Meanwhile, somewhere deep within the desert of "Arrakis" on the continent of Pratos, an enormous army had encamped, numbering no fewer than 500,000 soldiers.
The camp formed a perfect square, as if a giant hand had drawn it across the ocean of sand. Rows of tents the color of scorched canvas stretched in flawless lines, creating streets and corridors that allowed one to walk from one edge of the camp to the other without turning even once.
Massive wyverns circled the perimeter, hunting equally colossal sandworms. The worms surged toward the camp like a tide crashing against stone. The brutal spectacle did not stir the sentries in the slightest; they watched with boredom in their eyes, standing behind the palisade.
It seemed as though this invasion had done nothing to disturb their daily routine.
Everywhere rang the thunderous roars of legionaries, the clang of metal, and the shouts of dragonari who oversaw the drills.
Each soldier wore leather armor with sand-colored cloaks perfectly suited for desert warfare. Despite their immense numbers and the harsh terrain, the camp was impeccably organized. It resembled a military city under construction, a place where there was no room for anyone but the most disciplined of warriors.
In total, there were five legions, each numbering 100,000 infantrymen. The legions were divided into ten divisions of ten thousand each, and each division into twenty maniples of five hundred men apiece. Command was exercised by a consul, a praetor, a legate, and a centurion respectively.
The hierarchy was strict and unbreakable. If mutineers or cowards appeared during battle, the entire maniple was subjected to severe punishment.
Decimation.
That single word was enough to make even the most seasoned veterans tremble. A dreadful sentence that meant the execution of every tenth man, chosen by lot.
The execution was carried out by the maniple itself. Comrades-in-arms were required to take the lives of fifty fellow soldiers with their own hands—men who had simply been "unlucky" enough to draw the black stone.
At the very heart of the camp stood a majestic rectangular tent with a sloping roof. Woven from heavy red velvet and trimmed with gold along its edges, it drew the eye at once. At its peak rose a standard bearing the image of an eagle, and above the entrance gleamed golden letters: S. P. Q. R. — Senatus Populusque Romanus, "The Senate and People of Rome."
This tent was more than a shelter—it embodied Roman authority and discipline. Here the fates of armies and entire nations were decided, and orders were given that altered the course of history.
An invitation to step beneath its canopy was considered an honor in itself, and to stand within was recognition of one's status. Every detail, from the heavy fabric to the gleam of the eagle above, served as a reminder of who held power in this camp.
At that moment, a man clad in gleaming armor stepped beneath the canopy, its surface flashing in the sun like the bronze of ancient gods. The lorica that guarded his chest followed the contours of a powerful, sculpted body. And the red cloak billowing behind him in the wind underscored his lofty rank and untouchable authority.
Yet this godlike warrior, upon entering the tent, bent one knee before another man seated at the table. The latter continued leafing through documents at an unhurried pace, as though the newcomer's presence held no significance for him whatsoever.
The figure at the table was dressed simply—a white toga, worn and faded by the desert sun, yet impeccably clean and neat.
There was nothing remarkable about his appearance.
He looked to be around thirty to thirty-five. Short hair, a slightly crooked nose, a furrowed brow, and thin lips. He resembled an ordinary clerk preparing reports before delivering them to his superiors.
The contrast was striking. The kneeling warrior seemed like a legend, while this calm man was little more than a backdrop. Just another nameless figure.
And yet it was precisely this man who held command.
Having finished with the papers, he finally raised his head and looked the visitor in the eyes. In that moment, his entire appearance seemed to transform.
His brow was high and noble, his nose sharp as a blade, his features like a bas-relief carved with wisdom and indomitable will. Deep, penetrating eyes, dark as lakes, reflected endless thoughts and hidden designs. Every gesture, every line of his face radiated dignity and pride forged through countless victories.
And though outwardly he remained modest and composed, everyone felt it: the power here belonged to him.
"Mark, report," he said calmly. His voice was even, without the slightest trace of emotion.
"My consul, the campaign to seize the Barbarian Plains is progressing successfully.
