While The Emperor Slept E-Book

B.R. Stateham

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

It is 9 A.D and the Roman Empire, finally cured from the years of murderous civil war, lies in peace under the rule of Caesar Augustus. In the midst of this tranquil peace, Decimus Julius Virilis has retired from the Roman legions.

After years of slugging around in the mud and fighting in one legion or the other, he has seen most of the Roman Empire, and commanded men in battle numerous times. Retiring as a Tribune, Julius and his servants move to Rome to begin their retirement in relative luxury.

He soon finds himself immensely bored with the soft riches of the elite. His active mind needs a stimulus; a reason to exist. So when his distant cousin, Caesar Augustus comes to him in the night with a request, he jumps at the chance. There's a plot from within to tear apart the empire; rumors are circulating about a letter that would reveal the true identity of the mastermind behind the death of Julius Caesar.

Surrounded by danger, can Decimus finds the scurrilous liars and conspirators before it's too late?

Set in the time of the Roman Empire, While The Emperor Slept is the second book in B.R. Stateham's 'Decimus Julius Virilis' series of historical mystery novels.

Leseprobe

WHILE THE EMPEROR SLEPT

DECIMUS JULIUS VIRILIS

BOOK TWO

B. R. STATEHAM

CONTENTS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

About the Author

Copyright (C) 2023 B.R. Stateham

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2023 by Next Chapter

Published 2023 by Next Chapter

Edited by Charity Rabbiosi

Cover art by Lordan June Pinote

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

CHAPTERONE

The crowd was in a festive mood. The mass of Roman citizenry and others stood and mingled around casually, waiting for the first of the day’s races to begin, the ambient noise of the large gathering a clash of voices, dialects, and language. Here and there vendors moved through the crowds selling their goods. Spicy foods, their various aromas strong enough to entice even the dead back to life, filled the air. But there was also watered down wines, and cheap trinkets by the hundreds to choose from. Today's races in the Hippodrome held the promise of being quite exciting. Phillipus The Greek, the number one driver of the Reds, would be racing against his fellow countryman, Titus Magnus, the Green's best driver, in the fourth race of the day. It promised to be a hard fought battle. Neither Phillipus nor Titus could tolerate the other. Both promised bloody mayhem if one saw the other ever again in a race they participated in.

There was a growing sense of anticipation in the milling throng. For several days there had been the buzz of whispered excitement vibrating through Rome concerning the rivalry between Phillipus the Greek and Titus Magnus. The vast wooden oval of the hippodrome almost groaned audibly from the weight of the crowds that had come to witness the battle. But the crowd seemed docile enough. Perhaps it had something to do with a large contingent of purple clad soldiers of the Praetorian Guards moving quietly through the crowd in groups of two, eyeing the crowd and looking formidable in the process. There was nothing like Roman soldiery, especially those now dressed in purple, which could put a dampener on a potentially rowdy crowd.

Apparently, the rumor was true. Caesar was coming to observe the races from his color canopied box. It was said the old man had a passion for the sport. Whenever he graced his presence at such a sporting event the presence of his newly created Praetorian Guards were obvious and intentional. As the old saying went, Better to nip trouble in the bud than to quell a full-fledged riot. Caesar was a master at finding trouble and nipping it in the bud long before it became a problem for him.

He was too. And, with a thin smile of a sneer barely pulling his lips back, it made sense. They were related. He and the Augustus. Distant cousins. The Julii family were a large clan which ran all through the ranks of Roman society. Patrician and Plebian, one could find a Julii kinsman hovering within hailing distance here in Rome. And as the gods knew… if there was trouble to be had, the odds were a Julii was either the instigator of the problem, or the recipient. In this case he firmly believed he was the latter.

His name was Decimus Julius Virilis. And he could feel it in his bones. Almost sniff it in the air. Someone wanted to kill him. Someone in this crowd. Someone close and waiting for the right moment.

The thin sneer of an amused smile stayed on his lips as he gazed at the crowd, standing with his two comrades, and waited for the attack to come. Others, politicians or tradesman, might have sloughed off the feeling of imminent danger with a shrug of the shoulders, or a wave of a hand. Or, if guilty of some deed hidden from the world, perhaps their guilt would make them weak in the knees with beads of sweat beginning to pop up across their brow like unwanted weeds. But he was neither politician nor coward. Neither worried nor unwary.

