Deep in a snowy Alpine pass, Crixus watched the enemy advance.
From his vantage point high on a frozen cliff face, he saw not a barbarian horde, but a river of disciplined, organized steel. Valerius Celsus's army snaked through the valley below, their movements precise, their supply train orderly. Their engineers, moving with terrifying efficiency, cleared a path through the snow and ice for the siege engines that followed.
They were moving far faster than Marcus had predicted. Too fast.
Crixus gave the signal. A low whistle, like the cry of a hunting hawk, echoed across the pass.
Below, his ghost army, hidden among the rocks and twisted pines, went to work. They were not soldiers. They were demolition experts. For two days, they had labored, cutting ropes, setting trigger logs, and praying to forgotten gods.
Now, their work bore fruit.
With a sound like the world cracking in two, the avalanche began. A tidal wave of rock, ice, and ancient, uprooted trees crashed down from the cliffs. It fell into the precise center of the marching column with a deafening, final roar.
Men and siege engines were not just crushed. They were erased from existence, buried under a mountain of their own making in the blink of an eye. The valley floor was a chaos of screaming men, splintered wood, and the terrible silence of the newly dead.
The pass was blocked.
But the victory was short-lived. The response from Valerius's army was immediate and horrifyingly professional. There was no panic. No rout. Roman-trained Centurions bellowed orders, and the chaos began to resolve itself.
Engineers, protected by a shield wall, immediately began assessing the damage and planning a path through the rubble. And disciplined cohorts of archers, their movements crisp and practiced, unleashed a storm of arrows at the clifftops, pinning Crixus's men down with deadly, accurate fire.
This wasn't a panicked mob. This was a real army.
In the midst of the chaos, Narcissus, fighting with the fury of a man trying to outrun his own demons, saw an opportunity. While the archers were focused on the cliffs, a small group of officers—engineers, by the look of their tools—was trapped on the near side of the avalanche.
With a roar that was more animal than human, he charged. He moved like an avalanche himself, his massive axe a blur of deadly steel. The other officers scattered or were cut down, but Narcissus had his eyes on their leader. He tackled the man, a clean, brutal hit that knocked the engineer unconscious.
He threw the man over his shoulder like a sack of grain and retreated back into the rocks before the main body of the army could react.
They dragged their prize back to a hidden cave that served as their camp. The captured engineer was a man in his forties, with the hard, intelligent eyes of a professional soldier. When he awoke, he showed no fear. Only a pure, burning contempt.
"Roman dogs," he spat, the words dripping with venom. "Your ambush was a gnat's bite. You are already dead. Our allies will see to it."
Crixus leaned in close, his knife pressing against the man's throat. "What allies?"
The engineer laughed, a harsh, grating sound. He clearly believed his cause was already victorious, and that this small band of thugs was an irrelevance. "You think this is a Germanian invasion? You fools! This is a Roman revolution!"
Crixus froze.
"The Third Legion, the Seventh," the engineer crowed, his eyes alight with fanatical zeal. "They have already sworn their eagles to the true liberator of Rome, Valerius Celsus. When he crosses into Italy, half of your northern army will defect to his side! We are not invaders. We are the tip of the spear."
The words hit Crixus like a physical blow. This changed everything.
It wasn't an invasion. It was a civil war.
Valerius Celsus wasn't just a brilliant barbarian. He was a Roman revolutionary, and he already had the loyalty of multiple Roman legions. The ninety-day clock Marcus was racing against suddenly seemed impossibly, hopelessly short.
Marcia lay in her bed, a perfect portrait of a frail, poisoned Oracle. Her skin was pale (a dusting of flour from the kitchens), her breathing shallow (a trick she had practiced for hours).
Lucilla and a deeply concerned Lycomedes had been forced to agree to her demand. A physician was summoned. A young man, a student of Galen's named Orestes, was ushered into her chambers. He was slight of build, with nervous, intelligent eyes that darted around the room, taking in the hulking zealot guards and the serene, watchful presence of the Lady Lucilla.
Lucilla did not leave. Of course she didn't. She sat in a chair in the corner of the room, a silent, smiling spider, watching the entire examination, ready to intercept any secret message, to twist any diagnosis.
Orestes approached the bed, his bag of medical instruments rattling softly. "My lady Oracle," he murmured, his voice respectful. "I am here to help."
He began the examination, a professional and public performance. He checked her pulse. He looked at her tongue. He gently pressed on her abdomen. All under the watchful eyes of her jailers.
Then, he leaned in close, placing his ear to her chest, supposedly to listen to the rhythm of her heart. The scent of cloves and clean linen filled her senses. His breath was warm against her ear.
He whispered one word, so low it was barely a vibration.
"Courage."
Marcia's heart, which had been beating in a slow, controlled rhythm, gave a single, violent thump. He was not a random student. He was an agent. Sent by who? The old steward, Cassian? Galen himself? Hope, a dangerous and unfamiliar feeling, flared in her chest.
Orestes straightened up, his face a mask of professional concern. He turned to Lucilla and Lycomedes.
"It appears to be a mild toxin," he announced, his voice clear and confident. "Not fatal, but it lingers in the blood. To flush it, the Oracle will require a specific, rare herb—Wolf's Bane—mixed with wine and honey."
He paused, letting the weight of his diagnosis settle. "The preparation is very delicate. It must be prepared by me, personally. And she must drink a dose every morning and every evening. For a week."
Lucilla and Lycomedes, knowing nothing of herbal remedies, readily agreed. Anything to save their Oracle.
But Marcia, whose education as a high-class courtesan had included the study of herbs and poisons, felt a chill run down her spine.
Wolf's Bane was not a cure. It was a poison.
A single drop could cause numbness. A few could cause paralysis. A mouthful could stop a heart.
This new doctor was either a savior with a terrifyingly dangerous plan, or he was a new, more subtle assassin, sent by an unknown enemy to finish the job Lucilla had started.
The scene cut to Crixus and his men in their freezing mountain camp. The captured engineer lay dead at their feet, his story told. The words—a Roman revolution—echoed in their minds, a death knell for the empire they knew.
They were no longer just a raiding party. They were the only loyal Romans in a sea of traitors.
Crixus knew he had to get this information to the Emperor. It changed every calculation, every plan. But they were trapped, deep behind enemy lines, with legions of traitors between them and home.
He pulled a small, wicker cage from their supplies. Inside was a single, gray carrier hawk, their last one. Their only hope.
He scribbled a hasty, desperate message on a tiny scrap of parchment, summarizing the horrifying truth. Civil War. Legions have turned. Trust no one.
He tied the message to the hawk's leg. He held the bird for a moment, its small, fierce heart beating against his palm. He looked at the sky, a vast, unforgiving expanse of gray.
With a prayer to a god he no longer believed in, he threw the hawk into the air.
It circled once, a tiny speck of hope, then soared south, towards Rome.
On a distant ridge, a Germanian archer, his eyes sharp, saw the speck against the clouds. He drew his bow, his movements unhurried, professional. He was not alone. A dozen other archers on the ridge did the same, their bowstrings groaning in the cold, thin air.
They let their arrows fly.