Florianus pulled down his hood and walked out of his newly built villa to the outskirts of town with six devotees behind him, all fellow army men, under the waxing moon and the humid springtime air. As he walked past the on-duty soldiers in their posts, they recognized him and saluted. They knew him even under the hood. After all, he was in charge of the place, and his responsibility started to weigh on him.
The death of Governor Larius had been unfortunate, but it had been a sign, a chance for him to grow and fulfill his duty. A chance to change the world.
The senate had not assigned a governor, so he was in charge of the infrastructure and security of the Province of Thracia. He had a vision to fulfill, but it was not like that of other commanders and politicians. It was not about himself.
The Empire had to grow, and for that, it needed to be as disciplined as a beehive, and its influence as wide as the sun over the plains.
The Empire, and by extension, he had a divine mission to grow and fill the earth.
But the old gods that were praised in Itruschia were too divisive, too feeble. He, for one, believed in a new one, a new warrior god, the Killer of the Beasts, the Friend of the Rock, the Hero.
He walked through the charred woods, lantern in hand, until he and the six who followed reached the shrine. He had ordered its construction two months earlier. It was small, surrounded by terracotta walls, and a tunnel that sunk into the earth. There, beneath the tunnel, the flame that never went out burned, and the priest who had come from the East sat cross-legged in the center, over a mat painted with solar designs. His hair was short, he wore a simple white toga, and a gray beard descended to his chest.
Florianus walked through the hall, his ears attentive to the soothing atmosphere, his eyes fixed on the mural on the opposite side—a great golden sun, its eight spokes shaped like lightning bolts of gold, casting light over a cyan sky, with golden stars at its edges. Other relief figures adorned the walls, representing the Hero, with a crown of sun rays over his head.
“Welcome, sons of Sen,” the old priest said. His deep voice echoed, like a tune emerging from the underworld. “It is time to rise.”
The attendees raised their fists and recited the formula:
“Oh, you, luminous sun. Luminous son, hero of time and ages, conqueror of the great dragon, you, who steps on the scorpion, you whose hair is pure light, obeyed by ravens, you who chases the demons away, you, oh tamer of the bull in the sky.”
The priest continued the spell and chanted alone:
“The gates, you shake, the pillars tremble, the whole firmament shakes, and one day, the stars will fall.”
Florianus felt his chest burn with joy and pride as the fire burned on the altar, and the unconquerable sun glittered in the mural before his eyes. He had sworn an oath and yearned to become like Him, the conqueror, and like the sun that shone over the world and brought light to the mountains. Like under one sun, he yearned to see all under one empire.
And for that, he had to eradicate its foes.
The priest passed the secret wine, and they drank with reverence and desire. They heard the words of the priest, and their eyes saw the great signs in the sky. For an instant, Florianus saw his God, the son of the Sun and the Night, and he heard his voice, and he wondered in his heart.
But when the spirit of the wine abandoned him, he could not remember the words he had spoken.
He clenched his fists.
“Thank you, brethren, you may go,” the priest muttered, and most of the hooded figures around stood up and departed, but Florianus remained still.
“Commander,” the priest bowed his head meekly.
“Priest,” he stood up and walked up to him, towering over him. The priest was a small man. “I saw Him, I saw Him when I was drunk with His wine. And he spoke to me!”
“What did he say, Commander?” the priest asked, wearily, almost in disbelief.
“I cannot recall. It fled, like a fever dream after waking up. Now, you speak to me, priest. Have you heard his words? I intend on doing his will, and fighting for him and for this empire.”
Florianus knew the way. The only way was to eliminate the peoples that could not be trusted. Like those Gadalians. He knew the resentment in them, he knew the stories they would tell their children. He could feel it.
The priest whispered, his eyes fixed on Florianus’ as if the words he was about to speak were too sacred. “He told me the Empire will fill the earth, like He did in previous ages. He has been behind the Empire and its growth. He said it to me.”
