Chapter 200: Nero Extends Another Invitation
Martha was a girl who had received the Lord's favor.
In a haze that felt like half dream and half waking, she had encountered an indescribable fog. In that mist she saw a chaotic, ineffable form that called itself Spirit, hanging in the highest heaven like a concept given shape.
And beyond that, she had seen the Father.
Not a gentle image painted for children, but a colossal holy body forged from steel, vast enough to bear all things. It was magnificent in the way a natural disaster was magnificent.
In that instant of vision, Martha received revelation.
She gained power.
So afterward, she chased that fleeting dream with a devotion that bordered on obsession. She saved the poor. She enlightened the people. She gathered the suffering masses, gave them weapons, gave the oppressed the means to resist, and told them the Lord would come in the end.
It was all done according to the inspiration granted by that Lord.
Martha believed He would surely arrive in the present world.
She waited.
In Britannia, after answering the people gathered behind her, the girl cast her gaze into the distance once again.
Britannia, wrapped in mist, had always been barren.
An island ringed by sea, dotted with mysterious remnants.
An evil dragon dwelled here.
The people suffered calamities.
After the land became a Roman province, nothing improved. It worsened. Rome had never regarded this place as home. To the empire, Britannia was a wild borderland to be exploited at convenience.
Natural disasters.
The evil dragon.
And the yoke of the empire.
Martha had resolved to lead them out of this.
"Just like Moses," she whispered, "leading the exodus from Egypt."
She recalled the tale of the Lord recorded in the old texts she had read. Her fingers tightened into a fist.
"Evil dragon born from this island, you will not stop us from moving forward. You will not stop us from crossing the sea."
"For my Lord protects us."
"My Lord will surely come to our side."
Behind her, a dragon's roar rolled out of the miasma, deep enough to vibrate in the bones.
Martha raised the long spear shaped like a cross and strode forward without wavering.
The evil dragon's shadow swelled within the black fog, massive enough to swallow a village whole.
Yet it could never catch them.
Because someone stood in its way.
A red haired female warrior planted herself before the evil dragon. She led countless fighters, and even if it was like a praying mantis blocking a chariot, she did not retreat.
"Saint Martha, I leave it to you," she called.
Martha met her eyes and nodded once, solemn as a blessing.
"May the Lord protect you, brave and pure warrior, Princess Boudica."
Boudica grinned, fearless and bright.
"I do not believe in the Lord."
Then she lifted her weapon and laughed as if daring the world to contradict her.
"But I believe in you."
…
"So, is it truly fine for you, a dignified Emperor, to run off like this?"
"Hm? All the ministers of Rome are very capable. Leaving it to them is no problem at all."
"You just became Emperor. How could you know that so well?"
"Is it not obvious? I only need to infer a little. Uncle Caligula was insane before, and Rome still maintained basic operations. Now I am a perfect Emperor. Under me, they will do even better."
"You just want to slack off."
"Hm? Is that not allowed? This is the Emperor's privilege, you know."
The carriage rumbled along the road. Inside the compartment, Rowe watched the excited young Emperor opposite him with something close to helpless amusement.
Even while seated, Nero could not stay still. She kept leaning toward the window, sticking her golden head out to watch the scenery rush past. Her emerald eyes sparkled with excitement, so bright it was difficult not to feel your mood lifted in response.
If one ignored her stubborn arguments, of course.
Rowe turned his gaze toward the window.
This scene was the direct result of their earlier argument in the palace. Nero's so called compromise had been to drag herself along.
Taking a step back, she called it.
In practice, it meant the Emperor of Rome had left the palace and was heading toward the rebellious lands.
Naturally, it was not only the two of them.
Ahead of and behind the carriage, banners fluttered across fertile plains surrounded by rolling mountains. Roman soldiers marched with shields and spears. Some rode horseback. Some rode in chariots. The column stretched like a moving wall.
A fully equipped legion of six thousand.
In the western world of this era, six thousand regular soldiers was already a massive force. Many countries could not even sustain the expense of keeping such a number fed, armed, and trained.
