For the Glory of Rome: Chronicles of an Isekai'd Legion

Baron von Latimore rubbed his temples tiredly and closing his eyes, Dark bags hung below them, their appearance one of many unwelcome surprises he'd received as of late. Despite the exhaustion, he considered whether he should perhaps cut back on the strong tea in the mornings, as the caffeine was starting to give him headaches. Of course, the idea that his daily caffeine consumption was the sole cause of his splitting migraine was just wishful thinking.

On his desk lay a pair of opened letters—one was written simply on crisp white stationery, while the other's fanciful looped handwriting made it difficult to read. Across from him sat a haunted-looking woman dressed in tight black leathers and heavy makeup. It did little to hide the puffy redness of her eyes. If he thought he looked tired, then her expression spoke of an even deeper exhaustion.

Still, despite the tears that the [Rogue]had obviously been shedding—in private, as he had yet to see her cry in person—there was a certain fire behind her gaze. A ferocity hidden beneath that hollow look. It made it abundantly clear that this woman, who had seemed so airheaded only a week ago, had fundamentally changed into something more dangerous and unpredictable.

Not that the danger came from a change in her level. His people had confirmed that it, at least, remained the same. But he certainly wouldn't want to be the recipient of her ire. Even if that ire was currently one more thing contributing to his headache.

He let his hands fall to the desk with a sigh, folding them atop one another. "Sharath. While I appreciate your… enthusiasm…there really is only so much I can do here."

"And I'm saying it's not enough," she hissed. "This is your fucking land. They took your fucking town, and you're just going to let them get away with it?"

"That is not my intention," the baron corrected. "I do intend to deal with the problem. But with the resources I have at my disposal, I can't afford to act now."

Sharath's scowl deepened. "That's the best you can do? Sit on your laurels and wait? My sister died to bring you this information."

"Watch your tone," The baron warned. The [Rogue] had been getting far too familiar for his liking. While he'd afforded her some leeway on account of her recent loss and willingness to work for free. This was a step too far. Especially given his current irritable state.

Sharath continued glaring daggers at him, but shut her mouth. Her hand twitched in what seemed to be a subconscious motion, as though she were playing with a knife that wasn't there.

He straightened in his seat. He sympathized. He really did. The fact that her death came as a result of his orders filled him with no small measure of guilt, as well. Such things were inevitable, of course—a lesson his father had instilled in him early on—but regrettable nonetheless. Even hearing about guards falling in deadly encounters with particularly vicious bandits had never lost its sting.

He met Sharath's glare with a level look of his own. It took an effort to ensure his own words affected a tone befitting of his station. "As I said, I do intend to act. However, my forces are already stretched rather thin. I've requested additional aid from the duke, but with the current war efforts…"

Baron von Latimore shrugged helplessly and gestured to the first letter on his desk. That was the first bit of bad news he'd received today—a response from the duke.

He'd sent the man an update regarding the developments at Habersville as soon as Sharath had returned. Not because he particularly bought the woman's tales of this strange army's strength, of course. But rather because their numbers were certainly concerning enough to be an issue on their own. Such a large force could only be fielded by another country, yet who would send one of this size? Especially to a backwater like Habersville?

He'd been hesitant, given that asking for help could be seen as an admission of failure. Unfortunately, the response had only confirmed what he suspected. The current state of the duke's forces was even more dire than before, meaning he couldn't spare the resources for a problem like this. And considering that the man had already given him some financial assistance with an expectation that it would be enough… well, the man wasn't exactly happy to hear that the problem was bigger than initially assumed.

Sharath scoffed at his explanation. "Honestly. If the war's rendered everyone this weak, then maybe Novara deserves to lose…"

The baron frowned at that. Her words were dangerously close to treason. However, he had no reason to believe that she would actively work against the kingdom—especially not now that it was her only hope of exacting revenge against this strange army.

He glanced down at the second letter on his desk. The loopy, overly-flowery script had come in not long ago from Habersville itself. Evidently, the town's mayor had managed to sneak out a message somehow. He was similarly requesting aid against the invaders, albeit alongside welcome news that a significant portion of their forces had departed for the moment.

It would have been a spot of good news among all of the bad if not for the fact that the requested aid was completely unreasonable—in fact, it was on a scale that he doubted even the duke could give.

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The baron scowled down at the letter again. This fool of a mayor must have thought that he was the king himself to muster such forces—and in such a short time, too. It was completely unreasonable.

He sighed, rubbing his temples once again. It couldn't be helped. While he certainly wouldn't meet the mayor's exorbitant demands, he'd need to send what he could. But any aid he sent toward the east would have to wait, at least for a little bit. He'd once more need to gather the funds required to hire whatever adventurers he could find, a pool which was becoming increasingly expensive and difficult to draw from.

