It wasn't a battle. It was a riot.
The ash-covered Romans didn't form lines. They didn't lock shields. They surged into the sleeping camp like a black tide, swarming over tents, wagons, and men.
An enemy soldier stumbled out of his tent, naked and confused, clutching a spear.
"What is—"
Varus hit him at a dead run. The traitor general didn't use his sword. He used his shoulder, driving the man back into the canvas.
The tent collapsed. Varus stabbed through the fabric, again and again, feeling the body beneath jerk and then go still.
"No mercy!" Varus screamed, his face a mask of soot and madness. "Burn it down!"
Chaos engulfed the camp.
Valerius's army was disciplined, well-drilled, and modern. But discipline requires orders. And orders require time.
There was no time.
Everywhere, the "dead" were dragging the living into the mud. A Germanian mercenary swung a massive axe, cleaving a Roman skull. Before he could pull the weapon free, three ash-covered legionaries tackled him, stabbing him with pugio daggers until he stopped moving.
CONFUSION INDEX: 92%.
ENEMY CHAIN OF COMMAND: SEVERED.
CASUALTY RATE: EXPONENTIAL.
Marcus moved through the slaughter like a ghost.
An officer charged him. Marcus ducked a clumsy sword swing. The Ghost took over—a pivot, a grab, a thrust. Marcus drove his blackened blade under the officer's armpit.
Hot blood sprayed over his ash-covered face.
"Fire!" someone screamed. "Use the fire!"
Ahead, near the command wagons, a group of Alchemists—Valerius's chemical troopers—were panicking.
They were supposed to be the ultimate weapon. But flamethrowers are siege weapons. They aren't meant for a brawl.
An Alchemist leveled his brass tube at the swarming Romans.
"Burn them back!" he shrieked.
He pulled the trigger.
A jet of green liquid fire erupted. It hit a group of charging Romans, turning them into screaming torches.
But the fire didn't stop. It splashed onto the tents behind them. It hit a supply wagon.
The dry canvas caught instantly. The green fire spread with terrifying speed, fueled by the chemical accelerant.
"You idiot!" another Alchemist yelled. "You're burning our own—"
Narcissus emerged from the smoke.
The giant gladiator didn't attack the Alchemist. He attacked the fire.
He grabbed a burning tent pole, the canvas still attached and flaming green. He roared, lifting it like a massive torch.
He threw the burning wreckage into the ranks of Valerius's gathering spearmen.
The green fire splashed over the enemy shield wall. The formation broke instantly. Men dropped their shields and ran, batting at the sticky, burning liquid.
"Push them into the flames!" Marcus ordered. "Make them burn in their own trap!"
The Romans pressed forward. They used the fire as a weapon, herding the terrified enemy troops toward the burning wagons.
Marcus spotted him.
Fifty yards away, near the center of the camp, Valerius Celsus was trying to mount a horse.
The Philosopher-King looked small. His silver armor was reflecting the green hell around him. He was shouting orders, but no one was listening. His perfect, rational war had dissolved into primal anarchy.
"Valerius!" Marcus screamed.
Valerius turned. He saw Marcus—a demon covered in ash and blood, pointing a broken sword at him.
Terror flashed in the young general's eyes. He kicked his horse.
"He's running!" Marcus yelled. "Don't let him escape!"
Marcus sprinted. His lungs burned. The smoke was thick and toxic.
Three of Valerius's personal guard—massive Germanians in chainmail—stepped into his path.
"Halt!" the leader grunted, raising a warhammer.
THREAT DETECTED.
PROBABILITY OF VICTORY: 14%.
RECOMMENDATION: RETREAT.
No, the Ghost whispered. Go through.
Marcus didn't stop. He didn't slow down.
He blacked out.
It wasn't unconsciousness. It was a surrender. He gave the Ghost the keys to the car.
When Marcus's vision cleared, he was standing ten yards past where the guards had been.
He was panting. His sword was gone—snapped off at the hilt.
Behind him, the three Germanians lay in the mud. One had a dagger in his eye. Another's throat was torn out—not by a blade, but by teeth.
Marcus spat a chunk of gristle onto the ground. He wiped his mouth. He didn't want to know.
He looked up.
Valerius's horse had been spooked by the fire. It had thrown him again.
