Operation Rubicon

by Preston William Child

  OPERATION RUBICON - THE SWORD OF JULIUS CAESAR

  THE ORDER OF THE BLACK SUN - BOOK 32

  PRESTON WILLIAM CHILD

  CONTENTS

  Books by Preston William Child

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  Prologue

  1. ANOTHER UNEVENTFUL NIGHT IN THE MUSEUM

  2. THE CALL FROM ROME

  3. HER TEAM

  4. SURPRISING NEW ROLES TO PLAY

  5. THE THIRD TRIUMVIRATE

  6. THE DEAD END

  7. THE PROTECTORS OF EGYPT

  8. THREE AGAINST ONE

  9. THE STONE FACES OF OLD

  10. THE SCENE OF THE CRIME

  11. PROTECTION FROM THE PROTECTORS

  12. THE SHEATH'S LOCATION

  13. WHERE CROWDS CHEERED FOR BLOOD

  14. THE ARENA

  15. THE FACES BEHIND THE MASKS

  16. THE ODD MAN'S REQUEST

  17. DR. GOULD'S DECISION

  18. HOMECOMING

  Epilogue

  Books of this series in order

  Special Offer

  About the Author

  Copyright © 2015 by Preston William Child

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication might be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  Publisher's Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author's imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

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  PROLOGUE

  THE TWENTY-THREE BLADES

  MARCH 15, 44 BC

  There were times, when consulting his colleagues, that Julius Caesar wished that he’d brought his sword to the meeting. A blade would have achieved far more than trying to talk things over and make those men see logically. Even with all of Caesar’s eminent influence and prominent power he’d accumulated, so many of them were still so stubborn and needlessly defiant. They argued for argument's sake, even when Caesar was so clearly in the right. It was hard to make any real positive change when the rest of the world was so determined to stay the same.

  Caesar had only been declared dictator recently, but it was supposed to make him the unquestioned leader. However, countless senators and politicians of Rome continued to question him at every turn. He knew that they were just jealous, fearful little men who thought that he would dissolve their positions altogether. They were petrified he would make himself a monarch and would fundamentally change the Roman Republic—more than he already had—but change was the price for improvement. He hated having to delegate through the senators. Nothing ever got done. All those men did was bicker, waste time, and count their coins. Caesar planned on invading the Parthian Empire but would require the Senate’s support to do it. He wished he could just get them all to agree for once. It would make things so much easier. Instead, the opposition to everything Caesar wanted kept showing that they didn't want unity like he did.

  As happy and satisfied as Caesar was with his position in life, he sometimes longed for the days when he was just a soldier. Back then, marching among the legions, he may not have made the big decisions, but he could settle disagreements with weapons instead of fake flattery and tedious conversations.

  Today was one of those days when he wished he had brought his sword. He yearned to show them that he was still a warrior fighting for the heart of Rome, whether it was on the battlefield or speaking in the Forum. He wanted them to deem him as someone willing to defend their great home at any cost; instead, they just continued to look at him with so much contempt...even more than ever.

  He’d seen those miserable senators and snickering leaders before, but this was something else. He had never witnessed these expressions on his colleagues' faces before; it was more than unhappiness and even more than anger. It was some sort of spiteful resolve, where they looked so serious like they could never smile again.

  Even Brutus, one of Caesar’s closest friends, cast cold glances and lacked any sort of friendliness as Caesar arrived to the Senate.

  One senator, whom Caesar had never been overly fond of, Tillius Climber, approached before Caesar even had a chance to get comfortable. Tillius intercepted before Caesar could give anymore thought to all of those spiteful gazes of the other senators.

  “Caesar,” Climber said frantically, waving a scroll in Caesar's face. “If we could please recall my brother from his long exile. You have the power--.”

  Caesar wasn't in any mood to deal with that in that moment, especially when presented in such an obscene and intrusive way. Caesar preferred to get back to dealing with the more important matters and to assess those unpleasant expressions surrounding him. He tried to wave Climber away, hoping that the man would back down as he should when given an order by his leader. Caesar plowed past him, trying to escape this annoying obstacle, but Climber didn't desist obediently. Instead, his arm flung out and his hand latched onto Caesar's tunic, tearing it. Caesar turned and felt a surge of anger swell over him. Caesar really wanted his sword now, to strike Climber down for such an insult. How dare a lesser man touch him, especially like that?

  Climber still didn't look at all hesitant about what he was doing. In reality, his expression was filled with hostile intent. This hadn't been a mistake. Climber had pulled so hard that Caesar's toga had in fact been ripped off his body.

  “What is it you think you’re doing!?” Caesar roared. “Why, this is violence!”

  There was the unmistakable sound of a blade sliding from a sheath behind him and Caesar turned just in time to see another senator, Servilius Casca, lunging at him with a dagger in his hand. Caesar intercepted the attempted strike, catching Casca's arm and stopping the blade from coming any closer. Casca's eyes were filled with that same thirst for blood that had flashed on Climber's face.

