The tension on the deck of the Trident was razor-thin.
Fifty pirate archers still had their bows drawn, aiming at Marcus's chest. Sextus Pompey stood five feet away, his hand resting on the hilt of his falcata.
Marcus didn't flinch. He couldn't afford to.
"Promotion?" Pompey scoffed. He kicked a goblet of spilled wine across the deck. "You have nothing to offer me, little Caesar. You have a stolen fleet and a dead empire. Why shouldn't I cut your head off and sell it to Valerius for my weight in gold?"
"Because Valerius is a moralist," Marcus said, keeping his voice steady. "He believes in the Republic. In law. In order."
Marcus stepped closer, ignoring the archers.
"Valerius will use you to blockade the grain, Sextus. And when he wins? When he sits on the throne? He will hang you. Because to him, you are just a criminal. A stain on Rome's honor."
Pompey's eyes narrowed. He knew it was true. Valerius Celsus was a man of rigid principles, and pirates didn't fit into his utopia.
"And you?" Pompey asked. "You are the son of Marcus Aurelius. The Philosopher Emperor. You think you're better than me?"
"I am not my father," Marcus said. "I am the man standing on your deck with a knife to your throat."
He extended his hand.
"I offer you a pardon. Full amnesty for every ship you've sunk, every village you've burned. And I offer you a title."
"I have titles," Pompey sneered. "King of the Sea. Lord of the Trident."
"Those are pirate names," Marcus said. "I offer you Praefectus Classis. High Admiral of the Roman Navy. A Patrician seat in the Senate. Your family name restored to the history books, not as traitors, but as saviors."
Pompey stared at him. The restoration of the Pompey name. It was the one thing gold couldn't buy.
"You're desperate," Pompey chuckled. "You'd sell your own mother for a fleet right now."
"I'd sell my soul," Marcus corrected. "But I'm offering you a chance to die in a marble bed instead of on a rope."
Pompey looked at the stolen Parthian ships circling his flagship. He looked at the fire in Marcus's eyes.
He laughed. A loud, booming sound that broke the tension.
"I always liked your father," Pompey grinned, showing a gold tooth. "He was boring, but he was honest. You? You're ugly as a mule, but you have stones the size of melons."
He turned to his archers.
"Stand down!" Pompey roared. "Get this man a drink! He's not a prisoner. He's my new boss!"
The archers lowered their bows.
Pompey grabbed Marcus's hand and shook it. His grip was crushing.
"To Ostia, then?" Pompey asked.
"To Ostia," Marcus nodded. "And then to hell."
FLEET STRENGTH: 30,000 INFANTRY + 5,000 PIRATES.
COMBINED VESSELS: 140.
ETA TO OSTIA: 12 HOURS.
The merger was messy.
Pompey's pirates and Marcus's legionaries eyed each other with suspicion as the fleets combined. But necessity is a powerful bonder.
They spent the night repainting the sails.
The purple Parthian dragons and the black pirate skulls were covered with crude, hasty symbols painted in a mixture of soot and red wine.
The Roman Eagle.
It wasn't pretty. The paint dripped. The eagles looked like dying crows. But from a distance, it looked like a legion returning home.
"It will fool them for an hour," Varus muttered, watching the work. "Long enough to land."
"That's all we need," Marcus said.
He stood on the prow of the Trident as the sun rose. The coast of Italy was a dark line on the horizon.
Ostia. The mouth of the Tiber. The gateway to Rome.
"It's quiet," Crixus said, joining him. "Too quiet."
Ostia was the busiest port in the world. There should be fishing boats, grain barges, merchant cogs.
The sea was empty.
"Maybe they fled," Narcissus suggested. "Maybe the city is abandoned."
"No," Marcus said. He felt a cold knot in his stomach. "Valerius doesn't abandon cities. He secures them."
The fleet approached the harbor mouth.
The massive lighthouse of Ostia loomed overhead, its fire extinguished. The docks were silent.
"Soundings!" Pompey shouted. "Watch for chains!"
But there were no chains. The harbor was open.
"I don't like it," Pompey grunted. "It feels like a grave."
"Send a swimmer," Marcus ordered.
