The tent of Octavius Petilius Cerialis Duces was sober, almost austere. There were no golden thrones or tapestries embroidered with scenes of conquest. Yet, everything in that place was, in itself, a display of power. Maps spread out on a large wooden table showed the cities and routes of Italy, marked with precise annotations. Rolled-up scrolls rested next to wax seals and elegant writing quills. On an iron stand, a suit of armor as black as onyx reflected the light of the oil lamps with an unnatural gleam, as if forged from something more than common metal.
When Julius Pisco crossed the entrance of the tent, his gaze anxiously scanned every detail. It didn't take long for him to realize that what lay before him was not a simple Roman legion lost in time. The soldiers who had escorted him there, far from being the rough eastern barbarians he had feared, were something different, something that didn't fit into his chronicles or his knowledge of war. They wore breastplates of a glossy black, adorned with golden horses and unknown pagan symbols. Their long, slender swords, with refined hilts, were not the gladius of old but weapons of sophisticated design, deadly in expert hands. And the chainmail they wore was of such fine craftsmanship that it surpassed any antiquity he owned in his villa.
Octavius Petilius Cerialis Duces barely looked up from the reports he was examining when his visitor entered. His eyes, marked by time and battles, shone with the intensity of a leader who had yet to be defeated. His posture, though relaxed, exuded authority.
"Speak, governor," the legate's voice was deep, unadorned.
Julius took a deep breath and stepped forward cautiously, with the air of someone accustomed to moving among snakes.
"Rome has fallen into the hands of barbarians. My city, Frusino, is nothing more than a fiefdom of those savages. Theodomir of Pannonia sent me here to delay you... but I do not wish to delay you. I wish for you to exterminate them."
Octavius set the scroll on the table and interlaced his fingers. He studied the governor with a sharp gaze, weighing his words.
"And what do I get in return?"
Julius smiled cunningly.
"Frusino and all its lands. Food, supplies, women. Everything an army needs. You need a capital for the future emperor, do you not?"
Octavius raised a hand, cutting off the proposal with a measured gesture.
"I am only a dictator for now. We have already discussed this with my high command. We have decided to restore the Republic. One in which honorable Romans like you will serve in the new Senate."
Julius couldn't hide his surprise. A Senate. A dream forgotten in the dust of the centuries. For a moment, he saw in Octavius Petilius something more than a warlord. Perhaps, after all, the Rome of old could still be reborn.
Julius observed Octavius in silence for a moment, trying to process what lay before him. That man, with his black armor of unnatural gleam and his firm bearing, was not a mercenary or just another warlord. His Latin was pure, as refined and precise as his grandfather's when he told him stories of ancient times, of the glory of Rome before its fall.
He took a deep breath and stepped forward.
"My men will open the gates tonight. I myself..."
Octavius raised a hand, interrupting him with an authoritative but measured gesture.
"You are civilians, not velites. Order your people to stay in their homes and mark their doors with SPQR. That way, my men will know not to attack them."
Julius nodded slowly, but his gaze wandered around the tent, taking in its details with a trained eye. Despite its sobriety, the place was not devoid of symbols of grandeur. Among the shelves of scrolls and maps, there were busts of Roman emperors. He recognized Augustus, with his serene marble expression, Trajan, with his resolute demeanor, and Aurelian, the one who had dreamed of restoring Rome's greatness. But his eyes stopped on one sculpture in particular: Marcus Aurelius.
Julius knew that bust well. He had a copy in his own villa, carved with the same care. Yet, the version before him looked different, less... old. It wasn't worn by time or centuries of neglect. Its marble was polished, as if it had been carved just a few decades ago.
A shiver ran down his spine.
He turned his attention back to Octavius, to the black armor with its unnatural reflections, to the strangely designed weapons, to the confidence with which he spoke of restoring the Republic. There was something about it all that eluded the governor's understanding. But if Rome could truly be reborn... then it was worth following this man, no matter where he came from.
The interior of the tent was illuminated by the flickering light of oil lamps, casting dancing shadows on the Roman banners hanging from the wooden pillars. The scent of leather, wax, and incense filled the air with an almost suffocating heaviness, a reflection of the solemnity of the place.
Octavius Petilius Duces, the elderly legate of the Ninth Legion, stood erect with the composure of a veteran hardened in countless campaigns. His face, marked by age and strategy, was cold and calculating, his sharp eyes observing every movement with ruthless precision. His lips barely moved as he spoke, but his voice, dry and authoritative, filled the tent with a naturalness that commanded respect.
"However, I would like you to indicate to my skilled grandchildren the location of the commanders."
Two figures then entered the tent, as if the night itself had crossed the threshold. Drusilla Petilia stepped forward with a bearing as dark as ink, her hair absorbing the faint light of the lamps. Her eyes, two abysses without pupils, seemed to scrutinize the tent with the coldness of an immutable goddess. Her mouth was a tense line, devoid of warmth or courtesy, and in her slightly furrowed brow, there was a silent judgment of everything around her.
