It took less than twenty minutes for the guard to return with the scribe. Theron was a slip of a man, old and frail, with watery eyes and ink stains permanently embedded in the creases of his fingers. He shuffled into the tent behind the guard, clutching a stack of wax tablets and papyrus scrolls to his chest as if they were a shield. He bowed so low his forehead nearly brushed his knees, his entire body trembling. He was clearly terrified, expecting the notoriously short-tempered son of Marcus Aurelius to lash out at any moment for some unknown offense.
Alex saw the man's fear and realized it was a tool. Coached by Lyra's whispered instructions, he modulated his voice, softening it from a command to a tone of somber reflection.
"Theron," he said, gesturing to a simple stool. "Rise. Be at ease. You served my father faithfully for many years. Today, you will serve his memory."
The old Greek looked up, his expression a cocktail of confusion and relief. This was not the arrogant boy he had been dreading.
"I have decided to use my divine father's command tent for my period of mourning," Alex announced, the plan Lyra had formulated rolling off his tongue. "It is there I feel closest to his spirit. You will accompany me. You will read to me from his private journals. I wish to hear his words, his thoughts, in a voice that was familiar to him."
The request was so bizarre, yet so steeped in filial piety, that it was beyond questioning. Theron simply nodded, his Adam's apple bobbing in his thin neck. "It would be my greatest honor, Caesar."
Marcus Aurelius's command tent was larger and more orderly than Alex's own quarters. It was a general's brain made manifest: maps of the Danubian frontier covered a massive central table, pinned with colored markers indicating legionary positions and tribal movements. Shelves along the canvas walls held neatly stacked scrolls, and a small writing desk was still covered with the late emperor's pens and inkwells. The air smelled of old paper, leather, and the faint, lingering scent of Marcus Aurelius himself. It felt like walking onto a museum exhibit, except it was real.
Alex settled into his father's campaign chair, a heavy wooden seat draped in a bearskin, and gestured for Theron to begin. The old scribe, his hands shaking slightly, carefully unrolled the first scroll—the emperor's personal diary for the final year of the war.
As Theron's reedy voice filled the tent, reading Marcus Aurelius's stoic reflections on duty, mortality, and the burdens of command, Alex entered a state of intense, bifurcated focus. Part of his mind listened to the philosophy, marveling at the mind of the man whose body had sired his own. But the greater part was in constant, silent communion with Lyra.
"Theron just read an entry about a supply shortage in the Third Legion," Alex subvocalized, his lips barely moving. "Lyra, cross-reference that. Who was the quartermaster? Did that affect troop morale? Is there any connection to Legate Varus?"
"Acknowledged," Lyra's voice replied in his ear. "Correlating supply manifests with troop readiness reports from that period. Stand by."
Outwardly, Alex was the picture of a grieving son, his head bowed, his eyes closed as if in deep meditation. Inwardly, he was a human data-gathering probe, feeding every name, every event, every casual observation from the journals into Lyra's analytical engine. He was building a complex, invisible web of relationships, resentments, and logistical realities that defined the camp.
He learned of General Maximus's tactical brilliance but also his stubborn refusal to countenance any strategy but his own. He learned of Legate Varus's constant complaints about being under-supplied and overlooked for promotion. And he learned of Praetorian Prefect Perennis, whom Marcus Aurelius described with a chilling turn of phrase: "He is a most capable servant, but his ambition is a fire that, if left untended, will consume the house it is meant to warm."
To guide the intelligence gathering, Alex would periodically interrupt the scribe with seemingly innocent questions, prompted by Lyra. "Theron," he'd say, looking up as if struck by a thought. "My father mentions a disagreement with General Maximus over the placement of the western watchtowers. Was it common for them to be at odds?"
The old scribe, eager to please the strangely calm new emperor, would provide a wealth of context and camp gossip, painting a picture of the simmering rivalries between the commanders. He was an unwitting intelligence asset, and Alex felt a pang of guilt at his manipulation, but he stamped it down. This was about survival.