The chieftains of the largest tribes have approached us. They swear loyalty and pledge to serve under your command for eternity. As a sign of respect, they have sent their daughters. It is difficult to judge the sincerity of their intentions at this time; however, after a month of preparation, their people will prove useful in our further operations."
"Names and number of recruits," he continued dryly.
"The head of House Atreides has brought beneath your banner 5,184 warriors and the lovely Cleopatra, rumored to be the most beautiful, intelligent, and talented maiden across all the Barbarian Plains.
The head of House Farrah — 3,579 warriors. The head of House Corrino — 2,151 warriors.
In addition, 4,742 civilians have arrived with them, unable to take part in combat. For the moment, they have been placed among the auxiliary forces, awaiting further orders."
"Transfer the warriors to the Fourth Legion. Varrius knows how to train recruits. Do not allow them near our storehouses. In all other matters, they are our citizens. I will tolerate no discrimination," he said. His voice remained devoid of emotion, yet each word rang like a sentence passed.
"It shall be done," Mark replied respectfully.
"And what of the venture in the Empire of the Six Pillars?"
"I regret to report: the scouts returned empty-handed. Their positions were discovered before they even reached the outer approaches. Most were destroyed without ever nearing the border. Of the twenty ships dispatched, only three returned. They brought back a small quantity of spices, but not a single one of the famed pills."
"I see. As expected. The Empire of the Six Pillars is the oldest and most enigmatic of all. Rome is mighty, but we must not allow ourselves to be blinded by that. Everything we know of the Six Pillars comes from ancient records and the words of the yellow-skinned themselves.
Their security system defies imagination. Beyond the trading ports, our scouts cannot penetrate deep into the empire to report firsthand on the state of affairs.
Well, no matter… Any news of Spartacus and Ford, those rebels?"
"At present, no suspicious activity has been observed. They remain within their Industrial Empire, not daring to raise their heads."
"Do not underestimate them!" His voice sharpened slightly, though it remained cold. "Five hundred years ago, I personally took part in Crassus's campaign after Spartacus rose in rebellion. He began with five hundred warriors. Within five years, more than one hundred thousand had joined him. Spartacus's charisma, Ford's genius—together they achieved the impossible: they declared independence and defeated the wealthiest man in Rome, forcing him into voluntary exile."
"The Senate considers them nothing more than sheep, waiting for the butcher to decide they are fat enough for slaughter," Mark countered.
"A pack of fools!" the voice thundered with a note of contempt. "Do they think Crassus was some simpleton, incapable of crushing a revolt? He was part of the triumvirate with me and Pompey. Though I was young, I fought in that war myself. It was the only war in which I suffered defeat. You, of all people, should understand what that means."
"I understand. I will not dare to look down on them."
"Good. And what of the witches?"
"They continue their war against the Magic Empire, seeking vengeance for the persecutions of a thousand years ago."
"I see. Any news from the capital?"
"Pompey has been re-elected consul for a third term. During his inauguration, he spoke in support of the noble houses. Cato, Cicero, and Bibulus are backing him with all their strength. I fear he may violate the agreements your Excellency concluded with him…"
"You have nothing to worry about. We cooperated with Pompey and Crassus for many years. All those rats in the Senate can do nothing but wag their tails. They will not dare attempt anything reckless," the man explained in a monotonous voice.
He was utterly untroubled; with a mere wave of his hand, he signaled for the report to continue.
Mark obeyed. "Grain supplies have exceeded the norm this year. There are rumors that Artemis has descended into the mortal world, though her whereabouts remain unknown. On the Forum, the latest prophecy of the ancient Sibyls is being discussed more and more often in connection with the events in the Province of Light."
"Stop. Tell me more about that."
Mark began to relay all the information known to him, omitting not the slightest detail. Fortunately, he was prepared, and the matter was no secret to any senator of even modest renown. He recounted everything that had happened with such precision, as though he himself had witnessed those events.
His counterpart listened intently to every word. He was so focused it was as if the matter concerned life and death.
