Rome didn't need a merciful Caesar anymore; it needed a god of war, and he was the only candidate.
The Mausoleum of Augustus had transformed. The quiet tomb was now a digital war room. Maps of Germania, copied from the Imperial Archives, were spread across the stone floor, illuminated by the cold, blue glow of the laptop's screen.
"Lucilla is funding this," Marcus said, the pieces of the puzzle clicking into place with sickening clarity. "The timing is too perfect. She needed a crisis to make me look weak after my victory in the arena." He paced the small chamber, the pain in his side a dull, throbbing reminder of the stakes.
He knelt before the laptop. "JARVIS. New directive. Run a full analysis on the tribal leader Valerius. Cross-reference everything. Roman military records, tax ledgers, diplomatic dispatches. I want to know what he eats for breakfast."
PROCESSING, the AI's voice replied, a whisper in his mind. The screen filled with data, a complex web of connections and probabilities.
VALERIUS. 35 YEARS OLD. FORMER AUXILIARY PREFECT. EDUCATED IN ROME. PERSONALITY PROFILE: CHARISMATIC, HIGHLY STRATEGIC, ANTI-IMPERIAL IDEALIST.
A new line of text flashed, one that made Marcus's blood run cold.
TACTICAL ANALYSIS: SUBJECT IS EMPLOYING A GORILLA WARFARE STRATEGY OF RAPID, COORDINATED STRIKES AGAINST ROMAN SUPPLY LINES, A TACTIC NOT SEEN IN THIS ERA. HE IS A STATISTICAL ANOMALY.
"He's fighting like a 21st-century insurgent," Marcus breathed. This wasn't a barbarian horde. This was a modern army with a brilliant commander.
He couldn't fight it with Roman tactics. He would lose.
"JARVIS," he commanded, a new, hard edge to his voice. "Run counter-simulations. Give me strategies Valerius won't anticipate."
The AI began its work. It proposed economic warfare, identifying the specific tribal chieftains allied with Valerius who were most susceptible to bribery. It laid out a counter-campaign of misinformation, spreading rumors of betrayal among the notoriously fractious tribes. And it designed a surgical strike aimed directly at Valerius's command structure, forgoing a full, frontal assault.
Marcus wasn't going to fight a Roman war. He was going to fight a modern one.
The next day, he addressed the Senate. He walked into the Curia with a deliberate limp, his hand pressed against his bandaged side, playing the part of the wounded warrior. The senators were in a full-blown panic, shouting for more legions, for the heads of the generals on the frontier, for a declaration of total war.
Marcus let them shout. When the chamber finally fell into an exhausted silence, he spoke. His voice was quiet, but it cut through the panicked atmosphere like a razor.
"You call for more legions," he said, his gaze sweeping over the terrified faces. "You would send our sons to die in the mud of a foolish war of pride."
He shocked them by proposing a massive "public works" project. "We will not chase this ghost Valerius into the forests. We will build a wall. A new, reinforced line of fortifications along the Rhine. We will make our borders impenetrable." He also announced a new diplomatic envoy, to be sent north to negotiate with the "friendly" tribes who still valued peace with Rome.
The plan sounded defensive. It sounded weak.
An old, hawkish senator named Cassius, a man known for his belief in military glory, shot to his feet. He pointed a trembling finger at Marcus. "This is cowardice! Our eagles have been captured! Our forts burn! And you would hide behind a wall like a frightened child?"
Marcus just watched him, his expression calm, his eyes patient. The eyes of a man who sees ten moves ahead. He let the senator finish his tirade, then calmly had the measure put to a vote. The panicked Senate, desperate for any plan, approved it.
They were fools. The "public works project" was a cover. It was a way to move thousands of military engineers, siege equipment, and supplies to the frontier without alarming Valerius's spies. The "diplomats" were not diplomats. They were spies and paymasters, armed with JARVIS's precise data on which chieftains to bribe, which family rivalries to exploit.
It was a plan of stunning, complex subterfuge, and the senators, blinded by their conventional thinking, had just endorsed every part of it.
As Marcus planned the real war, he felt a strange shift within himself. The flashes of Commodus's memories were no longer a terrifying invasion. They were becoming an asset.
While studying a map of the Black Forest, he felt a flicker of recognition. A memory, not his own, of a hidden pass, a shortcut through a treacherous valley.
The horse tribes are our weakness on that flank, the ghost's voice whispered in his mind, no longer a snarl, but a cold, tactical assessment. Their chieftain, Flavus, is a vain man. Offer him a sword of honor, a title, and he will sell his own mother for a silver coin.
He was learning to wield the monster.
He had a new, unholy trinity to command. JARVIS was his grand strategist, the god of data and logic. Commodus was his tactical advisor, the demon of brutal, instinctual knowledge. And Marcus Holt was the commander, the ghost from the future, trying to balance the two and save the world.
He needed one more piece for his plan. A weapon that the Senate could not control, a blade that would move in the darkness.
He summoned a surprise visitor to his private chambers. Narcissus.
The giant gladiator, his broken arm now set in a leather brace, entered and knelt, pressing his forehead to the floor. "Caesar. You spared my life. It is yours to command."
"Rise, Narcissus," Marcus said. "I did not spare you to make you a servant. I have a mission for you."
He offered the giant a cup of wine. "I need you to assemble a unit. Ten men. Twenty at most. Former gladiators, disgraced legionaries, men who are loyal only to coin and to the man who pays it. I want killers, not soldiers."
Narcissus's eyes, so full of terror in the arena, now glammed with a dangerous understanding.
"This unit will not be part of any legion," Marcus continued. "They will not answer to any general. They will answer only to you. And you will answer only to me."
He unrolled a map of Germania, the one showing JARVIS's predicted location of the enemy command. He pointed to a spot deep within the Black Forest, a place marked with a Roman X. A fortified tribal camp.
"This is Valerius's headquarters," he said, the information a secret known only to him and his machine god. "The legions will draw his main army south, into a trap. While he is distracted, your unit will move through the forest like wolves. You will not fight his army. You will cut the head off the snake."
Narcissus stared at the map, a slow, predatory smile spreading across his face. He understood. This was not a war. This was an assassination.
As Narcissus left to assemble his death squad, Marcia entered. Her face was grim. She held a small, coded message, a wax tablet no bigger than her palm.
"We found the leak," she said, her voice low and tight. "Crixus's men intercepted this. It was being sent from the palace, destined for a courier heading north."
Marcus took the tablet. The message was written in a simple numeric cipher. He didn't need JARVIS to decode it. Commodus's memories supplied the key. It was a cipher used by the Praetorian Guard's officer corps.
"Who sent it?" Marcus asked, his voice dangerously quiet.
"It's not one of Lucilla's senators," Marcia said, her face pale. "The informant Crixus captured… he says the messages are coming from the highest levels. From inside the Praetorian Guard itself."
The enemy wasn't just at the gates. They were guarding his door.