A dozen arrows sliced through the cold mountain air, black streaks against a gray sky, all converging on a single, tiny speck of hope.
The hawk, a creature of pure instinct, folded its wings and dropped like a stone. The volley of arrows hissed through the space where it had been a second before. One arrow, flying low, grazed its wing. Feathers exploded into the air. The bird tumbled, a broken thing, but its desperate will to live was stronger than the tearing pain. It recovered, wings beating frantically, flying lower now, faster, wounded but still alive.
From their hiding place in the rocks, Crixus and his men watched in agonizing silence. They were helpless, spectators to the most important battle of the war.
"Fly, you bastard," Crixus breathed, his hands clenched into white-knuckled fists. The fate of Rome, the life of his Emperor, rested on the desperate, flapping wings of that single, wounded bird.
The Germanian archers on the ridge did not give up. They were professionals. They saw the message tube on the bird's leg. They understood its importance.
A horn blew, a sharp, angry sound that cut through the mountain air. Below them, a small, elite squad of outriders on black horses broke away from the main column. They were not weighed down by heavy armor, carrying only bows and short swords. They spurred their horses, galloping down the valley, their eyes on the sky.
The hunt had begun. The race was on.
Marcia's chambers had become a crucible.
The young physician, Orestes, had arrived with the first dose of his "cure." He held a simple clay cup filled with a dark, herb-scented wine. Lucilla sat in a chair near the bed, a serene, smiling spider in the corner of a web. Her presence was a suffocating weight. Lycomedes stood guard by the door, his massive arms crossed, his expression one of grim, holy duty.
This was the moment of truth.
Marcia looked at the cup. Was it a cure or a poison? Was Orestes a savior sent by allies she didn't know she had, or was he a clever new assassin, sent to finish the job?
Lucilla leaned forward slightly, her eyes gleaming with a sick, predatory anticipation. She wanted to see the fear in Marcia's eyes. She wanted to see her hesitate. It was a test of nerve, another turn of the screw in her campaign of psychological torture.
Marcia thought of the cage closing in around her. She thought of Geta, the innocent guard she had condemned to death. She had no more moves left in this game. She had to take the gamble. She had to trust the stranger.
She met Orestes's gaze. In his nervous, intelligent eyes, she saw no malice. She saw only a desperate, silent urgency. Trust me.
With a steady hand, she took the cup. She did not sip. She did not hesitate. She drained the entire dose in one long swallow, the bitter, tingling liquid a shock to her senses.
"Excellent," Orestes said, his professional mask firmly in place. "Now, I must check that your heart is not racing."
He leaned in close, placing his cool hand on her wrist, his thumb pressing against her pulse. He bent his head, supposedly to listen to her heart. The world narrowed to the sound of his breathing, the scent of cloves on his tunic.
"Breathe deeply," he murmured, his voice a low hum for the benefit of their audience.
And then, his lips barely moving, he whispered the words she had been praying for. "Galen sent me. The Emperor is blind to the danger you are in. We are your only allies now."
As he straightened up, he fumbled with a small roll of bandages. In the brief, practiced moment of clumsiness, a tiny, folded piece of parchment, no bigger than her thumbnail, fell from his sleeve and vanished into the folds of her blanket.
Lucilla had seen nothing.
The Emperor of Rome was in his personal armory, the rhythmic clang of hammer on steel a welcome distraction from the chaos threatening to consume him. He was overseeing the outfitting of a new Praetorian cohort, losing himself in the clean, simple logistics of steel, leather, and men. It was a problem he could solve.
Titus, his stone-faced Prefect, entered and stood at attention. "Caesar. Your daily report on palace security."
"Is it secure, Prefect?" Marcus asked, not looking up from the helmet he was inspecting.
"The palace is secure, Caesar," Titus replied, his voice a flat, formal monotone. "However, there is a matter to report concerning the Imperial apartments. The Oracle's Guard has expanded its perimeter."
Marcus stopped. He looked up. "Expanded?"
"They have taken over security for the entire western wing, my lord," Titus said, his gaze fixed on a point on the far wall. "My Praetorians are denied entry. Their commander, Lycomedes, claims he is following the direct orders of the Lady Lucilla, for the Oracle's 'holy protection.'"
The final straw.
The cold, calculating mask of Marcus Holt did not just crack. It shattered into a thousand pieces. In its place rose the pure, primal, incandescent rage of the Emperor Commodus. All the frustration, all the powerlessness, all the fear of the last few weeks ignited in a single, explosive moment.
He slammed his armored fist down on a nearby anvil.
The sound was not just a clang. It was a thunderclap, a sonic boom of pure fury that silenced the entire armory. Every hammer stopped. Every conversation died. Every man in the room froze, their eyes wide with a mixture of shock and terror.
"She dares?" Marcus roared, his voice no longer his own. It was a guttural, terrifying sound that seemed to come from the very soul of the building. "She dares?! In my own palace, she uses my own fanatics to bar my way?"
He spun to face Titus, his eyes burning with a fire that was not entirely human. "Prefect! Gather the First Cohort. Full battle armor. We are going to pay my sister a visit. And we are going to remind her, and every soul in this palace, who is the Emperor of Rome."
He was done playing games of whispers and shadows. He was done being outmaneuvered.
He was about to unleash a storm of brute force, a storm that could tear the palace, and the empire, apart.
Far to the north, a different kind of storm was raging.
The wounded hawk flew on, a desperate, fluttering speck of life against a vast, uncaring sky. Below, the Germanian outriders, a pack of wolves on horseback, were closing in. They had followed it out of the mountains and into the rolling hills of northern Italy.
They raised their bows, ready for the final, killing shot.
Just as it seemed the bird was about to fall, it flew over a familiar, reassuring shape: the square, stone walls of a Roman military outpost.
A sentry on the wall, shielding his eyes against the glare, saw the lone hawk. He saw its wounded, desperate flight. And he saw the glint of the small, silver message tube on its leg.
He sounded the alarm.
A horn blew, not the angry blast of the Germanian horn, but the deep, resonant call of a Roman buccina. It was a sound of defiance.
The main gates of the outpost swung open with a groan of heavy timber. From within, a squadron of Roman cavalry thundered out, their red cloaks flying, the tips of their lances glinting in the sun. They were not an army. They were a handful of garrison troops. But they were Romans. And a Roman messenger was in peril.
The race to secure the message had just become a battle.