The year is 520 A.D. when the Ninth Hispanic Legion and its sister legions emerge from their long exile in a mystical realm, bringing with them advanced technology and supernatural powers, yet their faith in Roman institutions remains unshaken. After securing their stronghold in Frusino and consolidating control over the Hernican Mountains, the legates of these legions make a momentous decision—to restore the Roman Republic. Leading this new era is Octavius Petilius Cerialis Duces, the 85-year-old legate of the Ninth Legion, a veteran whose body, though marked by countless battle scars, remains as sturdy as aged oak. Clad in armor forged from an unknown metal, Octavius has guided his legion through the horrors of another world and now faces his greatest challenge: rebuilding Rome without the specter of an emperor looming over it.
Under his leadership, the new Republic abolishes the imperial office, rejecting the rule of a single man over Rome's destiny. In its place, they reinstate the consular system, where two consuls govern each year, advised by a newly established Senate in Frusino. To ensure military stability, they create the position of Princeps, a title granted only to commanders over the age of eighty, who wield authority for a single year before retiring. Octavius himself is named Dictator for four years, tasked with laying the Republic's foundations and expanding its influence across the Italian peninsula.
Yet as Rome's ideals stir anew, threats gather on all sides. The Ostrogoths, the Byzantines, and the Italic peoples themselves watch with suspicion as this resurgent power rises. In the shadows, some still whisper for the return of an emperor, believing only a single ruler can restore Rome's true glory.
The story now follows Quintus Petilius Lupinus, son of Secundus Petilius and envoy of the Ninth Legion, as he journeys to the Eternal City to hear the Pope's terms and gauge the Church's stance on this reborn Rome. But while he walks the halls of Christendom, the shadow of the Ostrogothic kingdom stretches across the land. King Theodoric the Great has answered the Republic's declaration with a call to arms, seeing it as a direct challenge to his rule. With war on the horizon and alliances shifting, Quintus must decide whether his loyalty to Rome is enough to face the fate that awaits him.
Meanwhile, within the Lateran Palace's walls, the air in the library is thick with the scent of aged parchment and candle wax. The shelves, carved from ebony, stand like silent sentinels of knowledge, laden with codices and scrolls bound in silk cords. The flickering light from bronze candelabras dances across the texts, casting shadows that seem to murmur secrets long forgotten.
In a secluded corner, Brother Marcus sits before a heavy volume titled Histories of Roman Wars, his deft fingers turning the pages with deliberate care. His brown eyes scan each line with the precision of a scholar and the hunger of a man searching for more than mere words. His tonsure gleams faintly in the candlelight, and his plain woolen habit contrasts with the disciplined grace of his posture—back straight, shoulders relaxed, like a soldier accustomed to long watches.
Suddenly, the oak door bursts open, shattering the library's sacred silence. Brother Andrew strides in, his face flushed with excitement, his pale gold hair disheveled. His chest rises and falls with quick breaths as his sharp brown eyes burn with a mix of fury and fascination.
"Marcus, have you heard the news from the south?" Andrew exclaims, slamming the door behind him.
"If you mean the rumors of mercenaries in the Apennines, then yes," Marcus replies without looking up, his voice calm as if Andrew's agitation were nothing more than a passing breeze. "But rumors are like leaves in the wind—rootless."
Andrew steps closer, planting his hands on the table with force. "They're not mercenaries," he hisses, his voice thrumming with intensity. "They're legionaries. Three eastern legions, they say. They've taken Frusino, restored the Senate, and proclaimed a Republic. As if the Caesars never existed!"
Marcus does not react, but his fingers pause on the page—a subtle hesitation, barely noticeable. "Interesting," he murmurs. "And the Pope? What does John say?"
Andrew lets out a sharp laugh. "What he always says! That we must watch, pray, and not act rashly. But this isn't some peasant revolt, Marcus. These are Roman soldiers, bearing weapons no one recognizes and standards that shouldn't exist."
Marcus closes the book slowly, as if each movement is measured. "And what do you propose, then?"
Andrew straightens, crossing his arms. "That we investigate. You have access to the Lateran Palace's imperial archives. If these legions are what they claim, there will be records. Names."
