Chapter 13: Forging an Army

The city of Rome was still buzzing with talk of the Venatio. In every marketplace, bathhouse, and noble gathering, people spoke of James Stone's rising influence.

Some called him a bold new player in Rome's political game. Others whispered that he was dangerous and unpredictable—a man with too much ambition for someone of his status.

James sat in his villa's grand hall, the smell of fresh bread and roasted meat filling the air as he picked at his breakfast. Across from him, Angela stood with a scroll in hand, her face filled with concern.

"Master," she said, placing the scroll on the table. "This is from Crassus."

James took the parchment, broke the red wax seal, and read silently.

After a few moments, his lips curled into a smirk.

Angela frowned. "What does it say?"

James leaned back in his chair. "Crassus has invited me to a private gathering of Rome's most powerful men."

Angela's expression darkened. "And you think this is a good thing?"

James chuckled. "It means I'm getting closer to true power."

But before he could continue, a knock came at the door.

A guard entered and bowed deeply. "Master, Varro has returned. He brings news from the training grounds."

James stood immediately. "Then let's go."

Angela followed, her heart pounding. "Something tells me things are about to change."

The training grounds were filled with grunts, the clang of iron, and the rhythmic stomping of boots on sand.

James watched from the wooden platform, arms crossed, as thirty of his strongest slaves trained under Varro's command.

Groups of men sparred with gladii, their movements sharper than before.

Others lifted weighted stones, increasing their endurance and power.

A small squad practiced archery, using crude bows James had ordered crafted.

They were no longer just slaves or gladiators.

They were becoming soldiers.

Varro approached, sweat dripping from his brow. "Master, training is progressing well. The men are stronger. More disciplined."

James nodded, satisfied. "Good. We'll need them soon."

Angela stood beside him, arms crossed. "But what for, Master? The arena?"

James shook his head. "No. For war."

Varro's eyes lit up with understanding. "You're preparing for more than just gladiator fights."

James grinned. "Exactly. A slave in the arena is nothing. But a slave with a sword and loyalty? That's an army."

He turned to his growing force.

"You are not just warriors. You are the first of what will be Rome's greatest private army."

Murmurs of excitement and determination rippled through the men.

Angela, however, looked uneasy. "Master, if the Senate discovers you're raising an army…"

James smirked. "By the time they realize it, it'll be too late."

But as he watched his men train, a single thought burned in his mind.

"Marcus Domitius won't stay silent after he fails in the arena. He will strike back. And when he does… I will be ready."

Meanwhile, in a darkened villa across the city, Marcus Domitius sat in seething silence.

The mercenary leader before him—a grizzled man named Titus Marcellus—shifted uncomfortably.

"You asked for me, Dominus?" Titus murmured.

Domitius's eyes gleamed coldly. "Yes. I have a job for you."

Titus hesitated. "What kind of job?"

Domitius stood, pouring himself a goblet of wine. "James Stone humiliated me in the arena. I want his empire torn apart before it can grow further."

Titus raised an eyebrow. "And how do you propose we do that?"

Domitius turned, his smile sharp as a dagger.

"We start by burning his estate to the ground."

Titus grinned. "Ah. Now that's a job I can enjoy."

Later that evening, James and Angela arrived at Crassus's grand estate, where a select gathering of Rome's elite awaited.

The banquet hall was lavish—golden plates, silk banners, and the finest wine Rome could offer. But the true power in the room was not in the decorations.

It was in the men who sat at the table.

Crassus—the richest man in Rome, his influence stretching from the Senate to the streets.

Quintus Caecilius Metellus—a veteran Senator, skilled in political manipulation.

Lucius Cornelius Sulla—a former consul with ambitions to reshape Rome.

Julius Caesar—a young but ambitious noble, watching everything carefully.

James sat at the table, keeping his expression measured. He was in the lion's den now.

Crassus raised his goblet. "To new blood in Rome."

The men drank, but their eyes never left James.

Sulla was the first to speak. "James, you are… an interesting man. A slaveholder with the mind of a tactician."

James smirked. "I take that as a compliment."

Sulla chuckled. "You should. But tell me—what is it that you truly want?"

James set his goblet down. "Power. Security. The right to carve my destiny in Rome."

The men exchanged knowing glances.

Caesar leaned forward, his young eyes filled with sharp intelligence. "Then you will need allies. Men who can help you rise beyond the arena."

James met his gaze. "And what do you propose?"

Crassus smirked. "War is coming, James. The Senate is weak, the generals are restless. Rome will soon be ruled by the strongest faction."

Sulla nodded. "And you have a rare opportunity. If you build your forces correctly, you could be a player in that war."

James exhaled slowly. "So this is it. This is the real game."

Angela tensed beside him. "Master… this is dangerous."

James lifted his goblet.

"Then tell me, gentlemen… which side is worth fighting for?"

Back at James's villa, Varro patrolled the training grounds, watching over their growing forces.

Then—

A torch sailed through the air.

CRASH!

Flames erupted against the walls of the estate, the fire spreading fast.

Varro's eyes widened. "AMBUSH!"

From the darkness beyond the gates, mercenaries flooded in, weapons drawn.

The attack had begun.

And James was miles away, surrounded by Rome's most powerful men.