Rome was pitch black.
The only light came from the burning temple on the Capitoline Hill. The green flames of the Greek fire cast long, dancing shadows over the Forum.
Down in the streets, the illusion of order shattered.
Without the electric streetlamps, the "Peacekeepers" lost their advantage. Without the soothing voice of the Mother on the PA system, the fear turned into rage.
A crash echoed from the Via Sacra. A storefront window smashing.
Then a scream. "Bread! We want bread!"
"It's starting," Marcus said. He stood on the roof of the Archive, watching the mob form. It looked like a dark tide flooding the streets.
Torches flared to life in the hands of the rioters. The "Work Units" tore off their gray tunics. They looted the distribution centers. They dragged a Peacekeeper off his patrol horse and beat him with cobblestones.
"Anarchy," Galen whispered, horrified. "They are burning their own city."
"They are taking it back," Marcus said.
A red flare shot up from the Palatine Palace. It hung in the sky, bleeding crimson light.
"That's not a surrender," Narcissus said, climbing up the drainpipe to join them. He was covered in plaster dust and smelled of smoke. "That's a hunting signal."
The Palace gates groaned open.
They didn't release the police. They released the monsters.
The Praetorians.
A column of fifty men marched out. They didn't carry shields. They carried heavy tanks on their backs.
"Flamethrowers," Marcus realized.
The Praetorians wore glass goggles with thick green lenses—night vision. They marched in lockstep toward the rioting mob.
WHOOSH.
A jet of liquid fire cut through the dark.
It hit a group of looters raiding a bakery. They didn't even have time to scream. They turned into statues of fire.
The mob panicked. They turned and ran.
But there was nowhere to run. Another squad of Praetorians appeared from the side street, blocking the retreat.
WHOOSH.
They were herding the people. Burning the infection.
"They're killing everyone," Galen said, his voice cracking. "Rioters. Civilians. Children. It's a purge."
"Asset Denial," Marcus said cold. "If she can't control the sector, she burns it."
The Praetorians turned. Their green-lensed goggles reflected the firelight. They looked up at the Archive roof.
They saw Marcus.
"Contact!" a Praetorian shouted. His voice was amplified by a mask speaker.
Three flamethrowers aimed upward.
"Run!" Marcus yelled.
They scrambled across the tiles. A wave of heat washed over them as fire bathed the side of the building.
They jumped to the next roof. Then the next.
They were being herded too. The Praetorians were pushing them East. Toward the Colosseum.
"We're trapped!" Galen shouted. "The safehouse is that way!"
"The safehouse is gone!" Marcus yelled back, pointing to a column of black smoke rising from the Tanner's District. "They burned it!"
They dropped into an alleyway behind the Temple of Venus.
Dead end.
A squad of Praetorians blocked the street exit. The hiss of pilot lights filled the silence.
"We fight," Narcissus growled. He raised his axe.
"No," Marcus said. "We can't fight fire with an axe."
He looked up.
Looming over them was the massive stone bulk of the Colosseum.
The arches were bricked up. The windows were barred with iron. Smoke poured from the top rim. It wasn't an arena anymore. It was a factory. A prison.
"In there," Marcus said.
"It's a prison!" Galen shrieked. "We're breaking into jail?"
"It's a fortress," Marcus said. "And it's full of men who hate her more than we do."
He grabbed a grenade from his belt—one of the few ceramic pots left from the desert campaign.
"Cover your ears!"
He threw the grenade at the barred service gate of the Colosseum.
BOOM.
The iron bars twisted. The brickwork crumbled.
Marcus kicked the smoking debris aside. "Inside! Go!"
They scrambled through the hole just as a stream of liquid fire splashed against the outer wall.
They were in.
The heat hit them instantly.
It wasn't the heat of fire. It was the heat of bodies and industry.
They were in the hypogeum—the underground tunnels beneath the arena floor.
It smelled of sulfur, unwashed men, and despair.
Torches lined the walls.
In the flickering light, Marcus saw them.
Thousands of men. Chained to long assembly tables.
They were hammering metal. Packing gunpowder into paper cartridges. Pouring lead into bullet molds.
They were the "Dissidents." The men Lucilla couldn't re-educate.
They were huge. Scared. Covered in scars.
They stopped working. A thousand hammers went silent.
They stared at the intruders.
Marcus stood tall. He was covered in soot. He held a crossbow.
Narcissus stepped forward. He wiped the dust from his face.
A prisoner in the front row—a man with no nose and brands on his chest—gasped.
"The Dog," the prisoner whispered. "Narcissus."
The whisper rippled through the room. "The Champion. The Iron Dog."
These weren't just citizens. These were the old gladiators. The veterans of the arena. The men Narcissus had fought beside and against for twenty years.
"Brothers!" Narcissus roared. His voice echoed off the stone vault. "Why do you forge chains for the bitch who caged you?"
The nose-less prisoner stood up. The chain on his ankle rattled.
"We have no choice, Champion," he rasped. "We have no swords."
Marcus stepped onto a crate. He looked out at the sea of angry faces.
"You don't need swords," Marcus said.
He picked up a hammer from the nearest table. He smashed the lock on the prisoner's chain. Clang.
The man looked at his free leg. Then at Marcus.
"The Emperor is dead," Marcus shouted.
He pointed a finger at the ceiling, toward the burning city outside.
"The politicians are dead. The laws are dead."
He tossed the hammer to the prisoner.
"But the General is here."
Marcus drew his gladius. It gleamed in the torchlight.
"Outside those walls, men in glass masks are burning your families. They think you are cattle. They think you are safe in this pen."
A low growl started in the room. It was the sound of a predator waking up.
"Who wants to hunt?" Marcus asked.
The nose-less prisoner hefted the hammer. He smiled. It was a terrifying sight.
"I am hungry, Caesar," he said.
"Then eat," Marcus said.
The prisoner turned and swung the hammer. He smashed the chain of the man next to him.
Then that man smashed the next.
The sound of breaking chains filled the hypogeum. It sounded like heavy rain.
Narcissus laughed. He raised his axe.
"Open the armory!" Narcissus bellowed. "Let's see how the Fire Men fight against the Lions!"
Marcus watched them. The Ghost of Commodus purred with satisfaction.
This wasn't an army. It was a mob of killers. It was messy. It was brutal.
It was exactly what he needed.
"Galen," Marcus said quietly. "Find the gunpowder stores. Make bombs."
"And you?" Galen asked, eyeing the riot forming around them.
Marcus looked toward the ramp leading up to the arena floor.
"I'm going to open the gates."