The sun burned golden above the Eternal City, gilding its white-stone towers and crimson-roofed domes in the light of divine majesty.
The streets, once quiet with the usual rhythms of daily trade and disciplined legion drills, now thrummed with breathless anticipation.
From the northern road, a sound began to echo.
As the clouds of dust rose only to eventually reveal the shadowy forms.
Dozens of war drums began to thunder in rhythm from the high towers and walls.
Each beat was a declaration.
Each thrum across the stone was a signal to the hearts of every citizen:
Their lord and master.
Uniter of two nations, and Ruler of close to seven at this point.
The northern gate — Porta Aurea, the Gate of Gold — stood open wide, flanked by soaring marble columns and newly raised imperial standards that fluttered in the spring breeze.
A sight to bring any soldier to reverent silence.
The full force of the Latinium Legion had assembled — nearly egihty thousand strong, though this was all enlisted men, not exactly all fully trained legionaires.
The entire field outside the gates was a sea of armor and crimson cloaks, blades sheathed but gleaming with polish.
The banners of each cohort stood high, casting long shadows across the grass as they held their formation like a single living creature made of discipline, oath, and steel.
And in the space between them and the gate, an open avenue — the path of the Triumph.
At the far end of that road, dust stirred, continuously being kicked up as the riders pressed the final approach harder, to arrive even one second faster.
Then, like something out of a myth, they came into view even to the command man on the ground.
Julius rode at the head of his Praetorians, his purple mantle whipping in the wind, helmless so his people could see the face of the man who had brought them victory.
Beside him rode Serena, radiant in the light, clad in gleaming scaled armor forged in Carthage and trimmed in Latinium gold, and purple accents.
Behind them came their personal guard and standard-bearers — dozens of mounted riders carrying the symbols of their conquests: the broken ram of Ramie, the black sun banner of the now former Carthaginian kingdom, and the wreath of unity as a sign of the merging of the two kingdoms into something greater.
At the signal from the tower above, a great cry rang out.
"Ave Imperator! Ave Imperatrix!"
The Legion roared the salute in perfect unison, the sound striking the heavens and echoing across the hills.
Julius raised one hand — and the legion snapped to attention as one, every man standing even just an inch more erect and alert than before.
The city gates appeared to open wider to receive him.
The drums still thrumming doubled their pace.
And the Triumph began.
As the procession passed by the ranks upon ranks of the tens of thousands of assembled men, until they passed through the gates, the city beyond them erupted.
Citizens packed the wide marble avenues, flower petals raining down from balconies and rooftops, musicians striking up songs of ancient victory that hadn’t been heard in generations.
Children shouted, men and women wept, and others simply fell to their knees as their sovereign returned from a campaign without peer.
And come back with an empire.
The Triumph marched along the Sacred Way, past the Forum Maximus where statues of past emperors and kings watched with stone eyes.
A newly built statue had been draped in royal cloth until this moment — a towering marble likeness of Julius, sword pointed skyward, laurel wrapped around his brow.
The cloth fell as they passed.
The crowd roared louder still.
And behind it all, Serena smiled as she leaned toward him in the saddle.
she murmured, voice just barely carried above the storm of cheers.
"They adore what we’ve made,"
"But let them celebrate. They deserve a day of joy before the storm."
"We will leave most likely within the month."
By the time the procession reached the steps of the Imperial Palace, the sun had reached its zenith, his ride not hurried and giving all of his people the chance to witness their living emperor in the flesh if only for a moment longer.
Here, Julius dismounted — not for pomp, but for ritual.
The Praetorians flanked him.
Advisors waited in crisp white robes, the Consul of the Chamber holding a golden laurel crown in both of her hands.
She stepped forward, knelt, and offered it without a word.
Julius accepted it with a nod — and then turned to face the gathered masses beyond the marble steps that had followed in his triumphal march.
The plaza fell silent.
His voice rang out like thunder, carried by brass speakers hidden in the colonnades.
"People of Romanus! Sons of Latinium! Daughters of Carthage! Hear me!"
The square erupted in cheers again, but Julius raised his hand and they obeyed, silencing themselves instantly.
"We have returned victorious not with chains of conquest — but with unity. We have made an empire not from the sword, but from the will of the people. From peace where there could have been ruin. From faith in one another, rather than fear of one another."
"And today, we stand on the edge of a new world. Ramie has fallen. Carthage stands with us. The borders have been redrawn, and our destiny is clear."
"But there are still those who steal from us. Who imprison what is ours. Who defile peace in the name of pride and selfish power."
His hand clenched at his side.
"The Francian prince holds one of our own. And though they may believe distance and title protect them — we will show them otherwise."
The crowd held its breath.
Julius raised the laurel crown in the sunlight.
"This crown is not just for me. It is for every citizen who has stood tall, for every soldier who has bled, and for every heart that beats for Romanus!"
The people roared, a sound so loud it shook the birds from the rooftops and cracked a window high above.
Julius turned, walked to Serena, and placed the laurel upon her brow instead.
Their war-born queen.
Together, they had returned.
Together, they would rise.
And together, they would bring fires of war to the west.