B3 Chapter 44: Step 1: ???, Step 2: Prophet

Marcus lifted his head to stare at the grinning god, not even attempting to hide his confusion. “A… prophet?”

“Yeah! You know, someone to spread the word and get everyone to worship me? That kind of thing,” Apollo clarified with a wave of his hand, the other still gripping the golden reins before him.

“I am familiar with the function of a prophet,” Marcus said carefully, moderating his tone so as not to offend. The god had seemed relatively laid back so far, but he wasn’t fool enough to test the limits of that attitude. “What confuses me, however, is why you would consider me to be a candidate at all, much less the best one. I haven’t exactly been a devout follower.”

“Hey, don’t sell yourself short!” The god grinned rakishly. “You’ve prayed to me twice! Oh, and you’re welcome for the assist on the second one, by the way.”

Marcus recalled the assault of the capital, when a divine shield had protected him from the priests of Arashim. “Yes, thank you for that. Those priests were… quite problematic.”

Apollo chuckled. “No problem. Would’ve been a waste to see you get vaporized. Besides, I’ve never cared for priests that have a stick up their asses like that.”

The god pulled on the reins, directing the swans before them into a turn. Marcus held tight to the shining chariot, doing his best not to look down as his footing tilted.

“But really, is it that strange?” Apollo gestured at the two of them. “You’re a bard, I’m a god of the arts. You tell stories, which aren’t too far off from oracles, even if they’re older news. You’re the whole reason the Legion is here in the first place, too, so there’s that. Heck, if you started busting out the light magic I’d say it’s perfect!”

Marcus wasn’t convinced. He didn’t particularly want to disagree with the god, but he couldn’t help but question his reasoning a bit further. “Surely you have more devout followers that would be a better fit, even in this world. I’ve met at least a few Legionnaires that have quite the interest and talent in the arts.”

“Bah,” Apollo waved him away. “Those guys are busy. And besides, I already said I’m not a big fan of the stuffy type of priests. You kind of have to have them, especially if you want anyone to keep the temples running, but still.”

The god locked eyes with Marcus. His golden irises seemed to bore into the bard’s very being, reading him without the slightest effort. Even with all of his rather appreciable charisma and skills, he knew that none of them would have the slightest chance of letting him deceive or influence this entity if he wanted to.

“You, on the other hand… I like what you’ve been doing. And I’m not just talking about your compositions, the one about Stonium is coming out quite nicely, by the way.” Apollo smiled. “You’re doing a lot more for the Legion than you may realize. Especially with regards to their reputation among the inhabitants of this world. Between that, advising them, and your constant presence among the men, you’ve allowed them to integrate into this world far more easily than they may have otherwise—and for this world to accept them, as well. Well, as though it had any choice.”

The god’s words served to reassure Marcus somewhat. He had certainly been trying to do all of those things, to some extent. But hearing that his efforts had not only borne fruit, but drawn the notice of a divinity? He’d been known to have a bit of an ego, and this certainly inflated it a touch more.

“So! Considering how well everything is going, I think it’s high time that we get you a promotion,” Apollo continued, his lip quirking as though he knew what Marcus was thinking. “Maybe recruit you to do a few personal favors for me on the side. It doesn’t have to be a serious commitment, I know how much trouble you have with those.”

A groan escaped Marcus. “Not you too…”

Apollo laughed. The bard stiffened as he remembered who exactly he was talking to, but the god just shot him what could only be described as a shit-eating grin. The divinity was making it quite difficult not to fire back.

“What would you ask me to do?” He asked instead.

Apollo held up his fingers. “Two things. One, find worshippers of other gods that are within my domain. Second, bring them around to the idea that their god is actually me. Simple.”

Marcus blinked, his brow furrowing. “So… you just want me to lie to them?”

He’d heard from the men some talk of this in the Legion’s old world. How gods from other cultures would be folded into their own, taken as aspects of a Roman god with a different name. But that was in their world. Here, it simply wasn’t how things worked. The gods were separate entities. And Marcus was rather certain they would take offense to their followers being poached.

The sun god waggled his hand back and forth. “It’s not really a lie. At least, it won’t be. Not once I subjugate their gods, at least. But that’s for me to worry about on the back end. For you, just floating the idea that Setsunaya, god of the morning light is actually just what I call myself in the mornings would be a good start. Stuff like that. The more people you convince, the better.”

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

The casual mention of subjugating other gods sent a chill down Marcus’s spine. The look in Apollo’s eyes didn’t give him the impression that it was a joke, either. Evidently, Rome’s pantheon had grown quite significantly in both size and influence as of late.

“That’s all?” Marcus pressed.

“That’s all,” Apollo confirmed. “None of this daily prayer or building temples nonsense. If you want to take it to the next level, we can talk about that later.

“And what would I get out of being your prophet?” Marcus queried. “Aside from not getting tossed out of this chariot right now.”

