The rhythmic creaking of the ship's timbers blended with the faint whispers of waves lapping against the hull. The fleet, a patchwork of worn but seaworthy vessels, stretched out across the Adriatic. Their sails swelled under a cold wind, a distant promise of a journey fraught with uncertainty.
Marcus Valerian, a newly recruited soldier and pikeman, leaned against the wooden railing of the Ravenna’s Resolve. His hands rested on the polished wood, his pike stowed securely below deck alongside the other soldiers' weapons. The pole, nearly twice his height and tipped with an iron head, was part of the reformed Legio I Italica Renovata, trained in the experimental pike-and-shoot formation. Now, like his comrades, he found himself traveling into the unknown.
Marcus gazed across the fleet, his sharp green eyes scanning the horizon. There was an undeniable beauty in the sight: ships bobbing in unison, their pennants fluttering in the brisk wind, while the faint outline of distant shores lingered like a fading memory of safety. The way the sails caught the light reminded him of the wheat fields back home, rippling under the summer sun, yet this vision was a cruel contrast to the cold reality he now faced.
Yet his heart was heavy. This was not the life he had envisioned, not the future he had imagined during quiet evenings on the farm. A farmer’s son from the outskirts of Mediolanum, Marcus had grown up with the smell of freshly turned soil and the satisfaction of hard but honest labor. His hands were once accustomed to the weight of a plow and the coarse texture of grain, not the smooth polish of a weapon. Every stroke of the field had a purpose, a rhythm tied to life itself. When he joined the army, it had been out of necessity, not ambition—a bitter choice made to keep his family fed in the wake of poor harvests and mounting taxes.
Now, as the ship rose and fell with the waves, he thought of home. He could almost see his younger sister’s face, framed by her wild curls as she chased chickens in the yard, her laughter carried on the wind. He thought of his mother’s worn hands kneading bread and his father’s solemn nod when they had said goodbye. The army had taken him from all of it, and he couldn’t help but wonder if he would ever return. The weight of the unknown pressed heavily on him, as unyielding as the iron head of the pike stored below deck.
“They are,” Cassian said, his voice calm and deliberate, like a man who had seen too many crises to panic now. “But they’ll hold. Ships like these, patched together or not, have crossed rougher seas. The emperor made sure they were ready enough for the task. Spent what little coin the treasury had left fixing them up. You worry because it’s your first time. That’s natural.”
Cassian’s steady words carried a veteran’s stoicism, but Marcus could not fully share the older soldier’s confidence. His mind continued to race, his thoughts spinning with every creak and groan of the ship. The words “ready enough” echoed in his head, doing little to calm the storm brewing in his chest. Even as he nodded faintly at Cassian, his grip on the railing tightened, and his heart pounded harder with each passing moment.
Cassian noticed the younger man’s unease and decided to shift the focus. "Tell me, lad, what do you think of the pike formations? Training looked rough, but you held your own."
Marcus blinked, momentarily distracted from his spiraling thoughts. "The formations? They’re... different. Harder than I expected. The weight of the pike alone makes it a challenge, and keeping in step with everyone else—it feels impossible sometimes."
Cassian gave a small chuckle. "You’re not alone in that. I’ve seen men twice your size struggle to hold one steady. But when it works? It’s a wall of death, lad. Nothing gets through."
Marcus hesitated, his brow furrowing. "Do you really believe that? That we’ll hold the line?"
"I do," Cassian replied, his tone firm but not unkind. "Not because of the pikes themselves, but because of the men wielding them. Takes grit to march into the unknown, and I see it in you and the others. Don’t let fear tell you otherwise."
Cassian paused, his gaze turning contemplative as he looked out over the fleet. "You know, when I first signed up for this, I wasn’t sure," he said, his voice quieter now, almost introspective. "The legions used to mean something—discipline, precision, loyalty. But in these last years, it’s been all ad hoc militias and mixed troops with foederati. A patchwork of men with no shared spirit. I thought this would be more of the same."
He gestured toward the soldiers gathered in small groups below deck, some sharpening weapons, others inspecting their armor, while a few exchanged quiet words. "But this? This feels different. It’s not perfect—not yet—but there’s discipline here. A spark of what the legions once were." "But this? This feels different. It’s not perfect—not yet—but there’s discipline here. A spark of what the legions once were. Gaius... I mean the Dux convinced me to sign on, said he’d bring that old Roman steel back. I wasn’t sure at first, but every day I train with these lads, I believe it a little more."
