Nearly a century had passed—from 55 BC to 48 AD—before Rome finally and completely brought Britannia under its dominion.
From that moment on, the Roman Empire solidified its control over northern Gaul and Belgium, seized command of the English Channel, and shattered Britannia's trade monopoly over continental Europe.
Most importantly, it further cemented the status of the Roman Empire across Europe. The ancient empire, whose roots stretched back to the Age of Gods, even as the old mysteries faded, remained the undisputed hegemon of Europe.
Yet, despite Emperor Claudius' deliberate efforts to suppress discussion of the "miracle" on the eve of the decisive battle, it was futile. Starting from central Britannia, the tale of the long-absent "miracle" reappearing and granting victory to Rome was spreading like wildfire.
However, aside from the Roman expeditionary army and the Britons who witnessed it firsthand, few knew what the symbol of that "miracle" actually was—the Cross.
At this moment, not far from the outskirts of Rome.
Novia made his way along a forest path, sunlight filtering down through the gaps in the trees ahead.
He had rushed all the way back from Britannia. Time was tight. Though the Roman army's return would take a while, there was no guarantee that Emperor Claudius would take that long. Novia had to get back before the Emperor did. Otherwise… well, it'd look just a little too coincidental.
A miracle in the shape of a cross. A man spreading that very symbol all across the empire. A "miracle" conveniently appearing during a key battle… it all felt suspiciously premeditated.
But Novia couldn't help it. What was he supposed to use if not the Cross? How else would people associate the miracle with Christianity? After all, first-century Christianity had no universally recognized symbol.
In its earliest days, Christianity had yet to fully separate from Judaism. Aside from spreading the story of Jesus, it lacked any cohesive visual identity.
Put simply, in the original historical trajectory, the Cross didn't become the universal symbol of Christianity until three centuries later—after it became Rome's state religion.
In theory, the only "symbol" Christians had at this point was the words of Jesus:
"A new command I give you: Love one another. As I have loved you, so you must love one another. By this, everyone will know that you are my disciples."
In Jesus' eyes, the true mark of a Christian wasn't any tangible symbol, but mutual love.
But for Novia, who sought to replace polytheism with Christianity, mere storytelling wasn't nearly enough.
At this point in history, no one cared about the later, well-known doctrine of salvation. The theological debates focused mostly on predestination.
Thus, over the past year, Novia had emphasized salvation—strengthening the image of Christ's suffering on the Cross, centering his message around redemption, the divine Son's sacrifice, and ascension. He had widely promoted discussions on the Fall, original sin, Christology, ecclesiology, the sacraments, the end times—concepts addressing humanity's common plight, ideals for life, and visions of world history. All of this served to offer universal comfort.
That was the true ideological breakthrough behind his movement. Organizational structure was crucial, but so was ideological cohesion.
Novia swiftly emerged from the forest, and soon spotted the person he had arranged to meet—Lucius.
"Novia, you're back."
Petals floated serenely along the river's surface. Lucius stood atop an overturned boat resting along the bank.
"It's only been a few days, and you're all dressed up," Novia teased.
"Does it look that odd? I am a Roman soldier, after all."
The crimson cloak billowing behind Lucius was a mark of his status—Codename: Crimson—the "Scarlet Summons."
That "red" was Rome's red—the color of Mars, god of war—the color Roman soldiers took the utmost pride in.
"Anyone who didn't know better would think you were here to assassinate me," Novia joked, drawing the longsword from his belt.
"Hey, hey, hey… I taught you spearwork, didn't I? What are you doing with a sword?" Lucius grumbled, though even as he spoke, the iron spear in his hand had already shot toward the silver-haired boy.
Over the past year, Lucius had occasionally served as Novia's spear instructor, honing his close-combat skills. Though, Novia had never once seen him wield the legendary Spear of Longinus.
"I heard gladiatorial duels are sacred rituals offered to the Roman gods… though that's in the arena. And you're using a spear, not a sword," Novia said, the clash of steel ringing like shattering ice.
The silver-haired youth raised his sword, holding it horizontally with a smile as he looked at Lucius, whose face was contorted with disbelief.
"Have you improved this much already? Do you even need me following you around anymore?"
The spear spun nimbly in the air before falling back toward Novia. But before it could touch the ground, Novia snatched it up and, with lightning speed, hurled it back at Lucius' feet.
"Come now, I promised I'd help you deal with your 'biting pain,' didn't I?"
Novia sheathed his sword, still smiling.
In Novia's grand design, Lucius was indispensable to his plan to infiltrate the Praetorian Guard. As for unifying the empire's 45 provinces—once Christianity replaced polytheism, political consolidation and ideological unity would naturally follow.
