Chương 73: The cult of mars

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POV of a nun

From the heights of the convent, I watch as the world around me changes, twisted under the yoke of Legate Gaius and his Legionnaires. The Legion arrived with their gleaming armor, red banners fluttering in the wind, and within less than a year, they had subdued all the towns in the region. Our priests tried to resist, but it was useless. The voice of Caesar, embodied in Gaius, resonated more powerfully than our prayers.

In the city of Gloria, now renamed Caesarea Mexicanorum, Caesar's laws were imposed. This place, once part of the Republic of Rio Grande, became a land of indirect administration, ruled by a governor and a general loyal to Caesar, who operated from Mexico. Everything we once knew was changed.

The Republic's government wasn't perfect, I know that well. There were many problems: the drug cartels corrupted the youth, dangerous gangs roamed the streets, and loan sharks circled like sharks, devouring families with unpayable debts. But at least we were free. We could raise our voices, even if no one often listened. We could vote, even though our votes seemed to vanish into the shadows of power. Under the Legion's banner, however, all that changed.

The drug cartels were destroyed. The gangs that once controlled entire neighborhoods now hid like rats in the city's sewers. The loan sharks, those who couldn't flee, desperately tried to recover their money. Security continued to grow, and every corner of the city was under the watchful eye of the Legionnaires. But that security came at a high cost, too high a cost: freedom. We no longer had a voice or a vote in decision-making, and everything that was once our right was taken from us in the name of Caesar.

Worst of all, the Legion cared nothing for spiritual matters. Our church, our beliefs, were insignificant to them. In fact, they followed the same pagan cult as the ancient Romans, those who crucified the Son of God. Their barbaric customs in the worship of Mars, a god of war, exalted physical strength, combat skills, and loyalty to Caesar as the only things that mattered. Nothing else had value—neither charity, forgiveness, nor faith.

I see my sisters in the convent struggling with their own doubts. Some of them, in their desperation, begin to see Gaius and the Legion as the lesser evil, a guardian who, though ruthless, offers a stability we never knew under the Republic's chaos. But I know the truth. The peace we've gained is not a just peace. It is the peace of slaves, of those who accept chains in exchange for a false sense of security.

With each passing day, the presence of the Legion feels more entrenched. The order imposed by Gaius is unquestionable, but as the region stabilizes, I wonder how much longer we can bear this yoke without completely losing our identity, our faith. The church has been forced to collaborate, to remain silent against injustices, and the sermons grow more moderate. The fear of repression is everywhere.

Some young men, fascinated by Legionary discipline, have begun to see Gaius and his men as role models. They secretly train, dreaming of becoming part of something bigger, something they don't fully understand. I've seen boys from good families don Legion armor and disappear into their ranks, forgetting the teachings of Christ in favor of a new cult of war.

Their leader, Gaius, is the worst of them. A barbaric conqueror who boasts of killing hundreds as if it were something glorious. He speaks of his victories with a chilling detachment, without remorse or pity. Men like him are the reason we live under this iron yoke. He's nothing more than a brute, someone who kills everything that moves, a man who sees the world as a constant battlefield where the strong crush the weak.

When I see him, with his gleaming armor and his officer's cape billowing in the wind, I feel a deep anger. His very presence is repulsive to me, as if the air thickens around him. I don't understand how someone so devoid of compassion can have so much power. Gaius embodies everything our faith rejects: cruelty, overwhelming pride, contempt for human life. He parades through our city like a self-proclaimed king, and his word is law. Neither the elderly nor the children are safe from his oppressive hand. To him, we are nothing more than pawns in Caesar's game.

And worst of all, the people—my own people—have started to admire him. They see him as a savior because, under his rule, the chaos has disappeared, the streets are safer, and the crops flourish. But at what cost? Security means nothing if it's won through fear and death. This peace is an illusion, a trap we've all fallen into. But Gaius is no savior; he is a butcher disguised as a leader, and sooner or later, his brutality will be evident to everyone.

Sometimes I wonder what gives him so much power. It's not just the sword that supports him; it's his cunning, his ability to manipulate people. He has skillfully used the people's desperation to his advantage, offering a stability that, though false, is tempting to those who have suffered under the Republic's chaos. The cartels and gangs have been crushed, true, but at what price? We've traded one evil for another.

I wish I had more time to open the eyes of those who've been deceived by that barbarian, but the reality of the convent doesn't allow it. The convent's economy is in crisis. The loss of donations that once sustained us has hit us hard, and the tax exemption we once enjoyed disappeared when the Legion imposed its laws. Now, more than ever, we must work to keep our doors open and continue supporting those in need. The streets are full of families who have lost everything, and as servants of the Lord, it is our duty to help them. But each day it becomes harder.

