A sinewy man of discipline, Augustus Cassius Gaius believed that the maintenance of power took hard work in keeping his name, his house, and his sturdy physique.
Unlike the Praetor Marcus Uranus who let his girth lop over his crotch, Augustus kicked off his day with drills and calisthenics. At three and fifty, he had the body of a bull and the appetite of a man half his age. But he never allowed himself to gorge. He stayed hungry.
The day after he received the message from his son informing him of Domitian's death, he rose before dawn as usual but went for a run alone in the woods outside the Claudian walls. Under the moist soil laid the abandoned tunnels Consul Gnaeus Januarius Claudius had designed. However abandoned, the intricate network had once pulsed like a plexus of arteries, pumping men and rations to wherever needed while the city was under siege.
Such was the military genius of Gnaeus Januarius the brute Marcus wouldn't come close to appreciating.
But the brute sat now on the throne with the Prophetess of Pethens dealing out fates that had befallen many, and he helped them.
Augustus sneered and huffed. His legs grew heavier with each mile he pushed on. His empty stomach grumbled and refluxed. He glowered at the acidic taste of his own fluid and spat. Soused in sweat, he felt like a block of lead ready to plummet. But he kept his pace and plowed through. Once he passed the hardest miles, the hefty weight of his bearings felt lifted, and a moment of euphoria buzzed through his veins, reassuring him that he was alive and in charge again.
But the moment did not last. Distant yet familiar faces from long ago rose like wraiths to his peripheral vision. He brought his legs to an abrupt stop and groaned, slamming a fist at the trunk of a sycamore tree. It rattled the birds that were perching in the crown. Hands on lap, he stooped down and rested his eyes for a few breaths. He snapped them open; his legs resumed shifting, taking him to the road carved into one side of a ridge surrounding Pethens. Had it been completed, the road would have led to Volos and all the ports by the Huron Sea.
Over fifteen years ago, Gnaeus Januarius sent him to oversee the paving to pull the wool over the eyes of Glaber's men. When the enemies spotted him, Claudius' general and right hand, on the roadside, they presumed the road to be of strategic value and exhausted their means to waylay its construction. Once they drove out half the men, Claudius attacked their home base and claimed victory.
While Augustus welcomed him with open arms, an insidious undertow churned under his cheering veneer. Indeed a confidant he had been, a loyal dog that worried wherever his master pointed, he pondered at his ends. Who would remember him at the end of the day? Other than Gnaeus Januarius Claudius, his tactical maneuverings, his legendary devices and tunnels, which would outlive any man and where he, Augustus, could have left his footprint, what else would go down in history?
Too many times he had requested to take land ownership from the people so he could build the road, the dam, and the waterways that would bear his name for posterity. And almost two decades later, Augustus could still call into mind with vivid details the curt "no" Gnaeus Januarius gave him when he volunteered to oversee the tunnel. Other than assigning him the architectural symphony of the generation that would sway the battlefield for years to come, the Consul had him waste his best years on a ruse of a project never meant to be finished.
On top of all the many missed opportunities ached the humiliating mistrust. The labyrinth snaking ten feet below the earth kept the deepest secrets of Gnaeus Januarius Claudius, and no one, except the Consul himself, knew where all the turns led. Perhaps he was justified in his mistrust, given Augustus' eventual betrayal. But would he, Augustus Cassius Gaius, commit the betrayal had he never caught the whiff of his dear friend's mistrust? Shouldn't Claudius take at least partial blame for his own downfall?
And even if the Consul meant him no harm, the same couldn't be said about his son, the ash blond boy who radiated brilliance. Augustus still got chills when he remembered the emerald glints of those almond-shaped eyes. Cato Duilius Claudius. Too clever by half, the boy would have been a great threat to Julius and the future of his house.
Throwing up his head, Augustus harrumphed. Beads of sweat rolled from his brow bones and stung his eyes. He wiped them off with the back of his hand.
