Chapter 1: Rebirth

He floated. There was no body. There was no water here. He wasn't even sure if he had eyes, or where 'here' was. But the feeling was that of floating, gently, safely. The darkness was soft as silk, warm as a fur coat in deep winter, caressing, safe. He didn't know how, but he was convinced that all was as it should be. He was content. At peace.

A bell chimed, its sound clean and bright, resting, barely fading in his hearing. There was a flash of light, barely longer than the blink of an eye. Did he have eyes?

"…don't know what happened… suddenly collapsed…"

Muffled voices echoed through the solace, and were gone a just as quick again.

He felt a tug. There was a tiny spot of light in the infinite blackness, immeasurably far away, yet so bright it pierced his sight. The fall. He remembered falling.

Again the bell rang. It was as if its sound drew him closer to the light. But the light felt wrong. Cold. Unnatural.

"…hemorrhagic fever, maybe? …burning him up! Need to cool…"

The voices made no sense. What fever? He was dead. He knew he was dead. Ten thousand feet, free fall, body-meeting-solid-ground dead.

The bell's sound had barely faded when it chimed again, louder now, more insistent. It was as if he was falling through a void, a never-ending abyss, towards the light. A tiny voice whispered that he should have felt a sense of relief, that the darkness was finally giving way to something bright and beautiful. But as he drew closer to the light, he felt a growing sense of unease and fear. This was not how it should be. This was all wrong! It was as if something inside him was warning him, telling him that he should not go towards the light. That he should turn back and retreat into the darkness, where it was warm and comforting.

Once more the bell chimed, and then again, and again, its chime now a rhythm, increasing in speed, its sound no longer a song but a clamor.

"…what are you doing, boy?" His old tutor sat by his bed, looking worried.

The image was gone as fast as it had appeared, but it left a palpable taste of wrongness in him. Posca. He'd been dead for a decade, last he'd heard before… Before what? His mind whirled. He never had told the man farewell, despite their close relation. Once Marius had ascended to the throne, they had barely interacted anymore. He wished he'd told him how much he had meant to him, that there had been a different end to their path. But why had he looked so young?

Unable to hold on the thought he continued to whirl through the darkness, cold fingers pulling at his mind like an oncoming headache. Try as he might, he could not resist the pull of the light.

"…keeps needing a lot of fluid…can't lose the Emperor and his heir in a fortnight!... doing everything we can, nobilis heres…"

Unseen forces pulled at him like a maelstrom, which grew stronger as the light grew brighter and brighter, until it was almost blinding. He felt like he was falling faster and faster, hurtling towards the light at a breakneck speed. He felt trapped, caught in a nightmare from which there was no escape. Unseen tendrils pulled at him as if to tear him apart, every inch of his being screaming in agony. He wanted to scream, but he had no mouth, no voice to express his pain. Around him, the ringing of the bell had turned into a clamoring staccato.

"…been more than a week for my brother, and yet you don't know…credentials won't save you from…" Sylvana? No doubt that had been his sister's voice. But she had sounded angry, louder, full of energy. Why could he hear her? Gods, was she dead, too?

He tried to get away from the light, to retreat back into the comforting darkness that had enveloped him before. Instead of feeling relieved at the prospect of reaching the light, he felt more and more anxious. But no matter how hard he tried, he kept falling, the light growing brighter and brighter with every passing second. Ice gripped his mind. The thunder of the bell made it impossible to think. If he was dead, was he going to hell?

"…stable…wait…"

The light was now so close that he could feel it, not hot, but unnaturally cold. It was like an icy furnace, freezing and burning him from the inside out. He needed to get away! Get away from the light! Instead, the darkness, and with it the warmth and safety receded, flowing away like seawater at low tide. The brightness consumed him.

And then suddenly, he opened his eyes. On a nearby monitor his heart rate beeped incessantly. Fast, almost merging.

Like the bell! Vague memories of a fever came flooding back to him. He knew they were his, but they felt…off. More like something he had been told than something he had experienced: the delirium, the pain, the feeling of being lost in a void.