  Caesar had been in enough fights in his career to know when he was being ambushed, and to recognize when a trap was being sprung. Climber's attempt to present Caesar with that petition for his exiled brother was nothing more than a distraction to allow Casca to try and stab Caesar. Luckily, Caesar's reflexes and old training were enough to stop him before any damage was done. This was a fair enough attempt, but they didn't have enough skill to succeed.

  Weapons weren't allowed in these meetings, but Casca clearly didn't care. He wanted blood, and he’d break those rules to get it. Caesar would ensure that the two senators would be punished for this.

  “Casca, you villain, what are you doing?!”

  Casca struggled, trying to free his arm, sweat pouring down his face. His panicked gaze darted to his surroundings at the other senators. Caesar followed Casca’s gaze and looked at his colleagues. Caesar expected to hear screams. He anticipated seeing some of them coming to his aid to expel Casca and Climber. He inferred at least some expressions of surprise—but none of them looked at all startled by this assassination attempt.

  That was when Caesar noticed it—so many of them were holding daggers of their own.

  Casca discharged a desperate hiss. “Help!”

&
nbsp; This wasn't just a small trap after all. They were all in on it. All of them.

  The senators all swarmed around Caesar, their blades raised. He tried to pull away, but he felt the first stab. It sent a surge of pain through him. Then a second shot of pain came through, and then another. One after another, those little blades of theirs bit their way into him.

  Caesar had felt steel penetrate his flesh before in battle, but not like this. He’d never expected to have to defend himself in a scared place like this, where words were supposed to be the only weapons that were brought to the playing field. He tried to get away from them, but they were all over him. He shoved and attempted to back away but tripped to the floor. He saw his own blood mar the marble floor beneath him and struggled to crawl away.

  There were more strikes, and a number of stabs found their targets in his body as Caesar writhed in woe. He needed to escape this place. He needed to kill all of these men for their treachery. He needed to punish them all—people he’d once considered friends, allies, and colleagues. They were supposed to speak for Rome, but they didn’t. They spoke only for their own insecurities, that they were now dictating their decisions.

  Caesar could barely move now: all of his life was pouring out from over a dozen wounds. He dared to glance up and saw that even Brutus was holding a bloody knife in his hand. It made Caesar sick to see that even one of his closest friends could do this to him. Was this the price of power? To have others hate you for it?

  Caesar would kill them all for this.

  His surroundings were starting to fade away in the sea of red beneath him. He could barely even feel the strikes piercing him anymore, but he knew they were still coming. These dishonorable wretches didn't even have the decency to challenge him to a fair fight. This was the only way they could manage to kill him; catching him without a weapon of his own, overwhelmed and completely outnumbered, without any warning. If he had his weapon, he could strike them all down for this.

  Caesar wanted his sword, but he didn't have it.

  If he did, he might have been able to save himself from their treason. Instead, he lay in a gory heap before them. His blood continued to cascade from his corpse, pouring from twenty-three wounds that ended him.

  If only he had brought his sword.

  1

  ANOTHER UNEVENTFUL NIGHT IN THE MUSEUM

  Castel Sant'Angelo was once a towering fortress, but now the guards there weren't exactly warriors anymore. Lorenzo had never been in a fight in his life and never expected to be. He may have been one of the few guards roaming the old fortress during the night, but he wasn't watching for enemy armies or anything like that. He wasn't the same kind of sentinel as the men who had protected the castle hundreds of years before. Those days were long gone. His job was simple and that's what he loved about it; he just spent his time walking about the place, making sure everything inside was still in order.

  Castel Sant'Angelo was originally built as a mausoleum, but it then made for an excellent fortress. Now it was nothing more than a museum.

  It still had all of the dressings of a fortress, but there was no ammunition in its cannons that were mounted on the ramparts. There were no blades ready to be wielded to defend its gates. And there hadn't been any actual prisoners in its dungeons for centuries.

  The castle was far from the impenetrable structure it once was—but it didn't matter. It never did. There was nothing to worry about and there was no need of it. There was nothing to defend Castel Sant'Angelo against anymore.

  It was a boring job and Lorenzo sometimes wished it was still some great castle prepared for battle. At least then he could get some excitement once in a while, even if he had to manufacture it himself. It might not actually have been there, but he could imagine that thrills were on their way. Instead, every night was the same, and they were incredibly tedious.

  Still, despite all of that, it paid the bills and that was what mattered to him in the end. He could deal with boredom, and he could cope with uneventful nights.

  But this night would be far from uneventful, unlike all of the rest. Lorenzo knew that the moment he heard one of the murals in another wing fall from its hanging place on the wall.

