ᴛʜᴇ ᴀɴᴄɪᴇɴᴛ ꜰᴏʀᴄᴇ {open!}

As the sun waned, and the sky was stained with red, the rumbling of ships sounded across Rome. Marcus Septimius Lector’s sprawling house sat at the top of Palatine Hill. From there he watched, under the cover of his portico, as dozens of ships appeared on the horizon. Each arrived in an instant, in a flash of white light.

“Twenty six, twenty seven…” he counted under his breath. His dark eyes searched the sky, seeking the final three ships. They didn’t come. The rumbling sound of engines lulled, replaced only by an eerie silence. He leaned his weight against the nearest column.

“Your excellency, Legion VI has returned from Norway.”

Lector’s gaze stayed trained on the sky. He toyed with the ring on his right index finger, spinning it around and around.

“Your excellency?”

At last he looked to the droid. It stood six or seven feet away, its mechanical face unreadable, frozen in a mask of blemishless gold.

“Thank you, DXIII,” he said simply. He watched as the droid bent into a bow, then retreated inside. Lector waited several long moments before following. Aided by his scepter, he walked along the portico in the direction of the atrium. From a distance, he might be mistaken for an old man. His gait was arrhythmic and his back slightly hunched. His lean body, though broad shouldered, was teetering on too thin. His face, however, betrayed his age. Young still, especially for a man of his wealth and station. Handsome, perhaps, though not in the way his marble portraits would suggest.

As he walked, he heard a spaceship pass overhead. Various droids and slaves bustled about. A female lyre player looked up from her strumming, her delicate robes flitting in the evening breeze. Her lips drew into an alluring smile at the sight of the Emperor. He returned the gesture through a half hearted tightening of the lips.

He was greeted by Julius Severus, a Senator. The older man quickened his pace to match the long, jolting strides of the Emperor. He breathed loudly from his mouth as if he had run up the hill in a hurry. “Twenty seven of the ships returned, my liege.”

“Yes,” responded Lector in a clipped voice.

“You’re displeased?” inquired Severus in a high-pitched voice. “I would have thought twenty-seven would thrill your excellency. Only three were lost. The Senate projected upwards of four could be brought down by the northerners, your grace. Casualties against the Vikings could have been much w-” the senator trailed off, uncomfortable in the Emperor’s silence.

Lector refused to put the old man’s mind at ease. The point of his scepter continued clicking along the mosaic floor. Eventually he remarked, “Six months of these attacks and our numbers only wither. How many Viking ships did we destroy? It seems that each time we wage battle against them, their strength only multiplies. If the Senate were to practice restraint, perhaps we could think of a more measured plan of att-”

“The Senate will not.” Severus responded mindlessly. When he realized the severity of his tone, he whimpered slightly.

“Leave me,” demanded Lector. If he had looked back, he would have seen Severus stand still for several moments before scampering back down the hall, chin tucked and eyes sharpened.

By the time he reached the atrium, which was on the other side of the house, several men were waiting. They were scattered about the large room. One was seated on a bench and nursing a wound to his arm. Blood stained the white robes under his armor. Two others, standing with lightsabers in hand, looked up upon the entrance of the Emperor.

“Emperor Lector,” one of them sputtered. “We’ve returned from Norway. Our retreat was swift, so there is no way of knowing the number of casualties until we count the remaining men.”

“Is Cerularius among you?” inquired the Emperor. He searched the young faces for the familiar visage of his primus pilus.