Marius blinked a few times, trying to adjust to his surroundings. His sight was blurry. As tried to move his hand to rub his eyes, but he found wires running from his chest, arms, and legs, all connected to a battery of instruments surrounding his bed in a crescent. Blinking again, some of his sight began to return.

The room was spacious and luxurious, with high ceilings, ornate columns, and marble floors. The style was classical Roman, but with modern technology subtly integrated throughout. Colorful mosaics covered the floor. The walls were adorned with paintings of landscapes, and the windows looked out onto a lush garden, where birds sang and fountains splashed. Something tugged at the edge of his mind. Yes. He knew this room. Very well, in fact. It had been his chambers as a young man! But why was he here? It couldn't be. He knew, with certainty etched in stone – quite literally – that he had fallen off a mountain, almost ninety lightyears away. He ought to be dead. He had to be dead.

He felt his heart racing, and his raspy breath quickening, his throat feeling drier than the great northern desert. Gods, he was thirsty! Pulling himself up proved easier thought than done. His body felt heavy, as if every muscle had been stretched beyond its limit. He groaned, the pain radiating from his chest, down his arms, and into his legs. He tried to call out for help, but his voice was hoarse and weak, barely audible above the hum of the machines. His muscles ached, and his head throbbed with a pounding headache.

Something stirred at the foot of his bed. A head covered in ruffled auburn hair rocked up, and his sister let out a squeal of surprise, almost stumbling over her own feet as she raced to grab his hand. She looked as if she had cried. She looked so young. He frowned. No, not looked. She was young!

"You're awake! Oh my god, finally!" She squeezed his hand, hard, pressing a button probably equally as hard with her other one. "Fucking nurses, where are they?!" she yelled, far too loud for Marius' ears, only to drop her voice back to a hushed whisper. "You're back, oh thank you, thank you! I thought I'd lost you, too." Grabbing a piece of cloth to clean the sweat off his forehead, she broke into a relieved laughter. "Gods, big bro, you look bad. And you smell worse," she sniffed and poked his nose. "C'mon, where are those doctors?!"

"Water," Marius managed to croak. "Please."

Sylvana nearly jumped to hand him a plain glass. The water was cool and fresh. His throat was so dry it almost hurt to drink. He emptied it in one go and held his hand out, trembling, for an encore. "How?" he managed to ask, his voice still sounding off. "What's going on?"

Her face darkened, if that was possible for such a young face. Sylvana was three years younger than him, which meant she ought to be in her late fifties. The young woman in front of him was undeniably her – and looked not a day older than twenty.

"The doctors said you caught a fever. Burned through you like wildfire through dry grass. They thought we'd lose you. I thought we'd lose you," she almost whispered with a husky voice. Her eyes glistened and she took a deep breath before Marius could speak. "Father's dead, big bro." She'd always called him that when they were young. "Rode through the park like any other day. His horse must've shied, and he fell, badly. Broke his neck. The doctors say he was dead on the spot. Thirteen days ago now. And you've been out of it for far too long, big bro," she sighed heavily and her shoulders slumped.

Nothing here made sense. His father had been dead for forty years. But her hand holding his own felt oddly comforting, calming. He tried to push himself onto his elbows, and failed, breathing heavily. "Where… am I… Sylvana? What's… the date?"

"Home, Marius," she smiled and stroked his greasy hair, sensing his confusion, her voice soothing despite her obvious concern. "In your room, on Mount Caelius. Don't you recognize it? I'll tell the servants to push your bed closer to windows and pull back the shades so you can look over Nova Roma and the bay, all to the horizon of the Stella Maris. And for the date? It's April 19th. Not quite christmas yet," she chuckled.

"The… year!" he croaked, more forcefully and angry than intended.

This time, his sister did frown. Sylvana reached around and picked up a small mirror from his nightstand, shoving it in his face. "You were out for three weeks, Marius, not three years," she scolded him. "There's no need to snap at me when I'm all cried out and almost mad with anxiety for you! It's the same year as when you got sick. It's 3009!"