Marcus’s grip on the railing loosened slightly as he listened, though his heart still raced. "You think we can really become like the legions of old?"
Cassian turned back to him, his face set with a grim determination. "Not just like the old legions—better," he said, his voice low and steady, the tone of a man who had seen both glory and ruin. "We’ve tasted what it means to fall. We’ve lived through the humiliation, the chaos, the disarray. And that? That makes us dangerous. Not because we’re perfect, but because we know what failure feels like, and we’ll fight twice as hard to never taste it again."
Before Marcus could respond, a commotion caught their attention. Down the length of the deck, Dux Gaius Severus strode with his usual commanding presence, his tunic plain but his bearing unmistakably authoritative. His armor, along with the rest of his equipment, was carefully stowed below deck. Beside him walked a priest in the dark robes of the Church, gesturing animatedly as they spoke. It wasn’t difficult to tell that the exchange was heated—this was clearly not their first disagreement. Gaius’s expression was tight, his words sharp, though muffled by the distance.
"Looks like the Dux is having words with the Bishop’s envoy," Cassian muttered, his tone laced with dry humor. "I’d wager the good priest isn’t happy about something." He leaned slightly closer to Marcus. "This one’s supposed to keep us all righteous on this campaign. Bishop Felix made sure of it."
Marcus frowned, his gaze fixed on the scene. "What could they be arguing about?"
Cassian shrugged, the gesture almost imperceptible. "Could be anything—provisions, prayers, who gets the last word. The Bishop may have delegated him, but Gaius doesn’t bow to anyone lightly, not even the Church." He gave Marcus a wry grin. "Keep watching. If you’re lucky, you’ll learn more from their spat than from any sermon."
"Dux!" The priest’s exasperated voice cut through the murmur of the deck as he gestured indignantly toward the surrounding sea. "This incessant rocking is intolerable! How is a man expected to think, let alone prepare, under such conditions?"
Marcus’s ears perked up as he watched Gaius stop in his tracks, his shoulders stiffening. Turning slowly to face the cleric, the Dux exhaled through his nose, a deliberate attempt to control his temper. "Father, we are on a ship. The waves are non-negotiable. Unless you can part the seas like Moses, I suggest you find a way to tolerate them."
The priest sniffed, unimpressed by the sarcasm. "Such levity is unbecoming of your station. I speak not only for myself but for the dignity of the Church. These conditions undermine our ability to serve the spiritual needs of the men."
Gaius’s jaw tightened, his tone dangerously calm. "And yet, the men seem to be managing their prayers just fine, despite the waves. Perhaps their faith is sturdier than the deck beneath us, Father."
The priest bristled, his mouth opening to retort, but Gaius raised a hand, cutting him off. "Your role here is vital, Father, but let me remind you that this is a military expedition, not a council chamber in Ravenna. We are all enduring the same hardships, from the soldiers in the hold to myself. Complaints about the waves or the smell of the sea help no one."
The cleric glared at him, his face flushed with indignation, but he fell silent, clearly recognizing he had pushed too far. Gaius took a deep breath and turned back toward the railing, letting the tension dissipate as he gazed out over the restless waters. The faintest hint of dark clouds loomed on the horizon
Gaius let his gaze linger on the horizon for a moment longer before turning his head slightly, catching sight of Marcus and Cassian. His sharp eyes narrowed briefly, recognizing the familiar posture of Cassian’s casual defiance. With a purposeful stride, he made his way toward them, his presence commanding attention even in his plain tunic.
Cassian straightened as Gaius approached, though his expression carried its usual sardonic edge. "Dux," Cassian greeted, his tone respectful but unrestrained. "I see the good Father is still hard at work ensuring divine favor for the fleet."
Gaius’s lips twitched into the faintest of smiles. "If divine favor could be won through complaints, we’d have the gods themselves rowing the ships by now," he replied dryly. He shifted his attention briefly to Marcus, nodding before turning back to Cassian. "I trust you’ve been keeping our new recruits busy and not filling their heads with nonsense."