He could sense it in his bones. Danger, imminent danger, was pressing down upon him, waiting for the right moment to strike. Twenty-five years serving in the legions of Rome gave him this sixth sense. Twenty-five some odd years as an officer working up through the ranks of the army hammered into his soul this ability to sense trouble coming long before it materialized. Giving him an advantage over others in many instances. Knowing it was coming, he was prepared for it. A fight was coming. An enemy was close at hand. Forewarned and ready, he stood in the middle of the milling masses with his two loyal followers beside him, ex-legionnaires themselves, and calmly waited for the action to begin.

The two were dressed in the plain, functional clothes of a Roman freeman. Hard looking men. Tanned and weather beaten. Reminding onlookers of dried strips of leather that had, over the years, endured much and survived all. Both were holding plain looking plates of cheap pottery in one hand, intent on consuming the foul smelling piles of some Germanic dish as rapidly as possible. Sour kraut and sausage. He was quite familiar with the dish. Five years of serving as the primus pilum of the IV Macadonica, a legion based in the land of the Teutones, introduced him to the delicacy.

Decimus stood between the two dressed in an off-white toga which had a fine purple hem, distinct but subdued, prominently displayed in the cloth. A patrician. A Roman nobleman. An older man with a high sloping forehead, a receding hairline, and dark, piercing brown eyes.

A soldier. Unquestionably. And a veteran.

He had the commanding presence of a Roman officer. It was obvious. Especially for a Roman. Almost every male milling about in the crowd had at one time or the other, served his time as a legionnaire. The Dalmatian revolts of 8 A.D. were not that long ago. Prior to that was the revolt in the forest of Germany to quell. And before that … not that long ago … were the wars fought against fellow Romans. The long wars Caesar fought to subdue the radical Marcus Antonius and his fabled mistress, Cleopatra.

Yes, this middle-aged patrician was a Roman officer. One who saw action and knew hardships. One who knew how to command men and expected to be obeyed. Dressed in civilian clothes he was now. But that meant little. For this kind of man, a soldier was a soldier. There was no other way of life.

"Observed anyone who looks suspicious?"

The patrician's voice was soft but filled with a resonating quality of quiet authority and confidence. Soothing to one's ear for now. But promising a harsh reality if aroused to anger.

The smaller of the three men nodded gently, a hand coming up to form a gesture or two toward the patrician in the process. Both patrician and the other freeman watched the little man's hand and nodded as if they knew exactly what he was silently saying to them.

"I did not see him. Describe him quickly," he said quietly.

More hand gestures.

A small man. My size. With curly blond hair and a dirty face. He was dressed like a Greek peasant. He kept moving through the crowd some distance from us. First, he would be in front of us. And then to our rear. But always close enough to observe us, tribune. I last saw him standing to our left. Over by the fountain.

"Humph," grunted the taller of the two freemen. A dark complexioned figure from the deserts of perhaps Libya or Morocco. "Your old friend, Menelaus, coming back to haunt us again, tribune?"

The patrician's dark eyes looked into the face of his second companion for a moment or two thoughtfully before finally, shaking his head.

"Menelaus is an old, old man by now. Too old and too sick to have any desire to seek revenge. Besides, there are no better spies and assassins than a Greek. Anyone could have hired this creature to keep us in view. Until we have more information it is useless for us to conjecture over."

The small man's hands flew into action again.

Our orders, tribune. Do we capture this man alive? Or do we quietly dispatch him to his just rewards?

The patrician smiled. The wicked, cruel smile of a man who knew how to hunt. And hunt not just any query. But hunt the ultimate prey.

"We spread out. Each of us will stay within sight of the other. One of you will sit in the stands above me. The other to one side. If this Greek spy is seen, rub your nose with the index finger of your right hand as a sign. If he has accomplices in the crowd working with him, the signal will be the index finger of your left hand. We will encircle him and try to catch him. If he sees us and flees, perhaps we can follow him and see where he leads us."

Both freemen nodded before disappearing into the growing crowd as if they had been nothing more than smoke from a burning vizier blowing away in the wind. The tribune's smile widened minutely on his thin lips. It was like old times. Working the streets again in a foreign city playing the spy. A spy hunting a spy. It was an exciting game. A deadly game. One that he so much enjoyed and sorely missed.

The crowd began moving. Above, high on the walls of the stadium, trumpeters told the crowd the races were soon to begin. He made his presence conspicuous, nevertheless his eyes roamed the crowd casually yet alertly. He wanted visual contact with this talented blond-haired spy. But as he and the crowd filed into the Hippodrome he saw no one that fit Gnaeus' description. He was not surprised. If this man was as good as Gnaeus suggested, he doubted he would get much, if any, of a glimpse. Yet he remained vigilant. There was a question which remained to be answered. Was this spy here just to keep watch on him? Or was he here to assassinate him?

