That night, Ulixes entered the command cabin of his flagship. The room felt vast, the scent of polished cedar and sea salt mingling in the air. On a large table in the center, a map of the Adriatic Sea was spread out, held in place by bronze daggers at each corner. Artemisia was hunched over it, the lamplight illuminating her sharp profile and loose black hair.
She didn't look up as Ulixes entered.
"Discipline is important, Admiral," Ulixes said, his calm voice breaking the silence. "But humiliating a soldier in front of his peers can break his spirit."
Artemisia traced a coastline on the map with her fingertip. "Spirit is a luxury," she replied, her voice cold and flat. "The man I flogged today tied a knot incorrectly. A small mistake. In a storm, that small mistake could rip our main sail, strand us, and kill everyone on this ship."
She finally raised her head, her sharp, merciless eyes fixed on Ulixes. "I don't care about their spirit. I care about their efficiency. The sea shows no mercy, and neither do I. Better he learns now with a little skin flayed than later by a pirate's sword."
Ulixes held her gaze. He couldn't deny the cruel logic behind her words. On the open sea, the rules of Rome didn't apply. Here, there were only Artemisia's rules. "Very well," Ulixes said. "Show me our first target."
Artemisia's expression shifted instantly. A wild glint of passion ignited in her eyes. She returned her gaze to the map, her finger now tapping a small, seemingly insignificant island off the coast.
"Here," she hissed. "Sciron Island. Merchants avoid it, thinking it's just uninhabited rock. But my scouts say otherwise. There's an observation post on its peak, hidden among the rocks. They use bronze mirrors to signal merchant ship movements to their main fleet." She looked at Ulixes, a faint smile playing on her lips. "We won't destroy their main fleet directly. We'll blind their eyes first."
Ulixes looked at the map, then at his new admiral's face. An elegant and deadly plan. He nodded. "Prepare the troops. We'll pluck out their eyes at dawn."
As he turned to leave the cabin, allowing his admiral to prepare her fleet, Artemisia's voice stopped him. Her voice was low, like a serpent's hiss.
"Wait," she said.
Ulixes paused and turned. Artemisia was no longer looking at the map. She was staring directly at him, her sharp, intense eyes seeming to dissect his soul. She stepped away from the table, circling him slowly like a lioness assessing her prey.
"You have a Spartan-like elite Roman legion and an admiral from hell," she whispered, her voice now laced with cold mockery. "But do you yourself have the steel to lead us, Ulixes? Or are you merely a politician hiding behind the gods' grace?"
The challenge hung heavy in the air. Ulixes didn't respond with words. He simply met her gaze, letting the silence speak.
Artemisia let out a husky laugh. "I thought as much. Just an empty shell."
She turned, as if to return to her map, a gesture of dismissal. It was then that Ulixes moved. With unexpected speed, he lunged forward, one hand seizing the back of Artemisia's neck in a vice-like grip.
Artemisia gasped, her eyes widening in surprise, but there was no fear there. Only a wild flicker of fire. She twisted her body lithely, trying to break free, her elbow aimed at Ulixes' ribs. Ulixes parried the blow with his other arm, his muscles, reinforced by the Achilles Template, tensing.
"You want to see steel?" Ulixes growled, his voice low and dangerous. He roughly shoved Artemisia backward, slamming her onto the map table. Papyrus scrolls and strategic tokens clattered to the floor with muffled thuds.
"YAAAHH!" Artemisia shrieked, a sound more akin to a furious roar than a cry of pain.
She struggled beneath Ulixes, her sharp nails raking at his armored arm, seeking an opening. Ulixes pinned both her wrists above her head with one hand, his body pressing down on Artemisia's writhing form. He could feel Artemisia's hard abdominal muscles pressing against his manhood, which was beginning to harden beneath his tunic.
"Take me, Roman!" Artemisia hissed, her eyes blazing with defiance. "If you can!"
Ulixes wasted no time. With his free hand, he tore at the bottom of Artemisia's tight leather gown, revealing her neatly trimmed and already wet vulva. He brutally plunged two fingers inside her.
"NGHHH!" Artemisia arched her back, her hot, wet vagina instantly gripping Ulixes' fingers.
"You want this?" Ulixes asked, his fingers moving quickly and mercilessly inside Artemisia. "Take it!"
"Damn you!" Artemisia screamed, trying to kick, but her legs were trapped by the table.
Ulixes pulled his fingers out with a wet pop, then unfastened his own tunic. His hard, veined penis, now fully erect, pressed against Artemisia's inner thigh. He lifted her hips, aimed himself, and with one powerful thrust, he drove himself in all the way to the hilt.
"AAAAAHHHHH!" Artemisia's scream was a mixture of exquisite pain and pleasure. She felt her narrow vagina stretched to its absolute limit.