Beside her, Quintus Petilius Lupinus moved with a very different presence. Tall and imposing, his armor gleamed with reddish flashes under the flickering firelight. His olive skin and honey-colored eyes seemed to burn with the intensity of a brazier in the wind, a vivid contrast to his sister's icy indifference. Where Drusilla was ice, Quintus was flame. His gaze, unlike hers, reflected respect and a certain contained kindness, a gentleness that did not detract from his martial bearing.
The air grew tense as their eyes fell on Julius, the host. Drusilla looked him up and down, as if examining an object barely worthy of her interest. Her expression didn't change, but a slight lift of her chin, almost imperceptible, revealed her disdain.
"A barbarian," she murmured, her voice low and icy, more a whisper of frost than a statement.
Quintus turned his face toward her quickly, his gaze alight with reproach.
"He speaks the language of the Men of Iron," he said firmly, "and he stands in the presence of my grandfather, a legate of Rome. He cannot be treated with less respect than any other Roman."
Drusilla glanced at him sidelong, the shadow of a cold smile on her lips, as if she found his intervention amusing. But before she could reply, Octavius's voice filled the tent with its unquestionable authority.
"Not with any Roman, Quintus," he corrected with icy calm. "With a patrician. I will not allow disrespect to our host."
For a moment, only the crackling of the lamps broke the silence. Drusilla averted her gaze, her expression impassive, and finally inclined her head just a millimeter, in forced acceptance.
"As you wish, grandfather."
But there was no humility or remorse in her face. Only the icy certainty that her pride could not be broken, only contained... for now.
Quintus crossed his arms over his chest, his gaze fixed on Octavius.
"I have spoken with Julius," he said gravely, "and it seems that far more time has passed than we thought. If my calculations are correct, it may have been nearly four hundred years since the original Ninth was moved to Endorath."
The name, an echo in the ancient tongue, seemed to resonate with the weight of its meaning: Middle-earth. Drusilla barely blinked, her face as unreadable as the surface of a frozen lake, but Octavius tilted his head slightly, pondering the revelation.
"But for you, for us and our descendants," Quintus continued, "only fifty-six years have passed. This is no longer your Rome, grandfather."
The silence stretched like a shroud over the tent. Octavius weighed the situation, the lines on his face seeming carved by centuries of war and duty. Finally, he exhaled a soft sigh and declared with the serenity of a man who had seen it all.
"I suppose that is part of the Dark Lord's curse... but it is irrelevant."
Before anyone could respond, Drusilla stepped forward, her boots echoing on the wood. She knelt before her grandfather with a precise, controlled movement, but her dark eyes gleamed with a cold fervor.
"Allow me to be the envoy to eradicate the barbarians infesting the city," she requested, her voice firm, devoid of doubt or fear.
Octavius observed her for a moment, gauging his granddaughter's determination. Then he nodded with the solemnity of a judge passing sentence.
"Granted, as long as your dealings with Julius are befitting a senator of the New Republic."
Drusilla inclined her head more sincerely this time, understanding the importance of the order.
"So it shall be."
Julius, who had remained silent until then, cleared his throat before speaking.
"I will not be able to return with you to the city."
Octavius barely glanced at him before replying calmly.
"It is not necessary. An hour before the rooster's crow, she will present herself at your home."
And with that, the decision was sealed.
When Julius stepped back into the camp, his gaze swept over the legionaries with greater attention. Their chainmail was not like any he knew; the rings were smaller and denser, forming a compact and resilient metallic weave. The metal couldn't be iron, as it bore no trace of rust, despite the night's humidity.
Every man wore this armor without exception, but the officers bore additional plates over their torsos and shoulders, along with decorated greaves and, in some cases, capes made from the skins of lions, wolves, and other unnamed beasts. They were trophies from hunts in lands Julius had never set foot in, creatures he had never seen, not in merchants' tales nor in travelers' stories.
The rectangular shields were broader than those he remembered from the legions of old. The swords, Hispanic gladii, gleamed with a spotless shine, as if time had no power over them. None showed wear or corrosion. Yet, what caught his attention most was the silver bracelet they all wore on their shield arm. It was a universal distinction among them, a symbol of something he did not yet understand.
The legionaries spoke Latin, though some with strange accents, as if their mother tongues were foreign, alien to the Urbs Aeterna. As the camp grew with the arrival of more cohorts, Julius began to notice something even more unusual: among the troops were women and children. They were not refugees or servants; they moved with confidence, as part of the legion itself. They were beautiful and lively, their very presence evoking the image of a wandering nation, strong and united, born of war and survival.
It was then that Julius understood the opportunity before him. He approached a centurion with a face weathered by sun and battle, and with a calculated smile, he said:
"When the city is taken, come to my house. I can offer everything your century needs for entertainment at a fair price."
The man looked at him with a mix of curiosity and amusement before letting out a laugh.
"If we survive, brother."
Both laughed, while in the distance, from the highest tower of the city, a flock of pigeons rose into the sky. Among them, a messenger flew with desperation, hoping to reach Rome or Naples before it was too late. In the besieged city, the Ostrogoths waited, uncertainty etched on their faces, wondering if anyone would come to their aid.