Interlude 2
INTERLUDE TWO
CAIUS
Caius rinsed his fingers in a shallow bowl of rose-scented water.
The midday glare poured through the arches of the open courtyard, catching on the inlaid mosaics beneath his reclining couch—gods and monsters rendered in tiny stones of emerald and lapis.
Outside, beyond the colonnade, the palace gardens blazed with colour: roses, oleanders, and tall cypresses swaying faintly in the early summer heat.
A bronze brazier smouldered in the corner, its thin stream of perfumed smoke mingling with the fragrance of the flowers.
The sudden slap of hurried footsteps shattered the serene hum of the dining chamber. Caius narrowed his eyes. Few dared to disturb his meals.
His two Tarquinian guards stiffened, hands flying to the hilts of their swords, but then they recognised Velthur, commander of the guard, striding across the hall. At his heels came a breathless messenger, scrolls clutched in his hands, one parchment trailing loosely to the floor.
“Urgent news from Achaea!” Velthur called.
Caius stiffened. Dabbing his mouth with linen, he rose from the couch and seated himself on a gilded, throne-like chair. At once, slaves gathered, raising fans made of peacock feathers.
“Tell me everything.”
Velthur seized a scroll from the messenger and offered it. “The Twelfth Legion is gone.”
Caius snatched it. “Gone? What do you mean ‘gone’?”
He wrenched the scroll open, nearly tearing the parchment. His eyes devoured the inked lines from the Twelfth’s praefect:
The Twelfth defeated in battle. Attacked in the dead of night by Achaean rebels. Prince Leukos wielded ice magic. A girl with auburn hair Marked with a gold omega letter on her hand.
Caius froze. His hand slackened on the scroll, and a cold dread slipped beneath his ribs.
Velthur’s voice pressed on, each word heavier than the last. “We lost a third of the men outright. Another third surrendered—mostly the green recruits. The rest… deserted.”
“What about Tarchun?” he demanded.
“Legate Tarchun was killed,” Velthur replied. “The report says it was an who got him.”
“An ?” Caius erupted, hurling the parchment aside. It smacked against the mosaic, a petty echo of his wrath. “You expect me to believe a handful of Achaeans, one Gifted girl, and a godsdamned destroyed one of my legions?”
Velthur’s jaw tightened. “It would seem so.”
“Impossible! What of Tiryns?”
Velthur glanced at the messenger, who cowered behind him. The man, dark-skinned from long days on horseback, fumbled for the last scroll, unrolling it with unsteady fingers before reading aloud.
“Tiryns is no longer under siege. Its people move freely. Word spreads of a Gifted warrior—female—chosen by the Achaean Twelve. Hundreds flock to the city, either to join the rebels or seek protection. The Grey-Eyed Maiden’s barrier has expanded nearly threefold and no longer forms a circle.”
Caius leaned forward, voice taut. “Threefold?! And what do you mean, it no longer forms a circle?”
The messenger’s eyes darted across the parchment until they froze. “It says the barrier has taken the form of a Koine letter—”
Caius went rigid, his blood icing. He knew the word before it was spoken.
“—the omega.”
Caius’ knuckles whitened on the arm of his chair. Rage, disbelief, and something perilously close to fear twisted inside him. “Where does it say that?”
“Here, Imperator.” The messenger extended the scroll with trembling hands. Caius skimmed it once, his eyes hardening, then tossed it into the brazier. The parchment curled and blackened, flames devouring the words before they could spread further.
He rose, crossed to the wine table, and poured himself a cup with deliberate calm. Turning, he met Velthur’s gaze. “Kill him.”
The messenger recoiled, voice breaking. “What? No—I only delivered the message, I—”
Steel whispered. Velthur drew his dagger in a single fluid motion and sliced it across the man’s neck. The messenger collapsed, choking on blood, his pleas drowned in a wet gargle.
“Remove the body,” Velthur ordered the guards, wiping his blade with measured care before sliding it back into its sheath. The guards moved at once, dragging the corpse across the gleaming mosaic as though it were refuse.
By the time Caius returned to his chair, only Velthur and the slaves remained. The slaves posed no danger; he’d long since cut out their tongues. They served in silence, and they knew what awaited them should they forget their place.
Velthur, however, watched him with a questioning look.
“I will explain later.” Perhaps it was time his lover knew of the threat that hung over Caius’ head—at least enough to satisfy his curiosity. “But first take your men into the city and see to it that none of the proclamations mention the Gifted girl—or the word omega.”