He heard her voice, but the words made no sense. Neither did the mirror. A young face, marked by sickness and certainly needing a shave, looked back at him. It was his face. But forty years younger.

A voice cackled with laughter in the back of his mind. Different!

Nova Roma, Alphard

Marian Hegemony

April 21st 3009

If it was some kind of hoax or conspiracy, it was a really good one, he had to give it to them. Walking slowly along the meticulously kept hard gravel path while pulling a drip feed behind him on wobbly wheels he savored the cool morning air on his skin. Small steps, deep breaths, he kept reminding himself. Despite a hefty diet of what supposedly were vitamin supplements and a ravenous hunger the palace kitchen struggled to keep pace with, his body felt incredibly weak. A fever that could've killed an aurochs and three weeks of coma wandering between life and death did that to even the strongest body, doctors, nurses, and his own sister kept reminding him. As if on cue, he felt is knees weaken and he stopped on a sandstone balcony shaded by a nearby grove of olive trees. Not moving was enough to steady him for the moment. By now he was more annoyed than concerned about the full ache permeating his head and body. The feeling carried the aftertaste of a massive hangover. He definitely had lost too much fluid.

The scent of blooming flowers filled his nostrils, and the sound of birdsong filled his ears. The lush greenery and sparkling fountains ordinarily would have been a soothing balm to his senses. But he couldn't shake the feeling that something was off, that this was all too perfect.

He glanced around, searching for any signs of danger or deception. There were guards all around, just enough out of sight to not be intrusive. The same was true for nurses and doctors. Again, none of this was in any way out of the ordinary, but there was nothing ordinary about his situation. You didn't just plunge to your death ninety light years away, forty years in the future, just to wake up and be told 'Oh hey, aren't we glad you're awake again, you were really sick and had us worried. By the way, your father's dead.'

Long decades of dealing with the Senate's subterfuge and intrigues had kept him holding his tongue, holding it all together when first faced with that claim. Whatever was really going on, more sedatives and an extended stay in a psychiatric care unit most certainly would not aid him in finding out. So he had been quiet and pretended to accept things at face value. For now.

He always prided himself to be a logical man. This was the palace as he remembered it from his youth. His sister looked the part, acted the part, felt the part. Servants and employees, as much as he could remember them also seemed to check out. The curse of an almost eidetic memory. But he had been witness to too many doppelgänger plots big and small during his time on the throne to quickly let that dissuade his doubts.

Picking up a piece of gravel he weighed it in his hand, calculating, as his look wandered across the panorama in front of him. Alphard was a warm, dry world, and his ancestors had seen fit to build their capital on the shores of one of the few larger bodies of water on the planet. A wide bay stretched from north to south, with Mount Caelius and the ancestral O'Reilly palace forming the southern anchor sticking out into the green-blue sea like an ochre shark tooth. The bay below was bustling with shipping, from small fisher boats and commuter ferries to large container freighters three hundred or more meters long. Behind them, to the north and east, Nova Roma spread out into the hinterlands and steppes like a kraken.

On first glance it looked like the last time he had seen it from this very view, a few days before he had lifted off to his trip to Herculaneum. But it didn't need a trained eye to quickly spot the differences. In '42 the harbor terminals had been expanded to twice their size. Behind that, the skyline lacked many of the distinct skyscrapers the stability and wealth of his reign had seen rise. The large dome of the national opera was nowhere to be seen, and neither was the bowl of the colosseum, in case opera was too high brow for you. Further north the industrial districts looked off, smaller and less busy. In general, the city simply looked less grand, less expansive than he remembered it. It looked like Nova Roma had looked around the turn of the century.

In one swift motion he threw the stone in his hand as far as he could, tracing its trajectory like a hawk tracked a far-away mouse. It plummeted into the shrubbery on the slopes of the outer courtyard with an inaudible and anticlimactic thud. No vast holographic array had been disturbed. No automated lasers had buzzed and shot it down. No guards came streaming. Just a small stone falling in the dirt. Somehow that felt more unnerving than the alternatives.