Ulixes began to move, his hips slamming with a deep, punishing rhythm. The brutal sound of their wet skin slapping together echoed in the silent cabin. SLAP. THWACK. SLAP. He gripped Artemisia's hips, controlling her every movement.
"Harder!" Artemisia cried, her voice hoarse with passion. "Show me the power of the god you hide!"
Ulixes obeyed. He pulled out almost completely, then thrust back in with full force, making Artemisia's head hit the wooden table beneath her. He repeated it again and again, each thrust deeper, more savage. He could see Artemisia's firm breasts jouncing with every movement, her beautiful face flushed with passion and humiliation.
He felt the muscles inside Artemisia's vagina begin to pulse around his manhood. His climax was near. He felt his own wave of heat rising. With a few final, hammering thrusts, a low growl escaped his throat. He released himself inside his admiral, his warm semen gushing forth.
He collapsed on top of Artemisia, their heavy, ragged breaths the only sound in the room. Sweat slicked their bodies, sticking their skin together.
After a moment, he pulled away, leaving Artemisia lying on the map, now damp with their sweat and fluids. Artemisia slowly pushed herself to a sitting position, her disheveled black hair clinging to her sweaty face. She didn't look like a victim. She stared at Ulixes, her breathing still heavy.
Then, she laughed. A cold, husky laugh.
"Well, Ulixes," she said, with a new, dangerous respect in her eyes. "Perhaps you do have steel within you after all."
Days passed, measured by the relentless rhythm of oars and sharp cries of command. Under Artemisia's brutal command, the two thousand Spartan ground troops had completed their adjustment to the new battlefield.
Ulixes stood on the stern of his flagship, the Quinquereme, feeling the sturdy wooden deck sway gently beneath his feet. He surveyed the scene before him. His soldiers were no longer merely a collection of elite warriors on a foreign vessel. They had now merged with the sea. Their movements on the rocking deck were as steady as on solid ground. Their hands, accustomed to sword hilts, now expertly tied intricate knots and managed heavy sails. Their Spartan souls had adapted, transforming them into a fearsome hybrid: the strength and discipline of a Spartan warrior, now combined with the awareness and efficiency of a veteran marine.
Artemisia approached him, her steps steady, her sharp eyes sweeping over her fleet, which had now become an extension of her will. There was no longer mockery in her gaze when she looked at Ulixes. Only the cold, sharp respect of one professional for another.
"They are ready," she said, her voice flat, an undeniable statement of fact.
Ulixes looked towards the horizon, at the vast Adriatic Sea, teeming with prey. He then turned to his new admiral. "Then," he said, his voice calm yet carrying the weight of command. "Show those rats what true fear means. Weigh anchor."
Artemisia smiled, a bloodthirsty, predatory grin. She turned and shouted a series of commands that echoed across the bay. There was the sound of anchor chains being drawn, followed by the creak of mast rigging. With a satisfying CRACK, the black sails of the ten warships unfurled in unison, catching the evening wind.
Slowly, with oars moving in perfect rhythm, the newly forged armada began to move. The massive Quinquereme led the way, flanked by nine nimble Liburnians like a pack of sea wolves. They sailed out of the secluded bay, disappearing into the waiting darkness of the ocean. The hunt had begun.
Author's Thought: "This fanfic has deviated too far, and I have to study history to write the next chapters if it's to align with reality. I also need to look at maps and conflicts there; this is a heavy burden for a beginner writer like me, lol. I will send those maps; maybe some of you can help. I will make changes to history here, so it will be an AU (Alternate Universe) because following history is very difficult to do. I also have a few options: 1. accelerate Crassus's death, 2. return to Rome, 3. accelerate the war in Illyricum."
"I might also go on hiatus from this fanfic for a while and focus on new fanfics like GOT, VIKINGS, TWD, while looking for new inspiration."
Sorry for including it here, I just wanted to show my writing style. So, those who don't want to see this Vikings chapter sample can skip it.
This is just a sample chapter.
The morning mist hung low over the hills of Kattegat, shrouding the land in damp silence. Magnus Sigurdsson took a deep breath, lifting a large log and shouldering it without a single groan. His muscles tightened beneath his rough skin, yet none of the villagers noticed his extraordinary strength; they were already accustomed to it.
Even as a child, Magnus was different. He was strong as a bull, swift as a wolf, and tough as a coastal rock. But he wasn't a leader like Ragnar, nor a hot-headed warrior like Rollo. He was a shadow between two legends.
Magnus stood for a moment in the open field, gazing at the silhouettes of two figures in the distance: Ragnar and Bjorn. Father and son were practicing spear throwing, as they always did before the raiding season. Magnus smiled faintly; Ragnar could never sit still.
"Magnus!" Ragnar waved from atop the hill. "You can't hide forever."
Magnus sighed and began to climb, his steps steady and calm. The hill was steep, but his body moved lightly as if tireless.