For Rome, it was almost casual.
The empire maintained over twenty fully equipped legions, each six thousand strong. More than a hundred thousand regular troops in total.
A single legion, one twentieth of that number, served as an escort for the Emperor's inspection.
Neither Nero nor the senators were particularly concerned about the northern rebellion.
Britannia was nothing but barbarians, in Rome's eyes.
Rome's superiority was instinctive.
Rowe let his gaze drift from the distant mountains and the slightly darkened sky back to the marching legion, then returned his attention to the carriage.
He happened to meet Nero's sparkling eyes.
"It looks like it might rain," Nero murmured.
Then she added, softer, as if surprised by her own thought.
"But the world outside Rome is truly vast. I never noticed before."
Then she caught Rowe's look and puffed up immediately.
"Do not look at me like that. I have been outside Rome as well."
She brushed a strand of hair from her forehead, crimson lips curving into a bright smile. The enthusiasm in it was almost entirely reserved for Rowe, and it was far more charming than the composed mask she wore in the Senate.
"Before Uncle Caligula became Emperor, when Tiberius was still Emperor, I was fortunate enough to live outside the city."
Fortunate.
In truth, Nero Claudius's childhood was anything but fortunate.
Her mother, Caligula's sister, was born royal yet sharp as a knife, a woman of schemes. Her father was a minor noble, dissipated and cruel. Because of them, Nero was exiled from Rome in her early years. Her youth was shadowed by their malice, as if she had been made to live in darkness.
And yet, even a dark sky can burn.
A rose that blooms in the shade still blooms with passion.
Nero was not broken by them.
She endured until Caligula became Emperor. Until she returned to Rome. Until she stood where she stood now, crowned as Emperor.
After countless trials, the rose still bloomed.
"I love this world," Nero said.
She spread her arms toward the window. Her golden hair lifted in the wind. Her red dress stirred softly. She glanced sideways at Rowe, her eyes full of joy.
The world had treated her with malice.
She still believed herself lucky.
She still wanted to embrace it.
Then, like a rose offering itself to the sun, she turned and extended her open hand toward Rowe, making no attempt to hide her intent.
"In the name of the Roman Emperor, I ask again."
"Will you, my lord, help me?"
"Help the Rome I love?"
Rowe smiled.
"This is not your Rome."
"It is also my Rome," Nero shot back at once. "Rome, to some extent, was founded because of you."
Rowe placed his hand atop Nero's outstretched palm and closed his fingers around hers.
"It is not me helping you," he said.
"It is you helping me."
Nero's smile only grew brighter.
"So domineering, Father of Great Rome."
Rowe's tone remained mild.
"Compared to you, I am still lacking, Your Majesty."
It had to be said. Nero as Emperor was the same girl Rowe met in an alley, and yet also different.
Something had shifted in the two days between Caligula's fall and her coronation. Perhaps it was the pressure. Perhaps it was the change in her soul, a forced evolution born from responsibility.
Whatever it was, the grace in her words and movements made it difficult to dislike her. Even for someone who had walked through long years, a person like her was rare in the western world.
There were only three in Rowe's memory who carried that kind of humanity after gaining power.
Gilgamesh.
Ramses the Second.
Solomon.
A sudden creak interrupted his thought. The carriage halted.
A soldier's voice came from outside, urgent but controlled.
"Your Majesty, we have encountered a rebel attack ahead. Should we change course?"
"No," Nero replied without hesitation. "Continue forward."
She had come to suppress rebellion. Retreating before even seeing it would be a joke.
Rowe released her hand and rose.
"I will take a look."
He stepped down from the carriage.
Ahead, between the mountain ranges that pressed in on both sides, the sounds of fighting were already rising.
The legion remained orderly. Discipline held. Heavily armed infantry formed a protective ring around the Emperor's carriage, shields locked, spears angled. The center did not waver.
Rowe was about to walk forward.
Then he paused and glanced back.
Nero had followed him out.
