The general's voice was a boulder dropped into the placid pool of Alex's frantic planning. It was deep, resonant, and held the unmistakable timbre of a man accustomed to being obeyed. Every instinct in Alex's 21st-century body screamed at him to hide, to burrow under the furs and pretend he wasn't there.
"Lyra, who is he?" Alex hissed, his eyes wide, fixed on the rippling silhouette at the tent's entrance. He quickly minimized the maps on the laptop screen, leaving only a blank, dark surface.
"Accessing," Lyra's voice replied instantly in his ear, a calm island in his sea of panic. "Gaius Claudius Maximus. Legatus Legionis of the Legio I Adiutrix. A career soldier of immense prestige and a veteran of the Parthian and Marcomannic campaigns. He was one of your father's most trusted commanders. My historical analysis indicates he is stern, deeply traditional, and possessed of a fierce sense of Roman duty. He will view you with extreme suspicion."
"Suspicion? Why?"
"Because he respected Marcus Aurelius," Lyra explained. "And he knows the historical Commodus. He expects a spoiled, preening liability who will undo all of his master's hard-won victories. You are, in his eyes, the greatest threat on this frontier. You must prove him wrong within the first thirty seconds, or you will lose him forever."
Thirty seconds. It felt like a lifetime and no time at all. "What do I say? How do I act? He's a general, Lyra, a Roman general!"
"Listen to me, Alex," the AI's tone seemed to gain an edge of urgency. "Your posture. Stand up. Shoulders back, chin up. Clasp your hands behind your back. Project authority, even if you feel none. When he speaks, do not respond immediately. Let there be a pause. Make him wait for your words. I will feed you key phrases. Your primary objective is not to win him over, but to confuse him. To make him doubt what he thinks he knows about you."
Taking a shaky breath that felt wholly inadequate, Alex pushed himself to his feet. He forced his shoulders back, the unfamiliar muscles of this new body protesting slightly. He clasped his hands behind his back as instructed, the gesture feeling horribly artificial. He felt like a child playing dress-up in his father's clothes.
"Enter, General," he called out, pitching his voice as low as it would go. It came out steadier than he expected.
The canvas flap was thrown back, and Gaius Maximus entered. The description had been an understatement. The man was less a person and more a walking personification of Roman military might. He was older than Alex had imagined, perhaps in his late fifties, with a face that looked like it had been carved from granite and then left out in the sun and wind for a few decades. A network of fine scars crisscrossed his skin, and his eyes, a pale, piercing grey, missed nothing. He was clad in a simple but exquisitely crafted breastplate, a purple cloak—the mark of a general—pinned at his shoulder. He did not kneel. He gave a short, sharp nod, a gesture of deference so economical it was almost an insult.
"Caesar," Maximus said, his voice the same gravelly rumble from outside. "I offer condolences on the loss of your father. He was a great man. The greatest of Romans."
The silence that followed was thick and heavy. Alex let it stretch, just as Lyra had instructed. He could feel the general's gaze on him, weighing him, judging him, waiting for the petulant outburst of a boy-emperor.
"He was," Alex said finally, his voice quiet. He used the Latin phrase Lyra whispered in his ear. "Pater Patriae. The Father of his Country. His spirit is with the gods now." He let his gaze drift towards the top of the tent, as if looking for some ethereal sign. It was pure theater, but it felt right.
Maximus's expression didn't change, but Alex thought he saw a flicker of something in those cold eyes. Surprise?
"His spirit will be honored by our victory," the general pressed, his tone firm. "The council has a plan for a final, decisive assault. We will trap the Marcomanni against the mountains and annihilate them. A glorious end to the war to consecrate your new reign." He was laying a trap. Offering Alex the very thing a vain, glory-seeking boy would leap at.
Alex took a slow breath. He walked past the general, circling the central table. He ran a hand over its rough-hewn surface, feigning deep thought.
"Glory," Alex repeated softly, the word tasting strange. He turned to face Maximus. "My father sought not glory, General, but a lasting peace. A Pax Romana for the frontier. He fought for eighteen years not for triumphs, but so that Roman sons would no longer have to die in these frozen forests."
Lyra's voice was a constant, guiding stream in his ear, providing the perfect turns of phrase, the stoic philosophy that Marcus Aurelius himself might have spouted. Alex was merely the mouthpiece, a puppet for a ghost and a machine.
"Before any new blood is spilled," Alex continued, meeting the general's gaze directly, "I must first honor the old. I will spend three days in mourning and prayer. I will make the proper sacrifices. I will seek the counsel of my divine father's spirit. Only then, with a clear mind and the blessing of the gods, will I review your battle plans."
He held the general's stare, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs. He was effectively stonewalling one of the most powerful men in the empire. It was either the smartest thing he'd ever done or the stupidest.
Gaius Maximus stared at him for a long, unblinking moment. The silence was absolute. Alex could feel the sweat trickling down his back. The general's stony face was unreadable, a mask of hard-bitten experience. He had expected a boy demanding a quick victory and a swift return to the brothels and circuses of Rome. He had not expected this… this sudden, somber piety. This unnerving echo of Marcus Aurelius's own thoughtful gravitas.
Finally, the general gave another one of his sharp, curt nods. This time, it felt different. It held a sliver more respect. "A wise decision, Caesar. Pious. Your father would have approved."
He turned on his heel without another word and strode out of the tent, his purple cloak swirling behind him.
The moment the flap dropped, the tension drained out of Alex in a dizzying rush. His legs felt like water, and he stumbled back, catching himself on the edge of the cot before he collapsed. He sat there, his body trembling with the aftershocks of adrenaline. He had survived. The first test was over. He felt exhausted, like he'd just run a marathon and given a final presentation to a hostile board of directors at the same time.
He looked down at his laptop, which he'd left open on the cot beside him. The comforting glow of the screen was a stark reminder of his lifeline. But the battery icon had changed. It now read 65%. The cost of that single conversation had been thirteen percent of his total power. A wave of renewed fear washed over him, even colder than before. How many more such performances could he afford?
As if sensing his thoughts, Lyra's voice returned to his ear, her synthesized tone cutting through his exhaustion with chilling precision.
"Alex, the performance was successful in buying us time. Your subversion of General Maximus's expectations has likely lowered the immediate probability of a military coup."
"Good," Alex breathed, wiping a hand across his damp forehead. "That's… that's good."
"However," Lyra continued, and Alex's stomach dropped. There was always a 'however.' "I have not been idle. While you were speaking, I was running a continuous, multi-variable threat assessment based on historical precedents for Roman successions that occur on an active military frontier."
"And?" Alex asked, a sense of dread creeping up his spine.
"And the political situation here remains critically unstable. The generals' primary loyalty was to the person of Marcus Aurelius, not to the imperial office you now hold. An emperor's perceived weakness, or even an unexpected change in character, can be interpreted as an invitation for ambitious men to seek power for themselves."
The air in the tent suddenly felt thin, hard to breathe.
"Based on my analysis of the command structure, the personalities of the senior officers, and the historical frequency of assassination in such scenarios," Lyra concluded, her voice devoid of any emotion, "I have calculated a revised probability. There is now a forty-three percent chance that the first attempt on your life will be made by a member of your own command staff. And it will happen within the next seventy-two hours."