By the time he returned to his residence, the first ray of dawn had dyed the sky in a glowing tangerine streaked with lilac and green. Chutes of light slit through clouds as though Asphaleius' fingers reaching for Amphitrite.
Augustus wasted no moment on the view he owned from his grand courtyard as he only relished what he had yet to claim. He went straight to his bath, then changed to a beige satin tunic with a pair of scarlet tassels hanging from a gold belt.
Reclining in a chair before a speculum in the adjacent powder room, he didn't close his eyes as usual but bored into the barber tending his face.
About his own age, the barber was hunched and sullen. He had a nose like a falcon's beak but the eyes of a mouse that sought refuge in crevices found along walls. Augustus tried to imagine what it must feel like to spend a lifetime holding a blade over another man's neck and yet bowing at the same man at the same time until his spine became permanently bent.
The barber shivered.
Augustus felt a cold sting like the touch of ice. He rubbed his cheek. A smear of red on his fingertips. The barber dropped, razor first, then to his knees. Augustus got up, the chair creaking under him. He picked up the razor, its haft resting in the crook of his thumb.
"Rise," he rasped.
The barber scrambled to his feet.
"You're more useful to me alive than dead," Augustus handed back the razor. The barber trembled, reaching for the wooden haft. Augustus withdrew, however, taking a half step back. "Is that what you've been thinking every time you come to shave me?" He pricked a hole with the razor in the barber's neck.
Thrashing against the cedar wood wall, the barber flopped on the floor; blood spilled from the orifice under his jaw.
Augustus backed away, disgusted by the blood that had stained his walls and floors. His guards scurried in upon hearing the commotion.
"Should we take him to the hypocaust?" asked the captain while others cleaned out the body.
"Did you grow a head only for decorative purposes?" Augustus thundered. "Every time we use the hypocaust, Remus Scipio is informed! And it's only for …" Weary of explaining himself, he flapped his hand. "Just feed him to whatever beasts we keep in the back."
He left the mess behind. In his bedchamber, he studied his reflection in the speculum held next to a wall. Who else, he wondered, raising his chin, could be aiming their blades at his throat? How many blades did he possess in his defense? When would be a time to turn his defense into an attack?
He called his adjutant to bring him a velvet toga in purple. He detested the color, which he found lurid and feminine. But it was the Prophetess' favorite.
"Your wagon is ready, my lord," said his adjutant, his voice low but clear, his pale face a block of ice.
Augustus shook his head, however. Glancing down at the young man about his son's age, "I'll take the horse," he croaked.
"Yes, my lord," answered his adjutant, who helped strap an iron cuirass on Augustus under the toga, then left in silence to ready his mount.
A destrier of an immense build, whose lustrous mane was as pitch black as the dead of night, Augustus called him Oculus, the eye, as the center of a storm where the lowest surface pressure applied. Might a raging tempest wreak havoc where it swept, calmness remained at its center. Augustus felt calmer on the back of Oculus than in his own bed. As the destrier galloped into the street, jolting everyone out of the way and leaving his guards far behind, he resumed thinking.
All these years, the Gaius had borrowed from the Legidus' exchequer for their constructions across Renania. They had forfeited nearly half of their debts under the protective wing of the Prophetess. The Legidus had to levy heavier taxes to make up for the loss. In so doing, they have tarnished their reputation among the people. While unspoken of, their grudge had been long fermenting. Could they be behind it all, nominating the Underdog from the Scipios' pugilists?
Like it'd have been too obvious for him or the Prophetess to commit Domitian's murder, the Legidus' too obvious a motive to frame the Gaius couldn't vindicate their innocence. They could be playing the same game, deploying the exact tactics he and Laelia Euphrates had deployed. But unlike Augustus, who had the Prophetess herself behind him, Luke Legidus had no such ally. He had a son yet to come of age and a cocksucking brother. Could they dare what Augustus suspected of them?
At a large intersection, bordering the Imperial Center and the district of the first hour, Augustus reined up and looked to his left where sprawled the residence of Remus Longinus Scipio. Shading over his eyes, he squinted at their grand courtyard brooding over the street from a twenty feet high terrace, which the Gaius had designed.