The god chuckled. “My heartfelt appreciation, of course. And there’s plenty more in it for you. You’ll get my blessing and a few more tools that are sure to make your life easier. There’s also the knowledge that a god has a vested interest in keeping you alive going forward, and not just for entertainment. Besides, you’d be doing me a favor, so I wouldn’t be opposed to returning one every once in a while.

Marcus considered the offer. It certainly didn’t sound too unlike what he’d already been doing. He’d just be adding on a little bit of extra footwork while he tagged along with the Legion on their conquests. Besides, peacefully converting people like this certainly sounded in line with his stated mission of reducing casualties from Rome’s expansion. Sure, the conversion might not be so peaceful on the divine side, but that was way above his pay grade anyway.

He sighed. Of course he was going to say yes. Though worship had never been exactly his thing. only a fool would turn down an offer like this from a literal god. Besides, it didn’t sound like it came with too many strings attached, and he had to admit some curiosity about these supposed tools.

“I will humbly accept this responsibility,” Marcus bowed once more, forgoing the usual flourish of his cape due to its mad fluttering in the wind. “Though I can’t promise that I’ll be the most inspiring of prophets, I can certainly do as you ask.”

“That’s all I’m really looking for.” The god nodded in satisfaction. “Well! That took a bit less convincing than I feared. Which means we’ve got a bit more time before I’ve got to cut this connection. So… what say you to catching up a bit, my loyal prophet? Any works in progress you’d be willing to give me a sneak peek at?”

Marcus stared at the golden-haired youth, not entirely certain whether he was being serious. “Really? I mean, I’m flattered, but—”

“Oh, don’t pretend to be humble. I told you we’re on a timer, so get on with it!”

Shaking his head, Marcus couldn’t help but chuckle at the absurdity of the situation. Then, he did as he’d been asked.

Over the next few minutes, he sang a few of his more polished drafts of new compositions. The god listened with closed eyes and a satisfied smile, his very skin seeming to glow as he took in the music. He particularly seemed to enjoy the tale of the fall of Habersville’s traitorous mayor. He even offered a few ideas and suggestions for parts of the melody that had given Marcus no end of trouble. Nothing so direct as to stifle his own creativity, though.

How long exactly they spent discussing the pieces, Marcus didn’t know. It could have been hours or simply minutes. Either way, it was… fun. The most fun he’d had in a long time.

He found himself relaxing around the god despite himself. Few were able to engage with his works on this level, much less willing to after his exile.

Eventually, Apollo glanced at the landscape below and sighed. “Well, looks like we’re just about done here. I suppose I should send you back.”

“I understand,” he nodded, adopting a more respectful tone once more. “Thank you for this opportunity, I feel as though I’ve learned much from this single conversation.”

“No problem. I’ve always preferred song to prayer, so helping my prophet improve his is the least I can do. Speaking of…”

Apollo lifted a finger and pressed it lightly against Marcus’s forehead. A pleasantly warm sensation emanated out from the spot, like a ray of summer sunshine.

“That should make it easier to call on me if you need it. Just don’t overdo it, all right?”

With that, the god grinned one more time. Then, he pushed.

Even the strength of the god’s single finger proved more than enough to send Marcus tumbling. He felt the wood of the chariot fall away as he fell backward, arms flailing in the nothingness. The wind carried off his scream as Apollo’s chariot rapidly shrank above him.

Suddenly, the world went dark as Marcus felt solid ground beneath him once again. He gasped, sitting bolt upright. He was in a darkened tent once more, the air filled with a commotion of running feet and shouting men.

He felt at himself. Everything seemed fine. His forehead still burned slightly, confirming that the vision had been more than a dream, but there hadn’t been any impact from this “fall”. One moment, he was falling through the air, and the next, he simply wasn’t. Perhaps he’d woken up before hitting the ground?

“Lord Marcus!”

Marcus turned his attention upward to see the shadowed form of a young Abel standing over him. The self-declared squire was breathing hard, his chest rising and falling nearly as fast as Marcus’s own. And in one hand, he wielded the bard’s own rapier, its fine blade glinting in a sliver of moonlight that leaked into the tent.

He stared up at the boy in confusion. “Abel? When did you—?”

The boy lunged forward, thrusting with the rapier. Marcus’s eyes widened. He dove to the side, his impressive dexterity stat easily carrying him out of harm’s way. But the attack put him on high alert.

Abel should’ve been in the capital, or at least with the Legionnaires Marcus had left behind. How in the world had he managed to catch up? Did he decide to seek revenge and try to kill Marcus for abandoning him?

The thought was quickly dispelled as Marcus saw the actual target of Abel’s strike. A small, shining carapace of black chitin that had been scuttling up the tent wall. As Abel flicked it off the blade, Marcus saw three more wriggle beneath the canvas and toward the boy.

“Milord, I suggest you prepare yourself. We’re under attack!”

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