The words on the scroll were a death sentence for an empire. They're better.
Marcus stood before the war council, the silence in the chamber so heavy he could feel it pressing on his skin. His generals, men who had faced down hordes and conquered kingdoms, stared at him with the wide, fearful eyes of children hearing a ghost story.
He lowered the scroll, his own hand steady only by sheer force of will. "Narcissus's report is… detailed."
He began to read, his voice flat, letting the cold, terrible facts do the work.
"Valerius's main encampment is not a barbarian gathering. It is a fortress. He has established it on high ground, with interlocking fields of fire for his archers. He has dug advanced drainage trenches."
A murmur went through the room.
Marcus's eyes flickered up from the parchment. "Narcissus reports there is no mud. The entire camp is clean, orderly, and disciplined enough to shame a Roman legion."
One of the older generals, Fabius, shook his head. "Impossible. They are Germans. They live in filth."
"They don't anymore," Marcus said, his voice cutting through the denial. He continued reading. "Their ballistae are not the crude machines we expected. They are built with standardized, replaceable components. A broken arm or a frayed cord can be swapped out on the battlefield in minutes."
The color drained from Fabius's face. Such a concept was completely alien. Roman siege engines were bespoke monstrosities. If one broke, it was a disaster of logistics and engineering that could take days to fix.
Marcus saved the worst for last. He took a breath.
"And their bolts," he said, the words feeling like stones in his mouth. "They are wrapped in a strange, pale fiber. A mineral wool. The bolts are set aflame before they are fired."
He looked each general in the eye. "They do not extinguish on impact. They cannot be put out with water or sand. They burn through wood, leather, and flesh. Narcissus watched one burn through the shield of a captured Roman scout and set the man's arm ablaze. The fire continued to burn even after the limb was severed."
A younger prefect retched into a corner of the room.
Fabius was on his feet, his face a mask of superstitious terror. "Witchcraft! This Valerius is a sorcerer!"
"He is not a sorcerer," Marcus snapped, his voice cracking like a whip. The ghost of Commodus rose in his throat, a welcome surge of cold authority. "He is an engineer. And he is going to wipe our legions from the face of the earth if you don't shut your mouth and think."
He threw the scroll onto the map of Germania. "Leave me."
They fled, their fear so palpable he could smell it.
When the heavy doors boomed shut, Marcus finally let his own mask of command fall. He sank into his chair, the adrenaline draining away, leaving a hollow, freezing dread. He was out of his depth. He was a tech manager who had been thrown into a swordfight, and his opponent had just shown up with a gun.
JARVIS, report, he thought, his mind racing.
The AI's response was immediate, and it was the most terrifying thing he had ever heard.
ANALYSIS: The combination of modular design, advanced siege engineering, and applied mineralogy is historically anomalous. The probability of a pre-industrial society developing these three disciplines in concert is 0.001%.
Is he like me? Marcus asked, the thought a desperate whisper in his own skull. Another traveler?
Insufficient data. However, the technology profile does not align with 21st-century military doctrine. It is too efficient, too mechanically focused. It lacks electronics or advanced chemistry. This is something… else.
Something else. The words chilled him to the bone. His one great advantage, his secret weapon of future knowledge, was gone. He was no longer the only impossible thing in this world.
He stood and began to pace, a caged wolf in an emperor's palace. A standard Roman response would be a massacre. The legions would march north, confident in their discipline, and they would be torn apart by weapons they couldn't comprehend.
He needed a new strategy. He needed a different kind of weapon. Not a legion, but a mind. A Roman mind, but one that didn't think like a Roman. One that could look at the impossible and see a puzzle, not a demon.
A name surfaced in his memory, a name that tasted like poison and humiliation. The famed physician who had nearly exposed him. The greatest scientific mind of his age.
It was a catastrophic risk. But he was out of options.
He strode to the door and threw it open. A Praetorian guard snapped to attention.
"Find the physician Galen," Marcus commanded, his voice raw. "Bring him to the palace. Now."
