Brutus Quirinius leaned over the table in front of him, scowling at the papers in front of him and at the map set in the middle of the mess. Letters from generals saying they pledged themselves to his cause, but too few of them. The legions themselves were scattered across the Empire, large distances and rough terrain between them. So far only thirty five had pledged to join him, and only three had managed to join his camp. His scowl eased as the papers rustled in the small breeze that accompanied his chief general into his tent. "What news do you have for me old friend?" Octavius Belarus paced towards the table, shaking his head. "Nothing helpful. Vague half-promises from at least three more legions, but none have outright refused you excepting the Ninth Legion." Brutus shook his head. "Those fanatics would follow a half-eaten piece of bread if it was put onto that throne. At least they can always be counted on. That's more than I can say for the majority of the Empire." Octavius chuckled, patting Brutus on the back as he looked over the map with him. He frowned at the placements, shaking his head. "How are we supposed to get the few allies that we have to come here?" Brutus sighed heavily, both at the question and the fact that he had been trying to think up a way to do it for hours. He walked around the table to the opening of the tent and stepped out into the harsh sunlight, looking over his small encampment. The only thing that eased the stress of how few men he had was that he could pack them through the pass at the head of the valley easily. With only one way in and out for armies larger than one legion, he could easily fend off whatever tricks his enemies could throw at him. He squinted, seeing a large amount of motion at the end of the valley next to the pass. The sentries would have warned him if a hostile force was approaching, so he was confused as to what could be happening. He began the long trek, walking through the ordered camp easily. What his troops lacked in numbers, they made up for in spades with discipline, following his orders without a thought, and maintaining an incredible order within the camp, creating an easily navigated staging area. When he reached the origin of the commotion, he saw five thousand men in orderly columns, their armor painted the distinctive light blue and gold of the Fifty Eigth Legion. In front of them, their general was dismounting from his steed, a large, dangerous looking warhorse. Handing the reins to a stable boy, he turned and began walking towards Brutus, taking his helmet off as he approached. Shaking out his blond hair, he stopped in front of the ex-senator and nodded towards Octavius. Brutus met the general's dark, pitiless eyes and felt a small part of him cringe away from the intensity of the man's gaze. Swallowing hard, he spoke. "To what do we owe this pleasure Marcus?" Marcus Gracus, the man who broke the hordes of the barbarians of the south, went down on one knee, and his legion followed him. Marcus spoke, his deep voice ringing through the quiet camp. "The Fifty Eighth Legion is yours." Brutus stood there for a moment, shocked that such a prestigious general would join what looked like such a lost cause. He shook off his astonishment and extended his hand, bringing Marcus to his feet. "We welcome you and the Fifty Eighth to the cause. Come, let's get your men settled in and then we can discuss our plans."