Chapter 211: My Wife is a Root Magician
Mercury departed as swiftly as he had come.
Delivering a message from the gods to Rowe was, for him, nothing more than routine.
And regardless of politics, the Roman gods who still carried memories of the Greek era had no desire to stand opposite Rowe. They had lived through an age when divinity was not a metaphor. They understood what it meant to offend someone who had already stepped beyond the reach of ordinary providence.
Rowe steadied his thoughts and returned to himself.
The news that the Goddess of Wisdom had taken human form was, by any measure, a pleasant surprise. Not too overwhelming to disrupt his plans, yet significant enough to tilt the board.
He had already decided to perform a thorough cleansing of the Senate nobles.
If the Goddess of Wisdom had arrived, then he could afford to spend less effort cutting away deadwood.
Yes. Rowe had always trusted her.
But trust did not replace distance, and distance did not disappear simply because fate had moved.
Before anything else, they still had to reach their destination.
Antium.
A coastal city under Roman jurisdiction, not particularly vast, not especially prosperous. Yet it was close to Rome and pressed against the inland sea, so it endured as a node where land and water met. Merchant fleets had once come and gone in steady cycles, leaving behind the scent of salt and coin.
On this day, the city received word that Emperor Nero would arrive.
And Antium reacted the way Rome always reacted when power approached.
Preparations began immediately.
So when the legion escorting the imperial carriage drew near, they saw a city dressed in performance.
Soldiers maintained order. Performers waited in the great theater. Red carpets stretched across the ground. Flowers were scattered like someone had tried to bribe the air itself into smelling sweeter.
"Hmph. This time it was not designed by me."
Nero leaned out of the carriage and surveyed the distant bustle. The golden haired Emperor glanced back at Rowe with a smug look, as if she had won a small but satisfying victory.
It was not complicated.
Emperors and officials before her loved luxury. The people learned that survival often meant anticipating imperial vanity. Grand welcomes were not requested. They were assumed.
Nero, naturally, was pleased.
Rowe did not stop her. He only spoke with the tone of someone correcting a child who had discovered sugar.
"A taste for display is human nature. Just do not let it become excess."
Nero's eyes narrowed.
Rowe added, calmly.
"If it becomes excess, I will hit you."
The Emperor could not refute that, not when experience was still fresh on her forehead. This time, she did not even try.
Because she had won this round.
Nero Claudius seized Rowe's hand and pulled him forward as if she were dragging a trophy into the sunlight.
She wanted to enjoy the welcome ceremony.
She wanted it loudly.
"Come, my Adjutant. Let us enjoy this glory together," she said, skirt fluttering as if the city itself were part of her costume. "Do not forget. I am Rome, and Adjutant is also Rome."
That would have sounded more convincing if she were not squeezing his hand like she feared it might vanish.
Rowe did not comment on it.
Antium was not a good place for Nero.
Her most hated memories sat there, waiting patiently, like stones that never eroded. No matter how bright her smile, there was always a thin tension beneath it, a fraction of retreat she refused to admit.
Nero was an Emperor.
But she was also human.
Rowe looked at her profile and spoke plainly.
"If you are afraid, just say so. I will not laugh."
"I am the perfect Emperor and a perfect artist. How could I be afraid?" Nero widened her eyes, offended on principle.
"Then go down by yourself."
Nero froze.
A fraction of a second passed. Then she snapped back with force, as if volume could erase reality.
"Hmph. I am doing this for you."
"There is no need," Rowe replied. "Thank you."
Silence.
They stared at each other.
Nero puffed her lips, crimson and stubborn. She was not angry. She knew exactly what Rowe wanted her to do. She simply refused to give him the satisfaction of hearing it.
Finally, she tapped her chest as if announcing a decree.
"Facing shadows alone is pointless. Why should I do that?"
She lifted her chin.
"As long as Adjutant is by my side, it is enough."
Rowe sighed.
"What a willful statement."
"An Emperor should be the most willful person."
Rowe did not bother arguing further. If Nero's will could be bent by reason, Rome would not need reforms.
"Fine. We go down," he said. "Do not keep the people waiting."
It was not surrender. It was recognition.
Fear and repulsion were not shameful. They were simply the parts of living that did not care what title one wore.
And Nero came here anyway.
As an Emperor.
That alone was rare.
Seeing Rowe concede, Nero's expression brightened into a victorious smile. She stepped forward, still pulling him along.
Rowe paused and glanced back.
Melusine lifted her face. The lower half visible beneath her mask showed lips slightly parted, expression unreadable but intent unmistakable.
She had silently taken Rowe's hand as well.
"My Lord," she said, voice even, curious in a way that was almost clinical. "This action seems to carry meaning. I want to try it too."
Melusine did not understand why the annoying woman liked it so much.
Was it good for humans?
Melusine was human now.
So she wanted to know.
