The sun hung low in the winter sky, casting long shadows over the rugged terrain as Dux Gaius Severus marched at the head of his column. The roads—or what passed for them—were treacherous, little more than dirt paths winding through steep hills and rocky passes. The slopes were thick with scrubby vegetation, and sharp outcroppings of limestone jutted out like broken teeth, forcing the column into narrow, winding files. Though the route from Attaleia to Silifke should have been straightforward, the realities of the Anatolian landscape had proven otherwise.
Gaius paused on a ridge, scanning the land ahead. His eyes lingered on the faint outlines of a distant valley, where the scrub thickened into dense thickets of olive and pine. Somewhere beyond lay Silifke, Zeno's stronghold. The city represented both their goal and their hope, but reaching it was proving to be a trial in itself.
Behind him, the column trudged onward. A thousand men: a mixture of veterans, recruits, and militia, burdened with shields, pikes, and hastily forged weapons. Their boots scuffed against the rocky path, kicking up thin clouds of dust that clung to their sweat-drenched faces. A cold wind swept down from the hills, carrying a chill that cut through their woolen cloaks.
The pace was slow, dictated as much by the terrain as by the wagons carrying supplies and the logistical challenges of maintaining cohesion in such rugged conditions. Though the Anatolian hinterlands were treacherous, direct threats had been limited so far. Reports from scouts indicated isolated signs of local bandit activity—looted villages and abandoned waystations—but no group foolish enough to threaten a force as large and disciplined as Gaius’s column had dared to approach
The tension had grown palpable over the last two days. The first signs had come as faint figures darting through the distant brush—scouts, almost certainly hostile. Then came the glint of steel on a far ridge, a glimpse of movement quickly swallowed by the terrain. Gaius had ordered his men to tighten their formation, wary of an ambush. He had seen such tactics before: light skirmishers harassing a column, drawing them into a trap.
“Cassian,” Gaius called, his voice low but carrying authority. The veteran soldier, whose grizzled face was a map of old scars, stepped forward.
“Dux?”
“Double the rear guard and keep the flankers sharp. If we’re being watched, I want them to think twice before trying anything.”
Cassian nodded, his expression grim. “Aye, Dux. But if they’re scouts, their friends won’t be far. Could be feeling us out, waiting for us to show a weakness.”
“That’s why we won’t give them one,” Gaius replied. “Send the militia to cover the rear. Have them move in staggered pairs and stay close to the wagons. If they spot anything, I want it reported immediately. And remind them not to chase shadows. If we’re drawn out of formation, we’re as good as lost.”
Cassian saluted and fell back to relay the orders. Gaius watched him go, his thoughts heavy. The morale of the men had held steady so far, bolstered by discipline and the promise of reaching Zeno’s forces, but the strain of the march was beginning to show. The militia, in particular, struggled to keep pace. Many were farmers and craftsmen who had been pressed into service, their faces pale, their shoulders slumped under the weight of their equipment. The veterans fared better, though even they muttered curses under their breath about the unyielding terrain and the biting wind.
The supply situation added to Gaius’s concerns. While they had enough rations for the march, the limited forage along the route meant they could not afford to linger. Several wagons had already broken down on the rough paths, forcing the men to distribute the load among themselves. This slowed their progress even further, adding to the frustration simmering beneath the surface.
When the column halted for the night, Gaius walked among the men as they set up camp, exchanging words of encouragement where he could. He knew the value of such gestures; a leader who shared in the hardships of his soldiers earned their loyalty. He stopped by a group of younger militia huddled around a small fire, their faces lit by the flickering flames. They stood quickly at his approach, their nervousness palpable.
“At ease,” he said, his tone softer than usual. “How are you holding up?”
One of them, a boy barely old enough to wield the pike slung across his back, hesitated before answering. “We’re managing, Dux. The march... it’s harder than we thought it’d be.”
Gaius nodded, crouching beside the fire. “It always is. But you’ve made it this far, and that’s no small thing. Stick together, look after each other, and you’ll see this through.”
Just as the camp was settling into its nightly rhythm, a commotion erupted at the eastern perimeter. Alarmed voices broke through the stillness, and the glow of torches cast erratic shadows over the rugged terrain. Gaius Severus, already restless from the day’s march, immediately seized his sword and strode toward the disturbance, his cloak billowing behind him. Cassian was already at the scene, his scarred face set in a deep scowl as he barked orders to the perimeter guards.