Fortunately, he would still be able to leverage the duke's help, since the man had a vested interest in getting Habersville reclaimed. But what little forces they had left were needed to garrison their keeps and do semi-regular patrols. An army of level ones, no matter how dangerous this woman and the mayor claimed they were, simply wasn't something that could justify abandoning those.

For now, they could afford to throw more money at the problem. But as he'd told the [Rogue], it would take time. Time and careful evaluation.

None of which Of course, none of that prepared him for the notification which appeared before his eyes.

[The town of Stonewake has been seized!]

King Gerald, ruler of the Novaran Kingdom, defender of humanity and all that, was taking a break. The man nibbled on the wedge of cheese as he lounged in his private garden. The tart taste of cranberries embedded in the aged goat's milk perfectly offset the high amount of tannin in the wine that his sommelier had paired expertly with it.

Despite all outward appearances, however, King Gerald was not having nearly as much fun as he should've been. It was his break week, after all, one that he'd certainly earned after a long, hard month of maintaining court and dealing with all the random bullshit that came along with ruling a kingdom that covered a good quarter of the continent.

Given all of that, he felt like he deserved some real time off—time where he didn't have to talk with anyone or about anything he didn't want to. It was why his servants had been instructed not to bring up any topics related to kingdom business or other such serious topics. No, the only things he wanted to speak about were whatever amusement he was currently distracting himself with.

So far, it had been mostly working. But so many matters continued to peter the edges of his thoughts. Not that they were particularly worth worrying about of course. They were more… annoyances.

The war in the west had all of hid generals running about like chickens with their heads cut off, but that was nothing new. Generals were always busy during times of conflict. It was why he had little patience for their litanies of problems and complaints. What good were they for if not fighting? Surely they'd had enough experience fighting the orcs that they had all of those issues smoothed out by now?

The king put down the wedge of cheese and picked one of the crackers with no seeds on it. The seeds always got stuck in his teeth, and it was annoying to have to get a toothpick or the royal dentist to come out and fix them. Better to just stick with the non-seeded crackers—they went better with the cheese anyway.

Regardless of his generals's worries, the war wasn't a big deal. They'd been fighting off the orcs for decades now with no problems, and he saw no reason why there should be any now. Especially with all of the levels their military usually got from defeating the hordes of enemies thrown at them. It was always enough to raise their army's average level quite significantly.

Sure, his generals complained about the unique difficulties of this particular army—how they rendered many of their usual skills and tactics useless—but they always did. That, too, was nothing new. Generals in the past had managed just fine, so why couldn't they?

He nibbled on his cracker, slowly turning it into a circle until he had finished eating all the edges, then he put it on the pile of finished crackers to his other side. This supposed "new war" had also caused him no end of headaches, enough that he had even found gray hair in his beard. Having to break out beard dyes this early in his life was just unacceptable. Especially over something like this.

It wasn't even an actual war. They had yet to send any troops to the east, in part because nothing had even happened there. Aside from them losing some inconsequential little town, he had barely any reason to believe that there even was a threat. This could very well just be some group of upstarts who had gotten full of themselves or even someone playing a particularly dangerous prank. He wouldn't know until Duke Mark got his act together and actually dealt with the problem.

The fact that he hadn't heard an update from the man suggested that it was still a problem—for whatever reason. It certainly called that old coward's competence into question. He expected to have received a notification about the war being over or, better yet, some indication that this "Roman Emperor"—what was his name? Tibbers?—had died.

But the lack of developments, good or bad, hadn't stopped the court from talking. Not even close. That was all they ever did, really—talk, talk, talk. That and worry needlessly. What would they do about being attacked from multiple sides? How would they ever fund two war fronts at the same time? What if other countries take this as a sign of weakness? Blah, blah, blah.

The county of Britt was only of very minor importance, with Habersville being even less so. And if they hadn't even taken another town yet… well, there really was nothing to worry about.

Still, the pestering of the local lords and his own court was starting to get annoying. As if they expected him to deal with the problem personally. Honestly. It made him wonder why he even had nobles to begin with if they'd just be useless, incompetent, and lazy freeloaders who always wanted him to deal with one issue or another.

The king shook his head. He was letting kingdom business interrupt his break again. The first week of each month was supposed to be sacred. There were very good reasons why he had to relax. Stress was bad for one's health, after all. Having a long reign was important for the continuity of rule and the stability of the kingdom. And besides, he could go gray even sooner or—worse—lose his hair altogether.

He pushed the thoughts aside. If he got back from his vacation and they still weren't done dealing with this kerfuffle, perhaps he would send some royal knights to take care of it. Until then, the biggest issue King Gerald would allow himself to ponder was whether he wanted some more cheese or another cracker to go with this latest sip of wine.

After putting down his glass, he picked up another cracker and started eating around the edges.