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The sun will forever keep rising.
The sun’s bright today, but not particularly hot, which is not a usual occurrence. The roman sits in front of him, behind the table, completely at ease, his hair shining golden under the sun, his armor so clean it reflects the light blindingly.
He studies the roman’s face - too young for his age, but at the same time not young at all - timeless, original in its alien features. Every feature alone isn’t particularly unusual, but the combination of them and his blond hair make him not only foreign, but almost unearthly. He wonders if the roman really is roman. After all, he doesn’t look like one.
“Tell me about your city,” the roman says in his rich voice that doesn’t sound commanding, but somehow effortlessly encourages obedience nonetheless.
“Why would you want to know anything about it? My ruler is your client now, and so you have no need to pay attention to details,” he says quietly, keeping the tone reverent.
They say that the roman is called Magnus and so he must be revered. Not that he saw any evidence of reverence among the soldiers. Respect - yes, but not reverence. Maybe it has something to do with roman peculiar customs, they do have a tendency to speak significant words, but never follow them with actions.
“I like details,” the roman says and his eyes snap away from the map to his face.
The eyes seem remarkably bright, like they are on the verge of actually emitting light. It’s an illusion, of course, and yet those strange, almost otherworldly illusions keep piling up in his brain.
“The city of Emesa,” he begins dispassionately. “Is important because it holds the baetyl - the sacred stone. It is sent to us by our God - Elagabalus and so we worship it, just as we worship him.”
“Elagabalus?” the roman asks intently.
He says the name almost accurately, too accurately for a careless condescending roman. But then, is he? Is he?
“His name means the God of the Mountain, but he’s something of a sun God these days.”
“Sounds reasonable... After all, the sun is always up there, over the mountains. And everyone should worship it: it gives you life, guides you,” the roman - Magnus - smiles slowly, even his teeth seem unnaturally white. “It burns you, too.”
The words, delivered by the intense voice, ring in his head, not an omen, but a manifestation of reality. This man came from a land almost legendary and reshaped his world - the world. Everything changes at the nod of his head, he destroys and creates countries, he holds the lives of all the people here in his hands. It’s too much for a mere mortal. He simply mustn’t be mortal. After all, all the great conquerors are touched by divinity. Blessed with it, cursed with it.
“We do have sun-worshipers, too,” Magnus continues. “But I believe, my people should pay more attention to it.”
He’s caught by the light of Magnus’ eyes, unable to look away, unable to speak, unable to move. The light is bright but cold, the way the sun is today. Maybe it’s not a coincidence. Maybe he is the sun or maybe the sun is him - merciful and merciless at the same time. Coming here to punish them, as it so frequently does.
“They will, one day,” Magnus nods.
There’s a strange confidence in his voice, as if he knows something. But then, surely he does.
The commotion signals the necessary end of the conversation and Magnus stands up. It’s a fluid, precise motion - almost non-human in its grace. The sun shines on him, lights him up, and he seems painfully, ethereally bright.
A centurion approaches without any invitation, a cheeky smile on his face, and he catches the flash of anger in Magnus’ eyes. Tentatively, almost fearfully, he names it divine. Magnus’ anger, Magnus’ power is their undoing. It’s the wrath of the invincible God. Which God exactly, he prefers not to consider.
He watches the audacious centurion walk closer and shakes his head. Romans… They will destroy their Gods. But don’t they understand that the Gods will drag them down with them.