Velthur bowed his head. “Yes, Imperator.”
“And summon the Senate. I want an audience first thing tomorrow.”
His meal forgotten, Caius dismissed his guards and headed straight for Laran’s temple further up the hill. Inside, the air was thick with the sweet smoke of incense, curling around the marble columns and gilded statues. He moved past the flickering braziers to find Sagar.
The old man knelt beside the altar, a bronze censer in one hand and a small spoon in the other.
He scooped handfuls of frankincense from a clay pot and dropped them onto the glowing coals within the censer, sending thick, golden smoke curling towards the vaulted ceiling.
The scent of pine and resin mingled with the incense already burning along the marble.
“The Twelfth Legion is gone,” Caius said, forcing his voice to remain steady. “It’s begun. She’s coming for me.”
“You have known this for months,” Sagar replied, calm as ever. “Now is not the time to panic. You still command thousands—one legion is nothing.”
“Nothing?” Caius barked, stepping closer. “Five thousand men lost, and her exploits are spreading through Achaea, giving those little shits hope. The Achaean Twelve must be rejoicing.”
“Laran will protect you. You have found his Chosen, and in turn, she will become your weapon.”
“I don’t care about Laran!” Caius snapped, knocking the censer aside as hot coals hissed against the marble.
“Tell me how one girl can hold such power! How can the Mother Goddess send a warrior again and again after all this time? She is a myth! Her name is barely a whisper across the eastern winds. No temples, no priestesses, no worshippers. How can she still command power?”
Sagar tugged at the sleeves of his deep red robes, a faint crease of annoyance marking his brow. “I do not know.”
Caius pinched the bridge of his nose, panic rising like a tide he could barely hold back.
He had to act, to strike before the girl amassed more strength.
“We need to review the old scrolls again,” he demanded.
“Go over every line. And send spies to the Parthian Lands, search the ruins of her temples—find out everything we can.”
Sagar lifted the censer, shaking loose a fresh wisp of smoke as he resumed his ritual. “Do not forget Laran,” he said quietly. “His Chosen will become your greatest weapon. She will help you crush your enemies long before the Omega can reach Kisra.”
Caius exhaled slowly, tension easing from his shoulders. Any day now, he expected news from Dalmatius. Soon, Laran’s Chosen would be within his grasp. His fingers drummed against the marble edge of the altar, impatient and restless.
“Perhaps it is time to take action,” Sagar said, voice steady.
“Action?” Caius snapped, leaning forward, eyes narrowing.
“To rally your legions and strike your enemy before their numbers grow,” Sagar explained, lifting the censer with a practised flourish. “Once Laran’s Chosen is ready, she can lead your army.”
Caius felt the gears of strategy clicking into place.
The Achaeans had barely begun to rally, their forces still scattered.
If he acted now, before they reached the Western Lands, their combined armies would crumble against his disciplined legions.
The Omega was young, inexperienced—surely they would fail.
He straightened. “Make sure everything is ready for Laran’s Chosen,” he ordered Sagar. “He was excited to meet her when we spoke.”
Sagar inclined his head. “And he will bless us with yet another great victory.”
“Praise Laran,” Caius muttered before leaving. Now all he needed was a way to convince the Senate to break the peace treaty.
“The Twelfth Legion is gone,” Caius declared, his words carrying through the marble hall.
He stood tall beneath the coffered ceiling, draped in his most elegant purple tebenna, Velthur and his guards flanking the bronze doors.
“The barbarians crept upon our men in the dead of night, striking like cowards, and showed no mercy. After years of negotiation—after we gave them peace, prosperity, and trade—this is how they repay us?”
A low rumble of outrage swept through the Senators, who pounded their feet. Dust drifted from the beams above, the scent of oil lamps and old parchment thick in the air. Yet amid the uproar, one corner of the chamber sat conspicuously still.
Cilnius and his loyal circle did not join the clamour. The senator’s hawk-like gaze never left Caius, as though he could see straight through the Emperor’s display and into the game beneath.
Caius ignored him and turned back to the sea of eager faces.
He raised a hand for silence, his gaze sweeping over the rows of senators, holding each man beneath the weight of his stare.
“Now they march for the Western Lands, eager to join their new commander. And if they are allowed to unite—if their strength joins with his—then they will turn their sights upon Rasenna herself.”
Murmurs swelled to shouts, the air thick with anger. Fists struck benches, and Perperna and Sanquinius, his faithful men, leaned forward to call for action.