An assassination attempt made sense. He had enemies. Many enemies. One did not serve in the legions as long as he had in various roles and not make enemies. Especially if one considered the many special 'detached duties' assignments he had been given over the years. Spying on allies as well as enemies were some of the special assignments. Others were more deadly. Far more deadly. And secretive. Not the kind one bragged about in the open. Not if one wanted to live quietly in retirement in Rome for their remaining years unmolested.

But if the Greek was spying, keeping tabs on his whereabouts, then a whole new set of questions came to mind. Who? Why? Why take the trouble to spy on an old soldier who had recently retired from the army and was, for all practical purpose, unemployed and uninvolved. He led a quiet life. He rarely accepted invitations to social gatherings. He kept himself out of sight and out of mind from those in Rome who still wielded power. With the reputation he had it was better for him to remain sight unseen for as long as possible.

But if Gnaeus was right, and he was seldom wrong in these matters, someone had taken interest in him. That did not bode well for his long-term safety or quality of life while here in the city. It would be best to find out who, and for what reason, this newfound interest had been generated over him.

He appeared to be interested in the races. The first two races pitted some of the up and coming chariot drives of each of the six more renowned racing associations in four and six chariot sprints. Teams draped in the colors of their various racing teams paraded around the long, narrow track below before each race, giving time for the crowds to place their bets. He made it a show of betting on the Reds in every race. Each time he laid a wager he would stand up from his seat. Each time he stood, his eyes played across the crowd around him.

Twice he thought he saw just the suggestion of blond hair in the crowd. Never a face. Just the movement of a body and blond hair submerging deep into the standing crowd and disappearing from view. A casual glance toward Gnaeus found his old companion in the wars eyeing the crowd but seeing nothing. On one wager he stood up and turned to face the crowd behind him. Three rows up, sitting directly behind him was the long, darkly tanned face of Hakim, his other companion. He too made no gesture indicating anything amiss had been observed.

Below in the dirt young drivers were driving their chariots recklessly in an effort to make a reputation. The sounds of thunderous crashes and splintering wood came all too often. With each mishap the crowd leapt to their feet and roared in delight. When they did, he felt more than saw bodies moving through the crowd. Bodies inching closer and closer to him in a patient stalking of predator toward prey. When the attack came, not unsurprisingly, it came from a totally unexpected direction.

There was, below, the resounding collision of three teams of horses and chariots crashing into each other. Horses screamed in terror. Splinters and chunks of various chariots flew into the air. Bodies of drivers, thrown from their chariots, hurled through the air before tumbling across the stadium's thick sand. The crowd went wild. Everyone came to their feet. For several long seconds the crowd roared and cheered and booed all at the same time. And then, to his right, a fight broke out between partisan groups sitting too close together for comfort. Four burly looking men dressed in the colors of the Greens began pushing around five men dressed in blue. Fists flew. The fight pulled in additional participants. Pandemonium broke out in the stands.

The crowd was packed tight in the seats around him. As he watched the fight to his right grow in intensity, followed by loud cheers and jeers from those surrounding the spectacle near him, behind him he felt bodies moving suddenly to one side in an unnatural fashion. Someone was pushing through the crowd behind him. Half turning, he caught the glimpse of blond hair directly behind. More importantly he glimpsed the long narrow iron blade of a dagger held low and partially covered by a cheap tunic appear beside the assassin's waist. It flashed forward with astonishing speed straight for his lower back. A deep wound to his liver would be fatal.

His right arm swept around him in a swift, hard move. His forearm caught the assassin's knife hand at the wrist and knocked the deadly blade to one side. Rotating around, his left hand came up and reached for the assassin's shoulder while his right arm moved, allowing him to grasp the man's right forearm firmly with an iron grip. But the assassin was good. He twisted his shoulder away from the tribune's attempt to grab it and used a foot to kick hard at the tribune's right leg. The assassin's foot caught the tribune just above his knee with a powerful blow.

The pain was excruciating. His hand fell away from the assassin's knife hand. He staggered backward and bumped into someone directly behind him. Angrily, the man yelled out something unintelligible and shoved the tribune off him. The violent push helped the tribune to regain his footing. But all for naught. The assassin was gone. Like the ghost he was, he had slipped somehow deep into the sea of faces and disappeared altogether.

