Chapter 6: A Wolf in the Fold

The thought of confronting a potential assassin, a man Lyra described as a master of manipulation, made Alex's stomach churn. It was one thing to gather intel from a safe distance, another entirely to step into the viper's nest. But Lyra was right. Circumstantial evidence wasn't enough. He needed proof, and there was only one way to get it. He took a deep, steadying breath and walked to the entrance of his tent. He summoned the same young guard as before, who now looked at him with an expression of profound, almost religious awe. The new emperor was not the wastrel they had feared; he was a serious, pious man, already deep in the business of the empire. The rumors were spreading. "Find me the Praetorian Prefect, Tigidius Perennis," Alex commanded, his voice steady. "Tell him I wish to discuss the security arrangements for my father's funeral procession to Rome. It is a matter of utmost urgency." The pretext was perfect, a natural concern for a new ruler. It gave him a legitimate reason to discuss security, guards, and logistics—the very areas where Perennis was cooking the books. Less than half an hour later, Perennis arrived. He was everything the historical busts had suggested, and more. Where Maximus was granite and grit, Perennis was polished marble. He was handsome in a sharp, predatory way, his dark hair immaculately oiled, his purple-striped toga perfectly draped. He moved with a liquid grace that spoke of years of practice in the halls of power. He entered the tent and performed a flawless proskynesis, bowing to the ground in a show of utter subservience that felt far more theatrical and less sincere than Maximus's stiff nod. "Caesar," Perennis said, his voice a smooth, cultured baritone. "You summoned me. My heart aches for your loss, but it swells with pride to see you take up your divine father's mantle with such gravity. The entire Praetorian Guard, my very life, is at your command." It was a masterclass in flattery. Alex felt the instinctual, human urge to be reassured by it, to believe this charming, capable man was on his side. But in his ear, Lyra was a cold, clinical scalpel, dissecting every word. "Rhetorical analysis complete," she whispered. "Note the use of hyperbole and emotional appeal. He is attempting to establish a baseline of effusive loyalty to make any future deviation seem out of character. Standard manipulative tactic." Alex gestured for Perennis to rise. "Thank you, Prefect. Your loyalty is... noted." He let the slight pause hang in the air. "I wish to discuss the journey back to Rome. My father's body must be protected. The Praetorians will form his honor guard. I want to understand the security protocols you have in place." Perennis smiled, a flash of white teeth. "But of course, Caesar. Your safety and your father's honor are my only concerns. I have already doubled the guard on your personal quarters and arranged for my most trusted centurions to oversee the procession." "Heart rate elevated by twelve percent when you mentioned 'security protocols,'" Lyra's voice murmured. "A physiological stress indicator. He is on guard." Alex walked casually over to his small table, picking up a wine goblet and turning it over in his hands, feigning a thoughtful air. "Good. My father trusted you implicitly. His journals are filled with praise for your diligence and foresight." "He was too kind, Caesar," Perennis said, his voice a low thrum of false humility. "I was merely his humble servant. My only ambition was, and is, to serve the imperial family." "Vocal stress analysis indicates a ninety-seven percent probability of deception in the phrase 'My only ambition,'" Lyra stated flatly. "He is lying." The confirmation sent a chill down Alex's spine, but it also hardened his resolve. He had him. Now, it was time to set the trap. He put the goblet down and turned to face the Prefect, his expression one of solemn confidence. "He trusted you so much, in fact, that he confided in you his most secret contingency plans." Alex paused, letting the statement sink in. "For instance, his journals spoke at length about the secret emergency grain reserve he established near the western watchtower, a failsafe in case of a prolonged siege. He wrote that only his most trusted man—his Praetorian Prefect—was aware of its exact location and access protocols." It was a complete and utter fabrication, a piece of bait crafted by Lyra moments before. There was no secret reserve. There was no entry in the journal. For a single, fleeting nanosecond, the mask on Perennis's face slipped. A flicker of pure confusion crossed his features. His eyes darted to the side for a fraction of a second, a classic tell of someone accessing their creative, rather than mnemonic, brain function. He was trying to figure out what Alex was talking about. Then, just as quickly, the mask was back in place, the charming smile restored. "Ah, yes," Perennis said, his voice smooth as oiled silk. "The reserve. Of course, Caesar. A testament to your father's peerless foresight. Be assured, it remains secure and untouched, known only to me, just as he commanded." He had taken the bait. Hook, line, and sinker. He had just confirmed, with absolute confidence, his intimate knowledge of a place that did not exist. It was a fatal mistake. He was so desperate to maintain the illusion of being Marcus Aurelius's confidant that he had lied about something he should have known was false. "Lie confirmed," Lyra's voice was cold and certain in Alex's ear. "By confirming knowledge of a non-existent secret, he has proven his claims of intimacy with your father are false. The motive for this deception is most likely to secure your trust for his own purposes. Probability of Tigidius Perennis being the primary conspirator has been elevated to ninety-two percent." The threat was no longer an abstract percentage. It had a name and a face, and it was standing five feet away from him, smiling. "Excellent, Prefect," Alex said, his own voice sounding distant to his ears. "That is all I needed to know. You may go." Perennis bowed again, even lower this time, convinced he had succeeded in charming the new boy-emperor. "I live to serve, Caesar. Be assured, you will sleep soundly tonight. My men are everywhere." As the Prefect swirled out of the tent, Alex felt a wave of nausea. The man's final words had sounded less like a reassurance and more like a threat. He knew who. But he still didn't know how or when. He turned to the laptop, the battery now hovering at a terrifying 41%. "Lyra," he whispered, his throat dry. "He's going to use poison, isn't he? It's the only way that fits. Subtle, deniable..." "That is the highest probability vector," Lyra confirmed, her voice devoid of comfort. "I have been cross-referencing Perennis's known historical methods, his access as Praetorian Prefect, and the resources he has been secretly stockpiling. An assassination that appears to be from natural causes or a sudden illness would cause the least political disruption, allowing him to manage the aftermath. The attempt will likely be made with a fast-acting, difficult-to-trace substance." "When?" Alex breathed. "When will he do it?" "Given his control over the imperial household staff, it will most likely be administered through your food or wine. Now that you have affirmed your trust in him, he will believe you are off-guard. He will want to act quickly, before you reach the political security of Rome. The attempt could be made at any time. Starting now." As if on cue, the tent flap opened. A young servant, a boy Alex had never seen before, entered the tent. The boy knelt, his eyes downcast, and held up a polished silver tray. On it sat a steaming platter of roasted boar, glistening with herbs, and a single, ornate goblet filled to the brim with dark red wine. It was his evening meal. The boy looked up at him, offering the tray. "Your dinner, Caesar," the servant murmured.