Marcia found him an hour later, standing over the map of Germania, staring at it as if he could set it on fire with his gaze alone. The room was dark, save for a single flickering oil lamp that cast long, dancing shadows on the walls.
She saw the discarded scroll on the table. She saw the deep lines of exhaustion carved around his eyes. He looked older, not by days, but by a decade. He looked like a man being crushed by the weight of his own crown.
She thought of the night before, when he had flinched from her touch. A small, almost imperceptible movement, but it had felt like a wall of ice rising between them. He was retreating into the cold, calculating machine of the emperor, and leaving the man, Marcus Holt, to die alone inside.
Her fear for him finally burned away the last of her hurt.
Being his anchor didn't mean waiting for him to reach for her. It meant holding the line when he was lost in the storm. It meant acting.
"I will have food brought," she said softly.
He just grunted, his eyes never leaving the map.
She left, but she didn't go to the kitchens. Her steps were quiet but filled with a new, unshakeable purpose. If he wouldn't let her save the man, then she would help him save the emperor.
He had his AI, his legions, his Praetorians. She had a different kind of network. One that thrived in the shadows of the great halls, in the whispers of servants and the gossip of slaves. Lucilla had brought Galen to the palace. That was a thread. And Marcia was going to pull it.
She descended into the lower levels of the palace, a world away from the marble and gold above. Here, the air was thick with the smell of baking bread, roasting meat, and the sweat of honest labor. She found the man she was looking for near the apothecaries' stores—a junior assistant to Galen, a nervous, intelligent young Greek named Theo. She had made a point to be kind to him, learning his name when others treated him like furniture.
"Theo," she said, her voice warm. He nearly dropped a crate of dried herbs, startled.
"My lady Marcia," he stammered, bowing low.
She smiled gently. "Forgive me for disturbing you. The Emperor is considering a new commission for your master. He wishes to know more about his work. His greatest accomplishments."
Theo puffed up with pride. "Master Galen is the greatest physician in the world!"
"Of course," Marcia said, guiding the conversation with practiced ease. "Has he traveled much in the north? Encountered any strange… minerals? From the Germanian mines, perhaps?"
Theo frowned, thinking. "He finds the northern tribes to be barbarians, my lady. He says their medicine is all superstition. But…" He trailed off, a memory sparking in his eyes. "He once told us a story. To warn us against ambition."
Marcia leaned closer, her expression one of polite interest. "A story?"
"About his greatest student. Years ago. A prodigy, he said. A mind that could see the hidden connections in the world. But the student became obsessed. Not with healing, but with alchemy. Fringe science."
Theo lowered his voice conspiratorially. "He was expelled from the academy. In disgrace. His experiments were… dangerous. They said he was trying to create an 'impervious fire.' Something that could not be quenched."
Marcia's heart began to beat a frantic rhythm against her ribs. "How?" she whispered.
"He used a strange rock," Theo said, eager to share the forbidden tale. "A mineral from the northern mountains. Soft, like wool. He called it 'mountain flax'."
Mountain flax. The folk name. The peasant's name for the pale, fibrous rock that could be woven like cloth and would not burn. Asbestos.
"What was his name?" Marcia asked, her voice barely audible. "This student?"
"His name was Celsus," Theo said. "He vanished after the disgrace. Some say he fled north, into the forests of Germania. A brilliant mind, lost to madness."
Marcin stood frozen, the noise of the kitchens fading into a dull roar in her ears. She had it. A name. A history. The ghost had a face.
She gave Theo a gracious nod and turned to leave, her mind reeling. She had to get to Marcus. She had to tell him.
As she turned into the long, torch-lit corridor, a figure stepped from the shadows, blocking her path.
It was Lucilla. She was dressed in a simple, dark gown, a vision of mourning and piety. But her eyes were bright and sharp, and a serene, knowing smile played on her lips.
"Playing spy in the servant's quarters, little songbird?" she asked, her voice like honey laced with venom. "How very ambitious of you."