The tunnel beneath the Colosseum smelled of lions and old blood.
Marcus sat on a wooden bench, staring at the dust motes dancing in the shaft of light coming from the arena floor above.
He wasn't wearing the purple toga of an Emperor.
He was wearing the lorica manica—the segmented arm guard of a gladiator. On his legs were heavy greaves. In his hand was a short, brutal gladius.
"You don't have to do this," Marcia whispered.
She stood in the shadows, holding the folded Imperial cloak. Her face was pale, the bruises from Orestes's tower still fading yellow on her cheek.
"I do," Marcus said. He stood up, testing the weight of the shield. "If I arrest him, he becomes a martyr. If I execute him, he becomes a victim."
He looked up at the roar of the crowd—fifty thousand voices screaming for blood.
"I have to kill the idea of him," Marcus said. "I have to show them that his philosophy bleeds."
Narcissus stepped forward. The giant gladiator adjusted the strap on Marcus's helmet.
"He will cheat," Narcissus grunted. "Valerius didn't challenge you to a fair fight. He challenged you to a trap."
"I know," Marcus said.
He tapped the side of his helmet.
Inside the bronze casing, pressed against his mastoid bone, was a small, scavenged speaker wire. It ran down his neck, under his armor, to a small receiver pack on his belt—a piece of tech Galen had cobbled together from the laptop's spare parts.
"Is the link active?" Marcus asked.
"Active," Marcia said. She held the laptop open. "JARVIS is reading his biometrics from the arena sensors. We have a predictive model."
COMBAT PROTOCOL: ONLINE.
OPPONENT: VALERIUS CELSUS.
STATUS: AUGMENTED.
"Augmented?" Narcissus frowned. "What does that mean?"
"It means he brought a battery to a knife fight," Marcus said.
The heavy iron gate at the end of the tunnel began to lift. The noise of the crowd hit them like a physical wave.
COMMODUS! COMMODUS! COMMODUS!
They weren't cheering for a ruler. They were cheering for the God of the Arena.
"Go to the Royal Box," Marcus told Marcia. "Keep the connection open. If the signal drops, I'm flying blind."
She kissed his forehead, right over the scar where the rock had hit him in Ostia.
"Come back," she whispered.
Marcus turned and walked into the light.
The Colosseum was a blinding white bowl of heat.
Valerius Celsus stood in the center of the sands.
He looked like a vision from a fever dream. He wasn't wearing Roman plate. He wore a suit of articulated steel scales that fit him like a second skin. Copper wires ran along his arms, connecting to a bulky backpack unit strapped to his shoulders.
In his hand, he held a long, thin rod of iron. It wasn't a sword. It was a conductor.
"Marcus," Valerius's voice boomed. He had rigged acoustic amplifiers around the arena. "Welcome to the future."
Marcus stopped ten paces away. He raised his shield.
"You look like a stove," Marcus shouted.
The crowd laughed. It was a nervous, jagged sound. They sensed something was wrong. This wasn't a normal duel.
"Mockery," Valerius sneered. "The last refuge of the obsolete."
He flipped a switch on his belt.
HUMMMMMM.
A low, electric drone filled the arena. Blue sparks arced along the length of the iron rod in Valerius's hand.
The crowd gasped. To them, it was magic. It was Jupiter's lightning bottled in steel.
"I am the cure," Valerius announced. "I am the logic that will burn away the rot of the Empire."
JARVIS ALERT.
WEAPON DETECTED: HIGH VOLTAGE DISCHARGE ROD.
SOURCE: BAGHDAD BATTERY ARRAY (MODIFIED).
ADVICE: DO NOT BLOCK WITH METAL.
"Fight!" the Editor of the Games shouted from the podium.
Valerius lunged.
He was fast. Galen's stimulants had pushed his muscles beyond human limits.
He thrust the electric rod at Marcus's chest.
Dodge left, JARVIS whispered in Marcus's ear.
Marcus stepped left. The rod hissed past his shoulder.
But Valerius flicked his wrist. The tip of the rod grazed the metal rim of Marcus's shield.
CRACK-ZZZT.
A bolt of electricity shot through the shield, up Marcus's arm, and slammed into his shoulder.