What was more likely? That he'd fallen and been saved in the last moment by some kind of hidden or pre-placed airbag system, carried away to some secure location and now was subject to a perfect replica of his palace turned prison, populated by doubles? Meanwhile someone had seen fit to surgically alter him to look like his younger self, and kept him drugged up to avoid him finding out that, yes, his body still was and felt like that of a sixty-two years old. All of that individually was probably somewhat in the realm of the technically feasible – but to what end?

At what point did the deception become too grand, to complex? If it was a deception, this was something the Capellans might one day have tried on Hanse Davion. But Hanse Davion he was not. Marius had been saddled with his portion of vanity, but he knew his place in the grand scheme of things. And even with the Maskirovka pulling the strings…cold analytics told him that there were just too many fault lines in this plan. One misstep, on slip of the tongue, and for what? To confuse a minor periphery leader? It made no sense.

He looked up to the blue sky where Alphard's sun was rising towards its daily zenith.

"Well, if this is some kind of purgatory I sure could've gotten it worse," he chuckled sardonically.

A warm breeze blew in from the slopes below, and Marius took that as a cue to return to his chambers. As if to push him on, his stomach raised a complaint in form of a loud rumble. Luckily he found a large sandwich with slices of turkey, roastbeef, cheese, pickles and mayonnaise and a pitcher of orange juice waiting for him. The way he devoured it in record time put another dent into his prison deception scheme; for it was the ravenous appetite of a young man.

But he needed something else to ground him. Something more personal. Something…darker.

He stepped out of his chambers, startling the guard standing next to them.

"Sir, I-"

"Take me to my father," Marius cut him off. "I want to see him."

"But sir—"

"Now." The word wasn't spoken loudly, but it carried enough force with it to shut the man up right then and there. Marius glanced at his drip and, finding it empty, decided to leave it behind. His doctors had laid a port on his arm so luckily that didn't create a mess. "Lead the way."

The palace on Mount Caelius had been built atop and into the mountain, a sprawling complex of buildings ranging from living quarters, kitchens, offices, command and communications centers, swimming pools, and warehouses. The guard, a middle-aged man in purple livery and a bullet-proof vest lead him through the labyrinthine bowels of the complex, down flights of stairs and elevators, criss-crossing corridors. More than once Marius had to stop to steady himself. When they finally arrived at the mausoleum it was almost noon. While it was April on the calendar it was early autumn for Alphard, and the planet's midday sun brought with it an oppressive heat.

Looking out from the western slope of the mountain the round, domed building surrounded by a colonnade covered the entrance to the family crypt. An honor guard kept watch, coming to crisp attention with the old Roman salute as he left his guide behind and entered the chambers. It was cold inside, too cold after the brief flash of midday heat, and it got colder with every step he further entered the outer crypts.

His father awaited him.

Gaius Mercer O'Reilly was laid out on a long marble table, surrounded by wreaths and flower bouquets from all planets of the Hegemony, creating a wall of colors around his corpse. Paying the gifts no heed Marius stepped closer, his breath drawing small clouds in the cold of the chamber.

His father laid there just as he remembered him. The morticians had done a good job, repairing the damage to his head, embalming him, propping him up in ceremonial robes and armor. Somehow, he appeared larger in death, more regal. His thick brows and pronounced nose gave him something of an owlish look, especially as he had been so carefully groomed, but he looked at peace. He looked like his father.

Gently, he reached out to touch his face, trying to recall the memory of this very moment when he had done it the first time. Cold fingers touched cold, waxen skin, and he shivered. Was there something? He didn't know.

"What now, father?" he asked the silent figure quietly, sighing. "Do you really want me to do it all again? Forty years of navigating those snakes in the Senate. Having a plain wife. Siring a patricidal son. Being a 'good Marian'?" He looked down on his father's body, anger suddenly swelling in him. "I've played that role all my life, and now I'm supposed to do it all over again?"

