The ration card came out of the press warm.
Galen held it up to the candlelight like a diamond. It was a perfect forgery. The barcode was crisp. The name—UNIT 881—was stamped in official ink.
"It works," Galen giggled. "The binary logic is simple. High bar, low bar. I have cracked the god's language!"
Marcus took the card. He didn't smile.
"It's not a god's language, Galen. It's inventory management."
He bit into the brick of nutrient bread they had stolen along with the machine. It was dry, dense, and tasted like salted cardboard.
"Sawdust," Narcissus grunted, spitting a crumb onto the floor. "The Empire eats wood."
"It's efficient," Marcus said, chewing grimly. "No spoilage. No cooking time. Lucilla has turned eating into refueling."
He looked at the map Galen had drawn of the city. The patrols. The drone nests. The checkpoints.
"We have IDs," Marcus said. "We can move freely now. Tonight, we breach the Palace."
"The Palace?" Narcissus asked, wiping crumbs from his beard. "We just got food, Caesar. Why rush into the lion's den?"
"Because we aren't here to hide," Marcus said. "We're here to kill the CEO."
Before Narcissus could argue, a sound filled the room.
It came from outside. From everywhere.
Click.
The city's Public Address system crackled to life. Horns mounted on every street corner.
Static. Then a voice.
It wasn't the synthesized propaganda voice. It was a woman's voice. Smooth. Cultured. But with an edge of steel.
"Attention, Sector 4."
Marcus froze. He knew that voice. He had heard it in childhood. He had heard it in the prison cell.
Lucilla.
"We are looking for a saboteur," the voice continued. "Male. Height: five-foot-ten. Scar on left arm. Last seen in the Subura causing a disturbance at Distribution Node 9."
She paused.
"He is armed. He is dangerous. And he is family."
Narcissus grabbed his axe. "She knows."
"Marcus," Lucilla said. Her tone shifted. It wasn't a broadcast anymore. It was a conversation. "I know you're listening. You always did have a dramatic streak. Stealing a stamp machine? Really? It's beneath you."
Marcus walked to the window. He looked up at the Palatine Hill. The Palace glowed like a spaceship against the night sky.
"Stop playing in the mud, brother," Lucilla said. "Come to dinner. I kept your seat warm. The soup is getting cold."
Click. The feed cut.
Silence returned to the safehouse.
"It's a trap," Narcissus said flatly. "She wants you to walk in so she can hang you."
"Of course it's a trap," Marcus said. "But it's also an invitation."
He turned to Galen.
"Give me the best robe we stole."
"You're going?" Galen asked, horrified.
"She won't kill me," Marcus said. "Not yet. If she wanted me dead, she would have firebombed this block. She wants to talk."
He picked up the forged ID card.
"She wants to show off."
The walk up the Palatine Hill was surreal.
Marcus wore the robes of a "Director"—the new title for Senator. They were gray silk, cut sharp and modern. He wore the ID badge on his chest.
Narcissus and Galen shadowed him in the darkness, moving through the gardens, ready to attack if the alarm sounded.
Marcus walked alone up the main avenue.
He passed the Praetorian Guard.
They didn't wear plumes and capes. They wore tactical vests over black tunics. They held repeating crossbows across their chests.
Marcus stopped at the gate.
A guard stepped forward. He held a scanner.
Beep.
The scanner flashed red. UNAUTHORIZED.
The guard raised his weapon. "Halt!"
Marcus didn't flinch. He looked the guard in the eye.
"Tell the Mother that her guest is here," Marcus said.
The guard hesitated. He touched his earpiece. He listened for a moment.
He lowered the weapon. He stepped aside.
"Proceed."
Marcus walked through the gates.
The Palace wasn't Roman anymore. The marble columns were wrapped in steel reinforcements. The torches were gone, replaced by halogen floodlights.
He entered the Domus Flavia—the great dining hall.
It was empty.
A single long table sat in the center of the vast room. It was set for two.
At the far end sat Lucilla.
She looked... perfect.
Her hair was pulled back in a tight, severe bun. She wore a tailored suit—black fabric, sharp shoulders—that looked like something from 21st-century Milan, not ancient Rome.
She was cutting a steak.
Marcus walked the length of the hall. His footsteps echoed on the polished floor.
He pulled out the chair opposite her. He sat down.
Lucilla didn't look up. She took a bite of steak. She chewed slowly.
"You look terrible," she said. "The desert didn't suit you."
"You look expensive," Marcus replied. He poured himself wine from the carafe. "Who paid for the suit? Liang?"
Lucilla smiled. It was a cold, practiced expression.
"Liang was an employee," she said. "I am a Partner."
She put down her knife and fork. She looked at him. Her eyes were hard, calculating.
"I'm not fighting you, Marcus. I won. Look around."
She gestured to the electric lights, the silent servants moving in the shadows.
"No famine," she said. "No plague. Crime is down 90%. The grain supply is automated. I fixed Rome."
"You enslaved it," Marcus said. "You turned citizens into batteries."
"I turned them into assets," she corrected. "People need purpose, Marcus. They need structure. The old Rome was a chaotic mess of superstition and ego. I gave them efficiency."
"You gave them barcodes," Marcus said. "And nutrient paste."
"It's fortified," she said with a shrug. "Nobody starves."
"Nobody lives, either."
Marcus leaned forward.
"Where is he?" Marcus asked. "The Player. The one pulling your strings."
Lucilla laughed. She picked up a remote control from the table.
She pressed a button.
A hologram flickered to life in the center of the table.
It was a map of the known world. Red dots connected by lines covered Europe, Asia, and Africa.
"You still think small," Lucilla said. "You think there is one bad man in a tower. A 'Boss' to kill."
She pointed at the map.
"The Player isn't a man, Marcus. It's a Board of Directors. Investors. They view this timeline as a distress asset. They are coming here to liquidate it."
Marcus stared at the map. The scale was massive. It wasn't an invasion; it was an acquisition.
"They don't care about Rome," Lucilla said softly. "They want the resources. The minerals. The manpower. They are going to strip-mine the Empire."
"And you're helping them," Marcus said. "For what? A suit?"
"For survival," Lucilla snapped. Her composure cracked for a second, revealing the terrified woman beneath. "You can't fight them, Marcus. They have nukes. They have bio-weapons. If we resist, they wipe the board."
She slid a steak knife across the table. It spun, coming to rest in front of Marcus.
"Join me," she said. "Help me manage the transition. We can save the people. We can make the landing soft."
"Or?" Marcus asked.
"Or I scream," Lucilla said. "And the guards turn you into nutrient paste."
Marcus looked at the knife.
He picked it up.
He looked at the hologram. The red web choking the world.
"I'm not a manager, Lucilla," Marcus said.
He stood up.
"And I'm not hungry."
He stabbed the knife into the table. It quivered, piercing the holographic map right through the city of Rome.
"Tell your Board," Marcus said, "that the asset is toxic."
He turned and walked away.
Lucilla didn't scream. She watched him go.
"You're making a mistake, brother," she whispered to the empty room.
Marcus walked out of the Palace. The guards let him pass.
He met Narcissus and Galen in the shadows of the garden.
"Did you kill her?" Narcissus asked.
"No," Marcus said. "She's not the enemy. She's the hostage."
He looked back at the glowing palace.
"The enemy is coming," Marcus said. "And they are bringing the end of the world."