The news arrived in fragmented whispers, carried by a merchant convoy that traded goods from the inner oases to the coastal cities, daring to skirt the edges of Roman authority. The merchant, a nervous man with wide eyes and a scar that hinted at a past encounter with the legions, bartered his gossip for Akkadian silver and Darian's silent attention.
Darian listened in the deep shadow of the tent, his face carefully neutral, while Ashara translated the merchant's frantic, hushed words.
"The Empire is enraged by the raid," Ashara reported. "Senator Valerius is ruined. The loss of the iron and grain caused a panic in the port. He is facing enormous political pressure—his alliances are fracturing, just as you predicted."
A cold satisfaction, pure and immediate, settled in Darian's chest. This was the success of his new method: quiet, calculated, and targeting the political weak points of Rome, not just its soldiers.
Then came the report Darian truly dreaded.
"The Noble Aurelian," the merchant whispered, glancing nervously towards the tent flap. "He is… diminished. The Senator publicly accused him of negligence—of allowing the escape of the 'beast' that Darian is. They say Aurelian is under house arrest, stripped of his duties. His honor is destroyed. They say he sits in his villa, pale and wasting, staring at the shattered column in the arena stands, whispering a single word: Khonsu."
The satisfaction curdled into a sharp, painful ache. Darian had prepared for news of Aurelian's furious pursuit, a relentless hunt fueled by wounded pride. He hadn't prepared for the image of the golden noble, broken and defeated, whispering the name of the shadow god. It was a reminder that Aurelian, however calculating, had still been emotionally entangled in their affair. His choice had saved his own life, but it had clearly destroyed his soul.
Ashara watched Darian closely, her dark eyes penetrating the shadow of the tent. "He sounds broken, not triumphant, Darian. Does this diminish your need for retribution?"
Darian slowly rose, the motion deliberate and controlled. The memory of Aurelian's betraying eyes in the slave cell warred with the memory of his tender touch at the temple. But the consequence of the betrayal was clear: Darian was now a hunted fugitive, dependent on the harsh mercy of the desert.
"His pain is his price, Ashara," Darian said, his voice flat and hard. "But it does not absolve his crime. It only confirms his weakness. He chose Roman comfort over his own heart. He is no longer a factor. My target remains the system that allows men like him and his father to own the fate of others."
He pointed to the sand map, where he'd marked Roman strongholds and supply lines. "The raids must continue. Valerius is weak, but he is dangerous. If we hit him again—if we disrupt the annual grain shipment to Rome itself—we do more than steal supplies. We prove to all of Rome's subjects that the Empire is not invincible. We prove that the shadows can reach beyond Alexandria."
The successful raid, coupled with the news of Valerius's distress, gave Darian the leverage he needed. The Akkadian were practical; they saw the benefit of Darian's strategic mind.
"We need a larger base of operations," Darian pressed, leaning over the map. "Valerius will respond by sending entire legions into the desert. We need allies that can hide us, not just in sand, but in stone. There is a network of mines and settlements in the mountainous south, worked by Egyptian laborers who hate Rome more than your people hate the heat."
Ashara regarded him, a flicker of admiration mixed with professional caution in her gaze. "You speak like a general, Darian. To approach the mine-workers... that is a risk. They are desperate, unpredictable, and fiercely guarded by Roman auxiliaries."
"Desperate men are ready for revolution," Darian countered, a cold, decisive fire in his eyes. "And fear is just a shadow waiting to be controlled. I will go. I will show them the power that broke the arena, and I will offer them a new master: Freedom."