Two weeks later.
The ship was a smuggler's cutter. Low in the water, painted matte black, smelling of tar and rotting fish.
It slipped into the harbor of Ostia under the cover of a moonless night.
Marcus stood at the rail. He wasn't wearing purple. He wore a rough woolen tunic stained with grease. His beard was shaved, leaving his face pale and exposed. He looked like a merchant who had lost his fortune, which wasn't far from the truth.
"It's too quiet," Narcissus rumbled beside him.
The giant was disguised as a porter, carrying a heavy crate on his shoulder to hide his face. He limped slightly, favoring his bandaged leg.
Narcissus was right. Ostia was usually a hive of drunk sailors, shouting whores, and rattling carts.
Tonight, it was silent.
The docks were lit by electric arc lamps.
Marcus stared at them. Not torches. Not oil lamps. Electric lights. They buzzed with a harsh, blue-white glare that cast unnatural shadows.
"Grid power," Marcus whispered. "They wired the port."
Men in black uniforms patrolled the pier. They didn't carry spears. They carried repeating crossbows—short, ugly weapons with box magazines. They wore armbands with the barcode symbol.
"Police," Marcus muttered. "Not Legion. Police."
The ship docked. A plank was thrown down.
A checkpoint.
A guard stood at the end of the plank. He held a clipboard and a stamp. Behind him, a massive steam-powered crane was unloading crates from a freighter. The crane hissed and clanked, a mechanical beast in the silence.
"Papers," the guard said. He didn't look up.
Marcus handed him the forged manifest Galen had prepared.
The guard scanned it. He pulled a strange device from his belt. It looked like a heavy, brass flashlight. He shone a purple light—UV?—onto the paper.
"Watermark checks out," the guard droned. He stamped the paper. APPROVED.
He looked at Narcissus.
"Big one," the guard noted. "Can he work?"
"He is mute," Marcus said, pitching his voice to a whine. "But strong as an ox. We bring spices from Egypt."
The guard waved them through. "Move along. Curfew is in one hour. If you are on the street, you go to the Camps."
"Camps?" Marcus asked, feigning ignorance.
The guard pointed to a poster on the wall.
It showed a stylized image of a man digging with a shovel. The text was printed in bold, sans-serif font:
WORK IS PRAYER. IDLENESS IS TREASON.
"The Re-Education Camps," the guard said. "For those who do not contribute to the Output."
Marcus nodded, swallowing his rage. "Of course. Work is prayer."
They walked past the checkpoint. They melted into the shadows of the warehouse district.
"This isn't Rome," Narcissus hissed once they were safe. "It's a prison."
"It's a factory," Marcus corrected.
They stole two horses from a livery stable. They rode for Rome.
The Via Ostiensis was paved.
Not with cobblestones. With asphalt.
It was crude, lumpy, and smelled of sulfur, but it was smooth.
"Black road," Narcissus said, staring at the ground. "Does the wizard's magic have no end?"
"It's not magic," Marcus said grimly. "It's tar. They're paving the world."
They rode in silence.
The roadside was changed. The crucifixes—the traditional Roman warning to criminals—were gone.
In their place were billboards.
Massive wooden hoardings, illuminated by oil lamps. They bore painted slogans.
EFFICIENCY IS VIRTUE.
THE MOTHER WATCHES.
And the face.
Lucilla.
But not the sister Marcus remembered. The painting showed her with a halo of gears. Her eyes were serene, cold, and commanding. She looked like a corporate saint.
"She has usurped the gods," Galen whispered from his horse. The physician looked terrified. "She has made herself the Goddess of the Machine."
They reached the city gates. The Aurelian Wall loomed ahead.
Searchlights swept the sky. Beams of light cutting through the smog.
"We can't go through the gate," Marcus said. "They will scan us."
"The aqueduct?" Narcissus suggested.
"Dry," Galen said. "I heard the guards talking. They diverted the water to the factories."
"Then we go under," Marcus said. "The Cloaca Maxima."
The sewer.
They abandoned the horses. They waded through the filth of the great sewer, emerging in the Subura hours later.
Rome had changed.
The Subura was usually a riot of color and noise. Now, it was gray. The graffiti was scrubbed clean. The beggars were gone—likely to the Camps.
The people walked with their heads down. They hurried. They didn't stop to talk.
"Fear," Narcissus noted. "They are terrified."
"No," Marcus said. "They're busy. Look."
He pointed to a shop. A bakery.
Smoke poured from a chimney. Inside, men were working in assembly lines. Dough. Knead. Bake. Box.
