I Rule Rome with a God-Tier AI-Chapter 94: The Kingmaker

The small, high-altitude valley was a sanctuary, a brief respite from their grueling race against time. A fresh spring trickled from a fissure in the rock, providing clean water, and the sparse grass was enough to sustain their horses. Here, under the watchful eyes of Maximus's posted sentries, they finally tended to their wounds and gave Varro, the first of the Fire Cohort to fall, a proper soldier's burial. They built a simple cairn of stones, and Cassius spoke a few rough, heartfelt words in the Germanic tongue of his men, his voice thick with a grief he could not hide.

For Alex, however, there was no respite. The revelation of Aethel-Tech and the true nature of his enemy had shattered his strategic framework. He spent the entire night by a low-burning fire, staring into the flames, the cold, hard disc with the dark star insignia clutched in his hand. Lyra fed him what little data she could glean, but it only deepened the mystery. He was facing a foe whose technology was not just advanced, but fundamentally different. A foe who could seemingly create warrior-constructs at will. A foe who had been on Earth for millennia.

He realized the terrible flaw in his plan. He had been so focused on the what—the chrono-crystal power source—and the how—racing to get there first—that he had neglected the where. This wasn't just a desolate spot on a map. This was Armenia. A kingdom. A land with people, politics, and power structures of its own. He had been treating it as a mere transit corridor, an obstacle to be overcome. That was a Roman mistake. A conqueror's mistake. He needed to think differently. He couldn't afford to simply pass through this land. He needed to make it his own.

By dawn, his mind was clear, his resolve hardened into a new, more ambitious shape. He summoned Maximus to the fire.

"We are changing the plan, General," he said, his voice quiet but firm. The general, who was checking the horses' hooves, looked up, his expression questioning.

"We are no longer just soldiers passing through this land," Alex continued, gesturing to the rugged mountains around them. "From this moment on, we are agents of the Roman state, acting with the full authority of the Emperor. This land, Armenia, is a Roman client kingdom, but its loyalty is a reed in the wind, bending towards whoever is stronger, Rome or Parthia. We are going to ensure its loyalty becomes as permanent as this granite beneath our feet."

Maximus's eyes widened slightly as he grasped the sheer audacity of what Alex was proposing. They were a force of less than two hundred and fifty men, deep in hostile territory, and the Emperor was proposing to meddle in the succession of a kingdom.

"We are no longer racing The Traveler to the prize," Alex declared, his voice ringing with a new, cold authority. "That is a fool's errand. It makes us reactive. Instead, we will seize the board itself. We are going to make a king."

Using Lyra's deep historical and genealogical databases, Alex had spent the night studying the intricate, bloody politics of the Armenian royal court. The current king, a man named Sohaemus, was old, weak, and little more than a puppet of his Parthian masters. But there was a rival claimant. A young, ambitious prince of the Arsacid dynasty named Tiridates—no relation to the Parthian commander—who had been educated in Rome, possessed Roman sympathies, and had been driven into hiding after a failed attempt to claim the throne a year prior. According to Lyra's intelligence, compiled from old merchant reports and spy logs, he was now holed up in a remote, nigh-impregnable mountain fortress called Garni, not a three-day march from their current position.

"We march to Garni," Alex commanded. "We find this Prince Tiridates. And we make him an offer he cannot refuse."

The journey to Garni was a different kind of challenge. They were no longer just racing against time, but moving with the deliberate purpose of a diplomatic envoy, albeit a heavily armed and secret one. Maximus's scouts went ahead, ensuring their path was clear, their approach unannounced.

The fortress was a marvel of defensive engineering, perched on a triangular promontory with sheer cliffs on two sides. It was clear why Tiridates had chosen it as his sanctuary. Their arrival caused a brief, tense standoff, but the sight of a Roman General in full parade armor—Maximus having donned his finest for the occasion—and the eagle-crested helmets of his men was enough to grant them an audience.