Crixus stripped off his armor. He dove into the water, disappearing beneath the surface.
Ten minutes later, he climbed back up the anchor chain. He was pale. Shaking.
"There are no soldiers," Crixus gasped, spitting salt water. "The docks... they are full."
"Full of what?" Marcus asked.
"Flowers," Crixus whispered. "And people."
The fleet drifted closer. The mist cleared.
Marcus saw them.
Thousands of people stood on the stone quays of Ostia.
But they weren't soldiers. They weren't Valerius's legionaries.
They were women. Children. Old men in rags.
They held no weapons. They held flowers. Palm fronds. Icons painted on wood.
They were singing. A low, haunting hymn that drifted across the water.
Sancta Marcia... Ora pro nobis...
Saint Marcia... Pray for us...
"What in the abyss is this?" Pompey swore. "A choir?"
"It's a shield," Marcus whispered. The blood drained from his face.
The Cult of the Merciful. The fanatics he had used to arrest Lucilla. The poor, the desperate, the broken.
Valerius and Orestes hadn't disbanded them. They had weaponized them.
"They are blocking the landing zones," Varus said, lowering his telescope. "Wall to wall civilians. If we fire the ballistas... we kill thousands of innocents."
"That's the point," Marcus said. "Valerius knows I won't do it."
"We can't land," Pompey growled. "Not without a massacre. I'm a pirate, boy, but even I don't butcher children for sport."
"Look!" Narcissus pointed to the high balcony of the Harbor Master's tower.
A figure stepped out onto the stone ledge.
She wore a white robe that shimmered in the sun. Her hair was loose, blowing in the wind. A golden halo—a prop made of gilded wood—was fixed behind her head.
Marcia.
Marcus's heart stopped.
She looked like a goddess. But she moved like a puppet.
Her movements were jerky, unnatural. Her eyes, even from this distance, looked dark and vacant.
"She's drugged," Galen said, his voice trembling with professional horror. "Poppy milk. Or nightshade. They've turned her into a doll."
A man stood behind her, hidden in the shadows of the doorway. He whispered something in her ear.
Marcia raised her hand.
The singing on the docks stopped. Ten thousand people looked up at their living saint.
Marcia's voice was amplified by the acoustics of the harbor, thin and wavering.
" The Beast has come," she recited. The words sounded hollow, rehearsed. "The Beast who burns. The Beast who hates."
She pointed a shaking finger at Marcus's ship.
"Cast him out," she whispered. "Drown him."
The crowd erupted.
"DEATH TO THE BEAST!" they screamed. "SAVE THE SAINT!"
They began to throw rocks. Flowers were dropped, and stones were picked up. It was a sea of fanaticism.
"They turned her against you," Narcissus said, his voice full of grief. "They turned your own weapon against you."
Marcus gripped the rail until the wood splintered.
He had created the "Oracle" to protect her. He had created the Cult to serve her.
And now, his enemies had taken those creations and twisted them into a barrier he couldn't break.
"We can't attack," Varus said. "If we kill the civilians, the entire city will rise against us. We will lose Rome forever."
"And if we don't land," Pompey said, "we starve on these ships."
Marcus looked at the woman he loved. The woman who looked at him with dead, drugged eyes and called for his death.
"They didn't just steal my throne," Marcus whispered.
A tear slid down his cheek, hot and angry.
"They stole her soul."
He turned to his commanders.
"Prepare the longboats," Marcus said. His voice was dead calm.
"We aren't attacking," Narcissus asked. "What are we doing?"
"We aren't landing the army," Marcus said. "Not yet."
He unbuckled his sword belt. He dropped it on the deck.
"I am going alone."
"You're insane!" Galen shouted. "They will tear you apart!"
"They are waiting for a Beast," Marcus said. "A monster who brings fire."
He stepped toward the ladder.
"So I will show them a man."
He looked back at the tower where Marcia stood swaying.
"I'm going to get my wife back."
MISSION UPDATE:
OBJECTIVE: RETRIEVE MARCIA.
THREAT LEVEL: GOD-TIER.
CHANCE OF SUCCESS: ERROR.
Marcus jumped into the longboat.
"Row," he told the sailors. "Take me to the Saint."