I Rule Rome with a God-Tier AI-Chapter 186: The Wielder of the Spear

The war council concluded, the air in the command center still humming with the energy of their audacious, impossible plan. Celer, Sabina, Perennis, and Pollio filed out, their minds already racing, focused on their individual, monumental tasks. The forging of the spear had begun. Only Titus Pullo remained, standing before Alex, his eyes burning with a fierce, possessive light. He was a man who had found his ultimate purpose, and he was ready to embrace it.

"The council has forged the spear, Titus," Alex said, his voice quiet in the suddenly silent room. He looked at the centurion, the zealous hunter who had become his most devoted military instrument. "But a spear is nothing without a hand to guide it, a will to give it purpose. I need a commander for this mission. A leader to carry our hopes into the heart of the Silence."

Pullo’s expression was one of absolute, unwavering certainty. He took a step forward, placing a mailed fist over his heart, the gesture of a man swearing a sacred oath. "I am ready, Caesar," he said, his voice a low, rumbling vow. "It is my honor. My destiny. My life has been leading to this moment, to this one sacred task. I will lead our brothers into the darkness. I will not falter. I will not fail. I will send their false god back to the void, or I will die at the foot of its profane altar."

He was the perfect zealot for a holy mission. His faith was a suit of armor, his hatred for the enemy a whetstone for his courage. He was the obvious choice, the man every other commander in the room assumed would lead the strike.

But Alex hesitated. He looked at Pullo, at the burning, righteous fire in his eyes, and he felt a cold sliver of doubt. He did not question Pullo’s courage or his loyalty; they were absolute. But in that moment, he had a flash of profound insight, an act of true leadership that went beyond Lyra’s data, beyond the simple logic of choosing his most fanatical soldier.

Pullo was a hammer. A magnificent, divine hammer, capable of shattering whatever it struck. But this mission did not need a hammer. It needed a scalpel. It required not just courage, but patience. Not just faith, but cunning. Not just hatred for the enemy, but a cold, dispassionate understanding of them. Pullo’s zeal, the very thing that made him such a devastating force on the battlefield, could be a fatal liability on a mission of pure stealth. His righteous fury might cause him to be reckless, to engage a patrol when he should hide, to fight when he should run. He would get the strike force to the target, Alex had no doubt of that. But would he get them back?

He made a decision, a difficult, painful, and necessary choice that he knew would wound the man before him.

"You will not lead this mission, Titus," Alex said, his voice gentle but firm.

Pullo stared at him, his fiery expression faltering, replaced by a look of stunned, wounded disbelief. "Caesar? But... why? I am your most devoted..."

"You are," Alex interrupted, cutting him off before he could protest further. "And that is precisely why I cannot risk you. You are too valuable. Your leadership, your unwavering faith, is the bedrock of the Devota. They are the anchor of our entire northern defense. I need you here, on the wall, commanding the forts, holding the line while this mission is underway. If the spear should fail, you and your legion will be all that stands between the horde and the heart of the Empire. Your duty is here. I cannot risk my strongest hammer on a mission that requires a dagger."

It was a plausible excuse, a way to frame the decision in the language of strategic necessity. But both men, in the silent space between them, knew it was not the entire truth. Alex was saving Pullo not just for the war, but from himself.

Pullo’s pride was clearly wounded. He looked like a man who had just had his life’s purpose snatched from his grasp. "Then who, Caesar?" he asked, his voice rough with disappointment. "Who else can be trusted with a task of such magnitude? Who else understands the enemy as I do?"

Alex turned to the great map on the wall. His answer was simple, and it shocked Pullo to his core. "The man who has already been there," Alex said. "The man who has walked among them, who has breathed their air and eaten their food. The man who knows their ways not as a holy warrior knows a demon, but as a hunter knows his prey." He paused. "The best scout in the legions. Valerius."

"Valerius is dead, Caesar," Pullo said bluntly.

"We do not know that," Alex countered. "His bird made it back. A man like that... a ghost... he does not die easily. He may have escaped. He may be hiding in the wilderness, waiting, watching. Our first task will be to find him. Lucilla’s scouts, the Noricans who will be part of your hybrid force, will be perfect for the task. They can search for him while the rest of the force prepares."

"And if he is dead?" Pullo pressed.

"Then the mission will be led by the man who trained him," Alex replied. "His second-in-command, an Optio named Caelus, another of Maximus’s quiet phantoms. This is a mission that requires stealth and intelligence above all else. It will be led not by a high-ranking centurion, not by a man of glory, but by a quiet, resourceful non-commissioned officer whose greatest skill is to remain unseen."

Pullo was silent, his mind struggling to accept this radical departure from the Roman way. A mission of this importance, led by a mere Optio? It was unheard of. But he saw the unshakeable resolve in Alex’s eyes and knew the decision was final. He gave a stiff, formal salute. "As you command, Caesar."

After dismissing the centurion, Alex was left alone in the command center. The weight of the decision, the weight of the countless lives he was now putting at risk, settled upon him. He thought of Valerius, alone and possibly dead in the wilderness. He thought of the hundred and fifty men of the new strike force, their faces unknown to him, their fates now resting entirely on the success of his desperate, complex plan. He was moving pieces on a map, but those pieces were living, breathing men, with families and futures.

He walked to the window, looking out at the smoking, roaring city of Vulcania, the engine of his war. He had been commanding from here, a safe, fortified position, miles from the actual fighting. He had been sending others into the darkness, into the fire, while he remained in his sanctuary of strategy and data. And in that moment, it felt wrong. It felt like the act of a coward.

He made another, even more shocking decision, a choice that came not from Lyra, not from a strategic calculation, but from a simple, human need to share the burden, to bear witness. He could not just send these men to their potential deaths from the safety of his industrial fortress. He had to be there. He had to share the risk.

He summoned the commander of his Praetorian Guard. "Captain," he said, his voice clear and firm. "Prepare my field armor and a light escort. We are moving the imperial command post."

The Captain looked surprised. "To where, Caesar? Back to Rome?"

"No," Alex said, turning to look at the map, at the long, blue line of the Danube. "To the front. To General Pollio’s headquarters. I will oversee the launch of this mission personally. I will be there to receive the news, whether it be good or bad."

It was a massive political and personal risk. To place himself so close to the danger, to leave the secure heart of his power base... it was an act no other Emperor would have contemplated. But it was a choice he made not as an Emperor, but as a commander of men. He would not order his soldiers into the heart of darkness from a position of comfort and safety. He would stand on the cold, misty shore of the river and watch them go.