The pre-dawn air in Virunum was cold and sharp, smelling of damp hay and horse sweat. In the sprawling stables of the Governor's palace, a murky gloom clung to the rafters, broken only by the hazy shafts of light from a few scattered lanterns. Flaccus, Praetorian guard and unwilling conspirator, found his hands shaking as he cinched the final strap on his saddle. It was not from the cold. It was from the gnawing, acid terror that had been his constant companion since the Governor had summoned him.
Every shadow seemed to hold a pair of watching eyes. Every clatter of a hoof on the cobblestones, every murmur from the stablehands mucking out the stalls, sounded like a whispered accusation. He was a creature of Lucilla's new world, a man who had staked his entire future on her brilliance and her patronage. He had basked in the reflected light of her power, secure in his place in the rising order. Now, he was a traitor. A pawn in a game played by giants, and he knew with a sickening certainty that pawns were the first to be sacrificed.
He ran a hand over his horse's neck, the familiar texture of the coarse hair doing little to soothe his own frayed nerves. He was trapped. To refuse the Governor was to face the ruin of his family, a disgrace that would follow his name for generations. To obey was to commit treason against the Augusta, a woman whose capacity for cold, precise vengeance he had witnessed firsthand. And to fail, to be caught… that was a fate he dared not contemplate.
From the deepest shadows of the stable, a figure detached itself from the darkness. Gaius Maximus did not move like a general anymore. The confident, rolling gait of a career legionary was gone, replaced by the silent, deliberate tread of a conspirator. He wore a simple, dark traveling cloak, his face half-hidden in the cowl, but there was no mistaking the granite-carved features or the cold fire in his eyes.
He stopped beside Flaccus, not even glancing at the younger man, his gaze fixed on the bustling activity at the main gate. He extended a hand, and in it was a small, heavy purse that jingled softly. The sound was obscene in the tense quiet.
"For your journey," Maximus said, his voice a low gravel that was barely audible over the stable noise. "Use it sparingly. Men who spend too freely are remembered."
Flaccus took the purse, the weight of the gold coins a cold, heavy burden in his palm. It was not a payment; it was another link in his chain.
Maximus turned his head slightly, his eyes locking onto Flaccus's. The warmth and honor the General was famous for were gone, replaced by a chilling pragmatism. He was no longer the honorable father-figure of the legions; he was a handler, and Flaccus was his asset.
"Listen carefully," Maximus commanded, his voice a low growl that demanded absolute attention. "You will not write this down. You will not speak it to another living soul until you stand before the Emperor. You will burn it into your memory, word for word. Do you understand?"
Flaccus nodded, his throat too dry to speak.
"When you stand before Caesar, you will say these words, and these words only." Maximus began to dictate the message, his voice a steady, rhythmic cadence, like a death sentence being read.
"The Serpent Queen's forges are not copies; they are improvements. Celer's designs have been adapted with local innovations. Their steel is harder, their production is faster than Vulcania's initial output. The Northern Institute is a true rival, not a vassal."
He paused, letting the weight of the words sink in. This was not just military intelligence; it was a revelation that could shatter the very foundation of Alex's grand strategy.
"She is building an independent technological base. The Peace of the Alps is a lie. The North is not a shield; it is a dagger being sharpened. Trust nothing."
He made Flaccus repeat it. Then again. And a third time, until the words were a scar on the inside of the Praetorian's mind, the cadence and rhythm as familiar as his own name. The message was a declaration of a new Cold War, a confirmation that Lucilla was not just a political problem but a burgeoning technological peer—a far greater and more insidious long-term threat than the Emperor had perhaps realized.
"Good," Maximus finally grunted, seemingly satisfied. He then gave one final piece of instruction, and in it, Flaccus saw the terrifying evolution of the man. This was no longer just an honorable soldier; this was a mind that had been honed sharp by months of silent, vicious political warfare.
"You are being watched," Maximus stated, not as a possibility, but as a fact. "Your official orders from the Augusta are to inspect the southern watchtowers. Her agents will expect you to ride south. You will not."
Flaccus stared at him, confused.
"You will ride north," Maximus commanded. "For one full day. You will make a grand show of inspecting the outposts along the northern road. Complain loudly to the Centurions about the cold. Act bored. Let their observers report back to the Augusta that you are a fool on a fool's errand, a pampered guardsman carrying out his duties with indolence. Let them grow complacent."
He leaned in closer, his voice dropping even lower. "The forests of the Carnic Alps are dense. The trails are treacherous. When they are comfortable, when their guard is down, you will lose them. There is an old hunter's track two miles past the third watchtower. Take it. It will be hard riding, but it will circle you back to the southern road, far beyond her immediate reach. Do the one thing they will not anticipate. A direct path is a fool's path."
It was a brilliant piece of tradecraft, a plan born of paranoia and cunning. Flaccus felt a sliver of grudging admiration cut through his fear. He was in the hands of a master. A different kind of master than the one he thought he served.
Finally, Maximus stepped back, melting into the shadows as quickly as he had appeared. "Go," was his only parting word.
Flaccus swung himself into the saddle, his heart a frantic drum against his ribs. He gathered the reins, his knuckles white. He urged his horse forward, out of the dark stables and into the gray, misty light of the dawn. He rode through the main gate of Virunum, the guards waving him on with a casual familiarity.
As he cleared the city's massive stone walls and set his horse on the northern road, a cold impulse made him glance back over his shoulder. High on the battlements, a lone, cloaked figure stood watching him, a motionless silhouette against the pale morning sky.
A spike of pure ice shot through his veins. Was it one of Maximus's men, a silent shadow sent to ensure he followed the plan? Or was it one of Lucilla's spies, their surveillance having begun the moment he left his chambers?
He couldn't know. The ambiguity was its own form of torture. He spurred his horse into a canter, the northern road stretching out before him like a long, uncertain fate. Gaius Maximus had set his piece in motion, but the board was treacherous, his opponent was a grandmaster of the game, and he, Flaccus, was a volatile, unwilling, and terrified time bomb ticking at the heart of it all.
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