The top of the tower smelled like a sickness.
Burnt poppy. Heavy incense. Fear sweat.
Marcus pushed open the door.
The room was circular, open to the balcony on one side. In the center, on a gilded wooden throne, sat Marcia.
She didn't look up. Her head lolled to the side. Her white robe was stained with wine. Her pupils were blown so wide her eyes looked black.
Behind her stood Orestes.
The Prefect of Rome was trembling. He held a long, thin stiletto to Marcia's throat.
"Stay back!" Orestes shrieked. "I'll kill her! I swear it!"
Marcus stepped into the room. He was bleeding from his forehead and his arm. He looked like a corpse that had clawed its way out of a grave.
"You already killed her," Marcus said, his voice a low grind. "Look at her. She's gone."
"It wasn't supposed to be like this!" Orestes babbled, pressing the knife harder against Marcia's skin. A drop of blood welled up. "Galen said it was a treatment! A way to calm the mind! But she wouldn't stop screaming! We had to increase the dose!"
"Put the knife down, Orestes."
"No!" Orestes's eyes were wild. "Valerius will hang me! You will flay me! There is no way out!"
He looked at the knife. Then he looked at Marcia.
A cruel, desperate idea formed in his coward's brain.
"She is the weapon," Orestes whispered.
He leaned down. He whispered into Marcia's ear.
"The Beast is here, Marcia. The green fire. He has come to burn you."
He placed the handle of the stiletto in Marcia's limp hand. He closed her fingers around it.
"Kill the Beast," Orestes hissed. "Free your soul."
Marcia's head snapped up.
Her eyes locked on Marcus.
But she didn't see Marcus.
Hallucination Sequence:
To Marcia, the room was melting. The walls were bleeding.
The figure standing in the doorway wasn't a man. It was a shadow wreathed in green flame. It had horns. It had the face of a skull.
The Beast. The nightmare Orestes had whispered about for weeks.
"No," she whimpered.
"Kill it!" Orestes screamed.
Marcia moved.
She didn't stumble. The adrenaline cut through the poppy haze like lightning. She launched herself from the chair with feral speed.
"Die!" she shrieked.
She lunged at Marcus.
Marcus saw it coming. But he couldn't hurt her.
He tried to catch her wrist.
She was too fast. She slashed downward.
The blade cut across his chest, slicing through his tunic and skin.
Marcus grunted, stumbling back.
BIOMETRIC SCAN: MARCIA AURELIA.
TOXIN LEVELS: CRITICAL.
PUPIL DILATION: MAX.
RECOGNITION: NEGATIVE.
She came at him again. A flurry of wild, desperate stabs.
"Marcia!" Marcus yelled. "It's me!"
She didn't hear him. She swung the knife at his throat.
Marcus caught her forearm this time. He slammed her back against the wall.
She fought him like a trapped animal. She bit his hand. She kicked his shins. She was screaming—a high, keening sound of pure terror.
"Let me go, demon!" she sobbed.
Marcus held her pinned. He could snap her wrist. He could knock her out.
But violence reinforces the nightmare. If he hurt her, he was the Beast.
He had to do the unthinkable.
He let go.
Marcia didn't hesitate. She drove the knife forward.
Thunk.
The blade sank into Marcus's left shoulder. It hit the bone.
The pain was blinding. Marcus's knees buckled.
But he didn't pull away. He stepped into the knife.
He wrapped his arms around her. He pulled her close, burying his face in her hair.
Marcia froze.
Why wasn't the Beast burning her? Why was it hugging her?
"It's okay," Marcus whispered. His voice was shaking with pain. "It's okay."
He reached up with his bloody hand. He cupped her face.
He pressed the ring—the cold, heavy gold signet—against her cheek.
"Look at me," he breathed.
Marcia blinked. The green fire around the demon flickered.
"It's just a laptop, Marcia," Marcus whispered, using the words from the very beginning—the secret only they knew. "It's just a stupid game."
The absurdity of the words cut through the drug haze. Demons didn't talk about laptops. Beasts didn't cry.
The hallucination shattered.
The skull face dissolved. The green fire vanished.
She saw a man. Covered in blood. Crying.
She saw the ring.
"Marcus?" she croaked. Her voice was rusted.
She looked down. Her hand was still gripping the knife buried in his shoulder.
"Oh god," she whispered. "Oh god, Marcus."
She let go of the handle. She backed away, her hands shaking uncontrollably.
"I hurt you," she sobbed. "I hurt you."
"It's fine," Marcus gritted his teeth, pulling the knife out. He dropped it clattering to the floor. "It's just meat."
Orestes saw his weapon fail.
The Prefect let out a wail of terror. He lunged for the knife on the floor.
"No!" Marcia screamed.
She was faster.
She wasn't a broken doll anymore. She was the Queen of Ashes.
She grabbed a heavy bronze candlestick from the table.
As Orestes reached for the knife, she swung.
CRACK.
The bronze base hit Orestes in the temple.
He collapsed sideways, stunning but not dead. He tried to crawl toward the balcony.
Marcus stepped on his hand.
Orestes looked up. His face was a mask of snot and blood.
"Mercy!" Orestes blubbered. "I was following orders! Valerius made me!"
Marcus looked at the man who had poisoned his wife. He looked at the knife wound in his shoulder.
"Mercy is for the innocent," Marcus said.
He grabbed Orestes by the back of his expensive silk tunic. He dragged him to the balcony edge.
Below, ten thousand cultists were looking up.
"Here is your voice!" Marcus shouted down to them.
He threw Orestes over the rail.
The Prefect of Rome fell screaming. He hit the stone pavement with a wet, final thud.
Silence held the harbor for a heartbeat. Then, a roar. Not of anger, but of release. The spell was broken.
Marcus turned back to the room.
Marcia was sinking to the floor. The adrenaline dump was hitting her. She was shaking violently.
Marcus sat down beside her. He pulled her into his lap.
"I missed you," he whispered, rocking her.
"I killed him," she sobbed into his chest. "I wanted to kill him."
"He's dead," Marcus said. "It's over."
From the harbor below, horns blew.
The combined fleet—Pompey's pirates and Marcus's legionaries—was docking. Soldiers were pouring onto the quays, securing the city.
The reunion was interrupted by a sound.
A strange, electronic ping.
Marcus looked at his belt pouch. The laptop.
He opened it.
The screen wasn't showing a map. It was showing a video feed.
INCOMING BROADCAST.
SOURCE: THE COLOSSEUM.
A face appeared on the screen.
Valerius Celsus.
The Philosopher-General looked battered. His nose was broken and bandaged from Marcus's rock. His eyes were cold fury.
He was standing in the center of the Flavian Amphitheater—the Colosseum. Behind him, thousands of Praetorian Guards stood in formation.
"Marcus," Valerius said. The audio was tinny but clear. "You survived the sea. Impressive."
"I'm coming for you, Valerius," Marcus said to the screen.
"I know," Valerius nodded. "But if you bring an army into Rome, I will burn the city. I have placed caches of Greek Fire in the Subura. In the Forum. In the Senate."
He smiled. A broken, bloody smile.
"If you cross the Pomerium line with a legion, Rome dies."
"What do you want?" Marcus asked.
"A debate," Valerius said. "Of steel. You and me. In the sand. Tomorrow at noon."
He spread his arms.
"Let the gods decide who is the glitch and who is the cure."
The screen went black.
Marcus closed the laptop.
"He wants a show," Marcia whispered, wiping blood from her face.
Marcus stood up. He helped her to her feet. He looked out at the burning city on the horizon.
"He wants a show?" Marcus said.
He touched the bloody ring on his finger.
"Let's give him a finale."