“Filth,” the man hissed, taking Cade’s throat in his hands. “Filth and lies.”

Cade’s world darkened, the grip of the soldiers pinning his hands to his sides. The edges of his vision blurred, and he could only focus on choking down a last breath before the viselike fingers tightened.

As Atticus’s face swam, Cade kicked his feet, and Atticus’s laughter at his feeble efforts rang out. Beyond, he could hear Amber’s screams, seeming to come from far away.

The pressure eased. Pain flared in his neck as a ragged fingernail dug down, prizing Atticus’s fingers away, one by one.

He collapsed to his knees and caught the blurry sight of Marius standing in front of him.

“We will hear him speak,” Marius said.

Cade fell onto his side and saw the rage in Atticus’s face.

“You dare touch me?” Atticus spat. “I will see your men decimated. Step aside.”

But Marius stood firm.

“You would entertain this charlatan’s tricks?” Atticus said, spinning and addressing the men. “You would allow him to con you into throwing yourselves against the Triton walls?”

His words seemed to rouse the Romans, though through the haze of pain and suffocation, Cade could hardly discern what they were saying—the Codex did not whisper a translation of everyone in his ears, only those of Atticus and Marius.

“Continue with this nonsense and I shall declare a decimation!” Atticus yelled, his voice taking on a high-pitched whine.

The murmuring of the soldiers grew louder. And from the recesses of Cade’s memory, the meaning of Atticus’s repeated threat came to him.

The origin of the word decimation came from a different meaning, back in the days of the Romans. Where soldiers who were to be punished were separated into tens and drew straws. One man in each group would eventually draw the short straw, and then his comrades would be forced to execute him together, often through stoning or clubs.

It was a brutal form of discipline, and one that had only been used in the direst of circumstances. Atticus’s threat was a foolish one, though, and showed to Cade just what a poor tactician the legatus was.

To lose one tenth of his men was foolish enough, let alone forcing comrades to harm one another in such a random fashion. These men who had lived through so much together would never submit to such an order.

“No, Atticus,” Marius said. “I think not.”

His words were almost gentle as he pulled the legatus aside. He spoke softly, and it was only the dagger in his hand, pressed into Atticus’s spine, that told Cade of the veiled threat.

“You will step down as legatus,” Marius murmured. “You will do so without complaint, nor violence. We can afford your cowardice no longer.”

This was mutiny. There was no denying it.

Cade knew not of the politics in this Roman camp. If there were men loyal to Atticus, or Marius, or both. But what was clear was that Atticus had overplayed his hand.