Cassian smirked. "Busy, yes. As for nonsense, that depends on your definition. I’ve been teaching the lad here how not to panic at the first creak of timber." He clapped Marcus on the shoulder, his rough hand firm but not unkind. "Marcus Valerian, meet Dux Gaius Severus."
Marcus stiffened, his grip tightening on the railing as he quickly straightened. "Sir," he said, his voice steady but betraying a hint of nervousness.
Gaius studied him for a moment, his expression inscrutable. "Valerian," he repeated, his tone thoughtful. "Mediolanum, if I’m not mistaken?"
Marcus nodded quickly, his surprise evident. "Yes, sir. How did you—?"
Gaius waved a hand. "Your accent. It’s faint, but it’s there. You’ll learn to listen for such things in time." He paused, his tone softening just slightly. "And how are you finding your first voyage?"
Marcus squared his shoulders, his chin lifting slightly as he tried to project a confidence he didn’t fully feel. “It’s nothing I can’t handle, sir,” he said, his tone firm but betraying a trace of tension.
Gaius’s sharp eyes didn’t miss Marcus’s fleeting glance toward the storm. His lips pressed into a thin line, his expression remaining impassive. “Good,” he replied.
Cassian, leaning casually against the railing, chimed in with a grin. “Listen well, lad. The Dux doesn’t waste words. He’ll see the storm brewing in your eyes before you even feel the rain.”
Marcus flushed slightly, shifting uncomfortably under the scrutiny. “I’m not afraid of storms,” he muttered, though his gaze betrayed him as it drifted back to the threatening horizon.
Gaius’s stoic demeanor cracked slightly, a trace of dry humor entering his tone. “If you were, you wouldn’t be the first. The sea has humbled greater men than either of us. The trick is to endure long enough to be counted among the survivors.”
Cassian chuckled. “Endurance? Is that what you called it back in Gaul, Gaius? I seem to recall you charging a line of barbarians with nothing but a broken shield and sheer audacity.”
“That was calculated,” Gaius shot back, his tone deadpan. “You were the one who thought hiding behind a wagon made you invincible.”
Marcus couldn’t suppress a smile as the two veterans exchanged their barbs, the weight of their shared history evident in every word. Their casual banter, seasoned with a mix of humor and grit, began to chip away at the tension gripping him.
Cassian turned to Marcus, his grin widening. “The lesson here, lad, is that no storm—or battle—is unbeatable. You just need a bit of stubbornness and a leader who refuses to die.”
Marcus nodded, feeling confidence take root despite his lingering doubts. “I’ll do my best, sir.”
“See that you do,” Gaius said, his tone firm. He gestured toward the deck. “Cassian, keep him sharp. The storm will be there soon.”
As Gaius walked away, his presence leaving a sense of both calm and urgency in its wake, Marcus looked back at Cassian. “Is he always like that?”
Cassian laughed, clapping Marcus on the back. “Always. You’ll get used to it, though. And who knows? Maybe one day you’ll be the one lecturing some green recruit about storms and courage.”
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The hours ticked by slowly as the fleet edged its way forward, the once rhythmic creaking of the timbers giving way to sharp groans under the strain of the rising waves. The wind picked up, howling through the rigging and snapping at the sails with relentless force. The sea churned beneath the Ravenna’s Resolve, each swell lifting the ship high before slamming it down with bone-rattling intensity.
Soldiers clung to the railings, their faces pale and contorted as they emptied their stomachs into the roiling waters below. Others huddled in the shadows, their voices murmuring fractured prayers to gods old and new. The air was thick with the acrid stench of vomit and fear.
Marcus gripped the railing, his knuckles white as the ship pitched violently. The storm clouds now loomed overhead, their dark mass swallowing what little light remained. He tried to focus on steadying himself, keeping his mind on the deck beneath his feet, but his gaze was inexorably drawn to the chaos of the sea and sky.
Behind him, a group of soldiers gathered as the priest, his robes whipping around him in the gale, attempted to hold a ceremony on the deck. He clutched a crucifix tightly, his voice rising above the wind in a desperate attempt to invoke divine protection. The words were half-drowned by the cacophony, but the sight of the priest’s fervor seemed to steady some of the men. Others, however, looked away, their expressions a mix of skepticism and despair.