Marcus screamed. His arm went numb. The shield dropped from his paralyzed fingers, clattering to the sand.
"Science beats instinct!" Valerius shouted.
He swung again. A backhand strike aimed at Marcus's head.
Duck, JARVIS commanded.
Marcus dropped. The rod passed inches above his helmet. The air smelled of ozone and burnt hair.
He rolled away, scrambling to his feet. His left arm hung useless at his side. He was defenseless on one side.
"Is that your god?" Valerius yelled to the crowd, pointing his crackling weapon at Marcus. "Look at him! He bleeds! He fails!"
The crowd was silent. They were terrified.
SYSTEM ERROR.
ELECTROMAGNETIC INTERFERENCE DETECTED.
CONNECTION UNSTABLE.
Static filled Marcus's ear. The voice of the AI stuttered.
Dod... ri... ght...
Valerius charged.
Marcus backed up. He stumbled.
Valerius thrust the rod.
Move!
Marcus tried to dodge, but his legs were heavy. The rod hit his greave.
Another shock. This one convulsed his leg muscles. He fell to one knee in the sand.
Valerius stood over him, the electric rod humming, ready for the killing blow.
"Goodbye, glitch," Valerius whispered.
Marcus looked up. He saw the blue sparks. He saw the cold, mathematical triumph in Valerius's eyes.
He couldn't dodge. He couldn't block.
CONNECTION LOST.
The earpiece went dead.
Silence.
No AI. No future tech. No help.
Just Marcus.
And the Ghost.
He thinks he is fast, the Ghost whispered, a purr of dark amusement in the back of Marcus's mind. He is fast like a machine. But machines have a rhythm.
Marcus closed his eyes for a split second.
He stopped thinking about angles. He stopped thinking about voltage.
He let the rage in.
The rage of the starving army. The rage of the burning ships. The rage of a man who had crawled through mud to get his wife back.
Marcus opened his eyes. They weren't Marcus's eyes anymore. They were flat, black, and empty.
Valerius thrust downward.
Marcus didn't dodge away. He lunged forward.
He drove his shoulder into Valerius's knees.
The electric rod missed, slamming into the sand where Marcus's head had been a second ago.
Valerius stumbled back, off-balance.
Marcus roared. He ignored the numbness in his left arm. He grabbed a handful of sand with his paralyzed hand, forcing the fingers to work through sheer will.
He threw the sand into Valerius's face.
"My eyes!" Valerius screamed, clawing at his mask.
Marcus swung the gladius.
He didn't aim for the man. He aimed for the machine.
CLANG.
The blade severed the copper wires connecting the rod to the backpack.
The blue sparks died. The hum vanished.
Valerius froze. He pulled the trigger on his rod. Nothing happened. It was just a stick.
"Battery dead," Marcus growled.
He headbutted Valerius. The bronze helmet smashed into Valerius's unprotected nose.
Bone crunched.
Valerius fell backward, dropping the rod.
Marcus was on him instantly.
He dropped his sword. He didn't want steel. He wanted skin.
He straddled Valerius's chest. He began to punch.
Left. Right. Left. Right.
The futuristic scales dented. The copper wires snapped. Valerius tried to block, but Marcus was a thresher. He beat the logic out of the Philosopher's face.
Blood sprayed across the white sand.
Marcus didn't stop until Valerius stopped moving.
He stood up, chest heaving. His hands were raw and bloody.
He looked down at the broken man in the steampunk suit.
"You wanted to fix the world," Marcus panted. "You just broke yourself."
He looked up at the Imperial Box.
Marcia was standing there, the laptop clutch to her chest. She was crying.
He looked at the crowd.
They were screaming. A deafening, rhythmic chant that shook the foundations of the arena.
MAXIMUS! MAXIMUS!
No. Wait.
COMMODUS! COMMODUS!
They threw flowers. They threw laurel wreaths.
Marcus looked at the camera—at the invisible lens of history.
He extended his arm. He gave a thumbs down.
He picked up his sword.
Valerius stirred, groaning. "Wait... the equation..."
Marcus drove the blade into Valerius's heart.
"The debate is over."