When Gaius arrived, he found a tense standoff. A group of about twenty armed men stood just beyond the camp’s boundary, their postures rigid and their weapons held defensively. Unlike the disorganized, desperate appearance of bandits, these men carried themselves with the bearing of soldiers. Their leader, a wiry figure with weathered features and sharp eyes, stood at the forefront, barking in heavily accented Latin. The words were clear enough: “Leave these lands, or face the same fate as the others.”
“Hold your ground!” Cassian snapped at the Roman guards, who gripped their shields and pikes tightly, their nerves frayed from the march. But the soldiers shouted back at the strangers, and the tension climbed rapidly toward violence.
“Enough!” Gaius’s voice cut through the chaos like a whip crack. The Roman guards fell silent, though their knuckles remained white around their weapons. Gaius stepped forward, his eyes narrowing as he addressed the leader of the intruders. “Speak plainly. Who are you, and why have you come here?”
The leader regarded him coolly, his stance unyielding. “I should ask you the same, Roman. What business do you have marching through these hills? These are not lands for the usurper's lackeys or his traitorous armies. Turn back while you still can.”
Gaius’s eyes narrowed, his mind racing to make sense of the accusations. "Usurper's lackeys? What nonsense is this? We march under the banners of Rome for a purpose far greater than petty disputes," he said, his voice steady but laced with irritation.
The leader of the opposing group crossed his arms, his stance defiant. "You wear the arms of Rome, but that means nothing here. We’ve seen columns like yours before—claiming loyalty to Zeno, only to burn villages and slaughter the innocent. We won't be fooled again. Leave, or you’ll be wiped out like the others who dared to tread these lands.”
Gaius felt a flicker of realization as the man’s words sank in. He raised a hand, signaling his men to lower their weapons slightly, though not to stand down entirely. “You’re Zeno’s men,” he said, testing the waters. “Scouts, perhaps?”
The wiry leader gave a sharp nod, though his grip on his weapon did not relax. “We are soldiers loyal to the rightful emperor, Caesar Zeno Augustus. And you march with a thousand men into his lands without explanation. You expect us to believe you’re not here to pillage or betray?”
Gaius exhaled slowly, understanding the source of their hostility. “Then it seems we’ve stumbled into a grave misunderstanding,” he said, stepping forward cautiously. He spread his arms slightly, a gesture of truce. “I am Dux Gaius Severus, commander of the Legio I Italica Renovata. We march to aid the just and legitimate ruler of the East, Caesar Zeno Augustus in the name of Caesar Romolus Augustus ruler of the West.”
When the column halted for the night, Gaius walked among the men as they set up camp, exchanging words of encouragement where he could. He knew the value of such gestures; a leader who shared in the hardships of his soldiers earned their loyalty. He stopped by a group of younger militia huddled around a small fire, their faces lit by the flickering flames. They stood quickly at his approach, their nervousness palpable.
“At ease,” he said, his tone softer than usual. “How are you holding up?”
One of them, a boy barely old enough to wield the pike slung across his back, hesitated before answering. “We’re managing, Dux. The march... it’s harder than we thought it’d be.”
Gaius nodded, crouching beside the fire. “It always is. But you’ve made it this far, and that’s no small thing. Stick together, look after each other, and you’ll see this through.”
When the column halted for the night, Gaius walked among the men as they set up camp, exchanging words of encouragement where he could. He knew the value of such gestures; a leader who shared in the hardships of his soldiers earned their loyalty. He stopped by a group of younger militia huddled around a small fire, their faces lit by the flickering flames. They stood quickly at his approach, their nervousness palpable.
“At ease,” he said, his tone softer than usual. “How are you holding up?”
One of them, a boy barely old enough to wield the pike slung across his back, hesitated before answering. “We’re managing, Dux. The march... it’s harder than we thought it’d be.”
Gaius nodded, crouching beside the fire. “It always is. But you’ve made it this far, and that’s no small thing. Stick together, look after each other, and you’ll see this through.”
Just as the camp was settling into its nightly rhythm, a commotion erupted at the eastern perimeter. Alarmed voices broke through the stillness, and the glow of torches cast erratic shadows over the rugged terrain. Gaius Severus, already restless from the day’s march, immediately seized his sword and strode toward the disturbance, his cloak billowing behind him. Cassian was already at the scene, his scarred face set in a deep scowl as he barked orders to the perimeter guards.
