The smell of burning parchment filled the air, thick and acrid.
In the center of his finely appointed study, the physician Galen stood calmly before a bronze brazier. He was feeding scrolls into the fire one by one. His life's work. His research. His treason.
He didn't look like a man caught in a conspiracy. He looked like a priest performing a final, solemn rite. His face, illuminated by the dying flames of his betrayal, was serene.
The door to his villa didn't open. It shattered.
Wood splintered and bronze hinges screamed as Narcissus kicked the heavy oak doors off their frame. The giant gladiator filled the entryway, a shadow of death. Behind him, a squad of Praetorians poured in, swords drawn, their armor clattering in the sudden violence of the breach.
Galen didn't flinch. He didn't try to run. He simply dropped the last scroll into the fire and watched the parchment curl and blacken.
"You are late," he said, his voice calm, dusting a flake of ash from his pristine tunic. "The diagnosis is already complete."
Narcissus didn't waste time with words. He crossed the room in two massive strides. He grabbed the frail physician by the throat and slammed him against the frescoed wall.
Galen's feet dangled helplessly above the mosaic floor. His face turned a mottled red, but his eyes remained terrifyingly clear.
"The Emperor summons you," Narcissus growled, his face inches from the physician's. "Try not to die on the way."
Marcus sat in his study, alone. The confessions of Senator Priscus lay on the desk before him, a roadmap of rot. He had thought he was fighting a war of swords and shields. He was wrong. He was fighting a war of ideas.
The door opened, and Narcissus threw Galen onto the floor like a discard rag. The physician landed hard, coughing, massaging his bruised throat. But he rose to his knees with a dignity that seemed out of place for a prisoner facing execution.
Marcus stood up. He walked around the desk and looked down at the man he had once admired. The greatest mind of the ancient world. The architect of his destruction.
"Why?" Marcus asked. It was the only question that mattered. "You are a man of science, Galen. You have spent your life healing. Why burn down the world?"
Galen looked up. There was no fear in his eyes. Only a chilling, clinical detachment.
"Because Rome is dying, Caesar," he said softly. "It is a rotting body, bloated with corruption, feverish with superstition. The Senate is paralyzed. The people are addicted to bread and blood. And the Emperors..." He let out a short, dry laugh. "You are not a healer. You are merely painting over the gangrene."
"So you decided to kill the patient to save it?" Marcus snapped.
"I decided to induce a fever," Galen corrected, his voice gaining strength. "A controlled burn. Valerius Celsus is the fire. He will burn away the rot of the Imperial family and the weakness of the Senate. From the ashes, a new Republic will rise. Rational. Efficient. Healthy."
He looked at Marcus with a strange intensity. "And you... you are the most dangerous symptom of all."
Marcus froze. "What do you mean?"
"I watched you," Galen whispered. "Your 'madness.' The way you speak. The things you know. It is unnatural. Chaotic. You are a foreign pathogen in the bloodstream of history. I do not know what spirit possesses you, Commodus, but I know it does not belong here."
A chill went down Marcus's spine. Galen, with his genius intellect, had sensed the truth. He had sensed the anomaly of a 21st-century mind and an AI operating in the 2nd century. He had diagnosed Marcus not as a god, but as a virus.
"It doesn't matter," Marcus said, shaking off the unease. "Your fire is out of control. Valerius is using chemical weapons. Asbestos. Greek fire. Weapons you helped him perfect."
Marcus leaned in, his voice hard. "I need the counter-agent, Galen. The formula to extinguish the fire. Give it to me, and I will grant you a quick death."
Galen smiled. It was a sad, pitying smile.
"I already sent it to him," he said. "Weeks ago. Valerius has the fire and the extinguisher. He controls the battlefield completely. I wanted a fair test of strength, Caesar. Not a slaughter. He will build a new world, but he will not burn it to the ground unless he has to."
Marcus stared at him. The betrayal was absolute. Galen hadn't just armed the enemy; he had ensured they held all the cards.
Narcissus stepped forward, his gladius sliding from its sheath with a hiss of steel. "Say the word, Caesar," he rumbled. "I will take his head."
Marcus looked at the blade, then at Galen's expectant face. The physician was ready to die. He wanted to be a martyr for his rational new world.
"No," Marcus said.
Narcissus paused, confused. "My lord?"
"He wants to die," Marcus said, his voice cold. "He wants to close his eyes and imagine his perfect Republic rising from the ashes. I won't give him that peace."
He stepped closer to Galen. "You want to cure Rome, doctor? You want to see the surgery?"
He turned to Narcissus. "Chain him. Not in a cell. To a wagon. In the baggage train."
Galen's composure finally faltered. "What?"
"You are coming with us," Marcus said, his eyes hard as flint. "You are going to march north. You are going to the front lines. And when Valerius unleashes your fire on my men, you are going to watch them burn. You are going to hear their screams. And then, you are going to treat them."
He grabbed Galen's tunic, pulling him close. "You will use every ounce of your skill to stitch back together the bodies you tried to destroy. You will not look away. You will live in the blood and the filth you created until you beg for the end."
Galen stared at him, horror dawning in his eyes. The intellectual abstraction of his "controlled burn" was about to become a terrifying reality.
"Take him away," Marcus commanded.
Narcissus grinned, a wolfish baring of teeth. He grabbed Galen by the hair and dragged him backward toward the door.
"The purging fire!" Galen screamed, his laughter edging into madness as he was hauled away. "You cannot stop it! It is nature's way!"
The door slammed shut, silencing his ravings.
Marcus walked to the window. Dawn was breaking over the Palatine Hill, painting the sky in streaks of blood and gold. Below, in the streets, he could hear the low rumble of the legions assembling. The clash of armor, the stomp of boots, the neighing of horses. The sound of war.
He had cut off the head of the snake in Rome. He had captured the architect. But the body of the beast was still thrashing in the north, and it was coming for him.
He turned from the window. He was ready to march. He was ready to kill. But he had one last, painful duty to perform before he left the city that had become his prison.
He had to say goodbye to the woman he broke.