Florianus smiled. He had understood the same. The legends, the murals, the imagery, were only symbols that only the initiated could comprehend. The stars above marked the way, they taught the truth, and only those chosen to bear His light could know.
“But he says a great Challenge will rise. The dragon will rise. The bull is coming.”
“But the bull has been slain, the age of its constellation has long passed. And the dragon—”
“It is coming back, and so will He, the hero. The hero will rise and fight it.”
“A hero?” Florianus raised an eyebrow. He had not seen it that way. He had never thought of Him, personified in an actual person. “A hero as in a man?”
“Yes, a man or a woman.”Florianus lowered his head. He thought, with all that had happened, all the opportunities that had suddenly fallen into his hands, it could be a sign, it could be he who had received such great visions, that was destined to spread the light of the Empire. He had gone very far, from a lowly legionary, always putting his life on the line for valor, for the Empire. His ruthlessness in battle had drawn opposition and jealousy, but it had taken him far. Now, as an officer, never a politician, he was partly in charge of the great province of Tharcia. Now, his only rival was Cladius Duodecimus, the callous senator, a great merchant but a man of poor judgment and misguided morals. He had done more harm than good.
This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.
Dominated by passion and faith, Florianus thanked the priest, stepped up, and walked out of the shrine, under the starlit sky of Tharcia. He beheld with his own eyes the great stars and the grand shapes they formed in the evening map. From there, he saw the three stars that made up the Hunter’s belt. The constellation, the hero, grasping his mace firmly in hand, facing the great Dragon, bravely, ready to fight.
Just by looking into the sky, he knew the omens were true. He had seen the face of the Dragon fifteen years ago, and he knew, although Larius himself had boasted of killing him, that it was still alive. As above, so below, as they said, and the Dragon was still in the sky above. Its physical avatar had died fifteen years prior, but its soul lived on, ready to take another shape.
And the hero would have to face him, abandoning all fear and doubts. The hero had to be ready to fight to the death and exterminate the Dragon forever, to rid the world of its very roots: its blood.
“Commander,” the voice of the centurion echoed behind him.
Florianus turned. His co-religionist’s hood was pulled up, revealing Julius, the Centurion. The initiate’s mantle covering hung over his shoulders. He had been the first convert in that legion.
“Julius, I have seen him,” Florianus said.
“Him?” Julius asked, raising an eyebrow.
“When we drank the wine, I saw the Hero. Did you?”
“No,” Julius shook his head. “There were more things on my mind.”
“What?”
“No progress. The growth and the exports have been steady, the usable fields are not producing enough, only the old industries are alive. The barley doesn’t grow to save its own life. Florianus, this is a mess! Your soldiers are scared of their own wives.”
“I have told you my plan,” Florianus said. “But we cannot get it approved yet.”
“With all due respect, Commander, Larius could do most of the job, and we can’t even finish it.”
Florianus pursed his lips. “Julius, be patient. We will solve it.”
Julius sighed and pouted. His big chin made him look like a monster conjured in stories to scare off naughty children.
“My suggestion, sir,” he said, wiping his nose. “As much as we are trying to keep the women at peace, they will not collaborate. It would take a few years for the—”
“You don’t need to tell me that, Julius, I know.”
“Then . . ?”
“As my plans of total elimination and dispersion will not be approved by the Senate, I have thought of one thing to do. Get the old merchant out of the way.”
“Cladius? And how do you intend to do that, sir?” Julius raised an eyebrow. “He is the only reason why this stinking village has not been abandoned. His income is increasing quickly, considering the setback four months ago when we came in. And the capital trusts him.”
“Julius, you fool, have you not heard me? I need to get him out of the way.”
“And how? By having him murdered?” Julius whispered.
“Only if it is absolutely necessary, I will not kill a fellow Itruschian, unless he is a threat to the Empire itself. And Cladius is talented. He is just misguided, and unfortunately, very stubborn.”
“What have you thought of?”
