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Octavian is a faithful servant of the Gods. He always has been, he always will be. Ever since the previous Augur, a man with laugh lines and crow's feet by the name Bonifatius, had clapped a hand on his shoulder and forsaw that Octavian would serve unto death.
He did not expect much in return, from the Gods. That was the way of things, Bonifatius had told him. The Gods will shine upon whom they enjoy, but will also disgrace whoever displeases them. The safest way to live is to serve faithfully and carefully, to fly between sea and sky, never letting arrogance nor apathy take control.
He did not expect much, and so when his Lord Apollo visited him in his dreams, the winter after the success of Mt Orthys, he was taken by surprise. His Lord spoke of greatness, eyes shimmering the jade colour of prophecy. When Jason disappeared, his Lord soothed in a rock-salt rasp that this was all meant to be, that all would be made right soon enough. When the Graecus muscled his way into New Rome, into a quest, his Lord hissed in anger. Anger at the Graecus, and anger at Octavian, for allowing such a thing.
Many nights passed without Lord Apollo's guidance. Octavian spent many days in prayer, feeling as a drowned sailor must, before the answer was revealed to him.
He must destroy the Graeci. Surely that would make him worthy of Apollo's greatness once more. Worthy of the sun's embrace. All his thoughts were consumed by this revelation, every breath turned towards this goal.
And his Lord Apollo returned, warning him of the flying ship and the danger it contained. Warning that Jason was no longer to be trusted, that the charm-speaking girl of Venus had pulled him away with honey-sweet words; warning of the violent boy of Vulcan, as unpredictable as his flames, all in his soothing, gravel voice.
He pursued the ship, sure in his goal, until his Lord rumbled something in his ear, pointing him towards allies in his cause. Octavian shook powerful hands, promised soldiers in exchange for the money and weapons his army needed, and tried to feel nothing at all about the way the not-quite-gods looked at him, the way their eyes widen when they heard of his gift. His Lord had ordered him to make an alliance, and Octavian was a faithful servant.
Nobody else seemed to be. The Graeci were weak, obsessed with talk when the only things on their mind should be surrender. Like the healer boy, golden-haired and melodic-voiced, if he'd bent the knee, Octavian might have offered him opportunity, since they are kin. He had refused, so the only option was death, the same death offered to his fellows.
Octavian has always been a faithful servant. He has always known this. But as he flies towards the earthen goddess on wings of fire, as he hears her rock-salt voice screech in agony and disbelief, he thinks he could've been a better one.
Maybe one who really could feel the sun's embrace.