When the brawl in the stands was finally subdued after a squad of Praetorian Guards descended onto the menagerie of fisticuffs with bludgeons and iron bars, the crowd quickly settled back into their seats. But the tribune, his right leg throbbing in pain, slowly withdrew from his seat. As he ascended the steps to the cause walk he was joined by Gnaeus and Hakim. Neither had seen a thing. To their dismay they had not even seen the attack on the tribune.

The long walk back to the tribune's small house was a trek of pain filled with grim silence.

CHAPTERTWO

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.

The 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.

Decimus 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.

Or 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.

With 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.

Smiling, 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.

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.

What 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.

The 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.

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.

But 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.

Closing 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.

"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."

"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?”

CHAPTERTHREE

To his right the waters of the Tyrrhenian Sea seemed to lift up and fill the late afternoon sky with a soft blue haze from horizon to horizon. Sails, white and wine red from several large cargo ships, moved with an elegant ease as they headed for the port of Ostia. Sea gulls circled and wove through the partially cloudy skies above them. The Roman countryside that slid down to the sea was a lush verdant green. To him it looked like the vast gardens of a royal estate as he rode down the rough trail toward their destination.

The sun was out and deliciously warm. The panoramic view of the countryside pleasing to the eye.

One would think, if one only trusted his eyes and nothing more, the world was beautiful and peaceful, and tranquility was the order of the day. But he knew better. He knew the true nature of the world. Life was an illusion. Beauty only a mask to hide the darkness and pain from our eyes.

Reining in his powerful mare he turned and looked at the small entourage behind him. Gnaeus looked decidedly ill at ease sitting on a horse. In his opinion a good Roman soldier never road a horse. But, dressed in the garb of a Roman legionnaire, he remained silent and stoic. With the plain conical helm of a legionnaire partially hiding the thick mass of pepper and salt colored hair, the simple off-white linen undergarment underneath the typical lamellar armor of a Roman cavalryman, Gnaeus reined in his horse expertly and eyed Decimus with an unreadable mask for a face.

A humorous smile, barely visible, played across the tribune's lips before turning his head and looking at the two other men who reined in on either side of Gnaeus. One was thin framed with the hooked nose of a scowling hawk. Like Gnaeus, he too was dressed in the typical armor and uniform of a cavalryman. And like his servant, a man whom Decimus had known for years in the army. A specialist in his own right. A man who knew how to find things. Anything. Find it and retrieve it without making any raucous noise about it. Some said Rufus was a thief. A pick pocket. A purse snatcher. He knew Rufus for what he truly was. A man with a very special talent any commander of a legion would require sooner or later.

Or a man now in his newly appointed position.

The third cavalryman was very much different. He was a tall man with thick arms and powerful thighs. He rode his horse with the ease of someone who had lived all his life around horses. He was dark complexion with jet black eyes and a small mouth. There seemed to be an aloofness … a sense of otherness … that separated him from the rest of them. Indeed he was this stranger. He was not Roman born. He was a foreigner. A tribesman from the deserts of Numidia. Or Libya. Perhaps even Morocco. Yet he too, like the others, was a man whom he had known and trusted for years.

"Hassad … that way," he said lifting an arm and pointing toward the south. "Check the surrounding countryside for any tracks. Make a full circle around the crime scene. You will find us there when you return."

The black-eyed hunter from the desert nodded and urged his horse on. He moved out rapidly and soon disappeared into a copse of trees hugging a small hill. Decimus, waiting until the rider was well out of sight, grunted and turned his horse toward the southwest and heeled its flanks.

With the two riding abreast and slightly behind him, the newest tribune of Rome's CohortesUrbanae topped a small grassy knoll and began descending rapidly down upon the odd scene below.

After the civil wars, after Octavius' arch rival, Mark Anthony, had been dispatched to Hades, Octavius returned to begin rebuilding both the city of Rome and the empire. In Rome, after decades of neglect and civil strife, he found a city dominated by powerful underworld gangs. Gangs, bought and paid for by powerful patrician families of Rome had carved out their own private empires within the city. To fight the tenacious tentacles of organized crime, Caesar created two organizations and gave them the specific tasks to accomplish. Together they were to bring crime under control and provide some measure of safety for the citizens from the ever-constant fear of the city burning to the ground in one gigantic conflagration. One was the old Vigiles Urbani. The other was the Cohortes Urbanae.

The vigiles were the firefighters and beat cops of the city. The city-watch. A carry over idea, greatly expanded, from the numerous privately funded fire brigades and neighborhood watches that littered the city during Julius Caesar's time. The Imperator collected the various units into one unit, assembled them along the lines of a Roman legion, and established taxes to pay for them. Most of the men were ex-slaves commanded by Roman citizens—usually retired officers from the army. They worked during the night looking for fires and chasing down common hoodlums. They were effective if not, occasionally, a bit brutal.

