Power wasn't a throne; it was a target painted on his back, and the whole world was taking aim.
Marcus sat at the head of the strategy table, the maps of Germania spread before him like a death sentence. His generals argued over troop movements and supply lines, their voices a dull, buzzing drone.
Lucilla sat near the end of the table. His command that she attend these meetings was her punishment, a daily reminder of her defeat. She was a picture of quiet, demure loyalty. She listened silently, her hands folded in her lap, and offered no opinions.
But her deference was a performance. It was the coiled, perfect stillness of a viper in the sun, a stillness more menacing than any open hiss.
One of the older generals, a man who still revered her father, turned to her. "Lady Lucilla, your insight into the northern court politics would be invaluable."
She offered the man a faint, sad smile. "The Emperor's wisdom is all that is required," she said, her voice soft and submissive. She was playing the part of the broken, penitent sister perfectly. But as she spoke, her cold eyes met Marcus's across the table, and they held no submission. They held a promise of future vengeance.
He watched her pour him a cup of wine from a heavy silver ewer. Her hand was perfectly steady, but her knuckles were bone-white where she gripped the handle. A gilded cage was still a cage, and she was already testing the bars.
His new power had brought new problems. Later that day, the cult leader, Lycomedes, requested an audience.
The former gladiator strode into the throne room not with the deference of a subject, but with the righteous fury of a true believer. He threw himself to the floor before the throne, his voice booming with passion.
"My Lord! My God-Emperor!" Lycomedes cried. "The faithful have acted in your name! We have captured a dozen of the Senate's vipers! Traitors who schemed with your sister, idolaters who still sacrifice to the false gods! They are held in the Forum, and the people demand a purge!"
He looked up, his eyes burning with a terrifying, fanatical light. "Give us the word, and we will cleanse this city! We will hang them from the rostra as a testament to your divine justice!"
Marcus felt a wave of nausea. He had unleashed this. This monster, this blind, adoring faith, was his creation. He couldn't agree to a massacre in the streets. But he couldn't simply say no, either. To deny them would be to betray their faith, to alienate the only army in the city that was fanatically loyal to him.
He was walking a tightrope over a canyon filled with knives.
He rose from the throne, his voice a commanding boom that echoed in the hall. "Justice will be done," he declared. "But it will be my justice, not the rule of the mob. Your faith is your shield, Lycomedes. Let the legions be my sword."
He pointed north, toward Germania. "The true enemy is not here, in the heart of Rome. It is in the forests of the north. When that war is won, we will return. And we will purify Rome together."
He had successfully placated them, redirecting their violent energy toward a distant war. But he had made a dangerous promise. One day, the bill for their loyalty would come due.
The next crisis arrived without even a knock. A dispatch rider, his horse lathered and near death, brought word from the port of Ostia. Not from the north, but from the east. A high-level diplomatic envoy from the Parthian Empire, Rome's great and ancient rival, had arrived and requested an immediate audience with the Emperor.
The Parthian Ambassador entered the court an hour later. His name was Phraates IV.
He was not a barbarian warlord. He was a man in his forties, lean and elegant, dressed in magnificent, flowing silks of iridescent blue and gold. His dark beard was intricately oiled and braided with golden thread. He moved with the fluid grace of a panther, his dark, intelligent eyes missing nothing. He spoke flawless, unaccented Latin, his voice as smooth as the silk he wore.
He was not a subject. He was a player in the great game. An equal.
"Great Caesar," Phraates said, his bow a perfect, precise gesture that held no submission. A predatory smile played on his lips. "The King of Kings, my master, sends his warmest regards. He has heard of the... unfortunate troubles you face in Germania. He wishes you a swift victory and a glorious triumph."
The words were honeyed, but the message was as sharp as a blade. We are watching. We know you're weak. We know you're distracted.
Phraates presented his gifts with a grand flourish. Bales of shimmering silk, chests of exotic spices, a matched pair of magnificent white stallions from the plains of Nisaea.
Then, he got to the true purpose of his visit.
He didn't demand territory. He didn't threaten war. He made a request, his voice the very soul of reason.
"To show our eternal friendship, and to ensure peace on your eastern border while you deal with your northern troubles," Phraates said smoothly, "the King of Kings proposes a new treaty of trade and cooperation. A small adjustment to the old agreements."
He paused, letting his gaze sweep over the assembled court. "We ask only for exclusive Roman recognition of Parthian control over the Palmyra trade hub. The main artery of the great Silk Road."
It was extortion, dressed in the most beautiful diplomatic finery.
WARNING, JARVIS's voice whispered in Marcus's mind, cold and immediate. PALMYRA CONTROLS 75% OF THE OVERLAND TRADE FROM THE EAST. AGREEING TO THESE TERMS WILL CEDE APPROXIMATELY 60% OF ROME'S EASTERN TRADE REVENUE DIRECTLY TO PARTHIA. IT WILL FUND THEIR ARMIES WHILE BANKRUPTING OURS WITHIN FIVE YEARS.
Rome was suddenly fighting a two-front war. One of swords in the north, and one of gold in the east.
Phraates smiled, seeing the cold calculation in Marcus's eyes. He knew he had him trapped. He gestured for a servant to bring forward one final "gift."
The servant carried a dusty, battered object on a velvet cushion. It was an old Roman Centurion's helmet, its bronze surface pitted and green with age. Its crest was long gone. It was the kind of helmet worn by the legions of Crassus, the Roman general whose army had been famously, catastrophically annihilated by the Parthians at the Battle of Carrhae.
"A small antique," Phraates said, his voice a silken, venomous whisper. "From my family's collection."
He smiled again. "A simple reminder of how costly misunderstandings can be between great empires."