Florianus clenched his fists. He was not as good at political machinations as Larius had been, his mind was used to battle formations and military strategy, not being diplomatic, callous, or deceitful. He always spoke his mind. But his duty as messenger of the Hero meant he had to delve into different avenues. A false conspiracy would not be believed in the Senate, and stirring up a rebellion to quench it immediately was out of the question. He had to send Cladius away.
“We must give Cladius Duodecimus a good reason to leave.”
Suddenly, they heard rushed steps through the woods. Florianus opened his eyes wide in the dark and saw two armored soldiers approaching.
He uncovered his hood and stood up.
“Soldiers, what is this, why have you come all the way here in the middle of the night?”
“Sire,” said a decurion, taking off his helmet. “There has been another assassination attempt.”
Florianus cleared his throat.
“Again? Do these people not learn?” He stood up. “What did they do this time? Good you found them in time.”
“They arrested the perpetrator and she’s at the administrative office now.”
“Now?” Florianus shook his head, just when he wanted to take a good night’s sleep. Anyway, he thought, duty never slept, and he had to deal with it rapidly. “Let’s go.”
Florianus followed the two soldiers from the charred field, up into the village. The soldiers on guard were no longer chatting or rolling dice as they usually did during curfew time. They were standing up, some of them murmuring, their eyes casually wandering to the government building. Light from torches came from inside.Florianus removed his cloak and entered first. The main office had a seat and curtains, imperial eagles, and crude marble sculptures imported from the provincial capital, all dimly lit by torches around the walls. He heard murmurs behind the entrance garden and rushed through it, now holding his ritual cloak in one arm. Inside, two soldiers crouched against the walls, their faces contorted in pain. In the center of the room, two other soldiers held a woman by the arms. Her body was broad, covered by a long elaborate robe of hemp and linen, with flowery designs descending down to the waist. Her hair was brown and partly white.
“It’s you!” Florianus exclaimed. He recognized her immediately. She went by the name of Zita and was one of the only town artisans still active, and thus had a privileged position. Not that she deserved it. On top of that, the woman was the mother of one of the rebels, a murderer who had killed her own husband and escaped.
He looked at the two agonizing soldiers. He may have selected them intentionally to keep an eye on the woman, but he couldn’t remember.
The woman kept her gaze up, unflinching.
“I should have known!” Florianus said. “You meant trouble, nothing else.”
“I haven’t done anything,” the woman protested.
“Tell that to us!” yelled one of the soldiers who was contorting with pain, kneeling, with his head against the wall and his hand on his abdomen.
Florianus crossed his arms. “What happened here?”
“Nothing!” the woman declared.
“I’m not talking to you,” he said, clenching his teeth. “You two, you arrested this woman, what is going on?”
“These two soldiers,” one of the ones holding the woman said. “They reported that they had been poisoned. She usually cooks for them, and tonight they had a violent reaction to the food.”
“It’s not true! They just happened to get sick!” she yelled.
“You shut your mouth!” Florianus said, tensing his gloved hand in front of her face. “Do you know what? Larius liked to keep people in chains without food for weeks. But I won’t make it easy for you to escape. I will make sure I don’t waste any time, and I’ll cut your throat now.”
“It’s unfair. I did not poison them, that’s a lie. I did not do it, I did not!” the woman said.
“Stop lying, woman!” Florianus yelled.
Then, one of the soldiers who held her pulled a leather bag that hung from his belt. “Shut that lying mouth,” the soldier snapped. “We found this in her garden!”
“Let me see,” Florianus ordered, and took the bag from the soldier’s hands. He pulled the small fiber straps and looked inside. He saw three dry pieces of mushroom, white stems now yellowish. The cap was red with white dots. His heart turned around. That sprout was used to make the sacred wine.
“Sir!” the woman begged.
"Poisoned..." he muttered. But inside his heart, Florianus felt rage. He knew, although the past months since the death of Larius, his military rule of the province and the town had been uneventful, that something was brewing. And if it was poison, any attempt on a soldier's life would mean death. He did not care to be cruel, only to wash the world clean. And that meant blood had to be spilled.