The city of Virunum was transforming. The grim, utilitarian feel of a frontier capital at war was being replaced by the vibrant, energetic hum of a nascent empire being born. The dust of new construction hung in the air, and the ring of stonemasons' hammers was a constant, percussive song. Lucilla's "Northern Institute of Innovation" was in full swing, and its effects were already visible. Scaffolding climbed the walls of the old forum, where a grand new public bathhouse was taking shape. Surveyors were marking out the path for a new, wider road to the south. Lucilla was not just building an army; she was building a civilization, a rival Rome in the heart of the Alps, and she was using her brother's own men and knowledge to do it.
Gaius Maximus arrived in the city not as a conqueror, but as a vassal prince being summoned to court. He had been "invited" for a state visit, a formal celebration of their new alliance and a chance for the "triumvirate" to confer. He knew, of course, it was a test, a chance for Lucilla to assert her dominance and probe his loyalties.
He was escorted to the palace, which had been refurbished with a new, almost regal splendor. He was treated with the utmost courtesy, a guest of the highest honor. The first order of business was a visit to his "son."
He was led to a lavish suite of rooms, far grander than his own spartan quarters in Raetia. He found the boy, Gaius, in a large, sunlit atrium, engaged in a lesson. But it was not a lesson of letters or numbers. The boy, armed with a wooden practice sword, was being drilled by two of the Praetorian "tutors," their movements a blur of deadly, efficient grace. The priest, Decianus, sat observing from a marble bench, his face a mask of placid approval. It was an indoctrination, physical and spiritual, and Maximus was forced to watch it with a polite, fatherly smile.
"Father," the boy said, stopping his drill and bowing respectfully. The word still sounded strange, a formal title, not an endearment.
"You are learning well, my son," Maximus replied, his voice a hollow echo of the paternal warmth he tried to project. He could see the changes in the boy. A few weeks in his mother's care had sharpened him, honing his quiet, watchful nature into something more cunning, more guarded.
He tried to find a moment alone with the boy, but the tutors were a constant, silent presence. He finally managed it under the guise of reviewing the boy's Virgil lesson. As they bent over the scroll, the boy's small finger traced a line from the Aeneid, a passage about the Trojan Horse. "Timeo Danaos et dona ferentes," the boy whispered, supposedly translating. "I fear the Greeks, even when they bring gifts." He looked up at Maximus, his young eyes holding a flicker of profound, shared understanding. He was signaling. He was telling Maximus that he knew he was in a gilded cage, that he understood the nature of his mother's gifts. The boy was not just a pawn; he was a player, a quiet, resilient intelligence surviving in the heart of the serpent's den.
That evening, at a small, private dinner for the triumvirate—Lucilla, Maximus, and the silent, observant boy—Lucilla made her move. She was at her most charming, a gracious queen treating her most valued partner with warmth and respect. They spoke of the progress of the new aqueduct, of the pacification of Raetia, of the continued war against the Silenti.
"You have been a godsend, Maximus," she said, raising her wine cup in a toast. "Your diligence in securing the Raetian frontier has given us the stability we needed to begin this great work. But your men, your finest officers, they must be rewarded for their service."
She smiled, a warm, generous expression that made the hairs on the back of Maximus's neck stand up. "I have been reviewing the service records of your command staff. One name, in particular, stands out. Your senior Centurion, Cassian. A man of remarkable talent, loyalty, and efficiency, by all accounts. Such a man is wasted on simple administrative duties in a peaceful city."
Maximus felt his heart go cold. Cassian. His most trusted subordinate, the man who had been his rock for twenty years, the man who knew the secret codes, the man who managed the network of couriers that formed his only, tenuous link to the Emperor.
"I agree, Augusta," Maximus said, his voice level, betraying none of the sudden, sickening dread that filled him. "Cassian is the finest officer I have ever known."
"Excellent," Lucilla beamed. "Then you will be pleased. To honor his service, and as a gift to you, my trusted partner, I am promoting him. He is to be given the rank of Prefect of the Cohort."
It was a significant honor, a promotion that would normally be a cause for great celebration.
"And with that rank comes a command worthy of his talents," Lucilla continued, her eyes glittering as she delivered the killing blow. "He is to be reassigned immediately. He will take command of the garrison at our most remote northern outpost, on the banks of the Vistula. It is a lonely place, but a vital one. The eyes and ears of our new kingdom, watching the barbarian plains. An incredibly important and honorable command."
The trap was perfect, a gift of pure poison. She had identified his primary communication link, the lynchpin of his entire espionage operation. She was not executing him, which would have been an open act of aggression. She was not demoting him. She was promoting him. She was exiling him to the most remote, frozen, and irrelevant corner of her entire domain, a place from which a message would take a month to reach Alex. With a single, generous gesture, she was cutting him off, isolating him, leaving him blind and deaf.
Maximus knew he could not refuse. To object, to argue that his most trusted man was too valuable to be sent away, would be an immediate confession of Cassian's true importance. He had to accept the gift. He had to drink the poison. But his mind, now honed by months of this deadly, intellectual chess match, searched for a counter, a way to turn her victory into a loss.
He raised his own cup, his expression one of deep, solemn gratitude. "Augusta," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "You honor me, and you honor my finest soldier. I am… overwhelmed by your trust and your generosity. Cassian is the perfect man for this command."
He took a slow sip of wine, his mind racing. "In fact," he continued, setting the cup down, his expression shifting to one of grave, strategic concern, "the command is so vital, so critical to the long-term security of our entire Northern state, that it would be a dereliction of my duty not to support him fully. A simple soldier, even one as brilliant as Cassian, cannot manage such a complex frontier alone. He will need political guidance. He will need an administrative mind of the highest caliber to help him establish our authority among the savage tribes there."
He looked directly at Lucilla, a look of profound, comradely sincerity on his face. "There is only one man in your entire administration with the subtlety and the intelligence for such a delicate task. Your own chief adjutant, Piso."
Lucilla's smile froze on her face.
"Yes," Maximus continued, as if struck by a brilliant inspiration. "Let us show the world how our new triumvirate works in perfect harmony! Let us send our two best men, together, to secure our new dominion! My finest soldier, and your most brilliant political mind, working side-by-side! Imagine the message it will send! Our two houses, our two powers, united as one in our most important endeavor."
He had done it. He had taken her poisoned gift and turned it back on her. She was caught. She could not refuse to send her own top agent on this "vital" mission without admitting that she did not trust Maximus, without fracturing the very public image of their new alliance. She would look weak, suspicious, and dishonorable.
Maximus had lost his most important subordinate, his communication link to his Emperor. But in exchange, with a single, witty, and audacious move, he had successfully exiled his enemy's chief spy, her eyes and ears, to a frozen wasteland a thousand miles from the center of power. He had sacrificed his knight, but he had taken her queen's most powerful bishop clean off the board.
Lucilla looked at him, and for a moment, the mask of the charming queen fell away, revealing the cold, furious serpent beneath. Then, she recovered, a slow, icy smile returning to her face. She had been outplayed. She raised her cup.
"To our united houses, Governor," she said, her voice dripping with a sweet, cold venom. "And to the glorious new careers of our two finest men."
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