hoof prints.
With the majority of the Roman cavalry outsourced to their foreign allies and the equestrian and senatorial classes paying for their own mounts and equipment, the Roman army had no real need of horses. Which meant the horses were either a tribute, a gift, or a bribe. Since Maroneia was a free city that owed neither tribute nor allegiance to Rome, it had to be one of the latter two.
Normally, Xena had no interest in Roman politics. But with Otrera and the Amazons headed this way, she needed to make sure the soldiers wouldn’t be a problem—potential or otherwise.
She rose to her feet. “Looks like we need to go find ourselves some Romans.” Xena told her trusty steed. She pulled herself up into the saddle and they headed due north at a canter.
