The Emperor's study, so recently the scene of Alex's grand declaration of a new Roman destiny, had become a chamber of profound frustration. The war council he had summoned was a testament to the immense, grinding inertia of the Roman state. He was surrounded by the senior military minds left in the city: grizzled legates who had served on every frontier, staff officers whose lives were governed by logistics tables, and the Prefect of the Praetorian Guard, a man whose primary concern was the sanctity of the Emperor's person, not the vagaries of a distant campaign.
The mood in the room was one of triumphant, almost smug, satisfaction. Maximus's dispatch lay on the table, its shocking contents utterly misinterpreted by the men who now studied the map.
"The Traveler has turned north into Armenia," Alex repeated, forcing a calm he did not feel into his voice. He pointed to the red line Lyra had plotted, a course moving steadily away from the main theater of war. "He is abandoning his Parthian allies."
The Praetorian Prefect, a stout, florid man named Aetius, slammed a meaty fist on the table. "Excellent!" he boomed, his voice echoing in the chamber. "The coward runs before the might of the legions is even brought to bear! He knows he cannot face us in open battle. He leaves the Parthians to face our legions alone. By the gods, Caesar, this war will be over by winter. The man has gifted us a swift and glorious victory!"
A chorus of gruff assent went around the room. The other generals nodded, their faces beaming. This was a scenario they understood, one that fit perfectly within their military doctrine. The enemy, faced with the overwhelming power of a Roman field army, was refusing a pitched battle. In their minds, this was not a strategic maneuver; it was a concession of defeat, an act of barbarian cowardice. They were already mentally composing the victory dispatches to be sent to the Senate.
Alex felt a surge of cold, desperate anger. They couldn't see it. They were looking at the map, but they weren't seeing the real game. How could he make them understand the danger without revealing the secrets that would make them think him insane? He was forced to argue with them in their own limited, historical terms.
"He is not running," Alex insisted, his voice tight, drawing their surprised looks. "He is repositioning. Think like a wolf, not a legionary. Armenia is a back door. It is a rugged, mountainous land that shares a border with our provinces of Cappadocia and Pontus. He could be planning to circle around our main force while it is bogged down in Mesopotamia and strike at our undefended provinces from the north."
He was grasping at straws, offering the only logical military explanation he could devise for a move that he knew was not based on military logic at all.
His generals were deeply skeptical. One of the legates, a man named Tacitus who had spent twenty years fighting on the Rhine, traced a finger over the mountainous terrain of Armenia on the map.
"A risky, unconventional plan, Caesar," Tacitus said, his tone respectful but firm. "And a foolish one. His army would be stretched thin across those mountains. His supply lines would be a nightmare. The legions we have stationed in Syria and Cappadocia are more than sufficient to contain such a reckless thrust. No, the main army must proceed as planned. It must march on Ctesiphon and crush the main Parthian force. To divert our strength now to chase this ghost through the mountains would be to fall into a trap of distraction."
The others nodded in agreement. Roman military doctrine was built on a simple, brutal principle: identify the enemy's primary field army and destroy it in a decisive, set-piece battle. The idea of chasing a smaller, mobile force through difficult terrain while the main enemy army was still in the field was anathema to them. It was sloppy. It was un-Roman.
Alex felt like he was screaming into a gale-force wind. He looked from one stubborn, confident face to another and realized with dawning horror the true nature of his power. His authority was not absolute. He was the Emperor, yes, but the Roman war machine was a vast, complex entity with its own traditions, its own doctrines, its own inertia. He could set it in motion and point it in a direction, but to ask it to turn on a dime, to abandon a century of proven strategy based on his "intuition," was almost impossible. He would be met with polite but immovable resistance from the very men sworn to obey him.
Sabina, who had been standing silently by the side of the room, observing the exchange with her usual sharp intelligence, finally spoke. She did not address strategy, but the one thing everyone in the room understood: logistics.
"Even if the Emperor's assessment is correct," she said, her calm, practical voice cutting through the military bluster, "diverting three legions, nearly forty thousand men with their baggage and siege trains, from a southerly route into Mesopotamia to a northerly one into the Armenian mountains would be a logistical catastrophe. Our supply depots have been established along the Syrian road. All shipping contracts are directed to the port of Antioch. The entire supply chain, which Lord Pertinax is now managing, is oriented south-east. To restructure everything for a northern campaign would take months. The army would be paralyzed in the interim."
She had, with a few simple sentences, sealed his argument shut. His own grand plan, the war he had set in motion, was now the primary obstacle to him fighting the war that actually mattered.
He was trapped. Utterly and completely trapped by the very machine he commanded. He was fighting a war on two fronts, and both were in this room. The first was the secret, desperate war against The Traveler, a race against time that only he was aware of. The second was a frustrating, political war against the stubborn, grinding, and utterly sensible logic of his own military command.
He saw with sickening clarity that the only Roman asset capable of moving with the speed required was Maximus's ghost legion. But they were only two hundred men. They could shadow, they could report, but they could not hope to stop an entire army.
Alex took a deep breath, schooling his features into a mask of thoughtful consideration. "You have given me much to consider," he said to the council, the lie tasting like ash in his mouth. "Your experience and wisdom are, as always, invaluable. I will take this under advisement. For now, the legions will proceed as planned. You are dismissed."
The generals beamed, satisfied that their young Emperor had seen reason. They filed out of the room, their minds already turning back to the glorious, conventional war they were planning to fight.
Alex was left alone with Sabina, Lyra's glowing screen, and the terrifying map. The red icon representing The Traveler's army continued its inexorable crawl north, towards the glowing blue symbol of the chrono-crystal deposit. The silence in the study was heavy with the weight of impending disaster.
Analysis update, Lyra's voice stated, cutting through the quiet. Based on the terrain and observed rate of march, The Traveler's main force will reach the target location in approximately nineteen standard days.
"And Maximus?" Alex asked, his voice barely a whisper.
General Maximus's force can move faster, Lyra replied. They can intercept, but they will be outnumbered by a factor of approximately thirty to one. In a direct confrontation, their destruction is a statistical certainty.
Nineteen days. Alex stared at the map, at the two icons on their collision course—one a tiny fleck of Roman hope, the other a massive tide of unknown threat. The Roman state was too slow. The legions were a hammer, but he needed a scalpel, and he needed it now. A desperate, insane, and utterly un-Roman idea began to form in the depths of his mind. If the Empire could not act, then the Emperor would have to.