For the Glory of Rome: Chronicles of an Isekai'd Legion-Chapter 53B3 : Where Time Wanders To And Fro

B3 Chapter 53: Where Time Wanders To And Fro

The camp burst into tightly controlled chaos. Legionnaires swarmed the paths as they wheeled toward their battle positions. Tents and semi-permanent structures seemed to collapse in on themselves as they were stowed away for a possible retreat. Even the mountains themselves seemed to come alive as soldiers scaled the rocky faces like goats to take up positions.

This battle would not be like the last. Previously, the orcs had attacked a small contingent, merely a century or two. But here, the Legion’s greater numbers would make their defenses much more difficult to pressure.

That was why Marcus was not heading toward the battlefront quite yet. He had a quick stop to make—something he’d been hoping to take care of for a long time. And given that he was about to throw himself into harm’s way once again, he would very much prefer to have a good idea of what new tricks he had up his sleeve. That, or find out how fucked he’d actually be.

His steps hastened toward the rough black monolith that jutted out of the earth near the command tent. Given how acclimated he was to the Legionnaires at this point, he had little issue dodging out of the way as the armored soldiers darted to and fro.

As it turned out, the Legionnaires had chosen this spot for their camp rather specifically. It was the remains of a now-destroyed orc village. One that had settled itself around a class stone.

Without delay, Marcus slapped his hand against the glassy surface of the stone, taking care to avoid the sharp edges that hadn’t been shaved down. The quick flash of golden light quickly coalesced into a familiar screen.

Information:

Name: Marcus Silvanus D'Angelo

Age: 23

Class: Royal Bard (Rare)

Level: 31

Experience: 160 / 3,100

Stats:

Strength: 5

Dexterity: 41

Constitution: 6

Charisma: 82

Wisdom: 13

Intelligence: 11

Free Points: 1

Titles:

Chronicler of Novara

Dashing Dastard

Traveler of Novara

Harbinger of Rome

Crowd Favorite

Chronicler of Legends

Chosen of Apollo

Skills:

[Magnetic Presence] (Rare) - Lvl

[Silver Tongue] (Epic) - Lvl 9

[Appraisal] (Uncommon) - Lvl 32

[Sleight of Hand] (Common) - Lvl 45

[Inspirational Song] (Rare) - Lvl 17

[Critical Reception] (Rare) - Lvl 14

[Spellcraft] (Uncommon) - Lvl 4

[Illusory Domain] (Rare) - Lvl 1

[Diplomacy] (Uncommon) - Lvl 10

[Mythchaser] (Rare) - Lvl 3

Another level. Not only that, but his skills had seen growth across the board, although some more than others. In particular, his people-pleasing skills seemed to have benefitted greatly from all the peacemaking he’d been involved in as of late. iIt was quite a windfall, even if Marcus honestly was becoming a bit desensitized to it at this point. Though he expected that both [Mythchaser] and [Magnetic Presence] to see further gains in the near future, assuming all went well.

He quickly dumped his free point into dexterity in hopes that it would improve his speed further. That seemed like a more immediately pressing survival issue than increasing his already monstrous charisma. Then, he took a deep breath and fixed his gaze on his titles.

Any suspicions that his encounter with Apollo had been just a dream were immediately put to rest. Chosen of Apollo. Still, it was a bit more grandiose and weighty than Marcus had expected, given the relatively casual nature of their agreement. And when he focused on it, the description that appeared… Well. It continued that trend.

[Chosen of Apollo]:

May the hour find you amidst a confluence of hesitating moments,

Where time wanders to and fro,

Splitting and rejoining as its manifold paths crumble and form before its very feet.

May your songs flutter upon the wind,

Scattering upon its gentle breaths,

Stolen story; please report.

Nesting within the hearts of all those who are able to hear.

May heads bow toward you,

To worship and to listen,

As quicksilver words slip through their supplicating hands.

Ships shall drift on distant horizons,

Bearing scars, bearing banners, bearing men,

Their destinations among the vast oceans incomprehensible.

Yet their captains guide them nonetheless,

Through turbulent waters, through treacherous reefs, through storms sent by the heavens themselves,

As you find yourself counting sails.

The antiquity of the future and unfinished drafts of the past

Both weave together in this borrowed present,

Their weight as snowflakes softly gathering upon stiffening shoulders.

Behold the world through the broken mirror,

Still and patient as he who waits for the end of days,

Or curious as a child eager to send the kaleidoscope tumbling once more.

Chronicler of times since past,

Harbinger of times yet to come,

Speak unto the masses once more.

Such is the role and the blessing

Of he who illuminates all.

Marcus was no rube. He was an artist, a musician, a man who harbored a deep appreciation for poetry and the like. It was one of the reasons he and Apollo had gotten along so well, as strange as it was to say such a thing about a god.

Unfortunately, Marcus wasn't exactly in the mood. The growing sound of hoots and hollers echoing through the mountains made it rather difficult to appreciate poetry. The title's description was no doubt filled with cleverly worded and thematic motifs that hinted at its effects and true abilities. But unpacking all of that right now was a bit more than he particularly wanted to handle.

He skimmed to the bottom of the wall of text, hoping for a summarization of the blessing’s effects, but to no avail. He internally cursed the cheeky sun god. Had this really been necessary? Descriptions were supposed to be informative, damn it!