Rowe exhaled, then turned his hand and enclosed Melusine's smaller fingers in his palm.
"This means someone important."
Melusine nodded as if she had been given a clear definition.
"Understood." A pause, then her voice softened. "My Lord, I can feel it. You are also very important to me."
The one who had given her a Spirit Origin, the one who allowed her to move freely, had already become irreplaceable.
Below, Antium waited.
The welcoming ceremony unfolded in full. The banquet followed, as it always did, with light and music and the clink of cups loud enough to pretend history was kind.
That night, amid chandeliers and applause, Nero did not wear her usual passionate Emperor mask.
Because someone stood before her who made Antium feel like a cold room again.
Her mother.
Agrippina.
Agrippina the Younger bowed with theatrical delight, golden hair echoing Nero's but lacking everything else. Her beauty was thinner, her temperament sharper, polished into a weapon.
"As expected of my daughter," Agrippina said, voice sweet enough to rot the tongue. "My beautiful, exquisite, noble daughter. You are now the highest Emperor of this country. Your father in heaven must be pleased."
Her performance was exaggerated.
Everyone knew Nero's biological father had died by poison.
Everyone also knew whose hand had held the cup.
When Nero was ten, Agrippina poisoned her husband to secure a richer man. She abandoned Nero in the same breath.
And now she returned, smiling, asking for warmth from the fire she had once tried to snuff out.
Nero did not even look at her.
She turned to Rowe as if Agrippina were furniture.
"Adjutant. Dance with me."
Rowe nodded. In public, an Adjutant did not contradict the Emperor.
"All right."
The crowd yielded instantly. The Emperor and her Adjutant took the floor, and the hall reoriented around them like a planet forced into a new orbit.
Nero's boasts about her artistry were not entirely exaggeration. Her dancing was flawless. Each step was precise. Each turn was clean. It was as if she had carved the rhythm into her bones.
"This etiquette," Nero murmured as they moved, brows tightening, "she taught it to me so I could be her tool. A doll for fame and profit."
Antium itself did not matter to Nero. The city was just stone and sea.
But Agrippina was different.
Nero did not know how to face her.
Not because she lacked anger.
Because she still possessed something harder to cut away than hatred.
Blood.
"Adjutant," Nero whispered, close to Rowe's ear. "I need counsel."
Rowe hesitated for a breath, then smiled gently.
"Follow your heart."
Nero blinked.
Rowe continued, voice steady.
"You are the Emperor."
For a moment, Nero froze as if the words had struck the exact place where her uncertainty hid.
Then she laughed.
"That is right. I am the Emperor of Rome."
Her eyes brightened. The old tension loosened.
"My will and my decisions are the most perfect."
Rowe held her by the waist, guiding the turn, watching the light return to her gaze.
He knew what she had chosen.
She stepped out of her childhood shadow.
"She is my mother," Nero said, voice calm now, almost cold. "That does not change. I will be filial."
Then her smile sharpened.
"And I will also make public what she has done."
"This is my filial piety," Nero declared, "and also my revenge."
Willful. Proud. Honest.
Rowe reached up and ruffled her hair, briefly, as if giving approval to a child who had finally decided to stand straight.
"All right," he said. "Your matter is settled."
Then his tone shifted.
"So next, it is my turn."
Nero paused, not understanding.
The answer arrived immediately.
A man burst in from outside, drenched in blood, stumbling as if the night itself had tried to drag him down.
"Your Majesty Nero. Your Excellency Rowe. We are under attack outside."
"A large group has charged in."
The banquet hall erupted into noise.
"Pirates?"
"Bandits?"
Rowe was already moving.
Nero looked up, but she only saw his back as he walked toward the doors.
At the threshold, he glanced over his shoulder. His eyes were calm, and for Nero, that calm was a hand placed over the heart.
"I said I would protect you," he said.
Nero's lips curved into relief.
It was not that she feared the attack.
She could guess what this was, just as Rowe could.
What mattered was simpler.
Rowe was not indifferent to her.
A perfect Emperor.
A perfect Adjutant.
They truly were, in her mind, a match shaped by fate itself.
Rowe stepped out into the night. Stars were scattered across the sky like quiet witnesses.
Outside the palace, Roman guards formed a wall of shields and spears. Banners snapped in the wind.
The legion of six thousand was stationed outside the city.
Only a portion guarded the Emperor directly.
But those chosen for that duty were elite.
They met the attackers head on.
Horsemen surged forward in helmets and armor. They carried no banners, no markings, nothing that could be tied to a name.
Yet Rowe could see it immediately.
The equipment was excellent. The formation was disciplined. Their movement was trained.
They were not wearing legion standard gear.
But they were Roman soldiers.
"The Senate," Rowe said quietly.
In Rome, apart from the Emperor, only the Senate had the authority to command armed force at that scale.
He felt no surprise.
If anything, it was confirmation.
And it made a note appear in his mind, cold and clean.