"I hope so… but are you really confident? Going into Rome now, I mean?" Lucius asked, picking up the spear and driving it into the ground.
Their sparring sessions had always been full of focus and intensity. Over the past year, Lucius had faced Novia countless times. Far from seeing Novia struggle, Lucius had instead become deeply aware of the boy's terrifying growth. At only fifteen, Novia now matched—or even surpassed—him in skill and strength. Had the old age of mystery persisted, Novia might well have become a hero of legend. But alas, the times had changed.
"I heard the Roman army crushed the Britannic alliance, thanks to a divine 'miracle.' Your doing?" Lucius' eyes glinted with mischief before reverting to a soldier's cold, practiced expression. "I can't believe you managed to fool over ten thousand mages."
"Fool them? With a 'miracle'? Hah… impossible. Any real magic would've left a magical signature."
Novia chuckled, turning lazily toward the city of Rome.
"But by the standards of this era… that was indeed… a miracle."
In the first century AD, producing a fiery-red vision in the sky wasn't feasible through modern technology. Instead, Novia had resorted to primitive means—hot air balloons or similar aerial devices, releasing red-colored material to create the illusion of a burning vision in the heavens.
In fairness, the technique required skill and experience, and with crude first-century tools, the results weren't exactly flawless.
But all things considered, Novia deemed the operation a success. No flying beasts had intercepted it, no countermeasures had appeared. Even ground-based mages, gazing upward, likely mistook the balloon for a red star.
Thus, when Novia called it a miracle, he wasn't lying—though it was, admittedly, a man-made miracle.
In Novia's estimation, Rome's conquest of Britannia—just like the prophesied fall of Britannia five centuries later—was an inevitable event etched into human history. It couldn't be rewritten. Even without the so-called miracle, victory was assured.
So when he saw the Roman army faltering, he followed the original plan. After all, if you're going to fabricate divine favor and still lose, that would be beyond humiliating.
Before long, Novia and Lucius reached the heart of the empire—the gates of Rome itself.
"Sir Novia, I presume?" came a cold voice.
Novia had long prepared for the possibility of being detained the moment he entered the city.
A dozen intimidating men, backed by soldiers, stood ready. His silver hair made him easy to pick out.
"I am Novia, from the province of Anatolia."
The silver-haired youth's calm, sincere response and his utter lack of resistance left Lucius wide-eyed. He had fully expected a fight—why else would he have donned equipment he hadn't worn in years?
But before being taken away, Novia met Lucius' gaze, silently signaling him to wait.
…
It must be said—prisons, regardless of era or nation, were never friendly to human life.
The cell Novia found himself in was no exception—underground, poorly ventilated, devoid of sunlight or fresh air, damp, dark, and squalid.
Bare-bones furnishings—straw piles, wooden planks for beds—food and water of questionable quality.
But Novia didn't care. Poor conditions, bad food—small matters.
He had been here for three days already, waiting for Emperor Claudius to return from Britannia to meet him.
After all, in the Emperor's mind, the victory hinged on a divine miracle. Regardless of his true feelings, he was bound to seek out Novia. It was only a question of how he would approach it. Records suggested Claudius I was deeply paranoid about losing power, even expanding executions to consolidate his reign.
Just like Constantine three centuries later—he only accepted baptism on his deathbed, initially fearing Christianity would destabilize Rome's imperial authority.
Yet that final baptism underscored Constantine's fear of "unforgivable sins" and, paradoxically, his unwavering faith.
Novia doubted a single miracle would turn Claudius into a Christian overnight—unless he could somehow cure the emperor's polio, but even Rome's magi couldn't do that. Novia certainly couldn't.
In truth, his imprisonment had been part of the plan.
Psychological pressure was a terrifying thing. The miracle had already instilled in Claudius a gnawing anxiety—a sense that a god was watching.
And now, the suspected envoy of that god—Novia—was imprisoned. Claudius' mental defenses were sure to crack.
After all, the Age of Gods had ended barely fifty years ago.
…
Staring at the moon through the cell's lone window, Novia admired its beauty.
"Don't look at the moon. It's no friend to man."
The prison door creaked open.
A man, about fifty, entered—face dark, illness obvious. He braced himself with his hands on his leg as he walked. One leg was twisted and deformed.
"Oh?"
Seeing the man, Novia already understood.
"I am Tiberius Claudius Caesar Augustus Germanicus—Emperor of Rome."
"Greetings, Your Majesty. I am Novia."
"You claim to be the envoy of a god. What do you seek?"
"Nothing… and everything."