While The Emperor Slept

Chapter 2

He sat the silver goblet of wine onto the polished marble surface of the table beside him and stared off into the distance. Something bothered him. Nagged at him deep in his mind. Something about the morning’s attempt on his life. His leg throbbed from the kick the young assassin had so expertly administered to him in making his escape. But that was not the problem. There was something else … something else which worried his mind like a dog worrying a legionnaire’s worn out leather sandal.

elseThe assassin had been very skilled. Very young and very skilled. And incredibly fast. He knew if it had not been for that small disturbance of the crowd behind him he would never have been in time to turn and ward off the killing blow from the man’s knife. But the odd movement of the crowd had warned him just in time.

Hmmm…

Perhaps that was it. The odd movement of the crowd. Perhaps that was what bothered him the most. A skilled assassin with superb reflexes and excellent training. One who knew how to move within a crowd, sight unseen, even while others were aware of his general presence and were looking for him to make his presence known, making the mistake of warning his prey before the blow fell. Warning his prey by unnecessarily jostling the crowd as he stepped up to strike the killing blow.

It was as if … as if the assassin wanted to warn him of his presence.

wantedDecimus frowned and lifted himself off the marble bench and turned to face the wide, long marbled bath. His mind rumbled in dissatisfaction and worry. He did not like incongruities in any portion of his life. He did not like questions running through his mind which had no concrete answers that would resolve the conundrum. This morning’s assassination attempt had been foiled by a simple mistake. A rookie mistake from a killer who clearly knew his trade consummately.

Why? Why the obvious slip of professionalism?

Or was it a mistake?

Was it, possibly, something else? Perhaps, if one was willing to wildly speculate, it could be construed as a subtle invitation being offered. An invitation by, so far, parties unknown. Parties who would, when they were ready, identify themselves soon enough.

invitationOr could it have been a warning? A warning from some important person who found it too dangerous to warn him through normal channels? If so, subtle but powerful sources were at work beneath the tranquility of Rome’s usual raucous daily life. Either way, it did not matter. Whether invitation or warning, forces unknown were mysteriously circulating around his shoulders like some growing maelstrom. As it stood at the moment, his only recourse was to wait. To wait and see what came next.

warning?invitationwarningWith a shrug from a shoulder he slipped off the short toga and took the first tentative step into the hot bubbling waters of the bath. Behind him his servant, the pepper-haired Gnaeus, eyed his master ruefully and then bent down and retrieved the short robe from the marbled floor. In the light of a hundred candles filling the bath with a soft warm light, the man descending into the water eyed the black marble columns of the private bath. He noted the rich drapes which hung from the marbled ceiling, felt the warmth of the marble floors he stood on and nodded to himself in pleasure. Yes. The pain in his right knee still ached. But the warm waters of the bath would go a long way in the healing process.

The Baths of Juno Primus, with its marbled columned porch and impressive water fountains at the base of its portico, was the newest public baths in Rome. It sat three blocks away from the gigantic Balisca Julius, the elegant and impressively enclosed public forum and administrative building just completed in the heart of the city. The baths, rumored to have been built with donations from the Imperator himself, were equally impressive. It may have been true. He knew Gaius Octavius. An old man now known as Gaius Octavius Caesar, the Augustus. He knew the other Caesar was that kind of person. Julius Caesar had a passion for spending money lavishly on grand architecture. Octavius inherited the family trait. Both had a passion for building. Building large, grand structures out of the finest marble. Each dreamed of converting, in one lifetime, a once dreary, almost rural, city called Rome into a world class megalopolis.

Baths of Juno PrimusBalisca Julius,the AugustusSmiling, Decimus Julius Virilis stepped into the warm clear waters of the steaming bath and lowered himself onto a marble bench. Closing his eyes, he stretched arms on either side of the bath and leaned back, heaving a sigh of relief.

He sat in the water and allowed his senses to wonder. Vaguely, in other parts of the large bathhouse, he heard the voices of men mumbling or the splashing of water. Somewhere a woman"s voice, probably that of a serving girl, was laughing merrily. Somewhere else the tinkling of goblets clinking together told him men were enjoying their wine. The baths were a giant complex filled with senators, generals, politicians. The rich and elite of Rome"s rather complex society. In such a place like this one would find the most noble and the most carnal. Without question cabals were being hatched. Dark secrets were being revealed. Roman politics thrived behind the closed doors of each large bathing pool reserved for one patron or another. Chin deep in the artificially warm waters of these baths there was no conceivable plot, no scandalous terror, men of power and wealth could not converse in with conspiratorial whispers which had not been discussed a hundred times before.