Running the business of the hypocaust, Remus and Romulus, the Scipio brothers, kept secret everyone's sordid deals, everyone worthy enough to avail of their service. And it would be a mistake to assume their innocence. Gnashing his teeth, Augustus balled his fists.
His guards drew up.
"My lord?" asked the captain. "Anything wrong?"
Augustus only shook his head and wheeled around Oculus back on the main road.
Upon arriving at the Imperial Palazzo on the hilltop facing the Ziggurat of Ra, Augustus demounted. He ruffled the destrier's mane before leaving him to a servant. "Take care of him as if your life depends on it." He shot daggers.
"Yes, m'lord," the servant mumbled, bowing as he took the bridle.
A eunuch had been waiting for him with a quiet smile. He leaned to a hand at the Gate of Gods behind him.
Carved with hieroglyphs and all the Gods in bas-relief, the limestone gates were flanked by two eagle-headed statues of warriors over sixty feet tall and led the entrance to the heart of Renanian power.
Augustus prided himself on the dazzling splendor that adorned the complex of Imperial Palazzo, which he had designed. Roofed with cedar wood, emanating a heady scent over the visitors, the grand hall was embellished with gold fittings in every cove and corner, and the expansive walls were spread with sumptuous hangings of the finest craftsmanship. Following sixty Corinthian pillars shooting at the sky to awe and enthrall, Augustus arrived at the tablinum on the other end of the hall, where the Prophetess received her subjects.
Daylight streamed through a row of windows shaped like many a full moon, dappling as they bounced off the walls painted in gold. Upon a platinum throne in the shape of an open shell, Laelia Euphrates held herself in hauteur, presiding from the iridescent center where the course of history abided by her hand. Over a flounce-bottomed undergarment as diaphanous as a cicada's wings, she wore a satiny stola of pastel blue embroidered with dark patterns like the bands in turquoise. She sported a crown of filigreed gold dripping in jewels. A waist-long plait rested from her porcelain shoulder, framing an oval face, delicate and plump.
Barely had time left a mark on her. Rumor had it that the Prophetess rejuvenated herself by having leeches suck blood off her as they crawled over her bare skin. Others claimed that she bathed in resin every night and had embalmed herself already for the second life. Augustus couldn't be sure about the leeches; he knew, however, that contrary to most Renanians hellbent on entering the second life of eternity, the Prophetess, like him, believed that she would never die could she chisel her name in the memory of mankind. In the sapphire blue of her eyes, Augustus saw the blazing end of his own vision. Their difference resided in their means. While he aimed to be remembered for the stonework that shall outlast every man, she, the fearsome legend of her beauty.
Snorting inwardly, he sketched a bow. "My lady."
"Augustus, my dear friend," she returned the greetings, her voice the tinkling of a cool spring. Pointing to her left, she raised her chin, a faint smile perching on her lips. "Please be seated."
He did as bid.
"So it's done, I take?"
He nodded.
"Good." She favored him with a broader smile. "How's Julius?"
"He's well. Thank you, my lady."
"And his pretty wife, too? What a gorgeous little thing she has always been! I dote on her."
Augustus made himself smile. He didn't know Laelia could dote on another woman. When Julius insisted on marrying the daughter of the late Lady Anatolia, he saw it as trouble, an offense to Laelia. But the Prophetess came to him first, encouraging the marriage, keeping the enemy closer while projecting magnanimity. Neither did he know that he too would grow fond of his daughter-in-law over the years. The gorgeous little thing had incented Julius in ways nothing and no one else would. This, however, caused quite another concern. Augustus feared she might have too much influence over his son, especially now that she was pregnant.
And her pregnancy …
Augustus snuck a glance at Laelia. Reminding himself of everything she had done, he decided to keep the news of his unborn grandchild from her for as long as he could.
"You ought to be proud." Resting her head in a palm, Laelia turned her gaze on him, her soft voice sweet, her sapphire eyes beguiling. "Your son is what any parent can only dream of. Truly."