When Mark finished, a minute of silence followed.
"So you mean to say that because of the prophecy, Adam Starlight 'crippled' his own child, yet the boy managed to escape despite Apollo's intervention?" he asked slowly, pronouncing each word with care.
"Yes, Your Excellency," Mark nodded.
"SON OF A DAMNED WHORE!" — the man slammed his fist against the table, badly startling his subordinate.
His voice trembled with barely restrained fury. "Does he even understand who Catherine is? She was his damn wife! Does he truly know nothing about her at all?
Damn it, if only that magnificent woman hadn't fallen in love with that little bastard before I discovered her presence in the Roman Empire—I would have pursued her myself and done everything in my power to earn her favor.
DAMN IT, DAMN IT, DAMN IT! I supported him in his appointment as governor just to gain a few points of trust from her. And this is how he squandered my goodwill?!"
A minute of silence hung in the air as the man struggled to regain control of himself.
"How did the Senate react?!"
Mark did not dare hesitate. His back was soaked with sweat, and his heart leapt into his throat at the sight of his master's reaction.
He had completely lost the composure that had always defined him—something Mark was witnessing for the first time.
Even during the uprising, when the fate of the entire Empire had hung by a thread and the rebellious Spartacus had nearly reached the capital, his master had done little more than frown. But now… Now he was in such a rage it seemed he might devour someone whole.
Could it be that this matter, which had appeared to be a mere formality, was more significant than Spartacus's rebellion?
Mark did not dare pursue the thought any further.
He answered at once. "They dispatched their finest dragonari to track down the fugitives. Catherine fled into mage territory. The Senate has spread the news to all human empires and even to the continent of the witches, urging them to eliminate the threat at its root. The family is being hunted as we speak—they will not escape the net…"
"WHAT DO YOU KNOW?!" the man roared in reply. "Pompey! Oh, Pompey, have you completely wasted your mind sitting in the capital? And that damned Apollo—if you take up a task, then see it through to the end! Damn gods, forever sticking their noses where they do not belong.
A prophecy? What utter nonsense.
When have they ever cared about the fate of humanity? I do not recall a single god intervening when we were at war with the remnants of their old believers.
DAMN IT, DAMN IT, DAMN IT.
Send our best men on an urgent mission to find Catherine and her family immediately. Aid them in every way you can and convey my goodwill. If she refuses assistance—eliminate them by any means necessary. Let them use suicide attacks," the figure ordered before rising to his feet.
"Our campaign in the Barbarian Plains must be accelerated. Within five years, I want every tribe of the Arrakis desert beneath my banner! I will take personal command!"
"YES, SIR!" Mark saluted.
Taking a deep breath and regaining his composure, the man moved into a separate room to don his battle armor.
In his hand, he held a short sword—a gladius—sharp and deadly, like his own decisions. Upon his head he placed a laurel wreath, a symbol of triumph and victory that had accompanied him through countless wars in the glory of the Roman Empire.
When his figure emerged from behind the tent's drapes, a wave of silence swept across the entire camp.
The shouts and clanging of weapons faded, as if carried away by the tide.
Within five minutes, the entire camp, composed of more than half a million legionaries, was wrapped in a resonant stillness. Everyone froze—men and beasts alike. No one dared to draw a loud breath.
The man mounted the head of a majestic red wyvern.
The massive, languid creature lifted its enormous snout only enough to raise him, while he calmly scanned the surroundings with his piercing gaze.
He raised his hand, and the silence deepened to an almost tangible weight. Even the wind seemed to dare not make a sound.
"CAME, SAW, CONQUERED!" he proclaimed—just three words, yet they ignited the entire camp.
In unison, every warrior raised a fist to the sky and roared with all their might.
"AVE, CAESAR!"
"CAESAR! CAESAR! CAESAR!"—the half-million-strong army chanted in chorus.
Their roar rolled in perfect synchrony, like thunder cracking across the sky.
One name echoed through the region, as if striving to reach the heavens and tear them apart beneath the weight of its own greatness.