Chapter 199: Martha, the Dragon Slaying Saintess
In this world, gods were rules made manifest.
They were neither alive nor dead in any human sense. Yet even a law of nature needed an outline to be understood, and an outline needed a face. The stability of that face was built on faith.
Nature did not possess self awareness.
Only by absorbing the countless prayers, fears, hopes, and desires packed into belief could a god acquire something resembling a personality. Something that should not exist within a mere phenomenon.
That was why faith was essential.
To gods, the struggle for faith was not debate. It was closer to survival. It was hostility that could not be reconciled.
Within the Roman Empire, which carried the lineage of the Greek pantheon, belief in the Roman gods had always been stable. The official faith was the Pantheon. That foundation had not wavered.
Until recent years.
Within Rome, a faith in a different god, one outside the Greek lineage, began to take root.
They called a nonexistent person the Holy Son, claiming he died years ago, resurrected, and ascended to heaven thirty three days after his death, ruling over a Kingdom of Heaven.
They called the Holy Son the son of the Father in heaven, and named the Holy Father the manifestation of the Spirit.
Son, Father, Spirit.
A trinity. Creator of the world. Master of all things.
At first it was insignificant, a small sect at the edge of the empire. The gods did not bother watching it closely. In the eight hundred years since Rome's founding, foreign religions had appeared many times. Without exception, they collapsed on this soil, a land where deities could still manifest.
The gods assumed this one would be the same.
They were wrong.
The faith of the Holy Son swept across the border provinces like a storm, then rolled inward. It spread to a degree the gods could no longer ignore.
"Should we proceed with a direct purge?" Jupiter proposed at once.
Jupiter's authority in Rome was not as absolute as Zeus's had been in Greece, but he was still the king of gods. His temperament also carried the old style. Decisive. Overbearing. Used to being obeyed.
Mars shook his head.
"The struggle for faith does not tolerate impatience," he said. "Their expansion is too fast. That suggests something is hidden behind it."
He paused, voice lowering as if weighing the risk of speaking it aloud.
"When marching, caution is paramount."
Then he added, almost clinically, "We should consult my son, Quirinus. He founded this nation."
"Quirinus," Jupiter repeated, and exhaled through his nose. "Fine. We will do that."
Quirinus was not ancient compared to the gods of the Greek era, but he was special in a way the older gods could not imitate.
His full name was Romulus Quirinus.
A human who became a god.
The founder of Rome.
Among the gods, he was not the strongest.
But his status was the highest.
…
"Finally," Nero murmured, voice muffled by fabric, "the last set of procedures is completed."
In the lavish Roman Palace, soft red carpets spread across the floor. Curtains hung on all sides, hiding the garden beyond. Nero returned to the Emperor's residence after a full day of inauguration rituals and promptly collapsed onto the bed.
Ceremony was tedious. Even with Nero's naturally restless disposition, the young woman who had officially become Emperor was thoroughly exhausted.
And yet, Rowe could tell she was still excited.
Her crimson skirt lay in a messy bloom across the sheets. Her body sank into the mattress, soft and careless. Her legs still lifted and swayed faintly in the air as if she had more energy than sense. The cowlick on her head stood tall like an antenna refusing to surrender.
It made sense.
Nero had lived in this country since childhood. Her love for this land, as she had declared to the people, was sincere, bright, and painfully Roman.
Rowe stepped into the room after her and sat down at the bedside, indifferent to the fact that it was an Emperor's bedchamber, and equally indifferent to the girl's lack of restraint. The mattress sank further under his weight.
"To make me, the so called ancestor of Rome, the Adjutant to the First Magistrate of the empire," he said, tone dry. "You truly are unrestrained in every way."
"Hm?" Nero lifted her head and stared at him, emerald eyes blinking quickly. "You put this Emperor here."
Then she added, with the confidence of someone who had decided the world should cooperate.
"And besides, the Roman Code does not say an ancestor cannot be an Adjutant to the Emperor."
"Even if it did not, you would add it immediately."
"Exactly," Nero declared, utterly righteous. "Because I am Rome."
Her cowlick wagged even harder.
Rowe patted the top of her head, pressing it down.
"You adapted to your new identity quickly."
"Heheheh."
Nero grinned, pushed herself upright, and sat with her legs folded to one side. Her expression turned smug.
"Because I have always had this feeling."
She had always imagined herself as Emperor. She just had not expected it to arrive this quickly.
"After all, I am a born perfect person," she said, not even attempting modesty. "So it is only natural for the perfect me to become Emperor."
Rowe glanced sideways and sighed.
"Another narcissist."
He briefly wondered if he had some strange talent for attracting people like this. Setting aside Gilgamesh, even the First Emperor of Great Qin had carried a similar certainty, just expressed with more murderous calm.
Nero pursed her lips, watching him closely.
"Is narcissism bad?"
Then her eyes shifted, as if she had found a more entertaining angle.
"Or rather, do you want me to love you?"
She leaned closer, a playful light in her gaze.
"It is not impossible, you know. Even if you are an ancestor. It does not matter, right?"
Her hand pressed lightly against Rowe's chest, and in one smooth motion she sat on his lap, close and warm, swaying as if she were testing how much the world would allow.
In the next second, her vision flipped.
With a soft thud, Nero landed back into the bedding.
Rowe leaned over her, fingers lifting her chin with calm precision.
"Did you start indulging yourself the moment you became Emperor?"
"Hm? I have always been like this," Nero replied without embarrassment. "Should I not show passion to someone who makes my heart flutter?"
"But you cannot," Rowe said.
"Why?"
"Because I am not interested in you."
He released her chin and ruffled her hair again, as if resetting a mischievous child.