  Lorenzo rushed down the corridors when he heard the painting plummet. He didn't go so far as to run—there was no need to expend that much energy at this job—but he did walk through the museum at a bit brisker of a pace than usual. He’d never heard a noise like that before, but those murals didn't usually drop from where they were hanging up during his shifts. It was sad that a picture dropping to the floor was the most excitement he’d ever experienced at Castel Sant'Angelo.

  When Lorenzo arrived at the source of the sound, he saw the painting fractured on the floor, just like he expected to see. He didn't expect to see the man standing over it though.

  At first, Lorenzo thought that he was looking at a statue. The man sure seemed like one at first glance but that was just his stoic face, which was made of stone and frozen with one passive expression. His eyes had no irises, just more gray. Yet his clothes gave him away: they were black and modern, completely different than the ancient looking head that was on top of his shoulders. The most telling feature that made it clear this wasn't a statue came next. Unlike any other statue in the world—this man moved.

  The stone-faced figure took a step back. Now that his initial surprise was passing, Lorenzo could see that the stone head was nothing more than a mask and that the man wearing it was lugging around a mural in his arms. This wasn't some statue that had come to life—this was just a thief!

  Lorenzo had been a guard at Castle Sant'Angelo for months, but this was the first time that he actually felt like there was something to guard against. It was the first time it seemed like he even needed to be there at all, and he was going to make sure he did his job well. This was what he was hired to fulfill.

  Lorenzo started rushing toward the masked man. “You! Get over here!”

  There was no fear on the thief's face, just a blank pale lifeless gaze. He must have been at least a little afraid though, because he bolted in a hurry down the corridor. Lorenzo chased after him. He sure wasn't expecting to dive headfirst into some action, but Lorenzo was so excited to finally get his hands dirty. This would be quite the story to tell once he apprehended the thief. The police would thank him. His family and friends would praise him. Maybe the museum would even give him a raise or a promotion for his efforts? It was the first chance he’d ever been given to be the hero.

  The masked man ran toward an open window and two other people stood on either side of it. Just like the thief, their faces looked like the faces of stone statues—those particular faces even seemed a little familiar. Lorenzo might have been able to handle the one thief on his own, but the two others standing there were a bit concerning. Lorenzo suddenly lamented that his bosses hadn’t given him more than just a little nightstick to use as a weapon. Three against one weren't exactly the best odds, so things might not be going in his favor.

  The thief screeched something, and one of the others suddenly lunged at Lorenzo, blocking his path and intercepting him before he could catch the burglar. This masked figure was big and burly like a rugby player. Lorenzo swung his club, but the big man blocked it with a wave of his arm and then tackled Lorenzo to the floor.

  It all happened so quickly. Lorenzo barely could even comprehend how to defend himself. The masked man's fist cracked against his head a few times and Lorenzo quickly regretted ever wishing that he'd see more action on the job. He would have given anything for these three masked people to not be there anymore; he just wanted to go back to his usual routine and then get paid. No paycheck was worth getting beaten to death.

  The other two masked figures called for their big friend as they climbed out the window. The large thief threw a couple more punches for good measure before rising to his feet, towering over the bloody Lorenzo. The man's boot found its way into Lorenzo's gut and Lorenzo heaved a holler of pain. The two masked people by the wi
ndow yelled out again and the hulk of a man left Lorenzo beaten down on the floor.

  Lorenzo could barely see and all sounds felt so muffled when they passed through his ears. He did his best to look over at the window and saw the three making their way out with the painting. The third silhouette, the masked figure who had remained by the window the whole time, unfolded a piece of paper and glided it down to the floor. The paper gently slid across the tiles closer to Lorenzo and the last of the three disappeared out the window.

  Lorenzo tried to reach out for the paper but his arm felt like it was barely there at all. He was probably concussed, but he wasn't sure. Once he got hold of the paper, he reeled his weak arm in and tried to read the words on it. It was difficult to decipher with his battered brain and the bloody haze that filled his vision to the brim. When he finally could make out the words, he couldn't believe what he saw.

  The painting was gone.

  The thieves were gone.

  But the message they left behind was deeply troubling.

  2

  THE CALL FROM ROME

  The phone wouldn't stop ringing, no matter how much Nina wanted it to cease. It just kept on buzzing beside her. The cell phone didn't care that she was trying to sleep and whoever was calling clearly didn't care either. She didn't know what time it was but she knew that, if she hadn't been interrupted, she could have slept another couple of hours at least. But Dr. Nina Gould didn't seem to be allowed to rest.

  She needed more recuperation time these days than ever before. It’d been a stressful time for her for a while. Being the prisoner of a diabolical secret society hadn't been fun. She was still readjusting to everyday life and had never found her bed to be comfortable, but now it felt so cozy and safe.

  Her phone continued its incessant ringing, trying its best to stir her awake. That tone screamed into her ears and tugged on her eyelids to pry them open. It was like having a siren blaring right beside her bed, straight into her eardrums.