With a few choice words for his new patron, Marcus read through as quickly as he could. He managed to glean at least a little information from the text. The first part confirmed one of his initial suspicions by suggesting that his performances would have increased effects on his audiences. At least, that was what it seemed like. How else was he supposed to interpret his songs nesting within people’s hearts? Though the part about “worship” did certainly give him pause.

As for the rest… it certainly seemed to suggest some sort of prophetic powers or ability to receive visions. But the details of how it worked and when remained incredibly opaque. Perhaps that was only to be expected, though. [Oracles] and the like had never exactly been known for their directness.

He didn't have time to delve further into his skills at the moment. Not that he particularly wanted to change them up at the moment. Besides, after all the evolutions he'd earned during Novara's siege, it wasn't likely he'd have gotten more already.

With that all taken care of, his hand slipped from the stone as he began running for the front lines. A faint glow of gold drifted off the soles of his feet, hastening his movements further as he headed toward the nexus of activity.

Gaius stood before a considerably more flat map and busied himself with directing his centurions as they buzzed about in preparation. A short distance away , Marcus spotted the Primus Pilus arranging his men before the chokepoint. The mountains above seemed to crawl with activity as more Legionnaires scaled their rocky faces, occasionally stopping to jam their spears into crevices.

Marcus didn't have time to simply gawk, however. He halted before the young Legatus. “Done. Now, where would you like me?”

“Up the pass to the northwest,” Gaius immediately answered. He tapped the map to illustrate. “We'll collapse the mountain on them once they come through here. Then, you'll be responsible for leading the rear of their group around this path until we're certain that we have things under control.

Gaius looked over and nodded toward a group of eight Legionnaires beside him. “These men will protect you.”

Marcus raised an eyebrow. “I mean no offense, but… will they be able to keep up? My role is quite the opposite of rushing into battle like you and yours tend to specialize in.”

The centurion that led the group snorted. His voice rasped like sandpaper on an old smokepipe. “That's why you're going on this path. Lets us run toward the orcs damn near the whole time, though there's a couple spots where it'll get dicey.”

Marcus nodded, eyeing the winding path. Dicey was one way to put it. The innocent stream of green lights pouring down the map made everything seem so doable, so far removed from reality. Marcus could almost convince himself that those lights didn't represent a mass of bodies barreling towards them like a river unleashed. Almost.

“If you're worried about anyone keeping up, it should be your shadow, not us.” The centurion nodded behind him.

Marcus blinked, then followed his gaze. Sure enough, the figure of a young boy astride his horse approached, doing his best to weave and dodge the men below. Abel sat as tall as he could manage, his posture stiff and chin held high. “Milord. Is there any way I can assist you?”

The answer was obviously no. Marcus had honestly forgotten about the boy amidst all the chaos—something that he really had to stop doing. Either way, he’d already made it clear that this conflict was not his place to contribute.

Marcus opened his mouth. “Abel—”

“No. Absolutely not.” The centurion shut the boy down before Marcus could speak further. “Watching over the bard will be enough. I’ll not have my men mothering your apprentice as well.”

The words caused a bit of color to rise to Abel’s cheeks. “I can keep up.”

The centurion spat to the side, eyeing the boy. "With what? Do you have a marching skill? Distance running? Because I guarantee that horse of yours will snap its legs if it can even get around.”

“I’ve been working with horses since before I could walk,” Abel objected. His mount whinnied as though in agreement. “My father was a member of the Charging Light Brigade, before…”

“I don’t give two shits what your father did. You’re a liability, kid. Until you get some proper training and equipment, you might as well still be a babe toddling around the battlefield.”

“Funny,” Marcus cut the man off with a wry smile. “I thought your culture was rather supportive of the youth learning to fight.”

Regardless of whether or not the centurion had a point, Marcus felt the need to defend his young charge. Especially given what he’d gone through to get here.

The centurion waved the criticism off. “Learning, not throwing themselves on an enemy’s spear.”

“And he has done no such thing,” Marcus pointed out. “Perhaps you just worry that young Abel will gain a class superior to your own once he comes of age?”

The centurion’s eyes widened. “He doesn’t even have skills? Shit, kid—”

An explosion tore through the air. Marcus’s head whipped up in time to see one of the nearby mountains slide sideways, crumbling into the valley below.

“That’s your cue,” Gaius confirmed. “Get a move on!”

Marcus wanted to continue the conversation, but there was simply no time. He turned to Abel as the boy simmered in his discontent. “Stay here. Go report to Gaius that we are off and help with whatever he needs. I’ll be back soon, and we’ll talk then.”

The boy was clearly less than pleased with the development. Regardless, he managed a stiff nod as Marcus began to rush forward with his Legionnaires. The landscape blurred around the group as their skills carried them forth with supernatural speed. To his surprise, the gruff centurion spoke up once they were some distance away.

“You've got to get your boy properly equipped,” the legionnaire said, reprimanding Marcus as if he disapproved of his parenting ability. “He’s liable to find himself in trouble sooner rather than later. And how did he even get a horse up here anyway?”

“Stubbornness and a lot of patience,” Marcus said flatly. “Now come. We have trouble of our own to find.”