When Gaius arrived, he found a tense standoff. A group of about twenty armed men stood just beyond the camp’s boundary, their postures rigid and their weapons held defensively. Unlike the disorganized, desperate appearance of bandits, these men carried themselves with the bearing of soldiers. Their leader, a wiry figure with weathered features and sharp eyes, stood at the forefront, barking in heavily accented Latin. The words were clear enough: “Leave these lands, or face the same fate as the others.”
“Hold your ground!” Cassian snapped at the Roman guards, who gripped their shields and pikes tightly, their nerves frayed from the march. But the soldiers shouted back at the strangers, and the tension climbed rapidly toward violence.
“Enough!” Gaius’s voice cut through the chaos like a whip crack. The Roman guards fell silent, though their knuckles remained white around their weapons. Gaius stepped forward, his eyes narrowing as he addressed the leader of the intruders. “Speak plainly. Who are you, and why have you come here?”
The leader regarded him coolly, his stance unyielding. “I should ask you the same, Roman. What business do you have marching through these hills? These are not lands for the usurper's lackeys or his traitorous armies. Turn back while you still can.”
Gaius’s eyes narrowed, his mind racing to make sense of the accusations. "Usurper's lackeys? What nonsense is this? We march under the banners of Rome for a purpose far greater than petty disputes," he said, his voice steady but laced with irritation.
The leader of the opposing group crossed his arms, his stance defiant. "You wear the arms of Rome, but that means nothing here. We’ve seen columns like yours before—claiming loyalty to Zeno, only to burn villages and slaughter the innocent. We won't be fooled again. Leave, or you’ll be wiped out like the others who dared to tread these lands.”
Gaius felt a flicker of realization as the man’s words sank in. He raised a hand, signaling his men to lower their weapons slightly, though not to stand down entirely. “You’re Zeno’s men,” he said, testing the waters. “Scouts, perhaps?”
The wiry leader gave a sharp nod, though his grip on his weapon did not relax. “We are soldiers loyal to the rightful emperor, Caesar Zeno Augustus. And you march with a thousand men into his lands without explanation. You expect us to believe you’re not here to pillage or betray?”
Gaius exhaled slowly, understanding the source of their hostility. His posture relaxed slightly, though his voice retained its commanding tone. “Then it seems we’ve stumbled into a grave misunderstanding,” he began, stepping forward cautiously. Each movement was deliberate, his arms spreading slightly in a gesture meant to convey truce without undermining authority. The flickering torchlight caught the edges of his cloak, adding a shadowy presence to his already imposing figure. "I am Dux Gaius Severus, commander of the Legio I Italica Renovata." He let the title sink in, observing the cautious yet unconvinced expressions of the opposing group. "We march not as enemies, but as allies to Caesar Zeno Augustus, the just and legitimate ruler of the East. Our mission is not one of conquest or betrayal but to restore unity and order under Rome’s divine mandate."
The leader’s sharp eyes scanned Gaius’s expression, searching for signs of deception. Gaius continued, his voice firm but carrying a note of earnestness. "Our banners fly in service of Caesar Romolus Augustus, ruler of the West. We come at the request of your emperor to lend aid in his time of need. I understand your caution, but this is not the place for swords drawn against each other."
The opposing soldiers exchanged uneasy glances, the tension in their ranks beginning to fray. Their leader hesitated, his knuckles still white around the hilt of his sword. "Words are easy, Roman. Prove what you say. How can we know you do not carry treachery in your ranks, as others have before you?"
Gaius took another step forward, the firelight casting a determined gleam in his eyes. "Would a traitor march openly under the banners of Rome and Zeno’s name? Would I risk the lives of a thousand men, including veterans loyal to the empire, to perpetrate a lie? Send word to Silifke if you doubt me. Verify my intentions, but until then, let us not waste precious blood over a misunderstanding."
The wiry leader hesitated, visibly torn between his suspicions and the logic of Gaius’s words. Finally, he nodded slowly, though his stance remained guarded. "Very well, Dux Severus. We will send a messenger ahead to confirm your claims. Until then, we will not interfere—but do not take this as trust." His gaze hardened. "If your words prove false, you will find no mercy from us or from the emperor."
Gaius inclined his head, a gesture of respect without submission. "I would expect no less. Now, let us stand down and avoid further conflict. We march for Silifke, and I assure you, we bring no threat to Zeno’s lands or his people."
