The longboat hit the stone quay with a dull thud.
Marcus stood up. He wasn't wearing armor. He wasn't carrying a sword. He wore a simple linen tunic stained with salt water and ash.
He stepped onto the dock.
Ten thousand pairs of eyes watched him.
The silence was deafening. The crowd—the Cult of the Merciful—had been whipped into a frenzy minutes ago. They had been screaming for death.
But now, faced with a single unarmed man, the mob hesitated.
They expected a monster. A beast with horns and fire.
They saw a man with bruised ribs and tired eyes.
Whoosh.
A rock flew from the back of the crowd. It was jagged, the size of a fist.
It struck Marcus in the center of the forehead.
Crack.
The skin split instantly. Marcus stumbled back, his vision swimming. Hot blood poured down his face, blinding his left eye.
"Fire!" Narcissus screamed from the deck of the Trident across the water. "Cover him!"
Marcus raised a hand. "No!"
He didn't wipe the blood away. He let it run down his cheek, dripping onto his tunic.
He took a step forward.
CROWD AGGRESSION: 94%.
MOB MENTALITY: UNSTABLE.
THREAT: LETHAL.
Another rock flew. It hit his shoulder.
Marcus didn't flinch. He kept walking, straight into the teeth of the crowd.
"Deceiver!" a voice shrieked.
A man burst from the front row. It was Lycomedes—the fanatic Marcus had entrusted with the Cult in Episode 20.
Lycomedes looked wild. His robes were torn, his eyes bloodshot. He held a butcher's knife in a shaking hand.
"You corrupted the Oracle!" Lycomedes screamed, pointing the blade at Marcus's chest. "You turned the Saint into a prisoner of war! Orestes told us! You are the Beast!"
The crowd surged forward, emboldened by their leader.
Marcus stopped inches from the knife point.
He looked Lycomedes in the eye.
"I gave you a purpose," Marcus whispered. His voice was rough, but it carried in the silence.
Lycomedes blinked. "Lies! You gave us poison!"
"I gave you a Goddess," Marcus said, stepping closer until the tip of the knife pressed against his tunic. "I told you to protect her. I told you she was the light of Rome."
He pointed a bloody finger up at the tower, where Marcia stood swaying like a broken doll.
"Look at her, Lycomedes. Does she look like a Goddess?"
Lycomedes's eyes flicked upward. He saw Marcia's vacant stare. He saw the way she slumped against the railing.
"Does she look free?" Marcus asked. "Or does she look like a slave?"
The knife wavered.
"Orestes said..." Lycomedes stammered. "He said she was in a trance. Communicating with the divine."
"She is drugged," Marcus said cold. "They are poisoning your Saint to control you. And you are letting them."
Doubt cracked Lycomedes's face. He looked at the knife in his hand. He looked at the blood on Marcus's face.
Up in the tower, Orestes saw the hesitation.
The Prefect leaned over the balcony, his face twisted in panic.
"Kill him!" Orestes shrieked. "Don't listen to the serpent! Kill him now!"
Lycomedes didn't move.
"Do it!" Orestes screamed. "Praetorians! End him!"
Three men in the crowd—dressed in rags but moving with military precision—drew concealed daggers.
Assassins. Orestes had planted them in the mob to ensure the execution.
The first assassin lunged.
Marcus saw the flash of steel.
Sidestep, the Ghost whispered. Break his wrist.
Marcus ignored the instinct. He didn't dodge.
He turned his body slightly, taking the blade in his left forearm.
It sliced deep. Muscle parted. Blood sprayed across Lycomedes's face.
Marcus grunted, falling to one knee.
The crowd gasped.
They didn't see a monster fighting back. They saw a Roman soldier stabbing an unarmed, bleeding man.
The narrative flipped.
"Sacrilege!" Lycomedes screamed.
The fanatic dropped his butcher knife and grabbed the assassin's arm.
"You struck the unarmed!" Lycomedes roared. "You struck the pilgrim!"
The mob exploded.
But not at Marcus.
Ten thousand starving, desperate people turned their rage on the three assassins. It was a tidal wave of bodies. The assassins tried to fight, but they were swarmed. Hands tore at their clothes, their eyes, their throats.
It was primal justice.
Marcus pushed himself up. His arm was throbbing, his tunic soaked red.
The sea of people parted. They didn't cheer. They backed away, their eyes wide with fear and awe.
They knelt.
Marcus walked through the corridor of bodies. He walked to the heavy oak door of the Harbor Tower.
It was locked.
He leaned his forehead against the wood, closing his eyes. The loss of blood was making him dizzy.
"Open it," Marcus whispered.
Lycomedes appeared beside him. He picked up a heavy iron bar dropped by one of the dead assassins.
"Forgive me," Lycomedes wept.
"Open the door," Marcus repeated.
Lycomedes swung the bar. Wood splintered. Three other cultists joined in, slamming their shoulders against the timber.
CRACK.
The door gave way.
Darkness yawned inside the tower. The smell of incense and stale urine drifted out.
Marcus stepped over the threshold.
"Wait!" Lycomedes grabbed his uninjured arm. "Let us come with you. Let us kill the Prefect."
Marcus shook his head.
"No," he said. "This is family business."
He started up the spiral stairs.
His footsteps echoed on the stone. Scrape. Step. Scrape. Step.
Above him, he could hear Orestes frantic pacing. He could hear the man sobbing.
"I'm coming up, Orestes," Marcus whispered into the dark.
He touched the bloody ring on his finger.
"And I'm not the one who's going to die."