Military power must be reclaimed.
Education. Administration.
And next, the army.
But that was later.
Right now, the attackers seemed to recognize their real objective the moment Rowe appeared.
They pushed toward him.
The Imperial Guard intercepted, steel meeting steel, the battle splintering into chaos.
Yet Rowe continued walking.
He ignored the noise. He ignored the mess.
His steps were steady.
Because these soldiers were not the main force.
They were smoke.
Cover.
A distraction loud enough to hide the true blade.
And the true blade spoke.
"Adjutant Rowe."
The voice was hoarse, old, carried by authority that had grown used to being obeyed.
"We did not want to lay hands on you."
"But you and Your Majesty Nero have gone too far."
"We can only do this. We can only kill you, and force Your Majesty Nero to face reality."
Beyond the melee, in an open space paved with moonlit marble, senators stood in the clear.
One of the old nobles had come in person.
This operation mattered too much. They did not trust subordinates to carry it properly.
They did not trust anyone to kill Rowe.
Unless they had something to rely on.
Rowe stopped and looked at them.
"You need not wait for reinforcements," the senator continued, voice trembling with a confidence he was borrowing. "The legions outside the city have already been surrounded. They cannot come to rescue you."
"We know you are powerful."
"But we have help."
The senators turned.
A figure stood behind them.
Pure white, like a piece of winter placed in the middle of summer.
Silver hair flowed down, strands veiling vermilion eyes. A face delicate and pale, almost maidenlike, yet untouched by softness. A Greek robe fell in clean lines, hiding the body beneath as if the shape itself was irrelevant.
In her hand was a golden staff that shimmered with light.
Radiance manifested around her.
An endless stream of energy flowed as if she had opened a vein directly into mystery itself.
The Age of Gods had long ended.
And yet this woman carried an amount of power that felt like something only that age should allow.
This was not mystery granted by gods.
This was a self contained system.
A mystery that reached toward the Root, toward Akasha itself.
"Lady Einzbern," the senators said quickly, "we leave it to you."
They dared to come in person because of her.
They had offered her bait no magus should be able to refuse.
"Kill him," one senator said, voice sharp with desperation, "and the Fairy Eye and all the mysterious knowledge of the Empire will be yours."
Einzbern did not respond.
She simply walked forward and looked at Rowe.
Rowe met her gaze.
"A Magician," he said.
The woman smiled, elegant and faintly amused.
"That is correct."
She held the staff with one hand and lifted the hem of her robe slightly with the other, bowing with a grace that felt older than Rome.
"Einzbern. That is my name now."
The name carried weight.
Rowe knew it.
In later generations, it would be tied to a family that inherited the Third True Magic.
And its origin.
"You are the Third Magician," Rowe said, understanding settling into place.
"The First is creation. The Second is operation. The Third is future. The Fourth is secrecy. The Fifth is end."
Einzbern's vermilion eyes flickered.
"What I command is future."
Rowe paused, then smiled.
"And you accepted their commission to kill me."
"I did," Einzbern said, blinking. "Are you afraid?"
The senators watched, breath held, hope hanging by a thread.
But as the exchange continued, something in the air began to feel wrong.
Outside, the battle still raged.
Here, the world felt strangely quiet.
Rowe chuckled.
"Of course I am afraid."
Einzbern's smile widened, pleased.
Then Rowe finished, voice light.
"I am afraid you will kill them."
The senators stiffened.
Einzbern's expression softened into something almost sweet.
"It will not come to that," she said. "They are still useful to me."
Rowe tilted his head.
"Useful for what?"
"To find my beloved."
Rowe's smile did not move.
"And who is your beloved?"
Einzbern's answer came without hesitation.
"You."
Her smile grew gentler, almost luminous. She stepped closer. Pale legs moved beneath the robe with calm certainty.
Rowe did not retreat.
She reached up, fingers closing on his lapel. She rose slightly on her toes, leaned in, and her vermilion lips brushed his.
A kiss.
Light.
Precise.
Like a seal.
Rowe's voice was quiet when he spoke.
"Indeed. It is you."
"Rowe."
"And it is you as well," he added, eyes steady, "Athena. Or rather, the Magician who stands closest to Akasha. Einzbern."
The senators froze.
Their minds visibly failed to process the scene.
This was not what a hired execution was supposed to look like.
One senator finally forced words out, voice cracked with panic.
"Lady Einzbern, you…"
Einzbern turned her head slightly and offered a sweet smile, as if she were thanking a servant for opening a door.
"Ah. Thank you for helping me find my beloved."
Then her gaze drifted across the gathered senators.
"And for successfully luring you all here."
Silence.
The senator who had introduced Einzbern to the others turned pale.
The rest looked at him as if he had personally invited their funerals.
In their eyes, he was no longer a colleague.
He was an impostor.
A traitor.
Or perhaps, simply the unluckiest fool in Rome.
.....
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