Chapter 69: The Governor of Gaul

February 20, 221 AD, Civitas Aurelia, Gallia.

For weeks, former Governor Marcellus had been confined to the upper wing of the praetorium. His existence had been reduced to that of a captive. Every morning, Aulus the scribe would present him with a stack of edicts, and Marcellus would press his signet ring into the wax, maintaining the illusion for the Senate that the province was functioning under imperial law.

He had no authority, no guards of his own, and an excess of free time...

But what drove Marcellus to the brink of madness was not Lucius Cassius. It was Isolda.

The princess treated him with a condescension that made his blood boil. To be outmaneuvered by an engineer was a bitter pill; to be mocked in his own palace by a barbarian woman draped in silk was an insult.

Pacing the length of his balcony, Marcellus racked his brain for a way to strike back. He could not harm Isolda but the bitterness in his chest demanded an outlet.

As he looked down into the praetorium’s inner peristyle garden, an opportunity presented itself.

Isolda was kneeling on the grass, the sun catching the braids of her hair. Surrounding her were no guards, only a beast.

It was a war-hound named *Rurik*, a gift from her brother Amalric before the cavalry had marched out.

The dog was the size of a wolf, bred for hunting bears in the forests.

Yet, as Isolda offered the beast strips of venison from her palm, her demeanor melted away. She smiled, and buried her hands in the hound’s fur. The beast let out a rumble, resting its head on her lap.

Watching the princess show affection toward the animal ignited a spark in Marcellus’s mind.

He could not touch the Forge Master’s wife, but he could destroy the one creature in this prison that brought her joy. He decided that during the evening shift change, he would slip down into the gardens and butcher the hound. It would be a message.

Retreating from the balcony, Marcellus realized he needed a weapon. His ceremonial swords had been confiscated the day the city fell. Smoothing the front of his toga, he descended the servant stairwells toward the praetorium’s kitchens.

The moment Marcellus stepped into the kitchen, the staff stopped their chopping and boiling. They stared at the former Governor with disdain.

Marcellus ignored their glares, marching up to the butcher’s block.

"I require a meat cleaver," Marcellus demanded. "A heavy one."

The head cook, a man covered in flour and grease, frowned.

He crossed his arms, stepping between the patrician and the rack of blades. "And why does the Governor need a butcher’s blade in the middle of the afternoon?"

The audacity of a cook questioning him made Marcellus’s vision swim with rage.

He drew himself up to his full height, inflating his chest to project the last scraps of his authority.

"Because I am the appointed Governor of Gaul!" Marcellus spat. "And when I demand a piece of iron in my own palace, you do not question me! Hand it over, plebeian, or I will have you flogged!"

The cook hesitated. He knew Marcellus was a puppet, but Lucius had issued strict orders to the staff:

*Maintain the facade of his office. Do not give the Senate spies a reason to suspect a coup.*

Weighing his options, the cook decided a knife wasn’t worth jeopardizing the Forge Master’s theater.

The cook reached back, grabbed a cleaver, and slammed it onto the table.

"Take it," the cook warned. "But if you try anything stupid with that iron, Governor, the *Custodes* won’t bother asking for my permission to gut you."

Marcellus snatched the blade without a word of thanks, hiding it within the folds of his toga. His heart hammered with anticipation. He could picture the devastation on Isolda’s face when she found her beast slaughtered.

He retreated to his chambers, spending the next few hours gripped by a manic energy. When the sun dipped below the horizon and the shadows lengthened, Marcellus slipped out of his quarters.

He navigated the corridors with hurried steps. At one point, he rounded a corner and collided with a servant girl carrying a basket of linens. Rather than offering a hand, Marcellus glared at her with malice that the girl dropped her basket and fled down the hall. He didn’t realize he had provided a witness to his location.

Reaching the peristyle garden, Marcellus stepped out into the evening air.

Rurik was resting inside a kennel near the garden wall. The hound lifted its head as Marcellus approached. Because Marcellus was a resident of the palace who walked the grounds daily, the dog did not perceive him as an intruder.

It let out a huff, remaining docile as the former Governor stepped into the shadows of the kennel.

Marcellus drew the cleaver from his toga. With a downward hack, he buried the blade into the hound’s neck.

The beast let out a yelp, thrashing against the floorboards, but Marcellus was driven by hysteria. He hacked again and again, his toga splattering with blood.

It was a messy execution... Not satisfied with killing the animal, Marcellus dragged the severed head out of the kennel and jammed it onto the spike of a trellis.

Breathing heavily, his hands slick with gore, Marcellus turned and fled back toward the stairwells. He was oblivious to the footprints his sandals were leaving across the marble of the garden path.

He locked the door to his quarters, a smile stretching across his face.

Less than an hour later, a sound ripped through the praetorium that made Marcellus’s blood run cold.

It was a scream. But it was not the wail of a Roman noblewoman. It was a shriek of Gothic fury.

Two floors below, Lucius Cassius was standing over his drafting table. The moment that scream shattered the quiet of the palace, the stylus snapped in his grip.

Lucius drew his spatha from his hip and sprinted.

He tore through the corridors, his boots slipping on the marble as he burst out into the garden.

The *Custodes* had beaten him there by seconds, forming a defensive perimeter with their crossbows raised toward the rooftops.

In the center of the garden, Isolda was on her knees in the grass...

Her fists were clenched so tightly her knuckles were white, her chest heaving as she stared at the mutilated remains of her homeland’s beast. The wrath radiating from her was suffocating. Nobody dared to approach her.

Lucius dropped his sword. He wrapped his arms around Isolda, pulling her shaking body against his chest.

As Lucius looked up, his eyes locked onto the severed head mounted on the trellis.

The thought of his pregnant wife being targeted by the embers of the Roman elite ignited a fury deep within the Forge Master’s soul.

He held Isolda tighter.

"Barricade the praetorium!" Lucius roared over his shoulder. "Nobody enters, and nobody leaves! Valerius, lock down every gate in the capital!"

The *Custodes* slammed their fists against their breastplates. "Yes, Dominus!"

Lucius pressed a kiss into Isolda’s hair as he issued his decree to the night.

"I want every patrician manor in this city raided. I want the slums turned upside down."

"Whoever managed to breach my home and leave this message... I am going to wipe their bloodline from the face of the earth!"