The dawn fell over the port like a polished copper leaf. From the hills, the republican fleet stretched out on the water like a floating city: more than sixty vessels, aligned in three long columns advancing towards the open sea with mathematical discipline.
The merchant transports, robust and wide-bellied, carried the majority of the eleven thousand men. Each ship seemed swollen by the weight of the lives it carried: shields piled against the gunwales, spears tied with ropes in bundles, sacks of grain hanging from the masts like dried fruit. The hulls creaked under the tension, but they advanced steadily.
On the decks, the soldiers sat or stood in compact rows. They didn't talk much: only the deep murmur of repeated orders, or the metallic clash of a poorly adjusted belt. The smell of salt, hot tar, and soaked leather dominated the air. Some men told the same joke for the fifth time; others stared at the horizon, keeping silent.
Closer to the coast, a chain of light galleys acted as escort. Their oars struck the water with an exact rhythm, producing a constant vibration that made the air tremble. Occasionally a galley would tack to check the formation, something necessary for the large number of ships being transported.
Luciano, from his flagship, watched the assembly carefully. From there he could see how the fleet stretched for more than two kilometers: a column of wood, ocher sails, and purple standards reflecting the rising sun.
When the first strong wind blew, the sails inflated like proud chests and the line of ships gained speed. The port was left behind. As the coast became distant, the magnitude of the movement became clear: a city of eleven thousand souls displacing themselves over the sea, heading for a war that most still could not fully imagine.
The seagulls began to disappear, replaced by the deeper sound of the open waves. Officers began checking lists, distributing rations of hard bread and water, and coordinating watch shifts.
The first two days of the voyage were calm. The wind maintained a constant rhythm, enough to propel the transports without overloading the masts. The officers were starting to relax: it seemed that the sea, for once, favored the Republic.
But as the third night fell, the signs began.
First it was the fish. Or, rather, their absence. The lookouts commented that the waters were too still for the open sea: not a single fin movement, not a shadow beneath the surface. The oars cut through an ocean that seemed asleep.
Then it was the sky. Stars that should be there did not appear. At first they blamed the fog. Then they noticed that the fog was coming from the sea… not the air.
A murmur ran through the decks as the darkness began to thicken.
—This is not natural —a veteran captain commented in a low voice—. The air is too… quiet.
By the dawn of the fourth day, the fleet had slowed down as a precaution. The galleys advanced with their oars drawn in, as if even the rhythm of the strokes could break something invisible.
It began with the total absence of sound.
The sails tightened as if a titanic force were stretching them from above; the ropes vibrated without wind; the masts creaked like old bones under an intangible weight. And yet, not a single breath moved the air.
The soldiers stood motionless, unable to explain what was happening. Their breathing sounded too loud. Even the beating of one's own heart seemed alien.
Then, the light.
A pale glow descended from the sky, filtering through the black clouds that were forming with unnatural speed. It was not the warm light of the sun nor the blue of a normal storm: it was a cold, translucent white, like the surface of polished metal.
The sailors tried to adjust the sails, but the knots tightened on their own. The ropes seemed alive.
A deaf roar, as if the entire sea inhaled at the same time, swept through the fleet.
The smaller vessels were the first to give way: two galleys tilted violently when an invisible pressure pushed the water beneath them, breaking several oars and throwing the rowers to the floor. A merchant transport lost part of its mast, which snapped like a dry stalk.
And then, everything turned white.
When the sound returned, it was accompanied by a dry clash: the keel of the flagship hitting something solid.
A beach.
There was no desert, no endless dunes, no ruined sand buildings. What they saw was a green, uneven coast, bordered by rocky hills and trees deformed by the wind. The morning mist rose in filaments from the damp ground.
Tiberius was the first to get up from the deck floor, wiping the dried blood from his eyebrow.
—By the gods… —he whispered as his eyes surveyed the scene—. It seems the storm has completely ceased.
The image was absurd.
The fleet was scattered along almost two kilometers of unknown coastline. Some transports had been thrown ashore and lay beached sideways on the wet sand. Two galleys rested between rock formations, embedded like misplaced toys. Other ships remained afloat, staggering, with twisted masts or sails turned into rags. And yet, against all logic… most were still in condition to sail.
The sea behind them shone peacefully. As if nothing had happened.
Helena Varco stumbled up from the hatch. She was drenched, covered in salt and smoke, but alive.
—This is not Arabigia, lord Tiberius —she said with a hoarse voice—. It is not even close.
A young officer, still pale, looked around trying to find a recognizable point.
—Where are we? —he asked—. Did we deviate? We should still be days away from the coast!
Before anyone could answer, a figure ascending from the side of the deck caught their attention. Captain Doria Hadrun, the oldest navigator in the fleet, leaned on the railing with an expression that mixed exhaustion and something akin to fear. He had a reputation for having survived three shipwrecks and two mutinies, but even he could not find words.
—No wind can drag an entire fleet this far —he said in a low voice, looking at the horizon as if the sea itself had betrayed him—. And no map mentions a coast like this.
Tiberius clenched his jaw.
—For now we should disembark —he replied—. Any plan we had has just been ruined by the designs of the gods.
Then the only words that the entire crew expected were spoken.
Luciano had remained silent, leaning against the main mast, breathing in a controlled manner. He had not lost his composure, but his gaze was fixed on the coast as if trying to extract answers from it.
When he finally spoke, he did so without taking his eyes off the coastline.
—It was not a storm —he said slowly, almost to himself—. And it was not deviation. No one pushed us here… we were brought.
Hadrun frowned. —"Brought"? By whom?
Luciano took a step toward the gunwale. From there the coastline was better visible: tall trees like towers, a type of foliage none recognized, and a strip of reddish hills that looked like oxidized iron.
—I don't know —Luciano admitted—. But we will find out.
Then he raised his voice so that all the officers could hear him.
—Organize disembarkation by groups. Check the wounded, count supplies, and establish a perimeter on the beach. No one strays without my order. Whatever this place is… it is where we are now.
Although Luciano's attitude seemed calm, his mind was wrapped in concerns, it was not the first time he had faced such great mysteries because his second life was currently one of them. But even so, the surprise was no less.
While the officers repeated their orders, he kept his gaze fixed on the unknown coast. He studied the colors of the earth, the height of the trees, the pattern of the swell, and the warm wind coming from inland. Every detail screamed the same truth: they were not in Arabigia, nor in any region listed on the Republic's naval maps.
Tiberius approached him, lowering his voice.
—Luciano… how serious is this?
—Serious —he replied without drama—. But not insurmountable. He paused, evaluating the terrain and the movements on the beach. —The first thing is to secure the men and stabilize the ships. Then we will draw a preliminary map. I need to know where we are… and who lives here.
Captain Doria Hadrun climbed up from the makeshift gangplank between the flagship and the sand. He held a crumpled parchment in his hands and had a tense expression.
—Lord Luciano —he said with a quick salute—. I have compared the coast and in all my years sailing I have never seen anything like it, the fauna is something different from everything my old eyes have seen..
Luciano took a parchment from his desk, folded it, and gave it back to him.
—Then we will start from scratch.
A group of sailors shouted from the beach to announce that the first line of defense was established. The galleys that had managed to maneuver were being converted into improvised barriers; carpenters checked hulls, doctors distributed boiled water and ointments.
Luciano took a deep breath. He knew that, with eleven thousand men, time was playing in his favor… but also against him. Discipline could sustain them for weeks, perhaps months; but uncertainty, if not managed well, could destroy an army from one day to the next.
—Tiberius —he said—, gather the main centurions. We will hold council as soon as the base camp is set up.