Interlude 1
INTERLUDE ONE
CAIUS
Caius strode down a cobbled street of Kisra, his sandals slapping against the uneven stones while the sun strained to cut through the lingering morning chill.
He pressed a perfumed handkerchief to his face, scowling behind the silk.
The reek of unwashed bodies and piss still clung to the breeze like a curse, despite the Tarquinian Guard sweeping the street clean of beggars and commoners.
Spring had not yet arrived, and though the new sewage system was complete, Kisra’s foul odour seemed to mock his efforts—as if the city itself resisted his will out of spite.
His guards, servants, and a dozen senators followed in silence save for the dull thud of marching feet and the creak of leather armour.
Velthur remained a step behind, eyes sweeping the street for danger.
All around, the once-bustling heart of Kisra held its breath, shops shuttered, windows watching.
Caius smiled. Let the tradesmen, whores, and slaves look. Let them look upon the one they would soon come to worship.
Before him, the temple site loomed—a forest of jagged scaffolds and beams rising against the hazy morning light.
Towering wooden frames reached skywards, the ribs of some great beast laid bare, while stone blocks lay neatly stacked, each piece marked and numbered, awaiting its place in the growing skeleton.
Slaves swarmed the site like insects—a mass of half-naked, filthy bodies crawling in every direction. At his approach, they froze mid-task and dropped to their knees. At least they had the decency to look afraid.
Mercifully, there wasn’t a single Non-Human in sight. More than two dozen laboured on the temple, their brute strength an asset, but Caius couldn’t stand the sight of them. He never wished to be reminded again of the beasts that had almost cost him everything.
Velthur must have ordered them away to please him, and Caius made a note to reward him for such attention.
Assessing his temple, he narrowed his eyes at the unfinished pillars stretching towards the sky. It was meant to be the crown of Kisra. Thousands were expected to flock to it and make offerings.
But it wasn’t ready.
A cluster of figures approached—the architect and his assistants, pale beneath their careful smiles.
They bowed, murmured rehearsed greetings, and began guiding him through the site.
Caius moved in silence, noting the statues with faint approval: numerous likenesses of himself carved into niches and columns, depicted both as the stern conqueror and the benevolent father of the people.
At the front of the pediment, the main sculpture gleamed white with fresh-cut marble. There he stood at the centre among the Rasennan gods, even elevated above them. At his side, Laran, god of war, placed a laurel wreath upon his brow in an eternal gesture of divine coronation.
It was deification. The message carved into stone was clear—Caius himself was to be worshipped.
Stone would give shape to faith. Faith would bring magic. And with enough prayers and offerings, he could become what an Achaean oracle had once whispered to him in the dead of night: a god forged by sheer force of will.
And when that day came… then, finally, he would meet her again.
“When will it be finished?” Caius cut in.
The man faltered mid-sentence, his hands still gesturing above the parchment where he’d been outlining the new arch technique—the keystone, the stabilising angles, how it would all lock together without mortar.
His mouth opened, then closed. His gaze flicked to the construction supervisor: thick-muscled, broad-shouldered, with a leather scroll case slung under one arm.
The man shifted on his feet and seemed to shrink under Caius’ glare.
A tense pause followed before Perperna, his faithful senator entrusted with the project, cleared his throat.
“There’s… been an uprising at one of the Achaean quarries,” he said, avoiding Caius’ eye.
“The slaves overpowered the guards. A few supervisors are dead. The Fifth Legion sent reinforcements, but—”
“But what?” His voice was cold.
If the Fifth had been dispatched, why was he hearing about it? Since the massacre, they had remained stationed in Megara, quelling every uprising across Achaea—except for Tiryns, under siege by the Twelfth.
Yet despite their presence, rumours of the Megarian rebels arriving in Tiryns had spread, festering further unrest.
Velthur, still at his side, leaned in. “Perhaps this can wait until we return to the palace—”
Caius silenced him with a flick of his fingers and turned fully to Perperna.
“Spit it out,” he ordered.
The wind shifted, sending a gust of dust skittering across the half-finished marble floor. Far above, a scaffold creaked under the weight of workers who had gone still, chisels paused mid-stroke.
Perperna dabbed his brow with a linen cloth, paling under Caius’ scrutiny. “We expect delays in the marble shipments. The road to Salona is no longer secure, and there’s a risk of further disruption. The rebels have moved into the hills. They’re hiding—organising, perhaps.”
