The Temple of Vesta was a house of virgins and sacred fire, and tonight, it would be a house of lies.
Marcus approached the small, circular temple at midnight, just as Lucilla had instructed. He was cloaked and hooded, his footsteps echoing softly in the deserted Roman Forum. To any watching eyes, he was the very picture of a man walking into an ambush—alone, vulnerable, and a fool.
But he was not alone.
In the deep shadows of the Basilica Julia, Narcissus and his dozen killers waited, their blades dark. Across the Forum, hidden amongst the crumbling columns of the Temple of Saturn, Crixus and a hundred of his best Vigiles had formed a silent, invisible cordon, sealing the entire block.
Lucilla thought she was the hunter. In reality, she was the one trapped in the cage.
Marcus pushed open the heavy bronze doors and entered the temple. The air inside was warm and smelled of olive oil and ancient stone. In the center of the room, the sacred flame of Vesta burned in a great brazier, its light casting flickering, dancing shadows on the marble walls.
Lucilla was waiting for him. She stood before the flame, a vision in white, looking more like a high priestess than a conspirator. Flanking her were ten Praetorian guards, their armor gleaming in the firelight. They were older men, veterans loyal to her father's name and, more importantly, her family's gold. They were the last remnants of her shattered power.
The sacred flame reflected in the polished surfaces of their armor, making them look like demons forged in fire.
"Brother," Lucilla said, her voice smooth as silk, a perfect imitation of relieved concern. "I am so glad you came. This madman, Lycomedes, he must be stopped before he burns our city to the ground."
She gestured to a small table where a stack of scrolls lay. "I have proof. Forged documents, paid witnesses. Everything we need to declare him an enemy of Rome." She was laying her trap, piece by piece.
As she spoke, a new sound began from outside. A low murmur, then a shout. Then another. It grew into a rhythmic, angry chant.
"Caesar an-Marcius! The God-Emperor! Death to the traitors!"
Lucilla's perfectly composed face faltered. A flicker of confusion, then alarm, appeared in her eyes. This was not part of her plan.
The heavy doors of the temple burst open. Lycomedes, the charismatic cult leader, stood in the doorway, his eyes burning with fanaticism. He held a blacksmith's hammer in one hand. Behind him, a mob of two hundred of his followers, armed with clubs, torches, and farming tools, swarmed into the Forum.
Crixus's "anonymous tip" had worked perfectly. The cult had been told that traitors were meeting in the temple to plot against their living god.
Lucilla's face went pale. Her ambush had just been ambushed. Her neat, orderly trap had been overrun by a force of pure chaos. Her ten Praetorians drew their swords, their professionalism dissolving into raw fear. They formed a tight, defensive circle around her as the first of the cultists began to pour into the temple, their faces contorted with rage.
This was the moment.
Marcus didn't draw a weapon. He didn't call for his own hidden guards. He did the last thing anyone expected. He turned his back on Lucilla and her cornered soldiers and faced the tide of the mob.
He held up a single, calming hand.
"Peace!" he commanded. His voice, amplified by the temple's acoustics, boomed with an absolute, unshakable authority. The front ranks of the mob hesitated, their rage momentarily checked by the presence of their god.
Marcus looked from the fanatical, worshipful face of Lycomedes to the terrified, hateful face of his sister. Then he spoke to Lucilla, his voice low enough that only she and her guards could hear him over the crackling of the sacred flame.
"You have two choices," he said calmly, not even bothering to look at her. "You can fight them, and you and your men will be torn to pieces as traitors who tried to murder the 'God-Emperor.' They will make you a martyr for a cause you don't even believe in."
He paused, letting the horror of that sink in.
"Or," he said, his voice dropping to a cold whisper. "You can kneel."
He then turned back to Lycomedes and the mob, his voice once again booming for all to hear. "You have been misled! There are no traitors here!"
He gestured to Lucilla. "This is my sister! She discovered a plot against my life and bravely brought me here to expose it! These loyal guards," he said, nodding to her terrified soldiers, "were protecting me from the assassins who even now flee into the night!"
It was a brilliant, audacious, impossible lie. It completely rewrote the scenario, transforming his would-be murderer into his staunchest ally.
He looked back over his shoulder at Lucilla, his eyes as cold and hard as iron.
"Kneel, sister," he repeated, his voice a quiet command that was more threatening than any shout. "Publicly swear your loyalty to me, and to my new path for Rome. Help me guide these... faithful subjects." He let his gaze drift toward the hammer in Lycomedes' hand. "Or I will give them the traitors they came for."
She was trapped. Utterly and completely. Her ambush was a failure. Her guards were surrounded. Her political power was in ashes. Her pride, her arrogant, unbending pride, was the only thing she had left.
He watched the war play out on her face. The hatred, the humiliation, the cold calculation of a survivor. She looked at the fanatical eyes of the mob, then at the calm, merciless eyes of the brother who was no longer her brother.
With a look of pure, venomous hatred in her eyes, a look that promised a thousand future betrayals if she ever found the chance, Lucilla, Augusta, daughter of the divine Marcus Aurelius, sank to her knees on the marble floor before him.
"I serve the Emperor," she said, her voice choked with a humiliation that was so deep it was almost a physical pain. "And I serve his divine will."
He had won. He hadn't just defeated her; he had broken her. He had neutralized his greatest enemy not by killing her, but by turning her into a public symbol of his absolute power. He had co-opted the dangerous cult, placing himself at its head, transforming a chaotic liability into a fanatically loyal private army.
He looked down at his kneeling sister, the proudest woman in Rome, a prisoner in a temple of her own making. The light from the cultists' torches cast a flickering, hellish glow on her pale, defeated face.
As Marcus turned to lead his new, chaotic flock of fanatics out into the Forum, leaving Lucilla kneeling in the ashes of her ambition, JARVIS's voice whispered a final, chilling report in his mind.
WARNING: UNFORESEEN CONSEQUENCE. ANALYSIS OF THE LATEST NORTHERN DISPATCHES CONFIRMS VALERIUS'S FORCES HAVE SUCCESSFULLY REPLICATED ROMAN SIEGE TECHNOLOGY. HE HAS REVERSE-ENGINEERED OUR DESIGNS.
A new line of text seemed to burn itself into his thoughts.
THEY HAVE CONSTRUCTED... BALLISTAE.
He had won the battle for Rome. But the real war, the one for the future of the Empire, had just taken a terrifyingly modern turn.