Silence was louder than any scream.
Forty thousand men stood in the ruins of the hill fort, but no one spoke. No one cursed. No one prayed.
Their tongues were too swollen.
Marcus walked through the camp, his boots crunching on dry earth. The sun was a white hammer beating down on the back of his neck. It was only mid-morning, but the heat was already baking the mud in the crater into hard, cracked clay.
A soldier from the Fourth Legion sat near a wagon wheel. He was scraping the morning dew off a rusted iron rim with his fingernail, licking it like a dog. His eyes were glazed, vacant.
Further down, two men were wrestling in the dust. It wasn't a fight. It was a slow, exhausted struggle over a damp rag. They didn't have the energy to punch. They just clawed at each other, gasping dry, rattling breaths.
WARNING.
The text floating in Marcus's vision was a pulsing, angry orange.
HYDRATION LEVELS: CRITICAL.
COGNITIVE FUNCTION: 64% AND DROPPING.
ESTIMATED TIME TO MASS PSYCHOSIS: 4 HOURS.
"Caesar," a raspy voice whispered.
Galen was kneeling beside a young boy—a standard-bearer no older than sixteen. The boy was convulsing. His skin was paper-dry and burning hot to the touch.
"Heatstroke," Galen croaked. His own lips were cracked and bleeding. "His body has stopped sweating. He is cooking from the inside."
Marcus looked down at the boy. There was nothing he could do.
"Give him shade," Marcus said. His voice sounded like grinding stones. "That is all we have."
A commotion erupted near the picket lines.
A horse screamed—a high, terrified whinny.
A group of soldiers had surrounded one of the few remaining cavalry mounts. They weren't trying to calm it. One man, wild-eyed and delirious, had drawn his dagger. He was trying to cut the animal's jugular.
"Drink!" the man shrieked, his voice breaking. "It has blood! It has water!"
The horse kicked, shattering the man's kneecap. The soldier fell, screaming, but others were surging forward, driven by a primal, maddening thirst.
"Stop!" Marcus roared.
He tried to run, but his legs felt like lead. He drew his sword, stumbling toward the mob.
"Back!" Narcissus bellowed, shoving through the crowd.
The giant gladiator grabbed the man with the dagger and threw him into the dirt.
"Do not touch the horses!" Narcissus growled. But even he wavered. He licked his lips, eyeing the animal's neck.
The hunger was contagious.
Let them feast, the Ghost whispered. Blood is life. Mars demands it.
Marcus looked at the starving men. Then he looked at the horses.
The animals were gaunt. Their ribs showed through their coats. They were dehydrated too. They were drinking water that didn't exist.
Logic clicked into place. Brutal, cold logic.
ASSET ANALYSIS:
HORSES: 240 UNITS.
WATER CONSUMPTION: 4,000 LITERS/DAY.
VALUE AS TRANSPORT: ZERO (TERRAIN IMPASSABLE).
VALUE AS BIOMASS: HIGH.
Marcus lowered his sword. He looked at Varus.
The traitor general was standing by his own warhorse—a massive black stallion that had carried him through three campaigns. Varus had his hand on the animal's muzzle. He was shaking.
"Varus," Marcus said softly.
Varus looked up. He saw the calculation in Marcus's eyes. He saw the necessity.
"No," Varus whispered. "Not Titan."
"They are dying anyway," Marcus said. "And they are taking the water we don't have. We need the fluid."
Varus closed his eyes. A tear cut a clean track through the grime on his cheek.
"Do it," Marcus ordered. "All of them. Mix the blood with vinegar from the mess stores so the men don't vomit. Do it now."
Varus drew his blade. He rested his forehead against the stallion's nose for a second.
Then he drove the sword into the beast's heart.
The horse collapsed without a sound.
It wasn't a butchery. It was a ritual. The cavalrymen, weeping silently, slit the throats of their own mounts.
Iron buckets were brought forward. The thick, hot blood was collected, mixed with the sour vinegar dregs.
It was a vile, dark sludge.
Marcus took the first cup. The smell made his stomach turn. The Ghost inside him salivated, but the man from the 21st century wanted to retch.
He had to do it. If the Emperor didn't drink, the men wouldn't.
He forced the cup to his lips. He drank.
The metallic tang of iron and the bite of vinegar burned his throat. It was thick, cloying, and horrific.