His mind ran through, for the hundredth time, the little incident earlier that morning. A very talented Greek spy/assassin. A master at blending in and out of large crowds like some human chameleon. Who was his master? Why had he been selected for assassination? What dark, diabolical cabal of intrigue was beginning to move quietly yet savagely here in the heart of Rome?

He would not lie to himself. This morning"s little game had stimulated his mind greatly. It felt good to be in action again. Yet it irritated him as well. A brief respite from the drudgery and boredom of an active life condemned to return to the retirement of civilian life lay ahead of him. Unless, somehow, miraculously, his fortune was about to turn, and some new danger would soon crop up its ugly head and offer a return back into the life he so clearly loved.

Sighing, he gently pushed the cacophony of noise from his mind, allowing the heat of the water to seep into aching muscles and a tired body. The scented water was like the hands of a trained masseuse. He felt himself slipping away into an ocean of sensual delight. He was an average size man in height. But the numerous scars which tattooed his flesh in a bizarre matrix of randomness, along with the amazing display of muscles he yet retained, would have indicated to any onlooker this man was anything but remotely average.

Twenty-five years soldiering in one of the many legions loyal to Octavius Caesar had a way of hardening a man"s body … a man"s soul. From Hispania to Aegypt; from Illyrium to Gaul. One legion after another. Fighting. Fighting Gauls. Fighting Spaniards. Fighting Romans. Hundreds of skirmishes. Several pitched battles. Stepping over friends and foes alike lying on the ground dead, sword dripping with blood in one hand and shield in the other. Battle fields littered with the dead. The dying. And those who had miraculously survived through no fault of their own.

Twenty-five years.

Watching fool politicians appointed to command riding prancing horses, banners and Eagles rising in the sunshine, with men shouting and hammering their shields with the swords eager for battle, only to, months later, see the same legion either victorious and lusty or defeated and disgraced. Or worse … decimated and barely clinging in existence.

Twenty-five years.

Rising up through the ranks. First as a simple legionnaire in the tenth cohort … essentially the raw recruits of a legion. Proving himself as both a leader and as a fighter. Attaining on the battlefield the promotion to centurion and assigned again to a tenth cohort as its commander. Years of slugging through summer heat and winter"s cold. Through rain and snow. Facing an almost unlimited number of Rome"s enemies. Facing rampaging war elephants. Facing armor clad Parthian cataphract cavalry with their deadly lances and stinging composite bows. Facing Greek spears stacked up in their compact, vaunted, phalanxes. Facing naked, blue painted Celtic madmen wielding gigantic two-handed swords taller than a man. But eventually … with a little luck at surviving defeats as well as victories, along with the acumen of using his own natural abilities … his star kept rising. Rising eventually to primus pilum, or First Spear: the top-ranking centurion commanding the First Cohort in a Roman legion. And finally, from there, to being promoted to a tribune and given the rank of Praefectus Castorum. The highest rank a professional soldier could attain. Third in command of a Roman legion. The soldier"s soldier a legion"s twenty or so tribunes and eighty or so centurions came to with their problems. The soldier expected to maintain discipline in the army. To feed the army. To provide the arms. To mold thousands of disparate individual souls into one efficient killing machine.

primus pilum, Praefectus Castorum.But no more. No more.

A lifetime of soldiering was enough. With what few years of good health remained to him he would enjoy as a free man. He had accepted all the accolades, all the honors bestowed on him by noblemen and commoner. He no longer served anyone. No longer took orders from anyone. No longer felt obligated to anyone. It was a strange feeling. A dichotomy of emotions. On one hand was the feeling of joy … immense joy of finally, finally being in command of his own fate. On the other hand was this feeling of extreme loss. An odd emptiness hanging just below his consciousness. As if something critical was missing. An order given and yet to be obeyed. Frowning, he inhaled the hot humid air of the baths and opened his eyes.

obligatedfinallyWhat was he going to do with himself? The need to be gainfully employed was of no concern. Retiring from the position of Praefectus Castorum meant he left the service of the Imperator as a wealthy man. Almost fifteen years of being first a centurion and then a tribune meant, among other things, being involved in the handling of his men"s savings. Yes, most of the men he commanded spent their wages on women and drink as fast as they could. But a number of men in any legion had learned to save some money back. To throw it into the cohort"s banking system in the hopes that, if the army was successful and cities or provinces were plundered, their meager savings would grow.

