“Constantinople.”

The imperial servants jumped as Emperor Marcus Flavius roared with laughter.

“The Empire is united! The Eastern Fool has lost his chair!”

Marcus shrieked hysterically for a moment, then broke off suddenly as pain wracked him. He jerked back in his chair, hissing in air through his teeth.

Half a dozen servants rushed forward. “Emperor, are you alright?” asked the eldest, his eyes wide.

Marcus gritted his teeth, “Yes, just the same gut pains. Nothing to worry about.”

“Shall I send for the Chirugeon?” asked the servant.

Marcus waved his hand dismissively, “Bring me Rufus.”

The youngest servant, no more than a boy, rushed out of the room with the message. When Lucius Vibius Rufus arrived, the Emperor dismissed them all. The Emperor’s personal agent approached the throne; his movements utterly silent.

“Have you heard the news?” Marcus’ eyes were once again wild with glee. “The expeditionary force the Procopius sent from Thessalonica has taken Constantinople!”

Rufus’ face showed no expression, “Yes, I heard two days ago.”

Marcus’ eyes narrowed. Despite the many years he had used the red-haired killer, he had never fully trusted him. Most of the known world was humbled at the feet of the Roman Emperor, but this one had never once shown the slightly glimmer of fear or subservience. The man was good at killing; almost too good. “I supposed you would. You do always seem to know what had happened before anyone else.”

“Is that not why you employ me, sire?” Rufus bowed ever so slightly.

“One of many reasons, yes.” Marcus sighed and sat back in the throne. “I will admit that the speed of the conquest surprised me, if not its end result. Constantinople was strongly defended; I expected a protracted siege before it fell.”

“The Eastern Emperor attempted to stop the force in the field several days west of the city,” replied Rufus. “He sent the Legio I Claudia Pia Fidelis to intercept them.”



“Captain Herennius met them in full force, smashed their left flank and annihilated them.”





“With the Legio II lying dead outside Thessalonica, there was little left with which to defend the walls. Those who remained gambled on a sally, knowing they would lose a fight for the streets. Herennius dealt with them in a similar manner and then, from all accounts, simply walked into the undefended city.”





The Emperor exalted in the wonder of it. “Let’s hope the good Captain can keep control of the place. I would not be pleased if we suffered yet another rebellion. Speaking of which, I have already ordered that Procopius be rewarded for his services. He is to be named Master of Offices for the Empire.”

Rufus’ face hardly moved, “How generous, sire.”

“Yes, well, he has served me faithfully and he is of no threat to me. Now that all of my brothers are gone, Illus’ succession is secured,” the Emperor inclined his head every so slightly, “thanks to you.”

“I live only to serve the Empire,” the killer replied impassively.

“Yes, your loyalty has been noted,” replied Marcus, a sudden chill running through him. “What of the Pagans?”

“Publius Flavius was swept overboard during a storm, my lord.”



Marcus chuckled, “Yes, I’m sure it was incredibly tragic. And the others?”

“I did not have time to deal with them properly, sire. I had to return at once with news.” Rufus shrugged, “they are of no concern to you though. The ship captain is an acquaintance of mine. He will ensure that once they land in Britannia, there they will remain unless you say otherwise. It is only a matter of time before the Saxons, Celts or simple brigands kill them. Who knows, maybe they will even offend the Romano-British enough and get themselves executed.”

Marcus was taken aback. Lucius Vibius Rufus had never failed before, this was… unusual. “What was so urgent that you could not complete your task?”

“I came at the order of Spurius Flavius, sire,” Rufus began. “He told me to convey to you the urgency of the situation in Gaul. Augusta Treverorum is again besieged by a large Hun army and there are no reinforcements to be sent from all of Gaul. He urges you to assemble a new force to deal with them and to take back Belgica from the Saxons.”

“Huns, Saxons… BAH. I will deal with them in time. Augusta Treverorum is fortified and held by a large garrison, let the barbarians batter themselves to pieces against its walls.” Marcus’ face darkened, “It’s the Sarmatians that will have to be dealt with first.”

Only the week before, he had received the news. The nomadic Sarmatian hordes, wandering aimlessly since their lands had been taken by the Lombardi, had violated the Empire’s borders and laid siege to Salona. Grim news.



“Perhaps I should send Procopius to deal with them,” he wondered aloud, “he has proved himself capable of defeating Roman armies; he should have no difficulties in slaughtering a mass of barbarian peasants.”

“How wise, sire.”

Marcus detected a mocking undertone to the man’s words, but said nothing. Rufus was dangerous, perhaps too dangerous to keep around any longer. The Emperor shifted uneasily at the thought of being alone with him any longer.

“Servants!” he cried, and a flood of men rushed in. “Bring me some water.”

One of them hurried off to comply.

“Sire,” the killer had not moved, “there is one other thing that Spurius ordered me to tell you. He wishes that you would give up your, pardon the term sire, heretical beliefs in the blasphemies of Nestor and return to the light of salvation.”

Marcus nearly exploded in rage. “HOW… HOW DARE…”

A coughing fit erupted in his chest and he doubled over in pain, clutching at the throne and gasping for breath. The servant sent off for water ran up and helped him drink. The coughing eased a bit.

Rufus stood impassive, “Apologies sire, those are his words, not mine. He ordered me to say them and being but a humble servant of the Empire, I must obey my betters.”

“NEVER… WILL NEVER…”

A fresh wave of coughs nearly threw Marcus completely from his chair. His chest felt like it was being crushed. He tried desperately to inhale. For a moment, a thin trickle of air flowed through him; then all movement stopped.

Augustus Marcus Flavius Felix, Emperor of the Western Roman Empire and the most powerful man in the known world, collapsed on the floor. His eyes bulged sickly out of his head and his fingernails tore gashes in his skin as he clawed at his throat and chest.

The world was hot and distant around him. The confusion engulfed Marcus and he foundered in it. In the periphery of his vision, he was aware of a great commotion going on around him. Men were rushing to and fro. Rufus was pointing and shouting at the servant who had brought him the water.

The light began to dim around him and all sound seemed to be muffled, as if coming from a great distance. The servant was screaming something… something… but the words were lost to him. As the darkness closed in, Marcus felt a hot breath on his cheek and Rufus’ words in his ear.

“Spurius Flavius thanks you for eliminating all who could have opposed him.”

He fell into oblivion.