He imagined he’d be looking over the battlefield, smiling as his soldiers massacred the enemy. But he couldn’t afford to sit it out. Nothing made men fight harder than being shoulder to shoulder with their czar. And if that meant a higher chance of victory, then he’d be right with them in the slaughter.

Maybe he’d failed long ago. His victory was hanging by a thin thread he called hope. But he’d rather die than live with the failure of his lifelong work.

His people paid taxes, a share of their produce or profit every year. They paid to be protected. When he went to war, they paid again, this time with their blood and their sons. Each time he passed by the soldiers, he expected them to throw their arms aside, toss him a despicable look and tell him to go fight for his dreams of conquest on his own.

Hundreds of thousands followed his command. Each time he uttered a word, he waited for a moment expecting them to refuse, to leave, to challenge him at least. But they didn’t. To the outside, he was the czar, the divine heir. But he understood his own mortality, his own frailty, and the fact that he was no different than any other man in his army. Yet they valued his life more than theirs and his word more than their own.

This was the day he transcended above that. For if he won, he would become a god, not just in theirs but in his own eyes as well.

Roman knew he couldn’t take his men to invade. The morale of the conqueror is always weaker than that of the defender. He let his own country get ravaged. He let his own people suffer for his dreams. His father found out that you don’t need to be able to become a wolf or read people’s thoughts or make plants grow to become a god.

You need them to believe you are one.

A small victory wouldn’t be enough today. Pushing the imperials back and making them retreat won’t give him the place in the history books he wanted. He needed to route them, to humiliate them, to have them begging for mercy, crawling in his feet. Only then could he win his broken statue, and only then could he become a god.

Roman’s cavalry, led by the royal guard, got in formation in the forest. Horses climbed over tree roots tangled like snakes. If they got assaulted here, it would mean their doom. Riders were getting in formation on the uneven terrain when the first shouts came. The fighting had started. Just as they were sitting in their saddles, listening to the song of birds, the infantry was engaging the imperials.

Far from enough to give them a good fight, but enough to sell the attack. Hopefully.