Cassian leaned against the railing beside Marcus, his usual composure tested by the storm but unbroken. “Well, lad,” he said, raising his voice above the gale, “I’d say this storm might be worse than your first training session.”
Marcus forced a laugh, though it sounded hollow even to his ears. “I think I preferred the training,” he muttered, his voice tight as another wave rocked the ship violently.
Cassian clapped him on the shoulder, his grip firm. “You’ll get through it. Just remember, no storm lasts forever. The trick is making sure you’re still standing when it’s over.”
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At that moment, Gaius appeared, his steps steady despite the lurching deck. He surveyed the scene with his usual stoicism, his gaze lingering briefly on the priest before turning to Marcus and Cassian.
“Still holding the line, I see,” Gaius said, his tone dry but steady.
Cassian grinned despite the chaos. “Barely, sir. The lad here’s learning the difference between marching drills and the real thing.”
Gaius’s eyes flicked to Marcus, who straightened instinctively under his gaze. “The sea has a way of humbling even the proudest men,” Gaius said. “And teaching the greenest recruits that survival often comes down to nothing more than holding on.”
Marcus nodded, swallowing hard. “I’ll manage, sir,” he said, though his voice wavered slightly.
Gaius’s expression softened, just a fraction. “Good. You’ll find that most battles—on sea or land—are won by those who endure. Just don’t mistake endurance for complacency. You’re still a soldier, even in a storm.”
Cassian chuckled. “And here I thought he only lectured us when the weather was clear.”
Gaius arched a brow. “If I waited for fair weather to speak sense into my men, we’d still be in Ravenna.”
Cassian smirked, bracing himself as another wave rocked the ship. “Fair enough, Dux. Though I’ll say this—you’ve gotten softer with your speeches over the years. I remember a time when you’d have just barked at us to quit whining and keep our feet under us.”
Gaius let out a low chuckle, the sound barely audible over the roaring wind. “And you still think that approach works better?”
“For some of us,” Cassian replied, his grin widening. “But the lad here? I think he prefers the more... philosophical touch.”
Marcus shifted uncomfortably, glancing between the two veterans. “I don’t mind either way, sir,” he muttered, his voice struggling to sound steady as the ship pitched violently again.
Gaius’s sharp eyes fixed on him, and for a moment, Marcus thought he might have said something wrong. But then the corner of the Dux’s mouth twitched in the faintest hint of a smile. “You’ll get used to it,” he said simply. “If not to the storms, then to the way men like Cassian talk when they’re trying to look calm.”
Cassian barked a laugh. “Trying to look calm? I’ll have you know I was born calm, Gaius. This storm’s got nothing on me.”
Gaius shook his head, though there was an air of fondness in his expression. “Born calm, maybe. But I’ve yet to see you face a storm without finding a way to complain about it after.”
“Ah, but that’s the key, isn’t it?” Cassian said, leaning in conspiratorially toward Marcus. “You let it out in words so it doesn’t build up in your gut. Trust me, lad, it’s better than holding it all in.”
Another wave crashed against the hull, sending a spray of seawater over the deck. Gaius wiped the droplets from his face, his expression settling into something more serious. He glanced at Cassian, his tone lowering. “If something happens, Cassian—if this storm takes a turn—tell Lavinia it was quick. That I didn’t see it coming.”
Cassian’s smirk faded, replaced by a sober nod. “You’ll tell her yourself, Gaius. I’ll make sure of it.”
The Dux gave a small, almost imperceptible nod, his eyes briefly drifting toward the horizon before returning to Cassian. “See that you do.”
Marcus, sensing the shift in tone, stood silently, the gravity of the moment sinking in despite the chaos around them. The three men stood together for a moment longer, the storm raging, but an unspoken understanding passing between them.
The storm’s ferocity began to wane as the hours stretched on. The wind that had howled through the rigging now softened to a strong but steady breeze. The towering waves, once threatening to capsize the Ravenna’s Resolve, began to calm, their crests flattening into swells that rocked the ship gently rather than violently.
Around the deck, sailors and soldiers alike started to emerge from their places of refuge. Those who had been retching over the rails straightened up, their faces still pale but tinged with relief. Murmured prayers of gratitude replaced frantic pleas for salvation. A cautious optimism spread through the crew as the storm’s remnants dissipated into the distance.