"I am the Emperor," she declared, hands on her hips, righteous as if announcing a law of nature. "Since I am here, how can I let you steal my thunder?"
Rowe chuckled.
"Suit yourself."
Then his eyes narrowed slightly in warning.
"But you had better not cry from fear on the battlefield."
"You are the old man who will cry from fear," Nero snapped back immediately.
Rowe said nothing.
The Emperor and her Adjutant advanced. No one could stop them. Not even the legion commander dared advise against it.
So the soldiers followed, closing around them in overlapping walls.
They turned a deaf ear to the bickering.
They did not dare look. They did not dare listen.
Rumors had already spread that this Adjutant, suspected to be tied to the ancient sage Rowe, was inseparable from the young Emperor. Who would dare interfere?
Some even whispered he might become a prince of Rome.
The wind strengthened, sweeping across the hills and lifting dust.
Britannia, though called a northern province, was an island across the sea. The rebels who crossed over would not venture too far inland.
They were already close to the coast. The air carried a sharp scent of salt.
Rowe and Nero reached a high ridge.
Dark clouds churned overhead. Only a thin, hazy light seeped through, falling like ash across the land.
The cries and howls of battle became clear.
From here, the field below was visible.
The Roman legion stood in lines, advancing in columns. Their shields pushed forward as a wall. Behind that wall, javelin throwers stepped up, bodies tensing in unison, and hurled their weapons.
A dense rain of cold points fell, punching into mud and flesh alike.
Then the throwers retreated. Swordsmen advanced. Spearmen moved into place, extending long shafts through the gaps between shields and pushing forward step by step.
Standard Roman tactics.
Overwhelm.
Crush the enemy with training, equipment, and numbers.
This was the sword that built Rome's dominance.
And yet, the enemy below was not even an army.
They were thin commoners in ragged cloth. The weapons in their hands were farm tools, kitchen knives, fishing forks. Their movements were chaotic. They surged forward like a flood without discipline.
They should have been slaughtered.
Instead, the battle had become a stalemate.
Because those commoners were wrapped in scorching, flowing light.
Under that radiance they did not feel pain. They did not die. Their bodies burned like flame. Blood spilled, and then their flesh closed again as if time had been forced to rewind.
A single fire, multiplied into countless fires.
Not a blaze, but a convergence of sparks, tens of thousands of them pressed into one will.
That was Rowe's kindling, buried in the north.
Rowe's voice cut through the wind.
"Order the entire army to cease attack."
The legion commanders on both sides froze, slow to react.
Nero clicked her tongue.
"Did you not hear my Adjutant?"
Then her tone sharpened into command.
"Order the retreat."
"All troops fall back fifty paces. Maintain defensive formation."
Rowe repeated, coldly precise.
"Fall back fifty paces. Defensive formation."
With the Emperor's approval, doubt vanished. The commanders rode down the ridge, relaying the order.
The Roman line withdrew, slow and controlled, into the valley behind them.
The commoners surged to pursue, but a clear voice stopped them.
"Everyone, stop. Do not pursue."
A girl descended from the high ground.
White robe. Cross shaped spear. Purple hair lifting in the wind. Her face was sacred and gentle, the sort of beauty that made people want to kneel even if they hated kneeling.
Martha.
The rebel leader.
She landed lightly, and her presence calmed the frantic hearts around her as if someone had poured cool water into a boiling pot.
At the same time, the withdrawing Roman army parted, opening a path.
From within their formation, a tall young man in a long robe walked forward, expression unreadable.
Martha's grip tightened on her spear.
She inhaled, steadying herself.
Instinct screamed at her that the newcomer was dangerous.
Not in the crude sense of a strong warrior.
Dangerous in the way a phenomenon was dangerous.
She whispered a prayer, voice tight with urgency.
"Father in heaven, Spirit in the void, Son upon the earth. Bless me."
Her eyes closed.
Then opened.
Flame surged.
Martha's gaze turned clear and solemn, as if she had become an altar made human.
"My name is Martha," she said.
"I am a disciple of the Lord."
.....
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