Lucilla was a knife in the dark, but Phraates was an entire empire holding a blade to Rome's throat.
Marcus paced the cold, stone floor of the Mausoleum, a caged wolf planning a global strategy. The Parthian threat was a far more complex problem than a barbarian horde. It was a silent, bloodless war, and he was already losing.
"We can't fight them both," he said to the empty tomb, the words echoing in the silence. "A war in the east right now would break the treasury. The legions are already stretched thin." He would have to give in. He would have to sign the treaty and bleed Rome's economy dry.
NEGATIVE, JARVIS's voice asserted in his mind. THAT IS A FALSE DICHOTOMY.
"Then give me another option," Marcus snapped, his nerves raw.
ANALYZING PARTHIAN EMPIRE: ECONOMIC MODEL. PRIMARY WEAKNESS IDENTIFIED. THEIR ECONOMY IS OVER-RELIANT ON SILK AND SPICE TARIFFS FROM THE PALMYRA ROUTE. THEIR FEUDAL MILITARY STRUCTURE IS EXPENSIVE TO MOBILIZE AND MAINTAIN. CONCLUSION: THEY ARE BLUFFING THEIR ABILITY TO SUSTAIN A PROLONGED WAR. THEY CANNOT AFFORD IT.
They were posturing. But their army was still real.
"So we call their bluff?" Marcus asked.
A MORE OPTIMIZED SOLUTION EXISTS, the AI replied.
A plan from another world, a strategy from a future of global logistics, began to form in his mind, fed by the cold, hard data of the machine. Economic disruption.
He wouldn't attack Parthia's armies. He would attack their money.
"JARVIS," he commanded, a new, fierce energy in his voice. "Plot a new trade route. A primary sea lane. From our ports in Egypt, down the Red Sea, across the Arabian Sea, to the western ports of the Indian kingdoms. Bypass the land route. Bypass Parthia entirely."
CALCULATING, JARVIS responded. The screen of the laptop filled with maps of coastlines, charts of monsoon wind patterns, and complex resource allocation tables. It was a massive, visionary infrastructure project that no Roman emperor, with his focus on land and legions, would have ever conceived. It was an emperor's move, born from the mind of a 21st-century tech CEO.
The next few days were a blur of relentless, focused activity.
Marcus was no longer just a ruler; he was the chief project manager for the salvation of Rome. The ghost of Commodus was silent, its brutal instincts useless in this new kind of war. The terrified man, Marcus Holt, was buried under the immense weight of his duties. All that was left was the cold, calculating machine of governance.
He sent urgent dispatches to the governor of Egypt. He met with Roman shipwrights, naval commanders, and trade ministers. He issued a dozen Imperial decrees, allocating funds, commissioning new ships, and moving resources with a terrifying, single-minded efficiency that left the Senate breathless.
Marcia brought him his evening meal in his private study. The room was a chaotic mess of maps and scrolls. He was hunched over a detailed chart of the Red Sea, making notes on a piece of parchment. He didn't even look up as she entered.
"Thank you," he said, his voice distant, distracted. "Just leave it there."
The man who had confessed his deepest, most impossible secret to her was gone. In his place was a cold, driven stranger, an emperor consumed by the gears of his own grand machine.
She didn't leave. She stood there, watching him, a sad, worried look on her face.
"Marcus," she said, her voice soft but firm.
He finally looked up from the map, his eyes impatient, still focused on a world a thousand miles away.
"You won," she said simply. "You beat Lucilla. You won the crowd. You faced down the Praetorians. You won." She took a step closer. "But I see less of the man I know every day. Your eyes... when you were shouting orders at the engineers this morning... they looked like his."
Her words were a small, sharp knife in the armor of his focus. He looked away, back at the maps.
"I'm busy, Marcia," he said, his tone colder than he intended.
She reached out, her hand moving to touch his face, to bring him back. He instinctively flinched away, a subconscious, reflexive movement. His mind was still on wind patterns and shipping tonnage.
The small, wounded look in her eyes was sharper than any blade. She pulled her hand back as if burned.
He was winning the war for Rome. But he was losing the battle for his own soul, and he hadn't even noticed.
Three days later, he summoned Phraates back to the palace.
The Parthian ambassador entered the throne room with the smug, self-satisfied confidence of a man who believes he has already won the game. He bowed, his silk robes whispering. "Caesar. I trust you have had time to consider my King's most generous offer."
"I have," Marcus replied, his voice calm and even.
He didn't refuse the demand. He made a counter-offer. He gestured for a servant to bring forward a large, rolled-up piece of high-quality parchment. He spread it across the table for Phraates to see.
It was a new map, beautifully drawn and inked. It showed the coastline of Egypt, the long stretch of the Red Sea, and the established sea routes to the bustling port cities of India. It was detailed with planned locations for new Roman naval bases, supply depots, and trade outposts.
"Your King can have his tariffs on the Palmyra route," Marcus said, his voice flat. He let Phraates absorb the terrifying implications of the map. "But as you can see, Rome is opening a new, more efficient, and fully protected sea lane. We project your silk revenues—the very revenues that fund your great armies—will drop by seventy percent within two years."
He tapped a location on the Indian coast. "Your King of Kings is, of course, welcome to a share of the profits from this new venture. As a junior partner to Rome."
Phraates's sophisticated, elegant mask finally cracked. He stared at the map, at the detailed port plans, the calculated resource allocations, the projected shipping times. This wasn't a bluff. This was a fully-formed, meticulously planned economic strategy of breathtaking audacity. It was a strategy that would cripple his nation without a single legion crossing the border.
The ambassador looked up from the map, his dark eyes wide with a mixture of fear and pure, unadulterated awe. The contempt was gone, replaced by a terrifying uncertainty.
"What kind of Roman are you?" he whispered.
Before Marcus could answer, a Praetorian guard burst into the throne room, his face pale with panic. He bypassed all protocol, running directly to the throne. "Caesar! An emergency dispatch from the north! From the agent Narcissus!"
Marcus took the small, hastily written scroll. His blood ran cold as he read the few, desperate lines.
"He's reached Valerius's camp," he said, his voice grim. The victory he felt a moment before evaporated into a new kind of dread. "But something is wrong."
He looked from Phraates's stunned face to the map of the world that suddenly felt like it was on fire from all sides.
He read the last lines of the message aloud, his voice low with disbelief.
"The 'barbarians'... they're not barbarians at all. Their camp is built like a Roman fortress. Their discipline is like the legions. And their ballistae..." He paused, the final words catching in his throat.
"JARVIS was wrong. They're not just copies of our own. They're better."