The Campus Martius, the "Field of Mars," had been transformed. For weeks, it had served as the mustering ground for the legions assigned to the Parthian campaign, and now, on the day of their departure, it was the stage for a spectacle of imperial power unlike any Rome had seen in a generation. The entire city, it seemed, had poured out to witness the event. The air was electric, a current of patriotic fervor that hummed through the massive crowd.
The legions themselves were an awe-inspiring sight, a terrifying and beautiful testament to Alex's new Rome. Drawn up in perfect, disciplined cohorts, they were a sea of burnished iron and crimson cloaks. But it was the details that spoke of a new age. The sun glinted off the silvery-gray sheen of thousands of new Ignis Steel gladii, their deadly potential seeming to vibrate in the air. Behind the fighting formations stood the logistical train, dominated by Celer's revolutionary high-axle wagons, their large, sturdy frames promising a resilience and carrying capacity that dwarfed the old, clumsy carts of the past.
This was not just a departure ceremony; it was a masterpiece of propaganda. Alex had turned the very act of preparing for war into a public display of overwhelming power and technological supremacy, a message aimed as much at his own people as at his enemies. He was showing them, in tangible terms, the fruits of his rule. He was showing them a war they could not possibly lose.
Alex rode before them on a magnificent white charger, a stark contrast to the grim warhorses of his generals. He wore a custom-made suit of parade armor, forged from the first batch of Ignis Steel and intricately inlaid with gold, its surface polished to a mirror shine. He was the sun god, the warrior emperor, the living embodiment of Rome's divine mandate. Riding with him were the members of his newly appointed military staff, a collection of Rome's most experienced generals. Among them, grim-faced and ramrod straight in his own functional steel armor, was Publius Helvius Pertinax.
The day was a whirlwind of ceremony. Alex presided over the final sacrifices, the consecration of the standards, the ritual pronouncements of victory. He moved through it all with a practiced, imperial grace, every gesture calculated for maximum effect.
Before the final order to march was given, he signaled for his staff to give him a moment alone with the Praefectus Annonae Militaris. Ostensibly, it was for a final, private discussion of supply logistics. In reality, it was their last face-to-face confrontation before Pertinax was effectively exiled to the East. They stood by a temporary campaign altar, the roar of the crowd a distant wave, the weight of their rivalry a palpable force between them.
"Your new weapons are impressive, Caesar," Pertinax said, his voice a low baritone, devoid of warmth or flattery. He gazed out at the sea of soldiers, his professional eye appraising their equipment. "The steel is remarkable. The wagons are a stroke of genius. The men are inspired. You have given them a great spectacle."
"I have given them victory, Pertinax," Alex replied coolly, meeting the older man's gaze. "I have given them an advantage. These tools will save thousands of Roman lives and bring this war to a swift conclusion."
"Or," Pertinax countered, his eyes as hard as flint, "they will encourage a recklessness that will cost thousands. A soldier who believes his sword cannot break may be tempted to use it foolishly. A general who believes his supply train cannot fail may be tempted to march it too far into the desert." He took a step closer, his voice dropping. "You place your faith in new steel and in the whispers of your strange alchemies. I place mine in the discipline, the grit, and the heart of the individual Roman soldier. Be careful your new toys do not break, Caesar. They are untested in the crucible of real war."
It was a final, sharp warning from the traditionalist, a reminder that war was more than just a logistical calculation.
"I have faith in both," Alex said, his expression unreadable. "In the new steel and in the old discipline. Which is why I am entrusting the most critical element of the campaign—the heart of the army, its daily supply of food and water—to you. A man of tradition and proven diligence." The unspoken threat hung in the air between them. If my new war machine falters because it runs out of fuel, the blame will fall squarely on your shoulders.
Pertinax inclined his head, a gesture of stiff acknowledgement. "I will not fail the legions, Caesar." The words were a promise, but also a quiet declaration of his own sphere of power. He would not fail the legions, the men. His loyalty was to them, to the soul of the army, not necessarily to the Emperor's grand, risky strategy.
The moment passed. It was time for the climax of the ceremony. Alex mounted his horse and rode to the front of the lead legion, the venerable Legio III Gallica. The legion's aquilifer, a giant of a man with a lion's pelt draped over his helmet, stood ready.
A hush fell over the vast crowd as Alex was handed the legion's Eagle standard. It was heavy, its silver form newly polished, the lightning bolts in the eagle's claws seeming to crackle with latent power. This was the soul of the legion, the physical embodiment of its honor and its loyalty to Rome.
Alex held it aloft for a moment, the sun flashing off the silver. He looked out over the tens of thousands of faces turned towards him—soldiers, citizens, senators. He saw their faces, upturned and full of a raw, fervent, and unquestioning belief. They believed in the cause he had invented. They believed in the weapons he had forged. They believed in him.
In that instant, a profound internal shift occurred. The last vestiges of Alex Carter, the detached, 21st-century observer playing a role, seemed to dissolve, burned away by the intense heat of their collective faith. He was no longer playing a part. He was Caesar. He was the master of Rome, the focal point of all their hopes and fears, leading his people to a glorious war of his own making. The burden and the power of it settled into his bones, a weight that was both terrifying and exhilarating.
He leaned down and passed the heavy silver standard to the aquilifer, his hand clasping the soldier's forearm for a moment. "Carry it to victory," he said, his voice ringing with a conviction that was no longer feigned.
He straightened up in his saddle, drew his own gleaming Ignis Steel sword, and pointed it east.
"MARCH!"
The command, amplified by the cohort centurions, echoed across the field. A single, deep horn blast sounded. Then came the sound that was the true voice of Roman power: the heavy, rhythmic tramp of thousands of hobnailed sandals hitting the stone-paved road in perfect unison. The ground itself seemed to tremble. The Legio III Gallica began to move, a river of crimson and steel, flowing out of the city on its long journey to the East.
The point of no return had been crossed. It was no longer a plan, no longer a simulation. It was real, and it was marching to war.