As the tense confrontation dissipated and the opposing soldiers withdrew into the shadows, a new voice broke through the settling quiet. “Dux Severus! A word, if you please!” Gaius turned to see the camp priest emerging from his tent, his face pale and drawn. His robes, damp from the cool night air, clung to his wiry frame as he clutched a small, iron-bound cross to his chest. His eyes flickered nervously between Gaius and the distant hills where the soldiers of Zeno had vanished.
The priest hurried forward, his steps faltering over the uneven ground. When he reached Gaius, he bowed slightly, though the gesture carried the air of necessity rather than reverence. “Dux,” he began, his voice trembling but insistent, “I must speak with you at once. The events of tonight... they present a serious concern.”
Gaius, still tense from the confrontation, frowned and folded his arms. “What is it, Father? Speak plainly.”
The priest straightened, gripping the cross as though it were a lifeline. “The men you encountered, these so-called soldiers of Zeno—they are a threat, not just to this mission but to the Church’s interests here. As you know, my presence on this expedition was sanctioned by Bishop Felix himself, who entrusted me to ensure the sanctity and success of this undertaking. I am here as a representative of the Church, to safeguard our faith and build relations with the rightful emperor. You must understand, Dux, that this is not merely a military venture—it is a holy endeavor, and it falls to you to ensure its success.”
Gaius’s frown deepened as he tried to parse the priest’s words. “Father,” he said evenly, “we are marching to aid Caesar Zeno, not to wage war on his men. They misunderstood us, yes, but they pose no immediate threat. Your concerns, while noted, seem... exaggerated.”
The priest’s face flushed, a mix of fear and frustration. “Exaggerated? Dux, these men could turn on us at any moment! Their accusations—calling us usurpers’ lackeys—show they do not trust us. What if they see an opportunity to strike? Worse, what if they seek to desecrate the holy relics we carry or undermine the Church’s mission here? It is not merely my life at stake, but the very reputation of Rome’s faith in the East.”
Gaius arched an eyebrow. “You believe Zeno’s loyalists would risk fracturing their emperor’s alliance with Rome to harm you? I think you underestimate their discipline and overestimate their hostility.”
The priest shook his head vehemently. “Dux, you must not be so naive. The Church has seen too many betrayals and too many wolves in sheep’s clothing to trust so easily. Bishop Felix sent me here to ensure that this mission profits not just the empire but the Church itself. Our efforts in diplomacy, in forging stronger ties with the East, are vital. If we falter, if we show weakness or fail to protect what we represent, it will not be just the soldiers who pay the price—it will be the Church.”
The subtext of his words was clear, though unspoken: the Church’s investment in this campaign was as much about securing influence as it was about faith or diplomacy. Gaius suppressed a sigh, glancing toward Cassian, who stood nearby, his expression a careful mask of skepticism. Turning back to the priest, Gaius tempered his irritation, speaking with measured firmness.
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“Father,” he said, “your concerns are noted, but you forget one thing. This army marches under the authority of Caesar Romulus Augustus, with the blessing of the Church. My men and I are bound to protect this mission, including you and the relics you safeguard. That protection does not extend to indulging fear. These soldiers of Zeno were wary, yes, but their actions tonight proved their discipline, not their treachery. It is not their motives we should doubt, but our own readiness to maintain peace.”
The priest’s eyes narrowed, his grip on the cross tightening. “Readiness? You speak as though vigilance is not our duty.”
“Vigilance,” Gaius countered, his voice hardening, “is not the same as paranoia. I will protect you, Father, but I will not let fear dictate my command. If you wish to see this mission succeed, trust my judgment—and trust the men who carry these banners.”
The priest hesitated, the words seemingly catching him off guard. Finally, he inclined his head, though his expression remained uncertain. “Very well, Dux. I pray that your judgment is as sound as you believe. May the Lord guide us all.”
As the priest retreated to his tent, Gaius lingered by the fire, letting the warmth seep through the chill of the night air. Cassian, ever watchful, approached with a quiet nod of acknowledgment. “You handled him well,” the veteran said, his voice low. “Though I doubt it’ll be the last we hear of his concerns.”
“It won’t,” Gaius replied, rubbing his hands together against the cold. “He’s here on Bishop Felix’s orders. That makes him more than just a priest—he’s an observer, and likely a voice for the Church when this is all over. I’ll need to keep him close enough to manage but distant enough to avoid interference.”
Cassian grunted in agreement. “A tricky balance. But then again, you seem to thrive on those.” He offered a faint smile before heading off to inspect the perimeter, leaving Gaius alone with his thoughts.
