Chapter 3: The First Performance
The general's voice was a boulder dropped into the placid pool of Alex's frantic planning. It was deep, resonant, and held the unmistakable timbre of a man accustomed to being obeyed. Every instinct in Alex's 21st-century body screamed at him to hide, to burrow under the furs and pretend he wasn't there.
"Lyra, who is he?" Alex hissed, his eyes wide, fixed on the rippling silhouette at the tent's entrance. He quickly minimized the maps on the laptop screen, leaving only a blank, dark surface.
"Accessing," Lyra's voice replied instantly in his ear, a calm island in his sea of panic. "Gaius Claudius Maximus. Legatus Legionis of the Legio I Adiutrix. A career soldier of immense prestige and a veteran of the Parthian and Marcomannic campaigns. He was one of your father's most trusted commanders. My historical analysis indicates he is stern, deeply traditional, and possessed of a fierce sense of Roman duty. He will view you with extreme suspicion."
"Suspicion? Why?"
"Because he respected Marcus Aurelius," Lyra explained. "And he knows the historical Commodus. He expects a spoiled, preening liability who will undo all of his master's hard-won victories. You are, in his eyes, the greatest threat on this frontier. You must prove him wrong within the first thirty seconds, or you will lose him forever."
Thirty seconds. It felt like a lifetime and no time at all. "What do I say? How do I act? He's a general, Lyra, a Roman general!"
"Listen to me, Alex," the AI's tone seemed to gain an edge of urgency. "Your posture. Stand up. Shoulders back, chin up. Clasp your hands behind your back. Project authority, even if you feel none. When he speaks, do not respond immediately. Let there be a pause. Make him wait for your words. I will feed you key phrases. Your primary objective is not to win him over, but to confuse him. To make him doubt what he thinks he knows about you."
Taking a shaky breath that felt wholly inadequate, Alex pushed himself to his feet. He forced his shoulders back, the unfamiliar muscles of this new body protesting slightly. He clasped his hands behind his back as instructed, the gesture feeling horribly artificial. He felt like a child playing dress-up in his father's clothes.
"Enter, General," he called out, pitching his voice as low as it would go. It came out steadier than he expected.
The canvas flap was thrown back, and Gaius Maximus entered. The description had been an understatement. The man was less a person and more a walking personification of Roman military might. He was older than Alex had imagined, perhaps in his late fifties, with a face that looked like it had been carved from granite and then left out in the sun and wind for a few decades. A network of fine scars crisscrossed his skin, and his eyes, a pale, piercing grey, missed nothing. He was clad in a simple but exquisitely crafted breastplate, a purple cloak—the mark of a general—pinned at his shoulder. He did not kneel. He gave a short, sharp nod, a gesture of deference so economical it was almost an insult.