The Greek tutor's face betrayed a mixture of astonishment and disbelief as he observed his four-year-old pupil. Julius sat cross-legged on a marble bench in the family garden, reciting Homer's Iliad from memory—not just any passages, but specifically the sections describing military formations and battle tactics.
"Remarkable," Aristides murmured, stroking his graying beard. "In thirty years of teaching, I have never encountered a child with such... unusual interests."
Julius paused his recitation, calculating his response carefully. Over the past two years, he had cultivated a reputation for exceptional intelligence while trying not to appear impossibly advanced. It was a delicate balance—revealing enough of his abilities to secure the best education possible without raising suspicions about his true nature.
"I find war fascinating," he replied in perfect Greek, another skill he had revealed gradually. "How men move together, how battles are won before they begin."
Aristides nodded slowly. "Like a game of latrunculi, but with flesh and blood instead of stones."
"Exactly," Julius agreed, thinking of the chess matches he had played in his previous life. The Roman board game of latrunculi was similar enough, though more limited in its strategic complexity.
The lesson continued with discussions of mathematics—another area where Julius demonstrated carefully controlled brilliance. He solved complex problems quickly but occasionally inserted deliberate errors to maintain the illusion of a gifted child still learning rather than an adult mind masquerading as one.
When Aristides finally departed, promising to bring more advanced texts on his next visit, Julius's mother Aurelia appeared in the garden. Her intelligent eyes studied her son with a mixture of pride and something else—concern, perhaps, or uncertainty.
"Your tutor says you're advancing faster than any student he's ever taught," she said, sitting beside him on the bench.
Julius smiled, the expression feeling more natural now after years of practice. "He's a good teacher."
"He says you asked about Egyptian hieroglyphics today."
"I'm curious about different ways people write," he explained, having prepared this justification in advance. His interest in Egypt was strategic—laying groundwork for his future alliance with Cleopatra, though that was decades away.
Aurelia brushed a strand of dark hair from his forehead. "Your father is pleased with your progress, though he doesn't show it openly. He's already spoken to several senators about his brilliant son."
This was good news. In his original timeline, Caesar had risen through Roman politics partially through his family connections. Those same networks would be even more valuable with his advanced knowledge of how to exploit them.
"I want to make him proud," Julius said, meaning it sincerely. Despite the strangeness of his situation, he had developed genuine affection for his Roman parents.
"You already do." She hesitated, then added, "But sometimes I worry. You rarely play with other children. You speak more like a senator than a boy. Your eyes..." She trailed off, studying his face.
"What about my eyes?" he asked, suddenly tense.
"They're old, Julius. Sometimes when I look at you, I see a man looking back, not my little boy."
The observation chilled him. Aurelia was perceptive—dangerously so. He forced a childish laugh and leaned against her arm. "I just want to learn everything, Mother. There's so much to know."
Her expression softened, and she embraced him. "Just remember to be a child sometimes too. The burden of manhood will come soon enough."
After she left, Julius retreated to his private corner of the garden where he conducted his daily physical training. At four, his body had developed enough for more structured exercises. He had adapted modern military calisthenics to build strength systematically, disguising the regimen as play whenever servants passed by.
Mid-way through a set of modified push-ups, he noticed a slave boy watching him from behind a column. Octavius was about seven, the son of a household servant, assigned to assist with Julius's basic needs.
"Do you want to try?" Julius asked, switching to the common Latin dialect used by the household staff rather than the refined version he spoke with his family.
Octavius stepped forward hesitantly. "What are you doing, young master?"
"Building strength," Julius demonstrated another push-up. "Warriors need strong arms."
The slave boy attempted to mimic the movement, collapsing after a wobbly half-repetition. Julius corrected his form patiently, remembering how he had once trained new recruits in Afghanistan.
"Why are you helping me?" Octavius asked, confusion evident in his voice.
It was a fair question. Roman patricians didn't typically concern themselves with the physical development of slaves. But Julius had plans that extended far beyond conventional Roman thinking.
"Because strength isn't just for the highborn," he answered. "In battle, the strongest survive, regardless of birth."
This was the beginning of something important—his first recruit, in a sense. In his previous life, Marco had learned that loyalty built from genuine connection was far more valuable than that commanded through fear or obligation. The historical Caesar had understood this too, earning remarkable devotion from his legions.
Over the following weeks, Julius expanded his secret training sessions to include Octavius regularly. He taught the slave boy not just exercises but also basic tactical concepts, disguised as games. The investment would pay dividends in the future—a loyal follower who owed his advancement to Julius alone.
During formal dinner that evening, Julius listened attentively as his father discussed politics with several visiting senators. The conversation turned to military matters in the provinces, and Julius carefully memorized every detail, building his understanding of Rome's current strategic position.
"The situation in Hispania remains problematic," one gray-haired senator remarked between bites of roasted fowl. "The natives resist pacification."
"They lack proper motivation," another replied. "More legions would solve the problem quickly."
Julius nearly commented that overwhelming force alone rarely secured lasting peace—a lesson painfully learned in his previous life's military campaigns—but caught himself just in time. A four-year-old, even a prodigy, would not lecture senators on counterinsurgency tactics.
Later that night, alone in his sleeping chamber, Julius updated the detailed journal he kept hidden beneath a loose floor tile. Written in a hybrid code combining modern English with obscure Greek characters, it contained his long-term plans and observations. No one in this era could possibly decipher it.
"Year 4," he wrote. "Physical development proceeding according to modified training schedule. Political education advancing through observation of father's connections. Beginning basic recruitment with household staff. Must accelerate language acquisition—target fluency in Germanic dialects by age 8 to prepare for future Gallic campaigns."
He paused, tapping the stylus against his chin. The historical Caesar had conquered Gaul in his forties. With proper preparation, Julius could accomplish it a decade earlier, using superior tactics and avoiding the mistakes documented in history books.
But first, he needed to survive childhood in an era where disease claimed many young lives. Then navigate the treacherous waters of Roman politics. Then secure command of legions. The path was long, but with twenty-first century knowledge in a first-century BCE world, Julius intended to reshape history itself.
He closed the journal and replaced it in its hiding place, then performed a series of stretching exercises before sleep. Tomorrow would bring another day of careful performance—the prodigy child concealing the battle-hardened captain within.
As he drifted toward sleep, Julius whispered a quote from his previous life, one that had taken on new meaning in his extraordinary circumstance: "We are what we repeatedly do. Excellence, then, is not an act, but a habit." Aristotle's wisdom bridged both his existences, a philosophical anchor in the strange sea of his dual consciousness.
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