"You've flattered him," said Augustus halfheartedly. "Julius is still gauche and naive, a constant source to my nerves."
"Aren't they all?" Laelia sighed. "We'd do everything for our children, and they despise us for it."
Augustus narrowed his eyes, having discerned a small crack in the Prophetess' veneer, the briefest moment for a speck of her truth. "You've raised a remarkable son yourself, my lady," he said what seemed the most apropos. "A precocious young man, Lord Dracus has shown prudence and wisdom far beyond his age."
"Well, I thank you," she chuckled wryly. "If you truly think so highly of Dracus, would you mind if I propose a marriage between him and your daughter?"
"You've teased me."
"I don't tease."
Augustus met the Prophetess in the eyes, his hands balling on his lap, his face straining. He had indeed cogitated the future of his Maia since her first blood last year. He had yet calibrated the full implications of another pledge of troth with the Uranus. Especially now, when threats seemed to be rearing their heads at the Praetorship. The timing of Laelia's proposal prickled his spine. "You've honored my house, my lady," he said with equanimity. "But marriage calls for celebration. With Lord Domitian's death and all the untoward happenstances of late," pausing for what he had left unsaid to register, he didn't flinch from her gaze.
"It's only a proposal, my dear old friend." She essayed another smile. "Of all the courtiers, you know you're my favorite. So, naturally, when my son comes of age, I immediately think of your daughter as his betrothed. But you're right. Marriage calls for celebration, and it can wait."
Augustus didn't like how she terminated the subject. But a postponement fared better than a decree, and he had been around long enough to know better than pushing his luck. He dropped his gaze.
"Besides to give me the report on Domitian," she went forth, "you came to discuss the Pyrrhic Battle, correct?"
Augustus nodded. "Now that the Underdog had been named among Scipios' pugilists, meaning that I could only pick the Favorite from the outliers, I need your counsel on grooming a likely candidate."
"Don't." Laelia looked languidly into the sun as she propped an elbow on an armrest.
Augustus flicked his eyes at the throne. "But my lady, it's the Gaius' turn this year to name the Favorite."
"I'm aware, my dear Augustus." The Prophetess cocked her head. The hangings of oblong jewels swished from her filigree crown. "But so does the enemy, one that's been moving in the dark, shielded from everyone's eyes.
"The best we could do for now is to do nothing," she went on, looking down at her henna-painted nails, long lashes casting ethereal shadows upon her rouged cheeks. "We've only just made you look framed. Now you must act like it. Appear aghast, appalled, and angry instead of rushing into actions that scream schemes. Do nothing but wait, and you'll direct my husband's attention to who has framed you."
He squinted, his lips apart. Her poisonous words were something to savor.
"An enemy shot from the dark," she continued. "We couldn't take him out because he's completely hidden from us. We don't know his motives, his goals, not even what he looks like. We don't even know if it's a he. We can only dodge the bolt and direct it to somewhere else, somewhere with a threat we can't easily take care of ourselves. How have you been settling your debt with the Legidus?"
Augustus knitted his brows. Over the years, the Legidus helped Marcus transfer gold to Domitian. Laelia said and did nothing about it – she did nothing yet. Stealing another glance at the woman, Augustus refrained from a shudder. If he couldn't remove her, he'd better convince her of his allegiance.
But as he confessed his thoughts on the way over about the Legidus, he kept from her, aside from the unborn child, Julius' deal with the Exonians. If anything went south, Julius could leverage autonomy in the north – a clever move, even Augustus had to admit.
As he finished, the Prophetess rose to her feet. Her stola rustled as she proceeded from the throne, the patterns on the train spreading into a phoenix. Leaning to a window, she let her eyes wander to a verdurous garden inside a tall hedgerow enclosure, then turned her back to the light as she swiveled to face him.
"What the Legidus would or wouldn't dare is beside the point," she observed, her blue eyes beaming like the undulating sea. "So long as my husband believes they could."