The training ground in the Alban Hills felt a world away from the intrigue of the palace. Here, the air was crisp and clean, and the only politics were the simple, brutal dynamics of a military camp. It was a place of action, not words, and it was here that Alex came to launch the most reckless gambit of his life. He arrived unannounced at dusk, a lone rider accompanied by only two aides, his presence sending a ripple of sharp, disciplined tension through the small camp.
He summoned Centurion Cassius to his command tent, a simple canvas structure starkly different from the gilded chambers of the Palatine. A single oil lamp cast flickering shadows against the walls, illuminating a large, detailed map of the Eastern provinces spread across a campaign table.
"The war has changed, Centurion," Alex said without preamble, his voice grim. He gestured to the map. "The main legions proceed to Parthia. It is a necessary fiction to keep the Senate and our enemies occupied. But the true threat, the true war, is here."
His finger jabbed at the rugged, mountainous terrain of Armenia. "A renegade warlord, the man they call The Traveler, is moving to seize a target of immense strategic importance in these mountains. My generals are too slow, their minds trapped in old ways of thinking. The legions cannot be diverted in time to stop him."
He looked up, his eyes locking with Cassius's. The centurion's gaze was steady, his face an unreadable mask of professional calm.
"General Maximus is already in the field, shadowing him," Alex continued. "But his force is too small to engage. He is a scout, not an army. I need to reinforce him. And I need to do it now."
Cassius processed the information, his gaze dropping back to the map. He understood the strategic implications immediately. A small, elite force, moving rapidly, could change the entire dynamic of a campaign. "You wish to send the Fire Cohort, Caesar?" he asked, his voice a low rasp.
"I wish to lead the Fire Cohort," Alex corrected him.
The statement, delivered with quiet finality, hung in the air between them. It was a declaration of such profound, almost insane recklessness that for the first time since Alex had met him, the stoic Cassius was visibly stunned. His iron composure cracked, his eyes widening in disbelief. The Emperor of Rome—the absolute center of the civilized world—leaving the capital in the midst of a war he himself had started, to personally lead a small, experimental unit of a dozen men on a covert mission deep in hostile territory… it was unthinkable. It was the act of a heroic age, of a Homeric character, not the sober leader of a vast and complex empire.
"Caesar," Cassius began, his voice strained as he searched for the right words, the right protocol for telling a god he was being a fool. "With all respect… that is… unwise."
"It is necessary," Alex insisted, his own voice hardening, leaving no room for argument. "This warlord… he is not like the others. I cannot explain the nature of the threat he poses, but trust me when I say that I am the only one who can truly comprehend it. I am the only one who knows what he is truly after. This is not a task I can delegate to another. This is a burden I must carry myself."
He leaned over the map, his expression one of deadly seriousness. "I am placing my life, the future of the Empire, and the fate of this entire mission into your hands, Centurion. And into the hands of your men." He looked Cassius directly in the eye, the question a heavy weight between them. "So I ask you again. Can they be trusted? Can their… fire… be controlled on a long, hard march, far from the discipline of this camp?"
Cassius was faced with the ultimate soldier's burden. He had to give his commander an honest assessment of his troops, knowing his commander's life would depend on it. He thought of his twelve charges. He thought of their terrifying power when fueled by the Ignis. He thought of their sullen moods, their violent outbursts, their desperate, animal craving when the fire faded. He thought of the two men he had beaten into submission for trying to break into the medicine box.
They were not soldiers. Not anymore. But then he thought of something else. He thought of the look in their eyes whenever Alex was present. It was not just loyalty. It was a fanatical, almost religious devotion. They were addicted not just to the Aeterna Ignis, but to the man who was its sole source.
"They are not soldiers, Caesar," Cassius said at last, his voice a low, gravelly rumble of absolute truth. "They are your hounds. They no longer follow the Eagle of Rome. They follow the scent of their master. If you run, they will run with you. If you fight, they will tear out the throats of your enemies. They will follow you to the edge of the world and back again. They will obey." He took a deep breath. "I will ensure it."
It was a heavy, terrible promise, an oath of shared responsibility for the monstrous thing they had created.
The plan was set in motion with breathtaking speed. A cover story would be fabricated by Perennis and managed by Sabina: the Emperor was departing on a grand tour of the Eastern front to bolster the morale of the legions, a perfectly plausible and even admirable action for a young war-leader. His true destination would be a secret rendezvous point in the mountains of Cappadocia, where he would link up with Maximus.
Alex stepped out of the tent and into the cool night air. Cassius assembled the twelve men of the Fire Cohort. They stood before their Emperor, their massive frames silhouetted against the campfires. Seeing him, being in his presence, had an immediate, visible effect. The listless, sullen demeanors they wore during their withdrawal periods vanished, replaced by a sharp, focused energy. Their eyes were bright with a manic devotion.
Alex stood before them, not as an emperor addressing his subjects, but as a warlord addressing his personal warband.
"You have been chosen," he said, his voice ringing with power in the quiet valley. "You are the first of a new breed of Roman warrior. The city knows you as the Fire Cohort. But from this day forward, you have a new title. You are my personal guard. You are my Praetorians. My true Praetorians."
He let the honorific sink in. To be named a Praetorian was the highest aspiration of any soldier.
"But with that title comes a new oath," he continued, his voice dropping, becoming more intense. "You will no longer swear your allegiance to the Senate and People of Rome. That is for the common legionary. You are my chosen. Your oath will be to me, and to me alone. Your lives are sworn to my protection. Your swords are sworn to my victory. Where I go, you go. What I command, you do, without question and without hesitation."
He held up a single, black clay flask—a container of pure, undiluted Aeterna Ignis. The sight of it made the men's eyes widen, a collective, hungry inhalation rippling through their ranks.
"Swear the oath," Alex commanded, his voice like the crack of a whip. "Swear it now, and you will share the Fire of the Gods with me. You will be my thunderbolt."
As one, the twelve giant warriors dropped to one knee. They placed their right fists over their hearts, a gesture of absolute, personal fealty. Their voices, when they spoke the oath, were a deep, resonant chorus that seemed to shake the very stones beneath their feet.
"We swear, Caesar! Our lives for your victory!"
Their faces, illuminated by the flickering firelight, were filled not with the sober discipline of a Roman soldier, but with the terrifying, ecstatic worship of a zealot. Alex had his weapon. And it was aimed directly at the heart of the unknown.