Praefectus CastorumThe final three years of his army life had been a considerable financial boon. As Praefectus Castorum, his staff had been in charge of the entire legion"s savings. Several thousand sesterces worth. If an officer was astute in his men"s investments, a sizeable profit could be had by all. And if a legion was fortunate to be favored by its commander, or legate, for exceptional service, the reward would be even greater.

Praefectus Castorum, He was not called The Lucky for nothing. Lucky in war. Lucky in investing. Lucky in being related to the richest man in the empire. Gaius Octavius Caesar. Money was of no concern to him. He would live comfortably for the rest of his life.

The LuckyBut what to do? What exercise to entertain and stimulate his mind? He needed a challenge. A goal … a … puzzle … to keep his wits about him. Without some challenge for the gray matter in his skull to dwell on, life was nothing but a series of boring mannerisms to endure.

do? puzzleClosing his eyes again, he idly heard his servant Gnaeus pouring wine in a large goblet for him. And then … a brief silence. An odd silence. An out of place silence. Softly followed by just the lightest whisper of heavy cloth rubbing across the leather scabbard of a sheathed gladius.

He didn"t move or show any outward gesture he was aware of a new presence behind him. Resting in the water of the bath he appeared to be asleep. But every nerve in his body was tingling with delight! He heard the soft tread of three distinct sets of sandals. With one of the three, strangely, without question an old man. Opening eyes slowly he noticed the colors around him … the blue of the water, the black of the marble columns, the white of the marble bath walls … seemed to be a hundred times more intense! For the first time in weeks he felt alive. And when he heard that distinct shuffling of feet and the odd hissing of someone finding it difficult to breathe, he almost laughed out loud.

weeks"Greetings, cousin," he said quietly, coming to a standing position and turning to face his unannounced guests. "I see the weight of the empire has yet to dim the light in your eyes. Still the wily old fox you"ve always been, I suspect."

Three looked down at him as he stood in the bath. Two of them were big men dressed in the distinct cuirass and greaves of the Praetorian Guards. Around their shoulders were short capes of the royal purple trimmed in silver thread. Underneath their left arms were their brightly polished bronze helms. At their waists lay the short blades of the Roman gladius; the double-edged weapon had carved out a vast empire for the City of Rome and its people.

Between the two was an old man slightly stooped over and dressed in a dark, wine-red toga. Around his shoulders and covering the curls of his white hair was a plain cloak and hood of purple linen. There was no mistaking this man.

"Good evening, Decimus Julius Virilis," Caesar Augustus said, an amused smile spreading across thin lips. "I see you still, after today"s little tussle at the races this morning, retain all your limbs and most of your senses."

Augustus"No thanks to you, Imperator," Decimus laughed, making his way out of the bath completely unconcerned about his nakedness and men armed standing before him. "You"ve tried to kill me at least a hundred times."

"One of my few failures I"m sure," replied the old man, chuckling.

"Am I mistaken to assume your presence among us unannounced is related in some fashion to this morning’s festivities?"

The old man"s eyes, bright and alive, looked upon his distant cousin with mirth and pleasure. They had known each other for years, ever since Decimus, as a boy of fourteen, ran away from home and joined his first legion. A legion he happened to be commanding in Greece facing Mark Anthony so many years ago. Nodding approvingly, the old man moved closer to the younger man, took him gently by one arm and squeezed it affectionately.

"I am in need of your services, cousin. An old enemy of ours has decided to lift itself out of the grave and return from the dead. An enemy who, if it is allowed to refresh itself and grow among the living, will surely threaten the work you and I have accomplished in the last thirty years. The empire is indeed threatened, my faithful cousin. The peace of Rome might soon shatter into irreparable shards of broken dreams if we allow this poison to gather strength. I confess, I am reluctant to come to you and ask you for your assistance. You have stood by our side so faithfully all your life. I had no intentions of interrupting the peace you have so deservedly won. But I have nowhere else to go. No one better suited to track this danger down and destroy it.”

Decimus smiled. The eloquence of Octavius was still radiantly apparent, even now in his advanced age. His cousin’s oratory could move entire armies, even nations, to accomplish great deeds. His words had moved him, often, to tears of joy over the decades he had served him. Nothing had changed.

“I am yours to command, Caesar. Who is this ancient foe I must track down and return to the grave?”