The camp was quieter now, the earlier tension giving way to the familiar routines of soldiers settling in for the night. Fires crackled softly, their light casting flickering shadows over the rugged terrain. Gaius took one last look around, his practiced eye scanning for any signs of disorder or weakness. Satisfied with the guard placements, he began a slow circuit of the camp, stopping occasionally to exchange a few words with the sentries.
As he neared the eastern edge, he paused to watch a young guard adjusting his shield strap. The boy, barely more than sixteen, straightened hastily at the sight of the Dux. Gaius gave him a reassuring nod. “Keep your eyes sharp and your wits about you. You’re the first line of defense out here.”
“Yes, Dux,” the boy stammered, his voice steady despite the nervousness in his eyes.
Moving on, Gaius let his mind wander. The routine of inspecting the camp always brought a measure of calm, but tonight, his thoughts drifted further afield. He thought of Lavinia and the boys—Lucan, so serious and eager to emulate his father, and Marcus, whose boundless curiosity brought light to their home. The image of their faces warmed him more than the fire ever could, but it also carried a weight of longing and guilt. How much had he sacrificed to serve Rome? How much more would be asked of him before this campaign was over?
The thought of Lavinia’s quiet strength brought a pang to his chest. She had never questioned his duty, though he knew how much she feared for him. “Return to us,” she had whispered the night before he left, her hand gripping his like a lifeline. He had promised her he would, but promises made in war often turned to ash.
Reaching the northern edge of the camp, Gaius paused again, this time to gaze out at the darkened hills. Somewhere beyond lay Silifke, and with it, the hope of alliance with Zeno. The emperor’s cause was just, but would it be enough to unite the fractured empire? Would the sacrifices of his men, the strain on their bodies and spirits, be worth it in the end?
And then there was Romulus. The boy emperor who carried the weight of a world he barely understood. Gaius had watched him grow into his role with surprising tenacity, but the challenges he faced were monumental. Was this march, this gamble in a foreign land, truly the path to salvation for Rome? Or was it simply delaying the inevitable collapse?
He sighed, the weight of these questions pressing against his chest like the Anatolian cold. “It must be worth it,” he murmured to himself. “For Lavinia, for the boys, for Romulus. For Rome.”
Turning back toward the center of the camp, he made his way to his tent. The night watch was in place, and the soldiers were as secure as they could be in this unforgiving landscape. As he settled onto the rough bedding, exhaustion tugging at his body, he allowed himself one final thought before sleep claimed him: that tomorrow, and every day after, he would do what needed to be done—not for glory, but for those he loved and the Rome they all believed in.
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Over the next three days, the column pushed steadily forward through the Anatolian hills, the terrain growing no less unforgiving. The men marched with grim determination, their footsteps crunching on the rocky paths as the chill winter air nipped at their faces. The sight of distant figures—silent observers shadowing their movements—became an unsettling constant. At first, it was only one or two, perched atop ridges or moving swiftly through the brush, but by the second day, the watchers had multiplied.
“Zeno’s scouts, no doubt,” Cassian muttered during a brief halt. “But why so many? And why keep their distance?”
Gaius frowned, his eyes fixed on a far-off group silhouetted against the sky. “They’re gauging us. Numbers, discipline, purpose.”
The soldiers had noticed the watchers too. Unease rippled through the ranks, a quiet murmur of uncertainty that no amount of drill or discipline could fully silence. The militia, in particular, were unnerved. They whispered rumors of ambushes and betrayals, their imagination filling the gaps left by the silence of the shadowing figures. Gaius did his best to maintain order, but he could feel the tension mounting with every passing mile.
By the third day, the column began descending into a broad valley. The terrain offered little cover, leaving the men exposed to anyone watching from the surrounding hills. Gaius ordered the ranks to tighten, their pikes at the ready and the wagons shielded by the flanks of the column. Despite his efforts, the unease among his men only deepened.
As noon approached, the column halted for a brief rest. Fires were lit sparingly, and the men huddled close together, their conversation subdued. Gaius took the opportunity to consult with Cassian and his officers near the vanguard.
“They’re still out there,” Cassian said grimly, gesturing to the ridges. “They’re not even trying to hide anymore.”
Gaius followed his gaze. Dozens of figures were visible now, scattered along the high ground like vultures waiting for carrion. The sight set his teeth on edge. Before he could speak, a shout from a scout cut through the midday stillness.
“Movement on the ridge! To the south!”