The Cohortes Urbana acted more like the homicide division of a city's police force. They investigated violent crime, organized crime, political shenanigans. They too were organized along the lines of a Roman legion. But unlike the vigiles using ex-slaves as their manpower, only free Roman citizens could join the cohorts. Better paid and equipped compared to their vigiles cousins, the Urban Cohorts could, if the need arose, actually be pulled from the city's streets and used in military operations.

The Imperator commissioned Decimus with the rank of tribune in the Urban Cohorts. A tribune minus the normal eight hundred or so men most tribunes in the army, or the Vigiles, or the Urbanae, would command. His orders, straight from the quill of Octavius himself, decreed he was on detached service answerable only to the Imperator.

His assignment was simple. Find, and bring to justice those whom the Imperator thought were of a particular dangerous threat to the newly acquired peace of the empire.

Like this case.

Reining up in front of a mixed bag of vigiles and urban cohort soldiers standing around the destruction of what once had been a large wagon, he nodded to the centurion in charge and then slipped from his horse, throwing back the edge of his scarlet and purple trimmed short riding cloak in the process.

"Hail, tribune!" the young officer said, snapping to attention and saluting.

"At ease, son. And be so kind as to inform me of this situation."

In the thick grass were several large dark stains where people had died violent deaths. The bodies were gone but the visual evidence was ample to the trained eyed to conclude no one had survived the attack. A quick sweep of the ground suggested to Decimus at least four people were dead. The litter of several wooden trunks smashed to pieces with their contents strewn all over the side, even the ripped out bottoms of the wagons themselves mixed in with the other flotsam, indicated someone must have been in search of something important.

"Night before last the servant of a merchant in Ostia brought word there had been a series of murders … a massacre as they described it … just outside the port. I sent two men out on horses to ascertain the truth. As you can see the information was correct."

He saw Rufus nod his head toward his master and drift off toward the sea to begin his assigned task. Gnaeus, scowling as always, silently moved away in a different direction and began looking at the signs left behind in the dirt and grass. Decimus nodded, turned, and strode to one particularly large dark stain in the grass and knelt down. The young centurion behind him followed respectfully yet watched the two servants of the tribune curiously.

"The bodies?"

"In Ostia, sir. In the morgue of the vigiles' barracks.”

"Any survivors?" he asked as he used an index finger to trace the outline of a particularly large partial print of distinctive shoe sole in the dust of the narrow trail beside the grass.

"None that we know of. When I arrived I found four bodies. Two men of rank it would seem and two servants. And, of course, the scene which greets you now."

"Identification of any of the men?"

"None. No signet rings. No personnel scrolls. Nothing of monetary value left behind."

"Are you sure, centurion, of the veracity of your men? Are you sure no one in your command decided to claim a small prize of his own? Say the first two men who came out and discovered this scene?"

He stood up and turned to face the younger man. A hot flash of anger swept across the centurion's face but quickly subsided. The officer was of a famous plebian family. A very famous, and rich, family. Rarely had anyone doubted his veracity.

But standing before him was a tribune with a high sloping forehead and a thin swipe of grayish/blond curly hair covering the upper regions of his cranium. The man also had the deep, experienced, weather-beaten face of a man who had seen much in life; like that perhaps of an old soldier. Certainly the man exhibited the confident, almost arrogant, gate of a Roman officer. And there was the way the tribune gripped his ivory tipped baton, the symbol of rank for any high-ranking Roman officer, which cautioned him. Not just an ordinary soldier. But someone who was used to command.

A man not to be trifled with.

Frowning, he turned and barked loudly two names.

From the huddled group of Vigiles, two men stepped forward and came to attention in front of the centurion. Decimus, eyeing the two freedmen, slapped hands behind his back and stepped very close to the men. He circled them, inspecting them closely. Glancing down into the dust of the wagon ruts, he noticed the prints of their sandals they had just imprinted into the dirt.

"You," he said, using the long wooden baton of authority he gripped in one hand and slapped the man forcefully on the man's biceps. "Your name."

"Gallus, sir."

"You and this man beside you discovered the bodies last night when you rode out from Ostia?"

"Yes, sir."

Decimus nodded, hands gripping the baton behind his back, head down and staring at the ground thoughtfully. He walked slowly around the two men and stopped directly in front of the one who called himself Gallus.