The accusation hung in the air, a death sentence spoken in a quiet voice. Lucilla stood frozen, the perfect, serene mask she wore as a second skin finally cracking. For a single, eternal second, the entire palace held its breath.
Then, she laughed.
It was not a sound of mirth. It was a sharp, brittle, condescending sound, the last weapon she had left. "The Oracle is delirious!" she announced, her voice ringing with false pity. "The poison, the stress… it has clearly addled her mind!"
She turned to Lycomedes, her eyes wide with feigned reason and concern, a sister trying to protect her mad brother from his own follies. "You see how she raves? She is unwell. She needs rest, not an audience to her fever dreams."
Lycomedes did not look at her. His gaze shifted from Marcia's calm, certain face to the Emperor.
Marcus hadn't moved. His face was a blank slate, an unnerving void of emotion. He was no longer the raging emperor or the calculating strategist. He was something else. Something cold and final. He said nothing. He didn't need to.
He simply looked at Lycomedes, the man he had raised from the dust, and gave a single, almost imperceptible nod.
It was not a request. It was not an order. It was a release. A divine command.
Lycomedes understood.
He turned to Lucilla, and the tormented man of faith was gone, replaced by a righteous instrument of divine fury.
"Blasphemer!" he roared, his voice the sound of stone grinding against stone. "You dare question the divine word?!"
Before the Praetorians could even shift their weight, before Lucilla could form another word, he and his fanatics surged forward.
The scene exploded into chaos.
Lucilla, for the first time in her meticulously controlled life, was helpless. Her serene composure shattered into a mask of pure, terrified rage. The hulking zealots' huge, rough hands seized her arms, their grip like iron manacles. She was no longer an Empress. She was no longer a schemer. She was a cornered animal.
"Get your filthy hands off me!" she shrieked, her voice a shrill, ugly thing. She struggled, kicking, her perfect hair coming undone, her regal poise replaced by a desperate, flailing panic. "Do you know who I am?! I will have you all crucified!"
Marcus watched, his expression unreadable, as Lycomedes's men manhandled his screaming sister. He had done it. He had unleashed the mob, the true believers, on his own blood. He had weaponized their faith, turning it into an instrument of state-sanctioned terror, and the sheer, brutal efficiency of it was both intoxicating and horrifying.
Lycomedes shoved the struggling Lucilla to her knees before the Emperor. She fell hard on the marble, her dignity in tatters.
"What is your will, God-Emperor?" Lycomedes boomed, his eyes burning with a terrifying, righteous light. "Shall we give her to the justice of the people? They will tear her apart in the Forum for her treason!"
He was asking for permission to execute her. Right here. Right now.
The old Marcus Holt, the 21st-century manager, would have hesitated. He would have been horrified. But the man standing there now was a different creature entirely, forged in the fires of betrayal and desperation. He looked down at his sister's snarling, hate-filled face. Then his gaze flickered to Marcia, to the haunted look in her eyes, and he saw the true price of mercy. Mercy had almost gotten them all killed.
He would not make that mistake again.
"No," he said, his voice cold and clear, cutting through the tension. "The mob is for spectacle. This is for justice."
He turned to his Praetorian Prefect, the stone-faced Titus. "Take my sister to the Mamertine Prison. Lock her in the deepest cell. She will await trial for high treason."
The order was a masterful stroke. He had denied the cult their bloodlust, reasserting his own authority over theirs. He had chosen the cold, impersonal process of Roman law over the hot-blooded rage of the mob. It was a move of absolute power, and it left everyone, including a stunned Lycomedes, in no doubt as to who was truly in charge.
Titus and his Praetorians moved in, their disciplined efficiency a stark contrast to the zealots' chaotic fervor. They lifted the screaming Lucilla to her feet. "You will regret this, brother!" she shrieked as they dragged her away. "I will see you burn for this!" Her curses echoed down the hall until she was gone.
A heavy silence fell.
Marcus finally turned to Marcia. The space between them was a chasm, charged with the ozone of the storm that had just passed. He felt an overwhelming urge to close that distance, to explain, to hold her. He took a step forward and reached for her hand.
She instinctively pulled back.
The small, flinching movement was more devastating than any blow. He looked at her and saw not relief, not victory, but a deep, profound horror. She was not looking at him as a savior. She was looking at the monster he was becoming, the cold, ruthless creature she may have inadvertently helped create. He had just fed his own sister to the wolves, and he hadn't even blinked.
Later, in the hollow silence of his study, the adrenaline faded, leaving Marcus feeling empty. The victory was ashes in his mouth. He was alone with the blood-stained message from Crixus, a stark reminder that cutting off one of the serpent's heads meant nothing when its body was still strangling the empire.
He needed to act. He needed to know more. He needed to find the heart of the conspiracy here, in Rome.
He summoned the one man who could move through the city's underworld like a ghost. Narcissus.
The giant gladiator entered and knelt, his presence a comforting monolith of loyalty in a world of betrayal.
While they waited, Marcus had JARVIS working. The AI cross-referenced the traitor legions—the Third and the Seventh—with the known political and financial affiliations of every senator in Rome. It sifted through thousands of records of land ownership, shipping manifests, and veterans' funds.
A connection appeared. A single name, flagged in red.
DATA CORRELATED, JARVIS reported in his mind. The primary private financier for the Seventh Legion's veterans' benevolent fund is Senator Gaius Helvidius Priscus.
The name hit Marcus like a physical blow. Priscus was one of the most respected men in Rome. A stoic, a man of unimpeachable principles, famous for his quiet, philosophical opposition to the excesses of the Imperial family. He was considered the moral compass of the Senate. And he was a traitor.
The conspiracy wasn't just a few disgruntled generals in the north. Its heart, its money, was right here.
Marcus looked at the kneeling giant before him. "Narcissus. I have a new mission for you."
He explained the situation. "This Senator Priscus is the head of the serpent in Rome. Crixus is fighting the fangs in the mountains, but I need to cut off the head before it can grow another."
He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a low, chilling whisper. "I don't want him arrested. I don't want a public trial. I want a confession. I want the names of every senator, every prefect, every banker involved in this. I want the entire conspiracy, ripped out by the roots."
He paused, his eyes locking with the gladiator's. "Use any means necessary. Bring me his confession, Narcissus. Bring me his soul."
Narcissus looked up, and in his eyes there was no hesitation. Only a calm, absolute understanding. "It will be done, my lord."
He rose, a giant wreathed in shadow, and slipped out of the room, a ghost on a mission of torture and death.
Marcus was left alone in the suffocating silence. The Emperor who had just sentenced his sister to a dungeon and a respected senator to a fate worse than death. He looked down at his own hands, half-expecting to see them dripping with blood.
He felt nothing. No regret. No hesitation. Only a cold, clean certainty.
And that terrified him more than anything else.
I didn't even hesitate.