In the heart of his own army, the Emperor was an island, and the sea was made of steel and hate.
The dining hall exploded. In a single, deafening scrape of wood on stone, hundreds of Praetorian soldiers leaped to their feet. Hands flew to the hilts of swords. The air, seconds before filled with laughter and wine, was now thick with the smell of imminent bloodshed.
Crixus and his dozen Vigiles moved with practiced speed, forming a tight, disciplined shield wall behind Marcus. They were outnumbered twenty to one. A single order from the Prefect would turn this hall into a slaughterhouse.
Saoterus rose from his seat, his face a mask of cold, calculated fury. He looked down at his captured, bleeding centurion, then fixed his gaze on Marcus. His voice boomed, filled with righteous indignation.
"Treason!" he bellowed, his voice echoing in the tense, ringing silence. "The Emperor grows paranoid! He has lost his mind! He dresses his city-watch thugs as our officers to frame me and seize control of the Guard!"
For a long, dangerous moment, it looked like it would work.
The Praetorians were a brotherhood, a pack. Their loyalty was to their commander, the man who bled and drank with them, not to the strange, mercurial Emperor on the throne. Swords began to clear their sheaths with a soft, metallic hiss. It was about to become a massacre.
This was the moment. Marcus didn't flinch. He didn't shout. He let the cold, arrogant authority of Commodus fill his voice, but he armed it with the relentless logic of JARVIS. He was no longer a man playing a part. He was a weapon.
"You speak of loyalty, Saoterus?" Marcus's voice cut through the rising tension, sharp and commanding. It wasn't loud, but every man in the hall heard it. He held up the small, coded wax tablet.
"Then look at this!" he declared, his eyes sweeping over the wavering soldiers. "This is a message, in your own officer's cipher, detailing the movements of the XVII Legion on the Germanian frontier!"
He let the words sink in, a poison dart of doubt.
"The same legion where Centurion Gaius Miconius, your own nephew, serves!" he roared, the name a hammer blow. "You sold them to the barbarians! You sold them to Valerius for your sister's silver!"
He then turned his burning gaze on the common soldiers. "This man betrayed your brothers! He sold Roman lives for his own ambition! I came to Germania to lead you to victory, and he sharpened the enemy's swords behind your backs!"
He took a step forward, into the sea of hostile faces. "I offer you vengeance. I offer you glory. And I offer a triple death-bonus for every Germanic head you bring me back from the north when we march!"
He had bypassed their loyalty to Saoterus and appealed directly to two things a soldier understood better than anything: honor and greed.
The tide turned.
The Praetorians looked from the small tablet in Marcus's hand to their Prefect's face. They saw the flicker of panic in his eyes. They saw the truth.
Two of Saoterus's own senior officers, men sitting at his own table, slowly drew their swords. But they didn't point them at Marcus. They stepped forward and placed the sharp, gleaming tips at their commander's throat.
The mutiny was over before it began.
Later, Saoterus was brought in chains to Marcus's private chambers. He was no longer the proud commander. He was a beaten man, but still defiant, spitting curses and threats. "Lucilla will see you burn for this!"
Marcus didn't rage. He didn't order the torturers. He sat in his chair, a cup of wine in his hand, and did something far colder.
He began to speak, his voice calm and dispassionate. JARVIS fed him the information in a relentless, calm stream.
"On the fifth of October, you met with one of Lucilla's agents, a grain merchant named Porcius, at the Temple of Castor. You were paid three thousand denarii."
Saoterus froze.
"On the ninth, you used a courier, a one-eyed man named Lupus, to send a message detailing the palace guard rotations. On the twelfth, another five thousand was deposited into an account you hold with a money-lender in the Subura."
Marcus continued, calmly recounting every secret meeting, every transfer of gold, every whispered betrayal. He knew dates, names, locations. Saoterus's defiance crumbled, replaced by a sheer, superstitious terror. He looked at Marcus not as a political rival, but as an all-seeing, all-knowing god. This wasn't an investigation; it was a divine judgment.
"You sold your honor and the lives of your men," Marcus said, his voice flat. "Your nephew and the others on the frontier will be arrested and executed for treason." He stood up and walked to the table, placing a single, sharp dagger upon it.
"But I will grant you a Roman's death," he said. "You have one hour."
He turned and walked out of the room, leaving the disgraced Prefect alone with his fate. It was ruthless, efficient, and utterly terrifying. He had not just defeated his enemy; he had annihilated him.
Marcus now had what he needed. Absolute control of the Praetorian Guard. And ironclad, undeniable proof of Lucilla's treason, straight from the mouth of her broken co-conspirator. The game had completely, irrevocably changed.
But he would not use a soldier's methods against his sister. He wouldn't send a legion to her villa to drag her out in chains. He would use the tactics she had taught him. Fear. Symbolism. Psychological terror.
He summoned Marcia. Her face was grim, but her eyes were resolute. She understood what needed to be done. She oversaw the careful packing of a small, elegant cedarwood box.
Lucilla was in her villa, reclining on a divan, a cup of expensive wine in her hand. She was completely unaware of the night's events. She believed her Prefect was still in control, that her brother was a cornered animal, soon to be put down.
A servant entered, his face pale. He carried a small, ornate box. "A gift, my lady. From the Emperor."
Curious, a small, triumphant smile playing on her lips, Lucilla took the box. He was trying to sue for peace, the fool.
She opened it.
Inside, nestled on a bed of rich, black velvet, was the heavy, golden signet ring of the Praetorian Prefect, still bearing a faint, dark stain of blood.
And beside it lay a single, perfect white rose, identical to the one she had once given to Marcia.
The message was silent, brutal, and unmistakable.
I know everything. I have defeated your army. I have taken your queen.
And now, I'm coming for you.