Gaius snapped his head toward the direction of the call. A ripple of alarm spread through the camp as the soldiers scrambled to their feet, eyes fixed on the southern horizon. At first, it was only a shimmer of motion—a shifting line of dark shapes against the pale winter sky. Then, like a tide cresting a hill, they appeared: a host of soldiers, their ranks stretching wide and deep.
“At least a thousand,” Cassian muttered, his jaw tight.
“More,” Gaius corrected, his voice steady despite the knot tightening in his chest. “Close to two, perhaps.”
The host advanced steadily, the rhythmic thud of their boots carrying faintly on the wind. Their banners, marked with the imperial insignia of Zeno, fluttered in the cold air. It was a formidable sight—rows of spearheads glinting in the sunlight, their formation precise and deliberate.
Gaius Severus stood tall at the head of his formation, his posture rigid and imposing, but his hand gripped the pommel of his sword with a force that made his knuckles whiten. His face betrayed no hint of doubt or fear, yet the tension in his jaw and the slight shift of his fingers on the hilt hinted at the weight of the moment pressing upon him. Behind him, the unease among his men was palpable, an almost tangible force rippling through the ranks.
The appearance of Zeno’s host, advancing with precise discipline, had stirred unease into outright panic among the less-experienced troops. The militia, armed with spears, shields, and little else, shifted uneasily, their fingers twitching as hurried whispers spread like wildfire through the lines.
“Zeno’s forces will cut us down!” one soldier hissed, his voice a strained whisper.
“We’re not ready for this!” came another, raw with fear.
Some began to shuffle back toward the wagons, while others cast anxious glances at the surrounding hills, their imaginations conjuring ambushes in every shadow. Even the veterans, steadier and more experienced, exchanged grim looks, adjusting their shields and gripping their swords with quiet resolve. The anxiety swirled around Gaius like a storm, but he stood firm, his back straight, his face a mask of calm. Only the slight tremor of his thumb against the leather-wrapped pommel of his sword betrayed the tension he held inside.
Cassian stepped closer, his scarred face dark with concern. “If this panic takes root, we’ll lose them before the first spear is thrown,” the veteran murmured, his voice low enough not to carry beyond Gaius’s ear.
Gaius nodded sharply, forcing the tension in his jaw to relax. “Then we stop it,” he said, his voice resolute. He exhaled deeply through his nose, drawing strength from the gesture. With that, he stepped forward, his booming voice cutting through the growing chaos like a thunderclap.
“Legio I Italica Renovata! Form ranks! Now!”
The command reverberated across the valley, snapping the men out of their frenzied whispers. Soldiers froze mid-motion, their heads turning to face Gaius. He strode down the line, his movements deliberate and commanding, his voice filled with purpose and unyielding authority.
“Do you call yourselves Romans? Have we marched across these hills, braving cold and hardship, only to falter at the sight of another Roman banner? Stand your ground! Stand as one!”
The men hesitated, their uncertainty warring with the instinct to obey. Gaius felt a bead of sweat slide down his temple, but he did not wipe it away. He moved among them, his voice steady and clear, an anchor against the tide of panic.
“You see those banners?” He pointed toward Zeno’s approaching host, his arm cutting a sharp line across the sky. “They are not your enemy! They are the legions of Rome’s East, marching under the rightful emperor, Caesar Zeno. We are here to join them, not to fight them. But if you scatter like frightened sheep, you will bring shame upon the name of Rome and upon the newly formed legion you now stand within!”
The words struck like hammer blows. Gaius saw the ripple of shame and resolve pass through the ranks. Men began to straighten, their hands tightening on their weapons. A few exchanged sheepish glances, embarrassed by their earlier fear.
“We are Romans!” Gaius continued, his voice rising in crescendo. “Our ancestors conquered these lands and built the roads we march on. Will you dishonor their legacy? Will you bring shame to Caesar Romulus Augustus, who entrusted us with this mission? No! You will stand firm! You will show these Eastern legions the resolve of the West!”
A murmur of agreement spread through the ranks, weak at first but gaining strength as it passed from man to man. Gaius pressed on, his words pushing the men back into the steel-edged discipline of their forebears.
“Form up! Shields high, spears ready. Show them the discipline of Rome! Let them see not a rabble but a legion! Reform, and wait with the patience and stoicism of Romans until the emperor’s host stands before us.”
The veterans moved first, their practiced instincts taking over as they fell into formation. The militia and recruits followed, their movements clumsy at first but gaining confidence as the lines began to solidify. Shields locked together, spears angled outward, and the wagons were brought into a tighter, more defensible position at the rear.
