*Bang! Crash!*
The maddened soldier was suddenly hurled to the ground, his weapon clattering against dirt. Rainer blinked, chest heaving, a rush of relief flooding through him.
'Damn— that would've hurt.'
Looking down, he caught sight of Kotys pinning the man down. Their eyes met for a heartbeat, and Rainer offered a grateful nod. Kotys returned it with a subtle dip of his chin before dragging the struggling soldier back into the crowd.
The officer who had questioned him earlier stepped forward again, voice firm and even.
"Then tell me what you are. If not the slave we once knew?"
Rainer's expression sobered, and alarm ebbed from his eyes, replaced by contemplation.
'He wants to know me?'
A quiet scoff escaped his thoughts.
'How can an island know the expanse of the sea? How can a man name what lies beyond his stars? How does one describe the eternal to mortals bound by dust?'
He bit his lip, gaze lowering. He could lie— easily. A convenient story would see him spared. Rome was ancient, yes, but superstition was her marrow.
Yet curiosity gnawed at him.
'What if… they heard the truth? Could they even bear it? Could they fathom what it meant to be Qegon?'
Before he could decide, a small voice trembled through the night.
"He… he is a god."
The words were faint, uncertain—yet they carried like thunder.
Heads turned. Silence thickened.
Hoplite stood just beyond the officers, pallid under torchlight. His lips quivered as every gaze bore down on him, shame and terror wrestling across his young face.
Rainer blinked once—then chuckled. Softly at first, then louder, until laughter rolled from his chest like echoing drums.
The crowd recoiled; even the flames seemed to hesitate.
"Oh, Hops," He grinned, glancing at the boy with wild amusement. Genius.
"Close enough!" He boomed suddenly. "But nay! For I am Mars' wayward son—come to bless or curse your blades!"
His declaration tore through the camp like a spark in dry tinder.
An uproar erupted.
"The son of the war-god?!"
"Since when do gods possess corpses?!"
"Blasphemy—he mocks Olympus!"
"Wait, he said wayward! Perhaps he escaped the heavens!"
The voices swelled—fear, awe, madness interwoven—until a dark, guttural laugh sliced through it all.
It came from Commius. The Optio hunched forward, trembling with laughter, his calloused hands on his knees.
"The Son of Mars?!" He barked between gasps.
"By the gods, that's rich!"
He turned toward the Prefect, amusement curling into cruelty.
"Great Praefect Alexios—your slave was dull as unsharpened bronze! Who knew death could make him funny?"
Alexios Arenius Kyriakos did not share the humor. His stone-carved features shifted only in the eyes—cold and analytical.
"How would you know, Commius?" He replied coolly. "You saw him only when you were ordered to punish him. Hardly moments that roused wit."
The words struck like steel against flint. Commius's smirk died, jaw tightening.
His hand fell to his gladius, fingers whitening on the hilt as he glared up at Rainer with a fury tempered by humiliation.
Rainer, bound to the cross, only smirked.
Commius stepped forward, each stride fueled by indignation.
His eyes swept the ring of soldiers—men hardened by campaign, their torchlit faces wavering between fear and belief.
Then he thrust out his gladius toward Rainer.
"Look at it! Is it not plain?" He thundered. "A daemon wearing mortal flesh, daring to mock Rome by claiming to be one of her patrons?! For such blasphemy, there is but one recourse!"
A roar rose from the ranks.
"Hoh!"
"Yah!"
Voices surged, fists slammed against shields, the mob's fervor building like a war chant.
The officer who had questioned Rainer before—Centurio Vellocatus—stepped forward, a frown carved deep across his weathered features. He raised a hand, and the tumult ebbed into silence.
"Enough."
His gaze cut to Commius, then to Rainer, then back to the gathered men.
"We must not be hasty."
Commius barked a humorless laugh, disbelief twisting his face.
"Do not tell me you, of all men, believe this thing's lies, Second Centurion Vellocatus."
He gestured toward Rainer, voice dripping venom.
"Tell me, Centurion—have you ever heard of gods who dwell in corpses?"
Vellocatus's brow furrowed. He took a moment before answering.
"We are men sworn to Rome," He began. "We hail from many lands, many faiths. Some of us kneel to Mars, some to Mithras, some to gods whose names Rome barely knows. But I believe in the oath of the signum—in steel and blood."
He turned, addressing all.
"If he truly is the son of Mars, let him prove it! Let Rome stain not her honor by slaying a god unjustly!"
A murmur of agreement rippled through the ranks. The logic, simple yet dangerous, hung in the smoky air.
Vellocatus's hazel eyes, flecked with gold, dropped toward the Praefectus, and Alexios met that gaze, something akin to approval swirling within.
Then, with the deliberation of a man weighing both empire and omen, Alexios rose to his feet.
"Vellocatus speaks with prudence," He declared. "Whatever this being claims to be, his words shall be tested. Tomorrow, we shall see the truth with our own eyes."
A low rumble swept the soldiers—half-fear, half-anticipation.
Commius's jaw clenched; his protest barely formed before Alexios's steely glare silenced him.
"But first," The Prefect continued, turning toward Rainer, "You spoke of blessing or cursing our blades. What meaning lies in those words?"
Rainer tilted his head, a wry smile unfurling across his lips.
"Simple," He said. "Wherever I walk, fate tilts—either toward glory or ruin. No middle road, Praefect."
He leaned forward as the firelight carved shadow into his features, his voice low yet ringing.
"Pray, Alexios… that I am in one of my better moods."
A ripple of unease stirred through the ranks. Alexios's expression did not change, but his fingers flexed once on the hilt of his gladius.