A sailor approached from the forecastle, his expression a mixture of fatigue and hope. Spotting Gaius near the stern, he crossed the deck quickly, bracing himself against the rail as the ship rolled with the lingering swells.
“Dux Severus,” the sailor called, saluting briefly. “The captain sends word—the worst has passed. The wind is easing, and the sea’s temper is calming.”
Gaius gave a sharp nod, his expression remaining stoic even as a flicker of relief crossed his features. “Good. Tell the captain to maintain course and have the men secure anything that’s come loose. No sense in tempting fate.”
The sailor nodded and hurried off. As he disappeared below deck, Gaius turned back to Cassian, who was leaning against the railing with a grin tugging at his lips.
“Well,” Cassian said, his voice carrying the lilt of amusement. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”
Gaius arched a brow, folding his arms. “Not so bad? I seem to recall you clutching that rail so hard you left marks.”
Cassian laughed, the sound hearty and unrestrained. “Me? You’re the one who told me to pass on a message to Lavinia! If anyone was panicking, it wasn’t me.”
Gaius shook his head, though the corners of his mouth twitched upward. “A contingency, Cassian. A leader plans for every outcome. You’d know that if you spent more time thinking and less time talking.”
Cassian smirked, leaning closer. “Thinking? Is that what you were doing when you stared at the horizon like it owed you money? Face it, Gaius, you were more scared than I was.”
The two men’s laughter echoed across the deck, drawing a few curious glances from nearby soldiers. Marcus, standing quietly beside them, couldn’t help but smile at their exchange. The casual camaraderie between the two veterans, their ability to find humor in the wake of such peril, was infectious. The tension that had gripped him for hours began to ease.
“See, lad,” Cassian said, turning to Marcus with a grin. “That’s the secret to survival. Laugh in the face of it all. Makes it easier to keep your feet.”
Marcus nodded, his posture relaxing. “I’ll try to remember that.”
Gaius straightened, brushing the dampness off his tunic. His gaze swept the deck, lingering briefly on the clusters of soldiers who still clung to the railings or huddled in quiet corners. “I should check on the others,” he said, his tone firm. “They’ll need reminding that storms are temporary.”
Cassian raised a brow, his grin widening. “Checking on the others, or making sure they’re not scarred like me?”
Gaius smirked faintly. “If I thought they were as hopeless as you, I’d start looking for volunteers to row.”
Cassian let out a hearty laugh, clapping Gaius on the shoulder. “Go on then, Dux. Spread your wisdom. Just don’t scare them off with that grim look of yours.”
Shaking his head, Gaius turned and strode toward a nearby group of soldiers. As he approached, they straightened instinctively, their murmured conversations halting under his steady gaze. His voice, low and calm, carried over the soft sounds of the sea as he began speaking to them, his words laced with both reassurance and the authority of a seasoned leader.
Marcus watched him go, a newfound respect settling over him. “He’s… impressive,” he said quietly, his eyes following Gaius’s every move.
Cassian leaned back against the railing, his grin softening into something more reflective. “Impressive doesn’t begin to cover it,” he said, his tone free of the usual teasing. “That man’s been through more storms—on land and sea—than most of us could survive in a lifetime.”
Marcus looked up at Cassian, sensing the weight of his words. “You mean battles?”
“Battles, politics, loss,” Cassian replied, his gaze distant as he watched Gaius speak to the soldiers. “He carries it all and doesn’t let it break him. That’s why we follow him. He doesn’t just lead; he endures, so we believe we can, too.”
Marcus nodded slowly, the truth of Cassian’s words sinking in.
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As the days passed, the fleet pressed onward under calmer skies. The Adriatic’s once ferocious waves now lapped gently at the hulls of the ships, their rhythmic sound mingling with the creak of timbers and the occasional cry of seabirds. The winds, steady and favorable, pushed the fleet toward the Ionian Sea, past rugged coastlines dotted with rocky outcrops and olive groves clinging stubbornly to the hills.
Sailing south along the Dalmatian coast, the ships navigated through the myriad islands of the Adriatic archipelago. Their jagged peaks rose from the clear waters like ancient guardians, and the sight of small fishing villages perched on rocky shores offered a glimpse of life untouched by the chaos of empires. Soldiers leaned on the rails, pointing out coastal towers and tiny chapels that clung to the cliffs.