When he reached the top, Ragnar was already looking at him, smiling. On the other side, Bjorn held a spear and looked at him with eyes full of admiration.
"Morning, youngest brother," Ragnar greeted with a wide smile.
"And morning to you dreamers," Magnus replied, looking at the spear stuck crookedly in the ground.
Ragnar laughed. "I'm taking him to the thing tomorrow."
Magnus raised an eyebrow. "It's not time. He's only twelve."
Ragnar shrugged. "You know age isn't everything. He needs to know how the world works."
"The world won't wait to break a boy like him," Magnus muttered. His eyes shifted to Bjorn. "But perhaps you're right. Better he knows before the world beats him down."
Ragnar clapped his brother's shoulder. "You're too dark, Magnus."
"And you dream too much."
That night, their home was filled with the aroma of roasted bread and burning wood. Lagertha sat sewing a ribbon for Bjorn, while Gyda chuckled in the corner of the room. Magnus sat near the fireplace, sharpening the tip of his short spear.
"Don't sleep with many women in Kattegat," Lagertha suddenly said, looking at Ragnar.
"I can restrain myself... for a few days." Ragnar chuckled.
"Is that your way of saying you love me?"
"I dreamt of you last night. You gave me blood porridge."
"What does it mean?"
"It means you gave me your heart."
Magnus glanced at them. In his silence, a strange feeling crept in, longing, perhaps. But it was never spoken.
The next day, Magnus stood among the crowd at the thing. Rollo, large and stubborn as ever, greeted him with a rough embrace.
"My brother!" he exclaimed. "By Freyr, you've grown even quieter!"
"And you've grown smellier of ale," Magnus retorted coldly.
They laughed, though no warmth remained since Rollo killed a Kattegat farmer in a fit of rage a year ago. A buried sin, but not forgotten.
A loud voice broke the air. In the center of the circle of people, Earl Haraldson sat on his throne. His face was stone, his voice cold.
"Murderer!" someone shouted from the crowd.
Eric Trygvasson, a farmer, stood in the circle. His face was bruised, his eyes full of fear. He was accused of murder in the name of honor, but failed to follow the rules of law.
Magnus observed carefully. He didn't trust Kattegat's law. There were too many loopholes for revenge, too much power in the hands of one man.
Trygvasson asked to be beheaded. The people cheered, bloodthirsty. But Magnus only looked into the man's eyes as he smiled, accepting death with his head held high.
"He knows he can't win in this world," Magnus muttered to himself. "But at least he wants to be accepted into Valhalla."
That night, as everyone slept, Magnus and Ragnar sat outside, facing the silent sea.
"I want to go west," Ragnar said quietly.
Magnus looked at his brother. "You know that defies the Earl's orders."
"I know. But I have something that can change everything."
Ragnar unrolled a wooden board. On it, he placed a small candle.
"This is called a sun board," he explained.
Magnus watched, saying nothing.
"This shadow shows direction. If we measure the sun's shadow at midday, and compare it the next day at sea, we'll know if we're still on track."
Ragnar added, "And if it's cloudy... we use this." He held up a clear blue stone, a sunstone.
Magnus said nothing for a long time. He just stared at the stone, then looked at the sky.
"And you're sure this will take you to the land of dreams?"
"Not a land of dreams," Ragnar replied. "But an unknown land. Perhaps better. Perhaps worse."
Finally, Magnus spoke. "I'm coming with you."
Ragnar looked at him, surprised. "Why?"
"Because this world is too small for people like us. And I want to see how far you can go... before you drown."
A few days later, Magnus visited Floki with Ragnar and Bjorn. Floki's home was as chaotic as his mind: strange, but genius. There, Magnus saw a new ship being built. He touched the central plank of the hull. The heartwood pulsed as if alive.
"I can feel its strength," Magnus murmured.
Floki glanced at him. "You can? Me too. That's why I know this ship will fly over the waves."
"And if it doesn't?"
"Then Ragnar will sink like a stone, and I will laugh from Valhalla."
The night before they sailed, Magnus stood on the beach. The night wind ruffled his long blond hair. In his hand, he clutched a piece of ship's rope.
Rollo came, drunk and swaying.
"I knew you'd go with him," Rollo mumbled. "You always go with him."
"And you always hated him for it," Magnus retorted.
"Because he... because he makes everything seem possible. And I... don't."
Magnus turned, his voice quiet. "We can all become legends. But not all of us are brave enough to fail."
That morning, the ship's sails unfurled. Floki laughed like a madman. Ragnar stood at the front, his hands on the tiller. Magnus stood beside him, eyes fixed on the horizon.
"Ready?" Ragnar asked.
Magnus didn't answer. He looked west, where the sea met the sky. Where a new world might be waiting.
And with a shout from Ragnar, the sails were unfurled.
The ship set forth.
The adventure began.