Better.
Caius leaned back in his chair, letting the silence stretch as he studied the boy. Moonlight filtered through the marble lattice behind him, casting angular silver patterns across the mosaic floor and over Arruns’ features. His face was handsome, well-shaped and carefully groomed.
A façade fit for an heir.
He had done well over these past months—training, studying, and manipulating the Senate and noble houses into believing he was Caius’ true-blooded heir and not the son of a shepherd.
And yet, something in Arruns still grated on Caius’ nerves.
There was too much softness in the way the boy smiled, too much warmth when he spoke to slaves or greeted officials. He was well liked by the masses, adored by Rasennan women, but popularity was not power. Affection did not build empires.
He needed to be sharper. Harder.
More ruthless.
“Your guests from Kharkhedon have arrived,” Arruns announced, standing straight. He wore a fresh white tunic with a purple trim beneath a forest-green tebenna draped over one shoulder, the fabric falling in clean lines. The daily drills with Velthur and the palace guards were beginning to show. The softness of youth was hardening into muscle, his posture sharpening with discipline. He looked more like a man now.
Caius rolled the parchment and placed it carefully on top of the neat stack before him. His fingers hovered for a moment. Perhaps this was the opportunity Arruns needed—military experience to shed his softness.
“You will join me,” he said at last.
Arruns blinked. “Me?”
“The Kharkhedonians have come to request aid in their endless war against the Numidian tribes. We will assist them. I will send the Fourteenth Legion, and you will accompany them.”
Arruns’ mouth tightened. “You’re sending me to war?”
“I am giving you a chance to prove yourself.” Caius abruptly rose from his chair, the carved lion’s feet scraping against the mosaic floor. “You are my heir, but that title means nothing without a few victories. The people will not accept you unless you bleed for them. You need to earn their respect.”
He circled the desk with deliberate strides and halted a pace from Arruns—close enough to meet his gaze, to assess him like a weapon yet untried.
“You will go to Kharkhedon. Legate Nonius will oversee the campaign. He’ll fight the war. You will win the glory.”
Arruns’ brow furrowed. “You make it sound so easy. What gives you such confidence that they can win?”
Caius’ lips curled into a thin smile. “Because they have a god who can summon fire to fall from the sky.”
Arruns’ eyes widened. “Fall from the sky? That’s?—”
“I’ve seen it firsthand. Their gods are as old and powerful as those in Kemet. The tribes may strike from the shadows and vanish into the desert, but they cannot win.”
Arruns was silent for a moment, contemplating his words. Then he asked, “And what do we gain in return?”
Caius’ smile sharpened. “Now you’re beginning to think like an emperor. They will supply us with whatever I demand. And right now, I need slaves, stone, and gold to pay my legions.”
He turned back to his desk and plucked another scroll from the neatly stacked pile. The seal of the Eighth Legion marked the parchment—news from Tyrrhenus. He was eager to hear more from the northern front and how well Laran’s Chosen was doing.
He dismissed Arruns with a wave. “Tell our guests I’ll join them shortly.”
Arruns remained unmoving. “One more thing,” he said, shifting slightly where he stood. “There seems to be… a man in the Empress’ chambers.”
Caius glanced back, narrowing his eyes. “A man?”
Impossible. The Empress was surrounded by her handmaidens day and night, and no male slave was foolish enough to?—
“The servants heard voices, but when they checked, no one was there.”
Caius went still, Arruns’ words sinking like a stone in his chest.