The fleet rounded Cape Malea, the southernmost tip of the Peloponnesian Peninsula, and entered the Aegean. Here, the waters shimmered in the sunlight, and the islands of the Cyclades spread out like scattered jewels. The men spoke in hushed tones of myths tied to these lands—the birthplace of Apollo on Delos, the labyrinth of Crete just beyond the horizon, and the trials of Odysseus as he once sailed these very waters.
The ships avoided the route toward the Hellespont and Byzantium, keeping their course direct and purposeful toward the southern coast of Asia Minor. Zeno’s power base lay in the rugged heartland of Isauria, far from the bustling ports of the Bosporus.
The fleet’s destination was Attaleia, a strategic port closest to the Isaurian heartland. The port city, nestled between the azure waters of the Mediterranean and the towering peaks of the Taurus Mountains, bustled with activity. Its docks teemed with traders from across the empire, their ships laden with spices, silks, and vibrant fruits from the East. The scent of citrus groves mingled with the salt air, creating an intoxicating contrast to the rigors of the sea.
As the fleet’s ships sailed into the expansive harbor of Attaleia, the mood among the soldiers shifted from relief to tension. The docks, bustling moments before with traders unloading wares and shouting over prices, fell eerily quiet as the shadow of the arriving ships loomed over the city. The sight of so many warships carrying armed troops was not a common occurrence in a port like this, and the arrival of a thousand Roman soldiers without prior warning sent ripples of alarm through the populace.
Fishermen abandoned their nets, children were whisked indoors by watchful mothers, and merchants hastily packed away their goods. The city guard, caught off-guard by the sudden appearance of the fleet, began to gather along the walls and at key choke points in the streets. Armed men in plain tunics rushed to bolster the gates, while their officers barked hurried orders to form ranks. Above the commotion, a lone trumpet call from the city’s watchtower rang out, echoing through the air with an urgent tone.
From the deck of the Ravenna’s Resolve, Marcus Valerian watched the unfolding scene with wide eyes. “They don’t look too pleased to see us,” he murmured, his knuckles whitening as he gripped the ship’s railing.
Cassian, standing beside him with his arms crossed, gave a wry smile. “Would you be, lad? A fleet full of armed men sails into your harbor without so much as a ‘hello,’ and you’d think it was an invasion.”
Marcus glanced nervously at the city walls, where the defenders were now visible, their spears glinting in the sunlight. “Do you think they’ll attack?”
Cassian snorted. “Not unless they’re fools. But they’ll want answers soon enough.”
As if on cue, a small party emerged from the city gates and made their way toward the docks. At their head was a man clad in a simple but authoritative tunic, likely a local commander, flanked by a handful of guards. The commander’s expression was a mixture of wariness and resolve, his hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sword. Behind him, a scribe clutched a wax tablet, scribbling furiously as the group approached.
Onboard the lead ship, Gaius Severus straightened, his gaze locked on the approaching envoy. Without a word, he motioned for the ship’s crew to lower the gangplank. Turning to the priest who stood nearby, his dark robes fluttering in the breeze, Gaius spoke in a measured tone. “You’ll join me. We need to make this clear from the start—this is not a hostile action.”
The priest nodded solemnly, clutching his crucifix as if it were a shield. Behind them, a pair of soldiers were selected to accompany the Dux, their armor polished but their faces set with the same grim determination that had seen them through the storm.
As the small party disembarked, Marcus leaned forward over the railing, straining to catch every word of the exchange. Cassian, noticing his curiosity, smirked. “Enjoy the view, lad. This is the part where the Dux earns his rank.”
On the dock, the commander of the city guard stepped forward, his expression hard but not hostile. “Who commands this fleet, and by what right do you sail into Attaleia with an armed force?” His voice carried enough authority to echo over the restless murmur of the crowd gathering at a safe distance.
Gaius Severus stepped forward, his posture straight and his voice calm but commanding. “I am Dux Gaius Severus, leading an expeditionary force under the authority of Emperor Romulus Augustus of the West. We sail in support of Emperor Zeno and his loyalists against the usurper Basiliscus.”
The commander narrowed his eyes, his hand still resting on the hilt of his sword. “A bold claim, Dux Severus. Yet, you arrive unannounced, with enough men to take this city if you wished. Why should we believe your intentions are peaceful?”
