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Octavian didn’t like the look of the tower. For a supportive and useful ally… they didn’t look very Roman with their modern designs and sleek lines and glass walls. No, no, not Roman at all.
He disliked it, the letting go of their heritage in favour of such modern trappings, but he needed money and well, beggars couldn’t be choosers and the Triumvirate could prove to be very useful going forward. They had money, connections, and supplies. Everything he needed? They had. And they knew it.
At least they were conveniently placed, Octavian couldn’t bear it if he’d have to have gone to Nebraska or Oklahoma and back to New York again to crush the Greek Camp in time and deal with the appropriate fall out from that. It would be problematic, the logistics alone would eat up crucial time and resources that he couldn’t expend without the Triumvirate’s assistance.
It was possible, of course, since it was his duty as a Roman and as the closest thing to Praetor they had since Reyna betrayed them and the less said of Jackson and Grace, the better. Unfortunately, due to the rules, he couldn’t become Praetor in an official capacity until after they returned to New Rome and brought the traitors to justice.
The receptionist directed him to an elevator which felt as cold and impersonal as everything else in the building. That was fine, he was here for a business deal, not dinner. He didn’t need personal. He needed results. And he was going to get them here.
Eventually he made his way up to the meeting room which was… a throne room. An honest to gods throne room.
Octavian had never been to Olympus, but he wouldn’t have been surprised if this was… at least inspired by it. There weren’t any human torches, which was a relief. He hadn’t been sure if his stomach would’ve been able to handle that. Then again, it was less socially acceptable to execute Christians on their religion alone these days.
Three thrones stood at the dias, the centre one clearly the only one intended to be there originally, judging by the closeness and how much the side chairs were mismatched to the centre one.
Three men sat on them, all vaguely unimpressive but somehow terrifying, like they were all looking at him like he was a gnat to be crushed under their boots. And the power they were radiating, it was like it was crushing him in, forcing him to walk towards them and kneel. There was some power in them. Something he didn’t understand, nor could he explain, but there was something ancient and dangerous in their unnatural eyes, and deadened skin that glowed a little iridescent, strangely reminding him of a pigeon’s neck more than anything else, out of the corner of his eye.
He had a duty to do. He knelt. “My lords, it is an honour to meet you in person. Your headquarters are very impressive and-” He was cut off by a wave of the hand from the centre man, rising from his chair.
“Thank you. We understand you wish to make a deal?” His accent was modern. Or more modern than he’d been expecting. He sounded like a businessman from the eighties, according to any tv show Octavian had indulged in, but only in his free time, or when he was on leave from the Twelfth Legion.
Octavian stared at the floor between his bent knees and tried to form the correct sentences to get what he wanted. “New Rome was fired on. The legacy of the gods, destroyed by some upstart Greek.” It was a disgrace, and a shame to him. He had warned her, he had warned Reyna, but she hadn’t listened. And Jason Grace had betrayed them for such a group And Levesque, and Zhang, but that was less demoralising given that they hadn’t been very important in the legion to begin with. And it saved him dealing with Zhang as a centurion too, which was a relief.
“You want revenge.” He had no idea why he was so scared. It was some powerful deity, yes. But he had met Mars, Lupa, and Apollo. Why was he scared of such a little man who couldn’t even invest in some propecia? With a truly gaudy colour palate also. Yes, purple was the colour of emperors, of royalty, but other colours existed too. Like gold, perhaps? It wasn’t his job to give a makeover to a god though, and this one was hardly the one committing the most crimes against passion in the room. Technically, aside from Octavian, he was the best dressed. And they were gods, if they thought it was appropriate to dress thusly, then they ought to do so. But it did make his brain hurt a little.
As if he had been heard in his head, they were suddenly all staring at him like he had walked out of a bathroom with toilet paper attached to his foot. He resisted the urge to fidget and relieve his stress. “The Twelfth Legion wants to exact our revenge. This is why I ask for your assistance. All of you were sworn members at one point. Your service demands it!” Maybe it was a misstep, or a faux-pas, or he’d erred - certainly he wouldn’t have addressed Mars, or gods forbid: Jupiter - with the same lack of respect and awe, but he needed them to understand exactly what he meant, and exactly what was owed, both to the Legion, and to him.
He could’ve sworn that the room got five degrees colder. The urge to run was almost overwhelming, every shift of his foot trying to point to the door. They were muttering, up there, pointing at him and using forgotten curses in frustration.
It went so quiet you could hear a pin drop. The middle man rose again, arms outstretched, delivering the verdict. “Very well. We shall assist you against the Greeks. And we will win.”