Gaius let his hand slide from his sword’s pommel, flexing his fingers to ease the stiffness. He turned to Cassian, his voice low but resolute. “Keep the men steady. If they falter again, remind them who they are.”
Cassian saluted, the faintest hint of a smile touching his lips. “You’ve got a knack for bringing them back from the brink, Dux.”
The rhythmic march of Zeno’s forces grew louder, the sound echoing across the valley. Gaius stood firm at the head of his lines, his hand now resting lightly on his sword. His eyes remained fixed on the advancing host, his expression calm but watchful. Beneath the surface, his heart thudded a steady rhythm, a reminder of the stakes before him.
Then, the Eastern Roman forces halted. The banners of Zeno’s army unfurled fully, their golden eagles catching the afternoon light. Gaius tightened his grip on his sword’s hilt again, but this time with quiet determination rather than tension.
The banners of Zeno's forces rippled in the cold wind, catching the golden light of the waning sun. The sharp edges of their formations stood in stark contrast to the uneven terrain. Then, from the front of the Eastern host, a lone rider broke away, flanked by two armored soldiers on either side. The banners remained still, and the rest of Zeno's army did not advance further. This was no charge—this was a summons.
Gaius Severus adjusted his stance, his fingers flexing momentarily on the hilt of his sword. He let out a slow breath, the tension tightening his chest as he awaited the rider’s approach. His eyes never wavered, though his free hand gripped the edge of his cloak, holding it steady against the gusts. Behind him, the ranks of his soldiers shifted uneasily, the newly formed line still raw with the scars of their earlier panic.
The rider approached briskly, his horse’s hooves stirring the dry soil into brief plumes of dust. When he stopped a few paces from Gaius, the rider’s gaze was sharp, his eyes scanning the Roman formation with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion. His armor was finely crafted, though worn from use—a man who had seen his share of battles. A deep crimson sash marked him as an officer of rank.
“I am Tribunus Calistos, under the command of Caesar Zeno Augustus,” the man announced, his voice carrying a deliberate authority. His Latin was sharp, with a faint Eastern lilt. “Who commands this column?”
Gaius stepped forward, his movements deliberate but restrained. “I am Dux Gaius Severus,” he replied, his tone steady despite the undercurrent of unease stirring within him. “Commander of the Legio I Italica Renovata. We march under the banners of Caesar Romulus Augustus, ruler of the West, to aid your emperor in reclaiming his throne.”
Calistos’s eyes flicked over Gaius briefly before settling on the formation behind him. “Aid, you say,” the tribunus remarked, his voice clipped. “A thousand men, marching unbidden into the lands of the East. You will understand if we question your intent.”
Gaius inclined his head slightly. “Your caution is not unwarranted, Tribunus. But we march as allies, not invaders. If you doubt my words, send a messenger to Caesar Zeno. He will confirm our purpose.”
Calistos’s expression did not soften. “A fine claim. But words alone do not dispel doubt. The emperor has commanded that your leader come before him to account for this march and your allegiance. Will you comply?”
The question hung heavy in the air, and for a moment, Gaius felt the weight of all eyes on him—his men’s and those of Zeno’s soldiers who waited silently in the distance. His fingers tightened briefly on the hilt of his sword, and he resisted the urge to glance back at Cassian or the others. The decision was his alone.
“I will comply,” Gaius said, the words calm but deliberate. “Lead me to your emperor, and I will speak for my men and our cause.”
The faintest flicker of approval crossed Calistos’s face, but his posture remained rigid. “Good. Bring only a small escort. Any display of force will be seen as a provocation.”
Gaius nodded, turning back to his officers. “Cassian, you’re with me. Bring two more. The rest hold position—remain steady and disciplined.”
Cassian saluted sharply, his usual stoicism touched by a flicker of concern. “Understood, Dux. We’ll hold the line.”
As Gaius mounted his horse, he caught a glimpse of his men. They stood stiffly, their gazes wary but calmer than before. He met the eyes of one young soldier, who nodded faintly, his grip tightening on his shield. It was a subtle gesture, but it steadied Gaius as much as the reins in his hands.
The small group followed Calistos across the open valley. Gaius could feel the eyes of both armies on him, each step of the horse’s hooves crunching against the earth amplifying the weight of the moment. His breathing was steady, but his chest felt tight, the enormity of what lay ahead pressing against him. His hand brushed the pommel of his sword again—not for reassurance of steel, but as a grounding touch, a reminder of the responsibility he bore.