Gaius’s expression didn’t waver. “Because if we intended otherwise, you would not be standing here to ask.” His voice carried just enough steel to silence the murmur of the gathered soldiers. “We have no quarrel with Attaleia or its people. Our destination lies inland. Allow us to resupply and move on, and your city will be untouched.”
The commander hesitated, clearly weighing his options. His gaze flicked to the priest, who stepped forward with raised hands, his voice steady. “Peace be upon this city. We are here to preserve the unity of Christendom and restore order to a divided empire. Trust in God’s will, and you will see that we come not as conquerors, but as allies.”
The tension on the dock was palpable, but after a long moment, the commander nodded curtly. “I will send word to my superiors. In the meantime, your men will remain on your ships. Any sign of aggression, and the gates will be barred.”
Gaius inclined his head, a faint smile playing at the edges of his lips. “A fair arrangement. My men will comply.”
As the envoy departed, Marcus let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “That was… tense.”
Cassian chuckled, clapping him on the back. “You’ll get used to it, lad. The Dux has a way of turning even the sharpest swords into dull blades. Watch and learn.”
On the dock, Gaius exchanged a brief glance with the priest before turning back toward the ship. His measured strides carried him up the gangplank, his face calm but his eyes sharp. Marcus watched him with quiet admiration, a sense of awe growing within him.
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After two days of tense negotiations, Gaius Severus secured the agreements he needed. The soldiers were granted safe passage through Attaleia, local guides were provided to navigate the treacherous Isaurian terrain, and fresh supplies replenished their stores. By the morning of their departure, the bustling docks hummed with activity. Soldiers disembarked with their gear, their polished armor catching the early sunlight, while the long pikes of the formation stood upright like a forest of steel. Marcus Valerian adjusted his grip on his pike, its heft both familiar and daunting, as he observed the organized chaos around him. The sharp commands of officers, the clinking of mail, and the occasional bark of a mule blended with the distant cries of dockworkers unloading merchant ships. The scent of salt air mixed with that of citrus groves wafting from the nearby hills, a sharp contrast to the stale confines of the ships they had just left.
“This is it,” Marcus murmured, half to himself, as he adjusted the straps of his helmet. Cassian, standing nearby with a smirk, tapped the younger soldier on the shoulder. “What were you expecting, lad? A festival? This is a march. The road might look new, but the work is always the same.” He adjusted the sword at his hip and glanced toward the Taurus Mountains rising ominously in the distance. Marcus said nothing, but his eyes lingered on the jagged peaks, their slopes shrouded in mist. Around him, the ranks were forming with practiced discipline. Shields—small and round, strapped to their backs rather than held in hand—hung as a secondary defense. The pike formations emphasized reach and cohesion over individual protection, relying on the tight spacing of the ranks to create an unbreakable front. Veterans muttered instructions to younger recruits, reminding them to keep their weapons steady and their steps in rhythm.
Nearby, Gaius Severus moved among the men with his characteristic calm. He paused occasionally to exchange words with an officer or to correct the angle of a soldier’s pike. Even in the midst of preparation, he exuded an air of unshakable resolve, his presence steadying the nerves of the men around him. At the edge of the docks, a group of rugged guides waited, their lean frames and sun-darkened faces a testament to years spent navigating the unforgiving highlands of Isauria. They gestured to faint trails leading into the foothills, their hands quick and efficient as they spoke with Gaius. He nodded at their explanations, his expression unreadable but focused.
Cassian elbowed Marcus lightly. “See that? That’s why we follow him. He knows when to listen and when to lead.” Marcus’s gaze followed Gaius, admiration flickering in his expression. Despite the tension of the moment, the Dux moved with an ease that spoke of experience and confidence.
As the sun rose higher, the air grew warmer, and the time to march arrived. Soldiers hoisted their gear—pikes balanced on shoulders, small shields strapped securely, and supplies carefully packed. The column began to form with quiet efficiency, officers barking orders to ensure every man found his place in the line. Marcus tightened the grip on his pike as the first ranks stepped off the docks onto the dusty roads leading inland. He stole one last glance back at the fleet, their sleek forms bobbing gently in the harbor, before turning his eyes to the distant mountains.