I Rule Rome with a God-Tier AI-Chapter 139: The General’s Report

The wind that swept down from the Carpathian Mountains carried the promise of an early winter. It snapped at the eagle standards of the Fourteenth Legion and whipped at the flaps of the command tent, a ceaseless, mournful sound that frayed the nerves. Inside, General Gaius Maximus stood before his campaign table, the sprawling map of the Danubian provinces a familiar, orderly world of Roman forts and barbarian territories. It was a world he understood, a world of clear lines and clear enemies. The small, tightly rolled scroll of parchment in his hand, however, belonged to a different world entirely—one of shadows, zealotry, and a kind of madness he could not comprehend.

The carrier pigeon that had brought it had arrived half-dead from exhaustion, a small, feathered hero that had flown relentlessly from the heart of the Norican Alps. Maximus had unfastened the message himself, his calloused fingers surprisingly gentle. He recognized the bird as one of the best from the personal stock of his scout, Valerius. Its presence alone signified a report of the highest importance.

He had unrolled the thin parchment and read. And then he had read it again, a cold knot tightening in the pit of his stomach.

Valerius's report was not emotional. It contained no outrage, no embellishment. It was a soldier's report, its language brutally concise and factual, and that was what made it so profoundly, sickeningly horrifying. It was a precise, chronological accounting of a day's work.

0700 hours: Devota cohort broke camp, followed trail southwest.

0800 hours: Arrived at unnamed village, coordinates attached.

0815 hours: Centurion Pullo initiated contact with village elders. Verbal exchange observed, content unknown.

0825 hours: Hostilities commenced following physical altercation initiated by one legionary against one villager, resulting in injury to said legionary.

0840 hours: All resistance neutralized. All villagers, estimated seventy-three souls, were put to the sword. Confirmed count includes nineteen women and twelve children.

0900 hours: Centurion Pullo led cohort in a victory prayer over the bodies before ordering the village to be razed.

Maximus stood staring at the words, the neat, disciplined script of his finest scout describing an act of utter barbarity. His legate, Marcus, a man whose friendship he had trusted for thirty years, watched him from across the table, his weathered face etched with concern.

"Bad news from the north, General?" Marcus asked, his voice a low rumble. 𝑓𝑟ℯ𝘦𝓌𝘦𝘣𝑛𝑜𝓋𝑒𝓁.𝑐ℴ𝓂

Without a word, Maximus slid the scroll across the polished surface of the map. Marcus picked it up, his brow furrowed in curiosity. As he read, the color drained from his face. The hand holding the parchment began to tremble slightly. He looked up at Maximus, his eyes wide with a mixture of shock and revulsion.

"By all the gods..." he breathed, the words barely a whisper. "This is... this is a massacre. A war crime. They killed children."

"They killed Roman provincials," Maximus corrected, his voice a block of ice. "The people we are sworn to protect."

Marcus, ever the pragmatist, the soldier concerned with the health of the army above all else, paced the confines of the tent. "This undermines the very discipline of the legions! It's a poison. If word of this gets out, if the men hear that a Roman cohort is slaughtering civilians under orders, it will rot morale across the entire frontier. It makes us no better than the savages we fight." He slammed his fist down on the table. "This Pullo. This butcher. He must be arrested, brought here in chains, tried, and executed as an example!"

Maximus did not move. His conflict was deeper, more painful. Marcus saw a rogue centurion, a military problem to be solved with a court-martial and a decimation. Maximus saw the terrifying truth behind the atrocity. This was not the act of a rogue unit. He had seen the Emperor's original dispatch. He knew Titus Pullo had not exceeded his orders; he had followed them. Show them the true meaning of divine fire. This monstrous act had been sanctioned, encouraged, commanded by Alex.

The Emperor he loved like a son. The brilliant, strange, visionary boy he had seen save the Empire on this very frontier, turning chaos into victory with strategies that seemed to come from the gods themselves. That same boy had now unleashed a pack of rabid dogs upon the world and called it holy. The knowledge struck at the very foundations of Maximus's loyalty, at the core of his belief in Alex's vision for a new, stronger Rome. Was this that vision? A Rome built on the pyres of its own people?

He felt a profound and terrifying chasm open up beneath him. What does a man of honor do when his leader ceases to be honorable? What does a loyal soldier do when his orders are anathema to everything he has sworn to defend?

He could report it to the Senate. Send a copy of Valerius's report along with the Emperor's original order. It would be his duty as a Roman officer. But the consequences would be catastrophic. It would be an act of high treason against a sitting Emperor. It would give men like Pertinax and Lucilla all the ammunition they needed. It would plunge the Empire into a civil war he knew, with absolute certainty, they could not afford to fight. Not now. Not with the frontiers already smoldering.

He could ignore it. Burn the report. Pretend it never happened. Protect Alex, protect the stability of the Empire. But his conscience screamed at the thought. The faces of the dead, faces he had not even seen, would haunt him for the rest of his days. He could not, would not, stand by while Roman soldiers slaughtered civilians in the name of a new god. To do so would be to betray his own soul.

He realized, with a heavy, sinking finality, that there was only one path left to him. He could not handle this through letters and couriers. A dispatch could be ignored, explained away, or reinterpreted through the lens of palace politics. This required a confrontation. He had to travel to Rome. He had to stand before the Emperor, look him in the eye, and demand an explanation. He had to see for himself if the boy he knew was still there, or if he had been entirely consumed by the strange, dark god he seemed to be becoming.

It was a momentous decision, one that went against every instinct he had. To leave the Danubian frontier, the most critical defensive line in the world, at a time of such uncertainty, was a dereliction of his primary duty. But he now believed the rot was not external. The greatest threat to Rome was not the barbarians across the river; it was festering in the heart of the Imperial Palace. He was choosing to cauterize the internal wound rather than guard the perimeter.

He sat down at his campaign desk, pushed aside a stack of supply requisitions, and pulled a fresh sheet of papyrus towards him. He dipped his stylus in ink. He would send a message ahead, one that could not be mistaken. It would not be an accusation. It would not be a request. It would be a simple, chilling statement of intent, a threat disguised as a notification.

Caesar.

I have received a full report from Noricum.

I am coming to Rome.

He sealed the scroll, his face grim. The most loyal man in the Empire, the unbreakable shield of the frontier, was now on a collision course with his Emperor. And he knew, with the cold certainty of a winter dawn, that when he reached the palace, one of them was going to break.