He was so engrossed in the process that he didn't hear the heavy footsteps approaching until the tent flap was thrust aside. General Gaius Maximus stood there, his imposing frame filling the entrance. He stopped short, his sharp eyes taking in the scene: the new emperor hunched over his father's maps, the old scribe reading from a journal, a tableau of unexpected diligence and study.
Alex's heart leaped into his throat. He had forgotten to take out the earbud. It was a tiny, flesh-colored piece of 21st-century plastic, but to an ancient Roman, it would be an inexplicable, alien artifact. He saw Maximus's gaze sweep the room and then, for a heart-stopping second, it lingered on the side of Alex's head. The general's brow furrowed slightly. He'd seen something.
"Create a diversion," Lyra's voice commanded, calm as ever. "Medical misdirection is optimal."
Thinking faster than he ever had in his life, Alex winced and brought a hand up to his ear, rubbing it as if it were aching. "General," he said, his voice strained. "Forgive me. An old affliction."
Maximus took a step into the tent, his curiosity piqued. "An affliction, Caesar?"
"From the training yard in my youth," Alex lied, the story spooling out of him, fed by Lyra's logic. "A clumsy sparring partner and the flat of a wooden sword. It left me with a… ringing. It comes and goes. A constant reminder of a moment's carelessness." He met the general's gaze, lowering his hand. "My father always said it was a message from the gods to listen more and speak less."
The explanation was perfect. It was physical, plausible, and tinged with the kind of philosophical self-reflection that Maximus would have admired in Marcus Aurelius. The general's suspicion seemed to melt away, replaced by a look that was almost… paternal.
"A hard lesson, but a valuable one," Maximus grunted, his gaze softening almost imperceptibly. He looked from Alex to the maps on the table. "It is good to see you studying your father's work. He would be proud." With a final, respectful nod, he turned and left, leaving Alex's heart to hammer against his ribs like a trapped bird.
The close call had been too much. He dismissed the scribe soon after, his nerves shot. He needed to be alone with Lyra, to process what they had learned.
Back in the relative safety of his own tent, he collapsed onto the cot, the laptop's glow a comforting presence in the dim light. The battery icon now read 52%. Another chunk of his precious power, burned.
"We almost got caught," Alex whispered, the adrenaline still making him tremble.
"The risk was calculated and managed," Lyra replied. "The new data, however, is invaluable. But it is not yet conclusive."
"What do you mean?" Alex demanded. "We know Varus is resentful, and Maximus is a fanatic. And my father practically called Perennis a power-hungry snake in his diary."
"These are psychological motives, Alex. They point to intent, but not to action. To increase the probability model, we need to find evidence of logistical planning. An assassination requires resources—a weapon, an opportunity, a co-conspirator. It requires a deviation from the norm."
"So we have nothing?" Alex asked, frustration creeping into his voice.
"Not nothing," Lyra corrected him. "While you were speaking with Theron, I cross-referenced the supply manifests he mentioned with the camp's official disbursement records. There is a statistical anomaly."
Alex sat up straight. "What kind of anomaly?"
"For the past three months, there has been a significant and unaccounted-for diversion of funds and resources—specifically expensive wines, exotic spices, and denarii allocated for 'informant payments'—all within the Praetorian Guard's logistical chain. The paper trail is deliberately obfuscated, but it originates from, and terminates within, the office of the Prefect."
The name landed in the quiet tent with the weight of a stone. "Perennis."
"Correct," Lyra confirmed. "He is either exceptionally corrupt, or he is using off-the-books funds to pay for services he does not wish to be tracked. It is a strong correlation, but it remains circumstantial. To move from correlation to causation, I require more direct data."
"What kind of data?"
"I need to analyze his real-time responses under pressure. I require biometric and linguistic data from the source itself." Lyra's voice was cold, clinical. "You must speak with him, Alex. You must make him lie to you, face to face."