But what choice did he have?

For now, all he could do was play the role he had always played. And use it to watch for clues very closely. He'd get to the bottom of this – whatever 'this' was.

Nova Roma, Alphard

Marian Hegemony

April 25th 3009

It didn't rain. It poured. The past four days had rushed by in a blur, filled with an increasing load of administrative tasks and a schedule filling with what seemed every minute, getting himself ready for his father's state funeral. And just as he remembered it: torrential rain had started to fall the very morning of the ceremony despite all forecasts to the contrary. As expected, this chipped another part off the idea of this being some kind of elaborate ruse. There had been little time just to himself, and even his sister who had been so concerned all the time had been burdened with her part of preparing for the ceremony – and with her grief. Marius felt bad for her, as he himself only felt an echo of the grief he had felt when he had mourned his father the first time. He had buried his father forty years ago. Time did heal not all wounds, but many. This was just a repeat performance. But it did have its uses as a means to prove – or disprove – his theory.

Under the massive marble pillars of the Temple of Jupiter, before the wings of the brass-and-copper hammered doors, Gaius Mercer O'Reilly lay in repose. Alphard's high society and political movers and shakers had turned out in droves in their best mourning dresses and now stood in the pouring rain, most drenched from head to toe already as their personal slaves hurried to and fro to organize umbrellas. The first time around he had felt with them. Knowing how much many of them had gotten on his nerves after, he watched the spectacle with well-hidden but all the more viciously felt glee.

Old senator Chato climbed up the broad stairs to pay his respects. Marius counted down in his head. Three…two…one, and Chato slipped on the wet ground, tumbling down two steps before his personal slaves caught him.

All was as it had been. Clad in an ornate suit of black and grey with a purple cape draped over his shoulders, he stood alone besides his father's body, resting on a simple wooden cane, awaiting the mourners as was proper as the new head of the family.

But was it good the way it was? a voice whispered in his head.

He risked a glance over his shoulders. Sylvana stood between the pillars, her dress black and dark green, surrounded by their closest relatives. The past days had been too hectic for all of them, despite his foreknowledge. But the stress did nothing to sooth the feeling of regret on his part.

As he had thrown himself into the position and duties of Emperor and what he believed to be the correct actions her and him had slowly drifted apart. It'd been the same way with most of his family, he suddenly and quite painfully realized. Uncles, aunts, cousins; people who he had enjoyed being around, had slowly faded into the background as he strove more and more to become the pater patriae, the Father of the Fatherland and the primus inter pares rather than undisputed leader. All in his drive to be the proper, the better Marian. And he'd forgotten his family over this. That he and Sean had ended the way they had, how much of that was owed to this?

The desire to look for similarities and clues evaporated on a bout of anger and regret. Ignoring the looks of bystanders and the murmur of the passing mourners he turned around and walked over to his younger sister. She looked no less surprised, but he just held out his left hand.

"I don't care what the people say, Sylvie. Mom's gone. And now dad's gone, too. It's just the two of us now. So, let's do this together, little sis."

Uncertain, she almost stumbled with him back to their father. Gently, he put his arm around her.

"You're my sister. I'll always be there for you, no matter what," he whispered with a soft reassuring smile. "I promise."

There was a warmth and sincerity in his voice that she had not heard in a long time. Tears were streaming down her face now, smearing her makeup. Part of him screamed that this wasn't proper, but the far louder voice in his mind made it crystal clear that there was no shame in this. Indeed, being there, just being a brother felt good, and that feeling surprised him maybe the most. He hadn't felt it in a long time.

The feeling stayed with him during the whole rite of mourning, and Sylvana did not leave his side even when the procession carrying his father's body had returned to the palace's mausoleum after a slow drive through Nova Roma's main boulevards where plebs and patricians of lesser status had their chance to catch a glimpse of them and pay their respects. Only when he had to return to the city did the feeling fade.

