The machine's warning wasn't a probability; it was a death sentence in progress.
CONSPIRACY PROBABILITY ESCALATING. The words glowed in the dark, cold and absolute. Marcus stared at the laptop screen, the silence of the archives pressing in on him.
"JARVIS, what does that mean?" he whispered, his voice hoarse. "Explain."
The AI's synthetic voice was unnervingly calm, a surgeon diagnosing a terminal illness. "Lucilla is currently meeting with Praetorian Prefect Titus Saoterus in the barracks. My analysis of Saoterus's psychological profile—ambitious, resentful of your father's preference for you—indicates a high susceptibility to her influence."
Lines of data flashed on the screen, a web of political connections and personal weaknesses.
"She is not ordering a coup," JARVIS continued. "Her strategy is more precise. She is planting a virus: the idea that you are no longer the 'true' Commodus. Your act of mercy is the proof—it is a symptom of weakness, or worse, madness."
"So she's turning my own men against me," Marcus said, the reality hitting him like a physical blow.
"Correct. And she is succeeding," JARVIS stated. "Based on their meeting duration and Saoterus's known decision-making speed, the probability of him acting against your interests has already increased by 47%."
A new line of text appeared, a chilling proposal.
RECOMMENDED ACTION: ELIMINATE SAOTERUS. A 'training accident' with a faulty pilum can be arranged within the hour. Probability of successfully neutralizing the immediate threat: 65%.
Marcus flinched back from the screen as if it had burned him. "No." The word was a choked gasp. "No, I'm not a killer."
He was a manager. He solved problems with systems and logic, not with assassinations. He'd made the human choice, the merciful choice, and now the machine was telling him the only answer was murder. It was a horrifying paradox.
"Negative," JARVIS replied, its tone unchanged. "You are Emperor Commodus. Historical precedent indicates assassination is your primary tool of governance."
"I am not him," Marcus snapped, his voice echoing in the dusty silence. He slammed the laptop shut. Hiding here was death. Waiting for Lucilla to act was suicide.
He had to move. He had to walk into the heart of the threat.
Taking a deep breath, he straightened his toga, the unfamiliar weight of the imperial purple settling on his shoulders. He composed his face into a mask of cold authority—the face he'd seen in the mirror—and strode out of the archives.
He walked with purpose, his sandals slapping against the polished marble, heading directly for the Praetorian Barracks. The lion's den.
The change in the air was immediate. The guards he passed didn't snap to attention with their usual, fearful precision. They hesitated for a fraction of a second. Their salutes were a shade too slow, their eyes filled with a wary confusion. They exchanged glances behind his back, their silent judgment following him like a shadow.
Lucilla's poison was already in the water supply.
He entered the main courtyard of the barracks. The sounds of training—shouted orders, the clang of steel on wood—died away. A hundred pairs of eyes turned to him. Hard eyes. Soldier's eyes.
One guard, a thick-necked veteran, was sharpening his gladius on a whetstone. The rhythmic shhh-shhh-shhh of steel on stone was the only sound. It stopped abruptly. Every man in the courtyard was watching him, their expressions unreadable. This wasn't loyalty. It was an assessment.
He found Saoterus in the armory, inspecting a new shipment of shields. The Prefect was a bull of a man, his scarred knuckles and thick brow radiating brutish power. He turned, his face a mask of false deference that did not hide the calculation in his eyes.
"Caesar," Saoterus said, his voice a low rumble. "An unexpected honor." The title was correct, but the tone was all wrong. It was laced with something that bordered on insolence.
"A ruler should know the state of his finest weapons," Marcus replied coolly, letting his gaze drift over the racks of swords and spears.
Saoterus gave a tight, humorless smile. "Indeed. Your sister, Lucilla, expressed... concern for your well-being earlier. She believes your mind is not on matters of war."
The attack was direct, wrapped in a thin veil of civility.
"And this pardon for the gladiator," the Prefect continued, stepping closer. "A bold move. Your father, the Divine Marcus Aurelius, prized discipline above all else."
He was using the ghost of Marcus Aurelius as a weapon, a deliberate jab at Commodus's greatest insecurity. He was daring him to be the tyrant, to prove he was still the man they all feared.
Marcus's mind raced. He had no counter-argument from memory. He only had data. He recalled JARVIS's profile on Saoterus: Primary Motivator: Personal Glory.
He met the Prefect's challenging gaze, his own expression unreadable. "Discipline is the foundation of Rome, Saoterus. But loyalty is its walls. And loyalty must be rewarded."
He paused, letting the words hang in the air. "My father's legions in Dacia have been fighting without a strong commander since Maximus fell. They face the Marcomanni hordes. It is a post that would bring a man legendary glory."
He looked Saoterus up and down, as if measuring him. "A man of your experience would be wasted here in the city, managing drills."
It wasn't an order. It was an offer. A promotion that was also a polite exile. A chance at the one thing Saoterus craved more than power in Rome: a place in the history books.
The suspicion in the Prefect's eyes wavered, replaced by a flicker of raw ambition. He had been expecting a threat, a test of will. He had not expected to be offered his deepest desire.
Marcus had changed the game entirely.
Saoterus's brutish posture shifted. He stood a little straighter, the insolence in his face giving way to a grudging respect. He gave a stiff, formal bow, his fist striking his chest plate.
"Your generosity is... noted, Caesar." He hadn't said yes. But the virus Lucilla had planted was fighting a new infection: greed.
Marcus returned to the palace, the confrontation having bought him a few precious hours. He had neutralized one threat, but he needed more than that. He needed allies. He needed his own weapons.
He issued a new command. "Bring me the gladiator. Bring me Crixus."
The Gallic champion was brought to the throne room, still in the chains he was meant to die in. He was a mountain of muscle and scars, his wild hair matted with sweat. He stood before the throne, not with fear, but with a burning, defiant pride. He was a dead man walking, and he had nothing left to lose.
"You spared me only to make me your dog?" Crixus spat, his voice raw.
Marcus leaned forward on the throne. "I spared you because you defied an emperor in front of ten thousand people and lived," he said, his voice quiet but carrying the weight of his station. "That makes you a symbol. The people in the cheap seats, the ones who work the docks and clean the sewers, they don't love me. But they love you."
He let that sink in.
"I don't want a dog," Marcus continued. "I need a watchman. The Vigiles, the city watch, are corrupt thugs who prey on the weak. I'm giving them to you. Command of all seven cohorts. Clean them out. Make them yours. Protect the people, and by doing so, you protect me from the vipers in this palace."
Crixus stared, his jaw slack with disbelief. This wasn't a trick. This was a position of real power, a chance to protect the common folk he came from. He looked at the man on the throne and saw not the mad tyrant he'd defied, but a cold, calculating strategist.
Slowly, the gladiator dropped to one knee. This time, it was not the submission of a slave, but the oath of a soldier.
"I will serve Rome," Crixus vowed, his gaze locking with Marcus's.
As Crixus was led away to be given his new armor and station, a palace servant hurried towards Marcus, bowing so low his forehead nearly touched the floor. He held out a sealed papyrus scroll, the wax stamped with the intricate insignia of a serpent coiled around a rose. Lucilla's personal seal.
"An invitation from your sister, Caesar," the servant whispered, his voice trembling slightly. "She requests your presence for a private dinner. Tonight."