Narcissus rode through the gate, a giant caked in the mud and blood of the road, grinning like a demon who had just cheated hell.
Behind him, the heavy wheels of twenty wagons churned the muck of the ridge path. The smell coming from them was a strange mix of metallic tang and cloying sweetness—sweat, fear, and silver.
"You made it," Marcus breathed, staring at the gladiator he had sent into the heart of the conspiracy. He felt a flicker of hope. "Did you find it? The head of the snake?"
"I found more than a head, Caesar," Narcissus rumbled, vaulting from his horse. "I found the body."
He strode to the first wagon and ripped back the heavy canvas cover with a flourish.
Silver spilled out.
Thousands of denarii, gleaming dully in the gray morning light. It was a river of coin, enough to pay an army for a year.
"The payroll for the Fourth and Tenth Legions," Narcissus announced, his voice booming with pride. "Intercepted on the Via Aurelia. They won't be paying their men this month."
A cheer went up from the Praetorians gathered at the gate. This was a victory. A crippling blow to the enemy's morale.
But Narcissus wasn't done. His grin shifted. It became tighter, colder. A predator's smile.
"I also brought leverage," he said softly.
He walked to the second wagon. He didn't rip the canvas. He lifted it gently, almost mockingly.
Inside, huddled in the gloom, were figures wrapped in fine, travel-stained cloaks. Weeping.
Marcus stepped closer, peering into the wagon. A woman looked up at him, her face pale with terror, clutching a young boy to her chest. She wore the silk stola of a high-born matron.
"The Lady Julia," Narcissus introduced her, his voice devoid of pity. "Wife of General Varus, commander of the traitor Fourth Legion. And his son, young Gaius."
He gestured down the line of wagons. "And the families of his senior tribunes. Plucked from their country villas while their husbands marched to kill us."
Marcus recoiled as if struck. "Narcissus… what have you done?"
"I secured our survival," the gladiator said flatly. "We are seven thousand against forty thousand. We cannot win a battle. But we can win a standoff."
"We are Romans!" Marcus hissed, grabbing Narcissus by his leather harness. "We are not kidnappers! We do not war on women and children!"
Narcissus didn't flinch. He looked down at the Emperor, his eyes hard and unyielding.
"We are dead men if we don't," he said. "You told me to use any means necessary. This is necessary."
He leaned closer, his voice a rough whisper. "They won't attack while their blood is in our camp. You have to choose, Caesar. Be the hero and die with your honor intact. Or be the monster and let us live."
Marcus looked at the terrified woman in the wagon. He looked at the boy, who was staring at him with wide, tear-filled eyes. He looked at his own men, exhausted, mud-stained, looking to him for salvation.
He released Narcissus. He felt sick.
"Guard them," he ordered, his voice hollow. "No one touches them. If a hair on their heads is harmed, I will have the man responsible crucified."
Narcissus nodded, satisfied. He had saved his Emperor's life, even if he had to stain his Emperor's soul to do it.
The sun rose over the Etruscan ruins, illuminating the dire reality of their position.
Below, on the plain, the traitor legions were arrayed for battle. Forty thousand men in perfect formation. A sea of red crests and glittering steel. They surrounded the hill fort completely.
A single rider detached from the enemy lines. He rode up the slope under a flag of truce. It was General Varus himself. He looked magnificent in his armor, but his face was tight with anger.
"Prepare my horse," Marcus said to Titus.
"Caesar, it's too dangerous—"
"He won't hurt me," Marcus said grimly. "Not today."
He rode out to meet the traitor general halfway down the slope.
Varus reined in his horse. He sneered at Marcus. "You are outnumbered five to one, 'Caesar.' Your position is untenable. Surrender now, and I will grant you a soldier's death. Refuse, and we will storm these ruins and leave no stone standing."
Marcus didn't argue tactics. He didn't appeal to loyalty. He signaled to the gate.
Narcissus stepped out. He was holding something. Or rather, someone.
He dragged the young boy, Gaius, into the sunlight. He held a heavy dagger to the boy's throat.
The silence that fell over the battlefield was instantaneous and absolute. Forty thousand men held their breath.
Varus turned white. The arrogance vanished. The general was gone, replaced by a terrified father.
"Gaius..." he whispered.
"I don't want to kill him, Varus," Marcus called out, his voice carrying clearly in the stillness. "I really don't. He's innocent."
"You monster," Varus choked out, his hand trembling on his sword hilt. "You coward!"
"I am the Emperor!" Marcus roared back, the mask of the ruthless tyrant slipping firmly into place. "And I am holding your future in my hands! If one arrow flies, he dies! If one foot crosses that perimeter, he dies!"
He pointed at the shaking general. "You want your son? Then back down. Withdraw your forces to the treeline. Now!"
Varus stared at him, hatred burning in his eyes. But he looked at the knife at his son's throat. He looked at his officers, knowing their families were also up there.
He slumped in his saddle. He was beaten. Not by tactics, but by cruelty.
"Withdraw!" he screamed to his troops, his voice cracking. "Pull back! Back to the treeline!"
The sea of red crests rippled and receded. The siege was lifted.
Marcus returned to the camp. A cheer went up from the Praetorians. "Hail Caesar! The Emperor outsmarted them!" They pounded their shields, celebrating the genius of their leader.
Marcus slid off his horse. He didn't acknowledge them. He walked straight to his tent, pushed past the flap, and collapsed.
He retched, dry heaving until his ribs ached.
He had held a sword to a child's throat. He had become everything he hated.
TACTICAL SUCCESS, JARVIS's voice intoned in his mind, oblivious to his nausea. ENEMY MORALE DEGRADED BY 40%. PROBABILITY OF VICTORY INCREASED TO 12%.
"Shut up," Marcus whispered to the empty air, wiping bile from his mouth. "Just shut up."
He looked at his hands. They were shaking uncontrollably. He hated the machine. He hated the war. But most of all, in that moment, he hated himself.
Night fell, heavy and suffocating. The stalemate held. The traitor legions camped in the treeline, their fires a ring of angry eyes in the dark.
Marcus sat outside his tent, unable to sleep. He watched the distant peaks of the Alps, visible as jagged shadows against the stars.
Suddenly, a light flared.
Far to the north, on a high peak, a signal fire roared to life.
It wasn't the orange glow of a Roman watchfire. It wasn't the chaotic flicker of a barbarian camp.
It was green. A strange, chemical green that cut through the darkness like a sickly emerald.
Marcus stood up, frowning. "What is that?"
Crixus materialized out of the shadows. He had been watching the perimeter, prowling like a restless cat. He stared at the green fire, and a slow, terrifying grin spread across his scarred face.
"That," the gladiator said softly, "is not a Roman signal."
"Germanian?" Marcus asked.
"No," Crixus said. "It's a code. From the pits. We used it in the arena to signal when the beasts were being released. When the games were about to turn into a slaughter."
He looked at Marcus, his eyes gleaming in the strange light.
"It means 'The Beast is Loose'."
"What beast?" Marcus asked, a chill running down his spine.
"Valerius didn't bring all his toys to the party," Crixus said. "Someone else is out there, Caesar. Someone who doesn't care about legions or hostages."
He pointed at the green fire, which was growing brighter, pulsing like a heartbeat.
"They just started their own war."
Marcus stared at the alien light. He felt the ground shift beneath his feet.
I thought I was fighting a chess match, he realized, the dread pooling in his stomach. I thought I knew the rules.
Someone just flipped the board.