It was customary to address the Senate after the prior emperor had been laid to rest. It had already been a long and tiring day when he took the dais, resting more on his walking cane than he was comfortable with. Marius's speech was about remembrance, honor, duty, family; all 'traditional' Marian values, as far as an eighty years old nation had anything like that, and all of them carrying rather different weights for the assorted dignitaries in the crescent marble chambers, given by what he had learned of them in his decades as emperor. The speech wasn't long, and he thought he held it well. Better, indeed, than the first time around. The words had come back to him naturally when he had picked up the manuscript again, and he gave them more emotion than had been the case when he first ascended the throne. Still, the reception was subtly different than he remembered it. Not sure whether it was due to the cane, his pale complexion and obvious fatigue, or because he had chosen to break protocol, but there was a restless undercurrent running through the chamber.

Once he had finished, the speaker of the Senate – old Chato, but with fresh pants – moved up the steps to the dais, one after another, and presented Marius with a thin crown of laurels made from silver.

"The Emperor is dead!" he proclaimed with a booming voice belying his old frail body. "Long live the Emperor!"

Marius knelt down with some effort and soon felt the cold silver pressing against his head. Applause rose in acclamation of his ascendance, though not as thunderous as he remembered it. All of them had had their ideas of who he was. Healthy, youthful, trained in his father's image. And now, with a small gesture, had he added that much uncertainty to the mix?

But then, how much could he trust his memories? Common sense dictated that this was real, even if it couldn't be. If it had been just the palace, maybe that would have been doable, if insanely complicated and expensive. But the city, the Senate, the Temple of Jupiter, let alone the people? Chato, his Chato, had died in 3015. Marius remembered it well; he had held his eulogy. But the man who crowned him was his spitting image, not only in looks but voice and mannerisms. As were many in the crowd of assembled senators, as best as he could tell. No, it made no sense, even though the consequence of that line of thought was to accept an even greater madness. A smile crept on his face. If it all was a fake, what did it matter if they cheered a little less? And if it wasn't? Well, in his mind he could draw in four decades of experience in how to deal with them.

Slowly rising with a white-knuckled grip on his walking cane he came to face the senators, finishing the ritual with as much vigor as his tired body could muster.

"Long live the Senate! Long live the Marian Hegemony!"

This time the cheers were genuine.

Later…

Night had already fallen when he finally slumped down on his bed in his chambers. Half undressed, famished and feeling as tired as never before in his life he devoured a bowl of ramen noodles, vegetables and marinated shrimps with a side dish of garlic bread, not caring for the crumbs that landed between his sheets. His eyes felt heavy, almost as leaden as his limbs, and the dull ache was back, even though not as bad as the prior days.

There was a soft knock on his door.

"Not now," Marius groaned. "I'm eating, and I'm tired. Go away!"

Wood scraped on stone as the red-painted door swung open. Marius tensed, getting ready to throw insults, objects, or call for the guard, but stopped in his track.

"Posca!" involuntarily his heart skipped a beat.

A middle-aged man with whispy grey-white hair and sideburns, wearing a simple light brown slave's tunic, his face tanned and full of laughter lines running all the way up to his bushy eye brows and high forehead slipped through the crack that had opened and pushed the door shut behind him. A polished steel bracelet dangled around his arm and marked him as a slave, the laser-etched marking on it showed his owner. He bowed slightly.

"My sincerest apologies for disturbing you, dominus, but I wanted to see how you are doing," Posca's voice carried his clipped Stewart-born accent. "I wasn't allowed to visit when you fell sick, and when you finally woke up every soul in the palace seemed to wanted a piece of your time."

"More like every soul in the Hegemony, but my sister and her army of nurses somehow managed to keep them at bay," Marius smiled warmly. "Had I known I would've made sure you could visit."

With the first surprise of the visit waning, Marius felt a wave of emotions rushing over him. Posca. Slave. Tutor. Father-figure. Friend?