They were led into the fortress's main hall. It was a strange fusion of Hellenistic and Persian styles, a testament to Armenia's position as a cultural crossroads. Prince Tiridates sat on a simple, carved wooden throne, surrounded by a few dozen grim-faced, loyal retainers. He was young, perhaps only a few years older than Alex's own physical age, with a proud, hawkish face, a neatly trimmed black beard, and restless, intelligent eyes. He was proud, wary, and clearly a man who had tasted betrayal before.

He looked at the newcomers with deep suspicion, his gaze dismissing Alex entirely—still in the role of the humble scribe "Decius"—and focusing on the imposing figure of Maximus.

Maximus, playing his part to perfection, stepped forward. He did not bow. He spoke as a Roman General addressing a lesser, though still respected, monarch.

"Prince Tiridates," his voice boomed, echoing in the stone hall. "I am Gaius Maximus, General of the Legions and servant of the Emperor of Rome. I bring you greetings, and an offer."

He laid out the proposal with blunt, soldierly clarity. Rome was marching to war against their mutual enemy, Parthia. The Emperor recognized Tiridates as the rightful king of Armenia and was prepared to offer him the full might of Roman arms to help him claim his throne. Legions, gold, weapons—all would be his.

In return, the price was simple, but absolute. Once enthroned, King Tiridates would formally expel all Parthian influence from his court, grant the Roman legions permanent basing rights in his kingdom, and sign an exclusive trade treaty that would give Rome preferential access to Armenia's resources. He would rule as a king, but he would rule as Rome's friend. As Rome's vassal.

Tiridates listened, his expression unreadable. It was the offer he had been dreaming of his entire life. But he was no fool. "A generous offer, General," he said, his voice smooth and cautious. "But your legions are far away, preparing to march on Mesopotamia. My cousin, the so-called king Sohaemus, sits in the capital at Artaxata. And his new friends, the army of the northern warlord they call The Traveler, are camped not fifty leagues from here. I do not have the army to challenge such a force, even with the promise of Roman gold."

He needed proof. He needed to see the power he was being asked to ally with. This was the moment Alex had been waiting for.

He stepped forward from the shadows, his simple scribe's cloak making him seem insignificant next to the armored giants around him. "The Prince is wise to be cautious," Alex said, his voice quiet but clear, drawing the surprised gaze of the young royal. "Promises are wind. He needs to see the thunder."

He turned and gave a sharp, almost imperceptible nod to Cassius, who stood near the entrance of the hall with the Fire Cohort. The centurion barked a single, guttural command.

What followed was a display of power so raw and terrifying it silenced the entire hall. The twelve giants of the Cohort moved to the center of the room. At Cassius's command, two of them lifted a massive stone brazier, one that would normally take ten men to move, and held it aloft as if it were a toy. Another two took up heavy logging axes. With synchronized, grunting roars, they began to strike a thick stone support column, their blows landing with the force of catapult stones, sending chips of granite flying across the room.

The final and most chilling display was left to Gisco. Cassius threw him a solid iron ingot, part of the caravan's emergency repair supplies. Gisco caught it, and with a great shout that seemed to come from the very depths of his soul, he bent the thick bar of solid iron over his knee, twisting it into a U-shape before casting it clattering to the floor.

The Armenian guards stared, their mouths agape, their hands gripping the hilts of their swords in sheer, reflexive terror.

Alex stepped forward again into the stunned silence. He looked directly at the prince, whose face was pale, his royal composure shattered.

"This is but a taste of the Emperor's power, Prince Tiridates," Alex said, his voice still quiet, but now carrying an immense and terrible weight. "These twelve men are merely his personal guard. There are thousands more like them being forged in the heart of the Empire. This is the force that will place you on your throne. This is the New Rome."

The Prince stared from the bent iron bar on the floor to the panting, wild-eyed giants, and then to the quiet, unassuming "scribe" who seemed to command them. He was seeing the future of warfare, a future of monstrous strength and unbreakable steel. And in that moment, he knew, with absolute certainty, that he had to be on its side.

He rose slowly from his throne and gave a deep, formal bow, not to Maximus, but to Alex. "I accept the Emperor's offer," he said, his voice filled with a new, fervent awe. "Armenia is yours."