Marcus meets his gaze, and for an instant, something dark flickers in his eyes—something that does not belong to a humble monk. "I will look," he says at last. "But, Andrew... what do you hope to find?"
The blond man smiles, cold and calculating. "An advantage. Always an advantage."
As Andrew leaves, the scent of intrigue lingering in his wake, Marcus remains silent, his eyes fixed on the closed book before him. On its worn leather cover, nearly faded with age, a title is barely legible: Legio IX Hispana – Final Fate. And for the first time in years, Brother Marcus feels the past closing in.
The paths of the Lateran Palace gardens, usually peaceful beneath the murmur of fountains and birdsong, are now restless. Nobles with pale faces huddle in hushed circles, while guards fidget with their swords, their eyes darting southward as if expecting to see the specter of an army on the horizon. Brother Andrew walks with purpose, his white robe fluttering slightly, while Marcus follows, his watchful eyes noting every fearful glance.
"They're not northern barbarians," Andrew mutters, lowering his voice as they pass a cluster of clerics. "The Goths don't march under eagles or sacrifice horses to Jupiter."
"Nor are they southern mercenaries," Marcus replies almost to himself. "No sellsword captain would dare proclaim a Republic. And none would know how to revive rites dead for centuries."
A servant rushes past them, clutching a sealed message for the Lateran Palace. Andrew watches him go with disdain before continuing. "And they can't be easterners. Justinian barely holds his borders. How could he move three full legions across the sea without Constantinople noticing?"
Marcus stops beside a cypress tree, his gaze distant. "That is what troubles me most," he says softly. "Twenty thousand men. Armor unlike any we know. Standards found in no record. And they appear—out of nothing—in the heart of Italy. As if they walked through a mirror."
Andrew turns sharply. "What are you suggesting?"
Marcus hesitates. "Fragments of memories not my own stir in my mind—voices in archaic Latin, the scent of iron and damp earth, the blare of war horns beneath an alien sky. I don't know," he admits. "But there is a possibility no one has considered."
"What?"
Marcus meets his eyes, and for a moment, Andrew sees something ancient in them—something that makes him step back. That they didn't come from the East. Or from anywhere in this world.
The wind sighs through the cypresses, carrying with it the distant echo of a war horn. And in that moment, both men know: Rome will never be the same again.
The tension between them shatters as light footsteps approach, accompanied by the delicate chime of jewelry. "Brother Marcus, comes a voice both melodious and commanding, cutting through the air like a blade. "Our Latin lesson cannot wait—not even if the world crumbles around us."
Amalasunta of the House Anisia glides forward, her movements regal, her presence demanding obedience. Her gown of fine purple-dyed linen clings to her figure, and her golden hair, woven with threads of gold, catches the fading sunlight. Her blue eyes—cold and calculating—first flick to Andrew, her brother, in silent understanding before settling on Marcus with a smile that is anything but innocent.
"We are discussing matters of state, sister," Andrew scowls.
"And I," she counters, trailing a finger along the edge of Marcus's book, "am discussing matters of grammar. And since my father pays generously for these lessons, I believe my claim takes precedence."
Marcus exhales, suppressing both irritation and wariness. "As you wish, domina," he says with a slight bow, polite enough to avoid offense, cool enough to betray no eagerness.
Andrew watches the exchange with a smirk. "Don't be long," he tells Marcus before striding away. "We have much to uncover."
Amalasunta waits until her brother is out of earshot before stepping closer, until the scent of jasmine and power clinging to her fills Marcus's space. "So," she murmurs, as if discussing court gossip rather than revolution, "three lost legions appear from nowhere and declare a Republic? How thrilling."
"This isn't a game, Amalasunta," Marcus doesn't flinch.
"Everything is a game, magister," she laughs, the sound crystalline yet edged. "And the best players move their pieces before the board burns." Her fingers brush the spine of Marcus's book—Legio IX Hispana. "Come," she orders, withdrawing her hand with false sweetness. "Today, you will tell me of eagles."
And with that, she leads him into the library's private corridors, where shadows run deep and secrets are easily kept.
Her lips are soft against his, warm and tasting of spiced wine and power. Marcus knows them well, yet each time he surrenders, he feels himself sinking deeper into a trap of his own making.