Ahead, the banners of Zeno’s army loomed closer. The disciplined ranks parted just enough to allow passage, their soldiers’ gazes as cold and appraising as the tribunus’s had been. Finally, the command tent came into view, surrounded by a ring of senior officers and standard bearers. Gaius dismounted, his boots striking the ground with deliberate firmness.
A tall figure emerged from the tent, his gilded armor glinting in the light of the setting sun. Caesar Zeno Augustus. His bearing was imperious, his sharp features framed by the crimson cloak that trailed lightly on the ground. His dark eyes locked onto Gaius, dissecting him with an intensity that made even Gaius’s practiced calm falter for the briefest moment.
As Gaius Severus stood before the command tent, he allowed himself a measured breath, tightening his posture as Caesar Zeno Augustus approached. The emperor's crimson cloak billowed slightly in the cold wind, his polished armor catching the sun’s light in sharp flashes. Zeno's face betrayed no emotion as he stepped forward, flanked by his officers, a scroll in his hand—the letter bearing Romulus Augustus's seal.
The silence stretched, and Gaius remained rigid, his hand now resting at his side. A soldier, no matter his rank, would not speak until granted leave by the emperor. Zeno’s piercing gaze swept over Gaius and his escort before drifting to the distant lines of the Legio I Italica Renovata, standing steady against the winds in their reformed ranks.
Finally, Zeno unfurled the scroll with deliberate slowness, his voice cutting through the still air with clarity. “Dux Gaius Severus, you march under the banners of Caesar Romulus Augustus. This letter…” Zeno held it aloft for a moment before his tone turned wry, “...this letter I received weeks ago. A message from the West, bearing an offer of aid that I dismissed as... unlikely.”
Zeno paused, his sharp eyes flicking between Gaius and his soldiers. The silence that followed was electric, the weight of his scrutiny palpable. Then, his voice rose, carrying across the assembly.
“And yet, here you are! A thousand men of the West, marching through the hills of Anatolia, braving treacherous roads and cold winds, bearing not conquest, but unity. Here stands Rome—one Rome—when many had thought it shattered beyond repair!”
The tension in the air broke as Zeno’s words swelled, resonating like the clash of cymbals. His officers exchanged brief glances of approval, their rigid expressions softening. Gaius felt his chest tighten, though not from fear. Pride swelled within him—pride for his men, for the long march, for the ideals they upheld.
Zeno stepped closer, lowering the scroll and addressing Gaius directly, though his voice carried far enough for all to hear. “Your march proves the West still holds the strength to act, not merely to speak. You could have remained behind your walls, content to let the East falter. Instead, you bring swords and shields to fight beside us. You bring the promise of what Rome might still be.”
Zeno raised his arms, his voice lifting into a grand proclamation. “Soldiers of Rome! Today is a day to remember! Today, we stand not as Eastern or Western, but as one Rome! The eagles of the West fly alongside those of the East, united under one banner—the eternal banner of Rome!”
A rousing cheer erupted from Zeno’s soldiers. Even the officers, stoic and disciplined, raised their swords in salute. From behind, Gaius could hear faint murmurs of approval ripple through his own men, carried across the wind. The militia and veterans, though weary and unsure moments ago, seemed to stand a little taller.
Zeno lowered his arms and stepped closer to Gaius, dropping his voice just enough for the conversation to turn private. “Your men show discipline, Dux Severus. And you... you show resolve. Rome needs that.”
The emperor extended his hand, grasping Gaius by the forearm with a firm grip. The gesture was powerful, a mark of respect that transcended ranks and divisions. “Welcome, Gaius Severus. Welcome to the East. Together, we shall see this campaign through, and together, we shall restore Rome to its glory.”
Gaius inclined his head, meeting Zeno’s firm gaze. “Caesar, it is my honor to stand beside you.”
Zeno’s lips curved into the faintest smile. “You speak well, Dux. Tomorrow, we march together to Silifke. Once there, your men will rest. But the day after…” His voice dropped lower, a glint of steel in his eyes. “I would speak with you about what you and the West truly expect from this alliance.”
Gaius gave a subtle nod. “As you will, Caesar.”
Zeno released his arm, stepping back with a commanding flourish. He turned to his officers and issued swift commands, his voice once again rising to direct his men. Gaius, though dismissed, lingered for a moment, his thoughts racing. Pride flickered again, warm but edged with caution. The road ahead would demand more from him than the march behind.