"Now, as for this culprit of yours, I have ascertained that he is not a true threat to the Imperium—merely a person furthering his own mercantile interests," he said, offering a measure of reassurance.
"So it is a man, then. That certainly helps narrow down the search," I said, instantly catching the small detail he had let slip.
He smirked. "Never one to let go of the minor details, are you, Octavian? That is all the help I shall be providing, though." He raised a hand to flick my forehead, but this time, I swiftly dodged out of his way.
"Not today, Father," I said cheekily.
"Cheeky. But I will catch you the next time," he conceded with a light laugh.
"How about you give me one of those vintage whiskies you keep in your collection as a reward for my swift reflexes?" I asked.
"You want Firewhisky?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.
"As much as I would love a bottle for myself, no. A regular one, to serve as an encouragement to Cato for his exemplary services these past few days," I corrected.
Father scoffed. "Is the man not sufficiently satiated with all the iron and steel contracts we have awarded him for this war?"
"There is no harm in a small, personal kindness, though, is there?" I countered.
"Oh, alright," he sighed. Space seemed to visibly contort around his hand. The heavy gold ring on his index finger—set with a black stone—glowed faintly before a pristine glass bottle materialized in his grasp. "Macallan Anniversary Single Malt Scotch. It is one of the rarer ones in my collection from a different time. Bestow it carefully," he said, handing it to me.
"I shall," I promised, taking the bottle delicately before slipping it into the magically expanded space of my own storage ring. "I will be off, then."
"Very well," Father said, waving a hand dismissively as he turned to ascend the marble steps back to his throne.
…
I swiftly made my way to my solar, followed closely by my Praetorian Guards. As soon as I entered, I saw a figure already seated in front of my desk. At the commotion of our arrival, he immediately stood and bowed.
"Princeps."
"Senator Cato," I replied in acknowledgment.
"That was an excellent speech you delivered today. All the logistical and rational debates of the past few days were completely swept aside by your religious fervour," I noted, moving behind my desk.
"I am not worthy of such praise, Dominus," he said, bowing his head in humility.
"Oh, but you are. And you are worthy of a reward for your continued service," I said, willing the bottle of Macallan whisky out of my storage ring.
"Magnificent!" Cato breathed, his eyes tracking the bottle as it materialized in my hand. "No matter how many times I watch it happen, my eyes can never grow tired of the sight of magic."
I ignored his adoration, taking two crystal glasses from my desk drawer and pouring a generous measure for us both. I pushed a glass toward him. Cato took it reverently, swirling the amber liquid to observe its rich, husky colours before slowly taking a sip. His eyes widened as the heat travelled down his throat.
"My word, Princeps. This must be exceedingly rare to warm the chest so thoroughly without leaving a stinging burn on the throat," he praised.
I took a sip of my own, nodding at his conjecture.
"It is part of Father's personal collection, so it is bound to be exceptional." My words made him double back, staring at the bottle anew—this time with absolute awe.
"Please give Deus my utmost gratitude for this gesture, and thank you, Dominus, for allowing me this honour," he said genuinely.
"Your efforts are gratitude enough, Cato. Without your assistance, this entire ordeal would have been vastly more troublesome to manage," I replied.
"It concerned my own endeavours as well, Dominus, so it was only natural we joined hands. This war has been immensely profitable for my smithies. Even if the reasons for its beginning are steeped in sin," he noted gravely.
"Yes. The death of the Fifty was not anticipated. It certainly leaves a dark stain on this war," I assented.
"If I may ask, Dominus... why were the Fifty even sent to Qohor?" Cato asked softly.
"They were not," I stated flatly. "The caravan's pilgrimage to Pentos had been planned by the Supreme Pontiff last year. Its timing merely coincided with our own preparations for invasion, so I gave the Bishop leading the mission a secondary task. He was ordered to merely scout the outskirts of Qohor and its surrounding villages to ascertain how pervasive the religion of the Black Goat truly was. But the man was overzealous. Even after I expressly warned him not to approach the city gates, he went anyway. And he took all of his followers with him."
I looked at Cato grimly, an expression he mirrored. "Foreign gods are not kind to outsiders, Cato, especially followers of our Church. The Black Goat mobilized his worshippers to slaughter our people in their sleep and reap them for his own dark gain. Not even their souls remain for Elysium. Were it not for our extensive spy network we would never have known the tragedy that befell them."
Cato nodded heavily, his expression sombre. "I still remember the aftermath of Deus' battle against that Vile Horse. The battlefield was completely devoid of all life—charred, ashen, and grey. I was but a child of ten years then. Even today, remembering that open field of death gives me nightmares."
"Aye, those were grim days," I agreed quietly. "The Imperium was nascent, and the threat of the Dothraki hordes still loomed over us. Without Father, it would all have been for naught."
"Aye."
"Let us drink to happier times, then," I said, raising my crystal glass.
"To the continued prosperity of the realm," Cato proclaimed, clinking his glass against mine.
We drank the excellent whisky in comfortable silence for a time.
"I do have another task I must undertake before I depart, Cato. One I could use your help with," I said, setting my glass down.
"By all means, Princeps. I am all ears," he said, giving me his undivided attention.