A ripple of uneasy murmurs spread through the gathered officials and craftsmen. Caius ground his teeth. This was precisely what he’d tried to avoid. Temples devoured coin, labour, and time. Every delay meant more of each slipping through his grasp.
The Senate would start whispering.
Worse—the people would notice.
He had entrusted Perperna with full oversight, just as he had with other major constructions in Rasenna. But the man lacked the steel for such a project—it demanded vision, yes, but also a ruthlessness Perperna clearly did not possess.
Sanquinius stepped forward, his senatorial white tebenna sweeping the dusty ground. He raised a placating hand towards the murmuring officials and overseers.
“Uprisings are not uncommon,” he said smoothly. “The Achaeans have always been difficult.” Turning towards Caius with the ease of a seasoned orator, he added, “This will be handled, of course… but it may take some time.”
Caius slammed his hand against a wooden support beam, the sound splitting the air like thunder. Overhead, the scaffolding shuddered, and several workers flinched.
Silence dropped like a blade.
Caius’ voice seethed with barely contained fury. “I have waited decades for this. Decades. I will not let a pack of worthless slaves stand in my way. Not again.”
A ripple of confusion stirred among the gathered officials.
“Decades, Imperator?” Sanquinius asked.
Caius waved a dismissive hand, irritation simmering beneath his skin. “A turn of phrase. It feels like decades. Why was I not informed of this uprising?”
“There was another cave-in,” Perperna explained. “A dozen slaves died. The survivors rioted. We believed the local guards could manage it.”
“Clearly, they couldn’t.” Caius’ tone turned as cold as cut stone. “The Fifth will handle the rebellion. I want the leaders hanging from the stake walls within three days. And the supervisors who were overrun—flog them. Publicly.”
He swept his gaze over the construction site—the half-formed columns, the sacred geometry chalked on the foundation stones, the towering void where the altar was meant to rise.
His lips pressed into a thin line. “We’re already tight on labour. I can’t afford more deaths or delays. Reinforce the tunnels. Double the shipments.”
He paused, then added without hesitation, “And send in the children.”
Perperna blinked. “The children? But they are tasked with leading the work animals—”
“They can clear rock where grown men cannot,” Caius snapped. “Make sure the other quarries hear of it. Let it serve as a lesson. I don’t care how it’s done, just finish it.”
Silence stretched in the wake of his command, the cold wind tugging at his thick fur cloak.
“What about Dodona?” Caius asked Sanquinius.
Sanquinius inclined his head, as poised as ever. “It is fully operational. The first shipments arrived yesterday by boat.”
Finally—competence. Sanquinius had been entrusted with a delicate task: retrieving slaves from a distant land with the help of the First Legion.
A land so remote most Rasennans had dismissed it as little more than myth.
It was a task that demanded subtlety and absolute discretion, and Sanquinius had delivered, as Caius knew he would.
Caius gave a brief, approving nod. “Good. Send a detachment from the Fifth there as well. I want no disruptions.”
“Of course.”
He turned back to the architect. “Will the shipment be enough to complete the temple by the end of the year?”
The architect paled, his throat bobbing as he swallowed. “Imperator, temples such as these take years to complete and—”
“I want the slaves working day and night.” Caius stepped closer, his shadow falling across the man in a clear threat. “Tell me how many more you need. I’ll have them chained and delivered within the week. But the temple will be finished by the end of the year. No delays. No excuses.”
A beat passed.
“Or heads will roll.”
Before the architect could muster a reply, Sanquinius interjected, ever the strategist. “There’s an old temple outside the city in need of repairs. It’s been abandoned for months. We can source stone from there.”
“That temple belongs to Laran,” the architect stammered in protest.
Sagar would be horrified that Caius even entertained the thought of dishonouring the god of war, but Caius hadn’t seen Laran in months.
“A temple falling into ruin dishonours him. Laran wouldn’t want such neglect.
” He fixed Perperna with a piercing look, then the silent supervisor, his words sharp and clipped. “Source the stone. No more delays.”
“Father.”
Caius raised a hand, his eyes fixed on the parchment in his grip. The message was brief: Tarxi had found another hidden temple of the Grey-Eyed Maiden in northern Achaea. He’d enslaved the villagers, destroyed the temple, and left its ashes behind as a warning.