The young men, those who once came to us seeking comfort and direction, are now the target of recruitment for the urban legions. The Legion knows they are easy prey due to their desperation and poverty. With promises of stability, food, and glory, they convince them to join their ranks, and within days, those same youths who were once innocent and hopeful transform into tools of brutality. They are no longer themselves; they have become monsters in the service of a war cult that knows no compassion.

I have seen good boys fall under the Legion's yoke. Their eyes, once filled with curiosity and life, now are cold and empty. They no longer tolerate me speaking to them, even trying to remind them of the values of faith. The cult of Mars, which all now follow, teaches that women are inferior, that we have no voice or value on the battlefield or in public life. They see us as weak objects, unworthy of their words or respect. It's painful to witness how the love for others, the respect for life—everything we taught them—disappears in a matter of days under the shadow of Caesar's banner.

As I stand in the shadow of the convent, watching this city transform under the iron grip of Legate Gaius, a strange sense of inevitability looms over me. Gloria, once a beacon of hope, a city whose streets echoed with the laughter of children and the songs of faith, has now become Caesarea Mexicanorum, a city subdued by the law of Caesar. Our prayers, once uttered freely, now feel hollow, swallowed by the smoke of Legion bonfires and the brutal enforcement of men like Gaius.

And yet, I cling to hope. I have to. As long as there is one soul left to save, I cannot give up. We must continue to protect the young, give them a refuge, and teach them that their worth does not lie in their physical strength or ability to kill. They are more than soldiers. They are children of God, and they must be treated as such, even as the Legion seeks to mold them into tools of death.

As the Legion extended its control, more and more people flooded into the city, fleeing from the south or the surrounding areas that had also fallen under Caesar's yoke. Gloria, a city that had already faced its share of hardships, became overwhelmed once again by desperation and chaos. With each passing day, the streets grew more dangerous, and the needs of the people multiplied. Our convent did everything it could to offer aid to those who had nothing, but our resources were quickly being drained. Hunger and misery consumed families, and with them came desperation.

The Legion, in its ruthless pursuit of order, used brute force to quell riots and looting. There were days when one could see the Legionnaires dragging people through the streets, meting out severe punishments to maintain control. The peace they had promised was a peace built on fear.

It was during one of those desperate days that our convent was assaulted. A group of ragged, starving people from the south stormed through the doors. Their eyes burned with a mixture of anger and hopelessness. They no longer wanted charity. They were too many, and they were determined to take what they needed by force. I remember the sound of wood splintering as they burst through the convent doors, armed with knives and sticks, searching for food, money—anything that would give them a chance to survive one more day.

The priests tried to calm them, to speak reason, but it was useless. I watched one of the looters press a knife to the throat of one of the priests, demanding that we hand over everything we had. Fear gripped us. We didn't know what to do. We prayed silently, begging God to protect us in this darkest of moments.

Then, suddenly, heavy footsteps echoed through the halls. Shadows filled the entrance. They were men, but not just any men. They wore those robotic armors the Legion uses—imposing, cold, they looked more like machines than humans. Under the command of Gaius, these men had become the iron fist that enforced the law in Caesarea Mexicanorum.

They entered in silence, their footsteps echoing like a death knell through the convent's corridors. In seconds, they had taken control.

"This is a place of worship," said the leader of the armored men, his voice resonating in the convent's stillness. "To exploit the chaos to rob those who pray for their salvation is low, even for profligates."

There was a deafening silence as his men unsheathed their machetes and other brutal weapons, ready to deliver swift and merciless justice.

"Not here… No blood should be spilled in the temple of the crucified god. Kill them outside," the leader ordered, his voice cold and unflinching.

The Legionnaires, obedient and efficient, grabbed the looters by their clothes or hair and dragged them outside. From within the convent, we could hear the muffled screams and the sound of bodies hitting the ground. They were executed without ceremony, beaten or beheaded as if it were a mere task to complete.

The leader removed his helmet and looked at us. His face was young, with sharp features and a square, prominent jaw that gave him an air of determination. His piercing blue eyes surveyed everything with a disquieting coldness. His short, neatly kept light brown hair stood in stark contrast to the violence he had just ordered.

"I apologize for the chaos that has returned to this city. So many migrants from the south have proven to be quite disruptive, but rest assured, we will restore the security and stability that once characterized this place," he said, his voice smooth but filled with authority.

The priest, the brothers, and I stared at him without responding. There was something about him that instilled fear, but also a strange sense of control, as though the very chaos of the world bowed before him.

When he received no reply, he continued speaking, his eyes scanning the worn-down interior of the convent.

