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Dakota leaned against the makeshift bar, his elbow in a pile of vinegar that had spilt when he had made a cup of posca for one of the kids in his cohort—a little seven year old son of Mercury—watching the rest of the legion dance. It was Liberalia, a celebration for his father, Bacchus, who also was sometimes known as Liber, but Camp Jupiter had taken a bunch of liberties when it came to the celebration. One, there was no large male genitalia being paraded around (thankfully), and secondly, sacrifices weren’t happening, even to teddy bears now that Octavian had died last year. And lastly, with the fact that there has been multiple battles and death that had fallen on the legion since the emperors had returned from the dead and Apollo had been cast down most of the party planning had been put on the backburner.
Though, if you ask Dakota, that’s all the more reason to have a celebration. And the reason he had told the Praetors he’d make the party drinks.
Even if the youngest legionnaires insisted on drinking Ancient Roman drinks like posca.
“Having a good time?”
Dakota wiped the vinegar from his elbow as he glanced up to see Gwen. He hadn’t realized she’d be here.
“As good as we can be,” Dakota said, taking a swig of his kool-aid. “At a time like this.”
“It’s scary,” Gwen agreed. “I had thought leaving the legion would mean I’d get to leave that life behind, but—”
“Even veterans are fighting,” Dakota finished.
“Yeah.” Gwen reached over and poured a glass of wine, not even bothering to dilute it as Roman custom. “And dying too. I’ve already died once, that should be enough.”
Dakota chuckled. “You’d think.”
Gwen smacked her lips as she finished her glass and poured a second, though this time she passed it to Dakota. “Make it all Roman-ie this time.”
Dakota added water and spices to the wine, stirring it with his finger without even touching the liquid, a gift he’d inherited from his father.
“You’re a real one,” Gwen laughed. She took a small sip, before leaning against the table, making sure not to elbow the vinegar as Dakota had. “Say, are you gonna leave the legion after this is all over? You must be close to ten years.”
Dakota glanced down at his nine marks burnt into his skin. “Probably. Is college life nice?”
Gwen let out a quick laugh, “If my Advanced Poetry Workshop wasn’t interrupted by the window being blown off, probably.”
“Life is never easy for a Roman.”
“‘Scuse me, Mr. Centurion?”
Dakota, who was about to take a sip of his flask, didn’t have to lower it to know who was there. Only one legionnaire insisted on calling im Mr. Centurion.”
“Yes, Philomina?” Dakota asked once he swallowed.
The girl, a nine-year-old legacy of Pomona and Apollo who joined the First Cohort last week with her eleven-year-old brother following the death of their parents during the recent skirmish with the emperors, pointed at the bottle of vinegar. “Can I have posca?”
“Sure thing,” Dakota quickly whipped up the drink and passed it over.
Philomena took a large sip and sighed. “You make it just like Mommy does-did,” she tapered off. “I’m gonna tell Quincy.”
As she scurried off, Gwen sighed as she followed the little girl with her eyes. “Lily and Foster probably thought it was safe to have kids since they left the legion.”
“And they left them orphaned,” Dakota finished off. “And forced to join the legion themselves.”
Gwen deflated as she let out a breath. “They were so in love, Lily and Foster,” Gwen said, “Foster taught my Advanced Poetry class—the one that the window exploded in—and the second the battle started, he ran right for his wife. Apparently they died hand and hand.”
The thought of that, being so in love that you’d die hand and hand with someone was a bit far fetched for Dakota. He’d always had a problem conceptualizing romance, it was never something that really struck Dakota. He’d found out, with Gwen actually, at fifteen while visiting UC Berkeley on what they jokingly called a legion class trip, that he was probably aromantic, and Gwen had spent an entire week trying to explain romantic attraction in Dakota terms, as she called it. He thinks he understands it better now, and how romance can be nice, even if it isn’t on the table for him.
“That’s sweet.”
“It is,” Gwen sighed. “Say Dakota, could you promise me something?”
“What?”
Dakota noticed Quincy, Philomena’s brother, walking in his direction and quickly started to make another cup of posca for him while Gwen seemed to try and find her words.
She waited until the boy was with his friends to finally ask. “If I die—again—and I have a family; a romantic partner, children, whatever, could you make sure they’re alright?”
Dakota took a sip of his kool-aid, “Would you make sure my mother gets message of my death if I die?”
“Of course,” Gwen said.
“Then of course I will too.”
“Centurion Dakota?”
A group of teen legionnaires approached the table, eyeing the bottle of wine.
“I’ll let you get to work,” Gwen said, “And you better not make me call your mom anytime soon.”
“And you better not make me raise your fake family anytime soon,” Dakota countered.
Gwen shook her head and marched off—neither of them knowing that a phone call would have to be made within the next month.