Chapter 14: Fire and Steel

The night sky above James's estate burned with orange and crimson, thick smoke rising like a signal of war. The mercenaries of Marcus Domitius, armed with swords, torches, and crude Roman shields, stormed through the main gates, cutting down anything in their path.

Varro stood atop the training grounds' wooden watchtower, his gladius drawn, eyes locked on the chaos below.

His men—former slaves turned warriors—were outnumbered two to one. But that didn't matter.

Because James had trained them for this.

"TO ARMS!" Varro roared. "DEFEND YOUR MASTER'S HOUSE!"

The thirty gladiators stationed at the villa—each one hardened by months of brutal training—moved like a disciplined unit.

Those with shields formed a defensive line near the courtyard.

Archers took position on the rooftops, loosing arrows into the invading forces.

Servants and weaker slaves rushed to put out the fires before they consumed the entire estate.

Varro leaped down into the fray, his blade flashing in the firelight.

The first mercenary lunged at him—Varro sidestepped, his gladius cutting deep into the man's gut.

Another rushed him with a war axe—Varro caught the strike on his bracer, twisting his opponent's wrist before snapping his neck with brutal efficiency.

The air was filled with screams, steel against steel, and the crackling of burning wood.

And James was not there to command them.

Far across the city, in the lavish halls of Crassus's estate, James sat among Rome's most powerful men, unaware that his home was under siege.

Crassus swirled his wine, eyeing James carefully. "James, Rome is built on three pillars—gold, power, and blood. You now have a taste of the first two."

Sulla smirked, leaning forward. "But do you have the stomach for the third?"

James kept his expression calm. "I've already spilled blood. And I'll spill more."

Caesar—silent for most of the meeting—finally spoke.

"Then tell me," he said, his voice measured. "Would you kill a friend if it meant securing your future?"

The room fell silent.

James met Caesar's piercing gaze. He knew what this was—a test.

His smirk never wavered. "A wise man once said: Rome has no friends. Only allies… and corpses."

A moment of tense silence—then Sulla let out a booming laugh.

Crassus grinned. "You might just survive in this city after all."

James lifted his goblet, about to drink—

Then—

The doors BURST open.

A bloodied guard stumbled in, panting heavily. "Master James—your estate—it's under attack!"

Angela's breath caught. "What?!"

James stood instantly, his goblet shattering against the marble floor.

Crassus and the others remained calm, as if watching a play unfold.

James glared at Crassus. "Did you know about this?"

Crassus sipped his wine. "If I did, would that change anything?"

James's fists tightened. He knew what this was now.

This wasn't just an attack.

This was a test.

If I cannot defend my own home, I am unworthy of their respect.

James turned on his heel, already rushing for the exit.

Angela followed, her voice shaking. "Master—if they've already breached the gates—"

James cut her off. "Then we kill every last one of them."

James and Angela raced through the streets of Rome, their chariot whipping through the torch-lit alleys.

His mind was already working. "Domitius expected me to be at this banquet. He wanted me away when he struck."

Angela gripped the chariot's side. "Master, what if it's too late?"

James's golden eyes burned.

"Then we make an example out of whoever survives."

By the time James arrived, the outer courtyard was drenched in blood. His men—though outnumbered—were holding their ground.

Varro, his armor smeared with red, turned as James stormed into the battlefield.

"MASTER!" he called. "We're holding them back, but they keep coming!"

James surveyed the field.

Fires raged. Corpses littered the ground.

The mercenary leader, Titus Marcellus, stood at the rear of the invading force, barking orders.

James pointed his gladius at him.

"He's mine."

Varro grinned. "Then let's clear a path."

James and Varro charged together, cutting through the remaining attackers like wolves among sheep.

James ducked under a spear thrust, slashing his sword across his enemy's throat.

Varro parried a blow, kicking a man's knee backward with a sickening crunch.

Titus Marcellus saw them coming—but too late.

He turned to run.

James threw his gladius—

THUNK!

The blade pierced Titus's back, sending him collapsing to the ground.

James strode forward, pulling his weapon free.

Titus coughed blood, looking up in disbelief. "You… you weren't supposed to be here…"

James knelt beside him, voice a whisper.

"And yet… here I am."

Then—without hesitation—James drove his sword into the man's heart.

The remaining mercenaries saw their leader fall—and fled into the night.

The battle was over.

But war had just begun.

The next morning, as Rome awoke to whispers of the attack, a sealed letter arrived at Marcus Domitius's estate.

The noble opened it, reading the message within.

"Your move failed. Try again, and I will burn your house next."

No signature.

Just James Stone's mark, pressed into the wax seal.

Domitius crushed the parchment in his fist, his teeth grinding.

"So," he whispered. "It's war, then?"

He turned to his steward. "Send a messenger to Pompey. Tell him we have a mutual enemy."

The game had changed.

Now, Rome itself would decide the victor.

Back at his estate, James stood on the scorched balcony, looking at the rebuilding efforts below.

Angela stood beside him. "What now, Master?"

James's golden eyes gleamed.

"Now?" He smirked.

"Now, we prepare for the next battle."

Because this was no longer just about survival.

This was about taking Rome itself.

And James Stone never lost.