This is what a major in ancient history gets you (not much).

I probably won't continue this, but I did need to get it out of my head!

As his namesake Gaius Iulius, so did the Caesar of the wastelands write journals detailing his victories. Late at night, alone in his tent save for a guard stationed by the door, by guttering candlelight, he wrote.

She was calling herself Boudica. Delightful. He was fascinated. But she had that Followers doctor with her, maybe he'd told her a little about classical history. After all, Boudica's revolt was under Nero, perhaps the least worthy of the Julio-Claudians. Long after Caesar's Gallic victories, at any rate. But, then again, a woman naming herself Cassivellaunus wouldn't quite have the same folk-heroine effect.

Did this woman know about Boudica's fate? He paused. Had Boudica been captured alive? Paraded through the streets of Rome at a general's triumph? He couldn't remember, and that was concerning. He pressed his fingertips to the spot over his eye which was hurting more and more frequently. He couldn't even check his history – best not to take the books on a campaign, even though the majority of his troops couldn't read them. Wait. Nero hadn't let anyone other than himself hold triumphs, was that right? Him or Caligula? His memory was disturbingly hazy.

In any case, the original Boudica hadn't survived. Had the Followers doctor merely given her the name of a female who rebelled against the Roman empire? That would be lazy. But was it the doctor? Vulpes had said that when they'd met at Nipton – and when Vulpes had realised that woman was the same person as the Boudica – she'd seemed well-spoken, despite her fear. The fear was understandable, of course, Caesar had taken a great deal of care with balancing effectiveness against terrifying the population. But it was the well-spoken part that was now piquing his interest. Could that mean she was educated?

She'd taken out a few of his scouting parties. Nothing too serious, and he was more interested than irritated. It was too much to hope that she'd read what little remained of Suetonius. Gibbon, hopefully. Maybe some Tacitus. Maybe he could get a frumentarius to obtain a picture of her. He was strangely curious about her profile.

Maybe it was a message to him. Maybe she knew that she was destined to lose, maybe she could be... reasoned with. After all, Roman matrons – and Vestals, of course – were afforded the greatest respect. Fewer freedoms than men, certainly, but once his new Rome was settled, he could finally start building his civilisation. After all, it was fine for his men to keep women as slaves while on campaign, but they couldn't very well marry them, could they? Maybe he could talk to her. Make her into a second Cornelia Cinna. Or even Bellona, a fitting counterpart to himself as son of Mars. Their temples could be side by side. As Gaius Iulius knew well, there was nothing like religion for keeping the population busy. Religion and war, at any rate. The two mainstays of Roman society.

A fresh spike of pain lanced through his head. As it faded, he unclenched his fist with some difficulty. Maybe her pet doctor would be of some use as well.

If she were truly his enemy, she wouldn't be playing up to him like this, would she? Surely she would maintain silence. Keep her distance and strike without warning. He longed to speak to her, to find out the truth. The Ides of March were coming up. Maybe he would send Vulpes to see her. With an invitation. If she came, well... he had her.