The general was scrambling backward against the wheel of a burning supply wagon. He drew his sword, but his hand was shaking so hard the blade vibrated.
Marcus picked up a heavy rock from the ground. He walked toward Valerius.
"Stay back!" Valerius shrieked. "This is madness! You are destroying civilization! Look around you, Marcus! This isn't war! It's butchery!"
"Civilization?" Marcus stepped closer. The heat from the burning wagon blistered his skin. "Civilization is just a thin coat of paint, Valerius. You scratch it, and the animal bleeds through."
"I studied history!" Valerius pleaded, backing up until his cape caught fire. "I tried to save the Empire from itself! I tried to bring order!"
"You brought fire," Marcus said, raising the rock. "And now you burn in it."
Valerius lunged. It was a desperate, clumsy thrust.
Marcus swatted the blade aside with his forearm. The steel sliced his skin, but he didn't feel it.
He slammed the rock into Valerius's face.
Bone crunched. Valerius collapsed, screaming, clutching his shattered nose.
Marcus stood over him. He raised the rock again to finish it.
BOOM.
A massive explosion rocked the earth.
The Alchemist reserve fuel tank—parked near the command tent—had caught fire.
The shockwave hit Marcus like a physical hammer. It threw him backward into the mud.
A wall of green flame erupted between him and Valerius. It roared fifty feet into the air, a chemical inferno that separated the victor from the victim.
"Get him!" a voice shouted.
Through the flames, Marcus saw shadows moving. Valerius's surviving officers dragged their broken general away from the fire. They hauled him onto a wagon and whipped the horses.
They were running. Not fighting. Fleeing.
Marcus tried to stand, but his legs failed him. He watched the wagon disappear into the dark, trailing smoke.
He let his head fall back into the mud.
He laughed. A dry, wheezing sound.
The battle raged for another hour, but the heart of the enemy was gone. Without Valerius, the mercenaries broke. They fled into the woods, leaving their camp, their supplies, and their dignity behind.
Dawn broke over a graveyard.
The fog had lifted, replaced by thick black smoke. The enemy camp was a ruin of smoldering tents and charred bodies.
Marcus sat on a crate of captured wine. He poured water—clean, fresh water from Valerius's own stores—over his head.
The ash ran down his face in grey streaks. He looked human again. Just barely.
Narcissus limped over. He had a deep gash on his thigh, but he was grinning.
"We did it," the gladiator said. "We broke them. The Philosopher is running back to Germania."
"Not Germania," Marcus said quietly.
He held up a map. He had pulled it from Valerius's command tent before the fire consumed it.
It was a tactical map of the region.
There were red markers for Valerius's army. But there were blue markers moving in from the East.
"What is that?" Varus asked, nursing a broken arm.
"Reinforcements," Marcus said. His voice was hollow.
He pointed to the blue markers.
"Valerius wasn't waiting for the Alchemists. He was waiting for his allies."
"Allies?" Narcissus frowned. "Who?"
"The Parthians," Marcus whispered.
The blood drained from Narcissus's face.
"The Parthians? But... you made a deal with them. You gave them the navy plans to fight Pompey."
"I did," Marcus nodded. "And they took the plans. And then they made a deal with Valerius."
He tapped the map. The blue line was two days away.
"Cavalry," Marcus said. "Ten thousand heavy cataphracts. The best horsemen in the world."
He looked at his army. Forty thousand exhausted, starving infantrymen with broken swords and no armor.
They had beaten the scholar. They had beaten the fire.
But now, the consequences of Marcus's own cleverness were coming to kill them.
"We can't fight cataphracts in the open," Varus said, his voice trembling. "They will trample us."
"I know," Marcus said.
He stood up, looking at the rising sun.
"That's why we aren't staying here."
"Where are we going?" Narcissus asked.
Marcus turned the map over. He pointed to a single, black dot near the coast.
"Ravenna," Marcus said. "The naval yards."
"But the Parthians are coming from the East!" Varus argued. "Ravenna is a trap! We'll be pinned against the sea!"
"Exactly," Marcus smiled. It was the smile of a man who had nothing left to lose.
"The sea is the only place the horses can't follow."
He crushed the map in his fist.
"Pack the water. Steal their wagons. We march in one hour."
"To the sea?" Narcissus asked.
"To the end of the world," Marcus replied.