He swallowed.
He held the empty cup up. "Drink! It is the gift of Mars! The strength of the beast becomes the strength of the legion!"
The men surged forward. Dignity vanished. They drank with shaking hands, their faces stained dark red.
It bought them time. Maybe six hours. But it wasn't enough.
Marcus retreated to the edge of the sinkhole, wiping his mouth. He felt sick. He felt like a monster.
"It won't last," Galen said, limping up behind him. The physician held a cup of the blood mixture but hadn't drunk it. He was staring into the crater.
"The mud," Galen pointed.
At the bottom of the collapse, thirty feet down, the mud was wet.
"It's sludge," Marcus spat. "Silt. Runoff from the latrines. If they drink that, dysentery will kill them faster than thirst."
"Filtration," Galen muttered. "Sand. Charcoal. Gravel. The Greeks use it to purify cisterns."
Marcus looked at him. "We have gravel. We have sand from the sandbags. We don't have charcoal."
"We have wood," Galen said.
He turned and pointed at the massive timber palisade that formed the fort's defensive wall.
Marcus stared at the wall. It was the only thing stopping Valerius's army from overrunning them.
If they burned the wall to make charcoal, they would be naked. Defenseless.
PROBABILITY ANALYSIS:
DEATH BY THIRST: 100% IN 24 HOURS.
DEATH BY ATTACK (WITHOUT WALLS): 60%.
It was a gamble. A horrific gamble.
"Tear it down," Marcus commanded.
Narcissus looked at him like he was insane. "The wall? Caesar, Valerius is watching! If he sees us destroying our own defenses..."
"Let him watch!" Marcus shouted. "If we don't drink, we can't lift our shields anyway! Tear it down! Burn it!"
The order went out.
Desperation gave them strength. The soldiers attacked the fortifications with axes and crowbars. The massive oak beams crashed down.
They built a pyre in the center of the ruins. They didn't let it burn to ash. They smothered the flames with dirt, creating a mountain of smoldering, black charcoal.
Across the valley, the enemy camp stirred.
Horns blew. They saw the black smoke rising. They saw the walls coming down.
"They think we are surrendering," Crixus grunted, watching from the ridge. "Or burning our dead."
"Let them think it," Marcus said.
The charcoal was crushed.
They took the scuta—the large rectangular shields. They punched holes in the bottoms. They lined them with torn cloaks.
Layer one: Gravel.
Layer two: Sand.
Layer three: Charcoal.
They formed a bucket line. Men scrambled down into the crater, filling helmets with the toxic brown sludge. They poured it into the top of the shield-filters.
Marcus watched. The brown slime seeped into the gravel.
Seconds ticked by. The heat was unbearable.
Drip.
A single drop of water fell from the bottom of the shield into a bucket.
It wasn't crystal clear. It was cloudy. But it wasn't brown.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
"It works," Galen whispered.
A cheer went up—a dry, raspy sound.
The bucket filled.
Narcissus dipped a ladle in. He handed it to Marcus.
Marcus looked at the water. It was life. It was victory.
He raised the ladle.
Hooooooooonk.
A horn blast cut through the celebration. It wasn't a Roman horn. It was the deep, resonant bray of a Germanic war horn.
"Attack!" Narcissus shouted, spinning around. "Shields!"
But there was no charge. No wave of barbarians.
Marcus climbed onto the rubble of the burned wall. He looked out across the valley.
A single rider was approaching.
He rode a white horse. He wore silver armor that gleamed in the sun. He carried no weapon.
In his left hand, he held a white flag of parley.
In his right hand, held high for everyone to see, was a massive, sweating clay jug.
Condensation dripped down the side of the vessel. Ice water.
The rider stopped fifty yards from the perimeter.
"Marcus Aurelius!" the rider called out. His voice was smooth, educated, and terrifyingly calm. "It is a hot day for a fire. Are you thirsty?"
It was Valerius Celsus. The Philosopher-King.
He hadn't come to fight. He had come to tempt.
Marcus lowered the ladle. He didn't drink.
"He knows," Marcus whispered. "He knows exactly what we are going through."
He jumped down from the rubble.
"Narcissus, with me. Crixus, hold the line. If he moves, put a pilum through his chest."
Marcus walked out to meet the devil. And the devil had brought a drink.