"Because I do not harbor feelings for you."
At least not now.
Nero's smile did not fade. If anything, it sharpened with determination.
"Feelings do not matter. I will make you burn with love as fierce as fire for me."
"That confident?"
"I am an extremely narcissistic person, am I not?"
Rowe exhaled once, half amused, half resigned.
"Then suit yourself."
He had long been used to this sort of behavior from people around him. Male or female, it rarely moved him.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Footsteps sounded outside the door.
A young woman's voice followed, crisp with professional caution. It was the attendant assigned to the Emperor's residence, a maid responsible for daily needs and the delivery of confidential information.
"Your Majesty Nero."
"There is something that needs to be reported."
Nero and Rowe exchanged glances.
Nero clicked her tongue as if the universe had interrupted on purpose.
"It seems we must stop here, yes?"
"Get to business," Rowe said, and patted her head again.
Nero sat up, legs dangling. Sitting on the bed, her feet did not touch the floor at all, so she lifted herself and jumped down.
Her long red dress swayed like a rose in full bloom. She flicked her dazzling golden hair back and spoke with practiced authority.
"Come in."
"My people."
"Yes, Your Majesty."
The maid entered after a bow, saluted Nero, then saluted Rowe as well.
At the inauguration, people had not only recognized the young Emperor named Nero Claudius, but also the young Adjutant beside her, the one who had crowned the Emperor and stood at her side without hesitation.
His origin was a blank space filled by rumor.
Some claimed Rowe was the source of the will embodied by Romulus. Some claimed he was a descendant of the Greek era sage known as Rowe. Some whispered he was something older still.
Whatever the truth, his status could not be denied.
He had crowned the Emperor.
He held Mars's trust.
He stood in the same room with Nero without ceremony, as if it were natural.
That alone ensured the people of Rome would not dare show him disrespect.
"Speak," Nero said, voice turning gentle in the way she did when she wanted to appear approachable. "What do you have to tell me, my dear?"
"Yes, it is like this."
The maid hesitated briefly, then continued.
"It concerns the border rebels."
"Border rebels?" Nero blinked. "There are rebels on the border?"
"This is news known only to Your Majesty and your close confidants," the maid replied. "It must not be spread."
The implication was simple. To keep the capital stable, the truth was being sealed.
Nero thought for a moment and understood.
She turned slightly, instinctively seeking Rowe's opinion.
Rowe, at some point, had moved to the side and poured himself a cup. He swirled it slowly as if enjoying a performance.
He looked like a man watching a play.
Nero's expression tightened at once.
Even if you are an ancestor, you do not get to shove me onto the throne and then sit back to watch me stumble.
She looked at the maid and declared, with sudden decisiveness.
"Then I have decided."
"I will leave this matter to you to resolve."
Then she pointed sharply.
"Rowe, my Adjutant."
Rowe took a sip.
"I refuse."
Nero's eyes widened.
"I am the Emperor of Rome. You have no right to refuse."
"You are Rome," Rowe said calmly, "and I am Rome."
"You are my Adjutant."
"An Adjutant can assist. You still handle it yourself."
"I am the Emperor."
"Then you need to be even more responsible."
The maid watched the Emperor and Adjutant argue in a way that made no sense to her. She did not dare interrupt. She could only marvel inwardly at how close their relationship seemed.
Little did she know they had known each other for less than a few days.
Nero narrowed her eyes, then forced herself to think instead of sulking.
"Hm. Arguing like this will not solve the problem."
She paused, then declared as if offering a generous compromise.
"How about we both take a step back?"
Rowe looked at her with genuine curiosity.
"How do we take a step back?"
His refusal was not stubbornness for its own sake. He needed Nero to grow into a real Emperor. Growth required tempering. Not just action, but command, judgment, and the ability to use subordinates properly.
So he wanted to see what she would do.
Nero smiled.
"Taking a step back means I will go with you to suppress the rebellion."
Rowe stared at her.
A long beat passed.
That was not stepping back. That was sprinting forward with enthusiasm.
Nero lifted her chin, clearly pleased with her own logic.
…
At the same time.
In the northern frontier of the Roman Empire, in the province of Britannia, a figure stood atop a high mountain and gazed south, toward the vast territory Rome claimed.
It was a young woman.
She wore a white robe. A tight inner garment outlined her curves with deliberate restraint, the line of her abdomen narrowing into a sharp point before giving way to strong, agile legs. Her outer robe and purple hair lifted in the wind. A white headband framed a face that looked sacred in the way icons were sacred, beautiful enough to make hardship feel like a temporary illusion.
In her hand was a banner shaped like a cross, long and spear like.
Behind her, more banners fluttered.
More crosses, raised high.
The figures beneath them formed an army in name and momentum.
In truth, it was an army of the starving.
Emaciated bodies. Hollow eyes. People whose backs had been bent by labor and neglect.
They came from Britannia. Though nominally part of the empire, Britannia was treated as a barbarian borderland by the Roman heartland.
Oppression. Exploitation.
Resistance was inevitable.
"Saint Martha," someone asked from within the crowd, voice trembling with yearning, "has the Lord you spoke of truly descended?"
Martha glanced sideways and smiled perfectly, as if the world had already been forgiven.
"Yes," she said. "I have already felt it."
Then she lifted the cross banner slightly.
"Everyone."
"The Son of the Father has descended."
"We only need to wait."
"The Lord will ultimately save us."
"Praise the Holy Son."
The crowd bowed, praying with devotion that bordered on desperation.
Martha's eyes hardened with resolve.
It was devotion, but also something more dangerous. The kind of certainty that refused compromise.
"My Lord has arrived," she whispered.
"Please, save them."
.....
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