It was Fordism applied to bread.
"They turned the whole city into a production line," Marcus realized.
A sound echoed from the Forum. A bell. But not a bronze bell. A siren.
WOOOP. WOOOP.
"Shift change," a passerby muttered, checking a mechanical pocket watch.
"Come," Marcus said. "I need to see her."
They moved through the back alleys, climbing toward the Palatine. They reached a vantage point overlooking the Roman Forum.
Marcus gasped.
The Forum was unrecognizable.
The temples were still there, but they were modified. The Temple of Saturn had smokestacks rising from its roof. The Rostra—the speaker's platform—was draped in red banners bearing the Barcode symbol.
A crowd was gathered. Thousands of people.
They stood in perfect rows. Silent. Watching.
On the Rostra stood a woman.
Lucilla.
She wore a gown of shimmering white silk that looked synthetic. She stood before a massive array of copper horns—a PA system.
"Citizens," her voice boomed. It was amplified, echoing off the marble pillars. It sounded godlike.
"The Output for this week is up 12%."
The crowd cheered. It was a mechanical, synchronized cheer.
"The East is quiet," Lucilla continued. "The Usurper is dead. His body rots in the sand."
Marcus clenched his fist until his nails cut his palm.
"But the work is not done," Lucilla said. Her voice dropped an octave, becoming intimate, terrifying. "There are still parasites. Those who eat but do not produce. The Old Guard. The Tradition."
Behind her, a curtain fell.
A machine was revealed.
It was a guillotine.
But steam-powered. A massive piston drove the blade.
"Justice," Lucilla said, "must be efficient."
Two men were dragged onto the stage. Senators. Men Marcus recognized. Traditionalists.
They were shoved into the machine.
CHUNK.
HISS.
CHUNK.
Two heads fell into a basket. In seconds.
The crowd cheered again.
"Work is prayer!" they chanted.
Marcus pulled back from the ledge. He felt sick.
"She's killing the Senate," Marcus whispered. "She's purging the government."
"We need a hole," Narcissus said. "A place to hide."
"The safehouse," Marcus said. "In the Tanner's District. It's off the grid."
The safehouse was a cellar beneath a leather shop. It smelled of urine and tanning fluid.
Marcus kicked the door open.
It was dark. Dust covered the floor.
"Clear," Marcus said.
He stepped inside.
Galen moved to light a lamp.
"Don't," a voice said from the shadows.
Marcus froze. The Ghost screamed Danger!
A figure stepped out from the corner. Dressed in black leather armor. Face covered by a mask.
An assassin.
He held a repeating crossbow leveled at Marcus's chest.
"ID," the assassin said.
"I'm the landlord," Marcus lied.
"Wrong answer."
The assassin pulled the trigger.
Thwip.
Marcus threw himself sideways. The bolt buried itself in the doorframe where his head had been.
Narcissus moved.
Despite his bad leg, the giant covered the distance in two strides.
The assassin tried to aim again. Narcissus slapped the crossbow aside. The wood shattered.
The assassin drew a knife. Fast. Professional.
He slashed at Narcissus's throat.
Narcissus didn't dodge. He caught the assassin's wrist.
SNAP.
The assassin didn't scream. He dropped the knife and tried to kick Narcissus.
Narcissus headbutted him.
The assassin crumpled.
Narcissus didn't kill him. He slammed the man onto the table and pinned him.
"Who sent you?" Narcissus growled.
The assassin spat blood. "The Mother sees all."
Marcus walked over. He ripped the mask off the man.
He didn't recognize the face. Young. Fanatical.
But he recognized the tattoo on the neck.
The Barcode.
And under it, small numbers. UNIT 734.
"He's not an assassin," Marcus said. "He's a product."
He looked at the number.
"Mass produced killers."
The assassin started to convulse. Foam bubbled at his lips.
"Poison," Galen said, rushing forward. "Cyanide pill!"
It was too late. The man went rigid and died.
Marcus looked at the body.
"We aren't fighting a rebellion," Marcus said softly. "Rebellions are messy. This... this is a corporate takeover."
He walked to the window. Through the grime, he could see the Palatine Hill. The Imperial Palace glowed with electric light.
"She turned my city into a company town," Marcus said.
He turned to Narcissus and Galen.
"The CEO is sitting on my throne."
"How do we fight a god with electric eyes?" Galen asked, trembling.
Marcus picked up the assassin's fallen knife. It was high-quality steel. Stamped with the barcode.
"We don't fight the god," Marcus said.
He stabbed the knife into the table.
"We crash the market."