The first thing he tasted was poison—not in the wine, but in the memories flooding his skull.
Brutal, hedonistic memories that weren't his. The roar of a bloodthirsty crowd, the slick feel of a sword hilt, the scent of fear on a woman's skin. Marcus Holt's mind screamed in protest, a firewall trying to hold back a corrupted data stream.
He gasped, lurching up. The world swam into focus, a nightmare painted in gold and crimson. He was lying on a bed of purple silk, under a ceiling carved with leering gods and goddesses. Heavy gold cuffs circled his wrists, cold and alien. The air was thick enough to choke on, cloying with incense and spilled wine.
This wasn't his minimalist Silicon Valley apartment. This wasn't the lab.
Panic, cold and sharp, stabbed through him. The accident. The neural-AI interface had overloaded. Was this a simulation? A coma-dream? His rational mind scrambled for an explanation, for a data point he could trust.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed. His body felt wrong—thicker, stronger, coiled with a brutish energy he'd never possessed. Marcus was a man of algorithms and lean muscle from a recycled-air gym. This body was a war machine.
A polished silver mirror stood in the corner, framed in ivory. He stumbled towards it, his reflection taking shape in the gleaming surface.
The face that stared back wasn't his.
It was a stranger. A man with a thick neck, a strong, arrogant jawline, and dark, brooding eyes that held a spark of cruelty. A face he recognized from a history book, a face carved in stone.
Commodus. The tyrant son of Marcus Aurelius. The Emperor who thought he was a god.
"No," he whispered, the voice that came out a deep baritone, not his own tenor. "This isn't real."
He touched the face in the mirror. The man in the reflection did the same. The cold silver met his fingertips, solid and undeniable. He was here. He was trapped.
A soft sound behind him made him spin around.
A young slave, no older than sixteen, stood frozen in the doorway, a silver tray of figs and honeyed bread in his hands. The boy's eyes widened, not with reverence, but with pure, animal terror.
The slave flinched back, as if expecting a blow. The tray clattered to the marble floor, figs scattering like frightened insects.
"My lord… Caesar…" the boy stammered, dropping to his knees. He pressed his forehead to the ground, his whole body trembling. "Forgive my clumsiness. I beg you."
The fear pouring off the boy was a physical force. It told Marcus more than any history book could. The man whose body he wore wasn't just an emperor. He was a monster. The boy wasn't afraid of his power; he was afraid of his hands.
Before Marcus could find a voice, another presence filled the doorway.
"Leave us," a woman's voice commanded, as cool and sharp as cut glass.
The slave scrambled to his feet and fled without a backward glance.
Lucilla, his sister, glided into the room. She was a vision of Roman nobility, her dark hair coiled in an intricate crown of braids, her purple stola flowing like liquid twilight. But her beauty was a weapon, and her dark eyes were running diagnostics.
"You're awake early, brother," she said, her smile not reaching her eyes.
Marcus's mind raced. He had no data, no script. This was a live performance, and he didn't know his lines. He remembered her from the history files—Lucilla, the conspirator. A woman who tried to have this very man killed.
She stopped before him, her gaze sweeping over his bare chest, the disheveled bed, the fallen fruit on the floor. "A restless night?"
"Something like that," he managed, keeping his voice neutral.
"Perhaps you are excited for the games," she continued, her tone deceptively light. "That Gallic gladiator you sentenced yesterday… the crowd adored him. Will you give them a good show in the arena today? You promised them blood."
It was a test. He could feel it. A password prompt he didn't have the answer to. The real Commodus would have laughed, boasted about the kill to come. But Marcus Holt, the operations lead, felt a knot of ice form in his stomach.
He needed to deflect. He needed to be anyone but the man she expected.
"My mind is on other things," he said, the words feeling foreign and clumsy. He grasped for the most boring, un-Commodus-like topic he could think of. "The grain shipments from Egypt are behind schedule. I'm concerned about the city's supply."
Silence.
The air in the room grew cold. Lucilla's smile tightened, becoming a thin, dangerous line. The warmth in her eyes vanished completely, replaced by a glint of polished steel.
"The grain supply?" she repeated slowly, savoring each syllable like a drop of poison. "How… diligent of you, brother."
That one word—diligent—was an accusation. A death sentence. In her eyes, he was no longer Commodus. He was an anomaly. A glitch in the system.
She took a step closer, invading his personal space. Her scent, a mix of jasmine and something metallic, filled his senses. She reached out and brushed an imaginary piece of lint from his shoulder, her fingers lingering for a half-second too long. It was an act of intimacy that felt like a threat.
"Do try to be yourself today," she purred, her voice a low whisper. "Rome expects her emperor. And so do I."
She turned and left, her silk robes whispering over the marble. The silence she left behind was a physical weight, crushing the air from his lungs.
He was going to die.
Lucilla knew. She didn't know what he was, but she knew he wasn't her brother. And in this world, a single suspicion was enough to sign a death warrant.
He had one chance. One lifeline.
The laptop. His solar-powered, custom-built machine. It held JARVIS, his AI, his creation. During the accident, the neural link must have pulled them both through whatever wormhole had spit him out in 180 AD. It had to be here.
He barked an order at the guards outside his door. "I wish to be alone! No one is to disturb me!"
He ignored their confused looks and strode through the gilded halls of the palace. Sycophants and senators bowed as he passed, their faces a mixture of fear and flattery. He saw them not as people, but as hostile variables in a system he couldn't comprehend.
He needed a place no one would think to find an emperor who loved the roar of the arena. A place of silence and dust.
The Imperial Archives.
He found the entrance behind a heavy curtain, a door forgotten by all but the record-keepers. The air inside was cool and dry, smelling of aging papyrus and forgotten history. Scrolls were stacked to the ceiling in towering, precarious columns.
This was his world. Data. Records. Logic.
He began his search, his heart hammering against his ribs. He pushed past scrolls detailing tax receipts from Gaul, military reports from Britannia, census data from Syria. It was all noise.
Then he saw it. Tucked behind a crumbling stack of tax ledgers bound in leather, a shape that didn't belong. A sleek, black rectangle of carbon fiber and polished alloy.
His laptop.
A wave of relief, so powerful it almost buckled his knees, washed over him. He grabbed it, the smooth, cool surface a comforting anchor to his old life. He was saved. He had his god in a box.
He knelt on the dusty floor and opened it.
The screen remained black.
He pressed the power button, his finger tracing the familiar symbol. Nothing. He pressed it again, harder this time. Still nothing.
A tiny indicator light on the side of the chassis, one he hadn't looked at in years, caught his eye.
It flashed once. A single, desperate pulse of crimson.
He stared at the dead machine, a coffin of black metal in his hands. He was a god with no power, a king with no memory. And in the heart of Rome, his enemies were already sharpening their knives.