"From what I can see, this place has seen better days," he remarked, his tone more casual as he examined the modest state of the building.

"These are hard times. We barely have enough to pay the Legion's tributes," the priest responded, his voice heavy with resignation.

"I see… Unfortunately, we all must contribute to the greatness of the Legion. But perhaps this will ease your burdens," the young man said, tossing a small sack that clinked with the sound of metal as it hit the floor of the empty chapel.

With trembling hands, the priest opened the bag, revealing several gleaming, heavy gold coins of the Legion.

"Continue your work," the young man added as he placed his helmet back on, his face once again hidden behind the cold steel that erased any trace of humanity.

"Excuse me…" the priest stammered, his voice a mixture of fear and gratitude. "What is your name? We will give thanks to you in our next sermon."

The young man paused before replying.

"Legate Gaius, cleric. I would appreciate it if you spoke well of me to your flock," he said before departing with his men, ready to continue enforcing his control over the city.

As the echo of their footsteps faded, I stood frozen, watching as the priest tucked the coins away, his eyes filled with weariness and uncertainty.

We didn't fully understand why Gaius had helped us, but it wasn't hard to piece together his true intentions. Over the next few days, normalcy returned to the city as violent groups were pacified. The violence that had plagued our streets was quelled with the Legion's brutal efficiency, but what followed was even more unsettling.

In the days that followed, acts of charity spread across the city. Food was distributed freely in the plazas, coins were handed out to the new migrants arriving from the south, and, most shockingly, there was a significant reduction in the tribute people had to pay to the Legion. All of this seemed to come directly from Legate Gaius's personal coffers.

This, of course, did not go unnoticed. At first, people regarded Gaius with caution and fear, but soon they began to respect him. And that respect quickly grew into something more. Whispers began to circulate in the streets, murmurs that Gaius was more than just a commander. People began to speak of him as if he were an extension of Caesar himself, a manifestation of his divine will.

The idolatry towards Gaius grew in an unsettling way. Many began to speak of him as if he were a savior, someone who had brought order to a chaotic world, someone who cared for them in ways the Republic of Rio Grande never had. I watched as the crowds cheered for him when he passed through the streets, and I felt a deep concern in my heart. There was no doubt that all of this was part of a meticulously calculated plan to win the hearts and minds of the citizens. Every act of generosity, every bag of coins, every free meal was an investment in his power.

What initially seemed like just a gesture of authority and control turned into a silent, yet relentless indoctrination. The values of the Legion began to seep into every aspect of daily life. Strength, loyalty to Caesar, and devotion to the cult of Mars became the new pillars of society, displacing our faith. People, who once held fast to the principles of God, now saw Mars as the embodiment of what they believed was necessary: power and discipline.

It wasn't long before makeshift temples dedicated to the god of war began to appear—small altars adorned with swords and shields where citizens would leave offerings and pray for physical strength, victory, strong children, and Caesar's favor. The image of Christ, with his message of love, compassion, and sacrifice, was increasingly viewed as a relic of the past, something many started to see as weak compared to the iron empire Gaius was building.

The young were the most vulnerable to this change. I saw them in the streets, lined up in small groups, practicing with sticks and stones, imitating the legionaries. The Legion had become their aspiration, their path to greatness. And the cult of Mars offered them what they longed for: a purpose. To them, there was no doubt that the only way to survive in this new world was to adopt strength and mastery of war as their faith.

We at the convent tried to resist, but each day it became harder. Those who came seeking help began to speak of Mars' power with the same devotion they once spoke of God. They referred to Gaius as an emissary of this new divine order, a man touched by the hand of Mars. It was impossible to compete with the image he projected: an invincible leader, full of power and generosity.

I remember a conversation with a young man who used to come to the convent for food and shelter. He was once a kind boy, who spoke of his family and how he wanted to be a just man. But after a few weeks under the influence of the martial cult, he was no longer the same. His eyes, which once sparkled with hope, were now filled with cold determination.

"Sister," he said to me, almost contemptuously, "Mars gives us what we need. We can no longer wait for compassion to save us. Only the strong survive, and Caesar, through Gaius, will lead us."

I tried to speak to him of mercy, of love, and the sacrifice of Christ, but he wouldn't listen. To him, those words were signs of weakness.

And so it was with many others. The streets of Caesarea Mexicanorum were changing rapidly. The acts of charity and reduced tributes were nothing but bait. As people grew accustomed to the stability the Legion offered, they also began to adopt its worldview. Mars, the god of war, the conqueror of souls, had spread his mantle over us, and under his shadow, the city lost a little more of its humanity each day.

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I remind you to leave your ideas or what you would like to see.