NOW I AM RIGHT HERE, AND IT’S TIME, ‘CAUSE THIS IS REAL, THIS IS REAL AND IT’S ALL MINE*

**Chapter 3: A Knife in the Garden** The gardens of the villa were quiet at midnight, too quiet. A fog had rolled in from the Tiber, curling through the hedges and statues like fingers searching for a throat. The moon was a pale shard above, its light flickering through the branches. The night smelled of myrtle, wet stone, and something else—expectation. Cassian stood at the edge of the atrium, watching the torchlight ripple against the marble tiles. His shadow stretched long behind him, and for the first time in years, he felt it—**the weight of being seen**. Tullia stood beside him, silent. She had dressed in a clean tunic, hair tied back, posture straight. No longer just a kitchen slave—tonight, she was his partner in revolt. “He will be here soon,” she said. Cassian nodded. “Volcatius?” “No. Decimus.” Cassian’s jaw tightened. The senator’s men had confirmed they would slip in through the southern orchard—unguarded, overgrown, barely watched. It was no longer just a warning or a message. **Tonight, they would come to end Decimus Aelius Varro.** And Cassian would not stop them. But he wouldn’t let them win either. --- The olive trees rustled. A shape moved beyond the fountain—heavy, limping slightly. Decimus had abandoned his boots, wearing only a rough woolen cloak and leather sandals. He looked like a ghost of himself, gaunt, eyes red-rimmed from too many nights pacing and drinking and plotting alone. “I can’t sleep,” he said, voice rough. “The garden calms me.” Cassian bowed slightly. “It is yours to walk.” “You don’t ask why I’m up,” Decimus noted. “I have learned that men like you rarely need reasons to wander.” That made Decimus chuckle. “Men like me, eh? Speak freely. It’s late. And I’m too tired to punish truth.” Cassian looked at him. “Men who once commanded armies, now commanding silence. Men who once gave speeches in front of thousands, now whispering in gardens. Men who once owned the world… but fear the night.” A long pause. “You’re not afraid of me,” Decimus said finally. Cassian turned. “Should I be?” “You should be afraid of what I represent.” “You don’t represent Rome anymore.” Decimus’s jaw clenched. “You’re braver than you seem.” “No,” Cassian said. “I’ve just lost more than you have.” Decimus stared. “Go inside, Cassian. Before I remember you’re still mine.” Cassian bowed and left. The echo of sandals on stone faded as he returned to the atrium. Behind him, in the dark, the garden rustled again. --- In the servant corridors, Cassian walked quickly. The household was quiet—only the night watch slaves half-dozing near the gates. He found Junius where he’d left him, in the laundry storeroom, tucked between baskets of damp linen and soap. “It’s time,” Cassian said. “Are you ready?” The boy blinked. “To do what?” Cassian knelt. “To run. Through the orchard. Take this.” He handed the boy a pouch—bread, figs, a small blade, and a folded letter sealed with wax. “Give that to the guardsman at the north post of the city. His name is Flavianus. Tell him Cassian sent you.” “Will he help me?” “No,” Cassian said. “But he’ll send you to someone who will. And that someone will owe me.” Junius stared at him. “Why help me now?” “Because you still have time to become someone new.” “What about you?” Cassian rose. “I’m already someone else.” --- Back in the garden, Decimus was still pacing. He did not hear the figures slipping through the orchard. Did not hear the whisper of steel. Did not see the shadow step out behind him with a dagger in hand. But **Cassian did**—from the balcony above, where he had waited, where he had watched. Tullia beside him. “It begins,” she whispered. “No,” Cassian said. “It ends. The first man through the hedgerow was young—too young. Not a soldier, but someone who’d never quite made peace with his own cowardice. The way he held his dagger showed it: tip raised too high, grip too tight. He wanted to be feared but had never learned how to be silent. Cassian saw the moment Decimus realized he was not alone. The old general stiffened, his fingers curling into fists, instinct rising from some half-dead part of his body. He turned—slowly, carefully—and saw the man in black. “What in Hades—?” The blade lunged. Too late, Decimus ducked. It sliced across his shoulder, not deep, but sharp. Blood bloomed. He roared, shoving the attacker backward. His voice thundered through the garden, waking birds, shaking leaves. Another shadow leapt from the trees—**a second man**, this one silent, efficient. He struck with a short gladius, Roman military issue. A cleaner kill was intended. Cassian was already moving. He wasn’t there to save Decimus. He was there to control the outcome. If Decimus died now, in his garden, at night, with no witnesses—it would be a clean execution. A quiet removal. **No lesson. No ripple.