A sudden gust of weariness and mistrust smothered the comforting warmth, and he eyed the slave wearily. He intended to put him to the test.

"Posca, do you remember, back when I was ten years old and hid in the outer gardens the whole day, driving my parents insane with worry?"

The older man frowned, pushing his bushy grey eyebrows against each other.

"Which part of that do you mean, dominus? The one we agreed to tell the world? Or the truth?"

"And what would that be?" Marius asked quietly, his hands folded in his lap.

"That you slipped through the kitchen gate, spent the day wandering through the Perfumed Alleys and the grand bazaar, and were back home in time for dinner as I found you outside the Gardeners' Gate. We both swore to keep this our secret, for your sake, dominus and mine. Your father would've seen me crucified had he ever found out, or worse, had something happened to you." He shook himself. "Anyway, you were eleven, not ten, if my senses haven't completely abandoned me. Why are you bringing these old stories up?" he asked, more curious than irritated.

"It's a secret only the two of us shared, Posca." Strange as it was, this childhood memory did more to settle his mind than all the prior events of the day. Even if they had somehow surgically altered himself, put him in some kind of grand play for whatever screwed up reason: in 3048 C.E. Posca had been dead for more than fifteen years. Nobody could have gotten to this intimate detail they shared. He had heard an old saying once: If you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth. Which left only one conclusion.

This was really 3009 C.E. He was in the body of a twenty-three year old. And the man standing in front of him truly was his old mentor.

Acceptance sent shivers down his spine and gave him goosebumps all over his body. Marius wished he could tell him, hug him. His head felt light.

Instead, he tried to remain outwardly calm. "I've had a lot on in my mind as of late, Posca. My father's sudden death. My own brush with death, and feeling that kind of mortality? It's left my anxious, given me much to ponder." Almost as an afterthought he added: "But thank you for your concern, old friend."

"That much I do owe to the boy that once sat on my lap and who now will sit the throne," Posca shrugged awkwardly. "Besides, what a waste of my talents it would've been had you died to some common fever before receiving the silver laurel wreath."

That was Posca.

"A tragedy, truly. And what would've old Chato done, robbed of this once in a lifetime chance."

"You're doing the man a disservice, dominus. Chato surely is old enough to have been present during your father's coronation, and his father's before him."

"Ah, possibly," Marius chuckled, stifling a yawn. "But it's been a hard day."

Posca's face darkened.

"More hard and tiresome days will come, dominus. I'm afraid rulership always finds a way to take its toll."

Oh, if only you knew, Marius thought.

"Wish if it were different. Think I can still pick a different career path?"

"I'm afraid if you have it on your mind to run away with your 'mech to live a mercenary life of adventure and debauchery all of the Hegemony would have to stage an intervention, dominus."

"Who said I wouldn't drag you into it? Mad Marius in his Marauder, traveling the Periphery to fight evil with the help of his terminally sarcastic man-servant. I like the ring of that!" he laughed before his voice took on a more somber tone. "Don't believe I haven't thought of that over the years more than just once, Posca."

"You'd never earn enough money to compensate me for keeping you out of trouble, dominus."

"Today more than ever I think maybe we should give it a try," he smiled. "Thank you, Posca. For your concern, and for looking after me. I know you didn't have to, not after your dismissal."

Tilting his white head in acknowledgment, Posca took a step back. "It's good to see you up and about again. Thank you for having a few minutes with this old man. You must be tired, and the coming days surely will be taxing, so I'll leave you be, dominus."

Gaius O'Reilly had dismissed his own tutor once he had been crowned with the silver laurels, and supposedly the founder of the Hegemony had done the same. Custom therefore demanded Marius followed suit, nothing to the contrary had been stated, and Posca had settled into this expectation.

The snarky League-born slave had never failed him, had always counseled him honestly – brutally so, in private. When everybody tried to be his friend for their own benefit the middle-aged man had been the closest to a true confidante. Was following tradition, following the expectations of others for the sake of optics really the right choice then?

