Flaccus rode back into Virunum under a sky the color of a bruised plum. He was no longer the smug Praetorian who had left weeks ago. The journey had stripped him of his arrogance, replacing it with the gaunt, hollow-eyed paranoia of a hunted animal. Every snapping twig on the road south had sounded like a hidden archer, every distant column of smoke a signal fire announcing his position. He had followed Maximus's instructions to the letter, the feint to the north, the mad dash through the forgotten forest trails. He had made it. He had succeeded. But the terror of the journey had etched itself onto his soul.
He delivered his horse to the stables, forcing a mask of weary boredom onto his face as he answered the stable master's questions about the miserable state of the northern watchtowers. Every casual glance felt like an interrogation. He made his way to his barracks, the familiar sights and sounds of the city now seeming alien and threatening. Later that evening, under the cover of a moonless sky, he slipped out through a side gate and made his way to a pre-arranged meeting point: a noisy, foul-smelling blacksmith's forge in the city's artisan district.
Maximus was already there, a dark, cloaked figure half-hidden in the shadows, away from the roaring heat of the furnace. The rhythmic clang of hammer on anvil was a deafening symphony, a perfect cloak for a secret conversation. Flaccus approached, his heart pounding a frantic rhythm that was almost lost in the din.
"Report," Maximus commanded, his voice a low rumble that barely carried over the noise.
Flaccus delivered the Emperor's response, a memorized string of coded phrases and acknowledgements. He recounted his journey, the successful deception, the feeling of being free from observation. As he spoke, Maximus felt a surge of grim triumph. It had worked. His desperate, dishonorable gambit had paid off. He had his channel. He had a weapon in this silent, shadowy war.
But the triumph was a flickering candle in a rising wind of paranoia. Maximus was a soldier, and a soldier's instincts screamed that this victory felt too easy. He had lived his life on the battlefield, and he knew that an enemy who gives ground without a fight is often preparing an ambush. Lucilla was a serpent. And a serpent does not simply let its prey escape the coils. It lets it run, to lead the hunter back to the entire warren.
Even as he listened to Flaccus's report, Maximus's eyes were in constant motion. He scanned the forge, his senses on high alert. He noted the smith's apprentices, their faces slick with sweat, their movements seemingly focused on their work. He noted the other patrons, waiting for repairs. His gaze drifted to the street outside, visible through the wide, open doors. A cart driver had been waiting with his lame donkey for an unusually long time. A pair of street urchins were playing knucklebones a little too close to the entrance, their eyes occasionally flicking towards the forge. Were they innocent details of city life? Or were they a web?
The thought chilled him. He was out of his depth. He was a creature of the open field, of the shield wall and the cavalry charge. This world of whispers, shadows, and unseen observers was a suffocating maze, and he feared Lucilla was its master architect.
Miles away, in her silent, elegant solar, Lucilla's spymaster, Corvinus, reviewed the evening's reports. He was a man who found beauty not in poetry or art, but in the elegant geometry of a perfectly woven intelligence network.
"The mouse has returned to the nest, Augusta," he reported, his voice a dry, dispassionate whisper. "He is twitchy, nervous. He met with the old wolf at a blacksmith's forge on the Street of Smiths. The location was… predictable. Loud, anonymous. The sort of place a soldier would choose for a secret meeting."
He gestured to a large, detailed map of Virunum spread on a table. Tiny, color-coded markers were scattered across it.
"He believes he is a master spy," Corvinus continued, a thin, cruel smile touching his lips. "We are letting him believe it. We are not watching the mouse himself. That is amateurish. We are watching the cheese. We are noting every person who looks at him for more than a second. A stable boy who gave his horse an extra measure of oats—we now know the boy's family has a cousin in Maximus's old legion. A tavern wench who served him wine—her brother was just promoted to decurion in the Governor's personal guard. The cart driver, the urchins… they are all ours."
He moved a marker on the map. "He is not an agent. He is a divining rod. And he is leading us to every drop of Maximus's water, hidden beneath the earth. We are letting him build his nest, thread by thread. When it is complete, we will not just catch the mouse. We will simply… collect the entire nest."
Lucilla listened, her expression serene. This was the proper way to fight a war. Not with brute force, but with patience, precision, and overwhelming, invisible control.
Back in the forge, Maximus made a decision. He had to assume he was compromised. He had to assume Lucilla was watching, listening, waiting. He had to play her game, on her terms. He needed to turn her own web against her.
He finished his debrief with Flaccus, clapping the terrified man on the shoulder with a show of fatherly pride. "You have done well, soldier. You have served the Emperor in a way few could. But your work is not done."
He gave Flaccus his next assignment. It was a piece of intelligence, seemingly vital. It detailed the readiness of two of Maximus's legions, their supply levels, and a planned rotation of their commanders. It was all true, but it was not critical. It was information that, if intercepted, would seem like a major intelligence coup for Lucilla, but would not actually jeopardize his military strength. It was the perfect bait.
"This is of the utmost importance," Maximus said, his voice grave. "The Emperor must have this information. Use the same routes, the same methods. You have proven you can do it."
He was sending his agent, his one precious link, back into the fire as a decoy. The thought was a bitter pill, another stain on his honor, but it was necessary.
Later, after Flaccus had departed, Maximus made his way back to his residence through a labyrinth of back alleys. He entered his spartan quarters and went to his desk. He pulled out a standard quartermaster's requisition form. It was a request for supplies for the Raetian garrisons: five hundred pairs of new sandals, one hundred amphorae of wine, twenty bolts of linen for bandages. It was mundane, bureaucratic, and utterly boring.
He filled it out himself, his large, calloused hands surprisingly nimble with the stylus. Tucked within the list of supplies, he made a single, subtle change. Instead of requesting iron nails by the crate, he specified a certain number of clavi caligarii—the specific hobnails used for legionary sandals—from a particular forge known for its unique smelting mark. It was a pre-arranged signal, a single, critical word hidden in a mountain of bureaucratic chaff. The word was 'serpens'—serpent. It meant: I am compromised. The enemy is listening. Future messages are false until you receive the counter-sign.
The next morning, two couriers left Virunum, heading south. One was Flaccus, the Praetorian spy, riding with a new sense of confidence, believing himself to be the Emperor's secret dagger. He was being meticulously, invisibly tracked by a dozen of Lucilla's hunters, his every step monitored.
The other was a humble, balding supply clerk named Marcus, a man so insignificant, so deeply buried in the legion's bureaucracy, that his departure was noted by no one. He carried a satchel full of tedious supply forms, grumbling about his assignment to anyone who would listen. He was the real messenger.
Maximus stood on his balcony, watching the morning traffic flow out of the city gates. It was the ultimate gamble. He had placed his bet. He was pitting his soldier's intuition and newfound cunning against a true master of espionage. Had he become smart enough to outwit the serpent in her own den, or had he just sent another one of his loyal men to a quiet, anonymous doom?
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