Oh capitalize on the moment he would; Carpe diem quam minimum credula postero. What an extra blessing from Mars this had been, the man thought, but he wouldn’t benefit from aiming directly at the core just yet, for like his dying Lord his own words too had to be chosen carefully before making his move on the chessboard.
Caesar’s sudden jerking pull him back to the initial reason why he stood there, and in a matter of seconds any boiling hater within him seems to evaporate, even if just for a moment. Caesar’s words were ardent fuel kindling dormant embers.
Strong arms are swift to support him, silence falling around both with the weight of a hammer fall. The fox only studied the dying tyrant with calm eyes while guilt twists and writhes in his guts. He’s the one whose stirred this. It’s still not enough to fan out the maelstrom that name has brought between them, peace has long shattered to pieces. Besides, this was now a matter of importance for the future — their future. He would be a fool to let it slip. Nonetheless as the fit of pain appears to subside Vulpes allows himself to gently settle his master back down on the bed, pulling his arm from underneath him.
❝ Try not to overwork yourself, my lord. ❞ How he wished to beat himself over how hypocritical that sounded.
Having spotted the small table that had been brought into the place in wait for the courier and which currently only contained near useless medicinal items, the fox moved toward it. Taking an empty bowl to pour some of the water on it and a clean rag. Placing it on it to soak up some of the cool liquid he wrung out the excess, using the same to wipe the beads of sweat that had accumulated on Caesar’s forehead.
❝ Hoover dam…yes. There shall be much to remember, as much glory to be had in it. I do not question Lanius’ ability in the battlefield. ❞ His face is placid even when admitting the next. ❝ His ways are the ways of honorable warriors unlike my surreptitious ones. ❞
❝ Unfortunately, this is were all his abilities end. An empire, might I remind you, does not run simply on butchering. There are laws. Further alliances to be made and kept under maintenance. The Legate has displayed an aversion towards negotiations outside of bloodshed; nor was he blessed with a silver tongue for them were he ever inclined to implement such a tactic. All our alliances, even the truces the Legion has gathered thus far would simply cease to be when he throws a tantrum. Lanius only thinks with a hot head, not a cold, calculative one. He is guided by emotions rather than rationality. ❞
A paused. One heartbeat. Two. And suddenly he arches a brow in questioning, ensuring the closing to his move is nothing but a ballistic statement meant to shatter further defenses. ❝ But this weakness of his you very much knew yourself, did you not ? You doubt him too. ❞
Placing the moist cloth back on the bowl he reaches next for the small brahmin-leather bag on his belt, taking out a bottle of bitter drink. This time he dares further closeness, settling himself down on the edge of the bed to better lever the other man up, using one arm to support him, the other holding up the medicine to his lips; hoping, not for a cure, such would be foolish, but for it to dulls some of the pain.
Sly eyes watch him intently for any further sign of pain or another episode. The dead silence already heralds the answer he wishes to swallow out of that deep respect for him, but Caesar only seems to insist on it.
Vulpes expression is emotionless.
The pressure on him is immeasurable, from the painful points of his shoulder blades against the unwavering support of Vulpes’ arms to the arguments the man was driving home with every. single. sentence. Caesar is not good at arguing, not now of all times. He loved it, relished winning, but he possessed neither Vulpes’s silver tongue nor the energy to support rebuttals in any form or fashion. He’s left to shake like a newborn lamb and just listen. He’s revolted with himself, at his weakness, for forcing him into a near infantile state.
Vulpes began with placation, admission, exactly what he knew would wear down what little remained of the leader’s screwed footing on the matter of Lanius. Caesar finds himself thinking about it only to spare himself the indignity of his current position. The Legate is strong, volatile, and Caesar’s perfect choice. A strong arm to lead the taking of the Dam and, so he believes, the man to take his place. ... but that isn’t true, not entirely, and the man scowls again, eyes screwing shut to ward off the aura of another impending fit. It’s working, for now, though he must continue with his eyes closed.
He hadn’t foreseen this. Certainly, there were symptoms, some ignored, some loudly complained about, but this rapidly encroaching death has sprung upon him before he truly could take stock of what he needed to do.
Doubt indeed. Lanius was chosen for his ferocity-- but that didn’t stop the strange twist of unease in Caesar’s stomach at the sight of yet another blinded slave, yet another group of legionaries decimated for the slightest infraction. For all his lack of subtlety, Caesar had always had a measure of reason with mistakes. The man that now ministered over his deathbed would no longer be alive if he had chosen to take disobedience at face value. Would Lanius do the same?
His mind swam with the concept. No. No no no. He’s angry, unable to accept his own terrible choices. The cool cloth on his forehead seems to sponge away some of the head of his distaste, but the act of being moved again shoots through his skull like a driven nail with further pain, pulling his head back into a soundless contortion of open-mouthed agony. Something cool is against his lips again and at first Caesar thinks it’s more water.
Eugh. The extreme bitterness hits his nose a second after it floods over his tongue. He sputters, coughs, and all thought is lost in the brief moments of wanting nothing more than to evacuate the disgusting medicinal blend from his mouth. His eyes fly open despite himself, but the look shifts to pleading within seconds. “No.” No, nothing of this. Caesar knows he’s to die and won’t have it dragged out any longer than the process is destined to. (In fact, he hopes, the pain will take him and he’ll be free of debating politics until his death)
But that’s not to be, is it? Vulpes gave him his answer, and with what strength he had, he hardened. Vulpes. Of course, of course, it had to be this. Insanity, to place the Frumentarius on his throne... but was it? Caesar opened his mouth to speak an immediate refusal, but he’s stayed-- by what force, he does not know. Vulpes has hot blood, prone to wandering. The news of the lottery at Nipton didn’t miss Caesar’s ears. But Lanius would have left the entire town a burning chasm, glorious, and altogether mindless. The beauty of brutality was lost on the Legate, only the cruelty of it remaining.
Perhaps... perhaps Vulpes could lead. Perhaps the rule of one of Caesar’s greatest successes could be what the legion needed. He curses the pain that keeps his mind from moving fluidly, from reasonable consideration. When he speaks it’s still a challenge, unto death with his stubborn refusal to admit defeat, even when he’s on the brink of it already, doubt well sowed in his minds’ eye picture of the brutal Legate.
“What makes you... what makes you qualified to stand where he’s earned?” For once, however, Caesar is willing to listen.
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