What if he did things different, a voice in his head hummed, and the feeling of falling threatened to overwhelm him, drawing him down as he almost physically felt the pull on his body. Cold sweat beaded on his forehead, white knuckles grabbed the bowl so hard he feared the pottery would break into a thousand pieces. Posca was almost out the door when he called after him.

"Posca, wait!" his voice croaked, his mind racing.

With a start the man stopped in his tracks and turned around.

"Yes, dominus?"

"Can I ask you something? Not as dominus, or emperor, but as the man you've tutored and raised since he was a boy? And I need you to be truthful about it to me."

Wordlessly Posca pushed the door shut and stepped back into the room. "Go on, ask."

"What do you think of my father?" Marius leaned forward.

Posca gave him a look he could not quite decipher, stroking his sideburns before he hesitantly began to speak. "That… is a strange question to ask of the man who was abducted and abused by the pirates your father sponsored, made a slave on the markets your father allows, and then bought like a tool by him." His voice was detached, as if he spoke about the weather rather than something that had shaped his fate. "But I suppose that's not what you're asking about. I know you loved your father, dominus, and it is bad form to speak ill of the dead, especially those so very recently buried. But you want the truth, and truthful I shall be," he sighed.

Marius nodded, gulping down the unease he felt about his tutor's first sentences, motioning him to take a seat on the stool next to the bed.

"Truth is, the Hegemony would've run just as well for the past forty years had they put a broom with a hat on your father's throne." Seeing Marius' raised eyebrows and uncomfortable look Posca simply shrugged. "That is the truth, dominus," he emphasized his words. "I believe I taught you your history well enough. Name one great initiative your father's spearheaded? A set of laws that brought social growth or change? Economic programs? Infrastructure projects? Military campaigns? No?" he leaned back on the stool, studying Marius' face. "Your father was very keen to keep the peace in the Senate. He's played up the example of your grandfather's mannerisms and solidified social norms and traditions. Helped to further establish Marian society as we know it now, with the patricians here, the plebs there, and the slaves down there. All the things your grandfather started, he took on and reinforced them, kept them running," Posca sighed. "People out there liked him. Not because he was a good ruler, or because he did great things, no." He looked into Marius' eyes. "They liked your father because he did nothing. Because he's never stepped on the toes of those with influence. Because by doing nothing he's never had to drag people out of their comfort zones. People don't like change, dominus. Oh, sure, by not doing anything he also ended up not doing anything wrong," he waved one hand dismissively. "And because he's kept himself out of the hair of the senators and patricians, letting them do as they please for the most time, he's ended up being lauded as a good and proper Marian: doing the right moves at the right time, always in line with what your grandfather did, but without any of Johann O'Reilly's vigor or drive to create something."

Posca's words were hard to swallow. But with all the foreknowledge and experience he himself had he had to admit that they were objectively true. "Not exactly what a son wants to hear about the man he just had to burry, Posca," he quietly told the slave.

"You asked, dominus." Posca's voice was level, but he had crossed his arms and eyed Marius carefully.

His mind raced, trying not only to process Posca's words but the reality of his situation. He had been given a chance to correct whatever mistakes he might have made! Not only that, but he was also free to try out all the things his old self never would have done because he had always tried to please all sides. Especially the senate. The aloof father of the fatherland, the mediator. Not the mover and shaker.

But now? Gods, he had a near eidetic memory of events of the next four decades! That gave him, and him alone a forty-year head start on the rest of the known universe as a whole and events in the Hegemony in particular! Suddenly he saw things very clearly, calmly smoothing the storm that wrecked his mind.

With new-found purpose he abruptly rose from his bed.

"That I did. But if my father achieved nothing, Posca, then why should I do things just the way he did!?" he growled before turning to Posca with a wolfish grin. "No. I'm turning your retirement into a promotion, old friend. I think it's time to do things my way. And you're going to help me do it. We're going to do things differently."

I promise I won't ride this dead 'different' horse any further, 'kay?