** Just another name crossed out in the Crisis. But if he survived—and was made to bleed, made to scream, made to lose face—then he would lose *power*. Reputation. **Control**. And Cassian had not come this far for a corpse. He wanted the man *broken*. So he called out. “Help! Assassins!” His voice rang through the villa like a bell of war. Torches flared. Dogs barked. Doors slammed open. The second attacker turned—too slow. Cassian was already leaping down from the balcony, a knife in hand. He struck—not to kill, but to wound. He drove the blade into the man’s thigh, twisting hard. The man went down with a grunt, clutching his leg. Tullia, behind him, sounded the alarm again. “Guards! In the garden! They’re here!” The slaves came running—not to protect Decimus out of love, but to protect themselves from the punishment of inaction. A dozen of them, armed with clubs, blades, whatever they could find. The first attacker—bleeding from his shoulder—turned to run. Cassian let him. One survivor was necessary. Someone had to carry the failure back to Volcatius. The second man, on the ground, tried to crawl away. Cassian knelt beside him. “You came to kill a man,” he whispered, “but you weren’t ready to die.” He pulled the dagger from the man's thigh and stood. “You’ll live. Barely. That’s your gift. Crawl if you must.” The guards arrived seconds later, crashing into the trees, torches held high. They surrounded the bloodied Decimus, the broken would-be killer, the frightened servants—and **Cassian**, breathing hard but untouched. “Take him,” Cassian ordered, pointing to the wounded assassin. The guards looked to Decimus, who nodded weakly. Cassian had given the order, but it was **Decimus’s face** they would remember stained in blood. A slave had saved a master. And now, that slave could name his price. --- **Later That Night – In the Inner Chamber** The physician had finished stitching Decimus’s shoulder. He sat in silence now, wrapped in a linen robe, face pale from blood loss and shock. Cassian stood before him. Silent. Waiting. “You saved my life,” Decimus finally said. Cassian said nothing. “I was a fool not to see it. Volcatius… gods curse him. He made a move too early. Thought I was weak.” “You were,” Cassian said. The silence after that was sharp. Decimus narrowed his eyes. “You speak boldly.” “You need me now.” The old general’s fingers trembled slightly. “Say what you want.” Cassian took a step forward. “I want the boy—Junius—freed. Officially. With papers.” “Done.” “I want Tullia moved to the house staff. No more kitchen labor. No more punishments.” “Fine.” “And I want access to your council meetings. From now on. I listen. I learn. I decide what matters.” Decimus hesitated. “You’re a slave.” “Not anymore,” Cassian said. “You think saving me changes that?” “No. But what happens next does.” He leaned in. “You’re going to name me your *scribe*. Your aide. In public. To the magistrates. To the guards. To the Senate if need be.” “You’ll still wear chains.” “No,” Cassian said. “You’ll wear mine.” They stared at each other. Then Decimus laughed—a long, hoarse, bitter sound. “You bastard.” “I learned from the best.” --- **Elsewhere, Near the Southern Gate** The wounded assassin limped his way into the shadows of the Aventine Hill. Blood trailed behind him, a crooked red path across the stones. He found his contact—a cloaked figure standing beside a shrine to Mercury. “He lives,” the man wheezed. The figure stiffened. “How?” “The slave. The Greek one. He… he knew. He was there before us.” Silence. “And Volcatius?” the assassin asked. The contact said nothing. He simply turned and vanished into the mist. But in the back alleys of Rome, a rumor had already begun to spread. A slave named Cassian had outwitted a senator. And lived.  “But Vibius—” “Is already dead,” Volcatius said coolly. “He just hasn’t fallen yet.”

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