Within the room, alone, a muscular man sat drinking from a clay goblet. The wine within flowed across his lips and the glow of alcohol dulled his thoughts. He placed the vessel onto the table, next to the now half-empty, ornately decorated, bottle. Leaning back, he closed his eyes.< p>

Five years it had been. Five years of battle, arguments and debates. It had been easier when he had led his people: he ordered and they followed. Simple.

It was now night outside and the chirp of the cricket called out. His head rested back onto the cushioned surface of the lounger but its comforting touch would not bring him peace. Only his drink could do that.

Around him, the obvious elegance and sophistication of his status showed through the décor. A tiles floor that brought pattern and colour; mosaic walls that showed picturesque displays; and expensive furniture carved from the finest wood. It was a life of luxury cursed with demons.

Titus Tatius lifted the bottle once more only to find it empty save for a small trickle. The liquid dripped pathetically into his cup and he snorted in frustration.

“Maxus!” Bellowing out his slave’s name, he expected the scrawny man to come scuttling in. But he did not.

“Maxus!” A second lack of reply drew anger up inside and he swung his legs off the couch. Muttering to himself he made his way to the kitchen, a place that was more than beneath him. Maxus would get a thrashing by the end of the night.

Walking over to the window, he looked out into the dark sky, stars sparkling in the home of Uranus looking down upon him. Despite the glowing warmth of the vanished sun, Titus shivered and closed the shutters before turning back into the room.

He yawned and rubbed tired eyes. Maybe it was time for sleep anyway; perhaps he could escape the strain upon his shoulders that way. Stepping out into his courtyard, he made his way around the edge, passing the stone columns that added structure and beauty to the edges. This place allowed the children to play safely. His were a target for any one of his numerous enemies.

The knife flew out of the knight, its curved blade carving downwards to narrowly miss Titus as he ducked to the side. Even though his form had become more portly over the years he still possessed instincts and skills years of fighting had taught him. Maybe they were dulled through rich excess but they were still there.

A dark robed figure stepped from behind a column, following the blade through with another he held in his other hand. The metal whipped around in a swift strike that sliced across Titus’ thigh. Without thought, dismissing the pain he grabbed the killer’s arm and swung the assassin’s weight around with all his might. Colliding with the house wall the man quickly regained his posture and stopped to judge his target.

It didn’t take long for Titus to realize this was no hired thug. The man’s features were sharp, dark eyed and decorated with a pointed beard and hardened looks. His robes, foreign and black, surrounded most of his person and a hood helped disguise his head. The ornate belt and wrist guards, marked with enchanting swirls and curves, gave his origin away.

Persian.

He was like a cat, creeping forward, closing in on his prey, and Titus had nothing to defend himself. Stepping backward, never taking his eyes of the attacker, he treaded out the sandy floor of the courtyard.

The assassin followed.

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