Chapter 3
The morning sun continued its relentless climb, casting shorter, sharper shadows across the ancient stone plaza. Julian stood motionless before the wooden cross, the broad executioner’s sword resting tip-down against the dusty ground. He did not complete the stroke. The delay was dangerous; the Roman centurion stationed near the southern temple archway stepped forward a half-pace, his hand tightening on his spear shaft, silently demanding an explanation for the hesitation.
Cassian stared down at Julian, his grey eyes piercing despite the pain coursing through his battered body. "Look at the High Priestess," Cassian urged quietly, nodding subtly toward the background cross. "She wears the red of sacrifice, but her hands are clean of blood. She traded silence for survival. Ask yourself, Julian, why a man who has served the state with absolute loyalty for forty years suddenly finds himself nailed to a cross while the true embezzlers sit safely in the Senate."
Julian flicked his gaze briefly toward the High Priestess. Her elegant posture remained unyielding, but a slight tremor in her lower lip betrayed the facade of absolute calm. She refused to meet his eyes, staring fixedly at the carved marble frieze of a classical temple across the plaza. Julian knew the political winds of the city were treacherous, shifting with every coin dropped into the royal treasury, yet he had always prided himself on being above the corruption. He was the instrument, not the hand that directed the blade.
"My duty is to the law," Julian murmured, his voice barely audible over the light breeze rustling the canvas awnings of nearby market stalls.
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"The law is a tool of the highest bidder," Cassian countered, coughing softly as a fresh drop of blood welled from the wound on his palm. "The gold sun on my tunic is stamped with a serial number. Go to the municipal archive beneath the eastern temple. Find the vault sealed with the magistrate’s personal signet. The ledgers are there. They prove that the famine was manufactured to drive down land prices for the ruling class."
A murmur rippled through the front rows of the crowd. Word of the conversation, carried by the acoustics of the stone plaza, was spreading outward like ripples in a pond. The Roman centurion shouted an abrupt order for silence, drawing his sword half an inch from its scabbard. Julian realized that every second he delayed made him a target as well. He had to make a choice: finish the task and bury the truth forever, or demand answers that could tear the empire apart.
